Last weekend I had a not so pleasant conversation with Sir; he gave me that look. In essence I was coming clean. I am going to have to have another one of those not-so-pleasant conversations with Sir, and surprise surprise I am not looking forward to it.
His reaction will be cool, calm, and collected, as always when handling something of a more serious nature, so that isn’t bothering me. What is eating away at me, is the fact that I need to talk to him, and what that means. This is me over-analyzing:
Last week it came to my attention that one of my orgasms didn’t completely belong to Sir. It was spurned by someone else, and normally that wouldn’t be a problem. Normally, I’d tell Sir exactly what turned me on – exactly why I needed him so urgently. Last week, I didn’t. Sir let me have my way, and I was wildly appreciative. It was only later that I realized a piece of that release was held back from him, and I had some guilt.
I reached out to him immediately, and all should have been well. Except this one little thing kept nagging me. I liked it. I want more of this outside force, and that is where the wheels really started turning in my head. I need to understand why. Is there something missing between Sir and I? The fact that I posed the question – scares me.
It was sometime yesterday that I realized just how much I am betraying Sir. Not because I have done something truly wrong, but because instead of going to him with my thoughts and feelings immediately I have let them stew. I have analyzed and analyzed some more, which isn’t in itself bad, but as a submissive I should be handing all of these thoughts over to Sir. I am ashamed to say that I still haven’t, and to some extent it has thrown my submission for a loop. I don’t know why something so small has turned in to something bigger.
I will add one more infraction. I have every intention on continuing in my wayward ways until I talk to Sir tomorrow. When I am sure he will look at me like this,
in a way that makes me wet and quake with submissive fear, as he decides just what to do with me.
With a slight hope that he allows me to continue on.
There. I feel a little better already. Writing truly is therapeutic.