“You’re Mine”: My Definition of “Safety”
I wake with his hand caressing my breast. This is not unusual, but my reaction to it is. I arch my back to more fully feel his palm against my nipple. There’s not a moment’s hesitation. No hitching of my breath as I wait for the anxiety to come. There is only his hand and my desire to enjoy it. And I breathe a sigh of relief before moaning softly.
“You’re mine,” Master says, as he pulls me into his arms. “You belong to me. Forever.”
Something inside me calms and I snuggle down into the mattress, pressing my forehead against his chest, enjoying the feeling of his hands gliding back and forth between each breast, toying with the nipples, owning them.
So many submissives say those words are an instant turn on for them. The possessiveness. The feeling of control. The fact that they are owned. And to an extent, they are for me, too. But there’s so much more to it than that.
There have been very few moments in my life during which I have felt truly safe. Not only because of the abuse I’ve suffered, but also because of my mental illness. Paranoia is a horrible thing. Especially when the things you’re paranoid about are rooted in reality—meaning that many of them have happened to me and could happen again, so they seem so real when I’m fretting over them.
My paranoia manifests in so many ways. From anxiety over a situation that could go badly to night terrors, I’m constantly warding off negativity created by my own mind to be comfortable with staying alive. Thank goodness for my parents’ constant reminder that it’s better to face your fears than run from them, or I’d never leave the comfort of my bed.
My paranoia is one of the reasons I ran away for 4 hours a few years ago. Things were rough between M and me, and my addled brain turned it into something far worse than it was. I felt like I was in danger, and I bolted. Luckily, I was broke until I got paid. I don’t know how far I would have run if I’d had access to an escape route that would have taken me farther than my friend’s living room across town. In my mind, it had gone much further than just a petty disagreement. In my mind, I was already dead, and no amount of reminding myself that Master would never cause me serious harm (would, in fact, do serious damage to anyone who tried) was helping.
Ultimately, Master talked me down. Of course, this is where my past therapists would step in and ask me if I thought allowing the person who I, at the time, perceived as a threat to talk me down was wise. And if I had been in a truly abusive situation, and not just one where I’d lost my damn mind, I’d have to admit that, no, allowing my abuser to talk me out of running away wasn’t the best idea in the world. But there was something in his voice in the last message he’d left me; something that made it clear to me that this wasn’t a case of a man worried about losing his property or afraid for his freedom.
This is where it gets tricky for a survivor of domestic violence who has paranoia issues. Because so much of what goes on in an owner/property relationship is absolutely abuse if the “property” doesn’t consent to it. And because a lot of things Master says to me (that are true) are things an abuser would say to their victim. I know because they’re a lot of the same things my ex used to say to me. Only when he said them, they were boldfaced lies.
So our conversation went a little something like this:
Him: I would never hurt you outside of the confines of our relationship.
Me: But you did.
Him: Not intentionally. I didn’t realize I was, and you wouldn’t talk to me about it. I’m not psychic. You should have given me a chance.
Me: But you have the right to tell me to go fuck myself and do whatever you want, so why wouldn’t you?
Him: Because I love you, and I want to protect you. I don’t want to break you. If that’s what I wanted to do, I could have done it a hundred times over by now.
As we talked, I heard him say all the things my ex used to say, and I listened to his tone. I realized, when I agreed to meet with Master, that if he truly did mean to do me harm, I was walking right into the lion’s den, but I also felt the need to know for sure. And I hoped that, having been in this situation countless times with my ex, I’d be able to tell the difference.
When I saw him, any doubt I had was gone. And how he handled the situation from the moment I refused to get in the truck till the day we finally agreed to try to get back the owner/property part of our relationship proved to me that I made the right decision.
After talking it over, we agreed that I’d keep my collar, but we backed off the S&M, and the extreme control for a while. Not just because I was suddenly afraid of it, but also because Master could no longer trust his safety from prosecution. What if I went beyond paranoia into full on delusions, and went to the police?
Over the past few years, I’ve been hyper-aware of my surroundings. I’ve been paying attention to the actions and words of those around me. That’s partially caused by my paranoia, too. If I listen closely, maybe I’ll hear what the voices in my head hear; all that negativity the paranoia tells me is there. But lately, it’s an active attempt at getting out of my own head, and getting to know the people around me; learning what makes them tick, so to speak. With Master, it’s an attempt to be more aware so that we have less misunderstandings that lead to arguments.
Why, yes, I am a sucky slave, and I do argue with my owner! Please refer to this post for all the other reasons you are slavier than me. It’s from 2010, but it’s still mostly relevant.
Something (among lots, and lots of other things) that I have learned about Master is he never intentionally breaks things. He takes damn good care of his belongings. From his car, to our house, to the Ladder Ball set we won at his job’s winter bash a few years ago, he does everything in his power to make sure they look nice, and are in good repair (even if that does mean telling me to fix or clean things). Why should I be any different?
Hearing Master tell me I’m his does much more than turn me on. It lets me know he’ll take care of me until he no longer can. It shows me that he enjoys having me around. It tells me that even if something similar comes into his possession, he’ll continue the level of care he knows I need until he no longer can. It allows me to trust him with my whole being, and not just the few “secrets” I tell everyone. With just two little words, he makes me feel safe.