This will be a short blog post, and scattered.
Underneath the art collection, the gorgeous condo filled with books and flowers, the Savile Row suits, the fact that he can be the most attentive and intellectual and polite gentleman in public…
…he is, at heart, feral. The Surgeon was the same way. This one expresses it differently.
I never thought I would meet a man more extreme than myself (the Attorney proved me wrong, but he was an exception.) The Collector is. My part in this weird relationship is that I enable him to go crazy and indulge in whatever crazy fantasies come up in his mind. I make all of the sadists worse, because I’m fearless and have very few limits. I admit this.
Another thing he does is push and push my boundaries and limits. When I Top as a prodomme, I push just enough to make it exciting–nobody wants a boring session, unless they are a novice and scared to death. I don’t push hard enough to make them safe out.
The Collector pushes until I’m about to call it off, which really says something, and then he senses it and reels me back in by being gentle and letting me off the hook. What I feel instead of anger is gratitude.
My last therapist, who thought my sadomasochism was pathological, actually had a point when he said, “You only cut off one of my hands! Thank you for not cutting off the other one!”
I care about my beauty, meaning my figure and my face. That’s how I make my living, at least partially. Otherwise, my physical integrity means nothing to me and never has. Time will take its toll soon–I’m not a spring chicken anymore. I still look conventionally “good” and can rock a bikini.
Dangled from an O ring in the ceiling? Perched on a 3″x 6″ whilst getting the single-tail (which, incidentally, I taught him how to use)? All of the games? The Collector, unlike the Surgeon, is creative. He always has something new to use on me.
This shit with his boys…?! He actually told Elder One–in English, in front of me–“My girlfriend is more beautiful than yours.”
I wanted to die. Why is he competing with his son?
I’m sorry to lay this on my 8 readers, but I can’t talk to anyone else.
Thanks for reading this bummer of an essay.