When I Went Back (IV)

I was into my second week back, and I’d become increasingly comfortable with him. Relaxed. We held hands at home and walking down the street, we snuggled on the sofa, when we were laughing about something he’d turn to me and kiss me on the cheek and it all felt perfectly natural. I was also starting to reciprocate his sexual attraction–it was impossible not to; the pain and circumstances that caused me to leave were tremendous, but now that they were diminishing, my former feelings were coming back, and he knew it and I knew he knew it. I was still sleeping in my own room, but he was acting in increasingly seductive ways: walking around with his shirt off, pushing up his shirtsleeves to expose his arms (which he knew I found sexy), inviting me into the kitchen when he cooked so that he could show off and handle knives in front of me. We’d go to the pool and play a game where we’d throw a toy into the water and see who could retrieve it from the bottom of the pool first and then wrestle over it, our bodies touching. I admit that I’d stopped wearing the conservative one-piece I always wore when his sons visited and started wearing my bikini. I was sexually frustrated. I’d had virtually no sex in over a year.

One night over dinner (so many things happen over dinner in his home) the Collector asked me straight up if I’d been with another man since I left him, and I told him the truth: I’d gone on four dates with a nurse I met online who claimed to be a Top. He was handsome, had a nice condo, was a pretty good conversationalist, and was even age-appropriate, which is rare for me. And he was a Top. The problem was that he was inexperienced (and I know, I know, compared to me, practically everyone is inexperienced). He knew what he wanted but didn’t know how to do a lot of it well, and the sad truth is that I spent the time comparing him to the Collector, which was shitty of me, but I couldn’t help it. I stopped dating him because he slammed me up against a wall and wrenched my arm behind my back, which would have been fine except that he did it much too hard and gave me a minor black eye (it wasn’t really black, just red). But the point is, I told him on the telephone the next day, if I hadn’t turned my head to the side at the last second he would have broken my nose. Then he would have had to drive me to the hospital and we would have had to have a very awkward conversation with a social worker.

“I like you, but to do this I need to be able to trust you, and I can’t trust that you won’t damage me accidentally,” I told him.

“You could teach me!” he wailed on the other end of the line. He’d been tremendously apologetic about my face.

“I’m sorry, but I just don’t have the time and energy for that right now. I know you’ll find someone else. You have a lot going for you. Just go slower in the future,” I told him, and cut the nurse loose.

The Collector wasn’t upset that I’d been with another man–long-time readers will know that he’s not the jealous type, especially since he was the superior Dom in the story. I always felt that I really was lucky with the Collector in that regard–for most men, non-monogamy is a deal-breaker, or else they fetishize having their girlfriends fuck around.

“What about you?” I asked. I have to admit that I was honestly a little curious. I’m not jealous whatsoever and never have been, but the Collector is, surprisingly, naturally monogamous, and since he’d been stalking pursuing me relentlessly ever since I left, I wondered if he’d been dating.

“No.”

“But it would be so easy for you,” I said. It’s true. Besides being richer than Croesus, he’s handsome and knows how to dress. “You could have the most beautiful women in New York.”

“I’ve had the most beautiful women in New York. After you, they all bore me. And I have been too busy to hunt them anyway.”

“You could have hired a working girl.”

I DID hire a working girl,” he shot back. Meaning me. The Collector was a client. That’s how we met–when I was still pro-subbing. He answered my ad on Backpage (God I miss Backpage. I miss Backpage so, so much.).

That shut me up for a minute. I couldn’t meet his eyes so I looked at my plate. Foie gras.

“I needed to leave, Collector,” I whispered.

“Let me tell you what you need, Margo,” he said, and I looked up at him, startled. For the first time since I’d come back, his voice was hard. Suddenly he looked very intense. In fact, he looked a little pissed off. “What you need is a dominant man to make your important decisions for you. What you need is for him to protect you from yourself. What you need is, despite your considerable intellect, which you know I enjoy, is to sometimes be treated like an empty-headed little child with a box of matches who is going to inadvertently burn her own fucking house down.”

First, you have to remember that the man almost never swears. The Surgeon swore like a gangster in a Martin Scorsese film, but the Collector is much more elegant. I was suddenly anxious because it’s like being a kid–when your parents were swearing at you, you knew they were pissed and you were gonna get it. His body was tense and his husky-dog blue eyes were blazing.

“I know exactly what you need, Margo, so why don’t you be a good little girl and let me give it to you?”

“Don’t speak to me like I’m a child,” I protested, trying to stand up for myself a little and keep some dignity. My voice sounded weak to my own ears.

“You are a child. You’re my child, or have you forgotten how hard I tried to make you happy and indulge you and give you the childhood you never had?” he snarled.

It was true. . He had tried. He’d put a great deal of effort into it, in fact, and he certainly knew me and understood me better than my own parents do. I suddenly felt ashamed and ungrateful.

I sat there, frozen on the spot, looking down at my plate again. I’d been through situations like this before.

He’d told me that he wouldn’t punish me for leaving him. He’d told me that he wasn’t angry anymore, only happy and grateful to have me back. Relieved to have me back. He hadn’t displayed a trace of temper since I’d arrived.

But now I knew that he was still pissed, all right. He hadn’t been displaying it–he’d kept his promise–but the anger was still there.

Perhaps when he saw I was scared, it appeased him because he knew he’d made his point, because he suddenly relaxed.

“I’m sorry, Margo. You hurt me very badly. I didn’t mean to scold you. I apologize.” His voice was gentle again. He reached out and grabbed my arm at the wrist, leaning over to look at me. “I love you. You are the most important person in my life. I would hate to lose you.”

All the tension left the room. I looked at him, and his eyes looked both sad and loving. I got out of my chair and gave him a hug. He closed his eyes and pressed the side of his face against my breasts.

“Everything is going to be okay,” I said.

They wouldn’t.

When I Went Back (III)

He woke me up at 6 PM after I’d been sleeping for approximately 16 hours. He brought me some more hot chocolate (I don’t drink coffee and only sometimes drink tea) and a glass of ice water.

“Dinner is in two hours! Can I get you anything else? Would you like a Valium?”

The Collector doesn’t abuse substances–not that I’ve ever been able to tell, anyway–but he has Ambien and Valium for when he travels. Sometimes he needs to sleep after God knows how many hours on the airplane.

“What’s for dinner?” I inquired.

“Never ask. It spoils the surprise. Some of your favorite foods, though. Elk steaks to start off with, though.” It was was going to be delicious .

“May I pick out something for you to wear…?” he asked me.

“Do whatever you want,” I said, knowing it was a dangerous thing to say. I wass too fucking exhausted and I knew for a fact, that this could blow up in my face. He went to my closet and selected a short cocktail dress he’d bought me for Christmas (or “Yule,” as he usually calls it) a few years ago. His boys were visiting and I distinctly remember being being humiliated when he asked me to try it on. It was shimmery blue with a low front front and is practically backless. Unless you’re wearing a shrug or some sort of cover-up jacket (he recommended a sheared white fur coat he’d given me), it is only fit for a latenight bar or to go “clubbin” in. I am not a “clubbin” type of girl and only wore it once outside the house, when we had to go to the nightclub to entertain one of his Russian clients for political reasons.

“I think we’re both too old to get into this club,” I told him, getting dressed. It was true. Unless you’re a celebrity or a major music producer, we were both too fookin old. “I don’t think we’ll make it past face control.”

“You’re gorgeous and I have plenty of cash. We’ll get in. (Russian client) will come get us if he needs to. Which he won’t need to,” the Collector told me. “I can get in anywhere, and so can you, with that beautiful fucking face and body.” He came over and kissed me.

Anyway, that was the only time I ever wore the dress out of the house, and now I’m supposed to wear it to dinner? And did I mention that when he gave it to me, he wanted me to try it on WHEN HIS TWO SONS WERE THERE? I had to put my foot down for that one. I fucking hated it when he’d try to show me off in front on them, or get competitive with them (namely the elder one, with whom he has an adversarial relationship) over who had the prettier girlfriend.

Now I asked him–not even a full day in the house–if I could wear something more conservative.

“Well, if you insist. But you look so beautiful in this.”

“FINE!” I snatched it out of his hand. “I need to shower and get ready. May I have some privacy, please?”

“You know, Margo, this is no need to be so touchy. We are going to have a lovely dinner, I promise.” He left.

I took a shower and shaved my legs (didn’t tidy up my muff, because if he thought he was getting laid tonight, he was sadly mistaken). I considered putting on some nice hosiery–God knows the man had bought me enough Wolford, La Perla, and StockinGirl to last 20 years–but I didn’t want to give him any ideas. I didn’t even put on heels, or any shoes for that matter. Then I did my hair and makeup. In retrospect, I should have just showed up looking like a complete slob, but in the Collector’s house there is a tremendous sense of pressure to look perfect, and BE perfect. Everything in the house is beautiful and perfect.

Then it was time for dinner.

I padded out to the dining room, and it was only once I started walking (the shower has a shelf seat you can sit down on) that I realized how uncoordinated I was. Can’t prove it and he’d never admit to it, but there was something in that hot chocolate besides peppermint schnapps. My money’s on Valium, which he uses occassionally to sleep after he’s been on an airplane for 12+ hours and needs to sleep after the jet lag, before he starts a grueling day of business negotiations. He doesn’t abuse it–I know, or at least think I do, because he’d offer me one occassionally and I’d count the pills and note the Rx dispenary date. But he’s drugged me before, usually after something incredibly stressful had happened: the horrific fateful weekend where everything went to shit and the Collector’s family imploded and I left; the handful of times over the years where one of our BDSM sessions went too far and I became very upset. I never complained. Why would I? If I can’t have alcohol, I am perfectly grateful for a few benzos a couple times per year. God knows no doctor will give me a Rx for benzos or anything fun unless it’s under direct medical supervision in a hospital.

In any event, I had to touch the wall to keep equilibrium on my way to the dining room. Once I got seated into a chair with arms, I was perfectly okay.

He always sets an immaculate, beauteous table. One of the first things he taught me to do to help was how to set it myself. Unless we were scarfing down delivery sushi or Indian food on the sofa while watching the news or a movie, we ate at the table every night. Candles, linen placemats, the whole bit. As I’ve mentioned before, ritual and routine are very important to the man.

He peeked his head out of the kitchen door. “I hope you are hungry!”

And in fact, I realized that I was ravenous. Besides pineapple-and-vodkas on the airplane, the Chicago layover, and whatever the fuck I was drinking in the hotel room before I got on the plane (I think it was cranberry cocktails. I like to tell myself that at least the juice has potassium and vitamin C), and the hot chocolate, I hadn’t eaten in three days.

Fun fact about late-stage alkies: when you drink, you don’t eat. It’s why so many are skinny and malnourished. When I was middle-stage, working at my last dungeon, I gained 25 fucking pounds because in addition to the booze, I was scarfing down tacos and chinese food from restaurants down the street. Middle-stage alcoholics get fat in a hurry. Once I moved back to my home state and dryed out, I lost it in a hurry, but even still…for someone who makes a living partially by my looks,and who used to have a pretty severe eating disorder, that weight gain was a devestating experience.

Anyway, getting back to the Collector’s little dinner party for two: the food smelled fucking GREAT. He even baked bread, which he knows how to do but almost never does because baking bread is a pain in the ass, not fun at all unless you’re a huge baking fan, and he’s got a great bakery on speed-dial. I know because once he taught me how to recognize very high-quality food, I went shopping for the dinner menu almost every single day. He’d leave me a shopping list. Dorian’s, Randazzo’s, Harlem Shambles, Amato for venison, you name it. Not to mention that fucking swan he orders for Yule dinner every year (don’t ask).

Dinner was elk steaks with white truffle butter (my favorite meat) and white asparagus. Scalloped potatoes and a big spinach salad with avocado on the side (“I thought you would need some potassium,” he said, and he was undoubtedly right). The last thing you want if you’re malnourished and go into withdrawal are severe muscle cramps. Worst pain I’ve experienced in my life, and I’ve suffered scarring second-degree burns on my arm from a kitchen grease fire.

Frankly, I was worried he’d lay a shit ton of heavy questions about our breakup on me, but he didn’t. He’s not a compulsive womanizer or a natural -born salesman like the Surgeon, but he can be charming and even seductive (he sure seduced my mother in meeting her one weekend and then in their telephone conversations after our breakup). He can leave a very positive impression on people. Boy, did he turn up the charm over our dinner, from the food to everything else. It reminded me a bit of our first several dates, when he hired me as a professional submissive. Even after that, he could be the perfect boyfriend when he wasn’t pulling one of his crazy stunts.

“Thank you for wearing that dress. I know you’re not fond of it, sadly. I love what the candlelight is doing for your decolletage. You are such a beautiful woman.” We were dining exclusively by candlelight. His country has a long history of dining by fire and candlelight, especially when the seasons change and the hours of daylight start to get very short. They still do it today, even with electricity. Some restaurants and bars–especially old-fashioned ones–still offer it. Generally I don’t like sitting in the dark, but for a few hours, it does create a lovely ambiance.

He reached out and touched my hand. I was mostly done with my meal. I could feel his sexual desire for me radiating off of him; it was palpable. To tell you the truth, it was making me a little fucking nervous. Back when we were still dating, one thing I always enjoyed is that he remained very attracted to me, even after over four years. And I was always attracted to him. But I know that after two years–or, shit, with some men, after one year–the sexual attraction starts to wane. The Collector’s attraction to me never decreased. If anything, it increased as my boundaries deteriorated and our relationship became more perverse, and we planned on marriage and a baby. He was ready to be a father again, and he very much wanted a daughter.

Now, tonight, my first night back, all this just made me anxious.

“I would really like some wine,” I said.

His brow furrowed. “I do not know if that’s a wise idea, Margo.”

I laughed. “That’s never stopped you before. Do you think I don’t know what was in that hot chocolate? What, do you think I’m going to get out of control in your house? You know I don’t act out even when I’m smashed.” It’s true. I don’t get aggressive or morose or histrionic. And getting remotely out of control is impossible, unless I ran out and got some booze while he was at work. At my request, he’d shut down his small bar for guests and moved all the liquor to a locked mini-cooler and put a double lock on the wine closet. I couldn’t get into either without a crowbar. Believe me, I’d tried a time or two in the past.

“Very well then. Not very much.” He poured a glass for me. I think it was pinot noir. He was keeping it in an ice bucket on the table with just a layer of ice on the bottom.

“Do you miss (Younger Son)? He misses you very much.”

“Of course I missed him and I was so very sorry that I hurt him.”

“We can discuss this later, when you are ready. You put him through hell when you left, Margo. Thank God he was already accepted to university because he became depressed and his grades went to hell.”

I started to tear up. I knew all about Younger One’s problems when I left the family. The Collector had elaborated upon them at length during one of our last conversations. “You have an OBLIGATION to Younger One!” he’d ranted. “He is crushed!

What about YOUR obligation to your own son? What happened to that? What about your obligation to your Elder son, Praying Mantis, whom you cut off when everything turned to shit, and now you won’t help him again until he come groveling back with his hat in his hand? This is what I thought, but I never said it to the Collector. I did say it to my shrink.

So, back at the dinner table: I teared up when he was talking about younger one. The Collector stood up to embrace me and I drew back and said that I was sorry, but not ready.

Again, he had the good grace not to be offended. I could tell how much he wanted to touch me. He sat back down and just reached out and held my hand. “Everything will be all right, Margo. You’ll see. I think we should spend some time alone together. When the time is right, we’ll tell him you’re back. He will be so happy.”

Then he asked if he could give me a bath. No, I wasn’t ready for bathtime either, and I said I wanted to sleep in my room until I felt comfortable.

I thanked him for dinner and then helped clear the table. Then I went to my room and changed into gym shorts and a tank top. I locked the door. After a little while he knocked and I asked through the door what he wanted. He told me that he had hot chocolate for me and he’d just leave it on the floor outside. I waited until I heard him walk down the hall. Then I opened the door and took the chocolate and went to bed.

To my knowledge, he didn’t try to get into my room that night.

In the morning, he was completely respectful. He proposed fun things to do.

For the next week, he was the perfect boyfriend. He took me to do all of the things he knew I love to do.

We went to the Butterfly Conservatory. He got a few butterflies on him, but I got lots of them. You have to stay super still so you don’t scare them or crush them. He said, “Oh, they like you!” He knows animals love me. He took lots of pictures.

We went the NY Aquarium. We both loved that. They have a special shark exhibit, and the Collector loves sharks. They are probably his favorite animal. He loves Hammerheads the best, and has a beautiful poster-sized photo of a Hammerhead in his home office. The photo was taken from below, close to the surface, so all you can see is the outline of its body as it’s executing a turn, so the body is almost a circle. He had it hanging in his work office for a while before he decided it might give visitors and clients a bad impression. I think sharks look scary as shit–the dead black eyes, ugh! But we also saw lots of amazing fish and a huge sea turtle. And penguins! And a beautiful jellyfish tank.

We went to the Cloisters. I’ve been there before and wrote about it here. He knows A TON about history and art. I know a lot–definitely more than most people–but He knows almost everything, so he was a great tour guide.

We went book shopping. He even bought me a dress. I have lots of dresses in my closet at his house–most of which he bought me–but he loves to buy me dresses and he can afford it; it’s not as if he’s racking up debt. So I let him. He wanted to buy me lingerie too, but I wasn’t ready for that.

We went to a few great restaurants, including Del Posto, which is one of my very favorite restaurants.

We were having a great time. Unless he’s acting crazy, I really do love his company. I fell in love with him for several reasons, one of which is that I truly enjoy his conversation and I admire him. Or I did, until everything turned to shit one weekend. That week just reminded me of why I fell in love with him in the first place. He can be so much fun, and he genuinely enjoyed introducing me to new experiences. New foods, new places to go, new travel experiences, new shopping experiences. He taught me a lot about cooking and he was always very patient with me, even when I ruined the food sometimes.

(Unlike with his Eldest Son. One time we were at his house in Europe and Eldest was told to cook scallops. Now, scallops are surprisingly hard to cook. One minute too soon and they’re raw. One minute too long, and they’re tough. Well, Eldest cooked em a minute too long, and the Collector yelled at him, which shocked me because this man never raises his voice.

“We’re trying to eat them! Not play hockey with them!” Like chill the fuck out, we have more scallops in the fridge. Supervise him so that he can learn. Later that night, in the bedroom, I rebuked him, which I seldom have the courage to do where his children are concerned. I guess my inner educator came out. I have taught a LOT of young people the age of Elder Son, starting when I was 25 years old.

“You can’t teach anyone anything by yelling at them! You’re not a drill sergeant in the Army! We had 20 more fresh scallops in the fridge! Maybe he’s mad at you all the time because you hurt his feelings. And you yelled at him in front of me, which is humiliating for a young man! Was that the point?!” I’ve seen the Collector dominate people, most especially myself. I know what he’s like when he’s in that mindset.

He was sitting on the bed taking off his socks and paused to consider. Then he said, “Well, you have a point.”

“I think you owe him an apology.”

Well, I don’t think the Collector gave it to him, because the next day I said, “I can teach you how to cook the scallops. It helps to have an egg timer or the timer on your phone.”

Praying Mantis said, “He can cook his own fucking scallops from now on.”

ANYWAY, back to the time I went back: at the end of the week, we watched a movie, “American Factory.” It was really good. We were sitting on the sofa, and I let him snuggle with me. He hugged me under the blanket with his head on my shoulder. Then me laid down with his head on my lap. It was nice and I felt comfortable. He looked so cute and emotionally needy, and he’d been so respectful, I started stroking his hair.

That was the last good day. Then everything got ugly. In a hurry.

Happier Times

Before we continue with the tale of what happened when I went back, a brief interlude. A memory of happier times. Perhaps I feel compelled to write it as a sort of justification…?

CONTENT WARNING: I try to keep this blog rated R, but what follows is pretty sexually explicit, and the sex is kinky. Don’t read it if that might offend you.

The Collector and I were a little more than a year into our relationship, and things were getting serious. Not as serious as they would eventually get–wedding plans and the discussion about having a baby were still in the future–but they were serious enough. He’d already told me, point blank, that I was his future wife. He’d done this without proposing. To him, this was merely a matter-of-fact observation: this is the way it is going to be.

It was early afternoon, and we were making out on his couch in the big room. I was naked, which was typical–the Collector was always big on rules (only for me, of course), and one of those was no clothes inside the house, unless of course we had guests or he wanted to see me wear something. Or if I had my period, in which case I could wear underwear. There were various throws all around the house so that we could keep things at least sort of hygienic and I wasn’t sitting my bare ass on the furniture–you could just throw them in the wash every other day. He was magnanimous enough to crank up the heat a few degrees so that I was comfortable.

Anyway, he was laying halfway on top of me and I was getting pretty turned on. The Collector could always turn me on; we had a tremendous amount of chemistry and despite all the crazy stunts he would pull or the punishments he would subject me to, our sex life was consistently and reliably excellent, even if it made me hate myself–and him–from time to time.

“Do you like being mine, Margo? Do you like being my property?”

I nodded, breathless. When I had my clothes on and my wits about me, it was mostly true. When I was turned on, naked, and vulnerable it was completely true.

“How long will you belong to me?” he asked.

“As long as you want me to…?”

Forever,” he said, and put my hand on the bulge in his pants. “Show me.”

He sat back up and tossed a pillow on the floor. I awkwardly slid onto the floor between his knees, undid his belt buckle and the front of his pants, and got to work.

“Look at me,” he said.

You have to be pretty special to me before you get sustained eye contact from me while I have your dick in my mouth–it’s just too intimate. I did it for him all the time.

After a minute, he just laid back against the sofa and tilted his head towards the ceiling, taking it all in and running his fingers through my hair. When he relaxed like that I always knew I was doing an especially good job. “Relaxed” is not a word I would usually use to describe the man.

I thought he was going to finish in my mouth, but instead he pushed me away gently and put his cock back in his pants. He told me to get on my hands and knees, with my face on the floor.

“I’m going to take my pleasure from you now,” he said, standing up. When I heard him taking off his belt, I shivered, and when he doubled it up and started to beat my ass and my back with it, I started moaning. It wasn’t anywhere near as hard as he could hit, but it hurt, and it felt great. The next day I would find a few bruises.

“That’s right. Keep your head down.” He obliged me by stepping on my head, pinning me to the floor.

“Well, what do you have to say for yourself?” he paused and looked down at me. “You are smiling.”

“I’m just so happy,” I answered, my eye rolling up at him from the floor.

After a second, he nodded down at me. He was panting a little and his blond hair had become disheveled and was hanging in his eyes.

“I am, too.”

When I Went Back part 1

I went back to the Collector once.

For over a year, he was relentless in getting me back. With one exception, the men I’ve fallen in love with have all been stalkers, but the Collector was the most persistent. I stayed in my Western state because it felt more safe. I stopped using the email account he’d used to communicate with me for years and opened a new one. When I stopped working as a prodomme in San Francisco, took an office job, and eventually started domming in my home town under a new stage name with all-new photos, he found my ads on the sex worker ad malls and started emailing me there. He called my mother at her home and would talk to her for hours–leaving her with a very positive impression, of course. He send me birthday cards and gifts, none of which I opened. When I decided to teach a course at one of the local colleges in exchange for a partial tuition waiver (and a nominal salary), he somehow found out and enrolled in the course, which was online due to COVID.

I went to the administration and explained that he was my Ex who was stalking me long-distance. They told me that they needed to see a restraining order before they could block him from taking the class. I’ve been through the restraining order process before and the last thing I wanted to do was have to answer some very awkward questions about our BDSM relationship.

“He doesn’t need to be in my class! He’s an attorney in New York! He’s not working on another degree!” I told the administration. The administration was sympathetic–I could tell that they believed me–but their answer was the same: restraining order, or it didn’t happen.

Every time I logged into Skype, there were his texts: You’re hurting me. Stop hiding from me. I had to change my phone number twice and he found me both times. How, I do not know, and the anxiety about not knowing fueled my ever-increasing paranoia. The third time he found me, I gave up and got TracPhone, which is a virtually untraceable burner.

In the meantime, I was ranting and raving about the man to my therapist once or twice a week.

“Stop letting if affect you to this extent. You don’t owe the Collector anything. He dragged you into the gutter and made you do the worst thing you’ve ever done,” the therapist reminded me.

“But you don’t understand. You don’t understand what he’s like. What if he sends the school administration my ads? What if he sends the ads to my mother and tells her I’m and S&M hooker? He could ruin my life! And sooner or later, he always gets what he wants!”

“Well, you don’t have to give him what he wants.”

But in the end, I did.

“Margo, just get on the plane. I’m looking right now. There are still three leaving today. I will make you the reservation immediately,” he said when I finally called.

“I need to go home and pack. I need to get my contact lenses and makeup bag and cancel my appointments. I need to tell my family where I’ll be going!” I sniffled pathetically in my hotel room, surrounded by the detritus of my last session. Of course I’d been drinking and made the mistake of reading his most recent emails to my work account, which is what made me call.

“You don’t need to bring makeup and you don’t need more clothes. Everything is here, exactly as you left it. I’ll buy you whatever you need. I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of everything. We can discuss it all when you get here. Just get on the airplane. Margo, this can’t go on! Do you know what this has done to me, Margo?”

That’s what they all say when I leave: I can’t believe you’re doing this to me!

“I’m going to get there and you’re going to punish me for leaving you!” A very legitimate concern.

“I will not! I promise you I will not. I would never hurt you, Margo! I love you!”

The magic words.

I got on the airplane. A first-class ticket back to God-knows-what. Except that if I was being honest with myself, I knew exactly what. Layover in Chicago, during which I told myself You need to turn around and go right back home. Instead I boarded and availed myself to the complimentary booze.

The plane touched down in the middle of the night and I texted him when I arrived, expecting to take a cab into Manhattan. He was already waiting for me at the baggage claim.

CONTINUED TOMORROW

New Update: Dad Material? New Career!

I had to give up my old apartment, which is a crying shame.  It was an attic apartment in an old Victorian house, close to the river and in a great neighborhood.  It had a sloped ceiling in the living room and big trees in the yard and two raccoons that would peek in the window at night.  It was also nice and QUIET (as I age, I am slowly but surely turning into a true noise crank).  I liked it there.

Well, the Collector was threatening to buy the house my apartment was in (yes, the entire building) if I didn’t stop “hiding” from him (and maybe hiding shouldn’t be in quotes because I was, in fact, hiding).  He’s shown up at my door before and it was pretty awful.  I’ve had a lot of experience with boyfriends who just come over break the door down (or, in his case, let themselves in with secretly-made copies of my house keys) and it was giving me a lot of anxiety, so I moved.

I think that we’re done.

Which brings me to the next topic…and it’s awkward….

Something has happened to me in the last few years.  I started to think I’d like to eventually have a baby. 

I’m a shocked as you are.  I never wanted children before.  I felt strongly enough about it to put it into my online dating profiles. I am at a loss to explain why I changed my mind.  The only thing I can think of is that there really is something to that old trope about the biological clock: I’m in my late 30s now, and I no longer have a seemingly unlimited period of fertility ahead of me.  My mother went into menopause early.  It occurred to me that if I want a family, it’s something that I will need to plan for.  Not immediately, but in the foreseeable future.

I told the Collector about it and he suggested that I freeze my eggs.  He even offered to pay for it.  I was blogging while this was going on, but it was too personal for me to share online at the time.  I took him up on his offer and started going to the fertility clinic.  It was one of the most expensive gifts a man has ever given me, but I took it.  I had to go to classes and sign a lot of legal paperwork and inject myself in the abdomen twice a day, and then some of my eggs were harvested and frozen.  They are floating in a vat of liquid nitrogen.

A year and a half later, our relationship had grown, and he told me that he wanted to be the father.  He said that he always wanted to have a daughter. This is a huge thing for me.  I mean, can you imagine it?!  I thought about it.  I’ve been thinking about it for a long, long time.  On paper, it sounds great.  He’s twenty years older than me. How many men his age are willing to have a new baby?  Wow, aren’t I lucky that I found a guy like this?  Look at all the things the Collector could give a baby!  It would have every material advantage!  The best education money can buy!  The best health care! It would live in the most exciting city in the world!  It would have two high-IQ parents!  It would probably be good looking!

The Collector had one restriction: he wants me to wait till I’m 40.  Which is fine!  I have more work to do on myself.  I need at least two–and preferably three–years of unbroken sobriety before I even THINK of actually becoming a mother.

But I couldn’t commit to it.  I kept pulling back, and asking myself if the man was really Dad material.  His relationship with his elder son is not too great.  And how could we have a child and keep practicing our sadomasochistic relationship?  And am I ready to be domesticated?  And he’s controlling, what about that?  His kinks push the envelope sometimes, even with me (never thought I’d say that!).  What if the relationship goes bad and a kid is involved–how on earth would I ever get away?

The Collector says I’m afraid of being happy.  Is he right?

I know that before I have a kid–if I have a kid–I need a few years of good sobriety, and I also need a well-paying, steady job.  I’m not saying that sex workers can’t or shouldn’t be mothers–I know many who are!  But I think it would be best, for me, if I had a straight job.

During my time in rehab, I decided to make a career change.  But first, I’ll have to go back to school.  I’ll be going back to sex work in a few months in order to make money to cover tuition, because it’s going to be expensive and I won’t have the Collector’s help to pay it if I’m not with him.

I’ll tell you all about my new career plans in the next update!  And also more about why I’m worried about marrying the Collector.  Also, my ideas for doing sex work–I am going to try something new that will work around my rehab and recovery program.

Update: I’m Back!

I’m back with big, big news!  Lots of things have changed, and are in the process of changing around here!

Yes, I was off the internet for more than a year.  It sucked, but I had to do it.  I was Working On Myself™.  I was Doing Me™.

The first thing I did was check myself into residential treatment for alcoholism.  This time, I decided to throw in the proverbial towel and do it right–a long-term stay in a secure environment.

I had several reasons for wanting to be institutionalized.  The most important reason was that I’ve been struggling with quitting drinking since about 2011.  I’ve had periods of sobriety that lasted for 3, 6, and even 9 months, but I had many relapses, too, and every significant relapse was getting worse.  Alcoholism is a progressive disease/affliction, and a few years ago my body started going on strike.  When I drink now, I end up physically addicted very quickly and back in the hospital in a matter of days.  This unacceptable state of affairs had to be addressed as seriously as possible, which, for me, meant rehab.

Another reason I went was–let’s face it–I needed some time away from the Collector to get my head on straight and decide what I wanted out of our relationship and, importantly, whether or not I was likely to get it.  The Collector and I were discussing, umm, I think it’s called “taking the relationship to the next level” in women’s magazines.  So I did what any right-thinking woman would do when offered the chance for domesticity with a fascinating sadist who is, ostensibly, the man of her fondest nightmares: I ran away like my hair was on fire “just for a little while, while I get sober” and checked myself in to a secure, undisclosed location.

I also knew I needed to ask myself the burning question, “What am I doing with my liiiiiiiiife?”  And not just in some vague, existential way as I lay on the bed of an anonymous San Francisco hotel room in my leather domme gear, waiting for my client to show up and wishing I’d asked the staff to empty out the minibar when I checked it.  I mean seriously asking myself what I want out of life, and then deciding what I need to do to get it.

So I went to rehab, and then, after some time with the Collector, I went to another secure, undisclosed location that was like an apartment complex or community for recovering addicts.  I lived there for months.  I did a lot of volunteer work with the homeless and then women & children leaving abusive relationships.  I did that for months and it turned in to a job.  It was temporary–I knew I’d quit when I was time to move on–but it gave me something productive to do and a routine while I got more sober time under my belt.  It also gave me a lot of time to think about what I want to do next.

I’ll talk about more changes in my next blog post, but, for now, I can tell you that I’ve been completely sober for over 13 months, which is the longest time I’ve been without alcohol since I was about 20 years old.  I’m going back to school for a career change, and you want to stay tuned, because paying for school is going to be a huge pain in the ass if I don’t marry the Collector. And there is more!  Lots more!

But I’m back, and I’m healthy, and I feel great!

Since transparency is a new regime value around here, I wanted to post more pictures.  I still can’t show my face in photographs, but here’s a sketch the awesome femdom/BDSM artist Sardax did of me, which should give you an idea of what I look like, after all this time:

 

COMPLAINING and CONCERNED

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.

What’s in the Closet?

Sorry to burden you with this, readers, but I have a new episode in my tales of relationship awkwardness.

The last time I visited New York for the weekend, the Collector had to run to work to put out a fire on Saturday, and I was left in the house with Elder One, who is in his Freshman year at a college in the Tri-state area.

Elder One avoids his father as much as possible, but when Dad whistles he always comes, even though I know he hates himself for it.  It’s complicated. He’s not like his little brother, who still idolizes the Collector.

Well, I saw my chance and took it.  This question I am about to share with you, readers, has been bugging me for two years, and I thought maybe the son would have insight.

I went down the other hallway and cautiously rapped on the door.  I’d never come to his room before.

He opened it.  I could see books and papers open all over his bed, along with his laptop.  He was writing a paper.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt your work,” I said.

“It’s okay.  What is it?”

Can I ask you something about something in the house?”

“What?” he looked confused.

“Let me show you,” I said, and gestured for him to follow me to the other side of the house.

There is a door to a room there.  The door is fingerprint-protected.  Meaning that you have to push your thumb print on a scanner in order for the door to open.

I have no idea what is in that room.  It has plagued me, like I said, for more than two years.  I’d like to think it holds sensitive documents for the clients he does work for.  But if that was all it was, wouldn’t he just tell me that? I’ve asked him several times.

“What do you have in there?” I’d ask the Collector, trying to make a joke of it.  “Hacked up body parts in freezers?”

“Do you have any idea what could be in this closet?  Do you know how to get into it?”  I asked the son.

He shook his head.  “Can’t get into it.  I’ve seen this door, too.  I don’t know.  It must be confidential documents for work.  Things that can’t go onto the computer, because people are afraid of corporate espionage and hacking. It’s the only thing I can think of.”

“If that’s the truth, why won’t he just tell me that when I ask?”

“Because he loves power and playing mind games.”

Well, can’t argue with that.

“Now, let me ask you something,” he said.

“Yes?”

I followed him into the big room, where the bookcases go up to the ceiling. Here and there are spaces for showcasing small works of art.

He pointed way up towards the ceiling.  “What the fuck is that?

Oh, I knew exactly what it was, all right. I’d been questioning the Collector about whether it was wise to publicly display it since I first saw it there.  I know that even he is on the fence about displaying it, which is why he put it up as far as possible…but the man thinks that he’s the sovereign of his home (not really wrong) and he can do whatever he wants.

It’s a Medieval torture device that goes around the unfortunate subject’s head.  If you want details, I can send them to you.  There’re videos on YouTube about this; it’s published in several books I know of.

I froze for a moment.  Be honest, or lie?  Be honest, or lie?

I lied.  This kid does not need to know any more than he must already suspect about his father’s odd sexuality. And, jeez, I was embarrassed, too.  But mostly I was thinking of him.

“I have no idea.  I never gave it much thought.  It must be armor for war, right?” I said, trying to sound befuddled.

“Sure!” he sneered, and started walking back to his room.  “Pardon me. I have to finish my paper.”

He knows I lied to him.

Photo Disaster: Please Advise

UPDATE: Thank you all for your input. I read every comment more than once, and I also got more than one email and IM.  Readers gave me very very considered thoughts here.  I want to express my appreciation.

I have decided that I am not going to say anything.  And that’s not because I’m afraid of confrontation (you all know that).  It’s because the younger one’s comfort and security must take priority. If I bring this up with him, he’s just going to be mortified as fuck. He knows what he saw, I know what he saw, he knows I know what he saw.  I mean, what is going to be good about re-hashing it?  This isn’t burying my head in the sand, it’s just trying to give younger one some privacy.

I am really worried this is going to screw up my relationship with younger one.  I like him so much, and he is very much a kind young lad. He did nothing wrong.

THIS IS WHAT WORRIES ME:

The Collector is not a man who makes mistakes.  This is a very calculating individual.  He is not sloppy.

What worries me is that he left that folder out on his desktop because he knew his son would see it. That folder did not get there by accident.

*                         *                     *

 

Well, I have a fucked up situation on my hands and could really use some advice.

Some months ago, the Collector took me on a vacation to Thailand.  We had a blast.  It was a really fun trip and he was the perfect boyfriend the entire time.  Good sex, good food, beautiful hotel, rode the elephants in the jungle, watched Muay Thai fights two nights in a row, did the tourist thing and drank snake blood, all that good stuff.

Well, one day it was raining hard all day long so we just stayed in the hotel suite and played around all day.  I went down to the salon and got my hair and makeup done, and then I let the Collector take photos of me in different lingerie outfits.  He has a great camera and I’ve done some modeling, so I know how to pose.  Some of the pictures turned out great.  I seriously considered posting them here or in my prodomme ads, but it was an intimate time with my partner, and I didn’t want to violate that.

The pictures were not pornographic, but they are definitely provocative.  I would not want my Mom to see them, even though I’m dressed in all of them. Think Maxim magazine or Playboy‘s lingerie issue.  Me on the bed, me on the couch, me straddling a chair, cupping my boobs over my bra, silhouetted against the window.  You know what I’m talking about.

Fast forward to recently.  The Collector’s youngest son, who is now 15, flies in from Switzerland to visit Dad and his brother, who is going to a college in the Tristate area.

He had to finish a paper for school and e-mail it to his instructor.  Well, he spilled a drink on his laptop and fried it.  Laptop is ruined.  Thank God he saved his work on Dropbox.

He didn’t have time to go to BestBuy and get a new one because he was working under a deadline and HAD to finish this paper, so he asked if he could use Dad’s computer in the library.  This is a “public” computer–it’s not the one the Collector uses for business in his office. I’ve used this computer, the boys use the computer, guests use this computer.

Young one worked on that computer all day long.

(You see where this is going, right?  I know you see where this is going.)

That evening, the young one started to act strangely around me.  He was withdrawn and didn’t want to hang out and chat with me, or play chess or a video game (the video games drive the Collector crazy, but as long as the boy keeps his grades up, he doesn’t nag about it too much).  I felt kinda like he was avoiding me.  And his Dad, too, for that matter.  Not that the Collector noticed–or, if he did, he didn’t say anything.

It took me about two days to realize the problem was ME, for reasons I will explain.  I just assumed the kid was having some personal issue–maybe a problem with a girl, or a friend, or a bully at school, though I couldn’t imagine him getting bullied, since he’s good-looking and big for his age.  Or, hell, maybe he was just being moody.  Teenagers get moody sometimes.  Hell, everyone gets moody sometimes.

“Is something troubling you, (Younger One)?” I asked.  I thought we’d spent enough time together that it was appropriate for me to inquire. “You seem a little upset.  Is it just my imagination?”

“No, I’m fine,” he said.

So then–THEN–I went to the computer to look up a restaurant menu to order some sushi delivery.

Guess what is there, my 8 readers! Guess what is there on the fucking desktop.

A folder named “Margo’s Sexy Vacation Pics.”

I clicked it.

YUP.  About a hundred photos of me in my sexy underwear looking seductively at the cameraman who is obviously the younger one’s father, the Collector.

The desktop is immaculate.  The desktop on my computer is complete chaos–it’s so cluttered that if that file was on it, it would probably escape notice. On THIS computer, though, it is practically the only file there.

My stomach flipped over and my heart started pounding.

The younger one HAD to have seen those photos.  I mean, “Margo’s Sexy Vacation Pics?”  How could he resist clickbait like that?  I know I couldn’t!  I can’t even blame him!  I would have clicked it, too!

I deleted the entire folder and then emptied the recycle bin.  I felt sick to my stomach.  I felt humiliated.

Then I went to see the Collector and told him that I needed to speak with him in private.  We went to his bedroom.

“Why the fuck did you have our vacation photos on that computer? On the desktop?  I thought they were supposed to be on your private computer and password protected!  The young one SAW those photos!”

The Collector just chuckled. Unbelievably.

“Relax. I’m sure he sees much more explicit content on the internet on a regular basis. Besides, you look great.”

That sound you hear is my jaw, hitting the floor.

“He sees more explicit stuff on the internet, but not of his father’s girlfriend!” I yelled.

“I am sure he did not mind seeing those pictures,” he said, still smiling.

“Of course he minds! That’s why he’s acting weird around me!  Those pictures sexualized me to him!  And they also suggest something about his father’s sex life!  The last thing any kid wants to think about is their parent’s sex life!  He’s probably freaked out!  Collector, you could have just ruined my relationship with younger one!”

“I doubt it. He may look at you differently from now on, though.  You are right about that.  I’d be surprised if he hasn’t noticed you that way before, however.  He’s not blind.”

I was so fed up that I just walked out.

This is my question, readers.  Please advise:

Do I approach the younger one and say something like, “Oh, hey, I think you might have seen some pictures of your father and myself from our vacation in Thailand.  Of me in my bikini and stuff.  I’m sorry that you saw those photos.  They were supposed to be private.  I really hope it doesn’t make you uncomfortable.” And just leave it at that?

OR do I just say nothing and wait for it all to blow over?  HOPING that it ever blows over?  Pretend like it didn’t happen?

Readers, what do I DOOOOO?

 

 

 

My Type

He was a Scotsman who worked in Edinburgh. Tall, handsome, cultured enough to keep a conversation. He had brown hair going gray at the temples.  I have to hand it to the Collector: he picked my type.

When the Collector introduced me to him, he did the typical male up-and-down (I was wearing a coral satin halter dress) and said, “Collector, I see you’ve done well for yourself.”

“Of course,” said the Collector.

“Come sit at the table and enjoy some cheese before the steak comes out,” I said, taking his hand.  His hand was soft.

I found out that one of his degrees was in psychology, specifically Organizational Psychology. I studied this in school, so we had a lot to talk about.  If there’s one thing I love in a man, it’s his ability to talk nerdy to me. I’d fuck Quasimodo if he wrote a book I admired.

We discussed BF Skinner and Chris Argyris over Cotswald and Brei cheeses on slivers of French bread while the Collector roasted some asparagus.  He poured the Scotsman a big glass of wine.  I had ice water.

I did a test and adjusted my garter briefly. He didn’t say anything, but he focused in on it with laser-like intensity, and forgot the words he was saying.

I have him, I thought.  There is a part of my personality that loves the chase. I like to be hunted, but I also love to hunt.

The steaks came out.  We all liked them medium-rare.

The Collector kept exchanging glances at me over the table, and even nodded at the Scotsman.

“This is delicious,” said the Scotsman.

“If you think that is delicious, you ought to try her. Sweet and briney at the same time,” said the Collector.

The Scotsman turned beet red and started scratching the back of his head.

“Is this a proposition?” he asked. He was almost stammering.

I reached out and grasped his hand, which was still holding a knife: “It’s a proposition if you want it to be a proposition.  Do you want it to be a proposition?”

I’m telling you, the guy was trembling like a leaf.

“What do I do?” He asked.

“Finish your wine and come with me,” I said, softly.

He gulped it down and I took him by the hand and started leading him to the first hallway. The Collector followed.

“Second bedroom on the left,” he said.  I understood.  It’s a lovely bedroom, but it’s a guest bedroom, neither mine nor his.

Once we got there, I started to undress the Scotsman. Take it from me: men love to be undressed. They turn to water. This one was no exception.

The Collector unzipped my dress from behind, so I was nude except for my garter and stockings.  The way his eyes widened when he saw my little breasts!

“I told you she tasted good.  Find out for yourself,” the Collector said.

He dived between my legs.  His technique was not the best–he was a little too frantic–but it felt good.

The Collector was fully dressed and he would let me touch his hard-on through his trousers, but not take his clothes off.  “Save it for later,” he said.

He left the room for 90 seconds and came back with some condoms, which he threw to the Scotsman.  The Scotsman dropped them and picked them up from the bedspread.

“Fuck her well. Fuck her hard. Make her come,” said the Collector.

He kissed me gently while the Scotsman screwed my brains out. I was being held by men at my mouth and my pussy.  I cannot envision a better shangri-la.

Eventually, the guy came, and I invited him to relax on the pillow next to me for a few minutes.

“Do you mind if I vape?” he asked.

“Not at all,” the Collector said.

He vaped while the Collector brought him a glass of Port.

After 30 minutes, we invited him to use the shower and then walked him to the elevator. Bye-bye, back to Edinburgh.

“I’m not done with you yet,” The Collector said. “Go take a quick rinse and go to my bedroom.”

He tied my arms behind me and put my legs in a frog-tie.

“Nobody get to fuck you like this but me,” he said, thrusting into me. “What was your favorite part of today?”

“The way you controlled everything,” I gasped.  “What was your favorite part of today?”

“Seeing another man covet what is mine,” he said.