I am his slave. Though I don't wear high heels, or vacuum
the rugs in a French maids outfit, or clean the oven in the nude.
I am his slave, yet I'll engage in spirited banter,
even firey at times. And yes, he'll hear the word no from
me on occasions. Perhaps even be asked if he's out of
his mind with whatever the idea is. Please don't tell me I
have no limits, or ideas of my own.
I am his slave. Even so, it is unlikely that you
could tell that if you saw me in the grocery store.
No collar will you see, no latex or leather, no
tattoo on my neck of some mysterious barcode. Just
another woman, wandering round the store in every
day clothes, tennis shoes, coupons or list in one
hand, trying to decide what to make for dinner.
I am his slave, but you might disagree.
What makes me claim this, you might well cry.
You seem so free, unchained, released, how can one
such as you be bound by steel, or rules. I don't
see you kneel.
So what makes me utter this claim, those words
so powerful, yet untrue in the eyes of many.
I am his slave, for I knelt at his feet, begging
with heart, mind and soul for the collar in his hand.
I accept his discipline, guidance and yes, love.
I feel complete within the chains of his strength,
the steel in his eyes that bind me into a freedom
I cannot competently explain.
I feel free, bound by his rules. Free to to be honest
with how I feel towards him.
I am his slave, because he says so.
And that is all that is needed.
So though you might disagree, shake your head in
wonder or disgust, I ask you this. Who are you to
impose your boundaries on my heart, my mind, my
soul. I have not given you that right. You sparked
no need or desire to kneel in me, to serve, to plead,
or beg. To bring the flogger to you with tears in my eyes.
Think what you will, for yours is not the will or word
that holds me, for I am HIS slave
