Journey Into Submission

a bdsm love journal

Tag: submissive Page 1 of 34


I was laying with my head on Michael’s lap, enjoying the quiet calm surrounding me after yet another torrential bout of crying. His shirt was wet and crumpled from my tears, my nose was stuffed past the point of being able to breathe, and I was done for the moment.

I felt Michael’s hand on the back of my neck, right up where the shortest hairs grow. Most of my hair was piled up on top of my head in a ragged bun, held together with one ponytail holder. Those few shorter ones that always escape were curling against the nape of my neck and it was these that Michael was gently holding.

“What are you doing?” I asked. I could feel his fingers tugging very softly on those few curly strands, wrapping them around his finger and letting them slide against his skin.

He said something that I thought sounded like he was repeating my question. He continued to fondle the hair, pulling a curl and letting it spring back softly into the hollow below my skull.

“What?” I asked. I didn’t move, the feeling of him playing with my hair was too hypnotic and comforting.

“What I want,” he said again.

“Oh,” I replied. I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“I’ve been playing with my hair a lot lately for some reason,” I said after a few moments.

“I know. I’ve seen you. I’ve been envious. Now it’s my turn,” he said quietly. I breathed out quietly and closed my eyes again. His fingers delicately insinuated themselves into my hair and continued the sweet tugging and caressing.

I stroke and curl and knot my hair when I am anxious, distracted, tired, worried… sometimes more than others, sometimes not at all. This past month or so I’ve found my fingers in my hair much more often than any other time I can recently remember. At the nape of my neck, at my temples, catching errant lost pieces and twirling them mercilessly. For longer than I can remember I have soothed myself in this manner, drawing calm and comfort from the silkiness soft against my fingers and the rhythmic tugging against my scalp.

This time it was Michael’s turn. I can’t know if he got the same primal satisfaction from those little curls as I do, but I do know it helped me feel better. I felt little and loved and protected, gentled from a stress-addled grown-up into a precious child in his arms.

Still More

I know I already posted this song once in the not-too-distant past but it is still the central theme of my life…

More Time
Performed by Needtobreathe

I promised you the world again
Everything within my hands
All the riches one could dream
They will come from me

I hoped that you could understand
That this is not what I had planned
Please don’t worry now
It will turn around

Cause I need more time
Just a few more months and we’ll be fine
So say what’s on your mind
Cause I can’t figure out just what’s inside

So say alright
Cause I know we can make it if we try
Cause I need more time
Just a few more months and we’ll be fine

We’re off to new lands
So hold on to my hands
It’s gonna be alright
It’s a whole lot brighter

So stand by the fire
It’s gonna be alright
Yeah, the road gets harder
But it’s not much farther

It’s gonna be alright
You know that it ain’t easy
Please believe me
It’s gonna be alright

Please don’t worry now
It will turn around
Cause I need more time
Just a few more months and we’ll be fine

So say what’s on your mind
Cause I can’t figure out just what’s inside
So say alright
Cause I know we can make it if we try

Cause I need more time
Just a few more months and we’ll be fine


A few weeks ago I was bothering Michael about implementing a new task to augment the ones already in place. I do this periodically, to increase my accountability to him and help me feel like I am doing things in service to him. All of these rules have to do with me taking care of myself or my home – the last one was making my bed every day.

I mastered making my bed every day within a few weeks. I knew when it got to the point where I couldn’t leave the house without making my bed or I’d feel guilty the entire time I was gone that I was stuck with the habit for life. And the guilt wasn’t because of Michael, it was because of me. It had shifted, just as I’d hoped, from something I did for him to something I did for me, because I wanted my room to look pretty and I wanted to feel like a grown-up capable of doing grown-up tasks.

So, the bed was being made every day. It had gone from task to habit. I was serving Michael and myself well. Now I needed something new. I asked Michael about it a few times by text message, reminding him that I was ready to add another daily expectation. Part of the stated reason for me asking for these chores is a kind of preparation for the time when Michael and I are living together. I want to take care of his house in the manner that he prefers without causing a lot of chaos when it comes time to do so. The easiest way to achieve this is to learn those habits now, use this time when we are not living together as training, and integrate these things into my life so when I am keeping his house, neither of us will have to worry about what is expected of me.

“Do you have a new task, since making my bed has become habit?” I asked him. He was sitting in my rocking chair rough-housing with my cat.

“I’m not sure because I haven’t checked,” he said, turning his head as if to look behind him, toward the kitchen, “but I’m pretty sure you don’t do the dishes every night. Do you?”

I shook my head. Somehow I’d known this was where he was going to take this assignment.

“No, Sir,” I admitted.

“That’s it then. I want the dishes done every night before you go to bed.” He went back to playing with the cat while I bit my lip. I hate doing dishes. I usually let them pile up in nice little stacks for several days before I finally deal with them out of desperation.

“Yes, Sir,” I sighed, imagining myself washing dishes every day after dinner instead of settling down on the couch as was my habit.

Later that same afternoon we were in the kitchen for some reason and Michael turned to me.

“God help you if I come over unexpectedly and find a dish in your sink,” he said. His tone of voice wasn’t particularly menacing, but I knew he was serious.

“But you said I had until bedtime!” I protested. “What if they’re today’s dishes?”

“You think I can’t tell the difference between today’s dishes and yesterday’s dishes, pet?” he asked logically.

I just bit my lip again. This one was going to be tough.


Michael released me from carrying out a certain task a little bit ago. Which task it was is immaterial, as are the reasons for his decision. What is important is how I reacted to this change in his desire to remain in control of that particular aspect of my life.

Instead of doing a happy dance and immediately crossing the item off of my mental to-do list, I thought about my options, looked at what would make me and him happy in the long run, and decided nothing would change.

Michael didn’t say I shouldn’t do this particular task, he just said I was no longer accountable to him for it, so I decided to keep doing it.

We were discussing this task about a week after he’d let it go as something he was requiring as part of his ownership. He expressed his opinion that perhaps I had altered my behavior or stopped doing this thing.

“What? Why would I do that? It’s something I do to serve you. I guess it doesn’t really matter whether you’re going to enforce it or not…” I said. I was confused not at his supposition but at my own dedication to doing something that basically didn’t matter on a day to day basis.

“That is because you are acting out of the submissiveness born of your heart, not of my asking,” he said quietly.

That stopped me in my tracks for a while. I still hear him saying it in my ear, the distortion of the digital media of the phone filtered out by my memory.

I am serving him out of the submissiveness born of my heart. Does this mean I would necessarily serve and submit to anyone who tried to lay claim to my fealty, without regard to their worth? Am I so needing to serve that I would do so for any man strong enough to tame me in the slightest?

I tend to think not. I tend to think that I am more discerning, that I know what I want, need, and desire in a partner and that Michael is being served by me not only because I need to serve but because he inspires my loyalty. There are many who would have me as their own, who would lay claim to me should I be insipid and vacuous enough to follow whatever hand beckoned, “Come hither.” But I am not. There are very specific qualities that must be possessed by the one I serve in order that the submission upon which my heart yearns to act may be brought to life.

I will not serve any random dominant personality, no matter how deeply my soul cries out to be led and protected. I serve Michael because he is worthy of my surrender. Even when he abdicates one small portion of his ownership of me, my whole heart – my whole being and will – still belong to him.


I was watching “Until I Find Her” tonight.

There is a scene where the man whirls on the woman and yells at her. Literally screams at her, “Go home!” He then proceeds to tell her at least twice to go to hell and ends with “Fuck you.” Not only does she accept this, she later goes back to him and apologizes to him for her behavior.

I swore to god and myself when I left my ex-husband that I would never again carry on a relationship with a man who would yell at me. The night I decided to leave him it was because he threw something at me, a harmless child’s toy. I wasn’t scared of being hurt at that particular moment but there was no way in hell I was going to allow him to get a taste of intimidating me with violence after he’d spent so many years shouting at me. I was afraid it would be like a dog that has bitten a person. Don’t they put those kinds of dogs down because they have a taste for blood? That was the theory under which I was operating, and still do.

The scene in the movie brought tears to my eyes and blood to my face. I was in an instant state of panic with my heart in my throat, livid with anger that the woman would even consider talking to the man after he yelled at her. I put up with it for ten years before I realized how dreadfully wrong it was but I wanted her to see it instantly. I wanted her to turn, walk away, and never look back.

Would this woman, me, anyone, allow a stranger to verbally assault them in this manner? Would they not call the police, take cover, run for help if accosted like this on the street? Why does love make it okay for one person to treat another so wretchedly? Why does love make shouting and terrifying and terrorizing acceptable?

In my eyes it doesn’t. There is absolutely no excuse for this in any relationship, most especially one based on love. Love means respect and kindness and gentleness and fondness. It means discussions and disagreements and frustration and confusion, but it does not mean shouting and scaring and intimidating. Just because the depth of emotion is at its greatest in a love relationship does not give those who have them leave to push aside manners and compassion.

If anything, I think those people most precious to us ought to be treated the most special and with the most compassion. If I would not allow a stranger in a restaurant to call me a bitch out of anger, what right does a lover have to do the same? In the year that I have known Michael intimately he has never even come close to raising his voice at me, no matter how sorely I have provoked him, how dreadfully I have acted, or how miserable he has felt. He has an iron will when it comes to maintaining his composure and for this I am eminently grateful. I need someone who understands that power comes not through force but through will.

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