It’s fascinating to reminisce about the early stages of my relationship with my wife because we are so incredibly different. I love to be home and need my alone-time. Not my wife. She has a bunch of friends and loves to go out and show off a bit. Perhaps I’m just your regular every day introvert and is Sylvia my counterpart. We had to get used to our oddities after we got married, but we have come to accept and respect our differences. Any union between two individuals requires compromise. It came as no shock when she inquired yesterday if we could engage in an open and candid discussion.
From an outsider’s perspective, the Master embodies a fusion of dictatorial traits resembling the leadership styles of Putin, Erdogan, Bashar al-Assad, and Xi Jinping, within the 24/7 total power exchange dynamic. He does not tolerate contradiction in his presence, as he holds absolute and unquestionable authority. And I admit, this is the basis of our relationship. It’s important to note, however, that Sylvia not only accepted this arrangement, but she actually initiated it.
We came up with a rule to preserve the dynamic of the dictatorship while also acknowledging her input as equal in the relationship. It’s called the 24 hour rule. She can make a request for an entreat. The Master determines the time to discuss the request, not the slave, but it is essential to honour it within 24 hours. Consequently, the Master’s fragile ego is protected, and there is no disruption to the Master/Slave dynamic. It is a simple but effective way of communication, regardless of the uneven distribution of power.
This was the third time Sylvia asked for the 24 hour rule. The first two were mainly because of my own inconsistencies. Unlike the previous ones, I dealt with this request right away. In the roots of our BDSM-community are rules and rituals. A ritual for the 24-hour permission is the ‘freedom mat’. Kneeling on this mat means she is free to say out loud whatever was on her mind, even – or maybe especially – about my behaviour. Or our Master/slave-relationship. She went to the storage room to get her rug. These rugs are probably intended for religious purposes, since they are big enough to kneel on. Green with lots of Persian motives and soft enough to spare the knees. She knelt down on the mat and looked at me. I nodded.
“Master, thank you for this opportunity to discuss something that’s bothering me for some time now. We have been playing for three months now, and I was wondering if you think I am ready?”
“Ready for what, little one?”
“For you to present me, Master.”
“Present you? Don’t beat around the bush and come to the point,” I said. The way this discussion was going annoyed me. She noticed, of course.
“Are you proud of me?”
“Of course I’m proud of you, kitten,” I automatically responded, the familiar words echoing the conditioning of our long-term marriage.
“No, no, no, no.”, she shook her head. “Please tell me, Master, what makes you proud?”
It’s one of those typical female questions that can make any man feel uncomfortable. I don’t enjoy being put on the spot like this. “Well, I think you obey me well.” It even sounded weak in my ears.
If Sylvia is on a mission, neither a huge thunderstorm, nor my weak answer, would keep her from achieving her goal. “As your submissive, I have tried so hard to please you these last few months. Anticipating and meeting your needs is my priority, even before you give me an order. I strive to please you, yearning to show my competence. I need to show others how well I can obey and impress people in our lifestyle. Or, heaven forbid, find out that perhaps I’m just mediocre and need to learn a lot from other subs.”
“If your aim is to satisfy me, then my approval of you is the only thing that holds importance.”
“Master, I’m on this also is a mat of truth, you know. I have to tell the truth, no matter if you like it or not. And I’m about to say something that you probably don’t like to hear. But a relationship is a two-way street, even a BDSM-relationship. There has to be something in it for us both. So I am begging you to consider going with me to a BDSM-club so you can present me. I can show off my submissiveness and how much I love pleasing you.”
She could see my reluctance and threw her last card on the table. “I know you don’t like clubs, Master, but this one is different. You know this couple we met in Kink Paradise, Martin and Helga Weber? Helga and I have kept frequent contact on social media. They visit regularly this wonderful, very small and intimate private club. It’s called club Kinta. And it’s ten minutes from the Austrian border. So nobody knows us there, except Martin and Helga. And they are friends, Sir. Helga mentioned that the club nights have a strict limit of only 10 people allowed, ensuring an intimate and exclusive atmosphere. The club is very discrete and from the outside it’s just like a hotel. It is a hotel. In fact, the primary income is coming from the hotel is just like any other Bavarian hotel. Once a month, they open the secret underground way to their dungeon. The owner of the hotel is a woman called Jutta that runs Club Kinta as well. It’s just a small family hotel run by this woman and her daughter.”
I knew my wife longer than today. Given the passion with which the message was delivered, I couldn’t ignore the potent scent of an ulterior motive.
“It’s not just showing off, is it?” I said.
She looked down to hide her face. Or a smile. Or the expression of guilt.
“No, Master. I really like to meet Helga and Martin face to face again. The way Helga described things differs from how our relationship actually is, and I’m really curious to get to know them better.”
“Different how, little one?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t disclose that information. I promised to keep our conversations confidential, even from you. Master, please understand that I am committed to keeping my promise to her.”
She knew she had me there. I was being skilfully manipulated into something I definitely didn’t want to do. Loudness and darkness characterised BDSM-clubs, with each Alpha male attempting to outperform the others in terms of masculine behaviour. I didn’t have to prove anything to anyone, and I loathed these sorts of group gatherings.
Could I keep my pretty one locked in my house, preventing her to meet people? Sylvia needed to meet other people, just as much as I needed to avoid them. Wasn’t being a master about guiding your slave, give her the opportunity to grow? As a slave? As a woman?
“If we were to go to this club, I need to know more. When do they have these club meetings and where? Can we just go or do we need to apply for a membership and what are the costs?”
Despite her best efforts, Sylvia couldn’t conceal the look of triumph on her face.
“Helga kindly offered to take us along as they introduce us to the Club. If we like it there and feel safe to come back one day, we will have to apply for a membership. I do not know of the Club’s fees, but considering their emphasis on exclusivity, I expect them to be quite pricey.”
“And when is this next meeting scheduled?”
“The Saturday two weeks from now, not the upcoming one.”
“Really?” That is soon. “That means we have no time to lose, and start brushing up your high protocol rules, little one.”
High protocol, as the name suggests, entails behaving in a highly structured manner. High protocol is often associated with more formal or ceremonial aspects of BDSM private relationships and public scenes, where every action and interaction is governed by predefined rules, rituals, and etiquette.
“Little one, what is your routine when you enter the living room?”
“I will ask if you need anything, Sir. Politely.”
“So you do. Tell me what you could better in high protocol?”
“I could knock before I come in, Sir.”
“Remember this well, little one. In high protocol, I want you to knock on the door and wait until you are called in. You will walk three steps, no more, no less, and turn towards me, wherever I am. Fold your arms behind your back and spread your legs a bit. The only thing that is allowed to move after that is your head as you follow my every move. You wait for permission to speak. If that takes half an hour, I expect you to wait without moving an inch. Once you have permission to speak, you can tell me if you have a message for me. If you have nothing to say, don’t speak. Just wait until I give you instructions. Is that clear, little one?”
“What should I do if I’m cooking and the food will burn if I don’t get back to it quickly?” She said.
“I just clarified that when you enter the living room, you are to stay in your position quietly until I acknowledge you. Can you please point out where I was unclear, pretty one?”
“Sir, there might be occasions where I need a prompt response from you.” Sylvia rocked back and forth nervously.
“Do you think I would want my food burnt, or worse, set the kitchen on fire because I demand that you stand here in the living room and be pretty? Do you think I would want that?”
“No, Sir of course not, but…”
“What do you think would be the solution to this situation, my little one?” I interrupted.
Sylvia was on the verge of tears now. “I don’t know, Master!”
“Perhaps you should do whatever needs to be done before you enter the living room to rest, my little one.” Standing without moving is not exactly resting, but that is probably just a detail. “Finish your chores, little one. I’m not into that extent of micromanagement, you know that. I don’t want to give orders to drain the potatoes. Things that belong to the task I have given you, weather that is make the bed, or answer the doorbell, I expect you not to bother me with it. Upon your arrival, I expect you to be mentally present and not burdened by any pending chores.”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you for explaining that to me, Sir. Your slave is so stupid, she should have been able to figure this out on her own.”
I walked over to her and grabbed her ponytail to pull her head back a bit. Then I gave her a moderately hard slap on her right cheek. “Smile, little one”
SLAP. SLAP. SLAP. “Smile little one. I will keep hitting you until you smile.”
SLAP. SLAP. “A genuine smile, little one, not a fake one.”
It took several slaps on her cheeks by the time she bravely smiled through my alternating slaps on her cheeks.
“This is the last time I’m telling you this, little one. I don’t want you to speak negatively about yourself or put yourself down. You belong to me, so I have the right to address you however I please. However, I strictly prohibit you from discussing or even contemplating this matter concerning yourself. Tell me, do you I call you a slut or a whore, or a lazy bitch, or do I refer to you as my little one? My pretty one. My cherished one?”
I saw Sylvia was about to collapse where she stood. We could not have that.
“Remain in position, slave.” I barked in a tone of voice her father would have used in front of his troops. She remained standing with difficulty, but she stood.
“That’s a good girl. Now find something to do.” I went to the couch and heard her leave, softly closing the door.
The reliability of the electricity supply in the Netherlands is relatively high. Occasionally, and usually at inconvenient moments, the power unexpectedly goes out because of someone digging a hole where a power cable is located. No electricity when it was still light outside, and no improvements when it was getting dark. In our meter cupboard, Sylvia has stacked a small supply of candles in case of emergencies, like these. So we lighted the candles and waited for better times in our romantic living room.
“One of those candles that drips is on an empty wine bottle in the kitchen. Please get that one for me?” I said.
She came back with the bottle and the blue candle on top of it. It had dripped some, but the candle was still long.
“That’s the one. Wonderful. Now clear the coffee table (in Dutch salon table, but I suppose you can put coffee on it as well) from all the stuff that is on it.” Our coffee table is quite old and made of oak with glazed brown tiles on top. Sturdy and big enough for Sylvia to lie on.
“Good girl. Now take your slave dress off and lie on your back down on the table, feet on the ground. Your butt a little but more to the side of the table, girl. Good. Good girl. Now rest your head on this tiny pillow. I want your forehead higher than your chin. Wonderful. Well done. Now, I am going to tie your hand and your feet to the table, so be patient with me and don’t move.”
In case of an emergency, I wanted to be able to untie her quickly, so I loosely tied her.
“We need a little more light, so you will be my human candle, little one. Open your mouth.”
She dutifully opened her mouth. I pried the candle from the bottle and put it between her lips. “Now this is important, little one. I don’t want any of that candle wax in your eyes. So if you think your head is not high enough to prevent that, say so.”
She looked at me, slightly more worried than before. She mumbled around the candle in her mouth, “Amm Kddd Er”.
I stroke her beautiful hair and lighted the candle. Sylvia concentrated on holding the candle in her mouth and tried to keep the wax pouring into her mouth. The wax dripped eagerly over her closed lips, over her cheeks to meander to her throat. I’ve been bragging a few times already about how Sylvia can keep still without moving. It’s probably hard to imagine this for you, but this dark living room is only alive with the light of flickering candles, and in the middle of this million shades of light, there is this extraordinary beautiful woman on the small table with a and carries the traces of candle wax from her mouth to her throat. Nude and more vulnerable than I have ever seen her. Illuminating my life and lighting my living room. It filled me with pride to see her stay there for over an hour, but the magical ambiance was shattered when the lights flickered back on.
We went back to the more mundane stuff as to check how much we could throw away from our freezer and saved the candles for another day. Later in bed, my Sylvia securely tied to the bed, I replayed the movie we created that evening. I looked at her, as she was already asleep. The memory of my girl who has brightened up so many dark moments for me, I will never forget.