THE DAWNING OF THE YEAR OF THE EDWARD
COLLARED/Journal Entry One
January 1, 2012
Master's assignment: Write about the collaring
Here it is. I'm feeling pretty nervous about this journaling thing. I mean, I've been writing erotic fiction (aka porn) for a while now, but this is different. This is truth. This is me. I have no idea if I'm doing this right. Maybe some of you who've been around a while can let me know…? Leave a comment?
I've always had to do a lot of "research" for my D/s stories because I was writing the kinkiest of stories while living the most vanilla of all existences. And frankly, I've felt like quite the fraud putting my fantasies out there as if I had a clue what it TRULY felt like to crawl for a man or be tied to his bed or feel his open palm against my bare bottom. And yes, thank you very much, Master, now I know EXACTLY how each of those things feels!
My point is, I researched collaring ceremonies, so I figured I "knew" all about collaring. I got the commitment, I got the exclusivity. But I was grossly unprepared for the tidal wave of emotions I experienced as Master began voicing his vows to me. That he understood that I placed my confidence, faith and dependence in him, that he would never compromise my trust, never lift a hand in anger, and would always be patient and tolerant. And I, in turn, vowed to be completely honest and open-minded, responsive, and honored to be his sub.
And then Master gave me one simple command—worship your Master. How could he have known the perfection of those words? How could he have understood the fulfillment that was mine when he later told me that I wore him out and performed miracles? You can't get that from research. That is real.
I admit I'm starting to hate those three words—“Scene's over, sweetheart”—and I know I'll have to work on that. I lost my head a little bit when Master tried to remove my collar last night. Luckily he decided not to punish me when I begged him to let me feel the weight of his collar around me all night.
Perhaps now that we've agreed to "play" two week days and one overnight on the weekends, I'll be able to let go of that sub-space more readily. Master believes this will help, and I do trust him, but I can't imagine not feeling that let down at the end, even though he always punctuates my return to real life with some affectionate gesture to help me transition. As for "real life"—not wearing my collar or bracelet—Master has agreed to try to be less Dom and more boyfriend. I wish you could see the smile that brings to my face. I can't lose either way.
I've never flipped the calendar to a new year with so much hope and happiness in my heart. It's all you, Master.
With deepest gratitude for all you have become to me,
Happy New Year, Master!
I close my slightly-cracked-open-against-its-will eye after reading the green neon digits and flop onto my opposite side. Again. It's not simply the heavy hardware at my neck challenging my sleep; it's the fact that I need to make sure Master wakes up as prescribed. And yet, I have no idea what time I should expect him to stir, and I don't want to rouse him prematurely. Rouse…
The light bulb illuminates my skull and the Blue Fairy's words play in my head, à la my kinky Master. Be a good girl. And always let your Master's penis be your guide.
Of course, he doesn't make it easy on me by facing away from me and leaving me zero bed to work with on the other side. I slip carefully from the warmth and comfort of the heavy comforter and pad silently to his side of the bed. Holding my breath, I peer past the spot where the blankets meet his chest. Complete darkness shrouds the penis in question.
I lift the blanket from the side, just enough to find what I'm seeking. Not surprising, Master is hard as an oak tree. I arrange myself so that I can slide him into my mouth, finding that kneeling on the floor is the only workable solution. I hold him gently between my lips and wait patiently.
Twenty minutes later, I feel him twitch, and I answer with a gentle suction. Five minutes after that, he's holding my head tight against his body and thrusting into my mouth. Two more minutes, I'm lapping up his juices and awaiting my next command.
"Happy New Year, princess," he says, patting me on the head as he rolls out of bed.
"Happy New Year, Master."
"Do you need the bathroom?"
"Well, ask then."
And now that he's making me ask, I really have to go. "Master, may I please go to the bathroom?"
"Master, may I please use the toilet?"
I am almost giddy…weird. I rise to my feet but his hand is on my head immediately.
Wow. He's not letting me get away with anything today. My stupid pussy responds to Master's gruffness with an appreciative lurch.
I crawl to the little closet housing the toilet and climb onto the seat. I reach for the knob to close the door and he simply shakes his head from the doorway. No door?
To make matters worse, he folds his arms and crosses one ankle over the other and settles in to watch. Oh boy. It feels oddly exciting that someone cares enough to watch me pee. I finish my business, wipe and flush and get back to my knees and wait.
"Wash up while I go," he says, and I make efficient use of my "free time" at the sink.
I catch Master in the mirror as he approaches me from behind and molds his firm, naked body against my back, trapping me against the vanity. His fingers reach up from under my arms and he plays roughly at my nipples as we both watch in the mirror.
"You," he begins, a playful smirk in place, "make an excellent alarm cock. What a way to start the New Year."
"Thank you, Master."
He scoops my hair to one side, baring my neck, and already I feel the letdown. His fingers curl over the buckle and his voice confirms it. "Scene's over, sweetheart. Hop in the shower. I'm taking you out for the Big Puff."
John's Pancake House is legendary for their "Big Puff," an apple fritter big enough to feed a small country, billed on the menu as “an odyssey in eating for the adventuresome pair.” Clearly, this has our names written all over it.
The gawky teenager assigned to wait our table sets it down between us, adding the powdered sugar shaker and silver tin filled with maple syrup.
"Now don't feel inadequate if you can't finish it," the boy says, with what seems to be an attempt at humor.
More likely, it's a memorized line required by management when delivering their signature item. But it probably comes off a whole lot better when a kid like this isn't delivering it to a man like me.
Isabella guffaws, and I answer her with a confident wink. I'm more famished than usual this morning. I think being deliriously happy is good for my appetite.
"May I?" I inquire, the syrup poised in my hand over the plate.
"Go crazy," she answers, grabbing the powdered sugar.
Together we decorate our puffy warm apple treat, and I eagerly cut the first taste and offer it to my girlfriend.
Isabella smiles around the fork, closes her eyes and emits a loud, "Mmmmm."
"I know. Right?"
Her mouth filled with the delicious goodness, she mumbles, "Oh my God. I am totally gonna gain twenty pounds living with you!"
I slice off another serving for myself and answer, "Don't worry, sweetheart. Your training will take care of that."
Her eyes seem to double in size and she coughs up a little chunk of apple that lands on the table in front of me.
"Oh my God, I'm sorry. Shit…" she apologizes, covering her mouth and reaching her napkin across to nab the escaped lump of fruit. I watch with amusement. My poor befuddled girl.
"Y'okay?" I ask, sliding her ice water closer. She picks up the glass and takes a long drag.
"I kind of thought I'd had my training already."
I lean in a bit and say, "Think of that as the training for your training."
She pales a bit and stares at the pancake as if it holds all the answers.
"Isabella, things are different now. You're my collared sub. The bar has been raised."
She blinks up at me, deep brown pools of wonder and worry. "What if I can't—"
“You can.” Setting my fork down, I cover her hand with mine reassuringly. "Isabella. Don't doubt yourself. I don't doubt you for a second."
She gives me a completely unconvinced grimace.
I allow myself a roguish grin. "I promise, I will work you rigorously until you meet my exacting standards."
"Awesome." She allows a hint of a smile.
I leave it at that and take up my fork again. "Come on, eat. We can't let this pancake get the better of us."
"Competitive much?" she snaps, and now I know she's fine.
"So…while we're on the topic of collaring…" I prompt.
She raises her brow in question.
"We haven't talked about last night. Or this morning for that matter."
She turns the tables on me. "What did you think about last night?"
I hope I don't scare her off with my answer, but fuck if I'm not feeling it today. "One of the top two nights of my existence."
I stop mid-chew. "Really?" A proud grin threatens to dislodge more pancake from the confines of my lips, but thankfully I don't spew bits of food across the table this time.
"You were completely amazing, Isabella. You blew me away."
His compliment warms me like a furry blanket. Eventually, though, curiosity wins the day. "Mind if I ask what the other top night was?"
He smirks as if he'd been waiting for me to ask. Dang his mind-reading abilities sometimes. "If you're sure you can handle the answer."
I swipe my mouth clean of syrup and fold my hands in my lap to quell the wringing. "I'd really like to know."
Please don't be about another sub. Or worse, another girlfriend.
"Okay…" Fuck, draw it out a little more, why don't you? "The night before last."
I'm glad I'm not chewing when that bit of breaking news wafts across the table.
"I need you, Isabella." He pushes onto his knees. "As much as I'd love to take you this way, I really need to look into your eyes tonight."
I am mush.
He peels away my garter belt and drops my shoes to the floor, placing delicate kisses in their place. As he rolls the stockings down my legs, the final barrier between us falls away. The passion in his eyes rocks me to my core. I feel as if I've never been truly seen before this moment.
I need to feel the slick slide of his skin along mine, need to possess his lips. I feel insane with desperation. He crawls into my outstretched arms. My fingers twist and dig into his hair, attempting to gain some kind of foothold, exert my ownership.
You are mine, Edward Cullen! Every bit as much as I'm yours.
He's extraordinarily gentle, as if it's an enormous effort to restrain himself. And at that intense moment of connection, when he pushes inside me unprotected for the first time, he whimpers. Warm breath at my ear accompanies his involuntary vocalization, broadcasting his complete and utter surrender.
Tears prick at my eyes as he spreads his seed inside me.
"Oh…that." Crap, why do I have to blush so damn easily all the time? My circulatory system has no poker face whatsoever.
He looks up at me with a rare, shy smile. Of all the ways the man disarms me, this could be his most lethal weapon.
I force my fork and knife back into action even though the last thing I feel like doing is eating right now.
"Yeah," I say softly. "That was…" A sigh takes over where words fail me.
"Definitely," he agrees, then breaks into a broad grin. "But we should get back to the scene."
Before I say something I'm not ready to say.
"Was the collaring what you expected?"
"No." I wait. "It was way more intense, way more emotional. And then the scene just felt so …different than anything before."
"Can you say more about that?"
Her focus shifts to the empty wall next to us, as if she's running images across a blank screen. When she turns back to me, I can see her eyes glistening. She leans forward and says, "I felt like I couldn't do enough. To please you. Because you left it up to me, maybe? Or possibly because I was just so overcome with…"
My gut tightens.
"Gratitude, I guess, is the best word I can come up with," she finishes.
I've eaten enough, and my stomach is on shaky ground. I find her hand across the table and weave my fingers in between hers. "You pleased me plenty, sweet girl."
She responds with a tight-lipped smile and I can't resist bringing her hand to my lips, which I realize may have been just a tad syrupy.
"How about this morning?"
She blushes yet again. "It was too short."
"What am I gonna do with you?"
She shrugs and takes a chance. "I don't know, Master. What other fun things are in that bag of yours?"
"Oh-ho! Listen to you!"
She smiles cockily. "Just sayin', I don't think you needed that big huge duffle bag for one little collar."
Oh I've got plenty more in my bag. And it is the Year of the Edward, Day One. And we do have hours before we're fetched.
"I might have a couple more treats in there for you," I taunt. "You sure you're up for another session, so soon?"
Cocky Isabella vanishes before my eyes. "Actually," she says, "before we go there..."
So mysterious today, this one. "Yes?"
"Well, do you remember when you offered me the chance to make up for not getting you something for Christmas?"
"Sure I do."
"Well, today being New Year's, I do have something for you. I really hope you'll like it."
"I can't imagine not liking anything you picked for me. You have exquisite taste." I tip my watch to her as evidence, even though we both know I'm clearly referring to myself.
"Yes, please," I answer, wrapping my palms around the ceramic mug after the boy shuffles off.
Noting the unusual scene before us—a plate with food actually left on it—I tease Edward. "Can't hack Puff the Magic Pancake?"
"I'm afraid not," he says, tucking his napkin in beside his plate. I'm pleased he doesn't point out that he ate well more than his share. Our defeat is entirely my shortcoming, not his.
"I don't think any less of you.”
"There's something else I want to discuss with you," he says in his most serious Master-y voice.
"Okay?" My heart picks up with his tone and abrupt change of subject.
"I'd like you to start keeping an online submissive journal."
"Online?" I ask, startled.
"Yes. I'll help you pick a secure site, and obviously you'll use an alias."
"You'll read my posts?" I'm instantly taken back to my giddy response to Black Velvet's slick reviews of my stories.
"Do you have a problem with that?"
I sip at my coffee to buy myself a moment to think and sit back against the wooden booth. "What if I want to write about you?"
"Then write about me," he shrugs.
"What if I'm mad at you or something?"
"Why on earth would you be mad at me?" he asks, feigning innocence.
"Oh gee, I don't know. Maybe for not letting me pee in peace."
A curtain of lust comes over his features and he answers, sharp as a whip, "The lady doth protest too much, methinks."
I cross my arms petulantly because he's entirely correct and we both know it.
But when he sets his hand face-up on the table and beckons for mine to join him, I quickly succumb to his charms. So what else is new?
He closes his fingers around mine. "You asked me a fair question. Let me answer it for you."
Edward patiently explains that it's okay for me to work out my feelings in my journal, that doing exactly that is one of the primary functions of writing. He makes the distinction between whining and therapeutic discovery. And he encourages me to ask questions of him and of other submissives on the site.
The strangest thing happens while he's talking to me. I'm watching his face, but I can't hold my focus on who's speaking. He sounds like my patient mentor Black Velvet, but he has the authority of my Master, and the caring but irreverent demeanor of my boyfriend. I dive into his deep pools of green and try to anchor myself to something but I'm lost.
"Does that all make sense?"
"Isabella? Please tell me where you are."
I look at our joined hands on the table and flip them over so that his long, delicate fingers are on top.
This is Edward's hand. The beautiful gentle man who touches me so delicately and perfectly, the fingers that wipe away my tears and hold my hand at breakfast.
This is my competent co-worker's hand. The fingers that fly across the keyboard, solving problems just as readily as they create mischief.
And this is Master's hand. The firm, caring, challenging hand that isn't afraid to be rough and demanding or teasing and playful. The fingers that can touch with a feathery wisp or the sting of a crop, turning pleasure and pain inside out.
I look up into Edward's eyes across the table. Eyes that are now looking at me with deep concern from under a furrowed brow. But he needn't worry; I finally, finally see him, them, merging together as one.
I scoot forward in my seat and lean across the table as far as I can, clearing syrup bottles and sugar packet caddies and coffee mugs and sticky silverware out of the way.
"Kiss me, you fool."
His face contorts in further confusion, but he meets me halfway. He allows me to lead, for the first time really having no clue what I'm thinking or needing. I close my eyes and my mind swirls around the experience.
I can still taste our very first kiss at the ball, the mysteries of my Secret Santa and Black Velvet revealed, with the promise of the Dark Prince just through the exit door, but it was none other than Edward who held me up when my knees buckled below me that night. From that beginning to this moment, he's been everything I've needed, separately and together.
Maybe it's the intensity of the collaring ritual, or perhaps it's the ringing in of the New Year playing havoc with my emotions. John's Pancake House has to be just about the most unromantic venue I could ever imagine on a Sunday morning: kids shrieking across the way, dishes clattering loudly in the kitchen, boisterous conversation at the next table, and cheesy left over holiday Muzak droning on in the background.
Of all the places in the world, this has to be the spot where I discover that I am stupid in love with Edward Cullen?
The cold, dry air on the walk back feels refreshing after the heat of our confessions and promises of kink to come. I walk to the street side of Isabella, protecting her from errant glops of slush thrown by passing tires.
We're holding hands and probably look to all the world like a normal couple, but that's only because they can't read our thoughts.
I have to admit, I am dying of curiosity to see what Isabella got for me. She matches my rapid strides, clearly as eager to arrive back at our room as I am. We each have our secrets.
The closer we get to the room, the more hepped up she gets. I can't take my eyes off her in the elevator. I squeeze her hand reassuringly, and draw her in for a kiss. "I'm going to love whatever it is, Isabella. Stop worrying."
She simply takes a deep breath and shudders as it leaves her. Her anxiety is inspiring all kinds of kinky thoughts to run through my head. Maybe she's bought herself some kind of sleazy attire to model for me. That would be fun! Or maybe she's gone out and purchased a pair of nipple clamps for me to try on her. That would be fun, too! That would definitely explain the nerves.
She escapes to the bedroom as soon as I open the door, so I take off my coat and sit down on the couch. She rustles around a bit, drops a few things, swears a couple times, and finally reappears in the doorway to the sitting room. She's wearing the same clothes, minus her coat, scarf and gloves, so I'm a bit stumped. And that's when I see the rolled up paper in her hands and is that …black velvet?
"What's this now?" I ask, standing and moving toward her.
Isabella has her bottom lip firmly pulled between her upper and lower racks of teeth and she's a study in nerves.
"So…Merry Christmas…all of you."
All of us? She holds out the scroll with a shaky hand and I accept it into my palm. I untie the ribbon with great care and immediately retie it around her wrist with a playful grin. She stares at her hand like a deer caught in headlights and I pull her over to the couch where we sink into the cushions together.
I unroll the pages keeping one eye glued to my nervous wreck of a girlfriend. What has her in such a state?
As the words come into view, I read them aloud. "Happily Ever After. Chapter six."