Shades of Green

I used to think of myself as a simple slave. Really, not a whole lot of twisting snakes of complexity beneath the surface all in all. I do not seek freedom, I enjoy serving, I thrive in the steel of men.

I cried yesterday.

Not a brief spring shower either, the sort of crying that leaves your stomach hurting and head thick with hot cotton and sleep the only possible refuge from the exhausted emptiness that follows a truly thorough sob session.

I hated it.

I am so deeply ashamed. Strange, really. I have done things over my time in a collar that would make most slaves pall, and yet this had nothing to do with a specific act or even a style of service. I was jealous. Kings, I cringe even writing that. The slave was nothing extraordinary, pretty enough, seemed trained, so....why?

I have been accused recently of having more emotional issues. I had not thought of it in those terms, but on reflection, maybe there is truth to that. I am at a loss really. There was refuge in the easy sublimation of emotion to seduction. Uncomplicated, smooth, pleasing. Ever a smile, never a tear, it...worked.

I need to work on that. The notion that slaves should be emotional people, easy to read and helplessly vulnerable? No. The tears at the springs were likewise displeasing and on the whole, I think I prefer the cool surface of calm over the seething roil of emotions that I have no idea their source and damned little hold onthem.

I just wish I could turn the thoughts off, the creeping feel of dread and shame weighs on me like a double weight cloak and I have no current solution for the feelings. I ache for the clean fire of the whip, the refuge in tears clear and understandable and the lingering ache of knowing that leather eradicated what clings to me like cold spider silk.

He would never understand, I cannot risk the disappointment. I'll force it down, stomp it over. In the meantime, I will wait. It will be hard, so very hard, but I will wait. Perhaps I will be pleasing in the sufferance, that is a hope.