A Love Letter to My Owner

He doesn’t like the mushy stuff. He’d rather hear or read about the sex, the kink, the desire, the heat. But sometimes, I can’t help myself. If I only wrote about that I’d only be telling half the story, and that not the most important half.
I know he won’t see this until after he gets back home, although I could wish he would see it tonight, after his family goes to bed, and I am safely in bed at home, snuggled up with Ad, thinking about him, and this long, long month, and how it is coming to an end tomorrow.  I could hope that he would have it to hold close to his heart while he sleeps, because even if he claims not to like it, I know, in his heart of hearts, he does. I know it warms him at night when he is alone, just as it does me.
I walked into his house today to bring in the odds and ends of groceries (true odds and ends: soda, wine, bagels, cereal, apples), his shirts and towels and bedding that I had laundered while he was away; to pick up a bit.  His house seems poised, holding its breath as it waits for his return; much like me.
I wandered through the familiar rooms, seeing him everywhere, seeing me everywhere: my shoes in the corner, steel buttplug on his desk, boots against a wall, the candles I had brought over for a party we hosted, the dried roses on his mantle.  I thought about being tied: on his floor, on his couch, against his posts; of making breakfast in heels and chains; of being caged next to him in his front room and chained to his desk in his office.
I climbed the stairs to his room and remembered the many times I have climbed down them, my hands tied and legs shaky, him in front of me to keep me safe. I looked at that beautiful wooden floor that he worked so hard to refinish, and how every time he ties me down to it I admire its glow, and him for having brought it out.  Much as he brings out my own glow.
I walked by the upstairs tub and thought about the many, many baths I have taken in that tub, soaking away the aches and pains of his abuses upon my body even though I would rather keep them, remembrances of every cruel, wonderful thing he has done to me, so that I can feel them, over and over.  I remembered baths we have taken together, when he has washed away grime and piss and blood from my body and held me as I returned to him once again from that place that he sends me.  I remembered conversations and debates we have had, as he sat on the stool next to the tub while I drank wine and soaked in bubbles and heat.
And I went into his bedroom, and I smelled him there, on his sheets, in his clothes, in the air. Too many memories to even begin, in that room.
I saw my shoes lined up against the far wall, and I thought about the first time I had come to him, in my square-heeled “dancing shoes,” not knowing what a high heel man he was, but quickly discovering it, and quickly rising to the challenge of finding ever-higher, ever-sexier shoes to wear for him–and being proud that I have always had the knack for wearing even the highest heels with skill and grace.
I opened the closet door, the closet that he had cleared off shelves for me (and put me on once, once-upon-a-time) and the scent of my “going out” lotion wafted out. A mixture of cherry and vanilla, its heady scent is the one I always wear when we are going to a play party, or when we are going to play at home.  I felt an immediate, visceral reaction to that scent, a sweet ache between my legs, an instant and unmistakable need in me to feel his dominance & power over me, so sharp it took my breath away and brought tears to my eyes.
Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, I chanted to myself as I closed the door.
I love that house. I love that it holds so many wonderful memories for me, that even when he is gone I can go there and feel him, just as if he was right there next to me.
And tomorrow, he will be.
I love you, W: my Owner, my lover, my friend.


One thought on “A Love Letter to My Owner

  1. Beautiful! You bought tears to my eyes and identify with so much of this, the memories that each room in my house holds, every time I shower I think about him there with me, his clothes in the cupboard waiting for him to return and the one t-shirt of his that I have yet to wash…… I get it out of the bad i keep it in, like you, smelling him makes my pussy ache.
    I wish it was tomorrow for me, but knowing it is tomorrow for you made me smile.

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