Yesterday, for the first time ever, a stranger reached out and touched the collar upon my neck.
It was innocent enough, somebody I’ve chatted with in passing, a woman, and she was admiring the craft of it.
In hindsight, it would be no different than an acquaintance reaching out to any other necklace. So why, when it’s a collar, is it so different?
This collar has been touched in many ways. It was first touched by him, placing it upon my neck and I promised to never remove it but by its Owners hands.
I’ve held our small children in my lap and explained that it’s never removed because it’s a very special gift from their daddy, kind of like a wedding ring for my neck. They smiled at the thought. I’ve had them fall asleep on my chest with an innocent grip on it, a tiny fingertip through the delicate silver “O”. Every picture from childhood that they have of their mother, there the collar will be too.
This collar has collected tears by the millions: tears of doubt in my path. Tears of sadness when having troubles with a friend or experiencing a loss. Tears of grief, tears of happiness at levels I never anticipated, tears of the feeling of coming home when embracing Master, tears of frustration when I make mistakes.
Tears from being punished.
Tears from accepting the pain in effort to please the sadist.
Tears from the sweet release of submission.
All of this, dripping off my cheeks as colliding with His metal symbol of Ownership.
His collar has been touched countless times by my makeup, my body lotion, my tanning lotion, my body spray, my hair spray. Perfume. Paint. Flour from baking family meals. Dust from cleaning. Splashed martinis in a crowded, thumping nightclub. Steam after a workout. Sweat from running, or yoga, or dancing with girlfriends.
Sweat from being fucked in the dark of the night, teeth and lips and bodies clashing together in passion.
This collar has been touched by his gentle kiss. By the grasp of his strong hand on my delicate neck, offering him control over the very air I breathe.
All of this is carried in the collar itself now, as if the knotted silver O was threaded with an invisible cobweb of sorts, rolling up each memory and keeping it front and center, both near to my heart and my mind.
This stranger didn’t touch a piece of jewelry. She touched a locket containing the history of our dynamic.
This journal entry (posted originally about 2 years ago on Fetlife) is regarding my silver day collar that I wear always. It was a gift when we began living M/s and this sums up my feelings on my collar’s importance.