I can’t seem to put it into words.
What is life as a consensual slave? To live that, to be that, to choose that? To have it settled in your soul as correct and solid?
I turn these ideas over in my mind, expecting to corner around and discover fear there, to back up and bump into terror unexpected. But no. Here lies only peace. Only calmness. Security and safety and home.
I go about my day and it looks the same.
I wake and cook breakfast. I clean and call friends. I visit family and grocery shop.
I do all of this, though, and I…am…slave.
It is always there, unending, a permenant invisible cloak that colors my every expereience. My very existance.
I wake and am slave. I cook and am slave. I clean and am slave.
Still me, still “Darling” (ah god blissfully *his* darling wife) and am slave the whole time. It hasn’t consumed me. I am still here. Still quick witted. Still curious. Still well spoken (often too much, surely). Still making mistakes and tall cakes but now, too… *slave.*
A bird perched in a cage though the cage door is left open. I can surely leave. He clips no wings, the world is all there, waiting, calling, available.
But why would I ever do so? When life is so good, so right, so safe and clean and… home.
I am simply a slave to my Master, my husband, the love of my life.
Matter of fact. Sure as I breathe and love.