So I have written my lists of punishments. Sir was very approving.
I vacillate through varying shades of unsullied bliss to the darkest of self-loathing, though I find the loathing lesser now and easier to push aside. This subdued feeling is foreign. It feels quiet.
I wait softly, impatiently to hear from him.
Waiting for his words to soothe and calm.
They come and wash over me.
I say to him "Sir, the smile! The girlish grin where my head bows when you say 'good girl'...sometimes I blush. Sweetly. Sweetly, it is sweet somehow - I don't know how - and today it does not seem important. Today it just is - and I love it."
I am baking cakes. Lovely little chocolate mudcakes and my head is there in that moment. Everything is perfect and smooth and rich and dark and sweet and bitter. They plop perfectly into their little cases and rise even and well formed. I beat the icing, cocoa and butter (lashings of butter) and wait for them to cool. They are just warm out of the oven and I can smell them.
My everything now is waiting to see him so I will cook and whip and bake and taste but it is not with fraught desperation. Perhaps not even so much anticipation - just acceptance.
I remember speaking with him asking him how he knew. We were in a huge room filled with people, why me? How did he know to sit near me? To talk with me? How he knew of all of the people in that room that I wanted what he had? He just looks at me and grins this malevolent grin and whispers "It screams at me from your every pore. I stand near you and I can smell it on you like an animal hunting its prey. I see it in your eyes. I feel it in my bones. I watch you touch your face, your hair. I know you. I have always known you. I know what you want, what you need."
I remember after that conversation feeling that exulted, intoxicating high. Walking around as though I was all at once transparent to everyone.
He reaches in and touches my mind in ways I can't even begin to understand and I don't want to try, for fear that I might.