Being owned

Being owned

I’ve been having a hard time finding a topic to write about. I’ve used #TMITuesday and #WickedWednesday for inspiration and have ideas what to write about. But somehow I never get around to it. Sometimes one needs a little bit of encouragement…

What does being owned mean to me?

Since I’ve been back to D/s and exploring and looking and longing, the need to be owned again has been growing.

I long to call a man Sir, Master, Daddy, Herr. Any or all of that. I miss it. Not so much saying it, but what it does to my mind when I do.

I can talk for hours about something random and joke and teach and learn. But then suddenly he says something or his tone changes and I feel myself changing as well. Saying “yes Sir” or anything of that kind feels right and needed. Needed by him, needed by me.

But it’s not just anyone who makes me feel this way. Who makes me submit. Who makes me want to be a good girl and bring him pleasure. To this person I’m his slut, his sub, his girl. His. He owns me.

He is the one I decide to stand naked in front of. And I don’t only mean naked as in no clothes. I mean naked, as in the girl I am underneath. Not hiding, not scared to show what I desire and want.

The man I decide to submit to, is the person I want to be owned by. I need him to protect me, guide me, train me, punish me, push me, hold me. I want to be his. His property, to do as he wishes. His friend, to be there for him. His slut, to use and abuse. His girl, to hold.

What do I need to be owned?

Is it a collar or anything of that matter? Do I need a piece of jewellery to make me remember to whom I belong? Who owns me? No, of course not. If he truly owns me, one look, one word, one text is enough to get my mind into the right place.

Do I need to be collared?

Of course not! I’ve longed for it for a long time. I wore a collar when visiting my first Dom – mostly because I wanted it.

I was owned, without a collar. Whether it was for a short time or a long and intense one. Maybe it was a tad much commitment for the men.

Now I’m not sure whether I’d be interested in wearing his collar. A part of me likes the idea. Another part doesn’t. And both part are very scared.

I long to be owned. To feel secure, guided, loved, cared for. When I’m owned, a certain calmness sets in. It feels amazing. That’s what I crave.

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