There is a man who I call SIR, and although we do not see each other very often, our connection is intense. I’ve been reflecting on the protocol that’s emerged organically between us during our visits. Retracing our path through the brush, clearing logs, laying steps, and doing the mental work of trail-building.
I address him as Master, or SIR: always caps, never lowercase. The level of formality between us varies, but he checks me when I become too familiar. There’s a subtle gradation between the terms, and which I use depends on how we’re talking, but I can’t put my finger on it yet.
My place is below my Master. I drink from a dog bowl at home, and I suspect I’ve only gotten away with eating off a plate because watching me plow through a meal is… initially distracting. I sit on the floor when he sits on the couch, or lie at the side of his bed, his arm falling idly over the mattress edge, trailing fingers across my shoulders. Only when invited may I jump happily into bed, excited and wagging for cuddle time. At restaurants and cabs, I wait for his instruction to sit.
SIR chooses what I eat and drink. I may not pay for meals unless ordered to, which has been a difficult social reflex to unlearn. As my protector and guardian, SIR enjoys providing for me–and in turn, I feel dependent and cared for. As my owner, he enjoys making me buy him dinner–which gives me the joy of obedience and service. Like most protocols, you can do things either way–the flow of power is a matter of interpretation, independent of the action itself.
I’ve tried position training a few times before, but I think this is the first time it’s been a regular component of my protocol. SIR is a visual man, and enjoys having me present my ass for inspection or abuse–idly, or during a beating. There are more poses he enjoys, but they haven’t been named yet.
There are some more contextual protocols as well–I can signal my enthusiasm or disinterest in a man, but at a bar, SIR decides who gets to feel me up, and if he offers me to someone, I had best not refuse. I may be prohibited from speaking at all, and I think he takes a particular delight in voicing questions aloud, just to watch me forget I can’t respond.
In two weeks I’ll visit SIR again, and this time he’s warned of new, stricter protocol. More swift correction. More intense beatings. More tenderness and nurturing in those annealing periods between violence. I am fearful and excited; madly curious and calmly resigned to following his path. I don’t need to know what’s coming. All he demands is my whole self.
aphyr.tumblr.com/post/126107579485/protocol-snapshot
