A Journal of Submission

I’ve always been different. Disconnected. 

Even when I tried to blend in, my body kept telling the truth. Sex never made sense unless someone was bound. I brought scarves. Gave instructions. Tied wrists. Before I even knew what the word “bondage” was, I was already speaking its language.

It wasn’t about rebellion. It was about stillness.
It was about what happened inside me when I was restrained....or when I was the one holding someone else down.

The first time I felt it, I was in college.

There was a professor who would dangle her heels before slipping them off to stand up, teach the class...barefoot. It’s where I learned about my absolute love for women in heels. 

And I used to watch her.
Not her eyes. Not her mouth. Her feet.

I imagined worshiping her. Serving her. Taking whatever she gave and begging for more. She wasn’t cruel. But in my mind, she was everything I needed her to be...cold, precise, untouchable.

Since then, I’ve lived inside dynamics that carved me. I’ve worn collars I didn’t take off. I’ve answered to names that weren’t mine. I’ve endured for women who didn’t flinch.

Strict routines. 
Unyielding protocols. 
Ritualized pain.

My masochism has never been chaos, it’s been purpose. The discipline, the structure, the absolute knowing that I was there to serve.

There was one dynamic that swallowed me whole.
Total Power Exchange. 24/7. Sadistic. Consuming.
I won’t speak her name. She is no longer mine to carry. What I gave her was real. What I became inside it nearly broke me.

And yet… I still crave it.
Crave to suffer.
Crave to be shaped.

Crave to be given orders I can’t question, routines I can fall into, marks I can trace with my fingertips days later and whisper, she did this. I took this. I’m still here.
That craving has never left. It’s carved into the bones.

And now, Mistress. 

She hasn’t torn me open, not yet.  She’s waited...watched. She’s says she sees something different in me, besides the need for pain, that she wants to exploit. And I’m feeling it’s slow unravel inside her patience.  She gives me expectations wrapped in silence. Correction without cruelty.

And somehow, that quiet strength scares me more than the antenna ever had.

When she asked me to kneel, I didn’t hesitate.
I sank. Willingly. Not because I was broken, but because something in me finally felt safe enough to let go. She didn’t take it, she asked...how strange. 

And then… softness came.

Not instead of discipline, but alongside it.
Now there’s Mommy. This version of her I’ve been introduced to. Something brand new and completely unexpected. 

Now she touches me gently.
Now she strokes my face after I’ve obeyed.
Now she uses my name like it’s something worth keeping, not something to erase. 

Calls me babygirl, tells me I’m soft and perfect. 
And I don’t know what to do with that.

Because I’ve built my whole identity around what I can take. How much I can endure. How long I can stay still when the cane sings across my thighs, how deeply I can sink when I’m being broken wide open.

So what does it mean now, when what breaks me… is this? 

What do I become if I’m undone by compassion?
If I crave her tenderness the same way I used to crave the pain?

Sometimes it begins to feel like betrayal..like letting go of the strongest parts of me. Sometimes it almost feels like surrender in its purest form. I don’t know which is more terrifying.

I still burn for impact.

Still ache for structure.

Still want to be pushed, bent, tested.

But now I want to be kept too.

Held. Gathered after. Kissed through the quiet that follows the sting.

She sees all of me. 

The strength. The silence. The shame. The wanting.

She doesn’t need to raise her voice to make me still.

She only has to look. And I stay.

I’m still kneeling.

Still burning.

Still becoming.

But now… I’m not alone.

And maybe I don’t need to be.

Maybe this time, I get to be shaped without being erased. Maybe I was never meant to survive the pain alone. Maybe I was meant to belong in it..and after it. And maybe this softness that terrifies me is the deepest form of submission I’ve ever known.  

We will see. My journey continues. 

-Talu

In my dreams, there’s a door that only opens when it’s knocked the right way…
not gently.
Not with kindness.
But with rhythm. With weight.
A forest of breath and blood where every tree hums with tension,
and the wind speaks in strikes.

I walk barefoot through it,
each step a question,
each mark the answer.

Somewhere beyond the ache,
I stop dreaming.
I start remembering.
Who I am when I’m undone.

And it’s there, in the hush between blows, that I finally beg to be kept.

There is a place beyond obedience.

Beyond protocol.

Beyond the quiet, smiling good girl who kneels perfectly and never breaks.

There is a place where you don’t kneel because you choose to

You kneel because you’ve come undone and there’s nowhere else for you to go.

 

That’s where I was when I whispered to her.

 

I wasn’t strong.

I wasn’t graceful.

I wasn’t pretty in my submission.

 

I was spiraling

bare

aching

questioning if I was still wanted in the ruin I had become.

 

I had asked to be broken. To be reduced to nothing.

But in my mind, “nothing” still had a shape

still had her hands around it.

And when I felt the silence

when I felt unseen

I panicked.

Because what is a submissive without her container?

 

What am I without being held?

I wrote her with trembling hands

not to safeword

not to retreat

but to beg for one thing:

Please don’t leave me here.

Not like this.

Not without you.

 

And she answered.

 

She didn’t soften.

She didn’t save me.

 

She contained me.

 

She said I was not wrong to whisper.

That my voice

raw

breaking

bleeding

was allowed.

 

She told me I was not discarded.

That every thread she pulled from me was still held in her hand.

That my nothingness was not a void

it was a vessel she owned.

And she does not let go of what is hers.

She heard the spiral.

She felt it.

And still, she did not reach to lift me out.

 

She guided it.

 

She kept me right where she wanted me

wrecked

waiting

held.

 

And something in me shattered in the most beautiful way.

 

Because that is the difference between pain and meaning.

Between being used and being owned.

 

She didn’t need me to be composed.

She didn’t need me to be sweet or sexy or perfect in my submission.

 

She just needed me to be hers

even at my worst.

 

Especially at my worst.

 

And she was still there

not rescuing

but watching

deciding

owning.

 

I’m not sure I’ve ever felt more submissive than I do now naked in my ruin

cradled in her control.

She didn’t just break me.

 

She kept me broken.

Because that’s where I’m most hers.

 

She is not a sadist by nature.

Not cruel.

Not cold.

Not someone who has long lived in the shadows where I crave to be kept.

 

But she saw me

really saw me

and she chose to follow me into the dark.

 

Not because it was familiar.

But because I asked her to come.

Because I needed it.

 

Because something in her wanted to see what would happen when I truly shattered.

 

She is learning me in real time

not just the parts that kneel politely

that obey on command

that wear a chain with grace.

 

She’s learning the twisted

aching architecture of my soul

the part that needs to be unmade

the part that only feels safe when I am nothing but a sobbing echo inside a vessel that is not mine.

 

I asked her to degrade me

but not for play.

 

I asked her to unname me.

 

To speak to me in a way that dismantles the scaffolding of who I am

piece by crumbling piece.

To break the self I drag through the world every day just to survive.

To ruin the one thing I cannot seem to ruin on my own

my need to be seen as strong.

And she said yes.

 

Not perfectly.

Not easily.

But intentionally.

 

She stepped into this edge with me

into the abyss of emotional masochism

where every word becomes a blade

and every silence is a hand pressed hard against the ribs.

 

She is learning that my degradation is not about humiliation.

 

It’s about release.

 

It’s about letting someone else become the only truth I answer to.

 

It’s about sinking so far into submission that I disappear inside her vision of me.

 

And it is so fucking dangerous.

 

Because I don’t know how to climb out.

Because I don’t want to climb out.

 

Because the deeper she pushes me

the more I unravel

the more I belong.

 

I am desperate in this space.

 

Not for rescue

but for her gaze

her voice

her containment.

 

I am in the part of subspace where everything else is gone

where even breathing feels borrowed

where I am nothing but a heartbeat asking

please

please don’t let go now.

 

And she’s learning not to. 

 

She’s learning to hold me in my nothingness

not with softness

but with sovereignty

not with affection

but with claim.

 

She says

you are wrecked

waiting

and held.

She says

mine to break

mine to keep.

 

And something in me dies.

Something in me lives.

Something in me screams silently

beautifully

take me further.

I am hers.

I was almost broken today..

 I saw my home in the abyss...I stared down into it. And now I know she can take me there. 

There are moments in life when we wander, just far enough to forget the shape of our own shadow. When the light feels different, and the silence stretches too long. I went there. Not by accident, not by force, but by choice. A quiet detour through terrain that was not mine.

At first, the unfamiliar path felt curious, even exhilarating. But something in me began to ache. A subtle throb beneath the surface. The ground felt foreign beneath my feet. The air didn’t move through me the same way. And the further I went, the less I recognized the sound of my own breath.

I felt the weight of what I carried pressing into my chest, and I longed for something I didn’t recognize at first. Not a thing, but a presence. Not a place, but a pulse. Something that calls, not loudly, but with knowing. 

When I was called home, it wasn’t with thunder. It was a soft gravity, unmistakable in its pull. I didn’t run. I simply turned, and the path beneath me reformed. The world rearranged itself around my return.

And there she was. Waiting, not with open arms, but with open certainty. As if she had always known I would come back.

Now, every breath fits again. My bones feel aligned. My name, Hers, sits perfectly behind my ribs. I am quieter now, but deeper. Lighter, but more anchored. I am not less than I was, only more true.

The world has color again. And I, who had drifted, am once again where I belong...home. 

 

Craving the storm.

Unseen….restrained, waiting to be unleashed. 

Pain that lingers like a vow.

It feels holy, surrendering to that edge

 

 

 

 

There's power in giving yourself completely, in allowing your darkest prayers to become someone else's gospel.

 

Lingerie? Nope. Just sweats and a frown.
Scrubbing the tub in my suburban crown.
No ropes, no marks, no whispered command
Just lukewarm coffee and bleach on my hand.

I moan, but not the fun kind today.
Just a girl, sulking the Sunday away.

My vibe says “punish,” my to-do says “dull,”
I ache for a flogger, I get a Dust Buster pull.
No leash, no cuffs, no voice to obey…
Just me and a Swiffer, grinding the filth away.

Because even a kinkster still has chores on Sunday.
 

 

Tethered tight in silent plea,
on the edge, but never free.
Breath held close, denied release,
torment spun in aching peace.

Dripping want and trembling thighs,
moans reduced to broken sighs.
Clutching need with no reprieve,
begging more than I believe.

Please Mistress!! May I cum?!

 

She wrecked me.

 

A Mistress, Dominant, in every breath,

every pause,

every cruel second of denial.

She didn’t touch me gently..

she handled me.

Like a toy that belonged in her hands,

a plaything made to ache at her feet.

 

She controlled my body

without a single touch..

just her voice,

just her will.

And it was enough

to break me.

I am wrecked.

Ruined.

Drenched in the echoes of last night.

Still on my back,

hand between trembling thighs,

shaking with the memory of her control.

 

She brought me to the edge...

again

and again.

Made me plead.

Beg.

Whimper.

Shake.

 

Held me there like it was her right.

And it is.

I was nothing but a thing...

to tease,

to torment,

to command.

And I loved it.

Every second of it.

I wanted mercy..

fuck, I begged for mercy

but it wasn’t mercy she gave me.

It was torture.

Sweet, agonizing, perfect torture.

My body begged for release.

My mind shattered beneath her control.

All I could do was obey.

All I wanted was to obey.

And her…

God, she was divine in her pleasure.

Moaning, gasping, breaking

over and over and over.

She came again and again.

I counted every one..

every gasp,

every cry,

every shuddering wave

of the orgasm she owned.

It was torture.

It was heaven.

It was hers.

I watched her unravel

and it split me open.

I ached like I’d never ached before.

I wanted to crawl inside her..

To serve.

To worship.

To put my mouth on her,

my hands,

my body...

anything to make her fall apart again.

To taste the orgasms she stole from me.

To be beneath her,

wrapped around her,

inside her pleasure.

Helpless.

Consumed.

Hers.

When she finally let me cum,

I was already gone.

I belonged to her

long before the release.

It wasn’t mine.

It was hers.

She let me have it.

 

Owned.

Marked.

Claimed.

And now I’m left like this..

wrecked,

ruined,

soaked in need.

 

Her plaything.

Her mess.

Still dripping.

Still begging.

Still waiting for her to use me again.

 

She doesn’t need to hurt me to break me.

She just needs to say my name.

Call me good girl.

I want to be her toy.

Her service.

Her fuckpet.

I don’t want to be touched gently.

I want to be handled.

Used.

Emptied.

Claimed.

And now I’m left

begging…..

Please, Miss.

Let me serve again.

Let me be used, undone,

emptied, ruined.

Let me feel you again.

I can’t breathe without you,

can’t think,

can’t fucking function

because you’ve left me like this.

And I love it.

I love it.

I love it.

Please, Miss.

Take me again.