Owning Regina: Diary of my unxpected passion for another woman (19 page)

We walked out of the bathroom and there was a line of 3 girls that were waiting.  Oops.  They looked at us… and clearly knew that we were up to something in there.  When we were walking back to our table, I felt the swagger of a real dominatrix. That corset is like a cape to superman. It gives powers. Regina was beaming as we sat back down.  I decided to fuck with her. “Did you give me that corset because you think I’m fat?” A look of horror came over her as she quickly defended, “Mistress, not at all. I merely wanted to give you a gift that I thought you would like.”  I gave her a disapproving look with, “Fine. Then I accept your gift. But you are never going to bribe me into being soft with you (and I grabbed her face firmly), do you understand?”  She answered sheepishly, “Yes, Mistress.” And then I put a stop to the madness with “That was some kind of crazy day I had.”

We both shifted emotional gears. It took a few moments because we were so in the zone.  And there we were, together again as ourselves.  I was as emotionally naked and unguarded as possible when the following words flowed from my mouth unconsciously: “I’m in love with you.”

Regina blushed. The girl who had just been suffocating me and rubbing my pussy was now blushing. It was really cute. Then I remarked how the corset was really uncomfortable still being so tight. We both laughed.  So much for a casual meeting without kink.

After more sharing about our regular lives outside, she surprised me by blurting out, “Your breasts are beautiful!!” And now I was the one blushing. Guys always said that to me, but it felt so different hearing those words from a girl.  It felt sweet and sexy, rather than lusty. From anybody else, I tend to brush off compliments like that, but with Regina, I felt like it was real enough to take in and enjoy.

We finished up with some airy conversation about plans for next week, Tucker’s schedule, and which grocery store we each liked, all while holding hands on the table.

After bussing our table like good girls, we and said our goodbyes, each with an inside glow that was moving us happily on our separate ways toward home.

But before we actually left each other, I pulled her in close and honestly said, “Regina, I love my corset! Thank you so much!”

Regina, realizing we were not in the game, flashed a heartfelt smile with “You’re welcome.”

Even though the mistress’s slave had given the gift, I was the one thanking Regina outside of the game.  This wa
s peculiar because it clearly showed how complex emotions and sexuality can be; I was thanking her… as a person… for doing something nice for me. It wasn’t a sexual thing. In fact, I couldn’t wait to get the corset off of me. It’s super uncomfortable outside the game.

The kink helps to compartmentalize the sex from the rest so that we can share on a deeper level in both worlds. The sex is supercharged and insane, while the rest is so completely human.  That’s why it was odd that I felt like thanking Regina for the corset in real life.  The corset was from the other world. But the gift was from Regina and I had to reconcile all this within my feelings.  One thing was clear though, the real gift was Regina.  We said goodnight and headed out.

--- SUNDAY APRIL 1 --- April Fool’s Day / Hating Surprises

This morning I awoke to discover the entire city was buried in snow 3 feet high and none of the roads were open!  San Francisco has never seen anything like this! 

Ahhh, bullshit. You are so gullible, Ms. Diary. That’s my attempt at an April Fool’s prank.  Stupid. For whatever reason, I have never been fond of pranks. I hate when people are punked. I hate April Fool’s day, and I hate surprises. Please NEVER throw me a surprise party.  I mean it! Who likes that stuff anyway?

Pranks and being punked always equate to someone has to be the butt of a joke. Someone has to be made foolish. Why is that fun? There must be a million Youtube videos of pranks that have millions of views.  Why?  I don’t find it funny to see someone come into their office only to find that it has been filled from floor to ceiling with popcorn.

Frankly, I see that crap and I think… “What a disgusting waste of food and resources.” Think of all the water it took to grow that corn. Think of all the diesel fuel it required to tend and deliver the crops just so some asshole can fill up his buddy’s office with it for a 10 second laugh. Hilarious. Think of all the people who go to bed hungry and would do anything for that corn.

I know what you’re thinking: “Jeeze, Meg. Lighten up, it’s just a silly thing we all do to each other.”  Ok, perhaps I am a little overboard. And of course, I frequently get a chuckle from watching a prank.  But it is more of a human reaction, rather than true amusement.  Then after a moment of laugher, I put myself in the prankee’s head and feel embarrassed for them.

That embarrassment and shame is what is at the heart of my problem with the practice of pranks.  As a child, I always felt like I was an outsider and that groups would single me out for humiliation.  It wasn’t until I was much older that I learned that the humiliation wasn’t directed at me specifically. It was merely directed at the nearest or easiest target.  But the pranks always made me feel even less adequate and even more like an outsider.

One time on St. Patrick’s day in 6
th
grade, I was eating hot lunch eby myself in the cafeteria.  I had on a cute green
leprechaun
hat and was minding my own business. All
of a sudden, I felt someone lift my hat off from behind. Then a hand came down to my lunch tray, grabbed my bowl of peaches, dumped them on my head, and then pulled my hat back over my ears, squishing the peaches all over my hair.

The entire cafeteria burst into humiliating laughter and waited for my reaction.  However, to their disappointment, I didn’t react at all.  After wiping off my head, I simply continued eating my lunch as if the event hadn’t even occurred.  I took a surreptitious look behind me to see who the culprit was. And there was Marsha Spencer, getting hi-fives and pats on the back by her laughing cronies.  Mental note: “Marsha Spencer will die.”  It’s true what they say about revenge being best served cold.

Even though I appeared to the rest of the cafeteria to be completely unphased by the peaches, what they couldn’t see on the inside was that I was thinking of what type of revenge would be ten times more humiliating to Marsha. Fucking bitch.

After stewing on it a few days, I finally came up with the perfect revenge. About a week after the great peach incident buzz had petered out, I circulated little notes around that school that said, “
Marsha Spencer is going to eat shit on Tuesday on first break on the soccer field – Meg
”. Of course, I expected this to circulate back to Marsha as well.

When Tuesday arrived, I was prepared.  When the bell rang for first break, everyone headed to the soccer field, a place without yard duties because kids didn’t usually hang out there.

Everyone gathered around me and waited for the show.  Out of her little clique, came Marsha.  Everyone knew she could kick my ass because she had been known to fight dirty. But I didn’t care. I just wanted revenge more than I feared getting my hair pulled or whatever.

Marsha, cocky as ever, came out with “So I hear you are going to kick my ass.” I responded calmly, “No. You must have heard wrong.  I said you are going to eat shit… and I meant it.” Everyone started laughing. Marsha was laughing too. While she was mugging to her crew and not paying attention to me, I reached into my coat pocket, pulled out a baggie that had one of my actual shits in it, grabbed it out of the baggie with my bare hand and I shoved forcefully straight into her open mouth!! Then I wiped my hand on her face and hair! The look on her face was priceless. I will remember it forever. She was frozen in shock.  I turned and walked away without expression.

The crowd, rather than standing there laughing, was absolutely appalled and disgusted and reacted in deafening silence! It was like the famous diner scene in Pulp Fiction where the lowly petty thieves come up against Samuel L. Jackson, a bad ass murderer who makes them look like babies.  I was Samuel L. Jackson. She was the baby.  Later in school, I heard that Marsha had barfed right after I left.  Imagine having to barf in the dead silence of all your cronies as they look on in disgust.  Yeah, it was a satisfying day.  Neither she, nor any of her friends ever messed with me again.  The point is, I don’t like pranks.  

Sorry for going off topic. I guess seeing April 1 on the calendar really hits a nerve with me.  To be honest, I realize that I have an overly sensitive view on the topic. Maybe some other prank trauma happened to me in the past. I can’t remember any major ones.  But I clearly have issues around this.  That’s probably what made me turn kinky (Just kidding).

The strange thing is, humiliation plays such a big part in my kinky fantasies, Regina’s too.  Shame is a giant component of S&M in general. It’s sexy to feel the shame and play with it in a safe context. Not being a shrink, I really have no idea how humiliation fits into someone’s psyche or how the satisfaction is manifested.  When Regina and I are walking in public, and I’m holding her wrist instead of her hand, it’s a form of humiliating her. It is saying she is not equal and that she is lesser than. It’s a shameful posture. It’s also fun to do verbal humiliation (or to receive it) in a sexual context.

Within the bounds of a BDSM scene, humiliation feels amazing. It’s surprising that it is so awful to feel in real life. But it comes down to consent. The faces of power I despise and loathe in real life such as humiliation, dominance, cruelty, sexual exploitation, police brutality, and even rape, are all elements that can be used erotically when consent is mutual.  In fact, that’s the entire basis of my sexual identity. I want to feel the dark side of sex and power. Just like a horror movie, it’s a safe form of exploration and satisfaction. Consent is everything.

That’s why I hate pranks. They are built on the idea of emotionally harming someone who hasn’t given consent. That’s why Marsha had to eat shit.

So back to the only important subject at hand: Regina. Last night, we decided we would meet tonight to barbecue at my house. She asked if the mistress was going to be here.  I replied, “Well, she does live there.”  Regina seemed pleased.  We agreed that it couldn’t be a late night because it was a school/work night. We also decided that during the daytime today, we would each do our own thing.  Cool.

So when I got home last night I emailed Victoria and asked her if she wanted to come over for lunch. She sounded really excited to see me and catch up, saying she had a lot of news to share. I said the same thing! We set it up for her to come over at 12:30.

At 11:30, I get a call from Regina. When I answered, there was no greeting, no “hello,” no small talk, just these words “Can you believe how blue the sky is today?”  Obviously, I’m always thrilled to hear from Regina on the phone, but when I’m surprised by Regina the slave calling me, it messes with my groove; I instantly shift into another personality. Sometimes I’m not ready for that.

Again, it’s not really a deliberate choice to switch personalities, it has become an automatic, Pavlovian changeover. Think of it like hypnosis… you know… “when I snap my fingers you will become a dog and bark.”  It feels like that. I don’t control it or consciously switch it. Here’s another analogy: If someone flips you off while you are driving, you don’t simply decide to be mad at the person, you just see red and it turns to road rage.  It’s automatic.

Anyway, so there I am on the phone with the slave who says: “Forgive me Mistress, I know we are seeing each other tonight and you may have your own plans during the day, but I am craving to be in your presence. Even if I could be under the same roof as you, I would be most grateful to be able to serve you.”

My wheels started turning, “Fine. Get here right away. Wear your leather opera gloves and our brick red boots.”  “Yes, Mistress. Thank you Mistress,” she groveled.

When I hung up the phone, I was about to call Victoria to let her know that “something came up and I would have to cancel.” But then I thought, “Forget it. I’m not going to change my plans to accommodate a lowly slave’s whim.”

Sure enough, Regina arrived in a New York minute. When I opened the door, I saw a walking dream! There she stood in our boots. She had on an avocado-colored mini-skirt, an adorable sleeveless grey top with a subtle black pattern, the long leather gloves that went up to her shoulders, and… a three inch wide heavy brown slave collar around her neck!  But it wasn’t really a slave collar from an S&M store. It was more like she had found a high-end brown belt from Macy’s and had it altered to be just long enough to fit her neck.

It was a really striking accessory! I never really thought about a collar in all my kinky fantasies, but suddenly, I had a new fetish. You can’t imagine how hot she looked!!! Her slender white neck was contrasted by a heavy leather belt that said, “I’m your object.” It was the perfect combination of classy and sassy at the same time. The look was sophisticated and could easily be worn in public as a fashion statement. Come to think of it, you never see that done. Other than a necklace or scarf, you never see any other type of neckwear. This slave collar was completely original and very striking. It was a smart look.  It looked kinky and sexual, but could easily pass for being ahead of the vogue curve.  Sure, I’ve seen cheap bondage collars on tattooed goth girls before, but this was something entirely different. This was Barney’s of New York style.