Food for the Soul

 I awoke to these beautiful (day)dreams. I was neither awake nor asleep, but lulling in that in-between state when the mind wanders over terrain that entices and inspires.

I was living a D/s life with a (faceless) man. By that I mean, it mattered little who he was, could have been my husband but may have been a different man. He was, quite simply, a man who loved me and provided me with the polarity of my own nature.

My mind went to some rules. Perhaps it went that way because there has been so much discussion around rules or not rules in this 'Contract' we are meant to be devising, currently on the backburner as we holiday.

In my mind, it wasn't exactly a Rule, more a way of life, but probably somewhere far down the recesses of the creating of the relationship, it was a Rule.

My wardrobe was minimalist; carefully curated and devised for the greatest flexibility and creativity of choices. I was in no way spoiled but neither was I denied. From time to time, I had the desire to add to the wardrobe; something new that took in the fashion of the time; perhaps the colour of the season or the shape of a sleeve. 

I was (am) thrifty, and so when I eventually determined the garment I would like to purchase, I showed it to this man. He didn't always approve of my choice; perhaps too much colour, or a dress that I was unlikely to wear often enough. It was surprising how often he was right about these things, and I would let that item go in my mind, conscious that when I had found the right item, he would give his approval.

Of course, there were a proviso. Understanding my internal drive for some direction and limitation, he would ask me what item I would be removing from my wardrobe and knowing this question would come, I would inform him of the garment to be retired.

In this way, slowly but steadily, my wardrobe had become an expression of our union. Each colour, each shape of a dress, a skirt or a shirt was appreciated by each of us. Each time I dressed, I felt that symbiosis.

If I am to be honest, I also awoke with the photograph in mind to which I had fallen asleep. I would share it, but I think that may be forbidden; that is, I don't think I have the right to share it.

Let me describe it. It was black and white. One girl sat at the grand piano, naked but for some kind of thong. We only saw her from behind. Not far away was a girl upside down, exquisitely bound from the ceiling by her feet. The photograph exuded for me a sense of perfect peace at the same time as I felt the lump in my throat; a quietness that overtook my mind at the same time as my mind was on fire.

Scenes, I thought. I wanted scenes. I wanted to feel what it was like to be bound in that way. I wanted to to feel what she felt. I wanted to know there was another girl close by. Somehow that made it all the more...natural.

It's interesting how I had to close my eyes to allow the right word to come up. Enticing? Not quite right. Natural? Yes, it felt natural to put myself in that scenario and feel at one.

I wonder if it starts with Rules - or Preferences - as I have been encouraged to think about what is noted in a Contract or Aspirational agreement - and if it simply ends with a way of life that feels as natural as drinking water every day, as eating nourishing food. Food for the Soul.

D used to say often that the details matter. We can think about the purchase of a dress as one more dress in a lifetime of dresses; something that matters not. Or we can think of a dress as an expression of symbiosis, like an offering at the font of love.