“Yes, Sir.”
I let go of the shame. I let go of the performance. I let go of the idea that I had to be a certain kind of partner. I was just Marcus. Kneeling. Breathing. The only sounds were my own breath and the quiet movements of Julian behind me, tidying up, giving me the space to fall apart without an audience. master salve gay blog
He turned me around. His face was grave, but his eyes were soft. He cupped my jaw in his surgeon’s hands, those miracle-working hands, and tilted my face up to his. “I am your Master, Marcus. Do you know what that means? It means your panic is my panic. Your fear is my fear. When you hide it from me, you are not protecting me. You are stealing from me. You are stealing my right to care for what is mine.” “Yes, Sir
He paid. I don’t remember the walk to the car. I remember the cold air hitting my face, and then the blessed silence of the leather interior. Julian drove. He didn’t touch me. He didn’t speak. He knows that touch and sound are fuel for the fire when I’m in the white-hot center of a panic attack. He just drove us home, his presence a solid, silent planet in the driver’s seat. I was just Marcus
Blog Entry #47: The Night He Forgot the Word
It started as a good day. A great day. I had found a first edition of James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room at an estate sale. The shop had been bustling with the kind of quiet, earnest customers I love. I came home early, giddy with the find. Julian was already in his study, the door ajar, the smell of his cedar and bergamot cologne drifting out. I knocked twice, soft—the signal that I was entering as his partner, not his submissive.
“Yes, Sir.”