The Little Things

There are many grand, magnificent, overwhelming things that Master can or could do to show my place; to make me feel owned and controlled. When he morphs the way I look or feel or think; when he makes me cum on his command. I love the big things, and in fact the bigger the better is how I tend to think automatically. When I indulge in fantasies of time with him they are epic and fictional and go places that I could never really go; places he would never take me. Bigger. Better. Epic.

But sometimes I am reminded that there are little things that can be every bit as profound and significant.

Take today: through a random series of events I found myself stepping into my pair of slut heels. These are black, shiny pumps with 4-inch heels and peep toes. I bought these pumps so that I could meet my Master appropriately dressed when he arrived at the holidays. Never in my life have I ever owned or even worn shoes such as these and I’m embarrassed to report that when I strode down the halls of our airport scanning for a face I adored I worried that my teetering would be sad and lame to him. I cannot stride proudly in these shoes. I clomp and I weave and I pitch forward sloppily. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care (hopefully the low-cut top and tight skirt was the distraction I was going for) but I did, and I swore I would master these slut heels before June and his return.

But to today and when I stepped into these heels. I did not put them on to pursue this goal. I needed relief for aching calf muscles and thought these might do that, and they did. But even after the original need was finished I found that wearing them was providing a different practice: these shoes make me feel like Master’s slut. They make me aware of my every move. They make me feel ornate and foolish and humbled. I cleaned the kitchen and did laundry and cleaned the toilet in these foolish, ridiculous, slutty damned shoes.

And my pussy never stopped weeping.

When I told Master that I was sporting the heels I purchased just for him I heard amusement in his voice. As I finished my wandering around and settled down to share time with him I asked if I should take them off or leave them on; he instructed that they remain. I imagined that he liked the idea of me stretched out on the couch, slut shoes on my feet and his voice in my ear. And though we didn’t really indulge in playing, instead just sharing company, The feel and the view of these shoes at the end of my legs kept me constantly aware of my place and my role for him. Renewed in me my wanton desire to be his toy and his puppet and his Barbie, for him to dress in whatever way pleases him.

Before he went to sleep we discussed a new rule going forward: When I come home from work, before he and I jump onto Skype, I am to put on my slut heels. This has practical value, as its this constant wearing that will make me able to stride down the airport halls confidently when I go to greet Master this summer. But more than that I shudder at the idea that each night I have a uniform to put on to remind me of my place at Master’s feet. Perhaps the rule should be modified: that I would put on my slut heels and remove all else.