"I'm tightening the leash on you, Kitten. That belt around your neck? I'm tightening it one notch. I think it's time."
I don't know what set Him off, but he made that proclamation one evening over the phone. I was already reeling from the events of earlier that afternoon.
Here's what had happened earlier: I recently joined a social networking site. I tried to keep him abreast of all of my communications, but he didn't like that certain people could contact me. He especially did not like that a strange man contacted me and pressed for a meeting, disrespecting his ownership of me.
That afternoon, a text message came through: I will be monitoring your page and making random spot checks.
And then: E-mail me your password. I will monitor your messages as well.
I sat, looking at my phone, mouth open. I put the phone down when it started shaking with the trembling of my hand.
One last text: Understand?
I managed to text back a quick, "yes sir," before turning off my phone completely. Maybe if the phone was off, I could stop him from marching any further into my life. Maybe if I cut off text messages, I wouldn't have to give up everything to him.
It didn't work, of course. After a tension-filled half-hour, I turned my phone back on and e-mailed him my password.
So back to later that night on the phone: I listened as he logged into my account and dissected my every message. He questioned my word choice and deemed my tone to be frequently too flirtatious. I hadn't been watching the tone of every message. I didn't think he'd ever read them.
I was upset that he had invaded my personal space and read all of my private messages. And now he was going to "tighten the leash"? Would he request that I give him all of my e-mail passwords? Would be demand to read all of my diaries?
He's never been a micromanager, but now he was doing something that I never thought he would do. What would he do next? I asked, but he wouldn't tell me. I think the anticipation, the dread of that line of thought, was the worst part.
No, actually, the worst part was that I didn't know why. What had I done wrong that made him decide to "step up my discipline"? I asked him, plaintively whining - why?
"Because it makes my cock hard, Kitten. Because I can and because it makes me fucking hard. And that's all the reason I need."
But what if I couldn't handle more? The last time he started bearing down on me, I almost cracked. What if I lost it again?
"Stop worrying. Breathe."
I took a deep breath. I sighed.
"I wouldn't do this if I thought you couldn't handle it. But anyway, you're asking the wrong questions. Instead of worrying about whether you can handle this, you should be asking - how can I please you more, serve you better. How can I be a better girl at all times. Those are your questions."
Please Him. Serve Him. Be a better girl. I'm repeating that to myself. I'm waiting for his next command.