This Isn’t Kinky, This is life

She sits across from me eating soup. She’s naked except for the collar around her neck. A thick metal chain goes from her collar to my hand. I’m sitting there fully clothed with my legs crossed reading an article on my phone. Take almost anyone who isn’t on this site and let them peek into our life. Let them peer at us through the two-way glass mirror and they might blush. They will probably have some kind of judgment. When my property finishes her soup and she crawls behind me as I walk her into the bedroom, people seeing us might think I’ve kidnapped her. They might think I am forcing her to do these things against her will.

I pull on the chain and lift my property high up on her knees. Her back is straight. Her neck is stretched, and I lean down and kiss her. I’d never be able to separate my kinky side from the rest of me because there is only one side. It isn’t something I can turn off. I don’t lay her down and spank her with the cane just because it’s time to spice things up. I don’t use the flog on her breasts and I don’t choke her because we watched a movie about “BDSM.”

Of course, there’s nothing wrong with just liking kink periodically and only in the bedroom. Of course, there is nothing wrong with being completely vanilla. But for me and my needs; for the needs of the girl I own, how we play, and how we live are the same story. We wake up and brush our teeth next to one another, and I run my hand over the bruises I made appear on her ass and breasts. Going to the BBQ? Time to put your plug in, little girl. Let’s go for a walk along the trails behind the baseball field. The only question is how far away do we get before you get fucked up against a tree. How loudly are you going to moan, “Cum inside me, Daddy.” Because the rest of it has been preordained.

In this household, all roads lead to kink. In fact, the roads themselves are kink. And so are the rest stops and the tollbooths. So are the diners and gas stations. When I hold her hand it’s kinky. When I cook her dinner it’s kinky. When I read to her my favorite parts of my favorite books it’s kinky. And I don’t really know why that is. I don’t think I can explain it other than to say this: I don’t practice or engage in kink. I don’t even really think about it. Even as I write this I don’t have a plan about how I’m going to finish. I’m just here feeling kink as strongly as I can. I bleed it and I dream it and I breathe it in. This isn’t kink. This is just life