There is a trap when you fuck up. You are the one who is wrong, the person you love didn't deserve the things you did, could never do the things you were so afraid they would do you never gave them the chance. When you pull your head out of your ass and realize they would never have screwed you over, that you ran for no reason without giving them the chance, now you can't bear to face them.
I got sick. The army got pulled in to help with those senior centers that were understaffed or dealing with outbreaks. We got away with it for a long time, we were the interface to make sure that no one other than us had contact with the seniors, so if any mistakes were made with protection, it would be a soldier not a senior that got exposed. It worked.
My husband and daughters pretty much let me know that they relied on me to be strong for them, as I always was when anyone else had a problem, and they were threatened by my having feelings or needs, wanting care when I wasn't up to it. They pretty much left me alone to live or die; as long as I didn't ruin their mood by being anything less than 100% cheerful and unconcerned for the minimal conversation required to make them feel good about leaving me basically to die offstage.
My Lady didn't get the chance to let me down. I took it from her. I ran. I cut off contact like a coward, because she was the only one to see me as a woman, not a machine or a monster, a machine to make their world run on time and a monster to deal with the bad things they couldn't be bothered to.
She never was anything but honest with me, never promised more than she was offering, and always let me know where the limits were. She never lied, never failed me, never betrayed me, yet I treated her like she would break faith with me.
She texted, but I couldn't read them. She emailed, but I wouldn't open them. How could I? I was unworthy, I had betrayed her, failed her, and now honestly, I wasn't half as energetic, creative, or joyful as I had been. Partly the aftereffects of Covid, half being betrayed by those I loved the most and gave everything for.
I replied to her last email. Confessing my failures, my sins. The whole ugly truth. I didn't give her the chance to fail me, to desert me, I ran first. I broke my commitment to trust her, I told her by my actions that I did not trust her commitment to care and protect me. I broke my oath as her property, and by my deeds told the world I didn't trust she would keep her oath as Mistress. I had no right, no justification. She had never by act, by omission, implication or hesitation shown anything but perfect care for me, and I crapped on that in my cowardice.
How could I face her?
After the whole hot mess, she contacted me one more time. She told me to meet her at a coffee shop we used to frequent. Didn't ask. Told me. She was done leaving it up to me, my fears, my failings. Now it was hers to command, mine to obey, or not. That would be my choice.
She was composed. Cool. Her eyes were understanding. Her auburn hair shone in the sunlight through the blinds like a halo. I stood in front of her table and tried half a dozen times to speak. She finally gestured me gruffly to the table. I sat.
We ordered our drinks. I looked up at her and fumbled my way into an apology that wasn't much of an apology, more of a list of reasons she shouldn't bother with me. She stopped me with a very rare public slap across my face.
I was shocked. She looked at me and said very sternly. "That is enough of that. We are done with that subject."
I caught her hand and kissed it. It would have been a more romantic gesture if I hadn't already begun to ugly cry. There is pretty crying you see in movies. This was not that kind. I shook, I couldn't even sob. Tears and snot covered her hand, but she did not pull it away.
I was rocking back and forth, probably in some danger of falling out of my chair. I couldn't see, could hardly breathe. My face was the kind of hot mess you need to be a pale redhead to make. I pushed ugly cry to the textbook limit, but My Lady didn't walk out. No matter how embarrassed she doubtless felt, she did not leave.
She got up. It was abrupt. One moment I was slowly winding down, beginning to worry about wiping my face and looking around to see how much of a spectacle I had made of myself, the next there was a scrape, and she was standing up. Standing she is only a little taller than me sitting, so it shouldn't have been that regal, but she could have made Game of Thrones with that look.
"I am taking you home, and we are done talking." Her voice was hot, firm, and sent a shock of submissive lust rolling through me that short circuited the toxic spiral in my head.
She let me get the door, then snapped her fingers and pointed beside and behind her half a step. I heeled like a dog, but she simply explained her own feelings in an almost disinterested tone as we walked to her car.
"I was hurt that you left, even more hurt you thought I would abandon you. I understand a bit more now about your position, and I think it will be some time before either of us is really over it. There is nothing more that can be said, so we are done with talking about it. Now, be a good pet and open my door."
I opened her car door, waited until she folded herself in, then closed it for her. It would have suited a limousine, that entrance, but her battered old compact managed to get a temporary class upgrade just from the grace of her entry.
During the drive to her house, she let her hands play over my legs, hiking my skirt up to reveal my stocking tops. It didn't matter that I was absolutely sure she was going to tear a strip off of me and disown me. I was going to meet My Lady, and that meant I was in stockings, I was not wearing panties or a bra. On my wrist and ankles were the cords she had awarded me, slowly, as I earned them.
As her fingers slid over my stocking tops, I found myself spreading my legs, and grabbing on to the seat with both hands. My Lady let her fingers slide up to confirm that indeed I was wearing no panties as instructed. This is where I should say something sexy like I had a Brazilian done that morning, but she never asked, so I never bothered. My hair is so light as to be little more than fire coloured lace down their anyway.
I knew what to expect. My Lady had taught me to accept spanking, whipping with a belt, with a crop. She was a lot more careful than I was about never leaving permanent marks or doing actual damage. I have a high pain threshold and the degree that she drives me into submission does leave me hungering for her to mark me in permanent ways.
I had never really failed her like this. Never really insulted her at all. I had been punished, even staked out in the snow, for offenses so minor as to be trivial if they had not been failures of her instructions. I had no idea what hell awaited me, only that I would accept it with humility as no less than I deserved.
When we entered, she demanded that I strip. I did so.