Captive Heart

Grief

In the weeks after my Master’s death and just before the birth of our child. I had begged to be alone, and this Svend had reluctantly allowed, though he did visit frequently and call often. I knew he had wanted me to return with him to Arhus, but I was grateful he let me have the space to recover. It was something at the time I thought I greatly needed.

Beyond the imposition of the police station and the terror of all that had occurred. I sat at home, his home, looking at the door. I tried to tell myself he would walk through no more. No, it could not be possible; there he used to stand menacing, vital, and as abrasive as ever. Just as my father used to stand, arms crossed, chest puffed out, and legs braced wide. No, this was not happening.

I went to the bedroom we shared, and I put on his most recently worn shirt. I could smell him; he was near, he was comfort, and he was warm. I wanted to scream, I went to the balcony and I thought jump, just jump, join him. I waited, but not one small voice did I hear in encouragement to urge me on; all that reigned was silence. I stood frightened and alone; even my demons were gone. They had betrayed me. I sank to my knees, gripping the rails, and cried the tears of a bitter flood. I was a coward, too miserable to even be urged toward death.

Long I knelt on the concrete, I forgot my pained knees and the advancing cold. Only the ache of his absence fills me. Until the first pale sun, he would not witness crested the line of the sea, over the distant harbor. The morning passed, and I did not move. Catatonic prostration was all I had…

There is no life beyond this, I thought, as I felt his hands on my shoulders. I had not even noticed his entry, nor his approach behind me. Skin cold and white as alabaster, lips grim and purple, dark circles beneath my eyes, tangled serpents were my hair.

Warmth... as he lifted me from the concrete and wrapped me in a blanket. He was speaking to me softly, though I do not remember any of what he said. I lay my head against his great chest and contented myself with the sound of the steady beating of his heart.

Svend had come to me, afraid of what he might find.I had disappointed him, or had I only disappointed myself? I had been too weak of heart and action to follow him to Valhalla. Yes, I didn’t belong in the warrior’s hall, but there were no more tears. Just sleep, as he drove to his home.

The days that followed were surreal for me. Gaping loss, crushing moments of grief. Master Svend was patient, and he was kind. I guess he had the wisdom of being in a place of loss and grief before. I missed Frej so much more than I would have believed possible. I was distraught that Frej had died, and yet relieved he had never been incarcerated in a mental ward or judged to face a hopeless sentence in prison. This was by far the cleaner path for him, even if it hurt his loved ones more. I found that in moments alone, I would talk to him. “I miss you.” I would whisper, and I meant it. My link with him could never be severed. The police investigation was concluded, as he was now deceased (it hurt for me to say that word), his crimes were swiftly and quietly dealt with. His high-profile family saved face, and life continued on.

In the ensuing months after Frej’s violent death and the birth of our child, I cannot lie, I struggled. Every time I held her, I saw his eyes glancing back at me, and all he had said in those last frantic moments ran through my head over and over. He had been a narcissist right up to the end, and I am sure, as I look back, even while his blood was running from his body, torn by shattered glass, he had chosen those words with care. Chosen them to affect me for the rest of my life. He was that kind of man.

Master Svend observed my struggle, maybe in a way he felt it too, but he never let on. Deciding to hire a full-time nanny. To begin with, I didn’t want to relent this tiny life I had made, yet as I look back, I was clearly in no position to care for her in those early days of her life. I was exhausted, emotionally bruised, and demoralized. I hardly had the energy for myself, let alone the daughter I had borne. Freya thrived under the care and love of our nanny, Ida, and in time, I better understood my husband’s choice. Though, to begin with, I was very hostile toward it.

The subsequent weeks often found me alone, sitting quietly in one of the upstairs bedrooms, staring out at the rambling gardens and homes of those who lived beyond. I struggled with the choices I had made. I struggled with his loss. I have been so cruel to Svend, I wonder if I deserved a second chance? I quite possibly did not deserve the first. In my blind desire to have he who had bewitched me, I had completely trampled him. Left him battered and bleeding, all without a thought. He always told me, just as his younger brother did, that I could never hurt him, and yet I know I have. More grievously than I could have ever hurt him, armed with a weapon of steel.

*****

Married life was not that different from the Master/slave relationship before. Our roles, protocols, and the way we spoke to one another really had not altered. Master Svend often organized outings and activities to keep me busy while he worked. He brought me copious art supplies and my own laptop, so that I may create to my heart’s desire. Even going as far as to set up a lovely studio in one of the upstairs rooms. A room I would often gravitate to. I liked being around my partially finished creations. The idea that I could walk in and resume them with spontaneity fueled my creative desire in ways that were most positive.

Yet I still feel such guilt, though he cares for me and takes me for his own; I feel love and inexplicable compassion for another, younger, more violent man who has passed. When we are alone together in the dark, I reach out and I imagine I touch him still. If I close my eyes, he can easily become Him, and I do it many times daily. All he was, and is, will not leave me be. My hand strays often to my barren throat, devoid of his token of ownership. I look at my new Master, why am I not worthy? I hang my head, I already know why, I have never called him that, not once. I cannot bring myself to. I do not deserve him…

Oh, Lidia, why do you hurt like this? I thought it was over?

Is he really a true Master? I begin to doubt. I’m not collared, yet he says I am his with all authority, though I do not see it. I am bewildered by this. He tells me I must wait, he tells me I need time; me or him? I need his directives, I need his hardness, I crave his discipline to pull me out of my dark hole, kicking and screaming. I think sometimes he will use it like his brother did, but he holds back; instead, he is soft with me.I don’t want nice, I want a Master, then he tells me it’s not about what I want, but what he chooses to give. GRRRRRR I’ve never been so frustrated!!!!

After some time, he mentioned to me in quiet hopefulness that he would like another child. Expressing his own private concern that he didn’t want too much of an age gap in between, not like his own childhood had been. I didn’t have much to say on the matter, with the events leading up to Freya’s birth being horrible and traumatic, to say the least. I nodded, I was, after all, married, and if the Goddess saw fit to bestow on us a child, then it would be.

*****

I had long made it a habit to record my thoughts and feelings. As a young girl, I had committed them to a battered pink diary, and then later, with the arrival of the computer into my life, I blogged. These many entries over the last few traumatic months helped me to unravel and assess everything that had happened. I had many people that I didn’t know online, who would read and comment on my postings. Really, though I wrote them for me, if I wished to admit it, most of all I wrote them for my husband. I wanted those stern gray eyes to dissect and possibly understand what was going on in my head. So somehow we could pick up the pieces and move forward.

I had never possessed the courage to just speak with him; one look in his direction and my bravery always dissolved. So I lived with this forlorn hope that this incredibly busy man did digest and hopefully understand my strange musings. It seemed the only avenue I had to truly communicate with him my desires that always remained unspoken. Yet at times, they got me in trouble as well. It would become a constant theme in my marriage.

*****

He called me to him this evening last. He had my latest journal page open on one of his giant monitors; its companion one stood idle. I cringed under his cool-eyed stare. Words in red font graced the page where my outpouring of today had been. ‘Edited by Master Svend.’

He had censored my words, and for a second, rare ire rose in me. How dare he! All I have is my words, and he was taking them away! I stood tall before him, and I made to open my mouth in defiant protest, he cocked his head to one side and raised his eyebrow.

“Yes?”

His one steady word killed any I had. He sounded like a strict headmaster. Accompanied by another cold-eyed stare, his arms were crossed over his chest. I was suddenly on my knees, shuddering in horror at the idea I had just dared to challenge him.

Where did I find that courage? Was it simply I did not respect him? Face to the floor, mumbling penitent words, that I may be spared his wrath.

A hand on my exposed behind struck me hard, oh so jarringly hard. Immediate tears, even Frej’s hand slaps, were not this hard. He offered no words, just more precisely delivered slaps to the same location to maximize the hurt. I was breathless, and I could not raise my face from the floor. I had never been hit this hard with a hand; I did not think hurt like that without an implement was possible.

He stood over me as I recovered my composure. It took long moments to rein in my terror and stifle my miserable outburst. Slowly, I dared look up at him. He was in his usual pose, muscled arms crossed, his disheveled hair hanging over his face and shoulders, steel eyes on me. He did not smile as his brother would have done; his face bore no emotion at all. I looked at him and swiftly looked away.

“If you are going to challenge me, you had better have a valid reason. I do not need this,” he says. “I have always had private BD/sm. I have a reputation to protect, a family name. People know me, many people, those in power. I cannot have this public display.”

He seemed angry and disappointed. He was very intense, and I felt ashamed. A man can only take so much. Yes, it was time for me to be more careful, and more considerate…I had erred. I shuddered at the firm delivery of his words.

“I do not appreciate this.” He glared at my blog page that lay open on the monitor. “Think what you want of my prowess, you have much to learn.”

Nod, just nod, Lidia, you don’t want to be spanked again.

He was lifting me from the floor. I was resisting. He was powerful; my pitiful resistance meant nothing to him. He took me into the office chair, where he held me on his lap. My behind was burning, but not as much as my shamed composure. He was holding me, stroking my hair.

“If you want me to be him, Lidia, I can.”

He had read my mind.

He tells me now instead to write these more personal musings on a sheet of paper, which he leaves on his desk for just that purpose. I try to obey him, but I’m confused and scared. I don’t want him to take this away, but I need to get the past squared away in my own mind.

The days I mostly spend alone, well, there is the maid, the nanny, and of course my little one, but I do not count them as company. I had very few friendships growing up. Any I may have had dwindled to nothingness long ago, moving countries will do that. I spend my afternoons mainly daydreaming, dreaming of the perfect slave I must now become.

“Kajira,” the word slips from my tongue when I sit alone, he says I will learn to be his kajira, his pleasure slave.’ He tells me it is what I was made for by the Goddess; he tells me if I can focus on it, I can bury my past and be remade. I have to accept he knows best.

I was now his, and yet I was incapable of this admission. He was different from my last keeper, very much so. He was far more entrenched in protocol and ceremony. A few things stood the same: he loved simple nudity in preference to clothing, and he loved to see me greet him as his younger brother had. However, he was an infinitely more complex man, even if he was Paganly simplistic. He was also not ruled by sadism; he never hurt for hurt’s sake, nor laughed at my tears.

Cry, I did long and intensely in those first confusing months as his wife and his slave. He was now setting the strictures in place that I would have to live by. I had not realized his power.