There’s BDSM involving impact play, bondage, or pain. And there’s submission. As an author, Margaux Navara allows herself to indulge in fantasy, she says. And for Deviance, she has provided a very special fantasy about a submissive woman and her shame.
The collar sits a touch too snug around my neck. It doesn’t hurt, it’s just slightly uncomfortable. After just a few breaths, I’ve noticed that I only need to stretch my neck a little to relieve the pressure. That’s why I walk differently today, with a straight back, shoulders pulled back. It’s amazing what a little pressure can do…
He leads me on the leash. Not the first time, but I have to get used to it every time. After all, others can see it here. More precisely, everyone can see it. Besides the collar, I’m wearing only my corset, which presents my breasts like on a silver platter, thigh-high stockings, and shoes. Exposed, as he desires. But the collar touches me the most, affects me the most. It clearly shows that I belong to him, as clearly as nothing else.
I follow him, stop when he stops, continue when he moves forward. I’m allowed to walk, I don’t have to crawl. That’s unnecessary too. The collar displays my status without me being on all fours. I don’t speak to anyone, and no one speaks to me. My attention is solely on him, on his movements, his body language. This is also my shield against the stares of strangers.
As long as I only look at him, I won’t be seen by others. Yes, I know, it’s like a child covering its eyes with its hand. But it helps. If I didn’t do that, I would sink into the ground from shame.
Shame is a recurring part of our play. My shame. I can’t discard it, and he doesn’t want me to either. That’s why he plays with it.
He lets me do things that make me ashamed, even though I wouldn’t need to feel that way. If I were to lose it one day, I’m sure he would manipulate me into a humiliating situation. But he doesn’t need to.
Whether it’s due to my upbringing or certain expectations firmly ingrained in my mind, I feel shame. Sometimes for openly showing myself this way, sometimes for my inclinations, and sometimes because I’m not assertive like other women, not defending my position or asserting myself. Yet, I don’t want to be that way. It’s not natural to me. I am submissive, devoted. To him and to others.
Without him needing to exert control, I follow him to a platform in the midst of a seating area. It’s actually a padded table designed to present a person. I’ve often seen human kittens sit here or particularly beautiful and perfect Subs showcase themselves. But… not me! I’m not perfect. Not in any way. At least, I don’t feel that way. And I’m not a kitten either. Everything in me resists being so prominently displayed. Yet, he is relentless.
“Kneel down. Hands behind your back,” he commands. Naturally, I obey. As always. But my heart nearly jumps out of my chest. What am I doing here? What will he do to me?
Some others are already seated or joining in. My Master stands slightly behind me, I feel the pull of the leash to the right, at five o’clock. Why didn’t he sit in front of me? Then I could look at him, only him. But I know he did this intentionally too. He wants to show me. Wants me to feel ashamed sitting here in front of strangers. They’re not just strangers, actually—I recognize some voices. Friends of my Master. But even before them, I feel ashamed.
Yet I should be proud. Proud that my master is showing me off. Proud to have such a master at all. And yes, I am proud, but as often as I tell myself that, what shows outwardly isn’t pride but shame. I feel the flush that spreads over my body. I feel the tingling of gazes on my skin as if they were touches. Foreign touches.
The people are talking, making remarks about me, but I tune it all out. Until a hand touches my shoulder. I flinch.
A sharp tug on the leash. “Quiet!”
Again, a hand touches me, gliding over my bare shoulder, then down my arm to the elbow, and back up. It’s not my master’s hand, that much is certain. I know his touch. This is a stranger. And my master wants me to allow this.
We don’t have a safeword. Because I don’t need it. And even if I had one, I probably wouldn’t use it. I could say if there’s something I don’t want, but I know I won’t. Because I obey him. Because I do what he says. Because I trust him not to go too far.
The hand slides over my collarbone, brushes over the hollow in the middle, then it moves lower, lower, very slowly now, even slower, until a finger dips into the valley between my breasts. Just a fingertip now, nothing more. If the curve moves up, moves back, it’s gone.
“Sensitive like a wild deer,” says a voice, very close. “Yes that is her.” My Lord has spoken. “Magical.” My master sighs. “A little too sensitive. How am I ever going to fulfill her desire to be used by others if she reacts like that?”
Shame floods me. And wetness. Between my legs. A lot of wetness. And heat in big waves. I want to make myself small, but the collar prevents me from doing so. I have to stay like that, head held high, shoulders back, back straight. My breath is ragged, short gasps that show my excitement. Show everyone. Him and the others.
I know it will take time. Probably a long time. Until I’m ready. Until I can make my dream come true. My fantasy, one of the few he hasn’t been able to fulfill yet.
