There is BDSM with beating, bondage or pain. And there is submission. As an author, Margaux Navara is allowed to indulge in fantasy, she says. And Deviance has provided a whole special fantasy about a submissive woman and her shame.
The text entitled “The Last Fantasy” first appeared on her blog of the same name “Margaux Navara”.
The collar is a touch too tight around my neck. It doesn’t hurt, it’s just a touch uncomfortable. After just a few breaths, I noticed that I just had to stretch my neck to relieve the pressure. That’s why I run differently today, with my back straight and my shoulders stretched back. What a difference a little pressure makes…
He leads me on a leash. Not for the first time, but every time I have to get used to it. At least others see it here too. More precisely, everyone sees it. Apart from the collar, I only wear my corset, which presents my breasts as if on a silver platter, stockings and shoes. Freely accessible as he wants it. But the collar touches me the most, does the most to me. Shows clearly that I belong to him, more clearly than anything else.
I follow him, stop when he stops, move on when he moves on. I can walk, I don’t have to crawl. That is also unnecessary. The collar shows my status even without me being on all fours. I don’t talk to anyone and no one talks to me. My attention is solely on him, on his movements, his body language. This is also my protection against the looks of strangers.
As long as I just look at him, I won’t be seen by others. Yes, I know, like a child holding his hand over his eyes. But it helps. If I didn’t do that, I would sink into the ground in shame.
Shame is a recurring part of our play. My shame. I can’t shed it, and he doesn’t want me to either. That’s why he plays with it.
Makes me do things I’m ashamed of even when I don’t need to. If I lost her one day, I’m sure he would manipulate me so much that I would end up in a shameful situation. But he doesn’t need that.
Whether it’s because of my upbringing or some expectations that are hardwired into my head, I feel ashamed. Sometimes for showing myself openly, sometimes for my inclinations, sometimes because I don’t dominate like other women, defend my position, assert myself. I don’t want that at all. It doesn’t suit me. I am submissive, submissive. Towards him and others.
Without him having to pull, I follow him to a platform in the middle of a seating area. A padded table actually that is used to present a person. I have often seen human kittens sitting here or particularly pretty and perfect subs showing off. But… not me! I am 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 the center of attention like that. But he is relentless.
“Kneel down. Hands behind your back.” Of course, I obey. As always. But my heart is almost leaping out of my chest. What am I doing here? What will he do to me?
Some others are already sitting or sitting down. My master stays diagonally behind me, I feel the pull of the line to the right, at five o’clock. Why didn’t he sit in front of me? Then I could look at him, him alone. But I know he did that on purpose too. He wants to present me. Wants me to be ashamed to sit here like this in front of strangers. Actually, it’s not just strangers, I recognize some voices. My Lord’s friends. But I’m ashamed of these too.
I should be proud of that. Proud that my Lord shows me here. Proud to have such a gentleman at all. And yes, that’s me too, but no matter how often I tell myself that, what appears to the outside world is not pride, but shame. I feel the blush covering my body. Feel the tingling of the looks on my skin as if they were touches. Stranger touches.
People talk and make comments about me, but I ignore everything. Until a hand touches my shoulder. I wince.
A sharp tug on the leash. “Quiet!”
A hand touches me again, sliding over my bare shoulder, then over my arm, down to my elbow, then up again. Not my master’s hand, that’s for sure. I know her. This is a stranger. And my Lord wants me to allow that.
We don’t have a safe word. Because I don’t need it. And even if I had it, I probably wouldn’t use it. I could say when I don’t want something, but I know I won’t do it. 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.
