He wanted me; then he didn't

A fading relationship

I was entangled with A.B. for almost a year and a half. I wrote stories for him at first, copious amounts of bad poetry, and poured my heart out into my submissive journal. When we started he read every entry. By the time I wrote this, he wasn’t reading it at all. I poured my heart poured out in these words—raw, searching, sometimes desperate—as I wrestled with what submission meant and who I was within it.

I craved to give then, but I’d rushed wholeheartedly forward into a long distance relationship during the heat of covid without guarding any of my edges. To be honest – this is a weakness of mine.

That relationship, with its highs and wounds, pushed me to new perceptions about men, women, trust, self-worth, and the kind of love I truly needed.

Today, I’m in a different place. My Sir and I navigate a dynamic rooted in open communication.

I’m sharing this entry not to dwell on pain, but to honor the woman I was. I’m sharing this because I really believe that people who see the sex side of submission don’t always pause to look at the emotion side.

If you’ve read my other posts, you know I’m still learning, still serving, still dreaming of deeper surrender, trust, and a whole circle. This is a piece of that story, unpolished and true. I hope it speaks to anyone navigating their own path through submission’s complexities.

January 16th, 2021- Lost Darling Girl Journal Entry

I don’t know why; is this something I do or something he does?

We have a moment where I am very secure, and then it slips away. This journal started as a way to deal with the overflow of passion and thoughts, but it was always about us and where A.B. was able to take me, and the ways I was challenged by that.

In four days, I was captivated by his luscious, gentlemanly words. Lord, yes, how he romanced me. And then the tone changed to intense demand, and I wanted to hold all the focus and attention of those rich, gorgeous words and stories.

(My beloved, it would be better if you did not read this entry. But it is here. It is here as I find my way to who I am going to be.)

I am romantic. I want someone who will write poetry just for me. Words that are mine and have my name buried in them as the cause, the gift, the inspiration. I am vain. Possessive. The words can be shared with the world but only given to me. Who will write erotica just for me? Who will seduce me, pursue my attention? I loved that exchange when he gifted this. It was magical.

It opened me up, and when he started challenging me with what I would do for him, to appease him, everything was yes. Yes was easy. Was what I wanted. Was fire scorching my skin and making me feel alive. I could serve that romance; I could serve him because his focus felt like sunshine on my face after living in a cave. I was drunk on it. I had A.B.’s attention for hours at a time long distance via text and phone calls, giving, taking, dancing.

And then it went dark, sadistic, and carnal. He pushed me to find my limits. Hard. So hard. And I always said yes. Committed. Yes to every test, though I failed many, and that failure turned me inside out and wounded me. There was pain. All of it reaffirmed my commitment to try harder. Do better.

He said he conditioned me.

What a shock to hear that. To know it’s true. I am conditioned. Trained. He found my keys one by one and used them. Some of it has been very good, delightful, fulfilling; some of it has been devastating. I know he approves of the changes, of who I am with him. The conditioning to be his, to fit together. I want that.

But who will I be without him? And what will those changes mean then? I don’t know what’s in his head. He’s far away and won’t tell me. We look at houses together. But there are never promises. He never says he loves me. His control is absolute. His collar is a carrot I can’t reach.

If not him, who? Will I delight in submission with another? Could there be another? The question twists me up a hundred thousand ways. It makes me ill.

I’ve dreaded since I was young—becoming a whore. Having many partners. Going from man to man. Being used. Walked over. Treated like trash. In A.B.’s worldview, this means nothing. It’s just life experience. We enjoy each other and go on our way as if every experience doesn’t mark our soul, with good and bad.

I can’t find beauty or honor in that. I see myself as selfish and flighty. Some of life is finding happiness, some is making happiness with what you have. I tried too long to make happiness with elements that were never going to work. I changed that, deciding it was better to start over than keep forcing something broken.

It’s not just that I dread becoming a whore; it’s the trust. A.B. doesn’t trust me. He pushes me away. Sometimes so hard I fall, and he doesn’t see it. He wants my trust but won’t give his. He wants my everything but won’t give his. In some ways, I can live with this; in others, I’m not sure I can. Could I trust another the way I’ve trusted him?

Because in this area of trust, there are cracking places. These cracks must be fixed if I’m to have a forever with A.B. Right now, there are too many days when I’m pushed away, not sure what he wants, not sure if we’re in the same place. He’s living his life, and I’m not invited.

There are times I’m not sure if he finds me physically attractive—I know my flaws, but my boobs, the best I have, do nothing for him. He laughs at them. It hurts. It shouldn’t, but it’s a disappointment that I have nothing to offer here. He says deeper things hold his interest, and yes, that matters. But I’m not sure I turn him on, and that cracks my self-confidence. I need to bring him pleasure. I must.

Because I want to arouse my mate. I want to be attractive. It’s a big deal. Knowing that set me on this journey. Even as my looks fade, I still want to be desired by my partner.

It’s a risk to want that at my age—a risk of rejection. A.B. seems to think it’s no big thing.

But it’s a huge, big fucking deal.

There’s this thing with the Dominant about making me a better person, and it’s not my favorite part of the role. I think it’s arrogant for someone who won’t commit to think they should shape my character or make me more aware of my sexual needs.

I’m an adult. I love sharing discoveries, but I don’t love being conditioned by someone who doesn’t see me as his other half. Whatever I offer A.B., he doesn’t see me that way because he doesn’t want a slave. He doesn’t want me.

He doesn’t want to need me.

His role as a Dominant makes him want me to need him, but he’s conflicted. My need was desperate, hungry, too much. He has to control it, put it in its place. He wants it, but the responsibility is too much. He already has one needy dog to feed; he doesn’t want two.

I love him enough that I don’t need to be his other half, but he shouldn’t expect the rights of that kind of relationship. I can see us being roommates, accommodating his needs. It brings me peace. But it bothers me that he’d want to shape my happiness without me shaping his. I could play a role for fulfilling sex, but that makes me too vulnerable without something to keep me strong.

What makes me strong? Knowing I’m wanted, needed. Knowing my giving is irreplaceable. That there’s no one like me, and he wants me.

I wear his necklace, but I don’t know if he wants me. I feel lost today. Not romanced. Not pursued. If this is ownership, it’s hard, and I’ll struggle to fit into it full-time. It’s not what I thought ownership looked like.

The Dominant role is a natural leader and teacher. A.B. is both, comfortable in those roles. He falls into teaching so fast I have to be careful what I say, or I’ll lose the chance to know him better.

But I don’t want a teacher or a therapist. I don’t want a friend with benefits. I want a partner. Forever. I’ll always want that.

I enjoy honest talk with A.B. about men, women, relationships. About personalities, books, stories, writing. It’s an equality I’ve found nowhere else. He’s like a dream editor. His input makes my stories stronger. I enjoy discovering worlds, histories, poetry, words with him. It sings to my soul, makes me feel seen.

Those things could exist without sex, without dominance—in friendship. But I don’t want to lose those four days, the price I paid, the gasping moment I’m commanded. I don’t want to be a whore and go through that again with someone else, awakened by A.B. only to be gifted to another.

I’m suspicious. We had two months of romance and dreaming, then his mother passed, and responsibilities hit hard. He’s head of his family, with a father and brother who need him. It drains him.

He doesn’t want a slave or the effort of romance, or to admit needing someone. He’s pushing me to be his submissive, his friend, and independent—to stand without him. He’s training me to accept his desires, for my benefit and whoever comes next, so I’m less tangled by morals about what I want.

It won’t work. I’ll always be bothered. I choose to be.

Early on, he was possessive. He cared about what I shared, wanted to be there for my tattoo, was excited about my leash. Now, “I have other things more important.” He’s proud of me, like a mentor. I don’t want a mentor. I don’t want submission without him, without those four days. It’s shit.

My submission is a painful, raw gift for the one I trust and love. Sex is deep intimacy, not a game. I wanted what I never had in my marriage, even for a weekend. I paid 25 years for it. A.B. told me upfront what he wanted. I said yes because he’s unique—not just a Dominant, but a writer, poet, dreamer, traveler, learner.

So where does that leave me? Here, waiting. He doesn’t know what he wants. I still hope, despite COVID and his responsibilities, for a real relationship.

But I’m done worrying about submission. I need to stand. My growth stopped when I married and had kids. I’ve never stood alone, always craving a man’s attention, addicted to it. Standing means peace without affirmation, praise, or touch. Without sex or a Master. It’s somewhere between an old woman and a confident one.

A.B. or not, I’ll travel. I’ll collect hugs across the country and overseas. I’ll meet new people, have new conversations, be healthy, settle my family. Write books. Do art. Read poetry extravagantly.

I need to sort what’s dead from what’s alive.

If you read this, beloved, I cried through it. I hope you don’t. You’re doing your best, tangled up, caring but unable to give what I want. You’re untangling me, aiming for friends with benefits, separate lives. You think it’s sweet. I’m stubborn. You conditioned me for some things, but you can’t change what I know is true.

Reading this now, I see a woman who was brave enough to feel everything, even with the pain.

I am an over thinker. Obviously. One of the reasons submission, and sub-space appeals to me, is that all this thinking disappears. Even from across the world, A.B could turn it off with the tone of his command.

What I did not know, even though the idea of entering another relationship made me ill as I wrote that, was that peace, that dark, mind-quiet-silence only achieved for me under the hand of a dominant master, was as addictive as crack cocaine.

I couldn’t live as if I hadn’t tasted it.

That version of me didn’t know this. I know it now, and I’m thankful I’ve found it again. Here, she’d find what she craved: a dynamic where service is a gift, not a debt. My Sir today meets me where I am. We talk, we trust, we build together. No carrots dangle out of reach; instead, there’s a collar I wear with pride, earned through mutual care.

Now.

Now, I wake each morning lighter, knowing my service is seen, my heart held. It’s not perfect—nothing is—but it’s real, and it’s ours. I’ve learned to carry that quiet joy, to let it spill into every sandwich I make, every moment I kneel. Submission is my home, and I’m finally free to thrive in it. What’s brought you peace in your journey? Share a piece of your story—I’d love to hear it