The sub in me is submerged. Fully submerged when I’m in the company of family & friends and at periscope depth for the rest of the day. Always on the lookout for traces of Femdom, that’s the meagre existence of an unowned slave. I have to keep my submissive personality on a short leash, because the outside world is still not ready for him. It’s sad but true: being a 24/7 slave doesn’t mean you’re actually free to be one. The daily grind won’t allow it and going to work wearing a slave collar is still a bad, bad idea. Instead we have to make do and mend with a few submissive hours a day. If we’re lucky. My outdoor personality went to school, goes to work and meets his friends. He’s a nice chap and he has grown on me over the years. But I do hope I’m allowed to say goodbye to him one day and emerge as a lifetime slave.
I hate liars, and yet I was the worst liar of them all, because my family and friends knew nothing about my submissive feelings. I was betraying their love and friendship and I hated that. I desperately wanted to come out of the submissive closet, but it took me years to find the strength. I finally did, and to my surprise and relief everyone was pretty relaxed about it. They don’t wholeheartedly support my submissive quest, though. To them Female Domination is a dangerous jungle where nothing is what it seems. But I’m fine with that, it keeps me grounded. But they’re also blessed with a good sense of humour. A couple of years ago for example, during the family Christmas celebrations, my niece gave me a pair of handcuffs. The joke was on me, but I loved my family to bits that evening. Funny thing really, they know the submissive me is there somewhere, hidden behind the facade, but they’ve never actually met him. And they probably never will.