“I need to fix myself first so I can dom you better. So I can be a good dominant to you. Help me remember!”
I read her plea from across the ocean and I feel shame.
Shame that she doesn’t remember how to be a dom, much less my dom.
Shame that I have no way to help her remember.
Shame that she feels like a failure.
Then she reveals things to me. Intimate things. Powerful things. Things that make me want to help her remember. Things that make me want to walk away from her so she’ll stop hurting her heart, and my own.
She went to sleep.
I found something.
I found this:
“This! Remember this! The moment I fell for you.” The moment I wanted to fall to my knees for you. The moment I wanted to give in completely.
“When was that? Help me remember. Please?”
I dig. I dig further. I dig deep and find the original image. Date. Hour. Minute. Second.
I pull out a series of photos. I give them to her. She doesn’t remember.
I dig deeper. Into log files. Into an eternal drive I don’t like using cause it takes over my computer when it boots up. I dig so deep. And I find her.
I find the moment.
“…this is like one of my favorite dances too…”
That is all I said.
But the emotions. It’s in the image. The memory. Wanting to be hers. To give in. To let her choose and do and more. To be hers.
She doesn’t remember.
I give her the full log. Months and months of our chatter. Maybe something in there will help. I give her blog posts she should read. I point her to my private journals, at least the ones I’ve allowed her to read. I haven’t pointed at her private journals.