To Taste of the Dream
In less than a year, he had become changed. He thought back, remembering when he knew nothing. He'd thought spanking someone might be interesting.
He came to understand it was not the spanking, but the submission. But by time he had figured that out, he never saw her again. He came to accept this, wrote River Run as his closure. Yet he never carried out the story; his collar had remained safely in the North, never touched by Fire, never damaged by Water.
Back then, he had feared his deeper impulses, certain they could not be anything but the wish to abuse. In time, he found one, and another, and another, who craved the depth he had to offer. He became proud of his ability to take a woman where she wished to go, whether she believed it possible or not. He could take her there surely, safely, on the first try... and stop.
He continued to learn. Some thought, he had become power out of control, his understanding given way to oversized ego. He looked within, accepted his depth. His need, he came to realize, was far and away too harsh for most. He had tasted blood, so to speak, and could never again be tame.
He thought to withdraw entirely, remove himself for a year, to balance the year of his learning. Some thought him a menace; so be it. A menace he would no longer be.
But a few *did* understand, and would not permit him to so destroy himself. He was become vicious, ugly... they would not permit that of him. His ways were not for everyone; they showed him that was yet good, and not ugly.
He chose to semi-retire, take the one for his own. She would he play with, and perhaps no others, that he not risk misunderstanding. For she understood his depth and his strength, reveled in his willingness to hurt... he had been so mistaken, expecting others to match her depth.
She had seen his worst and his best, accepted his limits. They both had a dream of a collar, of wanting it all. And they had both chosen to set their dream aside, for another time, another place.
She had become what he needed her to be. He remembered his collar, the one never destroyed. He decided it was time they both had a taste of the dream.
He looked at the collar, bought on a whim. It was non-locking, for her to remove at will... thus it could become a visible symbol of the dream and not its fulfillment. Yet with that understanding, it could mean everything a collar should. It would be his free gift to her, never to be returned, come what may. Let it be their promise to hang on to the dream.
But first... she needed a name. He would use the collar as a narrow thick strap, harshly striking her, and name her "Welted 1". He would show her his danger, before asking her to choose.
He knew her... she would choose to taste of the dream.