At the time, I admit that I hoped that it would be the start of a brand-new way of life for us. It wasn’t. We played a few games on occasion (he liked to tease me explicitly on the phone when he knew I was in a public place; I liked to send him naughty emails at work…), but for the most part we were a very happy, if long-distance, vanilla couple who had just gotten engaged. I started reading this site on a friend’s recommendation out of curiosity, and more and more I came to feel like I needed to belong to him in a more… solid way. I craved the feeling that he trusted me enough to let go of himself with me, something I’ve never had before in a life of being sheltered and protected – by parents who still thought of me as the underweight baby I’d been, by teachers who knew I was smart and didn’t want to see me fail… I wanted the man I loved to see that I was strong enough to let him play with me. But I didn’t know how to tell him without seeming like I wasn’t happy with what we had. I thought that he might think I was a freak, or the opposite – that my tendencies were a cliché phase that everyone else had already gone through. I was sure that he had a tendency to be dominant… I just wasn’t sure how to bring it out.

There was another problem, too, one that was much more obvious between the two of us. I had my secret kink, and he had one that he couldn’t keep secret if he tried. He loved tits. Especially very large ones. Until that point, I had been pretty happy with D-cup boobs on a 115-pound frame, but I noticed over time that all the women he mentioned as being attractive, and all the models I caught him looking at pictures of, were extremely busty, mostly augmented but some just natural and very, very lucky. His friends teased him about his love of breasts. And well, he obviously loved mine. He was always looking at them, touching them, kissing them, encouraging me to show them off in skimpier clothing. I enjoyed the attention, but quickly began to feel inadequate about not being in the extreme category that he seemed to enjoy. He worried that I didn’t trust him. I worried that I was too small and slight for him to use as a plaything the way I wanted him to. Without telling him, I bought a padded bra to wear on insecure days. I hardly ever wore it in front of him, because I didn’t know what he would think, whether he would object to the extra barrier between him and my chest, or worse (in my eyes), prefer me that way. Wearing it made me feel like I had some armor against the world. I started to wonder, hardly admitting it to myself, if I should have breast implants.

Of course, my insecurity about my body was what formed the barrier in our budding D/s play, not my body itself, which he always loved. It became a vicious cycle: not recieving the kind of treatment that I longed for made me feel more insecure, which made him more reluctant to do anything that might hurt me. Eventually I knew that I had to break down and tell him.