Resistance was futile. Surrender was delightful.

Yesterday was kind of a stinky afternoon for the Admiral and I. I don’t want to say too much about it because I think it’s one of those things that more or less resolved itself: he assured me that fantasy is not the same as reality, and I wrote a shared journal post about my feelings, falling for the Admiral, and not wanting to cheapen what we have. It was a very vulnerable piece from someone who has kept her walls up for so long, and I’m immensely proud of myself for doing that. 

In a way, I think we were both partly responsible for what happened. I was responsible for letting my mind blur the line between fantasy and reality (and for treating fantasy as a threat to my emotional wellbeing). The Admiral was responsible for taking my “I’m reading KinkyMira’s Pegtember blog post” line and absolutely running away with it.

I was just reading Mira’s post, as Mira reads my posts — as we kinky bloggers like to do. There was no fantasy in it for me, no desire to peg anyone nor play any part of any pegging. I was reading Mira as my readers read me — from a place of interest, not envy. I was just checking out how the other half live.

But okay, so this whole thing happened. 

To be honest, for a time I think I kind of pulled away from the Admiral, because of these fantasies of his. I got it into my head that he doesn’t really want me — he wants everyone. 

I’m nothing special to him, what we have together is nothing special. I’ve been made a fool.

After everything we’ve had and built in our past year or so together — and despite this perpetual little “war” of ours that we have going on with one another — that was a very bitter pill for me to have to swallow. 

For a time, it felt like the only way for me to not have to swallow that bitter pill was for me to pull away completely. For me to wish him well with his journey, and let him go. 

I’m polyamorous — I have absolutely no interest in casual sex or casual relationships. I love fiercely and I love deeply, and I only want to love someone(s) who’ll love me fiercely and deeply back. For me, sex comes after love, not before it. I don’t want to have sex with someone I don’t love; I want to affirm our love for one another through sex. Through our lovemaking. 

I’m demisexual — if there’s absolutely no feeling in the sex, I’d much rather be doing the dishes. That’s how little no-feelings sex interests me!

Lastly, I’m kinky — given a choice between a threesome or a BDSM session, you’ll find me in the dungeon every time. The thought of a threesome barely raises an eyebrow for me, but the thought of bondage, biting, blindfolds, surrender, spanking and all of those other wickedly devious things? That’ll get me wet every time! 

But okay, if the Admiral could fantasise then I could fantasise too. Maybe, in a way, that’s exactly what I needed to do. 

Oh sure, sex with Master Levi on Wednesday was as good as it ever is, but right now, perhaps it wasn’t enough. I burned for both of them, but right now — and with absolutely no thanks to geography — I could only have one of them. 

This “assimilation” thing of the Admiral’s, too, had been weighing on me perhaps far more than what I really wanted to let on. I wasn’t sure about it at first — perhaps I wasn’t really sure what he meant by it, or if I was ready to be assimilated. 

Resistance really is futile, isn’t it? The more I resisted it, the more I wanted my in. The more I wanted this sweet surrender.

Subspace drifted back in, the first time in a long time. I stopped caring about resisting; surrender felt good. 

Which is probably also why it was so jarring to think that I might actually wind up only being one of his collective, but anyway. 

For now at least, I knew exactly how to assimilate myself to the Admiral. 

I changed the headboard LEDs to purple, far more romantic than the scheduled red that normally comes on for Thursday playtime. I stripped before bed too, imagining allowing the Admiral to see me naked. 

It might have been tempting just to jump into bed and masturbate straight away, but I did not. I lost myself in some music first, namely Britney’s “Touch Of My Hand”. I allowed my hand to roam and caress my body, to release my erotic energy. To put me back in touch with who I truly am; to fully embrace and accept my submissive identity in its fullest form. 

For a brief moment I had to wonder if writing about my night made this a kind of assimilation to my audience more broadly, then I decided that I didn’t mind, and didn’t particularly care. They already consume me, so what if my “assimilation” goes beyond its intended targets? They already read me, have I not “assimilated” them right back? 

I giggled when I remembered what I’d said to the Admiral quite recently: have you ever considered that assimilation can go both ways? 

I wasn’t surprised to find my sex already wet and wanting. In fact, my only criticism of it was that it was too wet and wanting — it was wet and hypersensitive. Sliding my Icicles No 5 sapphire spiral glass dildo — my undisputed favourite — into myself was a welcome relief. My hot flesh against the cool glass was simply divine. 

My mind roamed to a handful of favourite scenarios — DS Levi and Admiral Snookiebear, oh yes, that one was a favourite. The thought of their command and control and leadership over my body was going to do very, very wicked things to me. 

I settled on the thought of their joint forced assimilation of me over the arm of our sofa, and that thought — with the Admiral’s cock in my pussy and my husband’s cock in my mouth, together with the Admiral’s “good Kitty” — was my undoing. Not that I’d have a favourite, of that I am quite sure, but finally, this is the Admiral’s assimilation of me. So and as such, there was only one way for me to be assimilated by him.

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