Beach Bum/defining submission and other existential thoughts

I'm happy to escape the humidity that the weather brought us this last week. The idea of having to drink the atmosphere is foreign to those of us who are native to the area. The wet air clung on until it could release itself in the form of a rare summer rain. A week away from the city is most welcomed and the beach brings a quiet peace to my usual manic mind.

Last night I was left alone with my thoughts as I sat in the hot tub listening to the waves crashing onto the shore. It always strikes me how beautiful the night sky is when I'm away from the lights of the city. With a glass of wine in my hand I stared for what must have been an hour at the stars that painted the canvas above me. I find such delight in humbling myself... just thinking those stars will continue to shine on after I'm long gone, as they have for centuries. How many lives have seen that same star?...generations upon generation, and yet I sat last night with a true appreciation for its existence for a fraction of a moment of its life.

This all, of course, led me to thoughts of how humbled I am every time I kneel for my Sir. I was recently asked by a reader (wink) to define my submission and had a difficult time doing so. While varying degrees of each paint my life like shadows and highlights, my regular life is not led with an overwhelming desire to either dominate or to submit. Our particular dynamic doesn't bleed into our time together outside of play- though I once noticed my bottom twitching when he ordered for me at a restaurant.

A part of my submission I find myself wanting to change is how insecure I'm constantly feeling. I'm not sure what about the relationship commands that...I suspect much of it comes with just how much it has given me - not just physical pleasure, but it has validated a large part of who I am that has been missing for so many years - and how quickly it could all be taken away. This insecurity makes me feel so needy and in a sense, weak...a feeling so different from the strength I get after our sessions. On those days I stomp around town with the unmistakable stench of confidence as it pulses through my body after being caned, and yet, that power diminishes the more time that passes from when I hear back from him. Perhaps my submissive side is some sort of masturbatory nod to this existential unworthiness that I find so comforting.

So how do you define your submission? I'm guessing the domestic-discipline crowd will have a different take on it from those that are strictly bound-and-gagged, but maybe I'll be surprised...