Introducing Mr. Envelope: intelligent, deliberate, self-aware, unassuming. My height, slim build, strong hands. He likes to play with rope, take photos, and explore boundaries when it comes to pain. He does with a great deal of care and, ironically, gentleness. I would describe his style as two parts sadism, one part sensual, and eight parts psychological torture. Case in point? Let me tell you how he got his nickname.
The first time I ever played with Mr. Envelope, he came to my house. We started slow, him testing the depth of my submission, me working to understand his style as a Dom. The play was a lot of fun, involving some bondage, a bit of impact play, and a whole lot of forced orgasms. We spent a lot of time debriefing, both learning from each other’s observations. His aftercare was exceptional, until he completely ruined my night.
As he was packing up his belongings, he handed me a white envelope. “Oh, here- I almost forgot to give you this,” he said, almost as an afterthought. I looked at the envelope- blank on the outside, sealed. I flipped it over in my hands, feeling the outline of something inside. My eyes lit up, excitement building- who doesn’t love a present? “Oh, no- you can’t open it,” he said, a smirk dancing across his lips. I pouted, demanding to know when I would be allowed to.
“Never,” he said easily.
The indignation that I felt in that moment is without measure. I looked at him, shocked and immediately irritated. “Never?” I said in disbelief, willing him to reconsider.
“I know that you don’t do the 24/7 submission thing, and I would never ask that of you- but this will make sure that I cross your mind every now and then and remind you who you’re dealing with. That envelope will sit in your bedside table, unopened, indefinitely.”
As someone who never hesitates to peek at her Christmas presents, I fucking hate that envelope. There are times when I forget about it, thriving in blissful ignorance as I go about my week. Then, when I need some lip balm or reach for my favourite vibrator, my hand will graze a piece of paper. The weight of that envelope then crashes down on me- the irritation, curiosity, frustration, and fury that something so trivial can be so impactful.
Why don’t I open it? It isn’t because I fear the promised consequences. I have no doubt that they would be brutal, but that isn’t what prevents me from doing what I want. I could open it, accept the consequences, satisfy my curiosity, and- most importantly- remove this leverage he has over me, all in one fell swoop. The thing that keeps that envelope sealed is that I absolutely cannot let him win. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of breaking me using something so trivial.
So the envelope sits in my bedside table drawer in perpetuity, taunting me and eroding any pleasant feelings I may feel toward him. His smugness is palpable, even over text let alone in person. I would hate him forever if he wasn’t so damned good at what he does. You see, the envelope is a symbol of his overall approach with me. He knows I can handle almost anything physical that he were to dish out. That’s not to say it isn’t challenging, but pain and pleasure is a language that I have learned to speak well. Instead he attacks my mind, building in a psychological element to our play that demands more of me. It isn’t enough for him to occupy my body, he needs to own my mind as well- it’s a constant tug of war.
So far, he’s winning.
Like Mr. Envelope’s style? Read more of his stories here.