I arrived at Castle Black almost two years ago.

That sounds fantastically gothic, doesn’t it? It was a little gothic at the time. My new life started with him from that point.

I was a stranger in a strange land and the city overwhelmed me. At day it was acceptable, I was too busy to strain against it but at night the city glowed. It burst at the seams with light and with people. I felt lost. I felt like a bear who has strayed too far from the forest and could not find a way home.

Standing one night looking over the city, he stood behind me. His arms are muscular, heavy like a velvet cape, luxurious and warm,  he draped them over me.  Deep voiced and whispering he tilted by head to the left. He showed me Canary Wharf where we had walked along the river at the weekend. He guided my eyes across the skyline building by building, giving me the keys to his city making it ours. I tried couldn’t keep my eyes tethered to the subject of the lesson. They kept lifting as though my vision was tempted like a kite to the sky.

As day and night exchange seats the sky turns indigo. The landmarks of London are black, gold and red in relief but the sky remains indigo. The sky is the same sky, I thought, as the one I had left. This clean, dark, magical sky is the constant.

It is easy to look at the buildings, man-made and temporary and forget the ethereal sky. It is easy to look at the daily grind and forget the beauty and love that is the back drop to every day spent with one who truly loves you and truly sees you. There are times when the kitchen is a mess or we have people coming and I see we are low on milk when the grime and the machinations of life threaten to drag me down and make me forget what I am, what he is and what we are. But I raise my eyes, I see him, I see the sky behind him and I remember.

Every day is ritual, every day is beauty. The careless slap to my bottom as he passes, the  strong hand that pins me down in the night; these are signs to the sky, signs that life is more than the toil.

And the sigh.

At first the sigh was loss and change, with every new life we must cast off an old one. And then the sigh was a dreamy sigh as a girl gives when she imagines all that could possibly be. I have dreamed of this life, I have dreamed of this man. I have dreamed of this safety, this love and the sanctuary of his care and his discipline. Like any girl when dusk comes around, I have sat at many a window and dreamed. I still dream.

And now the sigh is contentment by the fire while the wind races the leaves outside; the sigh is the moment when my head tucks under his chin and I breathe in his scent; the sigh is the profound relief when he says to my audible groan, “You clearly need more of this, don’t you young lady?” and I hear the cane swishing in to greet me.

The sigh is something else, one last thing. The sigh is a secret sigh, a little lust with a touch of fulfilment. The sigh is normally a sound meant for a lover, a confirmation for his ears alone.

This is who I am, Indigo Sigh. I am at home here, in Castle Black, surrounded by velvet and enchanted by the indigo above. With DJ’s permission and support I should like to stop by every now and again to tell you what it is like to be the girl in his corner.

Editor’s Note: For reasons I can’t go into Indigo cannot comment here, so boringly mysterious I know. But she will read your comments with interest, should you make some, and I of course will comment as usual. All the best DJ.