“In the pain there is healing”

“Emotionally shattered on the inside instead of being physically battered on the outside.”

That’s a quote from DL’s toy’s blog post. The subject is emotional sadism, something that intrigues me, and her, but not something there seems to be a lot of talk about.

People are much more willing to share stories of physical sadism, even approving the fact that a sadist will often push a masochist beyond her “good pain” point, through to tears and snot and quivering panic over pain. That all seems part and parcel to the sadist/masochist dance.

Even if the girl claims to not be a pain-seeking masochist, there’s an atmosphere of “well, that’s what you signed up for!” that surrounds it. Unless SHE herself claimed that she was being beaten against her will and said that she felt abused, most of us fellow bdsm’ers butt out.

Not so much when you start diving into the emotional side of it. Even mild emotional sadism gets the stink eye. Start referring to your submissive as “Fat Ass”, “Worthless Bitch”, “Stupid Fuck” – and watch how quickly the protests fly. To me, name calling is mild, even such personal attacks as those.

Though even with name calling, there does seem to be an acceptance to it if the person on the receiving end of it clearly enjoys it. There is one girl I know whose ‘name’, given to her by her Dom, is Worthless Pig. I know a lot of people might cringe at such a mean cognomen, but for her, it’s a term of endearment. Her obvious affection for the nickname soothes the bristled fur of those who hear it.

But I want to go past the names to harsher instances of emotional sadism. I want to ask about those who don’t like it, and, for whatever reason… do it anyway.

For the purposes of clearer discussion (should there be any and I hope there is!), let’s leave out the notion of leaving the relationship. Use any reason that makes sense to you for why leaving is not an option, because what I’m really trying to get to is *how* to deal with the emotions and aftermath without having “Run away!” be one of those suggestions. What we are seeking is the thought process and the intensity of the emotions that follow such events from those who engage in it, as well as the thoughts from those who fantasize about it or wonder about it.

Scenario 1: The girl sees her Dom fairly infrequently. He’s legitimately busy, as the infrequent visits are not part of the emotional sadism. For her, the visits have become cherished, special events. She anticipates each visit with a child-like glee.

He knows how much she values this precious time and, because he’s a sadist, sometimes uses it to hurt her. Perhaps he comes for the visit and rather than interact with her, he locks her in a cage or in another room for the entirety of his time there, barely laying eyes on her, let alone speaking to her. Maybe he keeps her where she can see him, maybe he puts her away where she can only hear him. Whatever, the point is to to not give her that which she’s come to treasure- His attention.

It is not a punishment, it is not meant for any purpose other than for his amusement. To see the longing in her eyes, to know how much she’s suffering in the other room, alone and lonely, while he blithely watches the television.

Scenario 2: He shows up with another girl in tow when they, as a couple, have never discussed seeing other people. What they HAVE discussed is that he can do whatever he wants, the specifics of which hadn’t been clarified. He ties his sub to a chair next to the bed, and proceeds to play with and fuck the other girl in front of her. It is the sight of his sub sitting there, heart shattering, silent tears of hurt dripping down her cheeks that fuels him on as he uses the other woman.

Scenario 3: He tells his sub to find him another for a night. He specifies what she is to look like, taking all of his sub’s imagined or real body flaws and requesting that the new girl look better. As in, “Your tits are too small so make sure she has nice big ones. I want her to have a smaller ass than your fat one. And be sure she can suck dick better than you.”

To twist the knife even further, he places her in the next room and forces her to listen to his moans and grunts of pleasure as he fucks his “perfect” girl, while she, the “imperfect” one, is completely left out.

Scenario 4: Same circumstance as number 3, only the sub is forced to stand and watch as he points out the other girl’s more appealing attributes. “See? This is what boobs are supposed to look like.” or “Why can’t you deepthroat like she does?” Then he forces you to engage in belittling yourself by agreeing with, or repeating the same sentiments. “Yes, Master, my tits are hideous and her’s are beautiful.” etc. etc.

Scenario 5: [Insert your own personal hell here]

I’m curious to what any of you think is the purpose of such emotional sadism. Is there one at all, beyond that it might make his dick hard?

One thought I had, and that was echoed by toy on her blog, was that she’d lose some sense of self. While toy mentioned that as a less than desirable outcome (if I understood that correctly. Correct me if not, toy, please), it occured to me that losing some of her sense of self IS the point. One of them anyway.

I mean, it seems to me that to get a submissive to the point where they can handle such obviously soul shattering episodes, being able to suspend, if not shut off, your sense of self would seem of paramount importance. Perhaps then, the trick is in just how much to destroy and how dangerous would that be?

One of the comments over there, by Doll, said: “The problem with emotional sadism is that it could insidiously alter self belief until all confience is gone. It blurs the boundaries between being a submissive or becoming a doormat that just takes the shit off the boots of the sadist.”

And while I agree with that, somewhat, one has to wonder if being that kind of “doormat submissive” isn’t the goal of it all.

I realize that doormat is tossed around as an insult and submissive’s tend to fall all over themselves denying that they could ever be that dominated.. but me?

Honestly, I think it’s hot.

I find that kind of blind, thoughtless submission to BE the goal. A goal that I may or may not ever reach (I certainly don’t seem to be wired for it, but too, neither have we been able to engage in such practices that would completely obliterate my sense of self.)

I understand that in doing so, should we ever get to that place, it would open the door for him to be and do almost anything to me. At this point in time he is still maintaining my sense of self, still encouraging free thought, and, rebellion actually. I don’t expect that to always be the case, nor do I particularly enjoy this time period. I much preferred what we had before when we just dabbled in more extreme methods of control and personality/mental adjusments. I, for one, look forward to the obliteration of *me*.

As toy said in a reply: “it could also take the submission to a whole new level, positively speaking, right? There’s more possibilities of one hurting from it but all that aside, it could just be a new level of humility, subordination, objectification, and submission.”

As with anything else, if you want the possibility of great success, you have to be prepared for the possibility of great failure. But you’ll have neither one if you never try.

Maybe it will be just a coin toss on which way it will go, maybe success relies on the talents of the Dom or the inherent strength of the submissive. Who knows?

So I guess I’m hoping to hear from other’s who have been there or who will be there. There are people I know who are facing this and it’s difficult for them. Unfortunately, I seem to come at this from a different angle in that even just writing about it has gotten me all hot and bothered. I am eagerly anticipating scenarios such as those above, ready to dive headfirst into the pain and misery such things will surely spark in me, and damned be the after effects!

While some of the same insecurities and what-ifs roll around in my head, I’m soothed by a deeper sense of security. I know that *no matter what*, my time spent bound and broken on the floor is temporary, that no matter how low he will make me feel, I remain held in a higher place in his heart. The fear that I feel toward it is not one of abandonment. I’m not sure if perhaps that is the one tiny piece that changes it from not-okay to very-okay. Perhaps so.

However it all will work out for me, I am not in a position to personally offer words beyond what I have here, which is little help for them now I’m sure. Whenever I’m in a place where I need words that I don’t have, I turn to you fine people, as your experiences, thoughts and wisdom for outshine mine most days.

Input? Please? I will beg.

~cunt

Sex is always the answer, it’s never a question.

Yesterday I met up with a couple of other small s-type girls for lunch. It’s really a lot of fun and I relate to this group of women so well that, literally, hours and hours pass before I know it and then I’m scrambling to get home. I didn’t get home yesterday until almost 4:30 in the afternoon! Yikes. Good thing I did chores in the morning and had dinner in the crock pot.

(Pat myself on the back for good planning. Good job, kaya! )

Anyway, one of the conversation questions was “What would you like to have happened in your life within the next year?” and my answer was that I would like to have the protocols and BDSM stuff become a higher priority than what they have been lately. I said that the line between being a normal vanilla wife and being a slave gets awful blurry awfully quickly.

It’s just all too easy to become complacent within our M/s relationship when we focus more on trying to avoid some of the curveballs life throws at us. Maintaining M/s to the level that we both prefer it takes work. Real work. Maintaining normalcy doesn’t. Or doesn’t seem to when compared to the other, I guess.

(And of course, even as I sit here talking about feeling like a vanilla wife, I can’t help but think of just how much of my day to day life would feel incredibly non-vanilla to a vanilla. But that’s not my topic today.)

As I was saying, I had said that I would like to have bdsm practices become more commonplace. I had also mentioned that in thinking that, I had to acknowledge that I could be more proactive myself. That I tend to fall back on thinking that, oh, he’s the leader and I’m the follower so I should just sit and gather dust while I wait for him to lead- when the truth is I should not be absolved of the work portion of keeping things high on the priority list. That I can’t fault him for not doing it if I’m not doing it either.

I don’t mean to make it sound like we’re wallowing in vanilla territory because it’s not that either. There are a myriad of things that happen throughout the day, and he does pay attention to things, and it’s not all bleak and dreary at ALL. But there are definitely areas that could use improvement and I was acknowledging that, in some cases, that improvement could start with ME, within myself, my attitude and my approach rather than taking the lazy way out and excusing myself because HE didn’t do this or say that or whatever.

Make sense?

No? lol. Too bad.

So yesterday evening, shortly after Master came home from work (which was shortly after *I* got home!), he started making sexual advances at me. And this is one area that we both know needs improvement. Sex.

Not the sex itself. He’s phenomenal in the sack and dammit, I am one lucky whore in that respect. What’s been off lately is the timing. Somehow, our timing together got totally screwed. Not only that, but the fact that his advances are coming at what I consider a “bad time” for me even factors in is totally whacked.

Part of it certainly is my continued lack of libido, which I am fairly convinced now is directly related to our lack of play. Because the fact is, when we do play, I get hornier than a two-peckered billy goat so I know it’s *there*, it’s just not getting “fed” as it used to. I don’t really worry about anymore because knowing it’s there and just a little starved right now is a pretty big comfort. I am not becoming non-sexual, I’m just hungry. Good enough.

So, having a lower desire means that when he wants to “do it” at odd times of the day, I’m more prone to try and weasel out of it. If I know it’s going to be just a wham-bam, or under the desk (I’m seriously hating that right now. Like, you don’t even know.) AND I have no desire for it? I’m just all… blah… and “do I hafta??” which, as you can imagine, isn’t conducive to creating happy-horny feelings for him.

Now, if we’re getting into bed and it’s going to be a good fuck with no pressing concerns like kids asking for homework help or dinner burning on the stove or whatever, then even though I still have a low desire, I’m less likely to try and excuse my way out of it.

Unfortunately, Master tends to be sleepy-tired by the time we get to bed and HE doesn’t want to do it then. He wants to fuck when he’s horny and has the energy. Like, when he gets home from work.

So, needless to say, it’s been kind of a hit and miss, with some mutual but understood frustration on both of our parts.

My frustration has been blanketed with some hella heavy guilt, too, though. I’m supposed to be the sex slave here, yanno? Oy.

Anyway, so after the conversation at lunch, and then he comes home and starts smooching on me and eyeing the bedroom, and then he asks me what I’m doing and says let’s go fuck.

Seriously, and this is so fucking sad- I gave him a rueful smile and pointed to the kitchen. “I can’t. I’m cooking.” which I was honestly doing, and to back up my words, right as I said that, the oven timer dinged. As I walked away, I jokingly quipped over my shoulder “Excuse me while I go tend to the real master of the house- the stove.”

He didn’t say anything. I mean, this is the norm around here lately. Unless I’m really NOT doing anything, somehow his needs have fallen to the bottom of the priority list. I just can’t fathom how cooking or homework or *whatever* started trumping his dick.

So I go into the kitchen and check on the biscuits. They aren’t quite done yet so I reset the timer for another 2 minutes and I’m standing there thinking. The conversation at lunch is echoing in my head, along with his quiet acceptance of me having walked away and it’s bothering me. Like, bothering me a LOT. And I just keep thinking, be proactive, cunt. THIS is not proactive. THIS is lazy. This is shameful. This is NOT slavery or bdsm. This is what you say you don’t want, yet this is what you DO?? Get with the program, woman!

I kind of look around the house a bit. B-man is in his room playing video games and probably won’t come out until I drag him out. Am had fallen asleep on the couch and probably wouldn’t wake up until I poked her. Jes is gone still. So what uber-important thing am I doing here? What is the worst that will happen? We’ll have cold biscuits for dinner. That’s what is keeping me from going and servicing my Master’s cock?? Srsly, cunt?

Let’s see. If I were him and my cock was twitching and I had a supposed sex slave who, ideally, is to service that cock whenever it twitches and instead she’s decided that watching biscuits brown is more important?? Uh… mayhaps there needs to be a lesson given about priorities. Or.. maybe that lesson should already be known and the next lesson is giving up.

Sad thoughts, yeah? Sobering thoughts.

But this is how we grow, right? I mean, I like to think that being brutally honest with myself about my failures means something.

I guess the real test is what I ultimately end up doing with these realizations. Not just for one day, but every day.

Well, I’m happy to report that we had cold biscuits for dinner. Onward and upward, Christian soldier!

~cunt

All Dogs Go To Heaven

I knew it would be hard. I just didn’t expect it to be this hard.

It was time, hell, it had probably been time for awhile now. But when we’d decide it was time, when he would fall and have to lay there for a bit to gather the strength to stand, when he’d practically lick his fur off in an effort to get at the pain and we’d look sadly at each other and nod and say “It’s time.” – then he’d have a good day and chase the ball or do something cute and we’d think, oh, just a little while longer yet.

A little while longer for us.

Over this last weekend though, we couldn’t keep telling ourselves to wait a little bit more. We woke to find Sutter in the hallway, lying in a pile of his own excrement, unable to move out of it. Anyone who has had a dog will know what I mean when I say that he looked embarrassed and ashamed.

Master had to carry him outside, I cleaned up the mess- and we started saying our goodbyes to him then. It was time.

But, oh man, the guilt. He gets so excited when he sees the leash. Even more excited when he gets to go in the car. “Wanna go for a walk?! Wanna go bye-bye?!” and he’d chuff at you, smile all the way to his ears, prance in place– and where do we take him?

I just can’t shake the feeling that he felt betrayed, that he wasn’t ready at all- that we were.

That feeling isn’t helped by the fact that it took 3 times the dose of what it should have taken, the final dose injected straight into his heart while the vet petted him and remarked that he had the strongest heart of any dog she’d ever met.

And I stood there, his head in my hands, crying, second-guessing the decision, a decision that was just too late to change. I stayed until the end, hard as it was. There was just no way I was going to let him go alone.

Master was a mess. He couldn’t get out of the car, he tried- he couldn’t. He’s had that dog longer than he’s had me, longer than he’s had anything I guess. Longer than most relationships between people last. Sutter was the child he never had. He didn’t want his last memory to be watching the injection. I don’t blame him for that, not at all, and difficult as it was for me, animal lover that I am, I consider this to have been one of the deepest and most sincere services I could provide for him.

After, when it was over, we sobbed together in the car. I cried because he cried, because he loves so hard, and strong as he is, tough as he is, mean old sadistic bastard that he is- the loss of a plain old dog, HIS dog, crippled him. He sobbed, heart-broken and lost–

It was very humbling for me. It’s not often that I see him so vulnerable, so laid-open and raw. It’s not often that I’m in the role of the comforter. I caught a glimpse of how deeply he loves, and it touched me.

He’s not made of stone after all.

I love him all the more today knowing that.

“Dreams are illustrations from the book your soul is writing about you.”

When I woke up this morning, I was trying to recapture the last hazy remnants of a dream but I couldn’t. I only remember that it was an incredibly happy dream and that’s it.

So I was thinking about dreams.

I used to have two reoccuring dreams as an adult. Nightmares more than dreams, but always the same, several times a week, vividly terrifying.

One was that someone(s) was breaking into my house. Dark, scary, faceless men, creeping through windows and doors, slinking down the hallway. Always, those men would be inbetween me and my children. I would try and scream, try to warn the kids to hide, and could never do more than whisper, could only watch helplessly as these dark figures crept closer and closer to the kids’ room.

I would struggle to consciousness, and then lay awake in the dark, sweating, terrified, listening to noises and have to convince myself it was only a dream.

That dream went on for years and years and years.

The other dream was not quite as terrifying as it was sad and frustrating. One of the things that I struggled with as a single, poor, parent was housing. It seemed I was always on the verge of being homeless, living paycheck to paycheck, and even at that, some of the places we lived weren’t really big enough or safe enough.

So I would have this dream that was always about housing. I’d have found some spectacular place to live, a place where everyone had a bedroom of their own and I’d be happily decorating it or arranging furniture – and then something would happen. I remember one in particular where the walls and floors disintegrated into swarms and swarms of roaches, falling on us and crawling on us and we had to run out of the house. Another house was slipping into the ocean, slowly sinking while we climbed out of windows, crying, not wanting to leave it but knowing we had to.

I know why I had those reoccuring dreams then. In the first one, I was well aware of the vulnerability of being a single woman with helpless kids under my care in a world where senseless violence happens on a daily basis. I had legitimate fears of break-ins and not being able to protect myself, much less my kids.

The second dream merely illustrated the difficulties of low-income, substandard housing and how every time it seemed I had my feet under me, some unforeseen circumstance would come along and knock me down.

I can remember being afraid to go to bed, staying up way later than I should when I had to be to work at 6 a.m. I remember piling weapons (knives, clubs – no guns) under and around my bed. Making sure the phone was in reach, the doors and windows were locked and barricaded.

Miserable nights. Miserable mornings. But I’m thankful for them now.

I’m glad I had those years of night terrors. I’m glad I had to claw my way out of sleep, tears on my face, heart pounding, stark terror preventing me from sleeping any longer that night.

Otherwise, I don’t think I’d fully appreciate the slow, easy waking, the half-hearted grab at wispy happiness from a cloudy dream, the ability to snuggle back down next to a warm and safe body, knowing my children are secure in their beds – and they each have one of their own that isn’t going to disappear from under their sleeping bodies.

I’d not understand the significance of looking forward to bedtime instead of dreading it, or how comforting it is to turn out the light and lie in the dark with nothing but his soft, even breathing for company rather than keeping my ears tuned and jumping at every squeak and thump.

Every life experience has been worth it. Everything that has shaped me, groomed me, or primed me for these moments today has been worth it.

Even those spooky little ol’ dreams.

And I don’t remember the last time I had a nightmare of any sort.

The Measure of a Man

Recent discussions surrounding nature and manhood have gotten me to thinking about what it is that makes a man. What is it that causes people to think “Now there walks a fine man!”

Since I can only draw on my own experiences, I can only dissect the manliness of the men who play a significant role in my life. This is bound to be long, possibly non-sensical. I tend to do that.

~~*~~

Dad – my first male influence: My dad could be plunked in the middle of the wilderness, like Survivorman, and come out a month later, exhilarated and ready to go again. He’s a countrified, beer-drinking, Harley-loving, hard-working, patriotic good ol’ boy.

At 18, he enlisted in the Marines. Did one tour in Vietnam, made it out alive. Volunteered for another tour and was sent home, minus an internal organ or two. He came home to an unfaithful wife who left him shortly after.

She left him, abandoning three boys under the age of 4, leaving them to him to raise. One of the boys he knew for a fact wasn’t his, one he was pretty sure wasn’t his, and one he thought might actually be his.

He was around 23 or 24 years old.

He didn’t pansy around with paternity tests like some men might have, or dump the kids on someone else. He bought a house, got a job and settled about taking care of business.

40 years later he still doesn’t know with any certainty if any of those boys are biologically his, nor does he care. Fatherhood, he says, isn’t determined by genetics alone.

A few years after his wife left, he met my mother. She was 31 years old, recently divorced and raising six kids of her own. When they got married, my dad was 29 years old.

29 years old, and the father-figure to nine kids ranging in age from 6 to 16. Eight of whom, or maybe even all nine, were not biologically his.

He worked a factory job that started at 5am. For 40 years. He often picked up side jobs, after work and weekends, farm work mostly, for extra money. He bought an old, rickety, scheduled-to-be-demolished farmhouse because it was cheap; a house that I used to hate and was ashamed of as a kid, a house with holes in the floor, no furnace, pipes that froze in the winter and a leaky roof.

Then he rebuilt it. By himself. ALL by himself, while we lived in it. After work and on weekends, wall by wall, floor by floor. That house that they bought for less than 10 grand would probably appraise for 10 times that now. The house that had a dead racoon in one of the bedrooms at our first walk-through was pieced together– hand-painted board by hand-painted board, over a span of almost 30 years, and never once has any workman or hired help set foot in it.

The house was, and is still, heated by wood. Wood that he chops, splits, and stacks by himself. Has done so by himself for the last 30 years.

He’s 62 now, retired from the factory but still working 40 hours on a buddy’s farm. He’s still fixing odd bits of that house. He flies an American flag every day, a Marine flag, and a POW/MIA flag.

A purple heart hangs in a case on the wall, right next to several etchings of his dead friends names taken from the Vietnam Wall.

Does he measure up to being a man? Has he earned his manhood?

I’ll tell you one more thing about my dad before you decide that.

He is NOT the dominant partner in my parent’s marriage. Hasn’t been since the day they met. My mother is.

Oh, not in any formal way, I don’t think. Nothing labeled or practiced in the way that Master and I do. Probably, if asked, my mother would hasten to assure you they have an equal partnership.

But they don’t.

My mom calls the shots and runs the show. My dad is happy to let her. She controls the money, she controls his time, where he spends it and what he does. She tells him when he’s had enough to drink. She dictated the acceptable employment he could take, the hours he could work, the friends he could have. She plans, or unplans, his free time.

She is ‘The Boss’.

Is he still a man? Does he still measure up?

~~*~~

Ex-husband: my second male influence. This account will be much shorter than the first.

My ex-husband is your typical red-neck man’s man. He’s quite well known in the area we grew up, got married and had our kids in. He’s tv’s Cheers’ Norm character, the one everyone calls out to when he walks in any of the local taverns.

In high school he lettered in wrestling, raced a souped-up ’57 chevy at the drag strip on Saturday nights, snuck beer out of his dad’s garage.

He watches Nascar, follows football. He’s rough and tough, never backs down from a fight. He’s the one you want on your side in a dark alley. A scrapper, mean and stocky.

Lovable guy in the bar though. Plays poker in the backroom, shoots pool like a pro. He’s the party-guy, the DJ, center of attention, seems to pull people to him like a magnet. He knows where to get “things”.

He’s a lady’s man, God only knows why. Women and the irresistable pull of the “bad boy”, the one they are going to tame. Lord knows I fell for it. The one that you want only because everyone else wants him too. I remember those nights in the bars after we were married, when he was really getting into DJ’ing. There were two ways that women looked at him. One was that lustful stare, you could almost see them planning how to move in for the kill. The other look was smug, aimed more at me than him. Those girls had already had him and they wanted me to know it.

Certainly by most accounts in that crowd, he measured up to manhood. He had all the right manly hobbies and abilities, he certainly advertised his manly sexual adventures. Other men were openly envious, women were openly enticed.

He definitely ruled his roost, ruled me. He was ‘The Boss’.

A man? I suppose they thought so.

Of course they didn’t know him as I did. As I still do.

They didn’t know he often gambled away his paycheck before diapers or groceries. Or that he liked to “talk” more with his fist than his mouth. They weren’t there when the house was foreclosed on or to watch the car be repossessed.

They probably didn’t know that he skipped his daughter’s first Christmas for a dart tournament, or that he passed out in a chair at the hospital- watching his second daughter being born through a drunken haze.

They can’t know that he continuously misspells his son’s name or that he argued, incorrectly, with his daughter over when her birthday was.

I’m sure the little chippy he lives with thinks he’s a man. I wonder, sometimes, what body part he uses to talk to her. I figure that’s her mess, but she’s a nice girl and I know the spell she’s under… and I wonder.

~~*~~

Master: saved the best for last, I did. The final male influence.

Sometimes I think Master has more in common with my 13 year old son than with the other “men” in my life. He plays xbox, he plays star wars miniatures, he sneaks up behind people to scream “BOO!”, he rolls around on the floor with the dog.

He plays hide and seek with the dog, for that matter.

He likes to go sledding, he still thinks cookies and milk are yummy, he cries at sappy movies (and then tries to hide it) and wants ice cream before bed.

He whines when he’s sick. And admits it.

He doesn’t posture, or chest-beat. He doesn’t pick fights, is a peacekeeper over an instigator. He doesn’t really care for the bar scene, male-bonding, “scoring” women, or sports.

No sports. Like, at all.

He wears glasses, reads more than he talks, keeps his hair well-trimmed, dresses in khaki pants and button-down shirts and is fiercely protective of his sister.

Not your typical he-man behaviors?

He also has stepped up where another man has stepped down. Taken on 3 kids, 3 often-ungrateful, sometimes un-loveable, always-difficult teenagers that he is not obligated to take care of.

He works, 5, sometimes 6 and 7, days a week, 12 to 14 hours a day. In the cold, the wind, he comes home dirty and tired, yet he always has time for conversation and hugs.

He insists that “his” kids have the best, from cell phones to clothes, to love and opportunities. Yet, he balances it out with making sure they learn the value of earning what you have, caring for your possessions, responsibility for your actions.

He’s educated, brilliant in many things. He’s strong, big – both in size and personality. He’s outgoing, friendly, humble (mostly), has nothing to prove to anyone, ever.

He took me out of a place where I was wasting away and put me in a place where I thrive and grow. He’s bettered me, taught me, improved me- in more ways than I can list.

He’s stable and solid, predictable, forceful but not overbearing, dominant but not domineering, keeps me in my place while simultaneously lifting me up.

He is, also, The Boss.

Is that what makes a man? Being The Boss(tm)?

If it’s being dominant that measures a man, is my ex-husband just as much, or as good of, a man as Master?

If so, does that mean Master’s xbox war fighting trump my dad’s purple heart, if only because Master dominates what my dad submits to?

Are my dad’s accomplishments negated because he is in the role of the “submissive” husband?

Certainly there are men that I know that other people find to be the epitome of manliness who I find dispicable, worthless (like my ex, for instance).

Sometimes I compare Master to my dad -probably a lot of girls do, how can you not compare the differences between the two most powerful men in your life?

It is only occasionally that, when mentally comparing the two, Master comes up short. Usually that’s when I’m outside shovelling or hauling in groceries, thinking how my dad would never make my mom do this, that it would violate his sense of male chivalry or some such thing – you know, those times when I catch myself thinking more like a wife than a slave.

I’ve never compared them on a dominant level. Never found my dad to be lacking in manliness based on being the meeker of the two, never scored Master as “more manly” because he *is* dominant.

I compare actions, I suppose. I score integrity, honor, commitment. I value character, morals, ethics…

“The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.” -Martin Luther King Jr.

My dad stood in front of a grenade.

Master stands up for me and my kids.

One is dominant, one is submissive – both are men.

My dominant ex-husband?

Is a waste of oxygen.

*nods*

That’s fucked up.

I used to think letting go of myself to become his slave was too hard. Impossible even.

Now I’m finding that letting go of being his slave to become anything else is even harder.

Maybe it wasn’t as illusionary as I thought.

“Every time I find the meaning of life, they change it”

I was just thinking about how quickly it happened.

On November 25th I was still quite happily entrenched in being a slave, being controlled, being.. me. Had anyone even suggested that I wasn’t perfectly content I’d have laughed in their face.

On November 26th I felt like I was being smothered in a wet blanket and I threw it off with rather shocking ease.

I’m thinking that internal enslavement, the brainwashing, the inability to leave, the destroying and recreating – it’s all smoke and mirrors. It feels real and convincing right up until the very second you don’t want it anymore. And then all of that careful conditioning? Nothing but an illusion, only workable because you believed in it.

Now I feel like I was duped. Or something. Not by Master**, not even really by myself. Maybe not by any one person so much as by the elusive “community”. The ideal that it presents. How easily one is led to believe in the illusion.

Like all those infomercials about weight loss pills.

Just take this pill and you’ll be model-beautiful in just 6 easy weeks! So you sign up for 3 easy payments of $29.99 and you take your pills faithfully, like a good little bee. Somebody says to you, hey, yanno if you wouldn’t eat a dozen Krispie Kreams for breakfast, you might lose weight! and you shake your head and hold up your magic pills. Someone else suggests moving your fat ass off the couch and getting a bit of exercise but you confidently wave your pill bottle in their face. You point at the infomercial which doesn’t even suggest diet and exercise. You pop a pill and prop up your feet and wait for the results that you were led to believe you’d get.

And 6 weeks later you’ve gained 5lbs. You were duped. By stupidity or blindness or laziness or just because you wanted it so bad. 

How damn often we, a collective community “we”, through prose and gifted writing, through cheesy poetry and heated debates, through an unwillingness to show a crack in the facade, we create beauty and bliss. We create a Utopia that doesn’t fucking exist.

Where is the Dystopia version of M/s? Where are the ones facing what happens when “just shut up and do it” isn’t applicable? What happens when your individual needs, one neither more right nor wrong than the other, clash so hard and so strong?

Why, gee, I think I have it right here!

I have a really strong urge to hide. Go figure, right? No wonder you are never presented with the end of Utopia. Those people don’t splatter it all over the place. They gather up what’s left of their pride and get the fuck out of dodge.

I really think there is something on the other side of this though. It may be an extremely ugly road to pass but I don’t think I’m at the end of it by any means. I think what we had was a carefully crafted illusion and that’s a bitter pill to swallow. I think there was a lot of pressure to maintain that ideal.

But I think what we WILL have won’t be. Because now, there’s nothing to save face over. Does that make sense?

~~*~~

It’s been an interesting few days around here, as I’m sure you can imagine. There is SO MUCH to figure out; the logistics of this are mindboggling. And so much, still, is out of my control, and out of his. The economy, uncertainty of the real estate market, employment viability, there are contracts signed, and not mythical M/s ones, but real ones, legal ones, ones that actually honestly and for real can’t be broken without dire consequences.

And in the middle of it, the two of us sit. Unsure and tentative. Both hurting, both wanting, and both wounded. Feeling too vulnerable to make a move.

We love each other though, you know? I mean, it’s undeniable. I can’t stop my hand from snaking over to his when we’re in the car. He can’t not reach out for me when he passes me in the hall. We tried sleeping apart and neither of us slept for shit. Now we spoon and we cuddle, and we sleep well, but our hands stop just short of touching where it’s suddenly private.

And isn’t that a doorknob to choke on.

We’ve talked a couple of times about having sex. Quiet little whispers in the dark. Do you want to? Do YOU? I do, but do you? I do – but I’m scared.

And I am. I don’t know how to do it without…. I don’t know. Without the power exchange, without being the submissive partner. And I think he’s unsure, too, of what position to take. Too dominant, too forceful and will it scare me, push me away? Too far the other way and it’ll fall flat, spoil it, make it even harder to do it again.

I’m very much aware that we’re making this far more difficult than it should be. Why shouldn’t we have sex, make love, or even fuck? We’re married, we’re not *quitting* each other or moving on to different relationships. We’re not divorcing. We still want each other.

The other morning, he sat up on the side of the bed and said, “I almost took you this morning.” and my heart thumped. His voice so quiet, so… sad.

“Why didn’t you?” 

“It’s not my place anymore.”

I said nothing.

Navigating these waters is difficult. In some moments I’m almost giddy with power, and other moments, like each time I walk into the bathroom, I have a pang of longing that reaches my toes. I catch myself asking for permission for things, tripping over words and flushing with embarrassment just as often as he’s stumbled over issuing orders, or issued it, shook his head and then just gotten  up to do it himself. Or added on a “please, if you wouldn’t mind, when you have time, would you do this for me, cu- I mean, Tess.”

It’s sad and it’s painful yet it’s funny, when we can laugh at ourselves. But only once did I try to playfully answer back “Nope. I don’t have to do that anymore! Ha.” because the look that crossed his face – I hurt him. And I won’t, can’t, go there.

~~*~~

I’ll be looking for a job starting next week. And then I’ll be checking into schools and such. The move was going to take place first but because of the aforemention important details that don’t really care what problems are occuring within my relationship, the move is pushed back a bit. So, that’s okay, as it’s only changed the order of things.

But if I don’t do something soon, if I don’t make a move to establish some undeniable independence, I can feel that we’d drift right back into the relationship that we had. His dominant nature will resume control and my submissive nature will resume submitting, and pretty soon, 6 months from now, probably without any real thought to it, we’d be right back where we started.

~~*~~

Some time ago, we were invited to a play party, one that we were both looking forward to. After last week, we’d both agreed we shouldn’t go. But last night, we acknowledged that we’re still kinky freaks, regardless of what title we don. And we should go where we can mingle among freaky friends and try this shiny new relationship dynamic on for size.

I don’t know exactly what that relationship dynamic IS.

I wonder if I could talk him into bottoming seeing as how we’re changing things up so much. I mean, really, I’d be nice (cough). I’ve a few experiences I’d like to share with him. A few…. favors…. to return.

~Tess

** I’ve tried to stop my brain and my mouth from calling him Master and it’s just not working. Probably I will switch back and forth, using whatever name makes me feel comfortable in the moment. I apologize for the confusion but, frankly, right now I’m not up for forcing any more change upon my person.

Perfectly Flawed

I have a lot of flaws. Some I embrace, pieces and parts of me that make me unique; some I accept with weary defeat, having finally realized I’ll have them forever; but one flaw in particular is a bitch to kick.

I don’t know how to disagree about something important. I simply do not know how.

(I *am* learning what doesn’t work though! )

I was just never taught how to express a differing opinion in a healthy manner. It was never done in my house. My mother ruled with an iron fist. Us kids were not. allowed. to. argue. Ever. At the first sign of disagreement, she’d plop us into separate rooms and there we’d stay until no trace of dissension remained. If it was a toy we were squabbling over, that toy disappeared immediately and forever. And none of us ever argued with her, unless we had our own obituary in hand. She’d crack us the very second she even *thought* we were about to raise our voice or give an opposing opinion.

Any discipline was done by her. Any questions we had, permission needed, decisions to be made – done by her. My mom definitely wore the pants in our house. My step-dad still doesn’t cross her. I can recall two serious disagreements between my parents during my years at home: One had my mom standing in the kitchen whipping plates and glasses across the room, smashing them against the wall demanding that my step-dad give in to whatever it was that she was wanting at the time, and the other time, my mom simply left. Left all of us kids, checked herself into a motel and refused to come home until, again, my step-dad gave in. Other times, she’d lock herself in the bedroom, or give us all the silent treatment (for days. DAYS and DAYS.) or refuse to cook or clean or get off the couch. All temper tantrums, holding out until she got whatever she wanted from any of us. (ask me again why I don’t want a female president? My experiences with women aren’t generally positive or stable.)

So. I’m sure you can imagine how any of those scenarios would work in this house, yeah?

Master and I don’t disagree a lot. There’s really no room or reason to, given that he’s the final decision on most things. I’m glad for it usually. I don’t have a whole lot of trouble allowing him that control.

There’s just that one thing though. Isn’t there always?

There is one thing that I have VERY strong opinions on. That one thing is also the last thing left in my life that I have a deciding vote on. He also has a say in it. Sometimes we disagree about it. Vehemently.

And there’s the problem. I do not know how to say something and make it have the impact I want it to have. Obviously I can’t start tossing dishes across the room. I can’t lock myself in the bedroom or pretend everyone around me is dead. Yet, my attempts to discuss it in a rational manner seem so.. ineffective. It’s feels, to me, like what I’d just said about that very important subject was given as much attention as me announcing that American Idol is my favorite television show. I know he hears me, I know he understands the words, but it seems to have no *impact*. This is The. Important. Shit. (to me). Seems like there should be something to indicate an understanding of that importance. Fireworks, or trumpets, or *something*.

You know what used to get me fireworks in past relationships? Announcing that I’m leaving. Done with the relationship, done with it all, just leave me alone and let me go. Those other men I pulled that on would stop what they were doing, come to me, BEG me not to leave and then *listen* to my Very. Important. Shit.

I try that on Master? He says okay. See ya later. Good-bye.

He simply doesn’t allow that sort of emotional manipulation. Which is a good thing, I guess. Though it sure doesn’t feel that way at the time.

Once I’ve said it, once it’s out there.. man.. things get so fucked up. I feel bound by my words, absolutely crushed that he’s not fighting to keep me. It starts the whole insecurity ball a’rollin’. He never wanted me, he’d be better off without me, if he wanted me at all, he’d try and stop me, he hates me, he hates my kids, he resents me, he’s tired of me…. and on and on and on. It takes on a life of it’s own, the original subject entirely forgotten.

I’ve done this exact same thing a couple of times now. We’ve only been together for 4 years, we still have a LOT of learning to do, a lot of growing to do. Old habits die hard. It’s not easy to accept that what worked for years and years will not work now. I even tell myself as the words start to form in my head, this isn’t going to work for you, dumbass. He doesn’t play this game. You know this. And yet the words come tumbling out anyway. Once it’s said, it can’t be un-said.

This time was made particularly difficult because the last time I went down this road, he told me he’d never do it again. The next time I threatened to leave, he was going to help me pack and send me on my way. This bullshit of using my collar and my submission as a bargaining chip is so fucked up, so ridiculous… and yet I’d tried it, again, and here we were. I’d already gone through the process and worked my way back to pulling my head out of my ass, ready to apologize and get on with life.. but there HE was, with his words from the last time hanging in the air between us.

It really was touch and go. He doesn’t say things lightly, and he doesn’t go back on his word very often. Love or no love, commitment or not, he means what he says. And really, what else could he do? The very first time he allowed me to manipulate things like that, the whole D/s concept would crumble like a house of cards.

What happened this time is that I was beginning to understand that I was losing this thing that I’d worked so hard to have, that I’d wanted for my whole life. That *I* was singlehandedly destroying us by holding so damn tightly to this one last thing to control, throwing away my marriage, my Master, my world, to keep my iron fist wrapped around this ONE thing…

So I gave it to him. It doesn’t matter what it was, not to any of you, it’s only meaningful to me and him. But I gave it to him and it was a huge step forward for me. In the right direction, for a change. I didn’t do it in the spirit of desperately trying to sway his decision, I did it because I know my reasons for squeezing it so tightly were out of fear and insecurity. Trust is not given or received in one fell swoop, it’s taken and offered in tiny spoonfuls, here and there. I was holding that last little spoonful, that last little out… and now I’m not.

It feels good. Scary, but good. Freeing. A little sad, too. That “thing” was my friend, my security blanket. Now it’s not.

But we’ve definitely turned a corner, too. Every bump in the road that you overcome is a victory.

Carrie said this not too long ago: “I wonder, sometimes, about those relationships where everything seems to be smooth all the time. My conclusion is that, for the most part, folks are lyin’. Lying to us, lying to themselves, lying to feel better about… whatever. Learning each other, living with each other, loving each other… none of that comes without some bumps along the way.

And I’ve decided I rather like my bumps.

They build character, yanno? They make us who we are, create the facets that create unique individuals. The bumps are what make us shine as couples, yanno?

The eye glazes over a smooth surface but lingers on the details of ridges and facets and… bumps.”

So yeah, one more bump. One more flaw identified, fought and conquered. One more step on the path.

You’re perfectly flawed
You’re perfectly incomplete
A work in progress
Perfection is killing me…

Perfectly Flawed. (damn good song. You should give it a listen.)

~cunt

“Life is like an onion: you peel it off one layer at a time, and sometimes you weep”

I haven’t been allowed to shave my cootch for… awhile. A few weeks anyway. The cum coated cunt photo, if you look real close, shows the fuzz on the “horizon”.

I don’t know why he’s not letting me shave. Some whim, or wild hair up his ass, or.. whatever. I’ve never understood his back and forth preferences on pubic hair. I gave up trying to understand it.

In fact, I’m currently in a place where the why of anything is just too much work for my head. That’s unusual for me, considering that I’m the “But why?” poster child. I don’t think it’s that I don’t want to know the why anymore as much as I know that even if I get the why it doesn’t matter.

“Because I said so” seems a sufficient answer these days. Talk about coming full circle. The last time that answer worked I was about 5 years old.

So I have a hairy crotch. It’s beginning to “fluff”. You know, like padding. I can feel it through my clothes, all poofy and squishy. Normally this is about where I tend to get grossed out.

But I’m not. Because… I’m actually enjoying *not* shaving. That’s real maintenance! Shaving is a constant, on-going project. Time and effort and expense and.. and.. just.. stuff.

(Please, no recommendations for waxing or lasering or any of that. It ain’t happenin’, ok? Not ever. At least, not if I have anything to say about it.)

So now, instead of waiting on pins and needles for permission to shave, I’m dreading when I get permission to shave. I don’t wanna. “Au natural” is in, isn’t it?

I think, maybe, I can attribute this new-found peace I’m experiencing to a series of hard truths I’ve read lately. First read on sommar’s journal (locked, sorry, no linkie), a set of quotes lifted from TSR.

The exchange orginated with the question of “what then?” What happens when the Dom is satisfied that the slave has reached “perfection” (in the Dom’s eyes). What happens to the challenge for the slave, does the Dom end up needing to come up with new ways to reinforce the slave’s position, new rules, new tasks, new whatever, in an effort to keep the slave happy.

And I saw myself in that. A lot of myself, I’m ashamed to say. Always on a quest to feel enslaved, finding something more extreme, more edgy, anything to push the “harder, deeper, faster” button.

And then I read this, by Raven Kaldera.

“How about this for an exchange?

Slave: I don’t feel challenged enough. Everything I’m doing has become comfortable and boring. It’s too easy. I don’t feel like a real slave, being made to do painful things.

Dom/me: Look, I’m in charge here, and what I say goes. And I want a slave who is happy and content with their lot, even if that lot is just to do the same hundred services for me for the rest of their life. So if you want a challenge, how about getting rid of that attitude you just spouted, and taking on a new attitude of being content with whatever you’re given? How’s that for a challenge? That ought to keep you busy for a while.”

To hopefully end up thinking this:

“This isn’t the way I wanted things to go – and they’re going the way my owner wants them, even though I hate that – and that means that I’m the slave, and that’s paradoxically terribly satisfying to me!”

Interesting, isn’t it, that letting go of the “harder, deeper, faster” button has presented the hardest challenge of all. Not one that’s going to earn me a place on the Olympic Painslut team though. The extreme challenge is in just.. letting go.

I mean, you think you’ve done it, you know? You think you’re already there and have already relinqushed everything there is to relinquish and you’re already doing it his way.. and blah blah blah…

Until you realize that you aren’t.

I keep peeling back layer after layer and finding things I didn’t even know were there. Bits of resistance and pieces of stubborn selfishness and crumbs of me-me-me. And I’m really okay with this too, with seeing my own imperfections, because it’s with a neat-o kind of clarity that I’d been missing before.

So! Onward we go, one layer at a time.

~cunt

“If nothing ever changed, there’d be no butterflies.”

“All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another.” ~Anatole France

Change is inevitable. We grow, learn, life leads us into unforeseen directions. It’s a constant.

Though it’s hard. I’m as reluctant to embrace change as the next person. No matter how uncomfortable the old may be becoming, it’s familiar. I like familiar. Change is… scary. But change is stubborn and persistent. It won’t be denied. It just keeps pressing itself in your face, until you either give in and work with the change to make it as good as it can be, or retreat into a world of memories, fist closed around times no longer there and never coming back… a life wasted over the refusal to change.

I am changing. I have changed. My need, intent and purpose for keeping a journal has changed. And I feel like I’ve held on to it with that tightly closed fist for too long. I’ve tried to keep it what it once was… but it’s a losing battle. I’m not the person I was two and a half years ago. I cannot be.

It seems that some feel they are entitled to certain content here. Perhaps they feel that I owe them something? I’m not sure. I don’t quite understand that response from people, that they somehow feel they deserve something from me here.

You don’t.

I’m not the “newbie” to bdsm that I was when I first began blogging. I’m not full of angst and riddled with doubts and questions. I’m no longer seeking out profound answers to impossible questions. I no longer care to “figure it all out”.

I’ve made mention several times over the last few months that this journal no longer serves the purpose it once did. What was once a valuable communication tool is no longer needed. We’ve bridged the gap in our communication skills and it’s simply easier and more conducive to success to talk to each other. I’m not “afraid” of the words I need to say, I don’t hide behind the “safety” of letters and prose anymore. I am not, any longer, intimidated.

Those are all good things, I think, at least for me personally and for us as a couple. But not so good for the journal I guess. For me to sit here and retype the personal moments of a conversation now feels invasive and inappropriate. So I don’t. And, predictably, the content here suffers.

Having been struggling over this for a fairly long while at livejournal, we made the decision to push forward, to attempt different angles and methods. Perhaps to recapture what was once a pleasurable activity for me. The act of sharing and enjoying this in a public venue still does bring eroticy and fun. Both for Master and myself. But I have changed, he has changed, and so too, must this journal reflect that change. The key is simply going to be finding what it is that’s going to work for us now.

The very idea of making money seems to stick in people’s craw. As if I, we, should somehow be immune to needing an income. The fact remains that we are the parents of three teenagers, we have the same bills and monetary needs that everyone else does. Why it is that getting paid to paint clothespins seems to be such a stickler is beyond me. It’s actually quite humiliating. As are the video clips. That Master gets to make a profit off of my humilitation only worsens it. And if that’s the reason this is so hard to swallow for some, well… my gosh.. haven’t you been reading the wrong blog then.

Anyway. Seems simple enough to me that if you don’t want any part of the “money-making” then you just don’t order the stuff. I’m hardly concerned that you don’t like it. I’m much more focused on the look HE gets when I show him how he’s profited off of me. I’ll get the same feeling when I hand over my paychecks. It’s a kink of mine, like any other.

So. If what you want is the same soap opera-ish kaya blog, read elsewhere. I’m not that same angsty-drama-queen anymore. I’m not putting up with the same bullshit that I used to. This isn’t your place to attack, judge, or insult. This is my place, for whatever purpose it takes on for me, for Master, for us. I don’t know exactly what the content will be anymore. In some ways, it probably will not change much at all. I’ll post the pictures as Master dictates, I’ll write whatever it is that’s on my mind.

The comments will change though. I don’t owe you a place to be a bitch. If you want that, pay for your own site. Comments will be deleted at will. Find a nice way to say what you have to say or say nothing at all. I *will* make this my personal bubble of happiness, insulated from the crap. The Jerry Springer atmosphere that tends to linger around my comment section is over.

Master and I have reached an extremely comfortable plateau. We do what we do, it’s fun, it’s good, it makes us happy. That’s where I am now. Change has brought me here.

Change can be good, if you let it.

~cunt