Breaking the Silence

The more i read about ‘sub-space’ and ‘flying’ – the more i re-play my first actual experience over and over in my head. At first i thought the reason was because it was such an exquisite feeling, however, now i think it’s also because it bothered me.


For years i had only fantasized about being restrained and blindfolded. i’d always had this thing about having to see what was happening. For once I just wanted to know what it would be like to ‘have’ to feel instead. To be able to experience the anticipation of not knowing what was going to happen next. That was my ultimate fantasy.

So … when He took me to this beautiful cabin with breath taking scenery and proceeded to fulfill that fantasy – it was pure heaven. i suppose now would be a good time to mention – that i never came out and told Him what my fantasy was. He just did everything so perfectly – when He pulled out the blindfold, He seemed quite pleasantly surprised that i wanted what He was presenting to me. (The chance to completely trust and surrender unto Him.)

He made me feel sensations i’d only dreamt of and some i had no idea i wanted (let alone needed or desired). The most amazing feeling of freedom swept over me. i had no choice but to experience – and the experience was out of this world – literally.


As it turns out, what’s been bothering me is that after it was over i started to think that something was wrong with me. i got the feeling that i had upset Him – because i went into ‘sub-space’ so easily and (as He tells me) so quickly. Plus – i really couldn’t answer His questions when we talked about it. It was so hard to explain that i had never experienced that before. (i’m pretty sure He thought S/m was something i was already familiar with – and just didn’t want to tell Him.) It was really hard to gather rational thoughts.

We hadn’t been together long enough for my comfort and trust level to have reached that point. So … as this continued to bother me more and more, i tried to figure out just why it was so easy for me to surrender to Him.

I now realize – that for absolutely no logical/intelligent reason – I felt comfortable and safe beyond measure with Him. At that moment I belonged to Him – whether I liked it or not – whether it was logical or not – whether I understood it or not – it didn’t matter. I’d never felt so safe and protected in my life as I did at that very moment of ‘take off’. I knew I didn’t want to be without this Man. This Man that seemed to know me so well that He could fulfill my deepest desire and make my fantasy a reality, and He did it by simply being Himself.

Thank You!  What we had may have ended, but what He taught me will never be forgotten.

i hope this answers some of the questions i couldn’t answer then.

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It’s been awhile

i’m tired of fighting about that whole issue that came up yesterday. i’ve decided to just say fuck it and let it go. Either he accepts me or he can kiss my ass. i am what i am, i have evolved and grown in the damned years he has known me, but that has been constant.
i’m too tired and i have too much other shit to worry about to be bothered with this. He has known me too long to believe i’m a liar or delude himself about what i am. Its just not worth it, and i refuse to be derailed from the work i’m doing by this stupid shit.
It would be real easy to fall into a big whining cycle of hurt and pain about this, but i’m not going to do it. Fuck that. i’m busy.
He knows me. He knows if i wasn’t with him i was fucking someone. And, he knows if i forgot to tell him someone it was just that i forgot. Who gives a fuck about that guy. No one. Not me, not P, not a damn soul that I know. S was just acting the ass. Which i suppose we are all entitled to do from time to time. That’s it, that’s the end of it.
i’m going back to working on me. On finding ways to deal with my bullshit. On finding those fucked up ideas i have left over from childhood and replacing them with rational logic. On enjoying my life. On teaching myself to stand up for myself. And, on doing things just like this. Letting shit that doesn’t make a fuck… go.

Goodbye bullshit. i don’t need you.

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Seems that

Everyone reads my blog and NO ONE leaves comments.  What gives?? Speak up already, damn!!!

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A five letter word


There exists no doubt about her

How can I doubt My feelings

How can I doubt the sense that she has always existed at the edge of My consciousness – waiting for the moment that she reveals herself to Me

How can I doubt her submission and My responsibility to ensure her safety and happiness

No, My doubts concern Me. Am I worthy of accepting her submission?

Can I live to the expectations that she has set?

Will I, Can I ever be all that she needs?

Those are My doubts but I know I want to be with her.

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Four letter word

A Four-Letter Word

Slut — 1: a slovenly woman : SLATTERN 2a: a lewd woman; esp : PROSTITUTE b: a saucy girl : MINX

Ah, “slut.” A compact little word, forceful even in the way it sounds, starting out with a hissing sibilant and pushing off of the tongue through the L and U, and then that nastily crisp T. “Slut.” Say it a few times out loud. Roll it around in your mouth. “Sssslut.” “Sss…lllut.” Say it again. Notice that it’s difficult — almost impossible, in fact — to pronounce it neutrally. It’s got a sneer built into it, that word. It’s not as twangy and unthreatening as “tramp.” It’s not as easy to yell as “whore.” “Whore” is built for screaming rage and dishes flying through the air, with a nice gusty H at the front and a big old roaring R bringing up the rear. Not “slut,” though. “Slut” is muttered. “Slut” is whispered. “Whore” comes in like a punch, but “slut” tingles, like a slap. “Slut” hides behind the teeth. “Slut” is for when your back is turned.

“Slut” is for when you don’t act like a lady. “Slut” is for when you sit with your legs apart. “Slut” is for when you wear it short, tight, without a bra, cut up high and down low and around the side, because, see, “slut” is also for when you have the nerve to enjoy your body in front of women who hate their own bodies. Don’t strut. Don’t dance with soul, or lick your lips. Don’t look too good; don’t think you look too good. Digging your own self is slutty. Making your own good time is slutty. Who do you think you are, anyway? Knees together, slut.

“Slut” is for when you forget to hate and fear boys. “Slut” is for when you talk to them, flirt with them, hang out with them and watch kung fu movies, pretend they don’t suck at guitar, sit on their laps, cut their hair. “Slut” is for when you don’t remember that you can’t have a male friend unless he’s your brother or gay, because your male friends want to fuck you, and you can’t handle that. “Slut” is liking sports and belches and messy apartments — or, rather, “liking” those things, because you couldn’t really like those things. You just pretend to like them so that you can get attention from men, because you have no personality of your own, and even if you did, men only want you for your action anyway. That’s pathetic. Get a life, slut.

“Slut” is for when, in spite of everything you’ve learned from Cosmo and your sorority sisters, you just love men, for when you want to look at them and talk about them and burrow your nose into their necks and lick them from head to toe and hop right on them when they walk in the door like that scene from Raising Arizona where Holly Hunter clings to Nicolas Cage like a wood tick. Ugh. That’s so undignified. That’s so unfeminine. “Slut” is for walking down the street and talking to a friend on your cell phone and watching a cute boy walk past in the opposite direction and looking at him and looking away and looking back and then turning around in mid-sentence to keep looking. “Slut” is for thinking of stubble burn and biting your lip. “Slut” is for remembering the way your first true love used to pin you up against his car door and flushing clear up to the roots of your hair. “Slut” is for big hands and deep voices. “Slut” is for on top of you and under you and behind you, in the closet, on the floor, under the piano. “Slut” is for liking it. “Slut” is for wanting it. “Slut” is for going after it. Men hunt, women gather; men chase, women wait. Look it up, slut.

“Slut” is for kissing boys with tongue. “Slut” is for kissing lots of different boys with tongue. “Slut” is for craving kissing lots of different boys with tongue. That’s not right, you know. It says so in the Bible, and in social hygiene films. “Slut” is for loving sex. “Slut” is for needing sex. “Slut” is for thinking sex isn’t shameful. Sex is for married people, for diamond owners, for nice girls in twin sets whose mothers hid the Erica Jong, for people totally and completely, like, in total and complete love, and it takes place behind closed doors, with the lights out. Sex isn’t fun. Sex isn’t casual. Sex is a deadly serious, disgusting, dirty, degrading business. Just lie there. Don’t move around. Don’t use your fingernails or moan or anything; that’s slutty. Don’t get on top. Don’t go down. Going down is really slutty, especially if you like it as much as he does. Ew. That’s so gross. Only a slut would like that. That’s so sickening. I bet you masturbate, too. Ew, I can’t even think about that. That’s so foul — touching yourself down there like that? That’s — well, it’s dirty and sticky and gross, dude! Nobody does that. Well, boys do, but that’s different.

“Slut” is for sex outside a committed relationship. Sex outside a committed relationship is a cry for help. It means you have no self-respect, obviously. You’re, like, a total nympho, man. I can’t believe you would even do that. God. Don’t talk about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t miss it. Don’t daydream about doing it with Josh Hartnett in a waterfall. I mean — yuck. That’s totally slutty. Are you, like, desperate or something? Why else would you just have sex with a guy? That’s so wrong. You’re so wrong. You’re such a slut.

“Slut” is for fucking on the first date, giving head instead of your number, not caring if he calls, caring if he calls but fucking another guy to pass the time. You do that stuff, well, clearly you’re a slut. What’s even worse? You, like, enjoy it. It’s so show-offy, too. Like, “look at me, I think I’m a guy,” like Samantha on Sex & The City, like, get over yourself, hon. And, I mean, Samantha brings home at least one new guy every week, but she’s, like, obviously so miserable and empty inside because she never settles down. Don’t you want to get married? How do you ever expect to get married if you keep slutting around? You have to save yourself. I mean, no man’s going to want you if you’ve slept with, like, a million other guys before him. You’re used. You’re dirty. He’ll fuck you, but he’ll never bring you home to his mother, because you didn’t stay pure and go to bed only with guys you loved. And you can’t have more experience than your husband; that’s just not done. What if he gets insecure about it? You’ll scare him off. You don’t want that, do you?

And you’ve probably got diseases. I bet you don’t even use protection. Remember? How you have no self-respect? And don’t use condoms and birth control, because you just want guys to like you, so you just fuck them? That’s so sad. I feel really sorry for you. Yeah, you say you enjoy it, but it’s just a compulsion, and it’s pitiful, really.

Just stay away from my man, okay? Don’t even talk to him. Women have to look out for each other, because men would never look out for us, because we don’t deserve their respect and fidelity. We women have to stick together. If he steps out on me with you, that’s not his fuck-up. It’s yours. I mean, you’re the slut here. You obviously came onto him all barracuda-style and lured him into bed, so I blame you completely. So just don’t even go over there to talk to him. He’d never treat me right, and if I left you two alone, something would happen.

God, I can’t even look at you. You just prance around acting all carefree like you don’t care what happens, like it doesn’t matter, like you have the right to sleep with whomever you want or something — you make me ill! I hate you! Fuck you, slut!

If you found yourself nodding along in sincere agreement with any of what’s written above, you have a serious, serious problem and need to report to your nearest therapist for a course of self-esteem rehabilitation and double-standard deprogramming. The rest of you may continue to wear your sluttishness with pride. Here endeth the lesson.

You know, your mother doesn’t know everything.
Please slut responsibly.

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when memories haunt you

Each morning that I awoke next to this man in his bed, I immediately felt flushed with desire. The cool morning breeze against the thin cotton sheets would gently caress me into full wakedness, and I could feel a tingling sensation throughout my body. What’s incredible to me is that the type of desire was pure pleasure. I did not aspire to reach orgasm, ever. I merely wanted touch. The repeated rise and fall of sensory experience was what I yearned for; just the pleasure of his skin against mine, his lips anywhere on me, and even the simple pleasure of looking into his eyes as we shared space silently. Without getting too carried away, but in the spirit of honest expression, I want to say that during these intense moments of intimacy, I felt a love between us that came into a fullness unable to be articulated.

Evenings, back to back, of sucking on lips and necks and chests and fingertips, interspersed with feeding and drinking and walking and holding hands and hugging. Oh, but the kissing and licking and touching — his touch was marvelous! his hands alone brought me so much pleasure, the type of pleasure that stays with you, that I find impossible really. rocking my body against the grasp of His palm, scratching away at my insides, driving me, moving me, making me feel like I could seriously cum at any moment, whenever He wanted, again and again. I want to see Him again, if only to feel Him. He romanced me across multiple planes, and damn the sensuality of it all was overwhelming. His eyes. His beautiful eyes would watch me. He would give me pleasure, I would be floating somewhere outside of my consciousness and with the twitch of an eyelid, I could see He was watching me take that pleasure He was giving. His fingers were inside me and without blinking, His eyes set on my face, watching me in ecstasy.

on our sides, facing one another, his fingers driving me to a frenzy, for hours we were slow, kissing, licking at an unbearably light pace, the torture was delicious. he eased into me, gentle and kind. for hours we lay there, taking turns pleasing one another, tapping into a magnificent geyser of eroticism and passion. how long I could gaze into His eyes… we would go hungry. hunger for sensory excitement, hunger for touch, hunger for the soft padding of each other’s lips, hunger for drink, hunger for food, desire in such a raw form as hunger.

We unraveled one another, and I don’t really want to be put back together any time soon. this is indulgence, and relishing every moment after.

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Where did the love go?

I was standing in the kitchen, pouring some juice into some glasses to go with the food that was already on the table when I suddenly, unexpectedly burst into tears. I ended up on the floor, knees up to my chest, crying until I had nothing left. Took about twenty minutes I guess.  This was the second episode of this type within a 2 hour period.

I had all this anger, frustration and sadness pent up inside of me. I have been holding in my disappointment since S got here. I feel that this is selfish of me, self-centred and pathetic, but then again I have not been nice to me these last couple of weeks so I doubt I would see it any other way. We had a wonderful weekend, totally self-indulgent and I didn’t want it to end. I wanted us to be like that always. I wanted that level of control, that level of sharing, of being together. For those 48 hours, no one else had to exist because we had each other. We could forget about the world and just concentrate on us. That is really what we did.

S tried to talk to me about it, ask me what was wrong. He wondered why a coldness had suddenly slipped into me. I couldn’t tell Him because, I didn’t completely understand. I just felt like, like we were just friends and not lovers anymore. That absolute amazing depth of love that I felt from Him was just gone. I couldn’t find it in His arms, no matter how many times I looked.

But He asked me why and because He asked I had to find the reason. I tried to put the emotion aside and follow my little drama logically. It took me most of the day playing it over and over again to find the source. I think it started the moment that He went to check emails. I felt an abandonment that I had no right to feel. I let it fester and I fed it with every appointment that He had and each email He wrote and phone call that He had to make. I let it become personal.

“Its just business.” He told me when I tried to explain what it was I felt. I grew frustrated with Him because I know it is just business, that wasn’t the point. Feelings are not logical and knowing it is business didn’t stop me from feeling it as a rejection even if I told myself that it wasn’t time and time again. I tried to explain again because I needed Him to understand and this time, He got it, at least a little. It was enough for Him to exhale and be thankful that it wasn’t something worse. Then He told me that now I had worked out what it was, it had to stop. I wasn’t to carry it on anymore. I gritted my teeth and told Him I would try.

I did try. I tried everything I could think of. I tried to distract myself, I tried reading a book, I tried a couple of different relaxation techniques and still at the end of it all my jaw ached from the clenching of my teeth. It sucked. I needed to feel Him close to me.

“If you want to be close to me, don’t push me away,” He said. “It’s not fucking rocket science, you know.” I wish I could be as logical as Him.

My head was pounding with tension that I had caused myself to feel. S asked me what was wrong and in a quiet little voice I told Him that I needed more control from Him than just the order for it to stop. I told Him that I needed it to hurt.

If I try to make S hurt me, if I try to make Him drag me back while I kick and scream, He will let me run away from Him indefinitely. He doesn’t believe in using His strength to make me submit. I do it willingly or not at all. But this time it was different, I was asking Him for help and He understood that it was not something I desired so much as needed from Him. A re-establishment of roles, re-enforcement of who we are, sometimes I need that to make me stop hurting me.

So S fucked me, hard, without any love or tenderness. He referred to me only as a ‘fucking bitch’ and He slapped me when He spat that name at me. He sucked, bit and marked my breasts then stretched my cunt open with the biggest dildo I own. He made me get onto my knees. His cock was pushed into the back of my throat and with one hand I held onto the dildo in my cunt while I tried to stop myself from choking on Him. He didn’t stop. He ordered me to fuck myself. He made me call Him ‘Sir’ each time His cock left my mouth. He held on tightly to my hair and I came as He was pumping His cum deep into my throat. When He let me go, I coughed it over the floor.

He stood in front of me, watching me for a moment. He asked if I was all right and I said I was and without touching me He walked out of the room. I heard the shower turn on. I got up and cleaned up and went to make Him some food while He showered. His food was cooking,  and my breasts ached from His teeth marks, my pussy felt stretched, my cheeks still burnt. And I just broke.

S found me there, on the floor, my knees held tightly to my chest while I sobbed and He sat on the floor next to me and pulled me close.

“It’s ok.” He whispered as He stroked my hair. “I needed it too.”

And I knew He didn’t mean that He needed to hurt me or humiliate me. He had just needed us to reconnect and the balance of power between us to be restored. He may be the one with the control in this relationship, but I certainly can throw a spanner in the works. I don’t know why I do it, why when I need to submit the most, when I need His guidance and control, I get scared of what I feel and push Him away. I somehow feel that I am doing Him a favour when I really am only hurting Him too. I have no right to sabotage us like this and if He were to do it to me, I would be devastated. It is completely unfair of me.

When we got back into the city, I didn’t want to see it for what it was, a break from reality, not a new reality we could stay inside of. I didn’t want to let it go and when I was forced to by the intrusion that is life, I did what I do best and I started to withdraw. And S didn’t understand, didn’t get it at all because He sees these things in black and white. We can’t live like that so there is no point in dwelling on it, accept it and move on and I let it hurt even more because as far as I could see, He didn’t care. He slid back into reality seamlessly and I was left on my own. I withdrew some more.

I love Him so much. Why do I keep hurting Him this way?

He has left now and will not be back for a month and a half.  In the wake of this weekend we now have confusion, hate and animosity towards each other.

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