I've lost my voice.
Oh, not physically.
I'm being strangled by SAD.
Strangled... the sadist had his hand very tight around my neck last Tuesday. After I had made my confession. After he had whipped me with his belt as I was down on my hands and knees on the futon, every part of me draped in my nun's habit.
Every part of me but my reddening butt, now adorned with the stripes of pain and penance left by his belt.
It was after that.
As I knelt before him to serve his pleasure.
After I had stripped off the pieces of the habit.
Slowly stripped off the black and the white and the yards of black.
Stripping before his eyes.
Letting the long dress drop to my feet.
Revealing my nakedness beneath.
I was naked in so many ways.
But I digress.
I'd much rather be strangled by his large, firm hand.
It somehow makes me feel safe as it circles my throat.
As I hear myself gasp for air.
This time I was gurgling.
Being strangled by SAD does not make me feel safe.
I am its prisoner.
And not in a good way.
There is no affection in its stranglehold.
And I return none.
You might say there is intimacy, as we live close together for a few months each year. We are so close that when SAD moves in I see everything through its eyes. And even when it isn't here, I feel it looming. Breathing on my neck. When it finally leaves, its soft seductive voice breathes into my ear: "I'll be back." And I know it will.
Yes, its voice is seductive.
It draws me down into sleep.
Sleep from which I never quite awaken.
A mind that is dulled by the shortened days.
Even today, when the sun was dancing.
Come! it smiled.
Come out and play with me.
But I lay on the couch as if drugged.
I lay there with Ketzel on my belly.
And I slept like a cat.
Perhaps today that was from hormones.
They play games with me,
coming and going so fast that I sense no cycle.
But whatever it was,
I lost another day.
Still, I should be grateful. The SAD held off, and didn't fully move in until now. Except for the sabotage of grey skies, it should start moving out by the end of the month. At first it will move out slowly. A fork one day, then a pile of towels, eventually a box of books. But it will move out. Until suddenly, in March or April, I'll be unbearably bouncy.
My manic season is short.
But I love it.
My compensation prize.
For now, though, I'm dulled and sleepy, soft and vulnerable, struggling to get through the day, and excited only by thoughts of the sadist and his kisses and the leather belt which now hangs in the closet with the belts that I wear.
I think of the leather belt.
I feel its tail gently whipping my pussy.
I feel its weight landing hard and sharp on my ass.
And I ponder the teasing morsels the sadist is feeding me about a plan which seems to be drawing nearer to being realized.
What plan, you wonder.
The sadist isn't the only one who can tease, you know.