Saturday, February 4, 2012

Leather and heels; feminism and sucking cock

Today we spoke about feminism.

He was here today.
Finally.
Saturday was inaugurated as Daddy's Day.

Shortly before he arrived, as I finished my preparations - clean sheet on the futon, implements arrayed on the large, high, pale wood coffee table that had been moved in front of the old television - I realized I was nervous. We hadn't seen each other since shortly after New Year's. That first Tuesday of the new year. He didn't visit that Saturday four days later, and the following weekend I was out of town. The Saturdays thereafter were lost first to my cold and then to my ill-advised but very successful appointment with the house call vet. Which made it what? Four and a half weeks since we'd last seen each other? Since we'd kissed. Since we'd touched. Since I'd knelt at his feet and sucked his cock and then looked up and seen a smile on his face of the purest happiness...

A long time.

So he arrived and he pressed himself into me as I stood facing the wall, and he ran his hands over me like a man walking the acres of his fields, marking out his terrain, admiring the rise and fall and fertility of it all.

I am not, of course, fertile in the common sense of the word.
Nor does he plant in me seeds of the kind that would engender offspring.
Not the kind of offspring that require constant feeding
followed by new clothes every six months.
But we do produce offspring.
In a way.
Our union gives birth to a small bit of peace and joy
which perhaps seeps through the inadequate windows
and neutralizes a drop or two of the poison that is hate.

OK,
Enough of that.

He was here.
We touched.
We kissed.
I sucked his cock.
I think I referred to all that before.

He spanked me.
He whipped me with his belt.
Not very hard.
Just enough to make my butt lightly blush.
Just enough to leave a sting behind.
Just enough to center me.
And to fill me with a sense of acceptance.
This is who I am.
This is who he is.
This is what we are together.
This is how we need to be.
He will hurt me and I will not resist.

That was one good result of the pain being fairly light. There was no automatic self-protection on the part of my body. No jerking away because the assault was too severe. Instead, I could revel in the sense that he was spanking me. That he was whipping me. Especially that. It's a new belt, more flexible than the last one. And it did feel more like a whipping than a beating. I wished it had gone on longer. I wished it had been a little harder. But this gave us what we needed. The knowledge that within the limits of what was safe for the relationship (meaning not so extreme that the beast might break free of his cage and destroy us both), I would give him what he needed.

This is my choice.

And here is where feminism comes into it.

It was after.

After he came.

After he relieved at last the arousal that had been plaguing him for a week and which he had saved for me. No release all week because he wanted to save it for me.

I was touched by that.
And gave him a hell of an orgasm.
It wasn't just me, of course.
It was totally a joint project.

Because the things he did to me... the belt buckled around my neck... pulled... even just feeling it around my neck... before he had me lie on my back on the ground as he sat on the edge of the futon, my knees bent, my feet under the bed, the belt fastened snugly around my neck with the loose end clutched in his fist... before he had me writhe for him, undulate, as he pulled at the belt so I felt his ownership... before he leaned over and thrust his fingers inside me... fucking me... filling me... watching me... devouring my pleasure and most of all my submission... the place that put me... he has backed off from the word "slave"... it's a danger spot, I have trouble with it, but that word kept coming back to me as he pulled on the belt and fucked me... not because he sometimes would come close to stealing all my air... but because of the belt... the surrender of freedom... which frees me to be who I truly am.

He's not really into leather, he said.
Which I know.
But on me, he said, it looks good.

So he came, at last, and yes it was worth waiting for.

And then I sat there on the floor at his feet, my head in his lap and my arms around his waist, feeling all happy and peaceful and right. And we talked about this and that and I can't remember how we got to the topic, maybe just straight from talking about my new job which I love (!!), and which does involve issues of women's empowerment.

"And if you told them that you wear heels and short dresses for me?"

"But I choose to, Daddy. For you."

"Isn't that the point of feminism? To be able to choose?"

"Exactly, Daddy. That's exactly what it's all about."

And I was so happy.

So happy to have this extremely dominant man, this sadist whose softness I've known and touched, understand about feminism and me and love and submission

"And if you told them..."

He brings this up every so often. He did it again recently. Specifically gave me permission to tell my friends about him as long as I guard his privacy. It's come to sounding like he wants me to tell people about him. Even though I can't name him. Even though they would never meet him. But he seems to want me to say: there is this man... he makes me happy... I'm not looking for anyone else.

To acknowledge him.
As a way of showing my commitment, perhaps.

I wish I could.
But people wouldn't understand.
Not the D/s thing.
I wouldn't mention that at all.
But other things.
Things that are honest but not common,
and which most of my friends would worry about.

I did tell someone once.
I thought she would understand.
But she, too, was worried that I must feel dissatisfied.
Deprived.

So I'll wait till I know for sure how the person thinks.  Till I find the right person. And then I'll do it. I'll say... there is this man... and then I'll tell him that I've done it. So he'll know I'm not ashamed of him. I'm not ashamed of loving him. And that I mean it when I say that in my mind this is a committed relationship.

Choice.
We were talking about choice.

I read an article in last Sunday's New York Times. It was by a woman who had been working almost too hard to try to make her marriage better. She'd been trying all sorts of things. Very determinedly. And now she was stuck on this back country camping trip that she very much didn't want to be on but her husband liked to do it so she went.

And now she was miserable.
Suffering.

So I'm reading along, thinking how beautiful it must have been out there by that high lake and I'm reading and reading and then I stop. Because there it is. What he'd been trying to teach me and had taught me - as a D/s thing - and yet here it was as a gem of truth about relationships and love and it had nothing to do with D/s at all. And I'd been wanting to share it with him ever since I read it but had been a little nervous because... well... anyway, now here was this perfect opening...

And he smiled.

Because this (edited for focus) is what she wrote:

After dinner and washing the dishes with freezing lake water, Dan beckoned to me behind a copse of white firs.

“You know, ” he said, “I know this isn’t your first-choice vacation spot. But it means the world that you would do this, for me.”

Do this for him. Holy cow. I felt my face relax. I didn’t have to want to be there. I could just do this uncomfortable thing for him because it meant the world to him. That was it. That was enough.

I do it for him.
And that is enough.

And in return?

Ah... the joy...

And tonight,
for him,
an orgasm.



3 comments:

Sue said...

The very heart, and soul of feminism -- the right and power to choose. I think there is some seed here for what I am wrestling with. Thank you for this bit of launching off thinking.

Sue

oatmeal girl said...

Thanks, Sue. I do hope it helps. We all have our struggles, you know. If it were easy, it wouldn't mean as much.

Sharazade said...

Well, yes. Yes, yes, yes. Maybe if we keep saying it, people will get it? Though it hasn't worked as well as I would have hoped so far! The right to choose. In fact, the right to have more than one choice, to have more than one role, to live more than one life.

Who knows? Maybe some men would like that too. ;)