Summoned

We're working our way back.

Slowly working our way back towards where we were before the weekend we went away. Before the weekend when the beast bared his fangs, dripping with saliva, devoid of conscience.

Today, for the first time since that trip, he said the magic words.

Good girl.

But let's back up.

Saturday afternoon, the truth dawned.
A very telling truth.
Because consider this.
We were in such a place that we
each
could assume the other had decided to walk away.

A very sad state of affairs.

But there we were, on Saturday, realizing that he thought I had stopped communicating while I had thought he had stopped communicating.

I screwed up.
I really did screw up.

1. his statement when we began - that if I violated a certain rule (a very understandable rule with which I have no argument whatsoever) he would end it without another word - applied to one particular issue. One particular case. One particular topic. Very clearly defined. There was no reason for me to think it applied to anything else.

2. mostly because he is so busy and has so many responsibilities, it has happened before that he has gone more than a day without writing. In which case, when it has gone on so long that I'm worried something has happened to him or Yahoo has turned on him again or I unwittingly said something really wrong, I WRITE HIM and say Daddy? Is everything OK? Which is a perfectly reasonable thing for one person to say to another when they are in an intimate relationship. Even when it's a D/s relationship, and one that's as intense as ours obviously is.

But the various responses we had to our night away set this up.
And we each were hurting.
Badly.

He...

To understand how much I hurt him... making him think I had left... realizing how much I mean to him... not only did I feel terrible at having hurt him that way, but to know I could hurt him that way... to know I met that much to him.

I'm not used to meaning that much to someone.
It's hard for me to absorb.

Back to the weekend.

Saturday afternoon, we sorted it out.
I wrote my post.
And then wrote a long apology.
Which I couldn't send till the next morning.
Because he didn't want to hear any more from me that night.

The next morning, there was a one word message from around 1:30 am, asking why he should devote any more time to me.

Damn, I thought.
I thought we were going to be OK.
But I know what happens to him in the middle of the night.
I know what can happen as he lies awake in his bed.

I sent off my apology, and then tried to formulate an answer to his question. Obviously not an easy assignment. It's hard not to sound false when you're writing. Then a message came. Saying to stop trying to answer last night's message. He'd give me a chance to apologize in person. And to get him off.

I was to meet him at 11 am in a parking lot in his town.
Shorts and t-shirt.
No bra.

Which gave me just enough time to shower, dress, feed the cats, and snarf down enough breakfast to allow me to take my usual morning handful of medications. Luckily, as I'm finally losing some of my winter weight, I was able to fit into some very short shorts and a sweet little black short-sleeved sweater with a low neck that I had bought for his pleasure because it buttons all the way down the front. No bra as ordered. Also no panties. And a cute pair of Dansko heels.

He really likes tops that can be unbuttoned all the way down.
And he really likes me in heels.

I arrived early.
I waited in the parking lot of a sort-of fast food restaurant.
The parking lot was almost deserted,
as was the lot of the entire mall.
It didn't feel it ever had a lot of cars.

At 11, he pulled up alongside me and motioned me into his car. As I approached, I slowed down to make sure he saw how little of my body was covered with cloth.

I got in.
Not a word.
He drove towards the mall stores and then back around to the garbage dumpsters.

He left the car running.
We'd need the air conditioning.

He opened his fly and pulled out his cock.

With my hand,
with my mouth,
I did what I do so well.
What he trained me to do.
How to please him
HIM.
Not just any man.
HIM.

We all have our preferences.

And I blubbered, sobbing wildly.
I don't know if I've ever cried like that before.
Because I felt
so
fucking
bad!

We'd both messed up,
we both made faulty assumptions,
we were both so damn vulnerable
because we both care too much
that we each were open to the idea that
we'd obviously
been rejected
by the other.

Make sense?

Well, yes, I guess, if you are at all vulnerable and at some level can't believe that the one who claims to care really does.

So oh my God I cried and sobbed and was at least mildly hysterical as I sucked and jerked and really, it was the best thing that could have happened because there is NO WAY that anyone could have doubted my sincerity.

No way.

And he did cum.
In a reasonable amount of time.

This wasn't like one of his visits where the idea is to extend his pleasure for as long as his cock and his schedule will allow. This was an event with a goal. And the faster we achieved it, the better.

Actually, two goals.

Get him off.
And prove my sincerity.

He still sounded angry when he drove me back around the parking lot and delivered me at my car. But the process had begun. Cautiously, we started working our way back. And unlikely as it may seem, I could sense a difference in tone from the week before in the emailed instructions he sent that night.

And today?

Ah, today.
Tonight.
A little bit of the Daddy I had said I was missing.
Something interesting from his work day.
And a request for help in finding a long-lost song

I appreciated the incident from work.

And I found the song!
Found the song
and a great music video.

He'd been looking for the song for years.
And I found it.
He was very pleased.
He said he was pleased.

And then

in a separate message

this:

...

 

...  Good girl

I am a very happy pet.
And I think we'll be OK.


PS - To avoid any similar misunderstandings, he instructed me NEVER to stop writing. It didn't matter if he took an hour, a day, a week, or a year to reply. I was NOT to stop writing. No confusion there. And very reassuring.

Technological sabotage? Or brain death?

Thank you, Travis Tritt.

Can we put this one down to a failure at Yahoo?
Or just to a misunderstanding on my part?
I don't know.
I just don't know.
But I was moping around this afternoon,
trying to nap this afternoon,
listening to songs that made me cry,
or songs that crying makes me want to listen to,
and I couldn't help myself.

Even knowing (or thinking I knew) that he had chosen to turn his back and walk away because something I said distressed him so much, I couldn't stand to not reach out. I was listening to Travis Tritt sing Anymore, which makes me cry under the best of circumstances, and then subjected myself to whatever else on the same album of greatest hits seemed to fit my mood. Proving, I guess, that I'm a masochist after all. Emotionally, any way. Eventually, I hit Tell Me I was Dreaming.

Tell me I was dreaming  
That you didn't leave me here to cry  
You didn't say you don't love me anymore  
And it was just my imagination telling lies

And then?

I sent him the link to the song.

Because I couldn't stand the silence.

He responded with Dylan's You're a Big Girl Now.

I’m going out of my mind, oh, oh
With a pain that stops and starts
Like a corkscrew to my heart
Ever since we’ve been apart

My reply: My World is Empty Without You.

Shorthand.

Powerful.

But not the main point.

Here's the main point.

He said it had been my choice.

That I had stopped communicating.

Which I hadn't.

Or didn't think I had.

In fact, I thought it was HE who had gone silent,

in displeasure over my message of Thursday night.

I didn't go silent.

I heard nothing in reply but didn't go silent.

I sent a brief good morning on Friday,

and then heard nothing all day.

And nothing today.

I thought he had gone silent.

With displeasure.

Perhaps he just had nothing to say, and expected me to keep reporting in. Perhaps I was so upset Thursday night that I couldn't imagine his not responding in some way - whereas in fact it's true that sometimes he just doesn't respond. If he has nothing to contribute, he doesn't respond. Thinking about it more as I write here, he was probably just ignoring what he saw as a tantrum and expecting me to carry on with my assignment.

Without complaining.

Even as I write, it becomes clearer. 

It's not even what I thought as we wrote back and forth today.

I thought he must not have gotten my messages.

Maybe he didn't get the Thursday night message.

Or the Friday good morning.

That's what I assumed.

Whereas in fact he was just ignoring my emotional outburst.

Which was probably just as well.

Had my brain shut down due to the extreme heat?

Could be.

It was hovering almost to 100 the last few days.

This is how it happens.

Again and again, this is how it happens.

It's more likely to be misunderstandings than anything else.

And I was so upset Thursday night

that I didn't even realize the fault was mine.

Even as, this afternoon, he gave me the chance to beg to be allowed to crawl back, I couldn't understand why he was pissed with me when I was sure it was just a matter of lost messages. It has happened before. Yahoo (which I don't use) can really mess up sometimes. But it wasn't that at all. He was Daddy, waiting for his little girl to settle down and get back to my chores, eventually thinking I had run away from home, and feeling the hurt and rejection that I felt when I thought he had been the one to walk away.

I'm not to bother him again tonight.

We'll see what happens when we talk again tomorrow.

Oh.

And the last song I offered?

After the begging?

Love Has No Pride.

But if you want me to beg,

I'll fall down on my knees.

Asking for you to come back.

I'd be pleading for you to come back.

Begging for you to come back to me.

No one. Ever.

He made me glow.
He made me feel valued.
He said I was beautiful
and I grew to believe it.
He saw things in me
that no one ever had.

No one.
Ever.

There are many kinds of pain in the world.
There are many sorts of danger.
But what he did for me -
What he gave me -
What he showed me -

Aw, hell.

The Sound of Silence

It's over.
I suppose it's just as well.

VAGINA: it's a technical term, stupid.

American Heritage Medical Dictionary

vagina  va·gi·na (və-jī'nə)
n. pl. va·gi·nas  or va·gi·nae  (-nē)

1.  The genital canal in the female, leading from the opening of the vulva to the cervix of the uterus.
2.  A sheathlike anatomical structure.

Collins World English Dictionary

1.	the moist canal in most female mammals, including humans, that extends from the cervix of the uterus to an external opening between the labia minora
2.	anatomy, biology  any sheath or sheathlike structure, such as a leaf base that encloses a stem

State representatives in Michigan:

" . . . so offensive, I don't even want to say it in front of women. I would not say that in mixed company."

What?!

During a heated debate on the floor of the Michigan state House, Rep. Lisa Brown made an impassioned speech against a bill that seeks to put new regulations on abortion providers and ban all abortions after 20 weeks.

Brown, a Democrat, argued that her Jewish faith allowed for therapeutic abortions when the mother's life is in danger without regard to length of pregnancy.

"I have not asked you to adopt and adhere to my religious beliefs. Why are you asking me to adopt yours?" she said. But what came next is what got her in trouble: "And finally, Mr. Speaker, I'm flattered that you're all so interested in my vagina, but 'no' means 'no.'"

 Here's a more complete account:

http://www.npr.org/blogs/thetwo-way/2012/06/14/155059849/michigan-state-rep-barred-from-speaking-after-vagina-comments?ps=cprs

And here, a great commentary from the British newspaper The Guardian.

Which ends thus:

To be honest I quite like that the worst swearword in the English language is derived from the fanny-fou-fah – and that there are a lot of offensive words for vagina; but vagina isn't one of them. Of course if Brown had referred to her vulva, I would have grimaced. Who wants their fun tunnel to sound a clapped-out car? But whatever accurate or euphemistic term is used for women's genitals, the aim is for legislators to distance themselves and refuse to acknowledge the intimate nature of their regulation. Yes, all of these examples are from the US where abortion continues to be a blue touch paper issue. But it is only a matter of time before these tactics swim the Atlantic and are deployed in the UK.

It is important that the visceral vocabulary of women's bodies is part of the abortion debate. It is difficult to imagine true equality for women when our internal organs are a public space. It is necessary for them to abstract women out of the debate otherwise they may find that forcing a woman through the trauma of an unwanted pregnancy or putting her life at risk by leaving her no other choice than an unsafe abortion, might make them look somewhat vicious. 

I'm all for fanny euphemisms. But when an elected representative cannot get up in a legislative chamber and refer to vaginas in a debate about women's health then we are risking uterus erasure. I say no to rubbing out the red snapper. It's time for us to shove our growlers in the faces of the anti-choicers and demand that they chow down on our bodily autonomy.

PS: Here is a nice compilation from the paper we used to refer to as the Lansing State Urinal of comments from various journalistic sources. It includes a video of the report on the Rachel Maddow Show, which gives some of the details of the truly horrific bill. You can also go directly to the Rachel Maddow link: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/26315908/ns/msnbc_tv-rachel_maddow_show/#47824110 If I still lived in Lansing - not that I would ever want to live in Lansing ever again - I would be down at the Capitol on Monday at 5 pm as Vaginas Take Back the Capitol: http://farmington-mi.patch.com/articles/vagina-monologues-star-to-back-rep-lisa-brown

Choosing the Beast

 It didn't really end that way, of course.

That whole turn-into-a-prince thing.

And frankly, the prince seems rather insipid,
his face exaggerated in its handsomeness,
his clothes too ornate by half.
He seems too full of himself.
Lacking humility.
Lacking vulnerability.

Vulnerability can be as lethal as raking claws and tearing jaws.

And la Bête (the Beast - it's a French film, Jean Cocteau, you really should see it if you haven't) - la Bête certainly has vulnerability. You can see it in his eyes. Especially when she catches him after he's been feeding on his prey. He is mortified to be seen in all his need. And clearly now believes there's no hope she can ever love him.

Don't try to change your beloved into someone else, they always say. It won't work. It can't work. It's bound to lead to disaster.

But behaviour can change. 
Attitudes can change.
Adjustments can be made.
Acceptance can be found.

What would be a truer ending, then?
No unnatural transformation.
The magic of her loving him as he is - that's magic enough.
Why water it down by giving her something else?
It's all about sex, anyway.
Learning to love his animal nature.
Don't prettify it.
Sex can be sweet and gentle.
Sex can be rough and wild.
Passion, need, they take many forms.
We need to embrace them all.

But Beauty,
la Belle,
better perhaps were she spared the sight of your teeth
shredding the corpse of your latest catch.
She'll gladly leave a portion of the forest to your hunt,
and you'll try your best not to rip out her throat.

Seems a fair exchange, don't you think?

But both parties need to sign the contract,
and nothing can happen
if la Bête persists
in saying the cause is lost.

Verboten - Sturm und Drang

Nothing heavy today.
I have a job.
To serve him.
To serve his pleasure.
To ease his stress.

So nothing heavy today.
No discussions about whether we'll survive.
Just sweet, light, softly sexy words
to remind him of the delight his treasure brings.

To remind him of his mistress
and his loving little girl.

Cautious.
We were cautious.
And he's clearly disturbed about himself.
But at least he played along.

And who can resist a fantasy about a vintage Cadillac Eldorado convertible?

I refuse to issue a DNR

His fears are the same as mine.
I knew they would be.
The foundation is shaken.
Bricks will fall off.
One problem gives rise to another.

All day, we each lived with the dread.

Tonight, he finally wrote.
He said he'd been feeling like a doctor watching a patient to die.

I can't believe it's hopeless.
We've been through so many crises.
And each time we come out stronger.
Closer.
More intimate.
More open.

Even he,
this dom,
this sadist,
has opened more and more peepholes into his vulnerability.
Which only made me love him more.

Damn.

I can NOT believe we're doomed.

Come on, Doctor.
Don't you have a new wonder drug?

Pathology

We've been talking.
Seriously.
About safety.
Physical safety.
Mine.

What happened this weekend wasn't all that bad.
But it scared me.
Not just what he did.
What scares me more is this.
Sometimes I don't know who he is.

It doesn't happen all the time we're together.
It doesn't happen all the time he hurts me.
And sometimes, when he hurts me,
he takes me to that place,
and then we are closer than ever.

But not when the beast shows up.
The beast knows only hunger.
The beast doesn't give a shit about intimacy.

It's an illusion, of course, to speak of the beast. It's a convention when we use that other name he has for the predator within. Even to say "within" is softening the truth. Which is the man and which is the mask? Or do both of them constantly wrestle inside him?

I've spoken of this before. Of how this isn't a game. When I say "we don't play," I'm not being snobbish about those who use that term for their S&M interactions, or those who go to clubs and do their thing in public. (Well, OK, maybe a little, which isn't worthy of me and for that I apologize.) I've tried to give you the truth of it. Of who he is and what I am risking, without another incident of people rushing in, trying to interfere, wanting to track me down, call the police. Wanting to protect me.

Don't even bother.
This is my life.
This is our relationship.
And we're trying to find away.

He is trying to protect me.

There's a sick irony to it all.
It's because he cares for me that he wants to hurt me.
Really hurt me.
But because he cares for me,
really cares for me,
he doesn't want to harm me.

The problem is, he can't always stop.
The problem is, he doesn't always know he's crossed the line.

So we talked.
Seriously.
By e-mail.
Which makes it easier for me to be honest.
Though it's so hard to be honest.
Because how do you tell someone you love,
someone who cares for you,
that sometimes you don't recognize him?

Because of course the underlying message is obvious:
when you don't recognize him,
you don't love him.

He likes to hear me say I love him.
He says: "Say it."
And I know what he means.
This time, there was something different.
"Say it," he said,
after I had.
"But this time, without the 'Daddy.'"

So I said it.
Not: I love you, Daddy.
Just: I love you.
No honorific.
No obscuring title.
Just a naked declaration
and his desire
for a naked declaration.
There was a statement in there.
But already, he was going into his dark place.
It was like a werewolf movie,
watching him change,
watching the hair sprout.
And soon it became very hard to honestly say the words.

So we're talking.
And tonight he made an offer.
Trying to find something that might help.
Something that might make problems less likely.

Of course I've read all about it.
Because this isn't just a matter of enjoying kinky sex.
And as far as I can tell,
there's no effective treatment
and there is
no
cure.

But there's a difference between this man and what you may read about in case studies. He does have a conscience. He does have regrets. Once he realizes, once the obscuring fog clears, he does have regrets.

He likes to pride himself on being a predator.
A master manipulator.
But I don't feel that's what he's up to here.
He's offering a sacrifice.
Whatever I feel is right.
And the sacrifice entails another sacrifice.

No more overnights off-site.

Does that mean he would ever spend the night here?
I doubt it.
He never has.
Can't see it happening.
And maybe it's safer that way, too.
Maybe those very long visits present more time for going off-script.
Because of course he plans his visits carefully.
Not that he can always stick to the plan.
But there's not that much room for improvisation within a couple of hours.
Not like having all night -
and then the next morning
for a quick rough fuck
with a crack-of-dawn hard-on.

But can't you see?
Can't you see how this man of the masks
is tearing at my heart?
Because he cares that much
that his dreams make him sick,
his fantasies make him worry,
and his deeds
make him curse
what he is.

And even given who he is,
what he is,
the limits of who we are together,
he has done more for me,
does more for me,
more to show me that I am cared for,
more to prove that I am treasured,
than anyone -
ANYONE -
who has ever said in so many words that he loves me.

And so we struggle on.

Because there's one pain I'm not ready to face:

the pain of walking away.

Split personality

The man who touches my heart
when he says he enjoys my company.

The man who treasures me,
admires me,
and tries to protect me.

And the beast.
The beast who scares me.
The beast who breaks free of his bonds.

They confuse me, these two.

I love the one,
but not the other.
And then I'm not so sure about either.
Which is perhaps the scariest of all.

But which makes sense.

Because the man and the beast,
Daddy and Master,
these four and more
are one and the same.

And I'm kidding myself to think anything else.

Poor Daddy.
Trying to protect me from himself.
And he can't.

A very small vacation

I'm sitting in an armchair by the window of our room in a dumpy Holiday Inn. It's a good thing he doesn't like a lot of light, as 2 bulbs are dead. He's not here, anyway, being out with friends.

He's fretting, though.
He'd rather be with me.
He enjoys my company, he said.
 I know that.
Just as I knew I was his mistress.
Being a mistress is more than being a readily available pussy.
It's more than being a sex slave.
Though I am that, too.
Being a mistress
(not to be confused with a Mistress!)
means be enjoys your company.
Means being part of his life.
In whatever limited way is possible and appropriate.

I remember the first time we were here together.
Two years ago.

I remember waiting in the room, cold and naked, huddled cold and naked on the floor between the beds, waiting, waiting wondering what was lurking at the end of the wait. And now? He snuck away between engagements and met me in the bar downstairs. In public. In the bar. Sitting and talking, recounting his day. Enjoying my company. One ill-advised kiss beside his car and then he was gone, sending texts that he wished he could escape his friends and be back with me. To hang out. Not just to have his cock sucked.

Still.
Waiting, I am content.
Calm and confident and content.
I feel safe, too.
He is taking steps.
Precautionary measures.
Measures to protect me against the beast.
Steps to bar the beast from the room.


I am pleased.
And relaxed.
Relaxing after my work week in California.
I sit in the armchair
feet propped up
reading a book he told me about.
Reading a book he bought for me.
Reading a book that is exercising my mind.

I am happy.
I am relaxed.
And he will be here soon enough.

(Had to reformat this post once I got home. Blogger didn't recognize my iPhone's line breaks.)

SIRI is mine!

No, not the woman in my iPhone.
We haven't gotten that personal yet.
In fact we've hardly talked at all.

It's the other SIRI.
This one.

From LELO.
In purple.


The name "Siri", by the way, is Scandinavian, as is appropriate for a pleasure object (their term) made by a Swedish company. It is short for Sigrid, and means victory, wisdom, and beautiful. And it certainly was a beautiful victory to finally get one.

Free.
To review.

I was away at a conference this last week.
For work.
And I worked very hard.

Plus there was a long flight, and a 3-hour time difference, so I'm massively tired. Not a good thing just before running off to meet the sadist for our usual June hotel rendez-vous which got moved up to this weekend from its normal end-of-month date. At least it won't be 105 degrees this time! (That's Fahrenheit, for those of you using the other system. It equals around 40.5 C)

Anyway, someone at LELO had the not-inappropriate idea of having a booth at what was basically a medical conference. It was a bit of creative positioning which in fact made a lot of sense, and their booth generated both a lot of sales and a lot of talk.

There must have been a lot of vibrators going past the TSA agents on Thursday and Friday...

I bought (at a VERY reduced price) a little set of silicone balls to help with my Kegel exercises, and then - after explaining who and what I was (in a lowered voice, as I was there in an official capacity and didn't want people to know that I was also a sex blogger!) - begged for SIRI to be mine.

I probably begged harder than I had to.

So watch this space for a review, which will compare SIRI with my current standby, the LAYAspot.

Which reminds me that I do still owe EdenFantasys a review of the last toy they sent me. A very nice toy, too. Time to just get it out there - and BEFORE I do the one for SIRI. So keep an eye out for that as well.

And maybe I'll tell you a thing or two about my getaway this weekend.
If you ask really nicely.
Can you beg as shamelessly as I can?