St. Andrew's Cross in a Condo Dungeon

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Anger vented, pet protected

One of my favorite lines from my story You awake ahead of the alarm (printed in M. Christian's anthology Best  S/M Erotica Vol. 3) is this:

She has no gradations of grief at disappointing you. Any failure feels like the end of the world to her.

This is horribly, unfortunately true. I am terrified of failure because I'm terrified of rejection. That by not being good enough I won't be wanted. That one way or another, I will be shut out. As I beg the sadist whenever we have one of our episodes: "Please don't send me away."

I trace this back to my parents. Which is a whole other story that I won't go into. But I realized last night that I developed a very strong fight or flight instinct. And the flight part manifests itself in two ways: as a physical urge to leave, quit, get out, give up... and as a flight to inner safety, behind a strong wall that locks away any feelings.

This, in some ways, was the scariest part of this little episode. I shut down inside. I stopped having any feelings for him - or rather, I walled them off so I thought they had gone. I thought - all right then, I'm not what he wants me to be, I can't be, I never was. I won't walk away from him, but if he sends me away I'll be relieved. Because I can't stand disappointing him.

But - with him - it never ends up that way. Even the separation early in our first year... I had never meant for it to be over then. I merely misunderstood, and was angry, and then he... well, obviously we made it through that.

Tuesdays are his usual day with me. He was curt this morning. Short, economical e-mails relative to his plans. The first was but 3 words. And then he told me to take the cane, the paddle, the wooden spoon, and the chain outside and lock them up in my car.

You see?

He does protect me!

Besides, he has ways to hurt me far more powerful than implements of pain.

He has words.

He has silence.

We had a lot of time.

And we worked our way through.

He even gave me the gift of what could almost be termed an apology.

He also left a very serious bite mark on my left butt cheek.

(Again, he looked after me, advising me to cleanse it. I wiped it down with rubbing alcohol. It stung, so I knew I was doing the right thing. Then I coated it with antiseptic ointment and covered it with a bandage. Human bites do carry a danger of infection, and a visit to the doctor for treatment of a big butt bite would be highly embarrassing...)

The last couple of months have been hard on both of us. He's been under a lot of stress from many sources. One thing ends, another immediately erupts, and then something else lands on top of it all. Thinking about it dispassionately, I'm not surprised we had a blow up on Sunday.

As for me... well, we've had 2 months of rain. Two months of rain with sun promised in just another few days and then it would be pushed back and pushed back and pushed back...

Finally.

Today.

It arrived.

Autumn.

Sunny and cool and dry.

For at least a week.

I am sorely tempted to shout "Praise be to God" even though - if I believe in God at all, which isn't quite certain - I don't believe in that sort of God. But in this case... well it feels like credit ought to be apportioned somewhere.

The point is that 2 months of rain when you have SAD and are still supposed to be recharging your personal solar battery is NOT A GOOD THING. I've been struggling. Concentration has been shaky at best, moods not all that firm, and my ability to think minimal. 

Plus the issue is a persistent one. This won't be the last time we'll bump up against it. If only we could keep from reacting on such a deep emotional level! 

Still, we made it through. And at the end, as we talked about ordinary things, he enthroned in the Eames chair and me, still naked, sitting on the floor at his feet with my head resting on his right knee, I felt the gentleness of his hand stroking my hair and the love flowing back through me and knew that I couldn't make him so angry if I didn't also make him feel so good.

Daddy's slave seeks a housemate

Dear potential housemate,

Thank you for your interest in renting my basement bedroom. As I have asked a lot of questions about you, it is only fair and appropriate that I reveal a little about myself.

I'm a pornographer.
Or perhaps a better word would be eroticist.
But pornographer gets straight to the point.

In any case, I'm somewhat of a lapsed pornographer, as there's always something to keep me from churning out the amount of fiction you would think I could manage. These days, the distraction is this housemate hunt. And construction noise from having the bathroom re-done so I can attract a relatively high standard of housemate. Meaning one who won't claim to recycle, won't pretend he's recycling, and then really smuggle his water and soda bottles into the trash in plastic bags. Meaning one who won't put things through the garbage disposal after I specifically said DON'T put anything down the garbage disposal. Meaning one who won't get all huffy when I explain that yes, there really is a right way to load the dishwasher.

Which is a whole lot different from claiming that there is one right way to have a BDSM relationship.

Speaking of BDSM...

There's this man.
He comes to the house.
I am naked when I let him in.
I am naked when he lets himself out.
And in between I suck his cock.
For an hour.
Maybe more.
He might spank me.
If he thinks it safe.
If he thinks he can do it without loosing the beast.

You really don't want to know about the beast.

But you do need to know about the man.
Because I'll be counting on your being at work when you say you are.
If you come home unexpectedly...
Let's just say it's better if you don't.
You might see and hear things you'd rather not.

Speaking of seeing things... don't ask about any bruises on my neck. Around my throat. He likes to mark me. He likes to squeeze my throat until the world starts to spin. Sometimes he'll bite my lip. Usually the other marks you won't see. Though I don't seem to get many of those any more. Still, you never know.

And you will.
Never know.
But just in case.
And in a spirit of full disclosure.

Because the room you would be renting is part of the dungeon.
And the walls have absorbed their share of screams.

Still interested?

My sweet and gentle and loving Master

It always happens.
Because he cares about me.
Because he does his best to protect me.
To protect me from himself.

My Master is not harsh and cruel and unloving.
He is sweet and gentle and caring and protective.

Sometimes he messes up.
Yup.
Guess what.
Even Doms are human.
Even Doms aren't perfect.

Doms, especially those who fancy themselves "Masters", like to think of themselves as perfect. Invincible. Gods. Hell, maybe they are. Some of them, anyway. Who I am to say? Except even gods make mistakes. Like those Greek and Roman gods who couldn't keep their immortal cocks in their pants. Poor Hera, always expected to stand beside Zeus as he confessed from the podium his straying ways. Must have gotten old after the first few times. Of course, they could have had an Olympic open marriage. Which I have no objections to. Except I remember hearing about some pretty big jealousy fits.

Speaking of straying, what was I talking about?

Oh yes.
Self-styled invincible Doms.
Ha!

So yes.
Things got out of hand the night we spent away.
Not that seriously, really, but too much for me.
So he is taking steps.
Steps to protect me.
New steps to protect me.

He is my Master.
He looks after his property.
And he knows what must be done to look after me.

Meanwhile...

He brought me a present!

I knew it was coming. He said it had arrived. It was made of wood, and was specially ordered, and he said that he'd enjoy it, at least, though he wasn't sure I would.

But I love it!

It's a paddle.
A beautiful hand-made wooden paddle.
Made, like the flogger, to his specifications.
But not made by his masochist slave.
Ordered special.
After consultation with assorted experts.
Made of a carefully selected and very beautiful hardwood.

The idea is that he likes to see my butt all pink and red, and feel it all warm and hot. He likes me to be down on my hands and knees with my butt thrust up in the air as I suck his cock so he can enjoy the view of it all round and rosy. And he likes to redden my butt shortly after he arrives, except then I'm not all aroused yet so it really hurts when he takes the wooden spoon to it, or strikes it with the long, ragged strip of wood he uses as a cane.

So he knew he needed something to whack my butt with that would make it all nice and rosy pink without hurting too much.

Hence my new paddle.
A gift that he'd been planning for months.

My Master does love making plans.

My beautiful new paddle did a great job.
It made my butt very pink and rosy.
But it did also hurt.
A lot.

The thing is, this beautiful hardwood that was decided on is very very hard. Very hard. And the paddle is... substantial. So it will take some practice on his part to find the right level of force. But he'll get there.

We'll get there.

We'll be just fine.
Even the occasional emotional tornado will not blow down this house we've built.