Beneath the carapace

He thinks a lot of himself.
Or so he says.
He wants me to know that he thinks a lot of himself.

Such a mammoth ego.
A mammoth ego needing so much support.
Wanting constant massaging,
like his lovely cock,
hungry for attention
from hand and mouth and more
to keep it smartly hard.

Such vulnerability.
Such beautiful vulnerability.
Does he know that's something I love about him?

He tries to hide it.

And now.
As we sort things out.
It took me ever so long to see.
He had to say it nearly straight out.

He needs to save face.

He does know he triggered it.
He knows the beast escaped.
He knows he didn't protect me.

But what he focuses on is what I did to him, how I left without a word, how I tossed away 7 years (actually 6 and a half) because of half an hour (seemed more like an hour), how I waffled about whether it was over or not...

Because.
Because he knows what he did.
He knows the effect it had on me.

But he needs to feel - to pretend - that he was the one who was wronged. Like when he has trouble cumming because of too much to drink, and he says it will be all my fault if he can't cum even though he knows - and I know - that it's not my fault at all. Sometimes, after, he has even said that, reassured me, that he knows it wasn't my fault but he needs to act like it was.

So I'm being good and doing as he says and accepting that he has doubts. And he has always had doubts, it has always been hard to fully believe that I do love him, do want to fully give myself over to him, even though I do sometimes fight it and run scared because really, given issues I've always had with authority even as I've so badly needed someone to take control, is it any surprise that some sense of rebellion remains?

In fact, he's got a plan that seems to be working. He's wise for us to ease back in. And what he so badly needs is to feel that he's back in control.

Which is also why he won't let me masturbate.

I love it that he won't let me masturbate.
Just as I love how sweetly he stroked me
as I even more sweetly sucked on his cock.

"Relax. Breathe."

He does know how to take care of me.

Things are better today.
They were much worse.
And then almost amusing.
And then a sigh of relief.
And now,
it seems,
better.

I'm coming to believe that nothing can keep us apart.
That nothing can separate us.
That nothing can destroy us.
Except, maybe, our own stupidity.
Which,
I hope,
we can keep locked up in its own cell in the dungeon.

Another cliffhanger

We're living a soap opera.

Not, I know, a very surprising statement.

And the writers adhere to a very predictable pattern. Moments of happiness, ecstasy, or the sweetest of intimacies are invariably followed by catastrophe. A darkness. Disruption.  Misunderstandings. My Master goes off the deep end, often (in my eyes) an over-reaction but occasionally justified to some extent. Sometimes I do commit a grave sin, sometimes we're just seeing things differently, but whatever the root, it takes a long time to make our way back.

It too a long time to make our way back from the last time. When I did do something very bad, for which he would not consider  the cause. Still, I was very wrong, very thoughtless, very hurtful - I did hurt him very much, I take full responsibility, and it took a very long time to make our way back. It happened last July and only recently - was it just last Saturday? - did he welcome back into his arms his banished little girl.

And then catastrophe struck.

I won't tell you what happened.
I can't.
But I wouldn't.
I haven't signed a contract to reveal all.
There are things that should be private.

I'll tell you this, though.
It was all his fault.
And he knows it.
He says so.
Has apologized.
Taken the blame and said he was truly, truly sorry.
A number of times.
Which he usually doesn't.
It's a feature of his psychopathology.
He doesn't apologize.
But he is now.
And I know that's a big deal.

I'm not smiling here, you know.
No triumphal gloating.
I'd rather we were whole and blissful again
than endure this pain
that we both are suffering.

It's a matter of trust.
A lie.
Not an omission.
An actual lie.

I never walk away.
I can't.
I know that.

But I hurt. I worry about a part of me always staying slightly to the side, holding back, protecting my soft, vulnerable heart, never letting myself fully accept anything he says. There's a hard knot inside me, which could dissolve in tears at any time, and did dissolve at times throughout the day. I slip into feeling close and then am reminded and my stomach has been all queasy since Monday, I'll bet. I got the news on Monday, though something happened on Sunday...

Don't speculate, please.
Don't try to guess.
It doesn't matter.
What matters is making our way back.

We always do make our way back.
Which in itself is some sort of tribute.
Or else testimony to an odd folie à deux, 
a romantic delusion of five years' duration
that we are chained together,
both of us slaves in a Sisyphean chain-gang,
pushing the rocks up hill.
smashing them at the top,
only to trip on the debris and tumble down,
our bruised naked bodies all in a jumble
until we hit the bottom
where we piece back together our
battered hearts and painfully begin
to push them up the hill
closer to heaven
hoping the sun that we
shine on each other will
wash away our suffering
and bring us some peace.