Homework: Write about Friday night's scene

There was a gleam in your eye when you told me to undress. I'd known all along that this moment would come, but part of me was irritated. It had been a fun and relaxed day, and despite the nap that afternoon, I was tired again. It showed in my face because you asked me about it, asking what I was afraid of. Yes, I was feeling tender and shallow...you offered that I was afraid of getting emotional. Perhaps that was exactly it...words are so difficult for me sometimes. But I trust you, sometimes in ways I don't understand and want to deny, so you got up and gathered rope and cuffs and a spanker. You teased me gently with them...”See? Nothing hidden.” I asked to escape to the bathroom...just another moment of delay. I did in fact murmur a pray while I stood in the dark, before I undressed and returned to you.

I haven't gotten used to the firmness, to the Dom. Your voice leaves less to question, and I only swallowed when you told me to get my toys out. You arranged them, and then selected the thickest of the plugs. Did I whimper? Did my face betray my discomfort with your selection? I don't know. Instead, I knelt on the bed, head down, ass up. I wasn't expecting the rope about my waist, couldn't fathom where you were going...especially when you left it as a simple belt.

Your fingers were insistent, and I felt myself flush as being found drier than you usually find me. I was unsure, unnerved...still not entirely surrendering, even if I was submitting. Your caresses and touches changed that and I almost felt myself melting under your hands, until you landed a couple of sharp slaps on my ass and thighs. I gasped and grit my teeth, not wanting to cry so easily.

Then your hands spread my ass open to you, lubing me. I wanted to relax against your touch...maybe I did a bit, but you quickly switched to the plug. My whimper became a cry as you were firm and pressed the plug in past the tight resistance. I buried my face in the blankets, stifling my cries, angry at my rebellion with the situation.

But even that didn't last as you laced the rope over the flared end of the plug, lacing it between my legs. A sense of wonder and understanding filled me...THIS was the belt described in “The Story of O”...I had indeed wondered what it would feel like. Now I knew.

You kissed me, caressed me, and your fingers found new wetness. I was burning with shame, and you knew it. You asked questions...did I like it? Did nice girls like feeling like this? You made me speak, and I hated you for it. I didn't want to believe you as you told me that nice girls DO like it...that they might not experience it but they wonder and fantasize about it. Part of me still wonders if that's true...if nice girls...innocent girls...can even fathom such experiences. I look at my friend N and shake my head...she'd NEVER consider such things...

Then you made me stand up so you could look at me. Was I able to wipe the sullen look off my face by the time I faced you? Your eyes wandered my body and I was terribly self-conscious...the rope emphasized my pregnant pudge and I felt ungainly. You say I'm beautiful, and I don't believe you...any more than I believe Beloved...but there is no denying you both physically react to the sight of me.

But then you asked me to walk out to the living room, to imagine others...strangers...watching me. I protested...I don't remember if it was in my eyes alone or if I used words. You had to prod me...and only the need to submit to you...to prove I COULD do this...let me walk though the cool kitchen and to the far end of the living room. Deny “their” presence...deny the cold...deny the humility. But when I returned to you, you were lounging on the bed and wanted me to TALK about it. Could you see the tears, feel the mild panic? You asked if I had shown “them” how proud you were of me. No...if “they” saw anything, it was stubbornness and resentment. And then you told me to walk out to them again, this time, to show them how proud you were.

Walking through the kitchen...to the end of the living room...turn... Now what? Am I suppose to preen? What demonstrates your pride and not mine? I don't know. Would it have been easier if there were REAL people there? Maybe. As it was, I had to imagine their reactions, and it's hard to imagine a different reaction from my own... Focus on the chill of the room rather than it's emptiness.

This time, I returned, and you kissed me and told me I was a good girl, and that YOU were going to show me off this time. My stomach dropped...for all you must know my hesitations in the living room, I didn't want you to SEE them! Leave me the illusion...that despite knowing you know, let me pretend you think I'm prefect. But your hand is tight in my hair and you walk a step behind me, holding my head up. I want to close my eyes, but I don't want to trip...

Your hands are running over my skin, and you are telling me how beautiful I am, how they comment and are jealous. You bent me over and show "them" the plug in my ass, and I feel the heat in my cheeks. Pressing me to my knees is almost a mercy, and pushing your clothed cock between my lips is a blessing. I can exist just for you...nothing...no one else matters...for the minute that I try to pleasure you through the cotton, gagging on the dryness. Then you help me to my feet, and tell me you are proud of me.

Proud of me? Proud? The rush of relief...of wonder...of grateful love make me want to fall to my knees and weep. How can I explain that feeling...Sir is proud of me!

You walking me back to the bedroom, lay me down, and cuddling me...trying to drag words from my lips. Why can't you read my mind??? Don't you know? Don't you understand? You are proud of me. The base experience and confusing excitement are nothing compared to hearing those words.

dark matters

I was nine years old when I was a gang-rape victim. There's residual conflicts, confusions, and struggles from that even through it was more than two decades ago and I have a happy, healthy sex life today.

One of the struggles has been in accepting my own enjoyment of sex and sexplay. I don't orgasm easily or regularly. I'm conflicted about rough play. I've agonized over the fact that my body responds while my mind is screaming "nonononononono! you don't like this. this is wrong."

It's a dark matter that I've been working on for years with Beloved and now Sir is pressing even harder. Sir has taken me in and out of headspaces with very little SEXUAL contact...but last night, it was Beloved who forced me.

It wasn't rape...but it wasn't consensual exactly, either. He didn't say a single word. His kisses didn't feel like Beloved, and his growls were entirely unfamiliar. He held me down and choked me, grabbed my hair, made me gag on his cock, then fucked me. My body responded...I got hard nips and wet anyway...I remained very tight, though. And I thought I was going to be sick.

But I was okay. Beloved held me quietly for a little while afterwards. I was a little shell-shocked, but didn't fall into the sobbing heap I might have. I told him that my head prefers mindfucks...but there was no denying my physical reaction. It confuses my head and scares me. After we got cleaned up, Beloved tucked me under the covers and I fell asleep in his arms. I woke up twice in sweats, but there weren't any clear dreams or memories and I got back to sleep both times.

Beloved complained this morning of weird energy because of the play...Topdrop with emotion, I think. Some quiet time would be good for both of us, but of course, there's not rest for us...

I mentioned it to Sir this morning. For all his sadism, he is amazingly attentive and concerned.

pixie:I guess...*shrug* I don't know. I guess I needed you to know because the physical reactions were all there, but my head was screaming "nonononono...you don't like this. this is wrong."
Sir: as I knew it would be, which is why I've been talking to you alot about your feelings. You asked me to help you be you...
pixie: *nods*
Sir: that is part of you I want to help you reconcile with. Your body did what it was designed to do, just as it did when you were young. It's your mind that is holding it against you
pixie: yes
Sir: You did nothing wrong, then or last night. It dosen't make you a bad girl.

I suppose that I am just coming to accept that idea...that the wantonness, the bdsm doesn't make me a horrible person, and it doesn't condone what was done to me as a kid.

Beloved...you are amazing for sticking with me through this, for unwrapping me and sheltering me and loving me through the horrors and shame. I can't really express how grateful I am that you continue to help me, and that you've allowed me to go deeper into this darkness with Sir. I still have a loooooong way to go, but maybe, just maybe, I'm finally healing...

There are no words

Start and stop... delete... start over... delete... stare at the blank screen... start... delete.

What exactly do I need to say? Do I need to send my heart pounding again by writing about the wax-n-knife play last weekend? Surely talking about that with Beloved is why I ended up crawling out of bed because I couldn't relax.

Or is it that I need to "confess" that I'm dating a sadist, and the prospect is both exhilarating and terrifying? I don't know what it is that I hope to experience in this relationship. I've been accused of playing for my own amusements; that I'll discard the relationship when I grow bored of it. That HURT...but almost instinctively I've tried to make myself as pleasing as possible so that I am not the one to be left behind.

Or do I need to berate my stumblings with Beloved's request for total and complete honesty? Gods, the man puts up with so much of my hesitations and embarrassments! This time the broken rule is NO MARKS. Sir marked my inner thigh with a handprint, and I failed to display the transgression to Beloved. I didn't HIDE it...I just failed to bring it up. Of course Beloved found repeated mentions of the mark in my chat logs and calmly brought it up. He didn't even scold me...he was just disappointed. Who exactly am I trying to protect with such behavior?

And what exactly am I doing...playing with a sadist Sir when my Beloved Master abhors marks? Do I WANT marks? Is that an area I want to play in? Thinking about it makes me slightly sick to my stomach...I don't THINK I desire such physical ouchies, yet I'm drawn to the challenge. Why? Is it simply that I can't let go of the past and I need to prove to some bully boys they can not...will not ever...destroy me?

And does that make me a masochist out of desperation? I don't like the pain...I don't like the marks or the photos or the humiliation. But for gods mercy, if you are going to inflict the agony, would you kindly bind me tightly...so it is something you DO to me and not something I ALLOW you to do to me? That way it's not my fault... None of it is my fault...

Tonight I begged for cuffs. When I asked for them, it was in a desire to be owned, to be absolved. Now it is 1:30 in the morning and they feel like a mockery. A cruel reminder that no matter what I submit to, I cannot escape the demons in my head. They know where I've been, what I've done, and they never, ever let me forget.

More than 450 words later, and I'm still not sure what it is I have to say. I'm tired. I'm confused. I'm scared. I'm lonely. I wish something would make sense to me. But there are no words.

"If I am not perfect, I am nothing. If I am not perfect, I will be rejected. I will be abandoned. I know I am not perfect, but if I try hard enough, no one else will know. Therefore, I will be the perfect employee, the perfect spouse, the perfect parent, the perfect friend. I will always look perfect. I will always say the right thing. All I have to do is whatever is asked of me AND MORE. All I have to do is everything. Just please don't let anyone look under the rug."
~Janet Geringer Woititz

Yes, I went looking for that...or something like it and that worked. I am trying to explain to a respected friend what my fears are of playing. I imagine there's a two-way mirror mask I wear...on the outside, it's smooth and clear and the world gets a perfect image. But on my side, it's pitted and cracked and the image is distorted. And I hate it.

There is a sense of desperation to be PERFECT, and ironically, bdsm seems to lend itself to revealing imperfections. So what the hell am I doing here???

Overrated Normalacy

Masquerading as a normal person day after day is exhausting. -source unknown

My darling girl, when are you going to understand that normalcy is not necessarily a virtue, it rather denotes a lack of courage. -from the movie "Practical Magic,"

So I'm on the receiving list for "Ripples"...every Monday you get a couple of inspirational thoughts to work on through the week. Today's was unbelievably perfect.

huh...maybe THAT explains it...

Another day done, and I'm wondering why nothing is done. Then I started thinking about it. I'm just freaking busy!

Boy had a Kid Rock class this morning. We left the house at 9:30.
After class, we stopped at the store and got paper for our family letter (which I still need to compose, but the paper, the photos, and the envelops are all ready)
Then we stopped for lunch after which we went to the library.
When we got home, we spent a hour picking up the trash in the yard, which was significant. All the winter snow is melted, so everything is visible for the first time since early December.
After that, we put up some Valentines Day stickers on the back door.

By the time we finally got inside and took our shoes off, it was already 2:30. There was a temper tantrum which ended in a desperately needed nap for both of us. Beloved woke me up by calling about missing info for our taxes. Boy woke up while fielding those, and we had some fruit for a snack. Then we collected the household trash and carried it out to the curb. It was still pretty warm out (maybe 50F) so we went for a walk. It was 6:30 when we got home and had supper. I cleaned up the dishes and we headed upstairs for a movie before bedtime. It's 9 pm, and I'm pooped!

I still want to get that letter composed, but I just don't think I'm going to get to the two other chores I'd hoped to knock out today...

Tomorrow is lost to a doctor's appointment and dinner with Beloved's mom...

*sigh* I know I am doing things. I understand and appreciate that Beloved has set my priorities as 1) Baby Peanut, 2) Boy, and a distant 3) house. I just wish it were easier for me to accept.

Keeping up...

This house is simply exhausting me. There are toys seemingly everywhere, and I can't keep up with the whirlwind toddler in my life. That's the worst of if, really. But I end up saying "aw, fuck it" and burying myself in some other useless activity...like posting here. Sometimes I divert my attention to laundry and dishes, which salves my service ache a little bit, but the toys...what to do about the toys?!?

I've been trying to keep up with the flood of doctor appointments and fitting in social get-togethers. It's just been hard to get in the mood to do anything but curl up in bed and sleep. *wry smile* And playing hard, like we did on Saturday, doesn't help! Beloved and I were invited to dinner, and things became more of a swap-play evening and we didn't get home until 2 am. It was fun, but the added sleep-dep isn't helping my motivation. Can't I just have my cake AND eat it too?