Seven Deadly Sins
The assignment: write one paragraph about each:
- Lust: Something that I find so attractive I can’t resist.
- Pride: Something that I find attractive about myself.
- Sloth: Something that I dislike about myself.
- Envy: Some ability I want that others have.
- Gluttony: One of my favorite foods.
- Wrath: Something that makes me angry and act not like myself.
- Greed: Something I can’t get enough of.
Lust
Apparently I am completely a whore for kisses. I never realized that about myself, until recently. I can’t resist it when I’m kissed. Granted, the only person kissing me (well, really kissing me, anyway) is my Master, so it’s probably a bit skewed. But still, I become a completely squirmy needy mess, just at the thought of kisses. It doesn’t even matter what kind or where. Just writing about this has me dreamy-eyed, thinking about kisses. I’m sure my weakness for kisses is fueled to some extent by the fact that kisses often lead to touches, and touches often lead to caresses, and caresses can lead to all sorts of fun things. Even so, I think I could happily live on just kisses for the rest of my life.
Pride
I don’t find much about myself to be attractive. Certainly not physically. I think I’m pretty boring, as far as that’s concerned. I’m smart, though, and for the right kind of guy (like my Master!), that’s attractive. I like being intelligent. I like thinking about things, I like learning, I like stretching my mind. And I like the notion that someone else could find that attractive.
Sloth
The thing I dislike most about myself is my mental health. I hate that I can’t control my emotional state without antidepressants. I hate that more than anything. Depression makes me stupid, and lazy, and ugly, and I hate being those things. I hate that I can see myself, from the outside looking in, and I can know that I’m being irrational and insane, and yet I can’t do a damn thing about it. I’m learning how to let go of control and actually enjoy it, but I don’t think I will ever be able to enjoy relinquishing control to my wonky brain chemistry.
Envy
I wish I could be sensual and sexy. I may occasionally be able to pull it off accidentally, but I just can’t be sexy on purpose. If I try, I just end up being awkward or trying too hard, or something just goes wrong. I see women who are able to be effortlessly sensual, and I wish I could be that. I wish I was comfortable enough in my own skin to revel in sensation like that. I wish I was comfortable enough to be brave enough to be sexy. But, I’m a chicken, and chickens aren’t sexy in the least.
Gluttony
A favorite food? Bread. Pretty much any kind of bread. I will eat my body weight in bread, if left to my own devices. I’ve been known to have just bread and butter for an entire meal. Or eat plain tortillas (fresh ones, the real kind, made with lard - mmmm). Rolls, slices, sticks, whatever, I love it. I’m particularly partial to dark, grainy breads, really dense stuff that you have to chew and chew. Or sourdough. Mmmm. Now I’m making myself hungry. Damn.
Wrath
I get angry very easily. I have a temper. But I very rarely act on my anger, or even really let it show. The only thing I can think of recently that set me off, and caused me to act out in ways that I usually don’t, was when someone impugned my work. A colleague went to a supervisor and complained about my work, and that was simply unacceptable. If there’s one thing I take great pride in, it’s my work. I’m good at it. I take it seriously. The work I do is important, and not just to me. So when someone tries to say that I didn’t do my job well, that’s not going to sit well with me. So, in this case, I went on a bit of a rampage, firing off emails to anyone and everyone involved, explaining exactly why I was in the right and my colleague was full of shit. (See? I’m cussing. I’m getting riled up again!) I convinced my superiors that I had done what was right. Vindication was sweet.
Greed
Easy: my Master. I can’t get enough. I need more, always. More time, more talking, more touches, more kisses, more snuggles, more naps, more laughs, more Indian food, more tears, more everything. I can’t help it. I’m an addict. The more I get, the more I need. So I ache and pine and yearn. And I’ll admit that I’m greedy. I should be satisfied, I should shut up and settle down, but I can’t. I always want more. I crave every second that I can get. I don’t think I’ll ever have enough. A single lifetime isn’t enough, and you can’t get much greedier than that.
What Is Good Enough?
I’ve had a few conversations recently about insecurity. You’d think that by now, after everything, I’d be over that. You would think….
I grew up immersed in fundamentalist Christianity. I was taught from birth that I could never be good enough for God—that it was my duty to be as good as I possibly could, but that the whole point of God sending his son was to bridge the gap, because my best would never, ever be good enough. In some ways, that’s a really horrible thing to tell anyone, but especially a child. In other ways, it’s quite reassuring. Making mistakes isn’t fatal when someone is going to come along to save you.
I’ve lived my whole life with that mindset. I’ve never felt good enough, for parents, teachers, friends, family, bosses, whatever. Living like that had some benefits. I’m a moderately successful adult because I was always striving for more, to be better. It’s also fairly exhausting, though, that constant struggle to reach an unattainable goal.
And then you came along. My Messiah.
From pretty early on you got to see parts of me that I don’t like to share. Almost from the beginning, I felt compelled to be painfully, horribly honest with you. I couldn’t hide any of my flaws from you. Then, for a while, I suppose I was testing you. I threw all the crazy at you, to see if you were serious, if you’d really still want me. And you did. My complete inability to hide behind any of my walls with you was one of the big factors that made me realize that I was, indeed, yours.
And you’ve seen more of my flaws since then. You’ve seen it all. You’ve seen me at my worst. And yet you still want me.
You tell me all the time that I’m perfect for you. And the strange thing is, I’m starting to believe it. I don’t think I will ever believe that I’m good enough for you, though. You simply are the one person on the planet who actually appreciates my flaws. I’m perfect for you, because you like me broken. It’s taken all this time for me to even begin to grasp that.
That makes you a perfect Messiah, you know. You need someone to save, a broken soul to elevate from the muck and make holy. I need to be perfect. I need someone better, higher, stronger, *more* than me, to make me into what I can be, to make me good enough.
It’s the reason that you are my perfect Master. You love me, you appreciate me, because I’m flawed. I don’t have to wear that constant facade of competence and calm that I project to the rest of the world. With you, I can admit when I fuck up. I can break down and rage or cry or just curl up and hide. I can explore the parts of myself that I’ve always thought were ugly or wrong, and you don’t just tolerate it, you revel in it.
I have no idea what I did to deserve the love of a man like you. Probably nothing. I don’t know that a love like this can be deserved. But I’m so damn grateful for it. Every single day, I’m thankful that I found you, that you found me, that you have claimed me as yours forever. There are people in my life who love me. I’m incredibly blessed in that sense. But no one, no one, loves me like you do. That is why I am so happy to be utterly yours.
I’ll still keep working to be better. I’ll always do whatever I can to make you happy. That part of me is just ingrained in my character. I’ll never be good enough for you, but I’ll always try to get as close as I can. I promise you that.
And, in a somewhat related vein, I think I’m finally starting to understand the difference between being “enough” and being “good enough”. I’ve never been a part of a poly group before. Never even contemplated it. Never had a reason to! So it definitely has been a learning experience. At first, coming to grips with the notion that you could love me so deeply and yet there would be others, was incomprehensible. It was hard for me to believe that you loved me as much as you professed, if I wasn’t enough. You kept showing me, again and again, in so many ways, just how much you love me, though. I had to reassess my worldview, to dismantle the premise on which I was basing everything. I had to figure out that, for you to love me, for me to be worthy of that much love, I don’t have to be “enough.” There will always be things that I can’t give you. And that’s okay. You love me for being me, not for being me and everyone else on the planet.
It’s a much saner kind of love, I think. Knowing that you can love me completely, without me having to fulfill every possible desire, or meet every need that you might have, for all eternity. I’m free, this way, to make you happy in the only ways that I can—and the ways that only I can—and I can find joy in your happiness in others, too.
Do I have this all figured out? Oh, hell, no. I’m still crazy and insecure. My dopamine-addled brain still races at times, working overtime to convince me that by not being enough or good enough, you will eventually tire of me and move on to other girls, younger, prettier, thinner, smarter, sexier, more submissive, whatever. But then you say something at just the right moment, or play a song with just the right words, and I know that you love me. I know that all the nutty internal monologue doesn’t matter. I know that I’m yours, and I always will be.
(I do, however, reserve the right to periodically go completely batshit and forget all of this and wail that I’ll never be good enough for you. Because, you know, I’m crazy like that. But please believe me that all of that crazy comes from a place of love. I want, with my whole being, to make you happy. The thought that I might not make you happy, makes me miserable.)
So thank you, Master, for thinking that I’m perfect, even if I’m never good enough. I love you.
Winter Wickedness memories pt. 2
Obviously that wasn’t how I had intended to leave that last entry. I got a bit derailed by emotion. Let me try that last bit again…
I wrote about how the basting scene was scary. I didn’t get around to writing about how exhilarating it was. I had been looking forward to that scene for a long time. I knew how much it meant to you, and it meant a lot to me. There was something unspeakably beautiful about knowing that you chose me, to prepare me that way. I loved the symbolism of being prepared and eaten, because there is nothing I want more than to be a part of you, to nourish you. Yes, it was frightening. Yes, I felt vulnerable. But I also felt indescribably beautiful because I was just the way you wanted me. And by the end, I knew that I should be embarrassed, I should be freaked out, but all I was aware of was you, and the things you made me feel.
Of course, I didn’t realize that the *really* scary part was still to come. What to do with a slave covered in butter baste? I couldn’t get back to our room to clean up without getting dressed, after all. So you led me around on the leash, completely naked, looking for your wife to see if we could borrow her shower. I don’t think I made eye contact with anyone during that walk. It felt like years that we wandered around. I remember walking up and down that one hallway about 4,000 times. The functioning part of my brain wondered what those people must be thinking. In hindsight, they probably didn’t even notice. It’s not like I was the only naked person wandering around by then. I remember forcing myself to stand up straight, even if I couldn’t quite look anyone in the eye. Even if I was self-conscious or embarrassed, I was still yours, and that made me proud. I don’t remember what your wife said to me when we finally found her, but I remember being sassy back. I was kind of proud of that, that I was able to be silly even though I was leashed and naked.
I got out of as much of the butter as I could with a quick shower. As proud as I was to have survived the naked gauntlet, it felt really good to be dressed again. We found your wife to return the key and she was just finishing up getting her pictures taken. She talked us into getting ours done, too, and I’m so glad she did. I was still kind of a mess, the ends of my hair damp from the shower, my makeup all smeared from kisses and tears, and yet the photographer managed to capture how very much I love you, and how devoted I am to you. I love those pictures. Sure, I could pick apart all the things I don’t like about how I look or whatever, but I can’t get past being able to see anytime I want to the way you smile at me, or the way your hand fists in my hair when you kiss me.
I think I was floating for the rest of the evening. I remember we ate something. I remember we wandered around and people-watched some more. I remember lots of kisses.
Of course, you weren’t quite done with me yet. *smiles* One of my favorite memories is making out and you molesting me on the floor of that one room. And you made me recite the Greek alphabet while you beat me with a crop. You almost made me mess up, but I did it. And then you rewarded me with some lovely drumming with your marimba mallets. mmmmm. That was the most divine relaxing feeling. Of course, you followed it up with more beatings with the flogger and your belt. I remember the beating with the belt this time. Goddamn, that hurt. But you made it better, like you always do.
At some point after that, we gathered up all the supplies, I put on my coat, and the official part of Winter Wickedness was over.
We finagled a late check-out. We decamped for a different hotel. We had a blast revisiting our Indian restaurant, and watching another silly Bollywood movie. We had chips and salsa for dinner sometime several hours later. The rest of what happened means too much to write about here. I will cherish those memories forever (and some of the marks for a good long time as well). I’m glad that we had that time together, just the two of us. As much as I reveled in being yours in public, as exhilarating as it was to survive and love public scenes with you, it was absolutely glorious to have that time in our own little world, just the two of us.
Monday was fun, even though there was that tinge of sadness, as the day slipped away. Getting to hang out with your wife was fun, since we really hadn’t seen much of each other all weekend. Walking away from you at the airport ripped my heart out. I still feel like my chest is raw and bleeding.
My first day home I tried so hard to take care of myself. I took a nap, ate well, drank plenty of water. Ah, to no avail. I crashed last night. You put me back together again, though, like you always do.
I love you, Master. Thank you for an absolutely unforgettable weekend. Thank you for loving me, and owning me, and making me a better person than I could ever hope to be on my own. I love you.
Winter Wickedness memories pt. 1 (warning: mostly stream-of-consciousness and unedited)
What a weekend.
You asked me to journal about the whole weekend, so I’m getting started now, even though I’m sitting at the airport, just a few minutes after leaving you. It’s something to keep myself busy so I don’t just sit here and cry. I may do a bit of that anyway.
I don’t even know where to start.
You were right: that first day, when I flew in, I dressed up for you. A part of me, even after everything we’ve been through together, was still so nervous that I’d show up and you wouldn’t want me. I just wanted to be pretty for you. I’m glad you liked it.
I’m also really glad that we got a night before and a night after the event to be alone, just the two of us, without all the craziness. That first night was everything I needed to remind me that you do, indeed, want and need me as much as I want and need you.
Friday was a silly day. Running around, buying food and supplies, killing time until we could check in at the event. Picking out a collar and leash with you was fun, even if you didn’t get to make me try it on in the store like you’d hoped.
I remember getting to the hotel and being distracted with all of the chaos of checking in and unloading bags and on and on. I think that was the only thing that kept me from completely freaking out. I was so keyed up at that point. I didn’t know entirely what to expect, except that whatever it was was about. to. happen. And that was scary!
I loved our little hike to Chutneys/Persis, even the harrowing bits with no sidewalk. I still can’t believe it smelled that good and it was closed! Still, Chipotle was pretty tasty, and having to walk back single-file and look at your ass was not a hardship.
I think I got ready for the evening in record time. It probably didn’t seem that way to you, but I was nervous enough—and wanted to make a good first impression enough—that I probably could have spent double that amount of time trying to get everything *just right*. It’s probably a good thing that we ended up running out of time for that. I probably would have just fussed endlessly and made myself more and more nervous. As it was, I was so busy trying to get at least presentable in time for the meet-n-greet that I didn’t have time to get too worked up. I just about climbed out of my skin when you buckled on the collar for the leash, though. I cannot begin to tell you how much that helped, though, once it was on. It was such a tangible thing, to feel it there around my neck. That, and the tightness of my clothes, actually went a long way toward calming me down.
That walk from the “vanilla” section to the “chocolate” section took about five years, though, I think. I had the collar on, but you didn’t lead me by the leash until we got over to the chocolate area, and I took off my coat. I remember being so torn, between being painfully self-conscious and being proud enough to explode, being led around on your leash. I think that a guy coming over and introducing himself, and saying such sweet things, set the tone for the rest of the weekend. It meant so much to me to know that someone experienced in the scene was kind enough to say something at all, but especially that he would compliment me to you. That really helped me relax and be able to appreciate what was going on around us. And it was so amazing to be able to be introduced to people as yours, and to be able to introduce you to people as my Master. I think I probably grinned like an idiot every time. Sorry about that. *smiles*
The things that stood out to me from the start were that people were extraordinarily nice, and overwhelmingly normal. It was like a big party, with pockets of friends here and there, meeting and mingling with other friends, just that some of them happened to be scantily clothed. I really enjoyed the orientation. Barak and Sheba are good at what they do. It was good to relax and laugh. Another thing that set the tone. Kink can be some pretty heavy stuff, so it was nice to see that even with that going on, kinky people can still laugh and have fun together.
I’m glad that you let me walk around and see people in their scenes before asking me to do anything. I was surprised, though, at how affected I was, and how quickly, by the energy in the playspace. That part was kind of scary. Exhilarating, at times, but I think my nervousness kind of fed on that jittery feeling that was present. You’re always good to ground me, though. You have such a wonderful way of making me feel safe. That takedown scene was really intense, and a bit scary. It was so reassuring, though, to see how a group of—what? maybe eight people? could pause and make sure the “victim” was okay when she started having trouble breathing, then pick right back up again. It was also really nice to see her after the scene was over, radiant and smiling.
I remember, leading up to the weekend, being so afraid of how I would react when you beat me in public. You kept reassuring me that I wouldn’t be in any position to worry about it when the time came, and you were right. I remember sitting there, on the table, holding my own leash while you went off to fetch your supplies. I don’t know how long you were gone, probably just a matter of a couple of minutes, but I felt every heartbeat during that time. I remember feeling surprised at the weird mix of terror and calm. I knew that what was going to happen was going to scare the daylights out of me, and I was okay with it. That was a very weird feeling.
Getting undressed wasn’t as harrowing as I had feared, that time. I didn’t have the sense that anyone nearby gave a fuck about what we were up to, which was kind of nice. And once I was on the table, I couldn’t see anyone anyway.
I don’t remember ever even feeling the ropes around my wrists. I had such a death grip on the table that I don’t think I ever even tested the tension of the restraints.
I have no idea how many times you hit me. I remember it, more than I do the first beating you gave me last visit anyway, but it’s sort of a blur. I’m sure I probably made noise, but I don’t remember that. I just remember my face pressed to the table, sobbing. I remember you’d hit me some, and then you’d lightly run your hands over me, and all I could do was shake because I knew that there was more coming, but I couldn’t help but relax into that loving caress. Going back and forth between the thud of the flogger and the sweep of your hand completely undid me.
I don’t remember you untying me, and I only vaguely remember you getting me dressed again. I don’t remember the specifics of what you said to me, only that you held me and made me feel safe and cherished.
Now that I look back, I don’t remember much else from the public part of Friday night. I couldn’t tell you what we did or where we went or who we watched after that. I remember carrying your bag of supplies back to our room. For some reason that made me happy. I also remember that having my coat on (to go through the vanilla section) felt really good, too. I remember that you were wonderful, and you took excellent care of me, and you made me feel beautiful and perfect and completely yours.
I remember eventually waking up on Saturday, and not quite making it to any of the morning classes. I also remember not being a bit sad about that. *grins* The Great Indian Food Hunt was silly. I’m glad we were finally able to get the van and get over to Persis to finally get to eat that food. mmmmm. I can still smell it. Yum! Getting to grin at you across the table, looking for all the world like any vanilla couple out on a date, while my ass ached with bruises, was incredibly fun. Watching Bollywood movies and joking around with the owner made it pretty much perfect.
I’m glad we made it back for the afternoon classes. I’m not as glad that your wife’s silly pink coffee attacked your beautiful shirt. Having to sit next to you in class while you were shirtless was pretty torturous, though. *smiles*
The class about aftercare was nice, because it reinforced that I’m going to be okay. That if I have it in me to submit to you like this in the first place, I have the strength to survive the fallout. Sure, it’s always better and easier to lean on you. And i know that you’re there to support me and love me, even from thousands of miles away. But it was good to hear someone experienced validate that I can live through the hurt. Being apart from you is miserable and horrible, but even more so after being through something as intense as this. I can get through it, though. And I will. Again and again and again.
That class on transcendent scenes was amazing. I was a bit disappointed at first, realizing it was going to be mostly demo. But, wow, what a demo it was. It left me a shaking, weepy mess, just being in the room. I’m glad I got to thank the slave afterwards, because I think it was incredibly brave of her to be taken to that level of vulnerability in front of a room full of strangers. To have all of that attention focused on her and to still be able to put all of that aside and give her Master everything was profoundly impressive. And then to see her afterwards, dressed conservatively and smiling, made me happy.
Again, I didn’t quite have as much time as I probably could have taken to get ready for the second night. I wanted so badly to be pretty for you. I couldn’t help but walk straight and proud on your leash, though. I am still a bit surprised at just how much I liked that part.
It was a bit surreal, wandering around by myself, trying to find your wife to tell her that the basting was about to begin. I remember the guy who taught the transcendent class seeing me holding my own leash, looking at me, then it, then back to me, and saying, “you got loose!” It was a bit scary, wandering through the playspace on my own. I hadn’t realized until then that you’d been with me, leading me, every other time I had been in there.
The basting scene was pretty terrifying. Much moreso than any of the beatings. It was the only time you had me completely naked. And it was bright in that room! I don’t remember feeling the peppers as much as the heat of the butter itself. I just remember feeling so horribly exposed and vulnerable. I’m sure I reacted in all kinds of embarrassing ways, but I don’t remember them. I remember so distinctly you kissing me after, and tasting like me and butter.
I had to go this afternoon, and didn’t get to finish this. I was going to come back to it tonight, but I don’t think I have it in me. I’m grouchy and snappy and angry and sad and frustrated and weepy and tired and stupid and I don’t think I can write about this anymore just now. Earlier you had said that I should post what I had for now, so I guess I’ll go ahead and do that, and pick up here later. I’m sorry. I’m sure this is all mostly shit, but I don’t have the heart to go back and re-read it first to make sure it makes sense. Fuck grammar and spelling. I just can’t right now. My heart hurts.
How do you process pain?
Here is the original journal prompt: If you are masochist, how do you process pain? Are you the silent type? Screamer? Crier? Is this what is expected of you? How does your partner prefer you to process pain?
It’s kind of funny, because I was actually thinking about this a bit the other day. Not this, exactly, but close.
I don’t think I’m a masochist. Well, that could be because I have an incorrect understanding of the term. I don’t like pain. In fact, most of the time I’m kind of a baby about it, unless it’s really extreme pain, and then—oddly enough—I’m actually pretty good at handling it. Natural childbirth was no big deal, once I got past the fear of it.
But you’ve made me look at pain in new ways. You hurt me when I was there before, and I know you’re going to hurt me again this visit. Part of me is terrified about that. Part of me wonders why in the world I would want to subject myself to that. I’m not looking forward to the pain, but I am almost desperate to experience it, because of what it means to you.
I know that you like to inflict pain. I know that you consider it a gift that I will give my pain to you. And I love that. I love knowing that I can please you. Knowing that you’re proud of me for taking whatever you give me is about the most amazing, ecstatic feeling I know.
Then, there’s also the fact that knowing that you hurt me because I’m yours provides an incredible level of security. It helps me know my place. It made it startlingly clear to me that you owned me. That knowledge made me blissful.
So, all of that to say that I don’t feel like I’m a masochist. I don’t crave pain. I don’t need pain to feel pleasure. But I crave that sense of belonging to you and of making you proud.
I don’t know that we’ve really talked much about how you want me to process pain. You know that I tend to cry, and I know that you love my tears. I tend to try to hold back expressions of pain, but I know that you want to know when I’m hurting. I know that it’s my job to give that pain to you.
That’s the part that worries me about being beaten in public. I think it’s going to be very hard for me to let go when I know that other people will see my pain, too. I love being vulnerable for you. I’m not sure how I’ll feel about being vulnerable in front of strangers. I want to please you, though, so I’ll do my best.
As for how I process pain, I guess it’s kind of complicated. When I was with you, that was the first time anyone had ever deliberately hurt me. It was scary. It was hard to remember that you weren’t angry with me. It was also exhilarating. I could see what it did to you to inflict that pain, and I reveled in it. There came a point when I was afraid, I was worried that I couldn’t take any more, or that I couldn’t take it in a way that would please you. But you never crossed that line. And I don’t think I could ever get enough of your tenderness and reassurance when the pain is done. So there’s some processing that happens in the moment. A lot of that is driven by you. I’m able to transform that pain when I can see what it means to you. The processing that happens later is similar. I can think about it, about what I felt in the moment and what I got out of it, and what I was able to give to you. And more than anything else, I’m proud. I’m proud when I can take whatever you want to give me and give it back to you in a way that makes you smile.
Not sure this was the intent of the original prompt, but these are the thoughts that have been bouncing around in my head lately. When I get nervous about experiencing pain, I remember the pride with which you looked at the marks you left on me, and I can’t wait. I still don’t like pain, but I love what it represents, and what it means.
It’s almost time…
I’m nervous. It’s crazy, and silly, and stupid, but I’m nervous.
One week from today, and I’ll be with you again. It seems like FOREVER since you last touched me, since I could feel you. And I want it. I crave it. I need you.
And yet, I’m nervous.
The closer it gets, the crazier I get. I get panicked, and insecure. I’m in need of constant reassurance. I don’t know how you put up with me.
But I want you to know that I love you. All of my fear and anxiety and insecurity is rooted in my soul-deep need to please you. I want to be sure that I’m as perfect as I can be.
Once I’m there, once I’m in your arms, once I’ve seen you smile at me, I’ll settle down. It will be like it was before. I will be so wrapped up in you, in being yours, that I won’t have to worry about whether I’m “doing it right”—I’ll simply be yours, and happy.
In the meantime, though, I’ll probably be a little crazy. Hopefully just a little…
I love you, Master. I’ll see you soon!
What has to happen before you find your place in service to another?
Somehow I missed this journal prompt earlier, but you’ve asked me to address it, so I will.
I feel a bit ill-equipped to answer this one, though. I look back, and I’m still not entirely clear how I came to be in service to you. It all seemed so seamless, so natural. I didn’t intend to, I know that. I wasn’t looking for a Master. I went into things thinking we’d play around a bit, and that was the extent of it. The reality, though, was that I was yours long before I realized or accepted it. That’s part of what made it so scary in the beginning. I didn’t want to acknowledge it. I guess that’s the piece that had to happen: I had to acknowledge that I belonged to you. I could serve you prior to that, but I couldn’t find my place in service to you before that. I think, too, I had to fall in love with you, and know that you loved me in return. I can still remember the incredible relief when I could finally admit that I was head over heels in love with you, and the boundless joy when you said that you loved me too. I think it was at that point when I truly felt at home with you.
I suppose there’s another aspect to this question. The fact that it references “my” place hints at others’ places. And that has taken a bit more time. With you, everything is easy (once I stopped trying to fight it, that is). Trying to find my way and where I fit in with the other women in your life (including family, casual playmates, and kitten) has been a bit more confusing. I’ve never been part of a poly relationship before—never even considered it!—so that aspect is even more new to me than the D/s stuff. And, I’m not sure that I’ve found that magic event that makes everything there fall into place. I’m insecure enough that I’ll always worry about others in your life. I’m sensitive enough that I’ll always worry about what my relationship with you means to others. It makes me deliriously happy when you’re happy, and that includes when others are making you happy. I’m selfish enough, though, that I like it best when I get to make you happy. Heh. I’m intellectual enough that I’ll forever puzzle over the conundrum that is the fact that I am making you happy when I let others make you happy. *smiles*
So, I’ve found my place with you. I’m working on figuring out just what it means to be your “bottom bitch.” *grins* I think it’s probably good to be a bit unsure of my place—that way I’m a little more flexible if and when your needs change. I plan to be at your side, serving you in some way or another, for the rest of my life.
How do you handle stumbles or wrong attempts as you journey down your own path?
(I got this journal prompt from another site, but I’m adding it here because this is where I’ve been journaling—albeit rather infrequently.)
Typically I don’t handle “stumbles” or “wrong attempts” well at all. While the intellectual part of me may realize that such things are part of learning and growing, the emotional part of me (which unfortunately tends to drive the bus) sees anything less than perfection as utter failure. Every single time I’ve done something wrong, I’ve gone into a spiral of self-recrimination and despair. And every single time it’s been a WAY bigger deal to me than it was to my Master. Hell, about half the time he didn’t even realize I’d fucked up until I went nuts apologizing for it. I have a very annoying habit of apologizing far too profusely. I know it drives people crazy. I can’t seem to help it, though. So usually my attempts to make amends for my mistakes are far more troublesome to those I’ve wronged than the original transgression.
Because my Master is so incredibly forgiving and understanding it is getting easier to accept that he’s not going to stop loving me just for messing something up. The part I need to get better about, though, is remembering that I’ve given him the authority to hurt me, and I’m usurping that when I torture myself for every little thing.
I’d like to say that I’m working on this, but I don’t even know how to work on it. It’s a lifelong personality defect, I think. Extensive psychotherapy might be the only way to fix it, and I’ve got too many other things to fix before I start on something like this. *smiles*
24 Things I’m Thankful For (and Why)
1. family.
I’m thankful for my family, of course. Sure, they make me crazy. I make them crazy, too. That’s what family is for. But, by and large, I have a pretty good family. We all get along for the most part, and our dysfunctions aren’t terribly dysfunctional. We spent Thanksgiving Day with my parents and my mother-in-law, and it was really nice. Smaller than Thanksgivings in years past, but nice. And, my kid is the most awesome member of my family ever. I couldn’t be more grateful for him.
2. friends.
I have a lot of acquaintances. I have a good number of casual friends. I’m thankful for all of them. I have a few really good friends, people that I know would give anything to help me if I needed it, or that I can talk to about anything, or that I actually want to be around when I’m feeling shitty. I’m incredibly thankful for those kinds of friends, who are much more rare. (I’m looking at you, cuddles.)
3. the internet.
It sounds silly, but I am thankful for it! It makes my job much easier. It keeps me connected with my brothers and friends who are far away. It provides all kinds of useful and useless (but entertaining) information. And it enabled me to meet you.
4. books.
As much as I love the internet, nothing beats a book for pure escapism. Sure, books are also good for research, but I’m mostly grateful for books just for the worlds they’ve let me live in for a time.
5. education.
I love learning. I’m thankful that I was able to get a good education, and that I can continue to learn new things, or deepen my knowledge of things that interest me. I’m thankful to be able to see my son learning to read or do new things. I’m glad I am surrounded by intelligent, educated people.
6. my job.
I’m grateful to have a job at all, but I’m particularly thankful for my job. Sure, the bureaucratic nonsense drives me crazy, and I’m not thrilled with the management aspects. But the meat of my job, the basic thing that I do, is so incredibly rewarding. I get to make a difference in individual lives, and on the law as a whole. I love that. I love feeling like by doing something that I enjoy and am good at, I’m also making a positive difference. You can’t ask for more than that. (Well, a raise would be nice, but that’s just crazy talk.)
7. sunsets.
Silly? Maybe. But I really am grateful for them. I love sunsets. They tend to be pretty spectacular here, and I am always glad when I get to see them.
8. my soul.
I’m using the term “soul” loosely, mostly as shorthand for “that part of me that allows me to experience and appreciate the numinous.” It was thinking about sunsets that made me think of this. I am grateful that I have the ability to feel, and to feel deeply. I can appreciate natural beauty, or synchronicities, or emotional reactions. I recognize that not everyone can, but I can’t imagine a life without that experience.
9. prozac.
Which leads me to…. Being able to feel things deeply is probably related to my propensity for depression. I have a love/hate relationship with prozac. I hate that I have to take it. I hate that I’m weak, broken, flawed—that my brain chemistry is fucked up and turns against me. But I’m glad that I can take it. I’m glad that it works. I’m glad that it allows me to function, without robbing me of emotions, or even emotional extremes.
10. my hometown.
I live in a crazy, funky town, and I love it. This place isn’t normal, but it’s home. I wasn’t always happy to be “stuck” here, but now I’m very glad that I got sucked in. There’s something magical here, and I’m glad to be a part of it. And the weather’s pretty great. *grins*
11. hugs.
I stole this one from my son. He announced when he woke up on Thanksgiving morning that he was most thankful for hugs. I gotta agree with him. There’s something incomparable about simple human touch, about an embrace.
12. words.
I love words. I love letters. I love the ability to shape ideas and concepts with words. I love etymologies and grammar and alliteration and cognates. For a while I contemplated studying linguistics. I’m grateful for words, for all the joy they bring me.
13. mentors.
I’ve had a few mentors in my life who have shaped who I am, and I’m thankful for them. Some were educational mentors (a couple of high school teachers come to mind), some were religious (in particular, I can think of one Christian and one pagan who were profoundly influential in remarkably similar ways), and some were in my career. I’m grateful for people who are willing to share their knowledge and experience with people who are questioning.
14. iced tea.
It’s my vice. It gets me through the day. It’s refreshing and caffeinated. And, well, now it has other connotations, too, particularly when consumed from a McDonald’s cup. *grins*
15. haircuts.
Mmm. I love getting my hair cut. I love the brushing, the shampooing, the cutting, the drying, the styling. Sitting in a chair and having someone play with my hair for a couple of hours is sheer bliss. I really do need to find some hair fetishist to come wash my hair for me every day. That would be incredible. *grins*
16. roleplay.
Obviously I have a thing for escapism. *laughs* I’m glad that I discovered role playing, though. It’s so much fun. It’s all the fun of reading, plus there are words, and I get to be creative, and I’ve met some incredible people through role playing games. A bit sedentary as hobbies go, but I don’t care. I love it.
17. laughter.
I love laughing. I’m a generally silly person. I love joking, and teasing. I’m grateful for being able to see the humor in a lot of situations. Hell, I even developed a really twisted sense of humor to deal with some of the shit that I have to see at work. I’m glad that I can.
18. my insecurities.
I’ve whined a lot in this journal about my insecurities, and they’re legion. It makes me crazy to be so insecure. But at the same time, I’m grateful for them. They make me work harder. I’m so terrified of not being good enough, that I’m always trying to be better. When I’m not in a depressive episode, my insecurities are actually pretty good motivators. (When I am depressed, it’s horribly defeating, of course. But that’s beside the point.)
19. naps.
I like sleeping in general, but I *really* like naps. There’s just something delicious about a nap. It’s a bit forbidden, I suppose, sleeping while you should be doing something else. There’s that quality of sleeping while it’s light out, that just makes napping different from sleeping at night. I don’t get to nap often, but damn I love it when I do. So I’m especially thankful for naps, now that they’re more rare.
20. submission.
I’m really grateful for the ability to submit. It’s not always easy for me, sometimes I forget how to let go, or I simply don’t want to. But when I do, it’s glorious. To just surrender and not have to be in charge anymore. I am really thankful that you’ve given me a safe place to do that, to give up all of that stress and expectation.
21. your mark and collar.
I can’t even begin to express how grateful I am for this. I love belonging to you, and I love having physical reminders of that status. When you gave me your collar, you told me that nothing would ever make you not want me or want to let me go. I can never tell you how reassuring that was, and is. And having your mark permanently etched in my skin is a tangible reminder.
22. getting along.
I’m really thankful that I get along with the other girls in your life. I know that things could be really awkward if that weren’t the case, so I’m glad that I can be friends with them, and like them for themselves, and not just because of our relationships with you. That’s particularly true of my friendship with your wife. Talk about awkward! It could be really horrible if she and I didn’t get along. So the fact that we can be friends in our own right is a blessing indeed.
23. visiting you.
I’m grateful, profoundly grateful, that I was able to visit you. I’m so thankful that you let me visit, that you wanted me to visit, and that the visit went so beautifully. I’m just as grateful to already be planning another visit. It makes being apart a bit easier to bear, having a date to look forward to. Thank you for letting me come back.
24. you.
*smiles* See? I told you you’d make the list. I am more thankful for you than I am for any of the rest. I’m thankful for you as my Master, of course. How could I not be? You take very good care of me. But I’m also thankful for you as a person. I like living in a world with you in it. I’m grateful that I get to know you, that I have the opportunity to explore your ideas, that I can watch you change the world. I’m thankful for everything about you, everything that you are, and that I get to be a part of your life.
I love you, Master. Thank you for everything. Happy Thanksgiving.
How do you combat negative thinking when it comes to your relationships?
Yes, here it is: the return to journaling! And we’re jumping back in with a doozy.
This is something I really struggle with. I will never, ever feel like I’m enough—for anyone that I love, not even just my Master. I can never be a good enough daughter, or mother, or wife, or slave, or anything. Some of the time, I can handle my inadequacies. I can recognize my worth, and acknowledge that I don’t have to be perfect to be valuable. Other times, though, it’s just too much. I get into thought spirals and convince myself that because I can’t live up to what I think others expect or want of me (even when it’s explicitly different than what they’ve told me they want or expect), that I have no worth at all. When that happens, there’s not a lot I can do, other than ride it out. Make sure to take my meds. Stay away from sharp objects.
I feel guilty sometimes. (Hell, who am I kidding? I feel guilty ALL of the time—just the degree and cause of the guilt varies from moment to moment. Damn Christianity.) I feel guilty because you tell me and show me again and again and again that you love me and that I’m yours. And I can never quite believe you. That’s horrible. But I always worry that you’ll realize that I’m not the woman you think I am, that I’m not worthy of you, or of my place in your life. And the more I worry about that, the less worthy I make myself. Intellectually I realize that, so then I worry about it even more, and it feeds on itself and I just want to run and hide. If it was anybody else, I would hide. I would withdraw, I would go away, I would disappear. I can’t with you, though. I’m too damn addicted. I want to, sometimes. I want to go away, so that I don’t spew my morbidity all over you, but I can’t. I don’t have that kind of self-control. I need you too much, even when I’m terrified that that neediness is going to drive you away.
Funny. Trying to write about this is starting just one of those spirals. The more I think about it, the more I see how broken I am, and the more I think I can’t be the type of girl you want or need. And, goddamit, who put me in charge that I should get to make that kind of decision for you? So I know that I need to knock it off, I know that I need to trust you, and I know that I need to stop being crazy. Doesn’t mean that I can, though.
So I guess the ultimate answer to the question is: I don’t. I have no real means to combat negative thinking. Even thinking about negative thinking makes my thinking turn negative. I do believe that means I’m nuts. So I’ll do what I always do. I’ll love you. I’ll make myself miserable. You’ll make me happy. And I’ll eventually come around. Oh, and I’ll apologize a lot. It’s taking a concerted effort not to apologize right now. So I’ll talk about apologizing instead, and that’ll be my passive-aggressive way of apologizing without actually saying the words. *smiles*
I love you, Master. And I know that you love me. I just can’t always figure out why.
It’s the quiet times, when I think of you…
I wake up sometimes, in the morning, when all is still and quiet, and I can almost feel you. I remember what it is to wake up touching you, and I ache for that. I remember your warm, sleepy smell, and the lingering scents of sex and bleached sheets. I remember the joy of stretching muscles that are sore from your use of me, being able to feel the marks that decorate my body. But mostly I remember your smile. The way you’d look at me, that told me that you were as happy to have me there, curled up against you, as I was to be there.
It’s bittersweet, all these memories. I smile when I remember, but I ache, too. I miss you. I love you. I’ll see you again, though, and make more memories to comfort me on quiet mornings.
Happy Birthday!
Today is my Master’s birthday! I hope it’s as happy as humanly possible. Maybe even as happy as inhumanly possible. *grins*
I love you, Master. I wish I could be spending the day with you. I wish I was hanging out with you, mocking your wife while she’s getting her tattoo (because she can’t retaliate then, of course!). I wish I got to be your present this year, like I was last year. I know you’re going to go have all kinds of fun, though, and that is a wonderful, beautiful thing. And I’ll just have to make it up to you when I see you in February.
I love you! Happy birthday, Capernaum, my beloved, perfect Master.
I still can’t quite believe it…
You asked me to write about the fact that I get to see you again soon, so here I am. *smiles* I imagine that writing about it here will help to make it seem more real. I never dreamed that I would be able to see you again so soon. Of course, I’m so impatient that it doesn’t seem all that soon to me. I figured it out today: 88 days. 88 Days until I get to see you again. Touch you. Taste you. Smell you.
I would simply be deliriously happy to be coming to see you again (and sooner than I expected), but that would be too easy. Instead of just another visit, I’m coming out for another reason. Your crazy wife has decided that I need to attend An Event. So plans are being made for me to come out in February. For the first time ever, I’m going to see what this whole lifestyle is all about, in a big way.
I’m excited. I’m excited to be somewhere where I don’t have to hide this side of myself. I’m very excited to wear your collar and let everyone see that I belong to you. To have you tell people that I’m yours and know that they’ll know what that means. I’m also terrified. You’ve said that you’re looking forward to showing me off. I know that at least some of the time, that’s going to mean that I will have to be nude in front of strangers. That’s something that makes me incredibly nervous. I don’t like being naked. I had a hard time not covering up even when I was with you. I’m not comfortable with my body. On the other hand, I know that you want to show me off, and I want to make you happy. I know that I will be more appealing if I’m not self-conscious and trying to hide the whole time. I hope that it’s like it was last visit: that I’ll be afraid about how reticent I’ll be, how nervous, but in the end, I’ll be swept up in your passion and I’ll forget about my inhibitions. You did a wonderful job of putting me at ease before, and I know you’ll do so again.
You’ve also said that you’re going to beat me there. That also makes me nervous. Not because of the actual beating. I can survive that. But you completely broke me down with just a few lashes from your belt last time. I’m already going to be feeling very vulnerable and insecure if I’m naked in a room full of strangers. I don’t know how much I’ll be able to take before I completely lose control. And that terrifies me. I hate crying in front of people. I’m wretched when I cry. I hate appearing that weak. Hell, it’s not even “appearing”—I hate being that weak.
So I’m nervous about that. And while the silly, vain, girly part of me is flattered to no end that you want to show me off, the insecure, crazy part of me is scared that I won’t reflect well on you, that I’ll do something stupid, or someone will point out to you that you could do better. I want to prance and twirl and show all the other girls there that I get to belong to you. At the same time, I want to hide somewhere, to make sure no one looks down their nose at you for owning me. I know that when it comes right down to it, everything will probably be fine. I just want to make you happy, and I worry that I won’t be able to do that in an unfamiliar environment. Intellectually, I realize that you seem to be happy with me no matter what I do, so chances are I’m not going to fuck anything up irreparably. But emotionally I get into those insecurity-loops and I fret and make myself crazy. 88 days is a long time to be crazy. *smiles*
All the worry and nervousness is worth it, though. Because I get to be with you again. Even if I’m a disaster, I know you’ll still love me, and probably even still want me. *smiles* And I imagine I will get lots of kisses starting at the airport well before we get to the event, so at least I’ll get some wonderful kisses before everything goes to hell. I’m teasing, of course. Not about the kisses: I’m very much looking forward to that. But I don’t think it will be a disaster. I think it will be scary and fun and enlightening. I know that I might break, and that if I do, you will put me back together like you always do. I know that you will take care of me, and that means the world to me.
So now I start counting days until I’m with you again, and cursing at you for your frustrating patience.
My thoughts about resistance play…
You asked me last night to write about my thoughts about resistance play, when we’ve done it online and when I was there, and my thoughts about my rape fantasies. I thought about your request a lot last night, while I tossed and turned, unable to sleep.
I guess I’ll start first with the fantasies. I’ve had rape fantasies for as long as I can remember, before I even knew what rape was. I tried to avoid those thoughts for a long time, because intellectually I know that rape is a horrible, horrible thing. A part of me is disgusted with myself for even having such thoughts. I know women who have been raped, and I know that it is an evil thing. So the fact that I want that, that I think about it longingly, that I willingly explore it with you, confuses and scares me sometimes. I can intellectualize it. I have a psych degree, after all. I can see where my sexually repressed upbringing turned me toward that as a way of finding sexual release without being “at fault” for the sexual act. I get that. It still feels wrong, though, if I think about it too much. On the other hand, I also recognize that playing out fantasies like that in the safety of a trusting relationship is a hell of a lot healthier than a lot of other things I could be doing, and probably healthier than repressing them.
That said, playing rape or resistance scenarios with you has been extremely cathartic. I remember when I was all torn up emotionally from drama at work, and sceneing out a rape let me purge a lot of the violent emotions I had been shoving down, and in the end made me feel a lot less conflicted about what had been going on. I needed that release, and you knew me well enough to know that a rape was the best way to provoke it.
And then, when I was there, and you wanted me to fight you. That was really enlightening. It was not what I expected, in some ways. It scared me, because I realized how easy it was for me to become completely helpless. I guess I always assumed that if I was ever actually attacked, I could get away. I just remember that instant when I had gotten away from you, that feeling of triumph, and then your hand catching in my hair, dragging me back onto the bed, and realizing that it was all just a false hope. That was terrifying, not because I feared that you would do anything to actually hurt me, but because I knew that you wouldn’t, but anyone else who had me in that position would. I also was surprised when I became completely unable to resist, even though I knew that you wanted me to, once you said that word, “mine.” I found it generally much harder to resist you in person than I do online, because I could see you and feel you and smell you, and I knew it was you, and I knew I was yours. You still managed to completely break me down, though, and it was amazing, and powerful, and beautiful.
We’re making plans for other rape play, and that thought excites me greatly. I think about the look on your face while you used me and I can’t wait. I love submitting to you, but the thought of you taking everything I have to give, without my consent, is thrilling too. And, oddly enough, it makes me feel even more wanted and beautiful. If I’m restrained, I can’t physically do anything to try to bring you pleasure. That means that whatever pleasure you take is from *me*, not from anything I do. That’s a scary, thrilling thought. I’m always trying to do the right thing, be better, accomplish more. If that is taken away from me, then all that’s left is just me, and if you can take pleasure in me without my accomplishments and efforts, that’s an amazing thing. Maybe in the end that’s what I like best of all.
I miss you.
I miss you more than I ever thought possible. I can’t regret being there with you, but God, it hurts to be apart. I miss you. I think about you and smile and cry.
I love you, Master. I’m sorry I’m so far away.