Waiting

She spends her days waiting. Waiting for the washing machine. Waiting for the phone to ring. Waiting for them to come home. Waiting for dinner to cook. Waiting for her brain to shut up. Waiting to fall asleep. Waiting for the anger. Waiting for the frustration. Waiting for the next train. Waiting for a passing grade. Waiting for praise. Waiting to be good enough. Waiting. Everything between serves only to pass the time.

She remembers when it was not this way. She remembers a time when people waited for her. She remembers going out and being and doing every day. Now she waits for those things, too.

Her days are bookended by ritual. Each a reminder of who she is, who she has become. A reminder to give thanks for, and to, the One who revealed who she is and taught her how to be this person.

He said to her that if something happened to Him, that she must promise, as best she could, to continue to be this girl. To continue to be happy, to live. He said this when she was mid-activity. He said this and she became still, shoulders hunched against the idea, a fist clutched to her chest, eyes closed in concentration, willing her heart to stay whole. The agony caused by the mere speculation of being without Him, paralyzed her, stole her breath. He continued speaking of this maybe-thing, on the other end of the phone, not able to see her pain, not realizing she had fallen silent.

What do I tell Him? she thought, This man who is my soul. How do I tell Him that He is the center of my universe? How do I tell Him if His gravitational pull disappears, that I will surely go spinning off into the darkness? How do I tell Him that if He no longer exists, neither do I? How do I tell Him that He is my purpose, my reason, the embodiment of my joy? How do I begin to explain any of that? How does anyone say these words to another human being and not have the person collapse under the weight of a love that intense, that spiritual, that all encompassing?

While she was lost in thought, the conversation moved on to other things, as it often does with them. She never had to answer, to promise that impossible thing, to do more than sit with the horrible imagining of it.

The request of the promise haunts her. She knows that if anything happens to Him, He will take her heart with Him. The waiting she does now will be child’s play. She will have to go on living for those who count on her. Her days will be empty, meaningless, hollow spaces to be moved through.

If anything happens to Him, she will spend the rest of her days waiting. Waiting to follow Him into the dark.

Many a tear has to fall

Today I read this: https://fetlife.com/users/8612/posts/1970457

I had a scene once. I had been playing pretty much all day..with a spanking here or there with close friends.

Then another close friend that I trusted agreed to single tail me. And it hurt…and I cried. It didn’t hurt in the ouch too hard way. It hit something cathartic I cant explain and the tears just flowed. I trusted my friend, my walls were down and the sensation of crack searing my flesh was over powering. Like it hit my soul.

And I cried out and I cried–the tears flowed and I felt silly that I couldn’t stop them. I wasn’t sad–it was more a relief emotion.

And my friend showed instant concern and care–softly rubbing my back, whispering softly, asking me if I was ok.

My response shocked me. But with some sorta bravado and a giggle as the tears continued like a waterfall…I asked “Do tears scare you?”

And with a hint of a smile, and a very Domly voice commanded me to “Turn Around!” (That was hot!!)

And we went deeper–three rounds deep until I was uncontrollably and freely sobbing. To say it was wonderful to be able to trust and open up that much is an understatement.

Sometimes when I cry now, I remember this day. Not all tears are bad.

This made me think about the times I have cried during play. About how it makes me feel that I’m weak. About how ashamed I am that I failed to be strong. About how crying makes me feel less “hard core”. About how this often happens with my back turned. About how I dread the moment I turn around because I know there are people watching and I’m a mess.

There were several comments on the post, a good many of which stated that the one commenting had never cried during play usually followed with “I wish I could”. Not a single person said they didn’t want to cry, or that they are embarrassed when they do. A few said they find it, or would find it, cathartic. Cathartic!? I don’t get that at all. How is failure perceived as catharsis?

I can remember the early days of play when there were no tears. I wonder what’s changed. Is the play significantly more challenging now? Is it somehow more emotional? Is the pain that much more intense? Am I no longer guarded? Is it a combination of all of these? Is it something else entirely? I wonder if I could prevent the tears if I wanted to, but then, they aren’t a conscious choice. There have been times that I’ve not been aware of them. It just … happens. How do I prevent something that I’m not consciously aware of? Should I even try? Does it matter?

 

Owned

We have observed some situations in Our play that scare me. These things also seem to be arousing. I have been giving this a great deal of thought. I’m wondering if it is the fear or the thing behind it: The knowledge that You own me and can do whatever You wish with me.

I know it was, in fact, You exercising Your ownership of me when I struggled with asking for the shocker, that was incredibly erotic and had me all wet and bothered. Pussy and brain were vehemently opposed. Being property, being Yours, won. I believe it always will.

…………………………….
Today I am grateful for: better living through pharmaceuticals
Today’s funny moment: Sitting with LM in a treatment room waiting for the doctor “There I go again” (He said this with a heavy sigh) “What’s wrong, Bud?” “Nothing, Mom. It’s another erection.”
Sad moment: The decline of my back with housework
Protocol: n/a
Water: 5 liters
Corset: not worn – back pain
Hood: n/a

Denial

I follow a blog written by a male, who identifies as Thumper, kept in chastity by his wife. Yes, he has a PA piercing and no, there is no getting out of his device. A while back, Thumper posted a video of the device being installed. It’s serious biznezz, as the kids say. The entry that prompted this journal is this one.

In it Thumper talks about his level of hornyness and how this led to asking his wife, Belle, when he would be allowed to come again. Her response was, and I’m paraphrasing, “I won’t say never but it’s not in the foreseeable future.” And, get this, he’s ok with it.

I read that entry and sat with my mouth open for a very long time. With or without a physical device, I am essentially in chastity. I have not had an orgasm since camp three weeks ago and have not touched myself since You had me edge last week. Most of the time I’m not bothered, most of the time. If I steer clear of overt sexual stimuli, I’m so busy I don’t notice.

I have had days, however, that it was all I could do not to flat out beg You. Today was extremely bad. I considered writing to ask for permission. Multiple times I considered calling and begging. I’m seriously feeling it. I’m all for exertion of Ownership. It is incendiary. I can handle it if I have an idea of when the end will be. This? Not so much.

The light at the end of the tunnel (double entendre intended) has been turned off for now and it’s really screwing with my head. I’m gritting my teeth to contain my über-bitchiness because I recognize it should not be taken out on the boys. The lid is going to blow. It’s just a matter of time before someone says that wrong thing at the wrong time and I lose my shit all over them.

It is going to happen. It’s not going to be pretty. I don’t know how Thumper does it and I don’t ever want to find out.

…………………………….
Today I am grateful for: shelter
Today’s funny moment: n/a
Sad moment: getting distracted with leather thoughts and fucking up a piece beyond saving
Protocol: n/a
Water: 4 liters 4 ounces
Corset: 24″ am, 24″ pm
Hood: 1 hour