Starting Again

There’s a saying that goes something like this…never stop starting.  Another is never quit quitting.  We can also go with fake it til you make it.  Regardless which saccharin saying you choose the intention is the same.  Here I am again after a two week hiatus from writing starting again.

When I get stressed I drop all the extra things, all the fun things and tend to come down to a very tunnel vision view of my life.  Do the necessary, do the mandatory but throw off all the extra things.  I know it’s a coping mechanism.  It still sucks. 

Daddy left for Texas again today.  He’ll be there a week and when he returns he arrives with movers.  They will take all his things and some of mine.  There has been lots of talk and planning, lots of worry and stress.  Now we begin the action of it all.  

I’m not promising great waterfalls of words after the drought.  I know writing should be viewed as cathartic and I should use it as a way to vent all the stress but I’m a realist.  I know me.  I stress out, I dive into my cave until the coast is clear. I’m fighting that urge right now.  Tell them the good stuff, ignore the worry and strife. Well, that’s crap and it’s not honest.  If I can’t write the hard truth then I still have a shit ton of work to do in recovery because that’s the way we did it in alcoholic relationships.  Tell everyone life is peachy even when your coaster is about to jump the rails. 

So, that’s where I’m at today.  All is fine on the surface.  All is rumbling with a layer of angst under the shiny surface.  I get up and handle each day.  Most of the time my pragmatic self is in charge and we’re a go.  Once in a while I lose it and cry in the car at a stoplight.  But then the light changes and I shake it off.  

Time to go to work.  Love to my kink family reading this, you know who you are.  Thanks for all the talks and love.  That includes you too Daddy. ❤️

Tits

After the mad melee of Goddess yanking off my bikini top in the pool and with my bikini straps now well and double-tied, Daddy felt it was safe to leave me alone in the pool again with the girls. 

Daddy was in the hot tub and the other men were talking amongst themselves. The girls were still soaking in the pool. Goddess had calmed down and I had a buzz.  Things were equaling out.

You will need a little background for this story.  Painted Lady is the epitome of a lady.  She has a regal quality to her.  She strikes you as above the crowd and somewhat aloof when you first meet her.  But the more I have gotten to know her, the more I see how down to earth she can be.  I love her sense of humor and her openness. She works to broaden her experiences and her sexual knowledge.  I admire her for that.

One thing I heard when I first met her was that she does not tolerate certain words being used. We all have trigger words.  One of hers is tits.  Don’t tell her she has lovely skin and don’t use the word tits.  You’d think it would be an easy enough rule.  But in this group, for some reason, it seems to be immeasurably hard.  

Most of the time it is people poking fun.  If no one knew she had an aversion to the word, I doubt it would be used 1/10 as much.  By it’s such a fun word! Jugs denote large ones, breasts are so vanilla in tone, mammaries are too scientific, but tits or titties are so much more descriptive. They sound so cute and perky to me.  To Painted Lady though, the word sounds vulgar.

On the drive down, Painted Lady had control of the music.  We listened to some great music all the way to Mexico.  At one point, she put on a rap song. “Oh here is my only rap song, you’ll love it.” She says. It starts and two phrases in the rapper says tits. Goddess and I were shocked.

“He said tits!” Goddess said, as we both waited for Painted Lady to respond. 

“Well, I like the song and I’m growing.” She said.  We had talked earlier in the drive about growth and becoming more comfortable in our own skin. 

“Oh good, then I can say tits finally.” Goddess said.

Painted Lady made a generally acquiescent sound.  “I think I can handle it now.” She said. I was impressed.  She was going to allow it.  

Goddess took it for carte blanche and sang with gusto, “Tits, tits, titties, titties, tatas, titties, tits!” 

“I take it back! Stop that right now!” Painted Lady said.  And just as soon as we had open permission it was taken away. 

“Aw, you went and overused our free pass.” I joked.  I was laughing in the back seat.  I love these girls. We have endless fun together. 

So, back in the pool, we were talking and tipsy.  The subject of breasts came up again.  I can’t remember why. 

I think I said to them, “I’ll show you my boobs whenever you like.  I just didn’t want to flash the entire pool.” Goddess said something about tits and we were off again with Painted Lady grumbling about the word. 

Then her face lit up like a Christmas tree. “How about this, if I say that word…”

“What, tits?” Asked Goddess, knowing damned well that’s what Painted Lady meant. I could see her eyes twinkle with mischief as she said it.

“Yes.” Painted Lady said with exasperation. “I’ll say that word if you each show me yours when I say it.”

Goddess seemed ready to do what it took to get Painted Lady to do the unthinkable.  I was along for the ride.  We looked at each other and said simultaneously, “Alright.”

Painted Lady pointed her finger at each of our breasts one by one as she said, “Tits, tits, tits, tits. There, that’s four times. I get to see them all for that.”

Goddess and I dutifully flashed Painted Lady our tits.  Then she quickly repeated the game. “Tit, titty, tit, tits. Again!” She was really warming to this game now. We flashed her again and again.  Painted Lady got her money’s worth that day for putting aside her dislike of that word. 

Power Dynamic

Such is the rhythm of my life at the moment that I start to write and don’t get back to finish for weeks.  We have had a couple intense sessions recently but I can’t write them with enough details to do them justice. It begs the question, if kinky sex happens and no one writes a blog about it, did it happen at all?

I’m doing my best to write. Random stuff, unnecessary stuff, non-sexual, non-kinky stuff, because if I don’t I fear I’ll stop writing altogether. The most lifestyle related thing I’ve been doing lately is reading a book on the Master/slave dynamic called, Living M/s. What a great book. It is written in sections by a Master and a slave currently living a 24/7 power exchange relationship. So many things they talk about resonate with me.

I was trying to explain the book and my thoughts on it to Daddy. I’m not sure I did such a great job. One thing the slave talks about is how the power exchange in her vanilla relationships was always a problem. That there was always a faltering kind of competitiveness and resentments that would crop up over inconsequential things. This is absolutely what I had in my marriage. I couldn’t put a name to it for years, but there was always a constant tit-for-tat undercurrent in my first marriage. I’d make dinner and expect that he’d do the dishes. He wouldn’t. Then I’d get resentful. He’d ask me to do something for him and I’d feel put out and so I’d do it begrudgingly. He didn’t deserve my serving him because I was pissed about something else minor. 

After decades of this, I was inadvertently introduced to the D/s lifestyle. Everything I read about power exchange relationships made such incredible sense! Why guess and compete and struggle for who is in charge in a relationship? It’s so damned hard and so useless. I could immediately see the wisdom in choosing roles. When my mindset is to be his submissive, to serve and to put him before me in my considerations, life is good. I am at peace. I am filled with contentment.

Daddy wrote up a contract for me to agree to before we began on our journey together. I’ll have to share it at some point. One of his desires was to have me submit in private but for us to be equals in public. Honestly, I think about this a lot. I continue to want to push deeper and deeper into this lifestyle. Even right now, while we’re mainly living a vanilla life, stressed and struggling our way through major life changes, I feel myself on this ever present quest to get back to what is deeper, to submit more, to have my whole being committed to him in this power play. But is that what he wants? Would I want to give up power completely or more than I can imagine now?  

I know a few things so far.  When I am conscious of the power dynamic, I am alive.  I feel connected to him. I feel the raw, sexual energy flowing between us. When I don’t feel it, I falter.

Eye of the Beholder

I had a suspicion but yesterday it hit me full force.  I am more beautiful for Daddy.  It goes deeper than me trying harder to please him.  Daddy loves girly girls.  I want to please him so I am always aware in my choice of dress such that I please him and dress femininely.

Deeper than that though, I am Daddy’s type.  When he ogles other women or points out curvy women to me they are usually typed very near to how I look.  If a girl has ample breasts, a tiny waist with a full round ass and hips then I know Daddy will like her.  I love seeing him admire them.  I love knowing deep down to his core that he desires me exactly as I am.

My first husband told me I was beautiful every day.  I believed he thought so on some level.  He loved that I always made an effort, always dressed nicely, always took care of the details.  I know he thought my face beautiful. But, and here’s the big difference, he hated that I was fat. He told me in a thousand different unspoken little ways how much he wished I was thin again.  Whether he was sober or drunk, verbal or non-verbal, I was sensitive to it and I read the cues.

My Ex told me once that it was a shame that he was a leg man and I was made for boob men.  Later, he told me I converted him but sadly I never truly believed him.  But when Mr. D tears off my shirt simply because he wants to watch my tits bounce and roll as he fucks me…I know, I don’t have to wonder or ask, he loves them.  His eyes caress and fondle my breasts all the time.  I feel him and I feel sexual.

I live in and own my sexual being with Mr. D.  I notice that when he takes my picture, I look more beautiful and more sexual in those pictures.  In the pictures he takes, I look like I feel in those moments.  I am sexual and I can see the heat and passion and love for him in those images.  

Yesterday, a really close friend sent me a picture of myself.  He is a graphic designer and a professional photographer.  You’d think his photos of me would be fabulous.  Once in a great while they are.  They do always show my joy of life and my happiness, I will say that.  But in almost all the photos he’s taken of me I look awful in some physical way.  In his photos, my double chin looks hugely apparent or my hair is fuzzy, or some other flaw is highlighted. There is usually something wrong.  The only thing I can correlate it to is our connection and his view of me.  He is a generally critical person and he sees all those flaws.  It makes him a great designer but loses something of the magic of life, I think. Photography is so much more in the eye of the beholder than I ever thought possible. 

So, for another of the countless times a day or a week, I am truly thankful for Daddy and how he sees me.  I love being his sexual beast and love how he brings out the true and beautiful me.

Love, A Journey – Mr. D

couple-love-romantic-silhouetteLove, for me, is a journey. It has a beginning but it seldom has an ending. It changes as we change but is forever present. I have truly loved four women in my life. That in itself is amazing to me. As is that I still love each of them in some way. I don’t really talk to two of them but the reasons that happened are not of my choosing.

Why have I been this lucky? I am not adonis, I am no scholar, I am average in appearance and wisdom. I make a good and decent wage but live above my means and struggle… so it isn’t wealth and provision that brings them to me.

I am truthful, hard to love and honestly a dick, I am not always forward in the most direct of communication and have paid the price for not addressing things, especially painful things. Knowing my failings is good as it affords me opportunities to better communicate as I progress. My second wife showed me what cerebral love was and though it hurt at times I was fortunate for its lessons and am better able to love now.

My current love is a powerhouse of the physical manifestations of love. A deep and caring soul who has known pain and survived. She brings joy to my life and a roaring passion for love and to be a better person. She gives of herself to any and all and while I want more I am content to see the way her touch germinates seedlings in like minded people, calling them to action. She is a drug. Euphoria inducing and heady. She makes my blood boil and my passions soar. All while sharing her depth and most intimate self with me.

I know not why and how I encountered and loved the women I have in my life but I am grateful. Forever grateful. It is my fondest dream to keep this woman and grow in our love, passion filling our days and nights, and learning and trusting each other with our demons and fears while exploring all that life avails….

Photo courtesy of Pexels through CC0 License

 

Grief

Since my mother passed away, I find myself crying at the oddest times and for the strangest reasons. The grief of losing my her is there.   I am fine and yet it is there.  I’m learning more and more about how I process emotions these days.

During my divorce and surviving a relationship with an alcoholic, I felt numb.  I felt like they say survivors can feel.  We put aside our emotions and dull the pain by burying it.  Alcoholics train their victims and themselves to shut down emotion.  It is a defense mechanism.  They drink to hide their inner anguish and yell at family to stop showing how the drinking hurts them too.  It is a vicious cycle of guilt and pain.  Eventually, you stop feeling.  You grow cold and numb.  It was the coldness and compete absence of joy that finally woke me up. I had to float slowly back up from those depths.

Having an Ex in recovery and working through those feelings was harder and easier in ways I didn’t expect.  He also had to find his joy again and do it while sober. He built new coping skills.  He went through therapy.  He had many people guiding him.  The result of this was that he became someone who knows the process.  He looks at me and wants to ‘fix’ me too.  He actually wants to fix everyone he comes in contact with.  His hyper focus on healing and therapy has brought him to this strange place where that’s all he sees.  He sees everyone’s faults and psychoses and wants to ‘heal’ you too.  It’s the pendulum swing.  I hope and pray he gets over that too.

Before I realized this was happening, I listened to him to a greater extent.  He was better at recovery than I was.  I left him and my life got suddenly and quickly more normal.  I began to feel fine again. I didn’t go through a huge cathartic healing like he did.  But then I didn’t go through that many meetings or grief over my lost life. I did but in a different way. I had gone through so much anguish in the choosing to leave. Once I left though, I did not look back on my decision.  What’s done is done. 

So, here I am, seemingly fine.  Moving on with life.  Occasionally being told by my Ex that I must have this deep well of emotion buried in me that is going to break out and drown me.  His drowned him for a while, that was for sure.  I saw it and experienced it. I wondered about it.  Do I? Is there this scary buried well of emotion inside me just waiting to drown me?

I’ve talked about my many reasons for moving towards a D/s relationship. One of them had to do with this fear.  Can edge play push me to find that well and experience those emotions?  Is this a way to break out of the cocoon?  While playing with Mr. D, I have found myself being tested and prodded and my buttons pushed. I have experienced many emotions but nothing has triggered this possible well of pain to surface. I began to stop worrying about it so much. 

Now that I am grieving for my mom, a very hard emotional thing, I  see more about how I process emotion.  I am in pain.  I am grieving.  I feel it ebb and flow over me.  Most days now I am completely fine and life is good.  Some days, though, I can feel the emotion well up and I sob for a few minutes here and there.  Then it passes and I am fine again. 

Mr. D worried that our D/s might have resumed too soon. I understand that concern.  I can feel myself react to his play differently right now.  I am more fragile.  I can feel that and I see myself taking our play more to heart.  That’s okay.  It gives me chances to experience the well of emotion that is me.  Now that I see my way of dealing with life, I don’t fear that I’m some emotional ticking time bomb. 

Mr. D gave me the final piece to this puzzle the other day.  At my mom’s memorial a good friend of mine broke down and cried.  She got semi-mad at me and asked, “But why aren’t you crying, too?” She feels that I’m entirely too level, too happy most of the time. I’ve been told that by other friends.  They think I’m too even all the time.  That it’s weird, in their eyes, that nothing bothers me. I relayed her comments to Mr. D and he immediately said, “But you’ve been feeling it for weeks now.” He’s right.  I have.  

I’m done doubting myself and fearing that I don’t feel like others feel.  I don’t and that’s perfectly alright.  We all feel emotions in our own unique ways.  I allow for others to feel and react as they choose.  From now on, I will give myself the same courtesy.

19 Days

It has been 19 days since I last wrote.  It is probably the longest dry spell since I began writing for Mr. D.  It has been far too long.

My mother passed away.  Amidst the grieving and planning her funeral and memorial, I lost my drive.  Not just the drive to write but the drive to do much of anything.  I think it was the pendulum swing from over-worked, over-focused on caring for a loved one, and pretty much an over-filled life. I dropped down a rabbit hole of ‘I don’t want to work and I don’t want to do anything.’

After her memorial, the Monday after, my need to get things done finally came back to me.  I worked through my desk with a singleminded drive that was infused into my psyche.  I spent a solid week and came out with a pristine desk and a real do-to list of valid projects to carry my company to Christmas.  That felt amazing.

Then I took two weeks off.  I’m on day three of my vacation.  I have worked solidly in the same manner on home projects.  I had a massive volunteer project that languished while mom was ill. I had to wrap that up and I turned it all over today.  Finally, my plate is much less full. 

This evening I showered and dressed for Mr. D.  The only thing on my plate was serving him.  It felt good, it felt like I was home after so long. We have had our time together through all this and Mr. D has been incredibly supportive.  But today I feel like I can breathe and that I can return to being focused on us…on our dynamic again.