Bowing to The Path

Sometimes what comes along in the day to day business of slavery is annoying, irritating, frustrating, aggravating, or simply boring. The act of having taken His collar did not remove from me the impulse toward self-will that drives all those other emotional responses when I am thwarted in my own desires of the moment. He can be demanding for reasons that make no reasonable sense, in ways that drive me just wild. Sometimes, I believe He is inconsiderate and rude, simply because He can be -- purely to assert His control, and it makes me nuts. In those moments, when I most want to shriek my fury, I find it is the deepest part of my slave self that leads me to the calm of the bow... Here is where I find it necessary to remember to follow the path I've chosen, for I am slave even when Master is an unreasonable oaf... I do not need a reason to follow. I need only to follow.

swan

Migraine Monster From Hell

Beginning just before lunch yesterday, I found myself in the grip of a major migraine headache. It started softly and quietly, and I didn't pay much attention at first.

I've come to not fear these monsters as I once did. I have chemical allies that keep most of these hideous attacks at bay, and I rarely suffer a serious bout that really knocks me out. With daily doses of Topamax, probably 85-90% of all the headaches that I once had never occur at all. If I do get one, I fall back on a medication, called Amerge, that typically ends an attack in 30-45 minutes. I tend to dislike taking Amerge because it has side effects that are uncomfortable and that make it difficult for me to continue on with my regular activities (it causes me to feel freezing cold and devastatingly sleepy), but it does forestall the agony of the headache so it is a reasonable trade off if it gets right down to it.

Yesterday, however, was not within the range of my usual experience. Maybe it was the advance of a major transitional spring weather front through our region. Maybe it is the still shifting hormonal balance as my body adjusts to the new post-hysterectomy reality. Maybe it is the fact that I have been reducing the levels of my Topamax to see if I couldn't wean myself off the medication altogether now that I no longer cope with estrogen variances month to month as a migraine triggering mechanism. Who knows? Whatever was going on, my head started to hurt just before lunch. Not terribly, but noticeably. This in spite of the fact that I'd gotten up feeling really well in the morning.

So, I took some tylenol with my lunch -- hoping to forestall any advance to more serious problems, and hoping to avoid having to go to the heavy hitting migraine medicine. No dice. I got a little bit of a back off, but by 2:00 when my planning time rolled around, I knew I was in trouble. So, I gave in and took an Amerge, and went to the teachers' lounge and laid down on the couch there -- and went sound asleep. Half an hour later, when the end of the day announcements started, I was groggy, and in serious pain. Not a good sign; and not the usual pattern either. Generally, Amerge and sleep knock the headaches right out.

I stumbled through dismissal. Got the kids on their way. Put in my obligatory time after school and dragged myself to my car to try and get home. Thank goodness there was plenty of cloud cover and no bright sun to contend with. Still groggy from the drug, my drive home was both miserable and probably less than safe, but I made it. Reeling, feeling nauseous, I stumbled into the house, stripped out of my clothes and crawled into bed -- and dropped into a fitful sleep. The meeting that I was supposed to attend with Master was obviously a no go.

At 6:00, thinking that my head would explode from the pressure, I took a second dose of the medication (the maximum allowable in a 24-hour period), and unable to eat or drink anything at all, stumbled back to bed where I thrashed and flailed in a daze of blazing pain.

At 8:00, with my head still continuing to pound, and the levels of misery still escalating, I was beginning to panic. Normally, I would expect relief from the first dose of the medication, but certainly the second would have knocked the pain. This time there was not only no relief, but things were getting worse and worse. I called a substitute to take my classes and called my school principal to tell her that I would not be at school in the morning. I contemplated calling an ambulance, wondering if perhaps I was suffering something besides simply a migraine. I found an ice pack. I considered whether there was any arsenic in the house...

Eventually, Master came home from His meeting, convinced me to try some Advil (4 tablets and not the 28 that I suggested -- He reminded me that even with a headache I could still be paddled!). Sometime in the night, the weather front passed and the headache subsided, leaving me simultaneously exhausted and relieved. I curled, finally, into His chest and slept the dreamless sleep that the waning drugs leave me with. No place to go this morning was a welcome gift as I was certainly in no shape to move and groove with rooms full of adolescent and pre-adolescent youngsters first thing. The fuzziness is slowly subsiding and I am finding myself, glad to be alive.

How devastating though, to find oneself leveled so suddenly by forces unseen and so nebulous as the approaching weather. Even as I struggle to regain my health and vitality, to return to the routines that give shape and joy to our lives and our relating, it is daunting and scary to know that the vagaries of the weather can knock me out from afar and keep me muddled and mewling in my bed for hours and days, and that not all the medical science at my disposal can save me or keep me upright. Damn and double damn!

Ah well, back to it. Keep on working at it. Keep on trying. Human it would seem. The fictions that they write about the lifestyle never seem to take into account all these wicked frailties that beset us. And no wonder. Little romance in the puking realities of migraines, in the stark nakedness of post-surgical scars, in the dim, grimmness of weak humans struggling up from sick beds to simply make it through the next hour or the next day. How much more attractive the ever virile, ever lovely heroes and heroines of the lusty porn industry. Too bad we can't live in that world forever...

swan

Remembering in Springtime...

It was just about four years ago that I got on a plane from Denver to Cincinnati to spend a week with Master and T. It was spring break for me, and it was approximately three months before my eventual relocation to Cincinnati to live. Until that time, we'd visited for the occasional weekend now and then, but we'd never had extended time to spend together. Too, this trip, I was traveling alone, without my husband. Our spring vacations from our different teaching assignments did not match, and so he was not able to travel with me -- I was on my own.

To say that I was excited and anticipating the time would be a vast understatement. Master and I had gotten into spending long stretches of time on the phone in the late evenings by this time, and the agony of being apart was growing with each passing day. A whole week together seemed an unimaginable luxury.

I know it might seem odd, but I was a terrible innocent as I stepped on that plane. I had no real sense of what it was that I was flying into. I knew the hunger that had grown between us across the miles that separated us. I knew that we would surely indulge in the kind of SM play that, until now, we'd only talked about. I knew that we'd discussed the possibility of a switching, although I surely was not at all certain about the reality of that as an actual fact. I had no inkling at all, at that juncture, of the depth to which He and I would eventually go with that aspect of our relating. I only knew that He quite naturally answered something in me that had long sought a response. And, if I was naive from the SM side of things, I was even more so from the sexual side of things. We'd had so little chance, before this to experiment, to connect, to actually find our way together as a couple sexually. I wondered what we would come to be with one another, given time to explore that part of our relationship. Then, too, I had no idea how all of that would work out between the three of us. We'd talked about the idea of polyamory. We'd agreed to that as path. As a concept, it made sense, but it was all new. Actually doing it, however, was a little daunting. How exactly was I going to walk into the home of my dear friends, and my deepest loves, and simply be as I hoped I would be -- loving but not getting stuck in the patterns of thinking and feeling that I'd been taught all my life. I was breathless, scared, and amazed with the vistas that were open before me... It was a very long plane ride.

That week became, for us, a honeymoon of sorts. Thanks to the wonderful giving heart of T, Master and I loved the week away, played voraciously, walked and talked and explored like the starving lovers that we were. I cooked in T's kitchen each evening, we took lunches to her each day at work, she and I shopped for goodies that I could take back to my kids at school, and about Wednesday, He and I started to mourn the approach of the end of the week. It was an amazing, sensual, hot, fabulous whirl. It laid groundwork for our eventual coming together. It gave us some patterning for our future. It gave us much needed sustenance for the three months that were yet ahead of us before we could truly come together to live as family. It remains as treasured memory of a shining time that will forever be held as a precious beginning. Whenever we get to feeling tired, stressed, pressed to the limit, and bored with the realities of our sometimes oh-so-daily feeling routines, we pull out the remembrance of that fleeting week when we came together for the first time as lovers and dwelt magically together in a gossamer web of innocence and wonderment and pure joyful abandonment.

swan

Sugasm #27

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Sadist Taking What is His

He began with His hand, spanking hard, pausing occasionally to stroke the curves as if remembering; reminding Himself of what was His. Rolled into His chest, I held on, clinging to the one solid reality in my universe; focusing on His presence, His warmth, His rhythms -- trying to ride the waves that He was unleashing on me.

Hand spanking doesn't usually last. For us, it is usually a brief passage, but this morning it went on and on, stroking fire into my flesh; setting the stage and evoking the mood.

With time, I reached the point of quivering anticipation and He left me. Seeking. I waited. He returned with cuffs and straps to bind me into place under His power and for His desire.

Restrained and positioned, I learned my fate: leather tawse, paddle, whip...

His pleasure. One hundred strokes with each implement -- broken into sets of twenty-five.

The tawse first; heavy and sharp. Double thicknesses of heavy hide, measuring an inch and a half in width, and split at the end. Eliciting gasps along with the first welts and blood. "I love you, Sir. I love you, Sir. I love you, Sir!" My mantra as the blows fell everywhere. Before this, the bleeding would have brought things to a halt, but He went and found the box of bandaids and patched the wounds and went right on. Twenty-five, and twenty-five, and twenty-five, and twenty-five again.

A short respite as my breathing slowed a bit, and then He brought out a large, heavy wooden, sport paddle. The burn of wood combined with the pounding impact of weight, and a size that leaves no escape. The first twenty-five strokes were like being beaten with a board. Gasps turned to shrieks and then to sobs and begging. More bandaids as the blood began to splash and splatter. For the second set, He switched to the Jokari paddle; just as heavy, but slightly smaller in terms of area. Did He alternate between the two? I don't remember. The paddling left deep bruises across my ass and thighs.

Two hundred strokes into our session, it was time for His whips. Two of them: One is constructed of a supple leather with a soft suede tip. It stings when it lands and raises lurid wedge shaped welts with every strike. The other is a five-foot, 24-plait singletail whip, given Him as a birthday gift two years ago. Its cracker burns like liquid fire, leaving bright red lines wherever it lands. Beginning with the rubber whip, He alternated sets of twenty-five strokes as my body jerked, and the breath tore from my lungs. The pain was simply layered too richly for me to sort or comprehend by that time...

And then it was over. I'd come through it all. He released my bonds. Lifted my sore and bruised body onto His and let me love Him. Secure and reassured, it was a good morning, a good day, a good night...

The masochist needs the sadist to take what can only be offered. It is a duality that cannot be realized in the singular.

swan

Someones to care for me

In 51 years of living, I've never had anyone take care of me, like Master and T do. I have always had to do the taking care of. It is my natural instinct and first move and absolute assumption.

These last few months have been hard. Between feeling crappy and facing the loss of my job (and potentially my career) as my school closes, I've been an absolute mess. And I am not good at asking for or accepting help or support. I simply go inside and try and tough it out. It is the pattern of a lifetime. I don't expect that anyone will be there, and so I don't look for it. Still.

Then... A new teaching position appeared. Wonderfully. A really good one. That is a much better match for my talents and style and personality. There have been some issues in terms of salary, but we've figured we could work with it. I have wanted this spot so much, but the negotiations have been sort of tricky. Master has been right there -- coaching and advising and cheering. And T has been pulling for me and rooting for me and waiting with baited breath for the final word. I have never, ever had anyone to care for me like this.

Today, I have accepted the new position. I am thrilled. We are thrilled. It is good. And I am in tears for how well cared for I have been through the entire ordeal.

swan

You are Better than Me

There are parts of my life about which I am utterly secure and supremely confident. In my classroom, I am completely comfortable, relaxed, and at ease. I understand the dynamics, and I am certain of my skills. I believe, absolutely, that I can and will be able to handle what is required of me in that environment.

Likewise, I have great faith in my ability to "read" people and interpret situations. I've got great radar and real skill at figuring out what motivates people to act the way they do most of the time. I may be quiet in most social settings, but I am seldom at a loss for understanding what is going on around me. Most often (if I have my druthers in a social environment), you'll find me quietly observing the swirl from the edge. I like it like that.

I've lived more than a few years. Made tough choices -- not all of them wise. Taken some bumps. Had my share of disasters and disappointments. Like most women of "a certain age" I've earned my gray hairs and my battle scars. I'm not some flighty, flirty, delicate youngster with an unformed ego that can't take a blow without crumpling.

But, damn, I'm not unshakeable. I am a masochist and I am a slave. Those are not simply labels. The words describe a level of personal self-knowing and self-acceptance that has not come easily. Embracing that self was not a smooth or simple process from the beginning, and living with the truth of that reality is not always straightforward for me. I wish it were.

I think Poiesia captures some of what goes on for me. There is great freedom, great affirmation, great liberation, and great power in finally knowing and owning this part of who I am; in recognizing it, in making the life choices that bring it to fruition in my world. All of that is good and positive and valuable, and I do not regret any of the choices that have brought me to this place -- would not change any of it.

But it is not always easy. Or even often easy. And, because we are not blessed with a vibrant or active local lifestyle community, except for the "voices" that pour forth from the words that appear on the computer screen, I live that choice without others to model it, to share it, to compare notes with, to simply lean on in the moments when I falter or doubt or am afraid. Our family lives in nearly total isolation as far as our orientation is concerned. There are some "kinky" folks in our area, but they are mostly not available to us for a variety of reasons.

That's hard. One of the great advantages to community is the ability to learn and share and support -- up close and personal. But honestly, there are days (when I am feeling wobbly and less than sure of myself), when I know -- KNOW for an absolute, incontrovertible fact that every single one of the masochists that writes in this medium, and every slave is better at this whole business than I am.

There is no logic to that. It is the game that I run down on myself in my own head. When I'm feeling sane and centered, I understand that. I know this is not a contest, and that I only need to please the One I serve. I realize that comparisons based on imaginings are silly and foolish and the stuff that makes for craziness, but I seem bent on a crazy path these days.

So, I convince myself that I am just no good. Not what is wanted or needed. That there are lots and lots of willing and able others just waiting in the wings to take my place. And then I tell myself that since I am no good, that is what should happen after all. It is a spiral that leads ever downward.

No one does this to me. It is the darkness of late winter and the cumulative effect of too much time spent alone with my own thoughts. Perhaps it is partly hormonal. I cannot tell. All I know is that I seem inclined to take bits and pieces of this and that, and string it together in an emotional stew that just gets wilder and wilder until it finally boils over into some terrible mess.

Perhaps, as He assures me, it will get better as I continue to heal and get stronger and we can return to our once customary patterns. Perhaps then I will feel assured that I am not "losing" my orientation to all of this and somehow reneging on a promise made. In the meantime, just know that you quite often appear "better than me."

swan

Scary

I teach. It is work that outsiders see as primarily the delivery of "content" from me to the students in my classroom. Certainly, there is that in what I do. It's important to be able to share the intricacies of fractions and percentages and circumferences and probablilities... I spend my days in an intricate mixture of "science" and "performance" that is intended to seduce and reassure; to leave all my charges secure and sure of their ability to understand and master mysteries that, too often, parents, older siblings, and primary grade teachers have convinced them are beyond the ken of mere mortals...

For me, however, teaching is a work of heart. It is, from the first day of the school year to the last, about building relationships, about caring consciously and with intention, about "falling in love" with the children given to my care each year. I am convinced that unless you love them in some way that borders on "insanity," you simply cannot engage and teach middle school students. They have radar that tells them with absolute certainty whether or not you care, and if they know you don't care, you can have the wisdom of Solomon -- you won't be able to teach them a whit.

So, I work hard at getting wrapped up with "my" kids. There's a cost to that, but it is almost always worth it.

Somedays though, it scares the crap out of me. Wednesday was one of those days. It was pouring rain here; dark and dismal and damply cold. At about 2:00 in the afternoon, approaching the end of our school day, and about ten minutes into my planning period, the fire alarm sounded.

Now, we do fire drills monthly, as required by law. Our principal is obsessive about this. She is also, generally, good about trying to make the required practices as painless as possible. She works hard at choosing the day and time so that we are not flushed out of our classes into miserable weather. So, when the alarm sounded, my first thought was, "Good grief, she's lost her mind -- it's raining!"

And then it hit me -- "OH SHIT! IT'S RAINING! WE'VE GOT A PROBLEM!"

Because it was a planning period for me, I had no students in my classroom. I tore out into the hallway, and immediately I could smell the smoke... There is nothing more chilling than the smell of smoke in a school building full of children.

The kids were on the move; walking patterns drilled into them month after month, but not moving fast enough. They had a million questions: "What's happening?" "Why are we going out in the rain?" "Is there really a fire?" The noise of the alarms, and the noise of their confusion rose like the roar of ocean waves threatening to drown us all.

"MOVE!" I shouted. "GO, GO, GO!" We worked as a team, keeping them calm, moving them out and down the stairs and out into the pouring rain. We checked every room and closed doors as we went. No one flinched and no one faltered. All that practice, and a good bit of adrenaline, paid off. Every child out. Safe. Not a single injury.

It turned out to be a fire set in a bathroom trash can. A lot of smoke. A melted trash bin. No real damage and no one hurt.

Afterwards, with fire department and police officials on hand to take care of the "stuff," with the kids delivered safely into the arms of parents, with the faculty meeting to "debrief" all over and done with, and with the story told at home, I finally had time to think a bit and realize how truly scary those moments were when the well-being of all those precious children were in the hands of just us few. All week long, as we've gone back to "normal," I've carried with me a quiet song of gratitude in my heart -- that it was no worse, that it did not result in tragedy, that we were all alright.

And I've been reminded of the truth that this work I do is more than just passing on information -- that I bring so much more to the table than what I "know." I can't hug them or squeeze them or hold them close -- people would find that inappropriate and unprofessional. Still, there are days when I realize what each of their lives comes to mean to me, and it scares me.

swan

A Knife "Crisis"

There are some oddities about our life that are simultaneously strange, funny, and illustrative. If I paint for you the picture of the moment, then you will get a clearer picture of how we are together, and you will most likely laugh at the absurdity of our antics, but you may also get a sense of how we interact when we are deeply in touch with one another as Master and slave and as lovers...

Master is a collector of knives. Now, if you are picturing a handful of pocket knives or some similar image, you are way off the mark. Think hundreds of sharp, pointy objects ranging from the tiniest little pocket knife all the way up through swords and daggers of all types and descriptions -- not to mention a few hatchets and hawks thrown in just for the heck of it. He collects them, he studies them, he relates to them, he caresses and fondles and scratches with them. He knows every one of them intimately and is obsessive about the things. Seldom is He without four or five or six or more of them on His person. They adorn our walls, fill baskets, bins and drawers around our home, and are simply a pervasive part of our world.

On any given day, He is likely to be "hooked" on one or more of His treasures. In that mode, the knife in question becomes even more special than it would otherwise be. He carries it with Him everywhere and becomes very wrapped up in the sensuous nature and weight and feel of HIS KNIFE. T and I have come to find this knife fetish pretty much the normal way of things and we pretty much just work around it. So what's the big deal that there are knives at the dinner table and knives in the bed and knives in the car and ... Well you get the picture.

It only gets dicey when the current "knife du jour" goes missing. Because, of course, if you have an ADHD person carrying around half a dozen extranous objects through a busy and demanding schedule (and messing with such objects at every possible opportunity) there is no way that they are not going to get mislaid every now and then. He leaves them everywhere -- in every pocket, on every flat surface, in the bed clothes, under the bed, in the bath room, in the kitchen, in the car, at the office, ... Arrrghhhhh!

Well, last night was one of those "work all day, tear home, fly around like a lunatic and get gussied up to look like a girl (complete with hose and foundation garments), attend another awards banquet until "dark thirty," drag home and take care of the cat-coffee pot-CPAP-bed turn down-lunch pails, and consider the possibility of finally collapsing in the snuggy warm jammies and slippers...

BUT THEN DISASTER STRUCK: A Knife Crisis!!! The current knife darling, a bone handled, Scottish, kilt knife, turned up missing -- at 10:30 P.M.

I've learned enough by now to know that, however I might feel about a missing knife at 10:30 at night, for Master this is a serious thing. It will not do to brush this off. It is not going to work to say, "we'll look for it in the morning." It is not going to cut it to suggest that the errant piece of weaponry will surely "turn up." A missing knife is, until it is found, a pure, unadulterated, bona fide, crisis. Too, there is nothing that will create a Master/slave battle faster than for me to show the least bit of "attitude" in the face of His angst over the unexplained absence of a knife. His loss is a loss to be shared and fully experienced lest one wants to raise Masterly anxiety to Masterly ire...

So, last night, in my silly snuggy jammies and slippers, and in my very sweetest, most concerned, calmest manner, I began the hunt for the missing knife: I looked in the pockets of all His coats and all His pants and all His suit coats. I looked in the kitchen and the bathrooms. I checked the pantry and the refrigerator and the freezer (don't laugh!). I looked around the computer and on the dining table and under the bed and through all the bed clothes. I went through all the knife baskets and through His dresser drawers. He went twice out to the car we'd driven to the awards banquet, but had no luck. We've often joked that wives can find missing items because we simply hone in on them with "uterine" radar, but I didn't seem to have any radar without the uterus... I could see He was getting frantic, and I was running out of ideas. Finally, in desperation, I took the flashlight and the car keys and made one last trip out to the car, in my jammies and slippers, in the rain. I looked under the driver's seat, in the back seats, and under the passenger seat. Then, just as I was about to give up, I spotted the tip of the scabbard sticking out from between the passenger seat and the front console. There it was!!! The wayward knife!!! Slid down between the passenger seat and the console and all but invisible in the dark.

I nearly danced a jig on the dark, wet, rainy driveway as I snatched it up and scurried back indoors. I knew He'd be thrilled and relieved, not to see me (bedraggled and wet), but to have His beloved knife back. Sometimes, it is in the oddest things that we serve. Sometimes it is in the silliest things that a slave takes joy...

swan

Dealing with Anger and Rage -- a question

Once again, a question from a comment has me thinking at a level that is more complex than I want to respond to in the comment area of the last post. Here's what kaya asked in response to the post about paddling:

"I'm curious how you work through that period of bitterness and rage?"

It is an interesting question. The truth is that I really don't think that I DO anything to work through the sense of anger and fury that often comes up for me in session. I believe that response is rooted deep in early childhood traumas that have nothing at all to do with what is going on at the moment -- exactly. Anytime I am dropped into a position of helplessness, powerlessness, and perceived "aloneness," I experience a reaction which goes very quickly to black rage. Our early play brought forward memories that helped me reconstruct maternal abuse and neglect that I had endured when I was very small. I still react in a very visceral way at the edge where control is surrendered. It is a difficult passage for me.

What I find is that I need to be taken through that place. It is one of the reasons that I often am more comfortable with restraints than without them. I know that there will be a place, if things get intense, where I will have to battle to stay (physically and emotionally). Restraints take some of the responsibility for all of that off of me. If He will stay with me, hold on to me, and simply go where He intends to go even in the face of my fury, I most often will find a peaceful place on the other side of it all. My rages very seldom last through the session, unless somehow it is aborted in the middle of it all. It is only when that happens that I can get stuck in a pouty and unhappy dark place.

I do think that the difficulty with that bit of the dynamic is that there are often very bitter places in mid-session that are sometimes quite hard for Master. It is one thing for a sadist to want to inflict pain. It is quite another to have the one you love spitting and hissing like a wild animal ready to gnaw your arms off.

That is a difficult balance: for Him to push in the way that gives Him (and ultimately me) deep pleasure, knowing that when He gets me there, He will likely have to manage a slave that is not entirely soft, sweet or gentle in the passage.

swan

A new sense of things...

Master has the advantage of working at home at least part of the time. There are whole days when the things that He needs to do can be managed with His cell phone and His laptop computer, such that He really never needs to leave the house. On days like that, it can be nearly impossible to ascertain His actual whereabouts even if I'm in fairly regular contact with Him throughout the day -- unless of course I actually ask the question...

Monday turned out to be one of those kinds of days. I taught all day, checking in with Him by IM as I had spare moments, but just assuming that He was "at work." When my day was finished, I sent a quick IM telling Him that I was packing to leave and got back a quick one from Him stating that He was looking forward to "having me." I didn't give that much thought and headed out to my car. Once there, I think I even phoned Him and told Him I was on my way, and we chatted for a few minutes as I drove home. Those calls are routine for us, and seldom last long as I don't feel safe driving while I talk because of my "one-ear" limitation related to my hearing loss. Anyway, I zipped on home fairly quickly knowing it was one of our "banquet" nights and figuring I'd have to zip around and get gussied up to go out. Imagine my surprise when I arrived to find Him there, having clearly never left at all...

It quickly became clear that He had plans for me before we got ready to go out for the evening. I was barely through the door, still laden with all the bags and junk that we teachers tote around with us, when He had me by the hand and was dragging me into the house... I did manage to get my lunch bag dropped off in the kitchen, and wiggle out of my coat before He dragged me off to the bedroom...

In the blink of an eye, He'd tipped me over the edge of the bed and had whacked me a couple of cracks with the Hanson paddle that He obviously had placed close at the ready. Yelping, I squirmed out of the way, completely unprepared for the suddeness of it all. Without a moments hesitation, He grabbed my wrist cuffs and a strap for around my knees and proceeded to restrain me.

That calmed me some and centered me into the place of a more quiet acceptance of what was coming. Stacking up some pillows, and now pulling up my "school marm" dress, He dumped me back onto the edge of the bed. This time He did give me the gift of a warmup, spanking me thoroughly with His hand until I could feel the heat rising through my tights (He does love it when He catches me wearing tights). Then it was back to the paddle, and this time I was caught. He'd been promising for weeks that there would again come a time when He'd spank and not worry about whether I liked it or not... I suspect this was the commencement of that reassertion of His place. I begged. I yelped and cried and hollared and squirmed. He went right on. It was, with the exception of the warmup, entirely His pleasure that was being served.

When it was ended, I was exhausted, spent. I was also amazed. Normally, in such a session, I hit a spot of bitterness, rage, and denial. If it came up, it was so brief as to be unnoticed. He took me, and took me through it all. I never had the opportunity to deny Him or to deny myself. When it was over, I was sure; of Him and of myself. It was wonderful to lie in His arms, worn out and shaking and still teary from the pain, but knowing who I was at last, and to whom I absolutely belonged.

He promised, in the aftermath, that there would be regular repeats. I am sure there will be. I've always thought I hated His paddles. This is the first time I can remember being grateful for the pain He brings me with those dreaded implements.

swan

Will it Never End?

Here's another one of THOSE places.

Two days from now, our staff at school will be having an in-service day. It was originally scheduled as a day when we would be joining with other schools in our area for a "religion" in-service (always a dreadful ordeal), but because our school is closing and our kids are being "sucked" up by one of the other nearby schools, our principal took pity on us and decided not to make us go sit at the scheduled event and look pathetic all day. Instead, she has arranged for what is being billed as a "Reunification of Body-Mind-and-Soul" in-service, which is code for a day at a local hospital "healthplex." It is a very nice "gift" for a very stressed out faculty where folks are feeling pretty used and abused at the moment. Here's the agenda for the day --

REUNIFICATION OF BODY-MIND-AND SOUL
IN-SERVICE MARCH 10, 2006


-- Use of all of the following: conference room, tennis courts, pool, fitness floor
racquet ball courts, basketball courts, and locker rooms including whirlpool, sauna,
and steam rooms.

-- Yoga (if you choose)

-- Aqua Power

-- Massage therapy -- 15 minute chair massage

Nice, huh? There's just one catch. My preferences for such a day would run toward the pool, the whirlpool, and the sauna... And I have a seven inch tall set of initials carved into my left shoulder blade.

I love that cutting. I wear clothes that are selected to show it off whenever I reasonably can. Having it there thrills me to my core.

However, I do not share it with my co-workers at school. They all believe that I am a single lady. Unattached. Divorced these two years -- since they've all known me.

So... time to dig up the swimming suit that covers the thing. I remember hunting high and low for that suit. There are very few that are cut in a fashion that the shoulder blades are covered, but I did manage to find one. At the time, the idea was to "protect" the sensibilities of Master's young son. I seldom wear it. It is the least comfortable and least flattering of all my swimwear. Oh well... Sometimes a person needs to be prudent.

I'll be reunifying my body/mind/soul under appropriately secretive attire. None will be any the wiser at the end of the day.

swan

Vanilla Immersion

We have periods of time when the "unique" nature of our relationship creates some interesting opportunities and dilemmas for us.

I am "not wife" in the eyes of the world. Therefore, there are capacities related to Master's work where T is prohibited from serving precisely because she is "wife" but I am not. We take advantage of that technicality to a degree, and I serve as a volunteer with His agency in a role where it would be viewed as "inappropriate" for His wife to do so. Conversely, there are some public events where the attendance of "wife" is expected, and where I am "extra" and therefore my attendance needs to be (at a minimum) explained.

It is "banquet" season in the public policy/advocacy arena. T and I sometimes bemoan this as "girlie clothes" season -- also sometimes referred to as "foundation garment torture." There is a seemingly unending series of dinners and awards banquets to attend at this time of the year, all of them requiring fancy dress, and smiling faced "wifeliness."

As might be imagined, this sort of thing presents some challenges for our family. T attends many of these as her work schedule allows, in the role of "wife." I attend just as many in the role of "agency volunteer" -- an interesting balancing act, given that there are many in the circle of political folks around us who wonder at our connection but cannot possibly conceive of the reality. We go blithely on, letting the gossips wag their tongues -- hiding in plain sight.

Still it can be wearing when done in heavy doses. It requires us to behave as "neighbors," "colleagues," "friends," "professional associates," with no personal or intimate connection or relatedness beyond our technical/formal association of the moment. We have to watch our actions, conversations, and responses to one another with extreme care in these settings. We walk a tight rope out in public so that our secret remains a secret...

To be honest, after awhile, when I've had a bit of the masquerading, I start to get annoyed. The fact is that the rules that make all the secrecy and hiding and denial of our reality necessary are grounded on a societal bias that is so deeply ingrained and so unshakeable that it is an assumed "right" that becomes a threat to all who would question or challenge it. That's us. Even those who would argue for same gender marriage or civil unions or domestic partner laws, most often will react negatively when the subject of multiple partners comes up. Our sort of lifestyle choice scares the willies out of everybody. And that's before you add the BDSM dynamic to the mix...

Makes a person downright grumpy. We are living in a culture that is awash in vanilla monogamous righteous self-delusion, and the pervasiveness of that social dishonesty forms the foundation of a tacit agreement that it is OK to leave a segment of the society out of the game: to declare open season on our families, our right to work, our choices about where we live, our very lives.

I spend a lot of my days immersed in a vanilla culture -- pretending to be "just like everybody else," keeping the secrets about who I am and how I live. I know the reasons for doing it. I admire and envy those who choose not to do that, or who do not have to do that. And sometimes, like now, when I'm dressing up and smiling sweetly at vanilla folks who just think they have it "right" somehow, I find that the whole vanilla world annoys the crap out of me for their smugness...

swan

Friday Night

We are finding our way back from our long hiatus.

To me, it feels as if we are searching through a thick fog. We are sometimes so tentative with each other. These are scary times. Neither of us is sure of our ground. So many issues and questions cloud the normally straightforward flow of power that passes between us. It has been unsettling, to say the least. We are both on edge.

Friday night though, as we settled in to the quiet of our bed, after a long and exhausting week, something clicked and we were back in touch with one another at a level that I've been missing now for a very long time... We'd crawled in, snuggled up, feeling warm and cozy, and honestly tired and battered after all the many pulls and drains from outside our little world. Knowing that we had to be up early Saturday for a very demanding, potentially difficult professional day together, I believed that, once again, we would likely simply curl into one another and go to sleep.

As I luxuriated in His arms, nodding and drowsy and content, I felt His hands stroking down my belly toward my mound. In moments, He was there with intent and demand, pushing the covers away and pushing my legs apart. At first, it was light and playful as His love taps fell on my cunt lips, exciting me and waking me up from my almost sleep. Soon though, He was stepping up the pace and slapping harder and harder as I moaned and yelped with each impact, struggling to stay open to the onslaught. And then He'd back off and stroke and soothe and murmer into my panting awareness, before beginning again... Over and over and over. Moving between my pussy and my breasts. Stepping up from His hand to a heavy leather paddle. Eventually turning me over and paddling my ass as well.

So sure of Himself. So sure of me. So completely sure of us. In that spontaneous moment, we were again the unity we have been and know we can be. There was no fear in us, no weighing of one another, no struggling to find a path. We simply were with and for one another in the way we know best and it was good and strong and plain and pure.

It isn't all there yet. We've had a bump or two or three since that precious moment. We've also soared a time or two. We're battling our way to wellness and wholeness and connection.

The moments where we actually make it give us hope. The moments where we crash and burn frustrate us both. Still, we know how really good and right we are together.

swan

Five Love Languages

This was an interesting little quiz that I found on danae's blog Danae Whispering. I found it remarkably on target for what works for me to make me "feel" loved and "safe."

swan

The Five Love Languages

My primary love language is probably
Physical Touch
with a secondary love language being
Quality Time.

Complete set of results

Physical Touch:		12
Quality Time:		9
Words of Affirmation:		5
Acts of Service:		3
Receiving Gifts:		0

Information

Unhappiness in relationships, according to Dr. Gary Chapman, is often due to the fact that we speak different love languages. Sometimes we don't understand our partner's requirements, or even our own. We all have a "love tank" that needs to be filled in order for us to express love to others, but there are different means by which our tank can be filled, and there are different ways that we can express love to others.

Take the quiz

Exhaustion

Exhaustion is the sea that I've been swimming in for the last several months. T jokes that if you leave me still for five minutes, I will go straight to sleep -- anywhere, anytime, under almost any circumstances, and in darn near any position. I know that it is sometimes a matter of great merriment to my family.

But it really isn't all that funny. It is a functional reality that is based in an ongoing health mystery that we just can't seem to get solved. My hemoglobin (the oxygen carrying component of red blood cells) ought to be measuring somewhere between 12 and 16, and it is steadily dropping. Last check, it was down to 9.2. The theory was that the issue was the steady, uncontrolled bleeding that was part of the motivation and deciding factor for the hysterectomy. Then we figured that there was some drop as a result of the surgery itself, and that we would, after the recovery period was passed, see the numbers start to come back up. That has not happened. Without enough hemoglobin, everycell in my body is starving for oxygen, and I spend all my time feeling like I've just run up eight flights of stairs.

Feeling wiped out all the time has consequences on all sorts of levels. Obviously, I struggle to get the basic stuff of daily living done. My job, and my household responsibilities leave me wasted at the end of the day. I collapse into bed each night with barely enough energy left to whisper my good-nights... I'm a party happening. Beyond that, though, is the emotional wackiness that comes from feeling just flattened all the time. A day or two of feeling like this is one thing, but when it goes on and on and on and on, it begins to wear on the mental stability. I am finding that I am tender and extremely sensitive to the least little things. I cry. I pout. I bristle. Over things that would have never even ruffled me in another time. The reality is that I have no reserves with which to balance or manage any extra stress. So it is very easy to tip me over.

The other issue in the whole evil stew is fear. No one seems to know what is causing this. If you go to your friendly neighborhood Internet search engine and type in "anemia," you will get a long list of possible causes for the critter. The top few are mostly related to dietary deficiencies and can be fixed with some changes in eating habits and/or some simple supplementation. Beyond that, things get seriously scary in a very big, damn hurry. I've been supplementing iron, folic acid, vitamin C, and brewer's yeast for all of 2 months now. The numbers are still dropping. What should I think about that? I want to be positive about this, but I can read and sometimes, I think that is a bad skill to have...

So when we list the things that add to the difficulty of the juggling act we are doing here: job challenges, ailing parents, grown (or nearly grown) children making life choices that sometimes freak us out, social contexts that do not support our lifestyle, aging bodies, health shifts... Let us not forget to add this -- pure, unadulterated, unrelenting, bone-grinding exhaustion.

swan