A Special Kind of Pain

In just over two weeks my daughter, my youngest child, will have her 29th birthday. She will spend it, as she has spent so many important occasions (in her life, and in that of our family) during the last 16 years, incarcerated.

Addictions of an almost uncounted variety are the facile explanation. She drinks and she uses and sells a whole range of illegal drugs. It has been the truth since she was just twelve or thirteen years old.

Before that, from the time she was a very small child, an infant, she was different... always. I took her from doctor to doctor, from test to test. No one could explain what was going on with my child.

She hurts. She self-medicates. She refuses all help. She has been destroying herself for years and years, and I have, despite every effort, been unable to stop her or help her or save her. I've always thought, that I was one of the few people who could have parented her well... she was so difficult; such a challenge and such an enigma -- but I failed her in very real and very critical ways.

I sometimes think that I've learned to live with the reality of it; come to some kind of peace with it. I haven't. There are days (weeks of them strung together even) when I walk through my life
without shrieking my grief, but it always comes back to wash over me afresh. I want to make it better. I want to make her well and whole and strong. I can't, and it breaks my heart.

swan

About dignity; About grace; About integrity

I've come to the conclusion, and not for the first time, that finding your way into this lifestyle in public gives one an unalterably different point of view than if you "learn the ropes" in the cyber realms. There are just somethings that can only be learned (I am convinced) in the actual presence of real humans -- face to face. It has to be seen, absorbed, watched carefully, heard, felt, modeled, pondered for awhile -- and then absorbed, watched carefully, heard, felt, modeled, and pondered again and again.

I was lucky to meet Master and T very early in my explorations, and then to be quickly introduced by them to the public scene. When I left them after that first headlong dive into the deep waters of the real live, public, practicing, BDSM community, and traveled back to my home in Denver, I worked hard to find others who would help me learn and grow in my understanding and knowledge of my budding self-awareness. I learned more than could ever be written in a whole library of books by simply spending time with those who "did" BDSM in a variety of ways. I came to know many, many people (in many walks of life) who identified as Tops/Dominants/Masters, or bottoms/submissives/slaves, and some switches -- both male and female. Most were happy to share and guide and teach and mentor. Even those with whom I had no direct conversation, taught me by the fact that I was able to watch and learn from the way they conducted themselves.

I learned about dignity; about grace; about integrity. I learned about how those on both sides of the power exchange dynamic ensure that the bridge between them is crossed with intention and understanding, so that they arrive at their mutual destination with awareness and agreement and consent, not abuse. I learned that one can bend and bow, endure excruciating pain, submit to all sorts of torment and humiliation, and remain entirely noble and self-contained if the spirit knows the truth of who it is. I learned that service, done well can be art, I learned that slavery is not "just" any one thing -- not just sex, not just pain, not just fetish. It is connection, committment, growing in knowledge of what is pleasing and helpful and needed and wanted. I also learned a whole lexicon for the "critters" that come to the life with broken personalities and immature value systems who only want what it is they want -- the would be's and the wannabe's and the won't-ever be's; the lookie-loo's (who only want to watch), and those who come to "stand and model" in all their fancy fetish wear. One of the most interesting of all these is the do-me queen. A "do-me queen" is someone who usually claims to be submissive, but who is generally exceedingly needy and demanding. They have to be "done" on a regular, and usually escalating schedule, or they get unhappy, pouty, and bratty. A do-me queen can wear a Dominant out in short order. Talk about topping from the bottom! Whoever and however they showed up in all their glorious variety, they taught me and helped me grow. I've come to value their various contributions to my path, and know just how rare that part of my education really was.

These days, isolated in the conservative hell that is Cincinnati, Ohio, I miss that thriving public, real-life, community. To be sure, there are a few of you here in the cyber realm, who have come to be such good and valued friends, but you are a rare treasure. So many others, in this odd "universe" don't share the culture that I just assume is part of this life. There is no common ground of protocol, manners, dignity, grace. I find it disconcerting and frankly baffling. Somedays, I just feel old. And then again, maybe I just miss my friends, Dear Gabriel and kaylem, and His wry observation that it wasn't all about "blow jobs and butt sex." How very, very true.

swan

Clan Holidays

The wheel of time has turned and brought us back around again and we are back to Christmas time...

Last night, Friday night, when at last, we were finally all home together, we celebrated what is for us the beginning of the celebration of the holiday. We'll spend the weekend and the actual Christmas day, running from place to place, getting to all the various elements and branches of the extended family. It will be an extended replay of the Thanksgiving weekend in terms of hauling meals, and parts of meals, hither and yon. When we get home on Monday night, we will most likely drop into an exhausted heap, and give thanks for an end to it all. So, last night was just for the three of us.

Last night, when we got T home from work safe and sound, we sat down together to a "special" dinner: steak oscar (except for T, who doesn't eat asparagus and so had sugar snap peas with hers), baked sweet potatoes, good hot tea, and a glass of good merlot. Master had spent the whole day tormenting poor T about the possibility that we might open presents, and she was like an excited five year old -- barely able to eat her dinner. When we'd finished eating, and He'd judged that she'd squirmed and begged and cajoled and pouted long enough, Master (the other five-year-old in the family) relented, and we headed over to the big tree where all the presents have been piled. T (our youngest) passed out all the packages, until all of us had piles of goodies, and we set to work ripping (or carefully cutting with a knife in Master's case) the paper off each one in turn. What great loot! When it was done, He had lots of new sharp, pointy things, T had lots of new cooking goodies, and I had a whole wardrobe of soft, fluffy sweaters.

We finished up, tidied up the trimmings and wrappings, and made a fresh pot of tea (Chocolate and Hazelnut) and sat down for homemade cream puffs for dessert.

Today, we're snuggled in together, getting ready to go off on the first of our "family" visits. We're all sort of sick with respiratory crud, and so the energies are low. Probably that one is my fault... One of the down sides of living in a household with a school teacher is that "we" teacher-types bring home all kinds of nasty bugs, which unfortunately get shared with everybody in the house. Dang! The bad news is that we are likely to share them with the rest of the family who really do not need this icky stuff. Oh well.

We look around, and know that we are together and living the life we choose. We are (except for a few wayward bacteria and the things that come with age) well this year and happy. When life slows down a bit and we can take a moment to breathe, we are knowing this is true.

Wherever you all are today and throughout this season, may happiness and peace and strength and health find you. For the kindness and friendship you have shared with us this year, many thanks. We wish you all a very happy new year.

swan

Thoughts on "orgasm denial"

There are lots of number tricks that a person can do if the inclination strikes... Here's one: by the time we get to the end of April next year, our clan will have achieved a cumulative "age" of 160 years. Oh goody!

One thing that you can read about pretty regularly, if you read much about people involved in power exchange, is orgasm control or orgasm denial or restriction or somesuch. There are as many variations and reasons for the practice as there are people who engage in it. Sometimes it is about punishment. Sometimes it is about establishing control and a sense of power and ownership. Sometimes it is about upping the ante and increasing the intensity when "things" are restored after a period of abstinence...

It is not a place that we have ever gone together. For this, I am now, deeply and everlastingly grateful.

Whatever the rationale for the practice, each time I read about it here lately, I find myself with an increasing sense of disquiet and angst. I keep fighting back the surging bile that comes boiling up in me, and gasping down the urge to shriek at all the randy, arrogant young fools who are wasting the riches that nature has so profligately bestowed on their unappreciative souls.

Let me assure each and every female submissive and slave that ever chances upon these pages-- permanent and irreversible orgasm denial is, most likely, your destiny. Whether it comes to you naturally in the course of time, or suddenly and surgically, time will still the hormonally driven engine that makes it possible to reach the heights which you now, by times, choose (or have someone allow to choose for you) not to scale when you have the power to do so.

I fully and completely understand the urge; the compulsion, the willingness to submit to the power and control of One who owns "body and soul." I know the joy of falling fully into the embrace of surrender and submission. I also know the sense of futility that comes when one looks back at a path that cannot be walked ever again and realizes what cannot be retrieved from the mists of the past. I only hope that those who are years behind me along the age curve; who are still young and fresh and wet and responsive and horny as hell, will heed me well -- live this part of your life to the absolute fullest: fuck joyously, take all the pleasure that you can from every moment and every sensation, revel in your bodies and your lusts and the sensations that rock through your lives. Scream and grunt and sweat and squirt and then do it all again -- as often and as long as you possibly can. Don't waste a single moment. Do that much for me, please. If that would happen, the last year would have not been for nothing.

swan

Strange Conversations

Sometimes it gets lonely. One of the realities of this life is that there is often a shortage of "outside the family" folks to talk with. The people that I interact with socially and professionally must, necessarily, be kept entirely in the dark about the truth of my life. It is not that I am ashamed, but revealing the facts of how I live would jeopardize us financially and perhaps legally. So isolation is the price we pay for safety. I am not a social butterfly, but I do, by times, long for conversation and companionship -- for the simple comfort of talking with others who understand what it is to live life as we do.

Lately, I've been spending time in a BDSM chat room. I've never really done the chat room thing before. It has been an interesting experience.

For starters, I'm generally one of the oldest people in the room, if not THE oldest. Sometimes that means that no one talks with me at all. Sometimes. When that happens, it gives me the opportunity to observe the goings on.

I understand that the majority of participants in the room at any point are probably not there, as I am, simply for the sake of companionship and conversation, but good grief! The place is not a "chat room" -- it is a meat market where those who are nominally dominant and submissive are clambering (in a cyber sense) over one another to get to each other. That's just fine, if that's your thing, but I find it oddly distracting and disturbing somehow.

A couple of examples of the exchanges I've been involved in during the bit of time I've spent --

One young woman, who claimed to be submissive, and who stated that she "had" a Dominant, was all over the place, making over every would be "Master" in the room. Most were more than glad to "play" with her -- an interesting phenomenon, but she seemed to not mind it in the least and cavorted gaily from one to another. Finally one enquired if her Master did not mind such antics. she replied that He was not a master -- "just a DOM." I was stunned. No one else seemed to question the logic of her statement, but I wondered at the devaluing of the D/s relationship that she had entered into with the person to whom she referred as "just a DOM."

On another occasion, I was hanging out, just observing. Most of those who were in the room were male. Eventually one of them asked if I were male or female and I replied that I was female. Then he asked if I were submissive. I told him I was The Heretic's slave. He wondered if I had permission to play with others, and I told him, "no -- that I enjoyed talking and came for the companionship." I thanked him, politely for asking. He was accepting of that and did not make an issue of it. Shortly someone else came into the room, and essentially the same conversation was repeated. And then there was a third repetition of the same gambit. This time however, the fellow was not at all accepting of my polite declining of his wish to play. He became angry and beligerant -- "why was it that everyone in the room was already attached and not available?" The room would soon fall to ruin; people would get bored and stop coming, yada, yada, yada... I chose to simply have no further conversation with him -- seemed no point. One other man in the room did comment to me that he had a slave of his own who would have behaved the same way. He told me that he admired my sense of faithfulness and decorum.

It is strange. I don't find it bad or wrong or inappropriate so much as just disappointing and shallow. When I did finally find my way to the BDSM lifestyle subculture, I found (very quickly) people who were living it in real life. I found people who went to public dungeons; or more correctly, private clubs and practiced the arts and disciplines and techniques of the life WITH other people. There were protocols and there were acceptable norms and there were expectations. I "grew up" with a community understanding of decorum that suffused everything. We understood that what we did was sexual and erotic and alternative. We also knew that it was social and interpersonal and communal -- that we relied on and needed one another and that the rules that governed our interactions were important and protected us all. Top, bottom, Dominant, submissive, Master, slave, switch, male, female, gay, lesbian, transgendered -- each of us honored who we were, and we honored one another. In my experience, that is still mostly true in the public scene. Cyber seems to lessen people's sense need for rules or norms. I think we are poorer for it.

swan

Cages

It was a while ago when morningstar wrote about the challenges of making sometimes sudden transitions from working "out in the world" as a professional, competent, in charge, assertive adult, to the "at home" slave on call without any (or much) control or choice about one's personal time or life or comfort. She pointed to and then proceeded to discuss the complexity and emotional "whiplash" that making that shift can sometimes entail.

She went on to write (not a lot later) about needing to make that transition pretty much on her own -- because her Master, like mine, tends to have the expectation that she will simply "be there" when He calls upon her in that fashion. **Knowing nods** around the circle of those who "do it" this way, and then we shall move on... Every variant of this dynamic has its challenges. We all know this, and there is no intent here to dismiss, disrespect, judge or belittle anybody who does anything differently than we do -- I am merely identifying a significant break in reality.

Anyway, I think the business of needing to go out regularly brings with it a sort of "tight-rope walker" kind of need to maintain one's balance and sense of internal identity that is sometimes particularly challenging. To me it sometimes brings me back to the memories of my earliest experiences with significant bondage.

When we first ventured into "real" bondage, I had great difficulty. I found that, in spite of my fantasies about it, the reality put me into full on panic. The knowledge that I could not escape terrified me at first and I would rage and hyperventilate and throw myself against the restraints until I'd fall into a state of total exhaustion. It took a good deal of time for me to come to understand that restraints could provide me with some security and comfort, and actually lessen the level of responsibility that fell on my shoulders to "stay put" and actually manage whatever else might happen -- with the bondage, I had no choice and could simply go with whatever came along. I began to sometimes ask for the restraints, and to welcome them.

Likewise, I have long read about those who use "cages" of various kinds, and simply not understood what it is about exactly. Here lately, though, as I have struggled with my own emotional stability, as I have struggled with a small, but insistent internal voice that comes in the midst of my darkest moments and urges me to get in the car and drive and drive and drive until the road runs out, I am beginning to understand the comfort and security of the cage. I know I will not listen to the nagging, small voice. I know there is no shining road for me; that my place -- always and all ways -- is here. Still the only "cage" that holds the swan is the one that I erect out of will and heart and committment. How easy it would be, sometimes, to know that the bars were strong and secure and the lock would hold fast, even when I was too tired and too scared and too lonely to be entirely sane...

swan

Saturday

I've been trying to write the experience of last Saturday for days now. It is difficult to write because I just can't get it to hold still or come into focus or take on any sort of reasonable sequence. It is a jumble to me -- like a pile of snapshots that I maybe dropped and can't make any sense out of at all...

Forgive me then, if this seems dreamy and confused; that's the reality for me on this one.

In very many ways, we are having to start from something close to the beginning and recreate our path together. Neither of us are as we were a year ago. That is the reality.

We remain linked. Bonded. Promised. Committed.

Exploring is sometimes exciting, but can also be awesomely scary. There are no maps for how to go forward into this realm if you are not young and "hot" and still able to respond in all the usual ways. There are enough messages to tell people who are "alternative" that they really ought to get in line and join the mainstream. When those same alternative people cross the river into "maturity," the drumbeat grows insistent and the incredulity that one encounters at almost every tunr is almost overwhelming: "what are people like you doing still DOING it?!?!?!?!" ARRRRRGH!

Oh well.

So.

Saturday morning we began to circle warily toward the center of sex and SM. It has been a place of defeat and disappointment for far too long. I've long since stopped expecting anything good or joyful to happen. I submit and serve, knowing that there is nothing there for me except the knowledge that I am giving Him pleasure. It is enough, but it is not what it was and we both know it. We both miss what used to be.

This time, He wasn't willing to let it go at that. He broke from our usual pattern and began to focus on my level of arousal. To be honest, my head wasn't in a great place to start with. I'm prone to let myself get into some pretty dark places... perhaps that can be grist for another post, but I was feeling low and wishing we could just get on with it. Of course, I didn't SAY any of that, thank goodness!

Eventually as the responsiveness He was looking for just did not materialize, He suggested that it seemed that what I needed might be nipple clamps. I heard Him, but wasn't sure whether He was serious or not. I simply waited to see what He wanted. It took Him a few minutes to ask where they were.

I had no idea. We haven't had them out for ages.

I thought that perhaps they might be in the basket on top of His dresser, or maybe in His top drawer. I really wasn't sure. After those two spots, I had a list in my head of a half dozen spots that I might need to look to hunt them down...

So, He suggested a "game:" He'd give me a good paddling and then send me off to find the nipple clamps. If they were in the basket, as I'd first suggested, I could bring them back to Him. If not, He'd paddle me again, and I could go look in the next place I'd mentioned, etc., etc., etc. He loves that sort of thing, you see.

He began with the Hanson Paddle that was my nemesis so early on in our relationship, and I struggled mightily to hang in even for the very beginning set. This was not a good sign. Then it was off to look through the basket...

No luck. Back for the first paddling. I got through the second set, and was off to hunt through the drawer. Only this time He asked me if I wanted the next set with the paddle or the cane. I told Him it didn't matter. I was already in despair because I had no clue about where the clips were and knew that this could go on and on and on. I was already verging on panic and we'd barely begun.

Perhaps He heard it because, even as I began to dig about in the drawer where He tosses bits and pieces of "guy junk," He opened a leather box that He keeps on top of the dresser, and there they were! The nipple clamps! Relief flooded through me in that instant!

"Did you know the whole time?" I asked Him, tearfully. He told me no, and I believed Him. I flew into His open arms for a hug, simply thrilled that they'd been found, and the whole long swirling list of places where I might have to go and hunt for them was swept away. I was giddy with the relief of it.

It was then that He reminded me that they hadn't been in the drawer where I'd thought they might be -- that He'd found them, and not me. So, of course, there would have to be the requisite paddling. Of course. But first, He wanted to put them on, so I climbed back into bed and tried to ready myself for what I knew would be the shock of clamps applied after so long...

Futile! There's no way to get ready for the suddeness of nipple clamps when they first bite on tender flesh; no way to ride through the burning -- it is what it is. I dropped almost instantly into the red, still, fire and simply lay there next to Him waiting for whatever would come next.

He waited for a bit and watched me I think, and then He asked me how they felt.

"They hurt. They burn," I told Him.

"How long do you want to wear them?" He asked.

"Not very long," I replied.

He told me then that all I could decide how long I would wear them. All I had to do to have them removed was ask Him to paddle me. Simple. But I was torn. I was afraid that if I asked too quickly, He would be disappointed in me; think I was wimping out. I didn't want Him to be angry with me. I didn't know what He wanted me to do; didn't know what to choose, or how to please Him. I told Him all of that, and He assured me that He would not be angry either way, that it was fine...

I waited a very little bit (I think), and then I asked, "Please paddle me, Sir." The clips were dreadful as they came off. Always that seems true. He commented that it seemed the first time in a long time that I'd asked for a paddling and really sounded sincere about it.

I think there was something said about taking the paddling like a good girl or being put in the stocks. I'm not sure. I know that threat came up sometime. Anyway, I was good this time. Near the end, something touched me and I spilled over into deep sobbing. He gathered me up and held me and rocked me and soothed me while the tears flowed as they would. Once I'd recovered a bit, He told me that I'd received the first set of three sets. Sometimes that sort of thing panics me, but I felt past the panic point somehow. I was wrapped around His voice and His words and His touch and the warmth of Him near me.

I think it was for this set that He told me to respond to every stroke with "Yours always and all ways." He began slowly at first, and with each smack I'd repeat, "Yours always and all ways, Sir!" I have no idea how long it went on. I only know that it seemed that things got faster, and that I was racing to keep up; speeding through those "Yoursalwaysandallways,Sir!"s as fast as I could go; gasping for breath; breathing Him in; focusing on the words and the sounds and the moments; not thinking at all really -- just being.

And somewhere along the line there were cane strokes. I think because they were lighter. Maybe. But I don't remember when or exactly how... because I know He told me that He was suspending the third set, so I just am not sure when the cane strokes came into it all. He told me that I could come to Him later in the day and ask Him for the rest of the paddling -- unless I wanted more now. "Did I want more?"

The voice I haven't found for a very long time; the energy that has been gone; the heart that has held itself apart spoke from deep within me with a strength and a clarity that I've thought gone for good: "Yes, please, Sir." Just that simple.

"Well, alright then!"

He began to paddle me again, and I was aware of the rhythm of it, but not much else -- only the percussion, and the sounds I could hear myself making, and the sense of rushing toward the edge... Then I was over and into the place where everything expands and goes liquid and quiet; the place where I can simply allow myself to be carried on the tide, knowing it is all fine and that He has me completely and securely in His control.

I never know much about what is beyond that point. I know when I come back, He is always there. I know that, this time, there was heat and soreness and blood. He told me I'd broken in many many places and it was clear the blood had splattered widely. I rested for a good bit, wrapped snugly against His chest. Content, quiet, easy.

Then we made love, and I achieved that most rare and elusive gift of release just at the moment that He was reaching His own climax.

Glorious!

swan