New Limits

There have been so many things I've asked for, and so few that we've actually done, because he knows me better than I know me.

Until this weekend.

Now that the medications have left myHim's system, he's back to being the lively, alive, dirty, dirty man that I remember and have wanted.

One day, I might tell you about the months of tears, arguments, and sadness that accompany sex drives that are not on the same page. That being said, I'm sure that many of the advice columnists out there have answered questions regarding the problem. That being said, no offense to those columnists, but were it so easy when love (and finances) are involved.

I've always said that I gave up my ability to say, "No", with myHim, and that still stands. He's more careful about such things in general because the repercussions are so much harsher for him, and I can only imagine the recriminations I've receive.

So.

The other night I openly begged to be slapped, because I love the feeling, and generally he does it with one hand cradling my jaw and the other applying the pressure. Something must have come over him that night because he slapped me so hard, numerous times, that my jaw hurt the next day. I now have hand prints on my left cheek and have been fortunate that I can stay home while I heal. It's strange to see myself with marks so visible. The prints on my lower cheek. The bruise along the bottom of my lip. The mark above my eye. I loved every minute of the pain, and I do love wearing his marks.

Still...I'm reminded of a past relationship where there was much unconsentual violence, and I wonder if I am one of those who tries to work through trauma by re-creating it with some control. I don't think so, intellectually speaking. This was years ago; I had it out with this partner, and I've worked in DV shelters which helped me really understand the psychology and cyclical nature of that kind of control. But how can I not wonder? Will more of experimenting with the kinds of love that I crave quiet that voice?

Cheating

Let's have a chat, shall we? I have such a way of ignoring you, of not deciding to share...true. Yet I hope you'll lend an ear/eye to this.

Today is my general lazy, self-indulgent day. If you don't have such a day, I highly recommend that you find you one. You deserve it, and fuck the world, it'll be there another day, just like every single Monday finds a way to raise its sun and your eyes.

Regardless.

Wandering through TV, I found something on the OWN network about cheating. OK, fine, whatever, until it turned into an episode featuring people with whom I went to college.

Now shit's real.

I watched, tried not to judge, failed, and landed solely on the side of the wife. Yes, I knew her and not her husband; yes, it's Oprah's channel so who do you think is going to pay; and yes, it's a thirty-minute once-over featuring inappropriate shots of husband and mistress over a sound board.

Charming to see, I'm sure, for the wife.

Surrender

MyHim hurts me. You know that, right? He's rarely emotionally violent, and only physically violent when I ask for it and when he feels it's a good time.

He's actually more grown up than I about such things. I expect punishment for a myriad of my actions, but when I ask, he tells me that he will never hurt me because he's upset. Only because of the situation.

You know that I have scars from myHim? That he's run a Wartenburg wheel over me until I bled? That I have teeth marks on my ribcage from a bite? This last time, he did soft tissue damage to my shoulder. Once he was done, he asked me how I handle the pain.

Here's how I handle the pain: It hurts like fire, like I don't know what, until the endorphins kick in, and then I can relax and let it go. Even when the pain continues, the body protects itself. And I relax. And I surrender, because that's the moment I've waited for. I can breathe through the pain (and ohgod it hurts) because the surrender is there. Peace.

All my life I fight. In those moments, I don't.

My Name is Inapprop

If you look at this site at all, you might have noticed that I've taken a hiatus from writing. Even longer than the last hiatus. I hope you'll indulge me for a few minutes and let me explain.

Just about everything I've written on this site is autobiographical. Not everything (but I'm hoping those posts were prophesy and not fantasy) is true, but most is. After a while, I began to run out of things to say. You may know that myHim lives far from me (for now), so there really is a limit on what I have to say. Also, it took me years to realize what I really wanted in a satisfying sex life, so older stories wouldn't have the same type of appeal. There's a reason why erotica gets extreme, right? Otherwise, we'd all spend our lives reading bodice-rippers and wondering if that's all there is.

To add to this, myHim and I have been struggling with how much of our life I keep private and how much I tell the world. Admittedly, I have a limited audience, but he is exceedingly private and isn't entirely comfortable with any sort of social media or web publishing. I want to respect his wishes as much as I want to share, so sometimes I stay quiet.

You should probably know about this exchange:
In the middle of a perfectly normal conversation one Friday night a few months ago, apropos of nothing, he yells, "ARE YOU FUCKING ANYONE ELSE?" "No," I answer. "Are you?"

That was pretty much the end of what is generally considered an open relationship. Now all games and others are confined within us, although we're always looking for willing partners.

So I plan to move this site in a slightly different direction. I will tell you the prurient details of some really fun, mind-expanding, and certainly painful sexual encounters, but I will also write of my life with myHim and separately, my own life. There are many changes coming, pretty rapidly, and I've got a lot to figure out.

I hope you'll join me.

Rest

As I'm lying still, on my side, I feel your hands move over me. I'm mostly asleep, but my body reacts to your fingers and I move closer to you. "Don't," you whisper, as your hand reaches lower down my stomach. "Don't," you say, as you reach between my thighs and your fingers graze my clit. "Don't," you tell me, as you start working me and everything in me wants to turn over and open myself more to you. The wetness I can feel, that you use against me, over, and over, makes me breathe harder.

"Don't you dare move." I stay still, trying to control my increasing need to pant and move. Finally, after minutes of adoration of my clit, do I feel your other hand pulling my torso over, and your breathe against my breast. My hips still balanced on each each other, the palm of your hand now forcing its way down to my clit, your fingers dancing around my pussy, your teeth biting my nipple, I find it hard to maintain the balance.

I'm waiting for you to pull my hips apart, to take what's yours. I want to buck against your teeth and your hand; I want to be more available; make every opening yours.

"Move, and you'll pay. You'll hurt for days." I know those words are true, so I stay still but begin to feel eruptions in my body. "Please," I whisper, because there's nothing more. You take your mouth from my erect, painfully red hipple and kiss me. "There'll be no more talk from you. Trust me."