Words spoken, too few
Words, written, exposing deep emotions, my way of saying it’s ok to be human…
His obvious humanity is one of the things I love most about Him.
Yet, still, fracture lines appear.
There’s always a price to be paid
for such virginal honesty, always a wish I’d said more, said less,
to ensure clarity and intended depth of understanding.
My words, my allies, they’re always meant, never superfluous, sometimes constructed to leave clues amongst the vulnerable melody.
Those words are both my undoing where fabric tears, and the stitches holding me together, an ironic literal dichotomy leaving embers of blush in their wake.
I wanted to add more words, spoken, to the gifted written, but I didn’t,
Shame interrupts, and self loathing infiltrates, and now words become nemesis, and fade into
I cannot speak
as emotion overwhelms.
Opportunity lost, and I’m left with shame, and words I cannot bear to give voice to.
The aftermath sometimes furnishes the mind with more insight than experiencing in the moment provides;distance revealing the puzzle piece missing from the in-time equation.
As I, with intrigue, replayed the afternoon on a looped reel of silent movie images, my mind skipped a scene cloaked by a meaning I did not understand, depth of more obvious emotion complicit in that concealment.
I played, and replayed, wearing the film thin, impatience my motivator as I sought to entice clarity into the open.
I wrap His sadism around me, icy pitch-black edges overlapping my masochist self, and in memory of
too much, too much
and tears cried,
please, no, no more
I do so love what He does to me.
Yet, frustration interrupts,
I don’t understand the point I’m missing.
I mind map my thoughts.
And on the last point the spool snags, film kinked by faint shadow, as yet without discernible form.
To my mind map I return, and from Need the branches grow.
I record His needs, and mine, defined by experience
He looks down on me, head cocked
“Oh, it hurts, please stop, no, no….”
Voice, cold, glee and no sympathy reflected in His dark eyes as he,
documents my pain.
most recently shared.
“….be a good girl and sort that out”
Part jest, part demand.
Task completed, tears flow as He gently strokes my hair.
Here the scene stops,
a juddering halt.
This is my point.
The point I was missing.
Or rather, this is where I needed to stay.
Physically, in the moment,
metaphorically, as recollection I held close.
I wanted to linger there, defeated.
Gut reaction as to why.
I wanted to revel in the pain as it surrounded me;I’m at home in the dark.
My tears spur Him on, my pain makes Him hard.
My cries falling on deaf ears as a sardonic grin adorns His face.
I need to be allowed to carry on feeling the pain, and/or the emotions that get thrown up a while longer. Then afterwards I need to feel small, I need that submissive headspace to continue, but now in a quiet, unforced way.
I want to look at the scene as I hold it to the light, and see all facets reflected within, to feel those things as I sit,
My head lays, bowed, on His stomach, eyes closed.
Above was force
the distinction the point my mind was trying to make.
I want to experience His sadism in it’s entirety, I want the pain to bleed into the aftermath, not via reckless jugular severance, but by carefully regulated blood letting where my masochism can drink it’s fill.
My eyes flick back up to the screen and I stare at the scene, halted, before me.
I remember, I wanted to remain curled, I wanted to remain beneath.
I watch His lips silently move, hear His voice in my head.
“….be a good girl and sort that out”
and I do.
I gave myself to Him, right there, at the end.
That was the point we both missed.
Addendum;reading this back, it perhaps sounds like the end note was out of key, that a negative blights my recollection and subsequent telling.
The whole experience was sublime.
But it is only with hindsight that we can see with perfect clarity why it is that something, some small detail, draws us back and causes us to examine our feelings and thoughts with emotions fully unveiled.
He gave me something new, something staggeringly cold, a different side to Him which made the masochist in me play a tune I wasn’t familiar with, so really it’s only logical that that would trigger a reaction neither of us could predict.
Back in April this year, I had an operation to attempt to help alleviate the symptoms of Endometriosis. It’s a crippling, chronic disease which robs you of so much, but up until April, I still had the raw power of my sexuality and desires, a vast, decadent playground to which I could escape.
After the op, I was given a drug, again, supposedly designed to help, yet all it did was take my whole self away, and replace it with a body and mind I no longer knew.
Immediate, overnight menopause, desires cut away until only a shadow remained.
I was angry and resentful, still am to a degree. I was hurt and confused, and I grieved for the self I had lost.
My one glimmer to which I clung was that it was
At some point in the future, I would
get myself back.
But in the context of then, nothing felt the same.
My body had been remapped without my permission, and I stumbled through desolation as, blindfolded, I tried to find my way.
I was scared, actually terrified, of what all of that meant to us, to Sir and I.
had the opportunity to be so open and candid about my desires, to be able to explore them in a safe environment, and not be ashamed, or be made to feel ashamed, of them.
The prospect of losing that was devastating.
I needed Him to hurt me, needed to feel something visceral at a time when my body had been forced to give up.
I needed to know that pain could still be a haven and to my masochism I could cling whilst I fought my internal battle to find myself again.
And He did.
He hurt me.
And I cried.
I cried for myself, in grief,
I cried for us, first in fear of loss, then in joy at discovering that we hadn’t disappeared.
I cried because it hurt, too much, not enough.
I cried because I wanted to wear His marks, to be His canvas, to have to re-frame the questions I had in my mind, to have something else to focus on than just me, me, me.
My body became His art, my flesh a canvas of stripes and welts.
Red to match my anger, at circumstance,
and lust and passion for Him.
Black and white to reflect the uncompromising brutality of my need.
I lie here, internal monologue hushed,
mind surrendered to serenity by a mental image conjured,
deliberately conjured to sooth.
My head resting on His chest,
His arms around me wrapped,
my eyes closed,
my wrists bound.
I smile to myself; I love when His hand encircles my wrist, a quiet act of dominance, effect soporific.
I’m taking for myself a moment to prepare before the storm of anticipation
of seeing Him once again begins.
I imagine His words, I almost believe I can hear them
“Are you ready to tell me what you are?”
an exacting phrase spoken to me in the moments before we dynamically reconnect.
My calm begins to melt away, nerves start to hum, adrenalin begins to flood my veins.
The anticipation of Him makes my hands shake, I can almost feel His hand on my face.
I turn my head to meet it, but He’s not here,
Soon, I tell myself.
Concentration lost to thoughts of us.
The fire, the passion, the ….
my mind cannot capture nor hold focus on one singular thing.
All I’m aware of is the thundering of my nervous, distracted, adrenalin-fuelled heart.
And so it begins……..