Archive | October, 2010

Slipping Away – more Fantasy

22 Oct

“I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness because it shows me the stars.”   Og Mandino

i’m feeling some submissive angst this morning.  Not for any good reason, maybe it’s the full moon touching me.  Or the highs and lows of my vanilla life. 

For whatever reason, i feel still.  And alone.  

i slip into my mind…

In my fantasy…

i am lying in bed.  My hands are clasped together, attached to my collar, like in Story of O.  i am not chained to the bed – there’s no need for that.  Where would i go? 

My pussy throbs and aches.  i can’t sleep. 

i think back on the day.

When they finish removing the last trace of hair from my pussy, they wash me.  Warm, soapy water – at least it feels slick, as if it has soap in it.  i am still blindfolded.  i don’t know how they do it, with me lying on the table on my back, legs pushed up to my chest.  But they do. 

As they pat me dry, the soft towel feels rough, touching skin that has never been exposed before.

They aren’t massaging me anymore.  Hands grasp my ankles, and my wrists.  I’m not struggling.  i’m listening.  Are either of the men still in the room?

When they have finished drying me, they remove the blindfold.  i blink in the light, having grown used to the darkness. 

There are four women, two on each side of me.  i see that first.  Then the mirror.

It is above me, on the ceiling.  i’m caught by my reflection – my pussy, so naked, so exposed, reflected there.  i close my eyes quickly, but- 

“Open your eyes.”  It’s a male voice.  i don’t know if it’s Jon, who came in after i was there,  or Brian, who was there first.  The voice is firm.  “Go ahead,” is there a hint of amusement in the voice?  “Go ahead and look in the mirror.”

i open my eyes.

Having done that, i can’t escape, i can’t look away.  O, my.  There i am.  Spread open.  Parts of  me i’d never seen before, on display.   i’m humiliated.  And wet, so wet, and not from the water either.  Wet and hot, and despite myself, i whimper.

He moves into the reflection then.  i can see him, standing between my legs.  i think i could die from shame, and i feel my hips raise, i see myself thrusting my pussy forward.  Offering it to him.  O.  What am i doing?

“Look at me now,” He says, and i do.  i can see him, framed between my widespread thighs, and my self, those parts of myself that have just been prepared – for him?  For others?

He is smiling.  “Pretty.”  He says.  “Lovely cunt.”  And i shiver.  He laughs. 

“What a hot slut you are!”  he says.  “I’m going to touch you now.  Touch that hot cunt.  Look at you.  Look at how wet you are.”  And he touches a finger to the entrance of my sex.  Pulls it back almost before i can register pleasure, but it leaves me thrusting, lifting my pussy toward him again. 

He smiles, holds his finger up.  “See how wet you are?” He says.  He puts his finger in his mouth and, his eyes still on mine, sucks it.  i’m dreadfully embarrassed, i want to look away, but i don’t dare.  i hear myself whimper.

“I’m going to touch you,” He says.  “Touch your cunt here,” and he slides his finger between the outer and inner lips, slides it up and down in the slick juice of my arousal.  i whimper, moan, push myself towards him.

He stops.

i whimper.

He laughs. “No.”  He says.  “No cumming.  I’m going to touch you, and you are not to cum.  Do you understand?”

i gasp.  “i – i” and before i realize what’s happening, He has raised his hand, and brought it down on my inner thigh, hard. 

i cry out.

His voice is calm, reasonable.  “I asked you a question.  Do you understand?  Do you understand that I’m going to touch your cunt, and you are not to cum?”

“Ye- Yes, Sir,” i stammer, “Bu-” and O!  The hand comes down on my thigh again.  In the same place.  i gasp, whimper.

“No.” He says, still calm.  “You don’t need to talk.  ‘Yes, Sir’ or ‘No, Sir’ are the only things you need to say right now.  Is that clear?”

“Yes, Sir,” i say, quickly this time.

“Good girl.”  He smiles.  “Let’s begin.” 

His hands begin to stroke and caress, parting my lips, seeking out that sweet spot, O!  O!  How does he do that?  It feels – O!  i whimper and squirm.  How am i supposed to not cum when he’s doing that?  i’m used to struggling, trying to cum.   When i don’t have that much experience with cumming, how am i gonna not cum? 

The women by my head are caressing my breasts.  Gently tweaking my nipples.  That makes it even harder to hold back an orgasm.  He takes me to the brink, right to the edge ~~

~ and stops. 

i cry out – O!  O, please Sir…” pumping my hips, pushing my pussy up.

He laughs, “Do you want to be gagged?”

“O, no, Sir!”   shaking my head firmly, i press my lips together.

“Ok, then.  I’ll let you make noises, this time anyhow, but you don’t need to talk.  Is that clear?”

“Yes, Sir!”  Nodding.

And he starts again, his hand between my legs.  He doesn’t penetrate me, although i long for him to, if i were allowed to talk, i’d beg him to.   But he doesn’t.  Again, he brings me to the edge – o, so close, right there ~~

~and stops. 

Mmmmpf.  O. 

And He starts again.  Omigod, Omigod, Omigod, and then i’m there – i just am – i’m there, i can’t stop it, and he doesn’t stop and Omigod, i tremble ~

~ up, up over the top, over the edge ~

 and i fall, shivering, tumbling down, sheer pleasure.  Little noises escape me…  my eyes close – o, ahhhhh, omigod.

And then.

i open my eyes. 

And see him.  Standing there between my legs.  Looking – omigod.  Not quite frowning.  Quizzical.  He looks quizzical.

“Well,” he says.  “What just happened here, slut?” 

“Um,” i’m so ashamed, i don’t know what to say, i don’t think i can even talk.  But he goes on, “No, don’t even say anything, slut.  I can see you haven’t learned any self control.”  He shakes his head.  “We’ve got a lot of work to do with you.”

“Donna,” he says, addressing the woman holding my right ankle, “Whatddya think?  Turn her over and spank her?”

“I think so,” says Donna, “This time.  We’ll do ten on each cheek.  Alternating.  Slowly, I think.  Give her time to grasp what’s happening, absorb the pain.”

“Good,” He says.  “Go ahead then.”

And they turn me.  Turn me so that i’m positioned on my hands and knees, shoulders pressed to the table, head down.  Ass in the air.  A hand fisted in my hair holds me firmly pressed to the table.

SMACK – i feel a hand land on my right cheek – O!!!!! O, that stings.  Then –

SMACK – the other cheek.  I can feel heat rising from my ass.  O.  Ten on each side.  How will i take this?  Can i last?

And why – omigod – why do i feel my pussy getting hotter with each stroke? 

**************************************************************************************************************

And why would i write this now, when i actually can’t make myself cum?  {Laughing}  i must be crazy.  And now it’s time to get ready for work…. 

Sigh.  Just one more day.  Tomorrow, i’ll see Sir D.

i can’t wait…  {smiles}

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Too Late for Love Our Lurkers Day?

21 Oct

Surely not!  i didn’t know anything about “love our lurkers” day until tonight, but i love the idea.

i know you’re out there – i have enough “hits” every day now that i know there are readers beyond the special, wonderful ones who leave comments regularly.  

i’d LOVE to hear something from you – anything!  So do it – get crazy and comment.

You know, it wasn’t very long ago that i read my first BDSM blog – it was Brooke’s  blog.  I found it because my first Sir had me google chopsticks, so i could see how they used them in BDSM.  And there was her post about having to go to the Chinese restaurant and ask for chopsticks.

The next thing i knew, i had to have a “kink persona” so i could comment on blogs.

And a few weeks later, i was blogging.

So – i love knowing there are people who read my blog, whether you comment or not.  But if you’ve hesitated to comment,  Love Our Lurkers Day is the perfect opportunity to come out and say hi.  i’d love to hear from you.

hugs,

aisha

More Munches

21 Oct

It’s been fun writing my fantasy – and i’ll come back to it.  In the meantime though, all kinds of excitement lies ahead of me IRL.  There’s the Meeting-Mick-and-Molly-Munch coming up soon.  Right now i just need to figure out what to wear that night – i don’t think my internal dialogue about it would be very interesting to you all. 

But this coming weekend – in two days – is the munch and play party in the town where Sir D lives.  The same group as the first one i ever went to.  

i didn’t think we were going to go – He wasn’t sure He wanted to.  And, as always, that would have been ok too.  But on Tuesday, he says, Yes, he does want to go. 

Yay!

But we’re probably not going to play.  (Probably not?  Or might not?  i don’t remember now…)  And of course that’s ok too. 

So here’s the thing.  This party has a Halloween theme.   Yep,  just like ‘Nilla’s post – The Halloween Munch.  The “what to wear” question takes on a whole new level of excitement.

A few months ago, i was at a yard sale.  There was a mask.  It was only 50 cents.  i didn’t need it.  i don’t need more junk in my house.  But it was calling my name.  Yes, i heard it clearly as i walked away, “aisha…”  So i bought it.

Here it is:

 
 

Here's the mask. It's a feather mask.

Is that not tooooo cool?  BUT –

 – what do i wear with it?  

(Ok, assuming Sir D even wants to dress up, which might be a huge, wrong assumption.  But let’s just pretend He does for the moment…)

 i’m at a loss.  Do youall have thoughts or suggestions? 

Perhaps i should mention that i have some belly-dance accessories.  Hip scarves, mostly.  Like this:

Black hip scarf with coins

Or I have this:



Coin belt - you can wear this over other hip scarves. This is silver, the other one's gold.

I even have a top:

A halter top... very sparkly

And of course i have normal clothes…  and a feeling that Sir D isn’t a big let’s-get-dressed-up-in-costumes kind of guy.  Um, Dom.  But it was fun showing you my play clothes!

 And i can’t wait for this weekend- to see Sir, to go to the munch, to spend some time taking care of His cock… And, damnit, i just realized that’s only two days away.   Which is good news – absolutely, it is.  But you know what that means for me – no orgasms til then.  

Yikes.

Immediately, my pussy starts throbbing in protest. ..  It’s going to be a long couple of days. 

 

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Fantasy Abounds – Part II

20 Oct

…One of the many hands touching me pauses at my pussy, grabs the triangle of hair between my legs.  “This needs to go,” she says softly to one of the others.  i gasp, and start to protest, but remember the stinging slap on my inner thigh,  remember that the hands caressing me had also pinned me down helplessly.   

Unshaved, i want to stay that way.  But that’s not to be.  i feel a hand grasp my hair, pulling it up and away from my pussy.   Feel the metal of the scissors press against my pussy.  Hear the distinctive “snip” and the sudden lightness as the hair is removed. 

i gasp.

i want to protest.  But the hands are on my ankles, not tightly, but there.  And hands rest lightly on the insides of my thighs.  They have stopped massaging, i realize.  All attention is there, focused on my dripping pussy.  My pussy, which is hotter than it’s ever been, with lips burning, longing to be touched. 

But no one touches me there.  The hand methodically grasps a piece of hair, snips it away.  

i whimper, i think i whimper, and the hands on my inner thighs began to stroke me, as if to soothe.  It does distract me, until the hands holding my ankles grasp me tighter.   They raise my legs and push.  Realizing what they’re doing, i try to lock my knees straight.  A hand tap in the softness behind my knees, and my knees buckle.  Another push, and my knees are pressed against my chest.

My legs are bent, spread wide open, my pussy and asshole completely exposed.  Hands pull my knees even wider apart.   My ass is raised.  Someone pushes something – a pillow, maybe – beneath me, raising me even further.  Leaving me more open than i had ever imagined being.

The hands between my legs continue – grasping a piece of  hair, pulling it tight, snipping close to the skin.   My body is tense, taut from arousal and being opened and fear of what will happen next.  i am helpless, trembling. 

A shiver runs through me. 

Someone laughs.

The massaging begins again.  Hands are still holding my ankles, but other hands massage around my breasts, not touching the nipples, but stroking and rubbing.  Despite myself, my focus moves away from the violation of the scissors and hands between my legs.   i relax into the sensations of the hands on me. 

And my pussy throbs, clenches.

Someone laughs.

The hands with the scissors have invaded all my most private spots.  My pussy feels exposed, i can feel cool air on it.  Suddenly, i hear a door open.

Footsteps approach the table.  A male voice says, “Well.  Brian.  Ladies,” he greets them, “Let’s see what we have here.”  And i realize he is talking about me.  Seeing me.  

“Jon,” the other male voice acknowledges this new presence.   “Here she is.  We’re just checking her out.  Removing the hair.  She’s already starting to obey directions.”

“Good.”  i can tell that he’s standing between my wide-spread thighs.  Looking at me,  The hands are grasping me more firmly, as if they know that i desparately want to close my legs.  New hands – bigger, a little rougher – his hands-  touch my inner thighs, pressing them still wider apart. 

A whimper escapes me.

He releases me, i think he steps back.  “Mmmm,” He says.  “Smells like cunt in here.  So hot she’s steaming.  She’s a real slut, isn’t she?”

Humiliated, shame rolls through me.  He can smell me, omigod, he can smell my lust.  The crudeness of his comment reduces me to a quivering mess, i want to curl up on myself and hide.

There is no hiding here.  i am helpless, open.  He lays a hand on my pussy and – i can’t help it – i feel myself  lift my hips, press my pussy forward, trying to rub against his hand.    Lightly, he smacks the top of my pussy. 

“No, slut,” he says, laughing.  “Not yet.”  He smacks again, and i realize THIS is making me hotter.  My already swollen pussy is responding to the smacks as much as i have to caresses.  This new shame overwhelms me.  But –

“Good girl,” he says, “Good slut.” 

And the other man, Brian, says, “Yes.  I think she’ll work out quite well.  I’m pleased.”

And i am delighted!  Held down to a table, naked and exposed, and I’m hotter than I’ve ever been in my life, thrilled that these men I can’t even see are pleased with me.

O, my.

But they’re not through yet.  Someone pats my pussy, avoiding the swollen inner lips and wetness dripping from it, just lightly pats the top, as if i were a pet.  A female voice says, “What next?  I can’t cut anymore hair off.  Shall we shave her or wax her or what would you like next?”

“Wax her,” says one of the men, i think it’s Jon.  His voice is rougher, deeper.

The other, Brian, the one who was there first, agrees, “Yeah, that’s better for now anyway.  Lasts longer.”

“I thought you’d want that,” the female voice says.  “We’re ready to do it.”

And i feel hands pulling my skin taut, the skin on the top part of my pussy.  i feel a warmth, a heat on my skin in a small area for a few moments.    Then – “Oooohhhh!” a stinging as the warm strip is ripped off, taking hair with it.  “O!” i’m gasping, tears in my eyes.

Hands stroke my shoulders, my breasts. Someone whispers, close to my ear, “It’s ok.  It’s ok.  It’s gonna sting a little, but that’s the worst of it.  It’s ok.  Don’t make too much noise or they’ll gag you, remember?”

Skin taut – a strip of heat – RIIIIP.  i gasp, but mostly stifle it.  “Good.  Good girl,” says the voice in my ear.

i can’t think, all my attention is on what’s happening to my delicate pussy.  Yikes.  And then the sensitive strip between my cheeks.  O, my.  But some part of my mind wonders, what will happen when they’re through?  When my pussy’s been totally exposed, what will they do?

And – much to my dismay – i realize i want it to involve touching me, fucking me.  I want Jon or Brian – maybe both – to touch me.  To fuck me.  I want to feel a cock sliding in and out of my hot, needy, dripping pussy.   My ‘cunt’ he called it.  So crude.  

But it fits.  ‘Pussy’ is too dainty for this burning space between my legs.  i need to be fucked.  My cunt needs to be filled. 

Skin taut – a strip of heat – riiiip!  i’m growing used to it. 

Will they ever be done?

i’m ready for whatever comes next… 

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Fantasy Abounds

19 Oct

i am lying on a massage table.  Stripped naked.  It is warm in the room, and the hands caressing me are firm and gentle.  O, more than two hands – several -how many?  Eight hands maybe, i lose count.  The feelings running through my body are so intense, i lose count.  i think there are eight.

i am on my stomach.  The hands roam over my back, my thighs, my ass.  They pause at the cleft between my cheeks, pause, linger, and i think they are going to touch me – there.   i tense a little.  But no, they move on.

Oils.  They are using some kind of oils on me.  Rubbing it in, the scent rises in the air.  i feel relaxed, perfectly content to let these people (who are they, anyhow?) massage my body.

Hands between my thighs, working their way up, my pussy clenches as the hands get closer, i want them to touch me there -closer – my hips begin to move – yes, closer – i try to press my pussy into the table, wanting to rub myself, maybe hunch the table – the hands on my inner thighs, high on my leg, closer, almost there – aaaaa-

SMACK. 

A hand descends on my ass.  A male voice says “NO.” 

O!!  

It stings.

Instinctively, i try to raise up, but the hands, the hands that have been caressing, now hold me firmly in place.   “Shhh, no, easy,” a woman’s voice whispers, and i realize i’m captive.    i am pinned down as securely as if i were bound. 

“Don’t,” her voice murmurs, “Don’t fight.  It’ll be worse if you do.  You can’t go anywhere.  It’s ok.  Just relax.”   Lulled by the tones, i relax again, despite myself.  The hands caress, warm and soothing.  My pussy is dripping wet, i long for release, but i lie still.

“That’s better.”  His voice again.  He is at a little distance; his hands are not touching me.   i can’t see him, or the people who are touching me for that matter.  The room is dim. 

“Who are – ” i start, but –

“NO.”  His voice is not loud, but so firm, it makes me shiver.  i instinctively obey, stopping myself before i can even finish my sentence.   His voice is deep.

“You don’t need to talk,” He says.  “If you can be quiet on your own, i won’t have them gag you.  It’s your choice.”  

Of course, i want to say i’ll be quiet, but think better of it just in time.  i hear Him laugh.  And then –

“Good girl,” He says,  His voice warm and pleased.  It runs through me like a wave, and i shiver again,  shiver from deep inside, somewhere i never knew existed.

A little “mmmphf” escapes me then; He laughs.  “Are you ready to turn her over?”  He asks. 

There’s no answer – none i can hear.  But i feel hands at my head, lifting my head enough to slip a blindfold on me.  Darkness descends on me.  i don’t mind. 

They turn me then – all the hands helping, they  flip me over like a pancake.  i almost giggle.  The air is cool on my front, there is sweat between my breasts, and the air cools it. 

They arrange me, spread-eagle.  Arms out to my sides.  Legs spread wide.  i’m embarrassed, i know they can see the wetness between my legs.  They even spread my lips, the outer lips of my pussy, fingers gently opening me.  Despite myself, i press upwards, hips rising, wanting more of the touch.

SMACK!

The hand on my inner thigh –

His voice, “NO,” at the same time –

– and i cry out, then stifle it quickly, afraid of the gag.

He chuckles.   “Lie still,” He says.  “Lie still, or I’ll have them bind you to the table.  Is that clear?”

i want to speak, and i’m afraid to.  i didn’t know what to do.  i’m so open and exposed, and if  i say the wrong thing, i know they’ll smack me again.  Or gag me.  Or worse.  So i lie there, uncertain and scared, afraid to answer, and afraid not to.

His voice again, patient.  “When i ask you a direct question, you may speak.  ‘Yes, Sir,’ or ‘No, Sir’ are acceptable responses at this point.  I’ll ask again.  This time.  Is it clear that you are to lie still, without trying to stimulate your pussy, and be quiet?”

i lick my lips, i want to say it clearly.  “Yes, Sir.”  And another shiver runs through me.

“Good girl.”  i bask in the warmth of that.

He continues, “But if I have to ask twice again, you’ll be punished.  Is that clear?”

And this time i answer quickly, “Yes, Sir,” and i want to say more, but i know better so i stop.  But my pussy is gushing, i can feel the wetness trickling down my ass, puddling on the table. 

He notices.  “That makes you wet, doesn’t it?” He says, and i feel a rush of shame, so a moment goes by before i realize that’s a question too and i need to answer. 

i stammer a little this time – “Ye – yes, Sir,” cause i don’t want to have to say it.  What is happening to me?  How can this be making me so hot?

But all the while, the hands are massaging me.   Rubbing my arms and legs.  My belly.  Moving closer to my breasts.  Moving closer to my pussy, which they have not touched since they opened my lips, spread me open.

(to be continued…)

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Going Home

18 Oct

So i hadn’t been on the expressway 10 minutes, on my way home, before i started to get the blues.  i could feel my heart drooping.  Sheesh.  Apparently, all my insights fly out the window in the face of reality…

But i rallied, because, you know, there’s no point in talking about dealing with something, unless you’re going to do it.  Unless i’m going to do it.  So i remembered this one moment, just a few hours earlier, that i felt happy.  Deeply happy.  Perfectly happy.  i held onto that moment.

i listened to music i like and sang.  Loudly.

When i got home, i went to the park and walked for over an hour.  That should get those endorphins pumping.  (Did you know – the human brain is hard-wired to find pleasure in 3 things.  Guess what they are.  Yes, food.  Yes, sex.  And – drumroll – exercise!)

i had a nice salad for dinner – lettuce, baby carrots, cherry tomatoes, avocado, grapes, slices of strawberries, feta cheese, and cinnamon almonds, with Raspberry Pecan dressing.  And a glass of white wine.  One glass.

When i go to bed tonight, i’ll get out “Big Blue” (not to be confused with “feeling blue.”)  A little recreation before i fall asleep should help me sleep well.

And i think about this quote i ran across the other day:

“Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.”
— Dr. Seuss

From Dr. Seuss!  Who’dda  thought he knew anything about subs spiraling down into subdrop?   {Laughing}

But i don’t think i’m spiraling down any more either.  Really, i’m just not going to do it.  And if i do, i’ll handle it, cause it’s ok to feel what i feel.  Right?

 After i got home last night, i saw all the responses to my post yesterday, and was amazed and touched.  You know, i used to read the NY Times on-line in the morning.  Now, my little community of blogger friends has become so important to me, i can’t imagine mornings without you.   Thank you all so much for being who you are!!!

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An Abundance

17 Oct

So i’m writing this from Sir D’s lovely home – YAY! 

We had a lovely evening, involving Indian food, back rubs, and orgasms, not all at the same time, of course.  And there’s nothing quite so nice as waking up next to Him, all warm and cozy under the covers.

i’ve been contemplating stuff this morning.   He says, “Come,” and i say, “On the way.”   Is that a submissive thing?   Of course, He was much politer about it than that, and i did check my calendar to make sure i hadn’t promised to do something else.  But still.   i liked it –  that i could drop what i was doing and “come,” when He said to.  Honestly, it makes my pussy twitch thinking about it now.

And that circles me back to yesterday’s topic on giving and all that.   “Giving from abundance.”    That phrase keeps bouncing around in my head.  i even googled it to make sure it’s not the title of some book, but i didn’t see one.

Abundance:   1. an extremely plentiful or oversufficient quantity or supply: an abundance of grain.  2.  overflowing fullness: abundance of the heart.

i have a mental image of going to borrow food from a neighbor.  Imagine how different it would feel if the neighbor’s cabinets were practically bare, rather than filled and overflowing.   But how much food they give me might not have anything to do with how much is in their cabinets.  And our sense of whether or not we have anything to give doesn’t necessarily depend on how much is in the cupboard.

How do we define “enough to share?” 

“If i’ve got anything, than i have to share it with someone who needs it, if they ask me.”  That’s what many of my clients would say.   And i might agree,  but i define “someone who needs it” more narrowly.  And i factor in a lot of responsiblity to make sure i’m not going to end up borrowing tomorrow.  But that’s talking about material goods.  Typically, submission isn’t about that (although i know it can be.)

Submission is more about giving yourself, right?  So everyone has something to give.    What we give, to whom and how we do it is the focus of negotiation.  The answer might be “everything” in a Master/slave relationship.   It might be “a couple of hours of playtime” in a casual relationship.   In a BDSM relationship, the choice and the terms of exchange are very explicit.  

So, i have a “self” i want to give.  And sometimes i’m full of energy and joy and feel like i have a lot to give.  Sometimes, i’m tired and stressed and lonely, and don’t feel like i have much to give.  

With BDSM, i sometimes think that when i’m in that “down” space, Sir is supposed to somehow make me feel better.  Like the deal is “i share with you when i’m happy, you fix me when i’m not.”   

i like that idea.  

i know it doesn’t work.

So.  If i want to give from abundance , then i need to have an abundance to give from.    And how i develop my abundance is really the whole point of my life, isn’t it?   What do i fill the cabinets of my “self” with?

And that brings me back to the “submissives are weak” concept.  The image of a submissive cringing in the corner is so wrong on so many levels.  The belief that we’re passive or unthinking is ridiculous.

Because i’m submissive, i need to have an abundance to give.  The more i have to give, the stronger, more fully developed, more integrated person  i am, the better submissive i can be.   It circles and loops back and feeds itself, doesn’t it?   And isn’t that cool… 

So when i get a text message from Sir, who’s upstairs in bed, that says, “Come back here!” i’m delighted to text back “K” and head up the stairs!

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YES!

16 Oct

Missed a phone call from Sir – i was outside doing yard work.  Hadn’t expected to hear from Him; He had stuff He had to take care of today.  Called Him back, of course, as soon as i realized He’d called.

He was home.  Not as tired as He had thought He’d be.  More interested in company than He’d expected to be.  What was i doing?

Not much, stuff around the house.  

Did i want to come down?

{Thinking, thinking, thinking} 

Yes!!!

TTYL.

love,

Surprised and happy aisha

 

Submission and Serving

16 Oct

i used this quote on my facebook page the other day.  

 

 “I slept and dreamt that life was joy. I awoke and saw that life was service. I acted and behold, service was joy.”
~~Rabindranath Tagore

It makes me smile when i find one that has a double meaning for me, and i hope Sir enjoys it too.   Ironically, i don’t have much time to blog this morning; i have a volunteer thing i do on Saturday mornings, and a bunch of busyness after that.  So i’m really just going to open this topic.

i wanted to do it incisively, cleanly.  But the ideas swirl in my mind; like paint, they bleed into each other.  Serving and pleasing, submitting and giving, weakness and strength.   

i start off:  “Serving is a joy, whether it’s bringing Him something to drink or kneeling at His feet to pleasure Him. ”    And then i’m stuck – so many ways i can go from there.  Do i talk about how pleasing Him pleases me?  How the feeling of serving flows into feeling submissive, and feeling submissive back to serving?  How the simplest assignment thrills me?   

You know, as a therapist, i have the privilege every day of getting to see inside people’s minds and hearts.  i’m honored that they let me into their lives and share who they are with me.    i don’t think i was ever the kind of therapist who thought i had other people’s answers, but if i ever did, they’ve taught me to let go of that.

For example.  There are a multitude of women of who come to therapy exhausted and in pain from trying to take care of everyone else.  There are a zillion self help books written just for them, designed to help them learn to be more assertive, to stand up for themselves, and so on. 

In my earlier days of therapy, i used to take that approach too.  i’d try to help her see that the nephew who stole her medication last week and is in jail now for forging prescriptions is probably not really going to pay her back for the collect phone calls he’s making from jail.  And that maybe – just maybe – she should quit accepting the calls.  

She’d listen, nod, and agree – and keep taking the calls.  “He’s so depressed, locked up in there,” she might say.  “I’ve gotta be there for him.  I can’t refuse to take his calls!”  i’d feel frustrated because i couldn’t figure out how to “help” her.

Several years and dozens of women later, i finally realized i needed to let go of it.  If the women i was working with really quit doing all the things they did, the society around them might crumble.  So i let go of my fantasy about how they should live, and begin to focus on helping them recognize that they were making a choice.  That they didn’t HAVE TO do the wonderful, loving things they did (even to their own detriment,) that they chose to.  And if that’s what they wanted – who was i to suggest they do it differently?  

The women i worked with weren’t helpless victims, they were making the choices they wanted to make.  i began to support them in their choices, instead of telling them they were wrong.  i began to recognize and honor their strength and power.   NOT in a “well, you’re choosing to do that, so it’s your own fault if you’re not happy” way.  But to recognize that they were loving and caring in a selfless way that deserved my respect.

And – the coolest thing – sometimes they began to recognize their own power and strength.   To value what they were giving.  To figure out ways to take care of themselves, to choose more carefully, and to feel less helpless, at least some of the time.

So where am i going with this?  Let me see if i can tie it back in…

Serving and giving and submitting are sooo complex.  My clients, who came in looking weak and helpless, were neither.   There were circumstances they couldn’t change, suffering they couldn’t alleviate, but they were neither weak nor helpless.  So –

– no, i can’t do it.  i can’t find the “wrap it up with a bow” words to finish this.  i read posts from my blogging sisters struggling with questions of weakness and strength, and there’s so much i want to say.  i can’t possibly say it all in this post. 

So – if this theme resonates with you – we’ll just sit with it.  Don’t need to resolve it today.  Instead, i’ll end with – remember the sand mandala the Tibetan monks started last Sunday?  I went over to see it a couple of hours before they finished it.   Here are a couple of pictures. 

This is a close-up of the area where they’d just started working when i took the first pictures

This is the whole thing.

As beautiful and complex as the sand mandala is, ideas about power exchanges are even more complex and amazingly beautiful.

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Thoughts on Submission

15 Oct

Jz did a post on sex, sensuality, and BDSM which tied in (i think) with some things i was already thinking.  In the last week, Sir D has  expressed His dominance in ways that feel new to me.  Ways that aren’t sexual, but still turn me on.  i’ve been pondering it often – driving to work,  falling asleep at night, in the shower.  

Last weekend, on Saturday, Sir said something to me that bothered me a little bit, not so much when He said it, as later, when i got to thinking about it.  Sunday morning, i got up early (as i do) and then i went to church, so i had plenty of time to think about what He’d said.  And put it together with some other things. 

By the time i got home from church, instead of being ready to joyfully fling myself back in bed with Him, i’d taken a couple of mental steps away from Him.  i wasn’t angry.  But i had moved away from Him.  Trying to protect myself, you know. 

i was going to talk to Him, ask Him about it.  i just wasn’t sure how to bring it up.   And before i could figure it out –

– He called me on it.  He knew, He could tell that something wasn’t right.  And He called me on it.

That amazed me.  “Being seen” touches me deeply.  It’s a gift i treasure.

i told Him what was bothering me.  What he’d said.  i expected – i think – to talk about it.  Have a conversation.  A discussion.   i started to say what i thought He’d meant.  I thought maybe He’d listen, then explain.  Instead –

He snatched me up.

It’s an African American phrase, at least that’s where i learned it.  When your child is about to run out in the street, you snatch him up.  It’s both the physical and the fussing that comes after.  When your teenage daughter wants to quit school and go live on an organic farm, of course you’re gonna snatch her up.  It’s not physical anymore, but it may feel like it to her.  At work, i sometimes used to berate myself for things that weren’t my fault.  My boss, a beautiful African American woman with deep blue eyes, would snatch me up in a heartbeat.   She’s one of the few people i’ve known who could do that for me.

But that’s what Sir D did.  He snatched me up. 

i was stunned.

“No,” He says, “you’re wrong.”  Just like that.   Firm and clear.   

“Kneel.”   

i pause, but just for a second.  Consider resisting, but just for a second.  Partly, i’m curious.  Where is He taking me?   Obediantly, i kneel.   Listening closely. 

He explains why i’m wrong.  Calmly, reasonably.  How i’ve taken what He said out of context, over-thought it, and misinterpreted it.  He makes sense.  i know He’s right.  i had done exactly that.   

He says it’s ok for me to question what He’d said.  He is very clear.  Questioning what He’d said isn’t a problem.  But keeping it to myself, over-thinking it, and putting distance between us because of it – that is a problem.  That is not ok.

i kneel beside the bed, and listen.  He is right. 

i apologize.  Say i’m sorry; i won’t do it again.  Say i’ll try not to do it again.  Not the over-thinking and not the distance.

And i know He will forgive me, but He says – He says, “I was going to use this anyhow, might as well make a point with it,” and –

– He picks up the carpet beater.  (You know, i showed you the picture of it.)  i am still kneeling beside the bed.

“Stand up,” He says, “Lean over the bed.”   

O – i want to stop time, i want to freeze the frame and absorb what’s happening, but there is something in his tone.  i stand, and bend over, upper body on the bed, ass exposed – and –

– you know,  – whack – the carpet beater lands on my ass with a sting-y thud, and mmmmpf, it hurts, but i’m not going to complain. 

Two.

Three.

At three, the crosshatching is lapping over where it has already landed – ohhhhhhh!  He doesn’t make me count, but then He says, “That’s 3,” and as the next one strikes – ahhhhhh – ohhhh – “4.” 

And another.  “5.”

He stops.  “That’s enough,” He says, rubbing my ass, which is burning under His touch. 

And it was over.

It wasn’t exactly punishment.  It didn’t feel quite like punishment.  It was – punctuation.     Yes.  It was an exclamation mark at the end of the talk.   It was highlighting the lecture and hitting “BOLD.”

And – o, my – i appreciated it.  (i typed that real slowly – like “am i really going to say this?”)  But there it is.  He touched me in a different way.  Not with the spanking, although sure, that too.  But snatching me up like that.  Um,

Thank you, Sir.

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