Confinement

I don't know how many story fragments I have started like this....

The box looked disturbingly like a coffin, barely wider than her shoulders and long enough to lie down in.  She stared at it with measuring eyes.  Once she was in she would not be able to roll over, hell… she would not be able to move at all. 

It was well made, smooth sanded wood, stained and finished to a deep gleaming black.  Heavy brass hinges on one side, and equally heavy latches on the other only added to the sense that is was a coffin.  She had no idea where he had gotten it. 

“You ready?”

“Now?”

“Yeah, now, it’s Friday… we got the whole weekend.”

The whole weekend… just the words made her stomach lurch.  She swallowed and nodded uncertainly.  “What if I can’t?”

“Can’t what?”

“Do it… you know… stay in.  What if I want out?”

“You won’t be able to get out… at least not until I decide.  You knew that was the deal.  You agreed to this.  You knew this was the next step, being boxed.”

Her voice was over loud, more than a little panicked, “I know… I did… I guess I am scared.”

He looked at her, his eyes narrowing, thoughtful.  “I think that you should be afraid.  If you weren’t afraid this would be a little weird.  It is about facing your fear.”  He paused and reached for her, pulling her close, staring deep into her eyes. “…facing your fear and trusting me.  You trust me don’t you?” 

She swallowed hard, trying not to blink to shy away from the intensity of his gaze.  Nervously she nodded, but before she could speak he leaned down and opened the lid, revealing a padded interior.  The lining was black, and contoured to fit a body …a body just like hers.  She looked up at him, all words forgotten.  His eyes were proud, “I had it custom fitted for you.”

It was upholstered with soft black fabric.  It looked soft.  Oddly she felt a strange impulse to touch it, and glancing at him as she tentatively leaned down and touched it.  It was soft… on the surface but the padding was firm, yielding only gradually to the firmest of pressure.  Her voice was soft, introspective, “For me?”

“Yes… I know your measurements and it’s that new space age foam, the stuff they make those new expensive mattresses out of.  They made it a little tight but it is supposed to mold around you… hold you tight.”

“How will I breathe?”

He pointed at the heavy lid, “See, here, over your face there is a mesh.  There is a little fan built into the box but even if the electricity went out there would be enough air to breath.”

“Would you be able to hear me?”

“Of course.”

Her voice trembled with the next question, “How long?”

“If I told you, then you would know.  It is the not knowing… that is the test.”

...stories about boxes and blindfolds... ear plugs and restraints... fantasies of confinement.

and...

and...

and...

I stop and think... in may ways I am confined.  Trapped in a small box of my own making.  Bound by routine and convention.  In my slow tranformation to fit his expectations... my world has constricted down and down and down. 

Master's preference is the predictable, the controllable... he has little patience for novelty... anything new is met with suspicion, analysis and almost universally found unsatisfactory.  So I am surrounded by sameness.  And I has slowly sunk down... my imagination starved and shrunken... it is all two eggs and hashbrowns, sitting in the same chairs, watching the same television shows... the exercise of repeated perfection of the same two steps of the same dance... performed to the same notes of music. 

So I am bound... boxed... confined... and surprisingly... not particularly unhappy about it.  Time passes in my little box... very little surprising or disturbing manages to leak in.  Small changes loom large... things so trivial they seem ludicrous... a willingness to try a new brand of hashbrowns... directing me to drive once... a different shirt. 

I suspect if something or someone lifted the lid to my box, I would be the first to reach up and pull it shut again.  After all it has grown familiar and oddly comforting. 

Cruising

Strange that lately, while things seem to cruise on much the same… we still do fun things… still have our little struggles and little things learned… that I do not feel the same compulsion to share these things with the world.  I start to write them down and I look at them and shrug.  I used to feel all alone and had this desperate need to tell someone, anyone about this thing that is my life. But now it feels all normal and comfortable and even dull.

I look at it… lately, I have not been such a good girl… not subservient, not all that service oriented… I have been forgetting to do little required niceties like adjusting the seat of my car to fit him when we go places.  I slap his hands away when he reaches for me… (like that does any good… it usually just earns me a harder, longer pinch).  But then I am the girl he seems to want me to be.  Silly, relaxed, playful, funny, talkative… impulsive… creative… snarky, bitchy, lazy… but I think he gets what he wants.  If he wanted something different he knows he could force the issue. 

There is no question he can force the issue.  He knows it and I know it.  He can interrupt my chatter and snark with a well timed bark of “Shut UP!!!” and I do (promptly if not gracefully).  He can make me move with a quick grab and yank of hair or collar.  (Though I am perfecting a pretty good wheeze when the collar pulls against my larynx… just like those little dogs do when they lean against the leash.)  All he has to do is order service… Cook! Clean! Suck! Fuck!  And he does, but not often… and I do it… sometimes even joyfully… sometimes.

But when it comes time to write in the blog… I find myself struggling to tease a single thread from the pattern, a vignette from the blur of experiences. 

I know if I wrote more often… the stories would flow… if I wrote more often then perhaps I would not feel the need to have my words carry some kind of significance or special weight. 

I do know I want to keep blogging.  And I keep resolving to write more often and then a week will fly by… and then another… it will seem like hardly a day or two… and I will feel guilty and feel that if I do write now, it would need to be pithy, profound and magical… rather than a plea of “but it all seems so normal now…”. 

Poodles or Pitbulls?

On a group on Fet someone was talking about being a poodle vs. a pitbull... the concept was comparing the "twoo", fire in the slave belly, naturally submissive?, perhaps even fluffy slave types to the um... how does one say this... to the snarkier bitches that hang out in the parking lot and say "make me" to the boys, all the while deep in their not so "twoo" slave hearts hoping that some guy would come along with the balls and the grit to do exactly that... make us. 

Now to give all the peoples credit... many took umbrage at the analogy of poodles and pitbulls... very accurately pointing out that many pits are sweet and submissive and don't let your guard down just because some bitch is small or has a nice hairdo.

But this conversation got me thinking about it... I definitely am not a poodle (even though the squirrelly hair could pass for it some days) and he does try to make me sit on a pillow (well the couch but you get my drift)... I also am not a pit bull... I think I am a wolf in sheep's clothing.  (That explains the poofy type hairdo... it is a disguise.

I used to have huskies... a breed not far different than their wilder cousins.  They were independent, happy souls, funny, and would eat anything smaller than themselves.  They would submit only if you had a firm grip on the collar and even then they were pulling with all their might much of the time.  If they were loose, and you called they would only come if they felt like it. 

What kind of breed would Master be?

I don't know but whatever it was it would have to have a laugh like this....

 

Happy Place

I frequently have a stiff neck… I am sure I could find some karmic explanation.  I do have a pernicious tendency toward inflexibility in my outlook… a rigidity in my stubborn attachment to certain rules or routines.  I should not be surprised that I am becoming more and more calcified physically as I petrify mentally.

When I turn my neck it sounds like there is sand grating in the joints… and it only wants to go so far… I get the pains that shoot down my shoulders… especially my left one… a dull burny achy sensation.

So off I go to my magic hands lady… Sharon at Rose City Acupuncture and she is working on my neck… and she says I have some really bad stuff there.  I laugh and say I put all my stress there.  And then she asked me what it is that I am storing up, that I don’t want to talk about… and that made me pause… what do I NOT talk about??? I thought I pretty much spewed out anything and everything.  So as I lay there… literally all pins and needles… supposedly it is a relaxing thing… all those fancy needles stuck in all the magic places… other people talk about falling asleep but I am practically vibrating with tension.  I cannot relax.  Over and over I realize that I am rigid, my muscles slowly tightening until I am lying there like a board and I force myself to soften, to breathe… I force myself to relax and it is even more exhausting than the tension. 

When I talk to her about this… the sensation of energy rocketing back and forth inside me… she says this thing… “Do you have a happy place?”

And I mutter… “I hate that kind of crap.”

“Because I do not have “a” happy place.”

I have hundreds of places I like to go… places that make me happy.  I love my “place” on the couch with my ‘puter in my lap.  I love riding in the car when Master is driving and looking over at his profile and having his hand on my leg.  I love, love, love being in his bed, all curled up in a ball, warm and safe under the covers.  I love kneeling at his feet; my head resting safe in his lap.  I love walking on the beach, my attention completely focused on the rocks around my feet.  I love to walk beside Master, my hand tucked inside his pocket… over his lap… bent over in the shower… on my back with him over me… fucking my face… so many places where I find happiness… when I am there. 

…but as I lay there and tried to think myself there, think myself into any one of those places… that path kept leading to sinks full of dishes… work tasks piled up upon desks… crowded turnpikes and freeways and plans of circumventing the worst of the delays… bills and menus… crazy kids and intervention plans… mean coworkers and nice ones… I cannot ever turn off the brain… it is like a windup toy or perhaps an unchecked windmill, spinning out of control in the wind of that is my life.  The more I seek peace… the more I find chaos.  There is no place safe from the encroachment of all the things that pile up… and it pushes at me… and make my neck hurt.

Orgasms

Orgasms… I read on other people’s blogs… how one is never enough… how that first one just leaves them on edge and they must have that second, third or fourth.  Talk of multiples and squirting… and I begin to feel jealous.

I used to be able to come more than once.  A long time ago… a really long time ago.  My sexuality changed profoundly when I went through menopause.  And I went through menopause fifteen years ago.  Back then, my body felt different.  I had a very low libido… I did not like having sex… but when I did, orgasms were easy and multiple and very much taken for granted.  I think I wrote once in a story… a piece of fiction that had not strayed too far from reality… “she would orgasm, odd little electric convulsive jerks that she could hardly feel.  They never involved more than the few square inches of flesh that was her vagina.  She did not enjoy them, beyond the happy knowledge that it was over.”

I am well aware that a great deal of that angst, that lack of libido and enjoyment had to do with cracks in the relationship… barely hidden hostility and rage… but now, looking back at the ease and grace my body would respond, even in the face of all that hostility and rage, I regret… I regret not appreciating what I had.

When menopause was at its worst, orgasms weren’t an issue… penetration was.  I swear the vagina grew shut.  Every time we had intercourse, it felt like I was being stabbed with knives… it hurt like all fucking hell.  I would clench my teeth and beg both god and him to hurry up and finish.  Not the most romantic of responses.  And when he came if felt like someone had poured boiling acid up my cooch.  I was not surprised that is was stained pink with blood as it leaked back out of me.  When I confessed these things to my husband, he started to avoid sex.  A few days stretched to a few weeks and then a few months.  I think the longest we went was eighteen months. 

Yes, yes… I went to the doctor.  Yes, I tried hormone replacement pills… did not work.  Tried estrogen creams… gross, nasty, thick, sticky white stuff that I was supposed to put up there every day.  Shudder… it was like a permanent vaginal infection, with a strange medicine odor.  Doctor said… “Use it or lose it.”… the fact that sex was becoming increasingly infrequent was obviously not helping.  But again, strangely… even when it hurt like a fucker, I still orgasmed… never was an issue… but the libido?  One had sex… almost because I felt like I was supposed to, not because I wanted to.  Husband rarely initiated… and I almost forgot how to.  It was almost like I had forgotten about sex.

Happily, while it may last years, menopause does eventually end, like an engine running on the last fumes of gas, the machinery coughs and sputters… dies and then when you think it is finally over, finally well and truly dead, it roars back to life once or twice and then stops. 

I think my deepest fear, prior to menopause and then during it… was somehow the hormonal roulette wheel would finally tick… tick… tick… and finally stop with the pointer permanently frozen on some zone on the cycle… some zone like raving psycho bitch or sexless, rusted shut pussy.

But the pointer did not stop anywhere I expected… anywhere I had ever been before.  When I finally got off the roller coaster ride that was hormonal cycles, the departure gate led into a part of the amusement park that is off limits before.  A raving psycho bitch can make an occasional appearance, but it is not the same one that would take over my body before.  And the pussy??? She seemed to make a complete recovery.  Not rusted shut… in fact… perhaps a bit over lubricated at times.  The libido is back… really back… I am a bit like a teen aged boy… everything can be interpreted sexually, eroticized, turn me on.  There are days I just want to hump the furniture. 

But I want to lodge a formal complaint with the roller coaster company.  There needs to be a sign at that magic departure gate… “Some riders may experience changes in sexual responsiveness.”

“SOME CHANGES????”  So here it is.  I am horny.  I am very horny.  I become very aroused very easily.  I can get so turned on I am afraid my head may explode.  But all those easy, multiple orgasms… those ones I did not enjoy all that much???  They seemed to have been left on the roller coaster. 

I can come.  But it is not easy.  It takes a LOT of work.  It takes a long time.  It takes concentration and focus and commitment… It is like labor and giving birth.  The good news is the orgasms have changed… they are completely different.  When I get there (if I get there) they are HUGE.  They are epic.  Once they get started, they can keep going… and going… and going.  They are definitely worth the work.  And I only get one.  Once it is over… it is over.  The amusement park is closed. 

So here I am wondering… if this exchange of easy, multiple yet unimpressive orgasms for these difficult but amazingly epic singles is a good thing or a bad thing?  Dunno… don’t know if it matters… I doubt I have any more control over this than I did over the roller coaster.  It is all a ride… I guess I should just sit back and enjoy myself.          

Princess diaries

Princess Diaries

On Fetlife the only group I really follow much at all is the Owners/property group.  They refer to themselves as O/p.  I am not sure if Master and I fully meet the definition for O/p (if there is a real clear definition for that nebulous concept).  He seems a bit too invested in spoiling me.  I have more than once said our particular version of O/p is perhaps Owner/princess. 

I sometimes wonder about his easy going ways, his minimal expectations, his investment in what I want.  It rubs me the wrong way.  There is a very dark part of me that wants harsher, more selfish, callous disregard for my wants or happiness.  I have this unholy craving for his enjoyment of my suffering.  I want to be denied this pillow (translation:  Leather recliner), I want to be relegated to the floor at his feet.

Last week when I was sick he refused to allow me to kneel… it is like punch in the gut.  And when I forgot to adjust the driver’s seat in my car to fit him this weekend and his unconcern hurt more than any punishment.  I wanted to burst into tears.  He said, “You are sick.”  And I knew that was true, the whole week has been a fog of exhaustion and congestion, coughs and sniffs and stuffy head… but it is my head and lungs that were most impacted, not my knees, not my ass...  It only takes a few seconds to drop to my knees and it fulfills something in my soul.

His use of my body has been too gentle… too considerate… spankings have dwindled to a random swat as I pass by.  The sex, if somewhat selfish on his part, is definitely pretty vanilla and distinctly unremarkable and to be honest, just something to get over.     

I know it is his choice and I must accept, cooperate, even embrace his vision as my own, but this being treated like a princess is starting influence, even weaken my sense of internal enslavement… I start to feel a little too free, start to have wants and expectations… start to push back… to make the too frequent snarky remark… to pull away when he grabs me… to say “princess” things like “but there is a wet spot there” when directed to lie back down and snuggle with him after sex. 

I know I have been getting bitchier and perhaps like any princess I want to blame him… to point and say he is not mean enough, not strict enough, doesn’t have expectations or rules or consequences and this is what you get… rather than take responsibility. 

But I also know that in the end the only person that can ultimately take control of me is me... and if I fight this enslavement, if I let this princess thing take over my thinking... the only princess to blame is me.