Drifting away

It’s not possible, not possible. So much potential just slipping through our fingers. There is no way for us to make 24/7 dominance and submission work – and we are so talented at it. But there are other needs. The daily round, work, independence, separate homes. T needs time to dream himself into being again. There is so much blocked up, that may never be released, so much hurt that dare not speak. And whatever submission I offer is not enough to change things for him. I can dig his garden, wash his sheets, strive, strive to please him, knowing I will fail somewhere and be over his knee for the stinging smacks that are our soundtrack. It has been the rhythm of a year together. But it can’t hold us.

What beauty there is in the moment when the pain becomes too much, my mind beholds the certainty that I will be taken beyond what I can bear and the pleading and writhing starts. What pleasure he took in Lording that moment. What hidden pulses came alive to that energy in his swinging arm as he spanked me beyond endurance and witnessed my undoing. But there is no place for it now. What I need is a deep unravelling of my will and he is not able to provide it, try as we might.

The Story of T

I relented. 24/5 it is. Or whatever that turns into. I need this man. I need his mind, his heart and his dominance. I only wish I never had to be out of his sight, that life was one long bout of lying across his lap, for his caresses and his spanking, however impractical and ridiculous a wish.

The urge to submit is so strong that I shall submit to what I REALLY don’t like – to have to live apart sometimes, each with our own home. In our year together I have often felt life circumstances punish me more harshly than any actual hairbrushing that has me squirming and begging over T’s knee. The latter at least is certain, has a beginning and an end, is intolerable whilst it lasts, but then restores me to myself and his love in a way nothing else can. But the open-ended “let’s see how it goes-ness” of actual real-life relating often has me reeling with uncertainty about whether I’m loved or not.

The power of D/s is in its pin-point  accuracy. Submitting to T, I find my whole self enhanced because I’m safe. This is also its cruelty. To have the light of it switched on and off, in a way that any vanilla couple would think a perfectly natural coming and going, is torture.

I am a submissive, not a masochist. Very important distinction. I don’t want to suffer. The pain of a physical punishment is clean, decisive and cathartic for both involved. It promotes security, fun and constant sexual excitement. But it can feel like sand running through my fingers when it is gone.

My challenge, which I seem to have accepted, is to hold on when it’s not there. I can only do that if I separate it from early childhood needs which were unmet and set the adult part of me to the task. That is a partial solution in this chapter of the story of T.

Not a lot of fun.