And now: a long overdue update

March 13, 2014 at 4:01 pm (Uncategorized) (, , , , , , , )

Other than the writing I’ve just posted (which I actually wrote last night, and put first on Fetlife), I’ve not updated this blog for several months.

The latter part of 2013 was… hard. Very hard. My fainting fit at my first weekend with the Ranger turned out to be seizures. I have Non-Epileptic Attack Disorder, it turns out: probably kicked off by stress from the divorce, and the fall-out from all of the abuse (both by my family, and by the Warrior). Then I spent much of the autumn very mentally ill indeed, and frequently suicidal. The combination of the two have led to a massive flare-up of my ME/CFS, and I’m mostly needing to use my wheelchair when out and about.

I got through it. I got through it, and spring is here. I’m still living with the Magician, and we have Exciting Life Plans. And I’m still in a relationship with the Ranger — indeed, we count the beginning of our relationship from March 17th, so it’s our anniversary in a few days. Both my relationships are a constant source of joy and strength.

The Warrior and I are now divorced. We’re on oddly quite good terms, especially having had a nice chat at a social event a few weeks ago. We still have some paperwork to sort out. I’m managing to hold in my head that odd twisty thing where I like him and wish him very well, but still have a lot of work to do to heal from his emotional, financial and sexual abuse of me. Brains are funny, people are complex. So the world goes. 😉

My body has changed a little more. Illness has aged me in the past year, and the inevitable lack of exercise from the ME flare-up has led to my putting on some more weight. I’ve been suffering from sporadic problems with emotional over-eating. I’m mostly not too happy about this, but accepting it, especially recalling that it’s likely to be temporary. I finally noticed in the autumn that with the extra weight and just the shape-changing of aging, I am no longer a small-breasted person! I was fitted for bras a few weeks ago, and it turns out that I’m roughly a 34DD. I now have three excellent bras (a plain white sports bra, a gorgeous black plunge bra, a super-sexy black-and-red lacy thing), and also a binder, and so enjoy the wonders of, essentially, optional breasts. As a polygendered person? Really not hating that.

I’m having physiotherapy to sort out some of my joint problems and trouble with walking. I’m getting a little more toned from the physio exercises, and I am noticing yet again that despite everything I actually put on muscle very quickly. I’m managing to lift weights more often, and am starting to get some biceps. Also not hating that.

Sex and kink are hard to do much of when very ill, but I’ve had some glorious times over the last few months for all that, especially with the Ranger. The Magician’s becoming more confident in identifying as “grey-ace”, or simply as asexual, and we have started to find more ways of finding the spaces where our kinks converge and creating beautiful things there. Here is where poly comes into its own, of course, because I am, it turns out, when free from abusive relationships, really an intensely sexual as well as kinky person. The Magician creating art on me and then spanking me and photographing me is both a memory that will stay with me for a while, and an event that we both hope and intend will happen more often! We’ve discussed him painting my breasts. We’ve talked about the use of clothes pegs on my nipples. I’m wondering how it would feel to have him flog my breasts and then draw on them. I have as a motivation for us both to catch up on laundry, to have him choose my outfit before we go out to social occasions, so that all evening I can feel secretly, decoratively, his.

Meanwhile, the last time the Ranger and I were alone in his house, I ended up tied by my wrists to a bedpost and spanked, hard. Then making myself come at his command, while he made patterns with rope across my chest. Then showering together, stroking each other’s wet skin with increasing fervour. Then being pressed against the cold wall of the shower while he kissed me, hard. Then sinking to my knees below the stream of water, taking him in my mouth. Then back in the bedroom, being soundly fucked on my hands and knees. And swearing comedically after he made me come yet again, him wielding a vibrator on my clit, his eyes holding mine.

I also note that it’s been rather too long since I last dominated the Ranger. And I have some fun ideas for what might happen when next I do. 😉

The difference the past year has made to my confidence and ease with my sexuality and kink-self is extraordinary. I suspect I still have some way to go! But it’s wonderful, to be able to feel that none of the things that have happened to me – not the rapes, nor the abuse, nor the crushing daily impact of the patriarchy – have succeeded in permanently robbing me of my sexual power, nor of my sovereignty and confidence in my body. It took a long time, but I am starting to get my power back.

Life and healing have some hard challenges ahead for me, I know. But after such a distance already travelled, and with two such wonderful partners to help me on my journey? I think I’m going to get there. 🙂

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Canvas

March 13, 2014 at 3:28 pm (Uncategorized) (, , , )

Kneeling, decorated.

The tree on my back. Kneeling, decorated.

“Would you like to decorate me this evening?”

It’s come up in conversation so often, but the mundanities of life tend to interfere. We’re both disabled, he’s my carer. There are events to organise, jewellery to make, songs to practise, writing to proofread, dinner to cook. Games to play. Admin, and housework, and procrastination.

But today, we both noticed that it isn’t such a hard thing to find, that calm space for a while to find a point where our two kinks – his asexual, aesthetic, cheerfully sadistic, cuddly dominance; my intense, playful, passionate, shyly exhibitionist switchiness – can meet and enjoy each other.

And, he’s an artist. And I’m having body confidence trouble. No brainer, really.

So, after dinner, it comes up again. The bed hurriedly cleared of the trappings of a bed-ridden day. The fan heater moved into the bedroom. I wash my face, brush and tie back my hair. He brings through his pencil case. The subject of outfit comes up, and it is generally decided that my wearing clothes would not in any way add to the setting. 😉

For all my eagerness, it takes me a while to get comfortable, and I shift position a few times rather abruptly, trying to find a place where my abdomen doesn’t hurt, where I can breathe easily, where my hands aren’t getting tingly, where the ache of my breasts pressing into the duvet is pleasant rather than distracting.

His hands are warm, reassuring. On my bottom, on my shoulder, on my side. The pen is deliciously scratchy on my back. I trace the pattern of the trunk, the branches, the curlicues in my mind. I know and love his style so well. We share an obsession with trees.

I expect the moment to come when I slide into subspace; then am surprised to notice I am already there. I am naturally such a fidgety person; the necessity of stillness, of feeling him close and quiet and intent upon me, leaves me soft, relaxed, his. I know he could give me a command and obeying would happen automatically, instinctively. But there is just this: the silence, the scratch of the pen, his breath warm upon my lower back, my breath deep and luxuriating into my pillow. I feel myself turn into a canvas. A page for him to pour his work on to.

My mind is busy yet, of course. A restless inner monologue, at odds with my body’s stillness. I, inevitably, write bits of this essay in my head. But over and above it all, the peace of the deep water. Of knowing that I’m here, and his.

He finishes the tree. The grand initial S at its roots could stand for many things. One of them is “slave”.

Tree, lying.

The tree on my back. Lying.

There are photos, cuddling, scratching. I bury my head in his neck, nibble his ear. Ask if he might like to spank me.

Then another pattern, green, on my leg. Almost too ticklish to bear, but weight is firm on my other leg, and I hold myself still with an effort. Sliding further down.

Green branches, leg.

Green branches on my leg.

The first swat from the little leather strap against my left cheek is shocking, and I yelp despite myself. Six of those, twelve from the beautiful soft flogger that he made to fit his hand. More from the strap. More from his hand, heavy and merciless and wonderful. I count and thank him for each one. Thirty-six in all. The strap is hell with each stroke, glorious pleasure in the afterglow. I know I’ve done well.

More photos, then we lie together, the pen drying in the warmth from the heater. He praises me. I surface. We check in. Exchange words of love, of thanks, of reassurance.

The endorphins will take a while yet to fade. The pen still longer – perhaps tomorrow’s bath will wipe it away, perhaps not. We will both watch for the fading lines, grin at the memories. Agree on the general desirability of him decorating me a little more often.

Tonight, I wear his marks.

Tonight, I am a canvas.

Decorated, spanked.

Decorated, spanked.

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