Hidden In Plain Sight

When He tells you a fantasy He has envisaged, and part of it involves Him seeing you reading a book…

swoon

‘You sit there,’ He says, as He points to a small grassy mound opposite Him. She makes her way there, and crouches down to sit on the earth. It’s nice here. Peaceful. Occasionally they both laugh at the dog as she blissfully runs around, unable to decide between land and water, which is better. Then growing bored, crouching down looking intently at Him… her way of demanding He throw her a stick.

Watching them together makes her smile. The beautiful bond. His dog adores Him like a God, and He cherishes her like His heart.

She can’t help but compare possibilities. The willingness He has to show her this. To open His heart in front of her like this. It touches somewhere. Stirs her soul. She can imagine loving Him. But can she imagine worshipping Him? These are the questions that have brought them to this place. Here and now.

‘What do you want?’ He asks. Frustrated.

This is not the first time she has been asked this. In fact, everything she hears from Him is not new. She knows He speaks a truth that many others have shared. She knows how frustrating she is to get to know. To penetrate. If only she knew how to change that, she would. But it’s just simply her, and no amount of anything seems to shift that.

This time though, she has a story.

She speaks to Him of a girl who holds pieces in her hands… and no matter how hard she tries, doesn’t know what to do with them. People come along and tell her what the pieces are, and she, seeing it too, tries harder. However, somehow she just can’t seem to make them all fit together. She wonders how it’s possible that she can’t decipher her own pieces. It’s heartbreaking and He sees her truth in this. She cries and gives Him her frustration and pain and confusion.

He sits with her and He listens.

He always listens.

The water running nearby is calming. The warmth of the sun is comforting. His presence is becoming familiar.

He sits with her and He talks.

She listens.

They come to a place of hearing each other. Understanding. Acceptance. Surrender.

It never occurred to her that it was necessary to surrender together, to that which they are trying to create. The space between them.

“I can’t give You promises,” she says sadly.

‘You are an abyss,’ He replies, bewildered.

They stand, and begin to walk. The day comes back. The sounds come back. The sunshine comes back. It’s a beautiful day.

We spend so much focus on looking for a good person.
Yet, how much focus do we spend on becoming the kind of good person someone else might be looking for?

Trust.

It occurred to me this morning that trust is much like anything else. It requires the right combination for that individual, to unlock. We can have blanket concepts and ideas of what create trust, however, I realised that my way of achieving trust in someone and other’s way of achieving trust in someone *will* be completely different. I have my very own triggers and fears and history. The map of my journey is vastly different. The minefields and potential pitfalls are in different places and have very different booby traps attached. My wants and needs and desired outcome is completely different. The promises I made to myself… the agreements, the pledges, all different.

I think yes, we can say that we’re all seeking that place that feels like home. However, what home looks like, varies as much as we do. I mistrust most people. For reasons that would definitely confuse most. Not because of bad character or because of my judgements of them as an individual person (we are kind of predictable). I mistrust human nature. We are foolish and naive and ignorant, and are like bratty little toddlers that carry great power without the ability to comprehend the responsibility of that. So of course, my trust is built from a very different place. A difficult place no doubt (pity the poor Man who takes on that challenge lol). Having said that, it too is where I build my trustworthiness. I don’t expect to be given trust without too proving that I am capable of returning that gift. That is my work in the equation. That is my responsibility in the equation. What I consider to be the true magic is in the space that is created between those who choose to build a mindful place of trust together. Anything can flourish there.

When I was first called a masochist, I was shocked. And if I’m brutally honest, a little bit offended. I don’t like pain. In fact, I hate it. It hurts. And I couldn’t help but keep asking myself, “what sane person enjoys hurting?”

Well, this has taken me on a journey… a very long journey… of trying to reconcile how I feel around being hurt. Because you see, I love to be hurt. Emotionally, physically, mentally, all the things. And yet, I do not identify as a masochist as a generality, because the main thoughts on what that word means just doesn’t sit right for me. And it has taken a long time of acceptance, observation and learning about myself and others, to come to understand why. 

What I have observed is that there are two styles of S&m. There is the infliction of, and receiving of Pain. And there is the application of, and receiving of Torture (or Torment perhaps?). A recent discussion between a friend and myself led us down a rabbit hole of definition to determine how the two could be clearly defined from each other. We came extremely close, however, my mind is ruthless and pedantic when it comes to understanding. I need clarity and for that I need simplification. It seems the Starbucks drive-thru is becoming a place of meditation and mental clarity for me lol, *before coffee.* Sitting there, it occurred how it differs for me. Unlike the more general form of masochism where the pleasure is the attraction to Pain itself… it’s not in the actual pain that I find pleasure. It’s in the act of Enduring that pain *despite not liking it*, that I find my pleasure. I want to give the person hurting me, my Suffering. That is where I find the connection that I enjoy with them, which in turn is where I find the pleasure for myself. The fine line with the second type is that it requires a “CNC” of sorts. However, what makes it consensual is that it’s a controlled, agreed-to concept and environment… hence the importance of negotiation (either before play, or determined within the dynamic).

This may seem like semantics to some. However, to someone like me, I have come to realise the importance of defining differences when trying to learn about ourselves, and in communicating that to others. So many times I have been given these labels that are such general umbrella labels and wondered why they just didn’t feel quite right in explaining myself to myself. It has always turned out to be because they really don’t fit me. And I have come to accept that even if they fit everyone else but me, it is ok for it to not fit… for the sake of understanding between myself and those around me,*I simply don’t use that label.* I do, however, keep searching until I find my own understanding… one that does make sense. The only frustration in this is constantly having to try to explain and share the minute details to others of those subtle differences and nuances, when my understanding is still so limited itself. But that’s what learning is. And that’s why we’re here. Always it is my goal to make the path of those who come after me, easier. If I can lay a little understanding for even just one person who was as lost as I, then the effort hasn’t been done in vain.

The grey areas are coming back. I hate grey areas. Those places where right and wrong don’t have a say, because both right and wrong are both right and wrong. My best friend decided to end our friendship recently. He’s a Master. We couldn’t become Master/slave, however, we became best friends instead. I’m a fool. I knew he would hurt when I met someone. I had hoped he would meet someone first. But it wasn’t to be. And now, he is gone. He’s not wrong in that. I understand. His integrity wouldn’t allow him to spend time with someone else’s girl. His pain couldn’t allow him to be subjective. He felt it was best… and he was right.

But it doesn’t take away the hurt. The feeling of being abandoned. The feeling of being let down. The feeling of helplessness when life takes things from you and just laughs in your face. Old wounds laying seemingly dormant, rear their ugly head, bringing me back to that time and place. Always the same story… “they will all leave… push them away first.”

He is the youngest man I’ve ever even considered being with. By a lot. Large age gaps have always been my thing, right from my first adult-male crush, to the first man I lost my virginity to. I’m attracted to everything about older men, however, mostly it’s the emotional maturity they carry that comes only from life experiences.

He is the first man I’ve met who is very close to my own age, who carries that same wisdom. Yes, there are still glimpses of the growth He still needs to endure, however, as I was driving this morning, it occurred to me that I want to be there to see that growth. To share in it with Him. To see Him become the Man He will be. Never have I wanted that before. I’ve always wanted to meet Men after they’ve been through that particularly messy stage of growth in their lives. This time though… this time is different. I want to bear witness to it. I want to see Him become the Man I see in Him already, that He just doesn’t know is there yet. No, it’s not about trying to make Him what I want Him to be. He will be who He is, of that I have no doubt. It’s the unveiling. I want to be front row, centre stage, to see Him meet Himself. His biggest fan ☺️
How magical that would be.

It’s amazing how easy it is to forget that when you click with someone, things make sense. Flow.

He came “knocking.” Unexpectedly, I let Him in. Still to this moment I’ve no idea why. Serendipity? Perhaps. Whatever the reason, I’m glad I did. A moment of bravery and here I am, sitting on His couch, looking at the possibility of a future I had stopped believing was a possibility for me. And regardless of where this goes, for once I am moving into this with a curiosity that I haven’t felt in a long time.

He challenges and intrigues me, and keeps nothing of Himself hidden.

‘I want to Own you.’

His words and actions match. Our values align. Our ideals align. Our concepts align.

Last night was the first time I allowed myself to relax into a possibility that there isn’t a catch. Of course, most of me still thinks there is. Things just don’t go smoothly in my life, so if they do, I’m always suspicious… especially if my heart is involved. He’s by no means perfect, nor does He pretend to be. We simply seem… compatible.

I finally find myself standing in a place where I kind of hadn’t really thought I’d ever be, looking out over an abyss that is beginning to make sense after all this time, a view that is becoming more formed and clearer, and more beautiful than ever, as I continue along on this journey.

‘There are two fundamental fears we have as humans,’ He said. ‘Not getting what we want, and losing what we have.’

“What if there’s a third?” I asked.

“What if we fear getting what we want?”

He smiled and looked at me, and said, ‘I want to piss on you.’

I blushed. We both knew what that meant. I got up and walked into the shower and knelt on the floor. He followed, pulled out His cock, told me to open my mouth, and proceeded to piss on my face and in my mouth. He then shoved His cock in my mouth and fucked my face. Not to cum. He hasn’t cum in my presence yet. His self control astounds me, because I know He wants to fuck me. There is something so appealing about a Man that can control himself in that way. I don’t know what it is but it speaks to me on a level I can’t explain.

‘Good girl,’ He said. ‘Now stand up and rinse your mouth.’ I did. And then He kissed me. Our first kiss. Is it weird to say it was a perfectly romantic moment? Because it was. It definitely melted me. We stood there in the shower together and just talked.

Bonding. Connecting. Learning each other.

His presence is immense. At first I found it intimidating, almost aggressive. Yet as we open to each other, somehow it has shifted. Softened.

He made me a bed to sleep at the foot of His bed last night, and it was a surprise to wake up feeling so refreshed, noting that not only had I actually managed to sleep (it usually takes me ages to sleep well at a new persons house), but that I had slept soundly. Perhaps it was because we were in our own spaces. It just felt right. Everything has just felt right. He surprises me more and more each day :)

‘Arch your back and keep still, bitch!’

The way You spit it out sounds like venom, and it pierces deep. No matter how much I will my body to do just that, it just simply won’t. It betrays me. And that betrayal forcing me to defy You, kills me. Tears and snot streaming down my face, I just don’t know what to do. I feel a swat across my back. I want so desperately to arch my back for You, but that sting across my ass makes me want to run far, far away. Far away from that pain. And I can’t help but curl under, trying to get away from it. I try to be strong, tough. It hasn’t even been 10 strikes. I feel trapped. 30 is a place beyond my comprehension.

‘I’m not even hitting you hard,’ I hear You say.

Ouch. A different pain. Why do I feel like I’m failing at being punished? I *should* be tougher. I *should* be stronger. I will my ass not to sting so much with each strike and over and over again, it betrays me. And Your precision for honing in on that place that slightly wraps at the side of my thigh… masterful. That! That there is the knee buckling sting.

A thought pops into my head about an article I read recently that said that on a scale of tools, the cane isn’t considered that painful. I have had whips mark the flesh of my back, crop handles used on the soles of my feet, been twisted and contorted into myriads of painful predicament rope bondage ties, and yet standing here, this cane to my ass brings tears to my eyes in less than 5 strikes.

I remember back in the day of believing I had something to prove, when first hearing that people cried during impact, I was astounded, and figured they must be weak. Impact wasn’t that bad! And in all honesty, it actually wasn’t. However, in some ways, it seems like I’m becoming softer and softer the more I experience pain. Or perhaps there’s less defence there now. I’ve made peace with crying.
I give Him my tears. I give Him my pain.
I understand now, it’s not weakness. It’s truth.

‘3 more strikes. Count them, bitch.’

Hallelujah. 3 I can do. “One.”

‘One what?!’

“Thank You, Sir.”

“Two. Thank You, Sir.”

‘This last one is going to hurt. Close your eyes.’

I want to recoil everything that could possibly be sticking out enough to be in the path of that monster biting at my flesh. As You change sides, I try not to watch. Try not to anticipate. Try to simply accept that it’s coming no matter what. It takes everything I have to stand there, as You want.

“Three. Thank You, Sir.”

That was brutal. You wrap me in Your arms. I don’t want to touch You. I don’t want to be near You. I don’t want Your comfort. I want to curl up into myself and cry my heart out.

You hurt me. I hurt me.
Because I choose to be here.
I choose to give You that Power. 
I choose to trust that this is what is needed.