Hidden In Plain Sight

‘I love that you’re so unapologetically you,’ He says.

She smiles. It’s so strange to hear that because she never feels secure in herself in this world. Always feeling like a misfit, like she doesn’t belong anywhere. Like she’s too soft for this world of sharp and jagged edges. But a part deep down inside understands what He means. She has accepted that she is simply as she is. Somehow she knows who she is… and has always known… despite what others, and the world have always tried to tell her. Sometimes she wonders if that knowing is what will prevent her from becoming the type of slave she desires to be. Then in moments of fleeting understanding, she realises that no, it’s because of that knowing that she recognises that this is the right path for her. How can she possibly walk any other path?

10 days it has taken to get from there to here. From an ending to a beginning. 10 days it took for Him to find her. And for her to love Him. 10 days for Him to become Home. Thinking back it seems impossible to measure their time together in days or hours or minutes. It just simply feels… ongoing. Everything she thought was insurmountable has become obsolete. Why did she fight so hard to hide? Why did she fight so hard to resist love? Why did she fight so hard to resist handing over control? Why was she so reluctant to trust? All of these things seem so ridiculous now. Falling away like leaves, she watches as they simply drift to the ground to lay scattered around her feet. She realises it is her heart that is in control. Both herself and her mind thought otherwise. But her heart knew. Her heart held all the cards. Sneaky heart.

Somehow, by some kind of miracle, He has brought her back to life, and she hadn’t even realised how much she had been dying. Sounds, colours, smiles, laughter, love, happiness… suddenly the greyness is gonefornow… like a fog that drifts in with the dawn and dissipates with the sunlight. His presence radiates into her soul and creates a prism of life that she can finally remember is how she reflects back into the world.

These marks she carries. This fullness of being used by Him. The way in which He owns her. His willingness to accept everything she has to give of herself. She hasn’t felt this beautiful, perhaps ever. This known.

‘I will never love you,’ He says. ‘But I will always keep you, my slave.’

She smiles, and her heart bursts with happiness.

She loves Him. It is enough for both of them.

‘You have a Home here.’

“Pardon, Sir?” she asks.

‘You have a Home here… with me,’ He says. ‘This can be your Home if you want it to be.’

For a moment she is confused. It came from nowhere, this sentiment. And then it clicks. He has just read her response on a platform. Ahhh. “Oh, You mean in response to my writing on that platform, Sir?”

He nods. ‘Yes.’

She smiles. “Thank You, Sir.” “It wasn’t written in the context of a “physical home” though, Sir.”

‘I understand,’ He says.

His look suggests that perhaps it is she who misunderstood. She realises He means within Him. She has a place in Him. Her heart flutters. This Man.

May you attract someone who speaks your language, so you don’t have to spend a lifetime translating your soul.

“When choosing between two evils, I always like to try the one I’ve never tried before.”

~Mae West~

It all began at our regular munch. Glancing briefly in my direction, he proceeded to explain how he had decided that he would like to explore the possibility of nailing someone’s breasts and hands to a table. So cheeky. He laid the bait. And he knew I would swallow it hook, line and sinker. Whilst everyone else shared their distaste at the thought, my curiosity perked up. An image began forming in my mind. I raised my head from my lazy afternoon slumber, basking in the sunshine on my towel, like a cat. 
Tell us more, I asked. He smiled. He knew he had me lol.

It’s not something I’ve ever done. However, the first time we played together, we recognised a kindred spirit in each other. His Sadism is the exact Sadism that my style of masochism absolutely adores. And it seems my style of masochism feeds his Beast. In all honesty, whenever we come together it feels like we’re little kids. There is a playfulness and curiosity that comes out for me with his style of play. A joy. He finds true joy in torture. And I find true joy in being tortured. We laugh. It’s fun! It feels like we’re going on an adventure together into the unknown… and we are. However, we are venturing in as informed, mindful, consensual adults.

As mentioned in my previous blog. From that moment, we began negotiating. I researched every way I could think how, to find any information that might be useful, and thankfully had some very wise contacts from my old community who I knew would be able to guide me well. He researched as well. Way more in-depth than I thought to. We came together frequently to check in and “compare notes.” Also to determine that we were moving towards being on the same page (literally- with a document typed up that we would sign on the day).

And so it happened. We were ready. I rocked up on their doorstep with my aftercare bag of goodies, we sat down and had a catch up and chit chat, signed our contract… and then the fun began!

There is nothing in this world more satisfying than having something turn out better than you hope. The joy in finding people who find pleasure in the same things as myself is just inexplicably intoxicating. An afternoon of laughter as he proceeded to nail me to a table, one nail at a time, checking in with each and every one, that I wanted to continue.

I don’t go into subspace when I experience pain. I become super alert. Super focused. Hyper. High. My heart bursts with happiness. It’s moments like this that I do believe I’m a masochist. Or perhaps, one in the making. It’s this type of play that brings me to life. 
Creative torture. I feel so guilty saying that “out loud.” However, my body truly never feels more beautiful than when it’s bearing the marks of a Sadist. I looked down at my breasts and for the first time ever they looked truly beautiful to me. Droplets of blood. Puncture wounds. I couldn’t stop staring at the holes between my fingers. Mesmerised. 
Had I really, truly just endured having nails hammered through there? 
Such subtle, beautiful marks, that no one knows are there but me. I love them. I feel most me right now, in this body that allows me this gift to both give and receive. It has been way too long.

*does happy dance*

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.