Punching the fuck out of Love

I can’t remember what I wanted from this or why I came here. It’s morphed so dramatically in such a short space of time.
Fun? Probably, yes.
I don’t know.

I know I wasn’t looking for Love.
Love can just keep the fuck away from me. As my vanilla-sometimes-squeeze says, “I want to lock Love in a room and punch the fuck out of it.” You and me both, honey.

Right now I feel like running back to that boring, mundane vanilla world and asking for some grace. I promise I won’t fuck up again, I won’t moan about boring sex even once. I won’t go out seeking guys to beat me and leave bruises on my arms any more. Just let me believe in Love again, one day, for an hour or two.

I’ve said it but it’s like I keep forgetting it: the piranhas are circling me. I’m the fresh meat in the tank. And I don’t even know how I got here….

Three months ago I was sunk full-body-deep in the most delicious experience of sensual love and adoration that I’d ever tasted. The whole summer seemed sparklingly clear, brighter than my life before that golden Adonis came along and shook me at my foundations. I felt like the most beautiful creature on the planet for the whole duration of our brief affair. Today I’m sent a draft list of rules setting out how I will be punished and used if I consent to this submission, which includes asking permission to use the toilet and making all three holes available for Him to use as he pleases (which may also be delegated to others, male or female, as He pleases). And apparently my bad language will be up for review and subject for punishment, as well as other general behaviour issues, such as my timekeeping. Oh the fuck yeah? Come on, then.

Yes, I felt turned on reading the list. Yes, I’ve fantasized about all this stuff plenty and wanked like a demon with it on my mind. But the reality of going through with it and agreeing to this, that’s something else. And I don’t know if I can.

When Graeme split the scene I said, “No more men telling me how to live my life.” I wanted my home back, my sanctuary, my space and my bed.
What’s happened?

Today I received a lecture, stood outside Waterstones in a very public place. I knew there was nothing to do but stand up straight and take it.
Last night I gave my son an effective reprimand and stood by it. It worked.
And all this week I have been treating the people I encounter in daily life with an even greater amount of kindness, courtesy and respect than I have ever done before. I have worn dresses and skirts and given a shit about my appearance in a way that I haven’t done for years. I have considered the things that I’ve been neglecting and overlooking and realized that I can double-down and take care of them quite soon. All this in spite of the fact that I’ve been walking around in a fairly constant haze of semi-orgasmic frenzy.

Are these the possible outcomes of being topped by a dominant man? It seems to me that these things have nothing to do with sex (because I haven’t had sex with him yet). They are unexpected bonuses, and something I want to explore more. But the wording of the Rules comes back to me again and I quake.

Wise words tonight from new FetLife friends:
“Do not not not go for the first guys you like”… and really I should add, “The first guys who’ve liked me,” because I think that’s more to the point.

“You will have no end of offers. Choose carefully who you submit to. It’s a gift. Don’t let anybody use you, or abuse you, or take you for granted.”

“It’s not a race to find a Dom,” said one friendly Dom. And it’s just too obvious for words but obviously not to me.

I need more bruises. I need more wine. I need to remember why I’m here and what I want. I need to count the number of fucks in this piece. I need to go out tomorrow night and have some fun. And I need to punch the fuck out of Love, the filthy treacherous, mother-fucking whore because I’m sure it’s her fault that I came here in the first place.


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