Overcoming a Dementor when you don’t have a reasonable Patronus charm in your bag of tricks

I had to face something disturbing about myself today: I tell lies.
He calls them “small half truths” and I receive that as a kindness which I know I don’t deserve. And I realize that I have been fashioning the truth for years. I could accept it as creative licence for rewriting a reality I don’t accept but that doesn’t feel like it comes close enough to what I owe to make redress.

Maybe it was just a defence that I got too comfortable with. I can know how dirty, tragic, vulnerable I am, but if I let him see it too then I’ll be lost. I need his good opinion of me so badly. But why didn’t I trust that I could be real and he would still accept me? In the moment of not-trusting, the fear became a self-fulfilling thing. And so the real crime here was my own doubt…. doubt that I AM a good person. It’s my fault. I behaved badly, damaged his opinion of me… caused him harm, even.  I don’t know.

I write this much and walk away for a few hours.
Put the kettle on.
That’s how I work lately.
There is so much I’m processing that I can’t get perspective on it.
I try reading poetry or erotica here – stuff that I used to love a few weeks ago – but the words won’t line up coherently and make any sense in my brain.
Some words jump out at me. That’s as good as it gets. I force my eyes to track along the lines but the sound of my voice in my head reading the words is gone. All I can hear is that extended beeeeeeeep that the TV used to make when the programmes finished late at night. I used to like that time: switch off. Enforced single-pointed focus. The time when you knew that the best option was to go to bed, maybe read a book, but you’d be asleep with it on your chest within half an hour. Now I have the option for constant communication with someone in the world somewhere at any time and the circle of people I care about is truly global. It’s eating my neural pathways and turning me into a goldfish.

Whilst hopping around and wondering where this journal entry is going, I read this:

Growing up I didn’t have the luxury of venting, saying negative things I didn’t mean. I couldn’t just say something and take it back later. Being angry wouldn’t have been an excuse. I was angry for decades, and I still had to watch what I said… {A World Where People Don’t Say What They Mean }

My childhood was like that too. You learned to be careful about what you said. Anything you said might be used against you later in anger, twisted around to hurt you by a parent that couldn’t deal with their own emotional lability. Only one person in my household was allowed to vent. And she was also the one that always had to remain blameless, whose virtue and glory we all tried to uphold for the sake of world peace.

But it got me back to thinking about my small half truths.
My mother was like a highly trained sniffer dog, hunting out your little gems of joy and nuggets of experience; a kind of Dementor, only one that couldn’t be deflected by a Patronus charm or thinking happy thoughts. I learned to hide my truths and gems and nuggets of life in places where she couldn’t find them. And you had to hide the trail too, so that her suspicions weren’t aroused. Put the little shiny thing in a sealed container, inside a locked box, in a dark corner of an abandoned room in the furthest reaches of your heart-palace. Brush over your tracks on the way out and wait until you were fully and safely and properly alone before returning and taking the precious treasure out to turn it over lovingly in your hands. This usually took place at night, when I felt safest to travel there. I would stay there for as long as possible and enjoy the silence and the space. The being alone-ness. Then creep back into my human shell before dawn for some deeper sleep before waking up in the Mad World once again: the world of walking on eggshells around this crazy woman that could go off at any time.

And here I find myself, wondering why, despite everything he and I have said about honesty, I’m still covering my tracks and hiding small half truths in places that I hope he won’t find them.

 

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True sub or Domme? Switching roles, nurturing others and hedonism

“You seem quite assertive for a sub,” a Fet friend said to me last week.
“Oh no, I’m a true sub,” says I, “Looking for a real Dom.”
(Fingers down back of throat… I know, it’s ick).

“You’re Dorset’s sluttiest woman,” says another Fet friend on WhatsApp yesterday. I take that as quite an accolade. Yeah, I’m happy with that.

And now, this week… Switch. Who knew? Seems like Peggy did but she failed to tell me (the other part of me that resides in her body, because she definitely owns the body).

Learning to Domme is super-fascinating, and maybe even more so because I’ve recently experienced being Dommed. I don’t know if I’m much good at it yet but I have to say that it’s coming more easily than I thought it would (big pun intended).

This isn’t just about sexual kicks for me… and that’s the biggest aha lesson of this. I suddenly have more people to take care of in my life. People to check in with each day and respond to; emotions to consider. There’s this weight of their wellbeing that comes with it. And actually, I realize I can do that and I might even be good at it. THIS is what I felt the last guy who was trying to Dom me was overlooking. He didn’t give a big enough shit about my wellbeing, and seemed mostly interested in how much he was planning to punish me and with what implements.

Do I still want to be Dommed? I am a pain slut, and a little trip into subspace this weekend would help to relieve the stress and I know there are people willing to help me out with that.

So what happens if I chuck away the labels? Are they really necessary?

After laughing about my silly ‘true sub’ statement with my friend, he said, “I would place you as a hedonist who enjoys both elements of the given roles, depending on who you are interacting with.”
Perhaps I could be a Mutable Masochistic Hedonist? A Nurturing Slut? I think I’m just a lover of human beings, finding new ways to make people happy.

The Ballad of Kali and Shiva

The phone has been silent for 18 hours now.
Your daily flow of messages dried up. The morning announcement of your feelings for me, missing. All day I’ve waited. Sent thoughtful little texts to nudge you… trying not to seem needy or neurotic. Now it’s 5pm and the desperate panic has arrived because THIS is new territory. We’ve been in each other all along: we never had to find each other but now I’m lost.

Two days ago we fell hungrily on each other in the afternoon, ripping clothes off without care. You pushed my face into the carpet, thrusting your hips against my ass and buried your cock inside my cunt…. waves of pain and bliss rolled through me. It was always like this, as you tore orgasms from me with greedy glee. Delighted at your own mastery, as you could demand, “One more for me, you’re not done yet,” and time meant nothing, measured only in our cum, the dampness of the sheets, the daylight passing, you riding me, into a state of shared exhaustion.

When we met we fucked so much, so hard and long that you injured your knees. One kneecap swollen up to twice its size. So we fucked standing up. We fucked in the kitchen, me pressed against the counter as you slammed into me hard. Me bending over touching the floor, your hands pulling me in tight against you and then sliding the length of your glorious cock in and out of me slowly until every inch of my pussy could feel the power and the strength of you. I thought nothing so beautiful could ever exist. We didn’t seek the orgasms that day, just the sensation of being inside each other, becoming one. We didn’t seek orgasms but they’d always come.

Perhaps no mere mortal can live with the burden of all that beauty. Perhaps we were always doomed to be consumed by the forces we created, the many lifetimes that we’d shared, stretching out across dimensions. The millennia of hatred for each other accumulated after every time we’d left or scorned the other. Who can live with this kind of knowledge? I’d hoped we could.

I take my evening walk along the river, the dog by my side, and try to find calm. The water, the trees, that usually work their magic on me, do nothing tonight. I’m torn apart and barely holding in a wail of agony because this is where we talked about our love. This is where I challenged you to admit your feelings for me and where the flood began. This place empowers me to be bold, where the visions come in thick and fast. But in this moment I feel the hollow pain of your absence and know that you are truly gone.