Dr. Strangelove

It wasn’t that long ago in my life that my body was my own. It was mine to pierce and tattoo. It was mine to pickle with gin. It was mine to move in the modes I chose, to repose however I wished. My hair was mine to dye, to cut and style how I saw fit. It was mine to feed as I chose, to rest as I desired, to exercise as I pleased. And it isn’t anymore.

I’ve suddenly been possessed of the idea that I want to get a calligraphy lower-case i tattooed on me. I am, after all, accused of being impertinent, insolent, impish and indolent. And I had to ask if I could, and I’ve been told he’ll think about it. He might think about it for weeks or years. He might simply say “no”. And that’s that.

There are ways I have to stand and sit. If I’m uncomfortable I have to ask permission to shift position. Permission that might not come.

I have to wear my hair certain ways so many days of the week. I asked before I bought hair dye. If he ever wants my hair to be a different length or a different colour it will have to change.

The Doctor is not a hard Master. He’s pretty easygoing about a lot of things. Since we have kids and I’m required to act like any other wife and mom around them, the metaphorical leash I’m on is pretty long. When I get drawn up short it really hits me, sometimes.

It hits me, too, when I want to mention something to one of my friends and I realize I can’t. When I want to call one of them up and critique a new paddle or complain about butthurt. Or even when I realize I can’t tell someone that the reason I can’t do ____ with them is because I’ve been ordered to clean the house/make a meal/take a nap/etc. instead.

In so many ways my life is just as it ever was and just as everyone else’s. I still have my pets and my kids. I still have a wonderful husband. I have favourite TV shows and movies. I have an obsessive relationship with my iPod. But, although you might not notice it, I don’t have my freedom. And some days, that feels kind of weird.

When the good Doctor and I first started dating, I was determined that ours would be a relationship of equals. I had just come out of an abusive relationship that put me through a tremendous amount of pain, suffering and degradation (and not even the fun kind). I had been raised to believe that partners have to be on completely level footing for a relationship to be healthy and certainly my most recent experience hadn’t sold me on the idea of submission. So it was equality or nothing.

It was a difficult process for me in a lot of ways. I knew in my teens that I wanted to belong to someone wholly and completely. Rather sadly, I lacked the life experience needed to recognize the true difference between a strong, confident man and a weak, miserable one who masked his inadequacies with bravado and bullying. I got myself into some bad relationships and I decided that I must be completely fucked in the head to think that submission, servitude, slavery or any other fun word starting with S was normal or workable.

So now there’s this damaged little person determined to be strong and demand a heaping helping of equality pie. It worked well enough in a lot of ways. It certainly worked well enough for us to marry and have children and enjoy each other. But I was always searching for some sort of additional leverage to help me feel equal to this man that I wanted to roll over and expose my belly to. Or bend over and expose my ass and cunt to. They’re both good analogies.

Predictably, we started to have trouble. Not the “You went out with your friends all night while I sat around by myself” trouble or the “Please, not your parents again” trouble. The Bad Times sort of trouble where you spend months walking around with a pain in your chest and a lump in your throat. The kind where the slightest, most innocuous statement can tip off four solid hours of sobbing on both sides. It was awful.

Then one night, when things were at their worst, I grew a set and told him I wanted to submit. I wanted to give myself over to his charge. I wanted him to be the boss around these parts. And (perhaps unsurprisingly), things rapidly started to improve.

These days, if I had to pick a label to identify with, it would more often be “slave” than anything else. I have given myself to him utterly. Whatever rules he sets, whatever decisions he makes, whatever he demands of me, I obey. Whatever punishments he elects to mete out I accept. Which brings me to the moral of this little story.

I have to endure my bi-annual indignity on Monday. My ass is covered in bruises. I have no idea what, if anything, I should say to my doctor.

I just don’t think things through.

Today I found out that a former play partner of mine, an abusive jackass (not to me, although I know he was to at least one other girl) and all-around fuckwit, is promoting himself on Fetlife as “a natural Dominant”. I blanch a little each time I think of it. He’s apparently got himself an “owned and collared” slave and they’re looking for a new sub to join them. Oh, HELL NO.

Also through the wonders of Fetlife, I’ve learned that one of the most toxic people I’ve ever met is putting herself out there. It’s a horrifying enough thought to contemplate that for a moment I was really tempted to pull a big naming-and-shaming stunt. Common sense won out, of course, but it was a really alluring thought. It just reaffirms to me that our decision to stay the hell out of the local community. There’s something about fringe groups in general that attracts the most noxious elements of humanity. And for some reason, in this city, instead of that element being ignored and avoided it is instead promoted and glorified. I’ve done my time with these people and don’t care to sign myself up for a second round of batshit, thanks all the same.

Apropos of nothing, but I’ve been listening to this song all night:

Today’s Lesson, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

Little Janie, she wakes up from a dream
A gun like a jawbone down the waistband of her jeans
Mr Sandman, he can recite today's lesson in his sleep
He says "There oughta be some kind of law against me going down on the street"
And little Janie pipes up and she says
She says "We're gonna have a real cool time tonight"
Yeah, tonight

All right

Down the back of Janie's jeans she had the jawbone of an ass
Mr Sandman, he runs around the corner
Trying to head her off at the pass
He sticks his head over the fence and yells something way too fast
It's today's lesson
Something about the corruption of the working class

Little Janie wakes up on the floor and she says
"We're gonna have a real cool time tonight"

Come on

Janie says "We're all such a crush of want half-mad with loss
We are violated in our sleep and we weep and we toss and we turn and we burn
We are hypnotised we are cross-eyed we are pimped we are bitched
We are told such monstrous lies"

Janie wakes up and she says
"We're gonna have a real cool time tonight"

Mr Sandman, he has a certain appetite for Janie in respose
He digs her pretty knees and that she is completely naked underneath all her clothes
He likes to congregate around the intersection of Janie's jeans, yeah
Mr Sandman the inseminator opens her up like a love letter and enters her dreams

Little Janie wakes up and she says
"We're gonna have a real cool time tonight, tonight, tonight, tonight
We're gonna have a real cool time
Come on, come on, come on
We're gonna have a real cool time"

Tags Fetlife, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

Last night’s session was not as long or intense as I had been anticipating, so I honestly believed that I would be fine afterward. We did our usual snuggling on the couch and I thought that was all I needed. How wrong I was.

I was feeling peckish and went to make popcorn for us and hot chocolate for the Captain, only to learn that the microwave has elected to join the fridge in appliance mutiny. As I started warming milk on the stove for the Captain he left to get some chips from the store, rather than watch me burn the house down trying to make popcorn on the stove. (He’s a wise Master.) It was probably about 0.000749 seconds after he left that the floor fell out from under me. I ate an orange and (stupidly) kept moving on, not wanting to scorch his milk. The orange didn’t do a lot to help my bottoming blood sugars so I ate an apple, too. I alternated between anxiously stirring the warming milk and even more anxiously peering out the front window in the hopes I would see the Captain walking home.

Once he was home I fairly melted onto him and refused to let go until I had no other choice. I did ask for extra cuddles but also didn’t want to pester as I knew he was tired and just wanted to lie down and read. I really should work to improve my pestering when it’s for my well-being. Me feeling like hell all night isn’t good for anyone.

Today I’ve been lethargic and distracted. I’ve burst into tears at the thought of him being away on business in March! I’ve followed him around the house as much as I can get away with.

I’ve also been wearing track pants all day. I even took First to school in them, to my tremendous embarrassment. But I’ve earned myself a no-skirt day this week and they’re soft on my poor, abused tush, so I’m being a shlub and wearing them. I’ll have to change before I pick First up from school anyhow, since Third kindly elected to cover them in second-hand milk. Thanks, Third.

Tags crying, First, sub drop, Third

It was taken as a quick study in light but has somehow turned into a visual metaphor for how I feel at the moment. Go figure.

I’m feeling very still right now. I don’t feel composed or peaceful or resigned, just still. Still like light as water on a kitchen floor. Still like a frozen moment. Still so something just barely forming inside of me doesn’t shatter.

I don’t know what it is. All  I know is the effect it’s having on me. My adolescent habit of scratching myself bloody in my sleep has returned. Fears and anxieties I thought I had conquered are resurfacing – nasty, Hydra-headed things. And apparently I’m not the Hercules I had thought I was. I’m walking around feeling like I’m half a step out of sync with the world and that I need to place my feet carefully to avoid stepping into nothingness. It’s a curious, plate-glass feeling: a deadening of sound and of touch, a feeling that speech is wasted, a sense that things are just slightly out of touch.

I wish I had someone to talk to about how I feel. I wish I knew someone that could say “I’ve been there, this is what’s on the other side”. And I don’t. And I won’t. We are not public with the nature of our relationship. We do not attend fet nights or play parties or any of the rest. We are not community members. We are simply us, muddling along as best we can. Most of the time that’s all I want. I’m naturally a fairly reticent person about things I find genuinely important, although I compensate by sharing quite openly the things I find frivolous. But right now I wish I knew an experienced slave who could listen and counsel and reassure.

I know I’m in for a tough session tonight. I find myself quietly wondering what effect it will have on me and this nascent sensation. Part of me hopes that Third stays disobligingly awake so we can’t get to it. Part of me wants to bull through it and see what happens. That’s me in a nutshell, really. Always warring between flight and fight

I’ve been pottering about today. It’s a pottering sort of day. After dropping First off at school I let Second walk all the way to the grocery store, which is something I usually don’t feel we have the time for. Hey, she has short legs and gets distracted by everything – sticks, leaves, planes passing overhead, dogs in windows, weeds, rocks…

After groceries I spent some time feeding Third and putting away laundry before I started baking bread. There was something so wonderful about kneading the dough as I broke in my deliciously tall new pumps and wore my grandmother’s old Beefeater gin apron (even if I am a Bombay Sapphire girl). I’m looking forward to serving the Doctor fresh bread with dinner. He loves it so much. I used to bake all of our bread but fell out of the habit when I was pregnant with Second and too exhausted to properly open my eyes.

Ladybugs are crawling all over our kitchen window and door. I need to be diligent in ensuring none of them make it into the house. I’ve finally vanquished the early-fall fruit flies and have no desire to fight an infestation of ladybugs. The way their little corpses crunch underfoot is nothing short of revolting. I learned that, once, viewing an old farmhouse with a friend who was looking to move.

I keep peeking in on my dough. I really want to have it punched down and shaped into loaves before I have to pick First up from school, otherwise I’m not sure it will be ready in time for dinner. Stupid cold kitchen. Must remember to buy new weatherstripping for the door tomorrow.

Tags baking, First, Second, shoes, Third

I was reading an old discussion at http://sfbdsm.tribe.net regarding http://www.takeninhand.com earlier this evening that really started me thinking. There seems to be so much compartmentalization in the way people identify: DD adherents swear that Domestic Discipline has nothing to do with BDSM, Taken In Hand couples frequently decry BDSM as being a wealth of unsavoury things, the BDSM community tends to dismiss both DD and TIH. I don’t understand. I can’t help but see such tremendous overlap between all three worlds. And if they were a Venn diagram, I’d be standing firmly in the middle.

Who am I? I’m my husband’s wife and my Master’s slave. At any given moment I identify with one role more strongly than the other, but those dual aspects are inseparable.  When he’s correcting me, it’s as the head of our household, it’s as my husband giving me what I need and it’s as my Master disciplining his slave. Sometimes it’s a very straightforward and almost businesslike affair. Sometimes it’s a very, very sexual one. Oftentimes it’s a mixture of the two. Can you extract one from the rest? I can’t.

I am submissive. I have given myself to him wholly and without reservation. I am his to do with as he pleases now and for the rest of our lives. I wouldn’t have given myself to him if I didn’t love him, if I didn’t respect him or if he wasn’t my husband. What he chooses to do with me is his decision to make now and for forever. Is he less my husband because he exerts his mastery over me? Is He less my Master for having married me first? Are we less domestic and is any of this less disciplinary?

Whoever we are and whatever we are, I am glad to serve him. Whether I’m wearing his collar or cooking his dinner (or, one day when the kids are grown and out of the house, both) I am delighted to be his.

Tags bdsm, dd, taken in hand

Hm. Wouldn’t you know it, it turns out that actually talking to the Doctor about my concerns and fears is considerably more effective than bratting for days on end. Who would have thought it? Apparently not me, at least not soon enough to save myself a world of discomfort.

Tags bratting, talking

I pushed the Doctor too far again today with my teasing and tickling fingers and general impertinence. I know I’m going to get paddled for it. Probably for quite a long time and probably quite hard. This is in addition to the corrections I’ve already earned myself today (I think just crossing my legs, but that’s a serious one).

I wonder if it will be enough to break through this barrier I have with crying during correction. I do cry, sometimes. But it’s strangled and it doesn’t feel like a total release. It feels like I’m forcing myself to cry, almost. I want to just completely let go.

On top of it all, I’m getting sick. Aching, coughing, feeling mildly feverish… must be the piggy flu! Oh, lardy! Clutch your pearls, folks! Heh. Pearls before swine.

If I’m going to be really honest (and I guess I am) I suspect I’m childishly going out of my way to secure the Doctor’s attention before he starts his new job in a couple of weeks. I’ve been spoilt by having him working from home for so long. There’s a part of me that’s afraid that once he starts commuting and working out of the house he won’t have time for me anymore. So I guess there’s a part of me that thinks if I really act out he’ll be forced to pay attention to me both now and later. I’m such a little girl sometimes.

Tags acting out, correction, crying, illness, release

Bah. I earned myself so many corrections today it was barely worth counting them. Forgot my reading, late dinner (!), knees touching (!!), general impertinence… I’ve certainly had better days.

Tonight the Doctor said he wanted to skip our weekly maintenance session and simply do my corrections as quickly as possible. He said this because we absolutely have to do our sessions in the basements lest we wake a child or two and frankly, the basement gets cold this time of year. Of course, rather than be understanding I got myself worked into a state, settled into a sulk and eventually started acting out. It was lighthearted enough at first, with me relentlessly tickling him in the kitchen even after I had been warned to stop. We wrestled for a bit, I got my wrists bound behind my back and I eventually got a few swats across the bottom and felt a bit mollified. Then he ordered me downstairs.

Once over his knee he started with my corrections. There were a number of them and man, they smarted. Then a few more. I really started to feel indignant. Who did he think he was? I had done my penance! He asked if I was going to behave and the best and most honest answer I could give him was far from definite. He wrestled back down over his knee and went right back to paddling me. I could really feel my ire rising by that point. Hell, an hour and a half earlier he hadn’t wanted to do anything but my corrections! What was he playing at? After that session ended he asked again if I was going to behave and all I could manage was a shrug. Down over the knee for a third time and he really started laying into me. I yelled. I told him to stop. I cried. He kept going.

I have to say, it was what I needed. I’m feeling like a much nicer girl now.  A nicer girl that has trouble sitting on her ass bruises and has some serious twinges when she walks, at that. Maybe I’ll finally learn to keep my mind on my business.

Tags bound, bruises, correction, impertinence, maintenance, Sunday