Exhausting

This has been some week.

There are powers in the Universe, and I can feel them hammering, molding me, saying it's time to pay some attention to the greater things right now.

Fuck them.

But one can't dismiss the Universe so casually, can one? It has a way of making itself known. Persistent bugger.

I've been trying to figure out what my place is, where I fit, and the energy it takes has been amazing. Exhausting. Starting the week with the Beast, and only being partially able to attend to it's needs, was draining. Trying to reconcile my physical sexual self and my spiritual sexual self, and tossing in the emotional self results in far too many selves in one spot. A sudden, recent spate of self injury, or near injury, leads me to wonder if I'm intentionally looking for an out, or if Someone out there is trying to tell me something.

Since I'm not feeling particularly self loathing at the moment, I'm wishing that Someone would make the message a bit clearer.

I hadn't really intended this blog to become a journal, or a therapeutic means, but to be a place to put my erotic thoughts. Maybe they can't be walled off so easily. Maybe I need to address the whole of me, and learn how to integrate all those selves into one Being.

Or maybe I'm just a full of shit, self absorbed, accident prone, pathologically sexually obsessed deviant with a mystical Julian of Norwich complex.

I'm sure the Universe will fill me in eventually.

What does it say about me?

Here I am at work, reading some new sites that I've followed from Vespertine Erotica (amazing site, btw!) and my browser is full of d/s sites, and I hear the door open.

What does it say about me that I hide the bag of pretzels I'm eating BEFORE I close the compromising browser pages?

What would Freud say? Especially since the pretzels are RODS, not twists....

Demise of the Beast

I have discovered the one single element on the planet that can halt the Beast in it's tracks.

A teenage son.

After having sent P a very explicit email regarding my plans for teasing him for several hours before finally allowing him to explode in my throat, followed by a very enjoyable but somewhat injurious afternoon of bowling with B, I proceeded home with every intention of letting the Beast loose.

Enter A, the aforementioned teen.

Okay, so he's not really quite a teen; 21 in December but not quite up to his age. Current power struggles have reached the limit, and he's in actual danger of being evicted, toss out on his arse to forage on his own. A new incident not only subdued the Beast, but may have put him in a coma.

So Mama went to bed, far too late, libido checked and halted, leaving me this morning with a tired headache, a pulled muscle in the hip, and far too little in the way of sexual enlightenment.

The best laid (or not!) plans....

The Beast's Return

Ten hours.

That's how long the Beast was subdued. I can feel him fighting his way back, insinuating his need into my mind, my body. I feel the heat, the wet, the pain beginning again. Distracting, not yet overwhelming. I'm still able to maintain control, for the most part.

Maintain control. That's where the fear comes in. What if I can't? What if this Beast so overwhelms me that I embarrass myself? What if I get caught masturbating at my desk? What if I jump some poor unsuspecting guy because I need cock NOW and to hell with the consequences? What if I take the lead with P and he doesn't like it? What if everyone finds out what a slut I am?

Submission makes things both easier and harder. By submitting, I am absolved of all responsibility. I don't have to try to guess what P needs; I let him tell me what he wants and make me fulfill his desires. I don't have to worry about making mistakes; I just do what I'm told. The flip side is that (while P is amazing at reading me) I don't always get what I want. Or as often as I want. I don't get to try things I'd like to (reverse cowgirl, maybe? That naughty fantasy that never fails for masturbatory sessions?) or when I want.

I can't see ever even wanting to be dom. There is little about it that appeals to me, and I'm fairly certain P would NOT like it at all. What I would like is to have enough confidence in myself and in P to be able to say lets try this, or I feel that, or touch me this way. I have moved along in this direction a great distance, due to the trust I have been able to give to P, but there's still a long way to go.

That's one of the good side effects of the Beast. In full hormone storm, I have sometimes been able to express myself more than I normally would. One of the worst is that I question; are my desires and appetites more than P can handle, and I'll lose him because of it?

The Dark Side of Lust

Ache.

Throb.

Ache doesn't even begin to cover it.

Every month it starts as a pleasant warm feeling flushing across my breasts and a slight tingle in my lower abdomen. My thoughts turn libidinous, and the dampness spreads. This is the fun part. Tactile sensations become sexual, and the lightest touches are magnified, overwhelming. The mission becomes sex. In any form, right now, thank you very much. I can think of nothing else. Touch. Being touched. Taste. Drowning, drunk on the obsession. Raw.

Then it takes a dark turn. The lovely aching becomes pain; deep, hard hollow pain. Like someone has fixed a great weight to my uterus, and it pulls and stretches deep within. And still I'm wet. And the obsession continues. I need to be fucked, and fucked hard.

My fear keeps me from asking. I sit in my chair, gasping with the ache, gasping with tears when you walk by, your fingertips merely brushing against my arm and the touch is so overwhelming and yet not nearly enough. I want to kneel at your feet and beg you, please, fuck me now, fuck me hard, but the fear leaves me unable to move. What am I afraid of?

Somehow, you know. You know I need you, and you know just what I need. Not generous and tender, like last night, when my heart hurt, and I needed love and comfort; no, tonight you know that I need it rough, need it hard, need to be used. You walk me to the bedroom, and as I begin to rearrange the pillows on the bed, suddenly you bend me over, my face in the blanket, ass in the air. No soft kisses, not tonight, no gentle teasing of my nipples. Tonight, you use the bamboo back scratcher to lift my nightshirt, pleased that you find no panties. Hand on my head, you smack my ass with the bamboo, then use it to tease my lips open. Another whack, where my panties will rest tomorrow, in the crease where thigh meets buttocks. I hear your soft voice claiming me, naming me slut, your tone one of pride and ownership. After several more cracks with the bamboo, you lay me across the bed and offer your cock to my mouth. Feverishly I lick and suck at your cock, my body writhing on the bed, your hands sliding down my back to my ass and I'm frantic.

You whisper "I want to fuck you" and from a distance I hear my moan of desperation and gratitude. You lay me on my back and slam your cock into me, your groans matching mine. Hard and fast, you fuck into me and before I can even prepare for it, my orgasm hits, and I cry out. I feel your reaction as you pause, then resume fucking, and I feel your wildness too. As your orgasm begins, unprepared and still not down from my first, I explode again. Overwhelming. It's too much, and I literally can't breathe for a moment or two. I'm sobbing and gasping, unable to speak or move, or do much else but shake with the power of the release.

Moments pass, and finally, I'm able to get some air, but the sobbing into your chest continues for some time. I don't know how you know, when sometimes I don't know myself, but you do, you know, know just what I need every time. Love is too small a word to contain what I feel for you.

For now, the Dark Side is tamed, but I know that tomorrow morning it will return. Several days to a week the Beast lives inside me, tamed only for a few hours at a time. Tomorrow, perhaps, it will be weakened enough to allow me a full taste of your cock, allow me to play, to tease, to return some measure of what you have given me tonight. Thank you, my Beloved.

Fear

I have had occasion recently to contemplate my life and circumstances, and the theme that begins to emerge is fear.

P loves the movie "Defending Your Life" and is very proud that we have allowed ourselves to take a chance on some dicey circumstances to make our relationship work. I am amazed, myself. It is one of the things I'm most proud of in my life.

You sense the "but" coming, don't you?

I am still afraid. Constantly. Deeper and more pervasively than I was even aware, I am afraid. In every area of my life; work, sex, parenting, sex, love, sex, spiritual, sex. I'm tired of the fear.

I love this man with every fiber of my being. I trust him more than I have ever trusted another human being, and he has time after time proven himself worthy of that trust.

I don't trust me, I guess. And a very teensy tiny small part of me doesn't trust anyone, P included. I am not the person I want to be, and I am too afraid to try to become that person.

Lately I have felt pulled in all directions, both internally and externally, leaving me hanging in the wind, without substance or direction, unable to even see the horizon. I've taken submission to new heights, incapable of making even simple decisions, leaving everything to P, because I just can't deal. I hate it, yet I continue.

I feel things heading for a breaking point, and I need to take some very careful thought as to how to break the bad stuff without shattering the good. I'm hoping this blog will allow me the freedom to explore the crapfest that is my psyche and get to a happy resolution.

See? Fearful, but still ridiculously optimistic.