I know he has a valid point. I acknowledge it willingly. What I refuse to acknowledge is his over the top response to something ridiculous. He’s the one who is letting people in, letting their bullshit hit home. It’s THEIR bullshit, not ours! So why allow it?

Another night spent hugging my side of the bed is all it takes to reset my soul. Everything we’ve worked for, every bit of progress we’ve made is gone when I spend the night alone. So yelling at one another as he slams the door to head to work downtown, well, that’s more than I can handle.

I have a hard enough time trying to be as normal as possible when I’m fighting for my life. How much more so when I’m also fighting for our relationship? Stil, here I am, minutes after another ass-kicking seizure, trying to keep it all together and only God knows why.

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When you think of playing on the edge sexually, what do you think of? For as many different lifestyle relationships, you will find just as many different answers. Some derive pleasure from pain, pleasure from humiliation, and others derive pleasure from just their role in a certain activity or relationship. These things constitute legitimate boundary pushing, on the edge play, even if it isn’t a more “traditional” sense or definition of the word.

For me, playing on the edge can cover a multitude of activities. At one point in my life anal sex was playing on the edge. Shortly after it became standard practice and being spanked was playing on the edge- my own personal edge. The lines blurred and in my desire to be as submissive to my Sir as possible, I actually wanted to push the envelope.

One of the most erotic experiences in our two year relationship is a night that we spent cutting and making love. We bought the razor blades and I sterilized them accordingly. As I watched him slide the blade across his skin all I could think of was pressing my mouth to his fresh wound. So I did just that.

Immediately I climaxed and hit subspace in record time. Nothing could ever possibly top that moment- or so I thought. As he positioned himself above me and held the razor blade to my skin I couldn’t help but tremble and shake. I was not a pain slut nor did I ever have a desire to be one. Yet this, this I wanted with everything that I was. With a nod and a deep sigh I closed my eyes and allowed myself to fall deeper into subspace, deeper into my submission to the man who wielded the razor blade.

It was a sharp pain, but it went quickly. I didn’t scream or jump as I thought I might. I barely flinched. As he leaned down and sucked the blood from my skin I realized that I had never in my life felt more complete. Our life sources had been tasted and exchanged in the most deliciously erotic manner. As he slipped inside of me and our physical bodies joined in pleasure I remember thinking that my boundaries were completely gone, never to be seen again.

Almost two years later, I know better. The man I call my Master has now prodded, probed, and pushed in every way possible. He knows the scent of my arousal before I do. He knows the size of my clothes and the way my body responds to everything from cancer to toe sucking. So many things that I never thought possible, never dreamed of, and he has figured each of them out.

Now my ideas of playing on the edge involve things less mainstream. Things like “water sports” and “scat” have become part of my informal training. Shocking, isn’t it? For a girl who thought she never had a single limit, I now know that as submissive as my nature was, I was only submissive to a degree.

Nothing reminds me of my place more than the times when we explore the edge together. When I’m stripped naked and clutching at the toilet as I bear down, aching to release my bowels simply because he has told me what pleasure it brings him. Or the times when I spread the lips of my slippery cunt and piss all over his throbbing cock. The piss and shit do nothing for me. The fact that he has asked it of me, that he knows how quickly the mild humiliation puts me into subspace, that’s what makes me want to do it again and again.

It’s not always about his piss or my defecation. Often times it’s about simply making love in the bathroom because it’s quiet and has a locked door, it’s much more convenient for a quick fuck than always going upstairs. Yet even when it’s just a quick fuck, I’m reminded of all of our activities. Even remembering the times when I have licked him from front to back, thinking of the times when I have awakened him by sucking on his delicious cock- all of those things are taboo or playing on the edge to somebody.

Do the things we do in the privacy of our own home make me a bad person? Do they make me a horrible parent or some societal freak? I think not. I think they make me a woman in love with a man. A submissive who is comfortable and well reminded of her place in not only her Masters life and home, but in his heart as well.

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She stepped from the shower and grabbed the towel off the rack. Yesterday she’d had her nails done, so she was ahead of the game. When the alarm sounded bright and early, she had been awake for hours. Wrapping her hair in the towel, she made her way into her bedroom.

Pulling her bra and panties from the drawer, she tossed them onto the bed. Glancing at them with a look of trepidation, she wondered about the sanity of what she was doing. In her heart she knew he was “the one” but what if he thought differently once he was there? With a sigh, she turned to the mirror.

Letting the towel drop, she examined herself in the mirror. For years she’d wanted to change it. She’d worked hard to get the body all women wanted, the body men lusted after, but it was still not anywhere close. She lifted her breasts, feeling decent about them. After breast-feeding, they were still pretty perky, but nowhere near big enough.

Her hands skimmed down her sides and over the swell of her hips. Genetics had definitely given her the Hispanic hips and ass. Not that she had ever minded before, really. Real women have curves. As a woman when she noticed the beauty of another woman, she was always attracted to women who were voluptuous. With an anxious sigh, she wondered what he would think.

Would he see the stretch-marked skin, the wide hips, the full ass, and the rounded tummy where she’d carried her babies as unattractive? She wasn’t tiny, and he’d seen her pictures, even the unflattering ones, but that meant nothing. Would he be as critical of her as she was of herself? She mentally shrugged off the possibility and smiled confidently. There was no way it wouldn’t be ok. It was too right, too real.

Letting her mind drift off, her hands began to wander. She pulled her hair over to the side, loving the feel of its silky softness against her bare skin. She lay down against the pillows and followed her thoughts of the man she was about to meet. Blonde hair and blue eyes had never been her thing. No man with those features had ever caught her attention much less turned her on. He had. In a slow and steady way, he’d captured her heart, her soul, and soon, her body.

She caressed her breasts, wondering what his touch would feel like. Would he make love to her slowly, gently, or would it be a fast, lust-filled fuck? Both possibilities filled the place between her thighs with warmth. She ached somewhere deep inside, in places she didn’t even know existed. The mere thought of him had opened a side of her that she had long ago left behind.

Trailing her hands farther south, she found her clit, swollen and sensitive, and stroked it gently. A soft moan escaped her lips and a shiver ran down her spine. With a steady rhythm, she worked herself over, imagining not her own fingers, but the fingers of the man of her dreams. As she plunged two fingers deep into her wet cunt, she felt the start of her powerful climax. Wave after wave of pleasure washed over her as his name tore from her lips as a half moan, half scream.

Forcing herself to get off the bed and get dressed, she couldn’t help but blush. They hadn’t discussed sex, really, or the possibility of it happening. So, it was a good thing she’d taken the edge off. She’d be less likely to succumb to his charms, less likely to succumb to the temptation of allowing the man who would share her bed for one night take the thing meant for the one she wanted for the rest of her life.

She paced the length of the apartment nervously. In a matter of minutes, he’d finally be here- in her home. Her heart skipped a beat as the closing of a car door brought her back to reality. Two seconds later, the door bell rang. In what felt to her like slow motion, she made her way downstairs to let him in.

For one brief second they just smiled, then stepped into one another’s arms. She breathed in the scent of him as he pulled her closer. His body against hers felt so right. She’d stepped out of reality into her wildest dream come true. They were truly strangers no more.

**A blast from the past; fiction

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For too long I’ve allowed everyone else to dictate everything. I’ve stopped blogging, restarted, deleted posts that were part of my soul then tried to get back to that place without success. And for what? It’s gotten me nowhere. Absolutely nowhere, except smack dab in the middle of depression and misery. Well, enough is enough.

It feels like an eternity since I’ve written and there are so many things to write about that I don’t know where to start. That’s always the hardest part for me; finding the beginning and working toward the end. So let me give it a shot.

This is my blog. In the last two years I have provided the majority of the blood, sweat, and tears. I’ve not done it on my own. Nina has helped out more than once with technical advice (the sweat) and she, Terry, WingWoman, (and a host of others!) have shown an unwavering friendship that I never imagined finding here in cyberia. The tears have been provided courtesy of my doctors, The Ex and his new person of importance, and a heart that’s softer than most. The blood? Well, that too comes from the soft heart and from the love that surrounds me endlessly.

When I started The Butterfly Temptress, it was as a free Wordpress blog using a name given to me by The Knight. At the time an assumed name seemed best, considering my ex-husbands complete lack of disregard for my privacy. As you well know, that too came to an end all too quickly. Amazing what Google and some well-placed friends can do to someone’s life. Still, I fought to hang on to what I had left. I believed in myself and in what I was doing here, so I’ve tried valiantly to keep going.

Gone are the days of convincing myself that eventually people will give up and grow up. It doesn’t happen. Ever. So once again I questioned my decision to keep my site going, regardless. The last thing in the world that I would ever want is for Mama or The Girls to be hurt by what is written here. So, I decided to ask Mama what she thought.

Her answer? Don’t give it up. “I know the person you are inside, I know your heart.” She struggled to understand why I wouldn’t give her the link, why she couldn’t read what everyone around her was telling her about, but in the end she finally got it. It’s a matter of respect. I’m not the same person I was for so many years. I made decisions that I regret every day, but I did a lot of things that helped me to become the person I am. Some things she wouldn’t understand and some things she wouldn’t want to know. If she can understand and accept that, then it is enough for me.

As for those who supposedly can’t stand me or the things that I write; those who claim to hold the ace that’s going to tumble my house of cards:

Give it your best shot. I’m not afraid of you or afraid of the things you threaten. I am stronger than you have ever given me credit for. If you think the things that I write are so horrible, why come back and read for hours on end? Do us both a favor and spend your time elsewhere, please. I’ve left you to your lives, leave me to mine. (Really, is my life-including my sex life-really any of YOUR business? I think NOT.) I am comfortable with who I am, with where I’ve been. I’m not without imperfections but my patience is wearing thin. I no longer feel that I have to defend my past or the mistakes I once made. More than once I’ve extended an olive branch only to have it jerked away and stomped on, so no more. Leave me in peace.

For everyone else:

Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you- for the prayers, for the angelic gestures, for everything. So many emails come in daily with well-wishes and offers of prayer and I welcome each and every one. I apologize for not responding as quickly as I’d like, but I’ll get there. I appreciate your patience and your understanding.

I will continue to write. I will tell the stories that I have to tell because there are people out there who want to hear them. My voice may not be unique but it is my own. No one can sing the songs of my heart or whisper the secrets of my soul the way I can, so I’ll continue to do just that.

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I can’t see to write. I’m crying too hard. I met him once but I will remember him for as long as I live. No doubt he has changed millions of lives. My thoughts and prayers are with his wife and children.

Thank you for touching my life, Randy Pausch. No doubt karma has served you well, even in the light.

To view Randy’s ‘Last Lecture’ visit this link.
To make a donation in his honor do so here.

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I would love to sit here and write about how great things have been since the last post. Really, I would. But I kind of have this thing about lying, so I won’t. Instead I will tell you that until Sunday evening we had absolutely torn one another apart at every opportunity. All the meanest, nastiest, most hurtful things we could come up with exploded and filled the house to the point of being unbearable. Tension so thick you couldn’t have used a knife…you would have needed a chainsaw. It was that bad.

With absolute certainty I can tell you that Sunday was a turning point for us. In the midst of flinging word bombs and emotional grenades I think some truth came to light as well. So when the smoke had cleared and we were busy picking bits of debris from our clothes, I was as honest as I could be. About the kids, about the family, about everything. I know that some of it hurt him and that wasn’t my intention. I just figured that since we were already in the bowels of hell, the only place to go was up and we might as well go up with honesty.

So, we went to our corners for about thirty seconds and took a deep breath. I don’t know how and I don’t know why but we made it through the thirty seconds and filled our lungs with enough air to agree once more that this is where we want to be. No giving up, no walking away. We agreed to lay the swords and knives aside and try something radical and completely unlike us and we stepped into one anothers arms.

That’s where we’ve been since Sunday. We’ve had little spats, but that’s where they’ve stopped. No threats, no explosions. Just open and honest communication. It’s a struggle for me to let go of the hurt and the nasty things he’s said in arguments but when i’m honest with myself I realize that it shouldn’t be so hard because obviously he’s doing the same thing.

I think I finally understand what it means to let go. Walking around convinced of X and Y or trying to be A or B wears a person down. You change to try to be what someone else wants or needs until there is nothing recognizable left of yourself. He loved me for me, before I started changing to try to be what I thought he wanted or needed. If I would have just asked him, I could have saved us both a lot of time and energy.

So, I’m getting back to me. I’m watching movies that I love, listening to cd’s that I have allowed to gather dust, and I’m speaking my mind. I’m not losing sight of what it is we both have agreed to and I’m not being selfish. Rather, I’m trying to get back to where I used to be, back to the woman we once loved.

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When Helen left this comment the other day, it made me stop and think.

One thing I learned a long time ago, marriage is a decision that has to be made every day, and after every fight. The fights are going to be there whether you want them to or not. What you can control is whether or not YOU will be there when they’re over. You’ve got something good, and you make the decision to hang in there. That’s what matters.

After writing yesterday and spending time feeling sorry for myself while The Knight was downtown, I was primed and ready for a fight. When he walked in and didn’t immediately give me what I thought he ought to, that was that. I fought against it but it drove me insane. When it bothers me and when it hurts, I have to say something. I had reached that place, so I opened my mouth.

I wasn’t pissy and I wasn’t a total bitch. I simply told him how I felt. I used all the effective communication tools I could remember and took a deep breath when all I really wanted to do was defend myself. Then I listened to what he had to say, which led to him listening to what I had to say.

When it was all said and done, we both breathed a sigh of relief. It felt like we had actually made a little bit of progress. Not a lot, but it was progress. And before leaving the living room, we gave that progress the acknowledgement it deserved, something that neither of us do.

I have a lot of work to do. I do have a problem letting the bullshit go. He has a problem accepting he has any bullshit. He has a lot of work to do. Still, we were able to admit that we love one another and we’d be miserable apart. Then we promised to keep trying to get it right. And I told him that I called him a stupid boy because he hurt me. His response? He’s a stupid boy but I’m a dumb girl so we must be just fine together. I couldn’t deny it. Right about then I did feel pretty dumb.

(And Terry, you were right. This is not the time to be making any life changing decisions. We have enough to deal with as it is. What a wise sister you are!)

The Knight told me to stop trying so hard to please him and start pleasing myself. He siad that when I’m happy and loving being me that he is happier than ever. He said it had nothing to do with negating the D/s aspect of us, rather it was about practicing good self-care.(I have always had a problem with it. I don’t know what that means, exactly, and when I stumble upon it it just feels weird, like I’m being selfish and it feels so wrong!) So, I’m supposed to be thinking about it and sharing ideas with him. Which is harder than the list of fifty things I like about myself that he made me write. It took me a week to complete! Still, I’m going to try.

We turned out the lights and headed upstairs. He always walks behind me so he can catch me if I start to fall and he always comments on my fabulous ass (his words, not mine). He closed the door behind us and pressed his body against mine then whispered that I did it for him, that there is no one else in the world he wants, that no one in the world could replace me. Then he proceeded to make love to me so slowly, so completely that it took me by surprise and my heart overflowed just as the tears fell.

It’s an everyday decision, that’s the everyday reality for this dumb girl and her stupid boy.

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It’s always easier to stay where you are than it is to move forward. It’s comfortable and it’s familiar and it doesn’t involve looking outside yourself for very long to know that where you are is just fine. Still, sometimes it isn’t.

Sometimes it’s hard and it’s scary. It’s just as painful to stay as it is to step out of the comfort zone and do something different. You feel that you’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t.

And this is where I am. But is this where I want to stay? What’s the line from Peter Pan about forever being an awfully long time? Well, it is. even when you’re faced with the possibility that you might never really know how long forever really is, it just sounds like forever.

Next month is the beginning of a new clinical trial that I will be part of, thanks to my oncologist. So long facing death, playing chicken with the train and suddenly there is…what? Hope? Not so much. A holding pattern? At best.

Our marriage? It depends on the day. According to him, it’s a roll of the dice or a flip of the coin that decides. I know it’s his indifference on the days he works downtown that conflicts with his tenderness and focus when he’s home with me. I know it’s the little lies that make no sense or the constant remarks about my accent or my mental stability that leave me cold. Gone are the hopes, dreams and plans because if he’s convinced me of nothing else, he’s convinced me that I can’t.

He asks me why I stay and finally I have no answer. Love? Sure. I love him more than life itself. That’s why I’m still here. Happiness? Not so much. That’s why I find myself filled with shame when I catch myself daydreaming or thinking about what if. I would be miserable, I know it.

So why am I in this place?

Because despite what he says, I can’t see that he’s happy. I can’t feel it when he says that he would be miserable without me, that he’s desperate to hold on to me. Overly sensitive me can’t feel the things he says, except for the negatives.

So I stay. I stay and I pray that today is the day that we get it right. I hope that this is the moment he walks in the door and I feel something from him again. I don’t doubt that he loves me. But sometimes love just isn’t enough. If the hope and prayers don’t work, I guess it’s time to move forward in more way than one.

Stupid boy.

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I miss my Mama and my Grandma. I miss my old friends and the places we used to go. You don’t have to tell me how ridiculous it sounds for a grown woman with a life of her own to be wishing for her childhood- I already know.

Old pictures of Brian…football, wrestling, and the poem he wrote for me. A tucket stub for a concert and an amusement park. The first movie I saw in that small-town theater. I pegged my pants, layered my socks, and teased my hair before he and his father came to pick me up. Seeing him that Sunday at church with someone else. The conversation we had before her…and another before he married the other one. I felt like the girl in love with Billy in St. Elmo’s Fire with her lycra covered thighs and her doled out dollars only to be used one final time.

So many memories and so many heartaches to choose from.

Christian was a senior and interested in me. He was a geek before I realized that geeks were hot. He held my hand and I could feel his nervousness when he kissed me. The gift is still wrapped and marked with the date he gave it to me. I heard he joined the Army and served in Iraq. I still pray that he’s doing well.

None of them would recognize me now. Not with cancer and fat and barely there hair. I guess it’s for the best, better for all involved, that the past is the past. Some things are better left behind.

So I’m feeling a little nostalgic. How about a song to take you there?

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Such a long night spent arguing. Fighting. Over and over the same thing, the same circle. Fear and insecurity take over and it’s a full on battle that won’t end until we’ve drawn blood. The same scars are sliced open but the tissue is more tough and harder to cut through. That’s progress I suppose.

How do you let go? How do you stop holding on to all that’s toxic once it’s been replaced by a sweet truth? Irrational fears have never been my thing. So why now, with him? Why does it happen when I am smack dab in the middle of the sweetest love I have ever known?

Lots to think about. Lots to let sink in. at least neither of us has called it quits. Even when the smoke has cleared, this is still where we want to be. We agree, it ain’t over ’til it’s over.

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