For too long I have been silent. I have taken so many things in, held them close, and there they’ve stayed. I have decided that those days are over.

After I posted about my imperfections yesterday I found myself in a very pensive sort of mood. For me, it was a good thing. So I shifted and sorted my thoughts. I looked at each and every thought, every feeling and tried valiantly to give it its own place in the archive.

The things that Sperm Donor did to me do not define who I am. He did those things to me. I didn’t ask for them. I didn’t “seduce” him the way he tried to tell the court that I did. It has been a very long time, but now I’m pissed and I’m calling bullshit.

I was a child. What two year old could be so overwhelmingly seductive that a grown man was compelled to abuse her? None. Two year olds are NOT sexy or seductive. They are innocent and in need of protection. They are precious.

For far too long I have sat back and let the past exist without setting the record straight. I don’t know what I’ve been so afraid of. It’s not like I’m two anymore. The days of playing his victim are long over. I was a helpless child then and I couldn’t do anything about the things he did to me or to my mother.

It’s over. The abuse, the inferiority complex, the silence. All of it ends this very second.

I love that you come here to read what I write. I like knowing that sometimes my words reach people in very positive ways. For that reason, I have to say this, so please understand.

This is my life. However long or short it may be, this is my life. Finally, at the age of thirty-one I am ready to set the record straight. I am ready to speak up.

I will write about real life. I will write about reality and the difficulties that come with being married. Maybe I’ll even write about really hot sex with my husband again.

And I’ll write about Sperm Donor. I’ll write about childhood abuse. I will take off the gag and break my silence.

These are my stories and they will be told.

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It’s the one thing I’m not. The list of things that I’m not is much longer than all the things I am. As much as I would like to say otherwise, that’s just the way it is. Instead of fighting it, I have accepted it.

Sperm Donor fucked me up. Not for a little while. Not just in my sexual relationships. The things that man did shaped every facet of who I am in ways that I am just now beginning to understand.

As my father, as someone who was supposed to protect me, he failed in the most basic way a parent can fail. His actions violated my physical self as well as my mental self. Every single time he molested or raped me he promised that it would be the last time. He lied to me time and time again.

Not only did he lie to me, he played head games. I would fight him, yell and scream that I hated to be touched but he didn’t listen. Instead I was told that no one hates it, that I really liked when he violated me or took the time to (supposedly) school me in the ways of adult relationships.

I learned not to trust my body. I learned not to trust men. And I learned not to trust myself.

So here I am, all these years later, and what has changed?

Thanks to cancer, all the work I did on accepting my body, etc. has come undone. Oh, I’m trying. It’s just a very dificult thing to do.

I still don’t trust men. Or women. No one in positions of power. I try to develop healthy relationships with healthy boundaries but who am I fooling? I don’t leave my house except to go to the doctor.

The most terrible part of this is that I don’t trust my husband. I trust him more than I trust anyone else in my life, but only so far. And he knows it.

You know those exercises where they have you turn your back to a group of people then ask you to fall into the crowd, trusting that they will catch you? It would never happen. Not even with the man I’m married to. He is absolutely right to be angry and frustrated.

I don’t know that I will ever trust myself. Even if I go into remission, I will worry and wonder if it was what I was supposed to do. Was I meant to live? What if I wasn’t? What if my living took away someone else’s life?

I know that I have so very much to be thankful for. And I am. In ways that I can’t even begin to find words for, I am so thankful. I don’t take this life for granted.

I just know that I’m living on borrowed time. I want to spend it healing. If and when the end ever comes I want to meet it head on knowing that I have made my peace. I want to know that I have beat the odds that Sperm Donor stacked against me and come through on the other side with my sanity intact.

And I know I will never ever be perfect.

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I’m feeling absolutely dreadful. I have no energy and my head feels as if it’s going to explode. My heart is heavy and my mind is weighed down by things that don’t belong here.

However, I know enough to know that there are incredibly special people in my life. People that not so long ago were strangers are now friends. Amazing individuals that have taken the time to comment or email and send words of encouragement my way.

I just wanted to take time out from real life off-line and say thank you. Thank you for the love and thank you for the prayers.

And Catalina, my sweet soul sister, a double thanks to you for working so hard.

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Recently I received an email that allowed me the opportunity to review more books here on The Butterfly Temptress. Knowing me the way you do, there’s no need to tell you that I jumped at the chance. So when my first book arrived I couldn’t wait to dive right in.

Courtesy of DaCapo Press

The kind people at Da Capo Press sent The Modern Kama Sutra In A Box to me in a plain shipping envelope. That’s a bonus for me all the way around though not as important with books as with toys. It arrived fairly quickly which was a very good thing for an impatient person like me!

The outer box is absolutely beautiful. A mix of pink and black with images of a couple graces the front and back of the box. The photos are of a nude couple but the nudity is not in your face so you could easily leave this on your bookcase in a common area if you so desired. Seeing as it is the modern Kama Sutra I don’t know that you would want to, but the box does allow for that option.

The box is constructed of thick cardboard which makes is very sturdy. It stands on its own without the need to lay it flat. In the event that you were to, by some very odd chance, roll over on it while you’re trying the positions, no worries- you won’t crush it. I like well-crafted items and this collection definitely qualifies.

When I opened it up I was rather surprised by what I found inside. Rather than just a single book that contains text and illustrations about the kama sutra, there were two parts to the kit. One is, of course, the book itself. It’s a smaller hardbound book of about ninety-five pages. The second is a set of cards that display photographs of the various positions found in the kama sutra. I was impressed that someone had come up with such a wonderful idea!

The book itself is, as I stated, hardbound. The pages are done in black and white but it really doesn’t detract from the beauty of it all. Rather, I feel that it’s a nice contrast to the full color position cards that accompany it. Also in the book you will find the very things that the kama sutra is so famous for in sections like seduction; foreplay; and oral sex.

With lovely instructions to tease and tatalize it’s no wonder that The Modern Kama Sutra delivers exquisitely in ways that no other sexual manual ever has…

“…at the time of giving her some betel nut, or of receiving the same from her, or at the time of making an exchange of flowers, he should touch and press her private parts, thus bringing his efforts to a satisfactory conclusion.”

…

“By eating the pwder of the blue lotus, with ghee and honey, a man becomes lovely in the eyes of others.”

…

“At the commencement he should rub her yoni with his hand or fingers, and not begin to have intercourse with her until she becomes excited, or experiences pleasure.”

Once you’ve read the book and gained a better understanding of the art of love, you will feel more than ready to move on to the cards. The models are photographed showing thirty various positions. On the cards, along with photographs, you will find the English name of of the position as well as the original name. Turn the card over and you receive detailed instructions on that particular position.

Let me take a second here to call attention to something I find especially useful. On the cards you will find two very unique bullet points of sorts. There is one that uses small floral graphics to tell the reader how difficult that specific position is. For me, that was amazingly ingenious! Right below the the difficulty you will find the type of position; some are deep and slow and others are deep, intense, and fast. Absolutely perfect!

As a woman of some size (read: fat girl) I really didn’t think that this version of the kama sutra would work any better than the original one. I worried that my body would be the wrong size to try any of the positions much less actually be able to reach orgasm from them. I was wrong.

The positions on the cards are possible for most people. Some were more challenging but only one position was impossible for us because my husband is smaller than I am and lifting me isn’t possible unless death is imminent. So if you’re not a size zero or if you think your pregnant body isn’t up to the standard kama sutra positions, think again.

This is, after all, The Modern Kama Sutra In A Box.

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I’m thrity-one years old. I have been married twice. I have two incredibly gorgeous biological duaghters and three incredibly boyish not biological sons. With my bare hands I have wiped away tears, wiped runny noses, stitched wounds, rescued beads from noses, dug for clams, and saved lives. I am not without reasons to feel okay about myself.

So why is it that when Mama comes to visit I feel like an inept child?

My parents were here with us this weekend. I love when they visit, even if it means that I probably don;t rest the way I should. I like having them here because I don’t get to see them as often as I’d like.

For the most part the weekend was fine. Quiet. Uneventful. Just the way I prefer it. I’m not a big fan of feeling pressured or being on the go from sun up to sun down, even when I had the energy to handle it.

I know my mother means well. I really do. The thing is, sometimes her best intentions miss the mark so completely that you can’t tell anything good was ever supposed to come of it. {I can this and not feel guilty about saying it because sometimes I have the same problem.}

It seemed that every time I asked the kids to do something, she questioned me. Every time I told them no or set a time limit or some other thing, she had something else to add. Even in the middle of a very intense heart to heart talk she had something to interject!

You have to understand that I have discussed this with my mother in great detail. She has always done this. It has always made me crazy. I told her again on Friday night that I want her to be proud of me, etc. but that I don’t believe she is. She says the words and tells me how wonderful I am, what a great woman I’ve become and how very proud she is of me, but it doesn’t ring true. Because she still second guesses and criticizes me.

How is that being proud of me?

No matter what I do. No matter what I say. No matter my age or my survivability. I have to accept that as far as my mother is concerned I will never ever be good enough.

{By the way, for those who have asked why I don’t submit stories to various publications, etc. this is why. My mother says to do what I want, that it’s my life but I know she doesn’t mean it if it means I’m writing erotica. Or posing naked. Or speaking frankly with our kids about sex. I don’t need to do yet one more thing to make my mother ashamed of me.}

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I love my husband. From the first night I spoke to him on the phone I knew he would be man who would make it all okay, the one who would help to soothe my battered soul. I knew also that I would have to allow him to get close enough to me to touch me if any sort of healing were to happen. It was hard but somewhere along the way it happened.

For the first time in my life, in so many ways, I feel whole. I feel as if the things that happened to me at the hands of Sperm Donor and his brothers no longer define me. Just as my friend Catalina reminded me that cancer doesn’t define me, nor does childhood abuse.

Still, I’d be lying if I said that I was completely healed, because there are still wounds that exist. There are still nightmares and things that I am unable to fully enjoy sexually because of what happened to me as a child. And in the strangest places in our lives, those wounds break open and begin to bleed profusely.

Today, in the shower, it happened.

He didn’t hurt me; my husband would never physically harm me. All he did was touch me while my face was under the shower spray. One simple act and I became a raving madwoman. I yelled at him for touching me and began to panic. I pulled away from him instead of allowing him to comfort me. Then, doing something that I rarely do, I told him why it bothered me. I told him what had happened that made me feel so terrified.

And he didn’t understand. My confession was met, not with tenderness and understanding, but with anger and a look that told me that I was crazy. I was told, basically, to get over it. To remember that we weren’t in a pool, but in a shower and that I was with him. I told him that I should have known he wouldn’t understand and I got out of the shower.

How can he possibly understand? It didn’t happen to him. It’s never happened to anyone that he loves or cares about. How could he possibly be expected to understand?

It doesn’t mean that I should just get over it. It doesn’t mean that what I feel or how I respond is wrong. It also doesn’t mean that I’m crazy.

It means that it’s been a difficult road to travel. It means that, obviously, I still have work to do. It means that someone I once trusted and adored took advantage of me, of my innocence.

And it reminds me that I am left with wounds that never seem to heal.

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Ha! Imagine my surprise when I saw that someone had tagged me again. Catalina tagged me first, now Subheart is tagging me. So, here we go again but in a different direction.

The Rules-
* Link to your tagger and list these rules on your blog.
* Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog – some random, some weird.
* Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blog.
* Let them know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

1. I love movies that make me cry- tear of sadness or tears of joy.

2. My first consensual sex was with a boy from my class in the woods on an abandoned strip of railroad tracks. Not at all pleasurable and completely humiliating.

3. My first pleasurable sexual experience was in the back of a van on a church youth group trip to Kings Island with my childhood best friend/first love. (It was mutual masturbation.)

4. That same guy finally got into my bed, back into my heart, then “borrowed” twenty dollars to fill his car with gas to meet his soon-to-be-wife that I knew nothing about.

5. I don’t trust many women.

6. My biological paternal grandmother was an awful woman who was unattractive and morbidly obese. I see her when I look in the mirror.

7. My husband will forever be the most handsome man I have ever laid eyes on. Followed by my maternal grandfather.

I’m tagging a new group of seven because they are awesome. That and I really want to know more about them. *wink*

Cynical Woman

Rori

Ang

That Toy Chick

Eliot

Mikayla

Essin Em

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Last week I promised to show you what my hair looked like before cancer and chemo. So here it is. (Taken by The Knight right after a shower.) Since the photo is black and white you can’t see the coppery auburn that it naturally is. Oh how I loved my hair. Losing it was so hard. Now that it’s growing back, it’s an awful drab color, but I have hair again!

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She waited for him in the abandoned hotel, leaning against the front desk. Her blouse fell open to reveal ample cleavage and her pencil skirt hugged her thick hips. She’d torn her fishnet stockings on the way in, stepping over the pieces of wood that had been placed across the door to keep trespassers out. She wasn’t worried about them. She had four more pair in her lingerie drawer at home.

Light filtered in through the cracks in the walls. It smelled of rain and aged wood. As she closed her eyes she inhaled the scent of something faintly floral. Once there was a rumor about the place being used as a brothel and the floral scent almost made her believe it.

Before she saw him she heard his tires on the cracked pavement out front. Any second he would appear before her and relieve her of her clothing burden. Oh she liked the clothes well enough, but what she loved was being naked before him.

As if he knew her thoughts he maneuvered over the wood that had torn her stockings and filled the space in front of her. She licked her lips and moved her eyes to his. An almost imperceptible nod and she began to undress.

She unbuttoned the first button on her blouse, then another. As she worked her way down to button number three she saw his movement out of the corner of her eye. Seconds later her blouse was ripped from her hands, buttons flying and the material hanging in tatters.

A gasp escaped her lips as he continued on. His strong hands unbuttoned her skirt then ripped it to the hem. It landed in a small pile on the floor and she stepped out of it.

The knife appeared out of nowhere and though she knew enough to not be afraid, her heart skipped a beat and her pulse raced. She felt the cold steel of the blade just beneath the swell of her breasts. He traced his way to the center of her bra and worked the tip of the blade beneath the cloth. A quick movement and her breasts were untethered, hanging, barely covered by the cups.

“Get on the counter and don’t say a word. Not one.”

His voice hypnotized her. That was what commanded her. Not the words but the tone of his deep, nearly baritone voice.

She allowed him to help her onto the counter that was covered in dust and cobwebs. Her hair cascaded behind her as her head hung freely off the other side. Her hands pulled the remnants of the bra away from her breasts then moved to pinch her nipples.

He spread her legs then lifted her feet to rest her heels on the edge of the counter. Beneath her bottom a small wet spot had started to form. His mouth met her open pussy as the blade sliced first one thigh then the other. She cried out and the sticky warmth flowed from her center and from the cuts. The blood and secretions mingled in a puddle as he licked her cunt one last time.

“Whatever you do, don’t move.” His voice insisted that she listen so she did. She barely breathed and she swore that the sound of her heartbeat filled the room.

She heard the rustle of his clothing and focused on it. The sound of his coat falling. His tie being undone. His clothes piled neatly to avoid wrinkles. His lug soled shoes landing on the floor. The sounds comforted her and reminded her that she had not yet been left alone.

His hands clamped down on her thighs and she screamed. She felt her back slide across the bar, the edge leaving scrape marks that burned when she was dragged through the puddle of blood and secretions. She screamed again just before his mouth captured hers and his cock impaled her.

Over and over he filled her. Come and blood mingled on their thighs and genitals. Cobwebs clung to her tangled mane. Their breathing slowed and he lowered her to the blanket he had spread on the floor.

With a gentle kiss on her lips he disappeared. The foyer of the old hotel was silent. Once again she had been abandoned.

*This is a work of fiction

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If you’ve been reading here for any length of time you know a few things about me for certain. One is that I love to be spanked. There is something so erotic and so completely sensual about a hand or a belt connecting with my bare bottom that drives me crazy. Two is that I am a major fan of all things Rachel Kramer Bussel. So with those two things in mind, allow me to introduce you to my own little slice of Heaven.

Spanked: Red Cheeked Erotica also has it’s own blog.

When RKB announced on Twitter that she had copies to be reviewed on Amazon, I jumped at the chance. Who wouldn’t, right? So I emailed my address and began waiting with bated breath.

It arrived quickly and for that I was so thankful. I carefully opened the package and slid the book out, loving the scent of it immediately. You know that new book scent I’m talking about. The one that makes a total bibliophile such as myself long for her local Barnes & Noble in ways that probably aren’t natural.

The cover is dark with red and white writing, not that you notice it at first. Instead your eyes are drawn to the bare female bottom sporting slightly reddened cheeks. My fingers lingered a little over the glossy cover but not overly long. While the cover was perfect, it was the inside of the book I couldn’t wait to get to.

{Allow me to pause for a moment to tell you how elated I was to open the book and find a note and a signature from RKB herself. That alone made me very careful as I was reading, so as not to ruin what had just become my prized possession.}

The stories are astounding. I think that RKB shines as an editor with her choices. Everything from retaliation to punishment is covered. Implements and bare hands are seen in a new light. Spanking isn’t just for wayward children anymore. It’s for lovers and haters and for those who fall somewhere in between.

When I read a collection or anthology I always have one story that becomes my favorite. Usually it’s one of the least raved about or the longest piece on the book, but those are the pieces that always speak to me. This time, however, Nobilis agreed with my choice and featured “Depths of Despair” on his show.

I can’t explain why the story resonated with me, but it did. I felt the desire. I felt the fear. I felt the heartache. While those aren’t the only things I felt, I was overwhelmed.

I’ve murmured, prayed even, into wood and brick and paint. But now my lips aren’t so much touching the wall as merged with it. My body goes on red alert as he smears me into the wall. My pussy is pounding, demanding attention in much the same way my heart is thudding. “Stay there, whore.”

How many times I’ve longed to experience those things. How many journal pages are filled with those sentiments, changed only by the hand that wrote them. While they belong completely to RKB, seeing them in print leaves me more bare and exposed than ever.

I encourage you to buy a copy. Read it. Lose yourself in it. Then maybe pass it along to your friends who like some naughty with their nice.

{And Rachel, I promise I’m not a freak. Just a fan.}

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