It seems that I am sleeping a lot more than usual lately. The doctors tell me it’s a good thing, to go ahead and sleep as much as I can because my body needs the rest. One trip up the stairs and I am completely knackered, in a hurry to slide beneath the blankets and slip into his arms.

But there are other things that I want; other things that leave me breathless and yearning.

I long to feel his hands tangled in my hair as he holds my head to his crotch. I ache to gag and cough from taking his cock too deep into my mouth. I want to be held in place and have my mouth filled to overflowing with his sweet and sticky essence.

In my heart of hearts I want to shrug off the love. Instead, I want to find my wrists and ankles bound with rope. I want to tug and struggle while knowing all along that there will be no escape until he says so. I want to cry and let go. I want to lose myself in the man who wields the flogger.

Right now I am tired of holding it all together. I am tired of being in control. I’m fed up with the passing hint of passion. I want full on desire and lust.

I want to skip a dose or two of pain medicine so I can feel the full effect of his hands against my skin. I want to be present and I want to be on fire. I want to kneel and serve and be completely at someone elses mercy.

And in the morning, I want to trace the black and blue marks with my fingertips. I want to walk gently because my fat ass has been used well. I want to close my eyes and remember every second of torture and torment; every second of exquisite ecstasy.

I just want to be me.

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When I first posted about the state of our union, I intentionally skipped over the whole sex and physical intimacy aspect. I couldn’t write about it because it hurt too much. Even now it’s not easy to write. It’s not easy to admit it to myself or to the world at large.

Some of you may remember that this started out as a D/s relationship. He called himself a dominant man and he said he was looking for a submissive woman. I wanted to be with a man who was a man, someone who could appreciate me as a woman. I wanted to do all the things that a woman does to make her man feel like the sexy, virile, in charge individual that he is.

Less than three months into it and I was topping from the bottom (at least from my perspective). He didn’t tell me what he wanted. He had absolutely no expectations of me outside of the oral and anal sex when he demanded it. I cleaned the house. I made the bed. I prepared his meals. I shaved the fertile delta and wore sexy lingerie. I made sure that I kept my submissive self in top condition should his dominant self decide to make an appearance.

We have rope in our closet that has never been used. My collar has been packed away for almost two years and has never been spoken of. He talks to his best friend who is active in the lifestyle and he pretends that we have a D/s relationship but we most certainly do not.

I don’t think he ever wanted a D/s relationship. He just wanted a partner that would do her fair share; someone who would be an adult and help him out once in a while. I think the fact that he never had to say anything to me about cleaning the house or doing the laundry was a relief. He didn’t have to pretend to be dominant and we didn’t have to argue about anything because I didn’t mind being his partner.

Our sex life is what it is. He loves foreplay so long as he is on the receiving end. If I am licking and touching and paying attention to his cock then it’s all fine and good. We all know that he won’t go down on me because “it’s not his thing” and that’s okay but what about some hands on stimulation? How about some hot dirty talk?

Nada.

Unless he is talking about me being with another woman. Then he has all sorts of things to say. On and on he goes and he doesn’t even notice that I’m not wet. He does what he is going to do and that is that.

In an argument the other night he remarked that he fucks me just to shut me up so he can get on to something enjoyable. I couldn’t believe that the same man who tells me I’m beautiful and sexy and seductive was the same man who told me that he only fucks me to shut me up. I just sobbed because how can argue against that kind of honesty?

I know I”m no Miss America. I know that I have lumps and bumps and wobbly bits galore. I know that I’m not every mans fantasy. But I don’t understand why he says he enjoys me or desires me if he doesn’t. And for crying out loud, if he doesn’t want to have sex once in a blue moon why doesn’t he just say so??

:::sigh:::

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say. I took my vows seriously; I meant what I said when I said “I do” but none of this is what I agreed to.

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This woman who takes on the world
And picks up your shirts, keeps it together somehow
This same woman that melts with your touch
Wants you to feel what I’m feeling right now

(chorus)
‘Cause this woman needs
A safe place to land
The strength in your hands
To know you know
What this woman needs
Is somewhere to cry
So lay by my side
And I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you

This woman needs to be reassured
That my heart’s your home, and love is what wills you to stay I need you to see me in every light
And hear that you still think I’m beautiful anyway
(repeat chorus)

What this woman needs
Yeah, yeah, yeah
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh
Oh, what this woman needs
Is somewhere to cry
So lay by my side
And I’ll tell you , I’ll tell you

What this woman needs
Yeah, what this woman needs
Yeah, yeah, yeah
What this woman needs

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I close my eyes and I’m there. Floating in the clouds, with sunshine on my bare skin. Your lips meet mine and our tongues mingle, lingering for a moment. You enter me slowly, gently.

At once I am whole. I am flying, soaring on angels wings. A gasp, a whimper, a barely audible sigh.

A flash of lightning. The world around me fades to black. You leave my body, slip from my grasp.

Midnight blue embrace. Freefalling to the ground below. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. A big love, a small lust, a final little death.

Time comes to an end. Now I know the answer. Eternal attraction, forever desire. I will love you beyond the point of dying, beyond my last breath.

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For so long I have struggled to explain it. I mean sure, sometimes we have really hot and freaky sex. Other times, we (The Knight and I)are just like this. Boy, did Kitten In Chains ever get it right.

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From Sensual Service-
Why do you write a journal? Do you find it is a positive thing for you, and if so, in what ways? Is it a public journal? Do you ever find yourself censoring your writings for whoever else might read them?

I originally started blogging when I first moved in with The Knight. It was a way for me to get all my feelings and emotions down and out without going to him with every little problem. I was terribly afraid that my being so needy would be an immediate cause for dismissal. Though he knew nothing about those reasons, he encouraged me to do it because he thought others might benefit from reading about our experiences. Obviously, many things have changed since then.

Once it was a private thing. I wrote without censoring a single thought or feeling, unless I had calmed down and realized something. Then I simply amended it. It was my place, my haven. Until it was found by my ex-husband. Then it was over. Suddenly he and his friends and family were there and not in a quiet kind of way. My personal thoughts, feelings and experiences were being used against me, thrown back in my face and misconstrued. So I stopped writing.

But there was something missing. I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t able to handle all the changes in our relationship and in my life without a place to write. So once again, with The Knights encouragement, I began again. I’m not the same person I was back then. I’m stronger, more sure of my place in his life and in this world. I’m no longer worried about confrontations or people taking things out of context. My ex-husband and his new wife and/or their various acquaintances will do with it what they want. What matters is the way I handle my and the things that come my way.

Sometimes I still censor myself. I have made it clear to all involved that some things won’t be mentioned here, but I would gladly tell people about them in an email. I’m not like everyone else in cyberia. And as I posted here, my voice is unique and I will continue to use it.

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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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Again, here we go. Back and forth, spinning wildly with arms spread wide in circles that are all too familiar. All at once we stop and we find ourselves on our backs staring at the blue sky with its marshmallow clouds, our tummies rolling and our emotions all a whirl. Your hand finds mine and the rolling in my tummy turns to the fluttering of a million butterfly wings. Suddenly, inexplicably, it’s all okay.

I know how lucky I am. I know how blessed we are. There’s no doubt in my mind and the fear I feel today has nothing to do with us. It has to do with chemo and (horrors!) the sudden lack of libido, the ever present odds and statistics.

Sometimes the fear is consuming. It stares me down and reaches out with intentions to swallow me whole. Usually I run. I bolt in record time and hide behind whatever or whomever gives me the most cover, as long as it isn’t anyone who knows me or loves me.

Not this time.

This time I’m running straight to him. With his blonde hair and his pretty blue eyes, with his geek insight and his uncanny ability to tell me like it is. He’s proud of me, of the progress we’ve made and I like that. It feels good when so many things feel just awful.

“If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me
And just forget the world?

Forget what we’re told
Before we get too old
Show me a garden that’s bursting into life

All that I am
All that I ever was
Is here in your perfect eyes
They’re all I can see

I don’t know where
Confused about how as well
Just know that these things will never change for us at all

If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?”

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My libido has been a little testy lately. So much so that I haven’t even been flirting or hinting at anything sexual with The Knight. I guess cancer and chemo will do that to you, but I don’t like it. Still, it’s more than just the whole being sick thing. It’s the submission thing. If I step back and let it go, he steps up and takes it. I like that- a lot. Even with all that there are days that being held is fine by me, until he touches my skin or looks at me with pure lust in his eyes.

Sunday night wasn’t one of those nights. It was a cuddle and talk kind of night. It was a feel so very close and be loved kind of night and I was just fine with that. Being held is wonderful and even more so when it involves skin on skin with plenty of kissing and conversation. With all of that, his cock was still hard. I edged closer to him and when my body came into contact with his, all I wanted was to pleasure him.

Instead, I asked him to stroke his cock for me. Watching him masturbate just does it for me. Suddenly there is an urge where there was none before and he knows it. Without hesitation he began to tug and pull at his swollen cock. I watched in fascination until he instructed me to touch myself.

I freed my breasts from my bra and slid my left hand into my pants. Of course I was wet and my lack of panties only helped keep me in the perpetually slippery state that he loves best. My right hand tweaked and pinched my erect nipples while my lover continued to sigh and pull on himself.

“Put your mouth on me while you touch yourself,” he commanded gently.

So I did. With the fingers of my left hand on my clit and the fingers of my right quite busy with my nipples, I slid my mouth over his hard cock. I’d like to say that it took a while, but it didn’t. I felt his cock begin to spasm and I willingly swallowed every last drop of his sticky sweetness.

And in return?

He laid beside me and took over stimulating my breasts. Alternately sucking first the right nipple then the left, he had me on the edge in no time. Though I don’t know why I do it, I asked him if I could come and when he gave permission, that was that. I came not once, not twice, but THREE times with his mouth on my nipples and my fingers on my clit.

Hands down it was the best non-sex we’ve ever had. Stay tuned later for all the details of what is now known as the Crisco Incident.

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