Where do we get our ideas about who we are? Is it one of those things that just comes naturally? Is it the influence of others? Maybe it’s the medicine, maybe it’s hormones, but I’m struggling with this.

The Knight and I talked about a lot of things last night. He believes that I have a completely off center self perception. He says that the way I see myself is not the way others see me. Of course, I argued that where he sees that I am mistaken I see myself as being unabashedly realistic.

How is it not realistic to acknowledge ones flaws and live with them? I don’t hate myself. Nor do I love myself. I accept that I am who I am, period. I’m not hideous, but I’m certainly not Miss America. I’m not Einstein but I’m not Rainman. How is that having a skewed self perception?

When the conversation was over I couldn’t help but wonder. Am I really that messed up? Or is he really that blinded by love? Then I realized that he isn’t blinded by anything, so it must be me. Always and forever it’s me.

I’m a soft, overly ripe pear. He’s a wonderfully firm and well rounded orange. Where his skin is bumpy mine is smooth. Where his contours are perfect, mine are slightly off. The scales aren’t tipped as much as I thought at the beginning of our conversation last night. I realize it. I guess more than anything we’re hell bent on becoming a hell of a fruit compote, this pear and that orange.

I guess I have to remember that as his submissive my views of myself should mirror his and not reflect my own. He is gorgeous. He sees in me things that I have only dreamed of. He chose me as his partner, as his submissive, to share his bed and his life. Who am I to speak ill of myself when he speaks so highly of me? He wouldn’t have chosen someone he finds inferior. Maybe I need to look to him for more than simple life guidance. Maybe I need to look to him for a more accurate self perception.

Email this post

I stand before you
As a child stands before a parent
Quiet and waiting
With hope and over the moon expectations

Look at me
Silently the plea falls from my lips
See me
For who I am and what I am about to become

Reach out your hand
Touch me
Gently
Like snowflakes on my darkened lashes

Pull me close
Always be my shelter in the storm
Whisper to me softly
Should I lose my way
Your voice
The promise of your love will lead me home

Be at one with me
Fill me with yourself
Physically
Spiritually
You and I
Together
A rare beauty
Eternally bound in the ease
Forever wrapped in our simplicity

Email this post

I miss him more than I could ever put into words. Not as much as I love him, but close. I get so used to having him close by when he works from home, so used to the safety and warmth that’s always just a touch away. The way he tucks me in, the way he lays with me when I won’t nap alone because it isn’t fair for me to be asleep when he’s working. I know it should get me through the times that he isn’t here, but it simply makes me yearn for him that much more.

I also yearn to have my body back. The meds are a necessary evil, I know. And make no mistake about it, they truly are evil. A chemical D&C cannot possibly hurt less than the actual procedure. It can’t be more painful or more taxing or more disgusting than what is happening to me right this second. If there is a God in Heaven, tomorrow at this time I’ll be having a major dose of pain meds to get me through.

The weekend with the girls was good. They’re growing up and it shows. It broke my heart to watch them, to talk to them and hold them all the while knowing that they had to go back to their father. Not that he’s any kind of father, but that’s another story. They got their ears pierced so they could wear pretty earrings for the wedding. I didn’t think they would do it, but they came through it flawlessly, without a single tear. My oldest plays video games like I do, constantly looking for the perfect move, the best maneuver for her current position. My youngest can’t carry a tune in a bucket, but like me, she doesn’t care. She sings and dances (which she can do fabulously!) with an abandon that I only wish I had. Of all the things I yearn for the most, they’re at the top. I miss them terribly and it’s only when they’re with me that I feel whole, contentedly and utterly complete.

Email this post

Soon I will be with my babies. It’s only for the weekend, but my heart is in orbit. I can’t wait to hold them and kiss them. I can’t wait to introduce my oldest to Anne of Green Gables because she’s the perfect age for it. I miss my girls more than anyone could ever know, more than I could ever possibly convey here. I only hope they know it.

Soon I will be thirty. I will have been alive for thirty years. How do we survive? It amazes me, really. Despite multiple accidents caused by drunk drivers, miscarriages that left me bleeding to the point of needing a transfusion, and suicide attempts, I am here. I’m alive and doing so very well.

Soon I will finish my book. Finish it to the point that I can offer up a part of myself to the ruthless men and women in New York. I’ll offer it with hesitation and reluctance, the way my father will offer my hand to The Knight on our wedding day. I know it won’t be easy but I am hopeful, wishing every day for a kind soul who will see beyond the words on the page right into the very heart and soul of me.

Soon I will be his wife. I will stand with him before our family and friends with my heart on my sleeve, with love in my eyes. I will write my vows and speak them clearly but tearfully. I will stare at him in awe, almost as if it’s the first time I have ever seen the love that he has shown me all along. I will have finally found the door open, the fires burning, and the gentle steadfastness of our union welcoming me inside.

Soon I will emerge the butterfly he has always known me to be. Though the metamorphosis has been painstakingly slow, it’s been happening just the same. I will shed my cocoon and see myself as he sees me- beautiful, bright, with wings that have been tried and a heart that knows the value of flying close to home, close to what I know to be the perfect place to be the woman, the butterfly, I was always meant to be.

Soon…

Email this post

There are very few things that I have found to be elusive in my life. I have experienced some wonderful things in my twenty-nine years and for that I’m thankful. Better yet, I’m more thankful for the less than wonderful things that I have experienced. Those things have taught me self-reliance, compassion, strength, and how to hope.

One of the elusive things has been pride. Though I have done things or responded in ways that should have given me a sense of pride, I never felt it. I never quite got to that point. When someone was quick to respond with a compliment or a kind word I would ungraciously turn their kindness into an opportunity to list my own running list of faults. Over time I learned to say “thank you” even if I didn’t buy it and leave it at that.

Last night as I was laying between his thighs, his sac in one hand and his rock hard cock in the other, I caught him watching me. I looked at him for a moment then went back to worshiping his body with my tongue.

“That is perfect. No one has ever touched me as well as you or made me feel as good. It’s not the things you do that make me love you, it’s who you are. I am so proud of you.”

My heart skipped a beat and I felt tears threaten. Instead of being so quick to dismiss his heartfelt comment, I took it in. I mulled it over and allowed myself the opportunity to really try to understand it. As my hand worked its way up and down the shaft of his cock and my tongue lapped at the head, I watched him through half closed eyes.

There was a time when I never thought I could coax such a response from his body. What’s more, there was a time when I wondered if I would ever see or feel the emotion that I felt at that very moment. In our short time together it’s not been easy but we have both come so far.

As I captured the head of his cock in my mouth and steadily worked him over with my hand, I felt my heart soar. This was my Master, my lover, my best friend. He was proud of me. I swallowed his essence effortlessly and smiled to myself. In what I had to be a lifetime first, I climbed off our bed and strutted to our bathroom in all my naked glory.

Maybe it’s different for me than it is for other submissives. I don’t know. With certainty I can tell you that I live to love The Knight. I live to pleasure him, care for him, and I live to share my life with him. Of all the women in all the world, he chose me. He loves me. In the dark of the night, in the wee hours of the morning, whether we’re making love or laughing like fools, I am the one he wants to have by his side.

Nothing in the world can possibly compare to this submissives pride.

Email this post

{I met Terry through another blog. Instantly it was as if I had reconnected with a part of me that I’d never known to be missing. More than once we’ve both commented on it. Please enjoy this wonderfully moving and brutally honest piece that’s showcased below. Oh, and don’t forget to visit her blog and comment as well as leave some comments here.}

Need

Sometimes in life it seems there just are no words to express what you’re feeling. I am discovering that the older I get, the more I need.

I don’t mean clothes. I have enough clothes in various sizes to clothe a small nation.

I don’t mean food. Even though adult offspring have been heard to declare that there is nothing to eat, the pantry & refrigerator are full to overflowing (so why do we need to go to the store tomorrow?).

I don’t mean shelter. We have a lovely home, your average 3 bedroom, 2-story bungalow on your average cul-de-sac, with 2 cars in the 2-car garage.

Like the blog name implies, I need a little more passion. I’m tired of the mundane. I’m tired of the everyday sameness. The stuff that can make some people feel safe and secure makes me itch. And I know that if I ever expect anything to change, it’s up to me.

Up to a point.

Like in the Serenity Prayer, I’m working on changing the things I can. And one of those things I can change is letting My Love know what I need, because like it or not, I’ve come to realize that I cannot do anything and everything by myself.

Oh sure, there are times when fast-food type service is just fine, then there are other times when even drive thru service or self-serve will suffice. Then there are the times when what you need is full serve.

Something that will leave you with a feeling of immense satisfaction, totally and completely fulfilled, and those times require another like minded individual that understands your wants and needs, and is able to take the ball and run with it, all the way down the field, make the touchdown & the extra point, if you understand all the stupid mixed metaphors I’ve resorted to using.

A few months back, I came to the somewhat surprising conclusion, that I’m a sexual submissive. The reason it was surprising is, I’m 51 years old! Why on earth didn’t I realize this years ago? Well, actually, I think a part of me did (plus – it wasn’t until after my hysterectomy that I discovered that sex didn’t hurt. Not only did it not hurt, it was fantastic!), but like lots of women with 2 young children, a husband, 2 dogs and a full time job, I put everyone else’s wants and needs first, especially when it came to sex.

Isn’t that what a submissive does? Yes, of course. But what if I want, no, not just want, what if I need something more, to feel complete? Does that make me less of a submissive? I’m sure there are some people that believe a true submissive should never speak up, never voice her own desires, because her only desire should be to do whatever pleasures her Master. For those that feel that way and have been lucky enough to have found each other, I say more power to ya. I just know that would not work for me.

I’m still discovering and exploring this submissiveness, and how far into the D/s and BDSM world I want to travel. I sprang all this onto my unsuspecting travel companion, My Love, about 9 months ago. I did not expect smooth sailing, and indeed the journey has had its rough spots.

I do not want him to do anything he’s uncomfortable with. I’ve just asked him to explore his feelings, see if there are any Alpha or Dominant urges that he has squelched, that he would like to set free.

I imagine this is not easy for him. He is a recovering alcoholic. There were a couple of incidents during his drinking days where domestic abuse sprouted its ugly head. The police and the court system were never involved. No bones were ever broken. I’ve explained to him in several letters, that I don’t believe wanting to be bound and overpowered at my request, in anyway resembles domestic abuse. One is born of fear, insecurity, even rage, and involves an unwilling and non-consensual individual. The other is not only consensual, but desired by the second party and does not involve abuse. It involves trust to the “nth” degree.

Seems to me that to try to understand and do what one can to provide what it is that another person needs, is not just unselfish, but an enormous act of love. If some think that’s twisted, well then fine. I’m not out to change the way the world thinks. I’m just trying to learn how to survive in my own teeny, tiny, little speck of it.

I have felt his restraints on my wrists and ankles only 3 to 4 times in the last 9 months since I first took that huge leap of faith and told him of my darkest desires. But during those times the depths of my emotions were almost unbelievable. I never would have thought that an orgasm could be so extremely intense. Or a scream last so long. As a sexual submissive, I believe I’m the one being selfish here, asking for my wants and needs to be explored and fulfilled. But once they have been, I beg to return the pleasure tenfold.

It’s been slow, and yes, emotionally painful sometimes. But growth always is. Growth of any sort is preferable to stagnation. And like it or not, I cannot expedite his acceptance of this new side of me, because it encompasses both of us, not just me. And as if to thwart my hopes, his libido is not as “hyper” as mine.

And so, we dance. I’m always up for a little more passion. I try to tempt and tease My Love, urge him into some spontaneous sexual banter. He reins me in as if I were a flirtatious filly, soothing me, calming me. But the things he whispers into my ear when he wants to excite me, set me free, send me soaring, my god, is it any wonder why I love and adore this man with all that I am?

Yes indeed. I certainly am discovering that the older I get, the more I need.

Succinctly put, I need Him.

terry –

a little more passion

http://alittlemore.wordpress.com/

Email this post

A couple of nights ago I sat down and cried my heart out. As the tears streamed down my face, the words streamed from my fingertips. It was a post about baggage, fear, and the inability to cope with both. I hit the button to send it to the place where magic happens and nothing. Absolutely nothing happened. Right then and there I realized that it was for the best because deep down I didn’t believe it anyway. All those things I wrote weren’t from the heart, they were born of my fear.

We’ve had an incredible couple of weeks. An almost border line argument, then a deep breath and a wave of honesty. I like the changes in myself that are only obvious in those moments. They’re reassuring and comforting. There’s something so extremely comforting about the realization that I’m coming through for us, for him, but most of all for myself.

This weekend we’ll check out the venue where we want to have our wedding and our reception. I’m worried that we won’t be able to get a Saturday reservation this late in the game. I’ve been informed that if we hold it on a Friday or Sunday evening that our already extremely small guest list will likely be trimmed down even more. No one wants to go to an out of town wedding and waste an entire weekend for it, etc. Through it all I’m keeping sight of the fact that it doesn’t matter. The most important part will happen whether we have two guests or twenty. I’m keeping my eye on the prize…my husband-to-be.

As for my writing, it’s going well. I have already more than doubled my income goal for the month. The Knight says I’m awesome, that I’m doing well, but I keep thinking that I can do better. Of course, I’m keeping my fingers crossed that this is the year that I actually sell my book. I have a good feeling about it.

This year is definitely off to an amazingly wonderful start.

Email this post

This love thing is not so bad. Ok, it’s wonderful. I admit it freely and to anyone who will listen. It’s not simple but it’s not rocket science either. Sometimes I make it harder than it has to be, but I’m learning. I’m pleased with my progress and the sense of accomplishment that comes from knowing that I’m doing my part to keep “us” running at our optimum level.

Though it’s been hectic The Knight and I manage to connect sexually on a regular basis. Sometimes I make love to him with my mouth, hungry and eager for the taste of him. Other times he orders me onto my hands and knees for some fast and furious fucking. I always think I know how it’s going to go, what kind of sexual encounter it’s going to be. Usually, I’m right. Once in a while he takes me by surprise.

We were laying together on our bed like we usually do in the evenings. It’s in these moments that I feel closest to him. Maybe even more so now that we’re planning our wedding. I felt him looking at me and I caught his eye.

“You’re so beautiful”

A simple statement from a simple man. A statement that moved me at the very core. For the briefest moment I didn’t think my heart could be any more full than it was at that second. (He has since proven me wrong…more than once.)

He kissed my mouth then moved to kiss my neck. I moaned and ran my fingers through his hair, content to just feel his breath against my skin. I closed my eyes contentedly then was immediately jolted out of my daze.

“I want you to teach me how to touch you. I want to know how to make you feel good.”

Though I know the look on my face would have said it for me, I asked him if he was sure. After all, we’d been together all this time and we’d not talked about it. I could live without his fingers on my clit as long as I could have his cock buried inside of me. Yet when he mentioned touching me I was instantly wet, slick with a desire so intense that I thought it would be my undoing.

Later that night, he got his chance. The student became the teacher.

With his mouth on my breast he reached down and parted my legs. I ran my fingers through his hair once more and delighted in the moments he spent licking and sucking my breasts into his mouth.

His fingers connected with my clit and that was it. Over and over again I climaxed, bucking and writhing next to him. His mouth never left my breasts and his fingers never lost contact with my drenched cunt.

I was the star of this show. Though it was an odd feeling, not touching him or tasting him, it was something I could very easily get used to. Moans and sighs mingled with his ragged breaths as he pulled away.

“Roll over”

I did as I was told and was immediately rewarded with his cock inside of me. He grabbed my hips and began to fuck me in earnest, stopping only to lightly finger the opening of my ass. though I know words escaped my lips, I don’t remember them or if they made sense. All I remember is how intense my orgasm was as he emptied his seed deep within me.

He’s touched me twice more since that night. I don’t know that I want to know how he learned to make a woman feel so good, though I know there were plenty that went before me. All that matters to me is how well we work together, how wonderfully decadent it feels to be in love with a man like him. I was far from innocent before I met him, but now I can see how we’ve both benefited from the extraordinary love lessons.

Email this post

(A warm and heartfelt thanks to Nina for this perfect kick off to Kindred Spirits. Please, comment and let her know what you think. Also, visit her at her home to read more of her work.}
Welcome to the Vulvacracy — An essay by nina aoki

She sits quietly under the cover of darkness. The room is illuminated with the strange glow emanating from the computer screen; colors which dance across walls filled with family pictures or some awful wall hanging she picked up on sale the last time she was in the local department store. Maybe she lights a candle; maybe she sips a cup of tea or hot cocoa, maybe her favorite cat brushes up against her leg demanding some attention. This is her time now and she guards this time, this space, this place, with private and sacred rituals and with the ferocity of a mother lion protecting her newborn cubs. Her children and her husband have all been put to bed, her daily chores are done save for that never ending pile of laundry she constantly fights a losing battle against, and she becomes someone else, she becomes the woman she was meant to be, wants to be, wishes she could be… she’s a sex blogger.

Women by the tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands by now, are sex bloggers, and we’ve all come out into cyberspace desperately searching for something, for someone, anyone; to listen, to understand, to share with, because no one in our real world understands the things which trample through our consciousness unabated every single day, those erotic thoughts, those secret desires, those things we could never, would never, tell another soul, and it’s only because of the faceless anonymity provided by the internet which sets this sexual creature free; a femme fatale, a diva, a slut, a geisha?

It doesn’t matter what we calls ourselves; our name and identity online are like the makeup we put on in the morning before we leave for work, or for those special occasions when our husband wants to take us out to dinner on a Saturday night, and then wants to fuck us as soon as we get home. Those transformations become commonplace for us; the illusions of beauty and identity, yet we all do them, we all succumb to the rules of society which defines what beautiful is supposed to look like – but out here none of that matters, out here our beauty is expressed in other ways, with our words.

Most women who keep such sex blogs, these sacred erotic journals, are not writers by profession, but we don’t need to be either. It’s the profound connection we feel to the words which rules out here, and the standard for good or bad isn’t measured much past basic literacy and a few fundamentals of good spelling and grammar. What passes for good in cyberspace is limited only by one’s erotic imagination and our ability to convince others to make the emotional investment in what we’ve got to say.

Sexuality plays a role too, with highly defined circles forming around various kinks or interests, and then it grows outwards from there. The submissives usually all get along very well with each other, the Doms argue about which one of them is a “real Dom” and which ones are just poseurs, the wannabe sluts compare notes on cocksucking and anal sex, and the meek and timid who are just blossoming sexually often fall victim to some married loser who tells her everything she want to hear in an ill-fated IM relationship and things predictably go downhill from there. There’s also a hierarchy which develops in the world of sex blogging, and it seems to be based on how long someone has been doing it, or who’s linking who, or which bloggers are perceived as the popular or powerful ones. We like to kid ourselves that there’s some sort of community out here, but reality is more like a loose association of various kink factions who grudgingly acknowledge each other’s presence, and it can and does sometimes seem like a great big competitive cyber high school, but aside from all that, the commonality in all of this is that the vast majority of sex bloggers are indeed women.

I’ve often wondered why such great numbers of women have turned to the internet to express our sexuality in these ways, and perhaps it’s because we’ve never truly come to terms with who we are as women, or better said, perhaps many of us have never given ourselves permission to express and indulge our sexuality in the flesh; cyberspace after all is far safer and there are few consequences to face for admitting that you’ve always wanted to be with another woman, or be fucked by two or more guys at once, or be chained to a bed and have a tennis racket shoved up your ass. There just isn’t. People accept these things and say, “Hey, that’s fine with me!” And we’re far more tolerant of each other’s sexual choices out here too, even though if we found out that our next door neighbor in our semi-exclusive gated community was actually a high priced call girl we’d be the first ones bitching to the local television reporter and police about how we always knew that there was something wrong with her, and for God sakes! What about the children?!!

Perhaps cyberspace gives us the freedom to express and indulge that sexuality in a safe way, and there are certainly real and measurable benefits to taking this all into the digital world rather than the bar in the next town over to look for some young stud to give us an orgasmic tune up of sorts, (which does happen and does get blogged about!) , and there’s also a real and profound sharing of ideas and knowledge among the women who do this; either by reviewing sex toys, or digging into our own experience and offering some tips for the uninitiated on how to exactly go about getting fucked in the ass. More importantly, this medium sometimes plays the role of psychoanalyst while we work through our problems and issues, discuss a liaison we’ve had, seek advice from others who understand what we’re going through, and we develop support systems which help us come to terms with the things in our lives which we simply cannot resolve on our own.

Even though Americans like to perceive ourselves as hip and liberated when it comes to sex, the truth is sadly something else, and that notion could quite easily be said anywhere else in the civilized world too, because female sexuality is often seen by men and sometimes other women, as something not to be discussed, expressed, talked about, written about, let alone thought about or acted on. Our sexuality is a second class commodity and ownership of that sexuality is usually defined by a wedding ring or some other social or religious mores which we’ve been beaten over the head with from the moment we popped out of our own mother’s sacred flower and the panic set in when everyone realized that the newborn bundle of joy didn’t have a prick. Sadly, this is a reality of life for us, and because of technology we’ve found a way to redefine the game and change the rules, and we now blog about everything we can’t say or do in the real world, or the things which we do that no one in our real lives knows about, and maybe on some levels we’re better because of it. We’ve taken the first step towards embracing and claiming our own sexuality.

There are drawbacks though. Sex blogging can be a seductive proposition and many women often become addicted to the attention and sexual energy which encircles them. It becomes like a drug and the user always needs more and more to feed their habit. In so many ways we’ve all become the dealers of this digital junk, and we enable the addiction in hundreds of little ways we’d never even imagined; either with a word, or compliment, or even giving someone a little attention, all of it makes this world of sexual women turn ’round and ’round, and I’ve come to believe that it’s necessary; women helping women in a koffee-klatsch which spans the globe. What fun would any of this be if we weren’t generating some kind of sexual energy or deriving some form of pleasure from the experience? None at all!

Each of us has our own reasons for doing this, and continuing to do this, and that’s okay too. What’s important is that we celebrate our femininity and raise awareness about female sexuality and kick down the doors of perception about who and what we’re supposed to be. It may be a man’s world out there… but in here? It’s a woman’s world baby! May the vulvacracy rule!

Email this post

When I was a child I fell in love with Anne of Green Gables. It was a beautiful relationship. I felt her angst and her joy, as a woman child in love with a boy child and as an aspiring writer when she won a writing contest for flour. All I’d ever won was a poetry contest where I wrote about the Gulf War, but I swore I was in love with Brian Brake the way she was in love with Gilbert Blythe.

I don’t remember exactly when I heard it, but it was the first time I heard her refer to Diana Barry as her bosom friend, her kindred spirit. Even then I wished for a friendship such as that. They would spar verbally and irritate one another, they would get into tons of trouble and at the end of the day they were still friends.

Now I’m almost thirty and I know what kindred spirits really are. I know true friends when I see them, bosom friends when I am inspired by them. For far too long I have kept silent instead of celebrating their presence in my life, but those days are over. Please, welcome them and the words into your life as I have.

Email this post