Thursday, May 09, 2013
A Circle is Round, It Has No End

I am afraid that I won't get over this.

I am still hurt. Still paranoid. Still way too sensitive to... Well, everything.

I still don't trust him at all. Every offhand comment. It's all a possible lie or cover-up in my mind. Every missing moment that I don't know exactly whats going on with my own senses is time he might be with someone else.

I am back to the way I felt the first time, except without the passion of surprise.

It's no longer a one-time "oops." This is how it's probably going to be forever, and I am resigned to that.

(Over a year ago, my partner hid his other partners from me, and lied repeatedly. He risked my health and sexual safety, having unprotected sex with all of us without disclosing it. Indeed, in spite of how clear I made myself that it was important to me -- or maybe because of it -- he flat out lied about being safe, and continued to do so until I called him on it. He made agreements and broke them. Not just with me, but with all of us. Still, I chose to give him a second chance. I told myself it was a newbie foul-up  mixed with embarrassment.

He has continued to be caught in lying and hiding things from me. Lesser things, mind you, but they are none the less devastating to my trust. Just when I think things are getting better, I find out he's doing it again.

The most recent has been hard to work through. We had a conversation about how I was still working on our trust issues. I said that while I was almost over suspecting that he was cheating on me, I still didn't trust that he would tell me something he was ashamed of or if he messed up. He spent some time giving me examples from work about how he messed up and then came clean. He told me he was working on it and that he thought he was making good progress. Mere days later, I found out that he has been meeting his ex for lunches now and then for months, and hiding it from me. (Now, I don't care if they're friends, and I told him so. What I do care about is that I know whats going on, so I don't have to worry.) This wasn't "I didn't think it was important so I didn't mention it," he admitted that he didn't think I would be happy about it and that's why he didn't tell me. Oh, he did it anyway, he just didn't tell me.

Now all that trust we had rebuilt is out the window, and along with it has gone my hope that it can be fixed. Instead, I am trying to learn how to live with the fact that he will probably cheat and lie any time it is convenient. That... Hurts. I'm such an optimistic, see-the-good-in-people-and-bring-it-out type of person. To have that attitude not just take from me but shredded in this relationship is really difficult. I hate being a cynic.

Here we are. Here we will likely be again.)

 anjelle let you know at 07:42 am

Sunday, March 10, 2013

I said I wouldn't talk about it any more. He knows how I feel. We have talked about it at least a half dozen times just in the last month or so. Repeating myself seems excessive. That's my decision, not his. But I can't seem to keep silent, either, so I am writing here. Thoughts are overflowing. Bursting. Exploding.

Our sex life is waning. We talked about it, I thought he was fixing it, but the following week went back to the same old thing. We talked about it again. I thought he was fixing it. Same relapse.

I thought, hey, maybe it's me. I know I asked whether he was ok with initiating most of the time and he said yes, but maybe he didn't realize what that was really going to be like. Maybe I need to take some initiative. So, last night, I put myself out there. I started touching him. He rolled over to cuddle me, cutting off my access. Part of me reasons that it was only once, try again. The greater part of me fears opening myself up to be hurt that way. It's always difficult, and the less we are intimate, the harder it gets. Turning me away has made it harder still.

There seems to be a theme. Now that he can have me any time he wants, later is as good as now. Later is coming less and less frequently. We've gone from once or twice a day to once or twice a week. I'm worried that, soon, it will be once or twice a month.

I'm wondering if I should take on a playmate, just to keep that part of me alive. The problem with that is, I don't want anyone else. Not to mention the fact that sex with someone else is not sex with him, and it's sex with him that is dying.

Yes, dying. If this continues, I will shut that part of myself away. I've done it before.

 anjelle let you know at 12:01 pm

Friday, February 22, 2013
Why I Rarely Have Orgasms

Why do you feel you don't deserve as much time as it takes for you to cum?
Do you feel your orgasm is your own responsibility?

This... Made me cry, when I read it.

I don't think I've ever been with anyone who could stick with me long enough for me to cum. Not that I've never had orgasms with my partners. I have. But it is coincidental, not usually due to an effort they made. I suppose that makes it sound like my partners have not put effort into my pleasure at all. That isn't true. It's just that they have almost unanimously gotten bored or impatient (or, in one sad case, a stiff neck) before that effort pays off for either of us.

My current partner SAYS that he wants me to cum. He SAYS it is important to him for me to have pleasure. I find myself wondering just how important it could be. For someone who claimed to enjoy giving oral sex, he doesn't do it much. (And I can't even begin to tell you how self-conscious this makes me. What's wrong with my bits that he doesn't want his face near them?) I like to be touched -- explored -- and that doesn't happen much either. We have talked about it a little, but with my history, I guess I don't see the point. If it's important, he'll make it important, and if it's not, talking about it will only make things worse.

So, yes, I feel that my orgasm is my own responsibility. It is up to me to set the tone for arousal, if I want more than cock-sucking and penetration. It is up to me to find ways to move my body to hopefully get off before my partner does. It is up to me to not make them feel inadequate if that doesn't happen. (I had that last drilled into me for years.) If I am turned on enough to still want to cum after my partner finishes, that's definitely all on me. Once he's done, he's done. Pity that cuddles don't excite me that way.

I guess I don't feel like I deserve it because it takes so long. Even masturbating alone, it takes me an average of 30-40 minutes to reach climax. I have caused physical discomfort, feelings of inadequacy, confusion, and frustration. Why would I put someone I love through that? I'd rather have fun sex and enjoy that, than worry about how to achieve my orgasm without upsetting anyone.

And, right now, that feels very unfair.

 anjelle let you know at 12:27 pm

Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Untitled -- Processing by Re-Living

Last night, you pushed me.

I have been lost in my own sea of depression. I have run away into books or computer games or anything that will keep me from the loops of negative thought which catch at me and drag me down. I am starting to feel better, but it is still vulnerable and new and I know that I could fall back into that pit of snares too easily.

Yesterday, just at the start of my ascent, I had to push myself through a busy day of preparation and hosting. At the best of times, too much of that will leave me drained. Still, I made it through without losing my new-found balance, and I was proud. Proud, yes, but wary. Days like that are walking a tightrope, and when I finally get to the end, I know I must still turn around and cross again.

At the end of it, when all the work was done, we crawled in bed, exhausted. I was not surprised when cuddles turned into sex. It's hard to be surprised by that, with you. When the sex turned a bit toward the darker side, well, that's hardly surprising either. I suppose, in truth, the whole of it was not unexpected. And yet....

You had me on my belly. Though you aren't exceptionally larger than me, your weight holding me down makes me feel small. My face was a bit more closed in with pillow than I'd have liked -- you know how having my face covered makes me panic -- but I could move my head about if I needed to so I didn't feel too smothered. Besides, I was focused on the glorious feel of you sliding in and out.

You nipped my shoulder. I remember, because the sharp ache of your teeth was almost more than I could stand. I tilted my head to the side, giving you access to my neck. I wasn't sure whether I wanted you to bite me or not, so I didn't ask for it. Still, I made myself more than open; I arched myself to bring those tender bits of flesh closer to your face. I think I was hoping you would latch on and growl, the way you sometimes do. I know I was hoping you wouldn't hurt me. I was still so uncertain of my own stability, and pain would send me right over the edge. How could I long for two such opposing things?

As I was still trying to process my feelings on being made a meal of, your hand slipped up to wrap my throat. Ah, there is a sense of power! I tried to use my own strength to gain pressure from your hand without smothering myself in cotton. Your grip tightened. I realized quickly that I couldn't move away from the too-close pillow. You held me just there, barely breathing and starting to feel the fringe of panic against my face. When you let go, I was both relieved and disappointed. I love it when you choke me. I wanted more. At the same time, I was glad to be able to lift my head once more to freedom.

And then, somewhere between your thrusting and grinding, came the worst possible thing. Your hand left my throat. The feel of your palm sealed against my mouth. Your fingers allowed no air to pass through my nose. I tried to remain calm. I want you to know how much I trust you. I want to give you this -- the one thing that makes me panic and call out for an end, I will overcome for you. My air runs out. I can't get a breath in past your hand. Your body traps me. Your hand traps me. I can't move. I can't breathe. I can't live. Oh god! Oh, God! I am trying to find that calm again, but I can't, and I realize that I'm kicking and screaming and I want you to stop but I don't want to make you and then it's over. You moved your hand away. Air filled my lungs as I sobbed.

In my head, I was wondering why you would do that now. Why now, when I'm not strong enough? Why ask that of me when I am barely scraping together the pieces of my sanity? Just as I was gathering the strength to resent your intrusion into my new peace, your hand came again. I think I held on to my calm a little longer the second time. Maybe it just seemed like longer to my frazzled nerves. Then my body took over. I tried to breathe. My screaming lungs find only blocked airways. I feel the seal of skin against my nostrils. I wonder at the ridiculous part of my brain that is worried about what the neighbors are hearing as I kick my feet against the mattress, and scream into your palm. I hear the vibration in my throat. It's trapped there. I want out! I'm done! Let go! Let go, Daddy! My head is moving. I'm trying to find a way to get free. Why wont you let go? I'm dying! Don't you care that I'm dying?! Please!

Through all of it, you never stopped fucking me. When I could breathe again, I noticed that. Panic tends to block out awareness. I was hyperventilating between jags of sobbing. Loud, raw sobs of fear, not the pretty tears of sadness. Your hips kept moving, and I wondered whether my tears were turning you on. I cried, and wondered whether you knew how bad it was for me. I cried, and hoped that wouldn't stop you. You kept pushing your cock into me, and I hoped my despair wasn't making you feel bad. I wanted you to cum, even as I tried to find the control to breathe normally.

Eventually, you did. After that, silence. Everything was still and quiet for what seemed like forever. Except for me. I wasn't ok. Not yet. I was questioning my worth. As I shook under you, you tried to soothe me. I tried to calm down, but I was waiting for something. There was one more thing I needed before I could accept that I was safe. When it came, it was like flinging a door open and stepping into your arms after a long time apart. I was safe. I was loved. I was home.

"Good girl," you whispered.

I live to please you.

 anjelle let you know at 11:19 am

Friday, January 04, 2013
Writing Prompt: I feel most submissive when...

Force, of any kind, makes me weak in the knees. I feel both the fire of desire and the need to submit. Most often, this happens when he grabs a handful of my hair. He drags me to the ground, and as I look up at him from the vicinity of his boots, I am overcome. I will do anything for this man. It could be anything, though. Shoving me against the wall will elicit a similar response, as will throwing me on the bed, pinning my arms, or any other action that highlights his greater physical power.

When I first started writing on this subject, my thoughts were on these moments. The ones in which my need is most at the forefront of my thoughts. The ones where he is actively taking me, using me, making me feel the way he wants me to feel and be what he wants me to be. My real surrender is not there at all -- that is lust and surrender to our carnal desires.

I also enjoy feeling useful. Having a task set for me and performing that task highlights my desire to serve. I love knowing that I can do these things for him. That he has chosen me to do them, even while he could do them himself.

I get up in the morning -- sometimes hours before I have anywhere to be myself -- to make his coffee. Most days, it is simply a task. I hate getting out of bed in the morning, even when I've had plenty of sleep and am only tossing around delaying the inevitable. When I have not had enough sleep, dragging myself out from the warm blanket cave is... Well, it requires persistence and patience, neither of which are my strong points. Still, when he asks whether I am going to make him coffee, I am up more often than not. If I have had enough sleep, I am up before he asks.

We have recently agreed that I will take his boots off in the evenings. This is much less difficult for me. Even with children demanding attention, and dinner on the stove, it is a simple matter for me to find my place at his feet and pull the laces. This, too, is most often just a task.

And yet, without these things I feel lost. While they may not hold any profound feeling in the moment, they remind me of my chosen path. The tell me that no matter how overwhelming life might be -- and it can get there fairly easily for me sometimes -- I have a place.

 anjelle let you know at 09:43 am


A girl with a new beginning
A girl with a past
A girl who can stand
But chooses to kneel

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