I bathed for the first time in ages today. Really bathed. Shaved my legs and scrubbed myself. More in depth than the few perfunctory baths I’ve had recently (clean the important bits, sit depressed for a minute, get out, maybe once every three days).
I have someone coming over though, so I felt like I had to. Even cleaned the house a little. Not much. Picked up the odds and ends lying everywhere, swept the dog fur off the floor.
Looking into the mirror after my thorough scrub-down as I washed my face, blurry because even though it was hours after noon, I still hadn’t put in my contacts. And I wanted to cry. It was already too much.
I have school tomorrow and I don’t know how I’ll make it through.
Mornings when my husband isn’t there are the worst. I’ll lay in bed and my mind will drift toward those thoughts, of his face when he’s inside me and his lips against mine and the desperate way he arches into me… I normally would play with myself.
But those thoughts, though they still inflame me, also quash me. I’m inconsolably sad. I miss him so much it aches.
And my fingers twitch to grab my phone, to message him, but I know I can’t.
I’ll just wait in bed and force myself to sleep until my husband comes and holds me while I try to forget another man.
Over the years I have discovered I love experimenting– with personal style, photography, art, writing, sex, play… trying new things, especially strange, is one of my favorite games. Thus, showing this little part of myself to the world, the part that still gets comfort out of curling up with a stuffed animal (in this case a pig named Buggy who has traveled through two duty stations and two and a half decades with me), was a bit of a risk.
I decided to up the ante by “painting” over the manipulated photo. Why not, right? If I fail, only the internet might be witness. The entire internet. Or the few people who will read this.
I help run a kink group at my school. It sounds a lot cooler than it is, especially considering we started about halfway through last year and had all of two meetings. However, our FaceBook group (of course we have a FB group) is active as fuck.
Unfortunately a lot of the activity is vanilla-style hookup posts. We are trying to find a way to cut down on those (a hookup group was made toward the end that helped some… if it’s active, we may need to start redirecting people there again).
Anyway, I was asked if I would be willing to show a little rope to some of the peeps. So I wrote up this really awesome handout (so my husband, other partner, and two friends who looked at it assured me), brought the Complete Shibari Volume 1: Land by Douglas Kent, and made sure I had a few different types of rope to show (my own jute, my husband’s hemp, and two different types of synthetic rope. I may have even had some 550 cord, because what self respecting veteran doesn’t?
No one wanted to learn. Absolutely nobody. Talk about awkward.
Of course, it may have had to do with this being the second meeting of our rag-tag group. Perhaps it was that I had only met a few of them. It could have been that we were making para-cord floggers. Oh well. At least I have a super-cool handout for the future.
Someday I will forget your lips on mine
I will forget the warmth of your breasts pressing against me and the heat of our two bodies entwined
I will let go of the tears I still feel choking me
Like your tongue in my mouth or
Your hands on my throat
Someday my sorrow will run dry
And I will drift up
Lighter than air as my grief is forgotten
I will no longer need to remember
Because someday we two will meet again
I’ve mentioned before how I love taking photos. I haven’t always been the best at it. Here is a little peek at a photo taken years ago versus a photo taken more recently. One was before I figured out how to use the timer function on my phone. My photos then were full of odd cords, strange expressions, and everything I could try.
I mean, maybe one in ten photos happened to be salvageable. Nowadays, I think I’m up to three! Nah, though. I’ve really started pushing my own boundaries, not to mention being more confident in feeling sexy.
So, for those of who don’t know, I am going back to school right now, to prove to myself that I am not a fool. Or something like that.
I am roughly ten years older than most of the students who go to my school. In fact, I am the second oldest student at my school. Logically, I know I’m not old. However, when everyone around you thinks Tuesday drinking starting at 8 pm is totally normal, you start to feel old.
Know what I want to do Tuesday at 8pm? Go home, eat dinner, watch some Netflix before bed. About the “coolest” part of this whole experience is that I do it wearing nothing but my collar.
Anyway, one thing a bit useful is that I also have more experience and less sheltering than these 18-22 year-olds by virtue of having been an adult longer. In the year I have left, I’m trying to help educate my peers on BDSM practices. I absolutely love knowing budding masochists are learning safe ways to have the shit beaten out of them.
Standby for future stories of Ink the Educating Adult.
I stripped down to just my collar and gripped the cross, leaning forward. His hands dug into my hips to thrust my ass out toward him.
He began just by touching, rubbing over the areas he would soon abuse. It let me prepare mentally, and get focused on him rather than the people around us. And then he brought out the hefty PVC pipe that he knows is my favorite toy, for good reason.
Is there any way to accurately describe the flood of heat and ice and weakness that flooded me as he started to beat a steady tattoo against my skin? Within moments, I was clinging for dear life to the sturdy piece of furniture in front of me. I was cold and sweaty all at once as I flooded. Every movement was an excuse for him to hit harder, to shove the length between my legs and tap my nearing thighs apart, to make me keen and moan until my head swam and only my death grip held me up.
Time was both sped up with the pulse on my tongue and slowed down to the dull murmur of the crowd in the distance. And he hit harder for a few beats, then leaned forward, the coolness of his cotton shirt brushing against my flushed body and then–
Sharp, hot, so deep. The imprint of his teeth in my flesh and the crest of the wave hit me. I was done.
He stroked my plump ass and told me how well I’d done, then held me on the couch until the shaking and after shocks had passed.