I've been out of town, out of touch, not visiting my beautiful husband unfortunately but taking care of some other family stuff.
I have been feeling overwhelmed lately. This is the part where i miss Jack because he sometimes does the dishes or hangs out with the kids while i take a nap. He makes sure they do their chores. He delegates effectively, unlike me.
I have to go work in a little bit, which i hate, and this place is a mess AND the first thing i did this morning (besides accidentally falling asleep after turning off my alarm) was clean up dog poop in the house. And I'm on my period. I want everything to just stop: my job, the mail, the boys coming home from school, any and all kind of pressures or messes. I want quiet and i want time. I want to sit on a couch in a clean house with a clean puppy who does not smell weird on my lap. And i don't know, watch tv or something.
Jack and i had a rough weekend. HIs extreme loneliness coincided with my extreme busyness and lack of privacy. He needed to talk and i couldn't, for 4 days. I could tell he was getting frustrated and mad, maybe at me, maybe in general. I was busy taking care of life stuff that is important, which he knew and appreciated, but it didn't make him feel better. He kept calling and I kept having to get off the phone. He's been insecure about his new job, had some tensions with a few of his coworkers, missed me terribly, has been sending bunches of emails with instructions and links to sexy blogs and websites that i couldn't begin to respond to...poor Jack. And i felt so terrible for neglecting him, for not being able to make him feel better or give him the attention he needed.
When i got back in town Monday night we finally talked--for about 2 hours. I cried and cried and told him i needed him, that i felt guilty for not giving him attention and i felt also a little defensive and protective of myself. I have a tendency to get wrapped up in long lists of little things that don't matter that much and to resent any distractions from them. Like, How can i possibly kiss you right now when there is laundry? And a pie to bake? Those are the times when i need a spanking the most. If i am tied down against my wishes and caned or even just touched, gently, it breaks the brittle structure i've created and i cry and cry and cry. He breaks me down and then comforts me, usually by putting his cock in my mouth and telling me i'm good. This process has a tendency to re-prioritize things for me. Like, it probably doesn't matter too much whether the house is a mess because i love my husband terribly, completely, and i trust him and belong to him.
Talking on the phone was kind of like that. I was forced to use words, which is hard for me--I am incredibly shy talking about this stuff. I was forced to say, "I need to submit to you. I need to give you all the control. I need to be tied, whipped, held. I need to give myself to you." I cried and cried on the phone and felt utterly vulnerable. I said to him I felt like i didn't have any skin on my body. But i'm not sure he caught it because i was crying and probably whispering. And afterwards we felt close again, which is what we like, want, need.
I can't wait until I'm done teaching for the semester. I hate being a teacher because i don't like to be in a position of power and i don't like telling people what to do. Duh. They don't listen to me anyways. I once read a blog where a girl said she was so submissive she couldn't even tell her dog what to do. It's kind of like that with me and the college students; we go through the motions, mostly, and try to ignore the absurd situation we are in. Some of them have crushes on me, which means they at least pay attention...even if it's to the wrong things, like my tits instead of their run-on sentences. I gotta go get ready for class.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
a word of explanation
Hi, internet.
I wrote these entries within the last couple of weeks, but i was not able to post them before. So all the dates are oct. 9--i hope it's not confusing.
Lily
I wrote these entries within the last couple of weeks, but i was not able to post them before. So all the dates are oct. 9--i hope it's not confusing.
Lily
Hard and Often
Today I lay in bed missing Jack. Missing his skin, his touch, his hard-on in the mornings. Each morning when he wakes up he yells my name and I stop what I am doing and run upstairs and get in bed with him and pet his face and kiss it and touch him everywhere. Sometimes he lets me suck his cock, but usually not. Usually I am only allowed to lick it, sometimes I am only allowed to hold my mouth open around it and breathe until he tells me to go make his coffee.
When he was home for the weekend we touched the whole time. I had forgotten (how could I? after only 2 weeks apart from him!) how hard he squeezes, how constantly he touches and pinches and grabs handfuls of me. I forgot how hard and how often. He is always touching me. We are always in contact with one another. I’m never rough (I don’t think); I am gentle. I touch him lightly, I run my nails over his skin, I stroke his hair, his face. I am only rough when we are fucking and I am about to come, or when I am sucking his cock and I lose it a little: When he groans or when I feel his pulse in my mouth it’s hard to hold back. I feel ruthless; I want him deep in my throat; I lunge into him and swallow and swallow.
I am submissive. I think that’s the right word, but I don’t like using it because it seems like a word used by other people, in communities, playing roles. We are not playing roles. It’s not a game with us. It’s not a performance, not an experiment.
I have become someone different since I met my Jack, my love. I am better and smarter. I like myself now. I believe in many things that I thought weren’t real. I feel capable of anything now, because I know I belong to him. I know I am his, even when he is far away. Even if he were gone forever I would be his and I would be okay. I am my best self when I please him, my beautiful husband. I am writing this now because he is at the movies with a friend thousands of miles away and he is going home to his new apartment after I will be in bed asleep, and he told me to write something and send it to him. I am also weeping, in relief and love and gratitude.
Being submissive, for me, is not about sex. It’s about Jack. I want to do things for him. The better I am at it, the better I am.
When he was home for the weekend we touched the whole time. I had forgotten (how could I? after only 2 weeks apart from him!) how hard he squeezes, how constantly he touches and pinches and grabs handfuls of me. I forgot how hard and how often. He is always touching me. We are always in contact with one another. I’m never rough (I don’t think); I am gentle. I touch him lightly, I run my nails over his skin, I stroke his hair, his face. I am only rough when we are fucking and I am about to come, or when I am sucking his cock and I lose it a little: When he groans or when I feel his pulse in my mouth it’s hard to hold back. I feel ruthless; I want him deep in my throat; I lunge into him and swallow and swallow.
I am submissive. I think that’s the right word, but I don’t like using it because it seems like a word used by other people, in communities, playing roles. We are not playing roles. It’s not a game with us. It’s not a performance, not an experiment.
I have become someone different since I met my Jack, my love. I am better and smarter. I like myself now. I believe in many things that I thought weren’t real. I feel capable of anything now, because I know I belong to him. I know I am his, even when he is far away. Even if he were gone forever I would be his and I would be okay. I am my best self when I please him, my beautiful husband. I am writing this now because he is at the movies with a friend thousands of miles away and he is going home to his new apartment after I will be in bed asleep, and he told me to write something and send it to him. I am also weeping, in relief and love and gratitude.
Being submissive, for me, is not about sex. It’s about Jack. I want to do things for him. The better I am at it, the better I am.
sun. 9:13 am
Now Jack is sleeping and one of the kids is up and so is my sister, who is here for a week. Bad timing, kind of. She was going to come visit a few weeks ago, but then we found out Jack was going to be leaving town for so long so she switched her ticket to now, when he’d be gone and I’d be lonely. Which I was, but now he is suddenly here and we don’t have much time alone.
Friday evening I left the house full of teenage boys to go to the airport. I was fully dressed, as I couldn’t see a way to execute my plan from the earlier post. Seriously, teenage boys all over the place, sitting down and talking to me, following me around, etc. While I drove they called and said they were going out with their friends, so I knew we’d have the house to ourselves when we got back.
At the airport there’s a certain place you can stand and watch the people as they get on to the escalator from the gates. You can see their feet. If you duck your head a little you can see them from the knees down, then you can’t see them again till they are walking towards you. I stood and watched all the feet and the carryon bags and paced. I was nervous, excited. I watched all the Midwestern families reunite and the businessmen walk alone out to their cars. Then finally, finally, finally, I saw my husband. He ducked and waved through this little gap in all the partitions—he must have been watching for my feet, too.
Then he walked toward me. He looked so handsome. Tan and trim and wearing his sexy jeans and his hip new sneakers, which I had forgotten he bought before he left, and a long sleeved blue button shirt. It’s sunny where he lives now, and he walks to work. We hugged and kissed and walked outside so he could smoke. I kept unbuttoning that blue shirt—he had a white t-shirt underneath--and running my hand over his chest and his neck. We kissed and kissed and I felt his cock getting hard and I stroked it through his jeans. We leaned against the car. A beautiful crisp wide open fall sky stretched over the parking lot, and families made their way past us to their cars.
He talked about his job and his new friends and I pictured them all enchanted by him, excited to be in a room with him, wanting his attention. Jack is funny and charismatic and everyone adores him. His coworkers argue over who gets to give him a ride home.
I drove us home and carried his bag upstairs and unpacked it. He played with the dog and walked around the house and sat outside, listening to the crickets and the birds and the music from the free concert downtown. He was getting used to being here.
Finally we went upstairs. He asked me where his bag was and I told him I’d unpacked it. He said, “Very good,” in that voice that signifies the shift from the man who is my best friend to the man who owns me, who takes control of me. I knew he wanted to mark me, and I knew that now was the only time we’d have privacy—before the kids came home, before I picked up my sister from the airport.
I took off my clothes and stood naked except for my heels. He said, “I want to be able to see your face.” He brought a mirror in from the hall and hung it on our closet door, then placed my hands on either side of it. He positioned my feet and pressed on my lower back, tilting my ass up towards him. He said he’d give me one mark for each day he’d been gone. He asked me how many and I couldn’t think. I tried to add in my head. “Twelve?” I said. He said, “No, eleven. Eleven marks. Which cane do you like the best?” I pointed out the little one and he said, “okay, six with the little one and five with the big one. Do you understand?” I nodded. Eleven seemed like a lot.
He stood behind me, tracing lines on my skin with his hand and the cane, inspecting me, admiring me. Telling me I could have his cock in my mouth when he was finished with the marks. He pulled out his cock and touched it to me so I could feel how hard he was. He always says I’m beautiful, that I have a perfect ass. I felt anxious, full of dread, full of love.
Then the door opened downstairs and we heard voices, boys talking to each other and then “Dad? Dad?” Jack and I looked at each other for a second. He said, ”I don’t believe it,” then we both scrambled for clothes. He tried to fit his cock back in his pants, and put his blue shirt on to cover it up.
So we went downstairs and hung out with the boys and ate some sandwiches.
Now Jack is sleeping and one of the kids is up and so is my sister, who is here for a week. Bad timing, kind of. She was going to come visit a few weeks ago, but then we found out Jack was going to be leaving town for so long so she switched her ticket to now, when he’d be gone and I’d be lonely. Which I was, but now he is suddenly here and we don’t have much time alone.
Friday evening I left the house full of teenage boys to go to the airport. I was fully dressed, as I couldn’t see a way to execute my plan from the earlier post. Seriously, teenage boys all over the place, sitting down and talking to me, following me around, etc. While I drove they called and said they were going out with their friends, so I knew we’d have the house to ourselves when we got back.
At the airport there’s a certain place you can stand and watch the people as they get on to the escalator from the gates. You can see their feet. If you duck your head a little you can see them from the knees down, then you can’t see them again till they are walking towards you. I stood and watched all the feet and the carryon bags and paced. I was nervous, excited. I watched all the Midwestern families reunite and the businessmen walk alone out to their cars. Then finally, finally, finally, I saw my husband. He ducked and waved through this little gap in all the partitions—he must have been watching for my feet, too.
Then he walked toward me. He looked so handsome. Tan and trim and wearing his sexy jeans and his hip new sneakers, which I had forgotten he bought before he left, and a long sleeved blue button shirt. It’s sunny where he lives now, and he walks to work. We hugged and kissed and walked outside so he could smoke. I kept unbuttoning that blue shirt—he had a white t-shirt underneath--and running my hand over his chest and his neck. We kissed and kissed and I felt his cock getting hard and I stroked it through his jeans. We leaned against the car. A beautiful crisp wide open fall sky stretched over the parking lot, and families made their way past us to their cars.
He talked about his job and his new friends and I pictured them all enchanted by him, excited to be in a room with him, wanting his attention. Jack is funny and charismatic and everyone adores him. His coworkers argue over who gets to give him a ride home.
I drove us home and carried his bag upstairs and unpacked it. He played with the dog and walked around the house and sat outside, listening to the crickets and the birds and the music from the free concert downtown. He was getting used to being here.
Finally we went upstairs. He asked me where his bag was and I told him I’d unpacked it. He said, “Very good,” in that voice that signifies the shift from the man who is my best friend to the man who owns me, who takes control of me. I knew he wanted to mark me, and I knew that now was the only time we’d have privacy—before the kids came home, before I picked up my sister from the airport.
I took off my clothes and stood naked except for my heels. He said, “I want to be able to see your face.” He brought a mirror in from the hall and hung it on our closet door, then placed my hands on either side of it. He positioned my feet and pressed on my lower back, tilting my ass up towards him. He said he’d give me one mark for each day he’d been gone. He asked me how many and I couldn’t think. I tried to add in my head. “Twelve?” I said. He said, “No, eleven. Eleven marks. Which cane do you like the best?” I pointed out the little one and he said, “okay, six with the little one and five with the big one. Do you understand?” I nodded. Eleven seemed like a lot.
He stood behind me, tracing lines on my skin with his hand and the cane, inspecting me, admiring me. Telling me I could have his cock in my mouth when he was finished with the marks. He pulled out his cock and touched it to me so I could feel how hard he was. He always says I’m beautiful, that I have a perfect ass. I felt anxious, full of dread, full of love.
Then the door opened downstairs and we heard voices, boys talking to each other and then “Dad? Dad?” Jack and I looked at each other for a second. He said, ”I don’t believe it,” then we both scrambled for clothes. He tried to fit his cock back in his pants, and put his blue shirt on to cover it up.
So we went downstairs and hung out with the boys and ate some sandwiches.
marks
I've found being alone isn't so bad because I have a chance to miss my husband. Not that i am alone too much, actually. Right now our boys are in school and I am home and Jack is in a fancy job in another state and he's been gone almost 2 weeks. I'm proud of him. I miss him. I love missing him.
When I have a minute to myself, like now (although i really need to take the car to get an oil change and bathe the dog and vacuum upstairs and go to the grocery store and finish grading papers) I think about the smell of his skin.
His scalp smells like dried maple leaves, but warmer, richer. I love to lie next to him and put my face into his hair and feel him against me. His cock is always hard in the mornings. Before he left we made love. We had both been so anxious getting ready for his move, getting ready to say goodbye. We just lay down and let ourselves be together. It was simple and gentle and close and loving. It's not usually like that. We usually need something different.
He's coming home tomorrow, for a long weekend. When I pick him up from the airport i could wear a coat buttoned up with nothing under it, makeup, high heels. If i don't chicken out. We could pull over to the side of the road in between little towns and fuck in the car. It's my chance to give myself to him before he takes me. When we get home i know he will make me his and it will be on his terms. God, I miss sucking his cock. He'll tell me to kneel before him and he'll press my face into his cock and let me smell it, let me put my mouth around it through his jeans.
He never lets me have it right away. He likes to tease me, make me beg for it, make me show him how badly i need him.
The cane is the best. Its sharp lines are focused so i can feel the waves of pain move through my body and funnel back into the lines. And i like the way it looks--the marks look like they feel when he is whipping me. Red and white lines. When i look at myself in the mirror i can see the pain's movement and it makes sense to me.
Not that i like being caned. I always cry, every time. When i hear his voice change, when it goes cold and calm, i feel scared, i feel alone and i know there's no way i can get out of it. He will do whatever he wants with my body because i belong to him and he needs to. It's terrifying. i never want the pain. Sometimes i get angry or i feel humiliated. Sometimes i'm just impatient because i want him inside me. I never want the pain, but i think about it: him tying me, spanking me, holding me down. It excites me to think about it. And even if i don't like it, i need it. I need to please him and i need to know i'm his. I need him to overwhelm me, to make all the thoughts go out of my head. And i need his cock inside me, in my mouth, in my pussy, in my ass.
I need his marks on me. I need them to last, because he's going to go away again on Monday and i don't know when i'll see him again.
When I have a minute to myself, like now (although i really need to take the car to get an oil change and bathe the dog and vacuum upstairs and go to the grocery store and finish grading papers) I think about the smell of his skin.
His scalp smells like dried maple leaves, but warmer, richer. I love to lie next to him and put my face into his hair and feel him against me. His cock is always hard in the mornings. Before he left we made love. We had both been so anxious getting ready for his move, getting ready to say goodbye. We just lay down and let ourselves be together. It was simple and gentle and close and loving. It's not usually like that. We usually need something different.
He's coming home tomorrow, for a long weekend. When I pick him up from the airport i could wear a coat buttoned up with nothing under it, makeup, high heels. If i don't chicken out. We could pull over to the side of the road in between little towns and fuck in the car. It's my chance to give myself to him before he takes me. When we get home i know he will make me his and it will be on his terms. God, I miss sucking his cock. He'll tell me to kneel before him and he'll press my face into his cock and let me smell it, let me put my mouth around it through his jeans.
He never lets me have it right away. He likes to tease me, make me beg for it, make me show him how badly i need him.
The cane is the best. Its sharp lines are focused so i can feel the waves of pain move through my body and funnel back into the lines. And i like the way it looks--the marks look like they feel when he is whipping me. Red and white lines. When i look at myself in the mirror i can see the pain's movement and it makes sense to me.
Not that i like being caned. I always cry, every time. When i hear his voice change, when it goes cold and calm, i feel scared, i feel alone and i know there's no way i can get out of it. He will do whatever he wants with my body because i belong to him and he needs to. It's terrifying. i never want the pain. Sometimes i get angry or i feel humiliated. Sometimes i'm just impatient because i want him inside me. I never want the pain, but i think about it: him tying me, spanking me, holding me down. It excites me to think about it. And even if i don't like it, i need it. I need to please him and i need to know i'm his. I need him to overwhelm me, to make all the thoughts go out of my head. And i need his cock inside me, in my mouth, in my pussy, in my ass.
I need his marks on me. I need them to last, because he's going to go away again on Monday and i don't know when i'll see him again.
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