Painting A Picture

Painting a picture on my arse with bruises

I often imagine that a relationship is a picture I’m painting with others. Sometimes we use different colours, rarely will we place the same brush stroke twice. Over the last nine years I’ve littered the walls of my brain (and your reading pages) with so many works in progress (WIPs), collaging the grey matter with beautiful moments. Each of my friendships a fresh piece of art. Some a sketch, an occasional sculpture, and best not forget the oil painting of my family which will never get finished!

What happens when you’ve finished painting a picture?

Back in March my dynamic with S came to an end. The vast majority of my time under him was magnificent and challenging, empowering and uplifting. We painted a beautiful picture together, but, perhaps inevitably, the canvas became full. Further strokes of the paintbrush caused some parts to become distorted, I started to see things that I needed which couldn’t be met within our relationship. Time passed and further strokes made bits of it feel ugly, painful, too much but not enough.

I had to start the conversation. A conversation that I knew would be the end of our adventure together. But more than that. My submission to him was so complete, my loyalty unwavering, that I felt I would be saying farewell to not just him, but also to the barefoot sub. (I’d still be barefoot but would I become Miss Barefoot, or the barefoot slut, or….?) How could I submit to anyone else? The bar had been set so high? I had travelled so far?

Our dynamic had been exactly what I needed until… it wasn’t anymore.

Before I started the discussion I knew I would be OK. I was at peace with the loss of S, and the loss of my submissive side. Eight and a half years is a long time to be carried along in that kind of bubble. He had taught me how to be my own Sir, and I’d made a silent vow to myself to be the best I could be in that regard.

My heart hurt after our final exchange, it must never be forgotten that we can grieve for people who are still alive. But I wasn’t broken. The decision was the right one. And I had the skills to make my own adventure – I always had done.

And plenty of filthy, dirty plans figured on the horizon… Well, as soon as I’d given myself the time to lick my wounds. I set about catching up with friends, going to events, enjoying play with a number of the lovely people in my world. Rope, impact, topping, bottoming, and spending time in the vanilla world with them. It has been such fun.

But things don’t always go as planned.

Or rarely they do. Certainly not for me anyway.

I messaged an old, online acquaintance. We’d been in touch for over five years, and though our paths must have crossed at local events, we had never actually met. He was someone I’d wondered about propositioning him at appropriate occasions when I’d been allowed out for pain play, but that wasn’t what I wanted from him that day. My first thought was that we might be able to meet up and take his dog for a walk. (Have I mentioned, I love dogs!) Hoping for an outside chance of a beating, if things flowed that way. We decided to meet for coffee half way between us the following week, lunch came days later and then breakfast, coffee and cake.

Something unexpected happened.

I started to feel off-balance, in a great way. Strong, fiercely independent, but also… Softer, less prickly. Like I didn’t need to be that (Armadillo) Hedgehog curling into a ball. I felt able to lean into him, and to lean into myself in a new way. Two way conversations, opening up, asking questions… Complex lives with alternative interests mean a cautious approach is necessary, time needed to be taken.

A play scene followed. I got my aftercare wrong! (Silly, silly barefoot. I hadn’t communicated what I would need. Nor had I expected such an intense endorphin hit.) But he didn’t bat an eyelid, nor did he try to fix the drop. Instead talked to me like normal, and listened as I shared my picnic hamper for post play snacks. Had stocked his kitchen for my next visit.

The more he opened to me through our conversations, the more I felt safe to lean into him. Now, every time I tell him something I am not, he smiles and his eyes twinkle. When he asked me to voice my desires, and let him decide if he was able to meet my needs, I knew.

And so I’m painting a new picture, but who with?

It’s a couple of months since coffee, since I pulled out a fresh canvas and handed him the paints. Our friendship is fresh, our dynamic even newer. I’m enjoying every little brush stroke, and while I’m excited to share what our dynamic looks like, I’m not quite ready. He’s been mentioned here a few times already, under different guises. The sadist and the big spoon being two. For now, I shall call him D.

And I look forward to sharing what has been already. As well as what is to come. Which will hopefully be many more photos, as well as a glimpse of the more intimate picture we have started painting. One involving mutual vulnerability and hugs. But not yet. For now you’ll have to piece things together, which will be easier for knowing that He is D.

Sharing for both Revelations prompt – click the button above to check out what everyone else is up to this week – and linking up to Mrs Fevers’ writing inspiration for the year. Introducing you to D, my dominant friend and companion filth.


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