Don’t let someone get comfortable disrespecting you.

jerbear-trunk-900x450

Photo credit: JerBear

If he wanted to see me cross all he had to do was stretch out in the sunshine, erection on display in all of its glory.

Since his behaviour two weeks before I had been nursing my hurt feelings, brooding. Not only had he topped me from the bottom, but he had bratted me. Neither were things I consented to. Bruised I’d withdrawn, and despite his advances I didn’t know how to move past it. The longer I waited the more he tried to seduce me. And the more he tried the greater the distance became. Talking hadn’t worked, he still thought that I would feel better if I would just let him fuck me but the power exchange lay in tatters.

I wanted him to understand how I felt, but couldn’t work out how.

Since switching roles things had become more complicated in my mind, confusing. And now he was laying on the kitchen bench, tight balls and straining shaft, and all I wanted was to put the shopping away and get started on dinner. Pulling things out of the bag I laid my fingers on the ginger, an idea started to form. Could he? Would he? catching his eye, I raised it, eyes brightening as I heard him gasp. “You wouldn’t…” he said. Smiling I reached into the drawer for the peeler. I knew full well that this piece was as fresh as it would be, and that would make the intense pain last longer.

“I can’t take that Miss, It’s too fat. You know I’m not stretched”

The way Miss fell from his lips… The fear that made his voice crack, just a little bit. My cunt twitched. “Don’t worry about that boy, I’ll be peeling it , I can trim it to fit…  but not too much. I want to see you squirm” and with that I reached into the drawer by my hip and withdrew the peeler and a paring knife. As I whittled away at the knob his eyes grew wider. His pride and joy began to lose its smooth edges, withering slightly as he realised I wasn’t playing.  “You will learn not to disrespect me boy. If I didn’t think you could take this I wouldn’t be asking you to pull your knees up and show me your sweet little hole” Disbelieving eyes looked back at me, sweat blossoming on his forehead. The more fear he showed the wetter my pussy became. My cold, dry useless hole of earlier quickly becoming a dripping furnace of desire.

“I’m not lubed though Miss, and that looks fatter than your finger. Do you really think…?”

The words stopped abruptly as I edged closer, but he kept his legs down. “I can always grate it, stuff your foreskin and staple you closed” I suggested, with a sweet smile. Knowing full well that I meant every word he pulled his knees up as swiftly as the last of his hardness disappeared. Running a finger over his puckered opening I began to salivate. “Thank you boy” was all I could say before spitting on him, pushing first one finger and then a second inside him, and briefly fucking him roughly with them. Removing my dirty digits and replacing them with the ginger, as he silently screamed at the pain that threatened to overwhelm him I pushed those fingers into the gaping chasm that looked so inviting. “Clean them properly and I’ll have something else to distract you”. With my free hand I discarded my knickers and pulled up the skirt, running my ginger laced fingers over my own swollen sex, delving between my now puffy labia, seeking friction while I waited for him to finish showering my hand with adoration. Watching his pain, what he was taking for me…

Balance was restored… for now.

Masturbation Monday

 

I have learned that grief is another name for love.

dsc_0142114129094650202227.jpg

I still find it astonishing, even after 21 years.

You would imagine that it would get easier, and in many ways it has. I can now celebrate the many times we enjoyed, and I can look back with joy in my heart rather than total devastation and, more often than not, anger. Anger with you for not going to see the doctor sooner, that they couldn’t catch it in time because you wouldn’t tell anyone. You fought it for a number of years, never admitting that you were going to die, even after they said it had spread to your bones, and liver. The time they thought you had a stroke, but it was really rogue cells floating around in your brain.

Your strength has probably inspired me more than I admit.

For many years every time I saw someone whose life you had touched they would say “oh, haven’t you got your father’s eyes.” They always missed out the eyebrows, chin and nose!  And what about your stubbornness, dry wit and sense of adventure. Did I get those traits through nature or nurture? You were a stay at home dad until I started school, and even after that I was like your shadow. Saturday mornings in the shop are memories I will always treasure, the touch of felt will always take me back to that time.

Grief is a funny thing though.

Every year in the lead up to your anniversary something makes me feel like my heart has been broken. I never equate the two immediately, but tonight was a quicker realisation than the standard day or two. Maybe I am learning with time. Perhaps next year I will surprise myself with allowing the sadness without needing other hurts to bring it out.

This evening I was driving home from delivering my children. It’s the holidays and I get a rest too.

I was thinking about events from the last week or so. You see, when Sir left again in July I felt a little sad. I knew that I wouldn’t hear from him until at least February, and even if I did I wasn’t sure how that would feel. My need to submit took a sabbatical. I have been exploring this wonderful world of kink in different ways and enjoying myself greatly, but as time wore on my mojo drifted. Recently a few things have happened which have made me realise that, although enjoying the opposite sides of myself, I had actually been hiding my submission. It hadn’t left me, just curled up inside too scared of being exposed and vulnerable. The intensity of my submissive love and the loss thereafter too hard to face again. Grief is not just felt for those who have died.

Driving along I felt my heartbreak all over again, my eyes burning with tears held back too long.

I knew that I needed to run, and once I was safely home I did just that. Not 200m from my front door I realised why. I have come home and spoken to one of my lovely friends (you’d love her, she’s completely mad) and I have talked about you more than I have with anyone in years. I hope you would be proud of the woman I have become, the way I have conducted myself when times have been hard and the way I am raising the two grandsons you will never get to meet. More often than not I need to be strong just like you were, sometimes I need to laugh until my sides aches and occasionally I need a good cry.

Tonight, astonishingly, I have done all three.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

February Photofest

Proudly powered by WordPress | Theme: Baskerville 2 by Anders Noren.

Up ↑