Ramble: Coffee-time Musings Of A Masochist

Good morning lovelies,

Do you ever have those mornings where your brain just starts churning over and you think “what I need right now, is coffee and a good write?” Yeah, me this morning.

It absolutely chucked it down here in Bristol last night. Not an autumnal shower, but a full (Fall? Ha) drenching. The dog won’t be getting his walk today because I don’t want to slip and end up prone and alone in the woods, so I’m going to have to contend with a a mini hurricane lapping circuits around the sofa unless I can find some way of tiring him out a little, possibly with some dog agility later on. But the dog wasn’t really why I am here this morning.

You see, last night came with a lot of introspection for me. As I sat on the ottoman and hung up clothes in our Amos Easy-Dry (I highly recommend them, by the way), I started to think about things. I’d seen some posts from Little friends and it just occurred to me. I’m just… not a Little, or a Middle, or anything like that.

I am a submissive.

You see, I don’t do or need or engage in anything “young”. Oh sure, I can be a bit young at heart, but not inherently young. In a way, that led me feeling quite at odds with some of my blogger friends. I can be a brat, but bratting is not the same as being a Little. And anyway, I’m only a brat because he enjoys it, too.

For a while, I got a little down on myself. He loved being called “Daddy” and I just couldn’t really do it. Not like that. I mean.. it slipped in a moment of sheer ecstasy the other day when he sunk his teeth lightly into my flesh, but beside that, no. For me, he was mostly “Wolfie” or “Wolf”. Or, you know, “Butthead”.

Ageplay and regression has never really interested either of us. He doesn’t find it cute, and I don’t find it particularly comforting. For me, my pleasure comes in serving him, and his comes in protecting me. There’s nothing remotely “cute” about us, really.

Wolfie and I are big on primal play and rough sex. Biting, choking, spanking, bruises, impregnation fetish.. the occasional growl is also not beyond our vocabulary. He also loves sensation play, and the pinwheel and the reactions it elicits are his firm favourite. Can you say “sadist”?

But you know what? I love him for it. He’s like my drug. I’m addicted to him, because when I’m a “little shit” to him, sooner or later he gets me back and it feels so fucking good when he does.

I am a masochist, I know this. I love pain. I dance with sadists all the time, I love them. Never met a sadist yet without a cracking sense of humour. Sure, I might have my preferences and limits when it comes to pain, but for me bondage & pain equals pure, sweet catharsis, and most of my limits could probably be extended anyway.

I can remember my last spanking well, and I can remember my last biting. I giggled until I broke down and cried. It all came out. All of the angst, all of the fear. I sobbed and told him how much I missed my Dad and how terrified I was of having to go through another tribunal. He held me as the tears fell and in that moment I’d never felt more calm, more safe, accepted and loved.

I admit, I was a self-harmer when I grew up. I was raised by two very anxious and overprotective parents. They loved us, but if we expressed our own individuality, that was to be crushed. My own Gothic tastes, likes and interests, for example, were a sign of depression. At the same time, we were given lists of chores to complete and orders and expectations at home. Boys were never allowed near me, at least, not without a chaperone, and even then my family would take delight in embarrassing me on a date. With bullying at school, pressures to do well in my education and being confined as to what I would and would not like at home (I’ve never forgotten the meltdown I had upon finding Take That had replaced my Marilyn Manson duvet cover), it all got too much and I used to scratch my arms until they bled. The pain let out the pain I felt inside. When I met the man who would become my husband, I confessed to him my needs and interests and together we began to explore them.. and enjoy them, too.

 Is it that sometimes the pain inside has to come to the surface and when you see evidence of the pain inside, you finally know you’re really here? Then, when you watch the wound heal, it’s comforting. Isn’t it?

Mr E Edward-Gray, Secretary

Sort of reflects it perfectly.

Caning is a big no-no for me, I’ve had a Dom ignore a safeword and I’ve had an acrylic cane come down far, far harder than I think either party anticipated, so they are a big no for me. Floggers… hmm…. where do I sign? I love, love, love our flogger collection. So too, does my good Sir.

Even now I’m listening to Lil Wayne’s Sucker For Pain. Not entirely accidental, you do realise. Would be an awesome tune for some play sometime. I should probably mention it.

This Saturday, we set off on vacation in rural Cornwall. In one way, I’m excited, but it’s going to be hard. It’s the first vacation without my dearly beloved father and we’ll be scattering his ashes at sea, as he requested. I’m dreading that part for a whole myriad of reasons. It will be the first time I’ve seen the urn since he was cremated. My dearly beloved father, once my great big teddy bear, my world and inspiration, reduced to mere ashes.

In an odd way, I take small comfort in knowing that I don’t have regrets like my mother and brother do. I never used my Dad. He’d offer to take me somewhere, and I’d always say “thanks, Dad”. We had a bond, I looked up to him, and he was proud of me. I loved spending time with him, just simply being, away from my I’m-not-neurotic, neurotic mother. When I married my husband, I could see it in his eyes and in his face, he knew that he was giving his little girl to a man who would look after her. “Frank” his name for him was, after Frank Spencer from Some Mother’s Do Have ’em.

That, or Tiddles.

“What year was he born?”

“1986, Dad” I said gently.

“He’s a tiger,” his face lit up, “A tiger?! He ain’t no tiger, he’s a bloody pussycat!”

I giggled. I knew differently, and the mental image of that Dom stare would tell me I knew differently, too.

I have bought a black lace wrist restraints and blindfold set to take on vacation with us. I don’t know how often it will get used, or if it will get used at all, but better to be equipped. As my Girl Guide days would tell me; Be Prepared. My first aid kit would tell me as much, too. Prepared for pretty much every eventuality. Okay, maybe except cardiac arrest, but with the best will in the world. hopefully that won’t be necessary.

Last night, my good Sir suggested Friday’s play session might be cancelled again.

I’m now working exceptionally hard this week to get everything done. It’s pressure, but I know that with a little effort, I can do it. The journey down will be hard, regardless. I am the worst traveller in the world, and I struggle severely with amaxophobia, the fear of being a passenger. I’ll be posting later this week about my trip preparations, which were inspired by the wonderful Penny Berry’s post.

That’s all from me for now, my dears. I’ve got two recipes to type up for you all, I need to make a dent on the last of my “beginners” posts in my BDSM workshop and I need to do my journal.. because I did make a promise to him, too! 😉

Stay well and have fun!

Hugs & kinky cuddles,

Elena xx

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