127 Days

When I awoke this morning, my sweet husband lay next to me, stroking my back. I smiled, but kept my eyes closed. Just too good to open them. My last day off, on Monday I’ll be back in the café and John will be back to his office. After a few moments, I knew what he was up to, and and rolled over to welcome him. I like just feeling him, no talking, no need for any explanations. But something was different, and when I felt him grabbing the key, my heart was pounding. I did not really hope for more but T&D, but when he released me, I enjoyed this freedom. And then he let his fingers wander…

He took his time, as always. He says, there’s no gain in rushing, and I guess he’s right, but waiting so fraught for being locked in again, I did not dare hoping for more. But he kept on and on and on and had me almost there, when he stopped. Gosh. He just smiled and drew me closer, then started again. Only to edge me again. I began trembling. He whispered to me like only he can do. Sweet like honey, and his words cut like a knife.

This time he pushed me over the edge and it was so unexpected (yet hoped for) that I almost missed it. It was intense, but somehow very delicate.

And then? He did not lock me in again, just left me there and went showering. I did not know if I was allowed to, but I wanked until I came again. Oh delight.

127 days of chastity are over now. At the moment I’m not wearing the Birdlock. Feels confusing and very, very well :)

A Strange Trip

Yeah, kind of weird headline for a posting about our holidays, isn’t it? First of all, I am back. I guess I’ve had the three most challenging weeks in years and that’s what my headline refers to.

It took us a long drive down to the south of France and we spend it listening to quiet music, talking little, holding hands a lot. In retrospective, I guess our trip down to the coast was what W calls purification. Letting it all behind and diving into something new. Perhaps you can already sense the strange kind of sadness in here. Leaving it all behind and heading so far away from anything I’m used to and regard as important anchors for my shattered mind made me feel sad. I got a look of what I have missed. So many places and people, so many unknown colours and smells, so much to discover. At the end of our journey, when we had checked in our hotel, I just broke down and cried, before falling asleep. When I awoke, I felt lost, even though John was by my side. I understood that I define myself through my surroundings, through places, people and things I’m used to. I actually had no idea of who I was in France. It was like the person I am had dissolved, evapourated into the hot, sunny air. I tried to tell myself that I’d just need to adjust to this new situation and relax. But relaxing while feeling vanishing is not easy. I guess during the first three or four days, I was staring very often at my wedding ring, reaching for John’s hand to reassure me I was still there. Weird. I guess he had seen that coming, at least he had brought my collar and the cuffs and when we were in our hotel room, I always wore them, even at night (air-conditioning rules, I tell you).

Seeing the sea with its bright beach and the palms fluttering in the summer breeze made my cry again. It was the first time I saw the Mediterranean and again I felt like all I had missed was spread before my eyes, to remind me of how absurd and small my life was. Instead of enjoying it, it made me feel worthless and insignificant. It was all too much, too bright, too beautiful and finally, I could no longer withdraw from hurting myself. I guess in the past few weeks before we started off to France, there have been hints I might do it again. When I finally resolved the blade from my pencil sharpener and cut myself, I felt like losing myself even more, but even as I hate to admit it, it felt good in a bad kind of way. John was disappointed and made me feel it by just ignoring me for a couple of hours. I know he was offended. I myself was offended and began thinking aloud about leaving by train, heading home and just letting him enjoy his holidays without that bad person I am. It was then when he did what I might have needed right from the beginning. He beat me until his anger had vanished and until I felt whole again. I did not just accept the pain and the bruises, but began relaxing. When I found that being beaten felt wonderful, I felt guilty. You know, there’s a big difference between being beaten during a session and being beaten because your partner is mad with you. To be honest, it was the first time in our whole relationship that John, as he put it, lost control. Usually he’s a very restrained person and seeing him out of himself was…yes, beautiful. It was no session, no game, it was just honest, and I liked it. But then again, I felt guilty for savouring it. He felt guilty as well, for his outburst and for liking that mere power over me. It was weird, but admitting to one another that this kind of thing had not only helped us but somehow made us feel relaxed and yes, horny, was a relief. And I can see why he felt at the end of words. There’s no need to forgive you, Love.

We had some very intense conversations about yet unrevealed parts of us, desires and thoughts, and suddenly I felt at ease, you know, like really being there for holidays, and I enjoyed strolling ’round small villages and overflowing cities with my husband and Master by my side. Finally, I was able to enjoy and even more important, feel myself. To be honest, I think this summer, not only our holidays, but the whole of it, helped me embrace the fact that I will never ever be a normal person with normal kinks and normal needs. I have struggled with being abused my whole life and I’m kind of sick of it. I’ve got a feeling that embracing being a pervert provides me with so much more pleasure and freedom. But I’m realistic. I’ve been at this point so many times before and then tried again to be normal. I wish I could finally understand that I really need this, without feeling guilty. I guess there’s a point of safe return I have crossed very early. There is no such thing as returning to a normal life, because I never had one! We’ll see.

During our trip, John had me edging several times, but did not allow me to climax. So yeah, today is day 124 of chastity and therefore it’s the longest time I’ve ever been chaste :) I’m proud of myself, but at the moment I’d die for being allowed to cum. The past three weeks had so many horny situations for me up their sleeves, especially during our days with Leo, that it’s very hard to endure.

I had a lot of occasions to be Ginny and I really enjoyed myself. You know, pratice makes perfect, and at least I have learned to put on make up without looking like an owl ;) I believe less is more, and that’s even more true when it’s hot and mascara and lipstick try to run from your face. In those hot summer days I just used facial powder, waterproof mascara and a shiny lip gloss. John likes the look of it, but does not like how it feels when kissing. It’s a bit weird, but being not at home provided me with a whole new feeling of freedom concerning being Ginny. After a few days I did no longer mind what people might think about me and embraced being gurlish. I still can’t get a grip on why there’s Ginny in my life, but it feels amazing. I guess I have managed to figure out that being a woman is none of my goals, but being that gurl who has obviously a male physique really gets me going and that’s true for John, too. It’s a role I slip into which allows to be swishy and girly, you know, like shying away from killing spiders and embracing that kind of 50’s housewife-feeling. Being Ginny makes me feel glam, but humble and devoted to my husband. I really like that mix. Moreover, the more gurls I see, the more I find the idea of it fascinating and horny. Being kept from living as a man, being transformed into a sissy slut sounds like going one step further, you know.

So, I’m back, but I think I’ll need a lot more time to understand fully what has happened and what we will make out of that.

Off For Holidays

Tomorrow, John and I will be heading to the south of France. Two weeks just the two of us, the sea and ridiculous gorgeous sun sets :) John is looking forward to relaxing on the beach and visiting small villages, and I am actually just trying not to think about how far from home I’ll be (the furthest I’ve ever been!). I’m taking my pencils and a plain sketchbook with me, so in critical situations I’ll just hold on to them and to my husband’s hand. It’ll be the last trip with John’s old car, and I guess for me it’s a kind of stag party as I really loved this car, even if I broke it.

After two weeks in the south, we’ll meet Leo for another week in the Alsace in a small village. A lot of vino for my companions, I guess, and hopefully a bit of hiking and more drawing for me.

It’ll be the first time Ginny will be among strangers in a foreign environment, and I’m a bit concerned about that. We’ll see.

Ok then, have a good time and see you in August!

Being Believed

Had a chat with W this morning and we talked about being believed, especially in terms of abuse. As I have stated before, I was not believed during the time I lived with my father. He was the hero, I was the zero. The first time I was really believed was when I was living on the street, because as a matter of fact, there are many people out there who have experienced stuff like abuse, violence and so on. It was the first time no one implied I was just exaggerating to get attention. When I was 21 and my father tried to kill me, I did not believe myself. It was just too absurd and things like these do not happen, right? As a result, it took years to really understand what he had done or tried to do. I was able to talk about it, to tell what had happened, but it did not get through to me. And again, people did not believe me. They questioned every word I said, and I guess having a problem with alcohol did not help.

H and S were the first to really believe me, every word I said. But it took them forever to have me open up, because I was used to being called a liar and I was just fed up that. Not being believed made me fall silent, and regaining my ability to speak was powerful but neverheless it hurt. Being able to tell what happened helps, but it brings things back and makes them reality. I was no longer able to tell myself it was just a nightmare or fiction. At this point of time I understood that I had somehow lost contact with a lot of incidents and, even worse, with some parts of myself. Until today I do not recall everything. Some things are lost, at least for my conscious thinking. For my body, they are still existent, but I can’t lay my hand on them. That’s why some asshole wearing a certain fragrance and behaving in a certain way is still having my dissociating. Fuck yeah, triggers. I got a lot of them, so my everyday life stays rather…uhm, interesting.

Freedom of speech is connected with a kind of permanent pain inflicted on those you love. For some things I fail to find beautiful or not so harmful words. And to be honest, I value being ask to use non-explicit words for very explicit deeds as an impertinence. My father did not cuddle me blue and sore, there was a bit of violence involved. I guess I don’t think I am to go easy on therapists, but I try to be gentle with my family and my friends. I know it’s hard to bear hearing me say certain things in a certain way, so I try to find a way to soften my words.

I guess not believing me and regarding me as a liar is a bit more comfy than to really cope with the fact that bad things can occur to normal people. It makes people aware of their own vulnerability.

Another thing that keeps making me mad is people questioning our 24/7 lifestyle. I know it should not bother me, but concerning my life story, being called a liar is hard to take for me. And well, I ask myself why these people keep reading my blog if they’re convinced it’s all fiction. Perhaps it’s interesting, though. I don’t get it. But it reminds me of the fact that I started this blog just for myself and John, and we’re both enjoying it. So please back off and stop sending me e-mails. Thank you.

Bonding Day

Bonding Day, always special to me, because it challenges my view towards closeness and distance and as John constantly undercuts my private sphere, it sometimes annoys me and therefore turns me on ;)

Bonding Day, the rules:

  1. I wear a collar and leather cuffs all day and all night long, no exception
  2. I have a clothes line attached to the D-ring in the collar which needs to be tied to a piece of furniture or a door or so in order to limit movements
  3. I have to seek John’s nearness constantly and grant him being very close to me
  4. I am not to close any door behind me. No privacy

Sounds kind of fun, right? I tell you, it starts being fun, but sooner or later it gets very difficult and nasty. Wearing a collar and the cuffs, that’s nice, but having a strictly limited ability to move around is annoying. John keeps me on a rope that is about 5 mtrs long, but cuts it down if he’s in the mood. Leaving the table if he does not want you to? Impossible. Being tied to the toilet? For sure.

I like to feel John. I really do. But spending about 24 hrs having him THAT close is demanding. He barely lets go of me, always there are his hands or arms, even his legs or his whole body, touching me and holding me down, feeling me up for hours, leaving me horny and sore and with no hope for an orgasm. And yeah, not even being allowed to close the door behind me when peeing or, you know, doing something else, triggers and turns me on at the same time. Ugh.

Going out on a Bonding Day is quite an event as the cuffs and the collar with the clothes line stay on. During winter, he allows to put a scarf around my neck, but surely not during summer. When driving by car, he chains me to the car with handcuffs. When doing some shopping, he tells me not to let go of the cart and keep both hands on it. When going for a walk, I am not allowed to let go of his hand, just like a two year old would be.

Sleeping means being tied to the bed and having him sleep very close to me or on me. Showering means being tied to the radiator and having to stay under the water until he thinks I’m ready (and sometimes includes a rough washing with a stiff brush). Eating is about being firmly tied to the chair, barely being able to move and having my face more or less inside my muesli.

Bonding Day feels like a day in prison, which I was used to during my childhood and which gets me going. It’s about John living out his oh so bittersweet dominant, cruel side, clad in kindness, mocking me being unable to pee, being unable to get a stiffy, just being his titty-clitty-son who needs bonding to his Dad.

Loving it.


At the moment, I feel better, which is John’s merit. After those blackouts I really need something physical, you know, like exercising, feeling weight, having rough sex. John handed me over a list with chores and just when I was cleaning our kitchen cupboards, he entered from the garden, maneuvered me to a chair, opened my trousers and unlocked me. “Two minutes”, he told me, with a look at his watch. I was so puzzled, I almost did not get it, but then started to wank. Because he had hit me by surprise, I did not cum, but when he forced me back into the device, I felt better. Somehow.

Later that evening, when he had returned from working out, he told me to lay on our bed and just packed himself upon me, sweaty as he was. Oh, so many contradictory emotions. Liking it, hating it, wanting to get rid of him, craving him, wanting and not wanting to smell his sweat. But all in all, feeling weight is a good idea. Makes me feel more calm and centered.

Today, I was in the garden. When John returned home, he wore that certain smile and told me to pick a bunch of nettles and come in. Oh gosh. Any poor sub knows what will follow. And it did. First, he just put some nettles into my pants and telling me to prepare dinner. Sitting. Do you know how big and harmful nettles are at this time of the year? Check it out then. I suppose he enjoyed dinner more than I did. After making the dishes, he commanded me to our playroom, had me undress and gave me a bad spanking with the nettles. It’s not only that these littles jerks feel quite like a whip when they hit, they even cause this stinging and burning sensation. First you think you can handle it, but the pain increases. The more time you give them to do their magic, the worse it gets. Needless to say that I was leaking precum like crazy and feeling my cock trying to get hard desperately.

John took his time, as always. Granted me enough time to come back to breath before starting over again. He made me present my hole, rubbing it with nettles and even putting them inside of me. Hell yeah, that hurts! Finally, he had me kneeling on the floor. He took off the Birdlock and immediately I had a boner. “What day?”, he asked. “98th, Sir”, I replied, hoping for relief. Again that smile. “Take some of them and try to get you off. I’ll grant you five minutes”. Taking the nettles with my naked hand took some courage, but wanking with them was vicious. On the one hand, it felt so good, and on the other hand I wanted nothing more than to stop. What more to tell? I did not make it. The second chance in two days for an orgasm, and I could not do it.

John made sure that my balls got a good rub of nettles as well before locking me back in. Another day without climaxing. Being fucked with my hole stinging and feeling swollen was a challenge, but I made it, being rewarded with bitter and salty cum to be eaten from my useless clitty. Have some eyecandy over at my tumblr for all nettles-friends: http://allthathurts.tumblr.com/

Now my sweet husband is already asleep. I had to collect all the leaves and bits and clean the playroom and now I watch porn instead of going to bed. Need an orgasm so desperately that it makes me almost aggressive. But I feel better today.

All His, Still And Forever

There it was again, that fricking black hole. Stumbled into it rather unexpected, but some things trigger so bad. Yesterday, I had an offensive customer in the shop, and he smelled of cigarrettes and a certain after shave. I managed to handle him, then hit the blackout. Nothing until I “awoke” in our storeroom. Stood there and had a bundle of carrots in my hand, not knowing how I made it there or what I wanted to do with the veggies. My boss found me some time later (meanwhile I had settled unter the table) and called John, but could not get hold of him because he was in a meeting and not in his office, so she called my brother. Half an hour later, I sat in his car, staring at a spot on the window, being unable to speak or move or do anything but drooling. Yeah, drooling. It’s that degrading. My brother drove me home, maneuvered me in my bed, even managed to take off my shoes. I lay as frozen, barely breathing. Do you know the Petrificus Totalus spell in those Harry Potter novels? That’s quite how it is.

He stayed with me, tried to instill some water into me and just sat there, holding my hand and trying to talk to me. I did not even really hear him. The movie I saw was a different one. Finally, my brother could get hold of John, who was home in an instance. Somewhere between watching that rapeporn in my mind and considering dying I thought how embarrassing I was. Just a liability. Dumb and useless.

It’s a bit weird, but sunset makes things better, most of the times. Only darkness is better still, when people have returned home and watch T.V., keeping rather quiet and not bothering me with their noises. So at about 10 p.m., some hours after I padded into that black hole, my body finally began shaking and my breath got deeper. It’s always like this. Freezing, blackout, that fricking movie inside my head, then shaking and slowly coming back to myself.

John was sweet. Holding my hand, later holding me and at midnight driving me to a fast food restaurant because I needed fries desperately. Coming back into my body feels druggy. My body is too tight, feels like jelly or sometimes even aches.

It’s not just that he fucked me and made money out of that. It’s not just that he injured, almost killed me and made me think I like and deserve it. It’s not just that I see myself as an insane, cracked sort of “person”. It’s not even that I need to reenact what he did over and over again. It’s that after almost 20 years after his gutless suicide he still fucks my mind and body as if there had been no interruption. I guess he would like that.