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:

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.

Embracing Inferiority

By yesterday, I had gotten so desperate, I was completely upset when John told me he’d visit a cruising spot to get his satisfaction, while he supposed me to stay at home and iron. I could no longer hold back the tears and was reminded of what BDSM might be besides physical pain. I no longer doubt his love for me, but yesterday it just hurt to know he’s going to enjoy what I missed so much with someone else. I guess he was surprised by my outburst, and we ended up talking and cuddling for hours.

I thought I knew almost anything about his development to be dominant and sadistic, but yesterday I learnt some new things. I think both ways, being dominant/sadistic and being submissive/masochistic, are equally complex, and I seem to understand better now what’s exactly turning John on about being in charge (which feels strange, because I just don’t know these feelings by nature). To really grasp that my suffering turns him on that much seemed to change my own view. You know, it’s one thing to serve by acting in a certain way, and another to serve by accepting that nothing’s done to me in return. Because one part of me always wants to be teased and touched and well, fulfilled.

So, this morning, after some hours of sweet sleep, he released me from the Birdlock and granted me a thrifty milking while providing me with the opportunity to pleasure him extendedly. I did not cum, but concerning our conversation last night, I feel really satisfied today. And we talked about how I imagine my next orgasm, which surely will occur. Whenever.

After all, it’s a bit weird how being denied seems to constrict and widen my life simultaneously. Being kept in chastity makes me focus more and more on my cock, instead of carrying away my attention from it. Yeah, I guess it’s that “you crave most what you can’t get”-thing. I really feel being denied is an act of cruelty, and I feel a bit guilty about savouring it that much, but knowing that John enjoys being cruel to me, turns me on unbelievably. I guess that Birdlock is a constant turn on for both of us, only with John being able to experience as many orgasms as he wants to have and leaving me unfulfilled. The aspect of him having sex with others without me participating, is a bit tricky to me. On the one hand, I really like feeling like a…well, yes, an owned slave with no rights at all, being humiliated and kept busy while Master does whatever he likes to. On the other hand, there’s still this ticklish jealousy. I envy the studs he plays with, and I’m still afraid that he might get bored of me. But that again turns me on. It’s painful and kinky, that moment when John returns home, smelling of another guy and telling me he’s “fucked empty” and has no need for my service. Oh boy.

Being kept chaste mingles up with some other fantasies at the moment. I like to think of myself as John’s son, whose body had been modified with a tiny, useless and unable to squirt clit and with sensitive boobs. No longer a real boy, but more sort of a sissy. When these pictures first popped up, they felt like a kind of mulitation and therefore exciting. But the longer we indulge in these fantasies, the more usual they become, and I really begin to see myself as that sissy. I guess that’s because so many things are connected to sissies I regard as parts of my life, e.g. being inferiour, being not a real man and so on. To be honest, even if I like my cock, I’d love to have it shrinked to very little size, perhaps 1-2 cms. I have never been the one to penetrate my partners or to be sucked off, and I guess I just don’t have any use for a normal cock anymore. Some say being caged for a long time makes it shrink, and I guess I hope for that. It’s like accepting that male privilege does not count for me any longer, and embracing my inferiority as my personal way to fulfillment. Weird as it is. Uhm, yes. I guess that’s not neccessarily what my therapist was hoping our conversations would lead me to.

Gay Men Problems

Usually, I don’t argue about my gay life in a straight world, but sometimes I’m really pissed off. It’s everyday life to be counted as straight when talking to people. Nobody tends to ask how my husband or partner does, instead they ask how my wife is. By now, I sometimes just answer without correcting them, because it’s so annoying to hear them say “oh, you’re gay? I would not have guessed that!”. I mean, huh?! On the other hand, I’m really fed up with people telling me they knew I was gay at first glance. “Because of your movements”. Oh sure, as I tend to serve coffee in Bob Fosse style! Or “because you’re so well-clad”. Haha, yeah, wearing a pair of jeans and a shirt is quite gay. Or “because you’re so sensitive”. Yes. Being gay is about talking about my feelings and crying after watching Casablanca most of the time…

Another thing that really gets me freaking out are flirty straight women. You know, I’ve been brought up in a world where men were regarded as cock-driven idiots who are after every woman and who could not really be told apart from a bear in heat. But to be honest, I have never in my whole life witnessed a man as offensive as a flirty woman (but I guess that’s because all gay men are so sensitive…). I can’t even count the occassions in which especially John got chatted up that offensive that I wondered how much longer it would need until she’d hand him over her bra, forgetting about that idiot on John’s side, which usually is me. We’re sitting in a cafĂ©, talking, and a woman’s showing up at the table, starting a conversation with John only, ignoring me, ignoring the wedding rings both of us have on their fingers. No two minutes later, he’s got her number. I mean, WTF?! He usually is ok with that, I guess he feels flattered, and of course I grant him this fun, but most times it hurts me. You know, like being invisible or not worthy being noticed. Perhaps John and W either have both developed a certain winking agreement with being chatted up by straight women, but it makes me feel uncomfortable.

Yeah, and I’m writing all of this down, because yesterday my husband was chatted up again by a straight woman who even did not mind putting her hand on his chest while talking. I just got mad watching this.