I remember it vividly. The pains in my stomach that made me uncomfortable enough to cry. His face, concerned, and slightly puzzled. He didn’t, couldn’t understand and neither could I but I knew it had something to do with the reason I wouldn’t get confirmed when I was 13 in-spite of my longstanding involvement with the Church, and that had everything to do with not wanting to kneel before any man.
I knew that.
I would not kneel.
I put away the childhood memories of me draping myself over the padded stool in the bathroom and imagining being spanked – they were obvious evidence of me not being good.
I knew I wasn’t good, but I knew I tried hard and here I was trying hard, with my new husband, however letting him witness me farting or even knowing that I had to go to the loo was absolutely not going to happen. It was too intimate and I could not let anyone close enough to me to know me at that level because I was not good, I knew I wasn’t good but I knew I was trying hard and I would just keep going and get good, I would be good, somehow, sometime and in the meantime I would hang on to everything and not let it out, ever even though it caused me excruciating pain and I would not let anyone near me as I was not good.
Our first overnight, three years ago now, (yes I know, long time ago, but I hang on and I don’t let go) I wore my rose dress; the one I so want to get into again but have to face the fact that I may not since I was skinny with stress and distress and radiant with possibility at the time. We met in a hotel in a city near me. I left my then husband at home (the second one who had heard me fart, I had learned that much by then) and came to Him in haze of possibility and certainty, I came to Him like an iron filing to a magnet. Drawn, inexorably drawn.
He clicked His fingers and I knelt beside Him, not even with a second thought because I knew with Him I was good. That I tried and it was enough. That I was His good girl.
That night we ate and drank and laughed. Held hands in the taxi and headed back to the hotel where He hung me from the door-closer and striped my belly with His belt. I worshipped His cock , took it deep into my throat and threw up over His stomach, cleaned it up and carried on. So far from the girl who couldn’t fart in front of her husband that I could barely recognise my glowing, glorious self. We slept together and I woke through the night, tossy-turny in that first night, but my hand in the dip in His chest all the time, a home from home, and all the more precious for it.
Last weekend He built us a nest and we lay together after watching the mist roll towards us across the fields. Our first night of the weekend, as always was tossy-turny, and we awoke to a world that did not entirely greet our togetherness with happiness and yet, I realised that I was no longer ashamed of my gentle snoring, my occasional farting and my obvious not goodness since I was then and am now His good girl and that is enough for me.