There was a time when every encounter brought words gushing out of me. I had no trouble creating imaginative connections, new neural pathways were being forged, synapses were sparked, emotions were unlocked and I flowed, like a river towards the sea, always towards Him
He was my ocean and I bathed in Him.
I wrote for Him.
He was my Master and when I struggled to start a piece I would ask Him for words. His words, His specific way of seeing the world opened up so much to me and I was made anew by His presence and touch. He made me gasp and tremble and cry with pain. He made me cry out with ecstasy and sleep with an abandon I hadn’t experienced since I was a child. He made me safe in what had been, until then, an unsafe world
This period, when I look back at it, is characterised by the flood of creativity, and the bravery to pursue it, it unleashed in me. I wrote for those magic words “Proud of you”, I was encouraged by “Make me proud”. I strove, overcoming procrastination, hesitation, laziness and lack of confidence and I prevailed. I was prolific. Writing poetry, haiku, blogposts and twitter threads, creating images that sparkled with allure and the attraction I felt to myself as His eye.
I gained an audience. I made Him proud.
All things have a season, ebbs and flows are part of life of course but I, I have been in such an ebb that I feel like a beached fish at low tide. Flapping and gasping and waiting for the flow to creep towards me again.
Domestic violence, relationship breakdown, divorce, homelessness, poverty, old age and illness. There was little space for creativity there, this was sheer survival. And in that place our relationship began to change. There was also little time or opportunity for physical intimacy. We had one year when we met only twice in the whole twelve months but we were in contact every day, morning and evening at the very least.
The nature of my messages changed from telling Him I was coming for Him to leaning on Him for the support I needed to get through the day and then to help me climb out of the well of depression and CPTSD I found myself in.
I cried about my losses to Him, my family, my home, my business, my sense of myself as a good person. Being sexy was pretty far down the list. Being submissive, being His submissive though, was a thread that ran through this time and it was what I held on too. When He told me to rest my head on His shoulder every evening I did because in that place I could sleep. When He asked me to breathe us in I did, like it was my very own breath.
Now we find ourselves with space and some opportunity but things have changed for Him physically in that time and, I am crying as I write this, we are not able to fuck at the moment. I know He finds this as hard as I do. I have shied away from writing about this as I know how hard it is but it needs to be written about, I need to break the damn dam down and let through some clear water flow into our river.
I am grateful for the opportunity to serve Him still, through personal care, thoughtfulness, and by being His. I am that regardless, and not even in-spite of the restrictions illness and stress has brought to our D/s, that thread is strong enough to survive the physical distance we have between us and so Erectile Disfunction will not sever it.
A recent experience whilst we were #InAField reminded us that the connection still exists, it has just been obscured by the business of life. After an event where I was dressed in His shirt and tie, cuff-links, and tweed jacket He turned to undo my tie and the charge ran between us as strong as it ever was. I waited, eyes lowered, as His fingers twisted into the collar buttons and pushed behind the cool fabric to graze my skin. My breath shortened and I looked up at Him to see that grin, the one like a fox eating out of wirebrush, wily, knowing and Masterly. Full of desire and redolent with love.
My Master still and always.
I didn’t want to write this post. But I am glad I did.
I wrote it for us