On Stress and Sleeping Alone

When stress rolls in I get this craving, this urge, this need, to be bound tightly and teased and tortured.

The feelings start to creep in late in the afternoon, like the fog gradually inching forward from the bay, and you look around and suddenly it seems the entire city has been engulfed in a matter of mere moments. It's a foggy grey that turns cold and dark once the sun has set and I'm alone, in my house, by myself. The worst is when I climb into bed, lights out, laying there with my eyes closed but unable to sleep. Thinking about you. Missing you.

I imagine you at the foot of my bed. You start with something soft and wide, perhaps it is a very long Ace bandage. You wrap it around my ankles, tight, and up over my calves. My muscles tighten, then relax. Still. Then, to move things along, you graduate to something bigger for my bigger parts. Maybe a long swath of raw silk. You bind my thighs, my groin, my hips and, arms at my sides, you continue up my torso to my breasts and shoulders. You tuck the silk inside itself down along the length of my neck, and roll me over onto my stomach. A soft bandana is tied across my mouth, gag style. It smells clean, freshly washed, and wicks the saliva out of my mouth leaving my tongue dry and cottony.

That's the beginning. I imagine you humming and speaking to me in low, slow, languid tones throughout. I'm mostly quiet. Perhaps a moan here and there. But mostly quiet, tranced like, present. Unknowing, and trusting.

The middle is something heavy. I'm not sure what. Maybe heavy ropes bound around the encasing. Maybe six wool blankets piled on top of me. Maybe the weight of you, laying across me. Something heavy pressing me into my core, grounding me, grinding me, holding me, containing me.

And then the pressure somehow builds. Is it torque? Have you suspended me? Pulled one rope taught or twisted something, say my feet, just enough to cause the dull ache building in my muscles? There are hands at my throat, thumbs digging into my clavicle, lips pressing against my mouth. Energy restrained, like friction and fusion and fast fucking, but not yet released. Impending implosion. I'm screaming, and it sounds like a gravelly whisper through the gag. And I'm crying, but the tears are instantly absorbed by the mattress my cheek is pressed into. And inside I'm writhing and bucking, but outside it looks like a gentle rocking. Because of your hold on me. I'm tied to this earth. I'm weighted down. You are my anchor. My gravity. My tether.

Suddenly there is release. Was it electricity? Vibration? Frottage? Friction? Frisson? But we're spent and limp and wet. You start where you started, at my ankles, and work the blade inside the fold. You cut upwards along my middle, where the scissor slips into the seam easiest, where the pressure valve was hidden all along, and slowly unzip me. With each torn tooth the air rushes in like a gasp and a sigh and I expand again. Not like a balloon. Or a vacuum packed sweater. Or a stressed out woman trying to fall asleep alone in the dark. Like a moth in the moonlight. Like a butterfly. I fall out and unfold and feel reborn.

On Being Special

I've been thinking about putting this blog to rest. I seem to have lost the drive that spurred me on. The past few months I come here, draft a few words, but rarely post. I'm not sure if has served its purpose and I'm ready to move on or if something has dried up. I don't feel stuck as much as just empty. Not depressed empty. Just empty. The bowl is empty. You know? I'm not ready to quit just yet though. I keep thinking my enthusiasm just might get renewed once again. We'll see.

A few weeks back I hit a rough spot with Papi. He went on a date, two dates with the same woman actually, the last time he visited. It wasn't so much the jealousy that got to me . Jealousy I can deal with. Like a bitchy neighbor I just smile and nod and say have a pleasant evening Ms. Jealousy. But when I learned that Lilo, a perfectly sweet and wonderful woman, wanted to continue seeing my Papi as his new submissive I was thrown for a loop. It isn't that Papi and I have an exclusive thing. I'm under no illusions there. Nor did we have any kind of agreement he wouldn't have any other lovers in my town, or other lovers in general who were submissive. But something about the combination of Lilo being in my city and being a sub, well . . . I just felt deflated and washed up. What can I say? It was as though my specialness was gone. Here was a woman who was offering what had heretofore been my special offering and she was all shiny and bright and new.

Anyway. I guess we've sort of worked it out now. But I must say I still feel all old and tattered. Maybe that's a good thing. Like a favorite pair of tattered old sweat pants that you always come back to. But right now I feel like the thing that's gonna get shoved in the back of the closet and ignored until one day he stops to ask himself where did those comfy old sweatpants go?