FORGETFUL IS NOT A MISTAKE

Not sure what I feel. Bored, anxious, indifferent, … I am talking about my orgasms.

There are only very few and far in between these days. And when under orgasm control, this is one of the most exciting exercises, something that can make me suffer immensely. Because I don’t just like them, I really truly deeply love them.

With my first Master I used to sort of “buy” them. I knew the punishment for having them and I’d calculate what I think I could handle and had as many as I could. Very often I was assisted / encouraged by a switch-friend online (I like to blame others for my orgasms).
My second Master had a different way of working and so I couldn’t negotiate my pleasure. And he found out very soon that he could make me do anything if I would think there was an orgasm to be earned.

And yes, I love them, whether they come with loads, or not at all because I am restricted. The thought of them, just as much as the feel. It all keeps me happy, wet and feeling submissive.

But lately things are different. I am –not exaggerated in any way- at possibly the most stressful period I have ever been in my life. That is personal. Work is immensely busy too, which I am quite happy about because it keeps me sane. There is absolutely no time for niceties, no time to thoroughly relax, or read hot stories, or write them. If I am lucky to come across a bit of porn, then it better be a short clip.

And whereas I didn’t have to get a lot of stimuli to get myself all hot and excited, I feel like my lust is waning.

I have had a few moments in the last few weeks, where I thought of an orgasm, where I thought I wanted one, where for a brief moment I really desired a touch. But that were moments, not that constant lovely tingling feel.

Last night, I was alone, thinking that after a lot of very hard work constantly for days or even weeks now, I could do with an orgasm. Or at least with feeling nicely horny again.

So I took my beloved rabbit, and placed it between my legs, the vibrating bit against my clit. My new rabbit has loads of settings, so I switched between a few, trying to enjoy the moment.
My cunt responded and got wet, so I slid the shaft in, and changed vibrations again. I laid on my bed for a while like that. Normally by now my mind would be in overdrive, rushing with fantasies. But nothing happened. I could feel my clit was having a nice time, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t keep any of my fantasies going, and had to force myself to think of one.

I then changed in one of my favourite positions –on my knees- and started fucking myself. Still nothing. I realise I start to get frustrated, so I take a deep breath and think of all things nice. I lean forward so I have to support myself with one hand, I arch my back, close my eyes, and continue to fuck myself. I get wetter, but I have no joy.

I could cry. Did I forget how to be horny? Did I forget how to orgasm or at least get close to it? What happened to me???? This is not right!

So this morning I decided to do something.
Firstly, I am going to work harder on my weight. I will be stricter in my diet and start exercising more intensely. Losing weight always makes me feel better about myself, makes me feel more attractive and gives me confidence.
The day after tomorrow I will have broadband again at home. And I will browse sites such as literotica again and print a lovely bedtime story daily.
Also, I am going to ask A. if I can attend a party. The club I went to last year has restarted parties, and slave will keep me updated about when and where, and provides me with care and protection.

I think that will get me back to “normal”. Of course, this particular period of abnormal stress will soon be over too. And I do hope, that really that is the reason for my sex-drive to be out of sorts.

There was time for some fun during work last Sunday when I was the lucky receiver of some wise words from my very wise six-year old. She was struggling doing some of her homework, and just about to get seriously angry and throwing her pen (she gets her temper from her dad!). “I hate making mistakes!” I could hear, so I try my best to calm her by explaining that mistakes are good, cause you learn from them. Still, she is not convinced and reiterates that she really hates making mistakes and that I never make any. I try not to burst out in laughter and tell her of course I do, plenty even. It is then she looks up and says:
“Forgetful is not a mistake, mum”.

THE END OF AN ERA

Ok, the title seems a tat dramatic, but it does feel like it. After all, the last three years have been quite something in this little life of me.

I have moved house, and with it I got overwhelmed with an awful lot of emotions. Totally unexpected I found myself crying, feeling very sad and as if I had lost someone dear.

Last Saturday all my stuff was put in a new house, and since then at night I went to bed fighting myself and my little one a route through unpacked boxes and stuff on the floor which has been orphaned from its cupboards.

All my free time in the week following that Saturday, I spent cleaning the old place.

At first I was ok. I only had a little crying fit on the moving day and I blame my neighbours for that entirely. They just had to come out of their houses to tell me how sorry they are to see me go. And one of them emphasised that if I ever have trouble again with my ex he would come over to help and protect me even at my new place. I went inside, emptied my kitchen cupboard and let the tears flow.

That night I was lucky enough to sleep in A’s arms, and I was determined to focus on all the good stuff about my new place.

The whole week following my time went to the cleaning up of the house. And whilst in the beginning of the week my thoughts were just filled with a bit of panic of how to get it ready in time to hand over the keys, nearing the end of the week that pressure left and my mind started wandering free again.

And how! It was strange. It started in the back garden. I was sitting on the ground picking up cut-off branches. I lifted my head to blow the hair out of my face when I saw myself in a flash. In the space between my conservatory and the fence I suddenly saw myself sitting on a bucket, relieving myself from holding up all day because I was not allowed to use my toilet all weekend. My imagination took over and I could see the dark sky and the stars I stared at those evenings, and feel the butterflies in my stomach again.

I shook off the image and continued. But the flashes came more frequently after that.

When I wiped the bedroom door I saw myself being tied to it, gagged with my breasts pressed in a bondage of rope and bamboo, my legs in a spreader.

Or when I was in my living room scrubbing a stain out of my carpet I remembered how I was in nearly that exact same position receiving the belt. Or how I assumed that position so many times in front of my webcam, plugging myself. Or… ah, so many memories in my living room.

How I loved that particular room. No windows, no direct doors to outside. The perfect place to feel free, be naked and collared, perform on webcam, feel safe,…

Of course I also have other memories, but they are just as, if not even more crazy than my BDSM experiences.

The front garden for example, where I got caught once by on of my neighbours at 2 in the morning, when I was trying to get rid of the weeds by stabbing them out with a sharp knife.

Or the sad and scary times, when I had to call the police to remove my ex from the front door.

Lots has happened and changed all the time I’ve lived there.

My little one is twice her age from when we first entered! From hardly being able to speak to writing, reading and counting (and arguing and outsmarting me). What a journey that was!

I had my first woman in that house. I made friends of my own. I discovered my true nature. I bought my first webcam, and got very close to people far away from me. I started writing. I developed a life…

Moving house has always been some sort of hobby for me. Gipsy blood, restlessness, need for change,… whatever you like to call it. I couldn’t stay anywhere very long, and moved house a hell of a lot.

So why so sad now? Why do I feel de-rooted? Seriously homesick? Completely out of sorts? As if I am grieving…

Sometimes I think I understand. That house meant a huge break for me, where I started MY life. And the move I have to make now is not the one (abroad) that I am longing for.

Hopefully that will happen soon though. And in the mean time, let’s try to fit in a few happy memories here.