THE WRITING CONTINUES

How interesting it was in the film “Quills” to see how Marquis de Sade was encouraged to write in an attempt to keep him from acting in reality.

I’ve seen the film before, a long time ago, years before BDSM was part of my life. It didn’t have the same meaning then as it has now. But more and more I realise how intrigued and attracted I was to all this, but lacking knowledge about pain. I remember the fear of “going too far” and not being able to ever come back from it.

With that last one, I was right. You’re indeed not able to ever feel the same again. Only, it shouldn’t have been fear. It is fantastic to be able to live in accordance with your nature.

And so how jealous I felt, when I saw Kate Winslet strung up and whipped. How enormously, deeply, tremendously jealous! The welts and marks on her back were beautifully drawn on by the make-up artist, and I wanted to look just like her.

I do wonder often if the reflection in the mirror will be something I like again one day? Will I see bruises and welts again? Will I find proud submission in my eyes?

Or will I lead the rest of my life pursuing a cure? Act like an ordinary woman, doing ordinary things, having ordinary sex?

And so at night, I would be writing. Writing like a madwoman. Pouring my passion and lust on paper, fantasising about being humiliated and kept as a slave, putting my nipple clamps on in the dark and stretch my holes pretending I am preparing for abuse.

During my sleepless night, trying to keep my mind away from the horrible reality at the moment, I kept concentrating on the tingle in my belly and between my legs. I fantasised about being caged –one of my biggest yet unfulfilled dreams. Soon I will write a story about it…

But does writing only can keep you “sane”? I know last year I intended to write more, so my physical desire would become less. I thought if I can live out my submissiveness in my stories, I don’t need the reality. But it is really so?

Is it maybe not the other way around? Don’t I get more horny, excited and lustful with every story? Do my masturbation sessions become tougher, wanting more every time?

Isn’t it outrageously sad to push in my big plug, put on my collar, clamp my nipples and blindfold myself, sitting on my knees fucking myself with my rabbit to an orgasm with nothing else but the image of somebody watching.

Frustration hits… unlike the whip.

At this moment though, whilst stress is peaking and emotions are extremely low, would I be able to handle any of my fantasies? Or is it just now it would be good for me?

Questions, many questions. But I know I will learn the answers one day. I always do. As long as I keep writing…