There are some things I find very hard, if not impossible, to say out loud. The words may echo round my head, my heart may be shouting them but I cannot get my lips to articulate them. This blog exists at least partly for that reason; because some things may not be spoken but may be written.
Perrin has written of his depression, and it has certainly had an impact on our relationship. While I love Perrin very much, it is hard seeing him so withdrawn and unhappy, and that in itself then affects me, drawing us into a vicious circle of misery that seems very hard to break. As part of this the D/s side of our relationship has almost entirely ceased. This seems to be a sensible decision for the moment and yet I am finding it very hard to be a vanilla wife.
I have finally come to a point where I can accept my submission as a part of me and have found it surprisingly easy to talk of with others. Admitting that I am submissive and discussing kink with other people who can understand has been a liberating experience. Expressing it directly however, admitting my needs and desires to my Dom, that I still stumble over.
In my head I can beg to be fucked, to be pinned down and used. I can ask for a spanking, knowing I would offer my body willingly to the pain. I still cannot speak the words.
I am ashamed. Ashamed of my desires, of my needs. Seeing them as dirty, and expecting to be rejected for them. Sure that I will be rejected. Not that my requests might be turned down; there is a difference between a dominant denying a submissive’s requests, deliberately, knowing what they are doing and a rejection of their submission, a turning away in disgust from them. I am afraid too, that my desires might be met, reluctantly, attempting merely to satisfy me, rather than for my Dom’s pleasure and delight.
I am ashamed to be so helplessly submissive. Unable to completely bury these feelings, unable to be purely vanilla, to forget this part of me for now. Ashamed I cannot let it go. Hating and loving my submission simultaneously.
I read other people’s blogs, read of the pleasure of submission. I see the joy in Mat’s face, head back, eyes closed, his throat bared to me. I remember those feelings. They thrill me, delight me, arouse me. They are more than sex. More intimate, more powerful. More.
But I cannot have them merely by wishing. And pretending would be worse than not having them at all. So somehow I have to let it go for now.