The Fog

It’s often hard to explain mental health issues to people who have never been afflicted or interacted with someone afflicted by them. They just don’t have the capacity for understanding, or at least haven’t with the explanations I’d tried to give before now. Lately, since my new diagnosis and this life-changing drug, I’ve found the best way for me to describe my personal journey. 

All my life I’ve been walking in a fog of anxiety and depression. A dense, damp fog that surrounded and clung to me like a thick blanket drenched in cold water. Even though I knew there was more to life than anxiety and depression, I couldn’t see beyond that fog. 

Over the last six years, as meds that worked were introduced, I took a few steps out of the fog, revealing shadows of the life outside. They were dark and blurry, indistinguishable at times but visible none the less. After the worst of the side effects brought on by the introduction of a beast called Lamotrigine, every week when we upped my dose, I took another step out of the fog. 

I still struggled each time we increased it. The thoughts running through my mind did not always sound like me, I had insomnia and nightmares when I did sleep. Still, I took a step out of that fog every time.

A weight lifted off me, giving me the ability to control my emotions and my thoughts that up until then had free reign inside that stifling fog. 

It was liberating.

My bipolar diagnosis was like finding the key puzzle piece that brought the picture of my life together in a way that finally made sense. The medication was a lifeline, a refuge, a trail of bread crumbs leading me to safety.

I can regret the choices made in my darkest hours, I can’t for the life of me regret the moments that led me to this place. The realizations, the freedom and control that have come from it, have been worth it. 

I believe people come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. I thought he’d be a life time…maybe he was simply here for a reason…to help me find that missing piece. 

I should walk away, but I’ve still sent ridiculously long emails begging for another chance. I betrayed him in an unforgiveable way and should let him go so that he can find someone who deserves the investment and care that he gives…but I can’t seem to. 

Has anyone else out there betrayed someone they loved and then struggled so hard to watch them walk away?

How did you move on?

How did you let go of the line that bound you together? 

Bad Scene Part 4:

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The next morning came with the horrid realization that this was not a dream. The moment I woke, he stirred on the floor beside me, that’s one of the down sides of submitting to a light sleeper. I struggled to meet his gaze when he looked up to ask if I was ok.

Was I? The truth was I didn’t know how I was feeling. My body ached, I felt physically weak, and my heart was feeling a little numb. I was struggling with just how much I felt for this man, my ever increasing desire to submit to him and what I perceived as his rejection and disgust…..irrational, probably, I’m a Cancer; meaning I pretend to be strong, but once you get passed my hard outer shell, I’m nothing but a pile of emotional goo and irrational worry.

“I’m Fine,” I replied, that ever popular and disturbingly accurate acronym for “Fucked up, insecure, neurotic and emotional”……yeah that summed it up nicely.

True to form he pushed me for more, and I confessed that I was hurt at his anger towards me. I didn’t understand why he could be so eager to do this the day before, be the one who brought it up and then be so upset with me for asking for it, for asking for more.

An emotion I couldn’t quite name crossed over his face and he stared up at the ceiling. “I wasn’t upset with you, I was upset with myself,” he said quietly after a moment. It took some time but eventually the issues came to the surface.

To the man behind my Dom our play had moved passed the line of acceptable BDSM play, and into the grey area that could be deemed abuse by the outside world. The thought of someone seeing these marks on me and thinking that he was beating me was a huge pill for him to swallow.

For the Dom, it was a thrilling experience that turned him on more than he was prepared for. The battle between these two sides of him, coupled with the obvious pain I experienced, was a lot for him to take in, leading to the events that took place.

That made it easier to understand where he was coming from, it didn’t change much. I asked him what he was thinking when I had locked myself in the bathroom. His response was simple, “I thought, ‘She’s gone. I’ve lost her’.”

When the little light that is his daughter awoke, we started our day. She was thrilled with her video game and pretty much checked out as soon as he let her turn it on. So I slipped away into the bathroom to get dressed.

One of the things that started this whole fiasco was a comment I had made on how his marks, whether bite or strap marks, never seem to stay very long. For some crazy reason my resilient pale skin doesn’t hold a mark. When I turned around to look at my sore backside that morning I was met with a series of the darkest bruises I have ever seen in my life.

These bright purple/red marks out lined the shape of the cane imprint, two for each cheek. I must have spent a good five minutes gently fingering them and admiring their colour and shape. Call me crazy but I get no end of joy seeing the after effects of our play on my body.

The idea that there is a visible mark from him, declaring my body as his, is the most powerful aphrodisiac I have ever encountered. Nothing delights me more, nor does anything scare me quite so much, I’m terrified by how much I want his mark on my body. How willing I am to feel any pain that means I get that coveted mark, it’s insane.

When I finally made my way in to the kitchen, he moved around me like I was a delicate piece of glass. With every glance my way, every softly spoken word, I knew he was worried that one wrong look, one more hurt feeling and I would walk out of his life forever.

I contemplated not telling him, he was so upset by putting the marks on my body, I felt as though he didn’t deserve to ruin the pleasure I felt in seeing them. Then in almost the same moment reality kicked in, I wanted, needed to share this experience with someone. I’m not able to share my relationship with my inner circle, not only is the majority of our vanilla relationship a private matter, the kink side of things is even more hush-hush. If I wanted to share this, I only had one choice.

When his daughter had slipped into the bathroom and I looked across the kitchen at him, he met my gaze and I whispered, “So it turns out I do bruise.” The change in him was instantaneous, his back straightened, his chest puffed out and that fire I adore sparked behind his eyes.

“I want to see,” he told me, just as quietly. My first instinct was to deny him, hurt him the only way I new how, but I knew I would never follow through with it. We talked for a few minutes, I answered his questions about the size and colour, and then he turned to me again.

“I am so hard right now.” Those words confused me more than anything, even though he’d told me more than once that he was turned on by this, I didn’t believe him. I couldn’t get passed that tone in his voice.

I think he could tell I didn’t believe him, so he took my hand and placed it on the front of his pants…..definitely aroused by this conversation. He led the way to his bathroom and standing at the door said, “May I see you in here for a moment.”

With his daughter sufficiently occupied, I followed him in. He ordered me to let him see my ass, and when I bent over his touch was reverent. He stroked and groped me, careful not to be too rough, but knowing that I needed more than a gentle caress.

“I want to do that again,” he told me……silently I knew it would take quite a while before I would ask for his mark again.

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Bad Scene Part 1
Bad Scene Part 2

Bad Scene Part 3

Bad Scene Part 2: The Line

We managed to navigate our way through the first use of my safeword relatively unscathed. Our miscommunication might have been a sign we should explore more carefully, but it was one we ignored.

That night, after a full afternoon of playing in solitude, we teased and tempted each other. Sore and on my euphoric cloud I hopped on Pinterest and found an amazing number of tantalizing photos of women gloriously marked by their partners/Doms cane.

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With every image, with every glimpse of this previously taboo idea, my heart skipped a beat. By the time he led me into his room I was beside myself with anticipation.

I wanted this, more than anything. Forget that just before dinner his daughter had arrived, and was now sleeping on the other side of the apartment. Forget the fact I had sworn to myself I would never risk her finding out.

I knew it would hurt, I knew that I would feel a pain unlike any I’d felt up to this point. He had told me once before he would have to hit me much harder to leave the kind of mark I wanted to see. I didn’t care, the fact that it would be his mark on me, a physical sign of his possession of me was enough. That thought excited me so much, I knew I would take any pain that meant I could bear that gift.

I lay down on his bed in nothing save my shirt and bra, nervous and excited, and not quite sure how to contain myself. Like it does every time we play, his voiced dropped and he promised me three strokes. I wasn’t to make a sound, we couldn’t risk anyone hearing.

The first stroke I again flew off the bed, but no sound escaped my lips save a gasp. The second came a few minutes later and I moved away from my place on his bed. With my head buried in his pillow, I fought the tears. I felt him lay down beside me, and when I had gathered myself, I turned my face towards him.

I should have known at that moment. He was watching me with such worry in his eyes, so much concern for me it should have been clear. You see the man behind my Dom is a champion for those who find themselves in a troubled place. It’s his job to look for signs of abuse and care for those who may not be able to care for themselves.

It is for this reason I find it so easy to love him, but this side of him also makes it a struggle for him to cope with the more sadistic side I seem to require.

We talked, about what in particular I cannot remember, but one or two things stand out to me. At one point I said I could handle more, as much as each stroke hurt. I smiled up at him and teasingly said, “you did promise me three.”

There was a pause before he told me that he would do one more, to see if he could do this. So I lay back down, my already aching ass bared for him.

The last stroke was clearly the undoing for both of us. I’m sure I elevated off the bed, I buried my head in the blankets, the tears falling down my face as I listened to him pace behind me.

Snippets if what he said as he paced beside me still linger in the back of my head.

“Is that enough of a mark for you? Does that make you happy”

“This has gone beyond submission.”

“Do you really want me to beat you? Because that’s what this is.”

As I listened to the angry tone of his voice and those sharp, unforgiving words, my euphoria slipped away slowly…..behind it flowed every fear I had ever imagined, however briefly, when I contemplated entering this relationship with him.

I felt sick, disgusted with myself because at that moment it felt like he was right. I was asking him to beat me, abuse me. Was this some twisted shadow left behind from a childhood I’d rather leave behind?

Before I finished the thought I launched off the bed and gathered my clothes. My head down cast, I moved towards the bathroom. When he met me at the door I slid passed, too blinded by tears to even look at him.

For the first time I felt like he thought I was sick, which hurt more than I care to admit even now. For everything else, he had looked at me with lust not disgust in his eye. I was convinced we were over, how could I ever look at him again, knowing he thought that way about me.

I locked the door beside me and sobbed as quietly as I could manage. I turned to examine my marks in the mirror and felt nothing but shame.

Stepping under the hottest shower I could muster, I scrubbed my self furiously. When my skin was red and my tears eased, I leaned against the wall and felt a little of my shame wash away under the searing water.

No matter what we did now… Nothing would ever be the same again.

Bad Scene Part 1
Bad Scene Part 3
Bad Scene Part 4

Bad scene

So this particular post has been spinning around in my head since the very early new year. I have hesitated for a few reasons, which I am sure will come to light as you read this two-three post series.

Isn’t it funny how Bdsm is referred to as a ‘scene’, as if we are all D-list actors in some low budget porno. I get that we often script out our play, talking out our various limits before playing it out in the hopes that we avoid those slight misunderstandings that can potentially ruin a good relationship. However there is a chance in any scene that you don’t plan for every contingency, this unfortunately was my experience with caning.

Not too long ago over breakfast with the man I call my Dom, the subject of caning was laid on the table. I’m not exactly sure how it started, but it probably had something to do with how much I like to have his marks on my body. As much as I love his thick brown leather belt, the one he wears almost daily, the marks it leaves behind are not of the lasting variety.

I tend to get wet at the drop of a hat, and being the twisted little masochist I am, this was no exception. So there I sat, squirming in my seat, dripping wet across the table from him; oblivious to the crowded restaurant, my mind was focused on kneeling face down on his bed, my ass in the air and the distinct sting of a weapon I had not yet had the pleasure of experiencing, delighting my senses.

He loved the idea, or at the very least my reaction to it, either way, it was clear that I was not the only one tied up in knots over this wicked idea. On the way back to his apartment we stopped at the local hardware store where he led the way to the doweling section…..he knew exactly where to go. No hesitation, no contemplation…merely determination.

My clit throbbed as he fingered the smooth blonde wood. Carefully, he chose 4 rods of three different thicknesses, the smallest of which he doubled up. I couldn’t control the pounding in my chest; part of me was convinced that every person there knew what those rods were for.

I spent that afternoon writhing on his bed, as my Dom wrote the story of my submission across my pale skin. Periodically while I thought he was letting me rest he took pictures of my ass, bright red, aching with need.

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For the first time in three months I used my safe word, I know he was beginning to think I didn’t have a limit, but he found it that day. The issue we had was that he didn’t hear me, with my head buried in the pillow I can understand that, and when I rolled away from him and he laid another across me I got angry and reached for the cane and resisted the urge to snap it.

My accusing gaze and tear stained face were met with what I thought was anger towards me. I was angry because I had finally used my safeword and I felt like he ignored me. My Dom was upset because I had only said it once, and he hadn’t heard me and instead of repeating it, I had gotten angry at him.

After I had calmed down, after our miscommunication had been cleared up and the pain had dulled to that bittersweet ache of not quite enough he looked over at me with an odd gleam in his eye. “You could do more,” he exclaimed in wonder.

What is a girl to say in a situation like that? Do I lie and say, no I’m not hoping for one more, one more to really leave a lasting mark? So I told the truth, and he gave me one more. My whole body arched off the bed, I sat back on the mark causing a bolt of pain to shoot from all parts of my backside up my body.

As I came down off the rush of pain, I didn’t want him to touch me, everything in my body hurt; that delicious, intentional hurt that lit my sick little fire of desire and made me wetter than ever for him.

Yes a part of me was upset at him for hitting me that hard, anger was my initial reaction that first time, but when I reached around to gingerly brush my fingers over the raised skin, my heart fluttered.

There is something so very primal about being marked by ones mate. I love to feel the ache beneath my skin, but more than that I crave a visible reminder that I belong to him. This mark, this bright red, tender mark turned me on more than any amount of play we had experienced to date, and I wanted more.

We both seemed excited by it, our pheromones were pouring, our endorphins running and all evening we teased each other. I told him I could probably do two more, and he said that I’d have three more before we went to bed.

If I had known just how much those next three marks would change our lives, I would probably never have agreed to them.

If you’d like to read the next section, drop me an email or comment below….

Bad Scene Part 2
Bad Scene Part 3
Bad Scene Part 4