Sometimes I ask Him to look me in the eye and hurt me

It’s the hardest thing to ask for. I still don’t fully understand why pain would make me wet. I don’t identify with the label of masochist. It is under his hand that it makes me fly.

I find my need for pain embarrasing. Its red raw mouth is connected to an embodied me I tried to escape from into books and other heady hobbies for most of my life. And I was a feminist, I worked with battered women. No man would ever lay a finger on me and get away with it.

Then I stumble into a book tinged with erotica and sprinkled with references to a kind of relationship that I respond to. After years of shutting down I find myself dripping as I read it. Without recognising this insight’s import I immediately put this in the service of my husband. Treating him to sex with a newly moist wife and following the author to another place, and finding more questions to ask in the black and white and red of fetlife.

I try, we try, to open up conversations, to move things and change the internal bondage for rope worn on the outside, with consent and for mutual pleasure instead of simply because of habit and expectations. It is a desperate act and I begin to swim in my own sea for hours at a time. Frustrating and enraging him with my sudden taking back of what was so freely spent on him before.

And then I find someone who dares to hurt me but promises not to harm me. Who insists I keep my eyes open whilst he peels me for his pleasure and my life explodes.

The centre cannot hold. Emotions run too high, too free, like gigantic toddlers leaving chaos in their wake. Furniture and windows are broken,, children are traumatised and the marks from the wounds on the inside become visible on the outside. A marriage is over.

Stunned I retreat, regroup and survey. Look back at the landscape covered so far and see that it did indeed include a man who hurt me and got away with it until now. But I am a changed creature. Something has been called from me and given a place to live. My need for pain has moved from the subconscious to the conscious. In this place I am complete. Naked, with marks, owned, complete.

I ask him to hurt me and look deep into his eyes while he does it. In that moment we are connected, swimming in a sea we make together that covers the earth and all the mountains. My need is his pleasure is my pleasure is his need.

Thank you Master x

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

#SinfulSunday – blue from Scarlet

It’s my pleasure to post these gorgeous images on behalf of the lovely Scarlet woman (@benaughtywith3)

Feeling blue when I think of you, but my hands can’t help but wander,
as my orgasm crashes in waves over me, the salty tears flow free,

Cathartic release but, I still can’t help feeling blue when I think of you.

#SinfulSunday – blue

The prompt says it all. Blue is my favourite colour and I already loved this particularly lovely teal blue chair.

The artichoke flowers were a striking deep blue and my hat, well my hat had turquoise stripes that cried out to be included.

Don’t forget to click on the lips below to see who else is being sinful this Sunday


The sting of the wings imprinted on my shoulders by your belt glow with our mutual with-held desire, our long, long wait. ย Each stroke creates a sting, creates a gasp, creates an involuntary twist away, followed by a voluntary twist back.

Each stroke is accompanied by a wish that this will be the last stroke, followed swiftly by a desire for it not to be.

Your sulky cock, aroused by our sinuous tango, pushes in and pulls out, each thrust accompanied by sting, gasp, twist, twist. Your hand in my hair arching my back, we ride out and across the sky, sting, gasp, twist, twist

Collared anew, pony hair and suede, I trot and gasp for you, for us. We pull the year across, tracking autumn into winter, winter into spring, sting, gasp, twist, twist, sting, gasp, twist.

With belted sting and you deep in me we are one winged thing. ย One charged with remaking the year, remaking time, me deep in you, you deep in me, me flying for us.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

This place

This place is where I am safe.

Sprung fast from a form too scared to hold me, I careen to the rafters, fear billowing behind.


Away from whatever I can’t stand or name. Another pill to swallow, another mirror held, to reflect an image I don’t recognise and can’t quite grasp, and yet holds me in her grip like death.

Because I am lucky he comes to find me. Hand outstretched, palm up, as if to encourage a wild bird to perch.

Fixed as I am, my eye gimleted with nervous strength He softens and soothes.

There, it’s OK.

There, just breathe.

There, you are safe.

And his there, becomes my safe there.

I breathe.

eye posted on Fetlife February 2014

#SinfulSunday – lipstick

The act of putting on lipstick, creating a gash of red or enhancing a pout like a bruised peach, is mesmerising.

I love to watch women applying lipstick in a mirror. The concentration, the slight frown, and the lick of a tongue across teeth before a smile. An assent perhaps, a nod at the woman in the mirror, an ‘I see you’ moment before going out to conquer the world.

Don’t forget to click on the lips below to see who else is being sinful this Sunday ๐Ÿ’‹

Will you still love me tomorrow?

I had had a lovely weekend. Hanging out with friends in the beautiful English countryside. Eating good food, sharing jokes and wisdom both bad and good. And now the weekend was drawing to a close I had a room in a house I wanted to live in to view on my return to town. Yet I became aware of a sense of disquiet as I pulled into the supermarket car-park to buy food for later that dogged me around the cooked chicken counter and followed me to the basket till and back out to my car again. Settling on my shoulder with a familiar discontented sigh like a dog with one of those lampshade things on that stop it scratching.

It struck me that I might be concerned about moving again, incurring more monthly costs, living at close quarters with people I didn’t know or that it might be just the impact of more change on my already sensitised nervous system.

All of these were possible causes, none of them seemed to hit the spot though and I rooted around in my psyche as I sat in the car, trying to find the source of my discomfort, letting things come to the surface and drift away until I landed upon a twitter exchange which had barely touched my consciousness at the time I saw it but was apparently triggering anxiety way beyond that which the content deserved.

What, I thought, was this about? What had triggered my anxiety in this way, what did I have to consider to sort my head out and let me get on with the day?

The answer surprised me with its simple existential quality. As a woman nearing my 60s I was scared of being replaced by a younger woman. It shocked me mostly because I wasn’t aware of it but that it was activating not only my anxiety but also my responses to other people’s relationship choices which were apparent in the twitter posts and replies. I was shocked by this because I didn’t want this reaction. I didn’t want the fear to start with but I am mature enough to know that being replaced is a possibility in any relationship and one we have to live with in order to trust enough to take the risk of allowing ourselves to love and be loved.

I don’t have an answer to this except to observe it and recognise its presence in my life. Intimate relationships necessarily involve the risk of hurt, let another close at our peril it seems. I know and have experienced being hurt and the author of hurt in another’s life, it has changed me, I am not the same, I guess that’s growth for you.

We risk, we fail, we try again, and perhaps have learned enough at least not to hurt others so much again. I hope so, but we won’t know unless we try will we?

#SinfulSunday – knickers

I came across these in my drawer today due to a laundry crisis.

I had no clean knickers that matched my black bra and one of my rules is that my underwear should always match.

It was a happy accident though as it resulted in this picture which I love, and the chance to wear open crotch knickers under my innocent denim skirt all day.

I felt properly sinful ๐Ÿ’‹

Don’t forget to click on the lips below to see who else is being sinful this Sunday

#SinfulSunday – stairs

Halfway up the stairs is a stair where I sit

There isn’t any other stair quite like it

It’s not at the bottom

It’s not at the top

But this is the stair where I always…

…. creep downstairs to take #SinfulSunday photos whilst everyone else is in bed ๐Ÿ’‹

Don’t forget to click on the lips below to see who else is being sinful this Sunday