Disclaimer: This post contains strong language and topics of an adult nature. Not suitable for individuals under eighteen years of age. Reader discretion is advised.
“Was it something that I wrote in my journal?” I asked softy, he nodded.
“Okay, so what was it?”
“You said that we might not be suited to one another” he whispered.
“As a D/s couple”, I said, “I still love you, it’s just that… sometimes I worry I’m too much for you. It happens, Matt. People love one another but need to play with someone else, it happens. Remember, Fifty Shades is fictional.”
That was always something that I’d been very real about. Similar to, yes, sometimes, but my life was not Fifty Shades, and I was always careful to note the differences. Even if Matt lost his mother at the same age as Christian lost his, even if Matt is protective (and sometimes incredibly frustrating) like Christian is, even if I’m a quick-witted, once-sexually-naive hopeless romantic like Ana, it’s different. We don’t have millions in the bank, my husband is still very much bottom of the ranks in the office and we don’t have bodyguards, drivers, private jets and yachts. We have buses and Ubers most days, executive taxis if he wants to splash out, and we do the cooking and cleaning ourselves. Even if there are similarities, simply put, we’re not Christian and Ana, and it would be foolish to think anything otherwise.
“Maybe, just as an idea for you, you could try brainstorming what your ideal dynamic might look like. Forget me for the moment, focus on you, we can fill me into the picture after. I’ll do one too, if you like, then we can discuss them” I offered. For 2AM, that was some remarkable leadership right there.
“Maybe” he agreed, “can I give you something to start with tomorrow?”
“I suppose” I agreed, doing things in reverse, but sure.
“Can you work on your hair?”. I winced. My hair, yes, my hair. My hair needed work. I’d gotten into terrible habits in lockdown and it was all tangled up as a result. Throwing it back in a band and crack on with the chores had been my way of life in lockdown, and now my hair and scalp were suffering as a result. Matt loves my hair, he’d just never said anything about it until now. I supposed, with social interactions on the rise again, he wanted me looking more of the part.
“Okay” I agreed. This is going to hurt.
By morning, I sat up on our bed, threw on a t-shirt and grabbed a detangling comb. Perhaps fortunately, untangling my hair didn’t hurt half as as I thought it would, and even if I couldn’t solve it all in one day, it at least looked visibly improved and cared for. My band stayed better, My hair sat sleeker, and once again, it shone. After a while though, my arms began to hurt.
“Have I done enough to satisfy Sir’s expectations now?” I joked, “it’s not perfect, but it’s a lot better than what it was.”
“It’s going to take time,” he assured me, “you’ve made a difference, that’s the main thing.”
On his lunch break, I slipped a few sheets of white paper onto his desk with a pen.
“I was thinking,” I began, “if you have a quick think now, we can have a talk about them after, and I’ll do mine once I’ve finished blogging. It means we’re not spending time later waiting for the other to finish so that we can have a discussion.”
“I don’t have long for lunch, love” he argued.
“Ten to fifteen minutes” I insisted. “It’s for us, and it will save time later”. Reluctantly, he agreed.
Within minutes, I’d stuck my head back in again.
“Underscore anything that’s like… nuh uh, non-compromising, super important stuff” I said, “it’ll help later.”
“I’ve already put them in capitals, anyway” he replied, I shrugged. As good as any, I suppose.
Once I’d finished blogging, I sat down with my pen and paper, I wrote ‘My ideal D/s dynamic is…; in the centre of the page and began to think. What did my ideal dynamic look like? Fuck. This was supposed to be fairly easy.
That was my first one. I needed room to error, to fuck up, to be human. I could do my best, but no better. I have good days and bad days, especially with my conditions. Yes, it needed to be fair.
Allowed to be playful
That was my next. Mischief and carnage were almost my middle names, and I couldn’t imagine my life without them. To deny me my right to be playful and mischievous would be akin to denying me my right to exist. Possibly overwhelmingly hot for a session, or half a session, I noted, but not suitable for the longer term.
Nope. Nuh uh. Never. I wear what I want to wear. I eat what I want to eat and I sleep when I want to sleep. A Dom with TPE aspirations would have two choices with me: Accept that it’s off, or accept that we won’t work. Stubborn, too, could be another middle name.
Even if my other relationship is non-sexual, being closed off to developing feelings and attachments was just something that I couldn’t do. I love to love, and I needed to be with someone who accepts my love and my need to love others, too. I’m more faithful and happy when I’m allowed to form attachments than I am when I’m left to fall into an existence of doubt and negative self-talk, because of my “polyish” nature.
WIllingness to try new things
I had roleplay in mind here, and it was something he’d long stuck his heels in about, but mattered to me dearly. I didn’t mean to say that we had to do them, but a willingness to consider, explore and maybe even try was vital. Even if it causes nothing but a giggle, at least it gave us something to laugh about.
“Are you ready, or do you need longer?” I asked after his work shift.
“Can I have ten more minutes?”
“Of course,” I replied, “when you’re ready.”
“How many have you got?” I asked as Matt joined me on the sofa.
“About eleven, you?” he replied.
“About sixteen” I smiled, he looked at me, mouth agape.
“They’re not all underscored,” I clarified, “most of them aren’t. How do you want to do this?”
“We could take turns?” he suggested. Ahh yes, I knew marrying my fellow team member was a wise idea.
“Aight, you first” I teased.
“I’ve got ‘FUN’, I don’t want us to become too serious” he said. I nodded.
“I’ve got ‘fair’, so yeah… fun/fair,” I stopped to consider what I’d said for a moment, “Fun fair? Funfair? I’ll never look at Funderworld the same again”. He laughed.
“Okay, next is ‘SELF CARE'”. I glared at him for a moment. He was cementing this one in, huh? Fine.
RIght, time to shoot him back.
“I’ve got ‘red’ lines and ‘amber’ lines” I said, “like, with what happened the other day, ‘amber’ lines are things that I can cross, but could have consequences, and ‘red’ lines are like… no way, not ever, nuh uh. You know, I’m a brat, and I’m gonna cross amber lines with ease. Heck, I fuckin’ hurdle those bastards!”
Matt raised an eyebrow at me, a reminder to watch what I say next.
“But I don’t cross red lines intentionally,” I continued, “I’m not that kind of brat. I’m not a bad brat. If you have boundaries, real boundaries, I deserve to know what those are so that I can stay away from them.”
“Or tip-toe right up to them if I know you” he added.
“Not red lines, no. I’m not a total asshole” I emphasised.
“Okay” he sighed, “I’ve got Daddy/kitten, but that’s a negotiable”.
“Well,” I started, “I’ve got some DD/lg stuff. You know how I feel about that, but also I’ve got ‘arcades’ with an exclamation mark in brackets-“, he laughed.
“You and your bloody penny pushers!”
“Especially if it’s on Daddy’s pocket” I grinned.
“Especially when it’s on Daddy’s pocket!” he agreed.
“But I winned you a keyring, so it’s not all bad. I winned you lots of things actually, and tickets-”
“Oh god, that bloody thing” he laughed, rubbing his eyes, “we spent so much fucking money on that machine. It was a nice frame though, minus the paint splashes”. We laughed.
The frame in question was a brushed silver frame with a diamanté heart. We’d both had a go on the Big Bass arcade game and by chance, I made the 100-ticket jackpot. Once we’d started, it was hard to give up. We only needed 398 more tickets to take home the frame that would be perfect for one of our wedding photos, what could possibly go wrong?
“Okay, what’s next?” I asked, back on track.
“I’ve got funishments and punishments” he noted, I stared at him.
“Punishments? But Daddy I -” I argued.
“Write it down” he commanded. I mumbled a few petulant names in his direction.
“I don’t need no fuckin’ punishments,” I mumbled, “I’m the big bad motherfuckin’ boss, all on my own.”
“What?” he warned, raising an eyebrow at me.
“I said you’re the best and how lucky I am to have you try to keep me in line, my darling” I replied sarcastically.
“Less attitude” he said sternly, “and there’s no ‘try’, I will”. I rolled my eyes.
“I’ve got ‘spontaneous playtimes'” I said, “and we need a signal for that too, though I don’t know what exactly.”
“Bear with,” he replied. A moment later, he pulled up an image of the Bat-Signal on his phone.
“Not like that!” I laughed, “well maybe sort of like that, but not that, well… maybe that now, but I’ll also never look at Batman the same again. So thank you for fucking up my childhood!”. Matt roared with laughter.
“So that, then?” he asked.
“Maybe that now” I replied. Pick your battles, Helen, pick your bloody battles.
“Anything else?” he asked, “I can see that you have a few more than me.”
“Two more” I replied. “First, and you didn’t mention this so it should be the latter rather than the former, but catch-free or no symbolic jewellery. My bracelet catches in my hair when I brush it and it clangs on my laptop when I’m writing, it’s kind of annoying.”
“Right, well no jewellery isn’t happening. So what, like your anklet idea?”
“It was kind of expensive” I explained, “but we can work on that, or find workarounds. I just need something that’s not going to be a pain in the ass when I’m trying to save the day” I teased.
“Okay, and finally? he asked.
“Hand gestures” I replied, somewhat hesitantly. What would he think of this?
“Hand gestures? Like what?” This?” He asked, making a V sign.
“Not that!” I laughed, “there are certain hand gestures that go in the BDSM community. Some people use them, others don’t. I thought it might be interesting to look at, and maybe try sometime”. Fuck me. Whatever happened to Little Miss Doesn’t Say Boo To A Goose?
“Like these” I said, pulling up an image on my phone and handing it to Matt, he studied the image closely for a moment, then made a circle between his index fingers and his thumbs.
“That’s filthy!” I laughed, noting the gesture for ‘suck it’. I knew that one already.
Without a word, he made a loop with his left index finger and thumb, and pointed to it with his right.
“Absolutely not! You know I’m nowhere near ready for butt stuff yet” I scalded.
“Okay, okay” he said, pointing downwards with two fingers and spreading them apart.
“We’re talking!” I chided, “sex is not conducive to good communication.”
“Maybe”, he agreed, “it’s something to consider.” I was surprised quite how many I knew, but for others, I wondered if we would use them at all. Crouch down? I wondered, for what possible purpose?