Disclaimer: This post mentions topics involving sexual activity and consensual sexual violence. Not suitable for individuals under eighteen years of age. Reader discretion is advised.
Contains some strong language.
Yesterday was another of those days that I wish I didn’t have to write about. Normally I wouldn’t, except damn for accountability and honesty on this blog. If there is one thing that I strive for in more recent times, it’s honesty, it’s transparency, it’s to convey that D/s couples go through the same fights, disagreements and yucky parts as almost any other couple, we are not unique in and of ourselves. No matter where or who you are or how kinky you may or not be, you can be just like us if you choose to be. A D/s dynamic is not based on how kinky you are, it’s about how you choose to identify.
Even as I wrote yesterday’s post, I had little Hugo jumping up for a tennis ball from the shelf. I’d told him to be patient several times, and Hugo, for his part, chose to ignore me. I tried luring him out of his place with treats for long enough that I could finish my post before exercising him, but Hugo was having none of it. He growled, I commanded. I don’t believe in Cesar Milan’s techniques, but I do believe that you have to have an authoritative, calm disposition around dogs, particularly smaller dogs with “Small Dog Syndrome”. You have to let them know that you are in charge and that your dog can trust you. Treats for good behaviour work well, but giving in to your dogs demands do nothing to prevent the behaviour and after Hugo’s injury a couple of days ago, I wasn’t going to sit by in case something happened again. I didn’t hurt or hit Hugo, I simply caught a hold of his collar, gently but firmly led him away from the shelves for the moment and closed the safety gate. Even if he growled at me, I knew that he wouldn’t try to bite me and he knew better, too. I asserted myself, I told him to wait for a few moments and to lay down (he did). Once I was finished, we played ball just like Hugo wanted to do.
As I played, I was all too aware of what sounded like World War Three in my right ear. At first, my my shots with the tennis ball launcher were controlled and rhythmic, but they became angrier and targeted as time went on – as though I was actually trying to shoot someone myself.
“What’s up, love?” Matt asked.
“I’m fine” I replied quietly.
Ahh yes, it’s a classic relationship issue, the “I’m fine”. When a romantic partner (usually a woman) says that she is fine, she’s not fine. She’s not fine at all.
After a few more shots, I managed to jam a tennis ball along side of the cooker. I placed the launcher down and made my way for the kitchen, where Hugo jumped excitedly at the gap.
“Yes, alright Hugo” I sighed, more for myself than him, “SuperWoman is here, can’t you see her fucking cape?”
When I slinked back into the bedroom, I knew that I was for it.
“So, do you want to tell me what’s going on?” Matt asked again.
“I’m fine love” I asserted, my voice now edged with desperation. Please, leave me alone.
After a few more shots, I rested my forehead against the launcher, thoughts of my mother in my mind. I sobbed as the tears fell freely. Why do we do this to ourselves?
Growing up, I can remember accompanying my mother on trips to the doctor’s office and I can remember her telling the doctor that she was suicidal. I even remember her telling the doctor that, if the family were all suicidal, we’d all go for a drive, hit a wall hard enough and end it all there and then. There was a time that I was terrified to be in the car with Mum driving – what if she sped up? What if she hit a wall? What if she killed me?
I wasn’t suicidal, but I was exhausted, I was sick with the state that I had let myself fall into and the state of the home, merely days after a big clean. I wasn’t suicidal, but if I didn’t take action now then I was probably close.
“What is it, love?” Matt asked, placing a hand on my shoulder.
“I just remember,” I said between my tears, “my mother when I was younger. She used to say that having to run the home made her feel suicidal and I never really understood. She showed us how she had been hurting herself because she was stressed. I saw her throw a glass of water and smash it in a moment of rage. I never understood but now, I do. Now, I get it. This place looked great a few days ago, it’s already falling apart again. I can’t keep cleaning it. I’m exhausted, and look at me. I’m sick of how I look because of it. I’ve neglected myself to look after the home. It shouldn’t be that way.”
Matt and I, it would seem, have very differerent ideas of what is a major grievance when it comes to keeping the home tidy. For Matt, it would appear, leaving the toilet lid up is an issue. For me, recycling (particularly unrinsed) on the kitchen worktops is a problem. We have a dual kitchen bin with a section for mixed recycling, so there is absolutely no reason for it to take up space on the kitchen surfaces, except that it does – often.
To be honest, this wasn’t even just about recycling. A few days before, I wanted to buy a robot mop for the kitchen floors as well, and Matt wouldn’t let me, because of money. I gave him four options: A) A robot mop, as I intended. Option B) we could remove the safety gate so that Debbie, the existing robo-vac, can at least vacuum the kitchen floors so that I can just mop them afterwards. C) We, no, he pays for a personal cleaner to come in and help with the floors once a week, or D) We do absolutely nothing and we both go down with E.Coli or Salmonella. Naturally of course, option four wasn’t an option, and he didn’t like option two or three, either. That settles it then, robot mop & vac it is. Yes, I am an absolute beast to negotiate with, my father raised me well.
Some people would wonder why I was so pissed off at winning (even if I lost when we realised that robot mops don’t really do that great at mopping floors anyway), but I don’t personally see it as winning at all. I was pissed off that this argument had to happen. I was pissed off that, it seemed, Matt threw obstacles down in front of my trying to make our lives easier. I don’t like arguing with him and I know that he doesn’t like arguing with me, either. We generally get along and, as a rule, the only time we shout at one another is when we’re pratting around and pretending to have a feud. We talk, we stay composed, and we take some time out to cool down if things get too heated. That’s always been our way.
“I need you to understand that, for me, it’s more than just cleaning and running the blog” I explained, ” I deal with birthdays and Christmas, I look after the fish, I worm and de-flea the dog, I weed the garden, I have to write the letter about the conservatory and sew the patches for our advent calendar, that’s going to need more than a few weeks in the run-up to Christmas, we’re in July now and I haven’t even started that yet. You’re more than welcome to though, if you like? ” I joked. Sometimes, a soft joke is all that is needed to break the tension.
“I don’t think that would be wise” Matt replied, “you’d have to take me A&E to get the patches unstitched from my fingers if I did.” Granted, there are some things that require a more gentle touch. Matt has his own talents, he can’t be good at everything. He knew how to plumb in a washing machine before I ever did, for a start. Meanwhile, I could cross-stitch, knit and sew. We all bring our own strengths to the table.
I don’t think I need to explain how things landed up, except that in my mind, I’d escaped to some harem-style arrangement. I have no idea, all I know is that as of late, my kinky ways have been getting the better of me. Not just a need to be fucked, but the need to serve, the need surrender control, to let go for a little while.
“Tell me” Matt commanded. I shook my head. No, no this time.
If I’m being honest, sometimes I have to pick and choose the fantasies that I share with Matt. Maybe I water them down a little or I skip out a few of the details. Some of the things that I’m sometimes into, I know for certain that Matt won’t be: Sharing me, medical play, being of service to more than just him and so on. Even if they are all things that I would consider doing for him I think that, as a not-so-kinky person, perhaps the reasons why I would consider doing the activity evades him. This is not merely about sleeping with other people, it is about trust, it is about doing absolutely anything (within agreed limits) in order to please one’s Dominant. Even I didn’t know that I could fall in this deep, at least until I did.
By nightfall, we settled down to watch the Italy-England game. I have to hand it to our boys, that goal within the first minutes was phenomenal, I don’t think the Italian players even saw it coming. We put on a great game and we made them work hard, sadly, it just wasn’t quite hard enough.
I’m not going to go into what exactly happened last night, except that something did happen after the game that left me feeling very shaken and scared, and fairly heavy drinking was unfortunately involved. For the sakes of our marriage, I agreed not to publicise it on the world wide web, but I was also clear that I couldn’t (and wouldn’t) sweep it under the carpet entirely, because honesty and accountability are important to me. I’m fine and Hugo is okay, but Matt also knows that history cannot be repeated and that something needs to change, he also knows that, right now, my trust in him is near-zero. There are little steps that have gone towards restoring it (like not killing me in my sleep in spite of the severe bollocking that I gave him) but we cannot move on as though nothing happened. Matt didn’t hit me or injure me in any way, but he also knows that he’s bloody lucky that he didn’t. Right now, in football terms, you could just say that Matt knows he’s had a yellow card, the very last thing that any proud footballer wants is to get sent off of the pitch.