Disclaimer: Although nothing in this post is sexual, it contains details of my life, banter and conversations that happen within a self-described 24/7 D/s dynamic and is aimed at normalising and providing acceptance of those of us who choose to live this way. For further reading on my decision not to provide an adult content disclaimer on my non-sexual posts, please see my post “LGBTQ+K: A Case For “Kinky” As A Sexuality“. Thank you.
Contains some strong language.
A look back on some of my memories from a very special bedroom.
What are you planning to wear tonight? xx
I’m not sure yet, I’m between a navy lace tea-length dress, black sparkly top and yoga pants or black smart trousers and a nice top xx
It’d be smart trousers and nice top for me xx
Right, that’s that decision made for me then, now all I had to decide – or rather, had to ask – was what top it is that I want.
As it was, I went for jeans and my black, sparkly leopard print heart top anyway, but that was because the black trousers felt underdressed, and yog pants felt too cold. It was an evening event, I decided, so not too formal and kind of partyish was the look. Right, that’s it, jeans and a sparkly top it is.
In the evenings, I nearly always default to black. We all have a colour that compliments us, and for me, that colour is nearly always black. Black is confidence, it’s mystery, and it’s strength, all of which are qualities that I have. Sure, black can denote aggression too, but then, anyone who truly knows me would know better than to fuck with me anyway. No, I don’t bite, scratch and pull hair. Instead, this one just has a wicked way with words.
I didn’t get much time for make-up, and I certainly didn’t get a chance for my hair. A 4:45pm pick-up from my mother never is 4:45PM. If Mum says 4.45PM, thenyou need to be ready to leave by 4:30PM, at least. Mum used to be in the Territorial Army, my grandfather was in the military and her brother, too, was a paratrooper. Mum doesn’t fuck around. If I want to scare my husband, barrel-rolling out of bed and being alert, active and ready to go is often the way to do it. I’m used to waking up with little more than a sip of water and a few breaths of fresh air on the go, but that’s not the point here. I lost track of time and so I wasn’t fully ready to go. Instead, I just had to go, exactly as I was.
One of my first regrets was the perfume that I’d sprayed on, because no sooner than I’d arrived, my few puffs and squirts of Caroline Herrara’s Good Girl (totally intentional, I promise) had been washed away down the sink. Nevermind attending as a party guest, I soon found myself acting as more of a spare pair of hands but, perhaps, with some added initiative.
“Dining table cleared?”
I tried to deliver my ways of cleaning – or at least my way of cleaning in a hurry – but that too, was hopeless. Carrier bags gull of shit put out of the way for organising later,? Nobody knew where they wanted them to go. The recycling that I’d rinsed and put aside to put out? I found my mother rifling through and deciding what glass jars she wanted to keep. For me, the last straw came when my brother came in from the garden, laughing with my father-in-law (who arrived early, despite me asking him to hold back) and sipping coffee. If nobody else was breaking their back, then I wasn’t about to, either. In the end, I sat down with my first pint glass of Ribena for the evening and relaxed. If you’ve ever seen Gordon Ramsay flip his shit (and who hasn’t?), then I was close. Trust me, Mum’s kitchen almost became Hell’s Kitchen, for sure.
The first to arrive were my late father’s brother, Uncle Trevor, his Australian wife, Julie, and their son, Tom. If you’d ever seen my Dad and my Uncle Trever next to one another, then you’d never believe that the two were related. Dad spoke with confidence, he spoke with clarity and tone. He said what he meant and meant what he said. He was also quick-witted and cheeky (which, you know, is probably where his daughter gets it from). By contrast, Uncle Trevor is incredibly shy, speaks with a quiet voice and isn’t at all sure of himself as a person. We hadn’t seen one another since Dad’s wake, so I supposed that I was still a bit of an unknown quantity to him.
For the first half of the evening, I sat next to my father-in-law who, seemingly, had little interest in talking to me. Instead, he engrossed himself in books from my mother’s bookshelf, so I just sat and people-watched for a while.
“Trevor, would you like to replace this for me, please?” Julie asked, handing her empty cider bottle to my Uncle Trevor, I winced. ‘Would you like.. for me?’. I’d never get away with that, not with Matt, and certainly not with Will. Ask directly by all means, but don’t manipulate. I realised then that had long been part of my submissive training: Ask directly for what you want, don’t manipulate.
Please Sir, can I suck your cock?
Back in the room, I got along well with Tom, but I really struck it off with Julie. Once the boys started talking football, I shuffled down to the other end of the room and talked all things Australia. We talked food, lifestyles, UK-Australia military and immigration policies and training partnerships, even post-EU relations and the handling of the Covid-19 pandemic. It wasn’t in-depth and dull, it was light, warm and friendly, just an Australian and a Brit engaged in deep conversation. I’d demonstrated my interest in Australia after our Australian snack-tasting, and Julie just wanted to know what I had to say.
“After the way we ditched Australia to trade with the EU, I think Australia was incredibly soft to be willing to take us back so easily.” I admitted. I could see Julie warm to me immediately, and Uncle Trevor’s body language changed from facing the boys, to engaging in the conversation with me. Admittedly, I lapped up that little bit of attention, it’s not often that I get the limelight focused on me when I’m around my immediate family. My brother is the artist, the poet, the singer and the storyteller, but me? I’m the reader, I’m the leader, the thought-provoker. I’m the writer
Yes, you’ve met them, but have you met me? It’s always the quiet ones…
“Are you still writing your blog?”, I looked up and smiled slightly at the familiar-but-somewhat-unwelcome face – Ronan.
“I am, thank you” I acknowledged. Just because you want to tear someone’s throat out for the way they once treated your family, doesn’t mean you can’t be nice to them. Kill em with kindness, Helen, atta girl.
No more was said on that matter, though I did sit with a somewhat smug smirk on my face as I spent time fussing the dogs. I’m not the only submissive here though, am I, Ronan?
By nightfall, I climbed the stairs that once took me up to my old bedroom. There were so many memories here, and the smells, sights and sounds reminded me of each of each of them in turn; the stairs creaked and they were steep, the way they always had been, even when my grandmother lived there. There was a change in the floor surface on the right-hand side of the small hallway between the kitchen and the lounge, a nod to the old back door step that had once been. Even the rear dining room window, I remembered, was my bedroom window at one time – my bedroom window before I moved out.
One of the first things that I wanted to do once I got upstairs was to take a photograph of the old view that I used to love. It’s not much to some and at night, the photograph isn’t very much at all, but still this view is very special to me.
In the distance is the M5 bridge – or the Avonmouth flyover, as it’s technically called – and I grew up even closer to it than this. From my childhood bedroom it as dull and it was noisy but up here, we had a much better view. More fascinating for me, though, was the docks situated beyond.
Sometimes I’d see the cranes in operation, I’d se the lights on in the ship’s bridge or I’d see a ship slowly crawl into the docks. Anytime I visited my grandmother, it was a special treat for me to stay up with her and imagine what was going on onboard those ships – what were they carrying? What conversations would that be having? What did the captain have for his tea?
Back in my old room, I drank in the unfamiliar sight of it all, the way that it was and the way that it had been. My old boiler-cupboard-turned-shelf unit was now an open clothes rail space, and there was a wardrobe where my old wall bed used to be. It felt familiar in an odd sense; even if it had been redecorated, my old lilac colour scheme hadn’t been changed.
I lay in bed for a while and thought of the room that used to be. Come to think of it, I kind of liked what Mum had done, but if it was still mine, what would I have changed? The black lampshade would be white for sure, and so would the black ladder shelf unit. Besides that though, I didn’t think that I would have changed anything.
The single bed soon became a bane of my existence,, too. I’m not at all used to beds with footboards, and slatted wooden bed frames make this once-innocent girl think bondage. This room is innocent, it is my innocent space and I’d prefer it if it stayed that way. Must not think bondage. Must. Not. Think. Bondage… Will. Not. Think. Bon- Oh, heck…
I fell asleep very much thinking bondage that night, but I also know that I had some of best sleep that I’d had in a while. I was sure that the mattress was memory foam and the pillow – the singe one that I had – was most certainly not duck feather like I was used to. What were my mother’s secrets? I simply must enquire.
I woke up around 7AM, then again when my alarm went off, at 8:30. The bed had consumed me in all of it’s squishiness and bondage thoughts and I was sure that I was destined to stay there forever. Reluctantly, I hauled myself out of bed and finally got started with my day.
“Ah! No! No clawsies! I am not a scratchpost!”. Bloody cat. I’m used to dogs, not cats. I love little Bendith, she’s cute and she’s snuggly and she’s very sweet. I love “Bendy” – apart from the pointy bits on the end of her feet.
“Are you going to let me fuss you? You don’t wriggle and squirm and growl like Hugo does” I muttered to her as I lavished attention and love on this little creature. I realised only one thing at that point- maybe someday, I actually would want a cat!
“Bendy… up” I ushered. Bendith just sat on the stairs and blinked at me.
“Go on, move!”. Up she went, four steps.
“Bendith, get upstairs! I don’t want you being the dog’s bloody breakfast, you daft cat!”
Turns out, I soon changed my mind on cat ownership. Stubborn buggers.
One by one, the remaining family (of the four of us that were) reconverged in the lounge for tea and breakfast. It was a quiet atmosphere, but not at all cold, reflective on the night before, perhaps. Everyone was tired, everyone was full of bad, carb-laden food, and everyone knew that we still had things to do.
“How are things with Will now?” Mum asked. Oh heck, she’s even remembered his name?
“Not too bad, thanks” I replied. “We’re still talking, but just as friends”. Okay, that was the not-quite-so-true part, but I’d had to make a selfish decision there, for me.
I felt guilty for lying to her like that, but I also didn’t want my mother all involved in all of my business, either. I’d already seen her look of dissatisfaction when I admitted that I was a vaccine sceptic (even if she is against mRNA technology herself) and I didn’t want even more judgement. She’d made bad decisions before, and this, maybe, would be one of mine.
Maybe, except that I was willing to run the risk and wager a bet that it might just possibly go in my favour.
Maybe, finally, I’d finally found the one who can get into my head and actually make a submissive out of me.
Listening to my mother berate men who are sexually dissatisfied after childbirth was hard, but I realised that with it, she was also incredibly misinformed. Speaking as someone who has experienced sexual rejection (though because of work stress, rather than childbearing responsibilities), I know quite how miserable it can make you feel. It’s not just about fucking and getting your end away. When your life partner tells you no, it can leave you feeling unloved and undesirable, it can decrease your self-esteem and trigger anxiety and depression. Let it be said, sexual rejection actually, really hurts.
Before I headed off, I wanted to do one last thing. I’d captured the sights of Avonmouth docks at night, but I hadn’t captured it during the day. I scrambled those stairs in a similar way to how my old fourteen year-old self used to and I took the final photo. Sadly, it was raining heavily and so it doesn’t show, but on a good day, you can see right across to to the vast green farm lands of Wales – that, there, is my favourite part!
Back at home, I realised just one thing: No matter how messy my home is right now, my mess can be managed. I make decisions about my messes and the things that I don’t want, I throw out. I might curse it now, but I can achieve a lot in 45 minutes and certainly I can achieve a lot more in that time than I can when my mother is right next to me, picking and choosing her way through bloody recycled jam jars.