Thoughts From Abroad

I have so much to say, so much to write about that I am afraid I am going to sound like a girlfriend gushing at you over a glasses of wine as we catch up.

You will have to forgive me I am afraid as I prattle from one topic to the next. I want to say everything for fear that if I do not I will forget something and it will sink like a shell to the bottom of the ocean. And I don’t want to write and rewrite – I want to tell you and then dash off again and live again. Forgive me if this is dull.

I want to write about all of it, how it feels, what it is, what we do, everything.

I arrived exhausted on Sunday at about 6 o’ clock. Do you know when you feel all drained and stinky and tired? That was me. I needed a cup of tea, a shower and less people around me. It had been a long flight and a long wait at Atlanta. I can never quite grasp the fact that I am going to see Himself. It is only walking towards him when it appears real to me, until that point it just seems that I am caught in airplane land, a world of tiny meals on tiny trays and disturbing closeness with other random people.

It amazes me (the let lag is not over yet, see how I jump from topic to topic) how it is possible to cross half the world in a single day. How is that possible? It should take months, it should be a perilous undertaking and yet neither of those things is true. I left my house in the morning when it was already light and travelled with the sun across the ocean and was in his arms before dinner. We live a world apart but within our own space, I do not understand the geography of what we do and how we are.

We have such an intense relationship that when we meet it always takes me a while to relax again when I see him. It is so overwhelming, such an onslaught of a range of emotions that I need time to know him again. This man knows everything about me.  That is a more managable truth when he sees me through a screen. Take the screen away and I am so shy, so overwhelmed that at first all I can do, all I can ever do is hand my head into his chest and wait until I feel safe again.

He is solid and calm, happy and patiently waits for me to find him in my own way and time. So that is how we waited for my suitcase, that is how we travelled to his home, that is how I drank my tea, sneaking glances over the top of the mug, blushing when I saw him looking at me.

He knows that I need the time to come down from one life and alter into the one I share with him. I have to be so independent in my regular life and having to catch two planes to find him I arrive with all my heckles up and my “don’t mess with me”* head on.

*An English “don’t mess with me” head involves saying “Excuse me” with a great deal of meaning and no little force and sometimes we may even say “Thanks” instead of “Thank you so much” although I rarely resort to that level of abrasiveness.

I know many girls are lucky enough to live with the man (or woman) that sorts them out and I am sure they must sometimes read my writing about spanking or submission (or lack of it thereof) and smile to themselves. Writing about these things without living them every day is like imaging what a glorious adventure it would be to go trekking across the arctic whilst you are snuggled up with your lap top in front of the fire. One only imagines that possible and the acceptable. One does not consider the fraught moments, the genuine rage at the loss of control as real life has the audacity to out run your expectations.

It is hard – this thing we do. It is hard to be spanked, the is hard to be told off, it is harder still not to rescind absolutely any agreement when a hard, hard hand makes a bottom hot, red and so sore that it seems it may never recover.

It is hard. It is very, very tough to accept, it is a struggle.

But I write this with a smile on my face because I have never been so kissed and so made love to.

**

I lay last night with a swollen, painful bottom under a threat of more if I did not settle down (I have been a tricky thing, from silly to pushing hard. I really am testing his mettle.) My head rested on his arm, it hung over in front of me, touching the fabric of my nightie so lightly that with each breath I took his fingers gave a touch as gentle as a butterfly against my right nipple which strained for his touch.

I wanted to be good. I wanted to rest as I had been told. He had not twenty minutes before made me bend over his lap and struck me so hard and with such rapid delivery across my already sore bum that my kicks and pleas were more heartfelt that either of us expected. It hurts more at first. My bottom is so unused to being spanked that every single swat shocks me. I love that he does it, I love how it does. I hate it when he does it. It really, really, really hurts. And it is hard to be told what to do or what not to do.

So there I lay in the dark, little gasps catching in my breath as his fingers alighted upon me, a tiny whisper of hope, an almost promise. This man, what he does, how he enchants my body with his words and his touch.

I pushed my bottom back, hot cheeks against his thigh. I moved my breast forward into his waiting hand and he responded.

Later I slept.

Here are the flowers he gave me. They are now on the table where we eat. I see his face next to them.

Tomorow we go canoeing. I do not believe that even he could spank me in a canoe. (Jokes about paddles only allowed for the first mile it has been agreed.)

I am very happy and I hope he is too because I just made him risotto.

Would you like another?