This is the first piece that I have been told to write. He told me to write about what happened and to post it here. I have left it until the last possible minute and am punching out letters with little grace and a scowl on my face.

***
Going through all of this is like being loved through scar tissue, through bruises, through a thousand burns and pain that is etched into pain, so that even the love feels sore.

I have never been loved like this before; I have been loved, just not like this.

***
About a week ago I threw a big strop, a temper tantrum, no kicking or stamping of feet but a tantrum nevertheless. We were talking and eventually we stopped talking. Just as people do, just to go and do the next thing, it was nothing.
But for some reason I took it to mean that he did not want me, that he rejected me, cast me aside.

So I threw him away from me in a fit of pique and defensiveness over this imagined slight, an inference from words unsaid. For over twenty four hours I sulked and stropped, ignored or spat out polite meaningless messages designed to allow me distance and sanctuary.

I find it hard to unpick my behaviour, even now that I look on it with horror and hindsight. I know that I was unhappy and defensive and I hurt him, I hurt me, I hurt us and I hated it.

So in the dark of my delusion I wrote my escape plan. I would not allow him near to me; I would not allow him in. And that is what I did. I put on my armour (sadly it transpired that the spikes were on the inside) and I was flippant and short and said nothing or, when forced, said little.

He came to get me. I still do not know how and I have no idea why. I would think it easier and wiser to let me go.
I had no intention of letting him find me, or of speaking to him about what I felt or where I was. But still he came.

Gathered into him I was enraged, still kicking out and spiteful, spitting little jabs into him.

I do not understand his kindness or his patience. I do not understand the effort he makes with me when I am horrid. There are a million better girls than me and another million less troublesome. I am confused about this bit even now.
I think this is what it may mean to be loved. Knowing my faults he comes to me still, he brings me to him no matter what I do.

He calmed me and spoke to me, a girlfriend whisperer, slowly forceful with a strong and gentle grace.
Suddenly I found myself, in his arms, horrified with what I had done.

We talked; he explained it and he helped me to understand myself while not once making me feel bad or guilty, just aware of what had happened and how it had affected us both.

I was sorry. I was also three thousand physical miles away from him. I needed him, needed to be right by his side. I miss him every moment of every day but at that moment our temporary separation felt like a disaster.

We both knew that if I was with him he would (I blush and shake to write it) take me firmly over his knee until I cried out and then … there would be more and then more until it was all right, all as it should be. I cannot write about this. It is events from my imagination born from shame of what I have done and it overwhelms me to even try to write it.
We both knew how much I needed him to do these things. We both knew that we could not wait until we were together before he acted.

Instead he made me write lines. I know. I did not expect that either.

I have to admit that when he told me I had lines, one hundred times- “Himself loves me and I must not push him away.” I felt that mixture of relief and sorrow I get when I feel I have got away with something.

I smiled just now as I typed that as I know these words off by heart now.

However, when I actually wrote the lines I did not smile. I thought at first how easy it would be to complete them. I knew that it could have been so much worse. Either a gazillion more lines or a much worse thing to do- some friends emailed me and told me of things they had heard of that made my hair turn white so I knew I had got off lightly.

They had to be neat- which considering my writing looks it has been done by a spider receiving electric shock treatment is no mean feat.
They had to be in by a specific time- which considering I am obstinate and find it very difficult to be told what to do was just asking for trouble.

So I did not complete them on time- I did sixty out of the hundred and turned up to talk with a smile and a flourish believing that would get me through and I could get an extension once I showed him how lovely and forgivable I am.

It did not get me through. I am trying to tell you this in a matter of fact way but I do not feel that in the least.

He made me (feel the passion in my words) go and get my pen and paper and finish them in front of him. He watched and sipped his drink in a nonchalant manner while I sat there with my head bent forward scribbling on a bit of paper. He spoke to me about this and that and when I paused and looked at him he told me to get on with it and I found this so embarrassing that I was glad to bend down over my paper so he could not see my face. It was horrid.

Was it bad because he made me do it? Or was it because he would not let me smile and get away with it?
Was it bad because it is a childhood punishment?
Was it bad because he made me read the line to him, patient as I went red and stuttered?

I do not know.

I know that in two clicks you could find some girl who has had to complete some terrible feat by way of apology and post pictures of her troubles and that in comparison my little tale is just that, little.
I think in a way that would have been easier- some perverse (by design) task that is a million miles away from who and what I am. That would be a task I could separate myself from and see as not part of me or my life. I could boast of my bravery or know that I could distract you with debauchery which would make me prouder with the telling. I realise that kind of task would force me to raise my defences and be brave and so not be altered, not be shy – I would have to remain hard of shell.

For me, this event, this task was as much as I could take and learn from.

It was simple, meaningful and life altering.

I think I am learning something as I write about it. I think I understand now that those big domination acts (that I see with wide eyes and feel very small next to) are not as meaningful to me as these more simple ones. I say “domination” and I think leather trousers and candle wax and so it does not feel anything to do with my life, it feels like a fetish party that I could not cope with.

These simple acts of control and punishment (I used the word at last) devastate me beautifully, kindly, completely. They pour love over my old scars.

I sit here and shake my head. I still do not understand.

But I know he loves me and I must not push him away.

Would you like another?