Writing About Writing

I hate this blog sometimes. It can be a lot of pressure. As I come up on a year of posting in this space, I find myself sick of much of what I've written. Some of it seems naive or too serious or too small for this journey that I've been on. It seems like nothing has been accomplished, nothing accomplished at all. I find new submissive blogs every week - well-written blogs authored by talented women - and I can barely bring myself to read them. It's disheartening for me because I used to think of submissive blogs as my lifeline and now...I can't do it. It all seems so repetitive. Are any of us unique in any way? Or are we all isolated in the same experience?

The one goal I have had over the past year is to present my submission unvarnished. There is an ugly side to submission, one borne out of great ambivalence and grief, that exists alongside all of the joyous self-discovery. I've tried not to shy away from that. Even when things were perfect, I never wanted to paint submission as a completely selfless or blissfully transcendent experience. Indeed, that honesty has probably turned off as many readers as it has attracted. It has garnered me many concerned e-mails and comments. Many of you think that I am being abused.

I am sick of fighting that fight. I am sick of justifying and explaining. Maybe I am being abused. Maybe I am complicit in my own abuse, or brainwashed, or deluded. Maybe I am so fucked up that I endure in this relationship that sends up red flags for many of you. Maybe you disagree, and see yourselves in me.

I don't know where to go from here. I've stopped struggling lately. I've let go of a lot of the hang-ups that kept me hung up in the early months and have let Him take me wherever he wants. I don't know if we're going anywhere in particular. Lately we've been swimming in circles. Things don't seem overwhelming and it feels a bit like a relief. We're enjoying this plateau we've reached and I'm not worried about the future or the past. Sometimes I forget the D/s dynamic entirely - it fades into the background even though it's always there - and sometimes it seems almost vanilla in its lack of edge. I like it that way. Maybe we don't need to go anywhere right now. Maybe we just need to live.

My past writing is an unwelcome reminder of all that needless struggle. At this point, I wonder what it was all about. I read all these submissives who are just starting on their journeys and I can't help but feel sad for all of the tears and pain that they will go through before the normalcy sets in. It may seem new and groundbreaking now, but soon they'll all be here, looking back and feeling like it was all for naught. They're exactly where they started.


He came out of the shower and into the bedroom with a towel around his waist. I was busy getting ready, so I didn't see the dark look in his eyes until it was too late.

It was my fault, really, I thought as he pushed me down onto the bed. I was standing there in only my panties. What did I expect?

There was no foreplay. He was angry and focused on fucking me how he wanted. This wasn't for me. He worked above me, barely looking at me, looking into the distance as I struggled to take him in. I put my hands over my face when it got to be too much. There was no asking him to stop, not without making it worse. If he saw me cry, it would only make him more excited.

In time, it was over. I hadn't come and he didn't ask if I had. My orgasm wasn't the goal. He was exorcising his own demons that day and I was just the receptacle.

He was businesslike as we got dressed after. I tried to clean his come off of me discretely, so he wouldn't notice that I was a mess. He wasn't concerned about it anyway.

The Last Part

"That last part?," I said quietly as we laid staring at the ceiling, sated. I spoke into the darkness with a hesitancy, uncertain how my thoughts would be received.

"That last part felt like...it felt like you should pay me afterward." I let the words hang there. I couldn't hear Him breathing.

After a moment, I heard the sheets rustle as he turned toward me. He put his lips close to my ear. "You liked that, didn't you, you dirty girl," he murmured slowly.

I wonder if He could see me blush in the dark.


He started in on me before I was even fully awake. He was hard and alert, even as I was groggy and cuddly, and he started putting me through my paces. I dragged through the first part of our early-morning activities. Maybe I didn't suck his cock as enthusiastically as he would have liked? Or maybe I was too busy wiping the sleep from my eyes to come on command?

He flung me over the side of the bed and fucked me hard from behind, taunting my reflection in the mirror. I buried my head in the sheets and tried to find my focus. I didn't want him to make me cry, not when I was already feeling so out of sorts. But the tears came quickly when he told me that all of my neighbors would know what a slut I am from the moaning that was coming from the apartment. I was ashamed and I didn't know what to do.

After a time, I slid to the floor to kneel at his feet. I looked up at him, looking for something, looking for a connection. He smoothed back my hair and smiled down at me. "You're such a good girl for me this morning, such a good little girl," he cooed.

I nuzzled his knee and smiled. He was proud of me. I felt instantly joyous and purposeful and centered. I was doing a good job. I was pleasing him.

When I sucked his cock again, I was more than enthusiastic and was rewarded for all of my hard work.


Things escalated quite quickly. We were slightly tipsy, and a routine blow job was rapidly turning into something much more aggressive. He choked me roughly and knocked me off of my knees onto my ass. He came after me, even as I tried to scuttle away. He knelt over my prone body and fucked my face harder. I wondered if He had lost track of how much I could take.

Before I could protest though, He picked me up and deposited me on my hands and knees on the bed. He reached around my waist to unbutton my jeans and pulled them down to mid-thigh. I expected him to take them all the way off of me, but instead he thrust into me from behind in one quick movement. I cried out in surprise, but the sound was muffled by the comforter. He was pressing on my upper back so that my face was smushed into the bed. He fucked me harder and harder, spurred on by my quiet screams into the mattress.

It was amazing, and so sudden. It was unexpected. There was nothing I could do but let myself be taken. As he pushed my head down and thrust into me more furiously, I was calm.