No arty photo this week. This one is a straight-up catalog of the various items that Gawan used on me: mostly implements for impact, but with a couple of bondage pieces thrown in for good measure.
It was very clear to me that he was using the impact implements lightly, even though I generally didn’t see him landing the blows. Logic tells me he would have started at zero and then ramped up until I was reacting, which didn’t take long at all. I definitely had a sense that he wasn’t putting much weight into it*, which I suppose I intuited from the speed of the strokes and the fact that his breathing didn’t change.
The leather paddle got the most use – it gave him the reactions that he liked best. The birch was the most… memorable.
[*With one exception, which I may write about.]
Some months ago I pointed out the existence on my blog of both a mystery and a clue to solving it. The mystery is still out there and there have been plenty of clues lately. I don’t want to tell you what the mystery is because it might give away the game completely and that wouldn’t be any fun.
So, do you know what the mystery is? And have you solved it? Let me know in the comments.
I’m wrecked today, and I’m not entirely sure why. Part of it was having to be social in the same small room as my younger sister, whom I find … difficult.
I was also expecting to be grilled, or at least lightly quizzed, about my trip overseas. The entire purpose was to visit Gawan but I had sold it as tourism. I wasn’t sure what to expect, because the person who was asking is someone I don’t know very well, and I thought she might turn out to be more curious than my mom. Apparently not. The “grilling” amounted to one question: “So, how was your trip?” To which I replied, “Really good!” At one point I threw caution to the wind and showed a few photos on my phone, after carefully scrolling past images that I had posted to the blog. No mishaps, I’m happy to report.
So here’s some new incriminating evidence that I added to my phone this evening.
The other day it was finally cool enough for denim leggings (aka sprayed on jeans), which meant I could wear them with the Breton shirt I’d bought on my trip (balanced stripes in navy and white). With a trilby and nice leather sandals, I looked put together and rather presentable. Wolf was wearing flattering new jeans with a T-shirt, and somewhat dressy black shoes.
Wolf wanted to buy some hardware to make me some leather cuffs, so we headed out to a store that carried saddlery and tack, among other things. The place was quite large so we were fairly invisible, but they didn’t have what we needed. We went to another shop, which was boutique sized, and there was no escaping the clerk’s attention.
As Wolf picked out buckles, loops and clips, I wandered around to see what other stock they had: saddles; leather care products; riding boots for people who actually ride; horse medicines. And then this collection of whips and crops in the corner caught my eye. Er, these implements are a little advanced for me yet, but it pleased me to see them there: shopping becomes more entertaining when you have a dirty mind. I snapped one quick pic, hoping that I didn’t give away the game by paying too much attention items that are so easily pervertable.
The experience was reminiscent of a time when I was the retail clerk. I worked at a women’s clothing shop in a mall, and the clientele were mostly in their 30s and 40s. One quiet evening a couple came in. I pegged them as mid-40s. She was wearing a navy top and a matching knee-length navy-and-white striped skirt. I think he was wearing a suit.
While his wife shopped, he entertained himself by looking at the jewelry. Well, tried to. There wasn’t much and it wasn’t great. So he struck up a conversation with me, leading off with a complaint that the jewelry was crap. I couldn’t argue – he was right. I suppose he started to hear himself and thought his tone was inappropriately negative, so he said, “I do have good taste in jewelry though,” and from the bag he was carrying he withdrew a little object to show me. It was a tiny ziplock containing a captive bead ring, so I asked what was pierced. “My wife’s labia,” he said. Er, I kind of walked into that one, didn’t I?
So there we were, many years later: my partner is picking out benign-looking materials while I’m entertaining myself by looking around in a saddlery shop and thinking about being restrained and possibly cropped.
I never thought I’d be like that. I never thought we’d resemble that couple in the slightest. God, I never imagined myself wearing navy.
We find this shot sultry and sexy, due in part to the use of shadow, and also to the stunning form on display. We also get a decided voyeuristic vibe off of it; it feels to us like we’ve just walked into a room and discovered Sex Is My New Hobby asleep on the sofa in the altogether, and that’s definitely a scenario we find exciting.
Today the sun was warm but the air was cool; the seasons are definitely changing. The highlights of my day have been completing a stage on a highly irritating work project (it’s done unless it gets bounced back – cross your fingers for me), doing some ironing, and digging up potatoes.
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In the lead-up to the trip, I spent some time fantasizing about Gawan. That didn’t come easily though: it made me feel disloyal to Wolf.
After my first date with Gawan, I happened to mention to Wolf that I hadn’t really done any fantasizing about that trip in advance, which surprised him. How would I know whether I actually wanted to do anything sexual with Gawan if I didn’t even try it out in the safety of my mind first? Good question. Wolf not only didn’t mind, he expected it — and it was a valid exercise to help me figure out what I wanted.
But I was also aware that a fantasy is fiction, designed by me, for me. What Gawan did in the fantasy would be exactly what I wanted, limited only by my own self-knowledge. I didn’t want to set real-Gawan up for failure compared to fantasy-Gawan, and I didn’t want to set myself up for disappointment when I eventually had to face the fact that real-Gawan wasn’t psychic.
So I let my mind roam, but cautiously: I imagined my arrival. I’d go through passport control, heave my bag off the carousel, exit through double doors that hid the public arrivals area from view. Once I passed through the doors, there would be a crowd of people standing beyond the barrier and looking expectantly in my direction. Somewhere in that crowd, one man was looking for me. I’d scan the faces. Ah, there, to my left. We’d smile at each other, while I pushed my cart toward him and closed the distance.
The way I’d constructed the scene turned out to be gratifyingly accurate. I got a few details wrong: passport control was done by a camera not a person; the airport was a little older than I’d envisioned, and the ceilings lower. But that irrelevant detail of him being to my left — that was actually correct. I hadn’t predicted that he’d pull out a bottle of Coke with a flourish, out of (very valid) concern that my blood sugar was about to crash.
Next step: the hug. When Gawan had arrived in my city many months earlier, we had our very first hug. I’m naturally reserved, and I was finally meeting in the flesh a man whose presence in my life had so far been limited to a flow of data through the internet. That first hug was kind of awkward, which, knowing me, was probably inevitable. He was exhausted from a grueling trip, but I know I was holding back.
When I imagined this second meeting, I crafted a new hug. It was the culmination of long hours of airports and airplanes, months of pensive waiting. I felt more sure of him, of the relationship, of myself. So I’d fling my arms around him unreservedly and press myself against him, my head against his chest, and smile contentedly (not that he could see), just savoring being there, with him. Did I imagine all those details, or am I remembering how it actually happened? I’m not sure. Does it matter?
Once we got to the quiet train station, he strode away from the few other people and claimed a seat on a bench at the far end of the platform. I cuddled up next to him. As with the hug, this was a way of overwriting the ambiguities of the first date — and my overly conservative estimate of the proper personal space allowance when sitting on a bench beside my internet boyfriend.
The plan was to stay at a hotel near the station for the first night, then trek back to his place the next day, which gave me two likely settings in which to imagine our first fuck. Despite its inherent sexiness, I did not see it happening at the hotel. I’m not entirely sure why, but I suppose it felt a bit rushed and impersonal.
That’s not to say that the hotel room was a scene of chasteness and decorum. It was small, and the two beds (one double, one single) filled it, such the most inviting place to sit was at the foot of the double bed. We came in, we sat, we kissed, we touched. My pants were off within about 5 minutes after the door closed, and I was naked not long after that.
I had gotten much more rest on the plane than I’d thought possible, so I didn’t immediately need a nap. What I got instead was a spanking, followed by a touch of the flogger, and then the leather paddle (in other words, “the travel kit”), while wearing a pair of black, fun-fur-lined leather cuffs.
I was more than satisfied, and happy to leave things there. Fatigue eventually caught up with me and I crashed.
When I got up this morning, I was feeling fit. Or at least looking fit. I’m fairly sure my fitness level hasn’t changed substantially in the last three days. And sometimes the light is kind.
It turned out to be an odd day.
I just found out yesterday that an acquaintance had passed away, and the funeral was today, about an hour and a half away. I didn’t know her well, but I have a connection to her and her family, and I had attended the funeral of her daughter eight years ago. I like and respect her husband, and offering support to him was the main reason why I went. They’ve had a rough go of it – undeserved hardship and tragedy. He wasn’t expecting to see me there but was glad I came. I shook his hand and gave him a hug, and that seemed to be the most important thing in that moment. The only important thing, really. Human connection. Empathy.
The sky was mostly sunny, and changeable all day. The clouds were perfect.
I deduced that there had been a little patch of rain when I saw the telltale spume following a big truck down the road ahead of me. When I drove over that patch of road, the view in the side mirror was faintly tinted with rainbow.
Trees are turning yellow and farmers are bringing in the crops. I stopped at an abandoned farmhouse and outbuildings to see how they’d work as a location for a nude shoot. The house itself seems unusable – small, dark, filled with junk and rat poison – though the side of buildings not visible from the road could work as backgrounds. Perhaps not the best timing at this time of year, however; the farmhouse may be abandoned but the farm isn’t and I ran into the farmer as I was leaving. Oops.
When I got home, I was tired and had a tension headache. But felt a vague sense of accomplishment nonetheless.
It was a year ago today that I dropped Wolf off at the hospital for scheduled, but still life-saving, heart surgery. (Bicuspid aortic valve not shown.)
His bravery was business-like; it needs to be done, so do it. Simple. Mine was the kind that acknowledged the fact that one possible outcome was cataclysmic but improbable and that I was powerless to influence the result, but I somehow got through the day anyway.
The blood was all his: he barely avoided getting a transfusion.
His body had betrayed him, and no longer felt like home. Still doesn’t, not quite. He’s off the other meds but will continue to get regular blood tests and take blood thinners.
But I still have my beloved, and that’s the most important thing on this, his re-birthday.