There Are No Incurable Ills, There Are No Unkillable Thrills

I recently picked up a copy of Neuromancer, which has what is regarded to be a particularly fine, if dated, opening sentence. “The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.”

I read it aloud to KillBoy, who immediately agreed that he could see why people love that particular opener, and mused that it reminds me of another opening sentence I favor. “The great grey beast February had eaten Harvey Swick alive”

While it’s perhaps not the fault of that traditionally dreary month that I have had more than a few weeks that tip the scales at more bad than good, I can agree I feel eaten alive. Work has been a clusterfuck, my anxiety has pretty much got me locked down and is affecting my relationship with KB, and I’m just now getting over a nasty cold I’ve had for over a week. So I’m going to blame February. It’s Feb 38th, right?

At least my darling husband is here to deliver me a little warmth.Upon hearing that I had a particularly bad day at work, he sprang into action to grab a bottle of wine and suggested that he take me out for sushi for dinner. It was exactly what I needed. The fish was so good tonight that I shushed him while I closed my eyes and chewed a particularly fantastic piece of salmon.

Back at home, evil pants shucked, I’m drinking the wine while listening to the Final Fantasy 8 OST, farting around on the internet and trying to decide on a fashion upper-body harness for when we make an amazon order later tonight. I’ve got a more utilitarian one picked out for him, but from an etsy seller. With any luck I’ll be able to order it before the summer kink con we’ll be attending.

Sometimes February and my state of mind are both grey, but his service and love are there to keep me running.

 

Where the Love Light Gleams

I’ve been drifting away from my family, particularly extended family, for some time. It’s not acrimonious. I simply find that more and more, I can’t smile and nod my way through another story about some fine mess they’ve gotten themselves into, or listen to the more conservative branch of the family tell horrifying dehumanizing “jokes”, at least not more than once or twice a year. Christmas with the family was particularly strained and trying this year, as they were in top form in regards to that in many ways.

Unfortunately, I have always loved the christmas spirit, adored the food and merriment and gift giving. Gift getting ain’t bad, but given the string of years in which my family saw fit to give me those dancing and singing gag gift toys, it’s not about expecting great presents.

I tried getting a little of the old magic in place, but everything felt hurried, family christmas was awful, KillBoy has feelings about the season that make him a little… flat about the whole thing, and I ended up feeling miserable.

Sometimes I forget that I’m terrible at being my own little island. While not an extrovert, I can be particularly susceptible to loneliness and feeling unwanted. I don’t really want to spend tons of time with my family of origin, but it’d be nice if they actually missed me.

What I really need is chosen family, and I do have a friend group that feels like I have a gaggle of close cousins. I ended up volunteering my home for my friend group so that we can bid adieu to this horrifying fucking year together, and I already feel much better for the planning of it. We’ve already started discussing who is bringing what of food and drink, and the fact that others are excited about the gathering is a soothing balm to my soul

With me less out of sorts, I’m very much hoping that this week will see me using the sap gloves he gave me as my gift. Sneaky boy remembered me saying that I wanted some longer than I remembered having said it!

Midweek Media: Whistle While You Work

If you’ve seen Kill Bill, you’re probably familiar with the whistling tune that gets repeated throughout. The internet tells me that it also got played on American Horror Story, and that it was written by Bernard Hermann for a British horror movie named Twisted Nerve.

It’s quite an earworm for me, including today when I heard this while driving to work:

As it turns out, this is not the only time it’s been sampled in rap, Cayman Cline used it in “Crowns” a couple of years ago.

I’m really enjoying this Glen Chaos instrumental version with added beats

And finally, of the samples/covers I’ve found and enjoyed, here are a pair of danced up versions

 

We’re Pulling in on Every Rope We’ve Thrown.

It is sometimes incredibly awful to be an adult with responsibilities. Like a few days ago when KillBoy came home from a half day at work just as I was leaving for work. Knowing I’m leaving my sweetheart behind for the treadmill timesuck that is my job is never an easy thing, but this particular time was especially difficult.

After greeting me with a kiss and letting me know there were tater tots in the lunch he’d brought home, he flopped down in the recliner. I went to the kitchen and ate half the tots while we talked about dinner that night. When I came back to the living room, he was all sprawled out over the chair with his shirt mostly unbuttoned. I know he had to have felt me giving him the once over and the look that said I’d strip and take him… if only I had time.

However, since neither of us is rich and there are bills to pay, I had to put my shoes on and head out the door. The image of him indolently enjoying his surprise shortened day kept me somewhat warmer of disposition throughout my workday, though with a touch of annoyance over how I was there resisting strangling my least favorite coworker instead of putting my hands on KillBoy’s body.

And of course, by the time I got home I was annoyed and dog tired, so that sex or play were off the table. A lot of days are like that. We plan to break out the toys and dress him up in fishnet and cuffs, but by the time our responsibilities are done with, we’re out of time or energy.

Still, I know myself to be incredibly lucky, to have the partner who is interested in building the domestic life that brings us comfort, who gets into my brain and swims around, who makes me feel loved and comfortable when I am weary.

Lucky too to have him when I’m feeling more energetic. Next time I’ll remember to put the toys away before opening the door to the maintenance guy. Chain makes way too much noise when you try to discreetly kick it under furniture.

A Blindness that Touches Perfection

I haven’t written anything non-fluff about my life in a while because sometimes the honesty seems like too much to bear. But the omission of certain things makes stories untrue at their heart and makes for finished writings that taste of synthetic flavoring.

This shit is hard.

It seems like it should be easy. I tell him what to do, he does it. Hell, I’m even easygoing about it: I don’t want a TPE because that sounds like work, I don’t want someone who wants to be micromanaged. I don’t have stories that mark me out as dominant since I was young, I don’t have weird playground stories, nor had particularly unusual teenage fantasies.

What I do have is years of power struggles within relationships. It’s not kinky. Some of those relationships were abusive, and I struggled against being subsumed. Against fear; of my partner, of being lost. Some of them were growing pains; struggles against partners who were just ill-fitting pants.

I finally made my first forays into bringing myself into the kink scene a little less than a decade ago. I’d had kinky sex, as a bottom, I’d even “sold” myself at a “slave auction” for charity at a “stand and model” fetish party, and been flogged by a terribly awkward dude, who’d have been a better top if he’d concentrated on the flogging and not whispering porny nonsense into my ear. I had no idea what” the scene” actually looked like, but instinctively I knew it didn’t look quite like the flashy parties I’d been to.

Where I went from there is hardly important in this context, only that I was in a time of learning about not only kink, but myself. I was thinking about how much I enjoyed a new top skill I was learning. I was thinking about not thinking of myself as just one thing to one person vis a vis kink. I was feeling like someone had walked up to me and said “hey, you’re holding that map upside down, oriented to where you’re trying to go.” It was a time where I was thinking about how to lay down those struggles.

I’ve talked about this before. How I was unprepared to meet KillBoy. How him at my feet felt good and right and also terrifying. I would go into this with no expectations because how could I have any? This was a situation we were inventing whole cloth. There were hiccups. There are always hiccups. That’s not exclusive to kink, that’s inclusive of all relationships.

But now I have a different angle on tearing myself up. I’m supposed to be in control. If things fail, how is it not my fault?

Life makes us all its servants, no existence so orderly that surprises do not derail occasionally, unexpected demands we must attend to. Ever since he moved to be with me, we’ve had transition, worries about the basic necessities of life. Kink has been a non-starter.

And then there’s the mental illness. Depression, anxiety, the well-worn paths of self-loathing that ex partners tried to pave into permanence. It’s been ugly lately, with his coping mechanisms leaking as they overflow, and my dammed up reserves bursting as I tearfully insist that I will never ever be better never and he should divorce me and save himself.

I’m grateful that my bold talk about no one being perfect is bolstered by Berkson addressing head on Eiren’s mental/physical needs in his blog, by Miss Pearl’s recent post about Wildcard’s being chronically ill. Because even if we work through the difficulties we have, treatments for our troubles aren’t cures. I suspect it’s a common experience, to believe  that no one can love one’s troubled brain, one’s flawed body forever. Caregiver fatigue is a real thing, and how many years can he take, where cleaning me up after I’ve cried until I’m red and hiccuping, is a slightly less than monthly occurrence in the good times, weekly in the bad? Will he ever believe me that his ailments are something I know will keep happening to at least some extent, and that I balance it against the good, finding him always worthy?

Stack all this together, and in my dark moments my brain tells me absolutely and without a doubt that I am a terrible wife. That the idea that I could even be a real top, nevermind a dominant is the dumbest thing I’ve ever been mistaken about, who did I think I was even kidding? There’s a certain grandiosity to the lowest of the lows; it seems reasonable to think that I’ll find myself divorced, again, and that my friends will all look at me and know I was a fraud, and I’ll never be able to show my face in the scene again because somehow everyone will know that I’m a fake. I’ll think: It’s just as well that the toys are gathering dust, because I have no idea what I’m doing, I’m boring at best and inept at worst, and KillBoy just doesn’t know the difference through lack of experience with people who actually do know what they’re doing. I’ll think: he wants me because I showed up and offered him what he thinks he wants but what he actually got was a hot mess.

We talked recently, about how to structure things to make them better and more workable for us, because things were badly defined, and things going unsaid sat under our skins like splinters. It was good. Hopeful. But when you spend this much time with a brain that generates its own poison, it’s hard to trust that things will work out just because you want them to. Regardless of whether things go well or badly, I have to work at knowing what’s me being realistic, and what is years of mental illness causing me to carve myself up again.

All I know for sure is that recently I read something written by another woman about how knocked off her feet she was by a submissive, just kneeling and giving her that look. I know the one, I know how much I miss that feeling of being on the receiving end, and I cried to read it.

We both want it back in working order, but that’s not going to magically happen without effort from us both. I can’t tidy all of that up or hide from it, not without embroidering our story until it’s an utter fairy tale. I’ve never lied here, but I have tried to tuck things away as if I were cleaning for a party and stuffing a closet with clutter.

So let’s start again.

I’m Ms Killjoy. I have anxiety, depression, not a lot of accomplishment to my name or a lot of faith in myself, but I do have KillBoy. He’s the one that gives me that look, especially when I wrap him in satin and chain. This is our life, where we care for each other as owner and pet. This is my love letter to him and to the dynamic that feeds us, though it may have spots of coffee and blood and tears in places.

Wonderful Electric

The difference, sometimes is in a decision that I could make.

He’s not one for mornings. Occasionally, some of the mornings are better and we stay in bed, talk, cuddle. I’ll let my hands wander and find him hard.

Rarely in those occasions, apologetic sounding, he’ll tell me that my normally appreciated touch is doing nothing for him, as he’s mostly numb.

I can withdraw. Cuddle. Talk about breakfast.

Or I can throw a leg over. Ride him hard until I see stars, dismount and go shower. No looking back.

It’s not so easy, no it’s not so easy to wait

unsatisfied with all my writing about real life, I offer you this fictional fantasy.

She’s more beautiful than I am; shining hair and sleek curves that always draw my eyes like blinking neon signs. I’m supposed to be above such things, I think, but taking such beauty makes me feel powerful, as if I’ve committed a daring art heist. As does the fact that I am abusing my position of power over her. There’s a school of thought that says that being her superior means she cannot choose to be here free of coercion. There’s also a school of thought that I favor, that says I do not give one single solitary fuck.

She’s looking up at me with wide eyes. “Please, ma’am…?”

I found it charmingly old fashioned that she referred to me that way, when she started here. Now, she understands without me even having specified, that I prefer it. I’ve no idea what she’s asking for; I have the notion that neither does she.

It’s rare these days that she enters my office at all. I speak to her no more than necessary, some even whispering behind her back that she’s out of favor. It’s endlessly amusing to me, as her work is in fact quite good, and I’m possibly more objectively fair to her than others simply because I know eyes are on us. However, tonight I found myself working past normal office hours, but with too little work to even consider taking home to spoil my entire night. I was surprised when I looked up at my open door, shards of words meant to tell the cleaning crew to skip my office catching in my mouth. She looks like a pinup. The clothing is entirely work appropriate, but too well framed to her figure, too flattering in color and perfectly groomed; the only thing worse for a woman than being not well-appointed enough is to carry off a look perfectly.

It was cinematic, the way she poured to the floor, dropping purse and coat on her way down, splashes of bright color against the grey carpet. There’s room for her, as I removed the chairs that had been sitting on the outside of the desk, to make any visitors stand before me, and preferably get the fuck out quickly. On her knees, palms down on the floor, she was breathing rapidly and trying so hard not to. Poor, poor thing. I pushed my chair back and stood up behind my desk, my own palms down on the surface while I looked at her, how her face wasn’t lowered, but still turned away, eyes closed. I stood back from the desk, looked down at my feet. A pity, that I have always been a Woman in Sensible Shoes in more ways than one. I kicked off my flats under the desk and walked around it, stopping in front of her. She looked down at my feet and slowly inched one hand over my right foot, petting it as gingerly as a wild beast that might turn on her. The light from my desk lamp was now blocked by me, the sudden darkness perhaps becoming the stimulus that made her look up at me.

Never, never would I tell anyone what her dark eyes do to me. It’s frankly undignified. Nor am I certain I could accurately describe it in words. I can only say that when she opens her mouth and quietly pleads with me that it’s like the sudden weightlessness of a roller coaster drop. Her hair is so soft in my hand when I reach down and stroke my fingers through it, so fine as it pulls through my fingers like sand leaking through the gaps. So taut when I close my hand around a fistful and push her down. She resists initially. For just a split second. It’s confusing, I imagine. Instead of my flat hand on her head, there’s a balled up fist both pulling on her hair and spiking knuckles into her scalp to force her down. After the hesitation, she goes down like expensive whiskey, like cheap sweet wine, deceptively mellow.

Her lips touch the top of my foot. Such gentle kisses, not just gentle but genteel. Reserved. Her hair is still in my hand, and I flex it, pulling until I know it hurts. She whimpers, and I can only laugh that it sounds slightly surprised, even now. I can feel from the tension radiating from her that she’s even more confused, is she supposed to do something? Nothing?

To be perfectly honest, I don’t know in the moment. I wasn’t expecting her here, now. I’ve gotten so used to, so spoiled by, messages from a kik account, that I would ignore or respond to at my leisure. There isn’t too much risk in her being here now, though any risk is so grave. So very serious, to threaten her livelihood for this. To threaten mine.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, shooting for as close to a growl as my voice will go without breaking.

“I came back for my phone. I got halfway across town before I realized it was still in my desk. And you’re here…” she trails off uncertainly. I hold her gaze, and her hair, until she breathes deeply and barrels on. “I just. I just missed you missed this I need it please please you haven’t called.”

It nearly gives me the giggles and spoils the mood. There’s something about that sweet note of desperation that gives me better ideas than any amount of free time to riff on masturbatory fantasy.

I let go of her, turning around in the same motion, secretly a little impressed with how well I execute the move. “Stand up. Strip. Then lock the door.”

She’s smart. She has to be because I have no patience, no amount of beauty could be attractive enough to excuse witlessness. I know she catches the way I increase the risk before mitigating it.

I know that’s why she’s here. Without turning around, I know that she’s looking at me in distress, knowing that I’ll pull her up short on any rearrangement of the order I’ve set out. There are several heartbeats of silence before I hear movement. The sound of clothes rustling, of muted hurry.  I’m dying to turn around and watch her. I softly bite my tongue, just enough that I can concentrate on the feeling and push back the need we both pretend I don’t feel.

The longer I stand there, the more I feel the sparks arcing up my spine, the more I feel heat in my face. I close my eyes, and indulge myself in the visual of turning around, grabbing her and shoving her down. I can feel myself grabbing her arm too hard. I’m hurting her for no reason, for the best reason. I love it when she squeaks in pain and swallows it, tries to take it for me. The wave of physical arousal that washes through me when I think about biting until she bleeds is almost enough to knock me out of my poise. She’s a fucking Waterhouse painting, ruddy cheeks and intense gaze and I want to shake her out of her frame.

Thankfully, the bolt in my door’s locking mechanism is a heavy thing, and clacks loudly against the muted electronic hum of a sleeping office block. As I turn around, she’s back in the middle of the small room. God, those fucking thighs. I want to bend her over and fuck her with any number of terrible mundane objects I have at hand, for daring to make me feel so out of control.

“You goddamn reckless slut” I hiss. I sound angry, even to my own ears. “Foolish, foolish…” I mutter audibly, as I’m reaching over and rummaging through the bottom of my purse. After finding what I’m searching for, I look her in the eye and point to my desk chair. “Sit.” The caution with which she eyes my closed hand, gripping something unknown, almost makes me have to turn away to hide a smile.

The sound of the chair squeaking when she sits down, the unease in her posture as she looks back up at me, the deepening confusion when I hold my hand palm up to show her a shiny metal coin… I’m breathing it in like pulling a hit of drug laced fumes.

“My grandmother, god rest her bitter, starched soul…” I begin coldly, pausing to roll the coin into place between my thumb and forefinger “… had advice for girls like you.”

I hold the coin out. She’s frozen, a rabbit that’s not sure if the hawk has seen it.

“She would say that stupid reckless sluts would be much improved if only they could learn to hold a dime between their knees.”

There’s a long pause, the sort where every breath seems like it should be as visible as a winter’s day exhalation. It feels inevitable that she reaches out and takes the coin from my hand, that she accepts whatever I have to give her. I find it extremely hard to maintain my poker face when she finally does so, for even expected victory is always sweet. Even so, she’s still moving in slow motion as she delicately tucks it in between her knees and looks up at me with an expression that mixes hurt and confusion.

I stand back, unzip my pants and slide them down over my hips. I can’t help but smile when they actually fall and puddle at my feet so that I can just step out of them. Had I had to bend and peel them off, I’d have missed the slow replacing of hurt with a gentle sunrise of hope on her face.

“Don’t move.”

Her hands are so delicate. Trying to follow my order to the letter, they’re limp as I pick them up, put them on the chair arms and curl the fingers under. I feel her muscles tense just before I let go, her making sure they stay exactly put when I lift my own hands away.

I don’t get to watch her this time, as I wiggle out of panties that would have been far less utilitarian had I expected this. Using my free hand to pull her hair, to pull her head back, my balled up panties are shoved just far enough into her mouth that she has to bite down to hold them in place. She knows better than to let them fall.

The chair is small, and I briefly worry as I lower myself onto her legs. I’m not sure I could salvage my dignity or the night if it broke under us. Shoved back against the desk, it seems sturdy enough as I slide across her thighs, centering myself over the left leg. As soon as I feel settled enough in place, I put a hand back in her hair, jerking her head back. I lean forward, pressing against her, my breath warm on her ear.

“She might have been right about that, but it’s a shame to see a slut not used for all they’re good for.”

Her responding whimper, barely audible, is the final thing I need, and I begin to grind my clit against her, making tiny rocking motions with my hips and feeling how she flexes her thigh muscles to meet me.

She’s panting and I pull her head back a little further, making her grimace and squeak. I desperately want to slap her face, to hear the sound of it ringing through the empty building, but I’m already making too much noise, squeaking the chair as I slide across her increasingly slick thigh.

“Dirty girl.” I exhale the words into her ear as I reach up and twist one of her nipples. “Just look at you.”

I’m so close. So fucking close. I just need. I just. I need.

I lean over to the desk again, still trying to rock against her, fumbling against papers and nearly knocking a mug off the side.

She gasps, loud even as muffled as she is, and then I see her bite down harder on my panties, as I catch her nipple in a binder clip. I see tears starting to collect in her eyes and I’m seeing stars. Oh god. Oh god.

“Just look at you, and look at how you like it.

A tear rolls down her cheek as I pull on the clip, and I’m thinking about how I’m going to hurt her when I get her where I don’t have to be so careful, so quiet. In my mind’s eye, she’s already spilling more tears and I’m there now, rocking harder, hand on her neck, oh god. Going to hurt her. Oh god.

I come with a hiss, bucking and clawing fingernails into her neck.

She’s stiff, holding me up as much as holding still, until I creakily get off her. I take the panties from her mouth and toss them in my purse.

“Go to the chinese place around the corner. Get the usual order. I’ll see you at my house.”