Let me whisper in your ear
|
Posted:May 28, 2020 12:17 am
Last Updated:Jun 4, 2023 9:32 am 12204 Views
|
I've started making audioporn clips. Alt, of course won't let me link to them. You can find them here:
soundgasm.net/u/DesperateDoll
.
|
|
|
7
Comments
|
|
You made me forget myself
|
Posted:Jul 31, 2021 10:34 am
Last Updated:May 5, 2024 3:17 pm 6706 Views
|
We wake up late, coffee and pastries in bed. Last night was intense, raw conversation and fucking. This morning we are quiet, easy with each other.
The drive to the quarry is sunlit and comfortable. I'm excited to show you this place. I've imagined bringing you here. I belong to this land, I tell you. I carefully do not tell you I belong to you too.
We wander aimlessly between the trees, navigating brilliant sunshine and dappled pathways. Now holding hands, now stopping to listen to birds, now to watch insects and investigate flowers, now to breathe in the petrichor deeply.
Clambering to the top we look out across the county. We walk a curious maze of pebbles, delighting in reaching the centre. I try to remember the rhyme from Labyrinth, but it's been too long.
We walk down by the river and find a spot just hidden enough. The change in you is almost imperceptible. Almost.
Your fingers tighten in my hair and you turn me to face a nearby branch. I reach out to hold it and feel the tug of my knickers being pulled to my knees. You begin to talk to me.
You tell me anyone could happen on us now. You tell me I should be ashamed to be so easily exposed. You tell me even you are shocked by how wet I am.
When you lift my skirt and begin to hit me, I do worry a little. What will we do if someone hears the noise and comes to investigate? Sharing my thought, you suggest that maybe there will be a group of young men, that when they see me like this they will know they too can do whatever they want, that perhaps you will leave me here, like this, just to see what happens.
Your cock is warm against my lips, comforting. I take you deep inside my throat, your hand steadying the back of my head. It's a curious sensation to be so much in the open and so entirely wrapped up at the same time. The video you send me later barely touches the surface of my enthusiasm to taste you.
Moving behind me again you slide smoothly, slickly inside. The moss is soft beneath my fingers as you drive into my cunt just a little too forcefully to be comfortable. You laugh as you alternate between punching my ribs and telling me you ought to rub the nettles that surround us into my cunt. As ever, my reaction to both is complicated.
Inevitably we are interrupted. A snatch of voices, a of twigs, and you release me silently. Both carefully smoothing clothing, grins that betray us as we pretend to consider a nearby bush. Laughing in your arms in this moment is pure delight.
We get caught in the rain shortly afterwards. Sitting on a fallen tree to recover ourselves, not quite sheltered enough. Being together like this is already magical, but the world seems to conspire to support it today. We stop to explore the kitsch delight of a hidden teashop, closed and booked up until next year, before home.
I cook and we listen to music. I wanted to watch a film, but of course we don't. We eat, and talk, and fuck until we fall asleep. I would live this life, if we could, but sometimes a day is enough.
|
|
|
1
comment
|
|
Taken in Hand
|
Posted:Jul 7, 2021 10:11 am
Last Updated:May 5, 2024 3:17 pm 6762 Views
|
I have this fantasy sometimes of being an object. Not reduced exactly, although sometimes I would be, but more generally a possession without subjectivity. Prized, loved, valued, but not expected to be an actual person.
It's a pretty selfish fantasy, of course. Freedom from the responsibilities of adulthood, from the burdens of normal human existence. There would be other burdens, no doubt, and in my fantasy these are always genuinely awful. There are parts of my fantasy life I hate. But I find myself longing for them nonetheless.
The freedom not to choose how to spend my time, or the direction of my life, matched by the inability to choose not to be hurt, physically, emotionally. The two would likely occur simultaneously, often. 'No, you may not get involved in this new project, however exciting it sounds. Who would look after our home, if you spent your time outside it?' Oh yes, this is definitely a misogynist, or at the least patriarchal, fantasy.
Many years ago I encountered a group online calling themselves 'Taken in Hand'. I've no idea if they still exist. Their approach was a fairly normal (for some definitions of normal) traditional household style of domestic discipline. The head of household set the direction and had ultimate authority over its members, with varying degrees of micromanagement.
The women - for it was mostly submissive women in the group of course - I spoke to there told me that the peace they felt at having been 'taken in hand' by their partner was a joyful trade for the pressures of modern life. I don't doubt that some of them even really lived that way (perhaps some still do).
In exchange for this peace, they committed themselves to making the home a sanctuary for their partner. Somewhere he (and it was almost always, although not exclusively, he) could both unwind from his work day, but also somewhere he could release his tensions and aggressions on his partner, without any sense of needing to hold bac These were not relationships in which safewords or limits or ongoing negotiations were common.
In many cases this also combined with a cuckqueen dynamic, in which the submissive partner was either denied orgasms entirely or restricted somehow and the head of household instead focused his sexual energies on other women, sometimes in their home, sometimes elsewhere. That combination of being utterly dependent on someone and watching them exploit that dependency is fucking catnip for my emotional masochism.
Of course there are problems with this arrangement. Not least because we don't live in a world where most households can function on only one person's salary. But that doesn't make the fantasy any less appealing.
It seems unlikely I will ever live anything even close to approximating that kind of life. It's easy to claim that's probably for the best, and no doubt really it is, but there are times I can't help but imagine it as a way of life, and, sensibly or otherwise, I'm always filled with a kind of whistfulness. It's easy to long for a life that's unreachable, I suppose.
Instead, as ever, time to recommit to taking myself in hand. Such is the life of an actual human, I suppose. Condemned to be free, etc. Sartre would be proud.
|
|
|
0
Comments
|
|
I feel so safe in your arms
|
Posted:Jun 22, 2021 12:25 pm
Last Updated:Jul 7, 2021 10:10 am 6900 Views
|
I am not.
Every time you strike me, I know the blow is coming, and I am still shocked when it does. You take care to line up your fist, your knee, your foot, against my ribs, my stomach, my jaw, my cunt. The pain comes in two waves: the initial suddenness of the impact, and then the throbbing ache that follows.
I love/hate the pain/you/the bruises/myself. I worry that there is something wrong with me that I dream about you breaking my ribs, bruising me so visibly I can't explain it away, knocking out a tooth, making me throw up from the shock or the pain. You are so beautiful. I don't know if that is why. I think about how beautiful you are a lot though.
You do make me throw up this time. It doesn't take anything as dramatic as a punch. Just the usual throat-fucking, taken to its inevitable conclusion. I feel so ashamed at the mess I have made. You laugh at my embarrassment and have me bend in half so you can insert speculums in my cunt and in my arse.
This is just as awful as I imagined it would be. Painful, yes, but the intrusive violation is worse. It's hard to understand how it is possible to feel more exposed than simply naked, but this is something else. Even my insides are open to you now. More laughter.
The smell of the cigarette does strange things to my brain. It's been years since I quit. I still crave the nicotine. You don't want me to smoke it though. You kneel between my thighs. I desperately want/can't bear to loo I think that the fear of what will happen is worse than the moment you press the burning tip to my cunt will be. It isn't. I don't know how long you burn me for. There is more than one cigarette in the glass when you're done.
Your arm around my neck occupies this confusing place of being both comforting and threatening. As you squeeze, I feel embraced and afraid, dizzy with love and fear. As my head swims and my vision blurs, I am so grateful to you for your arm around my throat holding me up.
Later still, the needles pushed through my skin are a surprise. Not because I didn't know they were coming, but because the sharp pain is followed immediately by a blissful euphoria. I didn't know it would feel like this. You look at my wonder with satisfaction. You did, of course. Is this why you wanted to do this, or would the hurt have been enough on its own?
But more than any of these - all horrific in their own right - being made to degrade myself with my own voice breaks me a little.
Tell me you're worthless.
I am worthless.
Tell me you're unlovable.
(Sobbing)
Tell me you're unlovable.
I'm unlovable.
Of course you are. Who could love you? Look at you.
(Hiding behind my hands)
Tell me you're disposable.
I am disposable.
At least you can be useful to me. For now anyway.
(I can't speak for crying so uncontrollably. It all feels/is so true.)
Tell me you love me.
I love you, Daddy.
Of course you do.
Of course I do.
You tell me I am your gorgeous girl and a stupid little cunt with exactly the same tone, the same emphasis. Until, in the end, they sound the same to me. Being both to you is enough though, if it means I get to be anything to you at all.
|
|
|
1
comment
|
|
Disorganised attachment
|
Posted:Jun 22, 2021 12:20 pm
Last Updated:May 5, 2024 3:17 pm 6523 Views
|
I tear off little pieces of myself in the hopes you will like them. Burn holes for you to see me through. Scoop myself apart to show you I am here.
I can't be here. I am not in fact here. But I couldn't be anywhere else without you. I do it to myself, of course. How could I not?
My bruises are real. I am made real where you have hurt me. My scars are real. Reminders that I have mattered to you. Even if only for a moment. It's all on the surface, but it seems surface is all there is of me.
I ask after her. After them. I can't help myself. It kills me that you tell me. It would be infinitely worse if you did not.
You make me dizzy. Your arm across my nec Your fist against my temple. Your cock deep inside my throat. Your sudden changes from gentle to cruel, from cruel to gentle.
You tell me that I am unloveable, but that you love me nonetheless.
You tell me that I am a stupid, stupid girl, but that I can still be a good girl for you.
You tell me that it is pathetic that I need you, but that my neediness is charming for now.
Things you use to hurt me:
Your fists
Your teeth
A paddle
A crop
Cigarettes
Dildos
A speculum
Clamps
Electricity
Your cock
A bat
Needles
A knife
Wax
Your words
Your laughter
My love
|
|
|
0
Comments
|
|
The Whole World
|
Posted:Aug 30, 2020 11:03 am
Last Updated:Jul 7, 2021 10:42 am 10442 Views
|
I really do feel like a doll in your hands. Not a sex doll exactly, or even a mannequin. More like a Barbie or the cheap own-brand equivalent that gets bought in the knowledge that the hair will be cut off and the clothes replaced with ones made out of torn-up bits of paper towel. You make feel small and vulnerable; safe and afraid in equal measure. Nothing terrible will happen in your hands, unless you will it.
You do, of course.
When you tell that knowing that you could my neck if you decided makes you feel tempted sometimes do it, I believe you. When you tell that you won't because that would mean you couldn't fuck me anymore, I wonder if you mean you wouldn't immediately afterwards while I was still warm. Your death and necromancy fetish lends itself easily these kinds of thoughts.
You are a mixture of sensuous and shocking, coiled around , serpentine, as you take apart. Long smooth strokes along my ribs, sudden violent slaps and punches my cunt. Your fingers curl in my hair, around my throat, dig into my flesh.
Your teeth sink into the skin and muscle of my outer arms, my tits, my inner thighs. All of the places most tender and vulnerable to their violent incision. Your mouth seizes my throat as your fingers find my cunt and the push and pull of you punching and tearing into leaves my body bruised, both visibly and inside.
Little wolf cub, you call , when I bite you back, just a little, and you laugh. We both know this isn't rebellion, but . Bite harder, you tell , bite my cock, it can take it. When I do, you moan and thrust your head, with its sealed metal ring, past the entrance my throat making gag and panic. More laughter. You can take it, be a good girl, you tell , as the grip on the back of my neck pushes lower, ensuring I have no choice but be good.
You spend the briefest of time sliding your cock into my desperate slick cunt. Almost as if you just needed to remind yourself that it isn't really what you want. Your satisfied grunt each time you force your way into my arse gives way to growls and swearing. For me, the pain, still present every time, and the blissful, ineffable headspace of being used like this means I don't really know what I am, if I am, for a while.
You tell me to push back against you. You can still cry, you say, it's ok to cry, but I want you to push your arse onto my cock, show me how enthusiastic you can be, even if you have to fake it, show me how much you love me.
I do all of these. I couldn't do anything else, knowing this is what you want: my love, my tears, my enthusiasm for your violation pour out of me. Your hands dig into my hips before closing around my throat. I increase my movement, impaling myself as roughly as I can. The pain is transcendent and my head spins. That's my good girl, my good doll My vision blurs as I feel your cum burst deep inside me.
|
|
|
1
comment
|
|
All flesh is grass
|
Posted:Aug 24, 2020 2:11 pm
Last Updated:Aug 25, 2020 11:06 pm 9945 Views
|
My body is strong, powerful from exercise and walking;
flexible from stretching and bending myself into more pleasing shapes.
I am slender. Lean. Supple.
Sure of myself, of the control I have over my body.
Of the effect I have on you.
But my flesh, my flesh is so fragile, so malleable.
Easily marked, bruised, broken.
The way inside is through my skin, my muscles, my bones.
If you want to reach inside , you have to rip apart.
Use your hands, your strong, powerful muscles, your nails, your teeth, every part of your body, to tear mine into pieces.
Your fingers are steel when they grip , , rough, sharp when they plunge inside .
Your teeth sink deep into my neck, my arms, my breasts,
Deeper still into my ribs, my hips, the inside of my thighs.
I flex and moan beneath you, but this is not my body now.
Your cock joins your hands and teeth inside , brutalising from within.
All the power I had, all the control, is yours,
All I can do is whimper and beg you not to stop
Please, please don't stop,
Tear into tiny pieces, destroy each part of in turn.
Pour yourself into , leaving no space for any part of to remain.
I am complicit.
You know that, you know that's why I am here.
But I won't help you destroy .
I can't help you, even as I want desperately for you to succeed.
You have to take .
Anything else would be a lie, a game.
I didn't come here to play.
When I ask you to destroy me, I mean it with a seriousness that should make you afraid.
I hope you are not afraid.
This is what I am here for.
|
|
|
0
Comments
|
|
But they don't fall down
|
Posted:Aug 23, 2020 3:43 am
Last Updated:Aug 30, 2020 1:03 pm 10072 Views
|
I had a bit of an emotional wobble last night. It began last Sunday when I had a tyre blowout on my bike while I was riding it. If you've ever been on a motorbike, you can probably imagine the panic that provoked. I didn't come off. I'm pretty proud of that, although it was more luck than judgment (a catchphrase for my life). So I called the AA and they came a did a temporary fix, then on Friday I limped it down to my garage for a new tyre and MOT.
The wind was fierce on Friday. Going the miles across open countryside there with an untrustworthy tyre, then the same back with a new (and therefore slippery) tyre was scary. While in town I also had a meeting with some work colleagues and a reasonable walk through the city centre to get from the garage to my meeting and back, which meant being around lots and lots of people, many more than at any point in the last 6 months.
So come Friday night I was exhausted. I ended doing a few things for someone - I shouldn't have done, but he's beautiful (the other catchphrase for my life) - which took the last remnants of my energy. Yesterday I went for a walk in the woods, which helped tremendously, but also left me feeling my aloneness very keenly. Most of the time I really am much happier alone, but I do miss having someone to show things to, to share things with sometimes, both the trees and the tyres.
Actually, all of that being said (and true), I don't think this wobble did start last Sunday. Two weeks ago I went to visit my mum on the coast and came back via London. While in London I saw two lovely, beautiful, filthy men: one of whom did delicious terrible things to my body; and the other who plied me with luscious picnic foods (at an appropriate social distance) and later messed with my head in the ways that only an utterly perfect emotional sadist can. I also shared super interesting conversation and warmth with both of them that I value just as much, maybe more, than the rest of it, but of course this tends to loom less large in emotionally turbulent memory. Friendship is complicated sometimes. I'm delighted to have both of them in my life, and conflicted and upset about each of them more often than I should be.
Anyway, I've been having conversations with a few people lately about the drive to being destroyed, what it feels like, why I want it, why on earth someone would be prepared to do it to me, the ways in which I do it to myself sometimes, what the effects are and the needs that result from those. So I think the heightened emotional state that those conversations has prompted (encouraged might be more accurate), combined with being so close to people who I know could do it if they chose to, but who, for a variety of reasons and perfectly reasonably, aren't doing so, already saw me feeling rather on edge, even before my tyre blew.
I am so fucking capable. I absolutely don't need someone to look after me practically. I managed the tyre stuff just fine on my own. But sometimes it's nice to be patronised, you know?
The drive to being destroyed isn't just about being destroyed; it's also about being put back together again afterwards. I am pretty good at destroying myself, although I'd always rather someone else did it. I'm not so good at putting myself back together. I do a very good impression of someone who is fine, and over time, I am fine, I will be fine. But I kind of don't want to be sometimes. Not without someone caring if I am. There are times when I don't matter as much to myself as I would like to matter to someone else.
Reflecting on that last sentence, I think it's fair to say that this wobble did not start two weeks ago either. This wobble is my life? Or a perennial part of it anyway. I'm sure I mentioned in passing somewhere that I might have some Daddy issues.
I don't have a neat conclusion for this post. I have coffee, and I'm going to do a workout and go for a picnic in the park with some friends, and carry on putting myself back together, until the next wobble.
|
|
|
1
comment
|
|
That's just how it is
|
Posted:Aug 22, 2020 4:11 am
Last Updated:Aug 30, 2020 11:50 am 10551 Views
|
I want tell you a story. Whether it’s the kind of story you will enjoy really depends you. For a certain type of person the things I am going tell you about will constitute a kind of erotica. As will knowing that, in some sense, they really did happen, I imagine. For others, well, I won't be offended if you would rather read something sweeter. Although, for all its unpleasantness, there is something sweet about this too, for me.
I’m not usually much of a drinker, but I understand that when he has me knock back glass after glass of wine in the heat of the late summer afternoon, it’s not so that I will enjoy the pleasure of the intoxication. He doesn’t have to get me drunk, of course, he doesn’t have to do anything to make me malleable, but he enjoys watching me slowly lose my grip on my surroundings, begin to be incapable of preventing his assault, in addition to welcoming it.
Assault is such an ugly word for what he does to me. I'd rather think of it as a kind of taking possession, taking ownership of, much more so than anything as seemingly sexual as assault. Although it is sexual, of course. When he uses me I am able to forget, just for a while, that usually I have to pretend to be a real person. I can be the doll, the vessel I really am. Or the nothing I really am, I suppose. The relief is tremendous. Pretending really is very hard work.
Before he fucks me properly, he has me kneel in front of him. I lick and suck his cock like my life depends on it. Which it does, I suppose. Although he’s never said so quite that bluntly. When he cums he’s so far down the back of my throat that it bypasses my mouth entirely. I don’t even taste him really. But afterwards he pulls back a little and sends a steady stream of piss to follow his cum. That I taste. It’s both awful and somehow not as bad as I thought it would be. Maybe a consequence of him drinking so much water to cope with the heat. When he's done he holds my jaw open with a hand on my chin and spits onto my tongue.
The combination of all the fluids in my stomach makes me queasy. I absolutely do not want to throw up. It’s horrible enough on its own, but I know that if I’m sick on his floor he’ll make me lick it up. I try my best not to think about that. Not least because that will make it more likely to happen. As he slides his cock into my throat again, for what seems like it must be the 50th time this evening, I talk to myself to try to stay in control of my gag reflex. I tell myself that I’m ok, that this is what I’m that eventually he’ll move onto my other holes. He will, but of course knowing that doesn't really help.
When he tells get the bed I’m suddenly at a loss. I clamber , but I don’t know how I should be once I’m there. I don’t know if this is how I am or if this is what he does , but until he tells exactly how position myself I am caught in a kind of limbo. Just as I begin think that maybe I should try think about what do with myself for myself, he tells get onto fours.
I’m a bit taken by surprise when he begins beat with some kind of implement. This isn’t his usual approach at . Most of the time there are no tools, no gadgets. Just his body using, hurting, occupying my body. The sound and feel of the paddle is disconcerting, abrasive. So I’m grateful when he discards it soon after he has begun. It seems plausible that it was unsatisfying for him too, as his next step is first to slap, then soon afterwards to punch my cunt. He tuts when my legs squeeze together attempting to protect myself and I pull them apart again as quickly as I can.
He leans forwards to shove my underwear into my mouth. Through the fabric I murmur an apology. My shrieks and sobs had become quite loud, and while I know he enjoys hearing my distress there is a limit to how much noise even he will tolerate. Besides, we shouldn’t disturb his neighbours. I’m grateful for it when he begins to push his hand into my now swollen and tender cunt. The depth of the pain when someone is forcing their way inside you is hard to describe. It’s both sharp and tearing, but also structural. Like under enough pressure my whole pelvis will give way to allow him to enter.
His grunt of satisfaction on finally seeing his knuckles disappear resonates through me. I’m glad I could hear it over my own cries. As he lines his cock up against my arse with his other hand, I try not to picture what is happening inside my body. His fist pressing against my vaginal wall makes my arse so tight it takes him several attempts to shove his cock inside it. I feel ripped apart, disintegrated. All of me has been emptied out to make room for him. Or for his pleasure anyway.
He barely seems to move now, just the tiniest of gestures, a twitch of his hips, a twist of his wrist. ‘Look’, he tells me, nodding at the mirror. And I see us conjoined, him on his knees, one arm buried to the wrist in my cunt, the other resting on my back, his cock pressed deep into my arse. I have become the literal extension of him to complement the figurative. He mistakes my wide-eyed tear-streaked expression for unhappiness and squeezes my arse cheek in sympathy. ‘I know, baby, I know. But that's how it is. I’m a man and you're a cunt. And that’s just how it is.’ He’s right, of course. Things are so much clearer when he explains them to me.
|
|
|
3
Comments
|
|
On Boundaries
|
Posted:Aug 22, 2020 4:07 am
Last Updated:Aug 30, 2020 11:50 am 10240 Views
|
For someone who has a real facility with language, I seem be extraordinarily bad at communicating what I do and don't want. Setting and maintaining boundaries is something I have struggled with my entire life.
As a teacher this was sometimes a problem. I remember a student telling me that she never knew where the line was with me. Reflecting on that made me realise my great discomfort that being a teacher meant being the authority in the room, whether I felt comfortable with that or not. I stepped into it ok in the end, but it was exhausting.
In kink-land though, I still find it almost impossible to negotiate in a way that means the other person knows where my boundaries are and doesn't overstep them, and that I get the relatively few things I absolutely need from a partner in order feel safe and comfortable before, during and crucially after . I don't think I’ve ever managed sufficiently convey how much I need be checked in after . Or maybe I have and it's just not reasonable expect people do it as much as I think I need.
But therein lies the difficulty I have with having boundaries: what if they're not ok? What if the other person doesn't want stick them? I know the answer that should be 'well they can walk then', but I have almost never chosen my boundaries over the risk of losing the attention of someone I like. Or rather, quite unfairly, I repeatedly put my boundaries aside without comment, until one day I don’t, at which point I walk away entirely. In lots of ways this sums my previous relationships as well. If you’re thinking that sounds wildly unreasonable, you’re not wrong. I suppose writing this post is a step (one of many) towards trying to learn not to do that.
I had an experience on Sunday that played out this narrative in miniature, and left feeling a bit shaken. I feel a bit awkward writing about it actually. It seems plausible it was actually fine and I am overstating it, or that I was so complicit that I brought it myself (yeah, I know that sounds like ‘maybe I was asking for it’), or that I was manipulated extremely skilfully by someone who likely does this a lot. Whatever the case, I was left feeling afraid and disposable.
Before I get into what happened, it feels like it might be good to clarify: no sexual assault took place here. Or maybe what I want to say is no non-consensual penetration took place here. Because some of the things that happened were sexual (although I'm not going to write about them), and of it established and drew a kink dynamic, which is very sexual for anyway. Ack, I’m (obviously) flailing a bit about the terminology. He barely even touched , but I’m not sure how much that matters be honest. At the same time, I sort of want cut out this disclaimer entirely, because it feels like I'm making a big deal out of something that really, in the grand scheme of things, is very minor. Arguably not even a thing at all.
I’d been talking someone for a while and agreed meet him about an hour’s drive away. As is absolutely always the case, I knew I didn’t want with him the second we met. But, well, you know the sunk cost fallacy? Where we tell ourselves that we’ve already invested x amount of time or money into something, so we might as well keep going to see if we can get something from it? Fallacy because, of course, it is never worth it. Well, that’s pretty much what saw me walking to a nearby park with him, even though I’d already decided I was out.
When we got to the park, we made some small talk. I asked him a bunch of questions about his life, pretty much all of which he deftly avoided answering almost entirely. Then after a minute or two of silence, he proposed we a game ‘ break the ice’. The game was a sort of pretend psychic magic trick that involved him asking me increasingly intimate questions and me answering them. As we began, he introduced an additional rule that I would maintain eye contact throughout, and that he would note the number of times I broke it. One of the questions, which he repeated several times was ‘will you ?’ which struck as absurd, as clearly we were already playing. I could feel the little threads of a dynamic being tested out, but it felt harmless enough, and he had begun interest a bit, so I went along.
After a few rounds of the game, he noted that I had broken eye contact 9 times. I don’t remember how he introduced the idea that this was something for which I needed atone, but when he handed an elastic band and bade wrap it around my wrist, I did. I knew what was coming. I could, should have said no. But I didn’t. Instead, when he told , I snapped the elastic against the inside of my wrist, as hard as I could, 9 times. At some point I gained another my other wrist, which he snapped a few times as well. I can’t tell you why I went along with this really. I didn’t trust him. I felt like I was being manipulated. I didn’t want disappoint him. I guess I felt like he had a sunk cost as well?
Obviously, he didn’t want stop there. He told that we should get a room. I said no. He asked why not. I found it harder than it should have been explain why not. ‘I never a first date’ seemed like a ridiculous objection given how we’d spent the last hour, I guess. I offered that I could see him again in a week or so. I don’t know if I meant it. It seemed like a good way get myself some space think. He asked again why not get a room today, and so I explained that I know that I’m easily led and that I can’t trust myself to make decisions about whether I will with someone when I am in their presence, that I need time on my own think before I know what I want do. He said that was smart. I felt pleased with myself, because he had praised .
He said that he would go now and walk the perimeter of the park twice. He estimated that this would take half an hour or so, and that I could use this time think without his influence. I actually laughed at how clever that was.
I said no. I said that if he wanted see in a week or so, we could do that, but that I was going go home now. And I got and walked away. I felt proud of myself for that, but I also felt afraid. Actually frightened of him. I can’t even put my finger why really. I just felt very very certain that being my own in a room with this person would be extremely dangerous. Maybe it wouldn’t have been. Maybe it would have been fine. But I was afraid, and I’m glad I walked away.
He messaged me later say that next week is too long a time away and that he would come and visit me sooner. I felt the same flicker of fear and reminded myself that he doesn’t have my address. I don’t know why I was (am) so afraid. He didn’t really do anything. I replied that he had frightened me, and that while I was sure he was actually a lovely person his pushiness made me afraid and that I didn’t think I would be safe playing with him.
What I meant by that was two different things really. He did make me afraid, but I don’t know if that is because he himself is dangerous, or if it’s because I don’t know how to set and maintain boundaries. Both, potentially. Either way, the result of us being in a private space together seemed like it would inevitably lead to me doing, or allowing to be done to me, things that I really don’t want. I didn’t explain any of that, so his reply that he understood was a bit oblique.
Less so was the that came a couple of hours later that if I had anything else I wanted land him I should feel free. I am not be trusted set and maintain boundaries, but in that he definitely was attempting manipulate . I didn’t reply. The third time I caught myself imagining what I would say if I did reply, I deleted our from my phone.
The whole experience feels like a good learning opportunity, I guess? I feel absurdly debutant when it comes boundaries. Like I can talk a fairly good game the surface, but the smallest push and I’ll crumple. The thing is, I’m fighting against myself. Because there is a part of that wants crumple, be crumpled, be destroyed. I’m glad I was afraid and that my reaction that was leave. There are definitely times in my life when I wouldn’t have done. In some ways I’d rather not get into these situations at , but there is definitely a part of that actively seeks them out.
I think that’s part of the appeal of the DD/lg dynamic, for . That I can give responsibility for of that away, knowing full well that someone else will make better decisions for me than I make for myself. And yet… and yet. It’s really very rare for me meet someone who I genuinely believe will make better decisions for me than I make for myself. And that’s before we even get into the question of whether it’s fair to put that kind of responsibility onto another person.
So, tl;dr - I am bad at boundaries. I don’t know if that’s on purpose. Sometimes I think I would like someone to help me with them, but I would definitely resent the fuck out of them for doing so. I’m serious about the aftercare thing though. I really do need to find a better way to communicate that, and the strength to do so even if that means risking losing partners.
|
|
|
1
comment
|
|
