Things I never did before D/s…


I was reflecting recently about things I’ve done and experienced during the years of our D/s, things that I had never dreamed of doing or welcoming prior to this. Given we had nearly 24 solid years behind us before commiting to each other this way and developing our D/s in our marriage, I thought I’d make a list as a ‘note to self’ to recall how far I’ve come.

Whilst some of this is ‘just’ kinky fuckery fun stuff, our D/s created the precious space to encourage these parts of ourselves to come to the fore.

For me, however, the most meaningful ones are the ways we have grown together in intimacy, trust, connection and respect.

What things had you never done before embracing submission, D/s or BDSM?

In no particular order, my 100 things;

  1. welcome vulnerability
  2. share my deepest needs
  3. be bare hand spanked in public
  4. lead a D/s munch
  5. attend kink and fetish events
  6. wear latex
  7. allow myself to be physically hurt
  8. kneel for him
  9. beg for him
  10. post intimate photos of myself online
  11. squirt
  12. wear a collar
  13. nipplegasm
  14. call him Sir
  15. ask permission to come
  16. ask him to break me
  17. accept his final word
  18. talk about my therapy openly
  19. play in public
  20. write about our D/s
  21. join online communities
  22. accept my body as it is
  23. find peace in submission
  24. talk about my relationship
  25. crawl for him
  26. be marked by him
  27. go knickerless for him
  28. wear a buttplug in public
  29. be used by him
  30. be honest about how I am feeling
  31. allow him the opportunity to lead
  32. explored pain play
  33. discover my masochism
  34. experience orgasm control
  35. ask for help
  36. know myself deeply
  37. go to a munch
  38. make online friends
  39. tweet
  40. blog
  41. experience subspace…and subdrop
  42. wear a leash
  43. be restrained
  44. rope play
  45. deep throat
  46. ask for more
  47. let things go
  48. safeword
  49. live a dual life
  50. fear exposure
  51. compare myself to others
  52. get a manicure
  53. discover my hidden sexuality
  54. fisting
  55. really listen to him
  56. put him first
  57. kiss a girl…and like it
  58. wear bruises with pride
  59. look after myself for him
  60. experience wax play
  61. enjoy a double top scene
  62. anal play
  63. belt whipping
  64. learn new things about myself
  65. learn new things about him
  66. rediscover our passion
  67. know my triggers – good and bad
  68. relinquish control
  69. trust my body
  70. appreciate my strength
  71. Hollywood wax for him
  72. dress up for him
  73. orgasm in public
  74. feel so desperately needy
  75. learn to communicate better
  76. listen to my inner child
  77. see myself through his eyes
  78. not take things for granted
  79. allow him to headfuck me
  80. cry for him
  81. document gratitude
  82. pet play
  83. understand power exchange
  84. eye up utensils as pervertables
  85. take photos just for him
  86. take pride in housework for him
  87. feel owned
  88. seek acceptance
  89. learn new things together
  90. present myself to him
  91. accept being told ‘no’
  92. wear corsets
  93. appreciate my safe space in him
  94. slow down
  95. sex under the stars
  96. swallow
  97. try harder for him
  98. push my healing
  99. accept all that I am
  100. appreciate how blessed I am

When your mind says yes but your body says no…


…and then they both conspire against you. Have you ever experienced the utter frustration of this?

Yesterday morning I woke to his arm snaking around my torso as his fingers squeezed my left breast. He pulled me back against his hot naked body, his hard cock twitching against the base of my back. This man emits a crazy level of body heat, my own personal radiator, particularly when he wakes horny.

I smiled into my pillow and stretched, arching my back on purpose and pushing my arse into his groin, as I know this is when he’ll grip my hip bone and yank me back against him even harder. He moved his other arm so it was under my neck, his fingers wrapping around my throat. I knew what he wanted.

“Open your legs for me.”

I spread my legs wide under the duvet, and leant back against him. He held my chin high between his fingers and thumb as he bit the side of my neck. I squeaked and wriggled as he lifted his hips and nestled his erect cock between my arse cheeks as he started to play with me.

He stroked gently to start, infuriatingly too much yet not enough. He chuckled as I bucked my hips upwards, demanding more, wanting his fingers deep inside me.

“Keep still,”

“not yet.”

I tried really hard to stay put and concentrate on the back and forth swipes of his fingers, the pull on my clit, the hint of a dip from one finger tip. I knew I was whimpering. I concentrated on the length of his cock, so near to where I wanted it, his grip on my jaw, his teeth at my neck, his chest hair grazing against my shoulder blades. And steadily he stroked.

Now, usually I’d be getting wetter and hotter and achy by now, gasping for a finger fucking, a fisting, to be taken roughly from behind as he uses my hip as leverage for his thrusting. Desperate to be used and taken over by him, to be consumed and become part of him.

But…I. Just. Couldn’t. Concentrate. I was concentrating on too much at once. And the more I was aware I was concentrating, the less I could concentrate.

‘I can’t come’

The words formed in my mind as quickly as I tried to shush them away. I tried to focus again, to sink into what he was drawing from my body with his hands, but my body wasn’t playing ball anymore.

The bedroom door swung open slightly and the cat jumped on the bed and curled up to sleep. I stretched one leg to open wider for him and my foot prodded the cat who frooped in surprise. I was thinking about the cat. Then I could hear our eldest jump down from his high sleeper, open his bedroom door and pad into the main bathroom in the hall, then back again. Faint music from his tablet and the latest YouTube channel drifted along the hall as our door was still ajar. Bloody cat.

“Are you ok?” he asked. I should have just said but I was stubbornly not wanting to give up just yet. I wanted this. I wanted so desperately to come for him. I wanted him to have me. I was jiggling, and there was a wince as he stroked over one particular spot. I still insisted I was ok. He wasn’t convinced.

“Are you sore?”

I shook my head and wriggled again. I wanted to cry, I wanted to come. Neither was going to happen. I was desperately trying to prevent one and encourage the other.

“I’m just a bit dry now” I whispered, ashamed, into his arm. He slicked his fingers with saliva and gently circled me, before pushing into me. More saliva eased his efforts. He felt so good, his cock rocking against me, his fingers inside me, his breath at my ear.

His fingers, the cat, the music, his cock, the door, the ouchy bit, his fingers, the cat, the music, his cock, the door, the ouchy bit.

“I just can’t come” I sighed, tears prickling, “I’m sorry.”

He rested his hand on my mound, one finger lazily circling my frustrated clit, and held me tighter in the grip of his other arm.

“It’s alright” he reassured, kissing the nape of my neck. I relaxed my legs and closed them on his hand, trapping it there as I didn’t want him to move it. We lay for a while snuggling, me spooned and cocooned by his still roasting body, him allowing me to capture his fingers between my not wet lips. The cat purred and the music drifted. Our youngest awoke and ran out his room to see his brother. His cock slowly softened against me as it, too, relaxed.

“Later.” he murmured.


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Can your inner child come out and play?


I came across this image recently and it really resonated with me. It’s quite a question, for me anyway. Can yours?

Since beginning this whole journey into D/s four and a half years ago I’ve always envied those who identify in full or part as littles or middles. Not in a jealous way but more in a curious way, not quite understanding how easily people could tap into their inner child so freely and in such a fun way.

I recognise a longing, not necessarily to be a little or middle, but to be able to find similar qualities within myself. I also recognise, unfortunately, that I have challenges that prevent me doing so. And that kind of makes me feel a little sad for myself. Not sorry for myself, but sadness around the situations that led me to have to hide her so well that I forgot where I put her.

I think, although I’m unsure on this, that I often come across as quite a serious person, responsible and more often than not, not always fun and lighthearted. I see these beautiful qualities in others and oh how I wish I could shed the layers to reveal this part of me. The difficulty is, I think, that she doesn’t really know how to play as she never had the opportunities she deserved in order to learn how.

Without going into too much detail, I know I very probably quickly learned that  play had little place in a home where repeated acts of domestic violence, drug use and abuse and constant underlying threat was the norm. What was the norm was behaving, not rocking the boat and gaining praise through achievement. I don’t have many memories around being playing with at home with my parents or brother. Outside yes, at school yes, but at home? No.

I see my own young children playing so openly and freely, racing around yelling and making the mess children do in their whirlwind of learning and growing and battling at times, as siblings do. I find myself wondering if I did that and just can’t remember or if I really just wasn’t able to access that. And that realisation carries a lot of pain. Especially as I now have my own little people to compare myself against. I do know I grew up too fast, that I realised things I shouldn’t have had any awareness of so young and I learned very quickly to read moods, stay under the radar, stay quiet about what was going on at home and be a ‘good girl’.

So, whilst young, my young self was neglected by my parents. And I continued to do the same all the way into adulthood and parenthood. Only relatively recently have I spent proper time trying to pay attention to this inner child of mine and discover her again.

Yet there are often times I feel young, not always really understanding how things should work, or what things mean. How relationships should work and I also have learned this is interpersonal trauma based. I’ve had two clinical psychologists identify that I have 2 contrasting schemes – a very high functioning, driven, no nonsense, successful and strong way of being (protective part) and a much more childlike, young and unsure way of being (vulnerable part) as a result of not gaining all the developmental ‘tools’ I should have back then and then trying to use my limited selection in adulthood, if that makes any sense? Sounds awful doesn’t it? But makes perfect sense when I now know my brain was rather busy surviving trauma instead of doing what it should really have been doing. It was kind of distracted I guess.

She’s really pretty quiet, and a whole lot of sad. I imagine myself taking her by the hand and holding her close. When she’s noticed she sort of comes forward, very tentatively though. But she’s there, inside, watching, wondering, gradually making herself known to me. Her voice is getting louder as I realise she is the part of me that has held the pain and trauma all my life. Not adult me. So no wonder she can’t be free and lighthearted and fun. How can I expect her to be?

I know I can never call Cuiplash my Daddy as there are too many damaging connections and triggers there. Despite me fully recognising how much of a caregiver he is to me, how he calms and soothes and guides and looks after me. How he manages the important stuff at home, feeds me and supports me. It’s inherent in his nature and always has been. It’s very probably one of the things that drew me to him when we were teenagers as, even then, he protected and nurtured me. When he now calls me ‘good girl’ or refers to me as a girl at all, I know it is her that responds with a nuzzle and gratitude. Because he knows she’s there too and she thanks him for seeing her.

It’ll take me time to coax her out, to foster the trust in myself and find the playfulness and fun. The desire is there, the release is there and I also think a lot of healing lies there. I’m not suddenly expecting to become a little or a middle, I’m not sure if too much damage has been done, but the thought of being able to tap into the carefree and joyful me that lives in her makes her smile. Maybe one day my inner child can come out to play whenever she wants.



This week I think I’ve failed in pretty much everything I’d planned not to do.

In Restacking me I wrote about how I was going to try and stay soft and open when facing the demands of returning to work. This didn’t happen. What did happen was, upon being thrown what felt like an insurmountable number of analysis, administration, planning and leadership tasks to complete in a very short space of time, with no actual time to do it, I subconsciously or otherwise threw some armour back on again. Already chasing my tail from day 1 is not a good place to find myself due to the mismanagement of time by those above me. It’s easy with hindsight to reflect and note how this was a defence mechanism to protect against feeling overwhelm but could I prevent doing this at the time? Nope.

Coming home worn out and feeling exhausted was further compounded by a disconnect with Cuiplash, as a result of said armour, that I couldn’t remove at home either. As he didn’t seem particularly aware, so on it stayed. Again, I can reflect that I must have been a challenge, shut down, stressed, a bit wobbly, impatient and trying desperately to get a handle on it all. And he sometimes defaults to leaving me to it, so that’s what I do, and did.

Unfortunately, mid week, he also forgot I was at group trauma therapy that day. I’m unsure how as I’ve been going every Wednesday for the past 13 weeks but I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt as I know he, too, has been swamped by returning to work. However, the hurt I felt at that caused me to don more armour. Quieter and more insular I went. Pushing down feelings and gagging myself.

I’ve missed my children, having spent nearly two months with them, who have also returned to school this week. I’m not there to walk with them to school on their first day. I’m home late from my work. And then my eldest choked on a sweet in front of me when I was home alone with them. As in, silent couldn’t breathe choking. The sheer panic that shot through my body makes me feel sick to recall. I jumped up, asking him if he could breathe as I saw his face turn purple. My mind is simultaneously screaming at me that he’s going to die, I’m aware our youngest is watching, and my fight/flight kicks in and I back blow him. Again. Again. A gargled breath. Again. Crying. Breathing. The whole thing must’ve only been seconds but the memory will last a lifetime. We were all in tears. Thankfully no lasting effects. But for me…that’s another story. 

When Cuiplash returned home and my eldest told him what happened I don’t think he realised the enormity of it. Or it felt that way to me anyway. So more armour went on to shove down that horror ‘what if’. To stop me fully breaking down in front of them all.

I’ve also been struggling with feeling hurt and confused by the behaviour of someone else I care about, my gut screaming one thing at me whilst my mind tries to rationalise. I withdraw further to try and manage how it’s making me feel about myself but it’s there in the background. More armour. Less hurt, but not really. I’m doing a really bad job by now!

On my day off I’m meant to catch up with the work I never had any time to do on the allocated days, despite staying late, but all I can do is go to bed and sleep. I need the quiet time alone. I need to rest, but only after a cry of course. All this armour is wearing me down and weighing me down, down, down. And I go and collect the children from school and laugh and joke with friends in the playground.

I fail to communicate my struggles, I fail to take off what I’ve put on to protect and conceal. I fail to not put it on in the first place. I fail to reach out. I fail to be open. I sit in the overwhelm, the hurt, the fear, the discomfort, the confusion, the disappointment, the disconnect, the pain. And then I beat myself up for it. 

Yet, what is seen? Same old me, maybe quieter. Functioning, getting stuff done, online, offline, in line. If you could see past it though, speak with me, you’d see. 

When the Mantas Come


There are only two places I feel absolute peace, the kind that is soul deep, nourishing and centering. Precious spaces where long held sighs can finally flow and be free. One is under the ocean, the other is under his hand.

My soul sings under the ocean, it calls to my adventurous spirit and submerging and descending allows the calming Diver Reflex to kick in, slowing my heart rate and prioritising blood flow to my core and my brain. I am suddenly overwhelmed by the sensory overload of the myriad beauty of this other world as the sunlight filters through the depths and reveals teeming life. Cradled and caressed by the pressure of the water I submit to the force of the currents, suspended in the alluring hypnotising blue that stretches in all directions.

My cumbersome dive gear that weighs me down on land moulds against my form as it becomes part of me. I glide over and through reefs, rocks, caves and caverns with the control in my breath and perfect neutral buoyancy powered by the strength in my legs. My eyes grasp onto every wonderous sight, desperate to commit it all to memory. The only sounds are my steady breathing, the wheeze of my regulator delivering air to my lungs on my inhale and the flow of my bubbles on my exhale.

Here I experience the absolute contrast of danger and security, of risk and sureness, of excitement and peace, of adrenaline and intense, all consuming calm.

When you dive you must dive alongside your dive ‘buddy’. They are your lifeline to an additional air supply and the surface if anything goes wrong and your life really is in their hands, as theirs is in yours. The level of trust is immense at depth. Cuiplash is my dive buddy and together we have dived the seas and oceans of the world. We’ve explored wrecks and reefs, coral gardens and sand flats, rock walls and drop offs. We’ve been surrounded by sharks, glided alongside rays, and been mesmerised by the minutiae of the tiniest life forms. Together, we discovered passion in shared adventure.

The other place is under his hand. There are many parallels between the two spaces and in the paradoxes that exist. Here there is immense pleasure and wonderful pain, giving and taking, vulnerability and strength, control and relinquishment, Dominance and submission, and in the depths of subspace, as in the depths of the ocean, I may be sensory overwhelmed but I am completely free and deeply at peace. 

As in water he protects me on land, ever my ‘buddy’, my lifeline to protection and love. Monitoring me, guiding me, pushing me, my wellbeing his focus as he expertly carries me through a controlled ascent to the heights of my subspace. 

This is where the mantas come.

I never expected to see them there, the place he leads me during play. They skirt in and out of my peripheral vision in the darkness, catching my attention. As I drift I seek them out behind closed eyes and every time, they come. I watch them for a while, as higher still I go, my looping, twirling gliding companions in tranquility.

I suppose it makes sense why they come to me there, the strong associations between the peace I find in the depths of the ocean and the peace he provides in the depths of my mind, and it’s blissful when they do. 

“And it’s peaceful in the deep

Cathedral where you cannot breathe

No need to pray, no need to speak

Now I am under

Oh, and it’s breaking over me

A thousand miles out to the sea bed

Found the place to rest my head

And the arms of the ocean are carrying me

And all this devotion rushing over me

And the questions I have for a sinner like me

But the arms of the ocean deliver me”

Florence & the Machine

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when it breaks down 

who is at fault 

when pillars of rock

become pillars of salt


that crumble and fall

hope slips through my hands

when pillars of rock

become pillars of sand 


that cover my path

forcing me to a halt

when pillars of rock 

become pillars of salt 


that blind my vision

I catch tears with both hands

when pillars of rock 

become pillars of sand


that muddy my thoughts

fight and freeze my default

when pillars of rock 

become pillars of salt


that bury my needs

and alone I stand 

when pillars of rock

become pillars of sand

The Fabrics of my Life. Wicked Wednesday #324


We all wear uniforms, whether seen or unseen, we adopt our roles and responsibilities. Some are chosen by us, some for us. I wear many uniforms, and each are woven into the fabric of my life.

My work uniform is crafted from creativity, a rich palette of vibrant colour and texture. It is edged with leadership and trust and embellished in belief, encouragement and praise. This uniform is bold and strong with a soft lining, heavy enough to help carry the pressure of the workload of my charges yet comfortable enough to care and guide. It is decorated with ideas and inspiration, imagination and insight. It is well worn, frayed at the edges from loving and learning, marked with experimentation and fun and printed with achievement.

My mother uniform is soft and warm, it is big enough to wrap around my babies and protect them from harm. It sometimes feels ragged and in need of attention, yet over the years this uniform has moulded to my body and stitched itself into my heart. It has large pockets to carry memories and laughter, and is woven with hopes and dreams. This uniform is a garment in progress, and will never be completed as long as I can wear it. This uniform is wet from splashing in puddles, sandy from playing at the beach and is beaded with cuddles.

My daughter uniform is uncomfortable, it needs wearing in more but has not really been given the chance for a while. It can feel stiff and starched, too smooth and formal to crumple in the non existent catch ups and spa days. I do not feel at home in this uniform like I should, even though it is my oldest. I wish it fitted better and felt softer. Some parts are damaged, when care wasn’t taken in dressing me, some parts are heavy with richly textured layers that may never be seen, some hidden forever. It is still pierced with pins along its unfinished edges, it’s old lining no longer matches the outer layer and it is always at risk of ripping.

My friend uniform is changeable, it has concealed pockets and flaps full of sparkle and fun, if you know where to find them. I’ll let you stitch your name on it and keep it there forever if I can stitch mine on yours. Its sleeves are long for hugs and dancing, its pockets full of tea and Prosecco. This uniform takes careful handling, because it’s a delicate one built on trust. Sometimes the zips conceals me, other times I’ll rip it off and show you the lining, but only when I trust you. 

Only his hands are adept at peeling off all my uniforms, freeing me from their layers to reveal the one I wear just for him.

This one is gilded in trust and lust, embellished with the rich tapestry of our lives. It flows and wraps around me, protecting me. It feels as soft as a second skin yet is so light and sheer, revealing all to him as he embroiders his love all over it and me. This uniform is bejewelled with intimacy, authenticity and vulnerability, yet is as strong as armour. When the others have been hung up for the day, I slip into this one and feel free. We made this uniform together, the one he rips off in passion then carefully knits back together, strengthening the fibres. We treasure this garment, this creation of ours. In this uniform I am his.

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Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Striped Stockings. Masturbation Monday #206


She waited. 

Perfectly poised yet quiet, aware of never taking up too much space in his home. 

Patiently she’d sit and watch him going about his daily business as he barely gave her a second glance. Occasionally he’d pause and look at her quizzically as he passed through whatever room she was in, as if waiting for a response, before carrying on.

She tried her best for him, every day. To do as he’d decided. Without slumping or failing or disappointing. He’d chosen her so she was his to do with as he pleased, and oh how she wished to please. Pleasure in service fuelled her heart and her heart now belonged to him.

It was only at night that he focused his attentions on her fully. It was only at night when she came alive to him. He’d gather her up, pressing her body to his solid frame. She felt loved when he’d carefully carry her from one room to the next, gently placing her down wherever he chose. Taking his time as his large strong hands moulded her body to his will. She’d watch his eyes as he concentrated on her, a smile flickering across his lips when she did as he wanted. Each night he’d play with her, devoting his efforts to shaping her, caring for her, owning her. 

He’d control her body entirely, moving her limbs into positions she learned to hold, just to make him proud of her. He’d make use of every room, every surface, to enjoy her and what she could do for him. Sometimes he’d try new things, adorn her in outfits he’d picked out for her and bring her pretty new accessories. His favourite, however, was always her striped stockings. The ones she was wearing when he saw her for the first time, and knew then he wanted her.

But when he was finally done he’d leave her there. In the dark, waiting for him again until the next night. 

She grew sad as the days and nights moved on, closer to the date she’d have to return to her own home. To the kind elderly gentleman with the sparkling eyes who’d looked after her when she was young. To her family and all her friends. But oh, how she’d miss him. He’d been the first to make her his, and every day she’d find herself silently dreaming of those firm hands all over her, how the heat from those fingers penetrated her very fibre. The twilight hours when the time together was theirs alone to cherish. 


Thundering footsteps and excited squeals grew louder as they came closer. 

“Daddy, we can’t find her! Where IS she?” they yelled. 

She saw him before they saw her. His proud eyes on her for the last time, a precious moment stolen before they both roughly grabbed at her tiny body.

“We found her! We found her! We found elf!” they squealed.

And pulled her right off the shelf. 


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