A View from the Floor

“You are always already happy. The reason you don’t experience it is that it’s covered up by layers of suppressed emotions and negative thoughts. Shift your attention and your inherent happiness flashes forth.” Steve Ross

…that words are not dead and he does, on occasion, read mine.

Sweet jesus.

I think, sometimes, we should be careful what we ask for.

Not that I’m complaining, mind you…

Back in my chat days someone sent me a clip from Anabolic’s Rough Sex series.

Can you say hooked? Enthralled?

I nearly immediately got both movies in their entirety.

Those movies have remained my stand by porn for years. Nearly a decade, by now.

In these days of ever more extreme porn I find myself bored. Bored with the fake extremity. Bored by girls who get off mostly on proving how raunchy they are, are focused more on the camera than what’s being done to them…

Bored.

But the Rough Sex series never fails to rev my engine right up.

It’s real. True, absolute brutality and degradation. Girls who ended up with bruises and black eyes after filming. Complaints from the talent that it was way more than they expected, nearly rape like.

I love it.

Eat it up.

Sit with my mouth half open, swallowing the saliva that pools in my mouth as my heart thumps a bit harder and my pussy twitches uncontrollably.

These films have exactly the elements I find arousing.

Daily D/s? Not so arousing.

Long, intense, in depth sessions? Necessary to me but more in an emotional way than physical.

The mind fuck? The long periods of deprivation? They have a purpose but they actually tend to, eventually, still my libido even as they work on my mind.

This shit? The shit in these films? Hot. Instantly arousing. The exact blend of pain, sex and degradation that turns my crank.

Incessant cracks to the behind, tits, thighs and faces. Choking. Hair pulling. Rough handling. Hot fucking.

And, always, the words. The talking. The verbal raping of a mind as the body is being used and tormented. The incessant stream of insults and confirmation of what she is and why she’s doing this and what that makes her and how fucking much she loves and needs it, the words that soon have her confirming it herself, screaming out what a filthy whore she is and begging for more.

God, I love these films. It’s truly a shame they never made more. (Seems too many people were bothered by the very real brutality of them. We want that rough stuff but it seems most want to know it’s not “real” - the same stuff that bores me is, I guess, a requirement for most audiences in order for them to feel okay with watching it all)

The weird thing is they actually make me sort of miss my “chat” days. Those days when it was all I had. When words on a screen or on the phone were what I had to be content with to get my dose of BDSM.

I think we forget, in real time, how powerful words can be.

We have actions, real pain, real physical fucking…

And the words…

And what they can so powerfully do to the mind and create in the body…

Lay forgotten.

*sigh*

Got myself a wee taste of the good stuff last night.

Not entirely sure what came over the Man cuz I’d initially gone to bed and snuffled myself half to sleep.

I’d done the whole bath, hair, make up thing at like… MIDNIGHT… which is usually enough to draw his interest and let him know Aunt Flo has vacated the building and mama’s a little hungry.

And he pretty much IGNORED it. Not a word. Sat there for hours and he just kept putting on movie after movie.

Bah.

Finally I went to bed and hated on him in my head for awhile and snuffled some pathetic tears and just as I’m about to fall asleep he comes in and starts whackin’ me. (That backhanded slap thingy they do with their fingers. A thigh here, a tit there, whack the pussy, whack the belly, snap a nipple, back to a thigh…)

It was good. I cried. I got laid.

But it sure made me realize I’m not going to feel full until I get one of those “what’s your name?” nights. (Occasionally he asks and I can’t process the words well enough to answer. Which he finds amusing. And we both know is a sign of a well and truly put in her place puss puss)

The kid is going away for the weekend at the end of the month. An entire weekend with no other plans and a house to ourselves.

I can wait that long.

Now if only I can convince him to end the hunger strike….

The man is torturing me. Endlessly. Over and over. And not in that good sorta way.

He’s evil, mean and horrible.

And, at the moment, I loathe him.

I’m not kidding. A huge part of me wants to stomp on his foot. Repeatedly.

*stomp, stomp, stomp*

For months now every play or sexual interaction we’ve had has been…  different.

Sex has either been all about him or bordering on vanilla. Quickies. Blow jobs. Shut up and take it and what do you mean you want foreplay and aren’t aroused, do you think I care? Even rousing romps with multiple orgasms but absolutely no inkling of power exchange.

A mix of sex that has no rhyme or reason, no flow, just disconnected bits and pieces of things I either love or hate but never enough of any of it.

Play has been the same. He’s been intentionally making my brain stall and scream with the way he plays.

A little of this, a little of that, almost all stuff I strongly dislike but not enough to allow me to revel in hating it. Bit and pieces of things I’ve asked for but applied in a way I never would have asked for. A bite of this, a nibble of that and never enough to sink my teeth in, never enough of any one thing to ease…  anything.
And I’m going fucking insane.

This past month - since the session with the girls and the soft and the brain melt down trying to process those things along with pain - he’s done very little at home. And yet he’s done a lot. Between tweaks and swats that barely get started before he’s done and the odd sexual pattern he’s maintained and the plain old messing with my head he’s got me damned near climbing the walls needing…   something.  Anything. Jesus. Anything, just so long as it lasts more than ten minutes and I can sink into it and ease the ache and itch that keeps building and building.

But, no.

It’s all a bit of this and a touch of that and never enough for me to grab on to.

So we had our monthly play party.

Yay! Room to bring out the floggers and whips. An audience for him to show off to. (I long ago came to grips with the fact that some of our best play is spurred not by my beauty and desirability and perfect submission but by an audience and his ego) Our friend R was going to be there. R the Rope Man. I’d mentioned suspension - even though it terrifies me - hoping it would get me where I needed to go if Taylor decided to do it. Even though Aunt Flo came just days before the event I was pumped and hopeful….

Oh, you know where this is going, don’t you?

Pumped and hopeful + evil fucking sadist can only = misery.

After putzing with rope for probably an hour they finally got me rigged how Taylor wanted me and hoisted up in the air in a sort of sitting swing position.

And Taylor promptly attempts to blindfold me with left over rope.

I don’t DO blindfolds. Period. It is the single thing I cannot do. I can’t. I simply fucking can’t. I panic. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. I struggle.

I struggled so much and instantly started to cry and be unable to breathe so he relented after a few attempts. Only, I think, because he was afraid I’d start thrashing enough to fall out of the suspension.

So then he hauls out a flogger. And commences wailing upon my back with zero warm up. Not just swatting at it but laying into it.

Ok. I’ve dealt with that before. I’m getting ready to settle into it, to process that particular pain.

But no.

He pulls out a single tail. (I think. You’ll have to pardon me if I get this shit wrong cuz my head was all weirded out. I’m trying to remember as closely as I can) Snap, sting, bite… I’m getting set to settle into it…

But no.

Out comes the scourge. (Heavy flogger with open o rings at the tips of each tail. It cuts) And he lays in with that, fairly heavy handedly.

There is not settling into that at this point.

Which is ok cuz he then pulls out knives.

Then sets into punching me.

Then paddles my ass.

Then hauls out a cane or something.

And so it went, the entire time. Him switching things up and fucking with my mind, me unable to get a damned thing out of anything he was doing because it was all abrupt and illogical and had no flow, no smoothness, no grace, no length or depth.

I think our entire audience was like… what the fuck is this dude doing? How boring. He can’t make up his mind. They didn’t have anything to settle into watching, either! It was all a scattered fuckaroo! I’m crying, he’s almost manically switching toys and they’re like…  wtf? Right along with me.

I need to coast, to sink into some pain - any pain - for long enough that it eases my need and scratches my itch and soothes my soul and relieves the knot of tension and stress and want and longing in my head and heart.

And what I keep getting is this disjointed bullshit that only winds me up tighter. And tighter. And tighter.

And I can’t blame it on ineptitude or lack of understanding on his part.

He knows.

And he’s doing it intentionally.

And I loathe him right now.

Which, of course, just makes him grin.

That’s ok.

Soon enough I’ll be grinning to. I’ll have completely lost my mind and I’ll be sitting in a corner, grinning idiotically, blowing spit bubbles.

Warning: This is likely going to be disjointed and the author cannot be held responsible for injury caused by banging ones head against the desk or strain upon the brain trying to figure it out.

Anyhow…
The other day luna lux from over at Taste of Burnt Sugar made a statement something along the lines of:

“i read something a while ago about the difference between “agreement” and “submission”. if i agree that everything that’s done to me is erotic and comfortable and makes me happy, then i am not submitting, i am *agreeing* to obey. i submit when i comply and obey and am forced to do things that i am not in agreement with.”

The words gave my brain a little twinge then but the twinge faded and on with life I went. In fact, I think I probably read the original piece luna lux is talking about because the thought seems too familiar to have only read it once, yet I still moved along and ignored the twinge.
Today, kaya over at Under His Hand brought it up again, adding her own thoughts to the topic. Thoughts along the lines of:

“That’s probably why there is a trend among submissives to begin to feel un-owned. To think that the leash has been let go when in truth nothing has changed. When the rules become commonplace and the service is routine and the play is repetitive… what was once edgy becomes standard.” and “How often, and how quickly, do those ADS’s (Activities of Daily Submission) become that “agreeable, erotic, comfortable and make me happy” routine that fails to stimulate the submissive’s nature. The need and hunger and ache that attracted a submissive to submission in the first place? And how hard do they then start begging, asking and pushing for more? Desperate to feel submission, and not simple agreement.”

And in response to that, Sanna, over at Six-Three-Five commented:

“Rarely it happens that he needs to force me to do something, because
we tend to agree a lot. He doesn’t have an interest of doing unnecessary things that serve no purpose than to show his dominance
(however much I’d like him to, which DOES show his dominance).

For example, discipline and punishment doesn’t occur in our
relationship. I’d like it to, but it doesn’t. He hasn’t got a want to discipline me, because he thinks I should just change instead. His rules
(preferences) are always stuff that are crucial for us to get along and
for him to be happy. So naturally life punishes me for failing to stick
to them, he doesn’t even need to bother.

Sometime I wonder if what I do is voluntary submission. Is it voluntary submission if NOT following his rules creates only misery and
chaos? Is it voluntary submission to stand there and bite your tongue
off when he wants pizza, four days before the paycheck and you haven’t
got much money left? Is it voluntary submission if he fucks you when
you have a migraine and it doesn’t even occur to you to say no? Is it
voluntary submission when the thought of leaving gives you tummy aches
and makes you want to gag? When you can’t consider not following his preferences in anything you do?

I dunno. Until I do, I’ll just be property.”

Lots of words from other folks, eh?
Thing is, they all struck something inside of me, they all made me think.
I don’t think anything I thought about is new. I think I’ve probably even spoken those thoughts here before.
But round and round they go, reappearing with bothersome regularity.
Which means you get to read them with bothersome regularity.

So here goes…

I call myself a submissive but, you know what?
Most of my day to day life has nothing to do with submission.
It’s service and obedience and routine.
At the same time, to me, that is part of submission.
Submission doesn’t have to equal force.
Does it?

Does knowing what’s required of me and doing it without struggle of some sort mean I’m not submitting to his will?
Who choses someone they disagree with on everything?
Why would I want someone who only did things - or required me to do things - that I don’t want to do?
Why does agreement have to nullify submission?

I agreed to submit to his will - whether I agree with it or not. It’s only normal that I’m going to agree at least half the time if I’ve made a responsible, good choice in a dominant for myself, right?

And yet I can see why it sometimes doesn’t seem like submission.
I can totally relate to what kaya said.

The norm becomes stale and the submissive within us craves challenge and force and something to make us to bend and yield; to make us feel the submission in ways we don’t on a daily basis.

And, damn, but it’s difficult to maintain that.
Difficult for us - particularly those of us who aren’t service oriented submissives - and even more difficult, I think, for our dominants.

Like Sanna my relationship involves next to no discipline. Taylor feels I should live up to what I said I’d be - his property, his submissive - and that means I should do what’s required of me without having to be forced into it, without him having to punish me when I screw up. It sucks sometimes because, while punishment sucks, it also reassures a girl that he even notices the difference between good and bad behavior. But, also like Sanna, life gets crappy enough when I’m not behaving properly so perhaps I don’t need specific discipline.
I know what it takes to make him happy, I’ve sworn to dedicate myself to making him happy and when he’s not happy… I ain’t happy. Punishment enough, I suppose.

But becoming so accustomed to simply doing what he wants and never saying no - so accustomed that it’s rarely a struggle - mean you’re no longer submitting? That you’re just agreeing?
Why would growth and deepening obedience mean LESS submission instead of more? Wouldn’t learning not to struggle be a good thing? Wouldn’t obedience without having to be forced be what we’re striving for?

And then…
Why does it sometimes feel so fucking crappy?
Why do most of us, at least occasionally, crave that very struggle and force?

I know, for me, I’m very unlikely to ever get that sort of feeling from our everyday D/s again.
Sure, we’ll change and grow and add new elements to our lives and I’ll have the occasional struggle. But I’ll adjust to that, too, and it’ll become the norm.

And so we must learn, I guess, to relish this other side of submission. This normalcy that sometimes feels like the very thing we were running from when we chose this lifestyle.

All things eventually become the norm, I guess.

And maybe that’s where play becomes so important.
Where play becomes more than just sex and pain and kinky stuff, where play turns into something that symbolizes the entire power structure.
Where play time is when you get to really dig in and feel so many of the things that everyday life has turned into normalcy.

I know, for me, that I can’t struggle and fight and be forced to make him a damned peanut butter sammich or grab his book out of the bathroom.
That would be ridiculous.
I do those things, those things are part of our power exchange, but they don’t make me feel all dominated and thrilled and small and challenged. They don’t feed the ache for intensity.
Play does.
During play, I can struggle and fight (even if it’s just inside my head) against the pain and the humiliation, I can be forced to take it, I feel dominated and small and powerless and challenged, feel like I’m submitting more so than I do on a daily basis.

And so there you have it.
All us “lifestylers” who have claimed for so long that s/m is such a small part of the whole power exchange, reduced to using s/m to embody the power structure.

Or maybe it’s just me.
Or maybe that doesn’t even make sense.
Or maybe none of this relates to any of the rest of this and I’ve just babbled a bunch of disjointed nonsense.

Oh.
Wait.
I already told you I was gonna do that.
Heh.
Sorry now that you kept reading?

~xoxo

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I am repulsed by dishonest tolerance and acceptance.

At the same time I am revolted by intolerance and judgmentalism.

How can that be, you may ask?

Well, it’s sort of like this…

Tolerance is all well and good when speaking in generalities. Tolerance for religious belief, race, sexual orientation, social status or gender, for example, is a good thing.

It’s ridiculous to judge someone based upon what they look like, the job they do, their income, the day they go to church or if they go to church, who they fuck or how rowdy they get when they’re fucking.

And yet we’re all judgmental. We like and dislike things, agree and disagree with the things people do. So absolute tolerance is just as ridiculous as the aforementioned prejudice. Tolerance for the sake of being a tolerant person, for the sake of being politically correct…

It’s just as fucked up as hating all Catholics or all Mexican men.

We’re simply not all going to like one another. We’re going to meet people and judge them by the things they say or the things they do, by their words and their actions and their intent.

Different, you see, than judging for whom someone is. (Is it whom or who? Gah. I forget my grammar so easily these days.)

And yet so many claim, especially in this lifestyle, that we must not judge. We must be tolerant of everyone. And it’s all a load of crap. It’s dishonest.

Of course we’re not going to banish those who eat shit or fuck gerbils. We’re not going to out them or picket their place of employment. Not going to phone up their mother and their priest and give them the direct cut at the next dungeon party.

We’re going to tolerate their existence and their right to make their own choices. But we’re still going to judge them. We’re going to find eating shit to be loathsome and disgusting, fucking gerbils to be distasteful and weird.

And, yanno what?

If I were a gerbil fucker I’d much prefer to hear you tell me you think I’m not right in the head to being given a line of bull about how “it’s not your thing but, of course, it’s okay that it’s mine and would I like your daughter’s pet gerbil for next time and how dare that other asshole tell you you’re weird? Don’t they know we mustn’t judge?????”

Dishonest tolerance. The bane of my existence.

I suppose it’s why I get in so many conflicts on forums.

I refuse to participate in the dishonest, blind and absolute tolerance like the rest of the sheep.

If I’m disgusted by submissives who’ve chosen BDSM as a way to dump all their bad choices and fucked up messes into the lap of their dominant, a way to abdicate personal responsibility and just be “taken care of”…

Well, then I’m disgusted by them. Yes, I’ve judged them.

Not for who they are. For their actions.

Pretending tolerance just makes me a hypocrite.

And yet, I do tolerate them. I don’t seek them out and stone them, don’t drag them behind my truck for miles, don’t refuse them jobs or housing, don’t harass and persecute them.

I tolerate them as people with the right to make whatever choices they deem right for themselves.

I judge their actions, tolerate their right to those actions.

To claim their actions are “okay” with me would be dishonest. False acceptance.

To judge them as a person would be foolish. A single set of actions doesn’t make a whole person.

Am I making any sense at all here?

I guess I’m still thinking about the very judgmental comment I got yesterday.

I get told, all the time, that I’m judgmental and intolerant.

And I guess, in my head, I keep comparing the way I am (which I consider to be honest and blunt and unwilling to waste time pandering to weaker sensibilities) to the comment.

And the comment…

It irked me. Not because it judged me but because it basically judged anyone who does manual labor as uneducated, unable to be in control and incapable of having a lasting, happy relationship. It didn’t judge my actions. It judged my financial status. It made assumptions based upon prejudice without taking anything else into account.

Different, I think, than judging someone’s actions.

Intolerant of me as a person and of an entire class of people rather than intolerant of the actions of a person.

My moral compass tells me I can judge a person’s actions but not judge them as a person based upon a single action.

And yet at the same time I’d actually rather get crappy comments that are honest opinion - even if that opinion is based upon prejudice and assumption - than dishonest tolerance and acceptance.

I dunno.

I’m rambling on and on and I’ve lost my point.

Gah.

Perhaps it’s all very simple.

Perhaps we all need to employ a bit more honesty and not try to “get along” with everyone, cease chanting tolerance and you must not judge for long enough to actually be tolerant and make fair, accurate and honest judgments?

Like and dislike as you will. Be blunt, be honest, quit kissing ass and acting like a politician. But pick on what someone has done or said, not who they are. And know what the hell you’re talking about before you open your mouth.

Call me a bitch if I’m being bitchy. Tell me it makes you want to hurl knowing Taylor has scarred my back with a single tail. But don’t judge me based on assumptions and prejudice.

And perhaps I’ve rambled long enough.

I swear, I’ll talk about something dark and sexy soon.

So I got this comment today.

Seems Taylor and I are losers because of the sort of work he does. Bound for the trailer park by 50 and all that.

Seems he can’t possibly be dominant, be in control of our lives, our relationship, and me because of the job he’s doing.

Now, I’m not about to go into the details of our lives and why he does the sort of work he does. Those things really don’t matter.

I just wanted to let y’all know that only the well to do, college educated with high paying jobs can have relationships and participate in BDSM.

Really.

*insert much rolling of the eyes here*

How preposterous.

My life, in particular, has very little to do with why this thought process has me so irked.

I’m actually quite secure in my life, my abilities and the like.

I know who I am, what I can do, what my qualifications and intelligence level are.

Same goes for Taylor.

I could care less if some loser finds us not up to snuff.

But the idea that folks from all walks of life can’t participate in BDSM, can’t even have a relationship without being warned that the attraction will wear off once we’re faced with a dingy trailerpark…

That really pisses me off.

What about those who start off in said trailerpark?

Are they allowed to have a future? A relationship? A relationship that may include BDSM?

Of course they are.

So are the middle class, the folks who work at the Save A Lot down the road, the tattoo artist, the poor black woman struggling to get out from under a life of poverty, the redneck with seventy two cars littering his yard, the single mom mired in money problems and dependent upon food stamps, the executive at Wells Fargo, the dude who drives a Wells Fargo truck, the UPS hub worker, the factory drone mindlessly checking paint brushes for flaws, the secretary, the CEO, the doctor, the nurse, the orderly, the lawyer, his clients…

So fuck you.

We each live the life we’re given, strive to improve it where we can, make the best of what we have and reach for more.

Blind, foolhardy prejudice because you read somewhere that someone is down on their luck and shoveling only makes you look ridiculous.

You are not better than me.

You are not better than Taylor.

You are not better than the clerk at the Citgo down the road or the Fed Ex delivery guy, not better than the dude who bags my groceries or the operator who answers your call for roadside assistance.

You’re not better than anyone.

Every human being is entitled to the relationship of their choice and you, my foolish friend, have a lot to learn about life.

Assumptions make you appear an ass and judging someone based upon your assumptions rather than fact only verifies that appearance.

BDSM isn’t about our jobs, about how much money we make.

It’s not only available to the wealthy, the upper echelon of society.

BDSM is a way of life any of us can choose.

Relationships don’t hinge, for many of us, upon jobs, education, money and societal standing.

Relationships are about love, caring and a good match.

And any of us are allowed that, fuck you very much.

So the squeaky clean ass has not been taken advantage of. I’ll likely be taking care of it once again tonight. (No, I don’t have an enema fetish. Just an ungodly sluggish metabolism and digestive tract and a true loathing for leaving shit on his dick. I love anal sex but when all I can think of is “oh my gods, what if????” I don’t enjoy it much so… I clean.)

Of course, not much else has been taken advantage of, either.

Like his days off while the kid is in school where we could be doing all sorts of dirty, kinky, painful stuff.

Are we?

Nah.

Do I accept that as “the way it is” sometimes?

Sure. He’s the boss and if he’s not in the mood it’s simply not gonna happen.

Do I accept it gracefully?

Unfortunately no.

I’d love to be miss perfect and still be whistling happy slave tunes even when my needs are getting overlooked and trampled into the carpet with the dog hair and dust but perfect I’ll never be.

*sigh*

I’m resentful and irked by it and I know that’s showing.

Sex turns into some sort of pure vanilla, put out housewife event with me staring into space wishing I’d gotten some spectacular foreplay. My cunt and hormones may betray me in the end, I may still end up getting off and resentfully enjoying it but even when we’re done I’m thinking about what I didn’t get out of it.

Not for foreplay of the traditional sort. Not for hours of kissing and petting and a good pussy licking before he puts it in but for five or ten minutes with a cane or a belt, a few slaps in the face and a few clothespins, a few tears, a warmed and tender ass to go along with the fucking.

*sigh*

It really sucks when our needs get out of sync like this.

I guess, tonight, while I’m doin’ my thing, I should also spend some time refocusing and getting myself into high service mode.

I know that getting more and more antsy over my needs just leads me to be shrewish and bitchy with him and that certainly never leads to getting those needs met.

The only way to do it at this point is to focus myself.

A happy Owner generally means a happy girl so…

Clean ass, hot bath, some meditation, some pilates/yoga/crap to stretch the bad energy out of my body and perhaps the less agitated me will inspire him to do evil things.

He’ll be out on a job for 12 to 24 hours so I have plenty of time to adjust my attitude.

Work, for Taylor, has been iffy lately.

The contractor he was working for just doesn’t need him and he’s basically been doing snow removal for another contractor and some day labor type stuff. Selling motorcycle parts for spare cash.

The stuff you do when you’re broke and between jobs.

This royally screws up my routine of cleaning and keeping up with the house.

He’s just so…  large.

Not in a physical sense cuz he’s not a huge guy or anything but in a sense that…

I dunno. His personality, his stuff…  he takes up the whole house when he’s in it.

I just can’t focus on cleaning, can’t pick up around him well.

Things fall by the wayside.

So today he’s gone doing that snow removal stuff and I chose not to clean the house but to do one of my other “chores”.

I cleaned my ass.

I feel a little bad cuz now I’m sitting here in a house where next to nothing got done but…

Hey.

I have make up on. My hair is cute. And my ass is spotless.

Which do YOU think he cares more about?

Dusting? Or a squeaky clean asshole?