Monday, 24 February 2014

Just When I Thought I Was Good

The well of grief opened it's gates and invited itself in. 
And because, it is impossible to ignore it, we were swept away by the raging waters. 
That particular well, brings to mind so many different touchstones of the past and I felt the sting of it all it brought forth.



I felt the sting of it. When this invitation, really has nothing to do with me but only by wifely association. 
The strong currents of emotion battered at me, unrelenting. 
They pulled me in all those directions.
Ripped apart my armour. 
Completely, passing my husband. 
It's like, I stood in his place and I took it all. 
I drank every last bit of bitter and double-edged emotion the well had to offer up. 

And then I spewed. 
I had to do something with the current and my husband was still unmoved, standing still and calm and detached. 
So I yelled and screamed. 
I cursed and I picked scabs. 
I cried and I lashed out. 
Not at my husband, no but around him all the same. 

And as he calmly stood the storm not of the well's current but mine, I picked up the scattered pieces of armour and fortified myself once more. 
Almost as doing so, fortified him. 

Shielding us, against this well of grief. 
I said to the well of grief, "I see you for what you are, but you are not taking us in. You will not steal one more moment of our joy." 
And I shut the gates. 

This was painful.
In the back of my mind, I thought "Why can't I just be passive? Why can't I just hug him and keep my mouth shut and offer him comfort and platitudes?"

Because that isn't me.
And it would have been of no service to him. 
Even if it looks otherwise. 

It's going to be a long, hard week, my friends. 
I would appreciate it if you could spare a good thought our way. 

Wednesday, 19 February 2014

Mumbling Thoughts on Service

Back when I started in Blogland, here, there seemed to be a plethora of posts dealing with service. 
In a way, it kind of led to a mini-identity crisis. 
The identity crisis came about because, the acts of service, the personal accounts and stories that were being written and posted everywhere, seemed like such common-sense/every day things to me that it wasn't even an element of my submission worth mentioning. 
Laundry? Cleaning? Cooking?
Handing Him a cup of coffee?
For awhile I concluded, that service was just not my thing and I was not a service-oriented sub. 
And I have written here about all that before. 

But Horace set me straight on it back then. 

"Bleuame, you are so naturally service-oriented you just don't notice it."
True and not true. 

Nothing makes me happier than when I am able to use my meager talents to help someone else. 
Nothing makes me feel more uplifted than when a friend asks for help. 
Nothing makes me more fulfilled than managing the intricate details of our life, the nitty gritty that is essential to keeping all those balls in the air. 

But I don't expect to be petted on the head for it. 

However, if I've lugged through the snow and -40 weather to bring back groceries for dinner that evening, a "That's a good slave", is nice to hear. 
If I just spent two days in negotiations that made me pull out my hair and came out of it rather victorious for the business, the "Good girl" makes it all that much more dear. 
I don't mind suffering and I don't mind being in pain, but I do far better with it, when my pain and suffrage is acknowledge. 

That doesn't mean that if Horace is coming up the steps with a great big heavy bookcase, that I kneel and and wait for him to tell me to get up. Then wait for him again to tell me to open the door. 
I open the door, because it's just one of those duh things. 
I have the door open and ready before he even notices I'm there.

But many tales of service, do bring to mind the moving the heavy furniture and having to be ordered to get up and open the door.
It's a little thing, yes but an everyday thing and I think service for me, is made up of a bunch of everyday actions that I don't expect praise or notice for but I do because it makes his life easier and in turn, makes my life easier.

I don't need attention to my acts to be fulfilled. 
I don't need to peacock about it. 
I don't need to be praised for it.

I just need to do it, quietly, unobtrusively and constantly.

It's not about me and my amazing abilities to perform acts of service, but it's about Him and what he needs and in my opinion, that's where the attention should be. 

Friday, 14 February 2014

Friday Fragments: Yearly Cupcake Day

So..I'm not really big into celebrating the martyrdom of Saints. 
 You should hear how I feel about the 17th of March.... 
But we acknowledge Valentine's Day and do something for it because Horace started the tradition years ago.
Truthfully, we do small little things for each other every day. 
One thing that our M/s relationship has brought to focus, is a greater appreciation. 
He doesn't do things for me because he has to or because it's expected, but because he wants to and to be truthful, Horace has always been better at doing the thoughtful action, things.

Just like last year, I am making cupcakes, because that has kind of become a tradition and I'm fortunate to have a half-day of work, which I will spend tidying the Hovel.
In other words, just another day, really. 

Except there's cupcakes...and just like I feel the same way about Horace, I feel the same way about cupcakes as I did last year, trust me! My baking repertoire is far more advance than just left over cake batter.
The flavour this year?
 Chocolate-Mocha. Might do a Bailey's Coffee Buttercream frosting...

Weather you celebrate today a little or not at all, with a cupcake or a more sensible piece of cake, I hope you enjoy this "Love Day". 

Wednesday, 12 February 2014

For This.

I get that question a lot. 

From readers. 
From even real-life people who witness first hand the extent of the authority He has over me. 
And it has come from other bloggers.

Why have you given up control?
Why are you a slave?
Why are you in a M/s relationship?

And I have waxed and waned on here, in the past about how I find, that in striving for surrender, there is freedom. How I feel more content and complete now than ever before. 

How I believe this M/s dynamic was meant to be and that I was meant to be in it. 
The fact that it gives my being a whole new-undiscovered buoyancy, how I feel there is a deeper and richer intimacy and how our relationship now, has dove into further depths. 

And none of that mentions that this is easy. 
Because it isn't. 
I don't especially like being told what to do (never have). I can be extraordinarily opinionated and while I have an appreciation and motivation for service, I don't find it fulfilling on its own. 

Then there comes the time, and I never know when it will happen that all of it flows. 
It all moves seamlessly and effortlessly. 
He pushed past boundaries I didn't even know I had and made me discover something new. 
He led us into a place that is even richer and more intense than we've ever experienced before. 
The play session, left me limp and teary-faced, worn out and bruised. 
Screaming for mercy and begging for release. 
Being denied both. 
And then...
He took us into a dance that was all consuming, I felt my being being encompassed...not by him...or me...but by us.
 The us we have created, year by year, day by day, moment upon moment.
The sex was so pure and intense and left nothing out. 
It had little to do with fulfilling his pleasure--though that occurred--a lot less to do with my reaching climax-though that might have happened--it was about that particular moment, where we were totally and utterly complete within it. 
A true l'heure bleue. 

That's why. 

Monday, 10 February 2014


I can hold grudges. 
I can feed the fester of an emotional wound, to where the original pain is small by comparison of how big my feeding of it has turned it into. 
 And I'm always trying to work on letting go of the hurt and pain. 

For a few months, I have been trying to navigate a situation, I've been trying to lend support and trying to be available to be as helpful as I can possibly be. 
But, I kind of hit a wall. 
Where, suddenly, the whole situation made me angry. 
And I really didn't the fact that I was angry about it. 
So all of that, kind of turned into a surly, sulky mood. 

Totally unfair to Horace. He has been nothing but supportive and kind and gentle and loving and caring throughout this entire situation. He has been my absolute protection and safety, my strength. 

I was sulky. He was trying to deal with me. He said something. 
And because I was in the state I was in, his words hurt me. 
He apologised. 
I just added it to the grudge pile and didn't relent. 

I hate to admit it, but I think because so much of this submission thing, is about giving over power and control, that when moments occur where the balance shifts, I may take advantage..kind of in...a..."I have power for this", way. Does that make sense at all? 

"You've been sulking and snarky and I'm not going to take any more of it", He marched into the bedroom last night. 
I was reading. 
"You hurt me", I retorted. 
"Yes and I apologised for the fact that my words hurt you. It doesn't give you the right to act this way."
Before I knew it, he had a knee against my back, had me lying face down on the bed and had the cane striking my ass.

Strike, after strike. 
I didn't take it well. 
I thrashed about and yelled and hollered. 
"You aren't in control, here Bleue", he said. 
It went on for a very long time. He didn't let up. 
My skin felt like it was going to split. 
My bottom smarted something fiercely. 
And Horace didn't stop.

Until he did. 
He pulled me closed and stroked my hair. 
"I'm sorry", words I should have said long before that point, but words I  meant. 

On occasion, causing each other hurt is just what happens. It's the affect of living and loving and creating a life together. Horace has always been the quicker of the two of us to utter an apology. 
But it is something I am working on. 
Just another piece of being able to surrender. 

As Horace so often does, he made my world right again. 
I felt better, so much better after his harsh attentions and the slate was cleared again. 

Friday, 7 February 2014

Friday Fragments: Complaining

Complaining, Master has told me, once or maybe twice in the past, that it isn't a very attractive trait, when it comes to submission. 
Imagine that. 
While concerns and thoughts always need voice, and should be allowed the space and time to be heard, often times, its learning when to bring those things up. 
So sometimes, I wait for when I know he isn't tired, or distracted, when his attention can be fully on me. 
And sometimes...I tell myself, not to complain, because if I don't make a point of telling myself not to, before I know it, the flood of words will be out of my mouth.

I am not going to complain about how much my big toe hurts.
Even though, I did something mysterious to it and it kept me up for a good portion of the night. 
And it really, really hurts. 
Kind of affects the whole walking thing for me. 

I'm not going to complain that I need more sleep. 
Even though, I was out for a good portion of last night, on behalf of Him. 
And my toe made it so much worse...

I'm not going to complain that it has been a very long week. 
With work, with the book, with having to socialize, with not sleeping, with my toe hurting.... 

I'm not going to complain that the Hovel needs to be cleaned. 
Seriously: When you spend time cleaning every freakin' day, it shouldn't matter.
But the glorious training of M/s...yep, that's why I can't skip a day...I just can't.

I'm not going to complain, that I feel frazzled and tired and my toe is hurting. 
And I won't complain about how much more I have to do.

I'm not going to complain, that I just want Him here, now. 

And I'm not going to complain about Blogland...nor would I even want to.
 You, my friends, as you often do, made my week so much better. 
Anyone on Twitter, I haven't found yet? I'm @BleueAme

Wednesday, 5 February 2014

Independence of Dependence

Lots of snow.
But I'm making the best of it, today.
I have pasta sauce simmering on the stove and loaves of bread rising, the Hovel smells so amazing. 

The feelings of loneliness have eased, barely lingering. 
For about three weeks, I felt that loneliness acutely.
With it, it brought fear and pain and grief and regret. 

That was a whole lot of emotion to process, even for me. way or another, I seem to have a knack for transmuting out of the rubble. 
It's why chaos and change and I are such good friends. 
While I was chin-high in those lonely feelings, it hit home: 
What would I do without Him? 

It's a scary concept to ponder. 

Life is good. 
I have never been so content, as I am now. 
Even while I had those moments of suffocating loneliness, the contentment was under riding it all. 

Who wants to think about their loved one not being with them?
Who wants to ponder what life would be like if anything happened? 

Things are good, but my crystal ball is very rusty. 
It's never really worked all that well in the first place.

So out of that rubble, I contemplated those thoughts. 
Independence, something I held so highly and dearly and closely, doesn't matter in the same way it once did for me. 
I can barely make decisions on my own. 
Lots of decisions to be made with the book thing. 
And I have His support. 
But he is smart.
Smart enough to realize when something is outside of his expertise. 

And as I contemplated those thoughts, the refrain kept going through my head: 
What would I do without Him?
In the whole time that we have been together, I haven't been in the workforce. 

My references are so old they are invalid, if I had to go out and get a job's an overwhelming prospect.
And while it's true that I help with His business and we can even measure the affects of my help, as it were, it's still not comforting when placed next to that scary refrain. 
So I've decided to pour more energy into my little, tiny business and see if I can once more, reinvent myself. 

Seriously: that old Phoenix has nothing on me.

M/s can be liberating. 
The dependency can actually be kind of freeing. 
But it is still, dependency. 

And way back...the lost of my independence was the clincher that made me hesitate into giving this submission thing the 24/7 go. 
But I think, with any relationship, where it is give and take...there is a certain loss of independence on both sides. 
Somehow, with M/s, it seems more intense.

But, I don't have to go it alone. 
I can turn these worries and fears over to Him, lay them at His feet, with perfect trust and perfect love and know, that His strength will support me. 
He will lend his intelligence and his insights to my quest of reinvention. 
He always has. 

And I count my stars. 

Book Update: In editing hell. I had forgotten what that was like.

Monday, 3 February 2014

Rough and Tumbled

It wasn't overly obvious, but then again it never is. 
But it was a certain look on Master's face, a subtle shift in his tone of voice. 
I knew, the sadist was out to play. 
I didn't have any clue of what he had planned. 

And that might have been to my benefit. 
Because this was clearly a time, where it was so not about me. 
What I want, didn't even matter a little. 

How I felt about it all, mattered less. 
At least, while it was happening. 
I was only expected to follow, to submit, to obey. 

Gods, the surrender thing is hard. 
But sometimes its easier. 
When you have no choice and its been taken from you. 

I found myself, lying totally exposed. 
Propped up and opened. 
His fingers explored those inner parts. 

Explored, is putting it too nicely. 
He pulled and yanked and stretched. 
He inflicted pain. 

And it hit me hard, crashing over me. 
I can take a flogging, a caning, without making a noise. 
He trained me to do be able to take the blows without making a sound. 

But sometimes, Master likes to pull out sounds and reactions from me. 
He likes to hear and see the affect of the pain he's inflicting.

Rope. Bamboo. Home made spreader-bar. 
He left my arms free. 
Which was kind of a bound of its own--because I had to concrete on making sure I didn't put a hand there to block or parry. 

An array of insertables. 
All found there way into me. 
Anal plug and dildo. 
What's the big deal there?

He did it for painful effect. 

His pleasure. 
Hammering into me, spreading me open, making me feel as if my flesh was going to fall apart. 
Sometimes it's not in the what but in the how. 

I yelled and bucked. 
He grinned, "You like this torture." 
"No?" His hand dove in, around the glass, ramming it further into me. "But your body does. Your sopping wet." 

What argument can I make, there? 
None, really, none that would matter. 
He flipped me over--from back to front--and that was really painful. 

At some point, I didn't even know what was happening. 
I was lost in sensations and blinded by pain. 
Only anchored by his voice. 

He lifted the spreader bar, up and down, wrenching my legs where he wanted them. 
And then, thrust into me.
At another time, it might have been pleasure, it might have been at that looked for point where the pain becomes pleasure and they override each other. 

Nope, not here. 
The pleasure didn't come for a very long time. 
He held it off, held it away from me, until he had his way with me. 

He knew. Knew when I was starting to feel the edges of the pain leave, knew.

He knew. He controlled. 

And finally, when I was sure I couldn't take it any more--not one more slam, thrust, pull, not the feel of the cold bar, not the pressure of the insertables... 
He took me further, proving me wrong. 

Only when Master was satisfied and done, when my legs were unbound and the toys removed, when he had me curled against him, did he give me release.