Just A Word

It happened when I wasn’t looking. I wasn’t paying attention. Suddenly I realized I used words that I never had before. And I meant them. I said them again, to test if they would keep their meaning.

You’re the love of my life, I said to Wonderboy. Something had changed, I think, irrevocably. Our relationship feels different to me. It feels solid. I have no doubts. I will be with him. He’s the one for me. 

Can you guess how he replied? 

Oh come ooon! he said, bashfully. Such huge words that he hid his face.

I wonder what he thinks? I wonder if he wonders how it would be with someone else. Can he believe that this is it, I’m the one? I don’t know. But I don’t have to know that. I only need to know what I feel. And I know now! Funny how this kind of a thing can surprise you after being together over 5 years. The love of my life. It started as so small, so… normal. Everything was so difficult for the longest time, because of our pasts, because of the draw to play with power and sex. It’s not so hard anymore.

Would you like to take charge of what I eat again? I asked when he commented on what I ate the other day.

Yes, he answered solemnly. 

And now he does again, for most of the time. He says what he expects of me but I’m in charge of deciding on the smaller scale what will be good for me.

We’ve been to the gym twice this week, together. I can’t even begin to describe how happy that makes me. Silly me. Silly love. 

When we were walking back home the other day I commented on my sweaty clothes  - sneakers and tights – making me uncomfortable and he said: I love you all sporty like that. You’re a dream come trough. 

Imagine all the hard labour of putting on makeup and grooming myself when all the while he actually likes me all sweaty and red faced after a workout. And I do understand him now. I like him like that too. I like to know that he’s doing his best to stay healthy and beautiful and strong, and I love that he’s doing it with me. It makes me feel connected to him that we share meaningful goals like that – and the hobby itself. I want to be strong and beautiful and healthy for him when we’re 60, too. That’s what this is. This is no short span thing. This is true love. 

Guilty As Charged

I’m beginning to realize that every time I get angry… I actually feel guilty. I’m angry right now. A coworker insinuated that I’m bailing out on work because of other freelance stuff I have going on. I know that she was trying to make me feel guilty: she even did the classic “Well, I wouldn’t get stuff done either if I would do X, W and Z”. At the time I took it with a grain of salt. But it bugs me still.

Why does it bug me?

Here’s what I gathered while running wildly in the woods (jogging on the tracks near the river):

• I feel guilty that I have more than one job. I know that I don’t always give 120% the way I’m used to  at work since I got to save up some juices for the freelance things I’ve got going that are really important to me. But I also know that most people never give their 100% at work. I’m very efficient and passionate with what I do. If only I could stop feeling guilty or like I owe others something.
• I have been unable to do my best at all times and sometimes even failed being present at work because of the treatments. I know I’m doing my best, but since I also know that at my best I’m way better this bugs me to no end.
• There had been no one doing what I’m doing now for quite some time when I got the job so there’s zero continuity, there are no plans for whatever might come, no strategy and I’m swamped up to my ears trying to build everything from ground up. People at work are like “but we had X, W and Z when s/he was here” and they don’t realize nothing is saved and so the work needs to be done again or that systems have changed so drastically that everything needs to be done again because of that.
• I am very, very good at most of the things I do in my line of work. (There are some things that I’m fairly poor at, but they are up to 3% of my workload.) I mean, I fucking rule most of the time. I am also very, very, very particular about the way I want things done, and mostly what has been done earlier doesn’t meet my standards by a long shot. So now I feel like they look at me like I’m the  one who takes a month to do things that used to be done in a week, but they don’t realize the difference in class and strategy. Also I have already started to lower my standards, because no one can keep up with the demands I get unless they settle on doing nothing else for the rest of their lives… or doing it with a slightly lighter hand. I feel immensely guilty for this.
• I tend to feel that I’m not doing enough. I guess that’s part of my upbringing (I had to prove my worth to be loved) and part of my feeling of self-worth (I still have to prove myself in order to be worth loving in my own opinion). I’m fighting the old habits, but I guess they die hard.

So, I’m angry because she struck a chord. I’m angry at her for trying to guilt-trip me. I’m angry at myself that I am unable to do everything perfectly. I am angry at myself that I need time for myself, too, which is CRAZY. And I’m angry that she has to keep bringing this up like I’m doing some kind of a huge betrayal when in all honesty I’m not the only one who has a life beyond those walls. But I guess no one will ever thank anyone for being a success and working for it. People seem to be jealous for success that in their minds was just a blind coincidence when it never is. My freelance stuff keeps me away from work as much as someone’s kids do when they get sick.  This is a contract we have and I am not paid for those times… unlike my colleagues with kids who are. But I’m being punished for it.

Try to do everything and people will hate you for not being able to do the same themselves. And what I’m thinking? That many in my place would’ve been on sick leave way longer because of the treatments… But I’m handling more jobs than one and still being guilt-tripped about it. BAH. I just wanted to do my job well. All of them.

Just A Little Play With Daddy

It might be hard to believe but tonight I called him daddy. It’s obviously been a while since we fucked, even a longer while still when he tied me to the upper cupboards with rope and fucked me from behind after beating me. I was standing still on very, very high red heels. At least I was until my knees buckled. It didn’t take very long for him to come, and the experience that I’d been praying for for so long didn’t leave my mind after it was over, either.

Tonight was the night. I’d had a huge success at work which was in no way dimmed by the fact that it felt like I miscarried yesterday. Today I was more than fine, I was in epic condition. I’d like for someone to make some sort of a research on women going through miscarriages. I bet I’m not the only one who picks up right after, harder than ever, because it’s easier than to stay still. Everything is easier than staying still.

After Wonderboy had eaten I danced in to the bedroom, and quirkily poked my head into the living room where he was sitting. I just hummed and smiled to him and went to bed. He got the hint so quickly I didn’t have to say anything. He undressed at the foot of the bed, but didn’t lie down.

I have to go to the bathroom first, he said.

I heard the shower and I knew it was business time. 

We started with cuddling and kissing, caressing hair, cheeks, kissing the neck, the lips, the nose, the forehead. But it didn’t quite escalate. He pulled me on top of him, the thing he does when he’s feeling uncertain and vulnerable.

What you wanna do now? I asked.

What do you want to to do? he asked me back.

I paused to think. There were certain ideas flying in my head, teasing my skin already.

I want you to dominate me. I paused for a moment still, looking into his eyes. If you feel like it.

And he did. But of course he didn’t show it to me yet. Finally when he pulled me from my hair and held my nipple in a torturous pinch he said,

I’m going to dominate you now.

Yes.

He let his hand wander down my neck and the other down my throat. Suddenly I realized I was held captive and choked gently but firmly between his hands. I was all his to keep and to play with.

And I don’t care what you feel. I’m going to use you.

He did things to me then that made me move away in shock, but I couldn’t. He was holding me by the hair.

Lick my cock, you slut, he ordered, but I didn’t just lick it. I deepthroated it. He had to position me again on all fours to get his cock in more, deeper, and he did. I let the saliva and precum flow past my lips into his hairs on his cock and on the sheets.

That feels so good, so damn good, he murmured over and over again until he had to lift my head from the hair hastily so as not to come already.

He tossed me away rolling right on top of me seamlessly.

That was really hot, he said. I was really turned on by that, he said all the while sliding his slick cock against my pussy.

He pushed his cock inside. It hurt a bit and I said ouch, but he didn’t care. He kept pounding me, straight away with vigor. That was all I needed. I grinded my face against the spiky stubble of his cheeks. He voiced his pleasure. He hit me in the face a couple times more startling me than delivering pain.

Call me daddy, he said suddenly while holding my wrists.

I have never played into it like that. I have never given up on myself like that. But I did now.

Oh daddy, I love the way that feels like, my voice was cut in peaces because of his pounding. Then my voice was lost to lost and to emotions, then it came back again.

Daddy, please touch my tits, please daddy. Daddy please don’t, oh daddy, oh, oh, oh…

It felt so good to freely commit to it for once. To admit it turned us both on so much. There was finally no voyer inside me looking over my shoulder and analyzing what he was feeling. There were no fucks given to what if he’s secretly laughing at me. And he wasn’t. And we both came so loud and so intensely – not at the same time though – that it was very clear what we need. Just a little dominating. Just a little submission. Just a little play.

Tears

A lot of crying going on here today. I had to leave work straight when I got there, because the cramps were so painful I almost didn’t manage to get out of the bathroom. This is, I think, the first time that I’m setting this up like this within myself: why can’t I carry his child? Why can’t I give him a baby? Wonderboy’s been so unhappy this past few days that it has made me unhappy too. I’ve never seen him like this. And I can’t change a thing. And I’m hurting.

Carrot Soap

Another one of those possibly pregnant weeks of my life has just ended. What a relief. My period was over a week late today, so I called the clinic. They don’t know yet, if they can still treat us before the summer holidays or not. We’ll have to wait and see when my next period will start. I hate that everything is decided by my body. You’ve all heard about the dichotomy between body and soul, mind and matter? Well, this so makes it official. How can I grow better follicles or bleed more quickly? I can’t. I can’t change the body I got and I can’t really help the hormones either.

They gave me this youth hormone, DHEA. It’s not even considered a real drug, if you live outside Europe, but here it’s a prescribed drug that I was fortunate enough to be given. Our doctor is trying to get better follicles out of me, if she can. I hope and then I despair. It’s hard to believe that it could happen, and still I mostly do.

It’s really hard to see my coworker’s rounding belly. Almost even harder, because I know they were in treatment too. It worked for them. So, we’re in a smaller and smaller minority. Will we soon be in the minority that gives up, childless? I hope not.

My little sister will be donating her follicles to my big sister in the Fall. It’s arranged and everything. There’s a small chance that she’d donate to us at the same time. That’s why I want to do this now. I don’t want to wait forever. I can’t.

It’s devastating to think the child wouldn’t be mine biologically. But when I dreamed about having children, when I made the plans, I was working under the mass illusion we have in our civilization that children pop up wanted or not and it’s almost impossible to stop that. So, obviously after a lifetime of laboring under that sort of illusion it’s hard to steer my mind in to a new kind of tomorrow. One were social parenting becomes as meaningful as biological. One where love isn’t only romantic, but also between siblings.

True love conquers all. Yeah, I’m beginning to see what they meant by that. If my sister and my husband can give us a child, I am forever in debt. To love.

I am crying again. But isn’t it beautiful? Can you imagine a better way to express your love? I know I can’t. I am so loved, and now I finally feel that I deserve it. And I will shine it all back to everyone. That’s the way love works.

This childless life is so hard, Wonderboy said yesterday. He was in the dark of the bedroom, alone, just lying in bed looking at the window with closed curtains. Everything is all sad. Nothing makes us happy. 

A lot makes us happy! Look, I made a funny face. Look, look here, I am caressing you, hugging you, tangling into you and kissing you and – oh sorry – crying in your ear.

When we don’t have any little babies just toddling around here, I answered and he looked even sadder, if possible.

He wants to have children with me. He is sad that we don’t have them. He’s scared that we won’t have them. It broke my heart a little bit. I want to give him babies. My body and soul are agreed on that. He even fantasized one day, out loud:

I could be a stay at home dad. I could take the babies into the park and play to them.

He has never talked like that before. He has never made plans or even been at all interested about the babies, just the trying. I can see it, now, in my mind and I can’t shake it off. My Wonderboy sitting near the sandbox with all the other mommies and with our Wonderchild. How lovingly he would take care of our child. He will be a great dad. And he will let me be who i am: very attached to my work, so worry passionate about it.

Doesn’t it break your heart too?

That’s why… I bought handmade soup today. Two different hues: avocado&olives and carrot. How could anyone stay unhappy, when they wash themselves with carrot soap? Obviously they can’t. I have the answer to everything. I am the master of this body. Which will soon, very soon, smell like a carrot.

Helpless

Helpless. That’s what I want to be. Helpless.

Make sure I know what to do. Plan ahead, make arrangements, prepare everything and show me that you cared, that you thought about it. I want to see the rope on the bed. I need to find the brush and rags, the water bowl with the soap on a little plate on the side on the bathroom tile floor.

Guide me.

Let me know how you feel. Let me feel what you feel. Give me your words.

I am here to serve you. Don’t let me let you down. I need guidance. I need instructions and strict guidelines. What time, where, what, how, with what and why?

I need to know this is what you want. This is important to you. This is exactly what you want.

I need to not worry. I need to know.

You give me good instructions on how to lick your cock. Where, how, when to stop and move on to other things. Treat this as as important. It is to me. Don’t let me let you down. Let me know how to serve you. It is of paramount interest to me.

Do not make this into sex. Do not make this into a light thing, a thing to joke about. I do not joke about your sexual preferences, the way you like me to lick your ass or toy with it. Why are you not seeing my needs as needs? Why is it still this hard?

Why do you not tie me up every day?

Where is the rope now?

Shock

I’m in a shock. I was kind of hoping that I’d end up pregnant after the treatments like last time, but that this time it would last. I was waiting for a leisurely summer not thinking about treatments. 

Yesterday I got a call that changed everything. Our old doctor called me after office hours. She explained that she had consulted the clinic that did the IVF part of our treatment. They had come to the conclusion that we are running out of time. By we they of course mean me. They said I should definitely go straight into a private clinic and start talking about the possibility of donors. She said that my sisters situation is a warning sign for me as well. 

I booked us an appointment a couple minutes back, send my parents a message that things have changed drastically and now I’m dreading the future. But I am also optimistic. Now we will do everything that can be done. Now is not a time for false hopes. So we have to start using our savings and maybe consider a loan, a big one, to cover the huge costs of donor follicles. My little sister has promised to give us hers, but her life is in a turmoil as well, verging divorce, so I can’t trust that she’s able to do this for me now. Especially since my big sister would need the same thing at the same time.

There was some serious and the seriously silly talk yesterday night when we both got home. Wonderboy is not comfortable with donor sperm, because he doesn’t see what his role in all this would be then. I can’t say that I am happy about using anything donor, but I have grown to the idea in these years that we have struggled with infertility. Especially if the eggs are from my sister. She has the same genes after all even though we don’t much look alike. It would be the saddest I think, for me as well, if I didn’t get to carry Wonderboy’s babies. That’s what I want. If I get to carry them, the state of biology mixed in the little fellow don’t matter to me as much anymore. But it does matter some. 

In a little more than a weeks time we’ll be having this conversation with our clinic’s doctor, now as her private clients. I don’t know what she’ll recommend, but I have a plan in mind. Don’t I always? 

I’m going to bring up the possibility of fertilizing half and half of my eggs with donor and with Wonderboy’s sperm. This is to find out if there’s a difference in development. If there isn’t, we know the problems are caused mainly by me. Then we can move onto donor eggs. But since that’s much more expensive and we need a real life donor for that because of the long wait, first we test the sperm hypothesis. 

I just hope that Wonderboy would come to terms with this as well. It’s been coming for a long while, but still he was no nearer to accepting it. The bottom line is that if we won’t do the donor thing, we might not have children at all. I can’t compromise that. And he knows this.