Domestic Goddess

Just to prove I do have my moments of Nigella-esque domestic goddessness: Cupcakes!

Lemon Sponge, Chocolate Whoopee Pie, Strawberry Ice Cream Cake

Baked as a thank you for my parents who are babysitting overnight for us tomorrow! I can't wait for some grown up time.

(Okay, not quite as good as Nigella)

Arts and Crafts

I'm one of those people who loves to be creative but has zero talent. I can't draw, I have a guitar and a violin that I play poorly, I can knit but never have the patience to finish a project, I can't sew... you get the picture. But every now and then I have an urge to make something.

This week I've been making floggers.

Inspired by a poster on fetlife, I thought I'd give making my own toys a go. We don't really have many toys, because honestly, we've never felt the need. There's usually something lying around the house that can be called into action in a pinch. But I was feeling the creative urge and off I went to poundland.

Someone suggested that a hank of cotton clothes line makes a good base for a gentle flogger, so that's what I was looking for. They didn't have cotton, but they did have a type of clothes line: it's steel wire coated in plastic. Pretty, huh?

A set of wire cutters and an hour or two later, we have this:

(forgive the rubbish photography, I'm a rubbish photographer)

This was my first attempt at making a toy, so go easy on me. There are 36 falls on this, and they are about 18 inches long. They are pretty stiff and heavy and so require a bit of force to get them moving. This flogger doesn't know the meaning of the word 'gentle'.  Husband was only too happy to product test. Verdict: Ouch.  Raised welts from the first touch. As a bonus, a mini-version (from the leftovers) also ouchy.

Next: A rubber one, made from stripped down bungee cords. This one is kind of yummy, and also mini at about 12 inches total length.

My final attempt involved garden twine braided together - no pictures of this because it was abandoned very quickly. Yuck, scratchy and unpleasant.

Now what to make next?

My First Caning

It Came.

Taa-dah!

(The hand belongs to my gorgeous hubby, in case you are wondering)

I had picked a shortish cane, because from what I remember of high school physics, I figured the force of the impact would be less. I'm a wimp, remember? Also with the added bonus of it being relatively easy to control and to use in a small space. It's about 10mm thick.

I've been building this experience up in my head for a while now. The cane invokes images of a stern headmaster, the agonising wait outside his office, the painfully long lecture and build up, and of course, the snap of pain that comes with six of the best. I'm too young to have experienced corporal punishment at school of course, and I was a goody two shoes so probably would never have been caned anyway. Still, the image of the errant school child  bent over for punishment is part of the collective consciousness. I was intrigued, and nervous.

Husband had given the thing a few practice swings menacingly in my direction. He didn't look overly impressed, and announced that he couldn't imagine it would be much worse than the riding crop. I think he was enjoying watching me squirm as he experimented with it.

Once we finally got a few minutes to ourselves it was time to try it out.

He gave me a little practice tap and I jumped. It stung.
'Wow,' he said. 'That hurt?'
It did hurt.
'That was maybe five percent force'.
Uh oh.
He had me bent over the sofa. He gave me a few more flicks from the wrist and after the third one I jumped up out of position. This is a bad habit I have. He told me that it was already leaving some nice little marks, and he was wearing that smile that he has when something tickles his sadistic side.
I got myself back into position. He built up the intensity gradually, giving me two or three strokes in quick succession, then pausing to let the anticipation build up. I focused on breathing and tried very hard to stay still and take it. It was very painful but to my delight the endorphins kicked in much faster than I'm used to, and I was able to say I could take more when he offered to give me a break.
'Can I change my mind if I want to?'
'No. If you say you want more, that's it. You're getting at least five good strokes, plus maybe some lighter ones.'
I don't know how many there were, but it was a lot more than five. I went between giggling, squirming, yelping and breathing very slowly as I tried to hold position.
His face (and another part of his body) told me that he was very pleased with the new toy. We only got up to about 20% force this time, but I can see this becoming one of his favourite implements so who knows where we will go with it.

I got a lovely rush of endorphins from the pain once it was over, and better still, a lovely set of beautiful double-edged cane welts to show for the experience. I can still feel it as I sit and type, and I love the reminder of what I went through. And let's just say I was well rewarded for it!

In case anyone is interested, the cane was purchased from FREAK Clubwear whom I highly recommend, not only for their quick service but also for their very helpful videos about their equipment. (And although I've never purchased their clothing, I think its very cool that they do fetish clothing in a huge range of sizes and will make to measure for no extra cost - how many places can say that?)

P.S. Yes there are pictures of my ass after the caning, but I'm much to shy to share them. Sorry!

Doubts

Last night I had one of those nights.

We've had a rough week, Husband and I. Baby is teething, and we've all had colds. It may not sound like much, but as anyone with kids will know, teething is a parenting trial-by-fire. Our baby has never slept through the night, but lately there's been no sleep at all, for any of us. Between the screaming, the vomit, the sniffles and the restlessness, we're all exhausted and grumpy. To make things worse the baby (who will happily sleep through the sounds of heavy machinery and fire alarms) is scared to tears every time my husband sneezes.

So what does this have to do with submission? A lot, as it turns out.

I'm the type of person who tends to overthink things at the best of times. And when I'm sleep deprived, my ability to keep that in check decreases dramatically. I feel frustrated at the baby when she spits out the medicine that I know will make her feel better. Then I feel guilty for feeling frustrated. Before you know it I'm feeling like the worst mother in the world.

It works the same way with submission. I want to submit to my husband. I do, oh so badly. But I find I easily slip into that negative cycle of questioning and doubting myself and I'm particularly vulnerable to it when I'm tired and stressed out. The house is a mess - I've barely had a minute when the baby hasn't needed me, and when I have got a second to myself, I slacked off. I sat my ass down and enjoyed the silence. We haven't eaten well - we've had several takeaways since I've also slacked off on the cooking. So much for the healthy diet he requires. Husband understands - he's not an unreasonable Master. But I feel bad. I start to beat myself up. On one hand, I wish he would punish me because I want to be held to higher standards and I don't want to be let off the hook at any slight inconvenience. On the other hand, would I really want to be in a power exchange relationship with someone who punished me for being human and for having a bad day? After all, he's struggling too after this tiring week - would I want him to punish me for feeling the same way?

You can see what I mean about overthinking. It starts here and ends with me feeling like jelly and wondering whether this is the right type of relationship for me at all.

It is, of course. I always come through these wobbles with my husband's support. But after six years I feel I ought to be on top of this now.

Vanilla is Delicious

The word 'vanilla' is often used to mean 'not kinky' or at least 'not as kinky as me'. Often this word seems to be used in a disparaging way, as if those with so-called vanilla tastes are somehow less enlightened than those of us who like to whip out the odd pair of handcuffs.

Two things spring to mind when I hear the word used this way:

1) You don't really know what those 'vanilla' folks are getting up to behind closed doors. Your friends, your neighbours, even dear old Granny, could well be into things way out of your comfort zone.

2) Vanilla is delicious.

There's a reason vanilla is the standard flavour of ice cream. Because it's yummy. Because it goes with everything. Because everyone likes it. And because it is so wonderful at putting other flavours into scrumptious contrast.

I am certain that from the outside my husband and I appear vanilla. And that's fine with me! Because most of the things we get up to are vanilla. When you're living 24/7 D/s, it can't all be kneeling and nudity. At some point, the bills have to be paid and the dishes have to be washed and you can't take the car to be serviced whilst wearing only a pair of nipple clamps and some six inch stilettos (well you can, but you shouldn't). Most of the time, I don't even call him Sir or Master. The dynamic is always there beneath the surface of course, because it's an integral part of our relationship. But most of the actual day to day activities are very vanilla. My service to him is translated into caring for the family and the home. His orders more frequently relate to running errands or staying healthy that they do to begging and crawling. Friday night was spent cuddled on the sofa, watching bad movies and wearing... wait for it... baggy pyjamas. And it was lovely.

I love our vanilla moments - a trip to the cinema, a quiet family dinner, a snuggle in bed. And best of all, when the kinky mood strikes or the sadist comes out to play, the contrast is all the more striking and beautiful.

The Wimpiest Masochist on the Block

I'm not sure I have any right to call myself a masochist, since I don't really like pain. I am a huge wuss, and it takes very few strokes of any implement to make me shriek. To complicate matters, Himself is a sadist, and believes that toys are meant to hurt.

I do enjoy all the other things that go along with the pain. I love feeling that I really endured something for his pleasure. It's easy to submit to something you really like, but submitting to those things that are tough makes me feel that I did a good job. Next, I love the fear, and you don't get fear unless there's something to be frightened.

Mostly, I love marks. I love a lasting reminder of what I went through. Unfortunately I don't bruise easily, so those marks, when I get them, are hard earned.

I know he holds back on his sadism for my sake, which I appreciate, though at the same time I want to make him happy - I want him to take what he wants. That's why I was pretty excited this week when he gave me the go-ahead to purchase a cane. 

After a little bit of research I've ordered a Junior Dragon Cane. I'm thrilled, and terrified.

Wish me luck!

Love, Honour and Obey

My name is Athena, and I'm the perfect wife.

Picture this:

He comes home after a long day at work. The house (which is immaculate) smells faintly of freshly baked bread and home-made chocolate chip cookies. His wife, perfectly turned out and made up, greets him with an ice-cold drink and a kiss. The baby plays contentedly with her highly educational toys. After dinner (organic, ethically sourced and delicious, naturally) and baby's bedtime, we enjoy sparkling conversation on the topics of politics, philosophy and the arts. He snaps his finger and off I hurry to cater to his every whim and desire. A little hanky-panky and off to bed by half-past-nine.

Well, that's not my life.

My husband and I are in a 24/7 D/s relationship. What that means, in layman's terms, is that he's the boss. He orders, I obey. He makes the rules. I try ever so hard to follow them. I'm a long way from perfect.

From the outside we look like a very traditional relationship. He goes out to work, I stay home. I do the housework, the cooking, the cleaning. I look to him for decisions. He doesn't micromanage, but he has standards that he expects me to meet and there are consequences for disobedience.

Some days, D/s for us means hot kinky sex in the bedroom and idyllic, 1950s Better Homes and Gardens style domestic bliss outside the bedroom. Most days, it's just two people doing the best we can to make a good life for each other and our family. It just so happens that for us, that includes a power-exchange relationship.

People occasionally talk about being a 'natural submissive' - if such a person exists, I am not one of them. Submission, for me, takes work. I submit to my husband because he inspires it in me - he is dependable, reasonable, loving, firm and kind. But it is still hard work. There are days when following orders is an inconvenience. There are days when I doubt myself, my ability to submit, and even whether submitting is the right thing to do. I was not brought up in a world where women submit to men. My parents and grandparents had very equal relationships. I had a good education where the girls were expected to achieve in the same ways as the boys. I worked in a male-dominated environment making decisions that put my ass (and other people's asses) on the line. Surely to come home and sit at my husband's feet goes against all of that?

I'm hoping this blog will document the tiny struggles and victories that go to making a strong and successful D/s relationship, as well as give me somewhere to share the little things that don't often come up in conversation amongst my other circles of friends.