I am extremely happy to say the site, with the help of a technically skilled person, has been returned to functionality with a full, clean re-install. After 10 years, it was apparently full of ghosts and accidental messes, as well as bits and pieces that were leftover from past projects. The theme is readable and responsive, enough to serve you the femdom stories that remain the primary draw, without tying you to a particular device.
I am writing this as I delay making gingerbread cookies (to sit in the fridge overnight). Tomorrow Silver is going to drive up to haul me off to Washington, the theory being that if we are going to weather a complete holiday shut down, doing so in each other’s company is less unpleasant than apart. Although they haven’t hurt the borders yet, its been threatened, and I’d hate to do another 6 months, not knowing when we might be reunited. Behind me, a muffled YouTube playlist of vintage Christmas carols, artfully distorted to sound played on a record player in the next room adds a degree of festive feeling to a pretty grey time. It’s not so bleak, I suppose, as it might have been same time last year, when I cancelled seeing Silver, as covid rates inevitably spiked. That year, flying was the only option and going through air travel seemed a high risk activity on top of border hopping.
We are also coming in on our two year anniversary, if you back date things, or a year and a half if you count from formal negotiation of “dating”, which came after D/s. That’s us, backwards from lust into something deepening out. It feels odd, because it fits so perfectly well, that moment when you look at something on the rack “nah nice, but an impulse buy! Never going to fit me!” But try it on anyway and you don’t need to think of even tailoring it. Occasionally I wonder at how well he suits, in that way where I pay a therapist $150 an hour to convince me I deserve nice things.
More or less at this time, I went to an event in the social orbit of Seattle so I could hook up with him. And I did, and after, I told myself that if I wasn’t going to accept his extended kindness, what was the point even? So I did, and fell in love with him.
Today Silver dealt with various fuss around car maintenance, winding up into an increasing frazzle as he tried to make pieces fit to pick me up. He doesn’t like me having to take an Uber to the border, and doesn’t like me having to pay the expense of the ride and have me walk over. He will swab himself and wait 24 hours for his test results, to shuttle me up and back, three to four hours drive. My scumbag brain tries to come up with a reason this is an inadequacy on my part, because apparently it doesn’t want to admit someone can just care about me that much. Enough to spare me $60 and a 40 minute car ride and 20 minutes of ridiculous security theatre.
An old friend, one of those humans you find is relentlessly good to you, helped me fix the gnarled up back end of my website. Every step of the way she apologized for giving me good advice. For imposing with her help. The site is now clean and crisp and no longer fighting against posting things or going down every thirty minutes. Then she trusted me to give her a name for a project she is working on, and my scumbag brain told me asking me was a favour to me.
Silver just about apologized for not being better at the back end of websites. As if it were his job to be all thing to me, as if it were a lack on his part. I understand that urge powerfully, I don’t think it is submissive thing. I think it is the complex tangle of how humans love.
If his apartment wasn’t so small as to probably drive us crazy, if I didn’t need $600 of Botox stabbed into my head every three months, and business with OTs and so forth, it would be tempting to just weather the current spike of plague nestled up in his home.
There, this stream of consciousness is written and I have taken a tranquillizer to prevent the excitement of tomorrow and a thread of anxiety from throwing me off my sleep. There’s disks of gingerbread dough in the fridge and when I made it I felt a little bit of Christmas, a pure bit of joy it would be ok. Tomorrow I have a handful of must do errands before I go, filling a prescription, rolling, cutting and baking cookies, and finishing a gift. I must settle on the things for my suitcase. There may be a family to meet: “Hi Mom, this is my domme!”
Ok, no, it’s that mutual thing where the leather fetish stories fall short as I make a presentation of myself that is not fake, it’s translated. And like any good translation, the meaning will not be lost though the context and language will adapt to the audience. I pack bright kelly green tights and a red plaid dress, and consider I have 12 days to fill otherwise. Latex, in crinkly paper. Twangy body harnesses, lingerie. Plain black cotton panties with lace edges to match. Black tights, opaque, worn in this style since high school, skirts. I seldom wear pants. Shoes must be picked carefully as even with a bigger bag they make bulk.
I am packing a jar of mincemeat. I expect to co-opt flour and butter and two knives to slice vigorously. This particular recipe takes forever to bake and makes my diners convert to pie. I don’t expect him to like the rich taste of peel, raisins and alcohol. But it is my Christmas to eat them. In our last video call before bed, a habit that’s turned into 3 or 4 calls a day, he showed me he picked me up some shortbread. He has put a box for me in his bathroom I can stash those things one makes a habit of- shampoo and conditioner and so forth. We are at the drawer-at-your-place stage in our relationship.
The orgasm denial is making him into a mess. Every time I see his cock, hard and erect I immediately get his with the scent memory of sex. We’ve passed pleasantly aroused and into needy, unable to shut down the drive to pursue and touch. Tomorrow he will be unable to stop touching me. I am sadistically winding him up until he can tell me he needs me. I am pushing his limits, my unstintingly giving man.
And perhaps I will let him come before New Years. It is, after all, Christmas.