Tag Archives: musings

Teacher, Mine

Relationships go in cycles, or so it seems. At least, mine always have. Those who are meant to stick around in your life cycle back around in one way or another.

One of those that has cycled back for me is Cal, the person who started all of this. I still chuckle when I think about how I was when I started this journey. Monogamous, green, terrified of pain. Spankings were far from enjoyable for me and knives terrified me.

Now, most of that is the opposite.

Cal and I have danced around each other for years now… and we’re still dancing. It’s never been the right time. Things have always gotten in the way. He hasn’t been available. I haven’t been. And so, I swallowed the bits of desire that remained after his last breakup and told myself, over and over and over, I would be a safe person for him. I would be a friend.

What I didn’t factor in was that nothing about Cal is safe. At least for me.

I have several people that have always been kryptonite for me, just on a visceral level. James is one of them. He gets to me on every level. His voice, his smell, his presence… Cal is another one. When I was his mentee I would sleep in tee shirts that smelled of him. I think I still have one of his old green shirts stashed away that I sleep in on colder nights (I don’t normally wear shirts to bed. I get strangled by them). He figured out how to fuck my mind before he ever got to my body, which hardly helped things when I was first starting out. And he was protective of me. All things that give me a lady boner.

He started coming to BaGG, on and off, a couple of months ago. He saw James again (James doesn’t like him), met my Daddy and my Sir. BaGG… is a work in progress for Cal and I. The first time he got me shit faced on scotch and left me before saying goodbye and after making out with me. Several times. And telling me that he would be there long after James was gone, and we would end up together because we’re both too broken not to. The second was similar to the first, only I was more sober and stuck him on a stool for the last hour of the night to sober up while I rubbed at bruises he left on my neck. He’s into breath play, which is something I also love, but when he’s drunk his hands are very rough. And I was afraid.

Still. There had been kisses. And hugs. And he called me little one.

I found myself protective of this man, broken again by a relationship that I saw going down in flames long before it did. And I found myself terrified of him as well. He apologized for the incidents and promised to try and manage the alcohol more. He’s hurt, physically, and not eating as much as normally, and so alochol is affecting him more strongly than it normally does.

There is a war in my head when it comes to Cal. There is the good, protective friend that kinda wants to guide him back into our local scene and then there’s the submissive chomping at the bit to prove herself to him. To show what he missed. It’s the submissive that gets me in trouble, in ways that I didn’t see coming. And it’s the submissive that still.. can’t help but react to him. Smell. Voice. Presence. ESPECIALLY when he milks it. When he purrs my nickname after too many drinks and I tell my brain to shut up for a minute so I can enjoy.

He’s gotten better. We both have. Thank godde for time, firm boundaries, and bunnies. He has a new love that has slowly wrangled a lot of the darkness he has been carrying..and it means he’s behaving a lot more. And she is lovely.. Full compersion here. She’s the right age and the right temperment to actually be GOOD for him after his string of lemons, and I’m happy for him. I truly, honestly am. I just…have brain squirrels.

Last week, Cal came to BaGG. I was freshly back from a trip east and felt like absolute shit. I now know I probably had a fever..but I was determined to go. My friends wanted to see me. My meta wanted to talk about her trip and mine. I wanted my time with James. I was getting there.

I spent a good portion of the night on my knees, which were so sore they could barely support my weight. I didn’t think about this, until Cal saw me do it in the back of the smoking alley.

His hands were in my hair before I could warn him not to. He pet me gently, and I purred. Daddy was right in front of me. I knew it was safe, and Cal kept saying it wasn’t sexual. He was careful not to call me my nickname. I was careful not to call him sir. We were Cal and Rene and it was just a few head pets when I was in pain.

Later in the back room, he hugged me hard. He gets emotional after a few drinks and has a habit of thanking me for still being around.. which I appreciate. The hug captured my head. He had his hand in my hair and pulled, hard. I whimpered and reached for Daddy’s shirt, tugging just as hard. It was a signal we had agreed upon earlier in the evening that I would do when I was scared. Daddy interviened, gently pulling Cal off of me while my meta calmed me down. I blamed the last double he had and tried to shake it off.

It’s just with alcohol that I find myself on edge with Cal. When four or five drinks are removed he’s a safehaven. I crashed at his place after a play party last weekend, grateful for the couch and a day when I didn’t have to pay a bridge toll in order to get to work. He hugged me hello and I smelled him and immediately knew cuddling was out of the question. I put a big, fat blanket between he and I on the couch until he went to crash for the evening.

The next morning I tried to sneak out, dressing quickly for breakfast with Chris and scampering out the door. I dressed quickly before tossled hair and a furrowed brow stumbled outside, slightly confused. He was adorable. Bits of me melted that had been holding firm, and I smiled. He hugged me goodbye a beat too long. A dangerous beat. I wanted to kiss him.

But. I also want his head on straight. I want him established with his new parter. I want him happy and mostly whole. I want him to know that I am safe, and stable, and honestly pretty fucking close to poly saturated right now. I want to see more than one BaGG in a row without me getting scared of him physically harming me.

I want time, that lovely balm that heals all things, to finally decide the course for Cal and I. I keep telling myself that we are going to be friends. Friends are safe. Friends are good.

And all my instincts keep wanting more.

Yes, Cal is my teacher from a world ago, but lately we’ve been teaching each other. We talk daily, reading one another and keeping each other in check. For now, this is healthy.

For later?

I don’t know. Time will tell. Time always tells. For now, I have brain squrrels and he has a bunny. And this is how it should be.

So, what have you got left to teach me, teacher mine?

Yours, playful,

-Rene

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Day 3

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Day 3

How do you know you are submissive or have the potential to be submissive? How do you feel when you express your submission?

How do I know that I am what I am? Honestly, that was something I asked myself for a long time, before I really understood what a submissive was. Before I knew that someone could take on that label.

When I was 17 I had my first real boyfriend. There were follies before that, including the boy that I gave my first blow job too, much childish groping, and some very bad kissing incidents (I nicknamed one of my potential suitors ‘fish lips’ at one point…), but eventually the 19 year old from U Conn stuck. He was literally a farm boy from a small town in Connecticut, as vanilla and wholesome as you get. He was also addicted to video games, specifically the Halo series and a few others. He taught me how to play some, but rather than play along I often sat and watched him play. There was an open couch to lounge in, a bean bag chair, and his favorite arm chair that he liked to sit in when he played games. Rather than sit on the couch or the bean bag chair I sat at his feet on the floor every damn time, for not other reason other reason than it felt good. No one ever prompted me to, and I have no idea why I ever thought it was a good idea. It just felt…right. As time went by I asked him to pick out my clothing. I would bring thing to him when he asked..and then when he didn’t asked. I made him breakfast without question when I spent the night and learned quickly what to make him for breakfast before asking.

Certain fetishes have developed over time. They show up with specific people, in specific circumstances. Not every person I’m involved with spanks my ass till I cry or pulls my hair, turning me into a rag doll, just like not every person I’m involved with flogs my bag or pets my head or scritches behind my ears or tucks me in at night and reads me a story… My kinks are eclectic and continually developing, but the instinct to submit has been there for a very long time. It’s a core part of who I am. It comes out, whether or not I’m trying to lock it away.

How do I know I am a submissive? The same way I know that I am an artist. Even when I can’t work, even when I don’t have time to get in the studio, it’s a need inside of me. It’s part of who I am. I have no choice.

As for how I feel when I express my submission… It varies. When it’s casual play it depends on the motivation for the play. Sometimes I need a cathartic spanking.. I want to cry, but I don’t want it associated with the person I’m closest to.. Sometimes I’m playful. I want to try new toys I’ve never felt before. Sometimes I’m feisty and bratty and goad tops into biting back. It all depends.

But submitting to my primary? To the person I belong to?

I feel at peace. I breathe better. Muscles that I never remember tensing relax. Even if it’s pain that follows my submitting.. Even if it’s his hand coming down on my chest or thighs or ass. Even if it hurts, it’s so good. It itches a scratch, sates a need that only one person can fill. Submitting makes me feel whole and cherished.. For however long there is a collar around my neck or a strong voice ordering me to present my chest or lean back so he has access to my legs, the giant weight I carry around during my everyday life is lifted. Someone else has control in those moments.. someone else calls the shots. Someone who can read my body like a book, who knows how far to push me and when to back off, who knows when I need a tender touch after several very harsh ones before I vocalize that need.

Submitting, like making art, allows me to function.. It gives me release when I have no words…

Huh. No wonder the kink world leaks into my artwork so much.. They’re both the same catharsis for me… Intriguing.

Three days done, 27 to go.

Yours,

-Rena