Homecoming
Three days.
Nothing compared to what we have endured. Nothing to the month without contact. Nothing compared to the distance in time others have spent apart and others still do. It felt at times like a chasm filled with minutes, to be without him. Bereft of Mister. Lacking.
All I did was go on a little trip to London. Silly, really.
I wonder. Should I really be feeling so rent in two? That invisible tie he has over me pulling, fraying by a fibre. Is it healthy that I should be so completely unmade by this being apart from him?
Then I consider.
The times that this emotion of heartache were only fleeting. A heartbeat of pain. Then I returned to normal. A swift pang of loss, and then all was well. I guess that’s alright? I don’t know. I haven’t been in love before.
This was never in the books. I’ve never read of this…this tearing sensation that like a rip in fabric, is sharp, quick and over in a flash. Searing. Cauterising? I go too far.
Three days. The quiet moments were hardest. Naturally. Travelling, no. Commuting – I was in London, after all – on trains, underground, the buses. Noise and bustling all around me. I alone, like everyone else there, thoughts stray to think of places anywhere you are not currently trapped. The countryside, home. Home where Mister is. London, for all the millions, is a lonely city for me. I could never live there. The poetry of TS Eliot and Blake spring to mind when I think of London, not Wordsworth or someone more salutary. Even in the beautiful sun we had there. Stifling in under the ground. And above it – I wanted to see the green and pleasant land, not just the clear blue sky.
Homesickness may have set in a little. Don’t get me wrong, the country mouse enjoyed her visit greatly; she visited the sights, she was quite pleased when she managed to get from A to B without getting lost once. An excursion, but not her way of life. My complete respect to those who live for the city and with it. I feel like I am fighting against it.
So to home. To Mister. He picked my up from our tiny local station with its two platforms. No waiting room. Not even a ticket office. Just two parallel plinths of concrete and some ancient wooden shelters. This is home. Simple, imperfect with my man waiting for me. It was 11.30 at night and I was ready for him, bed and sleep.
I fell into bed, he soon followed. I watched as he undressed. That sight of his topless torso and in only his jeans. My weakness. He dived in under the covers and found me, warm from my previous few minutes cuddled into the linen. It was all I wanted, needed, desired. His hands and arms sought out my frame and this was it. This was what I missed.
He pulled me into him.
Close to his body. I felt his warmth again. Him inhaling my scent in my hair. Clutching me closer with his inhale, loosening with his exhale.
Wherever that simple action is, that is Home.
With him.
Feeding the Minx
I sometimes spend my day at work lost in my thoughts. That is, when I have those rare quiet moments of breathing space in which I can find those minutes of private solace. Then I dream of him. I softly conspire in my mind of what I would do to him if I had enough energy that evening. What I would want him to do to me. These snippets I collect and catalogue away in the inner scrap-book I keep. This library of mine, for me only, serves me well. I dip in and out of the mental images, movements and emotions stored within. The overriding feeling I get when I do take a little trip away from my present physical location is one of burning desire. And it builds inside. Builds up and begins to smoulder, sizzling away beneath the cool surface of my appearance. The calm and collected individual I have been told I assume the guise of. If only they knew.
The adrenaline kicks in and feeds the Minx. She starts to stir and to move underneath my skin. She prickles at the back of my neck and the pit of my stomach. Calling, purring subtly to me. She will support me through a tough day at work, whispering to me that it’s only a few more hours before I can be back with him once more and all will be well then. The thought is at once soothing and electrifying. Placating and riling.
When I do arrive home, he awaits me. Always with a smile, always with a kiss. He picks me up from work on occasion and I see him smile as he pulls up to the kerb. I melt in an instant. His once again. The exterior of restrain slips away to be replaced with the softened edges of warmth towards another. Saving me. Don’t get me wrong, I love my job, it’s the best thing I could be in, but there is that certain distinction between who I am at work and who I am with him. Work feeds my mind; he feeds the Minx beneath. The instinctual part of myself. All desire and rage, passion and need. Stoking the fire that powers me.
And he knows the mood I am in when I get in this state of Minxiness. My movements are slow and heavy, but at a different mode than from mere tiredness. More deliberate in my connections between he and I. Each touch meaningful. A clear message to his inner Rogue. We smoulder together for the hours the evening presents us with. The tension increasing. My hand will creep under his clothes, swooping up his back, over his stomach. To feel his skin with the very tips of my fingers, the raised portions of my fingertips becoming extremely sensitive to any point of contact. When we first were dating in those years past and I was discovering the beauty of the male form for the first time, this simple act of touch would transform me into something of quiet ferocity in arousal. I like to revisit this way of trickling my hands over him, spidery in fashion, twisting and spreading their incantations of lust. Then it is his turn to purr.
When we haven’t set ourselves up for a planned session, it is mainly in his response that will decide whether I will fall to him or rise above and take the reins. In most cases, I want him to make me fall. Taking me over. Subsuming to his rule. The Minx, at heart, desires to be tamed. His natural dominance will emerge. His hand goes to clutch my hair and when it pulls back, I know. I know when he too moves his hand up under my work clothes, that corruption of who I am at work I know he adores. Taking the pillar of responsibility from under me and bringing me crashing back down. To the darkness where there is only me and him and that is all that matters. Who I am in the day is being ripped from me and I am left torn and his alone. His to use. His to misuse. The Minx flexes her muscles in satisfaction and in the knowledge of what will follow. Sated, but not quite.
That is what I live for. At times at least. Just something I like to muse on.
January is the Cruellest Month
(as is April, but that’s another story)
It’s been pretty bleak these last couple of weeks. The wind is blowing and the rain is falling. Walking in to work this morning a cyclist skidded at least a good 10 feet on the iced road right in front of me. A cheerful greeting on Monday morning acknowledged that that day is the most depressing in the year – just after Christmas, in the bleak midwinter, cold, rainy, budgets tight and to top it all off a Monday Morning.
I also did my back in on Monday evening so all hasn’t been too great (how? you ask…oh, silly me trying to prove that I have muscles somewhere and attempted to lift up Mister from the ground. Yes. I know. I iz an iddyot).
Yet all is not lost. Light is at the end of this dark tunnel. Literally – the evenings have started to pull out and lengthen in their precious minutes of daylight. Sunbeams – albeit fragile and watery – have been shining through my window at work making me smile. Mister continues to be marvellous – being all worried at my poor back (feeling a little guilty, no doubt, for being so manly and heavisome as I like to imagine). Kneading out the knots I have incurred all along the left-side of my spine with gentle, warm and effective fingertips.
Seriously – I was not a happy Pandorah. It took me the whole of four minutes to turn in bed from one position lying on my back to lying on my side, the pain was so ouchy. I’m just about better with minor twinges if I overstretch.
Anyway, despite the sharp pain I was experiencing if I moved a millimetre, he was undeterred from making sure we were both fully relaxed and in the right frame of mind for sleep. By bedroom friskiness with fingers.
Naturellement.
His usual approach of go at it all guns blazing and make me writhe and jolt had to go out the window as the slightest back movement made me yelp with an unforced ‘oh!’ of stabbing ache. Instead the softly, softly method was adopted. Not his normal choice, but one I like as it draws out the process allowing me to really savour what it is he is doing with his fingers on me, concentrating all on the feather-light touches on my clit and thighs. I prefer it at times to the frantic scrambling to grab onto anything to attempt to contain myself – in vain usually, deliciously.
Here the pleasure/pain idea was really being explored. Each time I drew near to a peak, my back naturally wanted to arch and jolt, but that induced the vivid aching twang. I was focused on reducing my movement to a bare minimum.
Consequently, something of a little game I play with myself, when I play with myself. A kind of challenge I set myself, scenarios in my head to see if I can restrain my movement. I always lose, though. Can never stay motionless.
So that night, Mister and I played that little game (although he didn’t knew it’s one I know the rules of already)
It worked out nicely, in the end. A beautifully langourous time spent on one another, him teasing me and I, him.
Maybe I shall pull the other side of my back next week. It did have some benefits.
Or maybe not. It wasn’t that much fun walking around twinging and cringing every 10 paces. I shall just have to be more assertive and tell him not to take the ‘guns blazing’ approach every time. Yes.
I Wonder Oh I Wonder
So, Blacksilk has posed me a question that I feel deserved more consideration than a comment box can offer. I’ll give it my best shot. If any readers have a question they would like to ask – go ahead. It may even lead to a post of its own as this particular one has done!
Do you ever wonder why you’re so submissive?
I have a few ideas. There’s a general debate between nature and nurture. Are you naturally submissive due to your genes? Or has it been conditioned into you by your upbringing and/or treatment by others? It’s a fairly common theory that tars lots of different behaviours with the same brush (Spent an age discussing this theory in regards to Caliban in The Tempest - was he born bad, or was it Prospero that made him so?). Personally if I were to ascribe to this I would say it was my nurturing.
See, I’m the youngest in the family. The baby. The youngest of a large family, predominantly of girls. I was also the product of a second marriage for both of my parents – and possibly unexpected due to their being a little more mature in years when I arrived. Due to the fact that it was a second marriage, most of my siblings had fledged already and I was left in a curious situation of being brought up in an only child environment. This all left me to depend a lot more on those around me rather than to fend for myself as I imagine I may have had to fight for my individuality more if I had brothers and sisters around me.
Leading to me not having a terribly independent streak, only surfacing in the latter years of adolescence. Take that a step further into sexual maturity and it is, I feel, a strong explanation for the submissive that is inherent within me.
But, you say. What about the love of the scratching and dom-ing of Mister?
I lay down the card of childhood once more – The only child gets her way more often than not.
A second, different theory of why I and people are submissive is that of the world of work. You know the deal – All those executives in big wig jobs just love to pay those Dominatrixes extortionate amounts to lick their PVC-clad boots and whatnot because they seek it as a balancing in their mental scales. Or something like that. In relation to yours truly, this can apply to a certain extent also.
Where I work, I have responsibility. I have duties. It’s fair to say some of the people there look up to me. I like to kick back and leave that behind when I pass over the threshold back to my dearest, darling Man. The pressure at work is something I don’t like to bring home and being sexually submissive and leaving the keys firmly in Mister’s hand is a way to escape that. The fact that he naturally falls into it kinda helps. He knows the effort I put in and worry at times I go through and he looks after me. He sends me to bed when I come home exhausted. I catch him looking at me, forehead creased in concern after my eyes open from a tired, nose-pinching squint. The bear-hug welcomes and enveloping cuddles last thing at night. It all leads to a relationship where his ‘looking after-ness’ translates into to the bedroom as him being in charge and making the decisions for me. For the majority of the time, of course, not 100%. 75% perhaps. I don’t know – numbers have never been my forte.
But, of course, theories can be bunkum.
I am submissive most of all because I enjoy it. It gets me off. It gets him off too. And of course it has much to do with the man I am with. I wouldn’t know for sure, as I haven’t been with anyone else, but who knows, if faced with another partner, I may be the one calling the shots and then too, it would be because I would be having a bloody good time doing it. Sex is subjective. Each to their own. That’s why it’s so fun. No one good screw is the same as another. There are two people here that make up the balance of submission and dominance and whatever the weighting, neither would go through with any of it if uncomfortable.
When we play those roles, live the labels of D/s (eugh at all the capitalisation protocol that goes on, but hey ho) I feel I am being me when I am subbing. When we switch, I know that although I am having the best of fun, it is a rôle, a character I put on. Mantle of the Domme. It is part of me, but not who I am. I am ultimately the submissive. When he draws near me, he exudes the air of subtle dominance that melts me in moments. As when I am in control, and I loosen his ties (if that’s how we’ve been going), it can take him a millisecond in which to overcome me and I have lost myself to him. And again note, I have to be in charge with the use of implements – the whip, the bonds, the wax. He needs nothing. Just him alone is all it takes. I give him everything when I am subbing. My heart. My body. My all.
I thank him once more for making me see what it is that makes up Me. Pandorah, the Inner Minx, Real Life Her.
Whoever I am, I am his. And that thrills me.
Gruff Gruff, Purrr
It’s been a rather frazzling two weeks. I’ve been weighed down with paperwork and the day-job itself is being quite testing at times. They make me grumpy sometimes! So much so, I’ve been coming home feeling rather tense and gloomy to find him waiting there for me (still nothing on the job front) with a smile and a hug. Then it all shrugs off as the stress melts away. And I am his once more, not the pen-pushers’.
At least for a couple of hours. Until I have to prepare for the next day.
Last week as soon as I got in, he sent me to bed. I felt like a reprimanded child. No supper for you, young lady. Straight to bed. No naughtiness, not an iota of innuendo. He saw my tired tootsies and sent me packing. Honestly, I couldn’t have loved him more then. The worry, the care, the thoughtfulness. I had my snooze and was much refreshed and ready to act more like a human with him rather than a glum statue.
I think I need to have a rethink of a few things in my life. I’m not finding that I have nearly enough energy as I need. More bananas and stuff. Bought one purposefully at Elevenses today and I do believe I felt all the better for it. I even came home this evening feeling sprightly, sparky and in a jolly mood! Damn and blast that today was a Mister-goes-off-to-work-evening-leaving-Pandorah-alone-til-Saturday day.
Yesterday was another example of him being utterly lovely and me feeling a little sad that I’m so drained in the evenings. I went to bed earlier and settled in with my book (I Am Legend – apparently the film murdered the book so, having no knowledge of either, I’m reading the book then going to rent the movie) and was all ready to cosy on down in the duvet. Recently Mister has been keeping later hours than I, not being sleepy at the same time. He flits about with his guitars or t’internet or whatever he does whilst I attempt to get some shut eye. Although I find it harder to get to sleep without his frame lying next to, around, nestled in with mine.
Last night, however, he pleasantly surprised me by coming to our room shortly after I had bedded down. Certainly, I will never turn away from an opportunity for a cuddle with him and did my huddle into his chest thing that I do. Breathing in his skin. Him. Nothing calms me or soothes me as much as that. So relaxing yet at the same time envigorating. I can’t explain it. A rush, a surge, together with a glowing feeling of warm fuzziness. He knew I was tired, knew I wasn’t likely to wiggle against his wishes. His hands drifted and they were welcomed. Legs parted and fingers toyed – testing my reactions before fully engaging. Ultimately, nothing will ease away tensions, stress and worry than my man paying me such careful attention. His eyes brightly stared into mine. There was a slight querying, questioning to his gaze. Seeing if he should…
Always, yes.
He moved me, shifting my position, by that time I was lost to him once more. My mind just focused on the immediate, the present. Adjusting the pillows, he propped me in a half-sitting position with my legs either side of his kneeling presence. His favourite trick of making sure I can’t wriggle away as he focuses all his energy, attention, lust and love toward me.
That man gives me more reasons by the day of why I should love him.
Not that I needed reasons in the first place. But he supplies them anyway.
Sway
We dance, you and I. We do. You may not recognise it as such at first, but that’s what it is. Moving to a rhythm, a gentle cadence growing between us. You turn me one way, then the other. Taking the lead.
This horizontal dance of ours. Music playing in our heads. Silently.
My head is balanced, fragile in its position over the edge of the upholstery. One sharp twitch upwards and all would be undone. But you take care in your searching, fervent kisses. They may be strong and forceful but there’s nothing but tenderness behind their actions. These moments together, alone – fleeting moments of passion. Nothing said, nothing needing saying. We understand.
I lay entangled beneath your tensed, energetic frame. Pinned by your arms around me. I can’t escape. Although why would I want to be in any other place in this moment? All I could ever need is wrapped up with me, in me, on me with you. Manna from heaven.
My head spins, lost in a delirium of where you are sending me. I lose my rhythm, the pace quickens and I am racing to keep up with you. Gasping. At once you are breathing in my hair at the same time as kissing up my thighs. Hair trapped, feet tingling.
I know not to get up soon as the light head you have given me could lead to disaster. I know to wait for the delights of the dance to subside, the swaying of my body, my mind, my soul to subside. The dizziness from being spun so quickly by one like you. One who knows all the right moves!
I may dance alone but nothing has as much passion and vigour as that dance made for lovers. Thank you for showing me the steps.
This is Desire
I am a girl on edge. It is becoming clearer and clearer to me that I need him. I want him. I want his eyes to gaze at me, burning over my skin. I need him to hold me, not tenderly, but forcefully. Like in the movies – girl turns to walk away and is grabbed and swung round into passionate embrace.
Desire. It eats away at me. It’s all fine to have our distance from one another, but when it comes to the essential being of me, I need to have him. Possessive? Dependent? I don’t know. All I know is how I feel and I feel ablaze. I feel my blood running through my body, feel it coursing its way from my heart, down through the flutterings of my stomach centering at my pussy and further down to make my toes tingle. All that at the single, instant thought of him. They say that when a girl is aroused her mouth darkens subtly, making them even more sensitive to touch. No wonder it makes me jump so when he lightly traces his fingertip over my lips.
I want to have him to myself, alone in our place. No distractions. Silence. Just him and me together left to our own minds’ fantasies, our dreams. Nightmares? I need to have all the time it takes to look over him, from the tips of his hair downwards. The time to drink him in with my own eyes.
Away from eachother for only a day or two, a mere matter of hours in fact, and this desperation to have him is ridiculous. Goodness knows how I coped when it was three, four, five weeks apart. The knowledge that the time is fast approaching when we will be under one another’s feet all the time is making the experience of distance unbearable. I fidget. Unable to be still – one of my bad habits. fingers always twitching. Nerves? Worries? Guilty conscience? When I am with him I am able to be still. To be calm. Placid. His soothing nature radiates around me, reflecting into myself and it rubs off on me.
I see him in a few hours’ time. Can I last that long without that exploding feeling to return? I’ll have to wait. Bide my time. The spider waiting. Patience is a virtue. Rest your soul in patience, Pandorah! Yes.
[Is it me or am I putting too many subtle references in my posts? This one contains at least three: One to a book, another to a play and a third to a song. Answers on a comment card if you know any of them. Win an E-Cookie]
House Warming
So, I have alluded to here and there that the past week and a half has been pretty shite. I won’t go into it – personal stuff and all that – but it’s been emotionally draining. And we’ll leave it at that. What I will say is that a few months ago I bought two tickets to a festival in my locality of the Westcountry in merry old England that both myself and Mister go to each year since it began six years ago. Not to be wasteful of the pennies we had spent, I wanted to still go even though it was so badly timed with everything that’s going on right now. I was in two minds but economic sense, family persuasion, the idea that it would be a good way of escaping and taking time out from the situation and the fact that missing out on one year would be disastrous for my OCD-ness made me come round to actually going.
I have never been so muddy in my life.
Last year was muddy. This year was soggy, damp, boggy, swamp-like, windy, rainy and muddy. But I still enjoyed myself. Saw some great music, bands and comedians and removed the furrow from my worried over-emotional forehead. The final night, Sunday, I suggested to Mister that we pack up early and drive to our shiny new flat we now have keys for (eee!). So after being towed by a helpful tractor man through the mud we eventually arrived at our home. As we were dropping off to sleep I caught him mumbling that this was our bedroom, our bed. My cockles were warmed.
But before all that snuggling – we christened the flat. We’d actually done the deed last week after Mister had decided to get frisky with me on the floor of the sitting room as I sat lying against him inbetween his legs as I tuned in the TV and retired to the bedroom then, but we hadn’t spent the night there as we were this Sunday night.
We were both physically exhausted from jigging about to the music all day then hauling camping gear up a mudslide, but as we were dropping off to sleep he vocalised what I had been thinking for a few weeks. We have a new black metal bedframe and our thoughts on that topic were running parallel to one another.
I am going to tie you to this bed. Arms and legs to the bedframe. He told me.
Is that a threat or a promise? I retorted.
To which he promptly became very stirred by the thought. Already naked – he refuses to wear anything in bed – his hands began to snake through my nightwear. Slowly shifting my waistband lower as he drew nearer to his goal. The action of being slowly and deliberately undressed by him truly is one of the things that gets me very turned on, very quickly. My own hands were seeking out his body, reaching behind me as he held me in his arms. I felt his hard cock press into my back – another sure fire way to turn me on, knowing he is feeling as randy as I am. The need to have one another was growing stronger.
He grasped at my hair and held my wrists, future echoes I hope of what will ensue once we are settled in permanently. I clawed at his shoulders and drew him closer to me, wanting to feel the weight of his body against, on top of, mine. Sitting back and looking at me, I knew he wanted to take me from behind. I positioned myself and as he entered me that beautiful rush swept over my body. There’s nothing quite like that first thrust, my body readjusting to the familiar, yet every time unique feeling. In our aroused but tired state, I was more at ease in relaxing into completely throwing myself into the moment and soon found myself moaning along with Mister’s own vocal contribution.
We christened the bed nicely. It doesn’t make a creak or noise like my current bed at my parents’ house. Wonderful! No longer will I have to worry about breaking the springs, nor will I have to worry about waking up those in adjoining rooms. We fell to drowsiness contented, happy and wrapped in one another’s arms.
Until we had to shift into a more suitable sleeping position apart. But, as always, we still had our physical connection – toe to toe, we fell into blissful dreams of the future, far from the worries of the present. It will all work out alright. It may take a little while to get there with a few more tears, but I know it will be better again soon.
I’ve Written a Letter to Mister
I think to myself sometimes what exactly my purpose is in writing this blog.
Partly, it must be about exhibitionism. I am a show-off. Subtly. I may not dress provocatively in Teh Real World, nor may I act slutty around people. But you may catch me if you happen to walk past my window deshabillé from time to time, in various states of undress. You might even catch me moaning in unison with him through a wall’s partition, or just on my own perhaps…
In the guise of Pandorah, however, I am allowing that exhibitionist streak to surface more fully – the Inner Minx completely on show. In adopting this pseudonym I let her flourish in front of those who view my posts. Once in a while, when he can, Mister will read what I have written. He doesn’t have the best access to Pandorah when he’s at his parent’s place, but I know he checks in now and again. I want him to see me flourish before his eyes. See me write about how I feel about him – in ways I could never communicate verbally to him. I clam up sometimes – I can’t express my thoughts as well vocally as I can in words written down sometimes.
So, allow me to present to you, Mister, Exhibit A: My Letter to You.
I written to you before, as you know. I saw how you keep them by you in your bedside table. Mingling with your boxed cufflinks and our kinky collection that resides with you. My scrawls of clichés and longing written in biro, ink and emotion. I’ve written to you of our experiences – that time in the shower where you scalded your arm on a hot pipe; that day spent in the sun in a hayfield at our beginning – every one cherished and remembered. This is different. In this letter, I am writing to you not with clichés, nor with ink. I am writing to you with hope.
You see, this blog and its owner has come to realise that hope is actually much closer to the heart of Pandorah’s alter-ego in reality. You know her name. You know who she is, and what other names you call her. Hope is not only what was left in the box. It escaped into her world too and infected her. Coursing through her veins is the hope that you give her. Before I met you, I was a shadow of what I am now. You helped me to realise my potential, giving me the self-confidence that was there, hidden, but needed shining up.
You also allowed the passion to course through those veins as well. Awakening me to emotions and senses I had only, literally, read about. I still remember the first time we held hands, walking down to spend the evening together in our ‘local’ in my town. We really must visit there again – nostalgia demands it. You may not have picked up on it, but little things and moments like that first public interlocking of our fingers sent a shiver, a quiver through me.
I want to do things to you that my real persona could never mention. Even to you. You know about my quill fantasy…What you don’t know is what I want to inscribe upon your body. The Inner Minx adores how you flatter and stoke her fires. She/I cannot wait until we are truly alone in our own place so she can be released for you. That look in my eyes when we are alone and things are going my way. A mixture between desire, yearning and Machiavellian designs.
So this is a glimpse into how deeply I feel for you and what you mean to me. Lately, I know we have been too tired to fully explore one another. But you know how I love our Sunday morning rolls. And our last one was divine. ‘Thank you’ doesn’t quite cut it. Tomorrow I shall be seeing you in the evening. And you owe me that massage you’ve been threatening to give me. Perhaps I shall pack some candles into my bottomless handbag.
Well, honey. That’s about it. I’ll know when you have read this as you will have that look in your eye. ‘Never been described in such a complimentary light before’ is what you said when I began this little blog. Maybe you will feel the need to say something similar after reading this post. I hope so – Oh! There I go again with that four-letter word.
There’s another four-letter word in a three-word phrase I say to you often. I mean it every time. After our most intimate moments, in passing conversation and during our most affectionate and giggling ones also. I’m thinking of it now, and you know I’ll say it to you again tomorrow.
Sweet dreams, Mister.
Care
I wonder sometimes whether Mister understands what he’s taking on by moving in with me in the next two months. Sure, we’ll both benefit tons by being under the same roof – I’ve made a deal with him. He does the washing up if I dry. I can’t abide soapy water, I have sensitive skin that doesn’t like washing up liquid. Honest. I worked in a café wherein the dishwasher detergent removed my fingerprints. Couldn’t grip a thing, neither could I feel too well for a few months. Disaster. Again, I digress.
Not only will we have lots of helping each other with things on the domestic front (he also puts so much more effort into house-cleaning than I do. I’m such a house-slut) there will be the obvious intimacy of having eachother to ourselves…
…If I can stop myself thinking about/preparing things for/fretting over work.
My job I’ll be going to in the Autumn (have signed real life contract and evryfink) will involve a lot of planning both during work hours and afterwards. He knows this and understands that I will need some ‘Me Time’ on my own in order to do this. But I told him yesterday that I will need him so much more than I do already.
I will need him to help me switch off, stop thinking about work and above all, ensure I eat, sleep and be merry. I will need him to stop me from working past 10 o’clock in the evening. When I was training on my post-grad course there were many a night I would stay up close to midnight working and planning for the morning, leaving me with only getting in about 4-5 hours sleep. That. Can. Not. Be. Allowed. To. Happen. Or else I shall go crazy. My bosses and colleagues have warned me about making sure I don’t ‘go crazy’ with the workload in the first few months as I get used to the full-time job. That’s reassuring.
I hope that Mister is prepared for the amount of hugs I will need; hair smoothing to placate my stress and worry; massages to ease out the tension in my muscles. In return I shall provide him with a) my eternal gratitude, b) love, c) lots of nookie, and d) food.
I know that he is the most caring person I could wish to be with. For all his teasing and Pandorah-winding-up he does, when I need him, he is there. Many evenings I have had to call him up to vent my frustration, stress and anger along with heartache and worry in the last ten months. He may not have said much, but the mere fact of having him there on the end of the line – listening to me whine and babble on – was enough to calm me. He has a serenity about him – he rarely gets worked up about anything, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him properly stressed out. This, I think, reflects on me in my mindset which is amazing. I am generally a calm person also, but I do worry and get stressed occasionally. Having him by me in these times will be fantastic.
I can depend on him to help me out with this. He doesn’t even have to do very much. Just simply being there for me when I get home at the end of the day will instantly cheer me up. Looking forward to coming home to my dinner on the table him and relaxing in the evening together will be enough for the majority of the time. Currently I have this picture in my head of us sitting on the sofa, me curled up next to him or with my feet on his lap, and it makes me smile. Little thoughts like that do.
Like my earlier post - it is a picture I can see becoming a reality which makes me know it’s going to work.
Anyway, enough of this sentimental and emotional shit. Smuttier post coming soon! Promise.
