The truth is, both Mark and I are kind of scattered and all over the place. Mark has had a lot of work, and I’ve been pummeled with work at school and  at Obnoxious Public Relations Firm. I register for classes next Wednesday. Our contract ends next Monday.

We’re having some contemplation time before we sign another contract. I’m trying to get my head on straight. Sometimes, college feels like one crisis after another. Mark and I love and support each other, but I feel like in this next contract, there are some things I would like to reconsider and some places where I want to grow.

I’d like more protocol, for one. I loved the protocol training weekend that we had over the summer. I would like to do more protocol. It wouldn’t have to be as formal. I know that for both of us, it can be hard to switch between mindsets. That is ultimately what stops us short of having protocol; the mind blocks. I have desires for those periods of protocol and restriction, but we don’t do them very often.

Particularly, I’m fascinated when I’m on speaking restriction. The silence that surrounds us is nice to experience.

If I’m being REALLY honest with myself, I LIKE Him knowing where I am all the time. Even though this strict protocol that I’m living under right now is only supposed to be temporary. . .maybe elements of it can sneak into the next contract.

I want to live joyfully in my submission. That probably sounds so cheesy, but I want to exist happily in it, instead of worrying about my submission or worrying about whether I’m submissive enough or not. I tend to worry so much about my submission, even when I’m under strict protocol. I want to worry less.

I can’t really think of anything else at the moment. I’m post very quickly because a) I have to be at work soon and b) this satisfies my requirement for the day. Yay! However, it has also given me something to think about, so that’s good.

BUT, now I can ask permission to play World of Warcraft: Wrath of the Lich King later! YES!

I am the WoW player out of the two of us, I tried to get Him into it, but He just was not having it. Heh.

Sir makes jokes about being afraid He’s ruined me, exposing me to all of this, you know. BDSM. Heh. While I don’t think He’s ruined me, I do think I’ve reached this point in my life where I can say, I can’t go back to a vanilla relationship. I like this too much.

“This” does not signify only the activities, the sex, the munches, TESfest, meetings or the clubs. It also means the intimacy, honesty, emotional and sexual fulfillment and sense of completion it gives me. I feel, at the point I am right now, if I were to give all of this up and go into a vanilla relationship, I would be devastated. If I had to go into some sweet, boring, blah relationship, I would be so FUCKING BORED. I would feel so stifled. I feel like being a BDSM relationship allows both people to be more honest, with themselves and with their partners.

I feel like I would have to hide so much of myself, those things that I bare so openly right now. The things that Sir wants to hear, urges me to tell him; my needs, my desires, the thoughts that scare me and all of the things I’m curious about. I’m tired of hiding. I spent my high school years behind masks.

I mean, I feel safe enough to be able to say, “Yes, I liked when you were choking me while you were fucking me” or “I like it when you slap my face” or “I think about crawling on the floor in front of you.” I really don’t think I would feel anywhere near open enough with a vanilla partner to say those things.

Spending my formative sexual development years with a boy who was bloody awful in bed made me realize something. Every relationship I have after that, will need to have amazing sexual chemistry.

It’s awful to spend four months lying beneath some boy you don’t give a shit about; you might as well be a knothole in a tree. I felt no sexual attraction to my exboyfriend, C, after a while. I felt no need to initiate sex, I felt distant and I began to hate myself after having sex with him. I don’t orgasm from oral sex, because my previous long term partner didn’t care enough to make me orgasm and made me feel guilty about wanting oral sex.

Read that last sentence over.

No woman should ever feel GUILTY for wanting consensual sex. I almost can’t believe that I let that happen to me for so long.

And now I can’t orgasm from oral sex, and it makes me cry with frustration. I obsess. I feel guilty with Sir’s mouth between my legs. I feel like He’s annoyed with having to do it. I feel like I just can’t orgasm from it, so I try to close my legs and push him away. I always had to beg C to go down on me, so I didn’t believe it when Sir said that He LIKES to go down on women.

This is why I cannot be in a relationship right now where I would have to hide my sexuality. I’m already making up for lost time. I refuse to be in a relationship where my sexual needs are not being met. I can’t do that again. I can’t let it happen.

I love how BDSM is helping me grow as a person.

I hate fucking in cars.

There. I said it.

Maybe it’s the disappearance of those secret places where you can park a car in peace, or maybe with the advent of more compact cars, I just cannot get into any kind of messing around in a small car. If someone were to suggest car sex, I would look at them askance.

Vans are different. Vans have seats that go back, and are spacious enough that you’re not sitting on a gearshift while you’re blowing someone.

Sir and I, during the drive back from our first visit together to a BDSM club, stopped at a rest stop and crawled into the backseat. (”You’ve ruined the term ’service station’ for me, pet.” He says, now.) He drove a minivan. He pulled over spontaneously. THAT was fun, that was deliciously naughty; clothes unbuttoned and unbuckled, Sir taking His cock out of leather pants, leaning back, bare chested. He looked so delicious. Even now, I love when He’s shirtless but wearing leather pants. Fuck. Even shirtless and wearing the utilikilt is hot.

I wore eye glitter to the club, and His hands were in my hair, tugging at it. I was smearing glitter everywhere, there was even glitter in the zipper of his pants. We were sweaty and the windows were fogging up against the 2:30am cold outside. “I should fuck you right here,” He whispered, tugging my mouth down onto His cock, “I almost don’t care who sees us. Almost.” The rest stop was a little too populated for our tastes, even though it was so late. The feel of His exquisite, uncircumcised cock in my mouth, moving in and out, made me melt. That’s the kind of car sex I like. When it’s spontaneous, a secret shared between two people, and a search for immediate gratification.

All of these hybrid cars don’t make for hot making out in the backseat. Those cars are tiny! I’m all for gas conservation and hybrid cars, but I am a little sad that eventually, people won’t fuck in cars anymore. Suburban sprawl has killed Lover’s Lanes, and cops are more aggressive and on the prowl to bust kids for drinking or drugs.

This happened to my exboyfriend C and I. We were in his mom’s minivan, after the winter concert at school (I was in the orchestra, haha.) and it was nearly midnight. The lights were off, the engine was on, the seats were back, and we were going at it.

For once, I was completely into the act. Too often, I was often wheedled and begged into being fucked in that same van, and would just stare blank eyed at the sky as he had his way with me. It makes me sad, all the sex between the ages of 15 and 19 that I just sat through. But I guess that’s for another post.

But this night, this windy cold night, I kissed back just as hard as I could. I was wearing all black, a black blouse and a black skirt with pink underwear. My panties were off and my shirt was unbuttoned. We didn’t notice the lights. The two of us caught up in that world of teenage lust and hormones. We didn’t notice the cops until the flashlights were shining inside.

There was a problem. I was only sixteen. I was technically underaged, while C was not. C was visibly nervous, as was I, and he told me to say that he had only performed oral sex on me, no more. They tapped on the glass and then opened the door. I was still undressed. They were staring as I put myself together.

I didn’t have ID. I didn’t have anything that said how old I was. All I had was a stupid high school ID. That was a problem.

The police hauled me away from C, as they inspected his ID and questioned him to why we were out there so late.

“Are you here on your own free will, Miss?” The officer asked, quietly. I said yes, of course. C was terrified that he would be arrested.

Eventually, they let us go, telling us, “Just go home, guys. It’s too cold out here and we got calls from the nearby houses.” It was terrifying. We got out of there as quick as we could.

So I can count the positive experiences I’ve had with car sex on one hand. Since I live in the big city, I don’t drive much anymore. Sir’s van is full of trash. Cars are getting smaller and smaller. I don’t see myself having sex in a car any time soon. I don’t really miss it. Pfft.

“Do you trust me, pet?” Sir asks while He holds the gag loosely in His hand. I barely squeak out a “yes” before He’s shoving it into my mouth.

And I instantly feel relaxed. I can’t speak. I can’t see. And I don’t have any choices.

- - -

I’m on a restrictive remote protocol until this contract expires. We’re renewing it again, that’s not a concern for either of us.

• back to telling him everything I eat and drink.
• morning tasklists for the day with times and addresses of where I am.
• no sweets. no junk food.
• emailing Him every time I exit and leave a building. Basically, enough information for Him to know where I am all the time.
• back to slave tasks to reinforce my status as pet and property.

Last night we had a quick and dirty scene. I just needed pain, and lots of it.

He tied my hands up above my head and blindfolded and gagged me. He clamped my nipples and caned me with the huge, thick wooden cane and the thin metal one. Just repeated swats. Over and over and over. Last night, I just didn’t think. My mind went completely blank. It was so freeing.

Sir used me very hard last night. I was sopping wet from the caning and the clamping. He loved taking the clamps off while He was using me, so I would thrash around in pain. He kept saying over and over how I have no choices, how I can’t fight or resist, how I’m property and a slut. Fuck. It was so good. I couldn’t come while being fucked, so He used the hitachi on me. Mmm.

I crave pain much more lately. I also crave breathplay. Sir was pinching my nose shut while I had the gag in and it was so fucking hot. Probably mildly unsafe, but so fucking arousing.

I think I’m growing as a bottom, if that makes sense. My pain tolerance is increasing and are my desires for breathplay and restrictive bondage. I don’t know if I would have wanted these things so much a few months ago. Hmm.

I haven’t blogged here for a variety of reasons.

a) Midterms. Enough said.

b) My internship at Obnoxious Public Relations Firm (disguised for obvious reasons) has suddenly dumped a lot of work on me at once. I work there three days a week.

c) The remote protocol I was under, fell apart.

Things with Sir and I went back and forth, throughout October. It was a very, very difficult month.

He’s been away on business more than He’s been here, which made it difficult to maintain protocol and feel connected.

So I pretty much dropped my protocol of emailing Him my food intake and tasklist for the day and doing slave tasks, for the latter half of October. They were causing me major anxiety and freaking me out, more than they were maintaining my ‘property’ mindspace.

These few weeks have not been the easiest. We struggle to find time to see each other, and we struggle with maintaining a connection. My stress levels have been running high, and so has Sir’s. The problem is, we both react to stress in different ways. I feel less submissive and pull away, and Sir feels MORE submissive.

We’ve had hard scenes dispersed throughout the month. We have hard scenes and then Sir leaves on business, for His job.

. . .I don’t know. I needed something here to break this silence that’s come over the blog.

On Sunday, we decided to change things.

He constructed a new remote protocol for me to follow, temporarily.

I swear I will blog more here in the next few days. I have Halloween, some more scenes and Folsom to talk about. And of course, my new protocol.

This feels weird. So, hi.

I find it ironic that I’m a communications major sometimes, considering the problems I have with communicating my feelings. I study and analyze how people communicate. How advertising communicates what we as a society find important. I study phone sex. (I have to do a presentation on phone sex in my Human Communication class in three weeks… I officially love my major even more.) I study how people communicate in video games. My specialty is going to be international communications.

So why can’t I communicate to the person that I trust with everything? Why do I hold back my communication about my feelings? Why can’t I just be honest about how I feel? I mean, fuck, Mark knows everything about me.

I don’t know why I forget this one, simple fact; BDSM can’t exist without a connection.

I grew up in an age of increasing isolation. I grew up with AOL, literally. I had two computers when I was five, I remember my father writing out DOS run commands for me and taping them to my computer desk. I once bid AND WON a Beanie Baby on eBay when I was in middle school. I was more comfortable IMing than having real communications with people. I was in a long term, emotionally abusive relationship where real, true communication was mocked. So was Mark. We were both told in different ways that our feelings don’t matter.

I seem to be an amnesiac when it comes to the important of communication, because when I don’t feel connected with Mark, all my desires to submit fall away like petals from a flower ripped from a bush, fluttering at my feet. I feel flat.

A series of events had me end up at Mark’s apartment last night. I was chained to an old fashioned radiator while He showered. I was blindfolded and was laying in wait for a sound beating last night. It didn’t happen. At the time, I was telling Mark, “You could have hurt me more.” Looking back, I think it was perfect, the amount of pain I took. Mark reads me well.

Last week, I was in bit of a tizzy over the fact that my desire to submit had seemly disappeared. My post last week was an attempt to make myself feel better by reaffirming my place.

It seems like you’re trying to find some comfort in that, reminding yourself what you are. You’re trying to remind yourself what your place is. Mark was IMing me after I made my blog post.

I’m sorry, pet. That’s my job.

So I went last week not doing any slave tasks that I’m allotted to do every day. We’ve figured out that what worked over the summer, isn’t working right now. We are going to revamp my slave tasks.

I craved some sort of punishment for not doing my tasks, but I knew deep down that a heavy session would end badly.

Mark caned me once. A single strike. “There, it’s over now. That’s it. We can put all of this behind us, pet.” He held my naked body and kissed me on the mouth. I needed to remember my place, and in order to do that, I had to let go of the guilt of being a “bad submissive”.

Basically, my angst of the past week was a bottling up of emotions because I didn’t want to hurt Mark’s feelings. I didn’t want to hear myself say I need you or I wish you could spend more time with me, I don’t feel connected. So, I just didn’t say it. Hearing Mark tell me that I should say the truth, even if it hurts, made me feel better.

Anything that makes you feel like you need to pull away. . . that’s something you need to say. Mark said over BlackBerry messenger. Sometimes it’s easier for me to talk in Messenger.

You’re not allowed to suffer alone.

For whatever reason, reading that sentence made something click. BDSM isn’t about one person suffering while the person inflicting pain stands by. It’s a connection between two people, and in a way, they connect through the suffering. I knew that deep down, but like I said– amnesiac sometimes. Somehow, last week, I forgot that.

We cuddled a lot last night. The simple contact of skin to skin, of heat on heat, made me feel so more content. I touched His back, rubbed His tired feet, I sank into His arms in the middle of the night. At one point, we both awoke and realized that we were sleeping apart. Then we promptly moved to cuddle together under the sheets. He held me until I fell asleep. I listened to Him breathing and felt breath on my neck. I fit so well next to Him, my head on His chest. Mmm.

I feel better, renewed. He locked my collar back around my throat and I felt all fuzzy, safe and secure. I feel connected. I just have to remember that feeling connected helps foster communication which means that our relationship can work better.

If anyone would love me the way I am, it’s Mark. My Sir.

- - -

I have a renewed obsession with Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen. We listened to it in my writing seminar.

remember when i moved in you? / and the holy dove was moving too / and every breath we drew was hallelujah

- - -

My real name isn’t Delilah. Obviously. But why pick a name like Delilah? I feel like it’s really lame and cheesy, but I’m obsessed with the name because of that song. Yes, THAT SONG.

hey there delilah, what’s it like in new york city?

i’m a thousand miles away, but tonight you look so pretty, yes it’s true.

times square can’t shine as bright as you, i swear it’s true.

Sir hears it all the time in bars when He’s traveling and it makes Him miss me. Now I’m listening to it on my iPod and I miss Him. He sent me flowers last Valentine’s Day with the lyrics on them, a few days after collaring me.

hey there delilah, don’t you worry about the distance. i’m right there if you get lonely, give this song another listen, close your eyes. listen to my voice, it’s my disguise, i’m by your side. oh, it’s what you do to me. . .

I really have not been doing my slave tasks or my email reports or my daily picture.

I need to remember what all of this comes down to. I’m property.

I’m still property and a slave even if I’m crampy, stressed from school, stressed from work or tired. I’m wearing a slave collar.

I signed a contract at Sir’s feet because I need this. It was my choice and my choice alone. I signed it again even after Sir broke my heart in June because I forgave Him and I trust Him enough not to break it again. I did not sign it without a lot of soul searching, deep conversation and makeup sex.

I crave this feeling of being property. I need this. I feel better with a collar around my throat. The collar Sir yanks on when He’s fucking my throat. The collar He holds onto when He slaps me. Being a slave, having no choice, gives me somewhere to just be, as Sir puts it. And that’s perfect.

If I’m really honest with myself, my collar also makes me feel safer. Safe enough to handle being slapped, punched, caned until I’m crying, cry in front of someone else in general… I had a really intense orgasm on Sunday and almost started crying from the release. I feel beautifully present and whole during a scene.

I’ve never felt so close to someone else. I’ve never been so in tune and so connected with another human being. Sir treats me very well, and even when He is hurting me… still great at it. Ha.

We had a conversation last week about where our relationship is going to go, which always scares the shit out of me. It was good to have a frank, honest conversation. I don’t want to fuck up the time we have together now, by worrying about what will happen later. Everything will work out in the end. If it’s meant to be… let’s just say everything will be okay.

I want to enjoy everything right now. Present. Present.

I’m a slave.

I’m property.

I chose this.

I will choose this again.

I slept fitfully on the plane to California. I had rushed around all day; packing, buying food (that I ended up leaving in my dorm, oops), commuting to the airport and rushing through security. I was stuck in economy next to a man with awful breath. I was mesmerized by the movie that was playing in flight, “Speed Racer” and I listened to the in flight radio. After that was over, I was very restless. I was also starving, but I was being stubborn and didn’t like any of the airline snack boxes.

I was so, so glad to touch down in SFO. I ran to the bathroom after we were let off the plane, then I ran down to baggage claim where Sir was waiting. I wanted to jump in his arms.

We drove to San Jose and prowled around for food. Sir dragged me to a casino that happened to have a diner in it, and we had to sneak in because I’m not 21. Basically, I didn’t go to bed until 2am PACIFIC TIME. Which was 5am to my poor body.

Here’s the thing I’m discovering, about myself and BDSM events. I think they’re fantastic and ridiculously fun, but I just get so… how can I put this… fatigued, after a while. I get tired of the overwhelming pervasive male dominance/female submission. I KNOW THAT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE, WAIT FOR IT. I just get so overwhelmed. I’m not used to these big events yet. I get freaked out hearing other women screaming, crying, begging all at once. It’s too intense for me. I have a hard time blocking out other people in dungeons.

(Maybe I need a set of earplugs. No, I’m serious. I just thought of this now. Maybe if I had headphones and a blindfold, or even just earplugs and a blindfold, or just earplugs, I would be able to play in public easier. Maybe it would help me get to subspace. I really struggle with it in public. Maybe the next time Sir does sensory deprivation, I could ask for headphones, too… that would be so intense.)

I kind of felt like a tool during Folsom Fringe because Sir put my website URL on my NAMETAG. Heh.

Classes we went to…

LEW RUBENS’ bondage classes, which were FANTASTIC. We bought the DVDs! Sir learned how to do a bunch of new ties, mmmm…

I went to a faceplay class and Sir went to a Dungeon for Beginners class. I liked the faceplay class (slapping, kicking, caning, pressure points, flogging) a lot. Ooh.

Hmm. We also went to a journaling class, which was okay, but Sir and I already communicate very well. We talk in instant messenger, emails, this blog, and if something is REALLY wrong, I write long emails to Sir. So, it was enlightening but I didn’t learn as much as I did in other classes. Lady Balara was a great instructor, though.

Thennnn…. I went to a ponyplay class and Sir went to a single tail class. Whipmaster Bob helped to teach the single tail class, and he was letting people experience being whipped, if they wanted, after the class.

And so I was whipped for the first time! It was so intense but I LOVED it even though I was so scared. I was terrified. Sir practically had to drag me over to Bob, and even he was looking at me closely, “Is this something you REALLY want?” I nodded.

Whipmaster Bob whipped me, and he had one of his slaves hold onto my shoulders. “Breathe, honey. You need to breathe.” I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath. It was a mindfuck looking at the whip head on. Just sharp pricks of pain on my chest that I really liked, and I wanted more and more…

Sir and I also went to the steak restaurant in the hotel and probably unnerved the waiter a bit with my knee high Converse sneakers, collar and black and white dress. SO delicious but probably ridiculously fattening. We ate huge steaks, mashed potatoes, salads and this delicious strawberry shortcake dessert.

We wandered over to the dungeon and watched a few sceens, but we were too full and I was too nervous to really play much.

The play would happen the next night in the SF Citadel…

So there’s this girl in my writing class.

And she’s fucking gorgeous.

And I don’t want to fuck her.

She’s a freshman, which kind of freaks me out. I mean, I worked with freshman during Orientation.

She looks like an honest to god porcelain doll. She had beautiful pale skin, cheeks that are pink and the softest looking, most kissable lips I have ever seen on a woman. Wide blue eyes. Long light brown hair. And her breasts are gorgeous. She wears these low cut, square neck, innocent looking lacy tops that just accentuate her breasts SO nicely. She looks so pure and innocent and it’s kind of eerie.

And I’ve no desire to fuck her. I can’t imagine her in any sexual context. Sir says, “It’s just because you’re not a GUY.” I don’t think so.

I want to protect her. She’s a FRESHMAN. College is going to change her and I want her to know she’s beautiful the way she is. I want to tell her things that she should know about the next few years. I want to hug her, not take her clothes off and fondle her.

I notice all these beautiful girls on campus and I can definitely imagine doing dirty, dirty things to them… but not to her.

It’s strange.

Since we’re on a school theme…

I am a College Democrat. I am an insane supporter of Obama. So is Sir. Both of us were obsessive checking our respective preferred politics websites ALL Folsom weekend. (fivethirtyeight.com for Sir and OhNoTheyDidn’t Political, pollster.com and politico for me.)

Sir also took it upon himself to force me to watch the debate naked, tied up and cringing the whole time. We were in our room at Folsom Fringe last friday. He had a few rules.

When one candidate said the other’s name, He would hurt me.

When someone said SARAH PALIN, He would hurt me A LOT. He would also hurt me on Biden, but not AS much.

He would pinch my inner thighs so hard I would be screaming and wailing behind the gag, flailing on the bed. He started cheating and would do it even when nothing was happening, just because He LOVED my reaction. He would spank me. Slap me. Pinch my nipples.

I’m cringing as to what would have happened if we were together for the vice presidental debate.

“I get to hurt you whenever Palin says ‘maverick’…” I would have probably ended up a sobbing heap on the mattress, considering Palin used “maverick” one hundred and four times…

Yes, I am feeling much better. Mark wrote that post as I dozed in our bed at Folsom Fringe. I was fighting the jetlag that happens when you fly out of the East Coast at 6PM and don’t go to sleep until 2am Pacific time.

I’m really pressed for time right now, I’m dealing with a) being back in “real life” b) all the homework I kind of, sort of, blew off to go to Folsom and c) trying to process the ENTIRE FUCKING WEEKEND.

This post is really to say a big HELLO to all my new tumblr followers that appeared over the weekend. This is Delilah, of the converse knee high boots, the vertically challenged girl, etc.

I swear I will write more about Folsom. I’m actually being kicked out of my school’s computer lab (class in here) so I will update more later!