Our Kink

 

We’re kinky bastards here at my house…his house…our house (that sounds better, doesn’t it?). With packing, moving, unpacking, and dealing with real life, we’ve found very little time for the kinky fuckery we desperately crave, but a little something is better than a whole lot of nothing.

Sometimes our kink has nothing to do with sex. Sometimes our kink is simply the lifestyle we want to live. He’s Daddy, and I’m babygirl. Sometimes he’s Sir and I’m pet. I’ve spent my entire adult life pretending I didn’t need anyone. It’s tiring, in case you wondered – fighting against who you are every minute of the day simply because there’s no one worthy to know that side of you, and no one strong enough to handle it.

Daddy, I imagine, spent most of his life pretending he didn’t need to be needed. Hell, he didn’t even know he was a Daddy Dom until he met me. From what I can tell, he’s been surrounded by strong-willed women his entire life. Not that I’m not strong-willed (He’d laugh at the idea that I might suggest otherwise). But it’s different between the two of us.

When there’s no time or desire for sex (shocking from us this soon, I know, but it happened), we still have our roles to fall back on. And I have never been more grateful for them than I have in the past several days…

The stress of living a chaotic life with little to no routine took a toll. The anxiety at watching the money I was desperately trying to save get spent for too many damn good reasons – $700 for the moving truck, anyone? – made me sick to my stomach. The fear of this whole thing being too good to be true, that I was somehow unworthy of it, that I would fail at this new life that I’d been dreaming of for months – well, that just made me crazy.

I couldn’t handle pain. The slightest nibble or pinch from Daddy, and I nearly cried. Pain wasn’t the cleansing thing I needed it to be; it was an additional stressor that I couldn’t handle.

I was sassy, almost bratty, when I spoke to him. I forgot to ask. I forgot to defer. I was sarcastic and biting – a defense mechanism I’ve had for years.

I cried at the drop of a hat. I looked for problems where none existed. I worried, fretted, and generally made myself nuts.

And there was Daddy. Loving, guiding, firm Daddy. He took me roughly at midnight because he could – and I felt better. He took me to the club, strapped me to the St. Andrew’s Cross and used spanking torture devices to redden my skin and clear my mind. I felt sexual and sensuous. When I sobbed into his chest that I just wished the noise in my head would shut up, he pulled me across his knee and spanked my ass until it burned and then he became almost feral as he fucked me. I slept well that night, temporarily free from tossing and turning.

The doubts, worries, fears, and stress are all still there. But they’re dimmer, a bit quieter. I’m finding my way through this new life, slowly and with a bit of uncertainty. I remind myself that if something we try doesn’t work (I’ve never made dinner this many nights in a row in my life, y’all!), we’ll adjust. Our happiness isn’t governed by how much money I earn or whether I become little Holly Homemaker. Our happiness is determined by our love and trust in each other, our willingness to communicate, and our mutual desire for own personal brand of kink.

He’s Daddy, and I’m babygirl.

Welcome to Wicked Wednesday! This week’s prompt was “Your Kink’s Not My Kink, and That’s Ok.” And I completely agree. My little addition to the conversation is more about our personal kink as we move through this strange, wonderful, new life together.