06 April 2015

Endorphin Soup

This is an excerpt from my email to Archer & Elegant, my application to be the demo of Endorphin Soup:

I took Primal Rush [my late husband, for those unaware] to his first Endorphin Soup.
He died almost exactly two and a half years later.

Let me begin by saying that I'm terrified of needles, terrified of hooks, and have always considered anything that pierces the skin to be a hard limit.
But sometimes... sometimes, you have go past your limits to move past your nightmares.

When I got Archer’s return email, I was driving in to work, Bonkers half-napping listlessly in the backseat. He’d had surgery last week, and the daylight savings time change hit us hard this year. My phone pinged, so with a glance at the sea of brake lights in front of me on 400, I thumbed open the message, and started hyperventilating.

I spent the next several hours in a daze. I snuggled Bonkers for a few minutes when I dropped him off with Lady Feline, who cares for him during the week. I drove in to work, parked as normal, made tea and breakfast, and have absolutely no idea who I passed in the hallways or spoke to.
Can I do this? Will it hurt too much? Will I be the first person to have to stop, to not be able to make it? What happens if I do, if I am? Can I face the breakdown that this will bring, in front of over a hundred people in the ritual space? I’m terrified of needles, of anything that pierces, i’ve never had any desire to do a hook-pull. Can I do this?
Can I not?

My reply was short:
Yes, I would like to.
I will give you a call tonight, about 7:15-7:30 on my drive home, if that works for you?

It actually took another 3-4 nights before we were able to talk, but the conversation then was reasonably brief, and I had an assignment: to write out the events of the day he died. Monday night, I sat down to write what i hadn’t relived since it happened. I went and sat on my newly built patio, in the dark, with a handful of candles around me as I wrote in the dark. Within a page, I was sobbing hysterically, my mind replaying my husband’s last hours with me over and over.
When it was over, when there was nothing left to write that wouldn’t be redundant, I closed the notebook I’d purchased, and walked inside. I remember thinking that I was moving like a very old woman- stiff and fragile, as though a harsh word right then would break me. I spent a long time after that in the shower- it’s my safe place, where I cry and whimper and let loose the vulnerability I don’t want to share with anyone.
Finally, when the tears had dissolved the hard lump of grief and guilt and fear in my chest, I crawled into the bed, pressed my face into Logan’s chest, and slept as though I, too, were dead.

My next assignment was to write out a series of statements- things he had said to me, things that I say to myself in the deepest throes of grief and rage and pain and ever-present guilt. I did that at work, because I would have no other time. I sat at my PC in my open office, listening to Florence and the Machine’s, “No Light No Light,” on repeat, shaking and silently crying as I wrote out the last things my husband said to me. When I finished, my shirt was wet with sweat, and that night the first thing I did on arriving at a friend’s was to borrow one. Every sweat smells different, and panic/crying sweat, on me, dries to an unattractive scent like an uncleaned litterbox. Thank every Deity ever invoked for borrowed t-shirts.

Then came another long conversation in-person, little of which I remember except Archer asking me, over and over, “What does ‘better,’ look like to you?”
I remember crying, and I remember answering his questions as best i could, but I didn’t know. I didn’t know how to answer. I couldn’t put into words that ‘better,’ meant ‘clean,’ grief, rather than the terror and guilt and rage that had been inextricably entwined with my every memory of him.

After that came 15 happy memories with him.
This was both easier and harder. I didn’t cry this time, but I found that specific memories were hard to pinpoint. I remember the pressure of his lips on mine in dreams and nightmares, but not the taste of his skin. I remember the way he looked the night we met, but not anything we spoke of. So many memories were the small mundane days and times and moments that are hard to record: the taste of a freshly made eggy-in-the-basket easing my pregnancy nausea, the protectiveness of his arm around my shoulder in the sunshine, the joy on his face when Bonkers rocketed into his arms at the park.

Finally, it was Frolicon time.
Thursday at work was impatient- my annual review came and went, and yet all I could focus on was the knowledge of the upcoming ritual. Logan and I got to Frolicon, unloaded, unpacked the room, and saw friends. I tried to go to bed early that night but slept lightly. I dreamed of Rush that night, and dreamed that he kissed me- the second time I’ve done so since he died.
Friday at Con was a special kind of torture, as I couldn’t drink much and all I wanted to do was escape from the awareness of the upcoming pain. But I hydrated as best I could remember, drank sparingly, and took a benadryl to ensure that I slept that night.
Saturday came too quickly and yet had taken an eternity to arrive. PoeticMotion went and picked up J, who had been Rush’s best friend, and brought him to be with me. Gypsy was en route, albeit it with Pequena, which meant she’d be late. As the moment approached, of course, I realized I’d missed or forgotten a dozen things. I ran to the bathroom to ensure that I wasn’t struck with a need to pee in the middle of the ritual. I realized I was still in jeans and boots and would want something easier to move in, so that required a fast run to the vendor room and a pair of flow pants. Then as Archer was starting the class portion, I realized I had to pee again. Of course. So a barefoot cannonball run as Archer explained the definition of the term, “ritual,” for those who were unaware, and then explained how the ritual would take place:
I would be brought to the front of the room, and hooks would be placed in the skin of my chest, a little above my breasts. Attached to these hooks is a thin, strong rope, which is then attached to a leather sledge. I would then be blindfolded and led around the perimeter of the room, where each participant would speak the words from a slip of paper given to them by Elegant, and drop a small bag of river stones into the sledge. I thought, based on the many times i’ve participated, that i knew what to expect, you see. I knew the words would bring out my deepest fears and grief, and I knew that the sledge would be infernally heavy by the time that I circled the half-of-a-ballroom that is the ritual room.
I thought I knew what to expect. I knew that Archer would ensure that the ritual pierced to the heart of the pain/guilt/anger that had festered inside of me for the last 18 months. I knew that the hooks would be awful, and that the sledge would require more endurance than anything short of childbirth, and remaining coherent the day he died.
I thought I knew what to expect.

I stripped to my bra and comfy pants when they called me, and went to the front. With my glasses off, i had no idea who was there and who was not- I still don’t know who was there, aside from a few people who told me they were. I had my Brave Face on, pretending I wasn’t absolutely terrified of the hooks coming up. At one point, I even called to the crowd, some of whom were averting their eyes from the hooks going in, “If i can get them put in, you can watch it!” One person laughed and replied audibly, “Fair point.”
I remember snatches of this part: Gypsy behind me, J with one of my hands in his. The thick needles being laid out, Archer gloving up and setting up as sterile a workspace as possible. The hooks, long and gleaming and terrifying, on the table. I remember asking Archer in a small voice, only half-joking, “Is it too late to wimp out?” I remember him pinching a fold of skin above my breast, in the pectoral, and pressing the needle through. I know I made a noise of some kind, and a deeply unhappy one at that. I have no idea if it involved words or just an animal sound of fear and pain. The second was both harder and easier, as he gripped a little bit differently and the needle went through a little easier. The hooks then, the ropes, and we paused while i sipped water and ate a bite of rice crispies treat- bringing up a sobbing laugh as I asked J if he had any idea how many pans of these that Rush and I had made and eaten while pregnant with Bonkers. J raised an eyebrow, and I told him- “3-5 a week,” and his shocked face was enough to make me giggle even in that moment. Logan made the comment that there was a reason Rush had gained 40lbs during my pregnancy.

I dimly remember standing, remember the blindfold, remember moving to the sledge by the pressure of Archers warm hands on mine guiding me. I remember wondering where J, Gypsy, and Logan were, and if they were okay.
And then we began, and I thought of no one else.
I don’t remember every phrase. Most of them, but not anywhere near all.
The first one was, “You’ll have to grow up now.”
He said that to me as we fought on his last day on earth. It was his threat and his promise if he died. I had thought that it would take a few minutes before I broke down. I was wrong. That one phrase brought a keening sob to my throat and I took my first step backwards, Elegant’s hands guiding me. The hooks drew taut, and the sledge moved with its first load of stones. I remember the sound that the first pull dragged from my throat, fear and pain mixed with the guilt and grief and anger of the words. I had the briefest thought that Archer was a sadistic sonuvabitch, and then I had to keep moving.

“What hole are you always trying to fill?” Step. Sob.
“What makes you think you deserve to have a happy life?” Step. Sob.
“Why didn’t you wait?” Step. Sob.
“You knew he was thinking about it.” Step. Sob.
“Did you take off your ring?” Step. Harsh, racking sob. Reflexive snatch at the ring I now wear on my right hand.
I had brief flashes of clarity, milliseconds of wondering how far I’d gone so far, of wondering why Elegant was the one guiding me.
Then clarity was washed away in more tears, hard jerking sobs at every step and every phrase repeated. “Now you’ll have to grow up.” “What makes you think that you deserve to be happy?”
I noticed that the pressure eased and had a second of confusion. Someone asked, “Whose burden is this to bear?” My sob in answer. Archer’s voice, loud and requiring an answer, “Whose burden is this to bear?”
My screamed, sobbed, response, “Mine!”
“Who is bearing it with you?”
Elegant lifted the blindfold: Logan stood in front of me, carrying the sledge, carrying my load of grief and pain, carrying my burden with me.
Elegant had to catch me because my knees went weak beneath me and I couldn’t keep moving.
He bears them with me, and always has. The realization hit home in ways it never had before. There aren’t words to explain the sudden clarity of that and what it meant.
We kept moving, the weight returning and another sound of pain ripped from my throat as the hooks in my chest took the steadily increasing weight of the sledge again.
At some point again, 30 seconds or a million years later, Archer’s foot on the sledge, and the words of the next participant, stopped me.
“Will you let this moment define his life?” I think that was the question. I don’t remember its phrasing.
I remember the message: to stay trapped in the day he died was to define his entire life- the life of the man I loved, whose smile was sunshine when he held his son, who held my hands as I gave birth, who laughed and cried with me and asked me to mark him with an obsidian knife- by the way that it ended.  
Again, Archer forced me to answer, forced me to say the words. “Say it. Say that you refuse to define his life this way.”
Anger welled up in me- I had always thought that phrase was a stupid one, from bad novels, but I could feel it boiling up through me and the words that came out of my mouth were almost a surprise as I growled them out, “I refuse to define him that way, I refuse to define me that way, I refuse to define OUR SON that way.”
I remember hearing a sound like shock or surprise from some of the participants, but I was moving again, angry and crying and determined and every step hurt more as the sledge got heavier and heavier with every participant I passed’s stones.
I remember J’s voice, “I’m going to wash away some of the blood.” I thought he meant that the hooks were bleeding, but instead, Gypsy brought a bowl and they washed my hands. I remember looking at her and telling her that it had been 2 days before I washed the last of his blood out from the whorls of my fingerprints. I remember J’s voice, “Your hands have always been clean,” and my knee-jerk instinct to deny it, my struggle to listen and accept the words as truth. I remember the tears in Gypsy’s eyes, and thinking for a split second that they are beautiful, before the blindfold descended again.
That moment marked the transition of the phrases, or at least my memory of them.
After that, the phrases were clips from my memories I’d shared: The motorcycle ride together on Father’s Day, the farmer’s market and Bonkers trying to eat an entire popsicle at 6mos old, pans of rice crispies treats. At some point, I remember Elegant feeding me a bite of rice crispies treat, reminding me, “Life is sweet.” I remember her saying that the dreams of him are his checking in on me, on us.

The last turn was the hardest, the sledge so damned heavy that I didn’t know at one point if Archer’s foot was on it or not until Elegant told me I had to keep going.
I don’t remember how far I moved from there, I don’t even remember the steps, only the pain of the hooks in my chest dragging the infernally heavy sledge, now full of its load of burdens and stones. I remember Archer’s hands wrapping mine around the scissors, and tilting my head back to be able to see the ropes well enough to cut them- and still missing on the first try.
The last thing I remember then is sinking to my knees on the floor, and people around me but I don’t know who was there.
I remember saying thank you to everyone my voice could reach, and I remember Gypsy’s, J’s, and Logan’s faces. I barely remember the hooks coming out, although I know I was coherent at the time because I remember speaking and Archer half-laughing at me. I remember being in the back, wrapped in my son’s blanket I took from his bed, and getting a harsh reminder in why you don’t hug anything to your chest with hooks freshly out of it. I remember being in the elevator line and leaning against J, and then my room.

Today, and for the last 2 days, I remember my husband with clean grief. I can think of him, and feel the tears below the memory, but they are unsullied by rage or by guilt. I can remember him, and I can smile now.

Last night, I told my son that he was so like his father, and for the first time in 18 months, my smile as I did so was a real one.

23 January 2014

My Mate is dead.
My Rush is gone.

This is why I haven't written in so long.

I will write again at some point, but I don't know when, exactly.

13 September 2013

Sorry guys, I know I haven't written lately. Things have been.... rough.

I will again soon. I promise.

Things will get better.

I won't give them any other choice.

12 September 2013

05 September 2013

29 August 2013

21 August 2013

Snippets of a dream

My kitchen, in the house in my head.
You on your knees. My hand on your chest, shoving with words and grief and the sheer power of my fury.

Your arms around my waist, restraining me, forcing my hands to stillness. My fierce almost sobbing breaths against you.

Biting kisses, still as much anger as love. Your hands on my face, my fingers digging into your shoulders.

Pressing you into the table, leaning into you and forcing your body bent back with the sheer force of my desire.

On your back, on my table, golden wood and paler gold skin. My body atop yours, cream and curves and heated slickness.

Riding you, breasts bouncing. Your hands reaching to them, my hands slapping yours away, taking you, using you for my own pleasure and watching your face a study in pleasure and agonizing need as I shake and tremble and cum above you.

19 August 2013

Sometimes it hurts.

Recently, I made the decision to break things off with someone I was walking a dangerous line with.
It was a mutual decision, because he couldn't give what I needed, and I wasn't willing to let myself grow gradually more and more resentful of not getting my needs met.
I wasn't willing to harm his current relationship, and he wasn't willing to harm mine.
So we walked away.

It was the right thing to do.
The grown-up thing to do.
The ethical thing to do.

And that doesn't make it hurt a damned bit less, any time I let myself think too hard about it.

Kink After Kids

A few random thoughts on kink post-kids:

  • They're amazing at finding bruises with pointy little knees and elbows
  • Gags are useful when your only set of eyebolts is 10' from the toddler's bedroom door
  • Toddlers are terrifyingly handy with a short singletail. Mine has managed to catch me across the face with it twice... AFTER my attempts at hiding it in the closet failed miserably.
  • Fetish parties don't happen anymore, unless you have a spare $60 for babysitting on top of the cost of going to the party
  • It's amazing how much that can make me miss my community
  • The 19mos old is the biggest sadist in the household
  • On the previous note, kinkiness is clearly genetic. Ours has never seen us play, and yet takes canes, whips, or whatever else he can find (his current favorite is Mommy's dressage whip, which she can't seem to hide well enough) and beats the dog (surprisingly lightly, since I have seen him swing that sucker hard enough it'd have left welts), then set aside the whip and start petting her. 

I seriously wish I were kidding about all of these things. 

15 August 2013

Courtesy of Rush HNT

I don't normally do groin shots, but Rush took this the other night and suggested that I use it.

02 August 2013


There's nothing sexy about my mood today, nothing sexual. I am worn to the bone and so on edge I could cut with a look.
I don't want to play today, don't want to toy with you and enjoy your pretty reactions. I don't want sex, or the taste of your cock on my lips.
Not today.

Today I want blood, and I want the sweet knowledge of pain, and injury.
I want the wet snap of bone and the sharp hiss of the razor, the gentle burble of blood.

I want a body hanging like a side of beef from a hook, the cool darkness and the weight of the blade in my hand. I want to take out this rage on innocent flesh and feel it give beneath my hand. I want the uncontrolled swing of fury, lodging deep in muscle and bone. I want the spurt of blood as it gives, the flow of life from a body spasming in pain and fear and rage. I want the walls spattered with beautiful ruby designs painted by a swinging arc of shining steel.
I want the deep primal screams which only terror give, the scream that means you know that your death is not coming, but here in the room beside you.
I want the shuddering cry as the last trickles of life flow from your throat to the floor.

01 August 2013

25 July 2013

23 July 2013

Old Memory

Heart racing as you approach, sound of you, sight, and scent in that order.
Knees going weak like they always do the moment you touch me.
Your hands on my arms, fingers twisting in my hair and my breath coming in short, fast pants.

Turning me roughly, pressing me down, confusion and trying to respond but not sure what you want.
Hands hitting the wall, yours gripping my hip and pulling me out to you. Whining moan of anticipation as I realize what you intend.
Your zipper echoes, or maybe that's only in my head. It's taking everything I have not to press back into you, to plead to feel you.

...and then there you are, then you are inside me, filling me, toolongtoothicktoomuch and it doesn't matter because every part of me wants you more than any response from my body can convey and I am whimpering, pleading incoherently and you are dragging me up by the hair, warning me again, "Hush," and I can't not obey but I don't know how to be quiet right now, don't know how not to scream with you inside of me but I know that I can't, know that I have to be quiet and the inside of my head is screaming incoherently in need and pleasure and desire.

Suddenly, abruptly, you are gone and I am whimpering in loss without conscious thought of it, confusion and need and something almost like grief until you force me back around, pressing me to my knees and whisper roughly to clean you up.
My lips are eager, hungry, and almost immediately I am swallowing you, choking and pressing myself further onto you, taking in every inch before I draw back and suck every bit of the taste of me from your cock. I want to continue, want to taste your satisfaction on my tongue, but you are pulling me up, turning me again and I am confused and whimpering and hungry for you but in this space I am almost unable to argue or to disobey so I stand, turn, bend back over and am rewarded by your hungry mouth against my pussy, dragging another moan from my throat that I stifle only at the very last moment. I cannot stop the whimpering, though, and I know you will be angry but I can't stay completely silent in the face of the heat of your tongue against my clit and your teeth against my labia.

Abruptly, you pull away from me, an it takes every ounce of strength I have to keep from falling to your feet and begging you never to stop.

Waking Dream

Pinch me
Is this real
This feeling of release
I’m floating in your heaven
In the corners of my dreams

Tasting life
Numb again
Close my eyes
It begins…

I cannot stumble here
I am safe inside my head
When I wake up Ill forget
I’ll come back to my mess

I will not leave
Stay asleep
Slip further in
My ecstasy

Safe inside my mind I hide…

-Natalie Walker

18 July 2013

I don't even have the words for how amazing my husband is:

Hand in hand we stand. A life to live,a family to build and a friend to cherish, together, in support and compassion. So take my hand, My Love and look out on our future. Catch me when I stumble, wipe away my tears and be my shield as I will for you. You smile and I know I've been offered my dreams, that sparkle in your eyes assures me of the joy at hand and your soft touch calms the beast within. So take my hand, My love and dance to the music of our lives!
You inhabit the landscape of my heart, painting the rising and setting sun with your passion. You encourage the green things to grow and the wild things to play. The breeze sighs your name as it caresses the land. You live within me and I am grateful for that!

17 July 2013


It has been too long, beloved, since I have tasted your submission on my lips.
It has been too long since your eyes have darted from mine, shy and downcast.
It has been too long since you have bitten your lip, your voice an aroused, embarrassed whisper: "Yes, Ma'am".

Your body stretched across mine, across my lap with your hands in the small of your back, wringing nervously but your cock warm and half-hard trapped between my thighs. My hands rubbing your rounded ass, teasing you while tiny whimpers and moans escape your lips and your hips move against me whenever you can't quite help it. The first blow- not too hard but your jerk and low moan are symphonic as I'm getting steadily more aroused against you. The next, harder, and the next. Backing off a little, rubbing and teasing and stroking your perineum until your wriggle and shiver before another flurry of spanks. Your ass reddening against me, heating up, your sounds becoming more anguished and yet your body relaxing against me, submitting to my hands to my touch, to my will.
You have no idea how beautiful that you are right now, no idea how much I want you just yet.

It is later, and the toys are set aside, the bed cleaned off, and you have licked the cum from your fingers with embarrassed, pleased eyes and hidden your face against me.
It is later and you are still sticky against your belly and the ache in my cunt is threatening to turn to pain as I lie back, beckoning your face between my legs, dragging your head where I want you, placing you against my engorged and throbbing clit.
Your eager obedience thrills me, as always. The avid hunger with which you approach me, tempered with the strength of your desire to please me and slowing you down to approach as I prefer. The kisses up my thighs, cheeks pressed firmly against the ticklish skin, heated breath against the hyper-sensitive flesh until I am moaning in wanton desire. Quick flick of your tongue, teasing and hungry as you taste my arousal, taste the soaking proof of my desire for you. Your groan louder than my own moan as you press into me, licking and sucking and kissing and teasing my clit with flicks of your tongue and gentle touches of your lips.
Your tongue sliding between my engorged lips, pressing deeply into me, circling my lips until my fingers curl around your neck and press you into me in clear demand.
Your lips against my clit, your tongue circling me until I am moaning and arching into you and it isn't going to take much longer, my love, before......


Yes, this.

Your face pressed between my legs, your tender submission in my hands, your head resting on my thigh in complete surrender as I shake and moan against you, riding waves of pleasure and need and love and desire.

Yes, my love.

Yes, this.

12 July 2013

05 July 2013

02 July 2013


Helplessness. Fear. The pain of watching someone you love in pain.

Close your eyes. Step away from Here, step into There.
I Myself, Spirit in Flesh, Speak.

Sunshine on my back, breeze across your face. Grass beneath my legs and I am seated now, with your head in my lap. You're speaking softly, but the words are indecipherable. It doesn't matter though, they the words are irrelevant. This is the slow drain of poison from a wound, voice and air to pain long-left hidden. I do not need to bear witness to the words themselves, but only to the pain they come from as they hit the air and pop like soap-bubbles blown from the hand of a child.
My hands gentle across your face, stroking your head, running tender fingers across your cheeks, tracing the curve of your eyebrows and the quirk of your lips. Exploring the whorl of your ear and the line of your jaw; wordless comfort, silent acceptance, unspoken promise.

Slowly, slowly the words fade, the toxin tapers off, the wounds are cleansed and can heal. You can heal. My lips soft against your forehead in a last caress before your eyes open free of pain again.

01 July 2013

Not so much

The last week has been really, really unpleasant, so no pretties here to post.

Sorry, my loves, I'll try to have sexier week going forward, but given that there's a 15 year old crashing at my house.... yeah. Curbs the fun a bit.

Meanwhile, wanna see something totally unpleasant about rape?

Strangers don't commit rape- friends, dates, and lovers do- and many of them will admit it, as long as they don't have to use the R word.

27 June 2013

Replacement shower HNT


I've shut off, shut down. I can't feel you anymore.

I've prayed on my knees to the Goddess in in my heart and in my head and in the Moon at night.
Her voice, it whispered in my ear that I am stronger than this, and I am stronger than I know.

I closed my eyes and leaked bitter tears but held my own in the struggle to stay aloft.

I have walked away a hundred times and cried a thousand more, but this time, this time it is different like every other time and I will pray not only for my own strength but for yours.
I will pray for your peace, and for your joy, and for the love you deserve.

My hands will trace ritual and my lips will speak prayers and my heart will beg that you have all of the best that you deserve.
Drowning, aching. Grieving a loss I never had.

You're too close and I can't see anything but your face, taste anything but your scent.

You're too far away and I can't touch you.

24 June 2013

Unfinished Dream

Curled on the couch, casual intimacy that speaks of a thousand other intimacies which in waking life we have never shared. My body pressed to yours, back to chest, an arm warm and heavy around me as something silly plays on the television that I am not really paying attention to.
Slow movements of your hands, skimming along my waist and finding the hem of my loose shirt, sliding up my stomach. Your hands are so large against my body that it scares me sometimes and thrills me at others. A soft moan drawn from my throat by the heat of your skin against mine as your hand makes teasing circles over my rapidly-heating skin. My soft whimper as your fingers find the undersides of my breasts, eliciting a a small writhing motion from me, that presses my ass harder against your groin. Your low, growling response, pulling me harder into you and making me catch my breath hungrily.

Your hands wrapping around my breast, large enough to palm it, teasing my nipple until I shudder against you and make small pleading sounds. I can hear the satisfaction in your voice as tangible as the steadily growing erection against my ass, and when I feel you bend against me, I close my eyes for the scrape of teeth on my neck that I know is coming.

I have completely forgotten about the television until a laugh track startles me, making me jump against you, and your hands tighten in reflexive protectiveness before we both laugh. You're undeterred, however, and it is only seconds later that I feel your teeth sinking into the curve of neck and shoulder and I am gasping, whimpering and writhing against you in unspoken plea.

About Me

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I am just your ordinary average every day sane psycho supergoddess