Sea Change

Sea Change: (idomatic) A profound transformation. Etymology: from Shakespeare's The Tempest:

"Full fathom five thy father lies:
Of his bones are coral made:
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange."

How do I even begin to describe the profound transformation of the last... what, four years? I could talk about wandering in the desert, the metaphor being only slightly false. I could talk about a swelling ocean pouring over sea-walls designed to hold back the very floods that grind and crush and crumble them into powder.

I could say: "We've changed, both of us, because of forces beyond our control."

But would it really explain? Could anything that I write, or say, or try to express really do justice to the last 48 months or so? No, probably not. So I'll talk in riddles and rhymes that I know only a handful of people would really understand, were they to read this.

It's an interesting thing, change. You often have no idea it's coming. Or if you do, you think it's going to be one thing, and it ends up being something completely different. Transformation. Evolution. Revolution and redemption.

What the hell am I even talking about? See above. I said I have no idea how to describe it. Or even if I should.

She leaves, wanders in walkabout for 9 months and then returns from her travels a bit too thin, and with the weary eyes of a soldier sick to death of battle.

Convalescence: 1) A gradual healing after illness or injury. 2) The period of time spent for healing. Etymology: From French convalescence, from Late Latin convalēscentia (“regaining of health”), from Latin convalēscō (“regain health, grow strong”).

Yeah.

Months and years of gradual healing. The itch of metaphorical bones and bruises mending and fading.

And then the earthquake. And then the flood. No warning.

"Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations.
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water."

Fear death by water indeed.

But what if the flood, the cold, merciless wave that drowns the land, draws back and leaves diamonds and silver in it's wake? Do you curse the sea and the waves that almost destroyed your house, or do you walk out into the street, feet bare in the salt-stained mud and silt, and, pockets already bulging and heavy with gold, begin to gather the treasures that were left behind.

No. With cold and brine-wrinkled fingers, you pluck the stones from the muck. Because they are all the more beautiful for the wreckage around you.

She comes home one night and tells me that something, everything has changed. The final piece of the puzzle has been set, and now, finally, she can show you the picture she's been working on for all this time. And it is so beautiful. She is so beautiful.

I do not require that she serve me, but she does so willingly, and I revel in the love of her service.

I do not require that she kneel to me, but she does so willingly, and I reach down and offer my hand to her cheek.

I do not require her obedience, but she gives it to me, willingly, and I take it, gladly, understanding that the gift she holds in her outstretched hands and upturned face ("Those are pearls that were his eyes...") are the most precious things in the world.

She has, of her own volition, given herself to me. Wholly. Completely. She says that she is mine to command, and I'm coming to understand what that power really, truly means. It isn't sex, although that's part of it, of course. With us, how could it not be. But it's more than that, deeper and truer than any game or role-play.

She tells me that I am everything to her. She tells me that I'm Jupiter, filling her sky as if she were standing on one of it's moons.

And she, of course, is everything to me. Without her, I am nothing. She's the one thing, one person that I've found that I care more about than I do myself.

She doesn't call me Master, although she probably would if I asked her to. And she's not my slave, because... well, because she isn't. She's my girl. I'm her Man.

Sometimes she's my girl and I'm her Daddy, of course...

It's what it is.

I didn't write this for any of you, although I hope you've enjoyed reading it.

I wrote it for you, my Love, so that you'll know, even more than you do already, what a beautiful thing our sea change has been to me. I hope, beyond my ability to express, than I've managed to do something beautiful here for you.

And for us.

Ready? Ok!

She reads my most recent post, about the cheerleaders, and appreciates as I knew she would. She is, after all, willing and more than able to satisfy my blackest desires. Well, maybe not the blackest ones. Yes, I'm probably a high-functioning sociopath, but I do understand the limits of the law. And I'm a hedonist, and there's nothing pleasurable in the concept of prison, after all.

Well, to a point, of course.

But anyway, this isn't about that. It's about her, and what she's willing to do for me, and with me. Her pleasure in these games that we play is unmistakable: as she says "You can't fake biology." She isn't rolling her eyes and going along with it. She's rolling her eyes because the pleasure is overwhelming.

So we start talking about cheerleaders, and I mention that all of the cheerleaders I knew in high school were horrible, stuck up girls who I wouldn't want to fuck with a rented cock. The idea of being that intimate with someone that... vacant and useless is just... well, it's boring. And doesn't sound like a lot of fun to me.

Which is when she gets the grin on her face, the one that tells me that she's thought of something that I should have probably thought of myself. "So..." she murmurs, "You wouldn't want to make them pay for that?"

The image bursts into my mind fully formed: Her tight top with the school emblem and her bra are pushed up in a wad around her neck. Her pleated skirt is flipped up onto her back, exposing her ripped cotton panties. She's on her knees, hands and ankles hastily with rope, head down on the ground as my hands grip her hips and ass tight enough to draw little crescents of blood where my nails dig and gouge as I hammer in and out of her... Oh, and she's begging me to stop, or at least, she's trying to through the gag. The tears on her face streak mascara down her cheeks from under the blindfold.

So pretty.

All of this, in just a second. My expression must have given some of it away, because she laughs that evil laugh, joins me momentarily in that lovely place... then says "Or, maybe she just needs some help with her grades, and came to you..."

"Bet she'd be willing to do anything to get that "A", huh?"

"Oh, definitely."

The best part is that it's not the girls I knew back then that I see in my mind in this moment, it's her. Maybe she's wearing the costume, but it's her. It's always her. It's always been her, even before we met. She is the perfect Yin to my Yang.

Only we're both dark, just in slightly different shades.

If they only knew

She tells me that she loves the way that I make everyone jealous. The way that I refuse to share the incredible things she cooks, for example.

And the way that I jealously guard our time together. And the secrets that I keep, I suspect, about all of the things that we get up to.

I was standing outside with some co-workers the other day, smoking and shooting the breeze. Enjoying a tiny break from the job that keeps me away from her for 12 hours a day, 5 days a week. Two friends, one nearly half my age, unmarried and unattached, the other a few years older than me. Married twice, with a son just hitting his teens. They younger friend mentioned something about the older one getting his wife to dress up in a cheer-leader outfit for him. This idea was met with laughter, and the general feeling that if Older wanted to get neutered, that would be a great way to start the process.

I didn't join in with the good-natured "ah, married life" ribbing that husbands often give their wives (when they're not around, of course) because what am I going to say? My wife once gave me head in a grade school playground? That she loves to call me "Daddy"? Or maybe that we've had sex in public on numerous occasions?

Or maybe I could tell them all about the rather amazing changes in our relationship that have taken place in the last three months? Which I haven't yet written here about, because I'm just starting out, but seriously. Big stuff on the horizon, writing wise.

They wouldn't get it anyway. It's not the what, it's the why.

So, yeah, no. Just like her baking, and the amazing way she treats me, that's all just for me.

And for anyone reading, of course...

Begin again

Ok, so I was wrong...

How do I even start to explain the circumstances and the sequence of events that would bring me back here, nearly four years later? How would I even try to outline, over that period of time, exactly what I've been through... what we've been through, that would bring me, and us, back to this little corner of the 'net?

It's impossible.

So, honestly, I'm not going to try. Parts of the story may or may not come out, only time will tell.

For those of you who have checked in here from time to time, trust that there will be more coming.

No pun intended.

Mrs Darkerside said: "I want us to have the kind of sex you used to write about, again."

I said: "It's all worth writing about. It always has been."

So, we begin again. Try again. I'm sure, fail again. But the attempt is what matters, right?

Right.

Hold on tight, here we go...