Different places, different pages in our lives, the mechanics of sex can be very different.

There was a period in my life, about eight or nine years ago, when Mr Hunt and I needed to be really creative. I had already proven to be ridiculously easy to get pregnant. With two young and boisterous children at home we were not ready to add a third, but neither were we willing to make that decision permanently.  I’d had years on the pill as a teenager to combat appalling PMT, and didn’t want to fuck up my new finely tuned mental health balance by fiddling with the hormone settings again, and condoms and me…we don’t get on. Not long term…and not after those glorious windows of time when he could come in me with impunity, in the glorious anti-taboo moments of being married and trying to start a family.

Sex could have become something stale or even worse, disposable, in the changing challenges of being a family, but it seemed too important to become a victim of over-familiarity and exhaustion, so instead we experimented.

Secure in our relationship, I could admit sex didn’t need to follow any sort of plan that included tit for tat orgasms. In fact, I quite liked it if my orgasm was inconsequential or even better ignored. Becoming a parent, especially the breast feeding, had changed my relationship with my body and “sexy” felt different than it had before and I needed to be honest about that.

Before, I would have found it much harder to admit I wanted to be used.

I wanted to be a hole he could fuck. To be a toy, not a mother.

By necessity of avoiding pregnancy, and a whole lot of creativity, I became his spunk splattered whore.

PIV sex was emotionally hard, instead of being the one step shop it had been before. I could never relax and enjoy it in the way I wanted to. I wanted to trust Mr Hunt in everything, wanted to trust he would never get carried away and come in me, but I couldn’t. Then would get really cross at myself for not quite being able to have faith in him, even though as he admitted it, it was a calculated risk.

He loves anal sex. And so do I… but with the proviso of prep. After years of access to a vagina that pretty much did all the prep itself we were lazy. It couldn’t replace the “just having a sleepy cuddle that finishes with sex” sex, nor the “just woken up and have time for a quickie” sex.

I became a fan of feeling him come on me. Any part of me.

That hot splash of jizz that conferred he still wanted me despite the rainbows of stretch marks and the night feeds and that he wanted me respectful of our decision to not have another child right now, despite knowing he’d rather be buried in my cunt or my arse.

The snake trails of dried cum that marked me as his life choice.

I think necessity increased our freedom to get messy.

I love a cock in my mouth. In preparation for full-on adulthood, getting to grips with the social skills needed to have a sex life, I identified being able to give a damn good blow job was a necessary life skill. Cosmo had a new article on it every month and I had studiously read every tip, then found friends I could practice on.

I cringe as I write that. I wish I could go back and tell 17 year old me that all those little party tricks were not the thing that was going to find me someone who loved and appreciated me, but then, confidence and bravado go a long way when you start dating. I still am the type of person to read the manual before I get a toy out of its box.

It came as a surprise when I first met the lovely Mr Hunt, that blow jobs are not his favorite thing. But that was ok…

…I didn’t want to give him a blow job. Didn’t want to give him some sort of carefully orchestrated performance of lips and tongue and the tiniest hint of teeth.

I wanted him to fuck my face.

The gagging, choking, overwhelming peacefulness of being used.

And then it didn’t matter if I liked it when he came down my throat, or preferred it when he nearly pulled out and coated my tongue to make sure I registered every bitter, salty splash.

Whether he deliberately pulled out to paint my lips and make me hold position for long seconds without licking them clean.

When he’d bark the instruction to keep my eyes open, and I ‘d have front row seats to twitching spasms of his ejaculating cock inches from my face or when he’d cover my eyes and leave me with the whispered friction of hand and skin, punctuated with the tightly controlled pants and grunts of a man who knows the benefits of a near silent fuck, before wiping his spent cock clean in my hair.

We are years past this point in our lives now. Things have moved on. He has had a vasectomy giving us the freedom to have PIV sex without the risk of pregnancy. We no longer need a silent fuck to simply be about not waking the baby…although silent fucks are undoubtly hot. And it is rare for him to come anywhere but deep inside me.

It was only when I read the prompt for this post that I realized we were in a different place and on a different page of our sexual journey.

I think, maybe, they are places and pages that are worth revisiting.

Kiss the lips
You know you want to x
Two kisses?
Go find out who else is being Sinful this week x

What’s Lust got to do with it?

When you practice any elements of BDSM away from a community, either online or in person, it can be very difficult to gauge how what you are doing relates to what others are doing, either in terms of practices or intensity. Even as part of an online community, I only know that what we do suits Mr Hunt and myself and don’t quite know where this fits in with the practices of others.

While sex is important in our relationship, it is not everything, neither are routines and rules and rituals. We have been together 17 years or so, married for 14 and parents of special needs children for all but the first 9 months. It is important that we communicate and support each other. There are many different ways to practice BDSM, but communication is key. Being very aware of each other, our verbal and non-verbal tells, as well as explicit communication is vital to our survival as a couple.

I am a sensory seeking autistic, with children who are also sensory seeking autistics, and we all enjoy what is termed by the occupational therapist “heavy touch”. This might include tasks to calm the children from the health team that involve squashing them with a therapy ball or restraining them with what is called deep pressure. My eldest has a very fidgety body and likes to have things to push against. In a school lesson situation this includes tying a therapy band around chair legs that they can push against, but in the evening, when watching tv at home, he is calmed by having his legs tied together with the same band.  Some people with autism find things like weighed blankets very relaxing and the feeling of this can be very similar to the feeling I get from bondage.

In the last week, Mr Hunt and myself have been experimenting with a mermaid tie around my legs. He can be very exacting about how these things appear on camera, so we often have one or two practice ties to decide photo angles and what sort of underbeneaths I would feel I wanted to be wearing. This tie was very relaxing, but scored low on the turn on factor from the actual rope. The calming factor was very strong and it reminded me of the calm brought on by having a therapy band to push against.

Other ties have a very high turn on factor. Usually, for me, these include rope around the torso and perhaps a little constriction around my ribs that I can feel when I’m breathing. The feeling of being manoeuvred and controlled as well as other cues from touch and words turn things sexual. Rope is the thing most likely to push me out of myself into a dreamy state of turned on relaxation.

We mainly play with rope but have begun to branch out after I had an experience I wasn’t expecting at Eroticon trying out the Vac bed. The whole point of the Saturday pm session was to try new things, and it is all very light hearted and giggly…so I gathered all my personal confidence to try the vac beds at the second opportunity. What I didn’t expect was to find myself sliding under and to come out feeling completely disorientated and lost. It was only when I’d scurried back to my hotel room and had a little cry that I realised that I had full on sub drop and needed to ring home for a virtual hug and treat myself with water and get my blood sugar up a little. Bondage can be sexy, or it can be calming, and on that occasion, it was just extraordinarily powerful without being particularly either, and it really took me by surprise.

Whether you read the D as discipline or domination, again I can find this is a sliding scale for me, between calming me down or turning me on and sometimes both. I struggle with disordered mood and executive function as part of my autism, so handing decision making over to someone I love and trust completely is a relief. But just like being a sub doesn’t make you less, being autistic also doesn’t mean someone should take control of your life. Knowing someone can when I need it, gives me room to recover.

I wouldn’t characterise our relationship as being solely a D/s dynamic, but before we got married and before we were more than occasionally spanky in bed, we defined where we thought our relationship dynamic was going. We talked about it in terms of agreeing a direction, or a way of choosing a direction. Not that we don’t discuss things and work to change each other’s opinions, but ultimately, he is steering the ship. With that power comes responsibility. With our vanilla families that is the joke- anything goes wrong, it’s Mr Hunt’s fault.

It delighted us to be able to marry with the traditional words where I promised to obey and he to cherish. For us, it is core to the total dynamic of our relationship, and sex is an extension of that rather than the defining feature. Whether he is helping me with my executive functioning by sitting with me to work out a list of things I need to do in my work life, breaking a huge chore I need to do into small achievable goals with frequent rewards to help me when my head is fogged up with overload or responding calmly and firmly to me effectively bratting when I burn out, our dynamic is both in line with D/s but also with good autism structure.

I am comforted knowing that give or take a few kids, I am the focus of his life and he is the focus of mine.

But yes… there is a “D” dynamic in the bedroom. And sometimes there is cross over. Sometimes I will brat just to get a rise from him. Sometimes his instructions are just a path to our mutual pleasure…and especially if my pleasure is found from him taking his.

I am also in another relationship that is impossible to define by traditional characteristics, but when you understand the vibe Mr Hunt and I live at home, perhaps makes more sense. I fell in love with a friend, and the defining feature of that relationship is that she is firmly Dominant within our interactions, but we are not sexually intimate. Does that stop what I feel for her being love? Definitely not. She appreciates my submissive behaviours, meets my needs by taking control and letting me let go. Mr Hunt appreciates she can do this for me sometimes when he can’t, maybe because of work commitments. Sometimes he sends me to her because I need her specific brand of control. She presses every submissive button I have, and at the same time, just like Mr Hunt, I trust her when sometimes I’m exhausted from trying to navigate life. We came into this relationship from an autism community stance, so some of the behaviours from that over-spilt, but when I realised more was involved we did discuss it fully and she went away and read up on the type of domination she was unconsciously providing. Now it is consciously delivered.

And then we are back in the sensory experience.

Does Mr Hunt like hurting me? Probably not as much as I would find manageable. He loves to experiment and I like to be experimented on. It is a niggly frustration that I don’t mark up well when I’ve been spanked or caned, but that because I have poor healing and potentially circulation issues we can’t go as hard as we might like.

One of our future goals would be to perhaps train with someone as to new techniques we can use at home. In reference to the prompt, I think we’d both feel comfortable that this is not lust driven experience.

Sometimes stimulation can be helpful in our normal lives too. I have periods where my brain doesn’t work well and I struggle with social anxiety and the inability to focus. One of the ways to support me to work through or around this is to raise my endorphins, and a quick route to this is a little targeted discomfort. Mr Hunt has lots of tricks up his sleeve to help. There is nothing ground breaking about this, as the science for pain raising mood is well understood, but having the trust and openness as a couple to use it like this is, I think, unusual.

The takeaway for me from this prompt is that my life is underpinned by principles that whilst they align with BDSM, cannot be principally characterised as kinky sex or as a lust driven experience. For Mr Hunt and myself, our relationship is an expression of communication and trust through the media of restraint, pain and discipline, through acts of service and denial. From rope bondage and pictures on the internet, to cooking dinner for the family and cleaning the bathrooms, from fisting and staples to the school run, which I delight in being able to ignore as it triggers my social anxieties, we do what we do because it meets each other’s needs. . He is dominant from a position of love because he knows that is what I need. I can be safely submissive because I trust him to value my contributions to our family and challenge me to be the best person I can be.

And if that involves sex…all to the good!

Do you agree with me..?
Go see who else has been writing this week and see if they challenge your opinions or support your viewpoint.

The Mermaid

I guess if you’ve been here once or twice, you might have realized by now that one of my favorite kinks is rope… well not just rope, but bondage generally. I love the feeling of being restrained.

When we were playing around with the this tie we started by tying my ankles together, even though the pattern for the tie starts at the tops of your legs. I needed the rope to take the strain to enjoy the process as this one was a bit fiddly to get the ropes to lie beautifully.

Sometimes rope is the process of being tied, sometimes it’s how it feels when the tie is complete. This is one of the latter. The rope hugs you and constrains you in a very even pattern. Secondly, this is one for being tied in place as your restraint means moving around is tricky. The other in the series all start with getting the kids to bed and cracking out the box of ropey bits hidden under the sofa, then creeping out into the garden to get some decent shots that don’t have lego in them. Tonight was a little different. More time went into setting the scene, thinking about the angles for the photos and working out anchor points. I really wanted to have tension on the ropes in the shots, and that meant our bedroom, which has several points set into joists or coach bolted into the walls. It also, delightfully, has black satin drapes so I have something to photograph against…

Enjoy the photos… and maybe follow the links to try the tie yourself, as it is one you can self tie if you’re all on your lonesome. I can however vouch for this as “fun with your partner” if you are lucky enough to have one to hand. The lovely Mr Hunt took his reward for patient rigging by stringing my legs up to one of the roof ties while I lay on the bed and the angles this created were definitely worth the patience needed for him to finesse the lie of the ropes.

Follow the link to find out how to replicate this tie and see others having fun with rope

Alethea and I

Alethea Hunt is a work of fiction, dreamt up to go in the blurb of the first short story I put onto Smashwords about 9 years ago. At the time I was mum of two strange children and about to become pregnant with a third.

I needed to be something other than a mother to two non-verbal toddlers who wanted to watch the same three Pixar movies in the same order every day. Alethea was born with a single line.

“I remember the kisses with most regret.”

Something only found in fiction, Alethea started as a notion of a person and gradually became more and more solid, and that wasn’t just because they liked to lie around on the sofa eating calorie-free chocolate and could always find time to write. They can always find time to write even at the moment.

Allie would look at the one of those silly internet memes where you work out how many things in a list of forty you wouldn’t eat and would score zero. “If it’s edible, I’ll put anything in my mouth!” they would say with a smile that suggested a million innuendos. I didn’t have the smile, but allowing for risk awareness, I was pretty much an eat anything once type of girl. Allie made me look at this differently. Perhaps I was a secret risk taker.

Alethea had a daring sex life. I didn’t. But then it turned out, I did, I just didn’t appreciate all the experiences I’d had. Allie made them seem much more daring. Perhaps starting your dating life with a poly relationship wasn’t as run of the mill as I’d thought. That power aware role play stuff I’d done as a lark with friends (and found I really enjoyed) was useful, if only so Allie had something to write about. Who hadn’t had a selection of threesomes in different configurations? Thrown in partners of different genders? Had sex for money?

Alethea loved to take all these vignettes of life and turn them into something more polished and sexy. To me they were just the memories of a worn out mum who couldn’t properly remember what life was like before nappies.

In 2017, Alethea finally had enough of a life to need a wardrobe and struck out to Eroticon in London alone, with the blessing and encouragement of the increasingly lovely Mr Hunt. (I mean, of course he would take their name…they definitely have a dramatic personality!)

Mr Hunt, it turned out, was very fond of Alethea, and I found myself in a very strange threesome. Alethea was not shy about sex toys or positions, or exactly what they needed from us. Sometimes they’d whisper in Mr Hunt’s ear, some saucy thing they wanted to write about, so could we just experiment a little. Just for them to watch and take notes.

In London, Allie made friends and they’ve  shared those friends with me. With every friend and comment on the blog they became more and more rounded. Eventually, we couldn’t share my computer anymore and had to be bought one of their own. They entered Sinful Sunday and became flesh in more ways than I ever had imagined.

Allie and I will never quite see eye to eye, but over the last 9 or so years we have become more and more alike. They voice the opinions I dare not. Dares to love openly and honestly even if that doesn’t fit the tightlaced life I chose for myself. Challenges me to speak up when the mums at coffee insist their daughters thinking babies come from eating apple seeds is ok or that you shouldn’t ask your child’s consent to a cuddle because it’s your right to just take one (or insist grandad has one).

We can’t really be seen in the same places. I have one of those jobs where people think your sexual morals should be debatable in the court of public opinion and raising the children turned out to be far harder than I could ever have dreamt. Alethea meets it all head on in a lace dress and a collar Mr Hunt made, so their place in our lives was obvious to observers. If my social worker met Allie, it could bring down a shitstorm of hell I’m not ready for, because Allie isn’t the type of person social workers are good at understanding. I can’t introduce her to my minister at church either, even though their on good terms with God and has more than a few things to say about biblically literal theology they’d like to air. My psychologist however, she really likes Allie and thinks they’re good for me and Mr Hunt and in fact for the children, because someone needs to  know how to have fun. They have coffee with my mum and dad and they think they’re unusual, but if meeting her keeps me happy, they can cope with that. Mum and Dad will never get used to their preference for a gender neutral pronoun though, so it’s a good job Allie still answers to she/her and has a lot of patience.

Allie is my friend. Keeps me sane when the world is full of unsolveable tedious knots of problems. Has a million ideas for spicing up our sex life. Writes pretty hot porn and takes a decent photo when pushed. They slow down every second of an encounter and makes me consider it with wonder.

When they were born, fully formed like Venus rising from the sea, Alethea changed my life, very much for the better. I’m still a frumpy mum, with too much work to do, messy kids and an adventurous palate. And I can be that, because Alethea exists, and not drown in it.

Allie writes truth disguised as fiction, and fiction disguised as truth.

Gives me a place to hide and a place where people can truly see me.

The Little Blue Dress

Monday night is rapidly becoming rope night and I am really appreciating the kick up the backside to get playing.

I love the rhythmic feeling as I am shaped by each pass of the rope. Just discarding my work clothes and putting on a little something for under the rope felt decadent.

Here I am, all dressed up and only one place to go.


Kiss the lips to see who else is being Sinful this week

I had ideas…lots of ideas for this week, but nothing has panned out. Mainly because there have been children everywhere I wanted to take pictures whenever I wanted to take them, or screaming over the wii controller when I tried to get a few minutes in my bedroom.

But then again, I had indulged with the camera a little this week for #TiemeupTuesday and #Kinkoftheweek, so there were pictures left in my phone to reassess.

So I offer you my unedited heated up leftovers.


Kiss the lips to find others exploring kink with lace this week

Dressing myself, while I love sheer materials, lace is not a favorite among them.  Lace to me is about a type of femininity I don’t possess, something soft and subtle and tactile. The patterns are small and delicate and on my bigger body I just feel like they don’t seem to balance. I have never been able to wear frills and ruffles in a way I felt suited me or felt comfortable, so many years ago I gave up trying.

When I came to write this piece I had very little to go on. There was a lace dress in my wardrobe, but it is possibly one of the most matronly things I own…

For as long as I can remember, I have been aware that guys in eyeliner were hot. As I grew up, although I am slightly too young for the whole new romantic vibe to be “my” music, that is definitely the start of my appreciation of things that don’t conform to conservative gender presentations.

I read voraciously, more like other people seem to watch tv. And like how we watch tv, some is serious documentary style stuff, but the majority if fluffy (if well written) pleasure. One set of books I have enjoyed over recent months is the Leashes and Lace series by Shaw Montgomery.

I decided this prompt was a good excuse for an experiment. Leashes and Lace are M/M romances that are bubblegum bright, based around a male lingerie company. The idea intrigues me. Not necessarily the old cliché of the businessman wearing his wife’s undies exactly but I do apparently love men in lace lingerie.

The lovely Mr Hunt was patient with me as always, and we decided on a trade off.

Lacy boxers for him and something he wanted to see me in, however I felt it was unlikely I would feel comfortable in, for me.

Him first.

He swaggers in to the living room, with a happy little smile which wasn’t entirely from getting the kids to bed, and starts to unbuckle his belt. Black lace shorts peak through the fly.

They invite touch. To press them against his skin and catch more of a peek at the skin beneath. And they are soft. Much softer than I expected, letting through more of the warmth of his flesh.

I had forgotten how nice it could be to kiss someone through lace. That added texture brought back memories of very different bodies and very different times. Despite the memories, the physicality of exploring the new sensations with him made me very aware of each tiny point of our contact. He loved the feeling of my breath through the fabric, the almost touch of my mouth against the lace.

I loved the visual. I loved the newness.

I loved being able to see everything happening beneath the fabric.

Then it was my turn.

The first thing I learnt was next time I want to wear lace, I need to change out my nipple jewelry for something less likely to snag in the fabric.

It was hard to feel attractive in something I’d told myself didn’t suit me. Hundreds of photos later, I still wasn’t convinced. There was nowhere to hide, no structure to hold me in place.

The answer to this was to not rely on my own perception of my body. I was never going to defeat the feeling that I looked as attractive as a pound of lard in a string bag. I handed the camera over.

He told me he like the tease of knowing what was beneath the fabric. The contrast between the paleness of my skin and the black. The softness adding texture under his fingers and his mouth.

I prefer to see myself through his eyes.

Is lace our new kink? Probably not… but it was very interesting to explore something new that kept us both focused on each other rather than stressed by the world.

And yes… I still like men in lace, including my own lovely Mr Hunt.

A little tied up at the office…

Today has been a very long work day.

As my children had finished their evening activities on Zoom, I took a crafty five minutes to check nsfw twitter and saw a beautiful picture by the beautiful @deviantsuccubus and off I went down the rabbit hole of want.

We’ve not really played around to get photos in a while. It’s been busy and we’ve had no babysitters available, but tonight…

The sound of a fresh coil of rope being unbound. The kinks worked out, so it would be smooth to work. The slight sway of being pulled as the lovely Mr Hunt dragged length after length through each pass.

Fuck me, I needed that.

And then it seemed like a good idea to take it for a spin…


Little by little…

Trusting the rope… and my rigger

God, I love having anchoring points lurking in the garden…masquerading as fixings for the washing line or hanging baskets…

Midnight at the Oasis

Go see who is being Sinful this Sunday

Finding space to relax is hard at the moment, with the children home all the time and very thin walls. Don’t get me wrong, I love being made to be quiet, but being quiet because we have to be just doesn’t have the same appeal.

Running round naked in the garden after dark though… very much up my street! The spa is my favourite place to be, naked with Mr Hunt, relaxing under the beautiful bats, stars and satellites.


For much of the last few weeks I have been strangely content. Many of the usual stress factors of my ‘normal’ life are gone and I am great at rationalizing and portioning ‘worries’ into bite sized morsels I barely notice. I am content with my own company, like my family and have sufficient resources for this not to be an uncomfortable period.

This is not why I’m calm. And because of that this strange contentment is…strange.

I have had years of tutorials on dealing with stress, because for a long time it was felt my anxiety and the cyclical burnouts I suffered from were stress related. Well, felt by anyone who was not me. I would carefully journal my life, highlight stressors and rate my feelings and get absolutely nowhere. Would track my monthly hormonal cycle and see that regardless of where stressors fell, my own internal chemistry was far more important to my anxiety levels than anything else. It is only relatively recently I discovered this was not just my imagination, but most likely PME – a condition where normal premenstrual symptoms gang up with other anxiety disorders to create a magnification of anxiety and depression.

I meander… Because of both my reported anxiety and the stressful nature of my life, agencies queued up to give mental health support through sessions on mindfulness, of being aware of your own cyclical thinking and of identifying unhelpful thought processes. I was sent to sessions where we stared at crystals, recited mantras highlighting our self-worth or lay in a dark room on cushions listening to stories to help visualise our strengths. This is cheaper and (less cynically) more effective than letting a parent/carer go to the wall and trying to tidy up the mess.

At the time, this felt pointless as it didn’t lessen my symptoms, but in actual moments of high stress I have a bounty of techniques I can turn to and recommend. But I don’t lean on them completely. When actual real-life stressors need a response, an internal crisis management system takes over and supercharges me.

In normal circumstances, when I am tuned in to my own body, I can be pushed into panic attacks by sensory over-stimulation. Simple things like walking round the supermarket can throw me into proper chemical fight, flight or freeze. Mainly these things are down to my autism and how I receive sensory information. A telephone call that I wasn’t expecting can make me throw up or faint. This is probably a result of cPTSD. Either way, being self-aware and emotionally literate but regularly unable to regulate my reactions is incredibly frustrating.

But in a crisis, if my brain were staring in ‘Inside Out’, a new character would enter the normal fray, kick all the usual gibbering characters into storage and take over. This character is completely steady handed and can defuse a bomb even when all the wires are the same colour. They can cook a meal for 20, while organising them into teams to get on with whatever else this crisis requires. They have a stiff upper lip and a can do attitude. Whether you need instruction or simply someone to get on with something, when this guy is in charge, I’m your person.

It is a type of functional disassociation. In the short term, having no connection to my emotions is really useful. Nothing can touch me. It’s like I become a pre-destined character in a story. Energy levels soar. The things that trouble me on a day to day basis are swept away by the super-solider version of me. I am, in many ways, the perfect team player in a crisis. It’s a pity this isn’t a real and is unsustainable for any real length of time.  This lockdown is not the longest I’ve gone in super-solider mode, but it is longer than I can really cope with.

It was mid-January, this little soldier popped his head onto the bridge, gave a few orders and started a watching brief. The steady hand running the ship, but with an eye to the disaster appearing over the horizon. The epitome of “Keep calm and carry on” insomuch as that seemed to be the correct advice at the time. Nothing to panic about. We locked my parents down and checked the apocalypse freezer was stocked. I am the British middle class equivalent of a prepper, brought up by parents born in world war two and so used to rationing, storing and planning that this was an automatic reaction. While politicians were still prevaricating, my children had been prepared for uncertainty with a number of potential scenarios, food rationing began and notes went into school with contact details for friends to use if schools were closed.

Bear in mind, if my Christmas present shopping is not pretty much complete by late October, panic kicks in.

Some of this is down to how I manage a condition that is part of my autism, called pathological demand avoidance (PDA) of which I have a relatively mild version. I might disparage the myriad of courses I was sent on, but learning to understand how autism affects me has been really important in letting me emerge from the complete mess I was at 21 years old and turn into a relatively functional person. To avoid the demands which trigger, I plan ahead, constantly and without fail. “To fail to plan is to plan to fail”, could have written for a PDA affected person. I cannot handle deadlines, so I plan around them by moving them forward so much that there is no demand for them to be completed. That is a very calm and adult way of saying if I don’t structure things so I am in control, I would just sit in a chair and scream and nothing would get done. Ever.

So, for most of this period, I have been content. I am living out the planning and preparation made weeks ago and forecasting this situation to go on until September at least. I don’t miss other people and whilst the telephone is a nightmare, I can join video calls much more successfully, as seeing people gives me more communication cues and therefor less panic. The children follow our lead, are calm and in a new timetable, but one that is less demanding in many ways than normal life, so they are happy. Our family life is stable and productive. The lovely Mr Hunt is just as busy as ever saving the world from a computer desk in our home office, from which he has worked for seven years. I am however working a very different pattern, 30 hours a week of direct special needs teaching to a class of five students, but this is very fulfilling on a professional level.

This, though, is a brittle situation.

Even with everything as calm and as planned as it can be, in effect, my perfect world situation, I can feel the build of something. The tiny brain characters my own sweet inbuilt martinet forced into the cupboard in my brain, are staging an escape. They know I can’t keep this up. I can’t do my sort of normal and manage 30 hours of teaching a week. It pushes me to breakdown. In normal circumstances I top out at 25 hours one week a month.

Lurking, I can feel a desperate sense of exhaustion. A sort of rational panic without the physical reactions. The warning signs that tanks are coming closer to empty than is wise. I just need some emotional recharging, but the super solider doesn’t acknowledge emotions. I desperately want to cry, and I can’t remember how. Watch the concerns of others across my social media and want to feel something. Anything. A ghost of the real me is sick and tired of being cool and in control. I don’t want to be stuck here where nothing feels connected to humanity.

This is when I long to submit, the safest way of vanquishing the tyrant energy vampire in my head. But there is no time or place.  

The children are home all the time we are. There is no Thursday morning rope play session on our calendar anytime soon. No spanking, where the only sounds in the otherwise silent house are the crisp slap of palm on my skin and the hitching breaths I try to control. There is no crying. No kneeling. No relief from being in fucking control.

To submit is like drowning and breathing at the same time. Like having a dislocated joint reset. The moments where I am not in control are the moments that give me the power to be in control. The pressure release valves that keep the engines moving steadily or provide regulation when I am struggling. When I fly, I can recharge.

I need space to be set free before I crash and burn.

I need to find my exit strategy.

No opportunities to be wicked this week? You can always be wicked in your head!