Changing red tides

Cautionary note to reader: If you are repulsed or culturally offended by frank discussion concerning normal female biology, including menstruation, this is not the column for you.

I read Sassy's blog today about her experiences with her Dominant unlocking the doors to her mind, specifically her sexuality. It lead me to think about the ways my boyfriend has changed my view of myself and yes, my sexuality.

For the record, this is not the first D/s flavoured relationship I've been in, although as I grow in this one, I tend to characterize the last one less as a D/s relationship and more as just abusive. The thing that has set this one apart from any other relationship I've been in is how it's expanded me. Where other men have worked hard to make me less than what I was, or just didn't care, Michael (pseudonym alert) is interested in opening me up. This isn't always an easy process because it bounces up against a few basic principles I like to think most of us subscribe to: consent and respect for limits. When is a Dom pushing too hard, when is he violating a limit, when has he transgressed past consensual? When is he leading me past the limitations of my own beliefs and when does he know that my refusals are negotiable, even if I don't know that they are myself? If I can ever get Michael past the nastiness of our former blogging home, he might volunteer some thoughts on this matter. Until then, you're stuck with me.

While my parents are neither prudish nor conservative in any sense, I was raised in a very proper and some would say formal home. My father is a wonderful and generous man who will discuss almost anything at the drop of the hat but there were some topics that were simply Mother's bailiwick. Chief among those topics were everything to do with menstruation and contraception.

Menarche, for me, was awful. I suffered wickedly from 'cramps'. I felt dirty. My body didn't feel right. I was bloated and my clothes didn't fit properly. I was moody and depressed by days. And then the flow…that was the worst. The ick factor of this junk coming out of me. The constant fear that something would leak and overflow. The dirtied sheets. The soiled panties.

And then there was the pain. I didn't just have menstrual cramps. I had three days a month of living hell. I would hurt to the point of nausea. My belly hurt, my back hurt, my legs hurt. Twice in high school, I had to call my mother to come get me from school because I couldn't continue. The pills the doctor gave me helped but not enough.

Of course, time is often the cure for these things. As I've grown older, my monthly cycle has either eased up or I've just become accustomed to it. It's not an every month hell fest anymore. I have just an occasional reminder every three or four months of just how nasty this all can be. I hadn't realized how much I had absorbed a belief of "menstruation as taboo" until I moved in with Michael. He came home from golfing one afternoon this summer to find me on top the bed with a hot water bottle, curled tightly into the fetal position, suffering like a dog. I felt nauseous and dizzy and oh my God, I hurt. The spasms were relentless.

"You okay?" he asked as he came into the darkened bedroom.

"Cramps." I grunted in reply.

"Oh, babe…" I could sense his sympathy as he slid onto the bed behind me, rubbing my arm and shoulder. "Anything I can do to help?" He did help, actually. Rubbing my shoulders and my hip, stroking my hair, helped me release some of the tension that had moved into the rest of my body. Mostly, it just felt good lying in bed, resting, with his arm over me. My breathing smoothed out a bit and while I still hurt like hell, the blind panicky nature of my body's assault on me had subsided.

He kissed the back of my shoulder. "I heard that hot, wild, orgasmic sex is good for them."

My entire body stiffened immediately. "Don't even go there. That's disgusting. I'm completely gross right now."

"Hmmmmmmmmmm" was the reply from behind me in that tone that tells me this discussion is far from over. His hand slid up under my blouse, fingers stroking the oh so sensitive underside of my breast.

"I don't want to. No." I complained as he rolled me onto my back. He knelt over me, knees on either side of my hips, undoing the buttons on my blouse, exposing me. Even through the fog of the pain, I could feel myself responding in those old familiar ways.

"No, what? No, you don't want me to touch you? No, you don't want to be bothered? No, you hurt too much? No, you're refusing me? Which is it, doll?"

I couldn't answer him. My mind was stuck at "it's gross, I'm disgusting right now". My body was the enemy right now. I hated it. I hated its filthy bloated nature.

His touches were both gentle and firm. The sensitivity of my little breasts was … exquisite. He pulled his shirt off over his head and as I looked up at him, I could see his hardness against the zipper of his jeans.

Now, I've always been a very good girl and I'm all for looking after my man when Mother Nature inconveniences me. I firmly believe that is why the finer art of the blow job was invented in the first place and that's what I offered.

"Not what I'm interested in today." He pulled my shorts and panties off roughly and I could feel my ass against the roughness of the towel I had on the bed to protect it in case of 'an accident'. He pushed my knees apart and I felt embarrassed, humiliated that he could see me in less than perfect condition.

"Let me go shower first." I pleaded.

"You showered this morning. I want you now." He finished undressing and was on top of me. He was gentle and tender in his touches and his kisses. Stroking me, warming me, helping me over the hurdle of m own disgust in myself. I stiffened once when his fingers found my sex. I didn't want him soiling himself on my unclean state.

"Shhush shush, little one. It's only me." It didn't take long before my body surrendered to him. As I relaxed on the bed, basking in the pleasure that he brings me, I could feel him pushing inside me. It was different: slicker, smoother. He felt so good. I felt so protected and warm, comforted by the increasing urgency of his strokes. The look on his face wasn't one of disgust or repulsion. This is a man who loves me in all my states.

And, for the record, wild, orgasmic sex does ease menstrual cramps. I felt much more like my old self in a couple of hours when we awoke from the much needed nap. When we did arise from our lover's fog, and found our way to the shower, something changed for me. The shame was gone. Was he right to push past my "No's". In this case, I think he was. The results were an improvement for me. For someone who has been trapped and wounded by the false Gods of "perfection", having him embrace my "imperfections" is liberating. Could I have stopped him if I really objected and truly could not go there? I believe I could. I trust my ability to communicate non-consent to him clearly, and more so, I trust he will always respect those boundaries.

But I think that this was a boundary I needed to be pushed past. This man loves me. I am always beautiful to him. He desires me even when I'm not 'spa perfect'. It bodes well for our future. It's comforting to know he'll still find me beautiful through future body changes. We're not ready yet, but someday, I hope my body is swollen and contorted with his children. If nothing else, he has helped me feel comfortable in my woman's body, instead of pining for the 'purity' of a girl's body that has long faded into the past.

~~doll~~