It’s been a few days since my last post again, my apologies. I was starting to recover from the cold, then Thursday I was violently ill after a regular Yo! Sushi order – that normally sits just fine with me – absolutely did not. 

I’m able to hold down small, light meals now, but I still have very little appetite. Even firm favourites, like bolognese and tiramisu (not together, obviously, that would be gross) cease to maintain my interest after a few bites. 

The Rennie Deflatine was an absolute gamechanger when the painful bloating started, and a huge thank you to Rennie for making them. Not to be taken if you hope to maintain polite company in the next 24 – 48 hours though, and don’t want to sound like a human whoopee cushion. 

I have pulled a muscle in my side too, during my “violently ill” phase – it’s the price you pay for trying not to redecorate the place. It is healing slowly, Sunday was the worst day.

Prior to my worst decision so far this month I did have a catch up with Mum, who popped up for a cup of tea (and because she knew I still wasn’t completely over the cold). 

Mum is well – we talked physios and physiotherapy again. I recalled “the Tormentors” – the Physiotherapy Team from the Pain Management Unit in Bath, and my mean-but-lovely Occupational Therapist, Becky, who I used to see to help me overcome the limitations of living with causalgia in my wrist. Mum fondly recalls the physio from my youth, Karen. 

I don’t remember a whole lot about Karen, but I do remember that I loved her. She was always kind and engaging with me, and I always used to look forward to my appointments with her. 

“She was one of the ones who suspected something was up as soon as she saw you” Mum says.

I pause, midway through making our teas, and look at Mum quizzically. 

“How so?”

“She thought you had Floppy Baby Syndrome, or muscle myotonia. She was also one of the ones who thought you might be autistic.”

Autism. It’s a trigger word for me. I just… don’t see what they saw.

Well, no time like the present to find out. 

“What was it exactly that made some people think I was autistic?” I ask. 

“You were too mature for your age, and you preferred adult company to your peers. You were never a joiner either, you also used to fixate on things. Random things. Objects, not toys.”

“For example,” Mum continues, “you used to put a piece of broccoli on a fork, and you would get so fascinated by it instead of just… eating it. (Brother) said he tried fixating on it once after seeing you do it and he didn’t see the fascination. He just saw… vegetables on a fork!”. I burst out laughing. 

“He lacks creativity! He lacks the vigour!” I declare.

Things continue to go well between Valkyries and I, and we have formally swapped our first “I love you’s”. Sir is right; it was completely natural. We both felt it, so we said it.

I have been thinking more as well, about the “other” side of us. Right now I have Master Levi and Mister Valkyries, and that works fine, but it’s kind of a bitch to type. Valkyries has also once hinted at a “Master Valkyries” in my life, and I called him up on it, but that important conversation then got derailed by other things. 

I know that for some people, “Master” implies a sort of absolutism – you are Mastered, you become property, and you obey your Master without question. In my dynamics I’m not punished for asking questions, but I am still expected to trust.

One of those questions I had right now was for myself: if I’m against a “Master Valkyries” in my life, why am I against it? 

Honestly? I didn’t have an answer. 

Valkyries takes care of me in all of the ways that I would want to be taken care of: he respects me, supports me, cherishes me, encourages me. For him, and like it is for Master Levi, ownership of me is not really about owning me: it is about caring for me, and receiving my submissive devotion in return.

Honestly? I’d be honoured to call him my Master. One of two.

We did have a lovely non-sexual roleplay the other day too, (almost) as good as it gets right now. That’s not to say sex stuff doesn’t happen between us – it does – but that it’s not at the heart of everything we do. Some of our scenes are about the cornerstones of our relationship: desire, connection and trust. 

We have found our way with our humour too, and misunderstandings just aren’t something that happen so often now. I can be riskier with him: when I say “you’ll do”, Valkyries knows that’s shorthand for “you’re a pain in my ass but I bloody love you”. Even if we’re technically Dom/sub, we don’t seem Dom/sub – Valkyries (nor Master Levi, for that) feel the need to constantly remind me who they are for me to know exactly who I am. We’re more like lovers, until we’re not. 

Also, I did say the other day that I have a cute song –”I Can’t Help Myself (Sugar Pie Honey Bunch)” from Strange Magic (originally by The Four Tops) – deployable and ready to go if my Sirs want to wind me up. Bbecause I know nothing irritates a big, bad teddy bear primal Dom more than cloying sweetness.

“You know I will too” I grin at Master Levi. 

There has been one other development. A “raspberry ripple” development, if you will. 

As my relationship with Valkyries progresses, I wanted to understand how Master Levi would feel about me spending some nights away from home, particularly if there was a possibility of me having extramarital sex while I was gone. It wasn’t a definite plan – it wasn’t something I was going to do, regardless of his feelings – but I wanted to understand how he might feel if that happened from time to time. 

Master is immediately on the defensive, which feels a little unfair given I hadn’t said anything was destined to happen, but nonetheless I understand it. He points out that we hardly know Valkyries yet, asks what he’d do while I’m “elsewhere”. I point to the nights when he goes to gigs with his best friend, and I’m the one who gets to stay home alone. 

He says that’s not the same thing, which I understand, but it does irritate me how society ranks “clubbing and drinking” as “normal” adult behaviour, and “engaging in ethical non-monogamy” as not. Even if that ethical non-monogamy doesn’t necessarily involve sex, people automatically assume that it does. 

“You’re my wife” he says with a half-laugh, as though the idea is simply too preposterous for him to comprehend. That irritates me too: nothing about my agreeing to marry him stipulated any agreement to his possession of me. I certainly don’t believe I own him, and he too would hate it if I did. 

“What about if the first time was a threesome?” I ask, trying to find any way to break the deadlock. 

“… that could work” comes the reply.