No Fighting
January 17th, 2013
They led her, one on each side, down the dock. It was humiliating, but it was nothing compared to what would come next. She’d been caught trying to pick a fight again and he was not going to be happy. She could feel him watching her, those piercing eyes boring into the top of her skull. She kept her head down all the way there, even when they stopped and she felt him land in front of her, having lept off his perch.
”What now?” he asked her guards.
”Your girl’s picking fights again. Two this time, tried to get one of them to be a lookout.”
He flipped a quarter to each of them. “Tell them thank you, and she’ll be around to apologize later.”
They nodded and left her there.
”Look at me Krys.” His voice was hard as stone.
She lifted her eyes to his, and could not help but take a step back at the anger shining there.
”What do you think you’re doing? You know they aren’t allowed to fight you.”
She dropped her eyes, and he slapped her, just hard enough to bring her attention back to him, and loosen her tongue.
”They think I’m weak, sir. They don’t respect me. I’m just your girl, not one of them.”
”And this is how you think to earn their respect? By getting them in trouble with me? By tempting them to disobey direct orders? Did you ever think that it’s only making them think less of you? Keeping you apart from them?”
She stared at him, he was right, of course he was.
”You want to fight someone, you fight me.” He stepped in close, so that they were nose to nose. “Do you want to fight with me?”
”No, sir.”
”Then, knock it off, because next time, you won’t have a choice.”
”Yes, sir.”
He pointed to a nearby crate that was about waist high, and she went over to it, her face flushing with embarrassment. She bent over, putting her palms on the top of the crate and spreading her feet to brace herself. He joined her, putting his left hand on the small of her back and hefting his walking stick in the other.
Crack.
”One.”
Crack.
”Two.”
Crack.
”Three.”
By five, there were tears, by ten she could barely get the numbers out, by fifteen she was wet, and by twenty she was fighting back moans. He grabbed her hair and pulled her back upright, then marched her away, his grip on her hair keeping her fully aroused.
”You will apologize to those two, when we’re done.” he whispered in her ear.
”Yes, sir.”
He led her off to the warehouse loft where they always went after he punished her publicly, or to punish her privately. Today had required a public scene, but it didn’t always. When they arrived he released her.
”Pants off, hands and knees.” He said to her, voice softer now, hungry.
”Yes, sir.” She stripped off her pants and got down on all fours.
He knelt down beside her, stroking her bruised ass.
”Why do you do these things? You know I hate to embarrass you like that.”
”I’m sorry, sir.” she shivered at his gentle strokes.
”Promise me you won’t do that again?”
”Yes, sir, I promise.”
”Good, girl.” He smacked her bare ass with his hand. “Very good, girl.” He smacked her ass again.
”Thank you, sir.” she gasped.
He spanked her bare, bruised ass, while she moaned. Bringing them both back to full arousal after the scolding. Squeezing and spanking her tender ass, while she arched and and groaned. He dipped his fingers lower, finding her dripping wet.
”Do you want me?” he breathed
”Yes, sir, oh yes, sir.”
”Show me.” he said, dropping his pants and turning her to face him.
She took him in her mouth, sucking hungrily while he continued to smack her ass. He shoved himself deeper into her mouth, and she accepted him eagerly. His hand in her hair guiding her as he wished. Then he pulled her away and spun her around again, sliding in to fuck her.
”Oh, thank you sir.” she groaned.
”Such a good girl.” he moaned as they fell together on the floor.
Day Six – Weirdest Fantasy
January 6th, 2011
Describe your weirdest/most interesting sexual fantasy.
I had a lot of trouble with the words “weird” and “most interesting” while considering this question. Thought about a variety of angles and scenes and potential fantasies. Discarded some for not being all that weird after all. Discarded others for having been written about before. Wondered what would be “most” interesting of all the thoughts in my head. Then I remembered my Monday post. It seems these first few are building on each other.
My best friends and I used to look at each other randomly and pose the question “Jack or Spot?” In fact, a few weeks back, I got that in a text from one of them for no apparent reason. My answer was always Spot. Spot Conlon, head of the Brooklyn newsies, in Disney’s live action musical about the newsboys strike of 1899. Shorter than Jack, more wiry, but tougher and more feared than any other newsie in the city. And those eyes, clear and sharp.
So, my weirdest fantasy that still persists to this day? Being Spot Conlon’s girlfriend come submissive. I didn’t know the latter term when I was young, but all the fantasies hinted at that type of interaction. A look from him and I would immediately still, unable to move under his gaze. A pointed finger and I would stand where he directed. Any order, I would immediately follow. If I did something wrong, he’d put me over his knee right there on the docks in front of everyone. Spanking me by hand, with a belt or with his cane until I sobbed. As I grew up, the fantasies turned more sexual. He’d take me off the dock, to a private room in the back of a warehouse to put me over his knee, so he could toss me down and fuck me afterward. Even then, we tended to have an audience, a few newsies would follow to listen and make sure I was being punished.
Perhaps the weirdest part of the fantasy when I was younger, I’d incorporate Star Trek, the newsies either being a holodeck program, or a favor from Q, taking me back in time.
Day One – Define Your Kinky Self
January 1st, 2011
To start the New Year, I am going to attempt the meme: 30 Days of Kink. This is Day One, that I wrote as a guest post for Insatiable Desire.
Dom, sub, switch? What parts of BDSM interest you? Give us an interesting in-depth definition of what that means to you. Basically define your kinky self for us.
The first question seems simple. The second question leaves things far more wide open. The third asks for specifics. And the last oversimplifies the whole thing. Defining oneself is an ongoing process made up of all the other questions. So, one at a time, shall we?
Dom, sub, switch? Sub. I am a submissive in my kinky journey. I am submissive to my partners to varying degrees. I relish giving control to those I love and trust. I have no desire to be dominant. I have no desire to take control in a kinky setting. I do provide service topping for electric scenes, but even then, I am in the role of pleasing the person I am working on, providing for what they want.
What parts of BDSM interest you? Well, let’s break down that acornym. Bondage – yes. I enjoy bondage in rope, leather, chains, canvas, plastic, tape, and mental bondage. Discipline – yes. I enjoy having rules and penalties for breaking said rules. Dominance – yes. Submission – yes. As I said, I am submissive and enjoy giving control up to the dominants in my life. Sadism – yes. Masochism – yes. I am a masochist, and enjoy the sadistic tendencies of my partners. So, all parts of BDSM interest me in the very narrow definition of each of those letters, but let’s move on to more specifics.
Give us an interesting in depth definition of what that means to you. BDSM, to me, means exploration. It means pushing and learning and sharing and teaching. It means spending hours in ropes and straitjackets. It means nipple clamps and clothes pins. It means floggers and paddles and canes and drumsticks. It means blindfolds and hoods and collars and shackles. It means knives and needles and sparklers and snakes. It means single tails and dragon tails and stun guns and violet wands. It means giving up control of my body and my mind. It means kneeling for half an hour every day. It means standing back up after every strike that knocks me to my knees. It means relaxing in a cocoon of duct tape and saran wrap. It means pinches and smacks and slaps and bites and punches and kicks. It means cuts and bruises and scabs and scars. It means screams and tears and squeaks and laughter. It means massages and boot blacking and taking care of his gear. It means love and joy and connection. It means experiences so wonderful, awesome and intense that there are not enough words to express them. And it means trying anyway, because it is too important not to share.
Basically define your kinky self for us. I am kinky, submissive, polyamorous, a pain slut, a rope slut, a slave, a brat, a smart-assed masochist, a bottom, a service top and a service submissive.
One Year Ago
May 27th, 2010
Last week’s post marked one year exactly, of this blog being published. It also was the first post directly posted here.
A lot has happened in a year, and I am working on pulling all my blog entries, journal entries, emails, chats, and random ramblings together into one work. I have come a long way, and there is a long way yet to go. I have grown and learned and done so much more than I ever thought I would even have the opportunity, courage or ability to try.
Last night, I asked him to flog me. I wanted some stress relief from the week to purge and prepare me for the convention we are attending this weekend. He started with the thin tailed rubber flogs, moved on to a dragon tail, Uncle, a quirt, slapping, smacking, punching, drumming, caning, an electric flyswatter and a taser. He took me into object space and attacked me mentally as well. I was in tears nearly the entire scene. It was wonderful and painful and incredible and brutal. When he was done, when he had broken me down to the single thought of “maintain the position,” he picked me up and carried me to the bed. He took care of me with a blanket and two women to stroke me. He left me in object space for a while, before he asked for his girlfriend back, and I served and took care of our things. Afterward, we talked about the scene on the drive home.
One year ago, I would not have taken half the beating, and probably none of the electricity. One year ago, I would be a tired, worn out, droppy mess today. But as I write this, I am about to head to a hotel for a weekend long convention and I am feeling great. One year ago, I would not have been able to talk about the scene so quickly nor say I would have been happy staying in object space had he so chosen to leave me there. One year ago, I was in a very different place in my journey, and I am grateful to everyone who has helped me get to where I am now. Thank you, Husband and Master. Thank you, Lover and Top. Thank you, Boyfriend and Dominant. Thank you, friends and family.
What Turns You On?
April 15th, 2010
I often think of this question in terms of the physical. What can he DO to turn me on? This is often the easy answer, the safe answer. It involves the surface of my being. Often it involves involuntary physical reactions. Kissing, licking, sucking, touching, groping – these things are meant to turn us on. Spanking, pinching, biting, paddling, caning, whipping, squeezing, grabbing, holding, restraining – these things turn on a masochist, it is no secret.
But what about mentally,what about my fantasies, what do I think about to get turned on? This is more risky territory. These are things that aren’t straight forward, are more vulnerable and personal. Not that I think my fantasies are unique to me, if you can imagine it, you can find it on the internet, after all. But to offer my thoughts and my mind has always been riskier than offering my body. The hurt when my thoughts are rejected is far higher than when my physical desires are rejected.
So, what are my fantasies? What are my daydreams? What do I think about to get turned on?
School girl. Kidnap victim. Slave girl. Are my top three.
1)School girl. Typical short skirt, white panties, button up top. It always involves getting in trouble and being made to bend over a desk for a spanking or paddling. It then generally devolves into sex on the desk. Sometimes it begins by being caught having sex on school grounds. Sometimes it involves bad grades or incomplete assignments, and trying to trade favors for good grades.
2)Kidnap victim. Blindfold, duct tape, handcuffs, rope, being driven off in the back of a van. Stripped naked, threat of violence for noncompliance. Photos or video taken as blackmail. Forced to pose or perform sexual acts seemingly willingly for the camera.
3)Slave girl. Collar, shackles, little else. Taught to please and serve. Often involves being raised specifically for this purpose and and may start with meeting the one I was raised to serve, or being shown and tested to find a buyer. Occasionally, involves being taken prisoner and forced into slavery for a more rebellious and discipline oriented fantasy.
So, what turns you on?
Reconnected
February 11th, 2010
Do you want to do flogging or rope tonight?
Sure, get me the rope.
How much?
4, 8mm.
30s?
Yes.
Did you stretch?
No…and I stretch while he explains to her why.
Arms behind my back for a box tie. He wraps bands around my chest as well, a suspension-worthy box tie. Two lengths of 30′ and I could still eel out if I wanted to.
Do I feel screwed yet? No, I still have my feet.
He grabs the third. This one really constricts my movement, my arms cannot separate at all now, they move as a unit.
I still have my feet, but I know I’m screwed.
Up on the bed, legs crossed, he ties my ankles together, having to use a 30′ instead of a 15′ to make it sustainable, as the rope loops up around my neck. He wraps the rope between ankles and neck, tying it off to keep it from sliding. I have a wrapped handle on front and back and I’m proper fucked now.
He rolls me around, teasing, caning, Uncle. Writhing and squealing, gasping, trying to catch his eye through my legs, too close to the edge of the bed to protest too much.
He lets me breathe, then tests my trust. Balanced on the edge he lets me fall little bits, I shriek and he catches me, every time. I look into his eyes, the joy is there, the love is plain.
Time to test the new head box. He lifts me to the floor, setting me on the cold cement. The heavy box comes down, cutting me off. I am gasping, afraid Uncle will return. A stray comment and he is back, pulling my bra down and clamping my nipples. He pulls on the chain, pinches my thighs. I thrash and scream and he giggles. The box needs more padding, the hole is too big, I keep hitting my teeth on the edge. But it does a good job of isolation.
The box comes off, we give him feedback, he thanks us for trying it out.
Nipple clamps become a lead, he drags me across the floor, scooting and yelping. The right one keeps coming off, squeals when he puts it back on. Over to another chain, hooking them up above my head, I have to balance to keep from pulling them harshly. A bamboo cane now, ass and thighs, I roll and yelp and breathe with the strikes. He hits my breast and I squeal, my clamped nipple brings a scream as I find his eyes and his joy brings me solace.
My hips ache and he lets me down, having to reattached the pesky right one, yet again. Whimpering yelp. Rolling onto my back, pillow provided, the cane goes for the tender bits and thighs and ass. Then up to sitting again, he takes the clamps off, gasping and leaning against him. A moment’s reprieve.
The cane returns, I move wrong, blocking in a moment of weakness. He grabs my septum and scolds me, I cringe and grovel and force stillness as he returns to it harshly. I thrash, but keep his target clear.
If I feel teeth you’ll regret it.
I would never. My mouth is open with the pain, it will not close on flesh. Pain space is coming now, screams dwindle into heavy breathing. He moves around the body, I sink into it, and he lets me. Closing my eyes with a hand, he leaves me to drop into space.
The rope, holding me, cradling me, keeping me safe and leaving me vulnerable. My hands have shifted, but they still are held fast. My arms cannot move, but there is no pain. Circulation is complete, the problems easily solved. My neck begins to grow weary, I bring up a knee to rest it on. Not for long, I like the pull of the rope. The handle at my throat is not too close and pulls evenly.
I sink deep into the rope. I can hear the other scene, but I don’t care. I am here. I am happy. I am in His rope again. His hemp digging into my skin. Keeping me just how he wants me. Held in position, easily moved and open access to everything. A prisoner tie, and perfect.
He returned and freed my neck and ankles, ordered me to kneel, knees spread wide. He smacked my inner thighs, bright red hand prints. Pinching the bruises and putting me back into pain space.
Can I put needles in you?
I did not say no.
May I put needles in you?
Not tonight.
Yes or no.
I waffle, because my brain isn’t screaming no, and he wants to, and she has them, but I don’t think I’m ready yet. It’s been a big scene and I don’t know that I want to add that on top of it.
Yes or no.
No.
Was that hard?
Yes, my brain was arguing with itself.
My feet hurt from the pressure of kneeling. He pulls me up and begins untying.
The feel of the rope, shivers through my body. Murmuring, spacing. He drags it across my nipples and I whimper. Pure rope pleasure. One. Two. Three. So good to me.
The rope is off, we hug, just sharing the floating energy. The ropes are waiting, I sit with them, run them through my fingers, coil them and put them away.
Practice is over, everyone is gone. We sit for a few moments, reflecting.
Rope marks and bruises. Joy and love. We needed this. Reconnected.