My Friend the Blacksmith

February 16th, 2012

A great Valentine’s weekend. Hung out with folk at the poolhall on Friday. Got to sleep in on a Saturday. Then the big party. I had a new red dress with holes down the sides and my shiny boots. I blushed as red as my dress at first until I got used to it.

Halfway through the night, I tugged on his sleeve and asked about The Box. Can we open it? I hadn’t been drinking at all. I’d be careful. I got the box and we found a quiet room.

A while back, we learned that our friend was a blacksmith. About a year ago, he brought the blacksmith an idea. They started collaborating on the design of a metal shrew’s fiddle. Measurements were taken. Plans drawn. Pieces shaped and tested and reshaped. Hinges were built and broke and made stronger. The metal was heated, scrubbed and oiled to remove the shiny. Last month the blacksmith gave us the locking pin. Almost done. Last week the blacksmith gave me The Box: large and white, and sealed up tight. I gave it to him, but a busy week left it closed until 11pm Saturday night.

I handed him the box and he pointed to the floor. I knelt eagerly, only slightly awkward in the stretchy dress. He pulled up the tape and removed the paper-wrapped bundle. My eyes were shining as he unwrapped our new fiddle. I took the dulled pin from around my neck and pulled the string out as he removed the shiny place-holder pin from the device. I lifted my hair and he placed it around my neck. Left wrist, then right. I watched his hands as he slid the locking pin home and secured it tight. Finally.

Shrew's Fiddle

We had the toy we’d been waiting for. Heavy and secure. Fit perfectly to my neck and wrists. Not so tight on the neck as to risk panic or immediate danger. The wrists deliciously squeezed in metal wide enough not to cut off circulation. Pure joy.

He watched me get to my feet, both of us full of grins, and head back out to the party. Smiles and grins and appreciative comments followed me through the dance floor. I headed upstairs to find the blacksmith. Tripped on the troublesome step, but no harm done. Got someone to pull my dress back down when I got to the top, stretchy material likes to ride up. Found him, grinning like mad. Wow. He loved the lines of the device, and even more seeing it in use. Our photographer wanted pictures, and then placed an order for three more. They chatted about design and care while I floated. The blacksmith doesn’t like the hinges, the next one will have it done differently, but the lines. So gorgeous.

My shoulders and wrists begin to ache, I set the end on toy’s shoulder. Ah, much better. A little relief from the strain is all I need, and I’m wandering again. So happy, such lovely weight and delicious pain. But I want it to last, so I set it on shoulders and hands and bartops as needed. I’m curious at one point and find a bed to lay down in. That’s more like it, completely comfortable.

Up again and round about. Toy feeds me a chocolate rum ball, and I’m off. He finds me here and there, tugs on the end to make me gasp. Grinning at each other. Not an especially useful position for anything other than restraint itself, but very good at that. No, I can’t reach the pin with fingers or teeth. I’m good and stuck. Others ponder ways I could escape, but it would take some serious doing.

Two hours in, one in the morning. Even having it braced by someone else, my shoulders are still hurting. Time to give in. He releases me and I put it away, wrapped and boxed once more. Arms now free, I give thanks all around. To him and the blacksmith. A wonderful Valentine’s gift from them both.

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What’ve You Got To Lose?

December 1st, 2011

A journal entry from earlier this week:

The longer you’ve been around, the more you have to lose. As wife, before girlfriends exist, you have everything. All the love, time, attention, interest. Then comes girlfriend, and love multiplies, but time and attention are divided, and if you’re lucky, interest gets multiplied by the extra energy. Sometimes, though, NRE can make it feel like she gets more and you get less. It can take time to rebalance.

The cycle continues for girlfriend. You get all you can until second girlfriend arrives. Then, by the needs of reality, time and attention are further divided, love is multiplied, and interest fluctuates, hopefully ending up in the positive direction. As more partners are added, balance gets harder to maintain, and needs and wants are weighed more carefully.

One ripple causes waves throughout, and if it starts as a wave, storms can appear. Tidal pools of spiraling emotions, pulling everyone down until someone catches a life-preserver and pulls the rest back up.

So, how do you survive the divisions? By enjoying that which is multiplied. By believing the benefits outweigh the cost. By being heard, even when you don’t get everything you want. By being gracious, compassionate, compersive and by compromising. Life is a state of constant change, you have to keep up and ask for the love and support you need to do so.

 

This is relevant in two, completely opposite directions in my life right now. One, hubby is down to just me. This makes the time he has to spend with me greater, though my availability has not truly changed. It may, if needed, or as schedules naturally morph over time and situation. But he and I must find a new balance, as he will be home for time I’ve previously spent alone, and he may find a desire for more of my time than he currently has.

Two, he is up to a wife and four girlfriends, and his wife is changing to day shifts next week. For a while now, most of the time divided by him, has been time she is usually at work. Now, though, it won’t be, and I imagine she is feeling the sting sharper for the amount of time she now has available and the huge chunks of it already scheduled with us. So, we look for balance, not only of time between the five of us, but of place, to give her space in her home.

We don’t have answers for any of this, yet. But we are all committed to making it work. For the love we all share, and the community we are creating together, makes us all stronger and better, and fills our lives with incredible joy.

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Rope Scenes

July 14th, 2011

I’ve posted a lot about rope. About why I like it, what I like about it, about scenes I’ve had with it, about buying it, about learning to tie it. There have been a lot of classes on rope lately, with more coming up, especially at COPE in September. The most recent was on Eeling. And he said he learned more about me by attending than about the subject, because he and I don’t play like that. Way back when we first met, he challenged me to get out of a tie, but not since. Our scenes are about other things that escape. So, it brought to mind today, what kinds of rope scenes are there, what kinds do I enjoy, and what do I get out of the different kinds?

Suspension is one, well, two really. There are high-flying suspensions, and there are static.

High-flying suspensions I have written about a few times, describing particular scenes or the freedom in it. The care for comfort of the tie, and the attention to detail of the rigging are very important. Swinging from a point 15-20′ in the air by thin ropes tied around the body is a feeling like no other I’ve ever experienced. We compare it to a swing set of childhood, or a roller coaster ride. But it is so much more than the first, and so much more sensual than the second. It is about trust and control. Giving it all to the person tying and flying you. One mistake and bad things could happen. But when it’s done right, with care and attention. The energy, the joy, the sense of freedom, is incredible. The dizziness from spinning well worth the feeling of the spin. The rope marks can last for days, bright red lines where the ropes lay, holding you in the sky. And for me, the scene doesn’t end when I’m back on the ground. I float as he unties, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly, leaving burns with the lines. And then I sink back down to earth, surrounded by the rope, coiling it up, breathing it in. Landing mentally, only when it is all put away again.

Static suspensions share a lot of the same sensations and feelings with high-flying ones. But they tend to be more sensual for me. More about the rope touching and holding. More about the feel of him close to me, often playing with me while I’m suspended. Static lends to deeper space, less wide-eyed excitement. I sink into rope space whenever I am tied, but when left to hang in it, my mind sinks deeper into my body. Feeling everything. And floats out to him, feeling the energy and the exchange.

A similar state is achieved through floor scenes. When he ties me, not to a suspension point, but into a ball, or a hog-tie or some such, self-contained tie. These, though, have me grounded, literally, and mentally. I am not floating away, finding the freedom of being suspended. I am tied into myself, molded into the shape he wishes. I am made vulnerable in a completely different way. No longer is my life hanging by a thread, but rather, I am at his mercy. I am where and what he wants me to be. I am bound and helpless, and available for whatever he wants to do, with less safety concerns to distract. (Yes, there are always safety concerns, but not maintaining steady breathing, or a numb limb isn’t going to end a ground scene nearly as quickly as a suspension.) Floor scenes can be as simple as tying and leaving to melt, whether in a ball on the floor, or walking around with just the upper body bound. Or tying and then tormenting – whips, floggers, paddles, pinches, nipple clamps, tickling, what have you. A fully sensual and power exchange scene for me.

Coming off floor scenes, there are bed scenes. Tied down to a bed, for sex and torment. To be tied completely open and vulnerable. These have a different feel from ground scenes, for various reasons. One, obviously, if the intent is sex, is quite a bit different than the above feelings. But the other, for torment, is still different, too. Tied in a ground tie, immobilized and tormented is one thing. Often you can’t see what’s coming, or you can curl and squirm at the very least. Tied out spread eagle, unable to even pretend you can protect or defend yourself. Waiting, watching, often enduring torment that you can do nothing about. It is a similar, but uniquely delicious space. For me, there is far less sinking into the rope in these scenes. Sometimes I use pulling on the rope to process the pain, or as a focus point, but these scenes do not take me to rope space nearly as much as a ground tie.

The last type, I want to talk about is what sparked this post. Eeling. Getting out of the rope you were put in. I used to do this type of scene with the other a lot, or folks on the crew, just playing around when we were bored. See how long it took to escape a particular tie. Or tie myself up so the other could watch me escape. Or be tied up and left to escape on my own. Or one particular friend like to keep adding rope as I would untie the first few. These were interesting scenes for me. Scenes of challenge. I like challenges, challenging myself, being challenged. The ties were puzzles to be solved. And learned from. I love learning, too. I started learning suspension ties by untying them. I learned a lot about floor and bed ties by untying myself. There was discussion about what about eeling turns eels on, and about the rollercoaster that eeling scenes can be. For me – the joy of being tied, the thrill of the challenge set before me, the frustration of a difficult (or improbable to escape) tie, the thrill of getting a knot undone or getting some slack, the frustration that it did no good, continuing on to either end with the satisfaction of escaping, or the arousal of surrender. These scenes can be very tricky. The frustration can overwhelm, or the eel can cause themselves physical injury, or panic can set in (especially when combined with abandonment). But if the balance can be maintained, the frustration can be channeled and the panic controlled, and injury avoided, I enjoy these scenes very much if it is what the top is also after. I am not one to get out of any rope put on me just to see if I can. I like being in it far too much for that.

Are there any other types you enjoy? Do you have a favorite? What about the different types do you like?

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Day Thirteen – What is the Appeal?

January 13th, 2011

I’m discovering that I’ve already answered some of these questions, like today, so I’m going to link to those posts.

Explain as best you can what the appeal of kink/BDSM is to you? Why are you drawn to what you’re drawn to?

Love, Joy and Passion

It Feels Good

My 30 Days of Kink

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Service

August 12th, 2010

He asked for an evening of service.

I began to plan. What types of things could I do for him? What would he enjoy? What would be most useful? He cautioned me to not get too specific, to have a general idea, and remember that things do not always go as planned. (Sometimes it feels like they do not Ever go as planned.)

This was easier, making general plans of service. I would be visiting at his, so I took each area of the house and came up with an offer of service, depending on where he wanted to be and what he wanted to do. Lawn work and gardening for outside. Organizing and cleaning for the basement. Dishes and cooking for the kitchen. Cup holder, foot stool, foot rubber and/or story teller for the living room. Oral pleasure for the bedroom.

Not having a structured plan, but simply offers made the evening go more smoothly than it might have otherwise. Work ran long, we got together late, and he spent some time reminding me that I cannot jump over the steps right in front of me to get to ones I think he wants instead. I did, however, get to serve him. I helped him a bit in the kitchen and I rubbed his feet in the living room. Most importantly, I got to spend time with him, but it got me thinking about service and what that means to me.

In the second post I ever made, Serving Him, I talked about him labeling me a service sub, my struggle with that label, and my acceptance of it through the joy of serving him. Last November, I wrote about Service Space – the warm fuzzy happy space I am in when I am serving and giving to others. In April, I wrote about including service in my Ritual to come out of object space.

What does service mean to me now? Why do I do it? How does it make me feel? Who do I serve? When do I serve? (Yes, I wanted to see if I could get all the question words in.)

One side of my service is serving in exchange for what I have been given. I was once thanked for taking care of him, and I simply responded, he takes care of me. I serve him because I am grateful for all that he does for me, and sometimes in gratitude for a specific thing/scene he has done for me. At work, I serve our customers in exchange for being paid. At the club, I am a Service Top in exchange for the chance to learn, teach, share and be part of the crew.

On the other side, serving makes me feel useful, gives me a purpose, a goal to achieve. I enjoy doing for others, and generally put a higher priority on that than on doing for myself. I was brought up to help others, to be a caretaker. The people in my life are very important to me, and if I can make things a little easier for them, or make them a little happier, by serving, then I feel fulfilled.

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Joy in Pain

July 8th, 2010

Last night was an wonderful scene. It started out as teaching a new person about how we flog. He dragged me up from kneeling by the hair and asked if this piece of meat would do. She agreed and I was tossed up on the cross, shirt pulled up and targets drawn on my back. She had very light flogs and he had a set of heavy rubber ones. It was a good warm up, heavy hits between teaching and light swings. Hands as well as flogs. I enjoy helping teach new people, even if I don’t have the skill myself, I’ve learned to give feedback as a bottom. She went out to smoke and he took back the scene.

He used his hands, the heavy flogs, the really big deerskin flog(mmm… oh how I’ve missed that one), some slappers and paddles and a cane, the dragon tail, the stun gun and the electric fly swatter and a leather strap – on my back, my ass, my legs, my breasts, my feet, my arms, my crotch. It was a heavy scene, but not a full throttle flogging. He let me react to the hits – scream, jerk, fall, twitch – however I wanted to. He waited for me to return to position. I love that, I love holding myself on the cross, and getting back up to offer my body to him again and again.

He often came around in front of me, behind the cross to look at my face, to smile at me, and ask if I was crying yet. I was almost always smiling. He commented on it, he was not hurting me enough, I was still smiling. Where were the tears? It was such a joyous scene for me.

I was happy. I was not looking for a cathartic release, it had been a good week. I wanted to play with him, I wanted to submit to him, to give him my body for our pleasure. I did not need to be moved to tears, beaten to a pulp so I could relax. I always enjoy our scenes, find joy in our scenes. But last night it made me smile from start to finish. The kind of smiles that once drove a photographer crazy.

Even when I cried, triggered by a painful strike and continued by fear of the stun gun, it did not last very long. I was too happy and the energy was not the kind for tears. At the end, when I Sir-ed him, and said I wanted to please him by pleasuring his cock, and forgot the Sir. I was, even then, grinning and happy and full of joy and love for him.

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Turn Ons

July 1st, 2010

A short post today. It’s been a busy week and I have more things still to do.

What turns me on? I’ve posted about my fantasies. I’ve posted about my kinks. But what really turns me on? The simple things. What gets me going?

A deep kiss, full of passion.
The joy in his eyes and the smile on his lips.
A tight grip on my hair, right against the back of my head.
Light sucking and nibbling on my earlobes.
Harsh bites on my neck; inner wrists, elbows and thighs.
Hard pinching of my nipples.
Hard rubbing and sucking on my clit.
Naked bodies pressed together.
Sucking on a cock.
Open hand spanking on my bare ass.
A knife blade on my skin.
The smell of hemp and leather.
Rope holding me tight.
Pain coursing through my body.
Fear rumbling in my chest.
Giving up control, giving up completely.

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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.

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The Quiet Place

January 13th, 2010

I’ve found the quiet place. Found the calm in the storm. Found focus inside myself while my body is beaten or tied. I am not ignoring those things, rather they help me. They give me a tighter focus, bring me into my body and mind, make the rest of the world go away.

This is an interesting place for me. Usually, I go into a scene, and it takes me high in one way or another – full of energy, passion, sensation, joy. This is different. This is beyond that. Taking all that in, letting all that flow through, and going further. It’s different than when a scene takes me to submission or surrender.  This is a scene taking me to personal peace. Where stress no longer has voice or reason, but is just there and can slide away.

Granted, that is not often the goal. But it is an incredible discovery for me to know that I can get there. I am very grateful. I have not learned to meditate yet, but I’m told one can achieve a similar state.

I have, unknowingly tried to do this before, knowing instinctively what I needed, and almost getting there. But it was not until recently that I was able to let go fully enough to find the quietness and peace.

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Gifts We Return

January 6th, 2010

In retail, the Holiday season ends on December 24th, and the Return season begins on December 26th. But that’s not what I mean, I don’t mean things you get that you don’t want. Things you get two or three of that you get rid of the extras. I want to talk about gifts that make you want to give back to the giver.

BDSM for me, involves a great deal of this. The care my parters take of me. The love and joy they give me. These are gifts, I give them in turn. The scenes my partners create for me are extraordinary gifts. I am rarely the driving force, but my submission to his will, my energy in the scene, my writhing and squealing and gasping, all give back to him.

In this line of thinking, the question “do you deserve it” always causes problems in my head. If I’ve had a trying time, and I really want the scene to make me feel better, I am quite tempted to say Yes. Yes, I deserve this, after all I’ve done, all I’ve suffered, I deserve this happiness. But there’s also the little submissive in my head saying No. No, I don’t deserve anything, I’ve done bad things, I’ve not been perfect/compliant/obedient enough. Which isn’t quite right, either. The truth usually is No. Gifts are given freely, there is nothing I can do to deserve it.

When such gifts are given to me, I do my best to give back as much as I get. There is no way to measure such gifts, but the shared love and joy we have in the giving.

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