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.
It’s a Crying Shame
December 2nd, 2009
Some months ago, I wanted to cry and I was ashamed of that desire. Not just cry, I wanted to be Made to cry. I wanted to be pushed so hard that tears came bursting forth in and uncontrollable fury. But I was afraid. I was afraid that this was a ridiculous desire. That it was childish to want to cry for no particular reason. That wanting the release and cleansing of flowing tears was simply weakness. I was afraid that it would change things, too, with whoever made me cry. I had never gone there before and it looked terribly dark. I did not want that unknowable change in my marriage, and that was a difficult decision and a difficult discussion. My lover, more experienced than either myself or my husband, became the giver of those tears. It was the release I needed at the time, and nothing was changed or broken in the giving.
Since then, my edges and the darkness have been moved and pushed and shoved. Tears are no longer shameful to me, but they still have a specific place in my play. There is still darkness when I think of bringing them into my home. The tenderness and love between my husband and myself seems incompatible to a tearful scene.
My lover, more often than not, gets the tears through fear these days. Threats of freshly remembered intense pain or of heightening the current level of pain can drive me over the edge. (Nipple clamps of various varieties are usually present in these threats.) Tearfully begging for mercy or for the pain to stop. Sometimes he grants it, and sometimes not, driving me further into tears or into complete surrender where the tears stop and soft stillness comes.
My other partner has only brought out tears twice. Both were corporal scenes, but they had a heavy mental elements that had more to do with the tearful response. In both situations, expectations were set, and tears came when I failed to meet those expectations. The pain levels were high, but it was the mental game that was more costly.
In the first, I was given a task, an object that was not to be dropped. It fell twice and tears fell swiftly behind it, but were gone again when he gave me another chance after a few choice strikes for the drop. It was an incredibly intense scene, the tears just one more spice in the delicious flavor.
The second, was a flogging scene set to music, and the final song came on, and he said he would flog the whole song at the same tempo and strength. I soon began to falter under the heavy strikes, and tears welled up as I thought I would not make the entire song. As I fell down and stood back up several times, his strikes never missed. Tears were flowing freely as I fell the final time, turning slightly towards him, but my back still raised to accept his strikes. He stopped then, accepting my surrender and my tears. His acceptance washed away my tearful disappointment in myself, and I smiled when he said I would do better next time.
Suffering
September 2nd, 2009
Some days, I suffer to please him. Some days, his darkness needs fed. Even in that darkness, he needs reassurance. Needs to know that it isn’t driving me away. In that darkness, I know that he still loves me, that he is still in control, that ultimately, I am safe. We reassure each other. Exchange I love you’s between begging and denials. This only makes it hotter. Tied down, aching, hurting with every motion, wanting only release from my bonds, coming to tears, thrashing, begging, falling into stillness. Yet, still able to express love, and to acknowledge his.
I know that I can end the scene, I know that Red will be heard and honored, but I hang on, pushing myself as much as he pushes me. I beg him to stop, I beg for freedom, and his passion flares ever higher, fueled by my suffering. My mind begs me to call Red, I deny it as he denies me. It curses me and bargains, and I agree, nipple clamps would be too far tonight. He threatens them, but does not follow through, my fear is pleasing enough.
It is a very tricky line, I grow angry, my teeth so close to his arm, his shoulder. It becomes hard not to bite. Then the pain overwhelms me again, and I fall to stillness, anything to please him to satisfy him, so he will stop. He enjoys the stillness, but wants more, the threats come again and I grow desperate, begging, fucking harder, and the pain intensifies. The cycle continues until I can bear it no more.
I think he is done, he seems more satisfied than other points in the scene, and I cannot take more. Thank you, Sir, Please. He pauses, asks me to repeat. Thank you, Sir, Please. Gratitude our Yellow. I need a break, but I am not calling Red if he is not done. He releases me, slowly, as I whimper, soft kisses on abused joints, rubbing the rope marks.
Then we curl up together, tightly spooning, breathing, loving. We need to get out of bed, set an alarm, clean up, but not yet. We hold tight moments longer, both needing the tenderness of touch after the darkness of the scene. He asks me how it was, but I cannot answer yet, my emotions still riding the roller coaster, the earlier scene was awesome, I say, wanting to reassure him, ask me tomorrow about this one.
A difficult scene for me, but still full of our love, and that makes it wonderful.
Abandoned
July 15th, 2009
“So, your white knight is coming to save you, is he?” He towered over her, pulling things out of his black leather bag.
“Yes, sir.” She knelt, head down beside the bed.
“Well, then, we must be creative, can’t have it go easy on him, or you, for that matter.”
“Yes, sir.” She shivered at the distinctive metallic sound of nipple clamps being pulled from the midst of rope and tossed on the bed.
“We’ll need to set a trap, won’t we, just to teach him caution.”
Whimpers were her only answer as he pulled a small bag of wooden clothespins out and set them aside. She kept her eyes on the floor, tracking his movements by sound as he piled up his tools beside her, ropes, clamps, a straitjacket and a five pound weight. Her breathing already growing fast while she struggled to remain calm.
He grabbed her hair and pulled her to her feet, spinning her around to face away from the bed. He chose the nipple clamps first, cloverleaf-style, and slips them on, listening to her soft squeak of pain. The rustle of fabric behind her and the clink of metal rings as he opens the straitjacket in front of her. She dutifully puts her arms in, and he spins her a quarter turn to strap it up. She whimpers, her breath catching sharply as the fabric pulls against her pinched nipples. Leaving the crotch straps free for the moment, he picks a small piece of rope and kneels beside her. He reaches up inside the jacket and quickly ties it off to the chain between the clamps, giving it a gentle tug just to hear her squeal. Then back on his feet, he quickly secures the last two straps and give her a quick shove onto the bed.
“Lie back, head at the top, spread your legs.”
“Yes, sir.” She squirmed on the bed, arms secured across her belly, whimpering at every move as the clamps rubbed against the jacket until she was in place.
“Good girl, spread wide.” He grabbed the rope cuffs and quickly tied her ankles to the corners of the bed. “Now then, the trap needs a bit more bite, I think.” He scooped up a handful of clothespins and another thin rope.
He carefully threaded the rope through six clothespins and then attached three to each side of her pussy. She groaned as they sank in, whimpering at the glee in his eyes as he tied the rope from the clamps to the rope attached to the clothespins. Grabbing a longer rope, he set up a pulley between her, the bedroom door and the weight. If the door was not opened with the utmost care, and the weight stopped from falling, it would yank all the clamps off of her tender flesh.
“Do you see? You’ll have to yell for him, warn him to be careful. You wouldn’t want him to come rushing in, eager to save you, would you? Yank all those clothespins, not to mention the clamps, all at once, you’d never survive.”
“Yes, sir. I understand, sir.” She was shaking and gasping, fear and adrenaline coursing through her.
“But we can’t make this too easy, can we?” He grabbed some bondage tape from his bag and began wrapping it around her head, covering her eyes and ears. “Don’t want you to be able to hear him arrive, do we? You’ll just have to start yelling for him as soon as I leave.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you ready? I have to go. Are you ready to scream for you white knight?”
She whimpered in response, trying to catch a steady breath, struggling to feel him one more time before he left.
“Oh, do you want a kiss before I go?” He leaned forward, pressing a hand down on her clamped breast, eliciting a scream as he kissed her. “Very good. Now scream for him or you’ll regret it. Good bye.” He kissed her one more time and then carefully exited, setting the trap behind him.
My Favorite Things
July 4th, 2009
Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens…
A kitten without whiskers would be pretty creepy.
But what are my favorite things?
Rope wound around the body.
Knots tied just out of reach.
Fifteen foot high suspension points.
Heavy canvas straitjackets.
The smell of leather.
Nylon hoods muffling sight and sound.
The sting of his single tail.
Saran wrap being peeled off after a long scene.
Nipple clamps sinking in.
Teeth on tender flesh.
His finger pointing to the floor.
The quiet peace of kneeling at his feet.
Breath blowing on heated skin.
Bruises the next day.
The numbers One, Two and Three.
The steady rhythm of floggers.
Deceptively simple commands.
The crackle and hum of electricity.
The pure joy in his eyes.
The feel of his hair running through my fingers.
A strong grip in my hair.
The bliss of an orgasm completely out of my control.
The adrenaline rush of fire play.
The sound of his voice.
The warmth of his embrace.
Surrender
June 17th, 2009
I have had scenes lately where there comes a decision point to call Red or surrender. The point when the pain and the fear has me in tears and I want nothing more than for it to stop. These scenes invariably involve clamps, so stopping the scene would not immediately end the pain. This is the point when I give up on begging, give up on release, and give in fully to his will. This is a deeper submission, they began with a submission of my body, but ended with submission of my mind and my will. I give up on getting what I want out of the scene and fully accept that it was now about his wants. Often, it is this breaking point, this full surrender, that he is after. Once he gets it, once I have accepted his complete control and my helplessness to resist, he grants mercy and brings the scene down to a careful close.
It is an incredible place to go. It shuts off the chatter in my mind. It shuts off the smart ass, and brings my focus down to the moment. In that moment, nothing else matters but him and me. The pain no longer matters, the fear no longer matters, the tears no longer matter. My surrender to him is the only important thing in the world in that moment. Those are moments we both cherish in this busy and stressful time. Those are moments when we put everything else aside and fully connect.
Fear
May 29th, 2009
Fear play. Clothespins mean fear to me. A straitjacket and nipple clamps mean fear to me. Combining these with abandonment scenes means fear to me.
I have heard people wonder if fear scenes are less effective if you know and trust the person running the scene. I would not want to do such a scene with someone I did not know and trust deeply. For me, they are the ones that can elicit the deepest fear because they know what I can take and how far they can push. I do not want a scene where I am afraid for life or limb, that turns to worry which ruins a scene for me. Fear of the unknown does not really work for me, new things generally make me curious and excited more than fearful – it is when I do it again that the fear kicks in. It is fear of the known – knowing how much it will hurt, knowing he will push further than the last time, that sets my pulse pounding and makes my breathing ragged.