Saturday: Tortures of Edo Japan

February 9th, 2015

It started in the room… no, it really started weeks ago. Him dropping hints, having secret conversations, building things in private. He had Plans for our weekend. Saturday, he said, the monster was coming to play.

Then it started in the room. He wanted consent, so he told us his plans. Showed us a picture. Pulled out the kneeling “mat” he had made (omg that looks horribly painful… but I’m curious), and the beating stick – bamboo wrapped in burlap and cotton rope. He hit us with it a few times, she tried kneeling on the mat (I don’t want to start the pain so early, so I don’t). He showed her the pole he wanted to suspend her from. What else did we want to try? I like the shrimp tie (ebizeme, she corrects), and I’d like to try the mat, and yes, please hit me with the stick. It’s a really great stick, so deep and thuddy. We finalized our plans and head downstairs.

We find a spot, he goes to settle himself as we stretch. He returns, shoos people out of our space. Grabs me first, spinning me around, I assume the position – arms crossed behind my back. She pipes in, asking him for me, to put the blanket down before I sit, he agrees. He wraps the ropes roughly, keeping me tight against him, as I sink quickly in to rope space. Breathing in the scent of him, and the brand new rope, as we go. A simple box tie, just one wrap at the top, and two kunukis. His hand going behind the center of the chest wraps feels like it is crushing my chest, wtf, but it is gone just as quickly as he finishes the tie.

He sets out the blanket now, forcing me down, and I cross my legs. He ties the ankles quickly, wrapping up and around the back of my neck, pulling me down tightly, hooking in so the cinching lines are tight up against the sides of my neck. I keep breathing, it’s okay, I tell myself, it’s not against my windpipe. Relax. And then he shoves me back, up onto my talibone, head and shoulders against the wall. WTF? Oh, this’ll be interesting. No relaxing here. And then the burlap sack goes over my head (ooh hood, I like hoods) and I close my eyes to settle in as he goes to start her scene. Occasionally rocking and scooting tiny bits, trying to get further up my back to relieve the pressure.

He comes to me now and then, smacking with a small piece of bamboo, causing squeals and more scooting. I think he has her kneeling now, as the hits are coming more frequently, and I can hear her reacting, too. Voices murmur nearby, commenting on our scene, both famliar and not. Cracks of the bamboo have me squealing and yipping. Thuds of the stick make me moan. Stabbing with the far end of the bamboo have me screaming until he pulls it away. Long, hard screams as he digs it into my flesh.

Wait, I can’t breathe, I start to panic, gasping, no I can, it’s just thick, calm down. I get my breath back just before he starts hitting me again. Screams and squeals and moans. When he stops, panic sets in again as I try to take deep breaths. My eyes are open now, just to prove to myself that it’s just burlap over my head. Hole-filled burlap, plenty of space. I calm the panic, deep breaths. It’s okay. More hits and screams and moans. He’s gone again, replaced by panic. Stop it, you’re fine, I tell myself, squirming at the bag, scooting down the wall. My arms are on the floor now, so much better. See, look you’re fine, I tell myself. Deep breaths. More hits, more stabbing pain, more squeals and screams. I don’t know how long this goes on (I find out later that after she was tied, it was 25 minutes), but the cycle keeps repeating.

Until the panic wins. Until it doesn’t go away, even when he’s hitting me. And I start sobbing. Hard wracking sobs take over my body. And he pulls the burlap away. Oh gods! Fresh air! Lungfuls and lungfuls of fresh air. He pulls me down to sitting again, and quickly unties my and chest. I lean against him a little bit, and then he goes to get her off the mat and untied. Returning to me to finish.

People are talking at me and I’m responding, but I don’t remember what was said. I am shaking, and hugging myself, they are bouncing with energy. Ready to go on to the next. We have to wait though, for a point to put her up on. So, we talk. He tells her how long she knelt. I tell him about the chest, and the burlap, someone comments on watching me panic. We move our stuff over to near the point as the scene comes down, ready to go again.

He has to focus on her, so he’s going to put me down, and then I can get up when I need to. Okay, I’d like to try the bamboo gag, I tell him. We start with a simple box tie again. Then the gag, I forget to grab it with my teeth and he pulls to hard. I made sounds of protest as it pulls my lips to breaking, and he lets up. Bite it, he says. And I do and he finishes tying it off. He puts me down on the mat, and I glance up at her, standing nearby. Damn, this sucks. She nods. He ties a blindfold around my eyes and reminds me to get up when I need to. Then heads over to start the suspension.

My upper lip and teeth are bone dry already. I start to drool – oh yeah, that’s the other reason I don’t like gags. Dammit, nothing to be done, though, drool is the least of my problems. Man, my shins hurt. Pointy triangular slats poking the bone every couple inches. Thank gods he smoothed them down from sharp points. I lean forward, she’s right, the ankles are the worst, putting all the pressure at the top of my shins, head sitting on the floor support of the suspension rig. I hear him comment about it, but I cannot reply. Damn gag.

Then the real problem starts. My hips are on fire. Apparently the tie wasn’t the best lead up to this scene. Damn. I sit back up. Nope, that’s not any better. I try to relax into the pain, but this isn’t good pain. This sucks. I curl back down again. Trying to move the weight off my hips. No, this isn’t going to work. Back up, what happens if I kneel up? I only start to when I realize this will put my kneecaps into the triangles, no efing way. Back down again.

I’m frustrated now. I know I can stay here longer, if my shins were the only problem. He comments on me drooling, you know, someone else still has to kneel on that. I don’t make a sound, the gag keeps me from even grinning. Nothing I can do about the drooling. Stupid hips, stupid stupid hips. I try shifting my arms, rubbing my hips, trying to find a spot to make them feel better. To no avail. I know I cannot stay here, I know he doesn’t want me to injure myself, or endure bad pain.

So, I rock back and off. Sitting on the floor, I’d so recently asked a blanket to be put down on. But I don’t think about this just yet. I am mad at my hips. I just sit and fume for a few minutes. A scene is over, I want to kneel, but no, still can’t do that. Stupid hips.

Now, I remember that I don’t want to be sitting on this floor, and stand. I put my back to the wall. Stand there in the box tie, blindfolded and still drooling. I hear him put a third person on the mat. I know the suspension is up by now. My throat is so damn dry. I want to see the suspension, I open my eyes and can see some light at the bottom of the blindfold. I lift my head, but the bamboo pulls tighter on my mouth. I relax, sink into the ropes around me.

No, I really want to see, so I lift my head just long enough to catch a glimpse of how she’s tied and then drop my head again. Ow, but nice tie. I sink back into my ropes. Trying to ignore the drool dripping down my dress. Once tilting my head back to try and swallow some to wet my increasingly dry throat. I do like this gag, breathing is just fine, there is no moment of panic. But damn, the dryness of winter.

He finishes the suspension, and comes to let me out. Pulling the gag and blindfold and boxtie. You’ve drooled all over my new rope. I just smirk at him. Not my fault. I tell him that my hips are stupid and the shrimp tie was not my best choice leading into the kneeling scene. Then he unties her and I help put the ropes away. We try out the bottom side of the mat, the sharp pointy side. Damn, it’s such a good thing he sanded down the points on the other side. The tortures of Edo Japan are a huge success.

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Abandonment Scenes

June 7th, 2012

Abandonment was mentioned last night when talking about fear play. A very valid form of fear play, but it got me thinking about my own relationship with abandonment. I’m not afraid of scene-abandonment, as such. I mean, tie me up and leave me somewhere? I’ll happily fall asleep, or meditate, or just glow happily in bondage. Tie me up and tell me to escape? Sure! I’ll wiggle and squirm free, and then curl up happily with the rope.

It’s when pain enters the picture that the abandonment means something to me. A very long time ago, long before kink, I wrote a diary entry about fear. In it I listed the things I was afraid of: snakes, needles, sparks. But I got a little more introspective after that. I noted that being in pain and being unable to do anything about it scares me a helluva lot, too. My phobias are flight responses. This one is a bit more complicated. This one leads to a different kind of break down of my psyche.

I am a masochist. I like pain. I enjoy it. I can get off on it. But I also like control. I like someone to be in control. Of me, of the scene, of the pain. Random, uncontrolled or unintentional pain is not cool. If you know me well enough and long enough, you’ll see me break down over my RA pain on occasion.

To be put in a painful bondage and then left, abandoned, causes the adrenaline rush. I’m in pain, I can’t stop the pain. No one is there to stop the pain. What if it becomes too much? What if I can’t take it anymore? What if I pass out from the pain? What if I panic? Am I already panicking? And on and on.

Near the beginning of the life of this blog, I posted Abandoned and Rescued. In that scene, I knew my white knight was coming to save me. I knew he would come and stop the pain. So I was left in a bigger predicament, his arrival had the chance of causing More pain, excruciating pain. And unless I could call out loudly enough and warn him, I would have no way to stop it. Later, I was threatened with being left in a similar situation, without the trap, with no one coming to save me, except maybe the hotel’s housekeeping staff, who I’m pretty sure would have just run away. Terrified, I begged my way out of it.

So, for me, abandonment works as a form of fear play, but it has to be painful. Otherwise, it’s just a happy bondage scene, which can also be fun.

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I Know What You Did Last Night

September 29th, 2011

Blackness.

She tried to blink, but couldn’t. Coming more fully awake, she realized her head was covered in fabric. Tight. It wasn’t a headache, her head was tightly wrapped. Her ears hurt. Not badly, just a mild ache. Static. There were headphones over the wrappings, playing white noise. She tried to move. Nothing. Taking a breath to stem the rising panic, she realized she was at least free to do that, nothing blocked her nose or mouth. Something at least. She focused on breathing for a few moments.

Sitting.

She sent out her conscious the the rest of her body. She was sitting up, arms bound to the arms of a chair, wrist and elbow. Metal chair and legs bound to the legs, ankle and knee. Her head and waist were secured, as well. Naked. Completely naked. She shivered, though it was not cold.

She still felt groggy. What had happened? Where was she? She remembered the club. Out for a night on the town while her partner was away. Business trip. Back on Sunday. Was it Sunday yet? It had been Friday night. Was it only Saturday? She danced and drank with her girlfriends. They mainly ignored the men trying to pick them up. Ladies night out.

There had been one man. Persistent. Dark. Handsome. He’d caught her eye a few times. Sent her a drink. Oh god. What had been in that drink? Had she gone home with him? She remembered him staring at her while she accepted and tipped back the shot. Hot, hungry eyes. She didn’t remember anything after that.

Cold.

She gasped as a cool breeze passed over her body, mirroring the cold shiver running down her spine. She felt air moving around her, goosebumps covered her arms and legs. Someone was near her. Was it him? What did he want? Why was he doing this?

“Who’s there?” She called into the silence. “What do you want?”

She felt small pads being placed on her body. Two on each breast. Two on each arm. Two on each thigh. Two on each calf. Wires tickled her skin. She tried to turn her head, tried to thrash free, but there was no slack anywhere. Her body started to tingle and she froze. The tingling grew, first in her breasts until she yelped. Then those stayed steady and each limb’s tingling grew, one at a time, until she made a sound of pain, then stopped. Then it all stopped.

Breathe.

She reminded herself to breathe, and the white noise stopped, replaced by a voice.

“Where were you last night?” A computerized voice, loud and harsh.

“At… at the club. Syrens.”

“What did you do there?”
“I danced, and drank with the girls.”

“Then what?”

“I… I don’t know. Someone sent me a shot. I don’t know.”

Pain. All of the pads sprang to life at once. Her muscles clenched and she screamed.

“Who sent you the shot?” The pain stopped.

“I… don’t… a man. Tall, dark, black hair, blue eyes. He was wearing a black suit and a red tie.”

“Did you know him?”

“No.”

“Did you talk to him?”
“No. I don’t know. Not before he sent me the drink.”

“What was the drink?”
“I don’t know.”

“Did you drink it?”

“Yes.”

Pain erupted again. Pulsing this time, making her muscles jerk out of her control, breasts feeling like they were being stabbed.

“You drank something, sent by a stranger, without even knowing what it was?”

“Yes!” She couldn’t help but scream.

The pain surged for a moment and then relented.

“Then what?”

“I…” she gasped for breath, terrified of the answer she had to give. “I don’t know. I woke up here.”

Just her legs this time, higher than before. It felt like they were trying to curl into the chair. She clenched her jaw and growled at the pain.

“You expect me to believe that?”

“It’s the truth.” She grunted.

“Maybe more pain will clear away the fog.”

All the pads sprang to life, in a wave of pain, from her calves up her thighs to her breasts and then out her arms. The pain growing and receding up and down her body. She writhed against the bonds, straining her tortured muscles even more. Her feet did not touch the floor, but curled helplessly in the air. Her hands clenched at nothing, just beyond the arms of the chair. She growled and grunted, screamed and whimpered. She had no idea how long it lasted, almost started counting the waves once, but gave up as pain overwhelmed her. Finally, it stopped.

“Now, what did you do after you drank the shot?”

She gasped for breath, drenched in sweat, shaking with leftover energy. Panicked and still without an answer. She wracked her brain, having been incapable of thought while he tormented her. She saw his eyes, remembered tossing back the shot. It burned. Her head swam.

“I sat down. He came over.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“I… I must have. I don’t remember. It was Ladies’ Night. I wasn’t supposed to. I must have.”

“Then what?”

“I…” She didn’t want to say she didn’t know, she tried to think, she wondered if he’d know if she was lying. “We danced.” She tried, not sure if it was a lie or not.

Stabbing pain in her breasts, her arms seized. She screamed and it was gone.

“Do not lie to me. What did you do after he came over to talk?”
“I don’t know.” She was shaking and gasping, fear and pain warring for dominance.

The white noise came back in her ears. Her body started tingling. All the way back down to the beginning, all at once, and built slowly up. They did not stop for her screams this time, but kept building until she was thrashing and sobbing as much as her bonds would allow. Then he pulled the pads off, one by one. Starting at the top. Until all were gone. The tension released, only the restraints kept her from sliding to the floor. Tears soaked the fabric around her eyes, her lips moved, but only breath escaped.

 

Darkness. Static. Nothing.

She regained control of herself. Got her breath and heartbeat back to normal. Calm for just a moment. Still nothing. Panic started bubbling up again. She focused inward, no injury or lasting pain. Outward, she felt no movement, no breezes, nothing. Was he gone? What did he want her to say? She couldn’t remember what had happened. What if that wasn’t good enough? Was he mad she didn’t remember him? Why was he doing this? Her mind spun in useless circles. She had only the vaguest impression of him coming towards her after the drink and then nothing.

“Let’s start again. What time did you go to the club last night?”

“9 o’clock.” Grateful to have a question she could answer.

“Who did you go with?”

“Erika, Sarah, and Heather.”

“How much did you have to drink?”

“Two glasses of cider, a cosmo, and that shot.” She shivered a little, hoping she hadn’t had more after the shot, but not knowing.

“When did you leave?”

“I…” Panic. “I don’t know.”

“Who did you leave with?”

“I don’t know.”

Shocking pain ran down her left thigh.

“Not good enough.”

“I don’t. I had the shot. He came towards me. And I don’t know.”

Her right thigh this time, a straight rod delivering high voltage directly to her skin. She squealed.

“Tell me what happened after the shot.”

“I don’t know, I can’t remember.”

She cringed against the chair as the rod delivered shocks across her breasts, right over the nipples, crying out and trying to wrench free.

“You do remember.”

“No, I don’t, I can’t.”

The electricity crackled from her left hand, up her arm, across her collar bone and back down to her right hand. She screamed, then gasped for breath.

“Tell me.”

She bit her lip. “I…” What could she say?

The rod ran down her chest, over the left nipple, down to her clit and back up again, right nipple not spared. She swore vehemently, but he only did it again, in the opposite direction.

“Such language. Now, tell me what happened.”

“I looked over at him, lifted the shot in a salute, drank it down. It burned my throat, and hit hard. I sat down on my stool and looked back at him. He had gotten up, and was walking towards me.”

“And then?”

“I don’t know!”

He ran the electricity over her arms, chest and legs in big zigzagging motions. She screamed in protest, trying to thrash, or move, or jerk, or anything but sit there perfectly still, except for her hands and feet clenching and curling in the air.

“You do know, you just won’t tell me. This would all end, if you would just tell me what happened next. Don’t you want me to stop?” He zapped her clit.

“Yes, please. I do. But I don’t know. I can’t tell you. I don’t remember.”

He answered with more electricity. Fingertips, toes, one by one. Up the side of her calves, the inside of her thighs, circles around her clit and her nipples. Tell me, echoing in her ears with each shock. She squealed and clenched her fists and fought the urge to curse. He zapped her earlobes and the tip of her nose and she forgot herself, spitting curses until he zapped her lips. She snapped her mouth shut and breathed heavily through her nose, curling her lips inward and licking them.

“Are you going to tell me?”
“No.” She gave up on insisting she couldn’t, he didn’t seem to care.

“Then remember, you could have stopped this.”

 

Static. Darkness. Cold.

Constant cold air was blowing on her now. But he had stopped hurting her. Stopped asking questions. She wasn’t even sure if he was there anymore. What now? What else was he going to do to her? Why didn’t he believe her? What else could she say? She wracked her brain, trying to pull up more of last night, but there was nothing. A big black hole in her memory. Why hadn’t her friends saved her? Why had they not been there for her? How had they let her end up here? Did they even know what had happened to her? Had they seen her leave? Had they told anyone she was missing? Was anyone looking for her?

“Are you ready?”
“No.”

“Will you tell me what I want to know?”

“I… no.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“The truth. What happened after you drank the shot?”

“He came towards me. And then I don’t know what happened.”
“Wrong.”

Pinching pain seared through her nipples, causing her to gasp, but this pain didn’t go away, and she started to whimper.

“Tell me the truth.”
“I can’t.”

More pinching around her nipples.

“Two clothespins for every lie. What happened?”

“I don’t know.”
Now there were three on each breast and she was panting and squirming with the pain, tapping her feet in mid-air and clenching her fists.

“Tell me.”
“He came toward me. He must have sat down. We must have talked. We didn’t dance. But I don’t know.”

Two more, above her nipples. Strong and small. She breathed quickly with the pain, whimpering with every exhale.

“Tell me.”

“I can’t, you know I can’t. Please, I don’t know.”

Two more at the top of her breasts.

“You can, I know you can.”

“No, please, why are you doing this?”

Two more just below the collarbone.

“Tell me, now. I just want the truth.”

“I don’t know. That’s the truth.”

Ripping pain as he yanked all the clothespins off at once. She drew a sharp breath and then screamed. Shaking, and shivering against the chair.

“Apparently I’m being too nice.”

Cold liquid splashed over her chest, then arms and legs. It smelled like alcohol. He ran a wet cloth over her exposed skin. She shivered harder, terror rising bile into her throat.

“What, please, what… I don’t know what you want. Please…”

“Only the truth. That’s all I’ve ever asked for.”

Stabbing pain in her left breast, sicking sliding under the skin and another burst of pain. A needle, he’d just slid a needle through her skin.

“Oh god, please. Don’t, please.”

“Then tell me.”

Pain in her right breast, she could only focus on the horrible feel of the needle sliding through her skin.

“Tell me the truth.”

“Please, please, please. I don’t.. I.. please, I…”

Pain lower, right above the nipple, slower, sharper.

“Tell me, and I’ll stop.”

“I.. please… don’t, I… please.”

The other breast again, right above the nipple, matching sets of fear and pain.

“Tell me what happened after you drank the shot.”

“I don’t know, I woke up here, I must have passed out. I don’t know.”

“Good girl.”

The needles came out fast and clean. She was crying and shaking as he wiped down her breasts with alcohol. The headphones came off, the wrapping around her head started to unwind. She was dizzy, she didn’t understand. What happened? Light began to assault her eyelids, she cringed away and found she could move her head. The restraints were coming off her arms, then her legs. His body was in front of her lifting her, carrying her, a hood still on her head, but thin. Softness beneath her, a bed. It was darker here and he slid the hood off. Stroking her hair.

“Such a good girl.”

She opened her eyes, startled by her partner’s voice after so long with the computerized one.

“What?”

“Shhhh. You did so very well.” He wrapped her in his arms and she curled up against his chest, sobbing with relief. “Such a good girl.” He repeated.

“Thank you, Sir.” She whispered, as she fell into an exhausted sleep against him.

“You’re welcome, little one.”

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Service, Boot Licking and Throat Grabbing

September 15th, 2011

I’ve got a few other thoughts floating in my head I’d like to share this week. First, thoughts from two of the classes I took this past weekend. And then an answer I gave to toy after she read my Monday reflection.

The thoughts from Bootpig’s service class were many. First, you have to do what they ask before you can add to it or improve it. Second, it isn’t service if they don’t want it. Third, between A and F, there are a whole lot of other letters. And regardless of how well I do something, he will still love me. Fourth, ask and keep track. If I want to do something for him, ask if he wants it, and take no for an answer. But if he says yes, or if there are things he wants/likes, keep track and remember to do them.

In her bootblacking class, I learned about boot licking. I went into the class, looking for technical pointers, but that’s not what she wanted to talk about. She talked about the different between boot licking and boot worship, and I found that the idea of conveying a nonverbal message or emotion through boot licking spoke to my heart. I only black his boots. I love him and want to please him, and have always enjoyed kneeling at or on his boots. So I enjoy taking care of them. The idea of licking them with emotional intent makes more sense to me than just ritually licking them, or licking them because it arouses something in me. She did give me advice about when to lick them (before putting on the black grease which would stain my tongue), for which I am also grateful.

Toy asked my why his grabbing my throat stopped the panic. I explained it to her thus: Grabbing my throat makes me stop. Full stop. It used to be a hard limit with everyone because sideways motion can easily put my windpipe out of place. Then it became fear play – used carefully by the other. Then he started using it to hold me down when we slept together, and I’d get all gaspy with fear, but then arousal and comfort was added into the mix. So, grabbing me by the throat still makes me stop, all focus goes to that hand on my throat in fear, and then it brings arousal and comfort.

 

 

 

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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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Jute, Nipple Clamps & Tears

December 17th, 2010

“Do you want to go a round?”

“Yes.”

He had the jute in his hand and on his belt. He let me smell it, natural smell – not hemp, but not synthetic or horses, either. Holding it, he looked me up and down, considering. Turned me to face away and put my arms into a box tie.

“How are your shoulders?”

“Right’s a little pinchy, but much better than they have been lately.”

Tie the wrists, the bite of the natural fibers makes me happy, smiling as he warps it around me. Two lengths of eight meters around my arms and chest, wrapping, cinching down, tight, but so very comfortable.

A bit of a length left when he has me secure, and up between the legs, catching the skirt to protect the rope. Yelping as he yanks and then led around the room.

“Keep up, that’s my bad shoulder. Is it in the right place?”

“Yes!”

The grin as he yanks a few more times and then lets it go, finishing it off in the back. Turning me to inspect and show off the work, he stops in front of me. A hand to the throat and he pushes me quickly back into the other room and tosses me on the couch.

“Feet up, prisoner tie.”

I scoot back on the couch, cross my booted ankles, trying to balance and get comfortable for what is sure to be a long tie. The third and final piece quickly secures my ankles to each other and then around to my neck. A comfortable bend for the moment, the jute biting into my skin. So delicious.

Off he goes again, returning with a Japanese washcloth to blindfold me, covering most of my face. And a leather gag to go underneath. The gag is small and flat so my moment of panic is minimized as I adjust, digging my teeth into it.

And here I lose coherent time line. I remember sinking into the rope, into the darkness, listening to conversations around me. I remember changing positions for more comfort, for legs, for back, for neck. I don’t remember how the nipple clamps arrived, but they did. I don’t remember how the other girl came to be tied, but I think it was after the nipple clamps were handed off to another girl to tug on. There was talk of envy of my position. There was talk of requests to be made. And there was tugging and pain and squeaking from me as he tied the her beside me.

I was unbalanced on the couch, squirming to try and move back, my hips were getting strange pressure. When he got her done, he lifted and shoved me further back onto the couch. Gratitude mumbled through the gag.

The tied one wanted to help pull the chain. Something caught his attention from the outer room. He left me, I heard him walk away, his voice leaving the room, but still audible. Panic, kept in check, but bubbling, as I strained to keep his voice in my ears while the first assistant continued to torment my nipples. The one beside me wanted to help, but her hands were tied. Someone else got involved and they moved her into position, got her head in my lap, so she could pull on it with her teeth. His voice returned.

“I was only gone a couple minutes and look at this…”

Multiple people were involved now, a chain of torment starting at my nipples and ending with his amusement. Blindfolded and squealing I had no clear picture of what was going on. It was a writhing mass of energy in front of me, I could identify the players, but not the actions. I knew only that the tied girl was delighted to have the chain in her teeth.

Positions changed and people moved, and there was a slip. I caught a shoulder in the throat. Instant panic and pain, but not the pain I expected. He was there, his voice breaking through my coughing, making sure I was alright. Yes, but still coughing, still panicking, fighting for control. He grabbed it, shoved me back into my place and helped me find my control again.

Camera flashes now. Our photographer capturing the scene. Teeth on chain, both of us squirming and writhing, squeaking and squealing from me. They encourage her to pull harder. I think she was the first to pull one off. The other is yanked free, and they are reset while I whimper.

He sits beside me, landing on a joint and I cringe at the bad pain, but he drops me back into the good pain and rope once more. Her phone rings and her time is up. The first one takes back the chain as he unties.

She sets back to it, testing what sounds she can cause. Enjoying the squeals and the screams. I fall into pain space and breathing and she frowns. She wants squeals. It takes sudden yanks, but she gets what she wants. He hears where I am, and leans in close.

“Watch this…”

And he counts for me, very quietly, right in my ear. She yanks at his direction, sending me higher. Surprised by my command performance. He counts several times, and I focus and use the pain.

The clamps are yanked and twisted and ripped off and replaced a few more times. I shake and gasp when they are removed.

“Did you just orgasm from pain?”
I shake my head, my fingers spelling out “not without permission,” but no one sees. The shaking is the release of energy so as not to orgasm. She pulls and twists some more. My screams grow louder, the gag slides most of the way out at the harshest of the screams.

“Get that back in! You’re not done yet.”

He grabs me by the hair as she twists and pushes. Tears begin to form.

“Go on, cry.”

He holds tight and she presses harder. I scream and gasp and bite down on the gag, trying to keep it in and breathe and cry. The pain swells, and they push, and I tip over the edge. Tears falling freely and they let me go. Leave me to my release.

I cry myself out and then curl up on myself. He is sitting in front of me while they talk, I curl up my head on my own knee, but touching his shoulder. Spacing out again, in rope and darkness.

They return to the couch, either side of me after short while. Conversation continues, but my hips are starting to protest strongly. I get his attention and mumble through my gag until he understands the problem. He frees my legs, and it is enough. She holds and pets me while they continue to talk.

I shift positions, not ready to give up, but with my legs free, I can now lean back and this puts pressure on my arms. I lean forward and back, and into her and away. Finding comfort in different ways for a while longer.

Eventually, it is enough. My wrist is in too much pain. I lean forward and turn my head towards him, waiting. He asks if I am done. I nod. He asks if my arms are numb. I shake my head. He asks what the problem is, and I try a few times, but I really am done, so I spit out the gag and tell him my wrist hurts too much, from its own swelling combined with the pressure of the rope.

He asks me to stand and I try, but am still unsteady so he has me kneel instead. The ropes come off, then the blindfold and discarded gag. The last trappings of the scene gone, I begin to shake. I take the blanket, which was covering my legs through the scene, to wrap around my shoulders. He invites me back to the couch and I snuggle back into her until the shaking passes while he puts away the rope. It is still cold and I stay snuggled between them until he has to attend to other things, another girl takes his place andI am kept warm while I come fully awake. He returns and I thank him for the wonderful scene.

Warmer clothes and breakfast, bits of teasing and discussion. I am still high and spacy, but awake and aware, and so very happy. A great scene that kept us all entertained on a cold, slow night. I felt like his canvas again. Used for his art – for his rope art, for his sadism, his instigation, and his use of mental control. Given the gifts I enjoy – tight bondage, teethy rope, nipple clamps, intensity, pain, pushing boundaries, control, hair pulling, orgasms, and release to the point of tears. Incredibly grateful for the gift of that scene.

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Scattered Thoughts

June 3rd, 2010

Public Humiliation – I knelt on his boot, surrounded. They talked of friendship and history and alcohol. Or they were, before I landed on his boot. I could not really hear them, after. He ground it into me, a stern look keeping me in place. I rode the old black leather, trying to keep my tight denim skirt covering me. His hand on his knee, one finger, two fingers. I glanced up at him in a panic, he grinned. “You better.” Three fingers and I did. Eyes closed, people casually chatting around me, I did. Over and over again, slave to his counting fingers. Mortified, terrified, aroused and his.

Begging – Please. Please, no. It’s never enough. Offer something else. But how do you offer something else when he’s clearly enjoying himself? How do you offer something else when your brain is locked in fear? How do you offer something else when you don’t want him to stop, but you’re too scared to be silent? Begging will make him happy. It is what he is asking you to do. If you don’t want to offer something else, ask for what you are afraid of.

Creativity – Something new. Always something new. Take what you have done and push it one step further. Take a great scene and add to it. Take your fear one extra step. What have you not yet done? What are you afraid of?

Fear – Hand to my throat. Tensing, gasping, internal struggle to be still. I love it when he holds me down by my throat. Stun gun. Whimpering more when he threatens than when it hits. Twitching more at the noise than the shock. Crying, begging. Fear of the pain stronger than the pain itself. Nylon hood. I like the hood. Duct taped around my throat, not too tight. I was fine, the whole scene went well. We were done. PANIC! Instant full body panic as he lay on top of me. Shaking, gasping, crying, thrashing. 1-2-3. Focus moved to an orgasm and calm returns.

Poly – Love is not divided, instead it grows. Communication does not prevent jealousy, but it can help to resolve it. Poly is not for everyone, it isn’t easy, and there is no one right way. You can’t tell someone how to “do poly” only how it works for you. The Ethical Slut provides some good insight, language and tools for any relationship.

I am still tired from the con this past weekend. Sorry about the randomness of this post. I’ll pull something more coherent together for next week.

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