February 17th, 2011
My Four Mistakes
1. I did not wear a skirt when I went over to his house last Tuesday. In fact, I wore jeans. Excuses, excuses, excuses. I did not wear a skirt, as I had agreed to do, and failing a skirt, shorts, in his presence. This was a promise I made to him, quite a long time ago. And this was the second time I had broken that promise. Both times, I had excuses and distractions, but that does not change the facts. He asked me to wear skirts or shorts so that he could have easier access to things he might want. I agreed to wear skirts and shorts for him, to always be available for that access. It became a sign of my submission to him. Being ready and available to please him at any time. To forget, no matter what the reason, to not be aware enough of myself and my promise, is unacceptable. It is disrespectful of our bond and my gift of submission to him.
To correct this mistake and keep it from happening in future, I have chosen a skirt to keep in the car at all times. It is shorter than my usual skirts, but still appropriate for wear around other people and in vanilla settings. It is a skirt I don’t mind wearing, but it is not my preferred skirt, so it will allow me to keep my promise, and remind me to be fully conscious of my choice of clothing.
2. I did not text him when I got home last Thursday. More excuses that do not matter. I know it is the rule, and it has a very solid basis in history, both his own personal history, and in our personal history. He wants to know I have gotten home safely, and I have agreed to let him know that. There are even nights when I haven’t been with him that I text to let him know I’ve gotten home safely so he does not worry. I often ask others to do the same and have recently started teaching our Toy this habit as well. I often get on Hubby’s case to let me know where he is at and I understand the worry, though not with the keenness his past has sharpened it to. Driving anywhere is always taking a risk that something might happen along the way.
To correct this mistake and keep it from happening in future, I will let go of the various things that caused excuses in my brain. Daylight or early evening is not an exception. Not playing is not an exception. Whenever I leave his presence, I will let him know when I have arrived at my destination, regardless of situation, time or place.
3. I did not follow a direct order. He told me to take off her pants and I hesitated and hemmed and hawed and used her as an excuse. He even said I was getting in trouble the more I hesitated, and I did not act. He told her I was getting in trouble, and I was still negotiating the order with her. Eventually, when a solution seemed to be reached, I did take her away and get her changed out of her pants, but I still did not take them off myself. I was acting as a buffer to her comfort levels, instead of doing as I was told.
To correct this mistake and keep it from happening in future, I will remember that she is responsible for herself, and while it is our agreement to protect her, I am also to do as I am told. She has full capability to take care of herself and stand up for herself, I must allow her to do so and not do it for her.
4. I took the cuffs off her without permission. No excuses, no demurring, I did not have permission to remove the cuffs he instructed me to put on her only minutes before. He had, in effect, put them in place, and I removed them. Putting them back on correctly makes no never mind, I took them off without asking. He bound her and I undid that. She is our toy, but the bondage, in that instance, was to him.
To correct this mistake and keep it from happening in future, I will be more aware of what I am doing for myself, for us, and what I am doing on his behalf. I will be more aware of the bonds of bondage and respectful of undoing them. I will be mindful of asking to undo things he has done, or asking to stop doing something he has begun.
Punishment and Service
I speak above about how I am going to avoid making these mistakes in future. But that is for me, that is my process. For him, I must not only correct my behavior, but also make up for these mistakes. It sets my mind running, thinking of what to offer him for these infractions. I have warring feelings of guilt and a desire to please. I know he likes to receive service, but I feel a selfish want to be punished. There are also complications of health, situation and timing, and our new toy to consider. I also do enjoy the punishment fitting the crime.
It took me a while to break the cycle of feeling pain must be involved or offered. It took him being blunt and throwing it in my face for me to realize that I had to stop. Sometimes punishments include pain, but in this case, it was not on the table. My masochism was not to be fed, my guilt was not to be relieved through physical catharsis. To truly make up for my mistakes, I need to be selfless and offer service to him, not ask him to do something for me.
I also got spun around on writing as penance. I would write about my mistakes and read it aloud to remind myself not to repeat them again. But this is hardly punishment for a writer, this is what I do. And it doesn’t really work all that well, as may be evidenced by my repeated attempts last year to stop making the same mistakes over and over again. Writing, as he pointed out, is good for reflection, but does not punish or correct mistakes. It does help me to make plans though, and that is good, but not what I need to offer to him.
And so I began again, for a third time, to think of service to offer him. To think of things he would like, that I could do for him, that would match up to the mistakes I made. Things I could do with Toy’s assistance, as well, because two of them involved her, and perhaps it would help her, as well as entertain him. Things that would not interrupt our evenings, but enhance them.
We are still negotiating the final details, but I have found my path again, with his guidance.
January 5th, 2011
What was your first kinky sexual experience? If you haven’t had one yet, talk about what you hope to have happen.
First, wow. Well, remember that guy from day three. It’d have to be him, wouldn’t it? A long time ago, in a town far away… okay, so not that far away, but in the time frame of my life… I’m only thirty and I was eighteen at the time. Thinking back, I know what it was, and I remember how it felt, and I smile with how simple it was compared to my life and experiences since then. But that’s what first experiences are all about right? That first taste that pulls you in.
He was new, just met, and interested. He showed me his swords, and a catalog of knives he wanted. His gaze was intense. He was attractive and strong, pierced and tattooed. He was intelligent, warm and respectful. He asked permission to bite my neck. He did not want me to be uncomfortable, but he wanted to see if I would like it. I liked vampires, and the request made my stomach flutter. I agreed and he smiled, toothily.
I was sitting on the edge of his bed, he slipped down behind me. Wrapped one arm around my upper chest, holding my opposite shoulder. Took his free hand, and brushed my hair away from my neck, then tilted my head to the side just so. I could feel his breath on my neck and shivered, scared and excited all at once. He sank his teeth into the stretched flesh, gently, and then harder, not trying to break skin, but wanting me to feel it. I moaned out the breath I had been holding, I’m not sure if it was an audible noise or not, and sank into him, my eyes rolling back in my head, an expression he would later come to enjoy via a mirror. The teeth, the pain, the taking of physical control, my fantasy realized in one moment of pleasure.
December 17th, 2010
“Do you want to go a round?”
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?”
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.
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.
September 23rd, 2009
There was a recent discussion that masochists aren’t into “pain” they are into intense sensations. Based on the fact that we don’t get off on just any pain we suffer. Stubbing a toe, chronic pain, headaches, sore throats are all types of pain, but they are (generally) not turn ons for masochists. It’s intense sensations that we like, from a broad range of stimuli. This is very true for me, I enjoy the rush of intense pain and pleasure, and the mingling of those sensations all together.
Someone asked recently about processing pain. I want to turn that into a discussion of processing intense sensations of all kinds. I process in various ways, internally and externally. I process by making noise, by breath, by physical connection, by visual connection and by orgasm. Let me take these one at a time.
Noise. Anyone who has been around when I play knows that I am not quiet. I have been called tortured puppy, a mouse and delicious for the sounds I make. The type of noise changes depending on what is happening and how I’m dealing with it. Whimpers of anticipation. Begging in fear. Yips of pain. Moans of pleasure. Safe words when it is too much. I get louder with the intensity of the stimuli, until it crests over into needing another form of processing. I start with noise and then move on.
Breath. When noise is no longer enough, I process through breathing. Breathing with the waves, breathing the intensity in and out of my body, processing by focusing on my breath. I breathe with each strike or each stroke, take deep breaths to find control, catch my breath to narrow focus momentarily. Most importantly, keep breathing so it can all go on and on, moving all the energy through my body with every breath.
Physical connection. The next step for me is physical connection. It helps me to be touching the person causing the sensations. Having that physical link, to feel him there, to be connected to the source. It grounds me, gives me focus. If I am tied or cuffed or restrained in such a way that this is not possible, I take the physical connection from my bonds. It is not as good, but pulling on the bonds can also give me a focus, a physical link to the person who put me there.
Visual connection. If I can look into his eyes, I can take even more. That connection is stronger for me than physical. Looking into his eyes, seeing the joy, the love, the sadistic glee. Being able to share that mental energy directly, feeding back and forth. It is incredible.
Orgasm. This is one that is totally at his whim. Often though, my partners allow me to orgasm to help me process. Bringing me high and then giving me permission. I am then able to focus all the sensation down and actually release it. Let it flow through and out instead of maintaining the cycle and having it build higher and higher.
August 5th, 2009
Years ago, I began to learn orgasm control. I had Doms who required me to ask permission before orgasming, and I picked it up fairly quickly. About a year ago, I began learning to orgasm on command and to control them. To make them soft, or hard, to keep going or to stop short, depending on what was demanded of me. To even have orgasms, if commanded, in the middle of a crowded restaurant with very little stimuli other than his voice. Above all, to not orgasm without express permission while I am with him, no matter what. (No one has yet tried to control my activities when I am alone.)
All this considered, it is not to say that every commanded or permitted orgasm is equal. They are not all as intense or satisfying. I still get reliably better orgasms from fingers or tongue(depending on the wielder of such) than from intercourse. I can have incredibly intense orgasms out of painful pleasure, and softly satisfying ones from sex. That is not to say I don’t have great sex, or even occasional great orgasms during sex. It all depends on build up, mood and balancing everything just so.
A word about how I’ve been trained, as some people find it very interesting. I’ve been trained to orgasm on the count of three. Some people like to play with this, randomly counting to three, but it doesn’t work like that. As with many things in life and the scene, it is the intention behind the words and the control taken by the speaker and given by me. It is also a very vocal trigger at this point. I was recently asked if counting by showing fingers would work. I suppose I could learn to work off that as a trigger, but it is very much connected to the sound right now. I like to hear the words, the emotions and the command in his voice.