Do you Really want me to Scream your Name?

November 2nd, 2016

I really like words. Half my fantasies start with describing sexual misbehavior, or threats, or instructions, or verbal seductions. I really like talking about what I like or want to do, despite my utter shyness in doing so, it really turns me on. But screaming his name in the throes of passion?

I see it on TV and in Movies – lovers calling out the name of their partners. It is prevalent enough to even be the basis of jokes – calling out the wrong name in the midst of passion. I’ve never done this – not called out the wrong name, but called out any Name during sex due to the intensity of passion. Due to my fetish for orgasm control, I have called out Sir or Master, in concert with begging for permission to orgasm, or to thank him for said orgasm. But I have never, while having sex, simply turned my moans or groans into his actual name.

It was a desire expressed by my sexual partner recently, during sex. Said once, and while not ignored by me, I wasn’t sure how to respond. And he did not say it more than once, and the desire was not discussed further. After, however, in the following days, my brain started tossing it around, thinking about how I felt about it. And mostly, there was confusion.

I have a thing with Names. Names have power to me. Not just the “oh, she said your full name, you must be in trouble” kind of power. I’m not sure how to express it, but to me, hearing “I love you” feels different than hearing “I love you, ____.”  Starting a sentence with my name, in any tone but casual catches my heart or tightens my stomach (depending on the tone).

On the BDSM side of things, with my boyfriend – he uses his real name as a safeword for us. A mental safeword – if I say his real name, it is stronger than a Red – something is breaking inside of me, not just on the physical plane. So, calling out a real name while playing has that baggage, too.

It was strange to me to consider calling out my sexual partner’s name in the heat of passion. He likes my moans and groans and squeaks and such. They are pure and honest reactions to what we are doing. To call out his name would take real, concentrated effort. Not that he isn’t worth that effort, but it’s something I would need to prepare my brain to do beforehand. A script to implant, code to rewrite.

So, it is a discussion to be had, and an understanding to create. If it is what he truly desires, then it is certainly something I can work on for him.

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Release & Creativity

March 29th, 2012

He flogged me to tears last night. The kind of tears that don’t stop when the floggers do. He pushed me hard and fast. Against the wall, into the wall, and through to release. My arms hurt from holding my palms to the brick, my back stung from his strikes. I fought the urge to fall – he would stop. I fought the urge to give in – I wasn’t there yet. I took strength from the wall against my palms, my chest, my forehead. Cool and solid. I screamed, I groaned, I swore and then I cried. He pulled me off the wall and squeezed me tight. Not quite done, he tossed me into toy’s lap to finish. So much better afterward. I giggled as a silly song came on, and sat back up. A chunk of pent up stress removed from my body by his floggers. So grateful.

I’m going to a house party this weekend. It feels like it’s been ages since I last did that. This will be different though. Going alone, not going to play with anyone. Though I might wear my straightjacket for a while. I thought I might figure out someone to play with, or at least someone to tie me up and let me go. But I think that if I still want that, the straightjacket will suffice. Last night really did help quite a bit.

The reason I’m actually going to the party instead of the club is MDQ. It’s the dungeon for the next issue of Modern Dungeon Quarterly. I’ll be interviewing the owner, and taking lots of pictures beforehand. Then getting to see first hand how much folks enjoy the dungeon. Might even take a few quotes from the guests. I can see it now, voice recorder in the crook of one restrained elbow, business cards in the other. You might have to tune in over at MDQ next week to find out how that goes.

Publishing the magazine has really got me motivated to write and publish more. I’m thinking of making up little ebooks of erotica. Using the stories I’ve posted here (what’s Your favorite?), as well as creating new ones for each ebook. Themed and all. After all, an erotic blogger from the UK has fast become the most wanted author here in the Midwest and got picked up by Random House. If only I were that good at social networking. 😉 Anyone have tips?

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Special Request

March 8th, 2012

And a special, bonus post, by special request of him, just in case two posts isn’t enough to fulfill your craving this week.

 

The movie was over, they hadn’t really watched it, too distracted by each other, but they had to go now. They had to get back to her dorm for bed check before midnight. The all-girls, private prep school she attended had very strict rules about being out of bed past curfew. She was eighteen years old, but her parents were not quite ready to let her go to college out in the real world, yet. So they’d sent her here, where she’d met the man of her dreams, and broke every rule to see him.

Heading back to the school, they crossed through a wooded area before the wide open grounds. He grabbed her, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind and kissed her neck. She leaned back against him happily. They had a few minutes before they had to be back, she decided.

“You’re such a bad girl.” He breathed into her ear.

“Yes, sir.” She smiled at his mock stern tone.

“Wandering through the woods at this time of night. Good girls are all in bed. But you’re out with a man in the forest.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know what we do with naughty girls, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” She shivered as his belt slid free.

He turned and put left foot up on a fallen tree and bent her over his knee. Pulling up her skirt, and down her panties, he exposed her bare ass. Stroking it with his folded belt, he put his hand on her back to hold her steady. Then brought the belt to bear.

She yelped, and he swung again. Her yelping soon turned to moans of pleasure as she writhed over his leg. He reddened her pale skin, with harder and harder strokes. Until she began to beg.

“Please, oh please, sir.”

“Please, what?”
“Please, I want you.”

“Oh?”

“Please, sir, please.”

He stopped and let her go, she dropped to her knees in front of him. Pulled his pants open the rest of the way and eagerly took him in her mouth. He gasped and entwined his fingers in her hair, guiding her eagerness. She moaned as he groaned, and when they were done, he pulled her to her feet, and held her tight.

After a moment to breathe, they were off again, racing towards the dorm, and up the fire escape to here room. Her roommate was in the infirmary for the night, so they had it all to themselves. She shooed him under the bed until bed check came through a few minutes later, and then pulled him back up. Collapsing on the bed, he pulled her close.

“Such a bad girl, pulling a man’s pants down out in the open like that.”

“Yes, sir.” She expected him to be sleepy, but he seemed far from it.

“And now, you’ve snuck him into your bedroom, into a girls only dorm.”

“Yes, sir.”

He sat up and pulled her over his lap, keeping her skirt down to muffle the noise, he took his hand to her this time. Spanking the already tender flesh. She buried her face in the blankets to cover her moans. She squirmed against his lap, but he held her tight, spanking her tender bottom until her moans got so loud, the blankets could not stop them.

“Please, sir, oh gods, please sir.”

“Yes?”

“Please, take me, sir.”

He gave her a few more swats that nearly made her scream before flipping her around and back onto the bed, shedding his clothes and then pulling her free of hers. He joined her back in bed and covered her mouth with his to keep her moans of pleasure from waking her dorm mates while he rode her to exhaustion.

 

The alarm went off early the next morning and she shooed him under the bed again for morning check. Then she got ready and went down to breakfast. He snuck out the window while everyone was eating and she spent the rest of the day in a happy haze. Until the end of her last class, when the teacher stopped her.

“Headmaster wants to see you. Come with me.”

He led her towards the dorm, however and up to her room, where she saw the headmaster waiting. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and she dreaded what was to come. He must have been seen leaving.

“Come in. Tell me, is anything amiss?”

“No, headmaster.”

“Is anything missing? Anything at all?”
“No, headmaster.” She knew better than to lie. If she said yes, her boyfriend would be arrested for theft.

“Strange. A man was seen climbing out of this window this morning, during breakfast. We assumed he was a thief. Are you sure that nothing is missing?”
“Yes, headmaster.”

“Did you know the man who left here this morning?”
“Yes, headmaster.”
“I see. And did you know he was in your room?”
“Yes, headmaster.”

“Would you mind telling me what he was doing here?”
“Yes, headmaster.” She blushed furiously and glanced at the teacher in the doorway.

“Thank you, that will be all.” The headmaster dismissed the teacher and closed the door before turning back to her. “What was he doing here?”

She stared at his shoes, too embarrassed to answer.

“We could continue this conversation in my office, with a cane, if you would prefer?”

“No, headmaster. I.. I invited him up, headmaster. We had a date last night and I brought him back here.”

“I see. Tell me about it.”

“We… we went to the movies, and then we came back here to sleep.”

“Is that all? You saw a movie and you slept?”

“No, headmaster.”

“Tell me.”

“We… um… on the way back, he put me over his knee and spanked me with his belt and I went down on him. After bed check, he spanked me again, with his hand, and then we had sex before we went to sleep.”

“I see. You like that do you?”

“Yes, headmaster.” She was mortified, but lying would only make things worse.

“But you chose to continue the conversation here and not in my office with the cane?”

“Yes, sir. I don’t really like canes, sir.”

“I see. Well, let’s see how he did, then. Turn around and show me your bottom.”

What could she do, she turned around, bent over and lifted her skirt and pulled down her panties.

“It’s barely red at all. He must not have tried very hard.” The headmaster patted her bare ass. “I’ll have to see what I can do about that. Don’t you think?”

“Yes, headmaster.”

“By rights, you should be expelled and a letter sent home to your parents.”

“Yes, headmaster.”

“But that won’t do anyone any good, so how about this. You’ll march down to my office with me, and I’ll redden that ass of yours properly, you can even thank me for it, like you did him in the woods. And once I’m satisfied, we’ll forget this ever happened. Is that alright with you?”

“Yes, headmaster.”

“Go on then.” He pulled her up and opened the door, motioning her to go ahead of him.

She walked down the hallways, her face bright red and her eyes on the floor. Those she passed knew she had been caught out, but very few of them knew what for. When they got to his office she went inside. He followed and locked the door behind him. Walking to his desk, he pulled off his belt and put it on the left side, then pulled out a paddle and put it in the middle and then a cane on the right hand side.

“You’ve been a very naughty girl.” He told her and sat down, motioning her over. “Take off that skirt, it will only be in the way, and the panties.”

She did as he instructed and then he pulled her over his lap. He started with his bare hand, spanking her equally bare ass.

“This is for sneaking out last night.”

He started out soft and built up, harder and harder. Gauging her moans and squeals, occasionally checking to see how wet she was. She squirmed on his lap, embarrassed but increasingly aroused. He spanked her harder and harder until she was gasping and screaming for him.

“Please, headmaster, please!”

“Please, what?”

“Please, stop and let me thank you.” She begged, remembering his words.

He gave her a few more swats and then let her up. She dropped to her knees under his desk and fumbled his pants open. His erection was waiting. She took him eagerly, and he let her, fingers in her hair, but stopped her short of finishing him off and pulled her roughly back over his lap.

He picked up the belt next, but paused, giving them both a few moments to breathe.

“This is for having oral sex in the school forest.”

He swatted her ass with the belt, pulling a gasp, and then another. He beat her already red ass into a deeper shade of crimson. She moaned and writhed harder against him, but he held her tight. His strokes slower than the first spanking. Enjoying the fullness of her reaction. When he had her screaming again and begging, he let her up a second time. And she sunk to the floor, moaning against his cock as she sucked on him.

He only gave her a few minutes this time before pulling her back up and picking up the paddle.

“This is for sneaking a boy into the dorm.”

He struck hard and firm, leaving it against her ass as she cried out. He smiled down at her. Loving the sound of the paddle the most. He struck again, and again. She arched and cried and tried to get away. Her ass sore and bruised already. He counted down from ten, and she screamed with each one. Then he dragged her to her feet and bent her over the desk, picking up the cane.

“And this is for having sex in your dorm room.”

He took the cane to the back of her thighs and her highly abused ass. Counting down from twenty, he held her in place by her hair. Giving her time to process each strike. Screaming into the desk and stamping her feet. She cried as she dug her fingers into the wooden edge.

When he was done, he pulled her back down to the floor beneath his desk and she took him a third time, this time to completion. And then collapsed into a puddle on the floor. He redid his pants, put away his tools and let her come back to herself before sending her back to her room.

“Next time you want a spanking, just ask.” He said as he opened the door and sent her on her way.

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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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Beaten in/to Submission

June 16th, 2011

They tell me that I don’t let things go. I don’t like letting things go. I’ve let too many things go already. Not Things – hubby will tell you I purge junk from our home far more than he approves of, usually followed or preceded by moving, which he also thinks we do too much of. But I don’t let of of people very easily. I don’t let go of negative feelings very easily – I tend to bury them if I don’t get them out quickly and they come back to haunt me. I do this with stress, too. I have very wonderful support and help solving problems and rectifying situations, but I hold onto the stress. I can’t solve other people’s problems, but I hold onto the stress created by the problem. Occasionally, it becomes too much. I am set adrift by my own emotions and hormones and I start drowning in the stress. At times like these, I run to the woods, I yearn for campfires, I want to cry, I want someone to draw the stress out of me, I want to be beaten to a pulp or tied too tight into a little ball.

Last week, I ran to the woods. I found quiet in the trees. But it was cold, and there was marching band practice nearby, and an organ and a piano. So, after watching some black-winged damsel flies for as long as I could stand it, I went for a drive in the country. Going a little too fast, but not dangerously so, and enjoyed the sunshine and the peace of having nowhere to be.

This week, I was beaten in/to submission.

When I was meditating early in the evening, my brain was wandering. Should I be Miss? Aren’t toy and I fairly equal come down to it on Monday night? Does Miss disrupt my subspace? Where do I find my submission to him these days? In my meditation, in the rubber bands, in my clothing choices, in my service to him. And lately, in our Monday nights, it has been a growing opportunity for subspace again. Something to talk about when renegotiation comes up.

He, toy and I played a bit. Seeing if I could keep a rubber mallet type thing going on her ass while he smacked us both with various things. Dragon tails kissing our flesh as we squealed. An electric flyswatter that had us whimpering before he even got near. A wicked stick. A paddle. Even the cricket bat that I immediately knelt up to receive. Then the order to snuggle while he had a conversation elsewhere.

Hubby’s girl was practicing flogging while hubby worked on my laptop. He was watching and called me over to be a practice bottom for her. Shirt off, bra off, glasses off, hold the cross. Show her where her aim was. A few strikes, she was nervous, he showed her his strikes, and they practiced a bit more. I love watching him teach. This is one skill I haven’t tried to pick up yet, as a top, anyway, though I occasionally ponder it’s physical benefits, if not my ability to top a flogging scene. Then he leaves her to her own devices and turns to me.

He struck hard and fast, just heavy, short leather floggers, though I could have sworn he’d grabbed the rubber mops. I clutched the cross and screamed and groaned and gasped and moaned. He dropped me fast, and I pulled myself back up the first few times. In tears so quickly. He changed rhythm, backed off, came on. Then I dropped to my knees and he kept going, so I curled up, offering my back, but unable to stand and he kept going. I worried that he would stop because I wasn’t standing, but he kept going.

I knelt, I crumbled, I twisted, turned and cried. He backed off for a moment and I dragged myself back up the cross. On he came, three strikes and I was down again. And he kept going. This time I managed to kneel properly a few times, between curling up into a ball and sprawling on the floor. Always conscious of where he was and trying to keep my back offered to him. I could not stand, but I did not want him to stop.

Toy was being teased for wanting to rescue me, just a little.

“Do you want rescued, Miss?”
“No, Toy!”

“Well, if you want more, you have to get up.” He chimed in. “If you fall again, we’re done.”

I got to my knees, not good enough, up onto the cross. Clutching it for dear life as he tore back into me. Screaming and shaking the cross, I don’t know how many I lasted, it was more than three, but not by much. I fell again, in tears, but not disappointed. Toy was there, against my side. I caught a breath, thanked her and asked for a moment alone. She went to get water, and I cowered for a moment longer, and then knelt properly, before the cross and just let myself cry. Just tears, no remorse, no upset, just tears.

I notice hubby’s girl didn’t stop the entire time. With all my screaming and thrashing right beside her, she kept on practicing. Good on her.

“Is that what you needed?”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you, so much.” Hugs and kisses.

Toy is nearby, with water. I go to her, snuggle and stroke her hair. I won’t go to the bed yet, I’m not ready to collapse. Stubborn, I drink the water, waiting for the shaking to start. Teasing and tickling for a few moments. Coming back to reality before I crash.

And I do. We go to the couch, she wraps me up and holds me tight while the cold and shivers run through me. It’s late though, so we’re up again in no time, packing up and heading home.

So, why did I say I was beaten in/to submission? What do I mean? I was flogged while in my submissive state. I was in subspace, standing there half dressed at the cross. I was in subspace, offering him my back, as best I could, no matter where I was. I was in subspace, unaware of the rest of the dungeon unless it intruded quite loudly. I was also beaten to submission. To points when I didn’t know if I could take anymore and let him decide. And eventually, to the point where I gave up completely, without any regret that I had not gone far enough. He even commented later that I’d given up. I agreed, he was tipping the floggers a lot and the sting became too much. But I was not disappointed in myself like I might have been other times. I went as long and as far as I could that night, and he stayed with me the entire way, taking every bit that I would give him.

Some people ask why I get flogged, more especially, why I sometimes get flogged like that. No long and gentle warm up, no tender cool down, no rhythmic six count to the music. Just rough and tumble, heavy strikes, sharp strikes, relentless strikes. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy the former, too. But the answer is because sometimes, I need it. I need a cathartic release so powerful and strong, that nothing else will do. I need the stress to be ripped violently from my body because I cling to it so tightly that I can’t just let it go. I am so grateful that he is able to do that for me. And I love the marks and the residual pain that keep me glowing for days after.

So, readers, what do you do to relieve/release stress? Kinky or vanilla?

 

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Trust Your Body, Trust Yourself

April 21st, 2011

A friend wrote last month how she is finally learning to trust her body, through kink. I have been at odds with my body since I was sixteen, almost half my life now. I fight it, I ignore it, I push it. But to trust it? I’d rather challenge it and defy it. She wrote she is no longer a mind in a body but a mind that is a body. I like that idea, and so I’m going to start a rambling exploration of my mind and body tonight.

I’ve spent a lot of time in the last few years in bondage, and in rope suspension. One of the first things he taught me was that I have to listen to my body. That I have to communicate to him what it is telling me. Where there was pain, pinching or discomfort. His suspensions were not meant to be painful, the ropes were there to support, not to hurt. This was a bit of a mind switch for me, because the other’s bondage was often painful, was often part of our sado-masochistic play. I had to listen to my body and trust what it told me. I had to be able to judge when I was done, tell him when I needed to come down. I could push myself only so far. And yes, I often tested those limits, pushed myself just a little further than I maybe should have, challenged myself to just one more swing, or just one more spin. I had to trust my body, but I also put trust in my mind’s ability to recover when I pushed just a little more.

If it hurts, don’t do it. It hurts when I do this. Don’t do that. Pain is the body’s way of telling us something is wrong. But I’m a masochist. I enjoy the intense sensation of pain and the effects it has on the body and mind, when it is pain I am choosing to experience. I kneel for half an hour in meditation, some days it hurts, but I usually ignore the pain and push through. I ignore the body’s cry for relief. I play in ways that cause pain, that cause a fight or flight response, and I ignore the body’s protests. My mind overrules my body. My pleasure overrides my pain. But isn’t this trusting, too? Trusting that even though my nerves scream, my body can take it. Trusting that after, I’ll be okay. I ignore the usual signals, and trust that real damage is not occurring, that my body is not as fragile as some might think.

Is it trust? Or just defiance?

I trust my mind within this body. I trust myself to know my limits. I trust myself to judge when it is too much. I trust myself to beg off or say no. I trust myself to know my body. And I trust my partners enough to crumble and fall.

I trust my mind, but do I truly trust my body? I listen to it, I respond to what it tells me. But I often feel like a mind trapped in a body, unable to feel the way I want to feel, unable to do everything I want to do. I trust that it will not break. I push it and challenge it, and I hope that it will not fail me. And sometimes it does, but more often than not, it doesn’t. In kink, anyway. It fails me, day to day, simple things like opening and reaching, but it rarely fails me in play. It limits me in play, for sure, depending on the day, but when I choose an appropriate activity, it holds up, it withstands, it survives, usually as long as I want and need it to.

So, do I trust my body? I do. It frustrates me and I defy it, but ultimately, I trust it. What other choice do I have? It’s my body and it gives me such pleasure to balance out the pain. It does what I need it to do, if not always what I want it to do. And the better I treat it, the better it does. RA is not who I am, just a thing I am dealing with. Trust is earned and my body has put in the work.

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Day One – Define Your Kinky Self

January 1st, 2011

To start the New Year, I am going to attempt the meme: 30 Days of Kink. This is Day One, that I wrote as a guest post for Insatiable Desire.

Dom, sub, switch? What parts of BDSM interest you? Give us an interesting in-depth definition of what that means to you. Basically define your kinky self for us.

The first question seems simple. The second question leaves things far more wide open. The third asks for specifics. And the last oversimplifies the whole thing. Defining oneself is an ongoing process made up of all the other questions. So, one at a time, shall we?

Dom, sub, switch? Sub. I am a submissive in my kinky journey. I am submissive to my partners to varying degrees. I relish giving control to those I love and trust. I have no desire to be dominant. I have no desire to take control in a kinky setting. I do provide service topping for electric scenes, but even then, I am in the role of pleasing the person I am working on, providing for what they want.

What parts of BDSM interest you? Well, let’s break down that acornym. Bondage – yes. I enjoy bondage in rope, leather, chains, canvas, plastic, tape, and mental bondage. Discipline – yes. I enjoy having rules and penalties for breaking said rules. Dominance – yes. Submission – yes. As I said, I am submissive and enjoy giving control up to the dominants in my life. Sadism – yes. Masochism – yes. I am a masochist, and enjoy the sadistic tendencies of my partners. So, all parts of BDSM interest me in the very narrow definition of each of those letters, but let’s move on to more specifics.

Give us an interesting in depth definition of what that means to you. BDSM, to me, means exploration. It means pushing and learning and sharing and teaching. It means spending hours in ropes and straitjackets. It means nipple clamps and clothes pins. It means floggers and paddles and canes and drumsticks. It means blindfolds and hoods and collars and shackles. It means knives and needles and sparklers and snakes. It means single tails and dragon tails and stun guns and violet wands. It means giving up control of my body and my mind. It means kneeling for half an hour every day. It means standing back up after every strike that knocks me to my knees. It means relaxing in a cocoon of duct tape and saran wrap. It means pinches and smacks and slaps and bites and punches and kicks. It means cuts and bruises and scabs and scars. It means screams and tears and squeaks and laughter. It means massages and boot blacking and taking care of his gear. It means love and joy and connection. It means experiences so wonderful, awesome and intense that there are not enough words to express them. And it means trying anyway, because it is too important not to share.

Basically define your kinky self for us. I am kinky, submissive, polyamorous, a pain slut, a rope slut, a slave, a brat, a smart-assed masochist, a bottom, a service top and a service submissive.

My 30 Days of Kink

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Beauty is Pain

December 9th, 2010

A lot on my mind this week, so I may end up with several posts, just going to start typing and see where I end up.

I had a couple random ideas last week. The first being around forced feminization. Wikipedia defines it as: when a man is forced to put on women’s clothes and instructed how to behave and talk Yes, I am a girl, yes, I previously owned skirts and dresses. But I only wore them for Very special occasions – weddings for the most part, once I got out of school, and the Renaissance Festivals. Currently, at his request, and because it is too cold for shorts in December, I wear skirts four days a week, not always the entire day, but two of those days, it is generally two different skirts or dresses.

I regularly have people bring me skirts and dresses to increase my “girlish” wardrobe. I am often teasingly scolded for my lack of stockings. At play parties, I am often told I need more appropriate footwear. One of the groups I’m involved with in town has caused me to buy more lingerie in two years than I have ever owned in my entire life. Last time my mother visited, I even let her take me shopping to buy multiple skirts, and bought a couple on my own at a thrift store, and I don’t even buy clothes for myself normally. As noted last week, skirts and other girl clothes are big items on my wish list this year.

I think Wikipedia would consider all this to be consensual feminization, but every now and then I pause and wonder. Wow, when did I become such a girl? And then I feel better about myself when I get an invitation to shopping event involving make-up, manicures, perfume and other such things, and I remember that I am not that much of a girlie girl. Nothing wrong with all those things, they are just not me. I’ll stick with dressing more like a girl, because it not only makes the men happy, but it also helps me feel good about myself and my body.

Second random thought was about masochism and sadism. Back to Wikipedia: Sadism is pleasure in infliction of pain or humiliation upon another person, while masochism is pleasure in receiving the pain. I went to a class taught by Midori earlier this year, where she discussed the term pain, and her preference for “intense stimulation” instead because pain can encompass so many things that are not pleasurable. But that is neither here nor there, my thoughts were running along the lines of what am I really? I identify as a pain slut, so masochist is obvious.

But I also top violet wand scenes, delight in watching him giving others intense sensations and find entertainment in my own intense sensations causing distress in others. Does this make me a sadist? The latter two are not me inflicting pain or sensation, just enjoying the results of someone else doing so. When I top electric scenes, I am not doing so to cause pain. I enjoy making people squirm and squeak, but usually I’m trying to ticklish spot. I do not go for the screaming and the expressions of pain. It is intense stimulation, I agree, but I’m doing it to teach and share my experiences and enjoyable stimulation. I do not get joy out of Causing pain and am hesitant to even try, though I can be enlisted as restraints, tickler or biter.

So, perhaps, I’m a voyeuristic sadist, enjoying watching the pain of others and occasionally being a tool to assist in the causing of the pain. I think part of that also comes from knowing how much I enjoy the sensation they are receiving. So it is a sympathetic or empathetic enjoyment, as well as enjoying the interactions for themselves and the people involved.

I think I will stop there for the moment. I have another topic to write about, but it is much bigger and more personal. So I’ll post this as it’s own post, and work on the next one separately. What are your thoughts on fashion, pain and enjoyment?



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Introverted Social Networking

October 7th, 2010

Blogging, writing, screaming to be noticed – silently. Watching the numbers on the stats graph rise and fall, seeing them fall more often than rise. What am I doing this for? Who and I doing this for? Why? Every Thursday I spend hours staring at the screen, wondering what to write about, wondering how it will be taken, if anyone will even read it, will even care. Last week someone asked to reblog a post I made and I was shocked, especially given the topic. Today I’m at a loss, after spending the afternoon rambling at him over a variety of topics, none of which is “fit to print,” as they say.

I wonder about this blog, this weekly posting on a random topic. A lot of the books I read on blogging suggested posting every day, at least a few times every day, if you really wanted to have a successful blog. I have a hard time getting one post written a week, I couldn’t imagine posting every few hours. Isn’t that what Twitter is for? Let’s not even go into how I don’t even begin to use Twitter correctly. I’m not a social person, an introvert trying to join the social network.

And I’ve got this blog in two different places, splitting my audience between a WordPress sponsored blog and my personal website. It isn’t much of a site really: the blog, a bio and a couple of pictures, but I like the theme better, and some day, maybe I’ll have a book to promote or I might review products in the sidebar. Technically, I’ll have a book to promote come November. The first of my flash fiction pieces is due out the first installment of a year long anthology on October 31st if all goes as planned. They’re looking at publishing three months worth at a time, instead of it all at once.

So what do those social people talk about, those ones who blog all the time, or use twitter correctly? Their lives, details and stories taken directly every day from what they are doing currently or did last night. Sharing far more in depth than a shy anonymous blogger like me would consider safe. Safe? I share a lot of details, and while I say this is anonymous, people who know me could probably figure it out, and I have shared it with people I trust. But to share more, would feel like an invasion of privacy, and not just theirs, but mine as well. I don’t have enough to say to the public at large to fill a blog every day. I hardly ever update my non-kinky Facebook status more than once a week.

I’m not sure why I’m sharing this strange and non-kink related ramble with you, my dear readers, other than to say it’s been a scrambled kind of day. I want to share with you more often, but I don’t know if that’s possible. Though I feel that after this post, I owe you at least one over the weekend, if not a handful of tweets as well.

Let me leave you with these thoughts. Winter is coming, I need stockings and a warm coat. It’s hard being sexy when your teeth are chattering. And no one in his right mind is going to offer his cock to distract and warm you if it looks like you’re going to bite it off involuntarily.

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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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