November 17th, 2011
I don’t know where to start. It’s been a week of crazy ups and downs. Excellent times together, and painful moments, too. Through it all, communication. Keep talking, keep expressing, keep feeling, keep reacting, keep it honest and open. We had great moments of connection. A wonderful flight on Saturday. Cuddle-nap-play time on Monday. And last night was the topper. That’s really what I want to talk about today. Conversations were all finding stabilization. Worry was hanging about. I was feeling a bit wobbly before practice. Okay and “fine” but not great.
Class is almost over, I’ve been fidgeting. Glancing at the clock, wondering if he’s upstairs. Worried about him. She says it’s all good now, toy seems happy, but what about him? He arrives with the tote and sits just outside the door. Looks happy, but class isn’t done. Patience. And clapping. Up for hugs, he’s grinning and wandering about greeting. I’m petting toy when I notice him at the table, looking over the new stun gun. Panic, I run around and jump onto the bed, hiding behind the crowd. Laughter and this is pointed out to him.
Whimpering, I get up and walk to the edge of the bed.
I hop off the bed. He crackles it and I jerk away in fear, breath already quickening.
I kneel in front of him, too terrified to put my hands where they belong, but my knees are spread properly. I hope this is good enough and he doesn’t object. He crackles it some more and I jerk away against the bed, whimpering.
I calm my breathing, steadying on the trundle. He snaps it by my ear and I lose calm, gasping in panic, trying to get a grip.
If you let me do it, then I get to zap her. He points up to a bystander. There’s some discussion and the crowd agrees this is what she said.
Do you want to do this?
He shocks my leg light and and I squeak. Then harder and harder til I squeal. But it’s not as bad as it sounds. It never is.
Ready? He pulls it away for a gap.
Steady my breathing, grab the trundle. Yes Sir.
Shock and scream and jerk. He giggles.
The bystander tries it after I explain the pain isn’t the bad part. Then he asks toy. She’s not ready. He crackles it at me and I whimper and cringe. Toy looks scared. More crackling, more whimpers.
I’ll torment your Miss, til you say yes.
He starts zapping the top and inner thighs. Making me jerk and squeal.
Don’t you want to, toy?
Finally a yes. He gives her a taste. Not too bad. Just scary.
Back to me. Crackle and zap. Squeal and cringe. He grabs my foot, I’m panicking nearly to tears.
Hey, what about the shock collar? They try to put that on someone, but terror is enough, no shocks needed. Stray comment inspires him.
Stick out your tongue.
What??? Oh gods.
Stick out your tongue. All the way. All The Way.
Shaking, whimpering, leaning back.
Do you want to do this? Will you let me do this?
If you really want to, Sir, but I’d prefer you didn’t.
He giggles happily and someone suggest the nose and I rock all the way back to the floor at his laughter.
He lets me back up and crackles it a bit more for effect, then presses it against a breast and makes me look down at it. I don’t want to take my eyes off his. But eventually his command is forceful enough and I look down. He presses the button, but nothing. I whimper and he turns on the flashlight, I still cringe. A couple more crackles, a couple more whimpers and he’s done with that for the night.
He wanders off and I catch my breath. Scared to get up, still keeping tabs on him. He starts practicing on the wall. Toy wants beat and she wants practice. Hook them up and head over to get them started. Find some floggers, trade him for the ones he had.
And then I’m tossed up to the wall. Shirt pulled up and off. I slip my bra off to join it. No cross. I don’t have an anchor point. I fold my arms under my breasts and wait, about six inches from the wall. He starts out hard, but not too hard. I’m already high on fear, so I adjust into the floggers quickly. It’s harder to move with the beat like this, but I sway a little. Grunting into the hits, squealing at the harder ones. I fall into breathing before too long, quiet pain space. Until the six-count brings me back out with a squeal. The tips break through my concentration. I hit the wall and then back to my stance. He comes in and out. Hard, softer, tips, thud. It sends me higher.
The deerskin comes out. Huge thud, pounding me solid. So good. I breathe in and out with the hits. Relaxing, comforting. I am breathing with him now. And he starts making huge swings. Harder, but not tipping. I’m rocking with each stroke. Heaven.
Rubber mops now. Starting with thud. Solid, slightly stingy thud. It takes me a bit to get back from the grunts to the breathing. I find myself turning, favoring my left shoulder as it stings more. I try to stay straight, give him a flat target. My hands come up, cradling my chest, anchoring to myself. I’m not going to give in. Tonight, I’m breaking through the barriers of pain, and he is right there with me, not pushing too hard or too fast. I find the rhythm, tapping my foot and breathing with the strikes. Six count knocks me to the floor again, back up quickly. He stays with me. Stingy for a while, screams down to breathing. Pounding, thudding, stinging. It doesn’t matter anymore. Breathing, rocking, turning. Occasional screams just punctuate the scene.
Then his bare hands slam down on tender skin, pounding me to the ground in screams of pain. I try to get up, but he has followed me and I collapse, tears breaking free. The pounding continues and I crawl onto his lap, clinging to his leg through the tears. Eventually, I break through that barrier too, and we readjust, me a ball on the floor, him sitting beside me, pounding away with bare palms. I breathe with the hits, occasionally trying to adjust my body. Elbow not quite comfy, but it’s the best I can do. Head down, no, cement bad. Just maintain. Solid hits stinging my skin. Breathing through solid hits, squeals on sharp smacks. Pounding me down to a puddle of meat.
His hand in my hair, he pulls my face into his lap. My arms around his legs and I sink. The feel of him, the smell of him, the comfort of him. My glasses come off, and I anchor to him. Breathing, I can feel him breathing. Hearts beating. Reality slowly returns. I hear talking above me. Eventually he pulls me up.
How are you?
I smile a spacy smile. Very good.
Is that what you needed?
Yes, Sir. Thank you.
We both need to recover. Sitting next to each other, watching the room. Glowing, the energy and the happy still filling every ounce of me. Even as I finally return to the world and go take a look at hubby’s rig.
An excellent night, amazing play, and it pulled me right into balance. It was full of the love and energy and wonderful connection we share. Nothing else mattered during the flogging. It was us, sharing with each other. And when we came up, our other loved ones were right there, surrounding us. It truly was, exactly what I needed.
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?”
“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?
May 25th, 2011
Chores done. Dressed and ready. He comes home, quick chat about the day and the state of things. The fly swatter is already out as he grabs a snack. Popping sparks. Toy backs away and is called forward, she still shies and is put on her knees. Earplugs, and headphones. Can you sign to her? But her glasses are off, I have to sign quite close. Can you hear him? No. He sends me for a blindfold. Blind and deaf now, I lead Toy downstairs.
Holding Toy’s hands in the playspace. I step away to put my glasses on a shelf, she reaches out for me, not quite frantically. He sets the music, I can’t tell if she hears the beat or is just fidgeting. The movements irregular. He gets on the leather ankle cuffs for her, and then the bondage mittens. Drags her to the cage and sets her in it.
Toy looks Hot!
She does, but there’s a frown on her face. I never fully enjoy it when they frown. But Toy does look hot, all bound and sensory deprived.
He gets out some hemp, 8mm. Starts to tie.
You know, it’s going to be your turn to be ignored first soon.
Yes, Sir. I’m okay with that.
Especially if it includes sense dep, I can sink into that, into whatever senses remain, spacing out the others. Delicious.
He gets an evil idea and grabs the TENs to distract Toy. Her breathing changes, but she stays fairly quiet. He returns to the rope, starting a drum tie. Slight panic in me as I realize I’ll be upside down. It’s been a long time, will I have the stamina? The tie is tight, secure. Rope burns as it passes. I can’t quite space, Toy is too distracting in her predicament.
He pauses between ropes to change up the TENs, we watch her reactions. She’s still quiet, not sure if she’s enjoying it or not. She’s not saying anything. It takes quite a few turns before we get any moans or whimpers.
Would I rather be in Toy’s place or mine? Mine, I like leather and sense dep, but here I have rope. He points out that when I’m upside down, certain tender bits will be quite open to Uncle. I panic a bit more. Gasping and whimpering slightly. Oh gods, that’ll hurt. The ‘biner is put in place, not as painfully as I’d feared. Then comes my blindfold.
Panic. Space. Floating. I won’t be able to see what’s coming. Fear. Breathe quickens. The blindfold is tight around my forehead. My eyes close automatically. I feel myself floating away, still standing. Calm down. But I’m gone, sub space take me away.
I feel him get the lift rope. He drops me to the mats and threads it, pulls and I am up. I fidget for a moment with my arms, settling for my hands on my head. He spins me. Focus, breathe. My hands are the solid point. I’m not really spinning, I tell myself. My hands are the solid point. I am stationary in regards to my hands. Keep breathing.
He goes to Toy and I hear rhythmic flogging. I hear her, too. Whimpers and moans. I think there were a couple swipes with Uncle then. Louder moaning.
I can hear metal tinkling. Nipple clamps, I think, later I find out how wrong I was. He bring some to me, too. Sharp, tiny stabbing pain. I think it’s the ones he used last time, but it hurts so much more. I squeal and gasp, curling upwards and grabbing the bottoms of my breasts. the usual reaction to keep nipple clamps from dropping, but useless in my upside down state. I dare not touch them. So much pain, my gasps turn to tears. I can’t do it, I am going to fail so soon, I am going to yellow. Oh gods, it hurts. But he takes them off before I am completely overwhelmed. And I hang, hands back on my head. Focus and breathing take longer to find. My hands are the solid point. I am not spinning. Breathe and listen.
Uncle returns, slapping the undersides of my breasts. More squealing and curling. Forcing myself to drop my hands back to my head, exposing myself for more strikes. Promised strikes on exposed flesh, keep my legs where he puts them. Hits on the feet, solid, comforting.
Toy squeals too, but mostly I’m just listening to her for hints of new implements. A paddle, not the speed hole paddle, this one is longer and thinner, more solid. More like being hit with a big stick than a paddle. I’m at such an odd position for corporal.
I feel him untying the lift line, spinning it out. Focus on my hands. I am not spinning, my hands are the solid point. Breathe, relax. And I am in his arms and then on the ground. Gasping for breath, and toy squeals as he tosses her down behind and on top of me. Her arms and head over mine. Both of us gasping and ragged, he leaves us to recover.
The headphones are painful, but I do not protest. I twitch and she moves after a while. Thank you, Toy. But she cannot hear me. Finally, our breathing is calm. She readjusts for her own comfort, too. He returns, sits on the bishop’s chair silently. Leaves again. Returns this time with the flyswatter.
Up! Get up! He smacks us with the flyswatter.
I struggle off the floor. Toy gets up, behind me.
Kneel! Kneel properly! Show her how to kneel!
Smacking me with the flyswatter, I grab her knees, push them apart and place her mittened hands, then return to my own position. We kneel. I feel him sitting on the trunk in front of me. I can hear him stroking the flyswatter.
He pops me again, and I grab her hands in panic to stop her.
Is she kneeling properly?
Another pop and I grab her knees and push them apart again. Really, Toy? What are you doing?? But I say nothing and return to kneeling.
We stay there, it isn’t long, but I’m in a state of panic that she wills start fidgeting again. She doesn’t, and he takes off my blindfold.
Look up at me. Untie each other. Come meet me at the massage table.
Scene done, now for clean up and aftercare.
April 7th, 2011
I’m having a bad day. Work was fine, the cat didn’t attack me, the weather was gorgeous, no one got hurt or is deathly ill in my immediate life(though, for my good friends who do have that in their lives, I’m incredibly sorry and wish I could be there for them more than I currently am). I didn’t break the car or lose my phone or have drama explode. Nothing changed today. But I’m having a bad day.
It happens time to time. My body fights me. My immune system attacks (mostly) my joints. I have pain and swelling in various bits and pieces depending on the day, week, month, year. I used to take a lot of drugs. A couple years ago, about the time I started this blog, I was getting worse and my doc upped my injections. I snapped, I was tired of the drugs. Tired of the chemicals, tired of getting worse. I changed my diet. Massively. It didn’t cure me, like I hoped it would. But it controls it about as well as the drugs did.
Or at least that’s what I tell myself. I blame the flares on not sticking as strictly to the diet as I should. On not eating raw enough. On not eating alkaline enough. But then I also have two books with opposing opinions on what is and what is not alkalizing. On stress. On empathetic pain, sometimes. I take a naproxen every now and then. If I have a really bad flare, I take a couple prednisone. Rationalizing that one or two pills a week is better than four a day and two shots a week.
I haven’t been to my rheumatologist in a over a year at this point due to money and insurance concerns and the fact I’ve stopped taking the drugs. I’ve still got spare pain killers left from the refills I did a year and a half ago. Probably, they say they should be thrown out by now, but that’s not the point.
I’m having a bad day. My wrist hurts, my elbow is buggered, my ankle’s achey, and my shoulders are cranky. None of it’s debilitating, but it was all worse this morning before I took a naproxen. I knelt tonight, made it to 28 minutes before I got up, and was in tears a short while later. Not tears of physical pain. Physical pain hardly ever makes me cry by itself.
I’m a masochist. A pain slut. I enjoy pain, I get off on it. No, Midori would say, I get off on intense sensation. No one enjoys stubbing their toe accidentally. It’s the pain I can’t control that made today bad. It’s the frustration that got me up from kneeling before 30 minutes because I wanted to stop the pain I could stop, because I couldn’t stop the other pains. And honestly, some days, that’s what keeps me there the whole 30 minutes, because I’ve chosen to be there.
It’s why I’m a masochist. I enjoy control, I get off on power exchange. I get off on giving someone else the power to cause me pain. I get off on allowing myself to feel pain because I choose it. I get off on the adrenaline and the endorphins, too. But on a bad day, I want to get off by choosing pain instead of pain choosing me.
March 2nd, 2011
“Did I tell you how I kneel? Heels under ass, knees…” peeks down “about a foot apart. Gotta have enough room for his boot between your legs.” Not that I want to kneel on a freshly greased boot these days, and it’s almost always freshly greased. But we had such fun with that. MarCon, Thursday night, they all had to know. Me in the middle of that group. Such a show of power. I can’t remember if I got up to get a drink. And we weren’t even using object space. No Sir-ing at MarCon. Just submission.
“Do you want to stop having D/s? Yes.” No! I just wanted to stop object. But in that moment, D/s equated to object. Now, I burst into tears. I’ve never cried while meditating before. I needed help, but I couldn’t verbalize that. I didn’t know what was wrong. My face is covered in tears and my nose is running.
I wiped off my face. I didn’t have permission. I didn’t ask permission. He put me over his knee. I was kneeling on the floor. “Do you want me to stop caring about you? No, Sir.” But you’re already treating me like an object, Sir. I didn’t say it. I should have just curled up on the floor in tears. I’m crying again. Eyes and nose running. I’ve never cried while meditating before.
Our D/s broke. And now I find subspace, kneeling in the middle of the living room of my townhouse apartment, alone. My face is a mess, my wrist aches, thirteen minutes to go. I return to stillness.
January 6th, 2011
I am woman, hear me roar?
So many things in that one little phrase and the way I typed it. I am woman – identity. Hear me – communication. Roar – emotions. Question mark – insecurity. I am secure in my identity, especially as a woman, but it is those other three things that trip me up. On a fairly consistent basis.
I am a writer, I communicate well through the written word. But that is almost always an impractical form of communication in the real world. I cannot write things down for my day job. I cannot sit with a notebook with my friends. I cannot use a whiteboard when I am talking to my loved ones. But, as I have posted over and over again on this blog, communication is of Utmost importance. In life, in poly and in kink. And in most of these cases, it needs be Verbal Communication.
Here is where the other two things come into play for me. Emotion and insecurity.
I am an emotional person and I am not entirely at peace with that. I cry when I’m upset or angry, and I am certainly not at peace with that. I have been working on both of these things. Accepting my emotional reactions, and letting them manifest through tears. I started to type there “when necessary” or “when appropriate,” but that is the trouble. I try to judge my emotions and bottle them if I think them too much. Now, it is a given that crying makes it harder for me to verbalize, and that is another reason I try to stifle it. However, that does nothing for communication. My emotional reaction, my tears, are part of communication. If I am upset, stifling the tears only stifles the communication of my reaction. If I hold it back, bottle it, and do not react, I am not honestly communicating how I feel.
This leads into insecurity. Sometimes, I feel like I am overreacting, or that my reactions are wrong. I let myself feel like my reactions, wants or even needs are not as important or are inappropriate and therefore do not deserve being communicated. I worry that my words won’t come out right and won’t communicate what I really mean or am thinking. I worry that I’ll say the wrong thing and offend someone. This also leads to me not asking questions when I am not clear. I feel like I should be clear, or I should work it out myself, or I’ll upset them by questioning them because I should understand what they said. It’s a vicious cycle that needs breaking.
So, where does this put me?
Thanks to a conversation with him this week, I was at a breaking point. This time, however, it’s a breaking point where I have found the leverage for positive change. This time, I’m taking the peak emotions and using them to move forward instead of curling in on myself. Through meditation, writing and discussion with him. I am able to see these problems more clearly than ever before and create a path to growth.
One, I need to ask questions. I need to trust that people do allow for my crazy. And if I need it to get the question out, I can always say, hey, this sounds crazy, but… because sounding crazy in the moment, and getting it solved, even if it is hard, is far better than holding onto it. Because that can lead to assumptions and false stories that only eat away at me.
Two, I need to allow myself to react. I need to not judge my reactions because that only leads to bottling and unclear communication. Tears are not bad, they simply are a reaction. Obviously, if I’m crying, then something needs to be talked about. Not allowing that reaction out simply allows the problem to continue, perhaps unnoticed.
So, let’s try that first sentence again, with feeling, confidence and sincerity.
I am woman, hear me roar!
January 1st, 2011
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.
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.
December 9th, 2010
I had a stray thought today, of putting all my writings, emails and musings from the past three months into a book and titling it Broken. That is not to say that things are fixed, but just my way of saying that I now can see a path forward. We broke things back at the end of August, the big risk we took, came to a screeching halt and disastrous end. I broke, trust broke, our dynamic and mode of play broke. Our relationship suffered and stuttered, but we held on to each other to keep that from breaking, too. It took us more than three weeks to figure out what caused the break. I spent the next month focused on healing from that break and the realizations we came to. I then spent the last month trying to find the path again. Setting goals, making small steps, offering service, trying to find common ground, trying to get back to where we were, or where we could be again. But, while some of it worked, a lot of it was just not connecting. So, I realized that while I thought I knew where he was and what it all had meant to him, I was apparently missing something in translation. We are all occasionally guilty of projecting our understanding of events on other people, and it occurred to me that I needed to sit down and talk to him and get things clear.
The first talk was last Thursday, for an hour. The second talk was Monday, also for approximately an hour. The third talk was Wednesday, starting at three in the afternoon and lasting for over four hours, then picking up again for a bit on the drive home late that night.
The first conversation got some things out in the open, but in a way that I did not fully understand. I left that conversation confused and hurt, but trying to process both those feelings on my own. I came to the conversation with one question – can we be the way we were before? The answer I heard was no. But I was unable to understand the reasons, I was unable to ask appropriate follow up questions, I was unable to let go and react to that answer, so that the conversation could keep moving forward. I heard a request for more time and more space, and so I walked away from that conversation too early.
I reacted privately, or as I would later put it, I overreacted privately and between violent movies with Hubby later that night. I cried and I had thoughts of him never wanting to ever play with me again. I had thoughts of no physical affection. And I knew these were wrong. I knew he had not said any of those things. We had both said how important our relationship was, and keeping that going was. But I was in emotional overreaction mode, and logic was waiting for me to finish and come back.
So, I let it sit. I did not have opportunity to talk with him on Friday. On Saturday, we were at the club, and we try to keep relationship conversations away from that public eye, or more specifically, those public ears. The night was slow, and a lot of our usual crowd was attending other events. He poked me and pinched, and made me squeak and squeal for a few minutes between electric scenes, and I felt a lot better. I had physical proof that I had overreacted on Thursday night.
On Monday evening, we spent the night in the kitchen. I watched him make beef stew from scratch. We talked about other partners, and ex partners, and work and crew and everything but our relationship and Thursday’s conversation for most of the night. He was waiting for me to bring it up, he was waiting for me to react. I was trying to give him space and time, trying to have a quiet evening where I did not add stress or pressure. Again, I was going at it the wrong way.
He finally brought it up, because he had concerns and questions he wanted answered, and he was, rightfully, afraid I was not going to say a word. He told me he was concerned that I had not reacted to the conversation. I told him I had reacted, but not in front of him. I explained that I had overreacted, and what thoughts had crossed my mind and that I knew they were overreactions. I explained that Saturday’s poking helped solidify that they were overreactions. I explained that I was giving him space. He pointed out that I misunderstood and not talking about things was not what he wanted. It never is.
His biggest concern, beyond worrying that I was bottling and not reacting, was around an inequality in our relationship. I was still serving him, providing service in a number of ways, but he was not giving me the usual exchange in return. He was deeply concerned that this would change my service to him, or that I would become jaded in my service, if I was not getting the things I wanted in return. I took a few moments to seriously consider this, think about my service to him and what it means to me at this point in our relationship. The more I thought about it, internally and out loud, the more I realized that it was not about that anymore. My service began out of a desire to thank him for scenes, putting the rope away after was the very first service I offered him. It continued as a way to show my gratitude for all that he gave to me. Now, I serve him because it makes us both happy that I do so. I serve him and take care of him because I like doing so, because I love him, and because he does take care of me in so many different ways that have nothing to do with kinky interactions.
We occasionally dipped our toes into other topics during that discussion, but kept returning to the above topic. Then his wife got home and our conversation was ended as the stew was served. It smelled delicious, and the little test bites I had were wonderful. But our evening was at an end, our conversation incomplete.
Tuesday morning, I chatted with Hubby about the conversation of the previous night, and he expressed concerns that I had not fully shared my reaction (my tears) with him. Hubby and I got clear about what was discussed and that more discussion was desired.
When he asked for my reactions to Monday’s conversation, I was in a hurry and tried to quickly summarize my gratitude for his concern the night before, and Hubby’s concern that I did not tell him of my tears. I did not communicate clearly enough, and our busy days distracted us both, so we left that conversation quickly, unable to find clarity at that moment.
Wednesday afternoon, I went to him, to speak in person and clarify Hubby’s upset and my reactions. I went step by step through my reactions, from Thursday night up through our ill-timed chat on Tuesday. I was reminded that while I am responsible for my emotions and my reactions, he cannot help me deal with them if I don’t tell him about them. And he wants to help me deal with them, and he wants to help me understand and not be confused, that is the only way we can move forward. He did not ask his girlfriend to back off, it was the kinky part that needed space.
Once that was settled, we moved on to my specific reactions, and confusions and misunderstandings. I told him things I had heard and not understood. I heard a suggestion that my offer of returning the paragraphs was a day too late to be accepted. He truly had only meant that it was ironic that I had made the offer a day after he realized he had been waiting for it for six months to no avail.
I heard him say he would think about suspending me privately, but not publicly. I reacted with hurt and confusion and tears. And this turned out to be a very important point in the discussion. This was the best illustration for me, that actually allowed me to hear and understand where we stood. This turned into a conversation about how deeply things had broken and how shattered the trust was. He was able to explain to me in a way that I could understand, that the trust that was broken by our object play, had been based on the trust we had created in the high flying suspensions, which had been based on the trust built by the static, simple suspensions that began our play together. With the shattering of that trust, it needed to be built back up again, and so, logically, a path to do that would be to return to the beginning. I had made offers of varying degrees, but all of them were too much, to far forward. What we need to do is return all the way to the beginning, and build trust anew. I have often reminisced about those quiet, simple, spaced-out suspensions. Flying is awesome, in every sense of the word, but my favorite memory is still a quiet dark night in his basement, hanging with him nearby. Looking at a simple ceiling suspension point, I feel the quiet pull of floating, bound securely and so free.
Our relationship is very different now than it was when we first started. In both senses of that word. When he started suspending me, I was new. new to the community, new to him, new to rope and new to suspension. When we started object play, we had just started dating, we had just started figuring things out as more than play partners. Everything was fresh and exciting and worth the risk. We knew there were risks to our play. RACK and all that. We acknowledged that this was play too risky for our primary relationships. We knew it could destroy our newly formed partnership. But we were willing to take that risk. We went running in with all the energy that NRE entails. And we had a good run, we explored and pushed and played. Then we crashed and burned. Fortunately, we had been together long enough at that point that we were able to cling to each other in the wreckage and not lose the romantic relationship we had created.
Now, as we look at starting over and rebuilding trust, we glance at the future, at where we might go. And we look at the past and where we have been. That kind of risk, that kind of danger, may no longer be palatable. We are deeply invested in each other now, in staying together and protecting each other and what we have created. We go forward from here, much more cautious about the risks we might take. Much more thoughtful about the dangers and rewards of anything we might do.
The conversation then turned to a touchy point. Is there a risk that I could go elsewhere for the type of play he no longer offered me? The thought had crossed both our minds, with varying reactions. I do not play out much at all. I don’t go to play parties and find random hookups. I don’t make play dates with people outside my relationships. And I am not looking to add another partner. I like the number two. Three was lovely while it lasted, but two is what feels right to me when I think about the future. He pointed out that when you’re not looking is usually when it finds you, but there is no use worrying about what might happen. I am not looking to go have my needs met elsewhere, and as I don’t intend to let him go, we have plenty of time to see where we can go and what needs and wants and desires we can meet.
The end of our conversations wandered around to him poking me to keep talking, seeing as how I was being so open and honest and it was going so well. I hit on the topic of labels. In my musings since Monday, I had considered recasting his concern in the terms of I was still submissive to him, but he was not returning dominance towards me. My brain, in that light, then wandered over to the label In Service To. I shared this with him last night and he grabbed it quickly. Asking if that was something that was important to me, because that was something we could address.
I considered it for most of the rest of the night and some more this morning, both out loud and to myself. Back when we first established our relationship, labeling what we were was important. I wanted to be publicly acknowledged as his girlfriend and his submissive. My other partners had already identified me as his submissive, but I wanted him to say so, too. That leads to the other point. Certainty. Knowing my role, being able to say what I am to him, how we both agree that we view the relationship and connection. There is another aspect to the label as well. Being his. I wrote in one of my last five hundred word emails, that I while I was still acting submissive to him, I was not feeling like His Submissive. There is something special about that feeling, of belonging. Not that I want him to own me, Hubby owns me, heart and soul. But the acknowledgment that my submission, or my service is for him, special to him and to us. I know that this is important to me, because while I was writing it, all the doubts and self-conscious thoughts of last night were silent in the face of writing how I really feel.
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men, may not have been able to put Humpty together again. But they were impatient and not vested enough in Humpty to put forth the effort to find that one big piece to form the base from which he could be rebuilt with time, love and care. Love is not all you need, but it is a good base to start from, and stronger than hundred mile an hour tape.
November 4th, 2010
Today I want to talk about drop.
About a year ago, I posted about Altered States and said that Pain Space “is the one that leads to drop most often.” A month or so later, after a post specifically about Sub Drop I commented that “I rarely have sub drop anymore over purely the physical parts of scenes, which used to happen after any Really Intense scene. Now it really does take a negative emotional trigger for me to drop.”
Earlier this week, I was talking to Lover (yes, he keeps that name for now, I’ll post about labels again soon) about drop from mental scenes as opposed to physical scenes. He was baffled that a relatively painless evening could cause faster and more massive drop than a very physically taxing scene. At first, I thought maybe it had to do with being a girl, I blame girly hormones for a lot of things. But then I thought maybe it was a disconnect in understanding between people who really enjoy pain and people who don’t. Let me explore my thoughts out loud.
My first year in the local community, I would have drop after big physical scenes, either just from the chemical drop after the high endorphins of the scene, or from a negative comment about how harsh the scene was, or just from being so worn out by the physically taxing nature of the scene. I did not do a lot of mental play during that first exploration, certainly not to the extent of some of the play I’ve done this year. I also was not a self-described pain slut in the beginning. I knew I liked some very specific types of pain(intense sensation), but have since discovered that while there are some types of implements I am not fond of, I will put up with them for the experience of the pain(intense sensation). Since I have come to grips with my enjoyment of pain, I have far less drop from physical scenes. If someone comments negatively on it, I am better able to laugh it off and explain how much I enjoyed it.
It is the mental side of things that I now find causes harder drop. Mental scars and bruises are a lot harder to see and are more intense than physical ones. I’m remembering a scene that I don’t think I have posted about before. There was crying from the pain during part of it, but the harder crying was caused by words. That is the case more often than not this past year. Yes, pain can trigger tears, but words and mental control strike deeper chords. While you can see the bruises and marks on the skin, sometimes you don’t know what all happened in your mind. A day later, a stray word, or a random thought, could bubble to the surface and bam, that’s it, you’re dropping from something that you did not consciously process at the time. The mind is a far trickier landscape than the body.
I think I strayed off my two theories quite a bit, let me see if I can bring it back around. On blaming it on being a girl – I’m not sure that holds any water at all. I think I had it at an angle of being more vulnerable mentally than the men I play with, but I think that is quite possibly a false basis for the claim. On being about enjoying pain versus not enjoying pain – I think this holds a bit more truth. Pain is easier for me to process now that I am more accepting of my enjoyment of it. It was not always that way, so I can understand how, for people not at ease with pain, why it would be harder to process and thus be a potential for more drop than more mental play they might be more at ease with.
What are your thoughts? What causes more drop for you? How do you deal with it?