One sub's mission

Ready

2012-01-22T22:26:00.000Z

He was coming over today, not yesterday. I would have been ready for him today. I would have primped and preened and put away the laundry. I'd have been my 'best' me. But instead, suddenly, he wanted to come yesterday. He was tired and poorly. He was worried he wouldn't be very good company. I was just on my way back from a busy day out. My outfit was very unmatchy. I hadn't shaved. My back was hurting.

I fretted. I nearly said no. I wanted to be ready for him and I wasn't.

And then I realised I was being crazy - all I really wanted was to see him. The rest was details; it didn't matter. So I relented. He would surely feel the same, I thought: it doesn't matter - it's just details. He won't mind that I'm not ready.

But I continued to fret a little anyway.

We arrived on different buses at the same time. I went to meet him and we came across one another at the edge of the park. As I saw him wander out of the darkness, my heart did a little jump of excitement and nervousness. We kissed, tired but familiar and still oh so good. A good decision, I concluded. It doesn't matter that I'm not ready.

'With us suddenly meeting up tonight I didn't have time to get ready,' he said. 'I haven't shaved,' he added.

I stroked the stubble on his face, contemplating how little I cared that he wasn't ready.

It sounds small, superficial, petty, I know - but it feels big. It's at moments like these that I realise the weight of conditioning that we carry around with us, the shadow of I'm-not-good-enough that trails behind us whispering in our ear, distracting us from the things that matter.

I think I'm ready to start showing myself a little more as I really am.

Fluid motion: switching 2012

2012-01-04T22:40:00.000Z

People ask how it works for me sometimes, when I talk about switching, and it occurs to me that I haven't broached the subject on here in quite a while. The last time I talked about the nuts and bolts of the switching process itself, it was back in 2010, when I was just discovering it was possible. And since then Mr L and I have developed a lot, have been learning what works for us, and growing together (and apart, and together). This is what I had to say about an early encounter, when I was trying to make sense of an incident where we'd been battling for the big D (versus the little /s):

Everything is confusing. I don't know where I stand. I can't see a fixed point to get my bearings because eveything seems to be moving. Perhaps this motion sickness is just something I have to accept if this is the type of relationship I want, or perhaps it will get easier with time.

I don't think the scene described above will become a frequent occurence - it is too confusing although I found it fascinating to be in that state, to know it was even possible. But it is not just that incident that made me feel uneasy. It is difficult not to have a set role or position, because it leads to constantly trying to assess where you are. And even, in a way, to assess who you are.

It makes me smile to read that back now, because I realise what a fantastic journey I have come on. I also want to give 18-months-ago J a hug and say 'don't worry, the motion sickness will pass'. It's not just that it got easier with time, it's one of the things I love most about our dynamic now. Mr L summed it up earlier tonight when we were talking about our relationship: what we have is fluidity. It isn't binary.

Partly I think that what has changed is I now trust that he completely respects me. I don't doubt that he wants to submit to me. I don't doubt that he wants to Dom me. I don't doubt that I fiercely want both of those things for me, as well as for him, too. And partly I think I've just found my feet a little more, inched closer to being comfortable with what I desire and who I am.

What I have also realised is that we don't need symmetry to have balance. Mr L gave me a collar this Christmas, and I've been pondering its significance in terms of our switchiness. It feels right that I have accepted it and thanked him and not reciprocated in the same way. Our two intertwining relationships (Me and him, Him and me) are at different stages. They are different creatures, even. (And I won't even mention 'us', a third and even more confusing beastie.) But we meet each other in this confusing tangle with equal joy at doing so. And that seems to me to be an important thing.

And so it's not scary anymore when we grapple with each other to be on top (or underneath). It's not fight; it's play. We just play rough sometimes. And when I feel my heart pounding in my chest and realise that I'm grinning and outraged all at once, I know I wouldn't want it any other way.

I've been a good girl this year

2011-12-28T12:00:00.000Z

But I'm too old for Father Christmas so I thought it would go unrewarded.

It turns out that he's not the only one who notices. Mr L noticed too.

I got a couple of presents from Mr L for Christmas, but one of them was more significant than the others.

He gave me a collar. His collar. For me to wear for him.

I'm happy. And proud.

It's a first for me.

When I was childishly feeling up the packages, trying to guess what was inside, I felt the supple shape of it, the buckle, and thought it might be that. I thought it and then I tried to suppress the thought straight away because I didn't want to be disappointed, didn't want to dare hope. I didn't want to speculate and be wrong.

I hope I do him proud. I'm looking forward to next year.

The struggle

2011-12-17T18:09:00.000Z

Lately I've had so many half-formed thoughts in quick succession I have found it hard to pin any down for long enough to write about them. But this is one that keeps flitting back into my focus, so I'll give it a stab.

I've been thinking a lot about how stillness and movement interplay in my consciousness, and how I use them to maintain my state of mind. I choose the word mind very carefully, because I do think that my mind is one level of my consciousness, and sometimes I am limited by it.

I'll just say it, and then we can work back from there: I'm afraid of stillness.

It feels good to admit that - it feels like progress (and progress = movement. Ha.) Stillness fills me with fear because I immediately associate it with being trapped, or with being left behind, or with being dead, or perhaps something else altogether. Perhaps the thing that frightens me most about stillness is having to be with myself, to be present and focussed on the present. Not hurtling towards the future or fleeing from the past. If I focus on the world outside me, then I don't have to look at the dark parts on the inside that hurt me. Actually, if I'm brutally honest it's not the painful parts that scare me. It's the boring parts, the banal predictable parts of me I would rather forget.

And actually, I'm good at the struggle: the striving, the moving forward, focussing on my goal, battling, getting knocked down, getting up again, fighting on and on, experiencing doubt and overcoming it, and succeeding. But never, never stopping. There is always another goal, another thing to push for just around the corner that is nearly in my reach -- nearlynearly -- if I just stretch my fingers out -- I can almost touch it and if I get there, if I can just get there, then it will all be okay. Fuck, it feels great, that struggle. It gives me purpose.

I wonder too if my affinity with BDSM stems from this place of unrest. Let's face it, submission and domination are - at least, the way I play - a supreme and exquisite struggle. The physical aspects of play are obvious enactments of struggle - pain and confinement, pitting your will against your fear - there is a glorious physicality to the struggle. Perhaps it is an enactment of the struggle we experience in the rest of our lives. Its physical enactment is our catharsis. We love and we purge. But there is also the psychological struggle. That peeling back of your pride and ego to make yourself vulnerable for your dom is painful. It is rewarding, but it is not done easily.

Domming is hardly struggle-free either. Its exertion may not be so obvious, but letting your beast out of its cage while keeping it on a leash isn't easy. Exploring new territory with your sub, stretching their horizons, enabling them to do the things they want but are afraid of, and without pushing them too far, can be a difficult line to tread. The learning never seems to end - a comfortingly eternal path, there for you to tread as long as you have the desire.

So is this part of the reason why then that so many find release in BDSM? Does it enable escape of feelings of being trapped? An opportunity to wallow in the struggle? To purge? And perhaps even more importantly to find temporary resolution? Does it provide a yardstick against which we can measure progress even if the rest of our lives are stationary?

Having posed these questions though, I feel I must add: I don't think that all struggle is meaningless. I don't think that the progress made through struggle is all illusion. I think that I am a better person as a result of the struggles I have had in life. I suppose I am examining if the thirst for it is always healthy. Perhaps the answer is yes if you pick your struggles well, and pick those that help to improve you. And I know I'm being harsh here: struggle is a part of being alive. But not everyone seeks it out. Is it emotional masochism?

I'm greedy when it comes to struggle. I'm not content to strain at the ropes and flinch at the belt. I'm not content to leave him in tact when I get that urge to break him. I'm not content to try to communicate until my palms sweat and my heart bleeds. I'm not content to work in a job that is thankless, controversial and never finished. I already have my eye on the horizon, scanning for the next struggle. Right now, I'm struggling not to bolt and start all over again. Struggling to stay still? Now that would be a struggle.

Witness

2011-11-28T23:26:00.001Z

This post is for you. For you who visit this site and read what I have to say. For those of you who witness my discoveries, my growth as a person and my blunders as well. I just wanted to say thank you.

It's a funny word, witness. It can mean to see, to be present at; but it can also mean to validate. I think that those of you who read what I have to say fulfil both of those meanings. You have helped me to process things more quickly, and perhaps even better, through your presence. The writing of the words is a large part of it. Ordering my thoughts enough to type them into sentences really helps me to process my thoughts, but it is not just that. A private journal wouldn't have the same function for me. It is the reading of the words by you that makes a difference. There is some sort of alchemy in nailing down my thoughts and then releasing them into the world. I hammer them onto a keyboard and then they are gone - become as much everyone else's as they are mine. Just another tiny part of the WorldWide Web. I imagine that allowing other people to read my thoughts frees me from them. In expressing them, they are released. They fly.

James Earl Jones once said "One of the hardest things in life is having words in your heart that you can't utter." I started this blog to say those things I couldn't utter. The secrets I kept from the world were documented here. But my life has changed a great deal. I'm no longer a secret kinkster - I'm out (aside from work), I'm open about BDSM with my friends, and I have plenty of outlet to discuss the things I used to keep secret. I would have assumed the blog had served its purpose, but I have realised how helpful this space is for processing things. And there are some things that only come to me when I write. Conversation is too easily diverted to get to the crux of an issue. And thinking without verbally expressing is even more fraught with distraction for me.

So thank you for reading. And thank you for commenting, which enriches the process even more for me. Thank you for witnessing my words. They might not always go where I mean them to; they might not always fly in formation, but it does me good that they fly at all.

Words have wings (but fly not where we would - George Eliot)

On the likelihood that I will say yes

2011-11-22T19:03:00.000Z

If we're going to play, or do something sexual, there is one thing you can do which will greatly increase the likelihood that I'll say yes to whatever you'd like to do.

Ask me.

Sounds like a no brainer, doesn't it? But it seems all too common that people don't get this. I'm not talking about Mr L here - he's good with boundaries and we trust each other. But the reason we trust each other is that we have built that trust up by talking about it before, and making good on what we have agreed. If he doesn't explicitly ask me something its because we've already dealt with that situation.

But this stuff seems to crop up more with casual play - the type of situation where you don't know each other very well and haven't done these things together before. In that situation, surely, surely you establish some boundaries? We of the BDSM community are all up on informed consent, right? Actually I'd have to say from my own personal experience that is not always the case. We talk about consent a lot, but often fall into the trap of not sufficiently negotiating. If you ask me if I want to do x, and I say yes, it's not okay to start doing y and z to me without giving me a heads up.

I don't think this lack of communication is a deliberate attempt (in most cases) to violate someone's consent or push them further than they want to go, but I think it's a product of our culture. Not BDSM culture, sex negative culture. Rape culture.

I'm using she/he below in a female sub / male Dom context, because that's how I've encountered it, but I'm well aware this happens between all genders and orientations.

Wow - I said rape. Woah there, right? That's over-stating my case somewhat, isn't it? I'd argue not. I'm not specifically calling this rape, but what I am saying is that the thinking and the assumptions that this behaviour is based on help to perpetuate the rape culture we live in. The assumptions, presuming that the person in question isn't deliberately trying to rattle you are:

1) She's consented to x and therefore she is up for the whole alphabet; and/or
2) If she wants me to stop she'll say so.

The implication of 1) is insidious. It follows the same line of argument as 'she was asking for it' and it puts the onus on the her to list out every possible thing that might happen that she is not comfortable with, and explicitly say 'I do not want that'. It makes it very easy to transfer the blame. Yes: I have a responsibility to make it as clear as possible what I do and don't want, but you also have the responsibility to ask. I'm not psychic, and I can't guess what you're going to do next.

If you really care about whether she wants it or not, it is worth you noting that 2) is actually not true. She might well feel pressured and intimidated, or blindsided, or already so spaced out from the scene that she isn't communicating well by that point. It also seems a shame to have to push it to that point. A lot of people find it very hard to safeword. Having to go to that point can be very intimidating.

The reason I link this so closely to rape culture is that I think it is a hangover from the culture that brought us 'do you want to come in for a coffee?' as a proxy for consent to penetrative sex without the awkward embarrassment of using the actual words. 'Do you want to do x (something kinky) with me?' becomes the proxy for sex and any other kinky stuff without having to use those pesky words. It also assumes that it's all the same. One yes unlocks the door to all of the yeses. You know what? If you can't ask for it, you don't deserve to have it. If you are making excuses for not asking for it, stop for a minute and try to consider how that might feel for the person on the receiving end. I'm not calling you a rapist. Not yet. But what you are doing is certainly part of rape culture.

This is all on the basis that I don't want you to do the y and z that you have just sprung on me, right?

But what if I was up for it?

If I was up for it, you just blew it. Instead of checking in and getting a 'yes, yes, please do that' from me, by silently going about your business you have just triggered all of my internal alarms. It's not hot. I'm not even focussing on the sensations anymore. My brain is whirring: we didn't agree to that. If he's doing that, what else might he do without my permission? Will he even stop if I ask him to?

I do not feel safe. You have broken my trust. It is highly unlikely I will play with you again. Game over.

Of course, the elephant in the room is this: the suggestion that 'a good submissive will always do what she is told' is never far away from one of these discussions. If you've negotiated a relationship like that with a trusted loved one, that is your business. If you expect someone you hardly know to act in the same way, you're not safe.

Confrontational

2011-11-17T11:41:00.000Z

I used to go to any lengths to avoid a confrontation. Anything was preferable to the horror of conflict. In my family I was the peacekeeper, and I remember being sick with anxiety every time that peacekeeping role failed. But as I got older, and started to recognise how damaging that pattern was for me, I made a concerted effort to change it. At work, and socially at least. I stood my ground. I pushed back.

But my relationship self remained unchanged. I married a man with an anger problem, and I spent my days tiptoeing over possible triggers, smoothing, calming, and where necessary retreating. At work I was becoming a woman who would say what was on her mind, who would fight for her corner, but I always tiptoed home at the end of the day. Of course, my friends never saw that - they thought that I wasn't afraid of anything. But then I wasn't, with them.

In recent years my working life has demanded that I frequently challenge what people say, and I have to initiate many uncomfortable conversations. I've taken some hard knocks, and realised that I am more than capable of surviving them. My relationship self has not been sleeping during this time.

And so now I find myself confrontational, barely recognisable from my old self. If I have a problem, I say so. If my relationship isn't going right, I bring it up, and bring it up, and bring it up. I pick at the fraying edges and I wonder if that is to find a solution or to destroy it further. And I wonder if all of this cauterising of my character, the hardening that I so needed to survive in the world, has gone too far. I wonder if I confront too much, if it is better to sometimes smooth, be balanced, take it. And then the confrontational part of me, the part of me that looks after me so much of the time, says 'or maybe that's just the peacekeeper in you, clawing back some ground'.

I'm bewildered.

Victory

2011-11-08T13:55:00.001Z

Fisting scares me. Even the thought of it scares me. But that hasn't stopped me trying it.

I tried it once, very early on in my relationship with Mr L. That was a whopping two years ago (wow - two years - how did that happen?!). I wanted to do it mainly for him to be honest. Because I knew how much he wanted to try it, how much it turned him on. He was gentle, and he worked me up to it, and the results were... confusing. I squirted for the first time ever, which was pretty amazing, but the whole experience was beset with anxiety. I kept pleading with him - nearly pleading for him to stop and then changing my mind and just leaving my pleas half-finished. It was hot but stressful. The fact is, I didn't really trust him back then - I barely knew him. And we didn't have that rapport. It felt like too much control to surrender - how could I trust him to stretch me like that? He could damage me. Such a helpless position to be in. I remember distinctly the moment he had told me his whole fist was inside me. I had known it anyway, really, from the sensations, but it was something about coming face to face with that fact that scared me. my muscles clenched painfully. Apparently I squeezed his hand very hard. It was too much for me - I couldn't wait for it to be over.

Fast forward two years, and a LOT of water has passed under the bridge. I'm hooded, shackled with a spreader bar and tied to the bed. He has left my boots on. And we're going back there together for the first time since that experience. So what has changed?

Preparation
The way Mr L and I tend to negotiate is through shared and constructed fantasy. We've talked about this activity a lot, and through our scheming and dreaming we have gradually shared with one another the exact nature of my fears, the ways in which he could make it easier or harder for me during the process, the crux of what turns him on, what I want to get out of it, how he will know if I want him to stop, and further goals for us, which may just remain fantasy but I know he will threaten.

Preparation
I'm mentally prepared this time. I'm not doing it for him - this isn't a favour. I have found the path to this through my own desires. I want it for me. I want it because it turns me on. I haven't suddenly developed a kink for it: offer me a random fist attached to a random person and I'd rather have a cup of tea and put my feet up, but I want this with him. The place my desire is coming from is my submission. I want to please him in this extraordinary and challenging way - I want my body to give in to him in every way he wants it to. I want to traverse the mental assault course I will encounter as it happens. I want to fold the confusing tesseract of my feelings into a place where I can relax for him and let it happen. I want to give him that trust.

Preparation
This is definitely the long game. Physically this has been the very slow workup. His tongue and his hands and his cock and his toys have all played their part this afternoon in getting me to the point where I can do this, where he can do this to me. He's given me several orgasms already to warm up. I know what he wants, I know what we are doing, but I find it easier to have the choice taken away from me. The reason I can't see, the reason I am tied up, is to make it easier for me. There is no dilemma - there is nothing left to do but relax. He has been rough with me already today, and so when he speaks to me gently now, now when I am vulnerable and scared, it is even more soothing. The submissive in me simpers, grateful for the reprieve, eager to continue to please. I am ready.

I suppose you want to know the result as well? Holy fuck. Holy fuck is the result. Full of words as I am, I don't have many to describe how it felt - the rollercoaster slipslide of sensation and mental confusion is difficult to name, to pin down. It felt wonderful and terrible and exciting. And I felt like crying when I heard the pride in his voice when he was calling me his good girl.

Now? I'm doing as many kegel exercises as I possibly can. My god it makes things feel different down there! I'll be back to normal again soon, though. *clench*

Drug

2011-10-28T10:47:00.000+01:00

Sometimes I worry I would give everything to feel that hot rush of pleasure spreading through my blood, to feel its chemical tickle on my skin, to feel my head swim, to render the outside world gentler by blurring. I never recognise my need for it in its absence - the drag on my enthusiasm, the slide towards grey when it is not there - to admit my craving would be to admit my dependence. And for a girl so driven by her independence that is not a comfortable realisation to make.

When I return there (there are many other reasons I must visit and I am not sorry for it. I am not there just for the drug) I don't get my hit straight away. Sometimes it can take as long as a heartbeat. We kiss, and I am still myself for a moment, still a thinking, rational being, intensely aware of the feeling of our lips meeting. And then comes that hot slosh of chemicals, flooding me, blotting out the ticking of my brain. With every beat of my heart my fever is pushed further, faster around my veins. I am an animal of instinct. I do not think, I feel. I am cosseted in the warm coating of my hormones. Primal. Gentle. Blissful. Fiercely maddened with lust. I am suddenly relieved of my facility to hide my need for this, dirty and scrabbling, grappling with the thing I want, need, must have. I am revealed.*

*Please note that this cocktail of adrenaline, dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin and vasopressin can be very dangerous.

Flogasm

2011-10-15T12:15:00.001+01:00

I had a very exciting new experience earlier this week. I had an orgasm just from being flogged. It was so intense that word doesn't seem to do it justice.

I've had a paingasm before, but that was when there was pain being directly applied to my lady bits (bulldog clips, in fact - owee), so it seemed a bit more like normal stimulation. It was situated in the usual place in my body. And it was definitely a pain, rather than a pleasure, orgasm (although I'll admit that the line is sometimes hard to draw between the two). This was something else.

It's been a while since I've bottomed and we've done impact play in any serious way. The joys of two switches with very wide-ranging kinks playing together - we have the pleasure of infinite variety, but it means you'll sometimes suddenly realise you desperately need a dose of that-thing-we-haven't-done-in-ages. So we'd discussed and both heartily agreed that I was long overdue a spanking. It wasn't too long after I was thrown over his lap that I had the familiar feeling of wishing he'd stop and wishing he wouldn't stop all at once, his hand viciously crashing down on my increasingly sore bottom. I always think to myself that a hand spanking can't hurt me - it's so mild - and then I have one and remember they can really hurt! My protests mostly surpressed, Mr L moved onto the paddle. It was a relief to begin with, and I started to enjoy the sensations again. A quick check between my legs betrayed me, and he moved me to a new position, bending me over the sofa and giving me a few seconds to cool down.

The paddle continued, and this time harder, causing my muscles to tighten in resistance and flinch in anticipation. Of course, Mr L has the perfect antidote to this. Every time I tensed, he would fuck me, causing me to relax and refocus my feelings on that area. Every time I relaxed he would return to paddling me, making the most of my sensitised state. In the end, he let me cum, fingers digging sharply into my hips, intoxicated by my squeals of pain and pleasure.

And so he moved me again, ready for a flogging. Enter the new flogger. I'm so in love with it I'll do something I rarely do here, and tell you where I got it: Jack's Floggers. They really are ace - they look good, feel good (in your hand or on you) and even smell good. Anyway, that's not the point of this story. But I am in love with flogging, more than a little bit!

As his blows started raining down on my shoulders and back, it felt like heaven. With a lot of impact play, I do process it as pain. It's pleasurable pain, and pain I get sexually aroused from often, but it's pain, and there is a mental struggle to submit to it. But with this it felt like strong light falling on my skin, awakening the energy beneath, causing ripples of pleasure throughout my nervous system with every strike. As he hit me again and again with the flogger, it was as if the ripples of pleasure were overwhelming me, intersecting and making new patterns until I felt completely enveloped with a bright, vibrating energy. I could feel myself begin to shake, but that outward manifestation was the most minor of all of my sensations. Another blow pushed me over the crest of the wave, and the sensation broke into a powerful, full-body orgasm. I found myself shaking and spasming in such an intensity that I wanted to bring him with me, to describe, to capture, but all I managed was gibberish.

His voice sounded far away but also comfortingly familiar, like a memory of home, when he spoke to me. Softly, he spoke to me, anchored me, pleased and wondering at what had just occurred, his gentle stroking of my back grounding me. As full of words as I usually am, I was speechless.

I leave you with an image of Alex Grey's artwork. I think it's beautiful, and sums up much better than I could in words what I'd like to say about energy.

On trust

2011-10-08T12:32:00.000+01:00

There are some things that mortify me in the realms of BDSM. Things that I might be asked to do. Things he has suggested. Even things I've already dipped my toe into a little.

Discounting the things I wouldn't do because they actually offend me, the bulk of things that mortify me do so because my own ego has a problem with them. Hair is a prime example of this. Something Mr L routinely threatens me with is not letting me shave (anywhere, not just my Map of Tasmania). The thought of it mortifies me. I was trying to unpack the reasons behind this, and I concluded that it actually boiled down to one very simple reason. Because I have built it up in my head as a thing that is disgusting, unfeminine and undesirable (hold fire, girls, I actually don't think this about others who don't shave - this is a personal shame. A concept which intrigues me, and I might come back to in another post), I cannot shake the idea that he would find me disgusting, unfeminine and undesirable if I did it for him. I can't shake this underlying fear that giving him what he wants will make him leave me.

Huh. Now where have I heard that before? It sounds like I'm channelling The Rules, here, doesn't it? Although obviously if I was channelling it verbatim, I would be talking about having sex with a man too early on in a relationship, not abandoning my razor as a submissive act of humiliation. But am I withholding pleasure in order to maintain his interest? My perverse attempt at coquettishness?

I don't think so. I think it is more of a case of not trusting that his taste or perception of desirable or attractive can be any different from my own. It's not that I think that giving him what he wants will make him leave me in every case - I don't seem to have this concern over things I enjoy (or enjoy enduring) - things that I trust will satisfy and pleasure him. It seems, more accurately, that I am acting on a fear that giving him what I don't want will make him leave me. Because the him in my head doesn't like it. Because I don't like it. But why am I listening to the imaginary Mr L in my head, rather than the real live flesh and blood Mr L, who has different opinions to me, in fact is an entirely different person? Trust. And habit. But my trust is misplaced. I'm not saying I should trust flesh and blood Mr L blindly - it's a slow process, and one that we are progressing along together - but I should trust him more than the imaginary version. That's the crazy one who is created from my biased viewpoint with a healthy dollop of my own neuroses thrown in.

Again, I smack my forehead as another great and basic realisation dawns on me. I had already started on the road to trusting him enough to tell him the truth at the core of my feelings and reactions. But I'm only just starting to trust him enough to listen to him too: really listen to what he is actually saying rather than what my assumptions thrust upon him are saying.

I'm a slow learner, but I think I'm getting started now.

(Image: the wonderful Amanda Palmer, Map of Tasmania)

Sex on fire

2011-09-26T18:43:00.002+01:00

I turned 30 this weekend. I didn't want to, but it happened anyway. Age is funny like that. Very nonconsensual. Actually, I think for all my fussing, 30 is not so bad. So far, at least. I'm pleased with where I am in life, and I'm breathing easier now that the milestone is no longer looming.

I do think I've grown up and become a more responsible adult since then. I thought I'd share with you a little story from the first few hours of my first day of being 30. I think it illustrates my point.

4am, more or less (I've been 30 since midnight at this point). Mr L and I burst into my flat, a little intoxicated and horny as hell. We've spent a delightful evening celebrating with friends, but the many hours trying to behave ourselves have taken their toll. We're kissing, groping, hungry for each other before we have even got the front door shut. I break off from him briefly to get water, he follows me into the kitchen and before I know it we are all over each other again, clothes being shed and I can barely breathe for the painful wanting him, my fingers fumbling and useless for all of their urgency. He pushes me back against the hard surface behind me and I know he can't wait, I can't wait - there is no reason why we should wait - this is my house, dammit! He hitches my bottom up onto the surface behind me so that I'm the right height for him and pushes roughly inside of me. The field of my perception is suddenly rapidly shrunk to nothing outside of the two of us as I fuck him back, desperately. There is nothing there for me but his smell, his taste, his skin where it touches mine, his breathing as it becomes more ragged, the noises I can't help but make, the growing warmth inside of me. I notice that one of my high heels pressed against the glass panelling and I hear the rhythmic click, click, click....

Wait - click, click, click is not a sex noise, says a small persistent part of me. 'Shut up, who cares' says almost all of me. Oh fuck, yes who cares--
But wait, continues the small persistent part of me. Click, click, click sounds like something else, like something b--
SHUT UP, says almost all of me again. Who fucking cares, as long as you're fucking him and he's fucking you, and it feels this amazing?
If you'd let me finish (shut up) I was going to say (shut up) that sounds like the noise the hob makes when you turn the flames on (SHUT UP)
The hob on the oven you're sitting on?
Oh fuck!

I must admit that the narrowly avoided singed parts did not give us much pause for thought. Just long enough to change rooms. I felt ever so lucky in the morning though.

Yes, I think 30's fine. I'm definitely growing up. I've left you a little birthday song that I thought was quite apt for the occasion:

Sex on Fire - Kings of Leon

So what happened?

2011-09-19T19:04:00.001+01:00

In my last post, I was writing just after I had taken a leap of faith, being painfully honest in a way I really haven't before. I was pretty sure the results would be dramatic, one way or another.

I opened up and told Mr L things I've been too scared to tell anyone, and I was fairly convinced it would make him run for the hills. But I knew it was right to be honest. Did he run for the hills?

Well, no. Not exactly. He responded with a similar amazing level of honesty. And we both cried. I find it interesting that despite having heard my fears, and my feeling of certainty that the truth would make him want nothing more to do with me, his feelings mirrored mine: once I had heard the truth he was convinced I would want nothing more to do with him. But of course I did.

I'm getting used to a new feeling now. It feels a little like living with my heart on the outside of my ribcage for the first time. It feels raw and exposed. I have offered up those soft parts of me that make me the most vulnerable. I have spent nearly 30 years carefully hiding those parts. And I have no guarantee that he won't hurt me in those vulnerable spots in the future, nor he I. We are not out of the woods, by any means. But with it comes a freedom, and a realisation that I don't have to be so bound by past and future - honesty gives me the chance to be truly present in the moment. I feel as if I spent the first couple of decades of my life learning how to do it wrong, learning that I must put up a front in order to be liked and loved, in order to be acceptable. And now I must unlearn it. I don't think I'm alone in that, and I wonder why we do it.

I take comfort in the words of T.S. Eliot, my favourite poet. I always thought he was a cynical old bastard, but perhaps it was also the frustration of one who is secretly hopeful.

“Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.”

Honest

2011-09-14T14:44:00.000+01:00

I should be working right now, but I decided that my mental health is more important. And processing this by writing it here helps me maintain that.

The last couple of weeks I have felt a scream caught in the back of my throat. I have been choking on it, always trying to swallow down a rising sense of panic, of dread. In every part of the day I have felt it, unable to shake it with exercise or alcohol or sleep. I have been lying down in bed at night with fists clenched, and awoken too early, staring at my silent alarm. I've felt set apart from friends, forcing myself to join in with their laughter and not feeling it. I've thrown myself into work ferociously, and channelled this unnamed fear into the kind of anger you need to be successful at my job. And yet through all of this I have had a heightened feeling of being child-like, vulnerable, for an unnameable reason.

I've been arguing with Mr L too. Stupid little things have blown up into big things, and I've lost my temper more than once. It's very unlike me. Today, one of those little things that blew up into a big thing pushed me over the edge. I pushed my work to one side and started to write. I wrote to Mr L. And a sudden burst of honesty came forth. As I was writing I realised how much fear I was holding on to, and how many hopes and how many hurts, all unspoken, all carried around inside me. And so I committed an act of trust, one that has been too seldom in our relationship. So seldom that perhaps it is better termed faith. I told him my fears and hopes, the ones I usually keep hidden even from myself. The parts that my frightened self always whispers would cause people to leave me if I was honest and told them. I poured it all out in an email, took a deep breath and hit send. This might mean the end of our relationship, but for once I was unflinchingly honest.

And then I cried. I cried in big, wet cathartic sobs. Including that detail isn't a bid for sympathy, but rather to explain this: when I stopped crying, that scream caught in my throat, the panic in my chest - not lifted by yoga or swimming or wine - was gone. I feel light again, and calm, and unhaunted. There were some significant relationship issues I raised that we'll have to deal with, and I'm sure that will be painful. It may not be pretty, and we may not survive it. I don't know. But I'm so glad I did - I'm shocked to feel the difference now I have released all of those things I was keeping bottled up. I think it's my only shot at happiness.

It interests me that once my honesty started to flow, it became obvious why I had been acting in the way I had. Suddenly seeing the child in me is a clear illustration of the issues I am dealing with: I've been tapping into my fears of abandonment. As a child I was adopted and I was always terrified that I would be rejected, given back, abandoned by my second set of parents as I was by my first. My fearfulness drove me to try harder, to toughen up and to believe that the only person I could depend upon was myself. I never trusted a single soul enough to tell them what I was afraid of. I've repeated that pattern into adulthood, it seems. The issues in my relationship have been triggering my fears of abandonment, and instead of the grown up he is used to, Mr L has been getting a dose of the scared little girl I used to be. Not just him, actually - I think everyone around me has met aspects of her lately.

This represents a massive epiphany for me. I'll probably write more on this when I have managed to sort through it in my head some more.

In case you're wondering how the picture is relevant, those are honesty seeds. I have always thought they are beautiful but have never really thought about their meaning - through their beautiful transparency, you can see the seeds, which will grow and create new honesty. I hope to do the same, in my own small way.

A quiet revolution

2011-09-10T13:50:00.000+01:00

I've always hated gags. I could feel the panic rising in me just thinking about being gagged - not being able to communicate, not being able to say 'stop' or 'no'. Or those O-ring gags that make you drool - I hate those too. The humiliation they produce in me isn't the nice, hot kind of humiliation I enjoy - instead they produce the feeling that the whole situation is deeply unsexy and I wish that I was at home on my own, or almost anywhere else, in fact.

And so I've invested quite a bit of energy and imagination in avoiding gags over the last couple of years. With Mr L, though, my excuses were always going to run out eventually. I can understand his desire to use a gag on me: I never shut up. And while he swears blind he loves my responsiveness, my dirty mouth, my wheedling and pleading and begging, it's good to mix things up now and then.

And so, as the weeks flew past, and my excuses gradually gave way to honest discussion about why gags scare me, my fate slowly began to close in on me. My concerns about safety, about not being able to tell him that something was wrong, were dealt with adequately - I could tell him with my hand, and he'd never leave me alone, and he'd be watching me closely. Those were the logical concerns that I had layered over a much more deep-seated and less rational concern, the one that was at the core of my fear. I was afraid that this would give him the last vestige of my power. He would really be in control. And I would be trapped in my head with no outlet for my thoughts. The communication would be one-way: in, but not out.

It almost makes me laugh when I look at this logically. I don't turn a hair at the thought of him physically overpowering me, tying me up, beating me, making me inflict pain on myself, controlling my behaviour, my orgasms, and even at times my appearance. All of those things are massive forms of control, and you could argue that the physical restraints are really the nail in the coffin for whether or not you can get out of a situation or not, not your voice. But at all of those times he was still doing those things to me - and I was able to talk to him, tell him how I was feeling, squeal, beg, say sorry and thank you... And he was able to tell me to shut the fuck up and carry on what he was doing anyway. And that was fine.

Staring down the barrel of how I really feel about gags has made me realise that I attach an unbalanced amount of importance to the voice and brain parts of me as the bits that are really me. I kept thinking, 'if he's doing this to me gagged, he could be doing this to just anyone - it's not me - it's just a piece of girl-meat.' But it is me he is doing this to, and it is my mind he is fucking, he just doesn't need the constant chatter of feedback to do it.

I accepted that I trusted him enough to do this, and I knew that if I panicked, he'd have me out of that situation in seconds, so there were really no protests left. What I wasn't prepared for was how much fun, and how playful the experience would be, this time, with someone I truly trust and connect with. When the ball gag came into view, I felt that familiar urge to bolt, or to beg him no, but I didn't - I acquiesced. Because I wanted to please him.

I had feared the communication would be gone, but it wasn't: he used it to tease me, asking me questions, deliberately misunderstanding me, goading me gently, laughing softly at my ear as I tried to protest, as he hurt me - tied and helpless. And? I loved it. It made me squirm in that good way - I didn't once wish I was curled up somewhere else with a mug of cocoa. I was here, in the moment, and loving being his foolish slut, the girl who couldn't make him understand, his willing victim, his silly entertainment.

And so I think we have had a quiet revolution. Another line I drew between us is scuffed away, for once through silence (or muffled protests at least), rather than through talking.

Self

2011-08-31T22:28:00.000+01:00

"Why did children seem to be so often spontaneous, joy-filled and concentrated while adults seemed controlled, anxiety-filled and diffused? It was the Goddam sense of having a self."
— Luke Rhinehart (The Dice Man)

Do you ever feel trapped under the weight of your own sense of self, by the endless heap of expectations you have piled on yourself? I do. And I know no one else is watching or contributing, I know that it is just me, carefully tending to my growing pile of Things That Are Me, the weight of which crush at my chest.

Yes, me - hippy, kinkster, career-woman, loner, lover, warrior, bitch, loser, fighter, winner, sucker, switch, submissive, dominant, happy, heart-broken, clever, foolish, passionate, lonely, awake, lazy, driven, humble, arrogant, confused, delighted, confounded, curious me.

Sometimes I wish I could just throw all of those things up in the air and shout 'catch!'

Maybe I will.

Fucking with gender and power

2011-08-27T15:37:00.000+01:00

I've alluded to but never really elaborated on my love of gender-fuckery here on this blog. Why? Well, for starters my partner in crime didn't feel comfortable with me talking about it. It left him feeling exposed, despite the semi-anonymity that my nickname-giving affords. And so I've kept quiet, because I'd never want to betray his trust.

The reason I'm talking about it now is because he has given me permission to - he feels more comfortable with who he is, what we are, and I suppose is coming to accept that there is far from anything wrong with playing with gender in the way that we do.

I know that this can be a touchy subject, and so I'm going to preface it with a few givens: I'm fully aware that there exists across the full spectrum of cross-dressing, genderqueer and trans folk every combination of dominant, submissive, switch and non-D/s. But this is my observation from within the switch relationship I have with one cisgendered man. I'm not making wider assumptions.

We've played with gender before, quite a bit. I've dressed him up, and put makeup on him, made him even prettier for me, called him my beautiful girl. It's a wonderful, intimate space for the two of us, and something we both get a lot out of. And it is a type of play that has always been accompanied by my dominating him. I'm always 'Miss' as soon as the lacy knickers or the lipstick come out.

I've been pondering that lately. Not because I think that there is anything wrong with associating feminisation with submission: I think that in BDSM we play with cultural stereotypes often, and I also think that the road to understanding and decoding them can be through play. The reason I've been pondering it is this - I've always loved the thought of a feminised man dominating me. The drag bitch-diva archetype hits my buttons. And so I wanted to try it. I mentioned this to him, and he thought a moment, nodded his head and said, 'I'll see what I can do.' I love that about him. I feel like there is very little I could ask him for which wouldn't elicit that response.

Fast-forward to last night, when he made good on my request: I couldn't see what was going on behind me as I was bound and bent over my dining table. Miscellaneous clatterings and rustlings were going on, my ears straining to make sense of it, to understand what might be about to happen. When he returned to me, he took my hands behind me and guided them to touch him. Instead of warm skin, my searching fingers came into contact with the nylon-smoothness of his stockings. As they fumbled upwards slightly I touched on their lacy tops. It was the first time I'd ever met Madam, but she was a skilled and proficient Domme (as I suspected she would be, having already met her alter-ego); cruel but caring, and very hot.

And so how, then, did it come to pass that I ended up in charge? I have no memory of how the flip occurred at all - I just remember suddenly realising as I was straddling this same pretty girl, teasing her and extracting profuse apologies for getting ideas above her station, that this was not how the scene had started out, that I was supposed to be the sub. It was too late to turn back by then - we were both completely in our stride, enjoying ourselves and connecting well (albeit not as we had intended to).

For whatever reason, as soon as we stopped concentrating in a deliberate and contrived way on what our roles were meant to be, our subconscious drives took over - she became the fem sub she has always been. This has set me to wondering why. It was a mutual response, I think, and I suppose it would be fair to attribute at least a part of our switching in this scene on habit. We've always played with him as sub when he has been she - so perhaps it was just autopilot taking over as we became more aroused and weren't thinking consciously. But I don't think it's just that.

I can't help but wonder if I associate his dominance with his masculinity. What does that mean for me? Does this mean I'm a closet sexist? I don't think so; I'm quite a feminine Domme - I don't become any more masculine when I'm in charge. I don't see it as a male role. Does he associate his submission with his feminine side? Perhaps. Perhaps that is just where it sits in him, or perhaps they are just so close together in his subconscious because they have spent such a long time shoved in a corner of his being labelled: 'Other (Not Allowed)'. But even if that is the case, it doesn't explain my strange and sudden outburst of dominance. Unless I could smell the submission in him, barely suppressed. When we switch in general there is often a moment of faltering from one of us, a subtle humbling, that makes the other smell blood.

I think that it's useful for me to understand situations like this, to really understand my underlying assumptions about gender. I'm fascinated to know whether this flipping of roles will happen again, once we've both done some processing. Overall, though, whatever our explorations unearth, I'm really glad to be sharing something this special with someone I trust.

A glimpse behind the glitter

2011-08-24T21:28:00.000+01:00

It's a bitter-sweet moment in a relationship when you get your first taste of reality. It's been a long time coming for Mr L and me. A freakishly long time coming, now I think about it - he has been in my life for nearly two years now. But there have been a few bust-ups in that time, and some time apart, which has left us repeatedly going through the brand-new honeymoon phase. We'd see each other each time at our very best - dressed up, best of behaviour, bubbling with excitement to be together.

He always used to say that to me actually, wistfully, usually in relation to us not spending enough time together: 'you get the very best of me.' I saw the very worst of him too, at times. But it was all heightened.

Now? I think maybe we're seeing a little more of each other as whole people. Not every conversation is packed with filth. Some of it is life. It's work-stress and it's worries and it's even the ugly vulnerable parts that you try to hide from the outside most of the time. And that's a beautiful thing. But there is something that tugs at my heart a little, and I'm trying to unpack it.

The silly, princessy part of me, the part that listened too closely to fairy tales and half-baked women's magazines and Arthurian legends, gets scared when I see this man becoming more vulnerable with me. Princess J expects him to continuously prove his worth to me. Ideally, this proof will come with box-office-worthy grand gestures and florid displays of affection. This is why my relationships fail. I expect them to be cinematic.

I don't want to be too hard on Princess J, as she directs me from one corner of my subconscious - she's processing a heavy load of social conditioning. She's still about 8 years old, and trying to make sense of a scary, confusing world that is absolutely nothing like the stories she was told. But she needs to learn. She needs to learn that people can't just be dumped into the hero or villain categories - most of us fall into 'other' (or perhaps more accurately both, at the same time, always both). She needs to learn that if you always test people, they will fail at some point. She needs to learn that there are things much greater than perfection. Like honesty.

So, this week, it's not about sex or romance or kink or excitement. Its about his man flu, and my IUD fitting and his work stress and my looming deadlines. And no matter how much Princess J smacks me on the forehead with her fairy wand* and tells me that this is it, party over, I feel good about it. Okay, mostly. I feel mostly good about it. And cautiously excited: perhaps we really are starting to let each other really see us, for real. Not just the fun bits. And that's a kind of closeness we haven't had before.**

*You know real princesses don't have fairy wands, right, J?
**Note to the reader: I am fucking terrified.

Have you or would you, ever mark another or be marked permanently yourself?

2011-08-20T21:50:00.001+01:00

This is something I've discussed with Mr L. It's something we're both attracted to as an idea, but waaaaaaay down the track from now, if we're still together. It really is a long term decision, but I can see myself making it one day, somewhere that can be easily hidden under clothes - I think it's a beautiful symbol of commitment.

Of course, as a switch, it's not a one-way street :)

Ask me anything

Would you be prepared to share your most degrading, yet erotic, encounter you have ever experienced?

2011-08-20T21:45:00.001+01:00

Most degrading ever? Nope. That one's private. Maybe one day. Nya :P

Ask me anything

J great blog,love every post.My question is about limits, have they changed over time and where do you think they are going?Has become a switch changed your outlook on your limits?

2011-08-20T21:44:00.001+01:00

Hello. Thank you very much - it's always such a pleasure to hear that someone enjoys reading.

Yes - my limits have changed over time. I've done things I didn't think I could do before. It's very hard for me to say if I think that this will continue - I very much feel that I am still in the learning and evolving phase of my sexuality. Maybe I will settle at some stage, or maybe I will continue to grow. I don't expect that I'll necessarily become uber-extreme if I continue to explore my limits - it could go in so many directions.

I think the one thing that I hadn't really factored in when I was thinking about limits as a sub at my very beginnings was the amazing strength of trust that you can build up with someone in a D/s relationship. And with it comes an urge to please, and to meet that person's needs and desires, that has an intensity I had not in the slightest expected. Those have been the forces responsible for my reassessment of my limits. Most of them weren't really limits - it was about fear. By saying it was a limit I was saying that I was afraid to do it. However, there are things I wouldn't do because I genuinely have a problem with them - you could call those hard limits - and those things wouldn't be affected by how much I trust a partner. I have limits like that on both sides of the sub/dom fence.

I don't think being a switch has changed my perspective on limits at all. I suppose having experience as sub has made me more aware of spotting the subtle nuances in *my* sub between 'I find this really hard but I want you to make me do it' and 'I really don't want this but I'll do it for you' (first one good, second one bad). But I think just having great communication with your partner is all you need, whether you're sub or dom.

Ask me anything

Clean

2011-08-16T19:24:00.000+01:00

I always come back to this word when I try to describe how I feel after a heavy session of pain or D/s. You know, those ones that rock you to the core and leave you crying and snotting and shaking. It's funny; no matter how I arc through the colourful adjectives trying to describe exactly how I feel, I always come back to this:

Clean.

My emotions are stripped back to the bare white bone, clean and smooth and hard. There is no swirling confusion, no flesh of uncertainty. At least, that's how it is for a little while.

It's ridiculous, I know, to proclaim myself clean at this time; salty with sweat, makeup streaked, often cum-splattered... and yet clean. Calm.

Perhaps it is the Catholic little girl in me, the girl that used to pray fervently for forgiveness by her bed every night until she got old enough to question it. Perhaps it is that little girl seeking penance. Is that why? Is that why I feel clean when I have been made to suffer, when I've cried, when I've been so sorry?

Perhaps it is the defiant adolescent in me, the girl who always sought out adversity. Perhaps it is that girl who had to test and stretch her limits, because that was the only way she knew how to define what she was. Is that why I feel clean when I forget all of the stuff on the periphery, really feeling what it is to be me, alive in that moment for once? not in the past or the future or the things I think I ought to be? Am I clean because for a moment I'm just me?

Perhaps it is the grown up me, the woman who has found what really makes her tick. Perhaps I feel clean because this is honestly, honestly me. I don't have to pretend, or fake, or push that secret urge to the back of my head. I can look my partner in the eye and know I'm meeting him with complete honesty. Am I clean because I've finally had the courage to admit this is what I've always been?

Perhaps perhaps perhaps.... Perhaps I'll know one day, when I have learnt and understood more about this path I'm on. Or maybe I never will. Maybe one day understand that I don't need to understand everything. But until then I'll continue to ponder.

Tell us just one of the very hard things he has set you to do for him.

2011-08-06T20:43:00.001+01:00

Not that long ago he made me go and find two bulldog clips from the stationery cupboard while I was at work. I was absolutely petrified at the thought of having to put them on my nipples, and convinced I couldn't do it. But I didn't want to defy him. At every turn I wanted to tell him no - I couldn't do this, not now and not here.

My hands were shaking when he told me to go to the ladies. I knew I couldn't back down, but I was convinced I couldn't do it - at my own hand, in a work cubicle - too painful, too scary. He had me attach them to my labia. I wasn't expecting that. And it hurt - it really hurt and my legs started to shake as the seconds lengthened, waiting for his next move. I sent him a picture, as requested. He rang me and I listened to his goading voice in silence, unable to respond in case a colleague came into the bathroom and heard me.

All of my nerves were jangling and the throbbing - pleasuable now - was totally overshadowed by my fear of what would happen when I removed the clips. I knew that the longer they were left on, the worse it would be.

Finally, he had me release them, listening on the other end of the phone. Right there, standing in a cubicle at my work, I had my first ever paingasm. He heard my breath catch, my gasp as I tried to silence myself. Pleasure and pain shot through my body in intense shudders. I managed to whisper a thank you, shaking and ragged, before he was gone.

Ask me anything

From your blog, your clearly a very intelligent woman who knows her mind and would not give into social pressures.My question,where do you stand on the pubic hair debate,as a woman and a kinky person,what is your preferen when it comes to subs and dom

2011-08-06T20:33:00.001+01:00

There is no debate as far as I'm concerned. People should be free to style their pubic hair into whatever shape or style or get rid of it altogether.

My personal preference when it comes to myself is get rid of it altogether. My personal preference when it comes to others is neatly trimmed or gone, but it's not a dealbreaker.

Ask me anything

Wow I love your blog. I would like to play a game with you where I can give you enticing sexual dares and challenges and you can do them and report back to me like a sweet lil sub that you are. So are you ready and willing to step into the rabbit hole?

2011-08-06T20:31:00.001+01:00

I'm glad you love my blog. But I'm not sure what you read in it that gave you the idea I'd agree to do that for an anonymous stranger.

Ask me anything

Fear of the future

2011-08-06T12:52:00.000+01:00

>Would you run, screaming, for the hills if I asked you to put my birthday party in your diary?
> Yes. But I've put it in my diary anyway.

You well-adjusted types might laugh, but that was a big deal for both of us. My heart rate went up considerably when I was asking that question, palms a little sweaty, panicky questions running through my mind:
Have I broken the magic between us by planning this far ahead? Will I be able to look him in the eye again if he says no? Do I want this high-pressure stage of all my friends being there, watching us, curious and expectant? Am I ready for this? Is he?
This was a big deal for me, but a bigger deal for him, I think - a self-professed commitment-phobe. I knew that was scary for him to say yes, to commit in advance and to acknowledge he holds an important place in my life. To acknowledge he is part of my life.

I understand it, too: I have been a little commitment-lite since the ending of my marriage, not really wanting to cause that carnage again. The kicker is, of course, that the heart doesn't give a damn what the head has resolved to do; it goes on and makes connections regardless.

This is progress, I think. Smile, indulgently, if you like, at the modest scale of this progress. But I'm proud of it because I know the mass of fear that had to be overcome on both sides to make it. I know it's good to have the ability to be present in the moment, and experience it without future-projecting. But I think it's also good not to be afraid to look up, not to be bound in the present by your fears. After all, fear is a future-projection all of its own, a subconscious imagining of an unwanted future.

I was searching for a suitable fear of the future-type picture when I came across a quotation from Gary Warne on the subject. I thought it was rather beautiful, so I'll leave it with you here:

Fear is a freeze on the future, the filter or floodgate
that stops our imaginings; something within us that
stops us from becoming more powerful and loving
CARNIVAL COSMOLOGY
Gary Warne

The giddy urge to give

2011-08-02T18:29:00.000+01:00

Always, when he has pushed me through difficult challenges, I end up in the same place.

My submission never begins easily. There is much inward, if not outward, cursing of the the things that are too hard, too scary, impossible. Sometimes I even wish he would leave me alone, when it gets really hard. I am the opposite of grateful for his attention. I want to curl up, hide, not deal with the difficult path he has set me.

But I don't give up. I wouldn't want to disappoint him really. And so I suffer and silently curse and wonder over and over if he can possibly know how hard this is, if he could possibly have been so cruel to ask this of me if he knew how hard this is. He can't know. I must tell him. But I don't tell him. Because I don't want to whine: I wouldn't want to disappoint him really.

And this way I stumble and falter and struggle towards the goal I have been set, trying to keep my dissent silent, secret, because I wouldn't want to disappoint him really. But all the while the traitor within me remains vocal and suggestive. Suppressed, but ever-present.

After the peak, when the very hard thing that he set me is done for him, whatever it may be - after that, when he is pleased with me and I am surprised at my success, I always end up in the same place.

I am giddy with the urge to give to him. My spirit is filled with the generosity I worried I had lost. I'll do anything - I don't care how hard - anything for him. I'll wrack my brains thinking of ways to surprise him with pleasure. I am gratefully brought low, and for a little while, my pride doesn't bother me at all and neither does my doubt. My trust grows a little bit more each time this happens.

The words seem unbearably light for their meaning: Thank you Sir.

e[lust] #28

2011-08-01T19:53:00.000+01:00

Photo courtesy of Delilah
Welcome to e[lust] - Your source for sexual intelligence and inspirations of lust from the smartest & sexiest bloggers! Whether you’re looking for hot steamy smut, thought-provoking opinions or expert information, you’re going to find it here. Want to be included in e[lust] #29 (Which will be in September, taking a short summer break)? Start with the rules and subscribe to the RSS feed and Twitter for updates and submission reminders.
~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~
What makes me a woman? - It’s a stumper, this question. There must be something that makes me a woman. Something more than how I am perceived by others as I walk down the street. But what is the answer?
Baggage: An Inventory - Everyone brings bags with them. My goal is to carry my own bags. I’ll let people help me shed them, but I will never let them carry them. Those bags are my own to, well, own.
There's pain and then there's pain (and then there's pain) -Part of what I crave in the second type of pain is the selfish sadism of the partner who continues despite my pleas. He does it because it arouses him, and he does it because I'll endure it for him.
~ Featured Post (Lilly’s Pick) ~
What Is Gender? - Playing with dolls and preferring the color pink doesn’t make you a girl anymore than chewing on a bone makes you my dog.
~ e[lust] Editress: Dangerous Lilly ~
Sex Toys: Single or Partnered, there is no shame in owning them - There’s no fucking shame in owning your sexuality, in taking control of your own damn orgasm. Can you PREFER human contact and partnered sex to sex toys? Sure. You can prefer whatever the fuck you want. But don’t insinuate to me that owning a lot of sex toys is somehow bad or shameful.
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable ~after this point~. Thank you, and enjoy!
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Kink & Fetish
BDSM Day, an international recognition

BDSM Advice Series: Bondage Tape

Being a Brat Can Hurt

Caning, energy and romance

Screw roses! I enjoy playing with Thorns...

Working Girl
Erotic Writing
A Trip to the Toy Store

Can I get into your knickers now?

Coffee Break

early afternoon

Elevator Shaft

Fogged-up Windows

Fucking Eli

FWB

I'll see you tonight...

One on One

Open By Night

Rock Out With My Cock Out

Renewed Interest

Twenty/Fifty-Three

that little fucking game changer [part I]

the weekend away - Sunday
Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor
Death By Bondage

Hypocrite, PA-Rant!

kink labels....is there a place for me? (or someday my kink will come)

Things I Looove Thursday
Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships
Ask PolyAnna: Multiple partners?? Safer sex??

Are My Nipples Getting The Correct Signals?

Evolution

More Pussy Pride - The Perfect Vagina

My Take On Masculinity

Rambling Harlot: On Internet Dating and Shyness

Sex and Catholic Schools

Sex And Disability: Starting the Dialogues

Have you ever fell in love at first sight? Did you act on that love? Did it work out for you?

2011-08-01T15:56:00.001+01:00

I don't believe in love at first sight - I think that takes longer to grow. But I do believe in instant attraction which can be very powerful and turn into love over time. I have experienced that before, and acted on it.

Ask me anything

How would you react if a total stranger to you, came up to your Significant Other and kiss them on the lips?

2011-08-01T15:55:00.001+01:00

I'd struggle to keep my temper until I had heard their side of the story.

Ask me anything

Would you prefer to be totally surprised by your significant other with an evening planed out for you, or would you prefer to be the one to plan the surprise evening for your S O??

2011-08-01T15:54:00.001+01:00

I love both - I'd hate to have to choose. But if I had to pick I'd say surprising him. It's so wonderful seeing someone enjoy something you've put a lot of effort into.

Ask me anything

formspring.me

2011-07-31T11:55:00.001+01:00

*Ask* me anything http://formspring.me/onesubsmission I might tell you...

schoolgirl cane punishment

2011-07-31T11:54:00.001+01:00

That's not a question.

Ask me anything

Suggestion when it comes to dealing with a very unstable, self-admitted, mentally ill stalker who is moving towards escalation? His threats started on Fetlife and have moved to the local community.

2011-07-31T11:31:00.001+01:00

Oh dear - I'm a bit late on answering this one. Not easy - anyone dealing with that situation has my sympathy. Blocking and non-response is fine for online, but not so easy if it's affecting local community. Personally, I'd go really open if they won't go away - make people aware what has happened. If they are starting to make threats or you worry they are a danger, I'd involve the police. If there are mental illness issues, flagging it up through the authorities can help the person get treatment. Not an easy call to make at all (especially given the legal system's intolerance of kink, but when it comes to stalking the kink parts of the history are really irrelevant) but keeping yourself safe is the most important thing.

Ask me anything

If you were to do drag, what would your drag name be?

2011-07-31T11:26:00.001+01:00

Drake Gloryhole

Ask me anything

Favorite flavor of cupcake?

2011-07-31T11:00:00.003+01:00

Would everybody laugh if I said vanilla?

Ask me anything

Why has Formspring become a chain letter hub?

2011-07-31T11:00:00.001+01:00

Good question. I delete those chain questions - they bore me.

Ask me anything

how do i set this up on my blog?? lol

2011-07-31T10:59:00.001+01:00

There are various html codes you can copy and paste - my best suggestion is google it.

Ask me anything

Have you done any of your 3 fantasies - New year Resolution

2011-07-31T10:58:00.001+01:00

Thanks for reminding me of this! I'd say I've done 2 out of 3... there have been discussions about the third, so I might fit it in before my birthday yet!

Ask me anything

Have you ever just walked up to someone you never met before, introduced yourself and ended up in bed with them the same night?

2011-07-31T10:57:00.003+01:00

Yes.

Ask me anything

Is there any one thing you ever said to someone you loved, that you wish you could take back because it hurt them? If so, will you try to fix it?

2011-07-31T10:57:00.001+01:00

I've told hurtful truths before when I've been upset, and often regretted it. You can't ever take back what you said, so it is never completely 'fixed', but I try to explain the reasons underlying my hurtful words and apologise for handling it badly. It's all I can think of to do.

Ask me anything

Have you ever passed on an opportunity to have sex with someone you really wanted to be with, and why?

2011-07-31T10:54:00.001+01:00

Yes. Because it would have hurt people we loved if we had done it. It really hurt me to do it though.

Ask me anything

If you really wanted to do something that your Significant Other does not want you to do, do you do it anyway, or do you honor their wishes? Does it matter if your S O would never know?

2011-07-31T10:53:00.001+01:00

I'd discuss it until we reached a resolution. Sometimes that resolution might just be acceptance that we disagree, but I'd want us to both be on the same page. I'd honour their wishes if I could, but some things matter too much to me to compromise on.

Ask me anything

Fearful symmetry

2011-07-25T13:55:00.000+01:00

It's funny how easily we surprise ourselves. Last week I came face to face with an aspect of mine that I knew was growing quietly in the dark, but I hadn't fully seen it yet: my sadism.

My dominance has been here a while, and my submission and masochism are the original subjects of this blog, but my sadism was something I suspected more than knew. Last week I was discussing with Mr L a series of scenarios, stretching from the fantasy-only to the probable. It was when he said he'd do something for me, even though it was really scary for him and would probably be done through his tears; it was then that a thing with claws inside me woke up. I wanted that. I didn't just want the him-doing-it-for-me challenge of his submission; I wanted him to cry. I wanted him to undergo anguish for me. Pain. I wanted his pain.

This revelation was surprising to me even though I have expected its appearance for a while. I've suspected I'm sadistic but I never anticipated the feelings that would come along with this realisation. Short-sighted of me, really, when I consider how much time I have spent discussing the topic with the very same man, and reassuring his recurring doubts about whether it's really okay to want this, to be this.

But I really wanted to hurt you.
It's okay. I wanted that too.

I could have injured you.
You didn't.

I went too far.
I have a safeword. I could have used it and I didn't.

For the first time, I learnt that those placatory words are little comfort when the thing you're grappling with is your strong animalistic urge to hurt someone you love. Reconciling the idea that the person you want to coddle and delight is also the person you want to render tear-streaked and wretched isn't just hard: it's a mind fracture.

Don't bombard me with all of the BDSM-as-expression-of-love arguments at this point; I don't just know them, I've used them. I've used them to comfort my sadist without, before I discovered the sadist within. Those arguments at their crux didn't help him, and they don't help me in this realisation now.

I'm not saying that those arguments aren't valid; I think they are. It's just that in terms of understanding and reconciling feelings, they aren't relevant. I've come to think of it as a similar problem to the understanding of quantum mechanics. It's impossible for my puny brain to understand that something can be both a particle and a wave at the same time; or rather, it's impossible for me to visualise it by relating to my existing set of experience. Of course it's possible to understand the theory, but because it's hard to see it in your head it's difficult to accept as a reality. The descriptions of wave and particle are inadequate and limiting, and combining them does not really explain the concept. I think similarly, sadism and love are two definitions that seem incompatible. From the simplistic meanings attached to those words, it's hard to imagine how they could be combined. But words are often inadequate, and we fool ourselves by imagining that the simplest concepts denoted by a word are the only ones.

But perhaps the uncertainty principle is at work here; perhaps it is not advisable to see love and sadism as comparable or measurable. Perhaps the harder I look at one, the less certain my knowledge of the other becomes. Perhaps it is better not to look at them through the same lens at all, but instead accept that they are separate entities that must be held within the same mind and heart. I don't believe they are a dichotomy; they seem conflicting, but their boundaries are blurred.

These thoughts were set racing through my head when my sadism gave me a brief glimpse of its presence. I imagine there is much more to come (and I expect to be surprised by it despite expecting its arrival).

Last week, in symmetry, Mr L was also led once again to question his sadism. Much further down the path with this than I, the events that prompted this were more severe. He beat me hard - much harder than he has in a long time. Perhaps harder than he ever has. He did things I hate - things he knows I hate. And the pleasure he got wasn't shared pleasure: it was pure sadism. His pleasure was my pain, my anguish. We both recognised his pure delight at hurting me, really hurting me, and both of us recoiled a little.

And now I don't know what to say. He is hating himself for letting that beast out, and I think probably resenting me a little for letting him. I could have safeworded and I didn't. My bruises are a damning indictment of us both. When it was all over and he was holding me and kissing me and tenderly checking if I was okay, it was evident we were both still rattled. We were both suddenly awoken, sweat-drenched and scared, from a nightmare, unable to shake the residual feeling that it was true, it was all true, no matter how much we clung to one another.

It's fine - I'm not permanently damaged, nothing non-consensual happened here, but there is still a healing process that is needed for both of us. It comes at a time that I have just realised all of my 'comforting' words are not so. They don't help with processing those feelings at all. In fact I wonder if perhaps my 'comforting' words make it worse. They seem to make him feel guiltier: why is she being so nice? Why can't she be angry and punish me?

Really, this is an amazing journey and I'm so thankful for it, but it certainly isn't easy.

Where switches fear to tread

2011-07-16T11:45:00.001+01:00

The thing about being a switch is, you know how the other side goes. That can be a double-edged sword sometimes. On the plus side, it really gives you insight into what makes both the subbing and the domming experiences great. It also gives you a showcase of the pitfalls. This is excellent learning material, but it's also unnerving at times. It makes your awareness all the more keen that you're only a few sentences from a fail.

Subs: have you ever had that cringing moment when a so-called-dom has been strutting around with more confidence than they ought to? He or she professes to know what you're thinking, but they don't - they're way off? I have, and this kind of over-confidence - the unheeding kind - is a total turn off for me. The last dom who tried this tactic on me was sent packing, and stormed out of my life with an unmistakeable pout on his face. My responses weren't in his script. It threw him completely. I was acting like I had a mind of my own. The moral of that story is: don't tell me what I think from your own assumptions (you're getting wet when I say that, aren't you? answer: no); find out what makes me tick and then you can use it against me. Failing to do the getting-to-know-which-buttons-to-push stage is less likely to produce a feeling in me of being dominated; the effect is more akin to having my leg humped by an over-amorous dog. I'm left feeling detached, irritated, and like he just used me as an inanimate object to act out his fantasy, with little regard for whether I'm a leg, a person or a tree trunk. Admittedly, some people love objectification; my point is it is useful to find out whether they do before objectifying them.

I admit the above is a worst case scenario, and usually only happens in the first stages of getting to know someone, but the feeling of detachment in the face of over-confidence haunts me right into my own domming experience. I don't want to be that dom.

But it's exactly that self-assuredness that really hits the spot when it's done properly - quiet confidence, not backing down, insistence. I love that feeling when you start looking over your shoulder in amazement because your dom seems to just know exactly what to say or do to really get to you, like they're inside your mind. Does he watch me? I think, looking around wildly for signs of surveillance. Can he hear this?? But he doesn't 'just know'. It's a lot more work and getting to know you than that. Unless there is a secret Dominant Magic Circle that I haven't been invited into (I'm not ruling that out!).

And so I find myself progressing very slowly in my dominance, never grasping at anything I'm not sure is on offer. Pushing only on the parts I know will give way. Always, the impatience and excitement is bubbling under the surface urging me to go quicker, but always the memories of those worst case scenarios temper my enthusiasm. I never want my sub to experience that disconnect, to feel like I'm humping at his leg with my own sense of what dominance should be. I want him wondering how I got inside him like that. And, for me, at least, that takes time to build.

Pegged

2011-07-10T11:29:00.000+01:00

There is an element of linguistic revenge about this post that has me smiling. I'm not talking about the pegs that have caused my poor nipples so much suffering. No - I'm talking about the fucking a boy with a strap-on kind of pegging (and yes, the same boy who was mean with the pegs). It's a soft, fluffy kind of revenge, since it really involves pleasure, but it is a shift in the power dynamic of that word, without a doubt.

This weekend I lost my virginity of that particular kind of sex. It was his first time too. I was actually a bit nervous about it - it's a whole new piece of equipment for me - I've never had a cock of my own before! And I was also nervous because I really wanted it to be good for him. We'd been talking about it a lot. This was a long-anticipated event for both of us.

Of course, I did what every modern sex geek does, and sought a ton of advice on the internet. The overriding piece of advice seemed to be there is no such thing as too much lube. I took this to heart and stocked up. I actually agonised over choosing my first cock. Now there's a sentence I never thought I'd say. But in the end I settled on a slim, silicone dildo in hot pink (of course) with a gentle swirly shape. Those cocks that actually look like cocks give me the creeps a bit - I think it's that Freudian sense of the uncanny that their real-but-not-real appearance inspires in me. So, it was super girly and felt like it was mine - perfect. This, teamed with a leather two-strap harness and I was physically all set! Physically, he was all set too - we'd been playing with different sized plugs for a little while, so he was getting used to being penetrated by something. I must admit it felt very weird when I first tried on the harness and strap-on (in private, I wanted to check I wouldn't fall on my face trying to get into it or spend half an hour fiddling with buckles)... but it actually felt kind of hot too.

In fact, I couldn't wait: I really wanted to fuck him.

Although there doesn't have to be a D/s element to strap-on play, it's part of our relationship, so that's what came naturally to us. I was quite pleased, actually, that it worked out this way. It meant that it was part of a familiar format in which we knew our roles. I was able to design the scene so that it built up to The Moment really gradually, and so when it came to it he wasn't nervous - he was begging me for it to happen instead. It also meant that we discussed it in detail before the event. I'm not saying that this wouldn't have happened outside of a BDSM context, but it's second nature to talk about fears, expectations, limits and safewords as part of a scene, so for me it helped. Our discussions allowed us both to feel safe and reassured. I didn't want to hurt him, and more than anything, I didn't want him to try to be brave for me and end up not enjoying the experience because he didn't want to let me down. Cards on the table, we were mentally all set too.

At this point I'm closing the bedroom door - some things are too special to share. But I'll give you the headlines:
I'm striving for an adjective but I can't find one that will fit, so I'll throw a few descriptions at you and hopefully you can triangulate my meaning from there: it was hot, it was intense, it was quite a headfuck, it was surprisingly emotional, and YES I'm definitely doing it again. In fact yes, we're definitely doing it again.
It's hard for me to describe how it felt looking down at his face, watching his expressions as I fucked him. I felt proud and honoured and tender and brutal all at once.

Learning points for next time? I'd tighten the straps on my harness even more. And the height difference (short girl, tall boy) is a challenge. But happily it's a challenge I'm going to enjoy experimenting with, and as my cock confidence improves, I imagine we'll come up with even more solutions.

There's pain and then there's pain (and then there's pain)

2011-07-04T14:45:00.000+01:00

There are three types of pain as far as I see it, two of which fall into the realm of SM.

The other is just plain old pain pain: you stub your toe, or have a headache, or suffer a bereavement. It hurts and there is not really anything good about it: pain that is unasked for, unwelcome, unsexy and nonconsensual. No matter how much of a masochist you are, there will always be some pains that fall into this category. I could spend some time talking about the exceptions that fit into this category, such as the mouth ulcer feeling that gives a pleasant tingle when I eat something sharp, or at the other end of the spectrum the experience of spiritual growth through a painful time of life. These accidental benefits are an interesting topic all by themselves but they are not the main purpose of my post today. I will push these types of pain to one side for the moment and focus on the other two.

As I see it there are two distinct camps of pain within SM. There is the 'oh god yes please don't ever stop doing that' pain and the 'oh god no please stop doing that I'll do anything' pain

Oh god yes please don't ever stop doing that
Masochists: you'll back me up on this, right? This is the type of pain that makes you feel like you're flying. The endorphins are rushing, you're getting all hot and aroused and it is just bliss. I'm a greedy little girl when I get this type of pain. I don't want it to end. I just want to continue to float up inside the beautiful feelings that my partner is creating in me. Sometimes I feel like I can see sparks, or it looks like things are glowing. Sounds are different, and so are colours. I feel like his words touch my skin when he talks to me. I am grounded through him: our connection is the thing that tethers me safely.

Oh god no please stop doing that I'll do anything
Submissives: I'm sure that not all of you will agree that this is a welcome sensation, but I suspect some of you will know where I'm coming from on this. I hate this type of pain, but I crave it occasionally. Perhaps part of the attraction is the psychodrama that it delivers alongside the physical sensations. In a safe, negotiated way, I am really able to let loose. This type of pain is not a turn on for me (or, more specifically not in the moment I'm experiencing it) - any previous arousal I will have built up is gone in an instant, as effective as a cold bucket of water. I no longer have a pussy. There is no such thing as sex in my mind any more. All that matters is the pain, and the only thing I care about is the distance between me and whatever I need to do for him to make it stop, to just fucking make it stop. There is something in me that thrives on this experience. I thrive on the fear and the drama, I feel emotionally cleaned out afterwards. It is pure catharsis.

But there is another reason that I distinguish the first from the second types of pain, and that is how I perceive the person who is dishing out the pain. Of course, this is all within the bounds of consent and I would not go there with someone I thought wouldn't respect the boundaries and safe word we set. But there is a large part of me that doesn't want the second type of pain, that would (and does) beg and wheedle and bargain to get out of it. Part of what I crave in the second type of pain is the selfish sadism of the partner who continues despite my pleas. He does it because it arouses him, and he does it because I'll endure it for him. He is not simply ignoring my tears and my pain - he is drinking them in. They make his cock hard. The injustice of that really turns me on. It doesn't turn me on in the moment, but it's something I take with me into the rest of our interactions, and it makes me even hotter for him knowing that he has that inside him, that no matter how much affection and love he has for me, there also lurks a desire to really hurt me, more than I want him to. Of course, I do want him to really - I just need a little convincing.

You may have noticed I ascribed the first type of sensation to the realm of masochists and the second to the realm of submissives. I recognise that these terms are a very blunt tool to dissect this distinction with, but I think some useful generalisations can be drawn. With 'oh god yes' pain, this is very close to how sex works - my partner is directly using sensation to give me pleasure. It's reciprocal - we're both doing something we enjoy - but this is no head fuck. Everyone is clear that this is a good thing. I associate this more with masochism, because in a way, this is more of a topping activity than a domming activity. I'm getting exactly what I want, and he's breaking a sweat to give it to me. With 'oh god no' pain, there is much more going on on a psychological level: it's about power, and it's about sacrifice, and it plays with consent. It's not the sensation that I'm getting off on, and it's not clear who this is really for: me or him (of course it's for both of us, but I find that the line is very blurry until I've come out the other side of the scene).

Why am I pondering the different types of pain at the moment? I had my first paingasm recently. It was absolutely amazing. That, and... well... Mr L is threatening me with something pretty horrible at the moment. I found myself so aroused for him when I'm squirming about it but still desperate to talk him out of it! My emotions are pretty mixed about it - I hope to god he's only teasing.

I think.

eLust #27

2011-07-02T19:59:00.000+01:00


Photo courtesy of A Bedroom Blog
Welcome to e[lust] -  Your source for sexual intelligence and inspirations of lust from the  smartest & sexiest bloggers! Whether you’re looking for hot steamy  smut, thought-provoking opinions or expert information, you’re going to  find it here. Want to be included in e[lust] #28? Start with the rules and subscribe to the RSS feed and Twitter for updates and submission reminders.
~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~
Ruby LOVES her body, so should YOU - What ever size you are, love yourself, be nice to yourself and concentrate on health instead of looks.
Performances - So, of course, I don’t have any sensation in my cock, but holy baby  Jeebus, sinking into her is so fucking hot that I groan right along with  her.
10 reasons why I shouldn't have had sex, but did anyway - I’ve written extensively about happy-sex; so now here are some of the more unpleasant reasons why I’ve had sex.
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e[lust] Editress: Dangerous Lilly
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this   digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the   photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable ~after this point~. Thank you, and enjoy!
Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships
A response to: #Slutwalk will not show our daughters how to get respect
 Accidents Happen
 All the Time in the World
 Dear Jane: How Do I Gain Sensitivity Back After Masturbating Too Much?
 Friday Flix: 10 Things We Would Like to Say
 Hole. Confession #573
 Look at me (please) 
 Lusting After Sexually Confident Women and HNT
 Oh Really?
 Sex Toy Collecting
 Why Can't I Orgasm?
Kink & Fetish
5 Kinky Toys from the Restaurant Supply Store
 A Piece of Meat
 Being a Domme, Alone
 Daddy's Good Girl
 Emotional Masochism
 Fucktoy Friday: Urethra Play 
 Good Morning
 Inexorable Love
 More Adventures in Chastity
 New figure nudes
 Plugged
Erotic Writing
Continentally Close
 Entwined
 First Memory of Sex with Nicole
 Far From the Madding Crowd
 First kiss
 green candle wax
 Happy Birthday Baby Girl
 Lusty Lips
 My first swinging experience
 Seducing my Professor
 sexy bitch/sexy beast
 Strapping On For the First Time
 seminar slut
 To seduce you
 The Minotaur
 Twisted Words
 The Heist
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Gender Celebration Blog Carnival – A Call for Submissions
 Marilyn Monroe: A Sex Goddess Searches For Her Elusive Orgasm
 Welcome

YKINMK - Your Kink Is Now My Kink... And That's More Than OK

2011-06-24T11:45:00.000+01:00

Usually that acronym is about tolerance - Your Kink Is Not My Kink [But Your Kink Is OK] - accepting that we don't all get off on the same thing.

And that was definitely the position I started off from with some kinks with Mr L. There were some things he was into that just have never appealed to me. But when you really click with someone, and they really turn you on, you want to do things for them, and ultimately you want to make them feel good. And so it was with this intent that I sallied forth into the realm of watersports. Ever at the front of my mind was I can do this. I can do this for him.

Let me preface this by saying this was something I'd tried before and already discovered that I wasn't that into, not something new that I was afraid of. It was certainly not a fantasy before he came along.

You know what? With him, it is totally different. With him, it becomes something that isn't just for him. It is also with him and for me. No, not even just that, but for us. With him, it has become utter, utter, hotness.

I don't know whether this is an uncovering of a previously unrecognised yearning - perhaps I feel so safe with him that it has allowed parts of me to be exposed that were fiercely guarded and hidden even from myself. Or perhaps this is more of an organic growth of feeling and expression, a journey that I'm embarking on with him that is leading to new places. I think I prefer the second perspective because it gives me the sense of infinite possibilities in my discoveries, rather than a finite treasure chest of secrets yet to uncover.

Either way, I'm watching with awe as the overlapping circles of our desires seem to be expanding to envelop each other. Mr L has reported the same: there are elements of SM that have never clicked with him before that suddenly make maddening and exciting sense.

Another round on the rollercoaster coming up, it seems - hold on!

Precious

2011-06-14T19:46:00.000+01:00

It's not that I feel more or less for him when he submits to me rather than dominates me. It's not that at all. Either way, it is passionate, loving and intense.

But there is a difference in the way I feel about him, and I've been trying to make the words come out to put this into a post for days now. It's difficult to express. I think it is this: I use a different set of adjectives to love him with when he submits to me than when he dominates me. I don't necessarily mean that in terms of language, but more in terms of perspective: I mean it in terms of the feeling that motivates us to choose the words we do.

When he submits to me he is precious. I'm startled by the feelings of tenderness that well up in me, aroused by my own cruelty and his acceptance of it; his inviting and welcoming of it; his gratitude for it. Of course, I feel sentiments of devotion when I submit as well, but these are not the same feelings. For me, they are equivalent but not the same. When I submit, my feelings of devotion are solicitous and imploring: I am focussed on his approval rather than his innate qualities. His worth to me is a given, and it is his approval I must battle for. When he submits to me, his approval is a given; but his preciousness is something I can't stop wondering at.

Plugged

2011-06-08T20:47:00.001+01:00

I tried out my new glass butt plug last night. It surpassed all of my expectations.

But I didn't try it out on myself. No - this was a present for the boy. He was so sweet trying to guess what The Surprise was going to be. I must admit I teased him mercilessly about it, and he got very overexcited. But it wasn't until shortly before he finally received his present (it took a while to ship), that the seeds of doubt began to creep in. He began to remember that as loving as I can be, I have a sadistic streak.

'Is it a mean present, Miss?'

'Oh, it's nothing you can't handle.'

*whimper*

He's adorable when he's scared. I never know if I want to comfort him or torment him. Usually both.

But the time had come, and I'd warned him not to open his present in the crowded pub garden where we were seated. Obediently, he had trotted off to the toilets, to lock himself away and find out what I had in store for him: treat or trick. I think he got a bit of both.

The boy who returned to the table and spent the rest of the night with me was somewhat different. The lively chattering and animated cheekiness was gone. The boy who returned to the table was meek, contrite, visibly distracted, and grinning so hard it looked like someone had tried to shove a coathanger in his mouth. It made my heart swell to see it. It was as if he was suddenly under the influence of Class A drugs - tactile, happy, but strangely vulnerable and confused.

The glass plug, I am told, is very different to its silicon counterparts - it is heavy, and while beautifully smooth, it is ungiving, meaning that the spots it pressurises inside are changed with every little move of the body. I had a lot of fun experimenting with which parts of him he could move without wincing (or sighing).

As we left for our dinner venue, I noticed that he stuck closer to me than usual, speaking very quietly in my ear, as if hoping that I'd protect him from prying eyes that might immediately dicern his naughty secret. I had sympathy for his cause, of course, and reassured and coaxed him along the way. No one knew. He was safe. And I was pleased with him.

On the bus (oh joyous bus, with rutty, bumpy roads to cross) he was magnificent. Utterly tortured by every vibration and bump, clinging to my arm with desperate eyes, not helped by the filth that I occasioned to pour in his ear, he was on the brink. He clutched his bag hopelessly over his lap in an attempt to hide his shame.

He asked me, imploringly, 'Have I ever been this evil to you?'

I smiled. What an easy question. My mind flicked over many such occasions when it was I with sweaty palms, desperately overstimulated, mind racing with a thousand escape plans that I didn't really want to execute. My mind flicked over many such occasions when he had laughed at my discomfort and then cranked it up a notch further. (Of course, this is the switch's cry: I am Tiresias. I have foresuffered all)

'Yes.'

Realisation that this wouldn't be the greatest of his torments tonight visibly passed across his face.

'Oh fuck.'

My smile widened a bit more.

'Yes.'

Payback's a bitch.

Improving my relationship with sex

2011-06-01T22:24:00.000+01:00

I have a tendency to self-medicate. If something is causing me pain or upset in life, I'm prone to do pretty much anything to make it go away as quickly as possible.

My mother, exasperated by my years of tearaway behaviour (all in the distant past now, of course), always said I was symptomatic of the 'Calpol Generation': children that forever expect a quick fix. And I did. I was a bright and resourceful kid, and I quickly learnt that you can deflect almost any hurt or upset if you really try. For a little while, of course.

Growing up I took comfort in every hedonistic persuit I could find, my favourites being sex, drink and drugs (ahh, the classics). But sex has persisted as a preoccupation long after I've kicked the drugs into touch and moderated my drinking to much more acceptable levels. Sex has been a constant passion, sport, vice, hobby and, at times, obsesssion. I am, as Mr L so delicately terms it, a 'sex person'.

At this point, dear reader, you'd be forgiven for worrying that I might be about to renounce my sluttish ways and join a convent. I don't intend to give up sex, BDSM or even constantly wanting to fuck everything.

That is not what I meant at all. That is not it, at all.

What it is is this: I at times I have used sex to self-medicate. I have used it to cover pain, or to distract myself from confusion or difficult questions that are rattling around my head. I have used the pursuit of it, the hedonistic throes of it, and the intrigue and drama that follows, as my own personal calpol. This is the sex that I want to stop having. It is self-defeating: this type of sex unavoidably leads me only to even more complicated feelings and difficult questions (and rinse and repeat).

But it's not just that.

I'm starting to really like the person I am again. Over the past few months I've been building back the self respect that I let go of in the course of a few of life's knocks and it feels great. I'm starting to feel like I'm okay, and that in turn leads me to expect more of myself: to expect more of myself in the way I treat others. Because I think I'm a good person, it is starting to be a core belief of mine that I wouldn't treat other people with anything but honesty and love. And the sad, angry, narcissistic make-me-forget-the-pain sex has nothing to do with either love or honesty. It's just about burying myself in someone else so I don't have to deal with my own problems. And I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of that.

What will this change actually look like in terms of behaviour? I'm not sure. I cancelled going to a play party earlier this week for that very reason. I'm not even upset at the moment, but the processing of this realisation is making me re-examine all of my sexual behaviours. I'm not sure if effecting this change means avoiding sexual contact when I'm hurting, or just taking a moment to breathe and reassess my motivations before deciding how to progress. And maybe that progression has to come from a place of much more honesty than I've previously presented myself with. I will try not to be the hard and brittle survivor that copes by saying 'fuck it'. Instead I will try to just be me, meeting the other person eye to eye, and maybe creating something together or maybe being honest to acknowledge it if we aren't connecting.

I don't imagine that this is going to be easy, but I'm rather excited about what is coming next.

(NB by excited, read: scared)

For this

2011-05-26T16:19:00.001+01:00

He took my hand and pulled it towards him.
Earnestly, he looked me in the eye. I returned his gaze, drinking in the intensity of his expression.
'I hate you for this.'
'I know,' I said, not flinching.
I let my hand squeeze for just a second the hardness that he had brought it up against, hot even through denim, and firm against the palm of my hand.
And then I released it, my fingers slipping out from underneath his. He might have whimpered.
I returned my hand to my drink, smiling, and cast my eye across the crowded bar.
Nothing was broken. Everyone was still oblivious.

Learning the ropes

2011-05-24T14:50:00.001+01:00

I'm going to a shibari workshop in a couple of weeks at Sacred Pleasures. I'm really looking forward to it.

Learning shibari is something I've wanted to do for ages. But it was actually a conversation I was having with the lovely people at SP that made me wonder why I hadn't already acted upon it. We were talking about why people choose to go to classes like this rather than just practice at home - you can pick up an array of books on the subject. There are even web tutorials from the likes of Twisted Monk. Why go to the extra effort of going to a class? Why leave the house and risk exposure of your own ineptitude? My preference for learning in a class-based environment was clear to me. And so I started to examine my own reasons.

Learning only from a book or the internet isn't as appealing to me. I think the crux of the issue is this: I want feedback. I like to learn by doing. True, the person you're tying up can give you some feedback, but there are some things they just can't see from their position.

When I examine this assertion more closely, I realise it isn't all of learning I am referring to in this way. I would still choose book or internet learning when it comes to purely theoretical subjects. But I've come to realise I'm not a book-learning person when it comes to new skills.... which is strange, actually, considering my love of books. Perhaps it's laziness. Perhaps I have become a victim of the immediacy of our culture. But I suppose I regard books as purely theoretical - never to leave the bounds of the cerebral. I don't regard them as practical. The learning is too slow - there isn't enough feedback on my trial and error. And above all, my spatial awareness is not the best. When presented with a 2D image that I have to translate into 3D, expect confusion. And possibly tantrums.

When I'm trying to learn something practical, I want there to be someone I can shriek 'help' at. Of course, I like to back up and strengthen my existing knowledge with reading, and if attending the workshop really sparks some enthusiasm, then I expect I'll be geeking out at home, doing my homework afterwards (and probably writing about it right here)! But for starters, when I've accidentally turned my parter into something that more closely resembles Catch of the Day than the human being they once were (it's only a matter of time and rope), I want to know why it's gone wrong. Essentially, I want my learning to be interactive.

The session I'll be attending at SP is only a beginners' session, of course, so I doubt that I'll be doing anything too complicated or intricate, but it will be really nice to be able to feel supported as I go along. Well that, and let's face it: it will be more fun to share the learning experience with others.

But the fun will really begin when I get to try out my new skills on a willing victim in private, of course. Actually, I confess it's the bit after said-victim is all trussed up I'm particularly looking forward to. I regard it a bit like a reverse Christmas present for me: all wrapped up and ready to play with! But what makes that so appealing is the buildup - the actual act of tying the other up - the aquiescence of a person staying still and allowing themselves to be so intricately tied, giving over their physical power of escape. The beauty of all of the consent that comes with submission is highlighted for me in this act: your partner knows what fate they are agreeing to and offers themself up to it gladly. There is no coercion.

I told Mr L about my impending new skill set; he perked up considerably at this news. He seems to be relishing the thought of becoming my damsel in distress. I think I'm going to need a lot of practice *wink*.

The truth

2011-05-19T17:47:00.000+01:00

The truth is I tell the truth on this blog. Not the whole truth, but snippets of it.

The truth is I need to.

The truth is I'm actually an exhibitionist. There is something in me that needs to show little snippets of my most private parts in order to process them and experience them fully. I need to have them witnessed and judged by others. It gives them validation in the most basic sense of the word: it varifies their truth.

The truth is I need to tell. But the trouble is, I'm a pragmatic exhibitionist - I think about the consequences of these little exposures. The trouble is, there was a reason why I wasn't opening my mouth about these things in the first place.

Physics tells us that the act of observation changes that which is being observed. I think that is true too of confessional writing.

I wrote a post a little while ago about consent, or rather lack thereof. Actually, it was a really hard post for me to write. I felt stupid, and ashamed, and a whole maelstrom of other negative things. But it helped me enormously. The catharsis of the telling, the sifting through of my feelings and reactions required to write it down, the soothing acceptance of readers' reactions all helped me to process it and move on. I feel like I would have struggled and dwelt on it more without having this blog as a tool.

But the act of observation changes that which is being observed.

I look back and see a half-in, half-out confession, and it weighs on me. Do I really want that vulnerable part of me left exposed? Do I want people I know seeing it? Should I yank it back out of sight? Is there any point in doing that now that it has already been exposed? Is it better to leave myself exposed than to be uncertain about whether I'm still exposed or not? In the former case I have more control, I suppose.

These are questions that trouble me, and I suppose the only way I can manage that is to be as open as I can bear. I know that I don't want to give up the shy exhibitionism that this writing affords me - I value it too highly.

I spy

2011-05-06T08:21:00.000+01:00

Wednesday afternoon I found myself just around the corner from Mr L's office for a meeting. I'd been verbally slapping him around for most of the day, goading and teasing. It was fun. We'd been dancing around the thought all day of seeing each other for a few moments our schedules might allow. As ever, we were baiting each other. To meet for a few stolen seconds? Not to meet? Either option sounded pretty frustrating.

Eventually a rash pact was made: meet me in Soho Square now.

I got there first. Nervous. Head reeling from his impossible suggestion. He must have been joking, right? He can't fuck me somewhere this public. Perhaps his whole suggestion of meeting here was just a flight of fancy. It wouldn't be that uncharacteristic or surprising. I walked one circuit of the square, feeling silly. Not wanting to continue to traipse in my high heels I headed for the centre of the square, thinking I'd be able to see in more directions from there and spot him if he turned up.

The first sign I got that he was there was a picture message sent from his phone of one of the corners of the square.
> I'm here.
Standing in the middle I turned around, peering through the crowds of tourists, trying to see him. As I couldn't see him my anxiety started to rise. Could he see me? I probably looked faintly ridiculous standing in the middle of the square, turning around and clutching my phone.

A little off balance, I text him back. We volley messages back and forth in a little frenzy of mutual panic. And then when I ask him 'Where are you?' he replies:
> I'm watching you
Bluff, I think, it's a bluff.
> What am I wearing?
> Floral dress
Fuck. It's not a bluff.
> Stay where you are, stop fidgeting
This doesn't really register - I have panicked, and am walking back and forth, trying to see him - he must be close.
> STAY
That anchors me. On a path not far from the middle of the square. I wait, confused. Heart hammering.
> And do not keep looking round, understood?
A series of texts follow. He deftly slips me into that space that he's put me into so often. No more the goading bitch. I'm contrite. I'm submissive. And I feel ridiculous stood here out in the open, frozen to the spot for all the park to see. He has told me that I must not look around no matter what happens. I have too eagerly agreed, desperate to please him but nervous of what is to come.

I feel like the volume on my hearing has been turned up. Snippets of conversation float past me from passers by and every male voice I hear I think 'is it him? is it him?' but it's just my imagination making them familiar. I wait.

It's a sunny afternoon, and as I hear another set of footsteps coming up behind me, I also see a shadow falling across mine. Sounds silly, but I know that shadow. It's him.

I want so much to turn around and throw my arms around him, to seek comfort from the scary thing. But right now he is the scary thing and I promised I wouldn't look round and so I stand and try to breathe instead.

As he closes the gap between us he takes a fistful of my hair at the back of my head, twisting my curls around his fingers, and pulls - not far, but sharply - backwards. I feel his breath hot on my head then, his face in my hair. He is breathing as hard as I am.

His other hand catches my hip, and strokingly pulls it back so I am tight against his body. I feel his erection pushing at the curve of my ass, hard against soft through our clothing. Involuntarily I push back harder against him, needy. I feel like my breathing is in my head, no deeper - the shallowness is making me giddy - air not reaching my lungs. His mouth moves to my ear and he whispers hotly. I think I might cum with the sensation.
'You know what that is, slut?'
I try for a 'Yes Sir', but actually all I manage is a croak, my mouth dry with adrenaline.
'Nod your head if you do'
He allows enough leeway in his grip on my hair for me to move my head slightly back and forth.
I listen carefully as he whispers my further instructions into my ear - trying to concentrate, trying to savour the sensation, never wanting the agony of frustration to end, and yet wanting it to end right now.

I understand what I must do next, although it is still a shock when the cooler air rushes between us as we separate. The pang of thwarted desire I feel brings tears prickling to my eyes. I hear his footsteps depart, not turning around. I must stand here a minute longer. I stare at the time on my phone, shell-shocked with arousal and acutely aware of my ridiculousness again, standing on my own in the middle of the square. I am a spectacle, a ridiculous statue in this place, an unasked-for source of entertainment for the tourists and office workers.

The minute is up - I brace myself to follow my next instruction.

When wriggling makes you more stuck than you were before

2011-05-04T11:19:00.000+01:00

I've wriggled, and I've squirmed, I've raged and wheedled and cajoled and jimmied and stopped, taken stock, then repeated cycle, but it seems that the more I try to escape the more stuck I am than I was before.

No, I'm not talking about a bear costume (although that's starting to sound quite appealing by comparison).

Let's get real here: my libido has taken me hostage. I can see myself acting in the most ridiculous way because of it, and the more I try to escape it, the more fatally attractive it becomes.

I've spoken of my tendency towards emotional masochism before, but I've always looked at this in a non-sexual context: like a hangover from my sexuality rather than being part of the main event. The truth? I think I'm kinking on it. I think it's directly fuelling my sexual need to be engaged in this exuisitely painful interplay with someone I care so deeply about. And if I'm really honest, this isn't just emotional masochism, it's emotional sadism too. I know I'm hurting him and confusing him too. And I justify it because I'm angry, and because he has hurt me so much already, and because I just *want*. And I let him... I let him hurt me so brually, over and over, each time feeling more brilliant euphoria in the moments when it isn't hurting. But that doesn't make it okay. It doesn't make it okay because we're letting each other do this... does it? Because it's consensual? Can it be consensual if it's harmful?

I don't like the image of me that this revelation reflects. But it feels true. And for that reason I need to face up to it.

Can I have your number?

2011-05-02T14:43:00.001+01:00

Yes. It is 29.

Ask me anything

Hello, my old friends

2011-04-26T12:06:00.000+01:00

Last night I was reacquainted with my old friends, the pegs. I say friends, but what I really mean is feared tormentors and adversaries. Sometimes it seems that these concepts are fairly close together in BDSM. It's funny really: I know that perception and tolerance of pain varies greatly from one person to the next, and even - depending on circumstance - varies within one person, but I still struggle to shake that edge of competitiveness, of pressure to achieve as a masochist.

I had a yoga teacher that used to rage about this impulse all the time. "Yoga is not about ego! Stop looking at the person next to you and concentrate on your experience, on your limits. The only achievement is gently pushing at these boundaries, not being more flexible than the person next to you!"

Of course, she was right. Of course. But even though our teacher would laboriously tell us this, over and over, and we would nod sagely and renew our efforts to focus on the personal experience, I'd still catch myself peeking over my shoulder at my classmates every now and then when I found a posture particularly difficult, and thinking: 'Oh. I wish I could do that.' Or, less generously, 'Ha! I can go further than that.'

Nipple pain is my weakest posture, so to speak, when it comes to SM. I'm fully aware how pathetic I become in the face of even a small amount of it. I once took 100 lashes of the belt just to avoid 5 minutes with the nipple clamps. I was bruised for two weeks and didn't regret my decision for a minute. It's not just the fear of the pain itself that has become an issue for me - it's also the humiliation of knowing I can't take it - it's a dread of how quickly I'll become whiny and desperate and plead for it to stop. I feel like a bad sub when I'm receiving nipple pain, and I can't help but look over my shoulder and think 'surely anyone, anyone, would be braver at this than me'. And so it was with great trepidation that I fetched the clothes pegs last night at Mr L's request.

Actually he helped. He didn't reproach me for my whining - he allowed me to let it all out. But he didn't give in to my pleading either. Not until he was done. It got a little easier, in fact. I could breathe through it knowing it was for him, I was doing this for him. My expectations of myself still far outstrip my performance, but that's okay - it's good for the soul, I think, to have some challenges I find really difficult. Perhaps I just need to remember the words of my yoga teacher a little more often: it's about pushing my own boundaries - not those of other people - that's where the achievement is.

What is a Dominant? (A brief definition please. Looking for help to put into words. Thank you.)

2011-04-26T10:43:00.001+01:00

Other than the headline, dictionary definitions, I think the detail of this is a very subjective thing. That's one of the reasons I think communication is so important in D/s - two people's expectations of the qualities and role of a dominant might be completely different

Ask me anything

When you hit a creative dry spell in your kink, how do you break it?

2011-04-26T10:38:00.001+01:00

I'm probably not the best person to ask - I'm still new enough at kink to be at the kid in a sweet shop stage - everything is still exciting and new. But currently I find the thing that tends to spark off new ideas and kinks for me is talking to other people about what makes them tick, their fantasies - often there will be an angle I hadn't considered that I can then explore in my own way.

Ask me anything

Would you ever like to get married again, or is once bitten, twice shy?

2011-04-26T10:35:00.001+01:00

Getting married again isn't really a goal for me, but I've lived enough to know that you can't predict what you'll want in the future. Perhaps if I had kids I'd want to get married, but other than that I can't see it happening.

Ask me anything

Breathing and control

2011-04-20T23:54:00.002+01:00

If I stop and think about my breath for a second, I find myself in charge.

I recently went scuba diving again after not having done it for a while. Remembering and focussing on your breath is crucial for this - without it you can't control your buoyancy; do it wrong and you use up precious air. This got me thinking, while I was bobbing around on the boat between dives actually, about how crucial breath is for me for gaining control in a number of situations.

Particularly with D/s. My natural instinct with sex is to throw myself at it all guns blazing. I get turned on easily, and fast, and then I'm a seething mess of passion. But this isn't always ideal... sometimes you need a little bit of restraint (oh dear - I actually didn't intend that pun but I might as well leave it there now). Sometimes you need a little bit of delayed gratification to make things play out the way you want them to.

For example, I love to tease - oh lord, I really love to tease. I've been playing with Mr L again a little (I know, I know - shh), and exploring some more the dynamic of me domming and him subbing. I just love winding him up and tormenting him, letting him simmer for a bit, making him beg. Sometimes I catch this big silly grin on my face from enjoying his frustration. The trouble is, making him that hot and then goading him makes me so turned on too, it's really hard not to just give in at the first temptation. Really? I just want to jump him constantly. So I'm denying myself as well as denying him. The difference is, it is my choice. And I'm focussing on his experience, not mine. But there is still that instinct inside me that wants to grab him by the throat and fuck him silly. When he is good and sweet it just makes me want to hurt him in all the nice ways, all at once... but one thing at a time. Focus. Focus. Discipline. This is what I want.

And so, I am finding, yet again, I must focus on my breathing. Just a well-timed 'thank you miss', or a piece of thoughtfulness I hadn't even asked for, and I feel the lust start to cloud my vision. If I was diving, at this point, I'd be rising, overbreathing, becoming too buoyant.

And so I try to remember my breath:

In - slowly, be aware of the time it takes you to fill your lungs
Out - relax, take your time
In - slowly, slowly
Out - focus on the air leaving your body
Mentally repeat:
De - lay - ed - Gra - tif - ic - at - ion

And then I'm focussed, I'm in control, and oh, having so much fun. Just as I don't have to cut my dive short, I don't cut our play short. I get to see and experience amazing things with him that otherwise we would have missed (the D/s equivalent of 'ooh look, a big fish!').

Yeah, yeah, I'm still learning. It's early days ;)

Hola!

2011-04-19T15:13:00.000+01:00

I'm back! I've been in Cuba, hence my recent silence, and although it was amaaaazing, it's nice to be back too! And I missed blogging - there is a whole raft of blogs I'm enjoying catching up on reading. Actually, logging into blogger and checking on my feed reader was one of the first things I did when I got back. Guess I missed you all!

So, normal service will resume shortly. I had a few fun vanilla intrigues while I was away, but all I really have to show for it is that I can now salsa. Sort of.

I have a date with an osteopath soon, who is also a sadist (just as I suspected they all were - ha! the secret it out). Could... be... dangerous..?

Lust

2011-04-02T10:44:00.000+01:00

That feeling is squeezing at me again, wringing me out. He makes me ache. A word from him, a sentence, a few growled words in my ear, on the phone, in the dark, when there is no one but him - and me - and I'm shuddering, shaking, blind to anything but the connection between us. He dredges up dark places in me I'd never discovered and unleashes them. And then I'm grinning - idiot grinning - and curling my limbs up against myself in pleasure.

I shouldn't be doing this: I know I shouldn't. This is Mr L. I closed that door forever. But now it's open again. And no matter how hard I try to remember that he's going to hurt me, he's really going to hurt me again, I can't tear myself away from something that gratifying and exhilarating.

I hear the sound of a hundred palms hitting a hundred foreheads. I know. I'm stupid. I know.

A bit of a muddle

2011-03-27T21:56:00.000+01:00

I'm in a bit of a muddle again. Oh my.

I went to a play party yesterday - the first one I've been to in ages. It was fun, actually. I didn't feel like playing, but I did have a kiss with a nice boy. Actually he was really hot. I'm not sure if the reason I didn't feel like playing was that I was a bit preoccupied with mulling over the stuff from my previous post. Or maybe it was because Mr L and I were texting (and yes, I admit it, sexting) each other and he was on my mind (what the hell is going on there?? are we just going to carry on lusting after each other and then dramatically upsetting each other forever?). Or maybe it was that I've been working so hard lately it has left little time for socialising, which has left me feeling a little isolated. Isolated and stressed, actually - I feel like I have too much on my plate. It was probably a combination of all of those factors. I feel muddled.

Muddles aside, one of the nicest things I took away from the night was that it really brought home to me how comfortable I am being 'out' to my vanilla friends now. I dropped around to a friend's house after I left the party because they were having a small gathering (it was only my close friends there). I warned them before agreeing to come that I was all dressed up as a kinky Victorian, but they didn't bat an eyelid, despite the generous amount of boobage I displayed on arrival. It was lovely to feel so relaxed around them - and seeing that they were relaxed and interested about my night. Things have changed a lot in the last couple of years!

So, to summarise, everything's a muddle. God - even this post doesn't really make sense. Still, I have my cockeyed optimism to keep me going, so it should all be fine.

An incident; an accident; a question of consent

2011-03-25T18:34:00.000Z

Something happened a couple of weeks ago that I wanted to mull over a little before I posted on.

I've mulled now, so here it is.

I had an accidental sexual encounter with a friend of mine. He is a good friend. He's been in my life for ages, we see each other regularly, and we're even neighbours. A friend. Someone I can trust. Right? Trust.

We've spent a fair bit of time together, usually out for drinks, sometimes a few too many. This is our normal mode of interaction. Nothing sexual had ever happened between us before. I admit, he had made the occasional attempt in that direction, but nothing pushy, and I had always been firm about it: friends and that's it.

This particular night, I'm not sure what happened differently, but we'd had a few drinks too many. On leaving the pub, he walked me home as it is on his way anyway. And then he suggested he come inside for a drink - he had a bottle of wine in his bag. I'm terrible at calling it a night, and I was having a nice time so I said yes. Kissing ensued. After a short while I broke it off. We'd earlier been discussing the car crash that is my love life, and I told him I really didn't need this - didn't want it to happen. It would confuse me. He agreed. We stopped. It was fine. We started talking again.

But it was after this that it all started to go wrong. He started kissing me again. And I responded. I absolutely have a harlot of a body - I don't even consciously realise I'm responding until it's happened - I think my brain shuts off when sexually stimulated.

But then the panic started to rise up in me again. I didn't want this. I wanted him to stop. So I pushed him away and told him that. It was fine. He stopped. For a few minutes.

This cycle happened over and over, each time getting more intense, each time him being more insistent, going further, and with more insistence from me to listen to what I was saying (no), and not just grab me and use my body's responsiveness as an excuse. He used an argument on me that really made me go cold - 'you obviously do want it - you're wet'. Again I tried to explain that arousal and consent are entirely separate things. Fuckfuckfuck - I was in big trouble here.

I know I'd been acting irresponsibly, and probably my behaviour made me seem like a tease. After all, I did keep kissing him back, and squirming in between my protests. But I didn't want this. God - I just wanted him gone. But my fucking stupid body was betraying me, soaking and throbbing. I was humiliating myself. I thought... maybe I should just 'let' him - maybe it'll be easier than this. But the thought of 'just letting' anyone made me stubborn and angry and brought on a fresh round of 'no's and struggles.

When he dragged me off the sofa onto my knees I was scared. It didn't feel like a silly drunken scuffle then. It felt like he was going to rape me. And then he said something that shocked me enough it probably made my mouth hang open (a foolish stance for someone in my position):
'We never did discuss a safe word.'
It took only a moment of stunned silence before I responded. I wasn't messing around:
'RED. Red! Fucking RED! Is red good enough for you? RED!'
I honestly think it was only then that he realised he'd scared me, as I scrabbled backwards away from him when he released my arm.

We had never discussed playing. We had never discussed anything remotely resembling a scene, and as far as I was concerned, it wasn't even on the table. It hadn't even occurred to me that he thought we were playing. And then something clicked into place in the back of my head: something we had been discussing earlier while in the pub: we were discussing the reluctance dynamic I have with MFD. And he'd said
'I can see how that would be really appealing.'
And then we'd moved on to talk about something else. I had no idea he was planning to store it up and use it on me later, without so much as running it past me first.

I'm fine, and there was no harm done to me, but I feel like this guy seriously doesn't grasp the basic importance of informed consent. Without it, it's just - well - rape. That's an ugly word, and I feel afraid to even type it because it's such a serious word. And above all, I feel ashamed to be writing this here because I feel like I shouldn't have got myself into that situation. But it has helped, writing this. It has helped me make sense of how I got into that frightening position, and it is making me reconsider the concept of trust once again. This wasn't some random man I went on a date with - it was a platonic friend. And he is a nice man. But with massive misconceptions and assumptions about what it is and isn't okay to do to someone, however kinky they might be. Having consented in a safe and negotiated way to play with rough sex or non-consent with a partner doesn't make it less valid when I say 'no' to someone else.

You know what? It's confession time so I'm going to be completely honest. The bit that makes me uneasy about writing any of this is one additional piece of information that I have left out in the above narrative. It it the piece of the puzzle that makes me feel like all of the above is just me making a fuss, and it is the reason I haven't so much as discussed this incident with a single person.

I came. He hooked his fingers inside me after I'd told him not to, and I came, hard, my face buried in his chest, shaking with pleasure and overcome with shame. I'm sure that's the bit that justifies all of this in his mind when he thinks about it. It's the bit that makes me feel like a stupid cock tease - and wow - just about a million other names floated up into my mind there - slut, bitch, whore... amazing what lurks down there ready to ambush you when you open the trapdoor. Funny, I think - all of this is just echoes of BDSM, echoes of games I've happily played before and got joy from. The only thing missing is the consent.

Whipping lessons

2011-03-20T22:32:00.000Z

I had a fun day yesterday.

I went to a whipping workshop. Actually, to be more accurate, it was a workshop on impact play in general. I got a bit of practice with flogging, paddling, caning. I discovered I definitely need some more practice - particularly with the flogger. Aiming that thing is harder than it looks! I'm looking forward to practising, I must say...

As is often the way with workshops, I spent half of the time being a guinea pig, and the other half dishing it out. Not exactly a hardship for a switch! Whilst being the guinea pig I had something done to me which I had never experienced before: I got flogged on the shoulders. It seems amazing to me now that in nearly two years of subbing I'd never experienced that before (hmm - maybe those boys I've been playing with were focusing a little too much on the more sexual areas??). But it felt really nice - actually *really* nice. It made me go all tingly.

And as for topping? I can feel that part of me growing. I'm starting to get more deeply in touch with my sadistic side. It's exciting. In a funny way I'm glad it has taken me this long to realise this side of myself. It would have freaked me out if I had discovered everything all at once. But I think I'm ready now - ready to approach it with joyful curiosity, instead of fear.

Open Sauce

2011-03-14T21:18:00.000Z

Ever read a clapped-out bit of 'traditional' erotica? So laden with cultural stereotypes and yawn-inducing predictability that you've wanted to get out the red pen and change some stuff? Well now you can.
I'd just like to draw your attention for a moment, if I may, to the new project at Radical X. It's called 'Open Sauce' and, quite frankly, I think it's brills.

If you click on the link above you get to read all about it from the horses mouth (sorry, Radical X!), but for those of you who need a bit more persuading before clicking, Open Sauce is a piece of collaborative erotica - that's write (ha): we all get our crayons out and scribble on each other's work, completely anonymously until... well, if you lot contribute I dread to think what horrors the final version might bring to light. It'll probably be some sort of kinky Frankenstein's monster.

This is what the horse's mouth has to say about it:

Following on from our successful zine project Play!Fight!, Radical X introduces another opportunity to step out of your comfort zone, and engage with the private thoughts and fantasies of others. Open Sauce is our new project for 2011, using erotic writing to invite you into a dialogue.
How to participate

Read the current version of the Open Sauce story
Anything that doesn't do it for you? Something you'd like to add? Go to 'Edit' to contribute your changes.
Check back later to see others' changes and re-edit if you like.

Personally, the thing I like the most about the concept ( aside from the actual clever collaborative stuff) is that it could result in fantasy wars - see 3. check back and re-edit? What a deliciously stubborn approach: YOU WILL ALL MASTURBATE TO MY FANTASIES GODDAMMIT!

I think bossy erotica is something I could get on board with ;)

(On reflection I decided that Frankenfurter might be more apt than Frankenstein)

Why

2011-03-12T14:10:00.000Z

I went to a Sacred Pleasures film night on Thursday, and I watched Sick: The Life & Death of Bob Flanagan, Supermasochist

It was a beautiful film - surprisingly touching and heartwarming, as well as funny. I thoroughly recommend watching it. Anyway, I thought I'd leave a little snippet that is available on Vimeo here for you to enjoy. This poem, Why, is an extract from Bob's Pain Diary, written about why he's a masochist: why he does the crazy things he does. I think it's rather lovely.

Why? - Bob Flanagan from Bryan Bosworth on Vimeo.

Switches, the hotness and meta-humiliation

2011-03-10T15:41:00.000Z

One thing I'm beginning to learn as I progress down my path of switching is this: other switches really turn me on.

I know switching gets a bad press from some people, and I've been told on occasion that it's not 'real' D/s. This isn't a rant about that. We're all entitled to our own opinions, and if I don't fit your list of definitions that's okay too. If you're really dogmatic about it, I might think you're a bit of a moron, but it's a free world (or at least it should be. Aside from consensual slavery. Anyway, I digress...).

I've heard a lot of subs say that they couldn't feel comfortable submitting to someone who could also sub, either to them or to someone else. I'm certainly not criticising that standpoint - we all like what we like. I suppose, more than anything, this post is about me dealing with my own surprise. Because I have heard this 'couldn't submit to a sub' view so often with so little opposition I find myself surprised at how opposite my tastes are. Personally, the thought of the person I have submitted to - the person who has humiliated, hurt and degraded me, broken me open, made me scrabble and beg and cry - being in the same position makes me hot. It's a preference.

I don't think that it's a sense of justice or revenge that makes me feel this way, although that does bring its own flicker of satisfaction. I suppose it is this: it is an inversion of kinking on the notion of supremacy. The submission of someone you have previously worshipped holds a meta-humiliation of its own. When your dominant is submitting, your submission is... what? Rejected? Is that part of you pushed even further down in the pecking order? There's not just one person above you-the-sub now: there's at least one more (even if that other person is the you-the-dom). Perhaps it is an echo of this meta-humiliation that causes the uncomfortable mainstream snigger at politicians and powerful business men who are exposed in the media as sexually submissive. A person who has exerted power over us willingly being dominated feels like a slight to us all. No one wants to see their king or queen kneel down and kiss someone's feet, right? We feel like we were wrong: we submitted to a weakling. It's not very Braveheart.

Let's get real here: I am not submitting to someone because they are a supreme and indomitable demi-god: I am submitting to them because I want to, fallible, contradictory and strange human being that they are (that we all are). For me, submitting to a switch takes away that illusion of supremacy, which allows the passing on of responsibility to the Dom for doing what you want to do. There is no place in your head that you can hide and think: 'I can't resist him: he's too strong, too clever. He'll always get the best of me [and therefore I'm not to blame for these dirty things he is making me do]'. No: the freedom of that choice is made painfully obvious when you have your [sometimes] Dom wimpering on his knees. You have to own up to your choices. And that's really humiliating (yum).

This has been a difficult thing to write, and it still feels a convoluted. I suppose in summary I'd just like to say this: watching a man who has in the past made me his bitch, thoroughly and completely, on his knees servicing a strange man's cock for my amusement? Oh, yes please.

Kinking on drama

2011-03-07T18:39:00.000Z

It seems to me that a lot of BDSM relies heavily on dramatic tension to make it work, and not just in role play. And I have started to think that my sexuality as a whole relies heavily on drama. I started to have a hunch that this was the case when a good friend of mine (FriendDom, of nipple pain fame, actually), said to me: "You're a drama queen." Astute, aren't I, to have picked it up from that? It had never occurred to me before.

Of course, I'm not talking about costume and scripted lines here, I'm talking about drama in the sense of:

drama [ˈdrɑːmə]

n [...]

4. a situation or sequence of events that is highly emotional or turbulent

That's all very well in terms of building a successful scene. God - I love the bit with the begging and pleading; the fear mixed up with desire; the confusion of sensations as you can't decide whether it is 'yes' or 'no' that you want to scream; the uncertainty of whether we have gone too far this time. But it seems that I have become a little mixed up. I find myself bringing that love of turbulence, of drama, in sex into my love relationships as a whole. I am never hotter for someone than when it is filled with 'no - we mustn't - but oh god I have to have you--'type drama. This does not bode well for a happy relationship.

I know this.

But how do you separate your sexual orientation from your emotional orientation? I feel like I've had a taste of how good crazy feels, and now I'm not sure I want to give it up. No - wait. I am sure. It's a nightmare. It brings me nothing but trouble. Of course I want to give it up. But then... maybe I could give it up after just one taste. Just one more night of IfuckingloveyousomuchIwanttohurtyou. Just one more night of my nerves screaming at me, and my heart hammering and my mouth running dry when I look at my phone. Just one more savage burn on my emotions.

Fuck. Now I'm wondering if I'm developing a dramatic relationship with drama, too.

Know your audience

2011-03-04T14:29:00.000Z

Aspiring writers are often given this advice. You have to know your audience. But what happens when you actually know your audience, as in physically, carnally, in the biblical sense?

It's inhibiting my writing: imagining the reaction on a face I know too well upon reading my words. And I know: it's my blog, I can write whatever I want here. But it's also my life, and I'm not immune to the ripples it might cause. And I have my pride. And, and, and... ad nauseam.

And so what do I do to rectify this situation? Abandon blog? The hull is breached and its ability to be a safe vessel for my thoughts has ceased? Well... no. I'm reluctant to do that. I feel faithful to the blog. It may just be a silly collection of thoughts from a girl trying to find her kinky way, but it's my silly collection. And it's my history. Incomplete as it may be, it is a history from an important and turbulent chapter in my life.

So what now? I don't know.

Perhaps I ought to have looked closer at the wording: the saying is 'know your audience' and not 'fuck your audience' after all.

Something stirring under the surface

2011-03-03T22:04:00.000Z

I can feel it stirring in me, under the surface. I am never free of it for long. Never anaesthetised long enough no matter what drug I use: sleeplessnes; stress; alcohol; sadness - they never take the edge of it for very long. I can pour my passions into altruistic pursuits and into platonic connections but I am not distracted completely for very long.

No - not very long at all and it is back. My sex. Clawing at the insides of me, burning for release. I wish I could throw ice on it, gag it, blind it, shut it away. I wish I could hurt it and imprison it and stop it from escaping. But I know this hold I have on it isn't going to last much longer and then it's going to fuck me over. It's going to fuck me. I wish I could look down the barrel of it and say 'You don't rule me. You have no power over me.' But we both know how ridiculous that would sound.

E[lust] 23

2011-02-27T09:16:00.000Z

Welcome to e[lust] - Your source for sexual intelligence and inspirations of lust from the smartest & sexiest bloggers! Whether you’re looking for hot steamy smut, thought-provoking opinions or expert information, you’re going to find it here. Want to be included in e[lust] #24? Start with the rules, check out the schedule and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~

Roadmaps of Consent - I fucking love consent. I love safewords. I can be much more cruel, and push much harder, if I trust my partner to tell me when I go too far.

Staying Safe - One cock, from one man, missing one condom, ultimately led to my brother’s death. And that sucks.

Flying the Friendly Skies - One button on her sweater was undone, there was a rip in her hose, scratches on her boots, and her hair was carelessly pinned back with stray wisps of hair escaping. There was a curious flavor of soiling about her, something a bit dirty and unkempt.

~ Featured Post (Lilly’s Pick) ~

Labels and my thoughts... - In the past year and a half I have gone from being someone that was lost, without identity that fit, rattling around inside myself to someone that has names for what they are.

~ e[lust] Editress: Dangerous Lilly

See also: Pleasurists #116 and #117 for all your sex toy review needs

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Kink & Fetish

5 Kinky Toys from the Dollar Store

Alive in my Skin

Dacryphilia

Digitalized for Posterity

Eroti...ca

filthy...

He ripped a string of orgasms from me, and then ramped it up

Manual Dexterity

Nadia's Surprise

Orgasms, Spoons Rests, and Fishnets! (The Play Party)

Punishment, humiliation and bondage

Schoolgirl in Saturday Detention

Steeling The Show

Water torture

Erotic Writing

A Little Night Music

Afternoon darkness

Crisp White Linens

dancing with (& then kinkily fucking) the dj

In the Mirror

Lope

Morning Sex

My First Anal Sex

September 1935

Shutter

Schoolgirl Part 1

Teenage Bukkake

Transition

You're Gonna Keep My Soul

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

A Doggie Kind of Love

Ashamed?! Are You Kidding Me?

Giggles, Groans and Panting

I Can Imagine How You Feel

Sex As Love

6 Moves Men Need to Be Sex Gods in the Bedroom

Terminology Fundamentalism

The COME HITHER QUIVER -or- How To Squirt

This Love

What I Want

Sex News, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Kink Network Announces the Opening of Their Adult Blog Host Kinky-Blogging.com

Porn, degradation, and Khan Tusion

Women With Two Vaginas

Kink, virginity and big-tittied whores

Balls

2011-02-20T22:37:00.000Z

I've lost my love balls!

It doesn't fill me with concern because I need them. It doesn't fill me with concern because it's a waste of money. No. I'm not terribly worried about that.

What's making me a little nervous is this: if they aren't in my possession where are they???

Where might I have left them?

Might someone find them?

What really worries me is I haven't seen them since I moved house. And the guy who moved into my old room at my last flat is a friend.

Oh God - what if I left them there? What if they rolled under the wardrobe or - or - or -

I keep imagining him discovering them. I'm not sure if it's better or worse that this guy has seen me naked [at least I know he's kinky, I suppose]. Am I still going to be able to look him in the eye while I *wonder* if he has discovered my love balls?

Oh balls.

And normal service will resume in 5,4,3...

2011-02-13T10:55:00.000Z

I woke up this morning with a strong urge to write another post. Because I burningly had something to say? No. Because I felt the need to put a bit of distance between myself and my last post. It feels too raw having it sit there at the top of my page, exposing me. It feels too honest. I feel uncomfortable having said it - whoever said the truth shall set you free?

I didn't just tell all of you how I felt. I told Mr L too. He says he feels the same. I thought that was what I wanted to hear, but it wasn't. I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach, hearing that he misses me. Because it doesn't change anything. And it only makes it harder.

I try to keep the raw and painful parts out of this blog (and out of my interactions with the world as a whole) most of the time. I have an amusing date to post about... life is good, on paper. But the brave face is getting a little tired. I think I'm going to give it a couple of days off.

The news no-one wants to hear

2011-02-13T00:08:00.000Z

I can't cry it out. I can't fuck it out. I have tried. I miss Mr L.

I'm not okay. And I'm tired of not being okay. It's boring. And exhausting.

Switching: extensions and escape of self

2011-02-06T12:32:00.000Z

I have a naturally dominant personality. I like to be in charge. I suppose I enjoy a pretty much alpha position in most of my social groupings. My professional life reflects the same thing: I'm in charge.

But when it comes to my sex life, there is a difference: I switch. Now, I am the first to admit I am still fairly early on in my BDSM career and therefore still developing (it's been about a year and a half now - if I learn as much in the next year and a half as I have in the last, I can barely comprehend where I might end up).

Having spent the majority of my post realisation/coming-out time as submissive, I found the thought of being sexually dominant extremely daunting and scary. After all, I'd built up in my mind the awesomeness that is a good Dom from my own personal experience - having my mind blown by such amazing encounters as sub made me worry I could never measure up if I switched. How could I possibly be as good as that??

Nonetheless, the urge to switch was there, and so little by little, I tested the water. I thought it would be extremely hard. I still have an awful lot to learn, and refine and get my head around (what fun!), but my early encounters taught me this:
**warning: submissives may want to look away now**
It felt easy.
No, not even easy: it felt natural. I was actually just being me.
It was actually much less of a struggle than being submissive.

I relayed this shocking realisation to a (vanilla) friend, and she raised an eyebrow at me, completely unsurprised.
'Of course it felt natural: it's just an extension of your normal personality. You were being yourself. That's why being submissive is an escape for you.'
I'd never really seen it like that before, but of course, she's right - that's how it is for me. I'm a dominant person, and therefore everything I enjoy and that appeals to me in that behaviour translates over to sex as well - it's why I'm so attracted to domming.

And then there is the flip side: submitting feels so intense and terrifying because I'm relinquishing my hold on what defines me as a person. For me it is a form of destruction of self. I don't mean that in a negative sense at all, rather in the sense of enlightenment: the casting off of the surface layers of my being.

Submission challenges what and who I am, and stops my ego from getting too comfortable. Or perhaps that's not right. Perhaps it is switching that challenges what and who I am, because it does not allow me to settle into a comfortable rut. Instead I must keep moving and reassessing and redefining how I see the world and myself.

Yes, that's right: I'm edging over into the territory of woo with this post. Fuck it, I'm just going to say it. For me, BDSM is a spiritually significant practice. It enables me to test my perceptions of the world and challenge them. It enables me to connect with others and with my own being in a place of honesty I haven't managed to reach by other means. Don't think for a minute I am saying I do it solely out of a high-minded search for the truth about the world. I do it because I'm a pervert, and I'd do it if it taught me nothing.

Lucky for me though I don't have to make that choice.

Nipple pain

2011-02-04T13:16:00.000Z

I played with a friend last night. I didn't really mean to - it just sort of happened. I suppose I'm in sexual overdrive this week.

Well anyway, I suffered extremely bruised boobs from my encounter with MFD a couple of days ago. This wasn't really an issue because my friend is a Dom, so he was hardly surprised or discouraged by this. Actually he was amused.

But I think my tastes for pain are... evolving. I have always hated and feared nipple pain. Beat me on the ass until your arm is tired and I'll take it, but hurt my tits? You'll have me squealing and begging you to stop in a matter of seconds. They're just extremely sensitive. I used to find even having them kissed almost unbearable. Playing with clamps and pegs and clips has helped me gain some perspective in that area, but I am still most definitely a nipple wuss.

MFD of course cares not a jot for that, so I've been nursing some very tender and rainbow-coloured tits since I saw him. FriendDom obviously saw this as a green light (or perhaps more like purple?) to add to my existing collection of bruises - what's a little extra, right? Well, I'm confused to report that my now bitten-on-top-of-the-bruises nipples are driving me crazy today. Every time I feel the material of my clothing graze against them I feel like I'm going to cum. I don't normally get a sexual trigger from this kind of pain - it can usually stop my arousal in its tracks if it gets too intense. But today, the achey-burny reminder is making me feel like I'm on heat.

WTF body? Have I just picked up another fetish?

* and yes, to my much-appreciated worriers about me (I love that you care enough to worry :) ) I am being careful, and safe, and honest about where I'm at with the people I'm playing with. Promise x

I needed that

2011-02-03T19:32:00.000Z

Don't judge me. ...okay, judge me if you like: I can't stop you. But you know what? I needed that.

I know at least one of you knows what's coming next.

I gave in and saw MFD again. He picked the right moment to pester - I was feeling vulnerable, and stressed and angry with myself. And within a short two days of haranguing, I was on his doorstep. He beat the living daylights out of me. I haven't had a beating like that in months.

And actually, it was exactly what I needed. I was able to release with such drama and intensity that I feel completely cleaned out. I feel so wonderfully calm inside; I don't think any amount of therapy, exercise or yoga has managed to come close to this effect of relief. I can breathe; a weight has been lifted.

It seems that along with the pain, the tears and the fear, he extracted my anxiety from me too. I don't feel humiliated - I feel free.

And what did he get out of the bargain? Other than the obvious sexual perks, he got to really punish me for some of the frustration that my recent fleeing from him has caused. And, ever the sadist, he certainly wallowed in my torture.

Now I'm calm and docile, covered in bruises, and able to go back to my life unhindered (except perhaps for a moderate amount of wincing and hobbling).

Was this encounter unhealthy? I really don't know. It felt positive, even though on paper it was the worst idea ever.

The fate of the charming guy

2011-02-01T09:15:00.000Z

He was too charming.

He ended up clingily suffocating me with too many compliments, and too much keenness. I've been in a spiral of doom the last few days, kicking myself for sleeping with him so soon. I shouldn't have. Now it makes it so much worse that I don't want to see him any more.

I don't feel very good about myself right now.

Safety is not just an issue for subs

2011-01-30T13:17:00.000Z

Of course, this is not new news, but it is something that I am beginning to understand more fully as I start to Get My Domme On. I'm not talking about the protocols of making sure you are not getting involved with a psychotic killer. Neither am I talking about the importance of protecting yourself from infections, nor about any of the other important physical health and safety factors we should consider when playing with others. For the purposes of this post, those are a given.

Instead I am talking about emotional safety. As a Domme I find myself thinking 'Can I trust the consent that you're trying to give to me?' The answer isn't always yes. It feels that in some cases, submission isn't just a 'this is right for me, and I want to give this to you'-type transaction. Instead, the submissive tries to use a dominant to fill up holes in themselves that they can't address on their own.

It's a fine line - just in my last post I was talking about my own experiences as a sub of catharsis and personal growth. I think these can be very positive experiences for all involved. Does that make me a total hypocrite? I don't think so, but the difference is difficult to express.

I suppose a more pertinent question is: 'Are you trying to use me to damage yourself (emotionally)?' That is at the root of my concern. I think that even if someone is adamant that they give consent - that they want you to take charge of them and do whatever it is you have mutually agreed - it's not just their responsibility to make that judgment: it's yours too. I think you can't just leave it to a promise and a safe word and say 'job done'. The result could be a very messy entanglement of dependance and emotional hurt.

I'm not sure if you can ever eliminate that risk in D/s, but you can minimise it. Can't you?

Perhaps this is rookie nerves talking. Perhaps having been a sub and experienced how deeply someone can get inside of you I take that responsibility all the more seriously. But it's a difficult call. We're not just playing here.

Dacryphilia

2011-01-26T19:31:00.000Z

For the uninitiated, Dacryphilia is pleasure and/or arousal derived from tears, or sobbing. Some extend this definition to include intense emotional release.

It was Hedone's post on turn ons that inspired a little trip down Memory Lane for me on this subject. Actually, I didn't go there voluntarily. More accurately, her mention of Dacryphilia smacked me over the back of the head and dragged me unconscious to Memory Lane, where I awoke, bleeding and dazed, on the cold tarmac. But as a girl who has indulged in her share of non-erotic crying of late, it was nice to wake up there.

I was still at that enthusiastic new sub stage, where I hadn't yet been pushed to the limits and everything inside me was screaming harder!harder!more!more! I was a greedy little victim, gratefully sucking up every bit of pain and attention he could care to lavish on me, scrabbling to please him with my every action. I felt impatient and frustrated with caution and sense and getting to know each other. I felt insatiable. I felt desperate to cut loose. But being so new I couldn't understand or identify those feelings. I didn't know what was causing this nameless restlessness.

During a discussion about our needs and fantasies and kinks, exploring areas for our future play together, I suddenly blurted:

"I want you to make me cry."

As soon as it came out of my mouth, I realised how badly I wanted it. He paused a little, considering.

"...Okay..."

He was waiting for more clarification, coaxing the details out of me with his non-response. He was listening.

I let it hang there for a second, struggling to form my thoughts.

"I mean really cry. With violence. I want to feel like you have broken me. And I don't want my tears to make you stop."

As soon as I had said it, I was obssessed with the idea. I had cried before once or twice in scenes with my old Dom (MFD), but on those occasions I had cried from frustration or humiliation, and it had been accidental. It was a couple of quiet tears shed rather than uncontrollable sobs. I had never cried from fear, from violence, from pain, or from the trauma of a scene before. I had never offered up my tears to fuel my partner's arousal before. I knew the sadist in Mr L (never very far from the surface) would glory in my tears. He would love them and bathe in them. They would be my bitter gift to him at a time when I would probably be hating him.

We'd shared fantasies of non-consent already. We already had a safe word. We were all set to act on my request in the not-so-distant future.

When it happened it was nothing like I imagined. I'm not sure what I imagined. But I think I at least always assumed that there would still be a part of me that could observe the action, see what was happening to me and kink on it from a distance. Or at the very least, I assumed I would retain some sense of self, some awareness that there was a way out of this situation if I needed it. Silly little sub girl. I was so new I didn't realise how deep I could go.

After a very intense session he gave me the thing I had so naively asked for. There I was, freshly whipped and waxed: pinned underneath him and crying, begging him to stop, sobbing with terror while he hit me again and again around the face, each blow causing the panic and confusion to rise in me further. And worse: he was not just enjoying my terror, he was getting off on it.

I can't

Please

Please don't make me

Please stop

I'm sorry

Please

Please don't

Please stop

(etc, sob)

But brutally he fucked me through my desperate, teary pleas, my patheticness spurring him on into me faster and harder. I was wretched; blind with fear; so desperate for it to stop.

I don't remember the end. I think I blacked it out. Apparently I did what he wanted finally... but I don't remember. I was completely broken.

At last, there was not a bit of restlessness left inside me. I was still and calm, and broken wide open. It is hard for me to describe how grateful I felt, and how cared for, when it was over. I felt as if a lifetime of relief washed over me, not just relief from a scene.

When Mr L and I talked about this experience a little while after it happened, we both admitted it had freaked us out a little. It felt so raw and so dark that we became afraid, holding mirrors up to unfamiliar parts of ourselves. He had been wondering whether he had gone too far. So had I.

This process taught me so much about myself, and I'm still learning. For me, crying is the ultimate humiliation. It is a sign of weakness and vulnerability that I cannot bear to show. I will do practically anything to avoid crying in public, or even in front of friends or family. I will lie, evade and shut myself away if I think there is even a risk I will start to cry.

Or perhaps I should say I used to. I'm getting better at being honest about my feelings and not bottling them up to protect the world from having to witness them. I think that there was so much fear and anxiety surrounding crying for me that I could never have released the floodgates in another way. I needed to be pinned down and forced. Until then I don't think I realised how deeply BDSM can reach inside of you and release things that you have hidden, even from yourself.

Did the crying experience turn me on? At the time I'm not sure. Apparently I was very wet. But then my body has always been a slutty masochist. The mind is harder to fathom. At the time I was desperate for it to stop. But afterwards, looking back on it I found it so hot. I still think about it sometimes when I touch myself.

Is it strange that a sexual experience has allowed me to (start to) fix a part of myself that was broken? Perhaps. But I'll always be grateful to Mr L for coming on that journey with me, however things turned out between us in the end.

Charming

2011-01-24T21:20:00.000Z

So. Remember my New Year's Resolution? Eyes open as well as heart open?

When I said that I wanted to keep my eyes open from now on, I didn't necessarily mean I wanted that resolution to be keeping me awake at night. But it kind of is.

What's keeping my eyes open rather too much is this: how do I begin to trust my own judgment? Should I have to earn my own trust back like a wayward lover who has sworn to stay faithful this time? Is it just a matter of time?

My problem is this: I've always loved the ladykillers. Charming, arrogant, some might even say cocky? Sold. I love a man who is good with words. I love a man who will fight to win you over. Yep, I love a bit of woo. Yeah, yeah - don't we all? (Actually SFP was blogging about the perils of charming here too today.)

My problem is that the men who are good at this stuff are generally the ones prone to being scoundrels... Because don't we all love those men? The charming ones, the ones that might not be so totally sincere underneath? We do. Perhaps it is just a matter of practice. More seducing and lying means you are better at it.

I just deleted the last paragraph four times. There is no way I can write this post without sounding sad and bitter. There is no way of writing down these fears without sounding like I have closed my heart. And that worries me.

It's no good opening my eyes if I'm just going to shut the most important part of me away. I refuse to become cold and suspicious.

Hmm... this is starting to resemble square one.

The reason I am writing this post is the appearance in my life of a charming man. He says lovely things. He makes me blush at my phone. I'm seeing him again on Friday. It scares the shit out of me. Not because I don't trust him - I barely know the man. It's far too early to be scared about what he could do to me. I'm scared about what I could do to me. I don't trust my own judgment at all.

Am I going to close my heart and bolt, or close my eyes and fall? Or will a miracle happen and I'll achieve the emotional equivalent of patting my head and rubbing my tummy at the same time? Will I keep everything open? I don't know. I'm trying.

The new boy

2011-01-21T02:16:00.000Z

So..... I went out with someone new this week. And you know what? It went okay. Actually, really okay. Actually, okay a-bit-grinny-keep-checking-my-phone-oh-blimey-we're-going-on-another-date-okay.

Well fancy that.

Stay tuned.

The kiss off

2011-01-16T11:45:00.000Z

So... I've been making the effort to meet new people. This is part of my moving on from past hurts and breaking the pattern of returning to damaging but familiar relationships.

I went on a date with a new man last week. I shall call him M. Progress, right? He was a really sweet guy, too. See? I said sweet. A red flag that this story is not going to end well.

The date was awful. I mean really awful. I actually seriously considered bolting [I was about to say 'at one point', but actually I considered it several times]. But no - my oh so English politeness led me to soldier on through for an acceptably long time before making my excuses. He has got in touch with me a string of times since and he wants to go out for dinner (was he on the same date that I was??).

But here's the rub: I'm rubbish at giving the kiss off. I never know how direct to be. Where is the line between politely letting someone down gently and being a bitch? Will someone please tell me?

I must admit I wasn't my best self on that date. I would have been much prouder of myself if I had found a way to gently but firmly say 'I don't think there's a spark here' and left. Instead I did that awful childish thing of trying to put him off me. I showcased all of the worst parts of me. This is me: the girl who drinks too much and parties too hard; the girl who's not even 30 yet and already has an estranged husband and a car crash of a love life; the girl who works too hard and can't leave her stress at the office and lets her passion for her job take over her life. This is me: the girl that is no good for you.

Obviously, that is a killer pulling tactic, because it only seemed to make M keener. What is that? The thrill of a challenge? Am I a project? I related this tale to two male friends this weekend and they said yes: you're that girl. We love a girl we have to look after and fix, a girl who will kick us in the shins. We love a project.

Fuck it, isn't that exactly the type of boy I go for? So broken it makes your heart ache and you just want to hold him?

This makes me wonder a couple of things:
1) Am I being selfish by starting to see people when I'm clearly not in the right emotional space for it? Or are they big boys who can look after themselves?
2) How do I escape from this pool of people that I will either martyr myself for or who will martyr themselves for me? Is there a way I can be 'project'-free?

Turning a corner

2011-01-06T22:40:00.001Z

Today I did something different. Today I was kind to myself.

I think a lot about patterns. I spend a lot of time repeating them, and looking back and analysing where I went wrong beating myself up over it. But today I was kind to myself.

Today I resisted MFD without any drama. I've been giving in at every turn, going from defiant pout to 'Yes Sir' in a heartbeat, then hatinghatinghating myself for it, then doing it all again the next time he gets in touch. I've treated you here and here and in many other places to snippets of the fucked up connection between me and My First Dom. I've been going around in circles trying to escape it for some time. And yes, I've been hiding it a lot of the time too. Isn't secret behaviour a sign of addiction? Anyway, I digress.

This isn't the first time I have resisted him, so some of my more regular readers and friends might be forgiven for wondering what is new here. Just part of the ebb and flow of my usual pattern? Let me tell you why this is different. Today I did not react with passion. It was not a stamping of feet or a slamming down of the phone. It was not a cowering or hiding, and hoping for it to stop (but wishing it wouldn't too). Today it was a pause, a thought and a considered 'no'. I did not feel the panic rise up in my chest. I did not feel the heat flick at me between my legs. I was calm. The reason that I think this is important is that the passion in fleeing him has always made me ricochet back again. It is part of the cycle; the pattern that I am no longer going to trace.

Perhaps it is the exhaustion of working too many hours lately that has my libido at least partially in check. But really? Let's not belittle what I did here. I gave up a fantastic beating and fucking session to come home by myself and do some yoga. Really. And as I ended up on my knees, face down and stretched out, in the Child's Pose (suddenly seeing some parallels with how my night could have turned out), I thought 'ohhhhh fuuuuuucccckkkk yesssssssssss'.

Release.

Oh, and I have a date next week too!

re·lease

tr.v. re·leased, re·leas·ing, re·leas·es

1. To set free from confinement, restraint, or bondage: released the prisoners.

2. To free from something that binds, fastens, or holds back; let go: released the balloons; released a flood of questions.

3. To dismiss, as from a job.

4. To relieve of debt or obligation.

5. To relieve of care and suffering.

a. To issue for performance, sale, publication, or distribution.

b. To make known or available.

7. To relinquish (a right or claim).

1. A deliverance or liberation, as from confinement, restraint, or suffering.

2. An authoritative discharge, as from an obligation or from prison.

3. An unfastening or letting go of something caught or held fast.

4. A device or catch for locking or releasing a mechanism.

a. The act or an instance of issuing something for publication, use, or distribution.

b. Something thus released: a new release of a software program.

c. The condition of being available, in use, or in publication: a movie in wide release.

6. Law

a. Relinquishment to another of a right, title, or claim.

b. The document authorizing such relinquishment.

7. Linguistics The movement of a vocal organ or organs so as to end the closure of a stop consonant.

Heart open and eyes shut

2011-01-02T13:49:00.001Z

The title of this post is inspired by a comment a close friend made to me recently, in a fit of pique about my trusting behaviour:

"You're going to go into this like you go into everything: heart open and eyes shut."

This comment had quite a profound effect on me, because I realised she was right. It sounds like quite a harsh judgment, but in my friend's defence I ignored her warnings and then got totally blindsided by something that broke my heart. Eyes shut (or at least looking in the wrong direction)? Check. Heart open (and completely vulnerable to damage)? Check.

But I don't want to close my heart, even though it is hurting. I want to remain full of love and I don't want to harden myself with bitterness. Instead I want to strive towards opening my eyes, becoming more aware of the unpleasant truths, not allowing my enthusiasm to gloss over the problems. I want to retain my ability to trust, my ability to make myself vulnerable, but just use these gifts more wisely and perhaps more sparingly.

When asked before New Year if I had any resolutions this year, I flippantly replied 'no more fuckwits'. But that's not my New Year's Resolution. My Resolution is this: this year I will strive towards heart open and eyes open.

There. See? I can do it.

The line between fantasy and desire

2010-12-28T10:27:00.001Z

I know this line falls in a different place for everyone, and can move depending on the situation, but I'm having a bit of trouble lately locating mine.

We all have a line, right? There are things that make us desperately hot to fantasise about that we would never want to actually do.

But fear can blur that line. For example, fisting. That is something I was always clear I would never ever want to do. EVER. Nope. No way. NNNNNNEEEEEEEEVER. Back the fuck away from me with that gigantic man hand of yours there is NO WAY you're fitting it inside of me. Freak.

Of course, it did fit inside of me, and I lived to tell the tale. And, incidentally, the experience taught me how to squirt as well. But I digress. The reason fisting was a limit for me was because I was afraid of it, but that's not how I processed it. Rather than admit I was just leg-shakingly scared of it, I found it easier to process it as disgusting. Saying something just makes you feel all squicky is a very good get out clause. I stress, I didn't do this squirmy reasoning on a conscious level (and of course, genuine squick exits in all of us). But I needed a little help to unpick that reasoning. Okay, a little help, some coercion and a moderate amount of restraint.

So, on the one hand I have the experience of fear inhibiting my conscious desires, pulling the line closer to me, narrowing my options.

But what about the pull in the other direction, the pull that widens my horizons and makes turns fantasy into real experience?

I'll move out of the realm of BDSM for a second to give an extreme example. People with acrophobia (fear of heights) often report the urge to jump when presented with a steep drop from an edge.

What if my desire to go further, push harder, experience more extremes is actually a vertiginous desire to do something that may not be right for me - something that crosses the line? It's easy to see with the cliff top example that following through would cause you harm, perhaps even kill you, but it's not as easy to see where that is the case when you're dealing with the mind, and the impacts that D/s has on it.

I keep feeling this way about control, and the relinquishing of it. The more I think about it, the whiter my knuckles get trying to hang onto some vestige of control. The more I am aware of this process, the more impossible it seems that I could ever completely let go. This seems like a ridiculous dilemma to be having for someone who identifies as sub (at least some of the time). The logical question to pose would be: if you don't want to submit, to give up control, then why don't you walk away? What are you doing here?

Why don't I just step away from the edge?

The reason I keep dithering on the edge (will she jump? won't she?) is because I feel a very strong pull in the other direction as well - I want to give up control completely. My desire for this rages within me. It still only takes a word from my ex-Dom to push me over into orgasm... from a standing start, my pulse is racing, I'm pliable, filled with animal need. And that is beyond compelling. But I can't trust. I won't trust. I find myself faltering at the edge because I need something to hang onto, something to assure me that I can find my way back; something to assure me that I won't be lost. And it's blindingly terrifying. Why am I always terrified when I'm that aroused? Or am I that aroused because I'm terrified?

Perhaps I haven't lost my line at all - it could be that I'm already standing on it, and I'm just imagining it is off in the distance and I'm too wimpy to get there. Perhaps the line between my fantasies and my desire is always moving with me. That is a scary thought as well as an exciting one. The fear and the struggle and the newness might never end.

Perhaps the edge is the final destination? Perhaps all of this squirming is where I want to be.

Sexy cars

2010-12-21T09:30:00.000Z

Okay, okay, it has been all doom and gloom around here for a while - apologies for that. The lovely Hedone shared a very amusing link with me today, which she found on Secret Scorpio's blog.

How to fuck a car.

Dude.

Enjoy: http://blackroses.textfiles.com/sex/sex-cars.faq

I think womankind's work here is finally done - we can retire, thanks to the cleverly designed SIU (Sexual Interface Unit)!

Thanks Hedone for brightening up my morning!

Disclaimer: if any of you readers go on to fuck cars as a result of this advice, please do pop back here and leave a comment: let us know how it turned out for you!

On trust

2010-12-19T20:00:00.000Z

There was someone in my life who meant a lot to me. Let's call him Mr L, shall we? Sound familiar? I've been quiet on this subject for a long time because it meant too much to me to spill my guts about it (sorry).

I put a lot of faith into things working out between us. I made myself more vulnerable than I ever had been before, and exposed parts of myself I never thought I could. I put a lot of faith in him. It turns out that I was wrong, and it makes me very sad.

Right now I really doubt my judgment when it comes to trusting people. Time and again I have blindly and willfully ignore all the warnings of my friends and made bad judgments. I can't foresee getting past that. I'm sad, and I'm tired. And I don't want to do this anymore.

It's a small world

2010-12-03T08:34:00.000Z

Too small, actually.

I joined IC very recently. It's a site for the UK BDSM scene and I'd been meaning to for a while - a few friends have recommended it. Where's the harm? Have a mooch around, find out when the next munches are, start moving forward again instead of backwards, maybe chat to some people...

MFD found me within a day of putting my profile up there. And messaged me. A coincidence. Well, yes - small world. He probably just stumbled over me in his usual (for all I know) hunt for fresh meat. I left it at that, and did not respond. I hadn't even had the chance to put a photo up yet, so - I thought - perhaps he didn't recognise me. He did, of course. And the onslaught of messaging and phoning began.

The way I handled it was, while not exemplary, an improvement on previous occasions. I refused to answer the phone. I ignored his demands as they streamed at me in messages.

The disconcerting thing was how painful it was to ignore him. There wasn't a shred of doubt in my mind that ignoring him was what I needed to do. And yet, with every fresh act of disobedience, it hurt. My insides jumped when the phone rang. I could feel arousal rising inside me and I hated myself for it. I felt ashamed.

I know it's just habit, just conditioning. Perhaps it is an extra strong reaction because he was my first Dom. I know if I ride this out it will fade. I am just frequently surprised at how intense these reactions can be. It suddenly struck me: we're not playing here.

Hurt and harm

2010-11-28T11:59:00.000Z

A couple of things lately have caused me to look more closely at where the line lies between hurt and harm. One was the realisation that my relationship with MFD was harming me (yes: I have acted on the sense I already had deep down and I ended it). The other is slightly abstract, but bear with me. It has come to my attention recently that a vanilla friend of mine has been hurting herself. For stress relief, apparently. Not seriously hurting - not damaging - just hurting. But is it self harm?

I don't know.

My immediate ingrained reaction is to say that it is, to jump up and rush for a doctor, to have stern talks and circle-style interventions. But is that hypocritical? Are these not the same friends I was terrified about coming out to, and who listened with furrowed brows when I tried to explain why it was okay to get my kicks from my boyfriend beating me with his belt? Is she not just releasing pressure in a similar way, just with different motivation? For this reason I feel like I owe this topic some serious thought. I'll call it self-hurting in the meantime, until I've reached a verdict. To clarify, I'm not talking about any branch of self-administered masochism - that remains, for the purposes of this discussion, under the banner of consensual SM.

When I try to define why consensual SM and self-hurting are different, the first test I think to apply is SSC: Is it Safe, Sane and Consensual? So many people cite this as this rule as the final test - the test we can use to see whether something is just not to our taste or if, worse, it has crossed the line to unhealthy or dangerous. Safe? Well, yes - I think relatively so: I quizzed her quite heavily about safety aspects and I think she more or less has it covered. Sane? Oh now this one is an extremely difficult one to answer. How on earth can I be qualified to judge that? There are a number of points under this heading I'll expand upon below. Consensual? Well, as there is only one person involved then yes - as long as the 'sane' heading is covered.

The first area of concern which might impact on the SSC test is that self-hurting is an act borne out of anguish. This generally means a state of less control, and perhaps lower judgement. This could potentially be dangerous; it's why people say a Dom should never beat out of anger. He or she might get carried away.

Secrecy is another red flag to me: a desperation to hide something shows that you know it is wrong, right? Well perhaps not. A vast quantity of the kinky people out there are still in the closet because they are afraid of the reactions others would have if they knew. This could easily fall into the same category.

There is no pleasure from it. Although you could easily argue that relief of tension is type of pleasure. It's easy for us to get on our high horse in the BDSM community and say 'this is my sexuality: it is who I am. You can't deny me my sexual freedom - it is a basic need'. And of course, we are right. But it is not the only need, and we are not the only ones who should get to choose how we fulfil that need. 'But it turns me on' is actually quite a hard thing to argue with - it's indisputable. If a person argues that hurting themselves is the only way to relieve their tension, my pseudo-liberal sensibilities tempt me to bring out the 'should's: 'you should take up yoga' / 'you should talk to us more' / 'you shouldn't bottle things up'. Read my subtext: (you should do it my way). And that is not what freedom is about.

Is it because we can still argue that no matter how alien seeming kink might be to others, it still falls into the 'light' category of bringing pleasure, rather than the 'dark' category of removing suffering? The implication of this self-hurting is that there is a much deeper suffering, which is perhaps the most scary thing of all, the most unsettling. Self-hurting in this context is a proof of unhappiness. Consensual SM does not have that same implication: you can be incredibly happy and still want a beating - it is a joyful thing. It is something we actively want rather than passively need and have to resort to.

The reality is that of course, is that SM occupies both sides of that line and is very often about removing suffering, inextricably linked to past traumas and incredibly difficult to sanitise to make it as safe emotionally as it is physically. But I don't like to admit so much to the messiness of the truth when it comes to my own behaviour. Talking about BDSM rights and freedom inevitably leads me to kick all the crap into the closet that I don't want visitors to see. Oh yes - we do have a lovely house, don't we? Yes - it's always this tidy. It's human nature. And it's probably necessary too.

Back to the original question, I find myself in a predicament. On the one hand, I do not want to be judgemental. As long as someone isn't a danger to themselves or others, I want them to be free to make their own choices and live life as they see fit. It doesn't matter if I don't share their desire to do it. Life would be incredibly boring if we all understood each other already. On the other hand, it causes me great pain to consider the possibility that my own wooly-headed liberalism might cause me to facilitate unhealthy behaviour by not recognising when a friend needs a helping hand. I would never forgive myself if I missed the moment when everything went from okay to not-okay because she got carried away and I was too busy being open-minded to notice.

I'm not sure where the line between hurt and harm comes. I think it comes somewhere around the point where an action is no longer buoying you up, it is pulling you down. You can grow and learn from hurt; you can heal better, stronger. When the hurt becomes something to recover from and recriminate yourself for, I think that is when it becomes harm. Harm leaves a bitter aftertaste that tells you that you were better off before.

TMI?

2010-11-16T10:44:00.000Z

I think I'm scared of him.

It turns me on how harsh he is, but it scares me a little too. I've caught myself avoiding asking for things I want, because it'll put my head above the parapet and leave me exposed. I'd rather be frustrated and not cum than attract his attention - it'll come with too heavy a penalty. But this harshness has such a strong physical reaction in me: sharp knives of arousal. I think he has me how he wants me: quiet, cowed, meek. Isn't that how submissives are meant to be? It's not how I see myself.

This dynamic does not fill me with joy. I felt joy with Mr L - I felt giddy with the urge to give to him. This instead satisfies me in a dark, mean way. It feels like an expression of nihilism, a destruction. I feel I am contracting into myself, shrinking. Perhaps this is masochism of the spirit.

Delegation of authority

2010-11-14T18:50:00.000Z

Okay, hands up: things are not going according to plan lately.

MFD is back on the scene again. And who am I to resist?

He tested me pretty hard this week. However, this is not a 'poor me I can't resist My First Dom and his evil machinations' post. The week's tribulations caused me to ponder on me-as-sub-when-I'm-being-ridden-pretty-hard as the rest of the world sees me during these times.

I had to go to a fancy launch for work earlier in the week and it was imperative I was on my game - I had to be confident and focussed and do a lot of networking. I was a bit nervous about it, generally. Of course, MFD picked that moment to be an utter bastard and insist that I arrive at said launch with stockings on but no knickers under my dress... and wearing a plug... and with the orders to sneak off and make myself cum. 5 times.

I was raging. I did not have time for this, I could not risk letting my professional vaneer slip, and I certainly could not engage in risky behaviour like this. It was a high profile event, for godsake. Who did he think he was?!

Raging.

I did it, of course.

It was torture (as was the party I had to attend afterwards). I was really afraid people would know, would be able to tell, would be looking at me amused - or worse, horrified - able to detect my arousal, my exposure, my inappropriate behaviour which left me unfit to be in their presence. I felt humiliated, unworthy to be at this event, and worst of all, the fear and the humilation was arousing me so much it was making me wet, soaking wet. With no knickers on, I was completely exposed, feeling a slight trickle tell-taling down my inner thigh, hoping - praying - it would stop at the top of my stockings.

But what I have come to realise lately, somewhat suprisingly, is that I become more outwardly confident in these situations. I think it is partly due to my distraction. I am distracted by my task, and the sensations it is causing me, into not thinking about being nervous. Where there would normally be room in my mind Professional task in hand Vs Nervous criticism of my own performance, there is instead only room for Professional task in hand Vs D/s task in hand. There is no room for nerves. There is also the realisation that the professional task is the least mortifying and scary thing that is happening to me at that moment, and therefore is something to be embraced and enjoyed - to even be thankful for. It is something I can dive into and try to immerse myself in with the hope it will distract me from more worrying sensations down below.

And so, it seems, that when I'm being mastered, I'm more masterful. I'm more confident. I can feel myself take charge: of the conversation; of the situation; of the group. I feel powerful, because I'm managing to cope. I think this is also partly because of that sense of having delegated authority: I'm doing this on orders. And if someone else is driving, I can't mess it up.

At the periphery of my consciousness I note this sounds like the clarity of the righteous. Perhaps I am a pale immitation (a parody?) of a 'soldier of God', unblinking in my actions because they were delivered to me from on high. Delegation of authority has certainly been used to excuse all kinds of actions, carried out unflinchingly. Perhaps D/s will always have parallels with religion because the human mind uses the same simple hooks to hang these things on. Or perhaps I'm being terribly blasphemous and it's just me. Regardless, I imagine that the similarities are especially called to mind because the launch was in a grand and historic holy place. But I digress.

The final piece of the puzzle for me is this: I am confident because I have the glow of a shared secret inside me keeping me company. I am not alone. I am fortress-like, protecting a truth from escaping which would damage me if it did. I take a breath. I smile. I can do this.

On the road to catharsis

2010-11-09T16:52:00.000Z

We talk a lot about the cathartic powers of BDSM. Some even talk about it in terms of healing. For my part, I do believe it can perform that function, when the energy between the people involved is right.
I must admit, I've always thought of it in rather simplistic terms - the taking back of control through re-enactment, the neutralisation of negative fetishism, the reinvention of the experience of pain. But I'm starting to see a broadening of that concept in my own understanding. Specifically, in terms of the cathartic powers of bratting - unconscious catharsis.

I've always had an abandonment complex. I'll put up with all sorts of crap rather than face the risk of being rejected by a loved one. It makes me unnaturally long-suffering. And then eventually I snap, and I leave and I never come back. Obviously this isn't ideal, and I've been working to change that behaviour now I recognise it for what it is.

You may think I'm veering wildly off the point here, but bear with me: I have a plan.

As a sub, I'm a brat. I'm cheeky, often actually naughty, and I think subconsciously I seek out punishment. This isn't just because I'm a masochist - I do want to please very much; I just get a bit sidetracked. I'm not saying this because I'm proud of it. I'm saying it because it's true. Recognition of this behaviour pattern leaves me no less sorry or regretful when I mess up.

It recently ocurred to me that bratting is another type of re-enactment for me. I behave badly, acting out the behaviour I subconsciously think will lead to my rejection and abandonment. But just like with a scene, it doesn't end with the negative, feared result that the non-D/s, non-consensual equivalent would give you: for example, you would expect a rape scene end in an opposite way to how a rape would - instead of fear and horror you have release, affection, aftercare and closeness. In the same way, my little acts of rebellion and defiance do not end in rejection. In a D/s setting we have rules. And so the problem can be dealt with in a way that is controlled. Action: consequence. Error: correction. My fear of abandonment is then neutralised (temporarily) because I see that even when I have been bad, and dicappointed him he does not abandon me. He calmly punishes me instead. It makes me feel safe. It's my way of verifying 'you still think I'm worth the effort of punishing. You're not going to leave me - you're still here'. It's a testing I know I ought not to indulge in, but it's hard to resist.

2010-10-23T09:27:00.000+01:00

Hello! I've missed you! I'm in the new gaff now, and less surrounded by packing boxes than I was. I still don't have any Internet but I'm making do. I just wanted to share this with you, because even when I'm in transit and rather distracted I'm still a shameless hussy:

Dear Sir

I'm writing to ask that you please refrain from trespassing. We have clearly set boundaries that suggest we do not engage in sexual activity because of (hopefully temporary but nonetheless absolute) general fuckwittage on both sides.

Whilst I have been almost immaculate in my maintenance of this difficult rule, you, Sir, have not. I let it slide a few times, but really now I feel I must say something. You were in my dreams again last night. Completely uninvited. Imagine my surprise: I had locked the door, and was fairly certain that there was no one hiding under the bed. And then you fucked me. And tortured me. So deviously and painfully deliciously (I can still feel the heat of wax, the chill of chain and the shock of your intrusion), that you actually made me cum. So. Hard.

It woke me up.

How rude.

Please wait for an invitation next time before violating me so maddeningly, or I shall have to call the Police.

Yours (oh how I wish I weren't)

J.

PS and while you're at it, please stop giving me flutters when I have to use the word 'Sir' in a professional context. It is most unsettling.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Duty to be out?

2010-10-04T19:03:00.001+01:00

http://www.nataliedee.com/090409/i-saw-a-dudes-chicken-come-out-once-it-wasnt-pretty.jpg

This post has been brewing for a little while. I keep wondering whether I have a duty to 'come out' in relation to kink - or at least be more out than I already am - because you will never reduce prejudice and ignorance without openness. And I'm not satisfied with the current social prejudices relating to BDSM. I think this culture breeds misery. It causes people to live a lie because they are too afraid to admit what they want, and it causes those of us who do admit what we want numerous problems when dealing with a system that doesn't always recognise that BDSM can be healthy and consensual. It can cause people to be victimised and ridiculed. It creates a culture of secrecy that allows predators and abusers to thrive. And I don't think that's okay. Just as these thoughts were beginning to form into a post, I saw this statement from maymay on the same subject which got me thinking a bit further.

Now, I'm not exactly in the closet. I'm completely honest with all of my friends about my involvement with kink, and whilst I don't talk to my family about it, I've never felt the need. We just don't have that kind of relationship that we talk about sex... but if I ever needed to tell them, I'm sure I could.

It wouldn't take a genius to figure out who I am - you can see my face on Twitter and a few other places that would leave no doubt to someone who already knows me. But I'm at ease being who I am in my life, and people can take me or leave me as I am, as far as I'm concerned.

The problem is work. I work in a field that is particularly unforgiving of kink, and I'm not sure how badly it would damage my career if my real name were linked with my nickname. I still exist in a patriarchy - it's unusual enough that I'm a young woman doing the job that I do - I worry it would be a step too far to introduce these other more challenging dynamics. And I'm still young - these issues will only increase in magnitude as I progress. I'm not suggesting that I breeze into work one day wearing latex; sex has no place in the workplace (okay, in my workplace - it does in others) so at first sight it seems difficult to see how this might be an issue. To me, the final step out of the closet is just a relaxation around things I'm currently careful about. Specifically, my name. I watch what I say under my professional name, my legal name. I don't imagine for a minute that a determined snooper couldn't establish a link fairly easily, but they would have to look a little harder than just stumbling upon it.

More than anything, I'm worried about two specific things:

A work contact googling me to find out what professional details and stumbling across my kink side, which then damages my standing
A mean/malicious ex exposing me to public embarrassment with intimate details/evidence of the things I have done, damaging my reputation and career.

I'll admit that 2. has little to do with how 'out' I am, although I'm sure the impact (and the desire to use it as a weapon) would be much greater with me being secretive. But if I became vocal about BDSM issues under my professional name, 1. would probably happen quite quickly.

Looked at through this lens, it seems fairly clear I should maintain the current status quo, right? I have the comfortable balance of having an open and accepted identity in my private life without unnecessarily jeopardising my career, something that I'm passionate about.

Right?

Well, I keep thinking maybe not. Maybe this is selfish. Maybe in order to help to affect change in my own small way, I need to stick my head above the parapet and say, simply: 'This is me. Here I am.' Because maybe we all need to start doing it. Maybe I especially ought to do this because I work in such a conservative, public arena. Maybe it matters more because there is such resistance. Maybe more people who *can't* should try anyway. I know, this is an idealistic stand I'm taking, but it's true: nothing will ever change otherwise.

I don't imagine many people would care, actually. I know I'm just one little person. But that's what everyone is: one little person. This is more of a personal exercise of removing fear, opening myself to potential risk, to potential battles that may have otherwise been avoided. In other areas of my life I'm quite activist about my views. It feels wrong that I am not as publicly vocal about this. There is still a long way to go; it's still listed under the International Classification of Diseases, for goodness' sake! although some countries are already individually crossing it off their lists of illnesses.

I realise that my circumstances may change - I may end up with children or other responsibilities that affect what type of information I want to have publicly available about me. But I think the anxiety around this is intrinsically linked to the perception of BDSM as something shameful. I treat it much the same way as I'd treat any other issue with sexuality: there are some people that shouldn't have to hear the intimate details of your sex life, regardless of your orientation - it's just not necessary. But that doesn't mean they shouldn't know the headlines. If I take a step back and think about it, it appears to me that it's the level of detail that worries me.

Future children and colleagues reading intimate accounts of my escapades? Scary and worrying.
Future children and colleagues just knowing that I'm an advocate of sex positivism and BDSM rights? Actually, I think I'd be rather proud.

I'm proud of who I am. It's just privacy I want, not anonymity. But am I brave enough to take the risk that I might damage my career? I don't know. I'm not sure. I haven't decided. I want to be brave. I want my principles to matter more to me than my fear of being disapproved of.

I don't want to live in fear. So the question is: do I confront it, or do I hide from it? Do I have a duty to be out?

Have I finally discovered the safety catch?

2010-10-02T10:40:00.001+01:00

I've just got back from the Netherlands. It's a relief to be back, because working away is never as much fun as it sounds. I also feel a little bit cheated because I didn't see a single pair of clogs while I was out there. Well, okay - I saw some furry ones, but none that were made of wood, and they're the only ones that really count.

I digress. Life (as you may be aware if you're a regular reader and have noticed my recent silence interspersed with amateur dramatics) is chaotic at the moment. The vaguely lingering threat of my estranged husband in the background, the absence of Mr L and the altogether unwelcome interference of MFD have combined to make my love life a horrible thing that I don't wish to look directly at, in case it burns off my retinas. Non-love life has also been more than a little challenging, but I won't bore you with a list. The thing is, in the past my knee-jerk reaction to this has always been to distract myself with more intrigue and entanglements and hope that it all sorts itself out without my having to make any decisions of my own.

But, BUT I've lasted ages now without doing that very same thing! Well, okay - ages for me. My trip abroad showed me a different side of me. Work happened to throw me into contact with this exceptionally cute man. He had the added bonus of being an expert in his field (my field) and being very passionate. We clicked... and there was flirting.... and there may have been some exchange of contact details. But then comes the departure from my usual behaviour: I ran away from him.

I admit, I probably ought to work on refining this behaviour to make it a bit less
a) childish
b) rude
c) ridiculous.

But I feel like it might be the start of some sort of embryonic safety catch, albeit unconscious, forming inside me. Perhaps I'm starting to recognise moments when I really can't take any more complication in my life and stop adding to the pile. A deeply buried awareness of how to actually look after myself and clear up the mess in my life might be starting to burst forth in unexpected impulses. Maybe. Or I'm just going a bit loopy.

And on the subject of love, you should probably know, my confidants, that I've realised (again) that I can't work it out with my husband. It's taken me some time to come to terms with that, and I've been struggling for the last couple of months, but I'm starting to get there. It's amazing what you can do when you take a little time for yourself and stop running away. I feel like I've been witholding a lot from this blog - but sometimes it can feel disloyal to write about the things that are too close to you and your loved ones... but it helps me to write, and so I will try.