On being a “three hole” submissive


The Rules‘ arrived by email, 9 days ago, after my second coffee date with the Prince of Darkness.  As he’d already taken to instructing me on what to wear, and asking me not to swear, and insisting that I arrive on time (and no, a text message to say I was stuck in traffic was not considered acceptable, and I still received a very public lecture about my lateness that day), I had naively asked him what his ‘rules’ were.  I thought it would tell me more about this quiet, enigmatic man that I was becoming so drawn to.

What I did not expect was a document explicitly setting out the sexual parameters for our relationship.  Parameters that focused heavily on punishment and discipline. Parameters that included my punishment being delivered by other males and females, as The Top might see fit.  And that The Top may outline the punishment before it is delivered, if he desires, but he might not.  And that Punishment may include Corner Time, when The Top decrees (I’m still wondering why so many subs on FetLife get freaked out about Corner Time – clearly I haven’t a clue).

Was this what I thought I’d be doing when I created my profile on FetLife? Holy fucking hell.  Noooo way.  Never.  I was a girl that liked a bit of rough sex, being spanked, sucking cock, and I wanted more.  That’s what I thought.  I can’t help laughing now, at the me I was two weeks ago.  Silly, stupid girl.

I recognised in myself the horror that Ana felt when presented with Christian’s contract (oh yes, I just broke the Golden FetLife Rule and mentioned 50SoG) and it made it all the more surreal.  My life had turned into something from a bad FanFic novel! I walked around giggling about this for a day.

With the Rules, the PoD wrote:  “Something for you to reflect upon. Don’t make a snap judgement but talk to me about them!”
“I would like you to be specific about my ‘general behavioural issues’, please.”
“Timekeeping for one. x”, was all I received.  Suddenly our long written evening communications dried up and I couldn’t fathom this out.
“Are you forgetting that I was early yesterday?” I typed. “Feeling pretty freaked out right now and wish I’d bought 2 bottles of wine instead of just one.”
“Stay with it and breathe.”  Came the very minimal response from him.

And here’s the thing.  I stayed with it and I kept breathing.  We kept having coffee dates; now sitting holding hands across the table, smiling inanely at each other.  If this arrangement is just for the PoD to get his sadistic rocks off, it doesn’t feel that way to me.
One morning I get this text: “I think about you all the time xxxx”
“Ditto xxxx”, I reply.

I go back and read The Rules and now they make me feel horny as hell.  I still don’t know what any of this means but there’s no way I’m quitting yet.  I still have so many questions.  My biggest fear is not about being physically harmed because I trust him to look after me.  But can I trust him with my heart?


Punching the fuck out of Love

I can’t remember what I wanted from this or why I came here. It’s morphed so dramatically in such a short space of time.
Fun? Probably, yes.
I don’t know.

I know I wasn’t looking for Love.
Love can just keep the fuck away from me. As my vanilla-sometimes-squeeze says, “I want to lock Love in a room and punch the fuck out of it.” You and me both, honey.

Right now I feel like running back to that boring, mundane vanilla world and asking for some grace. I promise I won’t fuck up again, I won’t moan about boring sex even once. I won’t go out seeking guys to beat me and leave bruises on my arms any more. Just let me believe in Love again, one day, for an hour or two.

I’ve said it but it’s like I keep forgetting it: the piranhas are circling me. I’m the fresh meat in the tank. And I don’t even know how I got here….

Three months ago I was sunk full-body-deep in the most delicious experience of sensual love and adoration that I’d ever tasted. The whole summer seemed sparklingly clear, brighter than my life before that golden Adonis came along and shook me at my foundations. I felt like the most beautiful creature on the planet for the whole duration of our brief affair. Today I’m sent a draft list of rules setting out how I will be punished and used if I consent to this submission, which includes asking permission to use the toilet and making all three holes available for Him to use as he pleases (which may also be delegated to others, male or female, as He pleases). And apparently my bad language will be up for review and subject for punishment, as well as other general behaviour issues, such as my timekeeping. Oh the fuck yeah? Come on, then.

Yes, I felt turned on reading the list. Yes, I’ve fantasized about all this stuff plenty and wanked like a demon with it on my mind. But the reality of going through with it and agreeing to this, that’s something else. And I don’t know if I can.

When Graeme split the scene I said, “No more men telling me how to live my life.” I wanted my home back, my sanctuary, my space and my bed.
What’s happened?

Today I received a lecture, stood outside Waterstones in a very public place. I knew there was nothing to do but stand up straight and take it.
Last night I gave my son an effective reprimand and stood by it. It worked.
And all this week I have been treating the people I encounter in daily life with an even greater amount of kindness, courtesy and respect than I have ever done before. I have worn dresses and skirts and given a shit about my appearance in a way that I haven’t done for years. I have considered the things that I’ve been neglecting and overlooking and realized that I can double-down and take care of them quite soon. All this in spite of the fact that I’ve been walking around in a fairly constant haze of semi-orgasmic frenzy.

Are these the possible outcomes of being topped by a dominant man? It seems to me that these things have nothing to do with sex (because I haven’t had sex with him yet). They are unexpected bonuses, and something I want to explore more. But the wording of the Rules comes back to me again and I quake.

Wise words tonight from new FetLife friends:
“Do not not not go for the first guys you like”… and really I should add, “The first guys who’ve liked me,” because I think that’s more to the point.

“You will have no end of offers. Choose carefully who you submit to. It’s a gift. Don’t let anybody use you, or abuse you, or take you for granted.”

“It’s not a race to find a Dom,” said one friendly Dom. And it’s just too obvious for words but obviously not to me.

I need more bruises. I need more wine. I need to remember why I’m here and what I want. I need to count the number of fucks in this piece. I need to go out tomorrow night and have some fun. And I need to punch the fuck out of Love, the filthy treacherous, mother-fucking whore because I’m sure it’s her fault that I came here in the first place.

On being told what to wear

“I feel like my ego is being publicly dismantled,” I wrote to a friend earlier.
“My logical brain is struggling to make sense of this!”
“That’s the point, dear Peggy, there is no logic to it,” he replied.

I disagree. All behaviours are driven by deep psychological needs. Sexual satisfaction may be outside the realms of logic, but submitting control of my life to a dominant male figure? It goes against every choice I’ve made in my life up until now.

“Sir needs to know about the clothing and lingerie that Peggy owns so that he can decide what she will wear tonight.” I held my breath and resisted an immediate response. I’d fought so hard to win this right from my Mother as a girl and still felt incensed by her attempts to control how I dressed into my teens . “You do look lovely in a dress”, or “You’re not wearing any make-up”, as I’d head out the door to go off with friends. The result being I took to living in jeans and giving up lipstick. That’s still who I am: a reaction to her opinions. Am I about to become defined by someone else’s preferences for me now?
“You do not own me (yet) and I will decide to choose what I am going to wear,” was the response Sir got eventually.

Later on, I change my profile, thinking, “I didn’t come here for this!” so I write “I’m not willing to be controlled by a man,” wondering if I’m really a submissive woman after all.

The friend (a male Dom) comes back with this:
“I must admit to being confused by your need to be dominated but not controlled, but you reacted positively to being sent to bed. Do you like to be told what to do and wear, for instance? Tops can beat a sub – that’s not the issue. Making a sub emotionally want to be Topped is a completely different skill.”

Huh. Another level opens up. What does it mean to emotionally want to be Topped? If I want to be told what to do and what to wear? What does that reduce me to and could I live with that?