The First Blow

The first blow comes out of nowhere and knocks me to the floor. I’m up on my feet, sharp, in seconds, spinning around, fists clenched, guard up like you taught me. I have to land a punch but you’re hiding in the shadows, out of reach. You want me on the edge of fear. The adrenaline racing and flooding my cells. Senses sharpen as the night air cools my brow. I catch a glimpse of movement and react like clockwork: jab, jab, cross… I feel my fist connect with head, and bring my right leg up to take you out at the knee with one sharp kick, just like you taught me. I feel the impact, hear you land, the dull exhalation of breath as you’re winded by ground slamming into lungs. This might be my only chance so I take it now, picking up pace and pushing off hard, legs spongy, not fully my own.

You’re light and fast and I’ll tire before I get to the trees. Chest burning, pushing harder now, I run with all I’ve got. I’m freed from thought, pure animal survival kicking in. The trees are getting closer and I just might make it, every inch of me taut and straining hard. And then your breath on my neck, your hands reaching at me. I duck under your arms and move in close, weaving with the punches, just like you taught me. This is my strength: get in close and under their reach. Your best defence is to attack, you always say. But you know this. You know all my moves, my weaknesses and strengths and pushed to the limits of my response it’s simple for you to take me down – I’ve nothing left to draw on here and you slam me into the ground, the prey captured, ready to be devoured.

In that hunted moment, your lips crush mine and I taste iron. There’s no air in me and you could suck the life right from my mouth, a dizzying reality that I can’t fight. The whiteout coming over me so that I’m nothing but where I feel your hands tearing and clawing at my clothes and skin. No barriers between us now. My legs spread roughly by your knees, the weight of you on top of me and stones and branches printing their crude marks on buttocks, ripping through flesh, the rawness keeping me alive. No words exist but your hands pinning mine into the ground and you drive your cock into me hard, in steady, pounding thrusts and tear the climax from my shuddering limbs, a deep and primal longing, as you cum in howling agony and fill me with your load. Collapsing, giving in. I open more, enveloping, taking you in.

We walk back to the car park, rubbing elbows free of grit, shaking twigs and leaves from hair. My thighs are sticky from our lust, drenched in sweat and shaking wildly from the workout you’ve just put me through. I catch you look my way and lightly smile but the teacher in you returns,
“Your kicking’s really coming on. Keep your stance wide, stay sharp and focused, whatever your opponent throws your way. Same time next week?”
I grin. Best £40 I’ll ever spend.


On safewords and fear

Last night I shouted Red for the first time.
Motherfucking evil pair of nipple clamps from hell.
Applied once and then removed; when they were brought out the second time, apparently I recoiled in fear. I think I pleaded, No!
Not that it would do me any good. He gave me a choice, of which the better option must have been the clamps as they were reapplied quite soon.

The weirdness is not remembering things. I couldn’t recall exactly what triggered me to use the Safe Word. I asked him today. He said it was when he tugged the chain on the clamps. All I remember is the flash of pain. Head swimming. Breathing speeding up. Not wanting to be touched. And my concern for his concern, which I could feel around me. His gentle questions checking I’m OK that I could not respond to there and then.

I wanted to find the edge of my fear. Last night it was there. I know it won’t always be there, in the motherfucking evil pair of nipple clamps from hell. I change and evolve, so I’m sure my fear does too. There were slivers of fear in between the stripes from the belt, the blows from the paddle, but mostly it dissovled into the dissociative state that my mind has learned to adopt to protect me from danger. I’m sure this isn’t subspace though I haven’t been there yet.

I wonder what it is about fear that makes me want to stick my hand into the fire and smell the hairs on my arm burn, the flesh turn red. More than one Dom has said to me that fear should be a Hard Limit. Anyone whose bottom is bared and prepared for a lashing or twelve should experience some fear, though.

Submissive to everything, open, listening: inspiration from Kerouac

So, Kerouac was a sub.
I used to keep this list pinned on my wall. I’ve lost it somewhere along the way. I believe it’s the single best piece of advice for writing and living the writing life. Because if you can’t write something worth reading, you should at least do something worth writing (Benjamin Franklin).

1. Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy
2. Submissive to everything, open, listening
3. Try never get drunk outside yr own house
4. Be in love with yr life
5. Something that you feel will find its own form
6. Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind
7. Blow as deep as you want to blow
8. Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind
9. The unspeakable visions of the individual
10. No time for poetry but exactly what is
11. Visionary tics shivering in the chest
12. In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you
13. Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition
14. Like Proust be an old teahead of time
15. Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog
16. The jewel center of interest is the eye within the eye
17. Write in recollection and amazement for yourself
18. Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea
19. Accept loss forever
20. Believe in the holy contour of life
21. Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind
22. Dont think of words when you stop but to see picture better
23. Keep track of every day the date emblazoned in yr morning
24. No fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge
25. Write for the world to read and see yr exact pictures of it
26. Bookmovie is the movie in words, the visual American form
27. In praise of Character in the Bleak inhuman Loneliness
28. Composing wild, undisciplined, pure, coming in from under, crazier the better
29. You’re a Genius all the time
30. Writer-Director of Earthly movies Sponsored & Angeled in Heaven

Each item on this list makes me want to write a whole, individual post in response. One day I will. I’m currently quite distracted with my work. My new 12-week writing as therapy course has just kicked off and I’m loving reading the group members’ work and their responses to the stuff I give them. It feels good to be sharing my love of writing with others, even if I’m a bit short of time to write myself. Tired and mildly frustrated but always happier when I’m in service to others. Life is sweet.

True sub or Domme? Switching roles, nurturing others and hedonism

“You seem quite assertive for a sub,” a Fet friend said to me last week.
“Oh no, I’m a true sub,” says I, “Looking for a real Dom.”
(Fingers down back of throat… I know, it’s ick).

“You’re Dorset’s sluttiest woman,” says another Fet friend on WhatsApp yesterday. I take that as quite an accolade. Yeah, I’m happy with that.

And now, this week… Switch. Who knew? Seems like Peggy did but she failed to tell me (the other part of me that resides in her body, because she definitely owns the body).

Learning to Domme is super-fascinating, and maybe even more so because I’ve recently experienced being Dommed. I don’t know if I’m much good at it yet but I have to say that it’s coming more easily than I thought it would (big pun intended).

This isn’t just about sexual kicks for me… and that’s the biggest aha lesson of this. I suddenly have more people to take care of in my life. People to check in with each day and respond to; emotions to consider. There’s this weight of their wellbeing that comes with it. And actually, I realize I can do that and I might even be good at it. THIS is what I felt the last guy who was trying to Dom me was overlooking. He didn’t give a big enough shit about my wellbeing, and seemed mostly interested in how much he was planning to punish me and with what implements.

Do I still want to be Dommed? I am a pain slut, and a little trip into subspace this weekend would help to relieve the stress and I know there are people willing to help me out with that.

So what happens if I chuck away the labels? Are they really necessary?

After laughing about my silly ‘true sub’ statement with my friend, he said, “I would place you as a hedonist who enjoys both elements of the given roles, depending on who you are interacting with.”
Perhaps I could be a Mutable Masochistic Hedonist? A Nurturing Slut? I think I’m just a lover of human beings, finding new ways to make people happy.

Sweet Sacrifice (Happy Hallowe’en)

He smiled her way as she moved to sit down outside the busy café.
She made some throwaway comment about no ashtrays – he was smoking too.
Rugged, unshaven, old jeans, biker jacket; his smile crinkled his eyes and revealed a row of neat, white teeth. He seemed honest, gentle and good.
“You might as well come and sit here,” he said, “Now that we’ve broken the ice.”
What harm would conversation do?
She had a notion that there could be some fun to be had with this man, and his smile was sweet and inviting. Perhaps this once it wouldn’t hurt?

Later she couldn’t remember what they spoke about. He liked her voice, he said, and she knew she’d charmed him straight away, as he’d laughed at her delicate innuendoes. “Oh you’re good! Very good,” he chuckled, a number of times. What the heck had she even said? Mostly she just listened and smiled. That was the way it seemed to work best. Men just wanted to be heard and be seen as attractive by a beautiful woman. And she was remarkably beautiful, everyone said.

He had an old brass lighter – the type with the flip-back lid, and it was engraved with a quote that she’d forgotten now. It amused him to tell her it was an homage to Lemmy, “But then you probably don’t know who he is…”
“I’m older than you think,” she replied, and once again enjoyed the shocked look that she always received when strangers discovered her age. Time had been very kind to her indeed. He leant forward and flipped back the top of the lighter while she dragged in on her smoke. So simple an act, but still so sexy when a man does this for a woman. Maybe more so in this day and age where vaping has largely replaced the old ways of tobacco: a dirty luxury she had no intention of giving up.

Later, as she undressed him in her bedroom, she was able to appreciate the immensity of him. He was tall and broad and still strong despite being well into his middle years.
“You’re all man,” she said, and he blushed. It was seduction by numbers and he was as susceptible as all the rest. Once her clothes came off he didn’t seem to know what to do. He became fragile and lost, like a little boy who’d never fully claimed his own desires. It maddened her that human beings could live a full life on this planet without embracing the great wonder of their sexuality but she’d lost patience with teaching and guiding them to it many lifetimes ago. If they couldn’t find their own way to it now, it was their loss and more fool them. She’d have them anyway and find some satisfaction, however fleeting and brief.

With her head bent back over the edge of the bed, he rammed his steel rod cock right down the back of her throat and thrust hard against her face. She fought back the bile that threatened to rise but grinned because he’d found some spunk to fuck her with at last. The delicious thrill of fear of suffocation toyed at the edge of her vision and occasionally made her struggle, legs in the air… the dark tunnel creeping in as her body demanded more oxygen, but he was essentially gentle and pulled out too quick to allow her to breathe and she pitied him for it. Perhaps if he’d shown more raw, primitive force she’d have allowed him to leave but she swallowed his cum as it spilled down her throat in thick, copious amounts and so it only seemed fair that she should get some reward in return. Orgasms had lost their power over her many years ago, if she could even find a man on this damn, dried-up Earth that knew how to deliver her one.

Smoothing her dress back down over her thighs and fixing her hair, she called up her pet from his bed in the kitchen; a loyal, devoted being who asked only to serve and to worship her feet from time to time. They’d become inseparable over the decades and she couldn’t imagine daily life without him.
“Alfred, please clean up the mess in the Master Bedroom. Feed the waste to the pigs.”
“Yes, Mistress,” he grovelled, crawling humbly past on all fours.
“I would like tea served in the Summer Room at eight.”
It was getting dark now but she liked to sit and stare at the stars on a clear night like this. Sensing the life force flooding her veins made her feel so alive after taking fresh prey, and now she had a new trophy to add to the wall with her other sad and shrivelled specimens from the men who’d failed to meet her needs for the last five centuries. Tonight Alfred would tuck her in and she’d sleep the sleep of the innocent for a few days, until it was time to rise and hunt again.

Listen to your inner voice

I have lived with abusive partners too many times in my life.
I lost years of my life this way.

First sign is to spot the moment when he makes you doubt yourself.
When he’s challenged, or backed into a corner, he will defend by attacking you and making out it’s your fault. If he’s good at this (and he usually has had years of practice) he will hit you somewhere close to where you doubt yourself, so that you feel he might be right. He will twist some little insight that he’s gleaned from you and turn it into a glaring fault. And you will respond to his accusation with guilt and shame. They hit you in the guilt and shame because that’s where you’re most likely to keep quiet. Oh my god, if he’s right, I can’t let anyone else see this about me…. and so you batten down and keep it to yourself.

That becomes step two. He’s isolating you. He’s stopping you from talking to anybody else about what’s happened. You don’t want to admit what a fool you’ve been. But he forgives you, and absolves you, and so you go to him for relief. The dirty little secret between you builds, and that becomes step three. He has you now.

That’s it, there…. you’re wrapped tight in his sticky web. All he has to do is keep employing these tricks and slowly slowly the gaslighting extends and before too long you think that you’re insane. You think no one else will ever want you. There are no friends around to put you straight because they all hate him and you fell out with them ages ago about why the hell you’re still with him. And you don’t even know.

If you’re lucky, you’ll catch a glimpse of his true colours before he’s bedded in. Remember, it’s that moment when he makes you doubt yourself.
Don’t fall for it.
Trust your inner voice and take action before it’s too late.

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?