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.

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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.

On being a “three hole” submissive

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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?

Losing my kinky virginity

A couple of weeks ago I took part my first scene.  There was a 4-day build up to it, as we chatted online and made that initial connection, and then we moved onto WhatsApp where things quickly heated up, with him giving me instructions to do things that kept pushing me further and further past the limits I’d lived with up till then.  It was intensely charged, highly erotic and my head was spinning as he introduced me to the ideas of the things he was going to do to me, and make me do, that coming Saturday night.

It was also a crash course in the etiquette of BDSM for me.  I had to call him ‘Sir’; he called me a slut a lot, and subPeggy (I preferred slut).  Through his naming of me, I observed this part of my psyche emerge.  She was really there and I’d had no idea.  As I paid attention to her, she grew in strength and became more solid.  As I accepted her, instead of rejecting her as a perversion or a deviation from the norm, I became stronger.  I became empowered.  And with this power came liberation too.  I cannot tell you how rich and fulfilling it is!

Every day I was scouring FetLife for information. If I was going to be entering this world, I needed to know about rules, and safety, and consent, and toys, and fetishes, and oh my god — there was so much to learn! I felt like a teenager again.  Terrified but eager to break the spell by losing my kinky virginity as quickly (but safely) as I could.

The thing that frightened me most was the prospect of wearing a collar, which he would put on me when I arrived.  I was sure that my will would rise up and reject this act of domination but when he made me kneel and placed it round my neck something very strange happened.  It was as if the woman that I am in daily life just got up and left the building.  She drifted away and in that moment the weight of the world was lifted from my shoulders.  A sense of myself, who I am, still remained, but it was a simpler version of me, with no responsibilities and the only requirement she had was to do as she was told by Sir.

Things became a little vague from that moment on.  I think he put cuffs round my ankles and wrists and lead me to the bedroom on a leash.  I felt remarkably calm, but essentially he was gentle and polite and I expect that probably helped.

I don’t know how long it lasted.  My wrists were bound and suspended above me and he beat me with various implements (soft flogger, paddle, riding crop, cane, I think).  I’m sure he didn’t hit me very hard, or I just have no memory of the pain, but the photo he took shows bright red marks and they left a gentle glow on my bum for a few days which was very satisfying to me.

It turned out that when it came to arousing me, he wasn’t very adept.  He wanted to tease me to the edge of orgasm and then deny me my climax but he never made the effort to get me anywhere near it, and then ended up shouting at me to cum now! cum now! which was fucking hilarious.  The thought of this sort of eventuality had never entered my mind.  And the promise of being fucked hard and long also proved to be a big fat wet dream for him, as he couldn’t ride me for more than a couple of minutes without getting short of breath and having to stop.  The general disappointment I felt about his small, limp dick (not the ‘medium endowment’ he had spoken of beforehand, but all men lie about this) would have been erased if he could have at least fucked me properly for a while.

And so I settled in to sucking his sad little penis for a couple of hours and at least found that to be an interesting diversion.  I let him play the part of Sir-giving-Peggy-deep-throat-training and whilst I’ve taken in much bigger dicks than this before, there was some enjoyment in the brutality of it for me.  Being taken to the edge of not being able to breathe, trying not to gag violently, eyes streaming with tears, proved to be something quite memorable…. my take-home moment of the night.

When we’d finished that part of the scene, he stood me up to face the mirror and tenderly said, “Look.  Look at her.  There’s Peggy.  She’s beautiful.”
And I saw her for the first time, and he was right: she was beautiful.  Something burst free inside my chest and I sobbed wildly because she was so beautiful, so natural, naked and pure.  Even with the collar round her neck, and the smudged mascara under her eyes.  Especially with these things!

When our play ended we were laughing and chatting.  He gave me water and told me to drink.  It all became quite mundane.  Putting toys away and looking forward to sleeping.  I wondered around naked in this stranger’s flat feeling completely at ease in myself; that has never been me before.  Perhaps because we’d shown so much of ourselves to each other there was really nothing else to hide or feel self-conscious about.  He loaned me a t-shirt to wear, I remember, as it was rather chilly then.  He made some remark about me being ‘high maintenance’ when I asked for a cup of tea and I felt a bit miffed, I mean, come on, I’ve just sucked your cock for two hours, at least offer me tea!  But he bought me a few slices of ginger cake and I realized how bloody hungry I was, and we sat in his bed eating cake and talking about our mutual love of the countryside.

Something strange happened after the light went out.  We started kissing and he finally became hard, so I got on top of him and rode him until he was exhausted and sore.  There was no giant orgasm for me, but it was orgasmish and sometimes I’m happy to settle for that.  I would have enjoyed it more if he’d employed less dirty name-calling during this interlude, but I think men do it because it turns them on and he was trying to stay hard until I came.  Maybe he was just trying to play the part of the mean old Dom. Either way, it wasn’t the real him.  I felt what he wanted to say and it was tender and sweet.  Just a lonely man looking for love.  So when it was done I let him hold me in a gentle spoons position and he drifted off to sleep, snoring peacefully.

I don’t ever sleep in a strange place but I lay there feeling at peace, reflecting on the strangeness and the non-strangeness of it all.

On Sunday I struggled through the tiredness I felt but it was mixed with elation at the new barriers I’d broken through.  The real prize, however, came on Monday morning when I woke up and discovered a huge beautiful bruise on each forearm, which must have been where he’d restrained me with the cuffs and tied my arms behind my back.  Inspecting the bruises gave me a deep sense of calm and satisfaction.  This lasted the best part of the week, until the bruises faded and disappeared.  I was proud of them.  They were a sign of my strength.  They were talismans that could take me back to that space of weightlessness, liberation and purity.  They were the tells that indicated I’d come home and found my kinky self before it was too late… that I wasn’t going to get subsumed by the heartbreak I’d been experiencing anymore.

Altered states of pleasure and pain

It seems natural to write about this strange and wonderful world that I’ve suddenly plunged into but my head has been spinning for days and I don’t know where to start.

Opening up to my kinky side has unleashed a powerful wave of energy that’s been held tight inside me since I-don’t-know-when. This energy is coursing through me day and night and I’m barely sleeping, and I am on the edge of orgasm most of the time, in a heightened state of arousal. In an altered state of consciousness at times, so that I’ve realized that I’m not actually in a fit state to drive. Somehow I’m functioning, just. Work and responsibilities still being met. Whilst it’s utterly delicious much of the time, it’s not a state I could continue to function well in. I’m an artistic producer and I can’t even get my head around creating new work at the moment as I’m just driven by lust for pain and submission and orgasm. This must be what they call new sub frenzy.

It was a relief today when the Dom who is helping me explore my sub nature forbid me to touch myself until tomorrow, freeing the professional aspect of me to get on with my work. But this brings another train of thought with it…. I have been pretty resistant to the idea of submitting my will to another. But what if that’s what I need? What if this power is too much for me to handle on my own? Suddenly I’m considering this as more than just a kink to be enjoyed for sexual fulfillment.

But submission requires trust. How can I give that to anyone again?

What if I’m just here because I want to be hurt? As a form of self-harm? I do want to be hurt. The physical pain wipes out the traces of the mental pain and anguish that were there so recently. That’s the kind of pain I never want to experience again. Physical pain I can take.