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?


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.

The hollow wanting space

Maybe we write because no one is listening, a friend said to me recently.
Maybe we write to listen to ourselves.

No one is listening and right now, no one is telling me what to do. The structure around me feels insufficiently material to withstand the forces that are pressing upon it. I float and expand. Tiredness overwhelms me.

I need physical touch or I begin to disappear. I need to feel the warmth of skin on skin and know the way it smells. And for that smell to become an instant touchstone of calm when I inhale it. Bodies are more than a stimulus for sexual and erotic sensations; they are necessary to me. Like water, and food, and air. If it’s possible, I need to be pressed down hard by the weight of a body on all my limbs, and held in place until my breathing gets gentle and slow.

I have done wild things to fulfil this need in my life. I will abandon all sense and control to satisfy my deep longing for a body next to me. But I prefer a body that I’ve taken time to get to know so sometimes I am left without, in the hollow wanting space, the empty aching of my limbs.

Pain is just another form of resistance. Touch is resistance. Resistance becomes the way to experience the world even as I submit. The resistance is the knife edge where I know that I’m alive. Without it I would sink into the void. It can be beautiful there, outside of the body, in the vast expanse of the Cosmos (pick your own belief-system here, I’m not dogmatic). But I always come back to this existence, and to the resistance.

He says that he has bought a bar of soap today to deal with my Potty Mouth. I feel my resistance to this. I told him I would bite his fingers and he laughed. Silly little sub! His fingers will go nowhere near. I will be doing it myself. Does he have the power to make me go that far? There is so much I don’t know yet and I’m nervous about it all. Without the relentless drive of last week’s hyper-orgasms, I start to wonder why I’m here.

The house is quiet. The wine’s run out and there’s no money till tomorrow so perhaps I’ll sleep. I’ll pile duvets and blankets high on my bed to trigger the reassurance I need from being compressed, their weight on me. The gently fading pain of yesterday’s tattoo a comforting reminder that I’m still real and present in my skin.

The gift of my submission?

Siren told me its a gift, my submission.
I believed her.
They say that we enable each other to become our true natures.

If that’s the case I’m a whiny little bitch who’s just desperate for attention.
An English Honours graduate who can’t remember how to use apostrophes and right now couldn’t give a fuck.
A potty mouth who’s going to wash her own mouth out with soap on Sunday evening.

He doesn’t ask anything of me and so I send asselfies to other guys instead but i get bored with their silly questions too quickly. “Are you wet?” ….. well no, because you haven’t done anything to turn me on yet. Oh the mere presence of a Domly man sends me into convulsing waves of orgasm. So they think.
Or they send me really really disturbingly fucked up stories and then think I’m going to be warmed up for a wank chat after I’ve read their psycho shit. Jeez.

He doesn’t ask me to wank chat with him. He doesn’t ask for my personal degradation like others have done. He doesn’t ask me to send photos of my pussy at random times of day. He doesn’t like it if I swear (even to tell him i want him to fuck me really hard…. which I do). He simply asks me to wear a skirt, to be on time (not much success with that one yet) and to be in bed by 9.30pm. And he tells me what i will do, and he will do, when the time finally comes that we are alone together in private.

His patience and control about this drive me insane. I have dug up all my stupid tools of provocation and manipulation to attempt to get under his skin the way that he is under mine. Simply making myself feel the least bit like a gift to him and more like a dead mouse the cat left on his doorstep.

9 days and counting

Today I feel less sub, more rebel.

I’m due to meet him at midday and so I make my usual morning rush of walking the dog, tidying the kitchen, placating the teenager, checking my emails, getting distracted listening to music (EVERY DAY!) and filling my head with silly thoughts about what I can wear that will please him (rules dictate I must wear a skirt). And then I remember to shower… and after that it’s obvious I’m going to be late, so that will be added to my list of transgressions for weekly punishment.

Suddenly I drop out of the space where I really give a shit about it. It’s just one more demand to deal with. I’m a working single-parent. Why have I chosen to put additional, some would say unnecessary, demands on my time? Why can’t I just be satisfied with fucking ordinary vanilla guys on Friday nights like any sensible woman would? You know that I don’t need to answer that. I’m not satisfied and there’s no way I’m quitting this game without seeing how far I can take it.

So, I will be late to meet him, and I will dress in my straight-life clothes, which I think are pretty far removed from the fantasy he has of the perfect sub (which I might be). I go for my grungey-black skinny jeans, low-cut tank top and scuffed up boots with big, untidy hair. I feel tough when I dress like this. I feel “don’t mess with me”. No one ever does.

I get a text while I’m still driving, telling me he’s already there: damn! It’s one minute to midday. I’m hoping I can find an easy parking spot nearby else I’m going to be really late indeed. What will he do? I think he’d wait no more than ten minutes and then leave because he knows that that is the best way to punish me. Remove himself.

When I get a chance I quickly text back, “Late”.
His response is, “Usual”. It makes me smile. I think, “He’s waiting for me”.

I find him sitting upstairs in the cafe. He must be slipping as I get no lecture. He’s behaving like a gentleman, and soon he’s stroking my leg gently under the table, which is when I really wish I’d worn a skirt because this could have been a lot more fun… but this is good. Today there is a lot more touching between us and he whispers things he’s going to do to me which give me butterflies of joy. Some of it is pure sadistic evil. There’s no mental gear-change required any more to accommodate the strangest of the situation. Playful flirting and promises of pain to be induced go hand in hand with this new person I’ve become.

“We’ve been talking for 9 days,” he says, “and for seven of those you’ve been begging me to hurt you.”
I want to say that it’s actually 12 days since we started our online conversation but I don’t. No one likes a smart arse.

We talk about the Munch on Sunday and whether we’ll turn up together. I know he’s being respectful and giving me a chance to meet these people on my own terms if I wish. And I know we’ve both thought about the impression it’ll make if we turn up as a pair. Perhaps he’s wondering if he should give me a chance to choose from the wider pool of local kinksters before things go too far between us. Perhaps he’s worrying about our age difference, which is quite significant. I’m not new to this experience and I realize that it’s my kink: dating mature men; it’s my kink and that’s ok, even if it’s not yours, so I don’t have to feel embarrassed or stupid about it any more.

We leave the cafe and walk down the street together holding hands, stopping to look at the leather belts hanging up outside the hardware store, wondering if the other shoppers have any clue what we’re thinking of using them for.

Keeping it real in a kinky world

Is it OK for someone to film you sucking their cock without your knowledge or permission? I don’t think so. That guy had one chance at playing with me and he blew it.

Having coffee with a dominant man IRL is more interesting than wank chatting with a bunch of Dom guys online. And actually, I can’t keep up with all the wank chatting requests. I’m good at it but right now I need to read a book and get some sleep.

People telling me how to get my kink on because I’m new to the scene, and a little bit shy. Please just let me do it at my own pace. If I’m anything like I am with my vanilla friends, I’ll be a party animal before too long but right now I need to take it slow.

Guys that want to Dom me from hundreds of miles away. How does that even work? No connection you make online is ever truly real. Flattered that you like what you see but please move on.

The strange development of waking up thinking about one person in particular. Rushing out to have coffee with him during the day. Wearing a skirt because he told me to. Going to bed at a certain time because he tells me to. Noticing how strategically he’s playing it. Clever man. Curious to see where this goes from here. Surprised because it’s more real and more nuanced than anything I expected from this delicious, kinky journey.

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.