Flight

I like to pimp other people’s blogs when I run across something I just have to share.  I don’t know if it’s “blog etiquette” or not to do so, or if you’re supposed to follow some clandestine rules you’d only know about if you are “in” in the blogosphere, but I like to do it.  When somebody else’s writing or thoughts have inspired me to think or write or question (or masturbate, for that matter), I want to point them out here, give a little heads-up to someone who may not have stumbled across them before.  Today’s post, “Im Flying”, in Kami Robertson’s blog, “On the Way of Exploration” is one such post.

In this case, it’s not so much the content, although her thoughts are wonderful, her writing eloquent, on the subject at hand, but a particular photo, the last one in the series, that touched me and got me thinking.  When I think about what it is I seek in what it is we do, that photograph encompasses it.  That acquiescence, that exhaustion, that surcease of self that exists only when my mind has been completely cleared in an intense scene, that is what I seek.  That moment when I am free of “me”, or even of him, free of the world around me.  Floating in a no-space, a space of ultimate surrender, free of desire and need, of thought and of the fears that hobble me, of the questions and the petty vanities, of every thing that binds me to the earth.

On the heels of these thoughts are those I’ve been thinking about since a conversation with a friend.

I was talking with this friend the other day about her approach to BDSM play.  She is fairly new to BDSM, so likes a high degree of control in what potentially happens to her.  Every scene, every action that the Top can or may take, is tightly and specifically negotiated.  I understand what this is about for her: self-preservation.  It is she that controls where & how far she goes, and, for her, it makes perfect sense.  She needs that reassurance–it is an essential element for her to be able to allow herself to go as far as she does within the context of that particular scene.  It is, as counter-intuitive as it may seem, the only way that she is able to relinquish the control she does during a scene.  Later she may want to go farther, may decide she is ready/willing to stretch a boundary, but the when and how of that is something over which she has very specific, and ultimate, control.

On the other hand, if I were to have that kind of control, I couldn’t find that space I talk about.  I need that lack of control, that lack of self-determination, in order to go there.  It is in the very act of giving up that control that I truly fly free. Of course it is a mix of endorphins and adrenaline, a swirl of chemicals in the bloodstream that induce it, but to really truly find “subspace”, to truly fly in my head as well as in my body, my mind has to be free, and it is in the psychological edge of not having that control that my mind is finally allowed that freedom.

I don’t negotiate scenes with the Mean Guy, in fact I don’t even know what he’s planning till he gets there.  He actually says what he is “planning” isn’t always planned till we are together anyway, in the heat of things;  it’s a moving target based on any number of factors–any of which can change at any time.  I do admit to getting a delicious shiver when he mentions that he is planning something, or when he says, later, “I’d been thinking about doing this to you/planning to do that to you for days.”  That he spends part of his day thinking about ways to display/hurt/humiliate/maybe even (gasp) pleasure me just makes me about swoon.  Seriously.  If I knew going in, every time, what was potentially going to happen, if it was my decision/choice about what he could or couldn’t do to me…I don’t think it would work so well.  What I like is knowing that is isn’t my choice–what I need is to submit to what he wants, whether I want it or not…to surrender to him without a safety net.  To give up control.  Only then am I truly free.

Flying, indeed.

To Be or Not to Be

“Fireman,

I’m guessing you are working late, but maybe this email will inspire you to work faster.

I’ll be in the bar at the restaurant we talked about, enjoying a glass of wine, until 9pm.  If you can see your way to getting free in time, I’ll be waiting.  If not, maybe I’ll have to find someone else to take your place.  ;-)  Hope to see you there, lover.”

It’s 8:30 and he hasn’t shown.  I’ve been enjoying myself alone here, though, in a strange restaurant, in the bar no less, something I have only done once or twice in my life. I am sitting on a barstool at small round table at the center of the room, more or less.

I chose this seat with deliberation.  I chose to be here, whether or not the Fireman will be here, deliberately.  W knows why, I am sure.  He knows I do it for him, he knows that the entire time I am sitting here, playing the slut, pretending to think about the Fireman, it is him I am thinking of.  It is his approval, it is the thought of writing this and having him read it, of anticipating his reaction, that makes my panties soaked, sitting here in this bar alone.  Would I do it, if the Fireman doesn’t show?  Follow some stranger back to his hotel room, just to please W?  I could do it, this is a hotel bar, the men here (and one woman, also drinking alone) are probably all business travelers, as is my Fireman.

I am wearing a long black skirt with high slits up each leg, a snug, low-cut black blouse, rocking black eyeliner, red, red lipstick and fuck-me heels.  I feel sexy, and from the looks I have garnered, perched up here on my stool in the center of the room, I look it, too.  Either that or I look like a working girl.

I have been chatted up by two different gentlemen, a slightly unnerving, though not entirely unpleasant, experience to this habitual wallflower, though I realize that they very well may think I am a working girl, mightn’t they?  They don’t know I’ll give it away for free.  But then I realize it doesn’t matter what they think.  That they want me is the purpose, the reason I am here.

I flirt with the older of the two men as I wait, feeling more secure in his obvious interest than in the younger guy.  I never liked young pretty boys, and even ones my own age, as the younger guy is, make me uncomfortable.

The older guy is a pleasant man, a businessman in town for a few days, ex-military with the upright bearing that I so love about military men.  He has a direct gaze, eyes the color of his grey hair, trimmed with thick, black lashes, and though he has noted my cleavage and the length of leg exposed by the skirt, he is not lecherous about it, more like simply appreciative.

I wonder if he’d hold my wrists in one of his large, meaty hands as he fucked me.

I smile, and lean toward him, ask him about himself, touch him lightly on one wrist to emphasize a point.  He buys me my second glass of wine.

I begin to wonder what I will do when 9pm rolls around.  I realize I have been acting with deliberate forethought, in order to carry out either plan of action.  I have lied, telling this gentleman I am in town tonight only, that I have been to an award’s banquet, and that I may be meeting a friend here, if he is able to get away–from what, I leave unspoken.  He says it is a shame I am only here tonight, that he’d ask me out to dinner tomorrow night, if I was going to be here.  I smile and shrug regretfully.

The Fireman texts me at 8:50.  He’s still a half hour away from leaving, unfortunately.  I wouldn’t really find someone to replace him, would I?  I look over at the military man, thinking about it.  Thinking about W.  No, I text back, of course not. But I won’t wait any longer.  I have my SO coming home at 10:30, and I suddenly want the comfort and warmth of his arms around me.  I make tentative plans with the Fireman for the next time he is in town, when he promises to make his schedule work better.  I tell the military man that my friend just texted me to meet him elsewhere, thank him for the wine and company, and get up to go.  He gives me a look that I swear is more knowing than it should be, and hands me his card.  If we’re “ever in St. Louis at the same time again, or perhaps if I travel to his city, we could do dinner.”  I smile, and thank him again, and wonder if I’ll ever be in Dallas.

W's World

“I’d make you fuck someone for a hot pair of shoes or a slutty dress,” he said.

My stomach clenched, I felt heat between my legs, the heady scent of my own arousal wafted up to me as I sat at my computer,  miles away from him.  I had just got done telling him that while I certainly enjoyed the thought of the gifts & travel a certain new lover had promised me, I was not sure it was worth the lousy vanilla lay that the gentleman in question was.

I’ve done that before, or tried.  Tried to stay with a man totally unsuited to my personal sexual preferences because a) it made him happy, and b) he gave me things.  A beautiful bracelet, encrusted with opals after two dates. A trip to a lingerie store where he dropped $300 on pretty things, and not just to wear for him, but to take home and surprise my SO.  A plane ticket to Miami where he was attending a conference.  The promise of a trip to Spain in the spring.  Those last two (the two that would have made it [maybe] worthwhile) never came to pass.  I couldn’t whore myself out that thoroughly, and he ended up wanting more than I could give.

I’d whore myself out for W.  I did it last night.  Though it started out to be about me, about me wanting an occasional vanilla lover, in the end I fucked him for W.  I sat across from this intellectually stimulating man and realized I could easily finish the night without having sex with him.  Oh, the vibe was there, the tease and the chemistry on one level…but I wanted W, with his hand on my throat, his fingers digging into my cunt, his chains around my wrists and ankles, and I knew this man wouldn’t do those things to me.  Knew that I didn’t want this man to do those things to me.  I liked him for other things, and, in another world, those things would have been fine; he would have been an interesting dinner date or maybe occasional sex partner, but certainly that evening would have ended with me promising another date but not having sex.

But I don’t live in that world anymore, I live in W’s world, and in W’s world I sat across from that man and thought about what W wanted: that man’s cock in my hole.  So I followed him back to his hotel and I fucked him.

“I can keep your vanilla dates completely separate and devoid of any influence on my part,” he said. Yeah, maybe he can.  But I can’t.  And I don’t want to.  I want to live in W’s world.  And in W’s world I will fuck a man simply because he says to.

W’s World

“I’d make you fuck someone for a hot pair of shoes or a slutty dress,” he said.

My stomach clenched, I felt heat between my legs, the heady scent of my own arousal wafted up to me as I sat at my computer,  miles away from him.  I had just got done telling him that while I certainly enjoyed the thought of the gifts & travel a certain new lover had promised me, I was not sure it was worth the lousy vanilla lay that the gentleman in question was.

I’ve done that before, or tried.  Tried to stay with a man totally unsuited to my personal sexual preferences because a) it made him happy, and b) he gave me things.  A beautiful bracelet, encrusted with opals after two dates. A trip to a lingerie store where he dropped $300 on pretty things, and not just to wear for him, but to take home and surprise my SO.  A plane ticket to Miami where he was attending a conference.  The promise of a trip to Spain in the spring.  Those last two (the two that would have made it [maybe] worthwhile) never came to pass.  I couldn’t whore myself out that thoroughly, and he ended up wanting more than I could give.

I’d whore myself out for W.  I did it last night.  Though it started out to be about me, about me wanting an occasional vanilla lover, in the end I fucked him for W.  I sat across from this intellectually stimulating man and realized I could easily finish the night without having sex with him.  Oh, the vibe was there, the tease and the chemistry on one level…but I wanted W, with his hand on my throat, his fingers digging into my cunt, his chains around my wrists and ankles, and I knew this man wouldn’t do those things to me.  Knew that I didn’t want this man to do those things to me.  I liked him for other things, and, in another world, those things would have been fine; he would have been an interesting dinner date or maybe occasional sex partner, but certainly that evening would have ended with me promising another date but not having sex.

But I don’t live in that world anymore, I live in W’s world, and in W’s world I sat across from that man and thought about what W wanted: that man’s cock in my hole.  So I followed him back to his hotel and I fucked him.

“I can keep your vanilla dates completely separate and devoid of any influence on my part,” he said. Yeah, maybe he can.  But I can’t.  And I don’t want to.  I want to live in W’s world.  And in W’s world I will fuck a man simply because he says to.

Intelligence on the Net

Most times I write about my own experience, because that’s what I know best, and honestly, this is oftentimes the way I process the things that I do, that I allow to be done to me.  Even as I am baring my soul (and other parts) here for the cyberworld to see, I am wending my way through my own psyche, trying to find answers to questions of my own about what it is I do.  Occasionally, however, I like to point out other’s writings or thoughts that especially move me, that inspire, alarm or make me think.

One of the blogs I follow is Pandora Blake, an articulate, outspoken spanking model and writer in the UK, and recently she wrote in this post about being asked to write a guest column on Heresy Corner.  I’d never heard of Heresy Corner before, but it has quickly becomes one of my faves.  In the column she discusses a new law in the UK regarding “violent pornography,” and while that doesn’t affect me directly here in the US, I can see the same attempts at censorship happening here, soon, if they aren’t already.  Whatever your stance on that topic, though, what really struck me is how intelligently & coherently she talks about kink and WIITWD.  She is an inspired (and inspiring) writer, and I urge you to check out her blog and the article she wrote on Heresy Corner.

Industrial Fuck

headcage3Sound of chain, clinking on the metal cage around my head.  Memory of chain affixed to my ankle striking against hardwood floor as I stand, chained to the door, waiting for guests to arrive; the muted sound of chain rubbing against itself between my legs; the harder jangle as he grabs the chain in his fist, gathering it, gathering me, against him.

I’m not an industrial girl.  The sight of metal does nothing for me.  The feel of the cage around my head is just another thing he does to amuse himself and that I tolerate, because it does amuse him to see me so, because it turns him on.  And let’s face it, because I have no choice.  The sound/feel of chains, on the other hand, the sound of handcuffs snicking into place, the feel of them implacable, sharp and just a bit painful around my wrists–that is something else.

Which is why I was so very surprised to find myself so turned on by the feel and taste of his cock as he pushed it through the hole he’d constructed in the head cage.  Why I was so surprised to find myself thrusting my face against the barrier of metal, ignoring the discomfort-verging-on-pain of the bar against my throat and on the bridge of my nose, in order to widen my mouth enough to take him deeper.  Why I suffered as he thrust his cock into the hole and into my mouth, each thrust pushing my nose against the barrier in exquisite (unintentional) pain.  I didn’t care, I loved it, I loved the taste and smell of metal mixing with the musky taste and smell of cock, I loved his hand on the cage holding my head still, I loved being caged, a mouth inside a cage for him to push and pull about, there simply for his use.

I remember the first time he put a headcage on me.  It may have been the second time I’d gone over to his house.  I had some time on a Saturday afternoon.  I was dressed “cute,” casually, had just dropped off my kids at their various Saturday activities, had warned him I was in “Saturday” mode: no makeup, summer skirt, tank top, ponytails.  Wasn’t really too sure what to expect.  Would we just talk?  Would we scene? I wasn’t even too sure what I wanted to do…

Okay no, honesty here…I wanted to play…but time was limited, I was limited…only later would I come to know him well enough to know he’d come up with some way to use and abuse me that would fit into the timeframe we had available.

I should preface this to say that the first time we’d played, he’d put handcuffs and chains on me.  Not something I had ever experienced.  There were other ways he was different as well, so when he took me upstairs and put heavy shackles on me (the shackles I wear to sleep in now when I sleep over at his house), I was intrigued more than surprised.  But then he brought the headcage out.

Was he serious or was he making fun of me? (I didn’t know him well enough then to know he wasn’t after that, at least in this instance.)  Then I thought about some of the things I’d seen him do on Bondage Demons…and yeah, I knew he was serious.  My Mean Guy was apparently into industrial girls.  So…okay.

The first was a prototype. (And, as he said, this one was too, perhaps, since we discovered that the bar above my nose didn’t allow me to be able to open my mouth wide enough to take his cock deep enough into my mouth.) I felt a little silly in it the first time, actually…until I realized he was serious about it, that he dug it, that it wasn’t about making me feel foolish.   And then, after an afternoon of being tied and displayed, photographed (something I wasn’t quite used to yet) and fucked in it, I found myself in that mindless fucktoy headspace and wanted nothing more than to suck him through it, to push my face through the bands of metal and take him in mouth, to taste him.  I didn’t care what it looked like anymore–silly, hot, sexy, humiliating?  Who cared?  I just wanted to be his hole, his mouth, his industrial fuck, if that was what he wanted.

I remember him pushing me against the wall in the hallway just outside his bedroom, after he had unchained me.  I was squatting, leaning against the wall, my mind a blank, my legs spread, his fingers in my pussy as he crouched in front of me.  The cage still on my head, clunking against the wall behind me as he shoved his fingers rhythmically into me.  And then, standing, he pulled out his cock and shoved it, ruthlessly, unceremoniously, into my mouth through the bars of the cage and fucked my unresisting mouth.  Unresisting…there was no resistance left in me.  I simply opened my mouth and took him in as he fucked my throat: a head in a cage, an open mouth.  An industrial fuck.

Sometimes Things Go Wrong

She’d been told to get there by 4:30, she had a late call, traffic was bad, she arrived at 5:05 PM.

“I’m here,” she called, wondering at the location he’d sent her to. A house under renovation, beautiful at its core but full of dust, paint, tools and tarps. The neighborhood a hodge-podge of older houses, either being renovated or for sale. Deserted, mostly. She sneezed as she went up the stairs.

She’d worn what he’d told her to, silky blouse, tight black skirt, spike heels, no stockings, black g-string. She liked the hollow sound the heels made on the stairs as she went up, liked that she probably looked pretty hot from behind, with her round ass and stalking heels. Too bad he wasn’t there to watch her go up.

He wasn’t upstairs, either. She paused on the landing: paint buckets, rope everywhere, tarps in the doorways, dust and grit on the floor. She wrinkled her nose. He wasn’t one to be irritated with her for frequently being late, so she wasn’t really worried about that, but it was odd that he wasn’t here.

She ducked under a heavy plastic tarp that covered the opening to the last room.

“Hello—” she began. An arm came across her throat from behind, choking the words and breath from her. She gasped, trying to get her breath, twisted in his grip. He kicked her feet out from under her. She landed painfully on the floor, grit and dust grinding into her knees and palms.

“What the—” A hand slapped her across the back of her head.

“Shut up,” a voice said. It was not his voice. He had landed on top of her and now he wrenched her arm painfully behind her back, shutting her up, bringing tears to her eyes. In moments, while she tried to register what was happening, he had tied her wrists behind her back. She got her breath and opened her mouth to scream. He laughed.

“Go ahead and scream, no one’s going to hear you. And even if they did, no one would care. Some bitch screaming in one of these houses is nothing new, Princess. No one here gives a shit.” She thought about the empty street outside and knew he was right. She screamed anyway. He put a foot on her back and laughed at her.

“Who…” she managed, gasping. “Why?”

“Doesn’t matter who I am. What matters is you’re late.”

She immediately went still. “Where is he?” she asked. “I’m not that late…35 minutes!”

He began looping rope around her neck, heavy, tight, pulling her face down to the dirty floor. He had never done anything like this before. She couldn’t get her balance, she struggled, she pulled, she growled. She was suddenly afraid. If he wasn’t here, who would keep her safe? They had rules, she had limitations…

“He wouldn’t let someone—” she started.

“Do you see him here?” His voice was a growl in her ear. Then his hand was in her hair, turning her head to the side. “Look into the camera for him,” he said. “He wants to see everything that I’m going to do to you.”bdmjw03087e

She was furious. “I know him,” she said, “he wouldn’t allow—”

“Maybe he’s tired of you,” he said, interrupting her. “Maybe he’s tired of you always being late.”

She felt the stranger’s weight leave her, but she couldn’t move to get away, could only struggle like an insect on the floor. He wouldn’t do this, she thought. He likes me pretty… She heard the camera clicking away, recording her humiliation, her fury.

Then she felt the ropes on her ankles.

“No!”

He pulled them tighter, spreading her legs open, even as she fought him, leaving her face down on the dirty floor, her ass open to his gaze. This was wrong, she knew he would never have permitted this. He was jealous of her, never allowed her to show herself to anyone but him…she was his, and his alone, she’d heard him say often enough…
fireplacenolight

“And these pictures,” she heard the stranger say, “are for me.”
And that was how she knew that he hadn’t condoned this part of it. What else would he do that wasn’t what he was supposed to?

Moments later he stepped in front of her. “And now, for punishment.”

She strained to look up at him. Punishment? He had never punished her before! All she could see were his heavy boots, jeans, and a long, wicked crop.

“No, no…” she said, whimpering in real fear. She’d never been hit with more than her lover’s hand. Who was this crazy man? Did he even know her lover, or had she wandered into the wrong place and given some stranger just enough information to make her compliant? She began to struggle desperately.

He considered her for a moment, sighed, and said, “Okay, I guess we’ll have to do this the hard way.” And he tied a rope to her arms and pulled them straight back and up, tying them above her back.

And then the blows started. She’d never known anything so intense and screamed and cried as he hit her, over and over. He made her count, telling her she was to receive one strike for each minute she had been late–she counted to thirty-five. She’d given him that bit of information herself, hadn’t she.

And through it all he took pictures.

But finally, the blows stopped. It’s over, she thought. It was done…whether he had sanctioned it or not, it was over.

Until she felt a hand on her head, and another on her hot, burning ass, stroking her.

“Such a pretty ass,” he said. And she heard the sound of a zipper. And then her real ordeal began.

——————————————————————————————————

This is the fiction piece I wrote to accompany photos of a scene W and I did.  The rest of the pictures can be found in the features area of Bondage Demons in the “Jade” section.  Enjoy!

When things got “worse”…

So then there was the second half of the night.  I didn’t expect there to be a second half, to be honest.  I went over to W’s after being at the Other Guy’s, after having gotten my butt spanked pretty well, feeling a little buzzy, a little self-satisfied, maybe even smug.  mjw04231blogI’d done it—asked for exactly what I wanted, orchestrated it, gotten exactly the amount I wanted, left without having given up any of my control or myself.   That’s what I’d wanted, right?

Hmm. Maybe not.

Maybe that was part of what I wanted, to see if I could do it, see if I could control a boy, even while he thought he was controlling me. Smugness…yes, that’s what I felt.

That, and sassiness.

I have different reactions to different kinds of scenes.  For instance, W and I did a beautiful scene that was fairly intense, but instead of being wiped out after, I was flying, aggressive and sassy and wanting to attack him (in fact did pretty much that, pushing him back on the floor and kissing on him, rubbing myself against him, teasing and playing with him in a way that is not my usual way of reacting, so much so that he remarked on it.) Other times I curl into a ball in his lap, or put myself at his feet, wanting nothing so much as to feel his hand on my head, his fingers in my hair, to know that I am cared for, that I am back home and safe.

This time, I was definitely feeling up and sassy when I arrived at W’s.  My plan was to work on a computer project with him, sort of vanilla after my lil spanking scene.  W took one look at my red butt (and maybe my attitude) and had other ideas. So much for me being in control anymore.mjw04239ce

Damn how that man can strip me bare emotionally, laying me open and vulnerable.  It’s been a week or more now, and much has happened since then and now, but I can feel myself getting wet just remembering the way he took a few pictures and then, without so much as a by-your-leave, guided me into his front room, bent me over his couch, tied me down and gave me a proper spanking.  The kind I couldn’t escape from, the kind that left me with no control, that reminded me who was really in control, every minute, the kind that didn’t stop until he was ready to stop, even when I went through the “oh this is nice and oh yumm! orgasm! ” phase into panic mode, where I was fighting mindlessly, heedlessly, just trying to escape the blows. God I love that place.  I love it that he takes me there, that he pushes me there, that he doesn’t give in, that he doesn’t let me have control.   And sure, I love it when he stops, when I am panting and gasping and sniffling and he is holding me and I know everything is all right again, but that first part…that is an incredible edge to be on.

As I have intimated here before, I have some abuse in my past, an early, ill-advised marriage to a man that lost control when he drank and “knocked me around.”  Nothing brutal, but aggressive and frightening coming from a 6’3” 190 lb man when I am 5’3” and weighed about 90 lbs.  It was my utter helplessness—and his loss of control—that terrified me so much during those episodes.   I could not get away, I could not stop him or change the way it would end, once it started. I was helpless and defenseless against his larger size and aggression, and I learned quickly that fighting back only resulted in things getting worse.

When I started all this stuff, I recognized what I was doing, the edge I was playing on.  I recognized and am not afraid to admit (no matter how non-fucking-PC it is) that there were aspects of his aggression that attracted me, that excited me.  I didn’t know any better.   I didn’t know about consensuality, I didn’t know about BDSM, I only knew that his aggression fed something in me that I liked to feel.  Thank goodness I recognized that it was unhealthy before I was seriously hurt, and left him behind to enter into a very vanilla, very conventional marriage.   I tried to mold myself into the “perfect wife” that I assumed was what was necessary in order to have a “safe” (read non-violent) marriage.  And it worked, for the most part.  What didn’t work was that I was restless, I was discontent, I was unsatisfied. I didn’t know how to assuage those feelings, I didn’t know where they stemmed from, until I discovered BDSM, and found that edge again in a safe environment.

In the beginning, it was absolutely imperative that I have some level of control…I wanted to be tied, I wanted to be hurt, but I wanted to know I could get loose, get away, say stop, if I got scared.  I liked circling the perimeter of that particular edge, but wasn’t ready to fling myself off it yet.   Contributing to that was that I didn’t completely trust my partner not to lose control—not because he ever had, I know one of the subconscious reasons I “chose” him was because he was always in such control of himself (opposite of the first one)—but because, with my history, trusting in someone else’s self-control did not come easily.  I never lost that fear, really, until I started playing with W.

And that is the strange part in all this.  Because it is in those moments when we are playing, when I fight, when I am beyond thought, when I am in pain and fear of more pain, and he pushes just that much farther…when his aggression comes to the forefront, when I feel his heat, his desire to subjugate, to conquer, and he is holding me down and no longer playing in this “safe” place…it is in those moments that I fly free, that I leap from the edge and soar, flying in the face of my fear.