Afternoon Surprise

Sunday I went to his house in the afternoon while my son was with friends.  I didn’t really have any expectations for the afternoon except to fill out some paperwork for a local event we are attending.  When we had finished that, however, he stood up and asked me how much time we had.  My stomach did that flutter thing–what did he have in mind?  Probably not too much, since my son could call at any time.  Still, I never know with him.  Fifteen minutes could be more than enough time.

I told him my best guess on time and he nodded, then gathered up some things while I went to the bathroom.  Then I followed him upstairs.

Once there he didn’t say a word, just turned to me with that look he gets, kind of purposeful, like he’s figuring out how to make a puzzle fit together, or solving a problem.  Then he took off my blouse and bra.  Just reached over pulled my blouse over my head and undid my bra, without saying a thing.  I love being with someone that simply does things to me.  For his own reasons, no explanation.  I love it that he gets that he owns me that way, that he can do that to me.  And that he does.  There’s something to be said for being told to do things, that’s hot, but there’s something else to be said as well for being treated as a thing to be manipulated, moved around, stripped or hung up on a hook or written on or used.  Oh yes.

Then, still without explanation, he tied my wrists together in front of me (pretty white rope around my wrists, I think about that image sometimes when I touch myself) and then above me to a hook above his doorframe.  And there I was in my jeans, naked torso and breasts, hanging in his doorway.  He ran his warm hands over my skin, which had begun to cool a bit and then, with a “Damn, I thought I could get away just this once without needing to take a picture,” he headed back downstairs to get his camera. “You’re just too hot like that, I have to take a picture,” he said, and snapped away.

He says the nicest things.

And for awhile, what followed was this: measurements, notations, making a pattern, fitting rings around my breasts.  Along with some pulling and twisting of said breasts, just for good measure.  He’s a funny guy, my Mr. Mean Mad Scientist Guy.  It is all toward the greater good, however, all this work he does.  Greater good for him, when he builds some new device to torture me with, greater good for me when I get to experience said device.

And then…the Mean Guy kissed me.  Hands and mouth and tongue and lips and I forgot I was standing there in his bedroom doorway tied up, and that he was probably going to hurt me at some point.  I just wanted to breathe him in and taste him and melt into him.  It had been two weeks or so since I’d seen him last, and I try to be Ms. Not-Clingy, Ms. Unemotional, but I can’t help it, it’s all there.  I missed him.  I wanted to wrap myself around him and cling to him and kiss him and hold him.  Of course tied wrists are not conducive to holding, but I managed to get myself wrapped around him as much as I could.

He pulled away for a moment to untie me.  And then, again without a word, he pushed me back to sit on his bed and pulled my face down to his cock.  My hands were cool and tingly, but I wrapped them around his warm, hard cock, warming them.  I buried my nose in him, breathed in the smell of him, the smell of his cock, and took him in my mouth to taste him.

Again he pulled away, but only long enough to flip me over onto my stomach and pull down my jeans and underwear.  And then he was pushing inside me, my pussy first, and I was pushing back against him, greedy, wanting him inside me, fucking me.  But he pulled away almost immediately and I knew what he was going to do.  I couldn’t help it, I whimpered, I tightened up, even as I felt his hands on my ass, spreading my cheeks, even as I felt his cock pushing against my tightly-closed asshole.  I love ass sex, but it always hurts at first, and I always resist.  I try to open myself, I try not to resist, but it just happens.

He pushes into me anyway.  He doesn’t let me get away with resisting, he hears me whimper, he knows it hurts, and he does it anyway.

And that does it, that trips the trigger, somewhere in this fucked-up submissive head.  One minute my body is resisting, my mind is resisting, I am saying no no no and my asshole is tight and he is having to force himself through that tightness, and the next I am opening to him, and in my head I am begging him to fuck me, fuck my ass, please even as he does it, thrusting into me, his cock hard and thick in me, stretching me, breaking me open, and I am wet there, in my ass, and I am pushing back against him, driving against him, and then…there it is, jesus, there it is…pain and pleasure mixing, building…and I come, surprising myself, gasping and whimpering now with something other than resistance.

And later, holding me while I get my head back together, he says, “Sorry, I couldn’t wait,” referring, I think to our date scheduled for later in the week (today in fact.)  And I shiver in happiness because he couldn’t wait.

Damn, he just says the nicest things.  Oh yes.

Firsts, part 1

It started innocently enough. As if anything could be termed “innocent” with him, and, after all, I was tied in his bed, my legs spread and raised above me in a “V”, my cunt open and waiting for his attention. My mind open and waiting for his attention, too.

I’d been the focus of his rather close attention all that weekend, and more recently just that afternoon, while he’d spread me open and “inspected” me, taking down measurements of my cunthole—“calibrating” me for various and nefarious mysterious implements of torture he has in mind to make for me. Just prior to that, he had left me sitting up in the bed, my arms tied above me and a long glass dildo shoved into my cunt, with my legs akimbo, the heels of my shoes tied together just so, so that they would hold the thing inside me while he gathered his “instruments.” I was already so blissed out on sex and so deep in the space he’d had me all weekend, a place where I was just girlmeat, fuckmeat, for his use, that I happily, and without even the usual twinge of embarrassment I feel at such things, ground it into my pussy as deep as I could with no hands and only the spike heels of my shoes as tools.

There is a delicious feeling of lightness, of freedom, in this space. There is no thought of what I look like, what he thinks of me, other than that he has me exactly where he wants me, and as such, likes what he sees (I assume.) There is no thought of hiding behind modesty or fear or shyness, behind inhibitions, because he has stripped all that from me. I am simply my most primal self, open and naked in a way that merely stripping my clothing would not accomplish; he has stripped my sense of self that includes who I am in the “outside” world, in that space “out there,” leaving only this body, an open vessel for him to empty and fill as he sees fit.

And he filled it, over and over.

He shifted me around so that he could hang me with my arms and legs tied from ropes hanging down from the ceiling like a side of beef while he poked and prodded and measured me, using the beautiful glass dildo as his depth finder, inserting and pulling it out, pushing it deeper each time. Just when I’d begin to shift a bit, to wiggle it deeper into me or try for some other point of pleasure, he’d calmly pull it out and make a note in his notebook (no really, he wrote in a notebook! and on my ass!), as though he didn’t know he was making crazy. I don’t often say the words, but they were in my head: fuck me fuck me! After a while I simply stopped thinking, let myself drift, stopped wanting and just allowed myself to be, a “thing,” after all. An open hole, a measurement.

But then after the dildo there were the steel balls.

We’ve all read about “ben wa” balls, the little Japanese pleasure toy. Well, get that thought right out of your head. Though round, and made for inserting into a woman’s hole, these are as far from ben wa balls as a redwood is from a Christmas tree. These are heavy steel balls…at least two sizes, small and medium, and maybe a larger set too, I can’t remember.

The small was as far as he got with me that afternoon. He didn’t just insert two though, oh no, nothing as commonplace, as boring, as that (seriously, two would be boring, what would be the point, when you have a whole lovely cunt to fill, all that warm, stretching flesh?) Oh no, he pushed many more than that inside me, I think 10 or 12 when he was done, one after another, gradually filling me with their weight and the smooth, rolling motion of them until I thought my head would burst, along with my pussy. It’s an incredible feeling, how they shift around, pushing and stretching your insides…feeling his fingers stretching the flesh of my cuntlips open, pushing the balls inside me, one by one; his fingers, thick and implacable; and me, my legs spread, hands tied, unable to stop him, even if I had wanted to, which, god help me, I didn’t. I wanted to be filled as full as he could make me, as he went on I just became this thing, this wide open gaping hole of need, and, eventually, it brought out something animalistic in me, something feral and greedy and clawing: the pure, mindless desire to be filled, to be fucked, to have his cock in me, to feel him shoving into me, thrusting against me, grinding into me and into the balls, pushing them inside me, pounding them into the soft flesh inside me. I wanted to feel him hammering at me, wanted to feel his body on mine, his weight, his skin under my hands; wanted to swallow him whole, to suck him into me through my cunt, through that gaping hole inside me. I wanted to come, to feel the spasm of my body around his, and around the strange, heavy stretching fullness inside me.

And I got all that, and more.
(to be continued…)

15 minutes

I want to make a BDSM booty call tonight.  I want to be taken, to be fucked, to be beaten and hurt and twisted into whatever fuckery he wants and then to fall into blissful, post-beaten/post sex sleep with chains clinking between my legs, with the shackles tight on my wrists and throat, with his hands on my throat and skin, possessing me, owning me.

It’s not going to happen, of course.  We have all these rules; I am  here, he is there; this is my “real life,” that is fantasy and fun.  But FUCK.

Booty call.  Why can’t I have that?  Beat me.  Please?

Here is what would happen, based on a single line in an email:  “And if you need a quick beating I imagine I can do quite bit of damage in 15 minutes if I have to.”

I knock, he opens the door.  I enter and lean in to kiss him hello.  He grabs a handful of my hair, holds me just far enough away to look me in the eyes.  That’s it, that moment, that’s all the hesitation I get, before he drags me into his front room.

He pushes me down onto the couch and kicks my legs apart (I am startled, unprepared, protecting myself). His hand comes down, hard, in a slap across the back of my head.  “Be still.” I cower against the sofa.  He shoves my head down and grabs rope.  It’s going to be quick, but he likes the sight and feel of rope, and he lashes it around my wrists, not caring about my whimpers.  And then, because he only has 15 minutes, he starts in.  Slapping my ass and thighs, grabbing the crop he has left handily on the table behind him, slashing at thighs and calves and ass.  I can’t fully imagine what he uses because I am not a Top, all I know is the feeling of surrender, of giving in, as he hits me, as he hurts me, as the blows rain down.

But of course there is more than that, isn’t there?  You want to be submissive, you want to give in, but it hurts like fuck, doesn’t it, and you’re scared, scared of what you’ve called out in him, of what you’ve unleashed, scared of what he is while he is slashing at you, hurting you.  Scared of that look in his face, of that pleasure that he feels in hurting you.  So you yelp and twist away from him and the pain, you cry out and deny that this is what you want, what you’ve been asking for (please, please hurt me, please take me places I am afraid to go on my own, please make me feel, make me real.)  The ropes? They are nothing now to the quick biting anger of his blows, nothing to the fear and pain he is visiting on you, that you have asked for, that you want and need and crave.

And then, though these 15 minutes have seemed an eternity, it is over as quickly as it has begun, and he is releasing you, allowing you to stand again, to be “you” again, this you that you do not know and do not want to know.  You want to be her, that one on her knees in front of the couch, that one with no other self than what he gives you.

You get up, you straighten your skirt, you brush a hand through your hair, and you go.

Anal Slut

I belong to the Anal Sadists and Sluts (A.S.S.) group on Fetlife, and recently read the discussion What Do you Like to See? by Lochai. He’s got some beautiful photos, and has recently started (or is starting?) a new kink-on-demand video thing over at kink.com with girls doing/getting/giving enemas/assplay. I’d find it more fun if it wasn’t only g-on-g, actually. Which is, hmmm, something else to post on, perhaps. Anyway, got me to thinking about my own assplay journey and turn-ons, so I thought I’d share.

I was first introduced to the idea of anal play in Nancy Friday’s book of women’s fantasies, My Secret Garden. That was the first time I realized that assplay could be erotic, even that anal sex existed, that there was such a thing as erotic enemas. Or enemas at all, actually. I lived in a household where I was never taught about my own menstrual cycle, much less anything else that “unsanitary.” (And I wonder why it took me–is still taking me–so many years to get over the “shame” of monthly bleeding. Duh.) Anyway, back to anal play, I remember fantasizing for a long time about those things, long before I ever explored any of it in reality. Images, both real and imagined, were all I knew for a long time. I didn’t know what any of it might feel like, but the visuals of a cock pushing into a tight, round hole, the asshole opening up to receive it… Or an enema nozzle, sliding in, slippery and clandestine, before it begins to pulse with water… those sustained my masturbation fantasies for a long time. Later, I would discover the realities, both pleasurable and painful (which has its own kind of pleasure) in all kinds of anal play, but it is still a mixture of the physical sensation and mental images that get me. It is as much about my mental of image of him standing over me, hand in my hair or gripping my shoulder, his cock teasing the waiting opening of my ass, as it is the feeling of him pushing inside me, my body resisting at first before slowly, achingly, opening up to him.

So yeah. “What do I want to see?” resonates with me, because all the while I am experiencing the physical aspects of it, I am also, almost vicariously, experiencing my visual imaginings of it. Those images are playing in my head as I am feeling the reality of it. When I saw a recent set of photos, with me tied down by my neck, hands high above my back, legs open and ass on display…wow. That was like seeing all those mental fantasies come to life. All those porn shots, all those images in my head–right there, in the flesh. And it was me! I’ve fantasized about having a cock before, but that was the first time that I truly missed not having one, not having been the man standing there behind me with a hard cock to thrust into that dark, tight, musky hole, knowing that eventually it would open for me, knowing that eventually the body beneath mine would succumb, spread around my cock, the tightness I’d find there…

But there’s more than that. As much as I love the images, the physical sensations, and hearing the words (for a time just fantasizing about someone growling in my ear “I’m going to fuck your ass,” was enough to send me over the edge when I was teetering there), there’s another element that twists desire deep inside me: embarrassment. Even just writing about it makes me a little flushed, a little breathless. In seeing those things in my mind’s eye, in seeing those “wrong” things being done to me, I feel a deep embarrassment and humility. It is one sexual act–assrape, anal sex–that can bring me down to my submissive state rather than a sexual one, even when it is feel-good ass sex. It doesn’t inspire that ferocious sexual animal in me, but rather something meek, open, accepting, even when it’s making me hotter than hell. It’s a strange mixture.

The other day, when W had me wear a buttplug to lunch, it was as much the insertion of it–and the remembered embarrassment of that act–as it was the wearing of it that got to me. The whole time, as we drove to restaurant, while we walked inside, as we sat at lunch, I knew that he knew I had this thing in my ass, and that I had presented myself to him so that he could push it inside me, and I had that image in my head, staring me in the face, so to speak.

Remembering laying across his bed, knowing he was behind me, looking at my ass–no let’s be brutally honest here, not just my ass, men look at my ass all the time and it doesn’t embarrass me–looking at my asshole. If I could have squirmed away right then I would have. And then I felt his finger slide around the outside, felt the lube he was (kindly) using, and the image of it was almost too much to bear. I held my breath, squeezed my eyes shut; I didn’t want the embarrassment of watching what he was doing even in my imagination. And he hadn’t even put anything inside me yet. It was that knowledge, that he had that power over me, to tell me, “we are going to do this,” to make me open myself, that secret part of myself, to him that way, that made my stomach do flip-flops, that fucked with my head later.

There were the physical sensations: the feeling as he slid his finger into my asshole, such a deliciously embarrassingly pleasurable sensation; the slight release and relief and bit of disappointment as he slid his finger back out before placing the buttplug just there, at that tight opening of flesh; the pressure as he pushed it in, forcing me to open to it; the pain of pushing it all the way in, before the almost-bliss when it was finally all the way in; and the feeling of it stretching me painfully, filling me. And there were the emotional sensations: acute embarrassment, denial that I want it, that I want to feel exposed and made vulnerable this way. And the images all the while in my head, playing like a dirty movie: him standing over me, my legs and ass spread for him, his finger in my asshole, his hand pushing the plug inside me, and me, opening to him, my asshole spreading around the buttplug, clenching around it and holding it tightly inside me. It was enough to send me spiraling into subspace, just that easily. Nice.

Thank you, Nancy Friday, for such a sweet beginning to a lifetime of anal play.

Reconnection

I realized something about myself last night. I need to reconnect, to decompress and re-establish myself with W as a human being, as a lover–as opposed to a piece of fuckmeat, a cunthole–as much after an intensely sexual scene (or series of scenes) as I do after an intensely painful scene.

I am balanced again today. In a good headspace, “me” again, after a weekend-long scene that took me from incredible, mind-blowing 3-way sex to fucking in a taboo place; from a deep, satisfying beating that mixed romance and pain in equal measures to a panting mindless clawing need to have him inside me as he filled me with steel balls and proceeded to fuck them inside me; from feeling him shudder & spend himself for the first time inside me as he held the shackle at my throat to opening myself up to him in a way I never have with anyone–my body literally pulling his hand inside my cunt before expelling it in a birthlike orgasm that left me in tears. Not to mention being strung up like a side of beef and “examined” in minute detail and with meticulous note-taking (some of it on my ass) by a mad scientist or being taken to a restaurant with a buttplug up my ass. And the while being told I was a cunt, fuckmeat, a slut for his–and others’–use, a hole to be filled & used in whatever way he wanted. By the time he finished with me here at our house, in the taboo bed (my son’s room, how fucked up is that?) I was so deep in the place he’d put me it was like waking in a dream, the edges of my world soft and blurred, my perceptions of self no longer anything I recognized.

Because I am not those things. I like sex, love it, revel in it and in my femaleness, revel in the whole of myself as a sexual being along with all the other pieces of me, but I am not always comfortable with the edges of my sexuality, with the grasping reaching fuckhole that I become, with the woman that will allow her body to be used in any way he wishes. Maybe even craves it. That open, gaping hole of need that is both me and other, that is at the center of myself, the desire for simple mindless fucking that transports me from this person in my head to something both lesser, and more.

And so, when I am transported there…just as when I am transported out of myself by pain…I need to be brought back. I need to return to myself, to a self that I recognize; and I need to know that he still cares, that even though I have done these awful things (or allowed them to be done to me), I am still lovable, he still wants to look at me, he still “respects me in the morning.” lol

I didn’t realize that this kind of reconnect was necessary for the sexual stuff. But then I have never been taken to the places he takes me, that he took me this past weekend. I really really needed to look at him & talk to him, see that I still interested him, delighted him, could make him laugh. That he still wants me as me, that he still likes me.

It sounds pitiful put that way. The little girl eternally craving love and acceptance. And you know what? That’s okay.

The Story of Pictures

I’ve been looking at photos of the scenes that W and I do. He’s a photography slut, it’s as much a part of his kink to photograph what happens between us as is the desire to push boundaries. He takes his pictures in the heat of our scenes, and often captures moments of raw emotion and vulnerability, although no matter how intense the pictures are, they can only hint at the true intensity of what we do.

There is a part of me that feels very exposed by photographs, but not in the obvious way, the way of “Hey, look here, there’s a picture of a girl doing nasty things.” It’s more an emotional exposure, an exposure inherent in both the act of being photographed and in the viewing of the pictures afterward.

I feel raw when I look at the pictures of some of our scenes. Raw and laid bare in a way that cuts as deep as the experience itself in some ways. I have a very visceral reaction to my own photos, a reaction that excited and troubled me in equal measure the first time I looked at the pictures of our first scene. It both personalized the experience and depersonalized it. Made it both about me and not, like watching something happen to someone else, and yet that someone else was me, looking like that, feeling those things.

Looking at the pictures I don’t exactly relive those feelings again…I do something else. I relive them from once removed. I relive them as a story, as something I am no longer intimate with. It is as though what is in the pictures is completely divorced from me, the me that is here, now, looking at them.

Sometimes it is as though an entirely different story is being told. It is like when I look at this series of pictures we call “after,” the scene upstairs after our first scene in the basement, and I see this emotionally quiescent woman, this depleted, exhausted thing, and I don’t even know her. I don’t remember being that girl. Yeah, subspace made me hazy and drifty, but it is more than that. It is like, looking at her, I am looking outside myself, seeing myself as a different being entirely. It’s a frightening perspective, and why it was so deeply disquieting the first time I saw my pictures. I put them away and couldn’t look at them for days, didn’t want to talk about them. How could that be me?

Some part of me denies that it is. I am me, the one who is sitting here now, analyzing this stuff, thinking about all this, not that…that body part; that woman allowing herself to be used that way; that quiet docile woman; that woman in pain; that woman in ecstasy.

I look at what I call the “hand pictures.” His hand, his fingers, pulling, pinching, mauling my breasts in close-up, no body, no face connected to them. Utterly impersonal, and yet achingly intimate. Intimate because looking at the pictures I can feel his hands on me; I see the pictures and feel him again. And yet because you can’t see anything but a body part you are left with no connection to the human beings there. It is just a disembodied hand, pulling and pinching, squeezing a tit, a body part, an object. I am only that, just a body for his use, to be poked and prodded and molded, exploited by his pictures.

It is interesting in that when I was being photographed in that first scene that is not exactly what I felt; what I felt then was simply acute self-consciousness and embarrassment; it was not until later, looking at the photos, that I saw the objectification. But then once having recognized it, that feeling repeats itself when he photographs me now; I can’t escape it. So in that way the pictures have not merely recorded history, but also influenced the present.

And yet there is another part. In seemingly direct opposition to this feeling of disconnect and removal, the pictures also pull me into the story, make me relive the feelings I had, make me feel viscerally what I can only remember in words and images in my head otherwise. And part of what I see in those pictures are the moments not captured. The woman that is zinging with pleasure, that is moaning, thrusting, reaching, begging for his hands on her, his fingers in her, his mouth on hers. He does this thing, where he breathes into me when I am feeling at the end of my tether, he breathes into me and makes me okay. It is the most intensely sexual and sexy and sensual feeling, his mouth on my lips around the gag, the taste of his breath, the feel of his mouth around mine, as though devouring me, and by devouring me he is also feeding me. Or the moments when, after he has hurt me, he stands so close to me, his breath on my neck, his body molded to mine, and wraps his arms around me, holding me together, breathing with me, protecting me, letting me know I am safe and cared for.

Those are the moments you don’t get to see in the photos, and it is their very omission that makes me recall them, like a Rorschach inkblot—the story is in the omissions as well as in the inclusions. And perhaps it is to reconcile those omissions and inclusions, to make the story whole, that I return again and again to look at the photos, and have come to appreciate them in a way I never would have guessed I could, before I started all this.

A Difficult Scene

The other night he hurt me. Not in the yummy, “oh this hurts so good, hit me again, baby” kind of way, not in the way I “like”—the kind of pain that sends power surging though me even as he wields power over me—but real pain, real torment, pain that battered me until I finally gave in and begged him to release me from it. Pain that finally broke me, that shattered me, emotionally and physically. It was different than anything he and I have done before, that I have ever experienced. And the whole time he barely touched me, other than the impersonal touch you give an animal to be sure it hasn’t broken itself, other than to reposition a rope or to add another clamp. That was the part that made it different, I think, that made it so, so hard. That broke me, in the end.

It’s taken me awhile to write about this, although I did speak with A about it, several days after W and I scened. That’s one of the wonderful things about being poly in the way that we are—A allows me to talk these things through with him, he doesn’t hold anything against me, doesn’t make me feel that I have to censor what I say (although I have shielded him in the past from some things, I am learning I have to do this less and less.) But just being able to talk about it, especially when I couldn’t with W, due to time constraints, was enormously helpful. It’s not that it was so awful, in fact it was an amazing scene, powerful and holding its own strange beauty, but it was so different for me on so many levels, that processing was slow and deliberate on my part. I know W enjoyed it immensely, and maybe that is part of why I have hesitated to examine it too closely. And yet…and yet it is precisely because he enjoyed it that I do it, that made it all alright—and all right—in the end.

I was caged in this scaffolding thing. He had ropes tied to my arms and legs, a rope between my legs and clamps from my breasts and cunt lips stretched to the four corners. The rope between my legs was taut enough that I was forced to balance on one foot or the other to minimize the discomfort, although there was no true way to alleviate it. It was constant, unremitting, and when I moved to adjust myself to some new torment, it would flare up again to remind me it was there. My arms were tied up and back, so that I had to keep them raised above and just behind my shoulders or else roll my shoulders out so that my arms would be stretched tautly behind me, like an angel’s wings. That’s how I thought of myself in those moments, as an angel, taking flight, as I rested the weight of my body, balancing against the ropes that held me momentarily. It was a constant struggle to balance between the fire of the rope between my legs and the fire in my shoulders, the pull of the clothespins on my nipples and the clamps on my pussy and later, the simple embarrassment of the nose hook. There was no relief, no way to find relief, just a gradual build-up in agony and misery until I was screaming through the gag, whining and moaning and begging him to please, please release me.

And all the time he had the camera, all the time there was that impassive eye on me, recording my torment, recording my misery, impassively, coldly, like watching some poor dumb animal twist in a trap, unable to free itself.

I crave his touch when he hurts me. I live for the moments in between the pain, when he strokes me, quiets me, breathes into me—literally, covers my mouth with his, even with a gag in, kissing and breathing into me. He is touching me more than physically, he is calling me back to him, bringing back my humanity, pulling me back into myself, and, more importantly perhaps, reconnecting us. Reasserting our bond. I think in those moments he is reasserting his own humanity as well. He touches me and lets me feel him as a man, as a lover, and not just someone that wants to hurt me, not just the hand holding the whip or the clamps, but all of him. It is that connection that I crave so deeply, it is for that that I do what I do. That, to me, is the essence of power exchange, it is in those moments that we are truly each other’s, when we own one another. He takes, I give, I take, he gives. A beautiful, intimate exchange.

It was that intimacy, his touch and his taste and the feel of his humanity, that was absent from what we did that night, and the lack of it made it so hard, made me truly suffer. I felt so alone, a thing apart from him. He was remote, he was the camera, he was impassive and disembodied and removed from me in a way he had never been before when we played. I wanted him so badly to touch me. If I had known the words for what I wanted (I didn’t, I only knew pain, and flashes of a bright, hot anger, as when you approach a wounded animal to help and it snarls at you, snapping at you blindly), if I had known what I needed, to feel him close, to know we were still connected, I would have begged for that even more than release. But I didn’t know. It is only in writing this that I have come to that realization.

And thinking on it now, I don’t know if I would have asked for it anyway. Release from pain, yes. But to be loved? To be touched, to be held? No, maybe not. There is a fierce core of pride in me that would not have allowed that last humiliation, I think. Even when he finally took me down, his hands gentle, I remember feeling shame that I had begged him to do so, and I remember turning my face away from him, both in anger at him (not knowing what I was angry at) and in myself, in the shame I felt. If I had begged for more and he had not given it to me…no, my pride could not have withstood that. So I know I wouldn’t have asked for it.

“I’m glad we don’t play with a safeword,” he said after. We were on the couch downstairs, me lying curled against him, a blanket covering me, my breathing finally slowing, with only the occasional hiccup of left-over endorphin and shock washing over me. I remember his hand in my hair, his fingers light against my cheek, his touch a silken thread connecting me to him, as light as gossamer, as delicate and tenuous as the connection I felt to him. I still felt disembodied, remote, deeply shaken. And yet, even at that moment, even when my world felt tilted and still hadn’t been put right—he still hadn’t put it right—even then, I was glad I hadn’t had a safeword too.

Does that sound strange, to be glad I hadn’t had a way to say “stop, no more, I can’t take anymore for real,” when I had felt I was at the end of my endurance, when I truly felt he couldn’t possibly know how badly I was hurting, that he must not understand the agony I was in? It’s funny, he said in an email that he is surprised at times that I feel fear, because he knows he isn’t scary, he knows he is in control. But he doesn’t live in my head, he doesn’t know what I don’t know. That is part of it for me, the not knowing, and then, being shown that my fears are baseless. If there is therapy in this for me, there it is. And that is all about the beforetime for me, which I won’t go into here and now. But that is where that comes from, where that lives in me. And that is why not being able to say no, not being able to “safeword” is perfectly logical to me. Why it works for me, in its twisted fashion. Why I am glad (after) that I can’t.

Let’s face it, even if I’d had a safeword, would I have used it? I don’t know. I can’t say, now. I know I was begging him, in gasps and grunts and screams through the gag, to please please take down my arms. But even then, even in the midst of that, I didn’t want him to stop completely—what I wanted was for him to touch me. I wanted him to love me, to let me know he loved me even though he was hurting me—because he was hurting me. A safeword would have ended things completely, and I didn’t want that, even when I broke, even when I was shaking and almost sick, when I couldn’t walk or talk or think. And secondly—I wanted to know what he would do. I want to know. That is part of it for me, to experience what he would do, what he will do, what he wants as much as what I want. I want to see where he will go, how far he will take things, if he truly knows me well enough to stop when I have reached my limit—and what his limits are. I want to be assured that he does know me that well. I want to give that trust to him, and to know that that trust is well-placed. It’s a constant test, of him and me. A test of our bond, our connection. And that is part of the danger and beauty of it, of this thing we do. It is an integral part of it, the need to explore it fully, without artificial constraints, without giving me the chance to stop when I want to. Safe and sane perhaps it’s not, but there it is, as real as it gets. I understand that. I accept that.

We talked for a long time afterward. He held me and we talked and shared and looked at photos…and I hardly remember any of it. We had an entire conversation that is a dim echo of sound without meaning in my head. I know I walked and talked, that there were moments of lucidity and I must have sounded normal, even to myself, but I also recognize (in looking back) that dumbness, that numbness that rendered me so submissive, so passive, he could have done anything to me, asked anything of me and I would have responded without thought, without resistance.

There is one small humiliation I remember, something I don’t think he visited upon me intentionally, but even know brings the sharp bite of embarrassment to me. He was looking at me, at my cunt, for future piercings, and as he did I could smell urine on me, and I realized that I must have wet myself a bit in my fear and pain. And yet even that embarrassment, even that knowledge, was not enough to wake me from the haze I was in. I spread my legs, I gave him access without a moment’s hesitation, when surely I would have resisted otherwise. And did not remember it until maybe two days later, when I touched myself after urinating, and I was reminded of it.

And that night, I slept in shackles. I wanted them, I needed them, I needed the sense of connection to him I would have even as I slept, because in such a state your sleeping body is aware, all the time, of the weight of the metal, of the chains. I cannot describe the sweet beauty of feeling those links of chain against my skin, of waking throughout the night to feel his hands on the chains or on me, of his warmth, his body near mine, the way he wraps me inside his body, as though to own me even in sleep. It filled me with contentment, with quiet and peace. I think it was then, as I drifted into sleep, connected to him though the chains at my ankles and wrists and throat, that my world tilted right once more.

Christmas Eve fun

Santa didn’t come to my house for Christmas Eve. Oh no, something much better than that happened…A and I started a new Christmas Eve tradition: I got tied up and spanked! My old tradition was to go with the ex & the kids over to his parents’ house–visiting the ex-Dragon-in-Law is a joy I am glad to be rid of forever.

So I was in the bedroom, getting out the gifts that we still had to wrap, when A came in and said he was going to throw a wrench into my plans for the evening. I’m a chronic scheduler. It’s an incurable, deep-seated need to plan things. No really, it’s a sickness. So our evening was all planned out…drop kids at their Dad’s, go to the grocer for appetizer makings for the next day, get home, throw dinner in and wrap gifts til midnight, snuggle a bit, sleep. Apparently A had other plans.

“How’s that?” I asked.

“Well, Dad’s going over to so-and-so’s house,” he says. “That gives me about an hour to beat your ass while we wait for dinner to cook.”

I get all squishy when he starts sweet-talking me that way.

It didn’t start out great though.

I wanted…well, I wanted that fissure of excitement, that kind of knot I get in my belly when W moves towards me, when he gets that purposeful look in his face, when I know things are going through his mind…things about what he wants to do to me, how he is going to touch me, or tie me, or hurt me or use me or fuck me. It’s like a stillness just settles over me, over my mind, like I fall into this waiting place, a place where anxiety lives, but just under the surface, almost too deep to acknowledge. I feel like my breath can’t quite be caught, where my mind, just under the stillness, kind of skitters on the edge of “what if? what if?” But with Ad, it’s not like that. He’s not confident in himself enough yet to approach me in that way. But…he’s getting there. Just as massage therapy has been amazing for his self-esteem, for how he feels about himself, carries himself, holds himself, this does too. Having me respond to him, knowing how much I enjoy what he’s doing, knowing that he can do that to me, make me feel that way by doing that to me…it all adds up. I see the changes.

In any case, eventually he had me undressed–except for my socks. No really, look, he let me keep my socks onSnowflakes, socks and a red butt–and then wanted to take a picture of me in them, once I’d convinced him to take a picture. So he’s pretty cute, I mean even when he’s “beating me” he is cute–it’s hard to feel that gasp of shock or “oh no!”…but what I do feel is happiness and heat and wetness and joy that he is loving me this way, in a way that I love.

And he wasn’t all niceness. He got down to business with a leather flogger that he hadn’t used before and then with this sort of hard rubber bat and a little cane-like thing. But my favorite part was when I asked him to take a couple pictures, “please? For W…” So he helped me in something that I knew would please my D/s lover…THAT’s what poly is all about. “Gotta make your butt a nice red,” he said, and proceeded to whack me a lot more to get it just right. Then, best part of all, I asked him to take a picture of himself fucking me…a shot of his cock inside me…and he DID. Heck I don’t know if W will find that hot, but he always talks about seeing me get fucked, so…I thought I’d send him a picture. And A did, and I did! “You don’t have to ask me twice to get naked and fuck a sexy, naked girl tied over a couch,” he said. And then slapped my ass a few more times just for good measure.

Next year, I want bondage with the tinsely ribbon.