On that Friday morning after you left, I was so exhausted that I crawled back into bed and shut my eyes and began to drift back to sleep. In that space between lucidity and unconsciousness, thoughts began to ebb in and out of my mind. I was back on my knees again, trying to hold your gaze because you had told me to do so, even though I find it difficult. My mouth was open, and I had momentarily fogotten how much I wanted you to grab me by the hair and fuck me, because I wanted the taste of you in my mouth just as much... And then your cum was dribbling down my chin, it was on my tongue and in my hair...I had that terrible and wonderful sensation of feeling utterly used and filthy. But then your expression hardened, you wound my hair tightly around your fist, told me I was a slut, and then dragged me out of the room. You pulled me into the bathroom and forced me into the bath, and with your cum all over my face still, you told me what a dirty fucking whore I am. As you spoke, you were switching the shower on, and I cried out as the cold water sprayed over me. In this half-dream I was having, there was a wooden scrubbing brush on the shelf to the side, and you immediately took hold of it and began to scrub my skin roughly until I was almost crying, all the while telling me exactly what I was, and all the while, the cold water was making me shiver.
Monday, 2 June 2008
On Friday night, I dressed in my black corset, little navy feathered hat and veil, with navy stockings and peep toe heels to match. I kept my hair loose more for practical reasons than aesthetics...
I must confess that I have never played so much at a party before, and I very much hope that this does not displease you, it was simply one of those occasions where the atmosphere was perfect, everybody knew each other, and I felt extremely comfortable. The first time I played was in the dungeon. My friend persuaded me that it was a good idea to let him strap me to a bench. I was flogged, spanked, and attacked with a violet wand...I love electricity, but people always turn it too low. My friend has a good memory, and spent a lot of time tormenting my feet. The sole of the foot is such a sensitive thing, and it doesn't take much to make a person squeal. When I was released, I looked around and realised that at some point, the dungeon had almost emptied of people, which left me somewhat irked. One of the few times that I feel happy enough to play in a prominent area, and everybody leaves the room...
Perhaps it was something to do with the powder on my nose, but I suddenly felt the need to charge upstairs and inform people that they had clearly missed out. This caused me to be threatened with molestation by other friends, and I may have responded with something encouraging, but I don't quite remember. All I know is that at some point later, I was quietly minding my own business downstairs, when I was set upon and whisked into a private bedroom. My clothes were removed and I was placed horizontally across the bed, they stretched my arms as far as they would go without breaking and secured them with rope. My legs were left free, but were repeatedly pulled so that at times my entire body was stretched painfully. I had never played with any of these men before, except for the one previously in the basement. I had seen one of them play with his sub several times, and knew full well just how severe he can be. He is also rather good at inspiring fear, and yet his voice is always soft and he never says anything unkind. I am sure he knew exactly what I was thinking, and at one moment, when my legs were splayed apart, he casually walked around the bed with a riding crop. Suddenly, he brought it down close enough to my pussy that it appeared as if it would actually hit me, and with such force that I thought it would take my clitoris off. I screamed. As it goes, I was not particularly hurt at all, but each time he was about to hit me hard, he would ask me if I was ready and I would have to look at him, and each time I was bracing myself for somethng much worse than I got.
Later on, after most people had left, Michael and another friend pulled me onto the floor of the lounge, bound my wrists and ankles, flipped me over and hogtied me. My hair was plaited and attached to ropes, and with every jerk I made, my hair was pulled. Michael was very gentle with me, but my friend is an experienced submissive with a sadistic streak and seemed to have a penchant for smothering my face for long enough to actually frighten me.
(25/05/09: How funny I did not say much about the friend in the paragraph above. Perhaps instinct was telling me something that I ignored. Now look at the mess I am in.)
The rest of the weekend was pretty much a chaotic orgy of chemicals and chit-chat, punctuated with short intervals of sleep and takeaway...
Saturday, 19 April 2008
"Get on the table, on your back," he said. I clambered onto the table-top, a little light-headed, and propped myself up on my elbows. He walked over slowly and deliberately. "Spread your legs," he told me, and awkwardly I responded, always uneasy at putting myself on display in such a way, even to somebody familiar, even to somebody I had promised to please. A wicked grin spread across his face as he told me to spread them wider...wider...wider, until I made a sound of muffled annoyance from beneath the black tape across my mouth. I tried to squeak the syllabals that I could not possibly go any farther. He paused and ran his eyes over my body, shaking his head, "Such a slut..." I felt my face redden and let myself fall back flat onto the surface so that I could cover my face with my hands. He moved in closer and I brought my hips up to meet his hand. I moaned as he pinched and tugged on my labia, "Whose slut are you?" My breathing quickened and I tried to make a noise that sounded like,
"I am yours, Sir," he pinched harder and I yelped,
"Look at me," he said, so I propped myself up again and fixed my eyes on his, and through the tape, I tried to repeat, "Yours,". Without ever breaking our gaze, he slowly, leisurely, slid his cock into my pussy. A rush of pleasure surged through me, and my hips began to buck against him. Lazily he moved in and out of me, ordering me to hold myself still, until pleading sounds of frustration escaped my sealed lips. He reached in towards me and tore the tape from my mouth, I cried out, but was soon silenced as he pressed his lips firmly onto mine. I kissed him back, longing for him to stop teasing me, for him to fuck me harder. Gently his mouth moved across my cheek and to my neck. As he began to kiss and lick the patch of skin just below my ear, he gently whispered to me, "Beg me to fuck your arse..." My entire body stiffened, and yet even as I replied to him that I could not do that, he was still fucking my pussy slowly, distractingly...I bit my lip and moaned, and could no longer prevent myself from moving against him. "I won't tell you again," he said. I looked up at him, but hesitated as I was about to speak. Suddenly he slapped his hand hard against my cheek, hard enough that I fell back and that my eyes watered. I was too stunned to speak or move. Eventually, I looked up at him, and quietly said to him,
"I don't think I can ask you to do that, Sir," Without a word, he withdrew from me and grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled me off the table. I cried out in pain,
"Beg me, slut," he said.
Still the words did not come, and finally he told me that if I would not beg, then I would not speak at all, then he forced his cock into my mouth. His hands cupped the back of my head, and he began to fuck my face so hard that I gagged. He ignored my strained cries, and my small hands around his wrists, which made little difference, as he is so much stronger than I. The dark makeup I had smudged around my eyes now began to stream down my cheeks. Finally he pulled my head back and told me to open my mouth. Immediately I obeyed, looking up at him from beneath lashes of running mascara, eagerly awaiting the taste of him in my mouth.
He watched me carefully lick my fingers and my lips clean, "I think I like you best with black streaks down your face," he said, "And I am going to ask you again tomorrow, think about what you will say, because there are worse things than running mascara."
Thursday, 10 April 2008
So...what is my problem with being fucked in the arse? I wonder if that is even the question? But I suppose that I am gradually revealing more and more of myself here, though I am not sure just how nervous I should be about that...
I have only ever been fucked in the arse once. Does that shock you? I think the reason for this is that I view it as a deeply degrading and deeply submissive act. Not in regards to anybody else, but definitely in regards to me. Because of this, I tend to wrestle with the secret relish I have at being asked, or made, to do such a thing; and the simultaneous resistance I all at once feel. It is not something that I could ever ask for. Do I fantasise about it...? What do you think?
Tuesday, 1 April 2008
Take my clothes away from me, tell me that every man you send to me I am to obey as I obey you. Lock me in a room. Then let them come, let them come to hurt me, play with me, fuck me, rape me and anything else that they may wish. Let me cry, let me be afraid. Just let my eyes be covered so I do not see who is violating me.
I have been specifically asked to research ownership and symbolism, and yet I have read nothing so far that catches my attention. Nevertheless, I suppose I can add to it all with some brief writing of my own.
It's an uneasy thing for me to admit to myself that I want to be owned. I am strongwilled, assertive and a woman who believes that she knows herself very well. And I suppose that is why I am forcing myself to be truthful. I shall not even attempt to articulate the feelings that all this produces in me, and I wouldn't do a very good job if I tried. What I do know is this: that I want to willingly give my mind and my body into the hands of somebody else. I know that the extent of the control is not something to be viewed lightly, nor is the extent of the inequality that I seem about to plunge myself into. But I want it so. And if at times a lot is being asked of me, I also understand that for the person taking control, a lot of thought, time, and attention will be put into our "non-partnership". I know that owning another can be hard work. Sometimes I know that I can be difficult, but this is always due to the inner conflict my submissive part has with the rest of me, and sometimes it is due to the (what somebody once called "Western values") that are ingrained in me. These are things that I must overcome in order to fulfill my role, and that can only be done with trust, which is at the very core of any such relationship, along with honesty.
I feel that any symbol that cements a D/s relationship should be a deeply personal thing. The collar is not a uniform! I do not relish the idea of a tattoo or branding, largely because I am a coward, and I rather like my smooth, white, virginal skin...I won't begin to try to comment on what such permanent marks mean to people, because I have never been in their circumstances. At this moment in time, what would mean the most to me would be something subtle and elegant that I could wear all of the time. Despite all of this, there is always the wonderful sensation of someone placing a collar around your neck as you kneel. I have a very small neck, and large collars give me a headache, so I think that something dainty, light, and of course extremely pretty would be the thing for me...
I think tonight I am one of my moods where the words on these matters do not come easily.
Monday, 31 March 2008
The air in the room is very close, due to the amount of heat let off by the candles. I can't see them because I have been told to keep my eyes shut. My lack of vision, together with the air, which is slightly too warm produces an odd feeling of claustrophobia within me. I can hear your footsteps moving around, but I don't open my eyes, not even for a second. I hear you wander into an adjoining room, and for a brief moment I am left alone. I am straddling a chair in the centre, my arms are wrapped around its wooden back and bound there, and my ankles are fastened to the legs. I hear you return, you are behind me, and I sigh softly as I feel your body press into my back, were I not tied, I would lean myself back into you. Then I feel your arms slowly snaking over my shoulders, your left hand gently takes hold of my chin, and with your right, you press something cold and flat onto my lips. You ask me if I know what it is. In my mind, I have already decided that I will not betray any emotion, and so I simply say that it is something made of metal. You move around the front of me and crouch down. I know that your face is very close to mine, but still, I keep my eyes closed. You say nothing, but my lids almost flicker open, and I draw my breath in sharply as you oh-so-gently touch the blade of the knife to one of my fingertips. This time it is sharp. The adrenaline starts coursing through my veins because somehow I know that this time you are not toying with me. I want to open my eyes, but I don't, and as you stand and move behind me again, I grip my hands onto the chair back. You start to brush my hair around my neck, and I begin to shake my head, no, no, no, I don't think I can do this, I say. I plead with you a little, I'm not ready and I mean it. But then you pull my head back by my hair, not harshly, but firmly, and I melt. You whisper simply into my ear, yes you can...When you pull my hair that way, it always takes my breath away, sends a shiver down my spine, and any words freeze in my throat. When you pull my hair, sometimes I think I'll do anything. You brush my hair over my shoulders and I press myself hard into the back of the chair. First, I feel you stroking the flat of the blade against my skin. The coolness makes me shiver, and then I feel the sharp edge of the knife in the centre of my back. A small cry escapes my lips as I feel you slide the blade a little way down my spine. It barely cuts my skin at all, but cut into it it does, and I bite my lip at the sharp, thin pain. My heart is beating very fast, and my head feels a little dizzy. And then you do something that takes me by surprise. I feel your tongue flick along the cut and then you move around, pull my head back and kiss me. I am sure I taste a little blood.
Saturday, 29 March 2008
Today I cannot concentrate on anything. It has been such a long time, and when I am in this frame of mind, it is impossible to ignore the overwhelming desire I have to be on my knees. At this moment now, all I want is that intense fulfillment of being told when to speak and when to remain silent, of what I can say and what I can't say, of being told where I should fix my gaze, what clothes I should wear, how I should kneel, how I should stand. When I am in this mood I know that I would be compliant and perfect. For a moment, I can allow myself to admit certain things, and for the barriers to fall away. As I write now, I can say to myself that I want a man who will make me feel vulnerable and "feminine", a man to control my mind and my body. But what does it mean to be femine? What is a feminist who secretly wants a man to dominate and rule over her, at least some of the time? And why do I love the fact that I can't handle this fact? The conflict feels so deliciously, almost tangibly wrong.
As I sit here with the sunlight streaming through the window, all I can see is the darkness of the room in my mind. I can almost smell the sweat as I feel a hand snake up my neck, violently pulling my hair back, with the words whispered into my ear that I am a dirty little whore....Right before I am sent down to scrub the kitchen floor...
Sunday, 23 March 2008
Some time ago, a friend was discussing with me some of the activities which he had asked his previous submissive to perform. Of all of these, one in particular has stayed with me, and I often find myself turning it over in my mind. I thought perhaps that I might help myself to articulate the appeal of it here, though I am not sure the feelings it induces can be put into words.
He told me that on one occasion, when she had arrived at his house, he simply took her into the kitchen, and threw rice down upon the floor. He then handed her a pair of tweezers and container, and told her that she should clean the rice up, grain by grain. I am not sure how long he left her kneeling there.
I suppose that in a way I am surprised that I have fantasised about this incident in particular, rather than any of the other stories that he has told me. There are countless more "involved" scenes that he has described to me, and yet...
I have often thought of myself there, sometimes naked, sometimes clothed, my hair falling down over my shoulders as I lean over the floor. Why should performing such a pointless task on somebody's whim satisfy me so much? I am trying to think about how I feel when I am down there on the floor with the rice. I know that I feel small and vulnerable. Sometimes I have that same sort of feeling I would have when I was young, when one of my parents had asked me to perform some monotonous task not of my choosing. That is one of my worst secrets...that I sometimes enjoy feeling like a little girl. There is also that delicious feeling of being utterly possessed, in the sense that whomever has you might ask you to do such a thing, not as a punishment, but merely because they feel like it. And of course, you willingly perform it, because you have given yourself over.
Whilst I would not want it that way all of the time, I also enjoy the idea of meaningless cruelty. Perhaps not everyone would find picking up grains of rice with a pair of tweezers cruel, but I think that it depends upon how long you are left to do it. So why do I love the idea of somebody who cares about me being cruel to me? And why is it sometimes so much sweeter when it is inflicted at the same time as soft words?
Thursday, 20 March 2008
I had a strange dream about you last night, brought on, I am sure by the house that I am staying in. The house is enormous and was built in the 1840s, with more rooms than I ever imagined. The owners are away on holiday, and I am the caretaker until then. What I thought would be a week of gothic romance is turning out to be a little more eerie than I had bargained for.
Last night, as I sunk into a bed fit for any polite Victorian lady, my new surroundings must have affected my mind. I dreamt I was wandering through the house, following a noise and trying to find the room from where it originated. I could hear several mens' voices, and their laughter. Somewhere within the din, I could also make out the sound of a female voice crying. Eventually I came to a large wooden door, and slowly, I turned the handle and stepped inside. I immediately shrank back at what I saw. There was a table in the centre of the room, upon which a naked woman was stretched out, face down. There were many men encircling her, some were restraining her legs, which were wrenched apart. I could hear her whimpering, and one of the men had his fist inside her pussy. Nobody seemed to notice me, and I moved further into the room. The figures in the room were blocking my vision and preventing me from seeing to the head of the table. Their hands were grabbing, pinching and exploring the woman's body, pressing down upon her when she seemed to move too much. Still unnoticed, I began to walk up the side of the table. The woman was laying with her arms stretched out in front of her, and as I neared the end, I saw that it was you holding her wrists to the table. You were kneeling so that she could see your face, and you were speaking quietly to her. Each time that she whimpered, I heard you telling her that she was a good girl, and that she was suffering for you, and that she was pleasing you. Each time that her head lowered, you told her that she should look at your eyes when you spoke to her.
I cannot remember much after that point, except for the way that I felt. At first, I was horrified, but then, as I moved around the table, I began to feel a mixture of shame and jealousy. Shame at the fact that I was enjoying what I saw, and jealousy because, secretly, I wanted to be that woman.