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.