RIP - Part Two

He pulls her up by her hair and shoves his hardening cock into her mouth.

Thrusting it to the back of her throat he only stops long enough for her to answer the question "Who are you?"

Again, he pushes his cock in deep and then brings it out for her to reply to his growl of "What are you?"

And he does this over and over again.

She's on her knees, back against the bed, still in her dress, stockings and boots. Her hair is twisted in his tight grasp. She can hardly breathe as she takes his penis deeper and deeper each time. His hips pushed up hard against her face, all she can smell is sex and denim.

But slowly it's happening. She's starting to feel submissive again, oh so very submissive, and this time it's for real. It's her that's being submissive. No barriers, no alter egos. It's truly her.

The next morning, as she sits astride his cock and feels the wildness start to take over, she's no longer moping about her missing alter ego. As far as she's concerned, The Little Submissive can just stay lost. She's got him now.

RIP - Part One

She'd relied on her for months, her alter ego, the submissive side she was comfortable showing. After all, if The Little Submissive was being submissive it didn't have to mean that she was. She could still retain the illusion (especially to herself)of being in control.

She could stand back and let the Little Submissive take all the pain whilst she assimilated what was happening.

Of course the Little Submissive got a lot of the pleasure too, but she didn't realise that. She barely remembered who she was when she was being Little Submissive. But she knew she liked being her. The intensity was breathtaking, and addictive.

She also knew Little Submissive was slightly dangerous. Little Submissive had fantasies about being a slave; she wanted to be hurt; and she was greedily selfish, like a baby bird demanding to be fed....and fed...and fed.

And at times Little Submissive wanted to stay so much that she had trouble bringing herself back.

Until the day Little Submissive disappeared. Just before stroke one of the belt she was there, endorphined up, in some submissive dream-like state, but by stroke two the Little Submissive had gone and she was there alone to take the full lash of his belt. And it hurt. More than she had ever imagined it would.

He seemed more than delighted. He wanted her, so it would seem. She, however wanted her Little Submissive back. After all, it was her Little Submissive as much as his. The Little Submissive belonged to her as much as him.

Without the Little Submissive it just didn't seem right. She sat at his feet and felt empty. He told her to kiss his boot and she didn't want to do it. Indeed, she rather hoped he'd go away. She didn't feel submissive. She knelt with her head on his denim clad thigh and wondered if she'd ever feel that intensity ever again, if she'd be able to feel her dark side ever again.

Belt

He hadn't really hit her with anything other than his bare hand. Once, perhaps, with a pink fluffy duster that they were using as part of a game, but that didn't count. Not really.

She'd mentioned the belt once, and he'd talked about taking it with him next time he saw her, and laying it out on the bed for her to see. But that had got forgotten in amongst all their other adventures.

But she had wondered. She'd wondered if it would hurt more, or less, than his hand. She'd pondered whether the lack of physical touch would mean that she'd feel as though something was missing. She had even thought that perhaps, fond of her as he was, he might have gone off the idea entirely. After all, she imagined that everyone had a limit as to how much they'd really want to hurt someone. Was this his?

And she wasn't going to push. There was fear mixed with the excitement: real fear.

But he used it on her that night. It wasn't at all like his hand. The belt had a life of its own. She couldn't predict where it would strike, what part of her anatomy it might lash. It felt warm, hot even, but maybe that was just the heat from her own flesh.

And it stung. It stung so hard her eyes watered and she watched her knuckles turn white.

She was surprised at the reaction. It sent her deep, extremely deep. So deep that she couldn't sleep that night. She'd heard other subs use the phrase "beaten into submission" and always felt a little disapproving. Now, she thought she might have gotten a glimpse into what they meant.

It was something else she was learning about herself. About their dynamic when together. About how she felt more comfortable with the idea of him beating her, or standing tall over her as she cowered at his feet, than with the thought of him massaging her.

The next morning, when he'd left, she would examine her welts in the mirror. Looking at where he'd left his mark always made her swoon. In the early days that was the time when she would start sinking to the floor, overcome by a feeling she couldn't name or describe. Now, of course, she could identify that submissive feeling straight away.

For a moment she felt her forehead sink to the floor. It felt instinctive, like an animal that had just come up against a stronger, more alpha rival, and lost. But there was a satisfaction in that nevertheless.

Today, she remembered what he'd said as he dressed, that next time he would bring his wider belt. She shivered, but whether it was fear or excitement she wasn't sure.

Sub Drop...or Excuse to Drop out?

She's never suffered from depression. She has a few friends who have and, quite frankly, she finds their wallowing in self pity irritating. She's always been of the opinion that you need to push yourself through it, or shut up about it. At least around her.

But now she wonders. She knows the score, how hours after their meetings she will freefall, droping into a zone where everything is still frustratingly the same as it ever was, and yet somehow different, as if you are looking at your own room in the mirror.

She wonders if these small slithers of feeling like this are what depression might really be like.

It takes a while, but she knows she'll come out of these moments. Hot mugs of Earl Grey, copious amounts of chocolate, a hot aromatic bath, a good bitchy gossip with her mates, her head down working with Hans Zimmers' The Last Samuri soundtrack playing in the background, and the joy of writing, will bring her out of her darkness.

There are occasions when she wonders if the highs are worth the lows. Of course these are always when she's feeling low, when she's looking in that mirror, where the lines and wrinkles of her own life are far too obvious.

A Dom friend once told her the way to get over the drop is not to fight it, but to accept it, live through it and wait for it to pass. And she does. And it does. It might take hours, but slowly she can feel her lips pull back into a grin again, can look back upon their night together and feel the fluttering softness in her chest as she recalls moments of pure bliss, can look away from the mirror and see what she really has and think she actually has it pretty damn good thank you very much.

She's lucky. She can bring herself through it. But part of her wonders what it would be like really be depressed, to be stuck in front of the mirror, unable to shake off its power. It's then she realises exactly how lucky she is.

The Sleeping Submissive

She spends the night as his submissive. He had talked about how she could sleep for a while in her collar, but in the end she doesn't need it. She finds that she can't throw off hours of submission by closing her eyes and pulling up the covers. She can't even dream her way out of it.

It isn't as enjoyable as she imagined. Feeling submissive to someone who is asleep is a bit boring. She feels like huffing and puffing to wake him up. Why should he sleep, and not her? It's not fair. She can't get comfortable. She needs water. And then more water. She's restless. Her cunt is throbbing so badly for him it won't let her relax. One minute she throws off the covers, exasperated at how hot she feels, the next she pulls them up again to ward off of the shivers that suddenly attack.

She hears moaning and whimpering but it takes a while before she realises it's her that doing it.

She laughs at the recent memory of thinking she had never felt so sexually awake as she does at this time in her life. Ironically, feeling sexually awake is the last thing she wants right this moment.

It's time. She's exhausted. She is longing for a peaceful sleep in his arms, but she's starting to get a feeling that what they have is quite the opposite of peaceful.

She wants to be near him, but being next to him makes her feel even more horny, even more restless, so she tries moving away, shoving her head into the chilly freshness of the underside of the pillow. But the pillow cannot dampen out the effects of the adrenaline that's coursing through her body, and she gets even more angry.

She's craving to be able to sleep close to him, her head on his shoulder, listening to his heart, but she can't keep still. The thunder in her ears and in her pussy outranks any heartbeat. Even when she tries to bring herself to orgasm with her own fingers it feels unreal; it is Him that she wants.

Finally, she climaxes and muffling her cries with the duvet, collapses back, closing her eyes and wishing for sleep. At this point, it's about the only thing she can wish for.

Role Play or Split Personalities?

"This is different. It isn't just role play," he says.

She knows what he means. She's done some role play before...once in her past she played a giggly schoolgirl that felt all too unreal (anyone would have ran a mile if they'd actually met her as a teenager...angry, petulant, and extremely arrogant); for him, she had even played a French maid with a silly accent and a case of nerves.

She pauses for a moment and ponders. Yes, there are many roles that she plays...submissive, pet, pony, lover, friend, confidante, scared little girl..and one or two she doesn't care to fully acknowledge to herself yet.

But he's right, she doesn't quite play them. Indeed, she takes them all seriously. Play doesn't come into it. If pushed, she might even say that the roles play her, that she's their pawn and has to let them come out and have their moment when they desire it.

She can't put them on, like a costume or mask. They have to be conjured out of her, and she can't even do that herself. It is He that has the power to bring them to life.

And they all have very different but endearing qualities for her. She has a growing fondness for Pet, so strongly does she feel the almost overwhelming devotion to, and adoration for, her owner when those instinctive feelings take over and she nuzzles against his chest. As Pony she enjoys the primitive desire to be taken by her stud, almost all human qualities momentarily absent.

She adores being Lover, orgasming to his touch, his whisper, his look, feeling him inside her, making her cry with gratitude. Being his Confidante is trickier as she's still not sure what she does and doesn't want to know. The more she knows him, the more both her body and mind ache for him, and that's sometimes hard to deal with.

He knows how to bring out the Scared Little Girl too...the one that curls up foetal position, or tries to crawl under the bed. She wonders why she likes this one so much...is it akin to her love of being scared through horror films and stories...or does she just enjoy the feeling of regression? She's not sure.

In the past he has also brought out the darker side of her too...hateful seething Witch-like feelings of hurt and jealousy that make her want to brutally wound with words that pierce through the flesh and into the heart. She hasn't seen the Witch-like one for a while, but occasionally a stab of insecurity will surface, as if Witchy one is just underneath, prodding her with a jagged fingernail to remind her she's still very much alive.

But most of all, she thrills at being his submissive. The thought of being at his feet can send her woozy; the idea of laying her face on his foot clad boot takes her places she's never been before. The memory of being on her knees, shaking with anticipation as she hears him unzip his trousers sparks a jolt of desire so powerful she literally has to force herself to breathe normally. Being his submissive feels like the role she has been waiting for her whole life.

Feeling Something Shift

It was subtle shift, a change from feeling the craving to be dominated by someone stronger than her, to an almost tender need to just melt into submission. No one else would have noticed, but she could tell the difference.

She felt it when her knees started to quiver, when her eyesight gently moved out of focus, when everything in the room melted away and the sole reason she was even continuing to breathe was the connection between the two of them.

It confused her too. It wasn't completely welcome, she had to admit. Neither this need to submit or the feelings that accompanied it. It had never been in her plans, not to this degree. Sometimes its very intensity terrified her.

She talked to other subs, many of whom marvelled at her ability to almost instantly free fall into subspace, a journey that often took them hours of pain and bondage to achieve.

She had even surprised herself.

Her Shadow Self

She can't see her
but she knows she's wide eyed.
She can't touch her
but she knows she can sense
his every touch
More often now before he has even made contact.

She doesn't need to listen
as she can hear her whispering, planting seeds
how easy it would be
To lose herself in her submission
To let it overwhelm her
To never come back

She's drawn to vibrancy, to colour and texture.
She's drawn to his vibrancy, the colour of his thoughts, the texture of his language, his skin, his lips upon hers.

But there are moments when the fear descends
and she glimpses
how all too easily she could lose all this
How she could just let the other one take over
And find herself the shadow in her place.

Day Trip

She slips the collar into her bag. It nestles between her travelcard and purse; she feels its presence the whole journey. She waits until the moment is right, when they are alone and the cries of seagulls and gentle swoosh of the waves fills her ears. She had wondered, had even fantasied how wearing it outside might feel, far away from the fake lighting and enclosed cage of a hotel room. She wants to wear it in the real world. She has thought about it so much.

She shows it him, lifting it from her bag and placing it gently on her knee. She is nervous. She knows this is what some subs would call topping from the bottom, that he might not like the idea, that he might think it was he, not she, that should decide when and when not she can wear her collar.

And yet....and yet...she hopes he will understand the need she has inside. A need not only to wear her collar in broad daylight, but to wear the collar with him outside, away from the shadows and shame and out in the open.

The pebbles mould themselves to her body. She moulds herself to his. In turn, he moulds the collar around her neck, clips it together at the back of her throat, and sits back and watches whilst the waves of an orgasm shuddering through her put to shame the gentle lapping of the waves behind.

She catches her breath as the sea recedes. She hears thousands of sherbet pebbles popping, her own ragged breath, and the distant shouts of workmen as they busy themselves on scaffolding around a house behind them. She can smell the salt of the sea, taste it on her lips and the hair that the wind blows around her nose and into her mouth. It mingles with the leather scent of her collar that she knows has sent her nostrils flaring.

Eventually, he removes the collar and, taking her by the hand, helps her climb the banked up stones. As their feet slide and sink in the pebbles, it gives the impression of the earth shifting beneath. It is a gentle reminder that, however much she might hand him control, and however eager and gratified he might be to take it, in the end, neither of them really have it.

What The Pony Taught Me

Sir and I have been exploring pony play recently. I came across a picture on a website a few weeks ago and something clicked. I couldn't stop thinking about it. I not only found the whole idea of dressing up for pony play very arousing, but also quite challenging.

I won't go too much into the details for the moment, save for mentioning that a shared sense of humour proved to be absolutely vital.

By the end of the session I had come to the conclusion that I was most turned on by dressing up in the bit and tail, but Godfather Dom has pointed out that pony play is an obvious way for a sub to show she can please her master by following orders. Was this what I was trying to do?

My Sir has been away for a while and I'm finding it challenging without regular reminders of my submission. I even deliberately started a sort of scene in a pub last night by nicking some guys chairs whilst they were outside having a fag. In a bizarre way I enjoyed being shouted at, even if it was tongue in cheek and they eventually bought us drinks. Not usually one for this type of stuff, I wondered if I was manufacturing a scene that involved submission/dominance here - I nick your seats, you have a go at me, I submit and get what I wanted in the first place. Attention...and somewhere to sit.

I certainly felt a little out of control. It's not like me at all.

It's been my birthday recently and I asked Sir for an interrogation for my present (and you can stop moaning about topping from the bottom here). I have to admit I am more excited about this than I can tell you.

But Godfather Dom pointed out that my intense desire for the interrogation stems from an interest in close attention. It's a very in your face form of domination, which I do seem to crave. I'm sure Freud and Jung wouuld have a field day with this stuff...

Connections

I've been thinking recently about how you can have an incredibly strong connection with someone - an intense, tangible feeling. And then, all of sudden, it's gone. Pouf. Vanished. In one of those rare moments of synchronicity the main character in the book I am reading, Skin Tight, a black comedy/thriller by Carl Hiaasen, says exactly the same thing. Married five times, each of them cocktail waitresses, he bemoans the moment when he turns to them in bed and feels nothing and knows it's over.

I had a weird connection moment last week. Sir had been away for a week and we'd only managed one quick call. I was genuinely excited that he was coming back, but when the day came I felt like my cat who deliberately turns her back on me when I come back from a holiday. It was odd. I felt angry with him. Not that I said anything. I know better than that. But it was a very unfamiliar feeling and not one I particularly welcome. The next day everything was fine again, but it did make me feel a bit wobbly.

In truth, I needn't have worried as actually feeling angry is as much a connection as ever. It's feeling numb that's the killer.

And the thing is I know that vanished connection feeling so well. It's happened to me twice now and both times it's spelt the end of a deep relationship. I'm kinda getting cynical about the whole thing now. Am I doomed to always come across this, or is it just that they are not the right "one"?

The strange thing is that this doesn't happen with friends. I do have incredibly strong connections with my friends. I go for quality more than quantity and have friends that go right back to school and our connection has never wavered. I stay in touch with past boyfriends and, again, the connection is just as strong as it's ever been, despite disapproving wives or jobs that take them half way around the world.

I watched Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind recently. I put it off for years, mainly because Jim Carey annoys me, but it finally made it's way to the top of the Love Film list and arrived. I was impressed. It's not a film I'd want to sit through twice, but what caught me were the two main characters at the end. Having had their past relationship removed from their memories, they decide to do it all over again, even though they know they will eventually irritate the hell out of each other and decide to split up.

Hmmm. I am not quite sure what I am trying to say here. I liked the fact that it wasn't a happy forever after Hollywood ending. It was realistic. It was true life. I suppose we just have to enjoy those connections while we have them.

The Only Place

I have a weakness. Well, I have many. But I have one particular weakness for notebooks. Pretty, expensive notebooks. Day to day I can't pass a Paperchase without going inside and buying one. One of my favourite places in London is Liberties stationery section . I avoid going anywhere posher than that as I literally cannot resist temptation.

I love the texture of beautifully bound notebooks, the smell of fresh pages, the excitement of starting a clean book.

I use them for my poetry, for my notes, for my to-do lists, for my novel, for presents. I don't really need an excuse to buy another. My desk is crammed with notebooks filled with handwriting that in many cases I can no longer read, but the very act of getting something out and down in writing was so necessary, so cathartic at that time.

But, interestingly, I have never used them to write about my submission and the adventures I talk about in this blog. I am not sure if it's the concern that it might be read and traced back to me, or that I just need the cyberspace reality to get the juices flowing.

No, despite my lovely notebooks, this is the only place I have for these thoughts.

Collared

He has collared her: thrown away her play collar and replaced it with one that is thicker, wider, one that binds her throat as tightly as his bare hand. A collar that awakens the senses as intensely as he has awakened her.

They have uncovered her submission. She pours it into him, for him, and yet in her very submission she has found herself. She has found her unsubmission.

He has lied to her, hurt her, fed her dark untruths that made her doubt her very instincts. He has laid a delicate trap that in the end only caught them both. A trap that was impossible to refuse, and yet that very trap has given her the power to break free from another.

She hands him her submission, her dignity, her lust, her time, her love and her damp knickers. She hands it all over for him to take what he desires, when he chooses. She kneels for him, lies at his feet and tells him he can do anything he desires with her. There are moments when she feels she might do anything for him.

They feed each other beautiful expresso shots of distraction. In a coffee shop, they drink cappuccino and he has a smudge of chocolate on his lip. Her cunt aches as she longs to lick it away. On a park bench, they talk, her head nestled against his warm shoulder, her eyes fixed on a slither of bare chest she can see through the gap between his shirt buttons.

She recognises this isn't real life for either of them. And yet their time together is in such disconcerting, such dramatic technicolour that she can hardly believe it all comes wrapped up in one leather collar.

A Tale of Two Cities

We travelled to Paris
the birth place of romance
where I was punished
mercilessly

The city that tantalises the senses
where I was gagged and blindfolded
bound to the bed
and driven senseless

The home of gastronomy
where I dined on his spunk
that he fed my throat
repeatedly

The place where de Beauvoir, Degas and Satre
worshipped art, literature and logic
And I sat at his feet
and worshipped him.

Lies

They collect around the arteries
cholesterol of the soul
slowly building into
Fatty deposits,
seemingly dormant
and yet full of danger.

First, they block the blood-flow of communication.
they hide as something else
pretending not to hear
failing to understand
needing to talk about something else
Urgently.

Eventually they make their way closer to the heart...

Danger-Zone.

After that
it's only a matter of time.

Opening the Jewellery Box

She told him she was greedy. He said he liked it. He liked the fact that she was greedy for orgasms, greedy for his cock, greedy for the breath-stopping smack of his hand on her bare arse, and oh so greedy for the tender sensation of his lips upon hers.

Two full days and nights and she still wants more. She always wants more. He plays Vampires with her, sensually biting her neck and pretending to drain her blood. But in truth she feels like the vampire, never satiated, always wanting more than he could possibly ever give.

They get ready to leave. She doesn't want to go. She can feel that she's a changed woman. She has been taken in ways that she never has before; ways that she's only fantasied about; ways that have brought home how she has been transformed.

She feels submissive now alright. She's been fighting it for a long time, not sure if this was just something to play at, something that she can just lock away and bring out on special occasions, like an unusual piece of jewellery, polished and exquisite but too much for everyday wear.

She takes one last look around the room. She'll never forget it. The pretty but harsh carpet that has scraped her knees sore as she knelt in front of him, the armchair where he has sat whilst she oh so desperately sucked his cock, the bed where he has filled her with his stories, his cum and his love.

They leave the room empty, but the emptiness is inside her now. As they wander, she tries to enjoy their last few hours, but the tears roll unbidden, hidden behind sunglasses or sideways looks into shop windows.

They're on a mission to take some photos, which is good, she thinks. She's alright as long as there are people around: people laughing, talking, pointing, chatting, nodding. But then they take a wrong turning and have to walk down a quiet path. There's no one there to hide from and it's a mistake. She's usually so good with stuff like this. She's usually so able to keep control, to hold it together, to push it deep below where it slowly dissolves away unexamined.

Last night he asked her if being Submissive made her feel vulnerable. She told him it was the absolute core of it...the true jewel of her submission, for her, is being able to reveal that vulnerability to someone she trusts implicitly.

Too late, she has realised that it's not that easy to force back into the box.

Need and Want

Lying on the bed, she grips the phone to her ear. She must be careful. If she writhes too much she'll lose the signal. Again.

In no uncertain terms he spells out the situation. He tells her that she needs him now. She needs this. She must have the domination, their calls. She requires it. It's not a choice.

He wants her to need it.

She know she wants it. She craves it. It's the first thing she thinks about when she wakes up: staggering out of her dreams with the remembered feeling of his cock inside her, his lips upon her own, his voice whispering in her ear.

But, she wants to want it, not to need it. Need implies no choice. Isn't it better to choose it, she thinks? Doesn't choosing something give it more value? "Need" just feels dark and groping, desperate, hungry....weak. She doesn't like feeling weak. She doesn't like needing anything.

The more he talks, the more confused she feels. Need merges into wanting, and desire becomes desperation, until she's not quite sure about anything any more.

And it niggles her. She wants to be sure. She needs to be sure.

The Biker...Punishment

He'd texted her last night, asked her to meet him. It sent a shiver through her just to read the words. Just to imagine what if...but she made some excuse; conjured up an Italian class. She couldn't let him become too much of her life. She had to protect herself. It would be madness to let him get right under her skin. Not him. He was too dangerous.

The next day he asks her to wear jeans and flat shoes. The text comes seconds before the school run and she makes her daughter late running back upstairs to change into her Levis and a pair of Gladiator sandals.

He's in the car park as usual, although this time on a bright yellow two stroke Suzuki 125 dirt bike. She grimaces. It looks like a kids' bike. She can tell he's annoyed at her disappointment and she turns her face away to stop him seeing the blood rush to her cheeks.

They walk in silence to the woods. No tea. No talk. What am I doing here, she wonders to herself as she remembers the pile of housework at home, the emails that need answering, the accounts that need sorting.

"So, where's the Ducati?" she finally asks.
Nothing.
"You know, I don't even know your name...." she tries again.

He doesn't reply, but instead leads her through a mass of brambles until they hit an ancient Oak. A tyre is hanging from one of its branches, swaying gently in what breeze manages to get through the undergrowth around them.

"Bend over it," he growls. She knows better than to say anything else by now, but instead threads her body through the tyre and looks down at her toes in the sandals beneath.

"No collar for you today, I want you to feel this as you are."

She gasps as he roughly pushes his hands under her belly and tugs at her zip, before pulling her jeans and knickers down her thighs. He doesn't even touch her arse before he smacks, one sharp smack following the one before, first on one cheek and then the other.

Every time she she feels his hand swing back she stiffens, the tyre swinging madly by now as she writhes beneath him.

"Keep still," he orders. "Keep your feet on the floor. Every time that tyre moves I will add three more with this." He waves a stiff twig in front of her face. She knows instinctively it will hurt so much more than his hand.

And it does. Without the electricity of the flesh to flesh contact, the thwacks from the twig are real, tangible pain that leaves a stinging sensation so fierce it draws tears down her cheeks as she tries desperately to keep the tyre still.

Eventually, she feels herself go limp and he stops, only to come around to the front of the tyre. There, he picks her head up by her hair, twirling a twist of it into his hands. As he pulls it he squats and kisses her. And that honey touch of his lips makes up for every particle of pain she has had to endure. The invasive grope of his tongue makes her stomach lurch and her hands reach out for him, but he steps back.

"Now then, Italian student, what is "my owner" in Italian...?"
She thinks desperately for a moment.
"Mio Padrone?" she half-asks.
"How the fuck should I know...but I like that...it sounds right. From now on, you are only to address me as Mio Padrone...you understand?"

She nods.
"Pardon?"
"Yes, Mio Padrone, I understand."
"Good, now where were we..?" He lifts her, positions himself on the tyre and draws her onto his lap where they sit, her legs wrapped around him, her head on her shoulder. They drift gently, no sound to disturb them except the creak of the rope above as it holds their weight.

Eventually, she rouses herself out of her dreamy state and they make their way back to his bike. She looks at it: small and smelly, with no real room for a passenger. She's disappointed that she isn't going to be getting a ride today. She has been looking forward to it all week. He is looking at her with what looks like a glint of amusement in his eye. The sadist.

"Come on," he says and he almost bounces his way over the bike. They walk it out of the car park and into the forest until they come to a wide dirt track.

"Sit," he says. She makes herself comfortable on a log, as comfortable as she can possibly be given her sore backside. He kickstarts the bike and careers off into a show of his skill; standing on the footpegs and leading the off-roader through a series of manouevres that make her smile. He looks like a kid with a secret; young and vulnerable. It's a side she never imagined she would see.

He squeals up in front of her.
"So?" he says, removing his helmet.
"So?" she replies. She's a little bored now; she's had enough with his showing off.
"So....are you gonna get on it or not...I'm going to teach you how to ride!"

She jumps up, very aware that this time it's her that's grinning like a kid.

His Canvas

Barely breathing, she feels as though she's getting her air supply through osmosis, so determined she is to keep still for him.

Her legs are slightly spread, arms at her sides, fingers splayed, her whole body still and silent on the bed. The room is hot, sultry. A tiny rivulet of sweat runs between her naked breasts. She hopes it won't spoil the effect. He notices and wipes it off, before switching the fan to high. That's better, she thinks, until the breeze ruffles her hair. She's worried it might disturb his concentration, but, no, his focus is impenetrable.

She thought it might tickle, but instead his long silk brush maps out a delicate erotic butterfly trail around her body: over hot-pink painted toes, around the inside of her knee, across her pussy and into her belly button.

The brush circles her breast, slowly spiralling its way towards her nipple, like a solitary climber on an expdition to reach the peak. As the soft fibres caress her nipple she gives into the most gentle of orgasms. He waits patiently, before resuming and tracing his path to her throat where she can feel her veins throbbing.

He is her Raphael, her Millais. She is his Elisabetta, his Ophelia. She is his masterpiece: a spectacular cloud of colour, texture, light and shadow.

In truth, she knows who she is and she loves being her. But she revels in these rare moments when she puts that aside and becomes whomever, whatever he wants to create.

Exposed

I visited this exhibition this week at the Tate Modern.

It's an exhibition about voyeurism - right up my street or so I thought.

Of course, my friend and I were attracted by the element of sleaze. But it's interesting how sleazey sleaze can get.

It was extremely clever in that you came out feeling just ever so slightly dirty. What we both thought might have been erotic, was far from it. Spying on people leaves a slightly unpleasant taste in the mouth, and seeing photos taken by people spying on other people can actually be said to be even worse.

There were elements that made me smile - a "paparazzi" shot of the artist Edgar Degas coming out of a French lavatory was one. But then we moved onto photographers such as Tazio Secciaroli and Marcello Geppetti who were famed for the relentless pursuit of film stars and celebrities...and the real downside of voyeurism began to reveal itself.

And then we have voyeurism and desire. For anyone used to elaborately staged porn films and airbrushed pictures this was a real shock. Watching couples humping with dirty washing in the background is not particularly erotic, partly because the munitae of daily life just reminds you that these are real people, not models.

When desire stops, death and violence begin. We saw pictures of a lynching, of a crowd gathering after a man dies in the street, and, most disturbingly for me, Lee Miler's photograph of the corpse of the beautiful daughter of the Burgermaster of Leipzig, who had just committed suicide at the end of WW2.

Of course, the flipside to voyeurism is exhibitionism, and there's plenty of that in Kohei Yoshiyuki's series of photos "The Park" where voyeurs stalk and even touch couples making out. To photograph them, the photographer too had to become one of the voyeurs.

I have only ever had one personal experience of exhibitionism. It was a long time ago, when I was about twenty. I was on holiday in Corfu with my first husband, then merely a boy-friend, and we'd hired out a motorbike for the day. Giddy with the freedom of being able to wear nothing but shorts, t-shirts, flipflops and no helmets, we speeded around the island for hours until we sped off the road and very narrowly missed a very gruesome death.

We limped back to our campsite, motorbike left in a ditch somewhere, hit our tent and had sex in the middle of the afternoon as if it was both our very first and the very last time. I'm not sure at what point I became aware that we had drawn a crowd, but I do remember knowing that they were there and suddenly everything became magnified. My moans became louder, our love-making more frenzied, and this continued until we eventually gave them a show that drew applause.

As soon as it was over, however, embarrassment set it, for me at least. The ex, nonchalant as usual, went out foraging for food, embracing the attention as he went. I, meanwhile, hid in my sleeping bag determined to wait until the crowd had dispersed to venture out. That was until I realised that I had left a quarter of a watermelon in the corner of our tent and the whole tent, sleeping bags included, was over-run with eager armies of both black and red ants. I crawled out of there as fast as I could manage, to a round of applause that I can still cringe about today.

Thanks goodness no one took any pictures.

A Dom's Tale

He leans back, Godfather-like, in the chair. She's kneeling in front of him. Collared: she's half with him, half en vacence in her head.

His cock stiffens as, trembling, she rests her face against his knee. Slowly, she starts kissing her way down his calf, running her tongue through his hair, circling his ankle, until she reaches his foot. And there in an agony of ecstasy, she kisses it.

He asks her if she feels humiliated. Her head shakes out her answer from far below. Perhaps it's the sheer exoticism of abasement, of doing something so taboo she would never, ever countenance it outside the four walls of this room.

She's shuddering now, almost crawling on the floor. Her back is before him, he can see the length of her spine, the shape of her arse through her transparent pink panties, the redness of her arse. The redness he gave to her.

She's moving up his thigh now, towards his upright cock. As she passes she takes him in deep, sucking him to the back of her throat. Even when she gags and comes up for air with a choking noise, and oh how he likes that sound of choking, she swiftly returns to pounce on his cock, devouring it, aiming to please him, to make him happy. To make him happy with her.

She leaves his cock and starts down his inner thigh. Her hair is tickling against his leg and he can hear her moaning. This was her idea, not his. She'll do this occasionally. She'll slip in a "I have been thinking of", or "I'd like to try.." He remembers the embarrassment on her face as she told him that she wanted to do this, to sit at his feet. The memory of that embarrassed expression makes him throb. He wonders if she has a list of these things, or whether seeds are planted in her head and she just reveals them as they blossom. When she is ready.

She's reached his other foot now. Her arse is high up in the air now and the sight of it makes him stand. He know she likes this. To feel her smallness beside him. To feel her weakness revealed against his strength.

With a lion-like growl he sends rivulets of cum down her back. Streams of spunk snake down her spine. She's so carried away with the fantasy she doesn't feel him write his name on her back. She doesn't need to. She's already admitted she belongs to him.

Bruises

She likes looking at them in the mirror.

She's noticed that different coloured knickers can set off her bruises. She likes her red lacy knickers when they're fresh and dark, a black handprint against her pearl-white skin, made all the more noticeable by the scarlet lace above.

Perhaps it's just coincidence that the lace licks at her clit as she walks.

Logically, her mind revolts at the idea of being bruised, or it used to. Now, the thought of seeing his marks on her can make her knees tremble at the oddest of times: when she's getting out of the bath, trying on a dress in a shop, changing at the swimming pool.

When they don't see each other it's a tangible connection that brings every pain/pleasure moment gushing back to her.

One night she's taken into hospital. She can't breathe. The rattle in her chest has got too much and her airways have closed up. She has to fight for every breath. Her nails have turned blue and one eye has red road-maps criss-crossed across its surface. She knows asthma can kill you; she knows someone who died from it. But she's more afraid they'll make her wear a gown that will show her bruises.

She doesn't want to share them.

The Biker....The Smell of Submission

She doesn't feel like going. There is a continuous drizzle of rain, she's got PMT and, quite frankly, she is annoyed with him. Last time she had given him her mobile before she left and he hasn't used it. Not once. Not even a text.

She decides not to dress up. She doesn't need to as she isn't going to meet him. She picks jeans rather than a dress, deliberately. But she changes her top three times just to get that right level of nonchalance, just in case she changes her mind.

And of course, she does.

He's the only one in the car park. Even the tea van has decided not to show up. She parks the car but sits in it, not bothering to get out. Let him come to me today, she thinks. She is feeling petty, annoyed. Annoyed with him for not getting in touch. Annoyed with herself for being here.

He's sat on his Ducati, smoking a cigarette. She didn't know that he smoked. She sighs. Something else she misses. Something else he could so easily tempt her with. This man is bad for her in so many ways, but she loves it.

He doesn't look over, just finishes his cigarette and starts the bike. She sits up. Shit, he's going without her. Two seconds later and he is at her window.
"Follow me," is all he says.

Quickly, she starts the car and manoeuvres out of the car park. Damn the rain, she curses as she peers into the gloom for him.

He's waiting at the junction. They drive towards the main hub of traffic, onto the North Circular. She wonders where he is taking her. Perhaps he's taking her back to his place. Maybe that's why he wanted her to bring the car.

She's a little bemused when he pulls into a retail park. Mothercare. B and Q. An electrical superstore. She wonders what he's doing. Perhaps she wasn't meant to follow him after all and she's going to look like a nutter when he realises she's there. But he's waiting for her, at the door to a sofa shop.

She smiles. In her wildest dreams she hadn't imagined she'd ever be going furniture shopping with him. From not phoning to this? Men are strange.

He takes her firmly by the arm and guides her to the back of the shop. A few eager salesmen try to descend on them but he waves them away with a polite smile. "Later, when we're ready," he tells them.

He leads her to a brown Chesterfield sofa and tells her to sit back.

"Close your eyes," he whispers. His lips are pressed up close to her ear. She feels her cunt start to quiver. She feels fidgety. A little hot.

"Close them," he repeats and she does. She hopes he's not going to ask her to do anything strange here. In the middle of a forest is one thing, but right here, in public, in front of all these people. She wonders how she can say no, how she can refuse, what words she can use.

"Now, " he begins again, his voice crashing into her thoughts, "I want you to take a deep breath and tell me what you smell.."

"Leather," she replies, "New leather."
"Breathe it in again, try to clear your mind and tell me what you can really smell."

It takes a few moments and then it hits her.....on her knees in the forest, the sound of birds in the trees, the weight of his cock in her mouth, the floaty far away feeling, the desperate need to please him.....her collar."

"Can you smell it?" he ask.
She opens her eyes wide and nods.

She has to cling onto the sofa arm to stop herself from slipping off and clinging to his knees.

"Remember that...every time you use one of your fancy handbags...every time you pass someone wearing a leather jacket.....every time you pick up one of your husband's fucking shoes.....that's it....that's the scent of your collar.....that's the smell of your submission."

Dante

I have always wanted to read Dante. I am learning Italian at the moment and have decided to attempt to read The Divine Comedy in both English and Italian at the same time. No pressure, eh!

What inspired my love of Dante was actually the Hannibal film. I am a bit of a Hannibal film nut to be honest. I spent my second honeymoon in Florence, not for the culture but to follow in Hannibal's footsteps. It was very romantic! But enough of that.... back to Dante.

There is a point, in the Hannibal movie, where Hannibal recites Dante's first sonnet from La Vita Nuova to Allergra. It's a delicious moment, and one has more than slight DS overtones, at least for me...

I am your master
See your heart
And of this burning heart
Your heart
She trembling and Obediently eats.
Weeping, I saw him then depart from me.

Put to music, it is even more spectacular. You can hear it here

The Biker ...cont

She knows it's mad, that she should stay away, but she can't help herself. She's there the next week, the same day, the same time. It's another hot day and this time she has chosen a wispy, floaty dress that reveals her bare shoulders.

He's waiting for her, sat at the table, two teas by his elbow. She takes the place next to him, only barely aware of the looks of the other bikers as they acknowledge her joining him.

"How did you know I'd come?" she asks.
He shrugs, confidently, arrogantly even.
"I knew you couldn't resist it. Moth..flame...you know the story..."

They sit silently, side by side. Her stomach is flipping, turning somersaults, waiting for him to make a move, to say something, to break the tension.

"Open your legs," he suddenly says.
"Pardon?"
"You heard me, open your legs."

She leans back against the table and spreads her knees wide, desperately trying to control her breathing as she does so. She realises that she looks odd, demurely dressed and yet sitting oh so slut-like in the middle of a car park of motorbikers.

"Good girl," he murmurs, and she feels a shiver of thrill run down her spine.

"I bought something for you,"
"Muhu," she replies. She can hardly speak now. She's afraid to open her mouth and talk, anxious that only gobledegook would come out.

"Come," she follows him, slightly disappointed they're not going to his bike. He notices her expression and smiles.
"You have to earn that now."

They make their way into the forest, past swampy ponds and trees struck down by lightening or storms and left there to rot, past fetid funghi and a maze of horseshoe prints, until they find somewhere quiet.

"Kneel," he almost whispers, but she can still hear him despite the sounds of the birds, the wind, the cars in the distance. His voice is cutting into her soul.

She kneels in slow motion, aware of the comfort of the mossy ground beneath.
"Look down," he mutters, "spread your knees wide apart and sit back on your ankles."

She's starting to tremble now; she can feel herself changing; the heat rising and her mouth start to dry.

She smells it before she sees it. It smells like his jacket, of old leather, or soft leather that's been worn in. The scent of it, of him, fills her nostrils as he fastens it around her neck.

This collar is thick. Soft, but thick. It feels heavy.

And then she hears the lead. Metal chains that chink as he fixes it to the collar. For a moment he runs the cold metal along her shoulder, she can see him observing the goosebumps that suddenly spring up in its wake.

And then he steps back, rattling the chain as he goes. The chain is long and she has to crawl for a long time until she reaches him. By the time she is once again in front of him, her knees are covered in mud, leaves, twigs. Her demure floaty designer dress is unrecognisable.

Her unzips his black leather trousers and takes out his cock. It's already hard, waiting for her. He shakes the lead, and she takes the cue, moving forward to take him into her mouth. It grazes the back of her throat, neither of them need to move as it's throbbing so much, each throb taking his cock deeper and deeper. She closes her eyes, ready to take in more, but he pulls it out and comes, with a low moan, all down the front of her dress. Her breasts are covered in his spunk; it's dripping from her shoulders and down her cleavage. It trips off her own orgasm, an orgasm so powerful she has to get on all fours.

"Leave it," he growls, as she goes to wipe herself off.

He allows her to walk back, but he keeps the collar and lead on, at least until they are in sight of the car park. She feels drunk, stumbling so often that he eventually has to take her by her hand.

They stop, and he deftly spreads his cum over her bare shoulders and breasts before kissing her gently: soft featherlight kisses that calm her down and bring her back to earth.

And then he bows, motioning to the Ducati waiting for them.
"Now, tell me, where would you like to go?"

Uniforms

I have a bit of a thing about men in military uniform, especially desert and Middle Eastern combat. Guns are obligatory of course. And the bigger, the better. But the most important thing are the boots.

I go swimming once a week and often have the lucky honour to share the hot tub afterwards with a soldier who tells me long stories about terrible things that happened over there, or makes jokes about the fact that his Army issue boots were made of compressed cardboard.

Half of me is entranced by the stories, the other half a little bemused at seeing behind the fantasy. Hearing that soldiers often have to buy their own boots if they want decent ones really does bring it home what they go through. And I don't even want to think about death or being maimed.

But the fantasy persists. I think my Dad is responsible: bringing me up on a diet of black and white post war moves such as Ice Cold in Alex might have perhaps started things off. And then I found david Lean's Lawrence of Arabia, and Desert Fox and I was hooked on my dirty little secret.

In my twenties I made a pilgrimage to Thailand where I visited the Bridge on The River Qwai, travelling to Kanchanaburi on the infamous Burma-Siam 'death railway'. It was perhaps one of the most moving things I have done in my whole life.
Soldiers are probably at the top of my list of people I most admire and respect.

However, there is someone I care for who has expressed an interest on joining the Army. And I hope that he doesn't, although it is purely for selfish reasons.

I still harbour day dreams of being captured and used mercilessly by a combat-clad young man wearing desert boots.

The Biker - A Story

There is a place called High Beach that she likes to visit regularly. On the edge of Epping Forest, it’s hardly a beach, but a tourist spot where you can park and gaze over the forest, sit and eat ice creams, go for a long ramble or a drink in the pub on the top of the hill.

She doesn’t come here too often, but now and again when her work is getting too stressful, she’ll drop her youngest daughter at school and head up to High Beach, alone. The alone bit is vital. She loves people but having time on her own keeps her sane.

She didn’t wake up deciding to go, she had meant to come back, grab a cappuccino from the Belgian patisserie and get her head down at the PC. But it was a hot sultry day already and after the school run was finished, something made her keep going and she found herself on autopilot driving to the forest.

When she arrived it was still early and the air had the early morning feeling..not just a physical quality but also an excitement..the unknown possibilities that lay in wait for her that day. She sat in the car and looked out, pondering whether to just sit back and close her eyes or get out and savour the fresh air.

And then she remembered the bikers. There was a turn-off, about a mile before the car park she was sat in, that led to a smaller car-park, where she remembered the bikers used to hang out. She looked around at her leather seated hybrid four wheel drive and though she loved it, today she fancied getting a bit nostalgic and decided to visit the bikers’ hang out.

Walking wasn’t easy. She hadn’t dressed for a walk in the forest and even though she was on the lane, she was dressed in a button down dress and sandals and had to take small steps rather than the huge strides she would have preferred. She laughed at herself, tripping along, but the sense of freedom was rather nice. And perhaps not being quite dressed for the occasion added another layer of frivolity to, what was, effectually, her bunking off work.

The car park was reasonably full. The bikers didn’t really do much, just sat around chatted, and admired each other’s bikes, swapped advice or anecdotes. Her arrival didn’t make much of an impression; she got a few nods from some of the male bikers, a couple of smiles from the females. Of course, she didn’t mind, she liked anonymity.

She wandered around, smiling, as the smells of leather and oil brought back memories of trips across highways and long coast roads. Of course, she also remembered getting so cold she thought she was going to die and the one time she fell asleep on the back and almost fell off.

She decided to get herself a cup of tea from the van parked at the far end. To get there she had to pass one sole biker. He was sat on the floor, leaning against a Ducati. She smiled, back when she used to hang out with a gang of bikers, they would have consider a Ducati a show off bike, all style but not so much substance. She wondered if things had changed.

He must have caught her looking at him as the next thing she heard was a voice asking if she wanted a ride.

She turned the other way and hurried on, her face reddening slightly. Talking to people hadn’t quite been in the plan.

She grabbed her tea from the van and sat at a bench and table, her back firmly to the sole biker. The tea was hot. So hot she could barely hold it, much less put it to her lips. She blew on it self-consciously, wondering if the biker was looking at her.

She chanced a look in his direction but he had gone. Phew. And then, she felt someone take a seat next to her, on her other side. It was him, holding what looked like another equally hot cup of tea.

“You didn’t answer me, that was very rude you know.”

“Pardon?” she turned and gave him a look. One of her withering looks that could usually send annoying strangers back to where they came from.

“I asked if you wanted a ride. You seemed so interested in the bikes..”

“Oh..no thanks, just looking..” she said thinking perhaps politeness might be more effective.

They sat side by side sipping their drinks for a few minutes. Gradually she felt herself becoming more and uncomfortable, a stinging sensation telling her that her nipples were swelling. She glanced at the biker and realised he was looking at her. He held her gaze and she felt herself start to blush, a deep hot blush that started at her breasts and rose up to cover her neck.

“Don’t you dare look away,” he muttered.

Transfixed she kept looking at him.

"Finish your tea,” he murmured.

“Um...I don’t want it.”

“Okay,” he took their two cups and threw them into a nearby bin and then, taking her hand, led her to the bike.

“I think you would like a ride after all, wouldn’t you?”

She felt herself nod.

“The problem is, you’re not dressed properly to come on my bike.” She looked at herself, her bare legs and arms vulnerable. Of course she wasn’t dressed for it. Excellent excuse.

“You need to take your knickers off to come on my bike,” he told her firmly. “There, go behind that tree and remove them.”

She meandered off into the woods, feeling dreamy and surreal. As soon as she was out of sight she leant back against the truck of a beech and caught her breath. What the fuck was she doing going off with a stranger? He could be anybody? And yet.....

Two minutes later she found herself back and the bike with her knickers stuffed in her bag.

The sole biker had borrowed a jacket and helmet off someone and handed them to her. He raised his eyebrow and motioned for her to hop on. At only five foot two hopping on wasn’t easy but she managed to retain her dignity.

The ride was blissful. She could feel intermittent waves of heat and breeze on her bare legs, and the bike was as smooth as a panther.

Although she had been coming to the area for over twenty years, she didn’t recognise where he was taking her. She closed her eyes. She didn’t have to know.

Eventually they arrived at a secluded clearing where they stopped. They dismounted and breathed in the smell of the forest, crisp and clean. She wandered around whilst he rummaged in his pockets, only bring out what she recognised as bungee cords.

They looked at each other and she felt herself start to tremble.

“Do you want this?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Are you sure, I can take you back if you want..”

“No, I want it..” she whispered. He came close to her, removed the jacket and threw it on the floor. He stooped to kiss her, his tongue was warm and gentle and she felt herself reach up for him. And then, in one swift movement, she felt herself pushed back against a tree. He threw the cords around her, fastened them, and stood back to survey his work.

He didn’t smile; just looked at her as if she was a painting he had to get right.

Then, ripping open the poppers that run down the front of her dress, he exposed her, and with a knee, shoved her legs wide apart. She was moaning now, her head held back, her breathing coming in pants.

He moved closer and, standing right in front of her, started to finger her slowly, and, with the other hand, held her head steady so that she had to look at him.

“Open your eyes,” her commanded. She opened them and kept his gaze. He brought her to orgasm over and over again, so that eventually her knees gave way and he untied her. Dizzy and unsure of her feet, she felt herself thrust over a log, her dress pulled roughly up and then she gasped as she felt him thrust his way into her. She was moaning loudly now, if not screaming. He had grabbed her hips and was slamming hard into her, his mouth at her neck, biting, kissing, and growling.

She felt him come inside her, a hot sticky mess that felt as though it was boiling inside. They both sank to the ground.

She felt herself go, drifting into blissful exhaustion. She had no idea how long they were there, but when she came to her senses she found herself kneeling at his feet....

Thanks Yous

Thank you to everyone for your comments and emails. I really appreciate your support, and thank you especially to Iron Man for the phone call that made me laugh at it all. I really needed that.

It's also been revealing but a little sad to find that my situation is hardly unusual, for both subs and Doms, males and females.

Ah well. Meeting a Dom friend tomorrow to talk about a possible BDSM business idea...perhaps my energies and passion should be put to making money for a while...it's an area where I seem to be a better judge of character.

I shall keep you posted!

The Tower

As anyone who reads the Tarot will know, the Tower is when things come tumbling down around you.

I have had one of those moments. The day started well. My insurance company paid out 3k out of the 5k I spent getting my family back from Rome in the wake of the Icelandic ash cloud. I hit over 1100 followers on Twitter. I had a lovely morning shopping and lunching with a good friend. I bought some stuff to surprise Sir when I next saw him.

And then I found that Sir is not who I thought he was. At all. Who he really is doesn't matter. What matters is that he lied to me, and created a web of lies I have to give him credit for being able to keep up. I thought I was the queen of bullshit...

People talk about the importance of honesty within a DS relationship. I'd read it so many places that I was determined to be as honest as possible...I think I made a tiny lie about my age but did come clean on that. This however, is something different.

I haven't allowed myself to trust anyone since my first husband and I broke up, and that's over ten years now. It seems I was wrong to let my guard down.

There is a line in the film Love Actually that always brings a tear to my eye. It's Emma Thompson telling her husband Alan Rickman that he has made her feel foolish, and he has made the life she leads foolish.

It's how I am feeling at the moment. This is my first real DS relationship/experience, whatever you want to call it. And I feel foolish. So very foolish.

Shifting Friendships

I had lunch today with one my Vanilla friend who knows about this side of me.It was a lovely giggly, girlie lunch which helped me think a few things through at the same time.

I've given her the link to this site (a first for someone who knows who I am!) and am dying to hear what she thinks....

It's interesting how my friends have been slowly changing over the last year or so. For a start, I seem to be drawn to writers and artists: people who are carving out the time to write and practise their craft. I also seem to be drawn to people in the DS arena.

Sex is the least of it. What I like is that they seem to have a lovely acceptance of other people and a patience too...the knowledge that everything develops at its own rate and you have to enjoy the journey. As someone who is by nature very impatient, I find this both alluring and attractive.


I am also finding people in this world very supportive of each other, and in my case particularly they have an understanding of my deep desire to do the creative writing MA I so want to do....and yet at the moment can't as others see it as too selfish of me.

I can see how for them DS, and indeed in some cases S&M, has brought them a powerful sense of liberation. Having been through such intense experiences, everyday life shit that used to phase them is trivial by comparison.

I believe I'll get there one day, if I can only be patient...

Caged

I am having more and more fantasies about Sir putting me, collared, into a cage.

I don't know where it is coming from, but it's certainly very erotic and has, at times, literally taken my breath away. Even writing about it now my heart is beating a little faster.

I do tend to bite a little, and we joke that I could go feral, so maybe it's a deep down desire to be "tamed". But I don't know...

The more I am exploring this lifestyle, the more I think that it's being "owned" or "possessed" rather than being submissive that is my ultimate turn on.

I am just wondering whether Sir would prefer to own me completely tamed or still a bit wild ....

At Any Time

Sir keeps reminding me that I have agreed to remove my knickers for him at a place and time of his chosing. I don't know when or where that is, but I have a feeling it's coming soon.

I know that it might seem a pretty tame thing, but I am a bit worried about it, to be truthful.

He's made me go without my underwear only on one other occasion. My arousal was almost instanteous and a bit overwhelming. I was at home for the day though, so not too much of a problem (grin), but the thought of being out, in public, like that, and also so close to him is a bit nerve-wracking. I have a hard time trying not to climax in public when he is around as it is. What am I going to be like in that state?

Me and Mr Nietzsche

“If you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”
Friedrich Nietzsche

There have been a couple of occasions when I have felt on the edge of a precipice. The first I have mentioned before. It was when Sir tried to get me to use my safe word and I couldn't. When I asked him about it later, he says that he was losing me and had to bring me back.

I had experienced a similar thing once before with Bad Boy, although his reaction was slightly more panicked and resulted with him slapping my face to get me out of it. From that point on, I noticed that he was careful never to let me get near it.

But what is it? I have no idea...but the abyss quote sums it up beautifully. It's certainly much more than the floaty, blissed out state I am usually in when with Sir. It's much more raw, and not a little scary.

I'm curious to go back and see, but I'm not sure Sir's going to let me. Perhaps because he's not sure he can get me back from it, or maybe because he just doesn't want to be stuck "babysitting" while I go off into la la land on my own. Which is perfectly understandable. It is meant to be about the both of us, after all.

I suspect the time isn't right yet and I'll stumble across it sooner or later, but, whatever it is, it calls to me...

Submission and Feminism

I have a client who is in her sixties, and what I would class an old school Feminist. I regularly see her and a group of other female clients, but this one particular woman is extremely offended if I address them en masse as "ladies", or, god forbid, "guys" as is my usual wont. Everyone laughs and turns their eyes up at her but as facilitator I find her difficult to deal with as my natural instinct is to tell her to take a hike, and that's obviously not appropriate in this situation.

My coping mechanism has been to diffuse it by secretly imagining the look on her face if she ever saw me on my knees telling Sir he could do absolutely anything he desired with me and to me. I honestly think she'd keel over in shock.

However, it's making me think a little about my own Feminist beliefs. I clearly remember choosing my A levels and having a conversation with my father which went something like this..."women need to decide if they are going to marry someone rich to look after them, or make their own money.."

Of course in hindsight I know that he was trying to push me into doing an Economics or Business Studies degree ( I disappointed him and did English and American Literature and Film instead!), but his words have stuck with me ever since.

But Feminism is much more than financial independence. It's independence of thought too. I went to a comedy club a few months ago. It was with a crowd of people in their twenties that I didn't really know. I was already feeling uncomfortable as I am quite shy and not particularly good at meeting new people in a non-work environment, but as the evening wore on, I felt more and more isolated.

I know that comedy is a very subjective thing (personally I love Woody Allen's pseudo-intellecutual wry style or Tony Hancock's cynicism) but I was totally shocked at what I heard that night...misogynist ramblings mixed with racist diatribe that barely masqueraded as humour. And, what upset me most was the girls laughing at really nasty jokes about women. As an outsider I could tell from the look in their eyes that they weren't laughing because they thought it was funny. They were laughing because they felt that their men wanted them to.

I left early, feeling that Feminism has taken a step backwards if girls are behaving like that.

But weren't they only doing what I am choosing to do by being submissive...pleasing their men?

Overall you could say that choosing to be Submissive is the culmination of Feminism as Feminism is about the right to choose.

Young Dom and I have talked about this. He says Submission is purely a sexual thing.I could just as easily have chosen to submit to a Domme, and then it wouldn't have anything to do with Feminism.

But I haven't: I have chosen a man and the fact that it is a man and a very dominant one at that is a big part of it. I relish the feeling of being controlled and yet taken care of; of being ordered to do something, and yes, sometimes even reprimanded or punished.

And yet...how can I read something like A Thousand Splendid Suns where the women had no choice but to outwardly submit (and yet they didn't in their hearts,) and then I go ahead and choose completely the opposite?

Yes, A Thousand Splendid Suns is fiction, but I think it could be said to be quite an accurate account of what goes on in some parts of the world. Surely, by choosing to be submissive to a man, I am metaphorically colluding in stuff like this?

How does this fit in with an almost overwhelming desire to please Sir? Yes, I sometimes play a little naughty, but I think this is because I feel safe and happy when he puts me in my place. Ultimately, I do want to please him.

Maybe there is no easy answer to this. I like what I like and that should be enough. Sometimes it feels like a tantalising Rubik's cube that only needs one turn and I will understand and somehow align the two conflicting parts of me. But perhaps I need to just accept that this is not a puzzle that's just going to slide into place. It just is.

BDSM and Hypnosis

Sir has been experimenting with hypnotising me. He can hypnotise me into feeling as though I have my collar on (I can feel it around my neck), that my wrists or ankles are bound, and he can put me into a trance.

When we last went out to dinner, I came out of a trance and he told me that I orgasmed in the restaurant. I have no recollection of this.

It's both extremely arousing and totally fascinating.

I have long been interested in hypnosis. I had my first child under the influence of hypnosis for pain relief and whilst it wasn't totally successful, it did last for 26 hours. After that point I was just so tired I gave in. But lasting more than a day was pretty good, in my opinion.

I even did the first part of a Clinical Hypnosis qualification, but the training involved working with patients and I found I didn't have the patience or empathy to work with people that couldn't sort out their own shit - I would never make a good counsellor!

I self-hypnotise myself a lot too. I meditate and chant, and was always the dreamy kid looking out the window; vision locked onto a cloud or tree moving in the breeze and sometimes quite unable to get myself out of it for minutes at a time.

Unfortunately, I do find that there are sometimes side effects. If Sir doesn't take care he can leave me with my head very fuzzy and fuddled, although I think we are on to that now. The fact that he could practise invisible bondage with me in public is also a bit scary. He demonstrated this by binding my wrists to a pub table last week, and I couldn't move then until he released me. I do trust him, in fact I don't think I would relax enough to enable him to hypnotise me so deeply if I didn't. But realising that he has more control over me than I might perhaps think is bemusing at times.

I would quite like to hypnotise him but I'm not sure how he'd take it. He might think that it smacks of switching, which is something he's definitely not up for. I am not interested in trying to bind him, or anything like that. Instead I'd quite like to take him on a relaxing hypnotic journey as a little gift from me...but we shall see.

A Vampire In Paris

She had come away to Paris to get away from everything. From the boss who wanted her to sign her life away, from the management consultancy that was slowly shrivelling her soul, from the work-mate who just wouldn't get out of her head, and yet hardly knew she existed.

She'd spent hours on the Internet composing her own itinerary. Not for her the Eiffel Tower and the queues at the Louvre. Instead she researched the oldest, most respected antiquarian bookshops, the most exclusive chocolateries and the most haunting Gothic cemeteries Paris had to offer. It would be her personal tour of Paris.

She had left the hotel early in the morning, spurning the jostling of the Metro for a long leisurely stroll about the streets of the capital. Now, mid-afternoon, her feet were aching and her neck sore from carrying all the trinkets and gifts to herself that she had picked up along her way. She was relieved when the lingerie shop came into view.

She had almost missed this in her research, at first putting down one of the famous big name stores in the shopping district. But on one last web search she had across a blog that mentioned this little place, just a small homage to a treasured find in Paris, and she knew this was a place she had to visit.

A bell rang as she opened the door; a delicate tinkle that seemed to go un-noticed. The shop was small and there weren't any windows that she could see, giving it an eerie other worldly type of feel. But she gasped as soon as she laid eyes on its wares: boned corsets of every colour, flimsy baby-doll negligees that left nothing to the imagination, feather-trimmed nightdresses in a rainbow of silk, sexy satin pyjamas that looked like something Louise Brooks or Marlene Dietrich would wear to meet gentlemen callers.

Nervously, she reached out to touch the different fabrics. Her senses were going to go into overdrive. She felt as though she wanted to hide in one of the racks as she used to do when shopping with her mother, retreating into a world of texture and only venturing out when she heard her name being called out in annoyance.

Absentmindedly she played with a feather boa, its baby-hair softness causing tiny pricks of tears to form in her eyes.

And then she noticed the floor.

A Rioja-red deep pile carpet that seem to call to her to remove her shoes. She laughed to herself, wondering what the shop assistant, wherever they might be, would say if they wandered back and saw a strange English woman clomping around in her bare feet. But they ached so much and the carpet did look so inviting.

"Take them off," she spun around as she heard a voice from her right.
"Take them off, we won't mind." The voice belonged to a tall man who stood in the shadows of the changing room curtain. She noticed that his French accent was tinged with a Louisiana drawl. This was no huffy Parisian.

"Pardon?"
"Your shoes, please do take them off."

She slipped them off and picked them up, wondering how he knew what she was thinking. The man moved out of the shadows. He was taller than she had thought, dressed in black, with eyes that conjured up the green sparks of fireworks with the thoughtfulness of a cat about to make its move. There was something about him that seemed familiar, as if he was someone she had met once before; someone she had deliberately decided to forget. A small shiver crossed her back. What did they call it: someone walking over your grave? She wondered if they had a similar phrase in French.

"Allow me," he took the shoes from her and laid them on the counter. Their skin had touched briefly and she felt his hands, cold and almost marble-like.

"Please, follow me.." he took her gently by the arm and led her through a waterfall of beads that opened out into another room. This one was much warmer in comparison, sultry even. As soon as she saw the array of sex toys that lined its walls she felt herself start to back out.

"No?" the man raised one eyebrow at her, surprised by her reaction. She shook her head quickly.
"A pity," he murmured. "It's where most of our visitors would like to be taken. Are you sure?"

Was she sure? No, she was not sure. She was almost exploding with curiosity, and yet shyness held her back.
"I prefer to use my mind," she said firmly.
"Your mind? In that case...."

It was then that she realised he was looking at her, peering deep into her eyes as if he was tyring to see into her very soul. He seemed lost in a trance for a moment, as if he was far away, in another land, or another time. He must have been thinking something through as he gently shook himself to and, almost forcefully, led her to the changing room.

"Sit, he ordered. "I will be back."

Slightly dismayed at how she had so quickly followed his barked order, she sat on an armchair and waited.

Despite the apparent lack of windows, there must have been a breeze somewhere, as the delicate scent of patchouli and denim started to wash over her, bringing on a wave of nostalgia that made her sigh.

"Here," the man had appeared with a corset in rich red silk, trimmed with black lace. She gasped, it looked beautiful, and very, very expensive.

"At least try it on," he said, seemingly reading her thoughts again.

She took it from him and waited, politely, for him to leave. He didn't move.

"Umm.."
"You will need my help. It's not something you can put on by yourself."

Cursing the French and their lack of respect for privacy, she turned away from him and removed her top and bra before quickly wrapping the corset around her. She didn't murmur as he took the black velvet ribbons at her back and tied them tight, all the time his breath on her shoulders and neck.

His fingers were strong, like a pianist's fingers, she thought.

Enclosed the corset's binding wire she felt different: more feminine, more alluring.
"What do you see in the mirror?" he whispered in her ear. She looked and giggled.
"Me in something I can't afford."

She jumped when she heard him growl.

"Look again," he said. She looked once more, vaguely aware that she couldn't quite see him behind her. But then something happened, her mind seemed to be overtaken by a sweet smelling fog that cleared to bring with it a delirious vision of decadence: claret coloured velvets, the giggles of other women, the low groans of men, a featherlight touch along the top of her corset, just gently brushing her breasts, the taste of wine mingled with something else she couldn't quite place. It was all just out of focus but made her body sway with desire. And then...and then.. it started to fade. Her dismay was palpable. She wanted it back.

She turned to him and realised that as he looked into her eyes, he knew exactly what she had seen.

"I have something else you might like, excuse me a moment."

He was back seconds later, a thick amber-shaded kimono in his arms. She had a kimono at home, a red satin thigh length kimono that was one of her favourite pieces of clothing. This, however, she could tell was the real thing. The silk was so thick and heavy she could hardly lift it; the embroidered Japanese scenes elaborate, delicate and inviting to the touch.

Without removing the basque, he slipped the Kimono over her shoulders. It smelt like lemongrass and elderflower, deliciously ecovative.

"Close your eyes," he whispered.

As her eyes closed she felt herself sway to her knees, where she sat, Geisha-like at his feet. A blissful feeling of happiness overcame her, and though she couldn't explain why, she saw sunflowers and the hazy glare of a summer sun reflected in water, heard the gentle hum of bees and smelt fresh cut grass. She didn't want to get up. She wanted to stay there, close to him.

And then she felt him grasp her hair and pull her up towards him. It sent waves of orgasms, or perhaps it was just one long orgasm, thrilling through her body. She had to hold onto him to stop herself falling to the floor again.

And then the telephone rang and he was gone, leaving her panting.

She dressed slowly, disappointed that she would never be able to buy the beautiful clothes he had shown her; made all the more beautiful by the glimpses into something else entirely they had afforded her.

He was waiting for her. Silently he took the corset and kimono from her arms. She had meant for him to put them back on the hangers but he started wrapping them in almost transparent baby-blue tissue paper. She opened her mouth to explain that no, she wasn't going to take them, but he motioned for her to be quiet.

"You can easily afford these," he said.
Dazed she held out her credit card. Perhaps, if she saved, she could pay it off in six months, This was meant to be a trip of a lifetime after all. She would need something to help her remember it.

But, instead of taking the card, he came out from behind the counter, leant over and moved his lips to her shoulder. Almost woozy with desire she closed her eyes. He must have felt too; that electricity in the changing room. She hadn't been imagining it. The touch of his mouth on her shoulder was like both fire and ice at the same time. She closed her eyes and waited for his lips to move upwards towards her mouth, but all she felt was a slight snake-like touch of his tongue before he delved his teeth into her neck with a growl.For the second time that day she was weak at the knees, clawing at him to stop and yet dreading that he would.

And then everything went black.

When she came to she was back on the armchair, a glass of champagne and a plate of macaroons at her elbow.
"Shopping it is so tiring isn't it?" she heard him say.

She stared at him.
"Drink up, you need it," he murmured. She did as she was told, sipping the Champagne as she watched him tidy the shop.

When she finally got up to leave, holding her bag of new purchases to her chest, he walked over and handed her a piece of card. She looked at it.
"Our loyalty scheme," he explained.
"But I don't live here. I won't be coming back..."

He smiled at her then, a full grin that showed all his teeth and made her heart start to beat faster.
"Oh, I think you will...."

She left the shop, dazed and wobbly.

At the corner, she shivered and glanced down the road towards the shop. And, as she looked, the lights went out.

She was relieved when she saw a small cafe and decided to stop for some Pastis and water. As she waited for her drink she looked down and realised she had been playing with the loyalty card he had given her. She turned it over. There on the back was a small drop of what looked like blood, dried into the shape of a tiny heart.

Submissive Reflections

Sir likes me to look at myself. He often orders me to stand in front of a mirror and watch myself orgasm. Or, if we are together, he will sometimes stop and force me to look at myself in the mirror...when he has put my collar on, or when I sat astride him and am fucking him, for instance.

Sometimes I am surprised at the woman I see there.

I am reading Milton's Paradise Lost at the moment. I first read it at the age of about sixteen and remember being fascinated by Satan whom I thought was a fantastic multi-layered character.

This time however I have been drawn by a section that seems to capture some of what I have been experiencing on my journey, and especially reminds me of how I feel when Sir makes me look at my reflection.


It's Eve speaking..

That day I oft remember, when from sleep
I first awak't, and found myself repos'd
Under a shade on flow'rs, much wondring where
And what I was, whence thither brought, and how.
Not distant far from thence a murmuring sound
Of waters issu'd from a cave and spread
Into a liquid plain, then stood unmov'd
Pure as th'expanse of Heav'n; I thither went
With unexperienct thought, and laid me down
On the green bank, to look into the clear
Smooth lake, that to me seem'd another sky.
As I bent down to look, just opposite,
A shape within the watry gleam appear'd
bending to look on me, I started back,
It started back, but pleas'd I soon return'd,
Please it return'd as soon with answering looks
Of sympathy and love; there had I fixt
Mine eyes till now, and pin'd with vain desire,
had not a voice thus warn'd me; "What thou seest,
What there thou seest, fair creature, is thyself,
with thee it comes and goes: but follow me,
And I will bring thee where no shadow stays
Thy coming, and thy soft embraces"

Paradise Lost, Book IV

In Shock

I am feeling a little disturbed at the moment. It's this damn Internet and me being too curious for my own good. I watched a video. Not some porn type video where everyone's moaning loudly and playing a role (of course I'd never do stuff like that;), but what looks like a home movie of a submissive. It's made me feel weird.

I have to say that I wasn't feeling at all horny or "submissive" when I started watching it, but, as soon as I started the film, something clicked. Her posture, the mannerisms, the way she held herself. It's clear that she's way off there in la la la land or subspace or whatever you want to call it. I identified at once and even that was a shock. So that's what it looks like from the outside.

And then her Dom started shouting at her, taunting her even. I didn't like it at all. I started to shake and even cry and couldn't watch the rest of it. I had to close the page and have now deleted it from my browing history as I never want to see it again. It seems to have upset me and I don't know why.

Perhaps it was the fact that she seemed so out of it. From personal experience I know she's probably somewhere else completely in her head and having quite a nice time thank you very much, but it was still disconcerting seeing it, literally, from the Dom's viewpoint.

If curiosity kills the cat then I am feeling slightly wounded.

On Her Knees

He kisses her as soon as she enters the hotel room. It's one of his kisses that make her knees tremble but it doesn't last as long as she'd like. Instead, she's down on her knees before she's even got her coat off. But she can't stop herself gazing at the collar and leash he has already laid out on the bed.

He towers above her.
"Whose are you?" he asks.
"Yours Sir," she replies with a shiver.
"And what can I do to you?"
"Anything you want, Sir."
"Wrong!"
"Anything you desire, Sir." Inwardly she approves. Desire is a much more appropriate word.

She holds still as he places the collar around her neck. She has been thinking of this for days; wondering what would feel like to have it enclose her throat once again.

He stands back and she feels a release that send waves of tiny convulsions through her body. Her skin has become super sensitive. All he need do is blow on her neck and she'd orgasm. Instead he picks her up and bends her over the bed, pushes the knickers he told her to wear to one side, and takes her roughly from behind.

She gasps as she feels his cock inside her. Still in her shiny black boots, with her dress rucked up around her hips, she feels overcome by an animal-like instinct and has to bite the duvet to stop herself from groaning too loud.

He pulls her hair roughly as he drives into her, all the time telling her how she's his, how she wants to be his, how she now needs to be his. She has the urge to bite him, but she knows she'd get punished if she did.

And then he stops. Feeling the absence of his cock more than she'd ever admit, she stands there trembling as he removes her dress and helps her out of her boots. And then tells her to crawl to the wall.

For a moment she stares at him, unsure whether she heard him right. She gets on her knees and crawls, angry with herself for being so damn obedient, angry with him for treating her like his latest toy again.

He wants her to come back but instead she sits with her back against the wall. She feels silly. She feels annoyed. He's still sat on the bed looking at her, expecting her to return. She can hear his voice starting to get louder. Let him shout, she thinks, I'm not listening.

Later, he'll tell her that she looked like a petulant toddler, throwing her toys out of the buggy. In reality, she feels more like a stroppy teenager.

She wants to smile. He's still sat there on the bed. He can't come and get her because that would make him look stupid. And she certainly doesn't intend to move. Bugger this submission stuff. She'll only be submissive when she feels like it, not when he says she has to.

She half hopes he would come over. If he wants to get her crawling around on all fours like an animal then he can't complain if he gets bitten.

She tries to tell herself she's enjoying her stand. She's not. She wants to be over there with him but can't do it now. It would be giving in.

His voice breaks in on her thoughts. He's counting now. Oh shit, She knows what that means. She scoots back so fast that she has carpet burns on her knees that last a week.

The Doctor

The surgery was full of old ladies who had turned out to see the new doctor. He was causing quite a stir, even her own mother got a bit flustered when she was talking about him. Her friends in the sixth form weren't immune either.

She couldn't see the appeal really. He was ancient...at least thirty four someone had told her...alright for old ladies she supposed but really....and his dress sense! Talk about stuck in a time warp. He dressed like Elvis in the early Vegas years, complete with medallion and a half undone shirt. She wondered if it was even right for doctors to go around showing their chests. She couldn't remember any of her past doctors going around half-dressed.

When her name was finally called she walked in nervously. She'd really wanted a female doctor for this, but Mrs Jones only worked part time now she'd had her fourth kid.

She didn't take long telling him about her problem: that was what she was here for after all. But she did keep eye on a box of tissues the whole time. She didn't want to risk catching his eye and feeling a blush errupting.

When she finished talking he leant back lazily in his chair, seemingly unworried about the trail of patients still left cooling their heals in the waiting room.

"So..let me get this right. You are here because when someone kisses you, or you go further than kissing... you faint?"

She nodded. It sounded a bit pathetic now.

"How does it feel...just before you faint?"
"I get a noise in my ears and I go into what feels like a dream really..and then I faint."

"Hmmm," he was staring at her and it was making her uncomfortable. If he asked her to take her clothes off she was going to scream or run out and tell the receptionist. Something just didn't feel right.

"So... how old are you?"

"Seventeen."

He nodded, slowly, then sniffed.

"Are you a virgin?" She blushed now. She could feel it spreading over her chest and up her throat. She nodded, silently, hoping he hadn't noticed.

"Have you managed to have a boyfriend what with all the...fainting?"

"Yes."

"And he doesn't mind?"

"I'm going to University..."

"And you think it would be nice to sort this out before you meet someone new?"

"I want to get it sorted because it's not normal to be like this.." She had had enough. She was on her feet and shouting at him before she noticed he was smiling. Uncomfortably, she realised that she was being teased.

"Of course, it's only natural. I wonder, do you have any opinions on what might be happening... why you are felling like this?"

She shrugged. She'd read a bit of Freud and Jung but couldn't see anything that had helped her.

"It's my guess that you are hyper-sensitive to adrenaline. It can be dealt with very easily." He stood up and started rummaging around on his top shelf, behind a load of mugs and glasses with the names of some household drugs she recognised.

"I think that you are a very intelligent young woman so it's my guess that you'll be able to understand these."

He handed her a couple of American medical journals, first folding them at the appropriate page.

"Read them and come back and see me tomorrow, at twelve when surgery is closed."

She read them that night, her eyes widening at the articles inside. She wasn't stupid. She had an idea where this was heading. All she now had to do was decide whether she wanted to go there.

The next day the receptionist waved her through with a smile. He was washing his hands at the sink when she came in.

"So, did you read them?"

"Uha." Today she felt a little more confident, a little more in control.

"Sexual surrogates are a pretty new concept in the UK you know..look we could send you god knows where...I don't know how I'd traditionally treat this...but with a surrogate I reckon you'd get over this in a few sessions. We just have to reduce your sensitivity to what's going on. You wouldn't even have to take your clothes off."

"And you'd like to be my surrogate?"

"Of course, what a stupid question. But you don't have to worry. I won't take your virginity. I'll leave that for you to enjoy at university...so what do you think?"

He had sat down opposite her again but this time she felt she could hold his eye.

"I don't want to kiss you, you know."

"Alright. No kissing. I can live with that. Here's my keys. Go and wait in my car outside."

She didn't have to ask which car he drove. Everyone in the village knew he drove an Alfa Romeo Spider. It stood out against the Ford Cortinas and Capris.

She wondered where they were going. Perhaps back to his place. She smiled to herself. She should have guessed.

But they drove to Cardiff where he ushered her into the underground vaults of a small family restaurant where they sat and ate for three hours. He bombarded her with questions...everything from how she enjoyed Latin at school to how often her periods were. She answered them all, sometimes hesitantly, sometimes looking completely in the other direction as she couldn't bear to feel his eyes on her burning cheeks. But she answered them all.

By the time they had finished eating they had polished off two bottles of Italian fizz. She needed the toilet but as she stood up to go he shook his head.

"No," he said.

"Why not?"

"Because it pleases me."

Bemused, she sat back down again.

She found out many other things that pleased him that summer. But he was as good as his word. She never had to take her clothes off and her didn't take her virginity.

On their last meeting before she went off to Uni he kissed her and she kissed him back. She never saw him again. But she felt well and truly cured.

Yep, Another Submission Blog

I love writing this blog: it's incredibly cathartic, creative, a fantastic conversation starter and, well, just plain fun, but there are moments when I do think that it's an egotistical orgy of self examination.

Sometimes it makes me grimace. I can write a post one day and then have to sneak back the next to delete it because it now sounds too cringey or just over the top self-absorbed.

But, on the whole, the good outweighs the bad. One of the great things about a blog is that you're not setting yourself up as an expert, just as a commentator. So, if someone disagrees with you, it really doesn't matter. It's all down to personal opinion and your own personal journey in the end.

A vanilla friend of mine knows I have an interest in Submission and she asked to try and explain it, but of course it's a difficult thing to do for someone with no grasp of the lifestyle whatsoever. Perhaps I should have sent her here...

I have always had to write. It's something I do every day. I start with the Morning Pages that artist Julia Cameron talks about in The Artist's Way. The idea is that you write three pages (mine are A4) of stuff...whatever comes into your head....first thing in the morning. Sometimes this can be more like a brain dump ("I must do this and I think that..") but occasionally, once all the daily rubbish is out there and dealt with, some magical bits and pieces come through.

I have been doing this for three years now and although I don't manage to make every morning, it is a regular part of my routine and I cherish it.

My chosen method of writing has varied over time. About two years ago I picked up a collection of Walt Whitman's poems and ended up writing poetry for a year, so inspired was I by his work. I have fallen in love and written a whole novel for someone...almost one hundred thousand words in six months. At times I wasn't sure whether I was having a love affair with the man or the book I was writing for him.

But blogging is a new experience for me. I make sure to spend time reading other bloggers' work as I find it fascinating on both a literary and DS level. When I notice that they've made a new post a lovely little thrill of anticipation steals over me. It would be the ultimate accolade someone thought the same thing about my own.

I have someone in my life who doesn't get the overwhelming need to write. He thinks it is a waste of time..."intellectual masturbation" was phrase he used. Indeed, it's the same person who doesn't understand the non-Vanilla part of me; who thinks that it's spending time in a fantasy world that will ultimately lead to disaster. At the same time, my desire for both is becoming stronger.