Odedience

I am struggling with obedience. Not because I can't do it, but because I don't understand why I am doing it. It's never been up there on my list of skills or qualities I need to cultivate. To be frank, it's never actually occurred to me before.

But here I am being, well, pretty damn compliant and obedient. I have even done things that have been a little bit of a stretch for me. Nothing shocking...just things I don't usually do. Sir is coaxing me into talking more freely about sex. I have always had a problem with it. Even writing about it is difficult. You may have spotted there are few really sexual references here. I like to dance around the subject without being too descriptive. I use the excuse that it's atmosphere that really matters, but in truth, I just find it difficult to use overtly sexual language.

But, coming back to obedience, I am now feeling myself start to respond to Sir and talk a little more sexually...because he asks me to. I'm sure it's pretty pathetic and feeble and I cringe as I say it but it is actually quite a big thing for me.

But, that's an illustration. I am actually more concerned with why I am doing as I am told. I am looking for some good websites on the psychology of submission and domination but so far drawing a blank. I could watch BDSM porn online, find a multitude of lovers online, order a whole hamper of sex toys or torture tools online...but I cannot seem to find an answer to the question WHY?

Self-Bondage - A Story

Beatrice had often wondered what it would be like to be tied up. She had never had the nerve to ask her boyfriends, well none of them except one who looked at her as if she was a crazy woman and told her she wouldn't like it, not really, even if she thought she would.

She didn't have a boyfriend now. Once the initial rush was over, they were always annoying, impinging on her work, wanting attention, demanding...well, demanding her...and for what?

To leave her with a broken heart. She was better off without them..less emotional
investment, and she didn't need them for anything, really. Look, she was such a clever girl she could even practise self-bondage if she wanted.

She did some research on the net. She wondered how you could tie a knot strong enough to hold you, and yet easy enough to get out of. She wondered if she wanted it to hurt, if she wanted her wrists to go numb, or whether she just wanted to feel bound, tight.

She chose a weekend day. She hardly ever did anything on the weekends anyway, it wasn't as if she had hoards of friends knocking down the door to beg her to go out partying with them.

She tended to keep away from building friendships. It was distracting, putting the effort in.

So instead, she enjoyed planning the day and put together her own afternoon tool kit....a scarlet silk scarf, some new french underwear, her best bed linen, one of her favourite smutty books and The Police on continuous play. She didn't know why she included The Police in the set-up, just maybe that it reminded her of being a teenager, and today she felt like she wanted to remember how it felt to be that free and carefree.

She tied herself carefully to the iron bedframed bed. It was an antique, rescued from a hotel bankruptcy sale. Of course, tied this close to the frame she could see the years of scratches in the brass, deep marks where furniture had knocked against it. She could even smell some small vestige of old brass cleaner. It must be from the hotel days; she couldn't remember the last time she even ran a duster over the frame.

She took a while to get the knot quite right. She had to use her teeth a fair bit too, and she was trying to be careful as she didn't want to split her favourite silk scarf.

She came almost as soon as she had finished tie-ing herself, an endorphin rush that
spasmed violently through her body. The aftershocks made her wish she brought some chocolate, or a jam donought, just to keep her going. She imagined having someone with her who would put the donought to her lips so that she could lick the sugar off with her tongue, bite into it and then watch as her partner would take the sweet sugary jam and wipe it over her breasts, before licking it off. She climaxed again at the thought, but was secretly glad there was no sticky jam to get on her expensive Egyptian cotton sheets.

With a bit of manouevring she managed to open her book, the Story of O. She came again reading the book, her head pressed into the pages as she rubbed herself into the bed beneath. But it was hard to read and turn the pages and she began to wonder what it would be like to have someone next to her, reading to her in a soothing but seductive tone.

Enough, she thought and wondered what next. She looked around. Being tied up was starting to wear off now. She wanted a pee and she was getting a bit fed up with Sting's voice. She could see the Black Eyed Peas just there...how easy would it be untie herself and change the CD? But no, she told herself, the point of going this was to feel what it would be like to be tied up for any period of time.

She leant forward, her head against the cool brass. Now she could smell her scarf and the faint remant of perfume that she had worn on her trip to Paris. The thought made her smile and brought back other smells from her travelling...incense in Bali, coffee in Rome, the temples of Nepal, cow shit in India. For a brief moment her head felt heavy with them, crowded even, but all too quickly they drifted away again, back into distant memories she hardly ever visited.

The familiar song Roxanne began to play and she blinked back a tear. It was the song she used to listen to when she was revising for her exams, the song she used to play to annoy her boyfriend, who liked Pink Floyd and the Rocky theme tune. She sighed. If she had a boyfriend now she really wouldn't mind if he wanted to listen to Pink Floyd.

She lay back, motionless and started at the ceiling, Perhaps it would have been nice if there was someone here to get jam on the sheets. To share this with. What was a bit of extra washing after all?

The scarf was beging to chafe slightly. She raised her head to look at it. It was a long time since she'd bought herself something like that. It was a long time since she had been to Paris, or anywhere else that wasn't something to do with work.

She looked out of the window where she could see the sun heading southwards. The window was open slightly, and the faint breeze brought in smells of barbecuing meat and the shouts of children.

She heard a strange sound and couldn't place it. It took a while before she realised she was moaning.

Perhaps, she thought, perhaps it was time to stop practising self-bondage.

Submission and the Art of Not Thinking

I have come to the conclusion that I think too much. It's a strange thing for me to say as I was brought up in a household where thinking was valued highly. Whilst other kids were reading Enid Blyton my Dad had me reading Ellery Queen novels and trying to come up explanations of locked roomed murder mysteries. When I asked about life after death, and if there was such a thing, I didn't get platitudes or religion. Instead I was driven to the library and told to read some Philosophy and make my own mind up.

Thinking our way to University was the only way my sister and I could get away from our Welsh mining/steel works roots where poverty mentality ruled.

I can't knock thinking, and I do love it ...Edward de Bono, Mind Mapping, Plato...I find thinking about stuff quite compelling. I even find people who think deeply hugely attractive. One past boyfriend was able to chat me up with the simple statement that he was in Mensa and his favourite author was John Steinbeck!When people ask who you would invite to your dream dinner party I would merely love to have dinner a deux with Stephen Hawkin....

But living your life by thought alone means that you grow up not trusting feelings...or getting in touch with your gut instinct. It also means that your brain never stops. And I mean never.

My main two ways of dealing with this have been alcohol and exercise. I don't mean serious alcohol addiction, but I do like to drink. I relish being able to feel, and let my brain step back a little and just tick over in the background. I am no fitness fanatic, any of my friends would laugh at the idea, but I have to swim at least 45 lengths twice a week, and do half an hour of running or cross-training at the gym just to stop my mind churning over. In theory yoga should work too, but I personally need something mind-numbing and repetitive.

But my small forays in BDSM seem to sometimes (not always) provide an even better release. There are times when I cannot think straight. There are other times when I cannot even think. Actually there are moments when I cannot speak...my brain and mouth are not connected. And I absolutely love it. Whilst being spanked, for instance, is extremely erotic for me, it's also intensely physical and it is such a relief to be able to be so wholly in the moment, so concentrated on one place, one feeling, one desire, that the brain just goes quiet.

On the times when I have felt really, truly dominated there's been a lovely stillness in my head. I want more of it.

A Stand

He suggests she go and run herself a bath and get some breakfast. With the image of a maple syrup covered stack of pancakes in her head she runs herself a bath, unsure of whether to lock the door and claim her own space, or leave it open for him to come in if he likes.

In the end, she leaves it open. The Bubbles tickle her arse and thighs, sore and sensitive where they have been slapped and spanked. The water's hot, but frustratingly not as hot as the water at home. She's annoyed. She needs the comfort of heat now. She's been having multiple orgasms for what must be five hours and all she wants is to hunker down in something hot enough to both soothe and revive.

As she sinks slowly down the bath, her eyes closed and the sound of bubbles popping in her ears, she feels rather sees or hears him him come in. He kneels by the side of the bath and smiles. They exchange a look. They have had a night to smile about, after all.

"Do you want to come again?" he asks slowly running his fingers through the bubbles near her pussy.

"No," she admits. Christ, she's exhausted, can't he see that?
He lifts one eyebrow...
"Do you want to come again for me?" he asks, this time slipping his finger inside her. Her back arches instantly.

She looks at him. She's sure he's trying to train her to orgasm on demand. She heard about it once, and laughed at the very idea, but here he is, trying it on her, of all people. He's even started trying to count her to orgasm of all things. Ridiculous.

It has to be said, intellectually, she's a little intrigued by the idea...what if... surely not...it can't really be possible can it? And she has to admit the idea gets her aroused. But, a significant part of her is outraged...who the hell does her think he is...and more to the point, who does he think she is? His new toy?

"I'll say it again, do you want to come again?" he asks.
"Yes," she nods. She'll choose another time, when he's not staring at her with those eyes of his.

A week later they are on phone. She's come too many times to count and is tired. This could be the time to say no. She waits until he asks.
"Do you want to come again?"
"No," she squeals. She realises she is developing a habit of squealing when she's not sure of herself and what's she thinking or feeling. It's really quite annoying. She wishes she could stop it.

The silence on the other end of the phone is a little unnerving. She wonders if he is still there. Shit, if he wasn't her stand would all be for nothing. Finally, she hears him sigh...

"No..what?"
"No Sir," she bleats out and climaxes against her own will. Fuck, that wasn't meant to happen.

Slave

One of my readers, a certain Iron Man, has suggested that I seem to have slave-like tendencies and were he my Dom, that's the avenue he'd be taking me. Hmm, well apart from being extremely cheeky, I am pretty sure Iron Man is way off the mark here.

I must admit I can't quite see the master and slave thing..I mean in general, not just for me. Okay, I get the ownership bit...in fact the thought of Sir owning me does induce a very strong physiological reaction. Okay, I admit it...It's kind of hot and I get that....BUT...in real life? Really. it's hardly practical and I'm pretty sure you can't sustain that heat 24/7..or even if you meet up part time. And what use is a part time slave?

And when the heat's gone...what's left?!

Domestic duties? Hmmm, that leaves no appeal. Some of the best advice I got off my father (who I am sure longed for a son rather than two daughters) was "never learn how to sew, type or clean as you'll end up doing it for someone else... A man, probably." And he was so right. I have never learned to sew. Any stray man who wants me to sew up his trousers or coat pocket is directed to the dry cleaners. I do tidy and clean but I am so lazy that I do a crap job and everyone else decides they'll do it instead. Indeed, my own children tidy up after me!

I gave in on the typing thing...I don't think my Dad was envisaging a world with computers at that time. And I do cook, mainly because I find it relaxing. But his advice seems to have worked well...I don't really have to do that domestic drudgery side of things on the whole....so the thought of offering to do it for someone else is kind of ...well, I can't even imagine it.

Okay. domestic drudgery aside...what about the control thing. Having someone make decisions for you. Some of the Doms I have spoken to have been looking for slaves they can do just that with, and manage them full time. Once again, I can sort of see the attraction...maybe for a day. I am such a control freak that not being able to make a decision for a day or so might be quite a nice holiday...either that or it will some kind of stress-induced mental breakdown.

But full time? I really don't get that.

Mind you, the more I write on this the more I can see the appeal from the Dom's side. Sigh..maybe I just need my own slave....

Paradox

I've challenged Sir to a chess game. This is what I do when I feel myself losing control...fight back with something I think I can win.

I am very competitive. Even with myself. I am always pushing myself to write more, earn more, swim more lengths, run for longer at the gym...god, sometimes it is so bloody tiring being me. But I do love games. I adore Poker, Black Jack and Maj Jong and think a weekend playing the strategy game Risk is as good as sex (well sometimes) so it's pretty inevitable that I want to challenge him to something I at least have a chance of winning.

But therein lies a paradox. If I win...what then? If I can beat him...what does that mean?

Sometimes I can be too competitive for my own good.

The Shrink

I have a psychoanalyst. Being brought up on Woody Allen movies I always figured I would have one sometime and I have found mine. She's not what I expected.

Mind you, I am not what she expected either. The first time we had a session I asked her for a cup of tea and a biscuit because I hadn't had any breakfast yet. She rustled them up whilst I admired the view from her city flat and listened to her tell me she didn't usually do this for clients. We both laughed.

When we moved into her consulting room and I found myself telling her that I had taken a lover, I expected some deep dark exploration of subterranean issues to do with my childhood. We dug a little, I admit, but not before she had leant forward, looked at me with a pair of piercing but kindly eyes and said "we put so called normal morals aside here and look for what's right for you...and if it's good for you to have lover after lover then that might be what you need to do...and (as she looked me up and down) I am sure you will have no problem doing it."

Of course, that was it... I was all on for finding out that it was good for me to have lover after lover...but it's never that simple is it?

She knew that my relationship with Bad Boy would descend into a dominant/submission one before I did. I remember stumbling over the words as I told her, and then the simple shrug and the reply that she had been waiting for this. We laughed. She had known that Bad Boy and I were Dominant and submissive from the start. I was starting to catch on. The only one that wasn't up to speed was Bad Boy himself....

I haven't told her about Sir yet. I don't think she'll be surprised. When I first told her about my interest in DS she suggested I do my own exploration...and I think she knew what would happen. Well, seeing as she knows me so well I am sure she knew what would happen. The question is...does she know what will happen next?

Asking For It

Even though she knows he's coming, that he texted her in the cab on the way over, she still jumps when he knocks at the door. Her mouth is dry, but that's about the only thing.

She's been thinking about this night for weeks. Every time she has had sex with her husband she has been thinking about it. Every time she has patiently felt her husband's hand on her nipple, tapping out his pleas, she has been thinking of it. Every time she has felt his arm snake around her shoulder, pulling her back to his side of the bed, she has been thinking of it. Every time he has crawled on top of her, slowly, deliberately, working off his own private fantasy on her body, she has been thinking of it.

What has she been thinking of?

Of being bent over, taken from behind, mercilessly fucked, no foreplay, no words, no darling, no have you cum or is this ok or are you in the mood....

She thinks she's going to get it with her new Dom tonight and she does, at first. But the problem is she is greedy. She wants more. In fact, she wants it over and over again. But she's forgotten how this works. She asks for it. Course she does, she's used to asking for what she wants. She knows she's made a mistake when she sees the frown line deepen between his eyes and hears his voice turn deep,stern and perhaps just a little bit savage.

She knows that means she's not going to get it now.

But she's not disappointed, especially when he does bend her over, no foreplay, no words, no darling, no are you in the mood...just the harsh sound of his hand slapping hard against her bare flesh. Mercilessly.

Secrets

I can't decide if I like them or not. Secrets I mean. Sometimes they are delicious things that you can just hug tight and they leave you with a smile that lasts the whole day long. Other times...well, at other times life would be a whole lot simpler if you didn't have them.

Secrets I have kept this past week

1. Reasons why I have bruises on my thighs and backside. Sir asked me to send him a picture today so I sat on the bed and pulled my skirt up so that he could see the faded yellow puddles left over from my spanking last week. It felt kind of sexy showing him that his mark was still there, and sometimes just catching sight of them sends a little shiver through me.

But negotiating the five foot from the swimming pool to the sauna and then over to the jacuzzi was a whole different thing. I started walking like a crab on stilts. Suddenly my secret bruises felt a little sordid. Or made me look like a clumsy pratt.

2. This blog. Someone asked me if Sir knows about this blog and my answer is I don't know. I haven't told him and the reason behind that is that I like being able to ponder things without thinking that as soon as I post them they will be under his scrutiny. Hmm, not particularly submissive of me...and of, course, if he comes across it (and if he does he will know it's me instantly) then I have nothing to hide.

3. The whole BDSM thing. Sometimes I long to bring it up just to see the look on people's faces. It's probably an attention thing as I know with a revelation like that I would get a lot...curiosity, questions, perhaps even more...but of course, I don't. At times keeping quiet can seem like living a lie and perhaps that's where this blog comes in because here I can be as free as I like.

4. Talking to other Doms. I talk doms other than Sir. I like both the attention and the conversation. And, of course, I am genuinely interested in what they have to say. Last week one of them asked me if I told Sir and I very honestly said that I would. I omitted to say "if he asks"...which of course, he hasn't...

5. Chatting with Bad Boy and not telling him how much I missed him as it would open up something that I don't really want opened. It was a secret that felt hard, but right, to keep. And one that he probably knows anyway.

6. My neediness. One thing I find hard with BDSM is the feelings of neediness it provokes. Now, day to day I am not needy. I run a business, write, have a family, swim, gym, play poker and have a very good social life. What I have found is that my submissive side is prodding out intense feelings of neediness that I am finding hard to cope with...it's one reason why I ended it with Bad Boy ..I couldn't cope with the way it made me feel. I do not like to feel dependence in any form...and I am ashamed of it. I find neediness both off-putting and sad in other people so am doing my best to hide it...and finding it very difficult. I think, for the moment, this is my hardest secret of all..which is why, whoever reads this, I am so glad to be able to tell you.

Afternoon Phone Call

"On your knees now, I don't care how uncomfortable you get."
I throw my cosy warm duvet aside and slide out of the bed. I don't even bother to pretend. He may be on the end of the phone line but he seems to be able to pick up my every movement. He always knows when I have arched my back, raised my hips or slid my hand closer when he has specifically told me not to.

"What are you wearing?"
"Jeans sir."
"Well take them off. Your knickers too."

For some reason I don't even put the phone down, just struggle out of them with one hand until I am knelt half naked in front of my own bed. While he awaits I take a peek behind and see my zebra print socks sat incongruously on my own feet, and behind them a pair of kicked off kitten heeled pixie boots, my work bag, my washing basket and a pile of unread books. My mess, my life, is spread out all around me, distracting me, calling me.

For a moment I am assaulted by minutiae...

"Whose are you?" his booming voice brings me back to where I want to be.
"Yours Sir," I answer, relieved to be back.

DS and Movies

In my recent movie conversations with Doms somewhere along the line the film The Secretary is inevitably mentioned and inwardly I groan. What is it with this film?

I remember watching it and feeling disappointed, perhaps because her submissiveness was the theme..but I didn't actually think he was all that dominant.

Yes, it is apparently one of the few "mainstream" films that deals with DS..or is it...

Think about Hannibal Lector and his relationship to Clarice Starling in the Hannibal franchise. Surely there's more than a hint of something DS going on there, especially in the fridge scene in Hannibal when he locks her pony-tail in the fridge door and pulls off the handle, leaning over to ask if she would ever ask him to stop. Argh! Knee trembling stuff!

And Dangerous Liaisons (ok, I know it is a book). How does Madame de Tourve have so much control over the Vicomte de Valmont, and why does she get him to do such cruel things?

Okay, these might not be all-spanking outright kinky scenarios but the fact that they are not is actually what makes them very erotic...for me, at least.

James Mason was a very formative figure in my emerging sexuality, especially in the film The Seventh Veil, which I think is actually the closest thing to a DS relationship I have ever seen in mainstream cinema. It was also the first time I realised that my ideals were a little different to other people's. Forget The Secretary, this film may be a post-war black and white movie but it simmers with a heady combination of both emotional and what I am sure is DS sexual tension. You can see a clip on Amazon here

Vanilla and DS Friends

Until recently ago all my friends...well, as far as I knew, were Vanilla. I think that it's a bit of a popular myth (or maybe it's just the circles I run in) that women talk about their sex lives. They may moan about, or the lack of it, but I've rarely heard a woman talk frankly about it. And never heard one brag about it. Well, only the once and as the rest of us couldn't stand the bloke it was the sudden epiphany as to why she was still with him.

So it's been difficult to find people to talk to. I have one Vanilla friend that I confide in, an Australian girl that I admire greatly for being able to drink me under the table. We met when she was embroiled in an affair, and I was......well, let's forget that for the moment. Since then we have lived vicariously through each other, both understanding the taunt of a silent mobile, and the elastic band of time that stretches, way out of proportion, until the next meeting.

But my ventures into DS have set me slightly apart. Even she, my part-time compatriot, sometimes can't understand where I am coming from....although I have to admit I do get a kick out of her saucer-like eyes as she listens to my latest adventure.

But making friends in DS land isn't so easy. I'm not the type to go to Munches...I've never been a joiner in and hate gangs or groups of any sort unless I am the boss...or the hostess.

One thing that seems to work for me is finding people who write...of course the writing is mainly about DS or kinky sex or some aspect of the lifestyle, but the writing seems to remove you and allow you to connect in a much less intense fashion. Plus, of course, I get to see lots of erotic stories at the same time!

Collar

He rolls over onto her."
"I don't think you're submissive at all.."
"That's what I thought," she smiles, relieved.
"You just like it a bit kinky."
"I think you're right."

He kisses down her body, letting his tongue circle her nipple as he makes his way down, drawing delicate circles around her belly button with his finger. He takes each of her fingers in turn into his mouth, sucking them deep until she starts to shiver. They make love, it's not kinky this time, but she doesn't care. It's the first time she has really felt like a woman in a long while and she is just greedy for that sensation. He goes on for hours, giving her the attention she has craved for so long, taking her all in, bringing her sensuality out. At moments, she is tempted to cry.

"I brought it, you know."
"What?" she rouses herself from her reverie. She almost feels drugged by his ministrations.
"The collar. Shall I put it on you?"
She nods, they talked about that, how she'd like to try a collar for the night, a bit of fun, one to tick off the list.

"Kneel." She does as he says and he stands tall in front of her.
"Put your hands behind your back."

She complies, not quite knowing why, but that it must all be part of the game.

He moves behind her and she feels the collar slip around her neck. He has to pull it tight to buckle it, but she's determined not to show him that it's uncomfortable. She doesn't know why she doesn't want to show him, she thinks dreamily.

"There." His voice is suddenly different; harder, firmer. She hardly recognises it.
She feels his hands at the front of her throat and looks down. He has attached a leash.

"Come on, crawl." He leads her around the room. She complies, hardly thinking, just listening to his voice. Finally, he stops and squats to talk to her. She can't look him straight in the eye, she feels herself moving differently, keeping her head slightly bowed. Everything else is gone. There are no worries here about presentations, concerns over relationships or niggles over things which just aren't getting done. There is space in her head and it feels odd, like a dark empty room.

"Stand up," he almost growls.
"Look at yourself in the mirror." He grabs her by the hair and forces her to stare at her reflection."
"Look!"

She stares, face to face with someone who isn't her. The eyes look glassy, the skin smooth and unlined, the expression somehow blank and yet wild at the same time. She takes a small gasp. She looks quite, quite beautiful.

DS and Kissing

I know it's not very DS at all but I like to be kissed into submission.

I met someone recently. A possible Dom. We had chatted via MSN for a while. He rode a motorbike and smoked cigars...odd checklist I know, but these things quite do it for me! We had lunch...nice restaurant, great conversation and yes, there was a definite tang of sexual tension in the air. There was lots of descriptive words and explanations of what he would do to me, and I could feel them having some effect, but as I sat there on a sagging sofa in a busy pub I realised that neither of us had even made an effort to kiss the other and it was then I knew that it wasn't right for me.

In the past, BadBoy's kisses were aggressive over-the-top attacks on my very being that left me weak legged, with no other choice than to submit to him. I thought that I wanted the same thing again.

But from the very moment I met Sir I wanted to kiss him and be kissed. He covered me in kisses..my mouth, my neck, my shoulders, even my wrists. Within an hour of meeting each other we were necking on a park bench like teenagers. He doesn't need to give me elaborate descriptions of exciting sexual adventures we will have together (although luckily he still does!), or overcome me with his overwhelming physicality. All he has to do is kiss me and I simply want to submit.

Another First Taste of Submission

Starbucks is crowded. It's a busy Monday afternoon and it seems that everyone has decided to have a coffee at the same time...students, tourists, nearby shop workers...us.

We find a table for two. Bad Boy moves his chair so that he's sitting next to me, thrusts his hand under the table, parts my legs and start pressing on the seam of my jeans, just between my legs.

He's telling me about what's going on with some job or other. I'm not listening. I've zoned out. He can go on for hours like this and I'm really not that interested. What concerns me more is what his finger, and its very gentle pressure, is doing to me.

The red-haired woman on the couch has spotted us and she's smiling to herself, looking slightly red faced and turning back to her magazine before she can catch my eye.

I bring my attention back to BadBoy. I suppose I had better make an effort to listen.

"You know, I was thinking," he muses, subtly increasing the pressure on my jeans. "that I'd quite like to kidnap you. You know...grab you from somewhere crowded like this, take you in broad daylight, blindfold you and take you somewhere you don't know..."

I look down at the sugar tumbling from the packet I didn't realise I was tearing. He takes a deep breath and continues.

"I'd quite like to tie you up too, maybe with your own stockings...no, duct tape that's more what I need. I want to bind you with duct tape. And then...and then I'd quite like to do what I want with you."

"Oh," I breathe out.
"If that's alright with you?" he adds.

First Taste of Submission

"How old are you?" I asked.
"Forty one," BadBoy said with a shrug.
"Really?" Instantly I felt guilty at the shock in my tone. He had looked older.

He swept in and kissed me for the first time. This was no exploratory first kiss, but a hard insistent mouth to mouth sexual congress, his tongue deep down my throat, me struggling to breathe, my arms flailing.

But he continued, pushing me hard against the kitchen worktop, so hard I knew I would be getting bruises the next day.

He kissed me until my knees started shaking and I had to cling onto him to stay up. He kissed me until I hyperventilated, the room turning dark and liquid around me.

He kissed me until I came.

And then he tugged on my hair, hard, so that my knees caved in and I buckled to the floor, cowering at his feet. He pulled me up by the hair, holding me tight with his free arm. I was a quivering, shaking mess.

He tugged some more and looked straight into me with his ice blue eyes.
"Hello gorgeous," he said.

Stockings

I am wearing stockings more and more these days. Because Sir has asked me to.

But I like wearing them too. They make me feel womanly, sensous; their silkiness hugs my skin with a secret.

I hadn't worn them for years until Sir asked. Well, told me to really, in a task he had texted to me.

The first time I couldn't be bothered really, they seemed such a faff. I wore them and yet, perhaps deliberately, took hardly any notice. Afterwards, I felt that I had cheated myself more than him.

The next time he asked I did. I wore suspenders. Sir had been surprised by that. I think he believed I would wear hold ups, but I wanted the real thing. His instructions were clear and I sat on the leather driving seat of the car and spread my dress out just as he had told me to, the soft glove-like feel of the leather hugging the tops of my thighs, me just holding off a shiver.

I was to pull my skirt up an inch each time I came to a red light. It took at least six before I even remembered and, when I finally did, I yanked the skirt up in one thrust, irritated at this silly game.

By the time I arrived at my destination my lower body and thighs felt alive, as if woken from a deep slumber. I turned off the engine and sat there, just experiencing the moment. I decided that I liked wearing them actually.

And then I cried. Big dollops of salty sorrow dropping onto my outspread skirt, soaking through to the lace of the stocking tops beneath. The silent tears almost turned into heaves, my body shuddering with grief.

Grief for all the years when I hadn't worn stockings.

TextingA Submissive Walk Home

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. A imperceptible tremor through my body had told me I had a new text and I knew it was from Him. Silently I shifted the toe of my boot to
push open my bag and spotted the tell tale notification light. Helena was still banging on about her husband's lack of parenting skills, for some reason enthralling everyone but me, so I picked the phone up and read my message, holding it out of sight under the table.
"Call me," it said, simply.
"I am out and might be late" I quickly texted back.
The reply pinged back in a matter of seconds.
"You were told what to do."

The last half hour felt like torture. we had done Salander and Blomkvist, moaned about the schools being closed for election day and bitched about a neighbour and still they were rambling on. They all wanted coffee and the East European waitress didn't seem to be able to get the credit card machine to work properly. Silently, my stomach churned.

I turned down the offer of a lift home. I was ready to be on my own. Once out of sight I
took my phone out of my bag and dialled shakily.

"Hello..." This was the first time we had spoken and his voice was thinner, lighter, than I had expected. I felt a slight twist of disappointment, quickly followed by relief. It would
make things simpler if this didn't work.

He started to ask me about my day tomorrow, the day we were supposed to be meeting. I gave him vague answers. His tone changed.
"That tells me nothing at all. I want specifics."

As I replied to his questions I noticed my breathing change and a knot start to develop in my tummy. I felt slightly woozy and unsteady. He noticed and bombarded me
with more, telling me what he had learned about me and what he guessed that I wanted.

I stopped short. I could see my house but I couldn't go home yet, not like that. I doubled back, my breathing by now just about coming in pants.

The phone was silent.
"Go on, you know you need to," he said softly.
I clung onto the nearest lamp-post and there, one hand on my phone and one hand clinging to the cold grounding metal, I orgasmed in front of at least ten late night motorists.