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.

Saying No

I am actually very good at saying no, usually. I can get myself out of the extended family event that makes my blood turn cold, avoid being drafted to help out with the school trip (a coach full of under 10s would be worse punishment than a flogging!), and I can say no to clients who want to suck the life out of me.

But, thinking back, I don't think I have really said No to Sir yet.

I have said no to him when he was in his non-Sir mode. I found that I really didn't want to hear too much about what he had done in the past. For some reason it made me feel, well, anyway, it made me feel strongly enough to ask him to stop. And he did and all was fine again.

But there comes a moment when I am collared, or have just spent a fair bit of time with him as Sir, and I don't think that I can say no. On one occasion we both realised that, had he asked me, I would have done something I really didn't want to do. He wouldn't have had to lay a finger on me and I would have done it. But I wouldn't have seen him again. He would have broken the trust that I have in him that he wouldn't tell me to do it.

It is interesting.... you have given someone your absolute trust and yet, at the same time, they have to continuously earn it.

At our last meeting Sir made me use my safe Word. To be honest, I find it hard to remember why. All I do remember is him very forcefully telling me to say it and say it now...so I did. Without him I wouldn't have been able to say it. I had to rely on Sir to say no for me.

Stop Press: Submission Causes Ripples

If one pebble can send out a multitude of ripples then I must have been wielding a boulder in my own personal pond. Things which have remained static for years are suddenly changing, friends are beginning to ask questions, people I pass once or twice a week are stopping me to comment on my glow or bright eyes.

Of course, I found myself changing a little when I was seeing Bad Boy: he helped me get over a four-year-long driving phobia and made me sit up and realise how small I was allowing my own world to become, but those changes seem mild in comparison to what is happening now.

One week, I was crawling around a hotel room with a collar around my neck and a leash dangling from my mouth, definitely no longer the good girl. Just over a month later I seem to be shedding the good girl skin for real.

After years of literally avoiding one difficult conversation, one around which so much of my life pivots, I had it last weekend. And I realised the fear of having it was so much worse than the reality of just saying how I felt.

Again, I have decided to stop doing something I have been doing out of duty. I know this will cause more ripples. It may perhaps even drag me under in the short-term. But I'll get past that.

I have pulled someone up on how they talk to me, and told them it's no longer acceptable. And I feel deliciously proud for having done it.

Iron Man has been encouraging me to try climbing; suggesting that the release I will get might well take the edge off the subbyness/neediness I feel when I am not with Sir...and (believe me here when I say I get vertigo on a chair) I am prepared to try it. At the very least it might give me an excuse for having bruises on my ass!

But it's something I could never have considered a few months ago.

Deepest Fantasies

As soon as he closed the curtains the room fell black. The atmosphere changed as if a heavy weight had been placed on it. She knew why. It was because he was no longer there. His absence was palpable, tangible even, and, bound to the bed with bindings of her own making, unable to even raise her head to find him, she could only lie there and wait.

As she heard him settle into a chair by the window a chill spread from her cum soaked knickers and over the tops of her thighs. She started to shiver.

"Tell me one of your fantasies," he said.

She lay silent and closed her eyes tight.

"Tell me a fantasy," he repeated.

Images flashed before her eyes...heavy black boots, guns, border guards shouting in incomprehensible languages, heat-baked sand dunes; candlelight and velvet; tumbling in waves on a deserted beach; the erotic butterfly touch of strangers ; a girl she had once kissed; her bound, gagged, blindfolded, unsure of what was going to come next, being watched by a group of strangers as her Sir took her any way he wanted; images of sex toys she would never dream of buying; being bitten and taken by a Vampire in a Louisiana cemetery, both of them dripping with sweat and sensuality; spread-eagled and bound as black-robed figures chanted around her in a Black Mass ritual.

She opened her mouth to give him a small snippet, a glimpse into her imagination, but she stopped, worried that he would think her fantasies too strange, or, even worse, too boring.

The Photograph

She wouldn't have noticed it ordinarily, but she was sprawled at an angle, staring straight at it: a black and white photograph of Tower Bridge someone had chosen to decorate a West End hotel room. It had been taken at an angle, perhaps even by a passing cyclist. The effect reminded her of German Expressionism, an oppressive Mise-en-scène that was starting to suck her in Dr Caligari style.

She was drifting anyway, free floating above her own body, so letting herself be carried into the picture made sense. It was getting far too intense in that room. He had licked and fucked and spanked and sucked and caressed her so much that she was worried about what she might say; what she might let slip.

She had written in her blog about being worried about letting him see what lay beneath. The truth was that she didn't have a fucking clue what lay beneath and was quite nervous about finding out herself.

On the whole, the photograph looked a much safer place to be.

Under The Mask

There's a lot of talk about authenticity at the moment, especially within the business circles I frequent. I have just one word for it, Bollocks. If I was to show off my authentic side I would have people walking over me right, left and centre.

What most people see of me is the mask, the hard shell...and I know I am not alone. Even Neuro Linguistic Programming with all its modelling and mirroring peddles the idea that it's good to face the world behind the weapon of another persona.

Most of the time I believe my own hype..that I am a high achiever type A personality with high expectations not only of myself but the people around me. And of course, there is truth in that. But that's not all there is.

It's interesting how so very few people get to peek behind the mask. Of course my family do, to an extent, but with teenagers in the home I am now aware how my role is now becoming one of role model at times, and that has to be kept up. My very best friends see a little behind the mask too - probably the most fun and irreverent side - but there are still things I can't tell them. You might think that my psychoanalyst might get more than a brief glimpse, but it's interesting how I often find myself editing what I say to her in an effort to get the convesrsation moving where I want it to go. As for parents...well we all know about only showing them the things we want to show.

And so we come to Sir...and how much of the person behind the mask I let him see. I am very conscious that he has been both attracted and seduced by the things I have let him see..but will he still desire and respect what lies beneath?

So far I haven't really role-played...when scenarios happen I seem to respond to them quite strongly without the need to "play" a role. Indeed, I seem to respond so quickly and fiercely I have no time or even ability to think things through, or edit them before they are out there...and this is a little scary.

Whilst one of the draws of DS is letting that mask slip, of discarding layers, I still wonder how much of he really wants to see. Should I care? After all, if he doesn't like it, it is his problem, not mine...and yet...and yet I have to say I still do care what he thinks.