Submissive After Dark

Bitten and Written

2011-05-19T03:33:00.000-07:00

The lights tremble just for a moment as if they were in some gothic Victorian room lit by gaslight. She blinks. He's propped up on his elbow; she's lying beneath him. Even almost prostate he still towers abover her.

"Turn your head," he orders.

She turns her neck to the side. She can feel her veins throbbing, the skin stretched tight over them, almost quivering as he draws near. His lips are full, but as he bares his teeth she imagines his canines filed into points, heading towards one of the most vulneralble spots on her body.

He leans in.

"What do you desire, my submissive?" he whispers.

Part of her wants to grab the words before they fall out. How can she think such a thing, it's ridiculous? But a deeper part of her feels the words.

"I want to be your submissive forever," she whispers.

She can feel his breath on her face, on her lips, and then it moves down her neck. A slight arousing touch of his tongue and then his teeth are in her. He has penetrated her yet again, this time perhaps more powerfully than ever before.

As he drains her of lifeblood she can feel her eyelids fluttering, she can feel herself slipping into a deep drowsiness that has a drugged Keats' like quality about it. He asks her how much of a trance she is in. She feels him touch her wrist, feel her pulse, check her eyes.

Yes, this is roleplay, she thinks, but it goes so far beyond putting on a costume; she almost believes it is true.

And then he sits up running his fingernails down his wrist. Usually they look bitten and raw, but tonight his nails seem talon-like, sharp, deadly. She watches as the blood starts to drip down his wrist; slowly at first, but as it gathers momentum he draws her head in and greedily she sucks and sucks.

It tastes rusty, coppery; earthy. As it slips down her throat she suddenly feels on fire.

She's greedy. She wants to suck him dry, to drain him as he has drained her. To take everything as she has given everything to him. But he doesn't let that happen. He'll never let that happen. He pulls away, telling her his blood will make her feel different. She'll be different.

They pull themselves together and eat. As usual, time has moved into another dimension and it's later than they thought.

Over dinner, she's cheeky. He tells her it's his blood. She chooses a medium steak. Nothing unusual with that. She orgasms in front of fellow diners, not caring if they see. But tonight there's something a little different about her.

He watches as she eats a piece of steak. Is that blood ooozing out of the side of her mouth? As she licks her lips he catchs a glance of sharp tipped teeth. Surely, they weren't there before?

And, then, horrified, he watches as she digs a fat chip through rich garlic sauce. Doesn't she realise the horror garlic holds for him and his kind. His stomach knots as she greedily devours mouthful after mouthful of the stuff. Blood mixed with garlic....what kind of half-breed monster has he created?

And, then as she licks the last remenant of garlic sauce off her finger, he wonders how on earth he is going to be able to take her back to the hotel and kiss her?

Sleeping In Submission

2011-04-27T04:35:00.000-07:00

She sleeps tied up in her lead. She asks him if she can, and for a moment she thinks he is going to say no. She watches the hesitation as it clouds and passes through his eyes. But eventually he nods.

And she loves it. Totally. Completely. With all her thoughts silently tidied away, she can snuggle against him and feel his flesh against her cheek, the beat of his heart as it seems to produce an equal throb within her. She wishes that he could hold onto the lead all night, so intense is the feeling, but of course it slips from his fingers as he sleeps. For one ridiculous moment she giggles as she imagines tying him up with the lead, but decides the reaction might not be one she'd care to see.

She moans, slowly awakening to the feel of his fingers as he pushes them through her juice sodden thighs and into her waiting wet pussy. With a growl that sends an electric thrill coursing through her, he ties her hands together with the lead and clambers on top of her.

Over the new few weeks there are moments when she feels like throwing off her submission: sometimes it's almost harder than she can bear, but the cold pressure of her lead keeps pulling her back to him.

Teacher's Pet

2011-03-15T03:57:00.000-07:00

They are in a class, stuck behind wooden desks, stained by years of ink and engraved with the initials of pupils long gone.

The rows are tiered, with hardly any legroom: he has to sit with his knees wide apart so that he doesn't knock into the woman in front, she keeps sliding around in her seat, unable to get comfortable.

Another sub slides into the seat next to him and smiles. Her Dom makes some joke about being between two subs. Immediately she feels her hackles come up. She has so little of him that what she has she is not prepared to share. And even if she had more, she ponders, she still would not want someone else to dilute the intensity she enjoys so much.

She looks at the sub. Her immediate reaction is to grab her by the throat, bare her teeth and rip the lifeblood out of her. A more sensible and satisfying choice would be to lean over, smile sweetly and tell her to "fuck off".

But she does neither of these things. Instead, she finds herself rising out of her seat and walking over to the teacher at the front of the class. She offers herself as a guinea pig for the lesson, looking over at her Sir as she does so.

The teacher motions for her to kneel, which she does. Surprisingly, this doesn't feel submissive. It's a role she feels comfortable in, in her old capacity as Teacher's Pet. It's a position she adopted much of the way through Grammar school: from the English teacher who introduced her to to Hardy and treated her as a substitute daughter, to the older history teacher with a penchant for Fascism who took her to expensive restaurants and the opera, to the RE teacher who would embarassingly serenade her in the corridor in front of her sniggering friends. Kneeling like this feels like coming home.

But then she feels a collar being placed around her neck. This one is not like her own collar. This is velcro and feels like it's strangling her. It makes her feel itchy; not just around her neck, but all over.

She's looking at her Dom who is staring back at her, impassive. The sub next to him, however, is goggling wide eyed with her mouth open.

And then she can hear the lead. It's not her lead but it sounds similar. Almost at once she feels her body respond. She has been conditioned to this, but the roaring in her ears, the wetness in her shorts, they just don't feel right when she is here and her Dom over there.

Her palms start to sweat and she is annoyed at herself for putting herself in this position. How stupid of her to think that this was a good idea. She wonders what her Dom is thinking of her now. Is he bemused, angry, shocked? His face gives nothing away and she feels herslef being pulled into a vacuum, further and further away from him.

And then she hears it, that familiar sound of a zip being undone. It's the teacher behind her. She has barely registered him up until now, but she realises with a start what he is expecting. She cen feel the sweat on her upper lip now. She doesn't want to do this but these feelings of submission are almost overpowering, she's not sure she can say no.

She feels the teacher getting closer and closer. She's looking straight at her Dom now, pleading with him to say something, to do something but he is silent, motionless. She wonders if he wants to see what she'll do. If he's playing some peverse game of chicken with her. Even if he was, she wouldn't blame him, she has got herself into this mess.

She can sense the teacher's body heat so close now. She can feel his hand as it reaches out for her hair, ready to twist her towards him. She's straining against the leash but that's all she can do. And then she sees it, an almost imperceptible shake of the head: so tiny you would only see it if you were looking for it. He has said no. Overwhelmed with relief, she scampers back to Him, kneeling by his side and laying her head on his knee. He strokes her hair softly and she clings to his calf, shaking, close to tears, until he leans down, pulls her head back to reveal her upturned face, and kisses them away.

Kneeling For Her Dom

2011-03-08T09:46:00.000-08:00

He pulls her up on her toes to kiss her. It's hard, passionate, just what she wants, what she craves, and yet something is not right.

As he holds her close to him it seems to become more of a clasp than an embrace. He can feel her knees start to give way and is holding her firm, preventing her from crumbling to the floor as she is so desperate to do.

He pushes her forward to the bed, lifts her dress and takes her roughly from behind. She can feel him pushing her forward to take even more of his length, feel his hands in her hair, pulling it tight, but something is plucking at her concentration. She is trying to enjoy this. No, she is enjoying it. How could she not? And yet she isn't quite 100% there. Part of her is somewhere else.

He turns her around, pushing his cock into her mouth. She takes him as deep as she can, wanting to show her obedience, but also hoping that he will notice the depth of her feelings for him mirrored in the depth she takes him into her throat.

But all the time she is still aware that he hasn't let her kneel.

She doesn't realise it, but the tension is upsetting her slightly. Eventually she sobs into his chest. Once again the only man that can make her feel like this is the only man who can soothe it away.

Later, he tells her that as her Dom he can do whatever he wants with her, and that includes not letting her kneel, if he so wishes.

Interestingly, kneeling is something he started by telling her to do; now she feels that she needs to. Whilst his words thrill her by underlining his explicit and implicit control of her, they also leave her feeling slightly confused. She'd like to be able to second guess what he wants, and yet if he is going to do this, that's not going to be possible.

Finally, when he does let her go where she feels she needs to be, she clambers over and past his erect cock, before tumbling to the floor by the side of the bed. It's only then she starts to realise how deeply her submission has taken root.

Things That Bother Me About My Submission

2011-03-02T04:30:00.000-08:00

Okay, time to balance things up. After all, nothing is that perfect is it. After my last posting of what I love about my submission, I cannot but mention the things that leave me less than soaring.

It Makes Me Feel Boring

Okay, so part of my brain is switched off and it is a delicious reprieve. But at the same time, yet another part of my brain switches off, the flirty, cheeky, intellectual hopping part, and the result is that I lose part of me. Sometimes I feel boring, one dimensional, unable to contribute to a conversation as it's just beyond my capabilities at that moment.

There are even occasions when I can't talk, literally.

Most of these extreme times I am so wrapped up in what is happening, and enjoying it, that it's not an issue. But there are moments when I do feel an acutely boring companion.

It Makes Me Vulnerable

It's only recently that I have cottoned on to how vulnerable I actually am, and I don't mean just physically. I willingly open myself up to situations and suggestions without really thinking it through and depend, totally, on the honorable nature of the other person. I have found out that I am very suggestible, which I suppose can be quite fun, especially for Him, and it certainly reinforces the feeling of being "controlled", taking it far, far away from mere role play. But it can be scary and I do worry about possible consequences. It also makes me worry about how other people could exploit it...or me.

It Has Shaken Up My Life

I mentioned that it has provoked a lot of change in my life, but that's not always been good. It has shaken things up past the point of no return in one case. Sometimes that can be very, very sad.

Things I love About My Submission

2011-02-26T14:52:00.000-08:00

It's been just over a year now since someone first suggested to me that I might be submissive. Some of her suggestions have sent me on a journey that is both fascinating and life changing, and I thought I would share some of the things I love about finding out that I am submissive.

1. The world stops.

When I am focused on him, on the look in his eyes, the tenor of his voice, the graceful movement of his hands, everything else stops still. There is nothing else. As one of those people who has trouble stilling their mind and freeing it from anxieties, visions of the future and examining everything in every shade and nuance, this is very akin to being in a meditative state.

And believe me, this is a massively welcome relief.

2.I Have Found Me

I am becoming clearer about who I am, almost on a day to day basis. Okay, so I hitting the age where people often have mid-life crises and do mad things anyway, but after 20 years in the same profession I can suddenly see a way out of it. I feel clearer about my relationships with people...friends, family and significant others and have made it clear where I stand with them. This simply wouldn't have been possible for me before and I am convinced there is a link.

3. I am having so much fun!

And believe me, it is fun. From choosing lingerie and clothes that I think he'll like and enjoy, to smarting from the sting of his palm on my backside, to pony-ing for him, it has, for the most part, been pure fun. And fun is not something I have had for quite a while.

4. I have made many friends

I am not very good at keeping secrets. Most of my significant friends know what's going on in my life. Their reaction has ranged from believing this to be a phase, just another one of my whims, although on the more adventurous side, to being convinced that when I meet and fall for the right someone, I won't need "all this kinky stuff".

So, it has been so good to meet people with whom I can talk open and frankly, people who undersgand not only about Ds, but also my own particular situation, which is not unusual in this world so it seems. But whilst we may have been drawn together by an interest in DS, I now have friendships that span writing, films and the workplace.

I am also part of an online and Submissive women's group and have found this hugely rewarding. I rarely post myself, but I have learned so much ...from how to make my own vampire gloves (If I wished!), to how to spot if a DS relationshop is turning abusive.

5. I have discovered Sex

Well, not strictly true, I admit, but in the past I had always felt vaguely unsatisfied by vanilla sex. The orgasms were always too fleeting, disappearing like wafts of smoke as I clutched at them. I always felt as though there was something missing, but I didn't know what. I remember trying to voice this once or twice, but as I wasn't aware of what was absent, I was not able to explain what I needed. I had been aroused by the melodrama of stern and commanding characters from black and white b movies, but no one seemed to understand how deep a nerve they touched. It wasn't until I met someone so naturally dominant (rather then being a Dom), that I even begun to understand what I had been craving.

And finding it has been both the end of one journey, and the start of another.

Greedy

2011-02-17T08:45:00.000-08:00

She rarely gets her toys out without him. Somehow it doesn't feel quite right. Or didn't. But he's unleashed something in her that he isn't there to fulfil often enough and she's found out that now she needs it more than ever before.

She's never been into vibrators or stuff like that. Somehow that all seems a bit too mechanical for her. She prefers the imagination. But there are toys she's starting to think of as her toys, not just their toys.

She loves her gag. Just putting it on can make her climax now. Feeling it's tightness wrapped around her head (when she's finally got it on, it's not easy) can send her woozy. She takes a picture of herself wearing it, partly for him, but mainly for herself. It arouses her to see herself like that.

She's thinking she'd like to try another type of gag. Doesn't want to get reliant on the same old one. The very idea makes her hot.

She likes her pony tail. Of course, she would never actually use it in its proper way without him, but she can trail the soft leather of the tail over her naked body and watch a trail of goosebumps form behind, and then in front of its path, anticipating the sensation before its even arrived.

She's even tried the butt plug once or twice. She's not so sure about that one. She can't decide if she actually likes the sensation or not. With him, of course, she knows. She knows she loves the sensation of him thrusting her legs wide apart to push himself in further. She loves the sensation of being pinned underneath, of having no choice but to stay still under his weight. To stay still and submit.

But that's hard to replicate with a sex toy.

She's starting to feel a little greedy. She wants more. She runs the crop along the inside of her thighs and climaxes picturing herself wearing a brand new pair of pony boots.

Even in her submission she's still a materialist.

The Interrogation

2011-02-10T03:50:00.000-08:00

She was stubborn. Besides, she knows that he won't hurt her. Even when he hisses in her ear that he had lied, that he will hurt her to win, she trusts him. Even when he drops down on top of her with an open pen knife in each hand, she trusts him.

Even when he slices through the straps of her bra and shreds her knickers to ribbons, she trusts him.

But then it all changes.

It had started innocently enough, if innocent is quite the word. She'd told him of her ultimate fantasy, an interrogation, and he agreed to indulge her. He'd waited downstairs whilst she had hidden a key, wedged it tight behind the key card in the hotel light fitting, and waited.

At first she is full of fight, compartmentalising the key's location somewhere else. She concentrates on sliding out of the handcuffs, on cheeking him back, and rather enjoys it.

But his stillness unnerves her. And his patience. She's not a patient person and he knows that. It was a clever move of his, sitting there on the corner of the bed, patiently watching her as she sits on the stool writhing in the handcuffs.

But she can't keep up the fight forever. As soon as the knife comes out things change. It's not that she's scared, not quite. But she doesn't cheek him any more, all her senses are tuned to staying still, to staying out of the way of that knife.

"Choose a nipple, left or right," he taunts, lightly pricking the very top of her left nipple with the point of the knife. She blocks him out, listening to her own shallow breathing and pretending she is somewhere else. But her body betrays her. He slides two fingers between her thighs and inside her. He doesn't even have to push, she is so slippery.

She thinks she is through this. After all, what can he do now. She knows he's not going to cut her. And then she hears another knife open and now she screams. She hadn't imagined this.

And then he relents. He allows her to dress, lets her lie her head on the pillow. She is so sleepy, so exhausted. It is as if her body is telling her she needs to break to gather her energy for what comes next. She wants to sleep but she's afraid he'll say the game is over, so she rouses herself. He rests his arm on her curled up leg. He's tender, gentlemanly. She comes so close to telling him. After all she wants this tender interrogator. She can feel herself opening up to him. She tells him that yes she has hidden something but she can't tell him where. Please, please, don't hurt her, she can't tell him where it is.

And then there's a gap. Did she go to sleep? Did he hypnotise her? She has no memory. The next thing she knows is that she's has decided it's time to run and tells him the key is on the balcany. Once he's out there she can make a break for it. Clearly, she's forgotten that she's in a hotel room, bedragled, handcuffed and smelling of sex. They'd both get arrested

And then the fear hits. Not the hold the breath fear that he might slip with the knife and hurt her but a blind panic as he propels her towards the balcony. She doesn't like heights, and they're on the fifth floor. There is no way in hell she is going willingly to that balacony. The curtains get damaged as she writhes out of his grasp and he leads her to the bathroom instead, running a sink of water to put her head in.

She hates water on her face but at the same time she's relieved, this is nothing compared to going out on the balcony, Right now, she'd rather drown.

Eventually, he concedes the game. He doesn't want to hurt her, and it's the only way this can go. If he really wants to win.

She's got what she wanted. She played to win. They both did. They almost always do. It's why they get on so well.

She had worried how it might affect them. After all, it's not every day a submissive gets to beat her Dom into submission. She had worried that she might feel a smidgeon less respect for him, or a need to crow over her champion status.

But she doesn't feel any of that. In fact, she feels quite the opposite. She feels bonded to him, bound to him. Part of him looked after her, cared for her, watered and dressed her, even when they had unlocked his dark side.

He cares for her after too, when the heady concoction of adrenaline and endorphins and who knows what else makes her naueous. He brings her back to the hotel, and soothes and strokes her on the bed. Headwise she's happy and at peace, but her body is in meltdown, her stomach bubbling and curdling noisily.

She has won yes, but in her victory she actually wants to concede even more power to him. They talk about it later, about how he is going to be harder, to be stricter with her. She wants him to be able to play with his dark side when he is with her, beacuse ultimately she knows that his care for her is stronger.

But in the back of her mind she thinking of what game they can play next. After all, she still loves winning.

First of The Super Doms?

2011-02-08T10:42:00.000-08:00

My favourite show of the moment....swords, very sexy costumes and lots of alpha males fighting!

But, on a more intellectual note, the period of history when kings were the ultimate authority in the land enthralls me. Often called the most successful usurper, Henry VII used his wits, defeating Richard III and uniting the Lancastrians and Yorkists with his marriage to Elizabeth of York. He was a very Machiavellian character (well, a pragmatist if you want to be nice)and for him power was a strategic weapon.

His son, Henry VIII however, whilst benefiting from that power, seemed to become drunk with it. No one was able to challenge him...even the Catholic church got ousted in the end when it refused to grant an annulment of his marriage to Catherine of Aragaon. As for advisors and wives, well, they didn't have a chance.

Is Henry VIII a Domly icon? He had the trappings of a Super Dom....everyone, but everyone, had to be submissive to him. His only challengers were the other kings of Europe. It must have been lonely however, as it would have been hard to have been intimate with other people (apart from sexually) as no one else could be deemed to be on the same level.

And popular opinion is that his power eventually corrupted him.

I do wonder sometimes, about that knife edge between being a submissive and being intimate, intellectually intimate I mean. It's a hard balance to keep. For me I have to be drawn to someone intellectually, to be seduced by their mind as much as their body. And the sort of man I like would definitely feel the same. Sharpening your wits with someone can be just as erotic as anything physical. And yet that's a hard balance to keep if you are being Dom and sub. But I suppose part of the appeal is in trying to keep that balance. If it is all too easy, where's the fun in that?

And hopefully power only corrupts kings.

Switch Bitch

2011-02-01T04:17:00.001-08:00

Sometimes she wonders what it would be like to be a Dom, or a Dommme even, considering changing gender would be hard.

It's not really a sexual thing, more an intellectual curiosity. She'd quite like to see what he gets out of it. She'd quite like to see if she could do it.

Sometimes she imagines taking a whip or cane to him, but then remembers that the only time she ever wants to hurt or damage anyone is when she's angry, and that's hardly Domme like behaviour.

Sometimes she imagines binding his wrists, restraining him tightly, but then she wonders what she'd do with him then and has a sneaking suspicion that she'd probably get quite bored, and with him lying there she'd have to do all the work. Hmmmm.

Sometimes she imagines being able to make him orgasm with a look or a word or even a text, but them remembers that's quite a lot of responsibility to take on, and she's not keen on responsibility, not if she can help it.

Sometimes she imagines him on his knees, at her feet, but then she quickly stops as the whole idea makes her feel slightly panicky, as if the world has turned upside down.

Sometimes she thinks that it's rather nice to know her place.

Hannibal / Clarice: Perfect Enemy

2011-01-30T03:37:00.000-08:00

The ultimate sexiest Dom...and he speaks Italian so beautifully too!

Fuck the Flowers

2011-01-30T02:45:00.000-08:00

"Sometimes I feel like bringing you flowers," he says.

She ponders this for a moment. The words seem so alien, she's not sure if she heard him right.

Flowers. Yeah. Right. Doesn't he understand how hard she tries to harden her heart against this sort of stuff? How hard she tries to keep that door shut, because opening it would bring out more than she could cope with. How often she has to tell herself to pull back because, however much she feels as though she belongs to him; she knows that he doesn't belong to her. How so aware she is that there is one piece of the jigsaw missing.

She doesn't want flowers from him. What she craves are kisses. And not the hide behind a corner or duck behind a pillar type of kisses, but the earth stopping stand in the middle of the street kisses where they stand still and the world spirals around them. She wants to be pushed up against the barrier on Tower Bridge, his tongue thrust hungrily down her throat, whilst the tourists throng by. She wants him to grab her in the middle of Oxford Street and snog her greedily, making all the shoppers tut angrily as they have to side step them. She wants him to bring her to her knees with his lips in front of the world.

Fuck the flowers. She wants kisses.

An Interrogation Roleplay: Anticipation

2011-01-29T03:23:00.000-08:00

He's promised her an interrogation. Again. Well, every time they've come close to it in the past something seems to happen. She wonders what fate has been trying to tell her and hopes that this time it's gonna happen.

She's excited. Aroused, yes, but just as excited at the thought of intellectually wrestling with him. She's wondering if she'll be able to hold out. She's wondering what they'll both learn about each other from the experience. She's wondering if it's going to be fun.

She's wondering if it's going to hurt.

Yum Yum: An Evening of Cannibalism and Objectification

2011-01-19T07:07:00.000-08:00

The bath is too hot but she's determined to endure it. She needs the heat to ease out the soreness from yesterday. She looks down at her leg: inky teethmarks clearly visible through the silky white froth of bubbles.

A shiver thrills through her as she remembers his teeth baring down on her flesh, a hairbreadth away from ripping it: from mauling her.

He told her that she consumes his thoughts, and yet, she smiles, it's ironic that it is he who is on the edge of consuming her. Literally.

But he doesn't just consume her with his teeth barred, his hot breath curling around her limbs. Every time they meet he devours her subtly, nibbling away at her layers like a colourful fish in the posh pedicures so trendy nowadays.

But there are moments when his teeth catch on her heart and invisible rivulets of blood betray her vulnerability. It's at times like these he calls her feisty. He says he sometimes finds it hard to control himself. She wonders if he knows how hard it is for her to control herself too: moments when she not only wants to throw the crop across the room at him, but to stride over, nostrils flaring with indignation, and smack it hard across his face, so hard that he too will feel the sharp lash of pain he caused her.

She lifts up her leg and follows the line of bite marks to her inner thigh where she can see the yellowing imprint of his mouth. Seeing him there, on her, triggers off a wave of submission so strong she feels herself woozily slipping lower and lower in the bath. She has started to reveal her softest parts to him. And yet there are still softer, more vulnerable parts he has yet to find. She is protecting them still, although she has a feeling he'll find his way in.

She runs her finger across her cunt. She's supposed to shave herself smooth for him but every now and again she disobeys...small kicks for a girl who asked her Dom to use her as a footstool the previous evening, and knelt before him as he rested his feet on her back, whispering to her to keep still as she was almost knocked flat by the intensity of the orgasm ripping through her. But, she shrugs as she puts the razor away unused, a girl's gotta rebel somehow.

Supernova

2011-01-12T01:20:00.000-08:00

“Take your bracelet off and hold out your hand.”
She complies, turning her arms so that her veins are skywards. She convinces herself she can almost feel her blood pulsing. He slips the lead around her wrist, and fastens it tight. It’s not as cold as she remembered, but the texture of the metal is a definite contrast to the warm fuzziness she is currently feeling.

They walk. He asks where they are but she can’t reply, even though she knows. They are in cosmetic surgeon territory, she could probably name a few Dr clients she knows if she was compos mentis. If her owner wasn’t leading her around the streets of London by a chain.

She listens for the chink of the links, but the distance murmur of traffic and their footsteps on the slightly wet pavement mask any noise they might be making. It’s a pity. She relishes the noises of her submission...the harsh smack as his hand hits her arse, the hiss of his belt, the cigar depth of his voice...the sound of her lead being slowly unfurled.

Occasionally she feels her knees start to give way and she finds herself leaning against him. He is her only prop, the only thing that is stopping her from crumbling to her knees right there in the middle of the road. There are moments, she thinks wistfully, when he is her only prop, period.

She’s vaguely aware of people around them, only because she feels the pull on the lead as he slows them both down so that strangers can go past. She’s hardly aware of whether they are an old man or a middle aged woman. Everyone else has become a shadow, peripheral to what’s going on. She has to rely on him to be aware of them. He moonlights as her senses, for all hers are busy, tuning into him.

Her pulls her to an abrupt halt and they kiss in the middle of the street, his hand reaching beneath her dress and pulling her knickers roughly to one side. She’s vaguely aware that this is a public place, but she doesn’t care. He could do anything with her, even chain her to the railings as he’s threatening, and she would comply. She would submit. She doesn’t have a choice anymore. For this moment in time, she has chosen to give that up.

Who needs choice when there’s nothing else? At times like this she feels that the universe is collapsing, folding in on itself. And all that’s left is the connection between the two of them. It might be his breath on her face as he moves inside her, or his sonorous voice taking her to places she’s never been before, or the pull of her lead as he takes control of her. Whatever it is at that moment, it burns fiercely, dangerously, perhaps even threatening to implode.

She doesn’t know much about astronomy, but something she does know is that despite all the mathematical theory, analysis and guesswork, no one, for sure, knows what lies on the other side of a black hole.

RIP - Part Two

2010-11-29T13:59:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-29T13:17:00.000-08:00

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

2010-11-18T13:51:00.000-08:00

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?

2010-11-09T01:23:00.001-08:00

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

2010-11-08T11:51:00.000-08:00

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?

2010-11-01T06:14:00.000-07:00

"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

2010-10-21T09:57:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-15T04:14:00.000-07:00

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

2010-10-14T12:49:00.000-07:00

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

2010-09-02T10:35:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-18T05:04:00.001-07:00

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

2010-08-05T15:18:00.001-07:00

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

2010-08-04T23:36:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-04T12:25:00.000-07:00

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

2010-08-04T10:34:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-28T06:48:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-20T12:36:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-13T04:07:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-11T02:29:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-09T13:57:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-08T23:42:00.001-07:00

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

2010-07-08T10:15:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-04T13:49:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-03T02:01:00.001-07:00

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

2010-07-02T13:07:00.000-07:00

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

2010-07-02T02:08:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-27T23:05:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-27T03:46:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-24T15:09:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-24T08:47:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-23T06:33:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-22T09:03:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-20T23:25:00.001-07:00

“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

2010-06-20T06:56:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-19T08:51:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-15T06:35:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-13T03:53:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-10T22:39:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-09T04:10:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-07T11:58:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-06T13:11:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-04T01:46:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-02T06:12:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-02T02:21:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-02T01:57:00.001-07:00

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

2010-06-01T01:51:00.000-07:00

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.

Odedience

2010-05-27T02:59:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-25T14:39:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-25T08:49:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-21T05:07:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-20T23:21:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-19T10:30:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-19T04:23:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-18T10:10:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-18T09:12:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-16T04:43:00.000-07:00

"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

2010-05-12T06:02:00.001-07:00

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

2010-05-11T11:53:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-11T04:54:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-10T08:21:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-10T06:18:00.000-07:00

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

2010-05-06T22:48:00.000-07:00

"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

2010-05-06T14:28:00.000-07:00

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.

2010-05-06T06:51:00.000-07:00

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.