Day Trip

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

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

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

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

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

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

What The Pony Taught Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Connections

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Only Place

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

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

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

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

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

Collared

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Tale of Two Cities

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

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

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

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

Lies

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

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

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

Danger-Zone.

After that
it's only a matter of time.