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.
Tuesday, 9 November 2010
Monday, 8 November 2010
The Sleeping Submissive
She spends the night as his submissive. He had talked about how she could sleep for a while in her collar, but in the end she doesn't need it. She finds that she can't throw off hours of submission by closing her eyes and pulling up the covers. She can't even dream her way out of it.
It isn't as enjoyable as she imagined. Feeling submissive to someone who is asleep is a bit boring. She feels like huffing and puffing to wake him up. Why should he sleep, and not her? It's not fair. She can't get comfortable. She needs water. And then more water. She's restless. Her cunt is throbbing so badly for him it won't let her relax. One minute she throws off the covers, exasperated at how hot she feels, the next she pulls them up again to ward off of the shivers that suddenly attack.
She hears moaning and whimpering but it takes a while before she realises it's her that doing it.
She laughs at the recent memory of thinking she had never felt so sexually awake as she does at this time in her life. Ironically, feeling sexually awake is the last thing she wants right this moment.
It's time. She's exhausted. She is longing for a peaceful sleep in his arms, but she's starting to get a feeling that what they have is quite the opposite of peaceful.
She wants to be near him, but being next to him makes her feel even more horny, even more restless, so she tries moving away, shoving her head into the chilly freshness of the underside of the pillow. But the pillow cannot dampen out the effects of the adrenaline that's coursing through her body, and she gets even more angry.
She's craving to be able to sleep close to him, her head on his shoulder, listening to his heart, but she can't keep still. The thunder in her ears and in her pussy outranks any heartbeat. Even when she tries to bring herself to orgasm with her own fingers it feels unreal; it is Him that she wants.
Finally, she climaxes and muffling her cries with the duvet, collapses back, closing her eyes and wishing for sleep. At this point, it's about the only thing she can wish for.
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.
Monday, 1 November 2010
Role Play or Split Personalities?
"This is different. It isn't just role play," he says.
She knows what he means. She's done some role play before...once in her past she played a giggly schoolgirl that felt all too unreal (anyone would have ran a mile if they'd actually met her as a teenager...angry, petulant, and extremely arrogant); for him, she had even played a French maid with a silly accent and a case of nerves.
She pauses for a moment and ponders. Yes, there are many roles that she plays...submissive, pet, pony, lover, friend, confidante, scared little girl..and one or two she doesn't care to fully acknowledge to herself yet.
But he's right, she doesn't quite play them. Indeed, she takes them all seriously. Play doesn't come into it. If pushed, she might even say that the roles play her, that she's their pawn and has to let them come out and have their moment when they desire it.
She can't put them on, like a costume or mask. They have to be conjured out of her, and she can't even do that herself. It is He that has the power to bring them to life.
And they all have very different but endearing qualities for her. She has a growing fondness for Pet, so strongly does she feel the almost overwhelming devotion to, and adoration for, her owner when those instinctive feelings take over and she nuzzles against his chest. As Pony she enjoys the primitive desire to be taken by her stud, almost all human qualities momentarily absent.
She adores being Lover, orgasming to his touch, his whisper, his look, feeling him inside her, making her cry with gratitude. Being his Confidante is trickier as she's still not sure what she does and doesn't want to know. The more she knows him, the more both her body and mind ache for him, and that's sometimes hard to deal with.
He knows how to bring out the Scared Little Girl too...the one that curls up foetal position, or tries to crawl under the bed. She wonders why she likes this one so much...is it akin to her love of being scared through horror films and stories...or does she just enjoy the feeling of regression? She's not sure.
In the past he has also brought out the darker side of her too...hateful seething Witch-like feelings of hurt and jealousy that make her want to brutally wound with words that pierce through the flesh and into the heart. She hasn't seen the Witch-like one for a while, but occasionally a stab of insecurity will surface, as if Witchy one is just underneath, prodding her with a jagged fingernail to remind her she's still very much alive.
But most of all, she thrills at being his submissive. The thought of being at his feet can send her woozy; the idea of laying her face on his foot clad boot takes her places she's never been before. The memory of being on her knees, shaking with anticipation as she hears him unzip his trousers sparks a jolt of desire so powerful she literally has to force herself to breathe normally. Being his submissive feels like the role she has been waiting for her whole life.
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.
Thursday, 21 October 2010
Feeling Something Shift
It was subtle shift, a change from feeling the craving to be dominated by someone stronger than her, to an almost tender need to just melt into submission. No one else would have noticed, but she could tell the difference.
She felt it when her knees started to quiver, when her eyesight gently moved out of focus, when everything in the room melted away and the sole reason she was even continuing to breathe was the connection between the two of them.
It confused her too. It wasn't completely welcome, she had to admit. Neither this need to submit or the feelings that accompanied it. It had never been in her plans, not to this degree. Sometimes its very intensity terrified her.
She talked to other subs, many of whom marvelled at her ability to almost instantly free fall into subspace, a journey that often took them hours of pain and bondage to achieve.
She had even surprised herself.
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.
Friday, 15 October 2010
Her Shadow Self
She can't see her
but she knows she's wide eyed.
She can't touch her
but she knows she can sense
his every touch
More often now before he has even made contact.
She doesn't need to listen
as she can hear her whispering, planting seeds
how easy it would be
To lose herself in her submission
To let it overwhelm her
To never come back
She's drawn to vibrancy, to colour and texture.
She's drawn to his vibrancy, the colour of his thoughts, the texture of his language, his skin, his lips upon hers.
But there are moments when the fear descends
and she glimpses
how all too easily she could lose all this
How she could just let the other one take over
And find herself the shadow in her place.
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.
Thursday, 14 October 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, 2 September 2010
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...
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...
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