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...
Thursday, 2 September 2010
Wednesday, 18 August 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, 5 August 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, 4 August 2010
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.
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, 28 July 2010
Opening the Jewellery Box
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.
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.
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