If You're Going to Pull Rank, You Better Pick Your Battles

Let me give you the TL;DR version of this post:
If you think being the Dom or Master in a relationship means getting to do whatever the fuck you want, you're wrong.
The end.

Too often now I'm encountering men who label themselves Doms or Masters looking for a sub or slave to start a D/s dynamic with, walking around thinking being the person on the "left side of the slash" means they are The King, they give the orders, and whoever is on the "right side of the slash" has to shut up and obey, because that's what D/s is all about.
Shut up and obey—or leave. Them's the breaks, toots.

You know what I tend to call these Domly types? Single.

I understand the desire to want that kind of relationship. I mean, this sounds awesome for the Doms, doesn't it? They get to do whatever they want—order around that sub of theirs however they want—and they don't have to worry a damn bit about her feelings or opinions.
She's a sub, man. She takes orders, she doesn't give 'em. No topping from the bottom around here; nope.

The truth is, being a Dom is hard fucking work.
(I'm not talking here about the Bedroom Dom. I'm talking about the 24/7 "let me into your heart so I can clean shit up in there" Dom. The Dom who makes plans called Sticking Around and Making Changes.)
It takes stamina. It takes tenacity. It takes self-control.
And it takes a lot of self-sacrifice.

Being a Dom means taking time to see to the needs of your sub when you'd rather be off doing other things. She may not know exactly what you meant when you gave her those orders; you'll need to show her. She may not understand what you're trying to say the first time you say it; you'll need to tell her again, and again, until she gets it. She may not always be able to handle things on her own; you'll need to be there for her.
And she will definitely not always do what's right. You'll need to correct her.

Correcting her is not going to be easy, and it sure as hell isn't going to be fun for you. (Let me be clear here: I'm not talking about "funishment." Funishment is fun. Punishment is not. Punishment is reserved for when you're disappointed in her behavior and want it to stop.)
A punishment you make her suffer through will mean suffering for you, too—or it should. It will not be as bad as what she's going through, but it will not fill you with pride or joy.

If you've spent time around kids, you'll know what I'm talking about here. Take a privilege away, like the T.V. or a trip to their favorite ice cream shop...and you're stuck listening to them whine and complain about it for hours on end (plus maybe you wanted to get some of that ice cream, too). Put them in time out? You have to sit there and make sure they fucking stay in time out.
They're crying. They feel awful. You feel awful, too.
Plus you have to deal with the guilt and the frustration and the underlying thoughts of Why do they have to keep doing this? Why can't they just GET it; why can't they just do what I say? What the hell am I doing wrong?

As a Dom, you have to take steps to provide for your sub's needs, and protect her against the things she can't handle—even when that might mean protecting her from herself.
You have to be in charge of the relationship. You have to set goals, and do your best to stick to them—even when things get rough. Even when you don't think she's giving 100% of herself.
You have to live by example, and stand by your word—even if the trust has already started to fade.

There have been times my husband has pulled rank on me, and "played the Dom card." Not often, but during some of the most stressful and life-changing times in our relationship.
Never once did I think he pulled rank for the benefit of his own needs. Every single time he pulled rank and laid down the law, it was because he thought it was for the good of the family, our relationship, or my wellbeing.
It was NEVER done for the benefit of his own selfish desires.

He has asked me to do some pretty major things—make some big fucking sacrifices. They were hard. They were painful; mentally, and sometimes physically.
He didn't feel good about asking me to make these sacrifices. It didn't make him happy. In fact, he felt pretty awful about it.
But he asked me, clarified things to me, and then finally commanded me to do these things because he had decided that's what would be best for us. Not him. Us. Our little nuclear group we call a family.

When he asked me to do these things, could I have said no? Sure. I'm an autonomous person; I always have the choice to say no, to say 'my line is drawn here.' But I knew the consequences of doing that, and the consequences were never worth it.
Saying no was not the right thing to do when, in the back of my mind, I always knew what Husband was trying to make me do was really for the best.

THAT is the hardest part of being a Dom, I think. To make your sub truly believe that what you want from her is actually the best course of action for you all.

I know some Doms and Masters out there make it look easy—and their subs make it look effortless, too. I've seen plenty of slaves gush on and on, in online groups and in person, about how obedient they are, how *slavey* they are, how they would *never* go against their Doms' wishes.

First of all, if it's true, great. But I have a hard time believing they never question or argue with their Doms.
And second of all, of all these slaves who blindly follow their Masters? I have a feeling it took a lot of time and hard work to get there.

It's kind of like looking at a sexy rope bondage photo. Those things are so fucking hot—I mean, I don't enjoy rope, I'm fucking terrified of it in fact, but those photos, man, they are hot—and it looks so easy, doesn't it? Just get a bendy woman, contort her into some weird shape, tie up some rope around her, and voila, you've got yourself a good photo subject. Any old camera will do, right? Who needs to worry about good lighting.
You don't see how many hours upon hours of hard work went into that photo. You don't see the time spent exercising to get that bendy body; the blood and blisters spilled learning the rope skills; the patience and perseverance it took to make the rope itself. You don't know what it took for the people to recover from that photo, either; the aftercare involved.

24/7 D/s relationships, the ones that endure, work the same way. You might see a couple for a few hours at a munch or party: happy, intimate, sharing private energy that's pure, beautiful, and powerful.
You want some of that. You want to share that kind of energy with someone, too.

What you don't see is all the work that went into making that energy, the time it took to create that dynamic. You don't see the sacrifices they both had to make to make that relationship work.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: being a Dom or a Master isn't easy. It's more of a calling, I think. It's a choice for some, but a choice not so easily turned away from. Are there benefits? Sure. Is it often fun, and sexy, and hot as hell? Absolutely.

But if you think being a Dom or a Master in a relationship means getting to do whatever the fuck you want, you're wrong.
The end.

My Submission IS a Gift! On Condition

I'm going to start by saying right off the bat that you can call your submission—or by extension, your submissive's submission—anything you damn well want. You want to call it a gift, fine. You want to call it a loan, also fine. You want to call it the cherry on top of your vanilla ice cream cock, have it at; it really makes no difference in my life.

Ok? Good.

It seems to me lately there is a strong and vocal group on Fetlife who believe that submission is "not a gift." These anti-gifters get very intent on informing people of that so-called fact; especially people—especially subs—who state the opposing view.

The thing is, most of the time they're not arguing philosophy, or sharing ideas. They're mocking and deriding anyone who calls their submission a gift. They hurl insults at these people like they're uneducated rookies—

Let's not even talk about how we treat rookies. Or, let's, but in another post—

and end up in this little circle-jerk of snide contempt. They claim submission is not a gift because gifts are supposed to be given freely, with no expectation of exchange or return...didn't we all know that? If a sub is handing out their submission like candy to a baby, they're doing it wrong. They need to get a clue; go back to the basics.

Well, hate to break it to you guys, but not all gifts come duty-free. There is indeed such a thing as a "gift with strings attached." There is actually a legal term for this: it's called the Conditional Gift.

Conditional Gift: a gift of property which is revocable if the recipient does not fulfill conditions attached to the gift.

The most common example of a Conditional Gift is an engagement ring. In all but a few states, if a man gives his partner an engagement ring but the wedding doesn't happen, his partner is legally obligated to return the ring. It was not given unconditionally, "no strings attached"; it was given on the condition that a marriage takes place.

Another type of Conditional Gift is what often happens in people's wills. They bequeath money to friends or family, but with conditions how the money must be used. It may have to go toward a child attending college, for example, or the purchase of a house. If the money isn't used the way the giver intended, the funds must be returned.

This, my friends, is often what submission is in a D/s dynamic: a Conditional Gift. It is given with the assumption that it will never be returned...so long as the submission is treated the way the submissive needs and desires. In most cases I know of, the submissive wants to be made to feel like their submission is appreciated, respected, and cherished. As long as that happens, it need never end.

The submission need never be "returned" to the submissive.

(And yes, before any of you jump on me, Domination works the same way. No Dom I know is willing to dominate a sub who does not appreciate—or get turned on by—their style of dominance. It's just not fun that way.)

Submission is not a loan, because the truth is, it can never be returned—once given, the time and service spent in submission cannot be taken back. And really, who would want it to work that way? When care and thought is put into submission, it is personalized to the receiver. It cannot be simply handed over to someone else, traded in like a used car.

I have more than one person I submit to in my life—and I do mean in a kinky, D/s way—and they all get different styles, different displays, of my submission. The way I submit to one is not the same way I submit to another; they would not want me to submit to each one of them the exact same way.

And frankly, I wouldn't be able to, even if I tried. My submission is not generic. It changes, depending upon the person.

It is my gift given...conditionally.

I think it's funny how so many people here will jump on dictionary definitions to stand higher atop their soapboxes and claim submission is not a gift. These are often the same people who are sticklers for rules, protocols, and contracts in the D/s dynamic.

Yet if one wants to get all formal and legal, there is a term for what we do, what we submissives give...and the word "loan" isn't in it.

Or it doesn't have to be. If you want to call it a loan, fine. Like I said in the beginning, whatever makes you happy. Just don't try to serve me up a helping of sneers and jeers next time I call my submission a gift. I think this time contract law is on my side.

Here is a gratuitous Big Bang Theory clip, simply because it's so timely and funny:

I Was A Rape Victim, and I Didn't Know It. This Is My Story.

I've been debating writing this post for a while. I think the why of it will become clear as you read on. But a couple of posts that have recently made K&P made me think that maybe my experience could help someone else.

So.
I was raped in college.

This is what happened:
I had a boyfriend whom I will now refer to as Slink. Slink was a rather shady character: charming, beguiling, but deep-down dangerous. He would manipulate me, control me in ways that rang my WARNING bells from the beginning…but that was part of the excitement. He liked to control me, but I needed the control.
I had not yet learned how to differentiate between "good" control and "bad" control.
He was a Bad Boy, and I was the girl who liked the danger. As many young women do, I romanticized it. (I stopped doing that shit a long time ago…but I understand why so many women do that. The danger is what's so fucking enticing and addictive.)

Slink and I were already having sex, but we had to be sneaky about it—quick fucks in dark corners and secret rendezvous, like a scandalous game of cloak-and-daggers. He was rough and forceful, always just on the cusp of turning violent. His aggression only added to my captivation. I was a little bit afraid of him, but I needed that fear, and he never went over the edge.
He never did, until he did.

He brought up the subject of anal sex. I was too embarrassed to tell him I was already well familiar having fun with that area of my body, but I replied with an enthusiastic yes: I was willing to try it, absolutely.

We met in his dorm room. I stayed after curfew started.
This becomes important later.
We got naked; did all the foreplay stuff. It was actually sweet for a while, because he didn't usually do all the lovey-dovey things I thought of as foreplay. He kissed me, caressed my body, and I felt good; I felt special that a Bad Boy like him would show me this side of him.
Then he flipped me over on my hands and knees and started pushing himself into my ass.

There was no pre-stretching, no lube, no preparation of any kind. It hurt like hell. I wanted him to stop, and I told him so.
He didn't stop.
I tried to maneuver myself over so I could look him in the face as I told him to stop; then he would have to stop. He grabbed onto me, onto my hips.
I started to struggle and yell. He didn't stop.
I started to scream and cry; scream because I couldn't believe this was happening, and cry because it hurt so fucking much. He still didn't stop.
Finally I was screaming so loudly, I got the attention of some guys outside in the hall. They started knocking on the door, asking why they could hear female-sounding screaming within—curfew was over, didn't he know?
The knocking distracted Slink just enough that he loosened his grip on my body, and I quickly wrangled myself away. In the time it took Slink to offer some kind of response to the guys outside, I put on my shirt and skirt—my bra was left behind, I never saw it again—grabbed my shoes, and swung open the door.
There was a small group standing there. They paused, and stared down at me in surprise. I bowed my head low, and kept it there as best I could so they wouldn't see my face.
I ran out of the building barefoot. I put my shoes on only when I was halfway to my own dorm building, and I could feel the gravel cutting into my feet.

I was afraid to tell anyone what had happened, because I didn't want to get into trouble: I was not supposed to have been in Slink's room after curfew. I was afraid if I told anyone at the school what had happened—what he had done to me—they might punish Slink, but they would punish me, too.
My fear was not unwarranted.
The next day, I did tell a counselor. In a very kind and motherly way, she told me that I didn't have to worry, that she would take care of things from there on out. She told me she would make sure I would not be punished for being in Slink's room after curfew—a favor she was doing me, she called this—even though that had been very wrong of me.
She made sure to remind me that this was why they had rules like curfew...that if I had just followed the rules, I could have prevented all this from happening. Prevented myself from getting hurt.
I could not argue with her.

Now, here's where we get back to the subject of this post. For many years, I never thought of myself as a "rape victim." I knew something bad had happened to me, yes; something terrible and wrong. But I never, not once, thought of it as rape.
I didn't think of it as rape because—and please, don't roll your eyes at me, okay?—since Slink never actually finished doing the deed, since he didn't get to come inside me, then it wasn't actually a case of rape. It was...something else. Something horrible, yes, but not rape.
The word "rape" never entered my mind.

It wasn't until a whole lot of years later, reading some article in a news magazine about another rape case, that I realized what Slink had done to me was rape, that he didn't have to finish inside me for it to still be rape—the fact that he entered my body under those conditions, knowing full well he did not have my consent, made it rape.

Suddenly realizing it was rape did not change anything. Or maybe it did, a little; putting memories in different contexts always changes them to some extent. But it didn't change the effect of what that night had on me.
That was done.

You might think I was stupid for thinking if a guy doesn't actually finish, orgasm, inside a woman's body, that it's not really rape.
I probably was. But there are a lot of reasons why women might not think what was done to them was rape:

• Maybe the guy was really a nice person who would never do that, so it's not really rape.
• Maybe they had sex with the guy before, so clearly the guy had carte blanche right to have sex with them again, so it's not really rape.
• Maybe they were giving mixed-signals, so it's not really rape.
• Maybe the guy was their boyfriend, lover, or spouse, so it's not really rape.
• Maybe there was something else they could've done, some way they could have made their objections clearer, so it's not really rape.

•Maybe the rape was partly their fault, so it was not really rape.

So. Hi. I'm Shelby, and I was, once upon a time, a rape victim who didn't know she was raped.

One of the big reasons why I was loathe to post about this is because I don't want this to change the way people think of me. I don't want pity, and I certainly don't want this to be the thing that somehow humanizes me in anyone's eyes. I was not the proverbial Rape Victim; I wasn't then, and I'm not going to become one now. I went through a lot worse than what that rape did to me, believe me; both before that night, and after. Take that as you will.

But I will say this: I did not deserve to be raped.
I liked going out with the Bad Boys. That does not mean I deserved to be raped.
I was in his room after curfew. That does not mean I deserved to be raped.
I made stupid decisions. That does not mean I deserved to be raped.

I learned from my bad decisions. I learned the hard way.
Maybe some people out there who read this post will learn from my mistakes, and save themselves from making a few of their own. "A smart person learns from their mistakes; a wise person learns from other people's mistakes."
I can hope so.

Failure to Protect

When I was in college living abroad, I took some self-defense classes by a short little harmless-looking man I'll call The New Yorker. He had grown up in America, but had spent many years in the IDF, training soldiers in one-on-one combat. I don't know exactly how many years, or precisely what his job title was; he was the kind of man who kept many secrets...the kind of secrets I was safer off not knowing.
It was an honor to be trained at all by him. Those few lessons he gave me were a precious gift.

I don't remember anymore most of the maneuvers he taught me. But I do remember one moment quite well:
He asked me to punch him. I could not. He asked again; I hit, feebly.
"Don't hit me like I'm attacking you," he said. "Hit me like I'm attacking your kid."
The ploy worked. I hit much harder. Not hard enough to do him any damage whatsoever, of course...but he smiled at my efforts, which meant a lot.

Years later, back in the States, I was helping a friend shape up for a karate class. She tried to swipe a kick at the sandbag I was steadying for her, but I could tell she was holding back.
"Don't think of it like you're defending yourself," I said. "Think of it like you're defending your kid."
"But I don't have any kids," she said.
"Then your best friend," I said.
The ploy worked, and she kicked the bag much harder.

We are often able to let go of things done to us. When someone says nasty shit to us or about us, we're able to put it into perspective, realize the jerk is just being, well, a jerk, and move on.

It's harder to move on so quickly when the shit being stirred about surrounds a friend. Our urge is often to protect; we go all MamaBear on the asshole who dares to harm our loved one. We say things, and do things, we would never do to defend ourselves.

The problem is that by giving into this need to protect our friends—whom we often think of as family—we take away their ability to protect themselves. We scream on their behalf, and take away their voice. We choose who should know their story, and take away their choice. We guard them against further harm, and in so doing, trap them in place...making it impossible for them to move on.

When a friend is hurt, the thing to do is to listen to what they need. Sometimes they don't need anything else but for someone to listen.

And sometimes, yes, they will ask you for your support as they speak out. Sometimes this support is not so easy to give; sometimes it may cost you dearly. It is a choice whether you can emotionally, and psychologically, afford it.

I once failed to support a friend when she spoke out against her abuser. I regret that decision to this day; it still haunts me. I have long since forgiven any person who ever violated my consent in the kink community, but I cannot forgive this man who harmed her.
She, meanwhile, has moved on completely from this man. He no longer has any sort of hold on her life.

This is the way of it sometimes. We can forgive those who try to harm us, but we cannot forgive those who harm the people we love.
The people we often need to forgive are not those who would do our friends and family harm. It is ourselves we need to forgive, for failing to protect them.

The moment you start taking your relationship for granted is the moment your relationship is doomed

Every new relationship starts off with hope and possibility. As you're just getting to know your partner, you're finding out their quirks, while they're trying to figure out yours, too; and while you're sure to step on a few land mines along the way, the hunt to find them is part of the adventure.
They don't call it "New Relationship Energy" for nothin'.

Eventually, if the relationship continues, it starts to sink into a sort of routine. You begin to make plans surrounding the other person's schedule—not just time-wise, but emotion-wise: you know if they greet you with a capturing smile, it's time to smile back; if they grin briefly then turn away, it's time to give them some personal space; if they give you an evil grin with a hint of mirth and a sparkle in their eyes...and you happen to be a sub-type...it's time to run.

You begin to understand the other person—what makes them tick, what shapes them, how everything in their history has led them up to who they are today.
And slowly, as you sink comfortably into this new routine, a new sense of security sinks in.

Which is wonderful. It may not be as exciting or titillating as the New Relationship Energy was, but it's got its own magic and appeal. There's the knowledge that you've gotten to know each other well enough, and come to care for each other deep enough, to be fairly certain that the other person will be there for you through the thick. The more memories you make together, the more certain you're likely to be.

This assurance feels great.
It can also be dangerous if you start taking your partner for granted.

You start making assumptions about their needs, their wants, their desires...what is a necessity for them in the relationship, and what your partner can live without.
Things you used to do for them, you no longer do. Sweet words of love you used to tell them, you no longer bother to say. Or maybe worse, you start saying things to them you wouldn't dream of saying to a stranger on the street.

Why are you being so rude to a person you claim to care about?

Little favors you used to do for them to make their lives better, you don't bother offering anymore...because why should you? Your partner isn't doing you favors anymore. They're just...doing what they've always done, and will always do.
Except there is no always. Not in any relationship.

I don't care what kind of relationship you have—D/s, M/s, O/p, or pure vanilla. Don't care, it's still true: people need to feel appreciated.
The moment your partner starts feeling like they are not appreciated? THAT is the moment a crack forms in the foundation of your relationship. Doesn't matter how old the relationship is, or what you've been through together, either.
A person who feels taken for granted is a person who starts slipping away.

I've seen marriages fall apart because of this; Master/slave dynamics crumble like wet sand, often leaving one partner staring at the receding back of the other, wondering what the hell just happened.
I thought we were fine, I sometimes hear. I thought we would last.
They stopped seeing their partner as a blessing, and started seeing them as something they would forever have—and deserve—no matter what.

People who've been in long term relationships can tell you, things don't work that way.

Let me be clear, I'm not talking about 'the-chips-are-down-extenuating-circumstances' situations here. When one of you gets sick, or loses a job, or suffers a death in the family...hell yes, you should be able to rely on your partner to be there for you. (At least, as much as they can be.)

But to take your partner's help for granted, and not consider once what their help is costing them? That rings out the cloister bell of doom right there.

Always remember, your partner's contributions to the relationship need to be acknowledged. They need to know they hold value in your life.

(Unless they don't. In which case, your relationship is doomed anyway.)

Living With an Anti-Social IMPOSSIBLE Dom

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My Response to Master James' Post

My response to Master James' post, slightly edited from my Fetlife version:

In his post, Master James tries to turn SSC into a triangle.... thing is, SSC is not a mathematical algorithm, and it's not a geometric equation. Words like "safe," "sane," and "consensual" are completely subjective. But MJ would like people to think SSC is straight and true, and he gives an example of his point: the guy who found someone to butcher and eat him.

This is, obviously, an extreme example. There's a reason why MJ's example had to be so extreme: get any less extreme, and you'll have people arguing over what's safe, what's sane, and what's consensual. Which they did, in the comments section of his post.

Who gets to decide what's abuse, and what's not?

According to Master James, "abuse is not a question of whether or not you can scrape together some people who have been at the nasty end of your abuse to defend you. It's that your triangle is clearly missing a side to it. And it remains abuse no matter how well you sensationalise it. No matter how well you sexualise it. No matter how well you managed to target people who are so new they don't know enough about this stuff to know they don't have to blindly accept whatever you tell them. Or no matter how well you managed to target people who had become so accustomed to abuse in their past, that they were willing to accept your abuse as normal."
Which basically means that we, as a community, get to slap on the label of "abuse" on any behavior we think is abuse...whether the "victim" is calling it abuse or not.
This is where MJ and I disagree.

It is a very dangerous, slippery slope, deciding that we, as a community, can judge what's safe, sane, and consensual in other people's relationships. It means we are taking away the ability of bottoms everywhere to decide for themselves whether what they experience is abuse, or not; whether what they're asking for is abuse, or not.
We end up infantilizing bottoms everywhere, as an entire group.
We take away their right to consent.

Bottoms have the right to call 'abuse' when that is their personal experience. I take that as an absolute statement—period, the end. If you don't agree with that—if you think bottoms should have to jump through hoops just to be able to share their truth...like, say, call the police before they dare complain, or take "personal accountability" for the part hey played in their own abuse, or make them apologize for taking so damn long to gather up the courage to say anything—then you and I are going to be on opposing sides to this argument, and there will be no compromise here.

(Do bottoms feel comfortable with sharing their stories of abuse? No. But they should.)

The thing is...if we want bottoms to feel comfortable sharing their stories in cases of abuse, the corollary must also be true: bottoms should feel comfortable sharing their stories when they do NOT think it's abuse.

Personal story time: A while back, I had what many would call an 'extreme' scene with my Top. There was chain, a spreader bar, and whips involved. There was a lot of screaming and swearing going on. There was sobbing, too. There was choking on snot and tears. There was loudly wishing him a deadly case of hemorrhoids.
It took me a few days just to start processing that scene.
I was wary to talk about it. But people were asking me, so I felt obligated to say something.
"It was intense," I would answer them. "Very intense."
"I'm sorry it was bad for you," more than a few immediately jumped in. "That's hard."
"I didn't say bad," I replied. "I said intense. It was not a bad scene at all. Just...intense." It was the only word I could come up with.
Some scenes are like that. They are beyond articulation.
Frankly, I feel lucky to have experienced scenes like them.

We want bottoms to feel comfortable sharing the experiences of their own scenes. We want them to have safe, sacred ground to tell their stories, and bare witness to others.
The best thing to do is often to just listen. Do not judge, do not critique...just listen.

I could end my post with that. But that would be dangerous, too.

Because some bottoms are grappling with the idea that what they experienced is abuse, and they lack the articulation for that, too.

What you end up with is a bottom who is beginning to feel the effects of the abuse—they might be small, they might be well hidden, but abuse always has an effect on the body and mind—and the bottom doesn't know what to do.

On the one side, she has a Top who is making damn sure to tell her whatever he's doing to her, or did do to her, is not abuse. No how, no way; she's crazy if she thinks it is.
On the other side, she has friends who are telling her "It's up to you to decide what's abuse and what's not, dear. We support you either way."
And on the other side...she's got the entire kink community doing a very good job of showing her that if she comes out with allegations of abuse, she will be mocked, shunned, ostracized, disbelieved, and possibly outed.
...Gee, I wonder what she'll choose to do.

There is no easy answer here, no right or wrong way. Every case is different, and every case must be handled with compassion—and hopefully, a sense of principle.
Like I said, this is not a mathematical algorithm. This is the human condition.

(If you would like to see the full Fetlife version, click here to be redirected to Fetlife: https://fetlife.com/users/925156/posts/3331581)

You Need a Utility Belt

Being a Master/Dom/Toppy type does not mean every scene you do has to be full of SERIOUS TERROR and ALTERED STATE. Sometimes it's just about being fun and silly. Case in point, my time last night:

Him: (whispering gruffly in my ear behind me) Take off your shirt.

Me: (giggling) You sound funny.

Him: I do?

Me: Yes, you sound like Batman.

Him: (Back to gruff voice) That's because I am Batman. Now take off your shirt.

Me: You're silly.

Him: I'm silly, and I'm Batman. Now take off your pants.

Me: I can't have sex with Batman. This is crazy!

Him: You can have sex with Batman if Batman says so. Hold your legs open. Wait for me—don't move! I'm going to get some toys.

Me: Toys?

Him: Batman has aaaalll the toys. Don't move.

(Comes back a few minutes later while I'm stuck with my legs open, laughing on the bed)

Him: Toys.

Me: If you're going to use that thing on me, you'd better use lube.

Him: It's Batlube. And I'll use it if you're good.

Me: This is nuts!

Him: I'm Batman. Spread your ass—ah, good.

Me: It hurts!

Him: Too bad. I'm Batman.

Me: (laughing so hard I can barely speak) I can't relax when I'm laughing this hard!

Him: Not my problem. Batman is working now.

Me: Ow ow ow! What the hell are you doing?

Him: Well I'm not getting lost in a mall. Ray-chel!

Me: Wait, didn't Rachel die at the end of that movie?

Him: You won't die. I promise, and I'm Batman.

Me: You're crazy!

Him: I know, and you love it.

Sexy In His Eyes

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The Voice I Obey

I try very hard to hold my shit together online. Put up a good front, my mother used to say. Fake it till you make it.
For the most part, I think I succeed. Yes, once in a while I will rant, especially during certain times of the month; but overall, I think—these days at least—I keep my personal issues off the screen.
This does not mean I don't have my own personal issues to deal with; my own mental demons.

We all have them, some worse than others. While I know many who can write freely about their demons—often with great eloquence—I am not one of them. It is hard for me to let strangers that deep into my head. Personally, I have never had any good come of it.

Being a submissive in a D/s relationship does not somehow magically heal all my personal issues. The anxiety is still there, the depression, the Voice of Defeat whispering to me that I am not enough, that I will never be enough.

What being a submissive in a D/s relationship means is that my behavior is under someone else's scrutiny and control. I cannot let the Voice of Defeat dictate my actions; I cannot comply when it tells me to give up, don't bother, there's no point, I'll never do it right anyway.

That Voice of Defeat is pretty fucking powerful. Sometimes it doesn't talk at all: sometimes it just screams inside my head.
(Sometimes I think I scream inside the dungeon not out of fear, or pain, but out of triumph: to show myself and the world I can, at the most sublimely painful moments, still hold my own voice, and scream louder than that Other.)

The voice of my Master, while not louder, is always stronger. It always wins.

So while I sometimes want nothing more than to disappear into my own personal cave, I cannot. I am not allowed to. I may still lay low, keep to myself, and maintain a low profile...but I am still acting as a functional human being. Meanwhile, I am getting my shit together, kicking that Voice of Defeat in the larynx and telling it to shut the fuck up while I fake it till I make it.

And you know, sometimes that's the best you can do.

This is why you don't show your Dom your bruises.

Me: "Look at what you did to me! Look at this!"

Him: "Wow. What about the other leg?"

Me: "It's not nearly as bad, thank God."

Him: "We'll have to do something about this."

Me: "I tried ice already."

Him: "That's not what I meant. They're not symmetrical."

Me: "...What?"

Him: "We need them to be even."

Me: "What? And what do you mean, we?"

Him: "I can't remember what I did to cause that...look, we'll just have to recreate the whole night, and I'll retrace my steps, but everything I did to your left leg I'll do to your right leg, so they'll be even."

Me: "WHAT!"

Him: "You're right, that won't work...I'll just have to find a different way to give you a bruise like that, one that'll match. But there's no way...I might have to work on the first one, you know, to get them all even."

And this is how (if you're not me) you learn to shut up.

Small Insight on How We Communicate

Scene from last night

Me: You could have not given me this nosebleed.

Him: You could have stopped fighting.

Hello From the Holy City (Double Entendre, That)

I'm writing this post to you guys from the Holy City of Jerusalem. Home of the Temple Mount, Dome of the Rock, where Jesus lived...sacred grounds.

I am horny as all fuck.

I went to a rope munch here. It was awesome. Jerusalem is a surprisingly open city toward LGBTQ folk and others of a more kinky nature. It's not San Francisco of course—but still.
One thing I learned is how important it is to come to a new community with an open mind.

This rope munch was run differently than other rope munches I've attended. Rope was available for those who didn't have, books were on hand for those who wanted to learn, teachers were ready to lend some guidance...and the feeling of community and camaraderie was very strong.

There was no "universal safeword" here. I was kind of surprised to hear that. In my neck of the words, SAFEWORD is the word to use to get everyone's attention. (RED will also work, but will not always stop the scene immediately.)

In my community, we need this universal safeword because for the most part, people leave other people's scenes alone. We watch, we learn what we can from the peripheries; if we're invited to participate, then we get some hands-on interaction.

Not all of us will know each other. Many new people will show up once to a munch and never be seen again. Continuity is there to a certain degree, yes; but it ebbs and wanes.
We try to create safe space for people's scenes in a situation where we might not have any clue about the vast majority of scenes going on, or the people in them.

At the rope munch in Jerusalem, everyone knew each other—I was the odd kinkster out. And yet, if I had said "no I don't like that" to my partner, or "stop right now," that would have been enough to get everyone's ears perked up.

Apparently some of them had never seen a brat in action, either. This part got interesting I gotta say. When my partner started tying me, my mouth started running off, and people started glancing our way to look what was going on.

They had never watched a woman get tied up while panicky and miserable, telling her Top in great detail what a jerk he is in between bouts of giggles.

At one point my Top had me turn to face the room and let people know everything going on was consensual and in control.
(That is something I'm used to having to do.)
I was also told to keep my voice down.
(I'm used to that, too.)

I'll be back home in a few days, and then it's back to our regularly scheduled programming—and then MY NEXT BOOK RELEASE!

Cut Nails and Troublesome Mouth

In the car, driving Husband to the train station, looking over at his hands (cause he has sexy Man Hands):

"Oh, you've cut your nails."

"Yes." (Raises eyebrows.) "Does this give you ideas?"

"Nope. No ideas."

"No ideas—like my hand inside you?"

"No."

"You don't want my hand inside you? Fisting you? In and out, in and out—"

"NO THAT'S QUITE ALL RIGHT THANK YOU."

"I think my nails did give you ideas. I think you do want to get fisted tonight. I think that's why you said something."

"I think you should just keep your hands in your lap, over there, while I'm driving."

"That's not going to happen."

"Then I think from now on I should keep my mouth shut."

"You know that's not going to happen, either...especially not tonight."

Fantasies and Vulnerabilities

Ready to hear something surprising?

After all these years, I'm still shy about sharing a lot of my kinks—even with Husband.

I know, I know, I should get over this. The guy knows me inside and out; he knows me better than I know myself. I should have zero shame in telling him about all my blooming fetishes and fantasies.

But it's hard.

It's hard to take that first step and tell him there's something on my mind I'd like to try. It's hard to lay the script fantasy running through my head at his feet, and wait for his reaction.
It's hard to state out loud to myself, let alone someone else, how perverse some of the erotic scenes in my mind really get.

As a submissive who identifies as prey, it's hard to articulate "I want you to force me to do this for you." After all, if I really wanted to do this for him, wouldn't I just do it? Why should I have to be forced? What kind of submissive does this make me, that I have to be forced into pleasing him?
Wait, if this is my fantasy, and about my pleasure—am I not now topping from the bottom?
That's bad, right?

It's not bad, of course. Fantasies are never bad. Sharing fantasies grants any relationship a new level of truth and vulnerability, which makes it even hotter.
Husband LOVES it when I share my fantasies with him. He loves my kinky little mind. He's told me many times over that my fantasies are more hot and steamy than the stuff that comes out of a teenage boy's wet dream.

He also...he kinda loves forcing me to share my fantasies with him in very great detail. I think he gets off on how embarrassed it makes me. That's one of his fetishes, forcing me to suffer through that kind of humiliation, even as he knows it excites me, too.

There's a certain thrill for me knowing that as soon as I say, "Husband, I have a scene on my mind"—or something to that extent—he's not going to let the matter drop until I've told him exactly what I'm envisioning in my head down to the very last detail. He wants to know the tone of voice I'm hearing him speak; which side of the bed I see him on; which hand I see him using for what kind of play; even where his eyes are looking as he's doing whatever he's doing to me.

Of course, everything that happens during our real scene is up to him.
But in a way, that "real" scene is actually the second scene. The first scene starts as soon as I open my mouth and say "I have a fantasy." I'm forced to present all my inhibitions at his feet, to do with as he will.

Last night Husband and I had an amazing time acting out one of my fantasies. I'm not going to tell you what it was, but I will say (with no small measure of pride) that Husband came twice in fifteen minutes, and he came so hard he had to lie down on the bed for a good long while before his legs were strong enough to walk.
I'm not usually one for post-sex cuddle time but I gotta say, I enjoyed it last night.

Afterward, he hugged me and kissed me over my eyebrow (God I love it when he does that) and reminded me, "You shouldn't hide your fantasies from me. I want to know all of them. I want to know everything that goes on inside your head."
"I know," I replied, burying my head in the crook of his arm. "But it's hard. I'm embarrassed."
"You shouldn't be too embarrassed to tell me," he said. "I love you. You are the hottest woman in the world, and I am so lucky to have you."

That's what it's really all about, isn't it? To be vulnerable in front of another human being, strip down our veneers and cover layers until we expose our most fragile and unguarded selves...and be told we are still precious and beautiful to behold.
We are still appreciated.
We are loved.

The Single Word Command

There are few words that turn me on as much as this one.

Growing up in a religious home and going to a religious school, I was required to wear skirts all the time. The skirts had to be of "modest length," meaning that the hem had to fall below the knee; if the skirt had a slit in it, the slit could not travel above the knee cap.

Not only was I required to wear a skirt, the fashion in my school back then was to wear specific GAP long denim skirts, ones which were extremely narrow. They fell almost to the ankles, and had no slits. We girls did not walk; we shuffled. Opening our legs more than a foot wide was almost impossible.

This curtailed our mobility, obviously. But I think that was part of the point. If you look throughout history, one popular way of controlling women is to take away our ability to move.

In fact, we were taught specific ways on how to move—modestly, of course. We were not supposed to draw attention to ourselves, or do anything that might cause the boys to look upon us for too long; that was immodest. We were not supposed to roll up our skirts, not even in the summer months; that was immodest. We were not supposed to sit with our legs spread apart; that was immodest.

I will never forget the day the principal of the school gave the girls a lesson on how to bend down to pick something up off the floor. The trick, he said, was to bend at the knees, not at the waist. That way you're not presenting an attraction toward any male walking by.
Any woman who's ever tried to stand up from a kneeling position this way wearing a tight skirt knows there's a certain art form to it. It takes practice, and a certain amount of grace. Doing it right will make a woman look downright elegant; doing it wrong will see her planted on her face.

As the framework of my life changed and I began to wear pants more often, it took a surprisingly long time for the wicked thrill to wear off. I was doing something naughty, wearing pants; I could open my legs. 
Part of the pleasure was being able to just fucking walk.
But I still saw opening my legs too wide as something inappropriate and indecent. Girls just did not do that. They did not act that way. Not the good girls, at least.

I did not last as a good girl for very long.

Husband figured out very quickly what the word "open" does to me. He had to break down more than a few inhibitions first, of course. I was still very shy getting naked in front of a man.
I could take a dick down my throat, but parade around with no shirt on in front of a guy? Pfft. No way.
Once he got me naked before him, prone, vulnerable, and he would tell me to open my legs...then the sweet struggle would begin.

I used to refuse to open for him. My refusals were dealt with harshly back then. I was not punished so much as shown, time and again, that my refusals were futile. He would do what he wanted to do to me, and get me what he wanted me to do.
Full stop, the end.

But at the same time, he made me feel gorgeous when I overcame that struggle—even when he had to "help" me do it. He told me over and over again how beautiful I was, how attractive, how sexy, how womanly.
He made me feel comfortable with being proud of those parts of my body.

But the struggle has never really gone away. Neither has the delicious suffering—those moments of panic as I slowly ease my legs open for his stare, knowing I am revealing my most hidden parts, acting the perverse and wanton slut.

It is not just my body he finds attractive. It is the struggle he sees etched across my face, the inner fight waging behind my eyes.
It is a fight I am going to lose, and he is going to win.
With his triumph comes control.

Why I Won't Engage With Those Who Have An Anger Management Problem

Because I spent the first eighteen years of my life with such a person, and see no reason to put up with that bullshit anymore, not for one fucking minute.

Look, I know it's often hard, sometimes impossible, to control one's emotions. I know. But there is a difference between losing control of one's sadness, or frustration, or even happiness, and losing control of one's rage. 

Adults in general should be able to control their rage. You get angry? That's normal. You show your anger by going around punching walls, screaming and yelling, and having temper tantrums? That's a problem.
And let me be clear: that's your problem, no one else's.

And yeah, when it comes to kink, there's a double standard here between subs and Doms. Indulging in a display of rage now and again, especially under extreme circumstances, by a sub is more easily forgiven than when the same actions are taken by a Dom.

There's a reason for this: Doms are supposed to be the ones in control. In control of their sub(s), in control of their D/s relationship(s), in control of their lives. If they cannot control themselves, they cannot control anyone else, and should not be entrusted to do so.

I witnessed Husband give into a moment of rage twenty years ago—once. The action was trivial, and not directed at me. But I told him if he ever scared me like that again, we were done, over, finis. 
And he never has.

Emotions are a part of being a human being. There's no way to shut them off. But mastering them, at least to a point where you're not scaring the people around you, is a vital step of maturity.

I get the feeling that some people see no reason to control their rage.
Some people actually get off on their rage. They like scaring people. They like the attention they get, the fear they see in someone else's eyes. They say they have no control...but they do. The truth is, their rage gives them more control, because they have an excuse to act like assholes.
I didn't mean to lose control. 
I just got so angry. 

Fuck that. I don't put up with that bullshit in my life, not anymore.

I can take a lot of emotion thrown at me. I can handle anger, sadness, regret...even hate. I can handle tears. It's hard, because more often than not, when my friends come to me crying, I end up crying with them. But I will do my best to offer them an ear, and help them shoulder their pain.

What I cannot handle are acts of violence borne out of rage—no matter how small. I won't call this a trigger, but I will term it a "trauma button," and anyone who presses this button will see me walk away.

I didn't mean to lose control.
I just got so angry. 

That's too bad.
No, I'm not mad.
I'm just done.