Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Plans Gone Awry

Last night was supposed to be epic.

Husband I were going to try out a new toy. But it wasn't just any toy: it was a pain toy. Pain toys are a big deal because you can never be sure exactly how it's going to work out, no matter what you've read about them or how much research you've done. This is because 1. everyone's pain tolerance is different, and 2. some people have attitudes towards specific pain implements that affects their levels of pain and panic in a purely psychological way.

For instance, I love the belt. I crave the belt. Husband knows one of the easiest ways to turn me on is to look me in the eyes as he slowly pulls his belt out from the loops of his pants. So I can take a lot of pain with the belt, because on some fundamental level, I associate belt-pain with happy-pain, even though the welts going across my bottom say otherwise. When Husband punishes me with the belt, he knows he's got to really work to break through that happy-pain barrier into punishment-pain.

The power cord, on the other hand...I am terrified of the power cord. Husband loves it, loves using it for punishments, because it is quiet, sharp, and I'm usually a crying whimpering mess before he even gets it out. But by the time he's done, most of the time my ass looks just as sore and abused as when he uses the belt. The difference is, when I see my sore bottom after a session with the belt, I feel happy and satisfied. When I see my bottom after a session with the power cord, I just cringe.

New toys have to broken in slowly, because you never know what the reaction is going to be until you try it out. And the initial reaction is not always the one you stick with; it's more like a first impression. You have to really get to know the toy before you can judge its strengths and flaws. That's why Husband will never try a new pain toy during a punishment. When he is punishing me, he needs to keep control over everything that's going on and everything he's doing to me, and he just can't do that if he's not familiar enough with the implement. (Again, this is a sign of a good Dom: even when the goal is to reprimand you through pain, he will always maintain control of the measure of pain he inflicts.)

So, back to last night...we were supposed to try a new pain toy. The schedule was laid out: he would come home, and I would shower. I would not eat dinner, but drink a fruit-smoothie to keep my strength up (eating right before trying out a new pain toy is not always the best idea). After the kids went to bed, we would head up to the bedroom, where I would be under his complete control and follow orders implicitly, while he had fun experimenting with the new toy on every inch of my skin he wished and in every position he chose.

Then shit blew up. Literally.

"Mom, why does the bathroom smell so bad?" My eldest son asked. I thought maybe youngest son had used the toilet and forgot to flush, but nope.
Long story short: we were the proud owners of a broken sewer pipe.

I called the city. They said it could take two hours for a guy to show up. About an hour and a half later, someone comes, checks things out, and declares nothing can be done for the night. It would have to wait till morning.

"You can use the toilets," he says, "but don't flush."
Um, excuse me?
"And don't run the water," he continues. "And for God's sake, don't shower."

Husband and I looked at each other. We could deal with brushing our teeth in the backyard and using sanitizer wipes for our hands, but no flushing the toilet?

"Mom, I have to go the  bathroom," eldest son declares.
"Me too," middle son decides.
"Can you just go in the yard, next to the tree?" Husband asks.
"Uh, no," eldest son shakes his head. "It's not that kind of bathroom trip."
"For me either," middle son says.

So I load them up in the car, drive down to a local fast-food joint, and order us some food while they go use the bathroom. It is, as my eldest son says, "a stupid situation."
I order a salad for myself, too, cause there's no way Husband and I are going to get kinky tonight. Not without running water, not without me taking a shower first, not if I can't wash off the sweat and stink and sticky stuff later.
We eat and start the drive home.

"Mom, I'm not feeling well," middle son says.
"What, you need to throw up?"
"Can you wait until we're home?" And then I realize: we have no working toilets at home for him to throw up into.
"No." His face is turning pale; he looks at me in fear.
"QUICK, LOOK FOR A BAG," I yell behind me to eldest son. He looks around.
"I have a shoe box," he declares, handing it up to middle son. As soon as middle son has it, he's throwing up his entire fast-food dinner.

We get home, throw out the shoe box, bring a bowl of water outside to the backyard, and middle son washes his face and brushes his teeth as best he can. Then I get everyone ready for bed (grumbling because it's an hour before their bedtime but I don't CARE), have them go pee against the tree one last time, and send them to sleep.

Husband is waiting for me in the bedroom, looking very put-out.
"It's not happening tonight," he says.
"No," I say.
"This is pretty shitty," he says.
"Yes," I agree. Then we both start laughing.

Being in a BDSM relationship, living a kinky lifestyle, does not mean it's kink and sex and fun every night. It doesn't mean we're humping like bunnies all time. Kink and BDSM is a huge, integral part of our lives, but it is not what our family revolves around.
Sometimes life gets in the way, shit happens (literally), and you just got to deal with it as it comes and put the kink aside until the timing is right.
But if you're in a good, solid, BDSM relationship, these hiccups that life throws at you won't be a big deal. It'll be disappointing, yes, but it won't be the end of the world. You'll know there will be other nights, hopefully hundreds and hundreds of them, to give into your kinky cravings and satisfy your Dom's (or sub's) needs.

Sometimes being in a BDSM relationship means enduring the pain...and sometimes it means enduring everything that's keeping you from it.

Monday, August 29, 2011

Some Changes are Afoot.

Well, if you've ever visited this blog before, you'll see right away all the links to my titles are gone.
This is because I've decided to take the advice of the lovely Molly, who I would kiss back if I could. Apparently my blog is suffering under something of an identity crisis, and I did not realize! Poor blog. :(
So I'm going to be making some changes to (hopefully) fix things and make it easier for readers who stop by and are looking for advice, information, or just some playful kink.

Perhaps the biggest change of all will be the blog title. Molly is right, the title does not reflect the blog, but...I have no idea what to name it.
SO! If you have any ideas, and would like to share, please send me your suggestions.

Winner gets a free copy of all four stories in Masters of the Hotel Bentmoore! (Once they are out.)
Losers will have me cringing like this!
So thanks again to Molly!
To everyone who's just joining: thanks for the visit, hope you'll stay awhile! I'll be adding categories in the next few days to make it easier for people to navigate the blog, so do come back!

One more quick note: If you are planning on submitting a picture for the COVER CONTEST, please make sure it does not show girly-bits. And please make sure it is not something so inappropriate I will be arrested for showing it. This is a serious contest, I do not need submissions like this one:

Thank you!

Saturday, August 27, 2011


Okay guys, this is my first contest ever.

I'm finishing up the first draft of the fourth (and final) Masters of the Hotel Bentmoore story.

Story premise: Eve has arrived to the Hotel Bentmoore with her Daddy, who thinks he's dropping her off into the safe hands of her host while he's away on a business trip. But her host quickly realizes Eve needs some heavy discipline if she's ever going to be a good babygirl. He takes on the challenge of training her. Eve's Daddy is going to have some surprises awaiting him by the time he gets back!

Of course, will contain heavy spanking, belting, etc. Might also have an enema scene, I haven't decided yet (why can't I stay out of these girls' asses? The anal slut in me constantly coming through), and some teddy-bear loving.

Here's what I need: A COVER. I have not found an image that both 1. pleases me and 2. is accredited to the creator of the image. If it's not from a site like deviantart.com, I need to get permission to use the image.

If you have an image that you think would look nice for this story, then please, CONTACT ME.

What do you get if I use your image?
1. A free copy of the story.
2. A free copy of the collection, Masters of the Hotel Bentmoore.
3. Link-love inside the story, where I put all the copyright information and the links to my cover artist and formatter. That's right: everyone who buys the story will see a link to your site!!

So please, if you have a pic or know of someone who has a pic, please send it to me. And thanks for the help!

Friday, August 26, 2011

A Jewish Woman and Her Period, Part III (The End)

(Not much kink here today. You want kink? Go follow this guy.)

He took me by the hand and pulled me into his bedroom. The bedroom was very large: in the corner was a small couch and lounging chair, across from them a desk, bookshelves and a wardrobe

(Oh My God I just realized where the inspiration for the wardrobe in all the Bentmoore stories came from Holy Moses)

and in the center of the room, a heavy king-sized mattress on the floor, serving as a bed. He was in between beds at that time (long story), but I thought the mattress on the floor was great. It seemed stylish and more cozy.

He pulled me down to my knees on the mattress and continued to undress me, stripping himself at the same time.
"We can't do this," I hissed. "I have my period." This must have been the six or seventh time I'd said it since walking into his apartment.
He stopped for a minute. "Is it very bad?"
"Well, no," I admitted. "It's almost over, so it's not very bad. But I'm still bleeding."
He walked to the bathroom, by now completely naked--I got a great view of his ass, to this day that man has a great ass--got a towel, and laid it across the mattress.
"There," he said. "Why are you still wearing your bra?"
At this point, inside, I knew we were going to fuck, period or no. He had a way of seducing me into compliance, just by his charisma and authoritative attitude, that still works to this day. I couldn't outright refuse him, I couldn't think up a good argument against him, and the sight of his naked ass walking across the room had tipped me over the edge.

But when we were done, there was blood everywhere, not just on the towel. The whole sheet was stained with drops of blood.
"Oh, God." I started stripping the sheet off the mattress, both to keep the stains from going through, and to hide the evidence of my disgrace.
And then, from behind me, I heard Husband laughing. Laughing.
"This is what you were so worried about? A few stains on a old sheet I probably should've gotten rid of by now anyway? Well, if this gets you to make my bed and do my laundry, by all means, go ahead." He laughed harder.

I wanted to throw the bundle of sheets at him. I wasn't just angry at that point, I was hurt. He clearly wasn't even trying to understand what I was going through. I dropped the ball of sheets on the bed and walked into the bathroom.

He came up behind me as I was waiting for the water in the shower to warm up. I turned to face him and said, "I don't think we should have sex anymore while I have my period. We'll just have to wait."
His answer was swift and emphatic.
"Because." I got in the shower, and he followed me in.
"Hey. Hey," he grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. "This whole period thing really bothers you, doesn't it?"
"Okay," he sighed. I think he finally began to realize that this was one of those things in any relationship he did not have to understand, he just had to accept. We could talk about my reasons and fears and beliefs later, but at that moment, I needed to know he took my stance on the matter seriously, whether he agreed with it or not. This was about hard and soft limits, and although we didn't have the vocabulary for it yet, he certainly grasped the concept.
"Did you enjoy the sex?"
"Yes, but now I feel gross."
"Physically or mentally?"
"Physically. Mentally too, I guess. It's embarrassing."
He didn't ask why this time. I think he understood the "why" of it was a topic of conversation for another time.
"As far as the physical goes, that's easy to deal with. You're already in the shower--" he began to soap my inner thighs, making me gasp--"and I can clean you up. The sheet we can wash, or we can toss, whatever you want. Now, as for being embarrassed, I don't know why you have this thing about the blood--"
"It's not just about the blood--"
"But I really, really don't care. I think you're beautiful--" he kissed my nose-- "no matter what--" he kissed my brow-- "and your period is NOT going to stop me from wanting to make love to you. So if you feel very, very strongly about this, I won't push it, but I don't want you twisting this around so you think I'm the one who doesn't want it."
"How can you not care about the mess? It's so gross--"
He grabbed the soap and shoved it between my legs, rubbing it inside my pussy.
"This is how much I care," he growled. "I'll get up in there myself and wash you inside and out if that's what it takes to convince you. THIS IS NOT A REASON TO NOT LET ME TOUCH YOU. Understand?"
"Understand." My voice was rather breathless at that point. He was rubbing the soap everywhere, inside and out, just like he said he would.

The "period issue" still comes up every month. I still consider the ick factor as totally gross, and won't have sex on my heaviest days. But I don't think having my period makes me a disgusting person anymore, and I don't let it stop me from getting intimate in other ways with Husband. He can touch me all he wants, I can certainly touch him all he wants, and when the blood is not so bad, we just put a towel down on the bed and consider the problem solved.

Although we stay on the towel. After all, I am the one now who changes the bedding, does the laundry, and buys the sheets. We have very nice sheets; I'm not so willing to toss them.

I guess, my point out of all of this is, one of the jobs of a Dom is to help a woman feel good about herself and help her grow out of any misguided notions that serve to constrain her. He's got to strip away all the self-loathing and guilt and recriminations women feel (we all do, at some point), and make her see herself for the beautiful, sexy, worthy-of-love woman that she is. And that usually involves a lot of listening, and guiding, and sometimes a healthy dose of pushing and prodding, but a good Dom will know it's all worth it.

He will know when one of her limits is based on a legitimate concern, and when it's based on misplaced fear and, as was my case, a ridiculous perception of self-disgust. He will help her see her own weaknesses and face them head on, because he wants her to be a better, healthier, happier person. That is what makes a great Dom, and part of what makes a great foundation for any D/D relationship.

Thursday, August 25, 2011

A Jewish Woman and Her Period, Part II

(Also long, and probably not very interesting for those looking for kink. You want some funny kink? Try this.  Or this.)

When I got older and broke away from the stifling, oppressive lifestyle I had grown up in, my views and habits went through some drastic changes. But some of the basic beliefs, I just could not rid myself of them, and the belief that my period made me dirty and disgraceful in the eyes of God and men was one of them.

For 23 days out of my cycle, I was flirty, alluring, teasing, and fun. I knew I was sexy because I felt sexy, and guys responded to that. But for the other five days, I would become a different person. I would turn shy around men. I dressed very blandly, and covered everything up. It was like I didn't want a man to find me attractive while I had my period, because that would be somehow leading him into sin.

I had a few boyfriends during this time, and when I got my period, I would not let them touch me. At all. They were not allowed to hug me, or give me a kiss hello. It was just one of those things; I think they chalked it up to a woman being in a bad mood during her period, and not wanting to be touched. They didn't realize my beliefs were based on some twisted theology that said if they touched me while I had my period, I would be tainting them with my uncleanliness. Looking back, it all seems so ridiculous; but back then, I felt like I was almost saving them from joining me in abomination. I was doing them a favor.

Then I met Husband.

From the beginning, I think we both knew what we had was something special. We weren't into the whole BDSM lifestyle then, we were both very young and ignorant about a great many things, but even so, the Dom in him and the sub in me were already a set part of our personalities, and we completed each other in ways we'd never found before.

But I still would not have sex with him during my period. At first, the issue didn't even come up. He was traveling a lot back then on business, and he always seemed to be flying off somewhere just when I had my period. In that sense, it was a relief for me not to have to explain to him why he could not fuck me. The topic simply never raised its ugly head.

Until the month he came home three days early from his trip, and I still had my period.

"Why am I home and you're not here?" He called and asked, slightly worried. It had become our ritual that he would tell me when he expected to be back at his apartment, and I was expected to be there, waiting for him. (Again, back then we weren't using words like Dom or sub, but even so, I was submitting to his wishes, obeying his orders to please him, and we both loved it.) He had called earlier to to tell me he was almost home, but I had not gone to his apartment to greet him.

"I can't come," I said. "I have...." I couldn't finish.

"What?" He asked. "A test? A project due? A place you need to be? What?"

"My period," I whispered. "I have my period."

He was quiet for a second. "So? Are you sick or something?"

"No, but...I have my period." I couldn't understand why we was being so obtuse about this. Wasn't it obvious why I couldn't come over?

"If you're not sick, and you don't have any other reason not to be here, then get over here. I haven't seen you in over a week, and I want to see you." His voice was an order, one I could not refuse.

When I got to his apartment, he immediately kissed me, hugged me, and began his gentle intimate touching of my body that he did after a long absence. It was almost like he had to re-claim my body as his own.

I pushed his hands away.
"Don't touch me," I said.
He stepped away, shocked. "Why?"
"Because I have my PERIOD," I said, getting exasperated.
"So what, I'm not allowed to touch you?" He asked.
"You can't," I said.
"Because I'm disgusting," I wailed.
"You look fine to me," he retorted. "You look beautiful. Look, is there something else going on here? Because I'd really love to kiss you, and if you're not going to let me, I'd like a real reason why."

Believe it or not, it was the first time a guy had ever argued with me after I'd refused his advances. Others had protested, some rather rudely, but no one had ever argued about it with me before, and insisted on an explanation for my strange attitude.

"I. Have. My. Period," I emphasized each word, like I was speaking to someone with a hearing disability.
"So what?" He repeated. "What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

And then this lightbulb went off in my head: he really didn't give a damn about my period. He was taking my refusal to give him access to my body personally.

"I'm gross," I said, ashamed, and slightly angry for having to humiliate myself by explaining this to him. "I'm dirty, and I smell weird...believe me, you don't want to touch me."

Now he got really pissed off. "Do not tell me when I do or do not want to touch you," he said, an edge to his voice. "I've been thinking about seeing you for over a week, and I finally get to have you in my arms again. You are not dirty, you are not gross, I don't know why you think you are but it's not true, so GET OVER HERE."

He pulled me into his arms, and this time, I let him. He didn't care about my period, not one bit. I was the  one making him angry by my obstinate behavior. He had been looking forward to this moment all week, and I had was taking all the joy out of it by focusing on something he clearly didn't think was even an issue.

So I kissed him back. We made out for a while, there in the living room, and it felt like I had gone through some sort of epiphany.

I could touch a man during my period. Husband didn't mind; he didn't even care. He didn't see any unholy corruption and filth on me. I was the same me. I just happened to have my period, is all.

I realize this sounds like a big deal over nothing, but for me, given my upbringing, it was a drastic shift in beliefs, and it took me a while to accept it.

But then Husband started unbuttoning my shirt.
"What are you doing?" I screeched.
"What does it look like?" He peeled the shirt off my shoulders and admired the cleavage in my bra. "God, I've been waiting too long for this."

Next: A Jewish Woman and Her Period, the End

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

A Jewish Woman and Her Period, Part I

This series of posts was inspired by the talented and beautiful Molly, over at Molly's Daily Kiss. You should check her out. She's on Twitter, too. She lives in the UK, but we can forgive her for that.

I've decided to divide this issue up into two or more posts, because I have a lot to say, and a lot of background information to give. Feel free to skip this stuff if it bores you. No kink here today.

In Jewish Law, there are very strict rules governing when a married couple can have sex. I say married couple, because single people are not supposed to have sex at all. In fact, they are not supposed to touch a member of the opposite sex. Unmarried people who follow the rules prohibiting any form of touching of the opposite sex are called Shomer Negiah. Keep in mind, it doesn't matter how old the single person is, how long they've been "dating" other people, what their plans are for their future together...as long as they are not married, there is supposed to be NO TOUCHING.

(This has led to a true crisis among Orthodox singles, who are growing older and older without finding their "soul mate," and are remaining completely celibate because of it. It is sad, and it is wrong...but I digress.)

Once you are married, of course, you are allowed to have sex. Sometimes.

When a woman is having her period, she is considered a Niddah, one who is unclean, impure, in a state that prohibits her husband from having sexual relations with her. She cannot have relations with her husband until she has counted down the proper number of days of "cleanliness," and then has gone to the Mikvah, the ritual bath. The trip to the Mikvah must be done at night, it must be kept a private matter, and once she returns home, it is considered a positive commandment by God that she have sex with her husband as soon as possible.

The rules surrounding the laws of Niddah have changed over thousands of years, making them even more strict. It used to be that a woman counted seven days from the first day of her period, or until the last day of her period, whichever came last, to go to the Mikvah. Over time, the Rabbis decided that wasn't good enough, and instructed women to count seven days from the last day of her period before she could go to the Mikvah. 

So let's say a woman's period is five days. 5+7=12. So from the first day of her period, she cannot "be" with her husband for the next twelve days. But that works only if her period is five days. If she has ANY fresh blood come out of her vagina, even a smear on the toilet paper, then that is considered another day of her period, and she has to wait another day to start counting the "clean" days.

During the time she is in Niddah, she is not allowed to touch her husband in any way. Yes, you got that. NO TOUCHING. The married couple is expected to sleep separately, or create some sort of boundary between them. They cannot kiss, they cannot hug...he cannot even hand her a cup of coffee, because their fingers might brush together.

Of course, all this changes once she goes to the Mikvah. Then, she is clean, she is ready for the miracle of her husband's sperm, and she is obligated to be a vessel for it once again.

The whole point of this, of course, is to make babies. Because if you know anything about the female reproductive system, you know that a woman ovulates about fourteen days after the first day of her menstrual period. If she starts having sex with her husband on day 12, it is most likely the optimal time to get pregnant.

(Of course, female sperm live longer than male sperm, so typically women who ovulate two days later end up having more girls, which is why you see so many Orthodox families having more girls than boys...but I digress again.)

 The point is, sex between a married couple, at least while the woman's reproductive system is still working, is about making babies. When she has her period she is unclean, she is scorned, she is spiritually looked down upon because she is not pregnant.

This is the education I grew up with. Yeah, you can imagine the hang-ups I had regarding my period. Dirty. Shameful. Sinful. An abomination in the eyes of God.

Next: A Jewish Woman and Her Period, Part II

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Why Is It So Quiet In the House?

All the kids are back in school. Dudes, I got so much done today, by the time I had to pick them up, I was punch drunk from my productivity high. I was DRUNK with it. I felt MAHVELOUS.

I love that feeling.

The "first" story of my next collection, Masters of the Hotel Bentmoore, should be out by the end of the month. I write "first" in quotation marks because, unlike my last collection, I'm not numbering them one through four. Each story will have its own cover, too. I just happened to feel ready to give this particular story to my formatter first, so it will be the first to go out.

I'm deep in the editing process of the "second" story, so it can go out soon, too. But again, this process is slightly different from my last series: I'm not releasing them all at once, I'm releasing them as they are ready. That way, people can read each one as it comes out, and not wait for all four to reach what I consider perfection. Or, at least what I see as perfection. Sometimes, no matter how many times I read a story, and other people read the story, mistakes are overlooked until it's too late. Those mistakes kill me. KILL me. I try to snuff them out as much as I can.

I am excited. I am writing, I am editing, I am thinking up new stories...and I am enjoying myself. The new year is off to a great start.

(I hope I didn't just jinx it.)

Saturday, August 20, 2011


When a couple is in a D/s relationship, it is taken for granted the sub is going to have to relinquish a lot of things to her Dom. Power, control, choices, options, time, money, lifestyle, day-to-day living...a thousand different things in a thousand different ways the sub has to "give up" to her Dom. If she is a true sub, and happy with the arrangement, she will do so willingly.

I think, in our society as a whole, the idea of "giving up" anything is seen as something vile and abhorrent. I just don't know why.

Think about it. Women are told all the time, "you don't have to choose between career and family. You can have it all. You don't have to give anything up." Men are told, "you need to look strong and wealthy and secure at all times. Don't look weak, and don't give up." Children are told, "you can get into whatever college you want, get any job you want, as long as you work hard enough. So don't give up."

We shouldn't have to "give up" on that brand-new car, even if we can't afford it. We shouldn't "give up" our dreams of being a professional sports player, even though we suck. We shouldn't have to "give up" our goal of looking young and beautiful forever, even though we know it's just not possible.

We are made to think "giving up" is weak. "Giving up" is disgraceful. "Giving up" is pathetic. "Giving up" means we weren't good enough.

I don't think this was always the mentality of our society. At many points in history, it was considered honorable to give things up, because it meant you were trying to contribute to the greater good. During the Great Depression, when food was scarce, families shared resources to help each other out. During WWII, women gave up their jewelry to help make artillery. Until fairly recently, giving up unnecessary things was considered good for your character, good for the community, and good for America.

Now all that's changed. If you give up your career to raise your kids, you're anti-feminist. If you try to live within your means, you're called "unAmerican" by Republican politicians. (Which explains the economic horrors going on in our country right there, folks.) If you give up on some impossible dreams and reach instead for attainable ones, you're a failure.

There is no way to put a positive spin on "giving up" anymore. I think it's a shame.

My life, at this point, is all about giving things up so that this house runs smoothly and this family is a happy one. I give up my "rights" and many of my choices to Husband, who wields authority with respect and care. And don't be fooled: he gave things up when he married me, too. When I relinquished my "rights" by becoming his wife and sub, he relinquished his right to do anything that might jeopardize his role as Husband and Dom. I know his responsibilities wear on him. This lifestyle we have is not always rainbows and marshmallows for him, either. It's a heavy burden to bear.

But we "give up" the things we do because it's not a sign of weakness or inferiority. It's beautiful. It gives us power to do things we thought were beyond us. We are constantly reaching new heights, him as a Dom, me as a sub, us as a couple, and we as a family. We are more powerful and more secure because of the things He, and I, are willing to "give up."

Giving up is a wonderful thing. I only wish I could get more people to realize that.

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

The Two Ways to Submit

There are two basic ways for a sub to submit to her Dom: the easy way, and the hard way.

The easy way is for the sub to simply give in, agree to do (or not to do) whatever the Dom has ordered. Immediate and complete submission.

The hard way is for the sub to refuse, steadfastly, to follow orders. To stomp her foot, cross her arms, look at him mulishly, and say NO. The ultimate act of defiance.

There are varying reactions between these two extremes, of course. A sub might balk at first when handed instructions, but ultimately comply. Or she may pretend to be willing to go along with instructions at first, but then later try to sabotage the lesson in a passive but perversive sort of way. I happen to think the former scenario is easier to mend than the latter. A sub who, once forced into submission, can be trusted to carry out orders, is much better than a sub who must be watched at all times for any sign of subterfuge.

Negotiations are often involved, though. Especially when they are new orders, instructions to do something the sub has never done before. If they include an act that will push the sub's buttons, push her boundaries, a Dom must treat carefully and make sure he is not stretching the sub's limits too far at once. If it something he knows will be very difficult for her, lots of support and encouragement may be needed, and a reward after the orders are carried out would probably also be nice.

Now if the sub is being ordered to do something she's already done before, maybe even many times, and it's well within her ability and aptitude, but she balks anyway, that's usually a sign she needs to be taken in hand, shown a good demonstration of power by her Dom. She may balk because it's been a while since he's had to reprimand her, and she's 'forgotten' her place. Or it may be she really gets off on a good spanking, craves what has been denied her for too long, and thinks the only way to get it is by misbehaving.

Sometimes, being refused a good spanking is a form of punishment. Especially if it's given with disdain: "I am so disappointed in you right now, it's not even worth my time to try to correct your behavior. Maybe in a little while, when I think you are in a mindset to actually learn something, I'll try to teach you some good manners." It's like a time-out, only with a heavy dose of humiliation and contempt. It's another way to show the sub her actions have gone too far.

The more the sub and Dom get to know each other, the better the Dom will know the sub's levels of comfort, her soft boundaries, her hard boundaries, and--what can often be the most fun to handle--the things she wants to be forced to do. I think every woman has one or two things she wants to do, but for one reason or another, needs to be strong-armed into it. Maybe it's trying a new position, or playing out a fantasy role...or maybe it's experimenting with what she considers to be a very naughty toy. Whatever it is, once the Dom discovers it is one of her barriers that really, she wants broken, it is only right for him to do whatever it takes to fulfill her need.

In the end, they will be both be happier for it.

Monday, August 15, 2011


Collars a big thing in the BDSM scene. They are a symbol of submission, a sign for all to see that you are being dominated by someone else, who may not necessarily be there at that specific moment controlling the actions, but is always there in spirit, retaining some measure of control.
Collars can be made out of different materials. Leather is popular; I think it's because it's cheap, easy to manipulate, and looks the most like something befitting an animal. The more committed the couple feels toward each other, the more likely they are to get a more expensive collar, in silver or gold.
Collars don't always look like collars. Sometimes it's fairly obvious: the collar is tight, a choke-hold around the sub's neck, and has a D-ring or O-ring attached, for a leash to be looped or hooked through. 
But collars can be more innocuous, more private, more innocent looking to the vanilla eye: a plain necklace, maybe a gold chain, maybe a solid ring that looks heavy, but stylish and not at all kinky.
Collars can mean different things. There are training collars, play collars, protection collars...some collars are worn only for a certain amount of time, or only during certain parts of the day. I have seen collars that, once fitted around the neck, need to be cut off to be removed. 

Of course, people like to label the meaning of the collar, and the problem is that different labels mean different things to different people. A protection collar does not always mean the couple is exclusive; a play collar does not always mean the wearer is anything more than a bottom (as opposed to a masochist, and if you don't know the difference, that's a subject for a different post). 

Husband and I have often toyed with the idea of getting me a collar. I want one; and while he doesn't see the point of it, (I am his, collar or no collar,) he is not against the idea. The question is what kind.

I want one that will do more than just look pretty: I want it to be clear what it's there for. I want the collar  itself to proclaim me as his property. I want it to be a necklace, but worn low around the neck; I want it to be feminine, delicate, and light. But I want it have written right on it, across the band, "property of."

I have not found a single jeweler that can engrave a gold or silver necklace with the engraving of my choosing, no matter how thick. I have to add a pendent, or a locket, and engrave that. But that's not what I want.

So I remain uncollared. It makes me a bit sad. I know I am his, but...I would like, on certain occasions, to declare it as a symbol on my skin, and have people around me know exactly what that symbol means. I would wear it with pride.

Sunday, August 14, 2011

Punishment Scene

I know he is angry: he is white-faced with it, eyes drunk with it. He is clenching his jaws and stiffening his stance as he stands in front of me.
But he is more than just angry. He is shocked, saddened...disappointed.
"Why would you delete things off the DVR without asking me first?" He whispers in a voice full of censure, focusing his eyes somewhere to my right. He doesn't even want to look at me.
"Why would you do that? It would have taken you a second to ask me if it's okay to delete these. It's not even like we need the storage space on the machine. Why would you do that?"
I am abashed, remorseful, mortified by what I have just done. But it is too late; as is the case so often, I have committed to impulsive actions that, once finished, cannot be changed.
"I...I thought you'd watched these shows already...they've been on the DVR forever..." I look down, letting my voice trail away. His inability to look at me fills me with wretchedness most of all. "I'm really sorry," I finish. It sounds pathetic, even to me.
He shakes his head slowly, then walks away. His voice cuts through the air as he disappears into the kitchen.
"We will discuss it tonight."
 I remain slumped on the couch, swallowing hard, trying to control my fear.
I have been condemned.
I am doomed.

Later that night: the children are asleep in their beds. He leads me by the hand to the bedroom. He has not spoken to me for hours; now his voice is filled with controlled authority, a knowledge of what is about to be, of what must be done. And, dare I say it: anticipation.
"How many shows was it? Three? Let's say ten a show? Thirty then," he says. I don't bother answering; talking now will only get myself into further trouble, I know.
He stops me in the center of the bedroom.
"Get undressed," he orders. "Lean over the bed." As he is talking, he is unbuckling his belt, pulling it through the loops of his pants. The static hissing sound it makes as it slides against the fabric reminds me of the fleeting hissing sound it will soon make as it whips through the air, right before impact. I hesitate.
"Undress," he says again, his voice full of grit.
I strip off my clothes and lean over the bed, hips bent, legs straight, pressing my breasts into the sheet. He is not satisfied with my stance.
"Hands up," he says. Dutifully I stretch my hands, reaching over to the other side of the mattress. My fingers can barely curl around the edge, but it is enough. I will be able to hang on, keep position. I will need to.
"Every time you lift your foot, I will give you one with the rod," he notifies me. My breath becomes ragged; I am trying not to cry. It is not often I am not allowed to move my feet, shift my body the slightest bit, even during a "regular" punishment. This one, I knew, would be severe.
He rests a hand on my bottom for the briefest of seconds, setting his target, placing his aim, letting me know he's about to start.
A hiss. Then: Impact.
My head comes up off the mattress from the shock of it.
"One," he says.
I hear the hiss of the belt cutting through the air again, but it is too short, too fast; I have had no time to prepare. The belt cuts across the rise of my bottom, scalding me like a burn. He is not giving me any kind of warmup: the blows are coming strong, and will stay strong.
"Two, " he says. I can sense from behind me he is already raising his hand for the third. It will be thirty hard, thirty strong, thirty that will let me know in no uncertain terms exactly how disappointed he is in me. Thirty to ensure I don't make the same mistake again. God help me.
Three hits me across the thighs, making me suck in my breath and hold it. I squeeze the edge of the bed with all my might. It's all I can do not to move.
The belt keeps coming, whipping against my soft flesh like slick streaks of fire. By seven, I am crying into the sheets. By fifteen, I am sobbing, babbling for mercy. By twenty-two, I am screaming into the mattress, my voice muffled.
He does not stop. He does not alter his pace. He is working systematically, trying to aim his strikes against clear, unblemished flesh, but those spaces are getting harder and harder to find as my bottom and thighs become one large beacon of throbbing redness.
At twenty-four, I do the unthinkable: I shuffle my feet, hopping from one to the other in a vain attempt to escape the agony.
"Feet down," he growls.
"Please," I beg, "please, it hurts--"
"That's good. That means you'll remember. That means we won't have to go through this again. Now stop wriggling or by God I'll get the rod right now and finish the rest of your punishment with it."
I stop.
"Good girl. Now where was I? Oh yes--"
The last five are a blur. My mind has shut down. I can no longer focus on his voice, or the momental pause between blows, or even the hiss of the belt through the air. All I can do is focus on the pain--as he wanted all along.
Then he stops. It's over--at least the belt part. I still have one more part of the punishment to go, one I brought upon myself, the worst one of all.
"Stay down," he says. As I try to regain some control of my breath, he goes to the closet, sliding open the door and pulling out the rod.
When he returns, he positions himself to my side, placing a hand in the small of my back to steady me. He can feel my body shaking under his hand, I know, but it doesn't halt him from what he is about to do. I squeeze my eyes shut, barely keeping myself from bolting off the bed.
The rod swings--and smacks. It hits right under the swells of my ass, slicing into my legs like sharp glass. Then the skin snaps back, and the secondary pain hits.
I arch up, straining, clenching, frozen, unable to breath. Then, like a babe, I fill my lungs, and howl.
"Quiet," he says. "Don't wake the kids."
As my body shakes on the bed, my muscles too weak to move, he puts the belt and rod back in their places safely in the closet.
Then he sits on the edge of the bed and waits. He knows not to touch me now, as I take a few moments to recover. When I tilt my head to look up at him, he is staring back at me. He looks accomplished. Satisfied. He is grinning.
I am relieved.
"I really am sorry," I say, my voice ragged and weak.
"I know," he says, gazing at my striped and blazing-red derriere. "But I don't think it will happen again. Let's put it behind us now."
"My behind is all I'll be able to think about," I say as I stand up. Even now I am unable to control my smart-assed replies. I rub my bottom, ever so gingerly. He laughs.
"Yeah, I guess you'll be thinking about your behind for quite a while." A hot predatory gleam comes into his eyes. "I can distract you from it, give you something else to focus on."
As he pushes my shoulders down and lowers me to my knees in front of him, I know what kind of distraction he's talking about. But I don't mind; he's right. It will take my mind off the pain.
And I still need to show him how sorry I really am.

Friday, August 12, 2011

Latest Bit Of Fun: Henna

If you've ever walked around a street faire, carnival, or amusement park, you've probably seen a stand or two of people selling "Henna Tattoos."
A Henna tattoo is a temporary tattoo that is applied to the skin through a bottle with a tiny applicator. There are no needles involved; paste is carefully squeezed through the applicator onto the skin, where it sits for at least half an hour before flaking off. Once the paste is gone, the color design remains behind on the surface of the skin, darkening overnight. A henna tattoo can last up to two weeks, although it will start to fade after a few days. The intricacy (and beauty) of the design depends on the talent of the person who applies it.

The henna paste is made from henna powder and a few other ingredients like oil, sugar, and lemon juice. You can get a recipe for making your own henna, but frankly it's easier to find it pre-mixed. Many times it actually comes in an applicator bottle, but if not, you can always add your own applicator. I've even experimented with icing tips.
In America, used as a medium for fun and fashion and not really as part of a social or religious experience, henna is typically applied to arms and legs. I think this is primarily true because the person applying it is usually a stranger, not someone you know who would feel comfortable moving into "private" places, and also because henna tattoos are charged by the size, so a larger one that goes up the leg would cost significantly more.
But there is nothing wrong or dangerous about applying henna to more hidden places on the body, and that's where the fun comes in.
Husband has been marking up my whole body with henna. Well, let me rephrase that; he's not marking up areas that aren't covered by clothes. These are not designs to be seen by other people. These are marks of possession, to be seen by only him.
I have intricate handprints...on my ass.
I have swirls, lines, and dots surrounding my breasts, encircling my nipples.
I have "property of" written in beautiful script, right across my...well, I'll let you figure it out.
Getting marked on your skin is always a very personal, deep experience, connecting you to the person doing the marking in ways I can't describe. It's humbling, an ultimate relinquishment of power over your body. To me, it's an act of submission that is freeing to the soul and very, very beautiful. You are giving your entire body up to your Dom, you are showing him your very skin is his to do with as he pleases.

If he is anything like Husband, he will find this offering very attractive. Husband likes to look at the marks on my thighs and ass after a good punishment, but my skin tends to heal quickly, and in any case, I try not to deserve myself a good punishment session that often. Henna is not a punishment, but it is a sign of ownership, possession, and lasts a good while. Once the markings fade, they can be reapplied, or a brand new design can be put in its place.

Or you can try to combine henna with a punishment. Husband tried to apply a thin coat of henna paste to a paddle before using it on my bottom. The results were not pretty...but they were a heady reminder of what he had put me through, every time I saw my ass in the mirror.

Thursday, August 11, 2011

New Year's Resolutions

January 1st is officially the first day of the year, the day everyone is supposed to make their "New Year's Resolutions." But if you're a parent like me, you know that life tends to revolve around the academic calendar, not the Gregorian one.

The first day of our "year" is the first day our kids start school. That magical day when we drop them off at the curb, wave at their doomed-looking faces, and drive away.

The last day for us is in June, the day our kids come home skipping and whooping, screaming with joy that school is finally over, so overcome with their own excitement they fail to see us trembling in the corner of the kitchen, holding our martini glasses with shaking hands, groaning with trepidation and fear, wondering how the hell we're going to survive the next couple months.

Summer is a blurred expanse of time, a space of weeks that we know are filled with official-named days, but somehow get lost in our memories as minds slowly melt in front of the TV. It is punctuated by trips, outings, days that loosely translate into Places I Took The Kids To So They Would Stop Driving Me Crazy For A Few Fucking Hours.

We wait and count down the days until that first packet arrives from school, the fat envelope with our names on it, filled with news and regulation updates and emergency forms and class schedules and staff changes and lists of after-school programs. The packet that lets us know the end of summer is near, school is soon to begin. Not a resumption, but a brand new beginning of a brand new year.

And when that day comes, the first day of school, no matter how magical a summer it was, we sigh in relief: finally, we can get back to some sort of routine. A Schedule. Normalcy. Time to plan things ahead, time to be able to do things for ourselves, by ourselves.

My kids start school next week. Summer is drawing to a close, and while this was one of the craziest and best summers this family has seen, well, maybe ever, I'm glad to see it go. It's time to set some goals for myself for the coming year.

So! In the coming year, I resolve to:
1. Lose at least 25 pounds. Yeah, I know, every woman starts out her resolutions list with a weight loss goal. I'm not being unconventional there. The thing is, I am not grossly overweight, I still look okay for my age--but if I lose 25 pounds, I will look, well, better.
2. Write at least 10,000 words a month. This is actually a rather low number: it translates into about 2,500 a week, or 500 a day, and doesn't count Saturdays and Sundays at all. In fact, I know I can beat this number and write way more, but I think it's better to do better and leave your original resolution in the dust than set the bar too high and end up falling short.
3. Continue to surprise Husband in the bedroom. And I do mean sex. We just tried a new technique the other day...he loved it. So did I.

Those are the three big ones, the ones that will take up the most of my time. Got any New Year Resolutions of your own?