Sunday, October 30, 2011

The D/s Relationships Nobody's Talking About

This post is (partially) in response to Sylvanus's Post, How D/s Relationships Work, and  Sub Girl's post on the subject.

While I've been married for a long time, I still have single girlfriends, and a single sister, who sometime enjoy telling me their "matchmaker date" horror stories. They'll be set up with a guy through a mutual friend, and go on a blind date with  him, only to find that not only did the two of them not have anything in common, but the mutual friend should have been able to realize immediately the match would never have worked.

And then they go back to the friend who set them up in the first place, and ask what the hell made them think it would be a good match. Inevitably, they get a stupid answer like this one:
"He's short, and you're short, so I thought it would be a good match."
"You're both a bit...plump? So I thought you'd go well together."
"You're both red heads, I thought you'd make such cute kids."
"You both seem so smart to me. I thought two smart people would have a lot in common."
"You're both vegetarian."
Hopefully, you're reading these answers and also rolling your eyes. After all, it's silly to think two people would be a good match simply because they have the same dietary restrictions, or look relatively the same, or have the same IQ.

But too many times, people don't recognize they're using the same over-simplistic approach when it comes to BDSM and kink. They assume if two people share the most general of fetishes (anal sex, foot fetish, etc), or have a couple basic needs that complement each other (Dom/sub, masochist/sadist), then a relationship will automatically fall into place.
This is bullshit.
BDSM is only one aspect of a relationship. Granted, how big an aspect it is depends on the couple. When Husband and I first started "getting serious," we had some pretty honest discussions about our views on religion, politics, family life, and the like. With some of those things, there was no room for negotiation: we either agreed, or we did not. Had we not, the relationship would have ended.
Even so, through time, our views have changed and adapted. That's life. But there are some things that a couple must stand united on, or the foundation of the relationship is built on sand. In the end, it will crumble.

For some people, aspects of their kinks are "non-negotiable." They are looking for someone who can fill their kinky needs. Which is fine, if they are being honest and forthcoming about what their needs are.
But that doesn't mean anyone who can fill those desires, complement their kinks, is automatically the person who can have a long-term, meaningful relationship with them. It just means there's a possibility there for a good, strong, foundation. Building a relationship takes time, and effort, and not just in the bedroom (or whatever room you use for play).

On the other hand...
Thinking that D/s relationships are somehow more doomed to fail because they are D/s relationships is silly and narrow-sighted.
BDSM is about power exchange, granted. Many D/s relationships are TPE, total power exchanges, although I don't know how anyone could fathom a guess how many BDSM relationships are also TPEs; it's not like there have been studies or statistics done on the matter.

What I can tell you is that many, MANY people out there have D/s TPE relationships and don't belong to any "scene," have never even heard of "BDSM," and frankly, don't give a righteous fuck. How do I know? Because I associate with these people every day.

Wives who give complete control to their husbands. Husbands who expect their wives to obey and submit, naturally, no questions asked. Women who are punished, one way or the other, when they refuse, argue, or talk back to their Dominant males. These are D/s relationships, whether they know it or not.

But they don't think of this as TPE, and they certainly don't define their relationships in terms of Domination, submission, power exchange, or any other words those in the BDSM world use on a regular basis. To them, this kind of relationship is completely natural, as it should be between man and wife. They don't put it in terms of kink; it just is the way it is. And if you suggested to them that maybe what they have can be put into kinky BDSM terms, they would not just be surprised, they would be affronted.

I get the feeling many people in the BDSM world think kinky people have some kind of monopoly on TPE relationships. That's hogwash. Just because others don't show themselves and advertise their lifestyles in clubs, on Fetlife, or what have you, that doesn't mean they're not out there.

And guess what? Their relationships are doing fine. Better than fine, I would argue. These are people who get married young and stay married forever. I guess one could argue that being married and staying married does not signify a healthy relationship. But then, I could argue that a divorce does not signify a failed one, either.
For instance, my grandparents got legally divorced when my grandfather had to go into a nursing home, so my grandmother wouldn't be left destitute. But they remained religiously married, and she visited him every single day in his nursing home. I would not call that a failed relationship. How many other marriages end on paper for one reason or another, while the relationship itself continues? Does anyone know for sure? Has anyone done any research? I think not.

D/s relationships are difficult, yes, but I would argue, no more or less difficult than any other type of relationship. It takes trust, and honesty, and open communication. It takes time, and work, and let's face it, it takes luck. There needs to be that certain chemistry there that no one can define, even though we all know what it is, because we've all felt it at one point or another.

For those who know that BDSM and kink will need to be an integral part of any relationship they have, looking for someone who shares their beliefs from the get-go is a good idea. But it will not automatically save a relationship doomed to fail, nor will it doom an otherwise healthy relationship. It will just be another aspect of day-to-day living the couple will have negotiate and decide for themselves.

Friday, October 28, 2011


He prepares his tools before I enter the room. Then he orders me in. The first thing he does is put me in the cuffs, buckling them tight against my wrists.
"I made a mistake yesterday, not using restraints on you," he says. "I had to worry too much about your hands getting in the way. I won't be making that mistake again."
He attaches the leather strap binding my two cuffs to the hook on the door. My arms are not stretched painfully, but my hands can no longer offer me any protection.
"Do I still have to apologize for that email?" I ask, wondering what he is waiting to hear, what signal I need to offer to make him stop. What I can give him that will save me.
"We've gone beyond that," he says. My heart skips. I breathe hard. 
My first reaction of fear.

He goes to the bed, retrieves the cane. I can look over my shoulder and see him striding back torwards me, clenching the cane in his fist. The gleam in his eyes fills me with icy trepidation.
"What do you want from me?" I ask. 
"Nothing," he whispers. "Nothing but to hear you scream. Later, you can say your sorry. Later, you can say 'yes, Sir' when I ask you to talk, and maybe that'll be enough for me. But right now, there's nothing you can say."
Then he puts the gag in my mouth, pushing it between my teeth and pulling it tight around my head. I close my eyes, and brace myself against the door. The adrenaline is rushing my blood hard now; soon, the endorphins will come, too. I am already sinking into subspace.
The first strike of the cane is vicious. I arch my body into the door. 
"Your ass is purple in some places from yesterday," he says. "I'll try to aim for other spots. For now."
He swipes across my ass cheeks, working methodically up and down. Then he works my thighs, stepping around my body to cut new lines into my flesh. 
I kick up my heels and hop from foot to foot, knowing it will not help, but unable to stop myself. My hands yank at the leather strap binding me to the door. They want instinctively to rub the sting away, and cover my flaming bottom. They cannot.
"You see?" He asks in a tone of triumph. "Things are much easier when I don't have to worry about your hands."
I hear him going to the bed, retrieving his next toy. 
Something fierce and dreadful smacks against the curve of my hip. My head snaps up in agony.
"I got a new brush," he explains merrily. "It's wood, and has a flat handle. See?" 
For a brief second, he holds it up in front of my eyes. Then he is peppering my ass with it.
I twist against the door, jerking my body around, trying to get away from his reach. It is pointless. But he grows tired at my feeble wriggling and grabs me around the hips, holding me still. 
The brush burns into my skin like an iron. Tears cascade down my cheeks. My cries are muffled, but plaintive against the gag.
He laughs, hearing my cries. Then he takes off the gag.
"Now then," he says. "Are you sorry?"
"Yes, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
"Yes, what?"
I know what he wants, I know what he expects to hear. I am about to say the words, they are in my throat... and then the monster of stubborn defiance possesses me once more. With both hands, I give him the finger.

"Fingers," he says. "You want fingers?"
He pushes me against the door and grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking brutally. With his other hand, he takes aim of my asshole. He forces one finger in, then another. I cry out from the burning, ripping pain.
"Shall I fuck your ass like this?" He hisses in my ear. His fingers stretch. I howl. "Shall I fuck you dry? Do you think you would like it?"
"No Sir. No Sir," I cry through my sobs. I try to twist away. He bends my knees in with his foot, forcing me down harder on his probing fingers. I scream.
"This is much better," he says. He wiggles his fingers. 
And then...and then I sigh and quiet down, because he is still rubbing his fingers deep inside my body, and it is beginning to feel good. His fingers become a welcome fullness, arousing all the right nerve endings. If he would get his fingers just a little bit wet....
He hears my sigh, sees my slackening face, and recognizes the change within me. He yanks out his fingers, fast. I yelp.
"None of that now," he says. "We're not there yet." 

He goes back to the bed, and gets his next weapon. He holds it up proudly. I quake with fear.
"It's a cricket paddle," he says, circling it in his hand. "I had to go to two shops to find it. Apparently it's very popular in India. Who knew?"
Holding it in both hands, he raises it high--and swings. The impact jars me against the door. I suck air into my lungs, hold it for a second against the pain, and let out a high-pitched screech. 
"This will do nicely," he says. He switches from one hand to the other, slapping the paddle against my buttocks and thighs with resounding smacks. My whole ass grows warm, then hot, until I feel like I am sitting on flaming coals. He never waivers in his rhythm or force.
"Please," I beg. "Please."
"Please what?"
"Please, Sir. Please, Sir."
"You think you've learned your lesson?"
"Yes, Sir. Yes, please, Sir..." I am shaking with the braying force of my sobs.
"Okay." He unbuckles the cuffs around my wrists. 

I want to crumple to the floor. I want to take a few moments to breathe. 
He grabs me by the hair again and pushes me across the room.
"On your knees," he growls. I fall to my knees. He spreads my legs open with his knee and enters me from behind, quick and hard. His entrance is an easy one. I am already wet and slick, both from sweat, and from aching need.
"You'd better come if you can, cause I'm not waiting for you," he says, pumping hard enough to jerk my body forward. I brace myself on my hands, lock in, and let my senses take over as he fills me over and over again, in and out, grinding, caressing....
He digs his nails into the abused flesh of my ass, clawing in. I shriek. He releases his grip, only to move to another section of my hot, blushing bottom. As he squeezes his fingers in, I squeeze my muscles tight around his hard length buried deep inside me. He pumps harder as he forms dark little half-moons all over my butt. A couple of them break the flesh; blood rises up, forming droplets on the surface. I feel the wetness, but don't understand what it is. Not yet.
But I don't care, I'm not really thinking about it anyway. All my focus is on the stabbing, stinging pain, and the tight, thrilling fullness. The feelings swarm and swell until I can't tell the difference. 
We come together, both of us crying out in ecstasy. 
He recovers first. He stands up, and looks down at my broken, bloody body. 
"You need to wash," he says. "You stink. I can smell the fear on you."
I raise my eyes to look at him. In that moment, he is a god, an Adonis, my Lord and ruler...or maybe the devil arisen from hell itself. 
I rub my face against his leg and kiss his foot.
"Yes, Sir," I say. A prayer to my god.
"But not yet," he says. "I'm going to wash first. You don't fucking move. You understand me? Don't fucking move."
I lower my head to the floor and stay still. "Yes, Sir." My voice cracks. He seems happy to hear this.
I watch him go around the door, hear the water turn on, hear his movements as he washes his body. Then he returns.
"Go," he says. "Wash up. But first...kiss me."

He pulls me up, circles me with his arms, and lowers his mouth to mine. It is a searing, forceful kiss, full of love and devotion.
"Feel better?" He asks me, looking deep into my eyes. He is not a god anymore, but my Lord and ruler all the same. My savior. My love. "All that pent-up stress gone now?"
"Yes. Oh, yes. Yes Sir," I say, hugging him tight. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." He rubs his nose against mine. We both smile. "Now go wash. You really do smell like sweat and fear."
"Okay...but, before I go, um..."
"Can you do one thing for me?"
"Can you take a picture of my ass?"

Thursday, October 27, 2011

The Perfect Storm

If you follow me on Twitter, you'll know that yesterday afternoon was bad for me. Like, really bad. I was in a shit mood. My head was a roiling tornado. I was running on instinct and emotion and a need so powerful, I wanted to scream. I felt like I was going fucking nuts.

I knew what was triggering my mood, the circumstances surrounding it, but the problems I was dealing with only acted as the catalyst. Strong, heavy emotions like that often end up feeding themselves, spiraling out of control, until it becomes irrelevant what triggered them. The priority becomes calming the fuck down.
I couldn't. It was simply beyond me. I was filled with rage and desperation, I was dancing in a maelstrom of emotion so powerful it felt like I was being blinded, choking on its dust. I was so afraid, not that I would do something dangerous to myself, but that I would say the wrong thing to the wrong person and end up hurting them badly.
Twitter came to my rescue. @Sirstompsalot, specifically, took up the gauntlet, and let me set my white-hot wrath upon him, at least as much wrath as one can fit in 140 characters at a time. I did my best to goad him to a fight, ready to release my fury. Smart Dom that he is, he scoffed at my brazen attempt, laughing at my (now I know, lame) Twitter bluster. In fact, he actually used the word "giggle." He was giggling at me.
Finally, I was able to see how silly I looked: like a child having a tantrum in the middle of the floor and all the authority figures in the room rolling their eyes and snickering at the ridiculous show of defiance.
It calmed me down, a bit.
Not enough to stop me from sending a very rebellious, and downright obnoxious, email to Husband, mind you. But enough to keep myself in check for the rest of the night, while I made dinner for the kids and sent them to bed.
Let's be honest, if I'm going to send a nasty email to anyone, it had better be to Husband, who is my absolute and ultimate authority figure, and has not just the right, but the responsibility, to handle me and my tantrums, however ridiculous they look to the outside world.

I wish I could say he came home, dealt with me, and everything was okay. Unfortunately, his meeting ran late; consequently he was home late. He couldn't stop at the supermarket to buy anything to assist him (like ginger or horseradish) in his disciplinary actions against me and my derriere.
He spent as much time as he could with the kids before it was their respective bed times, and then he had to eat dinner, which meant by the time he called me upstairs to chastise me, it was deep into the evening. But he could tell right away I didn't just need a scolding. I needed to be broken.

He asked for an apology for the email; I offered none. He didn't really need the apology, he was just drawing the line in the sand, a way to know when I'd had enough of what was about to come. When I could bring myself to apologize, (and sound sincere about it,) then I was beaten down and broken, and he would help me to pick up the pieces of my mood, calmly and rationally. But until then, my rage was in control, and no apology would be forthcoming.

He started on me with his belt. He didn't even have to hold me down. I braced myself against the bed, and dared him by wiggling my ass. He clenched his jaw and set to work, spanking me with heavy strokes.

And then: the belt snapped. I kid you not, the belt snapped against my ass, and broke. He held it up and just kind of stared at it for a minute, shocked.
I was beside myself. I trust him to know his implements, to keep control over every move and every stroke, and when I saw the broken belt, my first reaction was to blame him. Which, even then, I knew was ridiculous. Accidents happen. Leather breaks. I was just too far gone to think logically. So I yelled at him.
He didn't take too kindly to that.

He picked up the hairbrush next.
As you know, the hairbrush is pretty high up there on my pain scale. But if nothing else yet has given you an idea how bad my mood was last night, then this will: he used that hairbrush on my ass for half an hour. I don't know how many swats it was, I didn't bother keeping count, but I knew it was half an hour because it only stopped when I happened to look at the clock, sigh, and tell him he'd better put up or give up because it was getting late. His eyes practically bugged out of his head, I can tell you. I was just in such a foul mood, there was no way he was going to break me that night, not with something like a hairbrush.
A hairbrush? Pffft. No way.
So he fucked my ass with very little lube, lasted as long as he could while I scowled and sighed and rolled my eyes, looking as defiant and unaffected as possible, and when he was done, he looked just as mad as I did.
"You didn't break me," I said. I wasn't proud of it. I was sad.
"I know." He seemed surprised, and embarrassed, and rather ashamed.
"You'd better do a better job tomorrow," I said over my shoulder as I sauntered into the bathroom. I was giving him an out, and we both knew it, but I didn't want him to feel personally hurt, like he'd failed in his duties as my Dom. There is a fine line sometimes between being a smart-mouthed sub, and being a hurtful bitch. I had come awfully close, but had not crossed that line, not yet. Now I was backing away.
"Oh, I'll do a better job tomorrow," he growled. "Your ass won't just be blue. It'll be bleeding."
"We'll see."

This morning, in the warm light of clarity, I realized why I had felt so desperate yesterday.
I am a sub, and I am a masochist. These two characteristics do have overlapping needs, but sometimes, those needs have to be met in different ways.
When my smart-assed sub side overwhelms me, I need to be controlled. I need to be put into cuffs, ordered about, and basically have my every movement controlled by him. When he gains that level of domination over me, he controls my head, too. My very thoughts are dictated by him. And sometimes, I need that: for him to decide what I can think, and what I cannot. To focus on some thoughts, and banish others away. For him to tame the turmoil in my head.
When my masochist side overwhelms me, I covet the pain. It becomes a craving, an addiction-like need, and I'm willing to do whatever he wants, beg, cry, crawl on hands and knees, and kneel at the alter of his sadism, just to get the kind of satisfaction that only pain by his hand can bring me.

Yesterday, I was being overwhelmed by both sides, the sub, and the masochist parts of me. I wanted to be ordered about, but I also wanted to be punished. I wanted him to make me writhe in agony; I also wanted him to turn me into a quivering, timid, broken down slave. I wanted his Dom side to make me kneel at his feet, and I wanted his sadist side to give me that endorphin rush, that pain-induced high.

The conflicting needs were too much, almost like the perfect storm. I was overwhelmed by the rampaging hunger for both. It pulled me into a place I don't think I've ever been before, and Husband, certainly, didn't know what to make of my surging craze. He couldn't break me, not because he didn't try, but because he just...couldn't.
He came ill-prepared for the battle at hand.

I don't think he'll make the same mistake again tonight.
Tonight, he's calling in the troops, and stopping at the supermarket on his way home.

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Playboy Ads

 I've been reading a lot of blog posts lately that, frankly, have been pissing me off. Too much of "if you're kinkier than me you're too extreme but if you're not as kinky as me you're too vanilla" and "I'll use whatever words I want if you don't like it then too bad but if you use words I think are stupid I'll laugh at you and show you the door" and "we should all embrace all types of kinks and fetish but only as long as it doesn't intrude onto my play space if you trespass onto my turf I will sneer at you until you leave you ignorant newbie."
My head is not in a good place right now to write my own blog post about something kinky or kink related.
Then I remembered I haven't done a Playboy Ad post in, like, forever! So thank you, Playboy, for rescuing me from coming across as an arrogant, needy, self-righteous bitch. (Wait. Too late?)
Playboy: the sub-blogger's inspiration.

This post brought to you by the lovely ladies of August 1990.
This issue is chock full of those music clubs ads. You remember those? Choose six or eight or twelve CDs, agree to buy just one in the next year, and that's it?

As nothing but a favor to you, of course, they will send you a brand new CD every month, and have the courtesy to bill you for it! And if you don't like it, you can have a full ten days to return it, and they will graciously take it back! Because they are so nice!

I was not surprised when these clubs went out of business.

 You've got your movie clubs ads, too. Can't forget about those. Anybody want to watch Batman? Like, the very first one?

(Does anybody still own a VCR? We won't tell.)                                                                                      

If listening to music is your thing, though, this "Sony D-35 Discman" might be just for you. It makes it "easier than ever to create perfect tape compilations"!

(I can hear my son asking: Mom, what's a tape?)

Now for listening to music in the car, a Pioneer is what you're after!

I love it how the ad starts with, "believe it or not, compact disc for the car has been around for awhile. There are even a chosen few who could actually afford to buy one."

Really? I had no idea!

Of course now, the compact disc for the car has been gone for a while. But there are still a chosen few who might actually listen to one.

(Okay, I admit it. I still have some CDs in my car. I am old.)

This thing is supposed to be one of those high-priced fancy-shmansy toys for "real" Playboy men.

It allows you to play CDs and LPs (!!) on the same equipment, for the tidy price of $349.95.
The price includes the 30-function (gasp) remote control!

Last, but not least, is this:
I actually really wanted one of these things when I was a kid. It looked so cool. I guess the word "kareoke" hadn't been invented yet.
Feel old now, too? I know, I know. Sand through the hourglass and all that. It's okay. If it makes you feel any better, our kids will probably be showing their kids the iPods, trying to explain how they used to listen to music, and their kids will probably be asking the same kinds of questions. "What's an iPod?"

Yeah, that didn't make me feel any better, either.

Thursday, October 20, 2011

Spankings, Rated by Pain*

*As in, my pain.
Look, everyone has a different pain scale. And everyone (I mean everyone who has ever been spanked by their Dom, hollering in pain, while also thinking more! more! in their heads) (which clearly would not include most vanilla people, and would also not include my sister, who I have come to learn now reads this blog, HELLO, SISTER! Thanks for stopping by!) (Wait. Where was I? Oh yes, everyone who is a kinky sub and likes to get spanked) has certain tools that excites them, and certain tools that just scare the crap out of them. And there are lots and lots of variations of toys and tools, so this really depends on the device being implemented, and, you know, where it's being applied. So, all that being said, here is my list, a countdown to what hurts the most:

1. The hand. It's intimate, and personal, and can vary widely in effect and intensity. It's also hard to anticipate the next slap when the hand has a tendency to caress every once in a while--which feels nice, but makes it difficult to sink into the pain acceptance and subspace.

2. The belt. Now we're talking stinging pain. The belt can whap, or it can snap, or it can just smack you around, depending on the belt itself. But that thing is going to hurt, and it's only going to get worse the longer the spanking goes on. Looping the belt can alter the feel of it; shorter belts tend to have a stingier snap to them. Beware the silver-tipped belt! I love the belt, simply because I love the idea of being spanked by something that's been around Husband's waist all day. I love watching him unbuckle the belt, pull it from the loops, loop it in his hand as he tells me to bend over...oh man, next to the hand, the belt is best.

3. The paddle. It's wide, and somehow, that actually distributes the pain more evenly, which doesn't give me that "stinging cut" feeling. It's just kind of a general, warm slap. It hurts, but once a good rhythm is established, it's all good.

4. The flogger. I guess a lot depends on the type of flogger; like many point out, a heavier, thicker flogger will feel more like a "thud," while a lighter flogger with thinner ribbons will be more "stingy." But what's true for both of them is the longer you use it, the more painful it gets. But the intensity escalates gradually, which can lengthen the time of the spanking session.

5. The crop. The blow of the crop can be softened, depending on how it's being wielded, but there's no way to make it feel good. It just fucking hurts. In this house, it's a pretty serious punishment implement. It's also not one of my favorites because I don't like the look of the welts it raises on my skin.

6. The hairbrush. For me, this is the worst of the worst. The pain goes from zero to ten in one smack, and it doesn't have to be a hard smack, either. It doesn't take any time at all before I'm crying in agony with the hairbrush. On the other hand, there are times when I ask for the hairbrush, because I love the bruises it raises on my skin. They are a beautiful blue, blotchy and round, and stay for quite a few days before slowly fading. And let's be honest, sometimes a sub is just in a mood to get marked up.

I realize this is not a power cord,
but I could not find a sexy picture of a  power cord,
so this will have to do.

7. The power cord. I'm adding this to the end, because it's Husband's favorite. It's quiet, so any noise Husband hears is coming from me. It's vicious, so Husband knows he doesn't have to bother with a long warm-up. And believe it or not, it's easy for him to aim and control this thing (don't ask me how), so he can have fun aiming his stripes. I hate the power cord. Not as much as the hairbrush, but it's up there on my list. It does make some nicer stripes on my skin than the crop, though.

Keep in mind, this is just a general list, and does not include a lot of other spanking implements like rulers, tawses, canes, etc. And there's a lot of variation between the same types of implements, depending on size, material, how it's made, etc.
But I never claimed to be a spanking expert. I just call 'em how I feel 'em.
Now go get spanked.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

The Top Five Excuses

This post was inspired by The Kamamama, who sent out a general question on twitter: what is the difference between discipline and punishment in a D/s relationship.
I can only answer this from the viewpoint of my own private relationship with Husband. Someone else might have an entirely different answer. Hell, even Husband might have an entirely different answer. And we've been together for so long, breaking down the tiny differences and nuances in the "reasons" he has to spank me might be difficult to explain. But I'll give it a shot.
Rule of Ten
We are trying a new toy/implement for (one of) the first ten times.
I think I've stated before, Husband and I follow the "rule of ten," meaning we do our best to try out a toy/implement at least ten times before we decide if we like it or not, and if we do, under what circumstances. It's kind of like the way you treat little kids with new foods: you make them try it out at least ten times before you let them say for sure they don't like it, because (if you're a parent you know this), by the sixth or seventh time, often the same food the kid said he hated before has now become his favorite one. Toys are the same, sometimes.
The first few times we try something new, the whole point is just to get a feel for the thing. Ongoing communication is vital. I am obligated to be as honest as I can in my feelings, say everything I'm experiencing with it even if it doesn't seem important at the time, pain, pleasure, fear, everything. Husband is also supposed to tell me what he's feeling as we go, if it's getting heavy in his hand, if he doesn't like the positioning, if it's tricky to aim it right, etc.
After a few times with it, we can try different techniques, different styles, use it in conjunction with different toys, etc. But getting to know a new toy, bondage, or torture implement is vital so the sub (and Dom) doesn't get hurt accidentally.
I have done something I knew I was not okay to do, but I did it anyway. Or I was told to do something, had every opportunity to do it, but chose not to do it anyway.
Husband does not usually give me a specific request, but when he does, and I agree to it (and this part is vital--if I do not agree, he cannot assume I will do it the way he expects),  then he considers the matter closed. If he finds I did not carry through on my commitment, then a punishment is in order, and rightly so.
Punishments are typically harsh to ensure they are effective. The point is to ensure the lesson is learned, so the behavior is not repeated. An ineffective punishment is an unfair punishment, both for the sub, and the Dom.
I need to be "reminded" of my place, my responsibilities, and the dynamics of our D/s relationship.
Let's get real here, I am a sub in a D.D. lifestyle, but I am also a self-proclaimed Smart-Assed Masochist. I mouth off, I get snippy and snarky, I do things I'm not supposed to do...I get playful. Sometimes Husband just lets it go. Other times, he feels the need to discipline me.
Discipline sessions are not typically as bad as punishments. There's no one specific thing I'm being punished for; I'm just being reminded not to be a brat. Often, the intensity and rigor of the discipline is up to me: if I submit quickly, it's over. But if I continue with my bratty behavior, the discipline grows harsher. Usually, unlike a punishment, we both "play by ear" with discipline scenes in the bedroom. My stubbornness is a huge factor--and I can get very stubborn.
Whipping Post Time
Husband has had a bad day and needs to take it out on me.
These sessions are typically quick, to the point, and brutal, but once done with, over for good. Husband gets his stress out, and we both walk away satisfied. I love being his whipping post, not just because I like the pain of it, but because I like being of service to him in this way.
However, these sessions are not always quick, and some bad days are worse than others. I usually have very little warning when I can expect to be used as a whipping post; sometimes a phone call from his car when he's five minutes away home is all I get. These keep me on my toes to be sure.
You needed to be Dominated/I needed to Dom you
The need strikes, and that's all there is to it.
We would not be in this kind of relationship if we didn't both have the kinky need for it. Sometimes He just needs to dominate me physically, and sometimes I just need to be physically dominated.
These times might be some of the hardest to define, because there's an element to this in every time he takes ownership of my body. If I feel the need to be spanked/belted/ordered to submit, I might just ask him. But I also might get smart-mouthed and bratty, just to piss him off and make him discipline me. Or he may feel the need to spank me, but for whatever reason, not want to come out and say so; in those cases, he'll try to trip me up, get me to misbehave, so he has a "valid" reason to spank me. In other words, he'll get playful. And as I've said before, a playful Dom is a dangerous Dom, but my playful Dom knows I love the game.

So there you have it; the basic top five reasons I get turned into a sniveling, begging, crying, sweating ball of delicious submissiveness once in a while.
All the photos in the post were taken from The Monster in the Basement. Go enjoy.

Sunday, October 16, 2011

Spreading the Words of Others

This week has been very busy in the blogosphere. Lots of issues have been raised, opinions have been shared, and things have been written that frankly, I'm still trying to process it all in my own head.

It started with Remittance Girl writing a post, Baby You're A Star. If you haven't read it, you should go read it now. Basically, it's her thoughts on BDSM and "The Scene" in today's modern world, and how BDSM has found its way mainstream, but not in a good way.

(I left my two cents in the comments section, if you want to see that, too.)

She then put up a post by a guest blogger, I_Sadist, titled Sorry Its Already Been Decided For You. The comments are still going strong on that one; lots of people weighing in (including me). I thought the post very timely after reading The She-donist's post, What's Your Flavor?
It seemed to me that while I_Sadist was lamenting how extreme kink is now being frowned upon in many clubs and dungeons, The She-donist was bemoaning how some kinks/fetishes are now being snubbed at because they are seen as too vanilla, a "gateway fetish."

Big Poppa responded to Remittance Girl and I_Sadist with his own blog post, I Am A Predator. It's a great read, but the end is what's haunting:

"I am going to only warn you once more. I am Kinky, I am Dominant, I do horrible things to tender prey like you. I am a Predator. And I am taking back that word."
(I have one thing to say to Big Poppa's warning: I don't think anyone in their right mind thought for one second he had ever abandoned the title. And if they did, I have a feeling they are very sorry right now.)

So there's been a lot to think about, a lot of great discussion going on...but I'm not going to write my own blog post in response to it. Frankly, I don't feel like I'm in the same league with these people: they've all been in "The Scene" forever, have seen it all and done it all. They've paid their dues and have the right to their own opinions. (Well, you know, they'd have the right to their own opinions anyway but their experiences make their opinions more valid and legit.)

I will say that I found myself nodding at some of it, frowning at other bits, and feeling downright uncomfortable with some of the things I found in the comments sections. But most of all, I found myself feeling very blessed and lucky that I have my Dom, that he is my Husband and we've been together for over fifteen years now, and we're still happy being together. So much of what's written in these blog posts boils down to people trying to find what they're looking for in someone else, someone who they find compatible with their kinky needs. I have what I need, or better stated, who I need, and he's downstairs right now playing with our kids. So like I said, I'm very, very blessed.

Edited to Add: Sir Stompsalot has written his own post, I believe in response to everything else that's been written but I might be wrong. It is a great post, touches on a lot of things I was thinking but couldn't quite articulate, and adds in great ways to the discussion. You should go read it. 

In other news, we went to a Renaissance Fair the other day, and I managed to get a chevron collar and some leather straps with hooks. The collar looks something like this:
It is very pretty and I love it. 
I also scrounged up the courage to try on another corset, and you know what? This experience was very different from the last time. Last time, the dresser was very quick with me, and now I know, tightened up the laces too far too fast. This dresser took her time, communicated with me during the whole process, and kept making sure I was okay. By the time she was done, I looked...good. Better than good. My globular tits were on proud display, and my waist was smaller than I'd seen it in years. She said I'm "easily compressible." She meant it as a compliment, and that's how I took it. 
(My kids like to call it "very smooshy," but that doesn't sound so nice, so I'll take "easily compressible.")

Husband's car is still in the shop, but they've told him it might be done as early as tomorrow. If it's not, I have a feeling that will put him in a very, very bad mood.
I'm already preparing myself for it...and kind of hoping it's not ready in time. 

Monday, October 10, 2011


Often, when a couple has a D/s relationship, the Dom will give the sub work--"tasks"--to do when the Dom's not around, usually (but not always) of a sexual nature. The sub will also typically have to offer some kind of proof, like pictures, video, documentation or the like, that the sub completed the task. If the sub does not complete the task, or does not do it to the Dom's liking, there are punishments involved.

Husband has never really "tasked" me. It's never come up. I mean, I have my household responsibilities, but that's my job as homemaker, wife and mother; there's no specific "task" involved. How I tackle my responsibilities is typically up to me.

A while ago, I was on twitter at the same time as a few gals from my usual sub-circle--it was Bedlam, paper mirai, Housewife Raven, and the kamamama I think?--and Paper Mirai mentioned her regimen to lose weight.
I wrote how it's hard for me to lose weight because I never stick with a plan. I end up giving up too soon.
It was then I realized, I could try to get Husband involved in helping me feel "motivated" to continue a weight-loss program!
I ran the idea by him, and...he didn't really seem all that interested. Which surprised me, I have to tell you; usually that man pounces on a reason to spank my ass like a cat to a flopping fish. But maybe we can chock up his reaction to a downer day: he had just been sent pictures of his car in the shop, still being repaired. Or maybe I should say his half a car.
The good news is, I'm saving on gas! GO GREEN!

A couple days ago, we were putting child #3 to bed, who's five years old and, as to be expected, has absolutely no filters between his brain and his mouth. Husband leaned over to kiss him goodnight.
"Goodnight, my funny Daddy," he said.
I leaned over to kiss him goodnight.
"Goodnight, my fat Mommy," he said.
I wanted to cry right then. We finished putting him to bed, and I slunk back to my bedroom and collapsed on the mattress. 
"What's wrong?" Husband asked. "What he said bothers you?"
"Of course it bothers me!" I said. "I need to lose weight."
"Then lose weight," he answered, like it was a no-brainer. Which, for a man who can lose five pounds by skipping two meals, it is. 
"I need motivation," I said, reminding him of my earlier appeal for help.
"You need to get off your ass and do it," he said. "You don't need my help. You can do it yourself."
Feeling very put-out, I sulked the rest of the night. The next day, I shared my sob story with twitter, who was much more sympathetic and understanding.

After a while though, Husband realized he had messed up somehow (the "I fucked up" radar every husband grows eventually), and came looking for me to ask me what he should do.
"I need you to help me stick with a healthy program," I said. "It's not really about weight loss. Okay, it is, but it's not only about weight loss. I just feel so unhealthy and gross."
"So it's about the exercise."
"And you want me to help you feel motivated to stick to an exercise program."
"Yes," I said, relieved he finally understood.
He understood, alright. "How often do you think you should exercise?"
"Maybe, three times a week?" I said, thinking. "Just to start with?"
"No, that's not enough. You should be exercising every day."
"Oh c'mon, seven days a week?"
"Okay, I'll give you weekends off." (I suddenly didn't like the tone he was taking. "I'll give you weekends off"?) "How do you want to exercise? Walking? Jogging? An exercise video?"
"I like the treadmill," I said.
"How many laps do you plan on doing when you get on?"
"Well, I don't really go by laps, I go by time. However much distance I can do in that time doesn't really matter, as long I stay on until the time's up."
"Even better," Husband said, giving me a grin I found quite ominous. "How much time then?"
"Half an hour?" 
"Half an hour is good." He smiled wider. "So: you will work out on the treadmill for five days a week, half an hour per day. And for every minute you fail to do that, I will punish your ass."
"Wait. What?"
"I was going to go by laps, and give you a spank with the brush for every lap you miss. But this is much better. Now I can spank you however much I want in the time I have. I don't even have to keep count."
"Wait a minute--"
"Nope, nope. This is what you wanted. I'm MOTIVATING you."
"But not like this!"
"Too bad. And don't even think about telling me you've been on treadmill if you haven't. I'll know."
"I wouldn't lie about it," I said, angry now.
"You may not the first time, but you probably will the second."
"And how do you know there will be a first time?"
"Because that's the whole reason you're asking me to 'help' you. You can't get yourself to stick to it. Eventually, you'll miss a day--and I'll get to have some fun. Half an hour of whipping your butt is a long time." He looked positively giddy by the thought.

So that's the predicament I'm in right now. For two days, I've dragged my (as yet unwelted) ass to the treadmill, and did my allotted time. I know Husband is just waiting in the wings, ready for me to mess up. 
This isn't what I thought would be the first real task Husband would give me with consequences involved. But it's for my own good. 
For the good of my body...and for the good of my bottom.

Tuesday, October 4, 2011

It Hurts

This post will not have kink. You want kink? Go check out this blog.
This post will also ramble, and meander, and might hurt your head. It's hurting mine.

When I first started writing the latest collection of Bentmoore stories, Masters of the Hotel Bentmoore, I started with the story of Khloe. This is the "teaser," I guess you could call it, for Khloe on my Bentmoore stories page:

"Betrayed, dumped by her boyfriend, and feeling lost and alone, Khloe escapes to the Hotel Bentmoore to seek out the help of her long-time host, Mr. Shern. But Mr. Shern knows Khloe needs more than a little pep-talk and kinky sex to make her feel better.
Khloe is a cutter, and may hurt herself badly if Mr. Shern does not take control and give her the kind of treatment she needs. First, a session in the shibari ropes is in order; then, some serious domination and submission, with the help of his associate, Mr. Cox.
Only when Khloe is broken down completely can Mr. Shern build her back up and heal her broken soul."

I started writing Khloe. I got a good three scenes into it.
Then I had to take a break.
So I started to write Michelle, the next story in the collection. For a while, I tried to write Michelle and Khloe at the same time, writing each one on alternate days. But soon I gave up, and focused on Michelle completely. I finished it.
I tried again to focus on Khloe. I wrote another couple scenes. But it took me a lot of time, tore at my soul to get them out, and in the end, I hated them so much I deleted them entirely, something I've never done before.
So I started writing Samantha instead. And I had so much fun writing it, I put Khloe on the back burner.
Soon, Samantha was complete. I sent both Michelle, and Samantha, to be formatted, and put them up for sale.
I opened Khloe again. By now, I was sick of the sight of her, wanting desperately to be done and over with it. I rewrote the scenes I had deleted, then tried to fix them again. It was like spraying perfume on a rotting piece of meat. The words in my head made my skin crawl. I would write, and delete; write, and delete.
So I worked on Eve (Babygirl) instead. Eve (Babygirl) made me happy. It's simple, straightforward, and hot. There's nothing complicated to it; I just had to get it out on paper.
And now, Eve is almost done. I have to do some editing, which is tedious work, but...nothing altogether too draining. It does not hurt my head to do it.
And still, Khloe waits for me.

I know why Khloe is such a tough story for me. It's because, when I was young, I was a cutter. And remembering how it felt, remembering the consuming, numbing, overpowering, horrible, emotional pain, hurts.

It feels wrong, somehow, to be writing this--at least on this blog. There is a lot of controversy about what makes BDSM kinksters who and how they are. Many people think it's because of previous childhood abuse or trauma. Like our horrible childhoods warped us into sick, masochistic/sadistic adults.

I don't agree with that. Did I have a hard childhood? Yes. Guess what? Millions of others did, too. I think it's pretty rare to find a person these days who can say in all honestly, "my childhood was great. I suffered through nothing! And my parents protected me and loved me unconditionally!"
I think the best I've ever heard was, "my parents did the best they could."
I've said that many times.
My mother was a child of two Holocaust survivors. My father was the product of physical abuse and rape.
They did the best they could.

But here's the thing: not everyone who suffers, in varying degrees, through childhood becomes drawn to BDSM. In fact, I would go out on a limb and say most do not. So to say there is some kind of connection is, in my mind, questionable at best. After all, if (let's say) a majority of the population has a shared experience but only ten percent (maybe) ends up becoming adults who label themselves Doms, subs, masochists, sadists, etc, can you really make a connection? Or is it simply coincidence?

I don't know. I don't know if it matters, at least not for me, not anymore. I am who I am.
I am happy, I am loved and love in return...I would not change who I am or what I have. So does it matter how I got here, now that I'm here?
Yes. I guess right now, when I am trying desperately to finish this story and cannot because it hurts too fucking badly to remember what it was like to be that girl, it kind of does.

Here's the thing about that kind of emotional pain: it becomes its own entity in your head. Like HBO's Dexter has his Dark Passenger?
I used to think of mine as 'the big bad monster.' It looked like the gmork creature from Never Ending Story:
And sometimes, it would go away to the back of my head for a while, and leave me alone, and let me be happy, at least as happy as I could be while always knowing I had a monster inside me...but it was always back there, always back there, and I would never know when it would show up and take over.

Sometimes it would only bark at me, like a reminder it was still back there, but not make a move. And sometimes it would pay me a visit, but a short one, a somewhat calm one, and I'd be able to serve its needs and keep it fed and make it satisfied, and it would go away again.
And sometimes... sometimes it would sink its teeth into me, wrap its stinking, icy mouth around my soul, and suck me in.

Do you know what it's like to walk around like a shell of a human being? Like you're watching yourself go through the motions, but you're stuck on the outside, unable to think, unable to act, unable to change what's being done to you? Wanting so desperately to scream and cry and get back in your fucking body but unable to? Because it's being controlled by something else.
And where you are is cold, so fucking cold, numbing you with it, you wish you could shiver from it but you can't because you have no body, you're nowhere, you're in limbo, and it's the kind of limbo that religious fundamentalists like to call hell. But it's not hell, it's worse than hell. Hell is where you wish you could go, because at least then, you'd feel like you're fucking somewhere...and you'd be warm.

So you cut yourself. You cut your body to remind yourself, like a half-forgetten childhood story, that this body is yours, it is home to your soul, and by god you have a right to it. The skin opens, the blood flows, and you think if you can focus on the blood dripping in rivulets down your flesh, if you can concentrate really hard, you can follow the flow of blood back up and in your body, and your soul can be back where it belongs. And the cut will hurt, yes, but it's better than the nothing that you're experiencing right now. Anything is better than that.


I don't think I can describe that kind of pain, isolation, loneliness, despair...that desire to either feel something, even if it's agony, or have it all end, because the hope that things might somehow change, that someday you might be saved, is becoming too painful to bear...I don't think I can do it justice. I think you've either been there, or you haven't.

I've been there. I don't want to go back.

But the story. The story should be written. It's become my own personal challenge now. That dark monster of mine is gone, I vanquished it long ago, but the bones remain. And maybe its corpse and remains did help shape who I am today, and maybe not. But I must use this skeleton in my closet for some good; I must bring it out, dust it off, examine it in the light, and then boil it down to ashes and make it into clay, form it into a story.

This story, Khloe. Which, for all intent and purposes, will look like any of the other short BDSM stories I've written so far...but will be so, so, different.

I will write it.