Wednesday, January 25, 2012

I am His

Conversation with Husband, earlier today:
Me: Listen, later? When you get home...?
Him: Yes?
Me: Don't take no for an answer, okay?
Him: Got it.
Me: Cause later, I might say I'm too tired, or I might just try to crawl into bed, but I really need you to--
Him: I got it.
Me: God, I feel so ridiculous saying this--
Him: Shut up. Don't ever say that. Now I got it, but I have to get back to work, so get off the phone, lady. And be ready.
Me: Yes. Thank you Ba'ali*.
Him: Mm-hm.

Conversation I had later with a friend, through email:
Why would you ask him to screw you, if you don't want him to?
What do you mean? I do want him to. That's why I asked him.
 You asked him to take you even if you say you're too tired, or you try to go to sleep. You obviously don't think you'll want to have sex later. Do you think you'll enjoy it?
I don't know. That's not the point.
Why is enjoying it *not* the point? Why would you want him to screw you if you don't think you'll enjoy it?

This is one of those things that sets female subs apart from other women who don't see themselves as submissive, or even "bottoms." Women are told to think they should get as much pleasure out of sex as their partner does, if not more so. Women shouldn't feel encumbered if their man can't stay hard, or orgasm; there are other methods and techniques women can use to pleasure herself, with or without his help. But suggest that a man pleasure himself with a woman's body, without making sure she's happy, too, and all of a sudden people are up in arms.
Unless those people are BDSM kinksters, I guess.
Sometimes, the point is not the sensual pleasure, and it's not the orgasm. 
It's the submission. The capitulation. Yielding to another, acceding their dominance over you.
There is nothing more submissive in my mind than letting someone invade your body with their own, without any expectations of pleasure in return.
It is not an act of sex: it is a claim of ownership. I am his. He can do to me as he wills.
I am his.
If I am proud of nothing else going on in my life, if I am happy about nothing else, if I am confident about nothing else, if I am sure of nothing else...I can be sure about this.
I am his.

*Ba'ali in hebrew means master, and husband. It is the word I use most often to address him, since he is both. 

Saturday, January 21, 2012


I'm going to admit something here that I've never really talked about before. There's no way to make it sound less ridiculous than it is, so I'm going to just come right out and say it:

(cue Jaws music)

I have nipple problems.

My nipples are just too damn sensitive. Or maybe not; maybe I'm just too sensitive about my nipples, and it's a chemical brain reaction. Maybe every woman has nipples as sensitive as mine, and mine just bother me more than theirs do them.
I don't know. I do know I commented one time, it feels like the nerve endings that were supposed to be in my vagina somehow ended up in my nipples. How else can I explain the fact I can stick monstrous, unyielding things up my ass, and get fisted in my cunt, but do the "shriek and freak" every time Husband  so much as brushes a fingertip against one of my nipples?
(That actually sounded cool: The ShriekN'Freak. Or maybe I should call it the ShriekN'Freak Tweak.)
There are certain times I can handle the nipple stimulation, like when I'm hyper-aroused and about to come. Otherwise, if he comes anywhere near my nipples, I freak the fuck out.
Sometimes, he wants me to freak out. When he restrains my hands out or above my head, and starts making moves towards my nipples, he knows I'm going to start struggling and protesting. If he so much as taps a nipple while I'm restrained and helpless, it's like a switch goes off in my brain that says let the screaming begin. I don't know why. I can't explain it.
I just freak. The fuck. Out.
It becomes a problem when Husband just wants to play with my breasts, and I can't let him. Yeah, he could just tie my hands and play as much as he wants despite my struggles and cries, but that's not what he usually wants. He wants me to feel pleasure, or at least, satisfaction.
Not panic.
If I'm in pain, there should be pleasure in the pain, or in the submission to the pain. He doesn't want to be doing something to me he knows I'm not enjoying at all, on any level. That's not the point.
We have nipple clamps, and I've worn them...but to be honest, I haven't worn them that often, and when I have, I haven't worn them that long. They are a punishment device only.
You want to hear something sad? I'd rather have ginger in my ass than clamps on my nipples. I can wrap my head around the ginger pain, go with it, get to a place where the pain feels tingly and good. I can't do that with the nipple clamps. They terrify me.
So I need some nipple training. I know, it sounds ridiculous, but I'm taking this very seriously.
I'm going to start with some nipple charms. Nothing designed for punishment; jewelry-intended only.
Then I'll move on to some dangly-style charms, ones that add some weight to the nipples and can be pulled away a bit.
Then, once I've gotten used to those, I'll work my way to screw-style nipple clamps, where the bite can be adjusted.
I'm going to work on this. I'm going to get over my fear.
Meanwhile, I'm sure Husband is going to have a grand time watching me walk around with "things" around my nipples.

Tuesday, January 3, 2012


This post is likely to be all over the place because I'm not bothering to organize my thoughts in any way. Frankly, I tried, and I failed, and I realized if I make myself wait until I feel like I have something that looks like a coherent, tightly-written post, I will never write anything at all about the issues I want to write about. Which, I don't know, maybe some of you prefer if I don't, but I don't prefer that, and it's my blog, so screw it. Take that as a suggestion if you want.

The last few days, I was feeling very down. I would not call it really depressed. I've been really depressed (thank God, not for a long time), and this wasn't it. This was...mild depression? The blues? I don't know what a doctor would call it. Whatever it was, it was not pleasant.

The funny thing about depression is, it's kind of hard to recognize it until it's bad. Unless you have clear, typical markers for your personal path down into depression (which I do! Go me!), you're just going to walk around feeling mopy, and lazy, and less than happy. You'll feel like something's wrong, and you'll try to pinpoint what it is, and unfortunately, you'll be able to find something to pin it on, because hell, we all have things in our lives that make us mad and unhappy. So by the time you realize that what you think is making you unhappy is not the cause of your unhappiness, it's just something else to blame it on, you're already hip-deep in depression and you feel like you're floating in quicksand, too scared to move.

The ironic thing about this time for me was that, as it turned out, a handful of other people much more famous and articulate than I am were also suffering from depression, albeit much worse depression. Like her and her.  Then my sister came out on FB about her depression, and I was all like, "I'm sorry about your bout of depression," and I felt stupid for saying it like that, like I could have just as easily been discussing her bout of indigestion as her crippling depression.

My depression has not been that bad in years, and I think I know why, and I think a lot of people are going to hate what I'm about to say, but I'm going to say it anyway.
I think my depression is better because I'm in a BDSM relationship.

Last night was a really low point for me. I had spent approximately 2 minutes of the day in street clothes. I had not brushed my hair. I had eaten next to nothing. I was answering questions in monosyllables.

I was not miserable. I mean, I was, in a sense that I was not happy. But the think is, I was not anything. I had no desire to do anything, or go anywhere, or talk to anyone. I wanted to be left alone, and forget I existed, because I did not feel like I existed. If existing means proving your existence, attesting to it by your actions, then I was failing.
On Twitter, we have a saying: "pic or it didn't happen." We all know that life is about bearing witness to what happens to us and those around us, proving to the world we are here, that we are. I was nothing worth bearing witness to, so...was I here? And did it matter?

Husband came into my work room, saw the way I looked, saw something in my eyes...and finally, something in his head clicked. I'd been in a spiraling-downward mood for days, but yesterday, he realized it.
"Wake up," he said, shaking my shoulder a little. "You're in a slump. You need to move."
"I don't want to. I just want to sit here. Leave me alone."
"I'm not going to leave you alone. Go have some food. Go watch TV or something."
"I don't want to. Leave me alone."
He sighed. "I'm going to belt you after the kids go to sleep."
"What? Why? What did I do?" I was whining like a petulant child, and I didn't care.
"Because you need it, that's why. Now stop it." He walked out of the room, just like that.

Later that night, he pulled me into the bedroom, helped me strip down to my underwear, and told me to get on the bed.
"Hands and knees," he said. "Face down, ass up. Relax into the mattress."
I followed instructions, putting my ass up and out, and my head down.

If you're not a sub or a masochist, if you've never been spanked or belted before by choice, I don't know if I can describe to you all the emotions that go through your head at that moment. It's not even right to call them emotions: it's more like reactions, inner knowledge running on a purely instinctual level. It floods your heart rather than your head. I'm sure it's primarily driven by adrenaline, although there must be some other chemicals mixed in.
You're scared. You want to run. At the same time, you don't want to move, because you're afraid of what's to come. Your skin breaks out in goosebumps. The hair all over your body stands on end, on heightened alert to feel the slightest touch against your flesh. Your senses go into overdrive. Your breath comes out in gasps, and you can feel the thumping of your own heart in your chest.
And then that moment comes, when you know it's about to happen right now, and the forefront of your mind is screaming at you to stop it, stop it from happening, do something...but the other part, the voice that usually stays dormant during normal life but now wakes to full force, is sighing in ecstasy. It's lulling you, shushing you to stay still, don't move, because the fear will pass...and the pain will feel exquisite.
The first strike hits, and it pushes you into the arms of that other voice like falling into the arms of a lover.

He didn't start with the belt. He lit into my ass with his bare hand, spanking me again, and again, and again, until my bottom glowed red and his handprints covered my flesh. I yelled, and I gasped, and I hollered...but I didn't move away.
Then he peeled off my panties and got the cane.
He wasn't heavy or brutal with it. This wasn't a punishment act. He fell into a nice rhythm, using relatively gentle strokes. Even so, I was arching my back and crying out with each one.

Now came the second moment every sub and masochist will recognize. It's that moment of sheer clarity, when you step away from your body (and your pain) long enough to realize you are doing it, you are submitting to the pain and the will of another, and you are okay. You are better than okay: you are magnificent. The pain and submission brings you incredible pride, and a sense of freedom, a separation from everything else in life...not a feeling, but a sense of being, that I simply cannot describe.

He disappeared into the bathroom, and returned with two vibrators. One he placed directly into my limp hand. The other he lubed up and aimed on my asshole.
"Fuck yourself with both," he said. "Use the one in your hand on yourself. Push yourself back onto this one." He pressed in with the one he was holding, just a millimeter, and turned it on.
"I can't," I panted even as I pushed back.
"Yes, you can. C'mon. Move."
I pushed back until I was impaled on the vibrator, rubbing the other one snugly between my legs as I moved. I did as he asked, fucking myself on both toys, until I was gasping and shuddering with my own orgasm.
He removed the vibrator from my ass, gently because I was now very tight, and helped me to kneel on the floor.
"Come over to the mirror. Don't walk: crawl. I want to see your pussy as you blow me."
I crawled, without an ounce of shame or protest, and let him situate me the way he wanted so he could get a good view as I sucked him, giving him back the same pleasure he had already afforded me.

Now came the third moment that every sub knows: when you realize the only thing you have to think about, to worry about, is him, and his needs. Nothing else in the world matters. All the other pesky concerns you were grappling with, all the thoughts that were weighing you down, are banished from your mind. They are no longer necessary. You let them go freely, and feel suddenly weightless by their release. They were pointless, anyway. All that matters is him.

I opened my mouth to let him in, and he held my head still as he thrusted deep down my throat. I had to raise myself a bit and steady my hand against the wall for balance. But that left my other hand free, and as he pumped into my mouth, I used it to reach down and stroke my own pussy.
"Oh yes, do that," he said. I stroked harder, turned on by the sound of his voice, the feel of his cock fucking my throat, his hands on my cheeks as he held me still, and my own clit throbbing against my fingers.
I rubbed harder and faster until I came again, moaning against his cock. He came then, too, holding himself deep down my throat. Cum dribbled from my lip, but I didn't care. I felt immensely proud.

The difference in my mood this morning is astounding. I feel refreshed, invigorated, and better than I've felt for days. I am refocused. I am peaceful.
I am me again.

I am not going to say that BDSM can help every woman suffering from depression. That would be stupid. I am saying it helps me, to keep me sane and focused on what I need to do, and what I need to actively put aside. It makes things clear in my mind, more than any drug ever did.
When I say BDSM enriches my life, I'm not just talking about kink, and sex, and play. I'm talking about me. It helps the real me shine. It dispels the dark, and lets me glow.
It keeps the mental pain at bay, as the physical pain becomes all consuming. Or perhaps, because of it.