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  1. Breaking the rules

    February 3, 2017 by Heather Cole

    Rules of the Dungeon

    Eve was a flexible overseer. She was the dominant in charge without question, but she let her assistants determine their personal boundaries and general rules of conduct. We all had to obey the dungeon rules:   no exchange of bodily fluids. And the second biggest rule: no PIV (penis-in-vagina) penetration. We used condoms on all toys, and we wore gloves if we touched a client’s genitalia. After a session, everything was run through the dishwasher or cleaned in a special solution that killed any bacteria. We wanted to create a fantasy, but there were physical limits to what we would do.

    Each assistant had a different personal set of rules that we used during play. My personal rules were 1.) the person had to always ask first if they could touch me–consent first before all things, 2.) I didn’t kiss the other person, 3.) the person couldn’t touch my vagina, 4.) I never lied about the size of a man’s penis 5.) and I didn’t see dungeon players outside of the dungeon, either in person or on social media.

    Surprisingly, a dungeon player didn’t always ask to touch me, because often they weren’t in a position to. Typically the player initiating the scene was the body being acted upon. In other words, Eve was the top giving us both orders, arranging the so-called chess pieces. I acted upon the victim… er, client, as she instructed. The person was often in bondage or rendered incapacitated in some way so that they could only watch me. Watch and wish they could touch. The push-pull of teasing and denial could be the most exquisite slow torture. My luscious body would be inches from a man’s mouth, and yet he was powerless to close that gap and taste the delicate curve of my breast. He may have squirmed and begged for it, but I rarely acquiesced.

    I confess that at first it was hard for me to dance cruelly out of their reach. I was trained to please by the dominants in my life. I was wired that way naturally as part of my Good Girl identity. But submissives didn’t flock to Eve because she was nice in the way that I was nice. They asked to play because she was sadistic and sensually generous in a way that brought them quivering to their knees and begging for orgasm. Gradually I understood her philosophy. She made them feel so good alternating pleasure and pain that they almost always wanted to return. The element that I was proudest of, that gave my work purpose, was that we were free of judgment. As long as we all consented to the scene (and everyone was over 18) we would help that person achieve the fantasy they had been dreaming about. The dungeon rules kept us safe, and my personal rules kept me from giving too much of myself to a fleeting moment of an intense sexual encounter.

    My favorite visitors to the dungeon were the ones that I had seen before. The ones that I had developed a rapport with and the ones that I knew something about, they were the ones that I opened up with more. We developed trust in those interactions, and no matter what skeptics may think, those moments of brief connection were gifts. It was a gift to accept someone in all their naked glory, no judgement, and to be able to create something electric with them. I was able to do all that with my rules safely in place. Until I met him.

    Play With Your Meat

    Eve described him as “a young piece of meat.” Translation: she was excited to play with someone younger who had a hot body. I didn’t feel as excited and was generally more circumspect around younger men. Not many of them chose the dungeon, and often when they did, they arrived with the expectations of fraternity boys in an Asian massage parlor. They typically needed a lesson in consent, and often they were all over the place regarding their sexuality, so that it made it difficult for me to get a read on what it was that they wanted exactly. I found them generally unsettling, but I figured I’d at least get eye candy for an hour. He did not disappoint.

    Guy was about my height and a decade younger. He started the hour by shedding his clothing in an expedient manner, but Eve slowed his pace. She requested that I assist him, and I happily complied, sliding my hands across the muscled planes of his stomach as I undid his pants. I held his gaze as my hands skimmed up his rib cage to pull off his shirt, and I breathed in his warmth and our closeness. I let my fingers roam down his muscled thighs as I sank to my knees, my face deliciously close to the bulge in his underwear. I was unable to deny the physical attraction I felt. It was such a novel feeling that I felt giddy, like Christmas had arrived early and Santa had given me my very own boy to play with.

    In contrast there was the squirming thought that I was single without an eligible man in sight. It felt incredibly decadent to be so close to another human and to feel the overwhelming desire to sink into all that smooth, warm skin. I wanted this, not in the professional way that I was supposed to, but in a wolf that wanted to eat a sexy bunny kind of way. Devour was the word that I felt, and my body turned electric with every stroke of my hand against his muscular body.

    Somehow my clothes came off. I honestly can’t remember how exactly. And then we were both naked, facing a fully clothed Eve. I sidled up behind him to press my softness against his chiseled frame. He was deliciously warm, and I suddenly had the urge to dig my fingers into his hips and mark him as our pleasure toy for the time being. I may have asked Eve if we could keep him.

    It wasn’t only the physical attraction or instant sexual chemistry that held me off-kilter, I felt the alien urge to hurt him. Playing with Guy inspired sadistic urges within me that I had never experienced before without being coached by someone more dominant. But this sprang to life all on its own, and the only way I could describe it was that I felt like a wolf with a bunny rabbit. A bunny rabbit in a rock hard body that I wanted to sensually torture and tease until he begged for release. A bunny that you wanted to lick and bite and lovingly maul until you had both dissolved into puddles of cum. And then he asked to kiss me.

    Rule #2

    My common sense said no, but I found myself consenting. I said yes, and greedily accepted his lips on mine. He marked the time we spent together with a questioning, “yes?” And I continued to reply with my own enthusiastic “yes!” He asked at every stage of our play together, and I didn’t want to deny him. Not only because it was what he wanted, but because I wanted it, dammit. He stretched out on the massage table, and I marred his smooth skin with scratches and bite marks. He pulled at my nipples as we kissed, my hair falling around us in a curtain.

    Eve was busy with his bottom half. She had tied his cock and balls up with a shoestring into a snug bundle, and had then pushed his cock between two pieces of clear Plexiglas that could be tightened together with screws. I was only half-watching, distracted by the delicious man’s hands and lips. Eve interrupted with a simple command.

    “Use him to pleasure yourself.”

    She didn’t have to tell me twice. I fetched my favorite gold dildo (yes, we call him “Gold Member”) and rolled down a condom to the base. I made Guy put on a latex glove to hold Gold Member upright in his hand. As Eve started the hitachi on his trussed up balls, she slowed down how she screwed the Plexiglas sheet against his cock. I positioned Guy’s hand exactly how I wanted it, and then instructed him how I wanted to be fucked. It took only a moment to find a rhythm, and then the dildo slid exactly in the right spot. The first orgasm rolled over me, followed quickly by a second. But I was greedy. I knew what I wanted, and it wasn’t the dildo. I broke another rule.

    Rule #3

    I set the dildo aside and asked him to use his fingers.

    “Yes?” he asked as I leaned over him.

    “Yes,” I answered.

    My breath caught as his fingers slid into me, and I silently hoped that he would be as good with his fingers as he was his lips. Again I was not disappointed. Orgasm followed orgasm in a long line of pleasure. One arm was braced against his shoulder as I clung to the table with the other. I tried to remain upright, riding the waves of sensation as Guy experienced his own orgasm. It felt like my brain had been short-circuited. I was so high on endorphins and the power of topping that I lost myself a little bit. I remembered the rest of our time together, but I remembered it through a cotton candy haze of residual pleasure.

    I had difficulty pulling myself back together after that. Re-entering the world after intense play is like replacing your armor piece by piece. I was still trying to find my proverbial breastplate, and Guy had already cleaned up and pulled on his clothes. There had been only one other time when I regretted saying good bye, and this was now my second. We said farewell, and I felt the loss of that connection. Wistfulness, I suppose, tinged with regret. Coming down from a topping high was hard too. Looking back, I probably had a touch of top drop as well.

    Rule #5

    Later that night I thought long and hard about what I was going to do. Ultimately what I wanted to say was ‘thank you.’ I didn’t think there would be any harm in doing so, and I felt like he was the type to be polite and not turn it into something weird. Still, I was respectful of people’s privacy. Not everyone wanted to be confronted by a dungeon assistant in real life. I dropped him a short note of thanks on Fetlife. I had broken rules during our session, and I had loved every moment. I had felt sadistic and dominant all on my own, and I wanted to explain how grateful I was for all of it. To my surprise he answered, and not only that, he asked me to meet him for coffee.

    This is the part where I don’t really know what I’m doing. This is all new territory, and what if I majorly screw up? Part of me frets over it. And then there’s me who’s a wolf. And she doesn’t care about any of that. She wants the bunny. The funny part is that I don’t know which part of me will come out on top.

    TO BE CONTINUED…

    (I’ve always wanted to write that.)


  2. The Incidental Sadist

    October 31, 2016 by Heather Cole

     

    He requested tea with my beating. That was new.

    From my vantage point, with my arms bound behind me with rope and my ankle cuffs clipped to the spreader bar, I could see steam wafting from the cup. He sipped the tea and perused the implements spread across the table. It reminded me of someone shopping for the perfect fruit, not a British sadist in contemplation.

    Strike One – Heather

    Things were subtly different from the first time we played. Some of it was a consequence of my actions, deliberate and incidental. I had forgotten repeatedly to update my shared calendar which made scheduling time at the dungeon a challenge for the Sadist. Eve, the Domme supervising our play time and the coordinator of this event, “helpfully” shared my sassy texts regarding the calendar. I hadn’t curbed my tongue. Strike one – Heather.

    Strike Two – Heather

    On the day of our scene, I hit unusual traffic on my way to the dungeon. I arrived half an hour late, and although the Sadist accommodated the change, I was going to pay for it. Strike two.

    None of these occurrences compiled themselves in my mind to give me something to worry about. No, I arrived flustered and rushed to find that Eve had set up on her own. This meant that all sorts of items were out, things that I probably wouldn’t have chosen. Ouchy things. I had given my limits months ago when the Sadist and I first played, and I hadn’t thought about updating that list before arriving. But the Sadist wasn’t the only one changing things up. I was too.

    When the Sadist and I first came together I had a master, and I had everything approved by him before I played with the Sadist. Now I was free of my contract, and I was the sole person responsible for negotiating the scene. But I had mostly forgotten about that until I was dressed in the outfit the Sadist had brought and bound to the large wooden frame at the center of the room. My thoughts resembled a sheaf of paper being thrown into the air on a blustery day. He approached me with safety scissors in hand, and it finally occurred to me that I had no idea what was going to happen. I hadn’t been proactive about what I wanted during our interaction, and now it was going to bite me in the ass. Probably literally.

    Well, damn, Heather

    The Sadist pinched and caressed me through the black dress as I watched him warily. He used the scissors to cut away the fabric over my breasts and pussy. Before I could ask anything, his hand came down swiftly in a chopping motion against my right nipple. The pain was swift and immediate, and I felt tears form at the corners of my eyes. He didn’t pause and whipped his hand down the front of the other nipple. I couldn’t tell if I wanted to cry from the pain or whether the nipple slapping reminded me so much of my ex. It was my ex who had trained me to endure nipple torture. He would hit me like that in the shower or anywhere I might be exposed. He was the only man who had hurt me in that way, and now the Sadist was doing it too. My feelings got tangled with the pain. Then the Sadist gripped my jaw and brought my gaze to his.

    “You’ve been very naughty, Heather.” He tapped my cheek with his thick fingers. “You didn’t update your calendar and then you were late.”

    I started to protest, and he smacked my cheek. Another slap. And another. I began to cry in earnest.

    Again he began slapping my nipples, but I couldn’t bear it. I said “yellow,” and breathed a sigh of relief when he stepped back. Of course that respite was short. He cut more holes in the dress and abused more flesh. He tickled me, because he knew I hated it, then slapped me again when I laughed helplessly. When the cloth hung off me in strips, he shoved aside the remnants of the black thong I wore and rubbed my clit in rough circles. He knew I wouldn’t orgasm like that, but he handled me in such a way because he knew he could. It was degrading, and the humiliation made my cheeks burn in addition to the slaps.

    That was probably the biggest difference of all. The Sadist had arrived this day with the confidence of knowing the submissive he was dealing with. This was our fourth time playing, and he seemed confident that he could challenge me. I felt that self-assurance in every slap, every strike of the cane, in the way he tied me and pushed in ways that he hadn’t before. He punched the meaty part of my chest and paddled the bottoms of my feet. He explored the most sensitive parts of my body with brutal calculation, favoring the tender flesh on my sides and inner thighs. The hardest part, for me, was the predicament bondage that he had dreamed up for the occasion.

    The man tore off the remnants of my clothes and unhooked the spreader bar. He made me stand parallel to the wooden frame with my arms stretched straight in front of me. Around each wrist he looped rope that was then tied to the frame. If I dropped my arms, the loops around each wrist would tighten. He clipped pulleys to the chains at the top of the frame, and fed rope through each. He tied frozen bottles of water to the ends. But it was the other end of the rope that made me anxious. Each rope was tied to a zipper of clothespins. (A zipper is a term to describe clothespins tied in a consecutive line to rope or string. Once the clothespins are pinched on the skin of the submissive, the top can pull one end of the string and pull each clip off in rapid succession. When the clothespins are lining each side of the labia, for example, they come off like the teeth of a zipper.)

    One zipper had ten clothespins that pinched my labia, and the other longer zipper had clothespins circling each breast like a deranged porcupine. The issue was never the clothespins going on in these situations. The painful repercussions always happened when they were ripped off and blood rushed back to the wounded areas.

    My predicament was this: if I dropped the water bottles, the weight would rip off the zippers. If I dropped the water under two minutes, we would start all over again. If I held the freezing water bottles for longer, he would tie on more bottles and things would become heavier. The decision was agony. There was no way I could “win.” Any which way and those zippers would come off. I debated and squirmed as the icy bottles melted in my hands. Two more bottles went on as I danced in place. My arms were tiring quickly. I decided finally to drop the bottles on my left that were tied to the zipper around my pussy. Squeezing my eyes shut in tense anticipation, I dropped the bottles. They fell to the floor with a thud, but the zipper stayed.

    “What happened?” I shrieked, going on to my tiptoes in response to the tightened clothespins.

    The Sadist looked at me calmly. “I suppose we need more weight.” He grabbed the rope and yanked with all his might.

    The clothespins flew off my pussy, and I would have doubled over if I hadn’t been tied to the other one. I made a garbled exclamation, the pain between my legs distracting me from articulation.

    “Going to let go of the other?” he asked with mild amusement.

    It didn’t matter what I decided. No sooner had the bottle dropped from my hand then he was jerking the other rope. This time I shrieked and clutched my abused breasts. I hadn’t felt anything like that in ages, and the sharp pain of the blood circulating made me whimper. The Sadist pushed the frozen bottles against my nipples, and I begged him to stop being helpful.  

    He wasn’t finished with me yet. The Sadist had me lie down on the massage table, and then used almost every implement laid out beside his tea cup. He turned my body from pale pink to bright red. And he saved the cane for last. The thing that I loathed and loved, the only tool that was guaranteed to undo the last pieces of my self-control. Again it was because of my ex.

    The cane had been his favorite, and I through the years of us being master and slave, I had learned to read the strength and angle of its fall against my flesh like reading the sky for clues to the weather. I couldn’t be caned and not think of my ex. The Sadist didn’t know that part of it, so it didn’t slow him. The caning felt like it lasted forever, and the bruises it gave me matched the ones on my heart. I cried, my sobs muffled by the pillow beneath me.

    Finally he decided to finish it, and he pulled me to my feet and had me pick out a dildo. I pushed it into place on the fucking machine and sat down so that I straddled the stiff rubber cock. The Sadist then rocked me back and forth on the machine, controlling how fast the dildo penetrated my pussy. I had orgasm after orgasm, my tears replaced with sweat and cum. Finally he stopped the machine, and I tried to get my synapses firing again.

    I have no idea what I said or what he said at that point. We spoke of something pleasant before he left, I’m sure. I don’t remember much of anything except that I gave him many hugs in gratitude. My brain had stopped working but my heart was full. I hope he knew how thankful I was for the pain and the pleasure. And the bittersweet memories too.


  3. My Mother

    August 21, 2016 by Heather Cole

    Mother mortal coil

    I wanted to return from my travels with a fresh post about my time in Italy and how it had surpassed my expectations. My time with sir in a country rich in art, steeped in history, and incredible food far exceeded my most passionate vacation fantasies. The reality of Italy proved almost dreamlike at times. Did I really sit and ponder Michelangelo’s David? Had I gazed upon Botticelli’s Primavera amidst a crowd of people and wished I could physically press myself into its flowery details? I drowned myself in art and food while I basked in sir’s attentions. Other than daily correspondence with my mother, I was out of touch with everyone. It was surprisingly delightful. I arrived home full of foreign sights and sounds, buzzing with love and wine, only to find that life hadn’t stilled during my absence.

    I came home to a sick cat who needed a trip to the vet, and my car needed new breaks. My daughter had a dentist appointment, and I used that hour in the waiting room to frantically search for a cat sitter who could come twice a day to give Catsquatch his medicine. Meanwhile I fielded emails and texts from my brother and both sets of parents to coordinate our visit the following week. Oh yes, I was leaving town again in less than seven days for a roadtrip to the motherland. There was packing to be done while I tried to catch up on work, and the buoyancy of Italy couldn’t compete. Especially with the latest news regarding my mother.

    Sir and I were in Rome when I received the email. My mom had sent an update to the family, telling us that the chemo wasn’t working. A scan had showed that it wasn’t having any effect on the nodules of cancer on her lungs. Her doctor recommended switching the chemo cocktail and perhaps applying for an experimental drug trial. She had said that she remained hopeful in her message, but I knew better. I could read how she actually felt behind the sunny missive, so I choked back my fear and planned a trip north with my daughter. It had turned into the most inconvenient time to leave home when I had barely caught my breath from Italy, but I had to go. My little brother was going to meet us there, and I couldn’t postpone our departure without fucking up everyone else’s timetable. The worst part was the fear that I couldn’t shut out. 

    I’m running out of time.

    My mother looked older than her seventy years. She was physically fragile and her movements slow. She used a cane to walk around her small apartment and sometimes a walker when she thought we weren’t watching. The chemo was a poison that killed cancer cells and seemed to be killing the rest of her too. It affected her skin, her joints, hair, and nerves. We referred to her lapses in memory and problem solving as “chemo brain,” and I silently recited my mantra of patience, patience, patience. Patience as I waited for her to slowly make her way across a room, patience to explain again what we needed to do, patience with the long list of chores that had to be accomplished before we left. I snapped at her, feeling irritated when she instructed me for the hundredth time exactly how she wanted her dishwasher filled. But beneath that bubbling anger was fear, a fear of what I will do without her. It was a pain so keen that it stole my breath.

    She asked us to clean out her cabinets, so my brother installed new shelves in her pantry as I pulled out boxes and cans of food. She sat at the kitchen table with a blanket around her shoulders while my brother and I moved expediently around her, sweat dripping down into the collars of our shirts. The summer heat and humidity failed to warm her, so we didn’t turn on the air conditioning but silently melted into puddles in our shoes. We teased her about the exploded can of sweetened condensed milk that coated one spot, and I scraped away at the blackened, sticky surface. Eventually I asked her what had inspired her thorough clean-out, and she shrugged.

    “Oh, you know. I don’t want to leave with all of this stuff still …” She gestured at the expanding trash bag.

    I swallowed hard. She had finally mentioned the shadow that had ridden me hard ever since reading her email. I felt cracks appear in the shields around my heart, and I struggled to control the overwhelming tide of emotion. My brain refused to process the implications of her unfinished thought. I distracted myself with another task to focus purely on physical labor even though the denial was slipping from me with each moment we spent together. My heart beat with a throbbing ache in my chest. I couldn’t breathe. With some flimsy excuse, I fled the room.

    I hid in the spare room with the excuse of completing some urgent work. Sir called me soon after, and beneath his gentle questioning, my armor dissolved. I related the conversation, tears streaking down my face. The scales had finally fallen from my eyes, and for the first time since she had come out of remission, I admitted to myself that my mother might never recover.

    Our unspoken family motto is: if you put enough effort and energy into something, it will work. And if the thing isn’t working, put your head down and work harder. The older I got, the more I realized that this motto was not without its flaws nor did it serve every situation. Until that moment with my mama, I had been applying it to her recovery from cancer. I had believed, mostly unconsciously, that if I prayed hard enough and believed fervently that my mother would recover, then she would. That to entertain any thought of the contrary was counterproductive. So when she came out of remission, when the first kind of chemo didn’t work; these were signs that I wasn’t trying hard enough. I know it seems ridiculous that this was somehow my responsibility, or perhaps its conceit that my personal thinking would have that great an impact, but some part of my internal reasoning thought to make her better through sheer will on my part.

    I can’t, of course, and with the crush of my disillusionment came a startling gift. Sir told me, “at least you know that your time is limited.” It took several days for that to sink in, and at first, a feeling of resentment swelled at the seemingly harsh observation. He’s right, though. I can see now, and more importantly accept, that there is an end to the timeline. Logically we all know it. No one lives forever, but feeling that truth is something else entirely. Feeling that truth for someone that you love with your entire being… well, it’s fucking shitty. And terrible. And somehow freeing too.

    Sir’s advice was to take advantage of what I could finally acknowledge, and that I should wring every possible moment from the time we have left together. I know he’s right, and at the same time, my brain refuses to imagine a life without her in it. I’m surprised by how hard it is to sit with the feeling that our time will end and to somehow be OK. I’m striving to accept that these are the moments I have now. None of us really knows how much we actually have but we like to tell ourselves that there’s always tomorrow. I can’t keep saying that. Instead I tell myself to hold tight and love hard. It’s the best I can do.

    When my daughter and I finally arrived at home, it felt like I was walking with a bubble of sadness encompassing me. It has taken the better part of a week for me to find my footing again, and running has really helped with that. I’m still processing, still crying and sad, but I’m functioning better and can feel happiness through the miasma of grief. I was on the trail the other day, pondering the universal process of coming to grips with our mortality, and a scene from Moonstruck popped in my head. I had to laugh. If you’ve never seen it, you should. It’s one of my favorite movies of all time, full of messy relationships, long-lasting love, and of course, life and death.

    One of the storylines is that Cosmo is having an affair, and his wife of many years knows it. Part of the movie is Rose trying to figure out why Cosmo felt compelled to cheat, and she asks different characters why they think men cheat on the women they marry. Finally she comes to her own conclusion and tells Cosmo. (At this point in the movie, Cosmo doesn’t know that Rose knows about his infidelity.)

     

    Hold tight and love hard, my friends.

     


  4. How to Help the Victims of the Pulse Orlando Nightclub Shooting

    June 13, 2016 by Heather Cole

     

    If you’re like me, you’re still reeling from the events that unfolded yesterday morning. I listened in horror to the news reports of the victims and shed tears of anger and pain. I shared news and support on social media but went to bed frustrated knowing that this wasn’t enough to help those involved in the tragedy. I’m nowhere close to Orlando or the victims of the shooting, but I’m a part of the local LGBTQ community here. Even if you’ve never attended a parade or spoken up for equality for all our citizens, there are things you can do to help this situation that we find ourselves in as fellow Americans. This tragedy affects us all. The victims of the Orlando shooting are our brothers and sisters.

    So what can we do to support the victims of the Pulse Orlando nightclub shooting? Here’s a list:

    Attend a Local Vigil – A Google search will pull up LGBTQ groups in your community. See if there are ways that you can show up to give your support. I know that in my city, a popular gay nightclub held a vigil yesterday afternoon.

    Give Blood – Perhaps the blood you donate won’t go directly to a victim wounded in the shooting, but you know that a person in your community will benefit from your donation. That’s what this is about… helping your fellow human. Spread love instead of hate. Give someone hope. There are federal guidelines regarding blood donation here.

    Donate Money – Equality Florida set up a GoFundMe campaign to support the family of victims. You can donate here. Here’s the description from the website:

    “Funds raised on this page will be going directly to the victims and families affected by the horrific shooting at Orlando’s Pulse Nightclub. Equality Florida is working with local organizations – who are also helping to raise funds – to ensure the money is distributed properly. Thank you for the support!

    You can also visit http://www.eqfl.org/news/pulse to get more information on vigils, counseling, and blood drives happening across the state. We’re also posting updates on Equality Florida’s Facebook page here: www.facebook.com/equalityfl ”

     

    My favorite quote is from Fred Rogers, and I think of it every time I hear of tragedy in our community.

    There was something else my mother did that I’ve always remembered: “Always look for the helpers,” she’d tell me. “There’s always someone who is trying to help.” I did, and I came to see that the world is full of doctors and nurses, police and firemen, volunteers, neighbors and friends who are ready to jump in to help when things go wrong.

    Let’s be helpers.


  5. Birthday Girl

    June 12, 2016 by Heather Cole

    This birthday girl loves cake!

    This birthday girl loves cake!

     

    Last month I had a birthday. Not a big milestone in the chronological sense, but a huge one in a personal sense. I’ve been slowly renovating my life with small improvements, baby steps if you will. It has been a slow change, and many times challenging (like in this post), but I’m so happy to be here.

    To celebrate my birthday this year, I decided to focus on my body and celebrate this “earth suit” that I so often ignore or criticize. I don’t have a model-like bod. I have bulges, scars, and freckles in ridiculous places. This body, though, has treated me well.

    I have relied on it to see me through dark times, as well as the joyful, and it has taken me to far away places to explore. Without my body, I wouldn’t have the daughter I have today. Nor would I be able to run on the trails I love or type out the stories in my head. Sir wouldn’t have a fine ass to spank, and my dungeon friends would miss their willing demo bottom.

    I’m changing my relationship with my body to one of love and respect, but I still have to remind myself to say, “I love and deeply accept myself in this moment, exactly as I am.”

    A very talented friend of mine, who is also a professional photographer, took photos of my birthday celebration with the help of his yummy assistant. He didn’t even mind when Catsquatch climbed into his tripod bag to shed white fur all over the black interior. I could have splurged on a new dress or shoes as a birthday present, or a well-deserved manicure. Instead I got mostly naked in my bedroom on a very hot day and asked my dear friends to snap photos.

    I can’t say that I loved all the results. Not because of D’s skills with a lens but because of my struggle to accept that this is how I look. I have a tummy that sticks out and cellulite on my upper thighs. Do I want y’all to see that? Nope. *I* don’t want to see it either. But while I may see them as imperfections, I also acknowledge the strength there too. I love good food, and I love cooking. The evidence is in my tummy and my thighs. I could not eat and exercise every day and rid myself of those things, but I wouldn’t enjoy my life as much. Been there, done that, was miserable.

     

    Birthday cupcake and a fine ass

    Birthday cupcake and a fine ass

    I’m in my early forties now, and I’m finished trying to meet other’s expectations (or what I perceive as their expectations). That goes for the unattainable cultural idea of beauty that’s splashed across our media too. I no longer wish to feel bad about myself for not measuring up. I’m pretty kickass just as I am, and I think you are too.

    I want to celebrate now. Here. This moment today.

    I will never be in this exact place again, and I want to remember this birthday celebration. Happy birthday to me!

    Happy ____ day to YOU!

    Let’s celebrate all our bodies!


  6. The Question of Submission

    May 11, 2016 by Heather Cole

     

    Credit: Depositphotos

    Credit: Deposit Photos

     

    I’ve been doing a lot of inner excavating lately, and one doesn’t go digging into the darkest part of their heart to find rainbows and fluffy kitties. I’m a seeker. I want to see what lies beneath even if it scares the ever living shit out of me. And let me tell you, I’ve found the opposite of kitties in the darkness of my soul. Even though the digging has been painful and dark, the earth I’ve turned over has been rich. Which is the whole point of working on oneself, right? You go through the pain to grow. At least, that’s what my therapist had told me.

    My personal seismic shift began last spring. The catalyst took the form of a visit from sir’s wife to stay with him for a month. I’m not going to go into detailing the series of events, because ultimately the specifics are irrelevant. The resulting actions, the reverberations of their time together and how it indirectly and directly involved me, shook the foundation of my relationship to sir and to myself. It was the latter part that pushed me into a tailspin. By the end of January 2016 (my last trip to see sir), I questioned everything, especially my relationship to BDSM, submission, and my role as a lifestyle submissive in a D/s dynamic. It felt like nothing fit anymore, and no matter how I had tried, I couldn’t make myself feel OK again. Something had to change. I had to change.

    As a result of the catalyst, I began examining my motivations for being in a D/s relationship with a man halfway around the world. We didn’t start that far apart, but that’s where we ended up. I discovered the hard way that the dependency we fostered as a submissive babygirl with a Daddy Dominant when we lived together couldn’t continue in the same way via a long distance relationship. All our protocols and expectations that we created and nurtured when he lived in the States could not withstand the time and distance that now existed between us. I think logically I knew that would happen, but I didn’t feel like it should. Up until last spring, I desperately clung to what our dynamic used to be, and the intimacy we had fostered, as we tried to cobble a semblance of it through text, email, and Skype. And then it blew apart.

    I was devastated. I felt like everything I had believed about submission, about being a submissive to this man in particular, was mostly one-sided. It wasn’t that sir didn’t love or want me, but he was busy creating a new life in a foreign land. And there I was at home, devoting much of my time and energy trying to keep a dynamic in place that was unsustainable given our new circumstances. It felt like I was clinging to a ghost, while everyone else moved forward into a new life.  I’ve called it a game before, but that submissive role was central to my way of life and how I viewed myself as a person. I never clearly saw my dependency on him or how central my sexual submission was to my identity before their visit. Or maybe I didn’t want to admit that I was in deep.

    I grieved for our loss and for the people we were. It was the summer of tears, but eventually I had to gather myself again and figure out how I was going to proceed. Once I began digging into the reasons behind my upset and bewilderment, I saw more clearly my motivations behind my affinity for D/s and BDSM. I took a long, hard look at why I loved the kinky things I did. Some of it was because I was wired this way and kinky shit got me off, and some of it was because I had daddy issues. The most difficult thing to admit was that I was cruel to myself, so that when a Dominant humiliated and degraded myself during play, I felt like I deserved it. Like deep down inside deserved it and should be punished for it.

    Up until that point, I hadn’t realized how I had spent most of my life feeling bad about who I was and how I looked. The changes in our relationship were on one level, but below that lay some core beliefs about myself that needed to shift as well. Getting in touch with those feelings… well, I had some really dark days. I was raised a feminist, and I firmly believed in equality regardless of gender, race, and sexual orientation. I would never shame another human being for their kinks or body type yet I didn’t hesitate to judge my own. Living that kind of dichotomy of beliefs yet remaining unconscious of it—I had to ask myself, why had it taken me so long to see it? Why did I think it was acceptable to treat myself poorly with such little regard? Who was I if I wasn’t a submissive pain slut who deserved degradation and humiliation?

    These musings brought me to the doorstep of what I enjoyed most in my kinky life. In the moments of a BDSM scene when I was the subject of humiliation or degradation, play that I loved, there was a part of me that believed it to be a reflection of my true self. I was a slut, dirty and shamed. And I reveled in those moments—desired it more than anything. Often times a scene was literally my inner critic coming to life, an external force that matched my internal one. In that glorious storm of physical and mental, I was made completely whole, because my internal beliefs had manifested outside of me. The inner critic had been embodied in my dominant, and my body was punished on the exterior in the same way that I punished myself on the inside. (Although sir had always been kinder to me than I was to myself.)  It usually culminated in a crescendo of endorphins that left me in grateful tears, while sir picked me up and helped me come back to myself.

    In those moments, I wanted to be a dependent babygirl who was rescued by her wonderful daddy. I also wanted to be the 24/7 sex slave who only existed to satisfy her dominant. The aspects of me, the most difficult for me to accept—the girl who needed saving and the shameless whore who wanted nothing but sex, were valued in this BDSM-D/s context. I suppose, to the average human being, this was obviously fantasy. But to me, in my heart of hearts, I so wanted them to be real. The feeling of alignment that I gained from a scene was such a relief, that I thought to have more of it was the key to happiness. I convinced myself that if I tried hard enough, my insecurities could find a home between me and sir. I had blurred fantasy with reality to the point that it had become detrimental to my well-being. When you’re waiting for daddy to rescue you, you’re not really addressing your own patterns of behavior or responsibilities. My submission was holding me back from one of my most important roles: being a caretaker of my own life.

    The catalyst in the spring brought me three truths: 1. Sir couldn’t save me. He had to take care of himself, his career, and his home first. 2. In order to save myself, I had to start truly loving myself—the whole way to my core. I had to banish my inner bully and love those pieces of me that were twisted and perverse. I needed to learn how to love myself in the moment, just as I was. 3. I had to stop serving everyone else’s needs before my own and make myself a priority.

    That’s where I am—standing amidst the rubble of the after effects of an earthquake and trying to figure out what to do next. I’m still in a D/s contract with sir, and we’ll be spending most of July together. Honestly, though, I’m not feeling all that submissive. It’s freeing and scary as hell all at the same time. I’m changing as I rearrange my priorities, and I think both sir and I are wondering where we’ll be after the dust has settled. I’m still sifting through the strands of what is fantasy and what is actually plausible in reality and adjusting my expectations of our D/s. I love him dearly, but I’m not the same girl I was. I’m also saying “no” a lot more. Do you have any idea how liberating that is? I say no in order to conserve my time and resources for things that are really important to me.  Most of all, I’m learning to be kind to myself and loving as I’m pushed out of my comfortable labels of “lifestyle submissive” to be something different. Every day I attempt to write a love letter to myself by making healthier choices and allowing space for my needs to be met. I no longer think of myself last thing on the ‘to do’ list.

    I had a dream last night that I was sitting in a college classroom. I had on a small, Hello Kitty backpack, and I leaned forward in my seat to talk to my friend seated in front of me. The professor, a tall man, walked up and down the aisles talking about a secret code that we needed to enter in order to take the test. He asked if anyone needed a pencil, and I raised my hand, feeling sheepish because I hadn’t been listening and was unprepared for class. Then I opened my folder and found three pencils inside. I had remembered them after all. They were short but sharpened. The professor gave me a pencil and made a joke with my friend. Something about if I ever got my act together, I’d be a force to be reckoned with.

    I’m taking that as a good sign. I may not know the secret code yet, but dammit, I have pencils. It’s a start.


  7. May is Masturbation Month!

    May 4, 2016 by Heather Cole

    May is Masturbation Month!

     

    May is Masturbation Month! It’s also Heather’s Birthday Month! (Yes, that’s an official title.) Two of my favorite things rolled up together.

    To celebrate I almost posted a photo with the slogan, “Everybody Masturbates,” in direct opposition to the anti-masturbation movement that some religious entities enthusiastically endorse. Masturbation is a love letter to yourself, a powerful affirmation of one’s body and the pleasure we’re capable of as human beings. Masturbation is versatile, like carrying around your very own ‘get me off’ kit. Like roadside assistance but for orgasms. It can be done alone or in groups; anywhere, really, as long as you don’t break a law and get arrested. In today’s post of masturbation affirmation (I giggled just writing that) I want to give props to those of us who are late to the revelation of self-love.

    Yes, I’m referring to myself specifically, but also to others out there who didn’t “get” pleasuring themselves until they were older. It’s never too late, and you’re never too old. *highfive*

    Looking for some further masturbating inspiration? Check out the links below:

    What to See

    Masturbation Monday with Kayla Lords – “Where getting off is half the fun…” If you’re ever in need of blistering hot erotica for your spankbank, take a peek at Kayla Lords’ website Masturbation Monday, It’s an on-going theme for sex bloggers and erotica writers to show off their stuff. And her visual prompts are… *fans self* My last post for MM is here.

    What to Read

    Tongue-in-cheek Tips for Celebrating International Masturbation Month by Alison Stevenson for Vice – “Masturbation is definitely one of my favorite activities other than eating and crying. At first I couldn’t help but wonder, what’s the point of having an International Masturbation Month?”

    “I myself, realized how deeply this conditioning ran through me when I thought of the reactions other people might have about my writing an article outlining a healthy self-pleasuring practice—and that very reaction within is what made me realize how important it is to shine light, consciousness and awareness on the subject and eliminate the shame.” – This is a great article from Nolita Ananda for Elephant Journal regarding the health benefits and healthy practices of masturbation. Definitely worth reading.

    Kinkly’s 10 Things You Don’t Know About Self-Love – Nope, you probably didn’t know this.

    What to Do

    Want some help hitting the right spot? Need some toy advice? Check out Clitical.com

    Maybe we should all be treating ourselves this month! Good Vibrations toy store

     

    I’m not receiving any monetary compensation for mentioning these websites. I firmly believe in spreading the good word and good love for all.

    Have a fantastic self-celebration this month! I know I will.


  8. Date Night

    April 30, 2016 by Heather Cole

    Depositphotos_BED

     

    I have been experimenting with kissing girls since I was in grade school. I used to sneak into the woods with my friend Christine, and we’d try different ways of kissing on an old picnic table beneath the screen of a drooping dogwood.  Although I found women attractive and really, really wanted to kiss them as I matured, it wasn’t until I was in my forties that I finally acted on any of those impulses. (It’s funny how I didn’t do a lot of things until I was in my forties.)

    Running into Mims at a party one night seemed destined from the moment I walked through the door. Only minutes before I had been perusing her profile (and that of her boyfriend) on Fetlife. I entered the house, and three minutes later I stood face-to-face with the couple I had been digitally ogling. I made some silly, and probably dorky, joke about stalking their Fetlife profiles, and they laughed, kindly taking my exuberance in stride.

    Mims was tall with a mane of gorgeous red hair and wide eyes that you could drown in. I don’t remember what we talked about or what we were wearing, but somehow we ended up in the upstairs master bedroom having sex. While her boyfriend filmed it.

    The feel of her skin beneath my fingertips was branded in my brain that night. The memory of her scent and the feel of her hair sweeping my face is enough to make my pulse quicken. She climbed my body like some exotic, silken cat, kissing and nipping her way into my embrace. Even though it has been two years since that night, she possessed a presence that lingered with me.

    After that erotic evening together, Mims and I periodically double-dated, her with her (now ex) boyfriend and me with sir. Inevitably we ended up naked and kissing, sometimes after a flogging or an interlude with a violet wand, but it was always with a male audience. And although I had fun with the four of us, part of me wondered how things would go if it were only me and Mims again.

    Since sir moved overseas, Mims and I have seen each other every couple months. She house sat while I was overseas and chaperoned Catsquatch. I have invited her to dinner at my place and sometimes we’ve gone out. And always we have flirted, dancing around the question we both silently entertained. Would we? Wouldn’t we? I tried to mentally map out a not-too-obvious approach to ask if she would like to have sex again, but I lacked the skills to articulate something even halfway coherent or seductive. I seemed to be able to talk about everything but sex. It didn’t help that half the time one of us had our period or had a head cold.

    The sad fact was that I had no game when it came to women. I haven’t had an actual date since before sir left, so I lacked practice too. I was a bonified goof around women in general. My game plan fell to pieces when confronted by their feminine charms and flirtatious smiles. So I would plot and plan about what I would do to Mims when I saw her next, and then fail to actually do any of it when she was within arm’s reach.

    That changed one night last month.

    I don’t know if it was because I had a couple glasses of wine to bolster my courage or if the joy of eating Lebanese food buoyed me forward into propositioning her. Instead of going for an after dinner drink I suggested that we go to my place to watch Supernatural and make out on the couch. Yes, dear readers, I am that suave.

    Thank goodness Mims liked me despite my clumsy wooing, and we ended up half-naked on my couch while Sam and Dean discussed something about the end of the world in the background. We tore off each other’s clothing while our tongues tangled, eventually getting so frustrated with the process that she gave up and pulled me to my feet. I protested even though I knew she was right. There was no sense fighting the clothing and the couch when I had a perfectly functional bed upstairs. My heartbeat ratcheted up a notch when it finally hit me that we were going to have sex again. It was finally happening!

    She led me to my very messy bedroom (I still hadn’t unpacked from my month with sir) where we shed the rest of our clothes easily and crawled beneath the quilt.

    Have I mentioned that Mims was an amazing kisser? Her lips were soft but firm, and she knew exactly how long to hold a deep kiss. This time her kisses held the sting of teeth, and she left marks over the freckles dotting my chest. I squealed and squirmed, gathering a thick chunk of hair in my fist to raise her face to mine. The floral scent of her hair lingered in my nose as the long tresses rained down around me in a private canopy.

    Her body was luscious with curves in the very best places, and I flipped us over so that I was on top. I kissed and lapped at her tender skin, sucking her nipple into my mouth and gently biting it until she moaned and writhed beneath me. I felt high with sexual connection; that golden place when the energy sparked between us and held us together in a hue of physical and emotional desire. I don’t get to that place often, so when I felt it with Mims, I released the last of my restraint. I devoured that woman, smeared her juices all over my mouth and cheeks trying to taste and consume as much of her as I could. And I reveled in the moment, drinking deep the smells and sounds that we created together. I relished it all.

    Mims left several hours later. I considered asking her to stay the night but ultimately decided not to. As much as I adored Mims, I was in no place where I felt prepared to handle another relationship. Spending the night in my bed felt like relationship zone, so we said our goodbyes and kissed one last time. I’m now thinking about what I want to do to her should the opportunity arise again and crossing my fingers.

    I really hope it does.


  9. Subscription Woes and Other Technical Blogger Irritations

    March 20, 2016 by Heather Cole

    I really hate subscription spam

    I really hate subscription spam

     

    Everyone knows by now that changes are afoot, and in the blogging arena, big changes can often involve behind-the-scenes technical shit. I say ‘shit’ because I often stare at my computer and wonder what-the-hell-did-I-just-do-better-call-my-web-designer-to-fix-the-mess-I-made as I’m filled with panic. (See? It’s shitty.) And one of the biggest headaches that has come to my attention is subscription spammers. I typically get ten to fifteen alerts a day regarding a new subscriber who was really a spammer. SO irritating.

    My solution is to install a new plugin to the blog that aggressively blocks this subscription spam. The downside is that previous subscribers will probably have to subscribe again. Those of you that have already registered to comment will have to do so again plus answer a ridiculous math question BECAUSE I LOVE YOU. No, it’s part of the software. But I do love you. Truly.

    If you have any issues, please feel free to email me. I apologize for any inconvenience, but this little software upgrade is going to increase my quality of life. And for all you subscription spammers out there–go eat spam.


  10. Vote!

    March 15, 2016 by Heather Cole

    If you don't vote, then you can't cheer with victory (or complain about defeat) regarding the results.

    If you don’t vote, then you don’t get to cheer with victory (or complain about defeat) regarding the results.

     

    Voting is sexy, and so is exercising your civic duty.

    It wasn’t all that long ago that women didn’t have the right to vote. I honor those women who fought to be heard by placing my vote today.

    If you’re not sure where to vote, here’s an easy way to find the closest voting location: http://www.vote411.org/enter-your-address#.VugIcvkrJ2Q

    Get out and make your opinion heard!