RSS Feed

‘BDSM’ Category

  1. She Stabbed Me, and I Bubbled

    May 10, 2014 by Heather Cole

    I was dressed in a plaid miniskirt and a white ruffled blouse. I wore ballet flats, complete with little bows, and my long hair was divided into two pigtails. As we crossed the foyer of the hotel, my only thought was how I didn’t blend in very much. Especially because I wore my thick, black leather play collar. The silver rings on it jingled softly, but they might as well have been clanging bells as far as I was concerned. I felt obvious, and my discomfort only increased sir’s pleasure with my appearance. The women at the check-in desk followed our progress, their gazes burning holes in my back. We obviously weren’t members of the wedding party staying at the hotel. We were attendees of the “other” group (400+ kinksters), and we were headed to “Try It Out Scouts” in the main ballroom of our first kink convention.

    The room was dotted with tables full of different implements and supplies. An expert in the application of a particular tool (like clothespins or rope or fire cupping etc) stood beside it to help attendees “try it out.” I started with my standard favorites, impact toys, and climbed on to a spanking bench to try out paddles and a series of cane-like items. I enjoyed the different spanking styles and the different weights of toys. The things, and the person, that I had been anticipating sat in the back corner, but sir steered us to other tables first. Whether he deliberately tried to draw out my nervousness or not, the effect was the same. My stomach did tiny somersaults as we winded our way through the tables. Finally he pushed me towards Angel’s table.

    “Time to try your first needles,” he said with a nudge.

    Angel and I have had a colorful past full of bitten nipples and pulled hair which was pretty benign stuff as far as her repertoire was concerned. I thought she’s the bee’s knees. She was smart as a whip, sweet as an angel, and sadistic as a… alas, words failed me to describe the depth of such sadism. Suffice to say she charmed me and terrified me by turns. Sir had always had her in mind when it came to trying needle play, and I was excited to have a chance to try them out with her in a casual setting.

    I had no idea whether or not I was going to like needles in a play context. I had acupuncture most of my life, but those needles were as thin as a cat’s whisker and only went a couple millimeters into my skin. I got my tattoo in my mid-twenties, and the feeling of the tiny needles dancing over my back relaxed me to the point where I fell asleep. The rest of my needle experience was purely medical and mostly unpleasant. During my years of trying to conceive, I had jabbed needles into my abdomen, ass, and arm, and I promise you, it all sucked. Because of the contradictory sensations, I really had no idea what to expect from my try out with Angel.

    Sir and I watched as she slid needles into the breast of a beautiful woman. The needles had light blue handles, and Angel didn’t hesitate as she slid them just under the surface of the skin, poking the ends back to the surface. It reminded me of how my mama and I pinned fabric when we sewed. The woman smiled and Angel beamed, and I thought, maybe I could do this after all. When they were finished, Angel turned to look at the line of people that had formed by her table.

    “Oh, you’re next darlin’,” she said to me with a evil smile.

    FINE! (I’m being dramatic) She looked her adorable, devious self. I plunked myself down in the folding chair opposite her, and she squeezed my hand.

    “Now lift up your skirt.”

    I didn’t have a clue what that had to do with needles, but I stood up and grabbed the hem of my skirt.

    “I’m just kidding!” she laughed. “This is going to be super easy. In fact, you’ll look back when I sew your pussy shut like this was nothing.”

    I laughed, but my palms were sweating. Having my tender bits sewed together had been a fantasy of mine for a long time. To be more accurate, it was a nightmare and a fantasy all at the same time. Part of me wanted to try it, and part of me said that I was absolutely insane to think it was a good idea. Hearing Angel talk about it made it feel like we were one step closer to it actually happening, and adrenaline was zinging through me mixed with a little bit of panic.

    She told me to unbutton my shirt, because she would place the needles through the skin of my breast, just above the cup of my bra. I took a deep breath and centered myself. I focused on Angel’s face and refused to look down to watch the needles pierce my skin. I saw the motions of her placing the needle, but I didn’t feel anything.

    “Look at that. How does it feel? They’re my thinnest and shortest needles.”

    I stared at the pink plastic jutting out from gleaming stainless steel. “Um. I don’t feel it.”

    “Want another one?” Again there was lots of grinning on her part.

    “Yes, please.”

    She placed three more after that. I felt those more, because my body had become sensitized in that area. Like it knew that poking was happening so I should feel it. Logically I knew that I should feel the needles as I’ve felt them before, but this sensation was overall pleasant. Then Angel pushed with her finger on the center where the needles crossed.

    I’ve heard other people describe the endorphin rush from needle play as “flying.” When Angel pushed on the needles, energy bubbled out of me like the fizz of an Alka Seltzer. It was an endorphin rush, yes, but I felt like one of those erupting volcanoes that you make for the science fair. I had to have been grinning like a dope as I sat there and gushed.

    “Energy is just coming out of you like crazy,” she said and motioned for sir to come closer. “Touch her arm.” Angel looked at me again. “Can you push that energy into your sir?”

    I tried. I looked inward and visualized moving the bubbly feeling up sir’s arm and into his body, but to be honest, I don’t think I did a damn thing. I felt boneless and more relaxed than I had in days. Eventually sir stood back again to watch.

    “Ready?” Angel asked. “I want you to look down.”

    If she hadn’t called my attention to the needles, I would have missed the entire thing. I certainly didn’t feel it at all. With a swift downward motion, Angel stabbed the last needle into my breast. Trust me when I say that the word “stab” is no exaggeration. She plunged that needle into me like Norman Bates through a shower curtain. My jaw dropped open as Angel rocked back in her chair and started to laugh.

    “Well, that’s kind of mean,” I sputtered, not really meaning it.

    I would have laughed too if I wasn’t so high.

     


  2. Handjob Heather

    November 19, 2013 by Heather Cole

    I stood in a room surrounded by dominant women and the men and women who served them. There was a table full of food, sodas and water, and at first glance it looked like any other type of meet-and-greet. People milled around talking and eating, the new submissives in the group meeting the Dommes and asking questions. What made the evening different for me was the person who “owned” me for the evening, a Domme. This night I was Timber’s toy, and although I had a vague understanding of what that involved, I had no idea what was going to actually happen besides a thorough beating by Timber and her rifle case full of implements.

    We had spoken at length about what we liked in a scene and what we didn’t. She had coordinated with my sir, and they had both talked to me about our expectations for the night. I was wearing the outfit that Timber had picked out for me; a black silk skirt with pink beading that matched my pink bra and no panties. My hair was pulled into two pigtails and then pinned into low buns, and my makeup was done in pastel hues.

    “Look what I brought tonight!” she told a friend. Introductions were made as my skirt was yanked to the side. Timber’s hand came down with a loud smack on my thigh, and I winced. “Doesn’t she mark up nicely? She’s going to be my Barbie doll for the evening.”

    “Action Barbie?” I asked, trying to be helpful. Timber cocked her head and surveyed me for a moment like I was a piece of steak at the butcher.

    “No, I think I’ll call you Handjob Heather.” Everyone laughed, me included, but I had a serious case of the butterflies.

    Timber first caught my attention when I watched her manhandle a male submissive at rope class. Her energy and joy for domination were infectious, and it made me sit up and take notice. I felt the urge to sit at her feet and say, “pet me, pet me, pet me, pleasepleasepleaseplease!” There were very few dominant personalities that made me want to instinctively submit right out of the box, and Timber was one of them. I asked permission from sir to start a dialogue with her, and although she first thought I was contacting her for lessons in how to be dominant (yes, I’m still laughing about that) we soon began discussing a time/day to play. My first Timber experience happened at the fall Slave Hunt where she chewed up one of my sides and down the other, but it wasn’t until she borrowed me for the female domination evening that we experienced one-on-one play.

    Timber sat on a couch and patted her lap. I perched on her knee until she pulled me back against her, one arm coming around me in a tight grip. She then motioned to a male submissive that I recognized from rope class. He had also been tied up to the post with me at the Slave Hunt, but we hadn’t had the opportunity to have a conversation.

    “On your knees,” she ordered, and then she pulled up my skirt. I squeaked in surprise, and she smacked a hand over my mouth. “Dolls don’t speak,” she chided.

    I felt my cheeks burn with embarrassment as the submissive inched closer to my exposed pussy. Four or five people stood watching, but I couldn’t meet anybody’s gaze. It was mortifying and thrilling, and I knew I was wet.

    “Closer,” Timber commanded. “You need to get familiar with this pussy. This is going to be the doll I use to teach you how to stimulate a clitoris like you would a penis. She should be able to feel your breath on her pussy lips. Get in there!” She grabbed him by the hair with one hand and shoved his face in between my spread thighs.

    I felt a thousand things in that moment; embarrassed, objectified, desired, aroused… His breath felt cool against my hot skin, and I blushed even harder at the thought that he could smell my arousal. Then Timber told the sub he could stand, and everyone went back to their snacking and chatting. Timber stroked my hair and praised me for being a good toy. Part of me couldn’t believe that a strange man’s face had been millimeters from my vagina, but I was happy that Timber was pleased. I couldn’t wait to go home and tell sir all about my experience.

    While we waited for people to start playing, Timber told me to lie down on a spanking bench. She smiled above me and began scratching at the skin beneath my collarbone.

    “I’m going to brand you with a T. By the end of tonight you’ll be sweaty and smelling like me. Then your master is going to see this brand.” She laughed loudly at my expression. “It’s going to be like two bears scratching at the same tree!”

    Somehow she didn’t break the skin, but when the ‘T’ was red and angry looking, she began snapping a rubber band along the outline. I held my breath and wished it was finished. When I was permitted to look down, a bright red T was emblazoned on my chest, a real scarlet letter.

    When Timber indicated that it was time to play, I ended up naked and cuffed to a padded leather board. Timber set her case nearby on a stool and started throwing a flogger up and down my back and ass. It had a stingy thud that made the breath catch in my throat. I silently reminded myself to keep breathing and eventually there was a different flogger, then a wooden paddle, a crop and a dragon tail. There were other things, but I lost track. Timber checked in with me several times, and I thought I was managing, but the pain was intense. She favored the sensitive curve of skin right beneath my ass, and I knew from the throbbing heat along the back of my thighs that I wouldn’t be able to sit without remembering her attentions. I danced back and forth, pulling at the cuffs in a vain attempt to avoid Timber’s paddle. She laughed and encouraged me to continue, telling me that I was only giving her more flesh to hit. Playing with Timber felt like being buffeted by a hurricane. The intensity continued to build until I though I would yellow. Whether she knew it or not, Timber threw me a metaphorical lifesaver and told me to count down from twenty.

    “I want everyone to hear you, Heather. Count and thank me for every hit.”

    I did exactly what she told me, and having the numbers to focus on gave me the reassurance that there was an end in sight. A floaty feeling descended as I entered subspace that was amplified when the beating stopped. Timber uncuffed me. She gently turned me around, and I saw my quilt spread out on the floor. I looked at her questioningly. She smiled and told me to lie down. Apparently the demonstration part of our scene was about to start.

    It took a few moments to get situated. I laid on my back with my head between Timber’s legs. C, the submissive man from earlier, knelt at my side and held the Hitachi. It was one of those moments where the mind fuck trumped all the physical. I wasn’t thinking straight because of my endorphin high. I was unable to think in any logical order. My thoughts were all over the place, and I eyed the Hitachi like a King Cobra. I had a love/hate relationship with it, and I couldn’t decide if I wanted an orgasm or not. See what I mean about not thinking straight?!

    First Timber fastened the clover clamps on my nipples, and then she started instructing C about how she wanted him to stroke my clit. Pleasure arched through me, a golden shimmer between the undulations of pain from my nipples. I begged for permission to come, but she denied me. C’s fingers continued their teasing torment, and I begged again. Finally she gave me permission, and I shouted with release.

    I thought it was over. I was counting on it being over, but Timber placed the chain of the clamps in my teeth. “You’re going to show me how badly you want to come by pulling off the clamps using your teeth. C, turn on the Hitachi.”

    She offered me hell and heaven in that moment. The clamps were excruciating, and pulling them in increments was the worst kind of agony, but I couldn’t fight the building pressure of the orgasm. My teeth ached from biting down and with a final jerk of my head I was free. I barely had time to announce it before the orgasm swept over me.

    There were people watching. I could feel the crowd around us, but my focus was entirely on Timber and what she wanted me to do. Even when she produced the thin cane and started hitting my breasts, I was ready to orgasm again. The pain, the pleasure, being watched and used… it all combined into this cacophony of sensation. I felt boneless, the heat of my bruised body combining with the heat created by C’s pleasurable fingers. I came apart in the best possible way, and there was nothing to be done but orgasm and plead for mercy.

    Eventually the demonstration ended, and Timber wrapped me in my quilt and cuddled me on the couch. She had made food for me, so when we got back to her place, we rehashed the evening while I drank water and ate chicken bites wrapped in bacon. It was some of the best aftercare I’ve ever received. By the time I drove home to sir, I was feeling like myself. Well, a beaten and orgasm-saturated version of myself, that is. He was in bed but not asleep, and after kissing him hello, he told me to strip. I gingerly pulled off my yoga pants and t-shirt (my going home outfit) and turned in a full circle so he could see all the welts and bruises.

    “I don’t think I authorized all that,” he said, deadpan. I promptly burst into laughter, and then he demanded to see what was on my chest.

    “It’s a T for Timber,” I said.

    “Come here so I can turn it into something else.”

    I couldn’t help myself, and I started to giggle again. “Timber was right,” I said as I laid down beside him. “Two bears scratching the same tree.”

    And here’s the proof…

    Handjob Heather

     


  3. Fridays are Filthy

    October 4, 2013 by Heather Cole

    IMG_2233 SM

    I mean “filthy” in the best possible way, because this week I released a new collection of short-short stories called TALES OF A FILTHY GOOD GIRL.

    This has always been a dream of mine… to be used while being cherished, degraded and respected for it. These things shouldn’t coexist in a relationship, yet I experience them every time we’re together. I am his beloved. And I am his whore. 

    Tales of a Filthy Good Girl offers a glimpse into the lives of a Dominant man and his sex slave, a very good girl who discovered how delightful it was to be naughty. Full of love, power exchange, and erotic play, these tales offer a look into just what happens when a good girl turns filthy.

     

    You can buy it here on Amazon.

     

    I’m particularly proud of the cover. My friend, Phoenix Eddy, was kind enough to tie me up, place me at his antique desk and take a bazillion photos. The man is a top notch rigger and photographer, and I love his interpretation of being a writer. You know, I’m not joking when I say that I’m “chained to my desk.”

     

    Here’s a tidbit of what you’ll find inside TALES OF A FILTHY GOOD GIRL:

    There once was a scullery wench who married a prince. Trust me, she was just as surprised about it as you are. The prince thought she was funny and smart and pretty. But he didn’t approve of her humble family, her plain clothes, or how often she wanted to fuck.

    He told her in a stern voice, “I will marry you and give you my royal name and all the wealth and privileges that go with it. You will never have to wash pots in the scullery again. However, you must leave behind your poor beginnings and your odd predilection for sex. Upstanding citizens, particularly royal ones, do not have sex except when appropriate.”

    The scullery wench was flattered for the most part. It wasn’t every day that a fancy man of royal lineage looked her way. But she felt self-conscious. She looked at her work-worn hands and the hole in the hem of her skirt. She fidgeted where she sat, knowing that if she reached between her legs she would find she was aroused. Before the prince had made his offer, she had been about to ask him to adjourn to the royal bed chamber for a round of enthusiastic lovemaking.

    Were all these things as disgraceful as he implied? What if he knew that she liked to be spanked and bitten hard on the ass? She glanced around the finely appointed room and the servant standing at attention by the door. It would be nice to have more stability. Being a scullery wench meant living hand-to-mouth most of the time. Besides, she didn’t need to be spanked every time she had sex. Taking a deep breath, she smiled at the prince.

    “I will marry you. Now can we fuck?”

     

    I hope you enjoy reading these stories as much as I enjoyed writing them!

    *boob smoosh*

    ~Heather


  4. Fall Slave Hunt

    October 2, 2013 by Heather Cole

    And that's my "good" side.

    And that’s my “good” side.

    After an event like the Slave Hunt, it’s difficult to know where to begin describing my experience. At the spring Hunt, I focused on being hunted and then punished for trying to “run away.” The physical sensations of being chased and then beaten were overwhelming at times. It felt like riding a roller coaster, and at the end of the day, I literally collapsed into bed. I was emotionally and physically wrung out.

    The fall Slave Hunt was a deeper experience. The series of events was similar; I ran through the woods, hid and was captured by a Dom with a paintball gun. Once back at basecamp, I stripped and was dragged by the hair to the whipping post by a petite badass named Angel. I was then cuffed to the post by sir and beaten by some wonderful people. These things had happened before, but the feeling of it was incredibly rich. Like I was seeing everything through technicolor orgasm.

    What was the difference? Connection.

    There was a group of people waiting for me at the whipping post, their hands wrapped around all sorts of implements of torture. There were canes, paddles and a heavy duty sweat scraper, even kitchen utensils. Just because a spatula says “Be Mine” on it in fancy script doesn’t mean it won’t hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. And sometimes the thinnest canes are the worst. Four words:  Wandarella’s Baton of Agony.

    As they stepped closer, I had a glimpse of what it must have felt like to be an ogre surrounded by townspeople with pitchforks. The difference was that I knew these people. They were my friends, people I had met in the community and some I even considered family. In that moment, I felt buoyed by our connections. They wanted to hit me, and I wanted them to. And in the midst of pain, I found joy. The sting of impact transformed to love, and the energy bubbling around us felt like golden soaring happiness.

    Don’t get me wrong. The shit hurt like the devil, and I pride myself on being quiet and taking my beating like a good girl. I can assure you, this time I was the opposite of quiet when Timber sunk her teeth into me. And I screamed when she marked me, up one side of my back and down the other. Over and over again. The pain was searing, almost a tearing sensation because her teeth gripped my flesh in a way toys won’t. There were moments when I couldn’t see the end of it, and no matter how I twisted my body on the post, there was someone waiting to make contact with my flesh.

    I was on the cusp of dreamy subspace when Angel made her way over to us. In fact, sir was just about to bring me to orgasm when she pinched me using the strong tips of her fingernails. One minute I was about to plunge into ecstasy, and the next I was back at the surface shrieking with pain. Neither of them stopped, of course. Like fire ant bites, her pinches ran up and down my stomach, across my nipples, and over my pussy. Sir was caning me, I think, and then suddenly each one of them had a nipple in their mouth. I was so scared. Holy fucking shit, was I scared. I caught my breath, panic spilling through me as Angel pulled. Before I could react, sir’s fingers were rubbing my clit.

    “I can smell you,” he said.

    “I can smell you too,” Angel said. “You smell aroused.”

    I was too embarrassed to reply, because it was absolutely true. Sir’s other hand came from behind to tease my pussy, and then Angel’s voice was in my ear.

    “Is his hand in your pussy?”

    “Yes,” I said, feeling an orgasm begin to build.

    “Are you going to come?” she demanded.

    “Yes. Yes! YES! I’m coming!” I shouted.

    At least, it sounded like a shout to me. The roar of the orgasm and the pain of Angel’s pinches and teeth combined in a glorious cacophony in my head as the physical pleasure rippled through my body. My world had dwindled to the two sadists on either side of me, and the sensations rocketing through my body. I felt boneless and weightless and divine. I didn’t feel like I was done, but sir said I was. After a few licks from a friend’s new boot paddle, of course.

    Sir wrapped me in a blanket and made me sit down after it was over. He brought me snacks to eat and water to drink as I stared at nothing, totally blissed out on endorphins. I couldn’t help but think about how far we had traveled together since our last Hunt, and that was probably the biggest difference for me. Our connection has had five months to strengthen and mature. It has been tested, and we’ve both grown in our experience and dedication to our dynamic. We have made friends in the community together, and we’re learning what D/s means for us. Together we are part of this amazing web of people and connections and energy that makes up our community. And at the Slave Hunt, I had the opportunity to feel ALL of it.

    I didn’t get a chance to look in the mirror until we were home. When I did, I saw that my thighs were purple with scratches and bruises as was my ass. Each of Timber’s bite marks was ringed with deep red which I knew from previous experience would turn blue by morning. I had “BEAUTIFUL” written across my abdomen in blue marker that I can still see today. And maybe that’s the greatest takeaway of this experience. I see these marks and remember the people that gave them to me out of love and camaraderie, and I feel beautiful. I feel accepted. I had a moment surrounded by community where I could be exactly the thing that I am. The part of me that I used to be afraid to show, was set free to be seen by everyone. And that shadow animal was deemed beautiful too. Everything was just… beautiful.

     


  5. We Play Well with Others

    September 4, 2013 by Heather Cole

    Last Saturday was another first for LH and me. Although we had both attended play parties held by local kinksters, we had never gone to one as Master and Slave. Armed with buffalo chicken dip, raw veggies and a 30 lb toy bag, we headed over to the beautiful home of a kinky couple. The RSVP list featured 100 people at least, and I was a bundle of butterflies with thoughts of meeting new folks and having a public scene with sir.

    Once I plunked down the food, I was relieved to see familiar faces in the crowd. LH and I said hello to the people we knew, and I introduced myself to the hostess. In some ways, the play party looked like any other kind of party except there were naked people and others in fetish wear or lingerie. There was the usual party chitchat and sometimes a spontaneous spanking. As we walked through the house, we were able to peek at other scenes. I saw a Domme with her submissive in a sex swing, and I was a voyeur at a double-penetration scene. One of my favorite things to watch was needle practice for a future demonstration. The submissive stood with her back against a St Andrews cross as needles were inserted in a neat row down the side of her torso. I got goosebumps watching them. I found needles equally captivating and terrifying which is why I preferred to be the observer. Another turn around the room and LH was inspired to play. And to my surprise he brought reinforcements.

    LH chose an upstairs bedroom decorated in shades of pink, but any thoughts of cupcakes were banished by the large metal tripod erected in the middle of the room. A steel bar hung at the top, and he instructed that I strip as he pulled out my leather cuffs. I watched him and my co-Top of the evening, Kuma, begin pulling out their toys. I didn’t have the opportunity to see much, because LH slid the blindfold over my eyes. My hands moved automatically to grip the cold steel bar, and my awareness became focused only on the things I could hear and feel. Kuma asked what my limits were, and I couldn’t hear LH’s response. My nerves got the better of me and I blurted out, “no punching please.”

    “And let’s keep her face pretty.”

    It was a joke that LH liked to make, and we all laughed, but I couldn’t stop a flare of anxiety. My master would keep me safe, but he was also the one who enjoyed hurting me the most. The tension between my trust and my nervousness strung through my body, my muscles quivering from the strain. There was a soft shushing noise, and I felt the keen edge of a knife arc across my back. A second knife traced the line of my breasts, twisting its way to my nipples as I stood completely still. I was afraid to breathe as the blades danced against my skin. I was caught between laughter and fear, and then a knife found its way to my mons. I stopped breathing altogether as I felt metal scrape near my clit. “Maybe I’ll give you that trim you’ve been asking for,” he murmured.

    The knives disappeared, and the first blow was a hand to my ass. I jerked with surprise, making the metal jingle on my cuffs.The bare-handed spanking rapidly crescendoed until my ass was burning hot, and finally I couldn’t hold still any more. I shifted to the side to make the next hit glance to the side and sighed with relief when it stopped. There was no respite, because the fronts of my thighs were then hit with something small, round and hard. At the same time, LH’s rattan cane reacquainted itself with my ass. I could recognize the feel of that damn thing anywhere. Both men hit me repeatedly, and I was caught like a butterfly in a net. Finally LH leaned close to my ear and gave me permission. “You can dance,” he said.

    No sooner had he said the words, but I picked up my feet. I squealed and turned, trying to find relief from the beating. Suddenly warm hands grasped my nipples, and I went completely still. Chest heaving, I shook my head although I didn’t speak a word. Nipple torture was a favorite for LH, and mine were highly sensitive. I was going to have a strong reaction, and I dreaded it as much as I anticipated it. When I played in public, I tried to reign in my deeper emotions. In other words, I tried to keep my shit together for the most part, keeping the play light and fun. Nipple torture, however, managed to break through any safety walls I might have had in place. My reactions were visceral and immediate, and although I offered my breasts willingly, I also braced myself for the emotions that would bubble to the surface. I felt the familiar pressure of clover clamps, and tears leaked from under the blindfold. The worst pain wasn’t the clamping itself, it was the pain after my nipples were released. Kuma asked if I was done, but LH said I only needed a moment to regroup.

    He was right. The heavy weight of LH’s arm snaked around me as his hand found my clit. With a few expert turns of his fingers I orgasmed, my nose buried into the crook of his neck. “You’re my good girl,” he said. My heart soared at the praise, and as the golden undulations of my orgasm faded, I knew that I wanted to continue, to please sir as much as myself.

    The next round of blows came from a heavy-duty rubber crepe turner and a leather paddle. The individual strikes blurred together as the pain built. The intensity was overwhelming, and then I heard LH exclaim with surprise. My weight dragged against the restraints as I tried to catch my breath, and the most excruciating pain lanced through my nipple. The pain felt piercing like a needle, but I knew that LH wouldn’t attempt such a thing during an impact scene. A sob was ripped from my throat before my mind could process what was happening.

    “It’s ok,” LH murmured, catching my body against his. “We’ve had an intense week.”

    He was right. My dog had been put to sleep, and my ex-husband had revealed his marriage plans. I had every right to sob my fucking guts out. And I did. Kuma eventually took LH’s place, his deep voice a comfort in my ear. He then left to get me some water and LH decided it was a good time to end. He unhooked my cuffs and wiped the tears from my cheeks as I began to gather myself.

    The release of intense emotion I experienced was an echo of my week. Our scene gave me the opportunity to focus solely on physical sensation, the pain disintegrating the leash I kept on my feelings. In my day-to-day life, I had to stay level-headed and positive for my child and work. But for this one sliver of time, I gave up control of my body and did the same for my emotions. I didn’t know how it would all play out, but I trusted the Dominants in the scene to usher me through it safely. I felt no embarrassment for coming apart, and instead, I sat in a haze of giddiness and satiation. A broad smile spread across my face, and I thanked my tormentors. As I looked into their faces, I could tell that the shared energy of our scene had been good for all of us. Damn good.

     


  6. Pony Rides $10 aka Heather Rides a Sybian

    August 14, 2013 by Heather Cole

    The kinky Wild West Festival was held at the private farm where I ran in the spring Slave Hunt. I fretted about my last minute “costume” which consisted solely of a white Mexican-ish patterned dress and my hair in braids. But every time I worried that I wasn’t wearing the appropriate thing to a kink event, I saw bared breasts and dangling cocks in the first five minutes of my arrival and I was instantly reassured. The festival centered around cabins that sat in a semicircle around a big barn that featured an open play space on the second floor. Imagine a kinkster’s dream play/torture space fronted by a Wild West facade. There was a cathouse and a jail, and people had set up tables in the center full of various games and services they offered for sale.

    The Sybian pony rides, offered by Dancer and his partner D, were held upstairs in the cathouse and happened to be one of the few buildings that had sweet, sweet air conditioning. The Sybian sat beneath a winch, a pair of leather cuffs dangling from the ceiling. The setup wasn’t intimidating, but the Sybian occupied the center of the room. There would be no hiding once I got on it, and this thought inspired an odd mix of anxiety and excitement in my gut. I couldn’t tell if I was thrilled or appalled, and maybe it was both things that got my juices flowing.

    I wasn’t uncomfortable with public sex. My inner exhibitionist adored an audience, but the Sybian was uncharted territory. And to make my anxiety a little more present, I was at the tail end of my period. Typically my period rarely stopped my sex life. However, public masturbation on someone else’s equipment struck me as the wrong place to be during Auntie Flo’s visit. I was barely bleeding, but when I orgasmed (and I typically orgasmed A LOT) I tended to gush blood like a crime scene. As much as I wanted to please LH and ride the Sybian, I was also anxious about my body betraying me and grossing out/offending everyone within sight. LH, being a practical dude, asked Dancer point blank if it mattered that I was on my period. Dancer, also being a practical dude, said that it didn’t matter to them. So there ya go. Decision made. Heather was going to have her pony ride.

    I knew I was feeling nervous, because I was obsessing about logistics. Did I want a medium cock or large? Slender or beer can size? Did I wear my dress or go naked? Everyone was being accommodating so that I would feel comfortable, but that only served to contribute to my unease. What would have helped the most were specific commands, but I was too jittery to articulate that need. Finally I gave a mental ‘fuck it’ and stripped. A condom and a lot of lube went on the dildo jutting up from the barrel of the Sybian which was covered in sheets of plastic wrap. Just before I was clipped into cuffs, D offered me a blindfold.

    Part of the rush of the experience would be knowing that I was being watched. I didn’t want to stare at the people around me, but I wanted to be aware of them. At that point, people had begun trickling into the room to see what was happening (and I think air conditioning was a big part of the allure). It took me a second to realize that I was the show, but I was distracted from my nervousness by Dancer’s instructions to sit on the Sybian.

    There was no graceful way to get on the thing, but that could been because I was a newb and had a bad case of the butterflies. I threw my leg over the barrel, but it would take an experienced user to get one’s vagina on the dildo at the exact same time. I almost yelled BULLSEYE when I finally got it right. Dancer adjusted the barrel up and down until I was sitting with my weight fully on it. I made sure that I had some wiggle room, though, so I could lift up on my toes if the sensations got too intense and I needed a breather.

    LH’s hands were warm on my back as Dancer dialed up the Sybian. My fears fell away as I felt the familiar pre-orgasm sensations build in my body. If there was one thing I knew how to do in life, it was how to orgasm. The Sybian felt like my best vibrator on steroids, its speed going from 0 to 100 in a heartbeat. If I shifted my hips forward, my clit was vibrated directly as the dildo twirled inside me. I felt a burst of adrenaline and was on the verge of my first orgasm within minutes, and then suddenly Dancer cut the power. He edged me a second time as all the sadists in the room laughed at my disappointed expression. LH said, “that never gets old.” Damn sadists.

    Finally the teasing stopped, and Dancer got down to business. I’ve been trained to announce my orgasms, and that rule didn’t change in public. I also swear like a sailor when I’m coming. I’m not entirely certain what I shouted as wave after wave of pleasure washed through me, but I should probably go to confession.

    At one point both Dancer and D pinched my nipples while LH caned me from behind. Beautiful pain washed through me, tinged with the pressure of another growing O. Dancer grabbed my chin to make me hold his gaze, and an orgasm bloomed in the intimate space between us. LH hit me on the ass again with a wooden slapper, the stinging pain boosting me towards a double orgasm. I was undone in orgasmic increments; all I knew was the glorious pain delivered by my owner behind me, the sensation of being impaled and stimulated at the same time between my legs, and the power of the man holding the dial in front of me. I felt hands stroking and pinching and hurting as my body quivered and my heart soared on the wings of endorphins.

    I got a break from the intensity when D offered me a cold bottle of water. I almost cried from relief, and she fanned me as I gulped down the icy liquid. My hands remained cuffed, my torso stretched between the winch and the Sybian. I adored the glorious torment of being a pleasure toy for other hands and other wills. Although I benefited most directly from the pleasure of the Sybian, it was not within my control. And that’s what got me off the most. I didn’t care who saw me being played like some sexual instrument. In fact, my experience was amplified because I was able to share it. Perhaps it was a function of ego, but I loved knowing that my scene was witnessed. I felt joy and lust in abundance, and in the heat of all those orgasms, I wanted to share them with the world.

    Afterwards LH cuddled me as my brain eventually returned to my body. He called me his glorious whore as I smiled contentedly against his chest. Several people approached me  to offer thanks for the great scene and new spank bank material, and I was thrilled to know that others genuinely enjoyed it. One of my favorite comments came from a fellow submissive. She said that it was obvious that I had been trained well, because I announced my orgasms and thanked the Tops in the scene for them. (When I was able to think, that is.) I rode the glow of my scene for the rest of the day, and neither the intense heat or a brief visit to the Wild West jail managed to diminish it.

     


  7. Today I am a Slave

    June 28, 2013 by Heather Cole

    I’ve had a Master before LH and a man who considered me for a time, and those relationships gave me the opportunity to grow and explore what I thought I understood about submission. They also led me to realize the things I didn’t want. It became apparent to me that I needed more than a weekend dominant, and I yearned to serve beyond the bedroom. More than anything I craved a dominant who would push me to be a better slave and partner while at the same time pushing my boundaries of submission in a healthy way. I longed for a symbiotic relationship, one that was mutually beneficial in real life ways that would help us both. As much as I wanted to build my sex slave fantasy, I also wanted it to reach into my reality.

    Honestly, I didn’t know how that would manifest in my life exactly. The reality of voluntary kinky slavery is that I’m giving up my rights to another. It’s a constant submission that extends further than a scene, further than a day… it could become my entire life if I wished it. On the surface, I understood that in a logical way. I’m an intelligent, willful woman. I read the rules of our game, and I had my safety nets in place. At any time I could use my safeword or I could tear up my contract and give back my ring. Nothing bound me but my word and my love for LH.

    In many ways, the past few months have felt like a whirlwind romance with a swift engagement and marriage. LH and I seemed to occupy a wacky romantic comedy; two people that met, fell madly in love and hijinks ensued. Our whirlwind, though, was preceded by a lengthy interview process. LH and I played games and learned about one another, swiftly establishing an emotional intimacy that made me feel secure as much as it left me exposed. Our dates were traditional in some ways as we traded life stories over steak nachos, and different in that they often ended in bondage and bruises. As spring gave way to summer, we were well into establishing our roles as Master and slave, and I was riding the high of new relationship energy. I was euphoric and deeply in love.

    LH told me when we signed our contract that I would soon learn if I liked his brand of slavery. By that time he was helping me towards my diet and fitness goals by cooking healthy meals with me and making us exercise daily. I joked with my mama that he had become my life coach, and in many regards, that’s exactly what LH was doing. He spurred me to devote solid writing time towards my professional goals and gave me the motivation (a caning) to get my shit done during the week.

    When June arrived, LH was living with me most of the time and my typical work day at home was conducted in the nude if my daughter wasn’t home. Rules were in place. I had no right to privacy, for example, which meant that I was forbidden to shut a door, and I had to ask permission to use the bathroom. I fed LH at meals and sat at his feet if we watched television. When my little girl was with me, the rules relaxed of course. But when she left to vacation with my ex, I was suddenly left with a long stretch of continual slavery. We were alone, and I existed to serve LH and to submit to whatever he desired in the moment. The intensive training had become a slavery bootcamp of sorts. LH was helping me meet my goals, and at the same time, he ensured that I felt objectified; I was a thing that existed purely for his pleasure. I felt appreciated and loved and cared for. I also felt used and dominated, and sometimes, exhausted by the constant dance along the edge of being a “normal” partner and a sex slave. I was living beyond the fantasy full time, and it brought to light a serious issue.

    It was easy for me to fall into a pattern of being a victim. I had been a victim for a large portion of my life when I was married which was enforced by my family’s message of “put your head down, shut your mouth and endure.” That sounds like the perfect mantra for a slave, doesn’t it? To some extent it did serve me. In the middle of a caning, for example. But it hurt both LH and me when I fell into my old pattern, when I reverted to the silence of a person who was too beleaguered to use her voice to say she was upset, or exhausted, or at the end of her rope.

    It didn’t serve me Wednesday night as I knelt in the dark to give a blowjob, tears trickling down my face. LH had asked me over and over again if I was ok, and I had replied with a simple yes then went back to a resentful silence. I submitted, doing what was asked while inside I despaired that I wouldn’t be able to continue being his slave. I couldn’t submit constantly with a smile on my face and a song in my heart. I was tired to death, and all I wanted to do was curl up beside him and sleep. Why didn’t I tell LH this? Because I figured that my limbs were still attached, and my heart still beat in my chest. In my illogical thinking, none of that was reason enough to call RED. RED was for uncontrollable bleeding or heart attacks. Besides, I didn’t want to inconvenience my lover. I was a slave after all.

    In the cold light of day, LH made me talk about it. My words came out in bits and pieces, and before long I was crying again. I told him I could be better, promising to be more considerate and understanding. But that wasn’t what LH wanted. He wanted my honesty, and he needed me to talk about where I was emotionally even if it brought our play to a screeching halt. In order for him to take us to the darker parts of our fantasies, he needed to trust me that I was being honest about how I felt. My victim pattern was hobbling our relationship and undermining the trust between us, and it caused both of us to take a hard look at what we were trying to create with this M/s relationship.

    The most challenging part of this wasn’t vocalizing my feelings, it was believing that I was absolutely worth the inconvenience of stopping a scene or the disappointment of plans changing. The worst part of my victim pattern was the belief that the things my abuser said about me were true. It kept me silent for so many years–this small voice in my head that told me he was right. I was too ugly, too fat, too flighty to be considered an equal. LH wasn’t that man, but that feeling of not being worthwhile persisted. But I didn’t realize it until I was on the verge of saying that I couldn’t continue being a slave.

    I have more to process, but I feel a hundred times lighter now that I can see why I remained silent in the darkness. Instead of the silent victim, I now feel angry. Angry at how I was treated in my marriage and in my family. I want to rage and cry, but mostly I want to hit the pavement and run until my head is clear and I no longer feel like kneeing my ex-husband in the balls. Good thing LH and I have a half-marathon to train for. LH and I have agreed on a series of words that I can use as shorthand to communicate where I am during a scene or during the day. He told me that I didn’t have to have an articulate or concise answer for him, I just needed to continue communicating even if it was to say that I needed space and time to process.

    LH has often given me the push I needed to get past my fears to try something new, to move past my shyness and natural reticence. But most important to me is the bond that we have forged, a bond that surpasses the labels of Master/slave. We are connected emotionally and energetically in ways that I never thought possible. He’s a part of me–a force of nature in his own right. He is mine as much as I am his. I will stare again and again into the darkness of my soul, into the abyss, because this connection is worth it. We are absolutely worth it.

    **One more thought

    The first draft of this post was different. Nikki returned it to me with her edits, the big message being that I left out the hard parts of slavery. Let’s face it, if it were easy-peasy-breezy all the cool kids would be doing it. Her edits corresponded with my crisis and the blow job, so I included it in my post. (LH calls it the “resentful blowjob” while I have dubbed it “the blowjob of despair.”) When I wrote this I was still processing that night, and I wrote this post as if I were peeling back my skin to examine the nerves that had been exposed. I spilled my guts, and I realized later that it wasn’t comfortable for anyone concerned.

    What I’ve realized since writing this is that my pattern of victimization and my consent to be a slave are two different things, apples to oranges if you will. There is overlap in that now I know that aspects of my service to LH will trigger those victim feelings. However, it wasn’t LH or our dynamic or our total power exchange that made me feel victimized. It was ME. It was my self-esteem challenges, my past toxic relationship patterns that I still enact (dammit!), my family’s history of abuse… All these things are bound up in me, and I was telling myself that I wasn’t allowed to protest. I was in the process of convincing myself that I had no power to speak up for myself, and that made me think that maybe I didn’t have the inner resources to be a slave.

    LH and I have many words that I can use in a scene or in our daily interactions that will communicate how I’m feeling. My slavery and his domination of me aren’t stopping me. In fact, the architecture of our relationship gives me ample room to articulate exactly how I’m feeling. What I’m striving to improve is my feeling of being worthy of speaking up, an issue that began long before I discovered BDSM or found my amazing LH. What I’m working on is something a lot of us, regardless of sexuality and orientation, struggle with–respecting and honoring ourselves despite flaws and failures and knowing that we’re absolutely worth loving. There’s no overnight fix for this, but I’m grateful for that terrible moment with LH that shed a beacon of light onto the shadows of this issue.

    Last night LH and I had another lengthy discussion about this post and our subsequent feelings and revelations. I voluntarily articulated that I wanted to be his slave, and that I wanted to continue building and refining the total power exchange between us. We celebrated with rope, clover clamps and forced orgasms. Then we snuggled in bed and had the quarterly review of our contract.  I don’t really believe in happy endings, but I’m very happy about the work-in-progress us.


  8. New Territory in My Submission

    June 18, 2013 by Heather Cole

    Saturday night I was riding the unicorn high. I had returned home from a successful evening of dinner with friends and some good discussion about me being their unicorn. They wanted a friends-with-benefits arrangement that had the potential to be sexy and kinky. I felt desirable and horny, and when LH arrived, I was ready to get naked and fuck. Not that I said anything about my desires, because I was fairly certain I could peel us out of our clothes and he’d take the hint. Yes, I was feeling that confident in my powers of seduction.

    When LH walked through my bedroom door, I sensed he was in a mood. He smiled at me, but it was the smile of a predator. Right away I sensed he was in Master space. I didn’t listen to the cautionary voice in my head who whispered to tread lightly and pay attention. I blithely talked about my evening as I made the bed, excited about the opportunities that hovered on the horizon. Because even though my intuition was wicked accurate, I often ignored her words of advice. sigh… because I’m an idiot and like to live on the edge.

    Sir grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled me up to look at him. His eyes captured mine, and he gave me the barest hint of a smile. “I’m going to make you cum, and then I’m going to hurt you. Do you understand?”

    I nodded, still not quite believing him. He continued to explain what he had in store for me as I changed tack, slipping off my dress and unbuttoning his shirt and shorts. His hand hovered over my cunt exactly where I wanted, and I tried pushing myself closer. All I could think about was getting those fingers inside me, but he pushed me away and told me to get on the bed. I did as he said, still thinking that I could cajole him into doing what I wanted.

    Biting back a word of protest, I lay on the bed and spread my thighs. I lay there silently inviting him to ravage me, offering myself and wishing we could get on with it. I pouted when he refused to touch me and gave him my biggest, bluest eyes. I felt mildly irritated that he was resisting my playfulness, but figured he would soon succumb to my wiles. After all, I was a unicorn. I had magical powers of glittery seduction.

    <SLAP>

    The feel of his hand across my cheek froze me in place. I gasped, and he hit me again.

    “There’s my slave. I see her now,” he said. Stunned, I didn’t say a word but waited for my next instruction.

    Getting slapped was a trigger for me–a trigger in a good way. The blow placed me firmly at the edge of the deepest part of my submission, a place where we had played before with wonderful results. I eagerly waited for the next thing that would push me into the abyss and transform me into the enduring, peaceful slave that always dwells inside me.

    Much to my shame and frustration, I never got there.

    As the night proceeded, sir kept me precariously balanced at the edge of submission. There was no meditative state for me, no peace in my grudging submission, and it was driving me crazy. I felt frustrated as he encouraged me to struggle against him, pulling my arms free from his grasp as he fucked me. I had orgasm after orgasm against my will as I desperately tried to find the peaceful place within me that could just accept the stimulus with open arms and without judgment. I wanted to find that place within me that endured without complaint, that would take whatever sir gave me with unflappable calm. That was my definition of a “good” slave, but I couldn’t seem to attain that state of grace.

    After a particularly messy fucking of my ass, sir shoved me into the shower. I stood naked and shivering as he poured cold water over me, gently scolding me for being such a dirty whore. Part of me loved being roughly used while a smaller part seethed with frustration. No matter how hard I tried or how much I wanted it, I couldn’t dive into my slave self to fully embrace and revel in the degradation and pain of our scene. And for the first time ever, I was angry at LH. Again he grabbed my face so that he could see directly into my eyes.

    “Do I have all of you, slave?”

    When I remained silent, he wrapped his fingers around my jaw. “Use your words. Do I have all of you?”

    “No, sir,” I replied and closed my eyes as my cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

    I didn’t realize it until I said the actual words, but I was holding on to one last piece of my free self. If sir wasn’t going to give me my familiar cues that would launch me into deep submission, then I’d fight him and hold on to that one last bit of independence. I clung to it, making a small barrier between us. The problem was that I wanted to give it up more than I wanted to possess it, but I didn’t know how. The back and forth tugging of our play had upset my idea of peaceful submission, and I couldn’t figure out how to get back to familiar slave territory from this new position.

    “Thank you for telling me the truth,” sir said, and kissed the top of my head. But he wasn’t finished with me.

    Seemingly on impulse, sir decided to cane me for a missed text earlier in the week. I fought the beating tooth and nail. Refusing to lie still, I actually sat up and tried to grab the cane out of his hand. I’ve never done such a thing in all my BDSM days, and I felt an odd combination of exhilaration and shame for attempting it. Finally when sir called the scene over and pulled me into his arms, I tried to believe his reassurances. He was thrilled with the territory we had explored, but all I felt was frustration with myself and disappointment.

    I’m still processing everything that happened, and LH and I are still talking through the many things that occurred and the feelings we experienced. (Damn the feefees!) This morning I knelt beside him on the bed, dressed in running clothes and ready for coffee. He said, “You’re a beautiful, desirable and powerful creature. But I want you to remember that you and your empire rest under my boot. Under those clothes you’re wearing, you are my naked slave.”

    I’ve thought a lot about that statement, carefully analyzing the layers of my reaction. I wondered if the whole point of the scene was to claim me or was it to teach me that there was more than one way to dominate a slave. Or even more intriguing, is sir offering me the chance to explore an entirely new territory of my submission–a place where I’m permitted to struggle and fight. It will mean revising my definition of what a “good” slave does, and I’m starting to be OK with that. In fact, I believe I’m going to thoroughly enjoy myself.

     


  9. I want to see you cry

    May 7, 2013 by Heather Cole

    My head wasn’t in our game, and I didn’t have a lot to say. I felt like I was waiting for something, perhaps an idea that would set free the heavy weight of emotion that sat in my chest. Or a word from sir that would unlock the chains I had wrapped around the unfamiliar sadness. I was grappling to understand the source of my upset, and even though I knew that I needed to concentrate on our game, I was stuck.

    We began on my bed, missionary position, and I suggested that he take off his button down shirt. The shirt was stiff, a barrier, and I needed skin on skin. I lay on top of the quilt, my naked body sprawled over the precise squares of blue and red, waiting for him to disrobe. When he returned, though, the tone of the game had changed. His expression was serious, the smile gone from his eyes. Resolute was the word that came to my mind, and I knew we would be exploring new territory between us. The thought made me nervous.

    He grabbed my left breast first, one large hand forming it into a fleshy mound. His other hand drew back and slapped my nipple. The pain made me gasp. It was sharp and immediate, and I barely had time to prepare for the next slap. I struggled to cope with the pain and maintain my position. My nipples were on fire as the edge of his hand dragged forward and backward over my sensitive skin. Breast torture wasn’t new to me, but sir’s intense focus on hurting me was.

    I intuited that he was thinking about slapping my face, but I hadn’t convinced myself that he would actually do it. I assumed he played like this with his other partner, but we had never specifically discussed it. Part of me was still shocked that he would want to slap me. It’s an ingrained premise that we don’t hit the ones we love which was why my brain stumbled over the thought. I had always wondered what a face slap would feel like but never had the experience.

    I almost didn’t see it coming, his open palm hitting the fleshy part of my left cheek and the backhand catching my right cheekbone and nose. It hurt more than I had imagined, the pain bright and stinging, and I saw stars for a moment. Tears welled in the corners of my eyes. I wouldn’t meet sir’s gaze as I tried to marshall my breathing.

    “Are you afraid of me?” he asked as his cock plunged into me.

    “Yes, sir.”

    For the first time I was. Not in a way that made me fear for my well-being, because I could always say “red.” I could use my safeword and the scene would halt, and I would be swept into sir’s arms for comfort. But I wasn’t ready for comfort. I loved the feeling of anticipation of the next slap while fearing it at the same time. I winced instinctively as he drew back his hand, but there was no way I wanted our scene to end prematurely. Whatever was happening in this moment between us was working loose the vice-like grip I had on my emotions, and I wanted to ride this out for the fulfillment of us both.

    When I could meet his eyes again, our game had shifted but it was because of me this time. My engaging, willful self went into the background to be replaced by my slave self. My slave self is calm like the eye of a storm, watchful and enduring. She welcomes suffering and submits over and over again. I wouldn’t describe myself as passive when I’m in this place of deep submission, but I’m less verbal and more watchful.

    Sir grabbed my face, keeping eye contact. “I want to see you cry.” He slapped me again, and I did exactly as he commanded. “Now you feel like my slave.”

    I remained silent until I asked permission to come, but even my orgasm was a quiet one. Finally sir pronounced himself finished even though he was still hard. I let him roll me onto my side, and his arms came around me.

    It took me awhile to come back to myself. Sir held me and murmured soothing words. He described the change in me when I mentally stopped struggling to comprehend the fact that he wanted to slap me and merely endured his attentions instead. Through our conversation I gradually resumed my usual persona. I agreed that our experience had been amazing, and I reassured him that the slapping had been a great experience. Because believe it or not, even sadists need reassurance that they’re not terrible people for wanting to hurt you. The intensity of our interactions had ushered me into the deepest part of my submission, and even though I enjoyed playing in the deep waters, it took me awhile to disentangle myself from the murky depths.

    Something emotional had shaken loose during our scene. The sadness that I had felt before was now in full bloom. Its exact definition and cause were still vague, but I could now embrace it. It rapidly became clear to me that the chains I had weighing down my emotional morass were now in pieces, and I was feeling it. ALL of it.

    “You seem so sad,” he said when he kissed me goodbye.

    “I am, but I don’t know why yet.”

    “Please tell me when you do. I want to talk about it,” he said.

    “We will,” I promised.

    I always try to keep my promises.

     


  10. Slave Hunt

    May 4, 2013 by Heather Cole

    slave hunt

    I was naked, my wrists encircled by thick leather cuffs and tied high above my head with rope. The sun was hazy behind the clouds, and a slight breeze caressed my naked breasts. I could see stretches of bare skin beside me, another naked woman tethered to the same wooden post. She shrieked as she shied away from her tormentors, and I glimpsed a modified cattle prod skim her upper thigh. I made a mental note to include cattle prods on my list of hard limits at next year’s Slave Hunt.

    There were a dozen of us tied to whipping posts, our hard limits printed on white cards above our heads. Mine read: no penetration, no food, no glitter, no Wanderella’s diamond plated broadsword (which was a moot point, because Wanderella had a heavy duty rubber paddle the size of my torso instead.) Everything else was encouraged, but I wasn’t afraid for my safety. LH would be with me most of the time at the post, and my girlfriend was there too. Plus I had the safeword “asparagus” that would halt everything if I became overwhelmed. No, I didn’t pick it.

    The beauty of the slave hunt was that it was the closest I could get to being hunted and captured without being in any real danger. Bounties were offered by the submissives, we were turned loose into the woods, and sadists with paintball guns hunted us. It didn’t matter that I had signed a waiver, declared my hard limits and wore a paintball mask for safety reasons. My survival instincts kicked in hard when the air gun signaled an end to our lead time. The feeling is primordial–fight or flight. Adrenaline shot through my veins and I ran.

    The hunting ground was a small section of woods on a private property, and there were few places to hide. My sneakers made little noise against the thick layer of pine tags, but my breathing was hot and loud inside the mask. I had a moment right before we were signaled to run, a feeling of crystalline awareness of internal preparation. I was readying myself, and despite the jitters I experienced on the surface, my body was preparing physically and mentally for subspace. Whether it had been conscious on our parts or not, LH had been training me for this hunt. Every scene we had gave me more experience, and as he tested my limits, he gave me the skills to go deeper and adapt better. It was our first public outing as Master and slave, and I wanted to make him proud. More importantly, I wanted to prove to myself that “pain slut” wasn’t just another pretty title.

    I had no intention of winning my heat. I wanted to avoid a paintball welt by surrendering, happily giving up my cinnamon rolls to my captor (not a euphemism). My real goal was the whipping post and the strangers that wanted to torture me. Anyone could touch me as long as they honored my limits. My true challenge was whether or not I could manage the pain they were eager to inflict.

    LH began my warmup at the post with his flogger. The rhythmic thud of the leather against my back lured my brain into silence and pushed me into the quiet place where I go in a scene. When Angel stood beside me, one of the post monitors, I barely registered her request to play with me. Her crop smacked my thighs as she smiled up at me. I think she said I was pretty right before her teeth sank into my left breast. I exhaled loudly through my nose, and I had a second to adjust before she let go and grabbed my nipple between her teeth. The exquisite pain of teeth cutting into me stole all coherent thought. I moved with her as she pulled to the left until I felt another set of teeth fasten on my ear. I was suspended on a gossamer thread of pain, rendered immobile.

    “Why aren’t you moving?” Angel demanded.

    “Because I have her ear.” The voice was a deep rumble behind me.

    She looked at me and grinned. “What do you want to lose–your ear or your nipple?”

    “You mean I have a choice?” I asked.

    The sadists laughed, releasing me, and I forced myself to breathe and move back into position. Pain lanced through my abused ear and nipple, but I refused to take stock of any injuries. This was just the beginning. The air held a carnival-like feeling, and a crowd of people surrounded the posts, talking and heckling. I had forty-five minutes to endure before the next heat was bagged and brought into camp. I permitted myself to scan the crowd to find my girlfriend, and she smiled at me in encouragement. I could do this.

    The man who grabbed my ear, Kuma, struck me with a rod that came from a set of Venetian blinds. I didn’t know that’s what it was until later. Caning, regardless of the material, can offer a sharp, cutting pain depending on how it’s applied. It can steal your breath and deliver a pain so sharp that you’re jerked to the surface like a trout from the water. I tried not to anticipate the strike, which would lead to fear and cause me to lose subspace, but focused instead on my body’s reaction. My mantra was “accept the pain and disperse it.” Kuma’s voice was low and soothing as he hit me, and he asked LH if I normally “dropped” this fast. For a second I was confused, but then I realized he was referring to the fact that I was already in subspace. I was in the zone. There were shrieks all around me, but I couldn’t watch anyone for long because a different man began florentine flogging me.

    I had been introduced to him earlier in the afternoon. He had an open smile and a leather duffel bag overflowing with floggers, canes and other toys of torment. He had a beautiful whip that he showed me, and watching his hands caress the tan hide made me think decidedly explicit thoughts about other things those hands could do. When he asked to play with me at the post, I practically orgasmed on the spot. It was my first florentine experience, but really, that man could use anything on me and I’d be thrilled.

    “Wow. You can take that?” he asked after hitting me with a silicon rod sporting a glittery rainbow core.

    I didn’t turn to look over my shoulder at him, trusting LH to gauge my reactions. When LH said, “yes she can” there was another blow to my ass. And another.

    At one point he and LH both had floggers and were hitting me at the same time, and I had the stray thought that it had become a fun competition. Who could hit Heather the hardest? I rocked forward on the balls of my feet from the combined impact, and I did a mental scan of my body. Nothing hurt too much, but I could feel the heat radiating from my abraded skin. LH’s hand came to rest at the base of my neck as his other hand moved between my thighs. His fingers rubbed tight circles over my clit until I was gasping, begging him to let me come. I leaned into him and let the orgasm take me, my mind and body overwhelmed by sensation.

    Eventually LH gave me over to my girlfriend, because he wanted to check on his play partner. It was a relief to hear Liri’s voice in my ear when she told me what a good girl I was. I wasn’t screaming or protesting. When I saw the grin on her face, though, I knew it wasn’t over. “I can’t believe they’re neglecting your tits,” she said.

    That woman slaps tits harder than any dude I know.

    After I was taken down from the post, I floated high on endorphins and the pleasure of a job well done. Eventually I found clothes, and LH and I delivered my cinnamon rolls and chocolate chip cookies to the sadist who captured me. He sent me the nicest thank you note:

    “It was quite nice slinging a real woman over my shoulder and carrying her up the hill. The cinnamon rolls are beyond fucking amazing. Like mouth watering bliss in a sticky cinnamon bun. Amazing skills right there. Thank you so very much for such a treat.”

    The entire day was a treat–a glorious day of firsts. I participated in my first hunt. I had my first public scene with new players, and we attended our first community event as Master and slave. I’m sure it must seem odd to some people that I would derive such pleasure from public submission and pain. I couldn’t tell you why that works for me, but I’m pleased as punch no matter how you slice it. I’m a pain slut, y’all. It’s what we do.