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‘D/s’ Category

  1. The Fallout of a Breakup

    April 27, 2017 by Heather Cole

    This post has spent a long time in utero. The seed of it took root during the weeks after I ended things with LH. I dissolved our contract around the holidays, and in the first weeks of that freedom after our breakup, I felt reborn. A weight had been lifted, and I could be myself without rules or restrictions. I knew in my heart that I had done the right thing even though re-reading our entries on this blog brought me to tears. The LH/Heather duo that we had been was nothing like where we ended up. I remembered those events, but they felt far removed from the people we were now—almost as if they happened to someone else entirely. The breakup, though, was new territory in the breadth and depth of its pain. I had never experienced a D/s breakup so gut-wrenching.

    LH and I didn’t stop talking right away, and as the strands of our relationship began to further unravel, I saw exactly how entwined we had been. Our communication became strained as we debated until each call and text felt like an exercise in breakup masochism—deliberate cuts to my heart with each word we spoke. But I was reluctant to cut him off. All my old protocols were there waiting to leap into action. It was ironic that a long-distance D/s dynamic had such a hold on me. The tendrils of our power dynamic had sunk deep into my psyche until it was a part of my emotional make-up. There were few parts of my life where I didn’t take him into consideration in some way.

    I spent a lot of time on this blog talking about my independence as a facet of my submission. I had a list of things that showed how independent I was, but when I emerged from the role of lifestyle submissive, I couldn’t help but feel how dependent I was on LH and our roles. For a long time after the breakup I was in denial about it. After the rush of freedom wore off, I turned once again to the man I had called “Daddy.” It was more than a habit that had worn its grooves into me over the years of our togetherness. The Little part of me, that girl that desperately wanted to believe that her daddy would take care of her, wanted to run back into his arms for reassurance.

    It killed me to know that I was afraid to be without him. I woke up in a panic every morning that our shared photos and files would be gone, that I would be blocked from his social media accounts, and I couldn’t bear to look at Fet to see if he had deleted me from his profile.  And those were only surface things. The real hold was that I had bought into the idea of being “his” so wholeheartedly, that I couldn’t imagine myself as anything but his submissive.

    What a galling position to find myself in. I played a role so well, and consented to play it, that it became my identity. And I wanted it. It felt good to me. I was naturally submissive, and with all my heart I wanted to be his. For years I had decided that no matter what happened I was determined to make things work. The man moved halfway around the world, and I insisted that we could continue a healthy dynamic. I convinced myself that a visit every three or four months was enough, and when those visits plummeted in quality and intimacy, I made myself be OK with it. It took me over a year to admit that I was miserable and then longer to muster the courage to change it.

    I spent a lot of time since our breakup questioning my reactions and memories. Didn’t we agree that his needs came first as the Dominant? Wasn’t it my place to serve? When I signed our contract, didn’t I agree to give him control? And I know what you’re thinking. That contract wasn’t anything legally binding. I could have protested and stood up for myself at any time. You would be right, but I wanted so much to be cherished, loved, and taken care of. I thought that if I gave enough of myself to him, that he would reciprocate in equal measure. When he didn’t, I told myself that I could make it enough.

    That’s when I had the big wake up call. With 2016 coming to an end, I took a trip down memory lane and leafed back through my journal. I wrote about the same heartache, the same emotional challenges, the same bullshit over and over again. Then I looked back even further at my serious relationships over the years and saw this string of selfish, manipulative partners. And then I said to myself, holy fuck Heather, DO NOT MAKE THIS YOUR LIFE STORY. I didn’t want to be on my deathbed and think, “Damn, I wasted a lot of time trying to convince emotionally unavailable people to love me.”

    The scales fell from my eyes. It eventually clicked in my brain that when someone said to me, “this is the best I can do,” without changing a blessed thing about their behavior, it meant that it was time for me to get out. It was just another way to let the entire emotional responsibility of a relationship slide off one person and on to another while pretending that it wasn’t a cop out. And when that same person chose to stay out all night drinking with random strangers rather than come home to me waiting in bed, it was a bigger more definite sign. All those signs and it felt like it took forever for me to do something about it.

    Now I’m doing all the things you’re supposed to do after a major split. I got back into therapy. I’m taking better care of my physical self, sleeping more, reading, and allowing myself the space to be alone. The thing is… it takes so much fucking time to recover. That whole annoying analogy of peeling away layers like an onion is irritatingly apt. Odd things will trigger a barrage of emotions, even after thinking that I had processed it and was feeling solid with whatever piece of our past I had dissected. Those patterns of thought where LH was the center of everything… I have to change them. I catch myself ruminating along the well-worn paths, and I have to consciously stop myself. Yet they creep up like insidious friends with false reassurances. Habit does not equal love.

    I do go on the occasional date, and I’ve had some tentative negotiations about playing with various people. None of it feels right to me yet. I probably see Guy the most and that’s sporadic at best. He has his own shit to work out, and we established early on that there are no expectations between us except honesty and authenticity.

    There was also a guy who wanted to explore my confessional fetish, but he failed to get the approval of his wife even though he said he had it. Even after several attempts to make a potential scene work between them, I had to say no. He did me a favor though. I now have a personal rule of no more married poly men or married men in an “open” relationship (unless I’m unicorn-ing, and they’re dear friends first). Then there was a primal guy who wanted a (human girl) pet while on his quest for the love of his life. Plus the super-intense vanilla guy who wanted three dates in a week, so he could judge my “level of engagement.” Not bad men necessarily, but they didn’t fit. I want more than what they offered, and as awesome as I am in and out of the bedroom, I deserve to get what I want.

    I know I’m not the only one in the history of D/s to hurt after a D/s dynamic has ended. I know that dominants hurt too and can find themselves just as fucked up. I guess what I’m trying to say in all of this is that what you’re feeling is real, and it’s a challenge to sort through the wreckage of your heart and head to find a place to begin healing. It’s possible, though, and that last person you fell in love with doesn’t have to be the pattern of the person you love in the future. Be patient with yourself and forgiving. Allow yourself lots of time to feel stuff and listen to what your gut is saying. How you did D/s the last time, doesn’t have to be the way you do D/s down the road. You’re going to be OK, and so am I.


  2. 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.


  3. An Anniversary: Dominance and Submission

    February 20, 2015 by Heather Cole

    Fashion photo of handsome man and two women

    The end of this month marks an anniversary for Sir and me. It was our first date, and I cooked him homemade saag paneer (an Indian dish) and baked him a cake. Little did I know that we would sign our Master/slave contract three weeks later. I will have been his collared sex slave for two years, and ever since I saw his calendar reminder of our anniversary, I’ve been reflecting on the evolution of our dynamic. I’m accustomed to long musings, just look at my blog posts for evidence of this, but this year’s anniversary reflections are particularly interesting with the phenomena of Fifty Shades as its backdrop.

    It’s easy for people to recognize the stereotypical male Dominant/female submissive trope. Like the dude in the photo above, the stereotype is that the male Dominant has scantily clad ladies prancing around following his orders. I understand the allure of the fantasy. The alpha male swoops in, makes the woman hot and bothered, fucks her into many mutual orgasms, and all is right in the romantic world. It’s one of the reasons why I write erotica, and why Fifty Shades of Grey broke the box office. The reality of Dominance and submission is far richer than what can be communicated through media. It’s not always grand kinky gestures all the time, and it’s the day-to-day interactions with Sir that give our D/s depth and meaning.

    I don’t resent the FSoG converts flocking to Fetlife and snatching up handcuffs from Spencer’s. I used to be one of those people with a huge exclamation mark above their heads and eyes newly opened with titillating kinky knowledge. My catalyst was a dying marriage and the movie Secretary. And by the time I entered into a relationship with Sir, I had already been around the D/s block once. I don’t think either one of us would consider ourselves the stereotypical Dominant/submissive, but in the beginning of our relationship, we probably had some of those expectations. For example, the stereotype that a Dominant should always be in control and emotionally distant because of that control.

    I think it’s bullshit.

    A person might be able to meet that stereotype if they only wanted to role play for a specified amount of time within specified parameters. And in the beginning of our relationship, I think Sir felt that expectation—that he should be in control at all times. But the gift of D/s to me is that the authentic communication required to sustain a dynamic dissolves the barriers between partners. We’re not robots or actors. We expose ourselves through Dominance and submission:  physically, mentally, and emotionally. We reveal our true selves in order to deepen our connection and cross boundaries. I wanted Sir to tell me how he felt, especially how our interactions affected him. Dominance and submission together can be an act of trust, and it can be a gift for both the giver and the receiver.

    After we got together, I clung to my independence outside of fucking, and I told Sir that I didn’t want to be micro-managed. He assured me that he didn’t want to choose my clothing or tell me what to write. Gradually, as we shared more of our time and thoughts, Sir began to ask more of me. He pushed at those boundaries that I had erected, and I had a lot of feelings about it. Many of them documented here. He asked for more of me, and as our relationship deepened and trust grew, I gave him parts of me that I hadn’t shown to anyone. He became more than my mentor, he evolved into my protector. That “daddy” aspect of D/s that I swore I would never want became part of our play. And the games we created reinforced our roles. Even when I pitched a fit and resisted a task, I eventually complied, because in my heart of hearts, I needed to obey him to make myself happy and to feel complete.

    That’s a factor that I think fails to come through in books and movies. Submission can be about playing obedient on the weekends or in the bedroom, but living in submission, with a Dominant at the helm of your relationship means digging deeper. D/s can be a journey inward as much as it is being tied up and fucked. The trick to that is revealing your inner self to the other. Not sexy at all, right? It can even feel scary at times. Like, what if I reveal a jealous or angry part of myself that makes Sir not desire me? Or worse, what if he shuts me out because he doesn’t want to deal with irrational me?

    Like I said before, it’s an act of faith and trust. I remarked to a friend lately that traditional relationships are a challenge for me, because I prefer to live in the extremes. My passiveness, which can be a detriment in the role of traditional girlfriend, is an asset as a sex slave. On the other side of the spectrum, my brattiness can be a positive within the context of D/s too. The control that Sir exerts over me is as much a construct of his desires as it is mine. He calls it a “tight hug” and during our time together, I have wanted that hug tighter and tighter. Especially now that he lives overseas. Those activities that we call games–like sending Sir pics of two outfits every night so that he can decide what I wear and how to style my hair for the next day–are ways in which we tell each other that we’re committed to our dynamic, and that we love each other so much that we want to make that effort. Sir promises me that he will show up every single day to talk to me, and every single day I see his handsome face and hear his voice. I rely on him as I have never relied on anyone, and in correlation, my love for him is deeper than anything I have ever experienced.

    It’s not easy and fun all the time. You can read about parts of our journey on this blog, and it’s one of the reasons that I continue writing about us. There are tears, debates, and angry words sometimes. We both have moments of resistance at different junctions, and some days, we show up to our daily talk with a heavy heart. But we show up. Every single damn day, we show up to be Master and slave, partners and lovers. I have never felt so challenged and so loved, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

    Happy Anniversary, Daddy.


  4. Dave Barry Reviews FSOG

    February 12, 2015 by Heather Cole

    Man Reading on Toilet 2

    A friend of mine shared an article that Dave Barry wrote for the New York Times last March, reviewing Fifty Shades of Grey. Barry explains that he wanted to read the book, because…

    “…as a man with decades of experience in the field of not knowing what the hell women are thinking, I was hoping this book would give me some answers. Because a lot of women LOVED this book. And they didn’t just read it; they responded to it by developing erotic feelings—feelings so powerful that in some cases they wanted to have sex with their own husbands.”

    Read the entire article HERE.

    Barry offers his review of the book, and it’s not favorable.

    “This is the kind of a book where, instead of saying things, characters muse them, and they are somehow able to muse them matter-of-factly. And these matter-of-fact musings cause other characters’ brows—which of course were already knitted—to knit stillfurther. The book is over five hundred pages long and the whole thing is written like that. If Jane Austen (another bestselling female British author) came back to life and read this book, she would kill herself.”

    He’s very funny about not liking the book (which one would expect from Dave Barry), but what I appreciated most about his article was that he brought up two interesting points. The first being that what women consider erotica (he used the word ‘porn’) is not what men expect from porn. I’ve been saying this to my sir whenever he edits one of my stories. His complaint is that the plot interferes with the fucking. I point out that it’s because he’s a man, and if I wrote a story for him it would be 95% sex and 1% dialogue. Thank you, Mr. Barry, for supporting my point.

    The best part of Barry’s essay, in my opinion, is his conclusion about why women loved FSoG.

    “Why was this book so incredibly popular? When so many women get so emotionally involved in a badly written, comically unrealistic porno yarn, what does this tell us? That women are basically insane? Yes.

    I mean no! No. Of course it does not tell us that. What it tells us is this: Women are interested in sex.”

    HOLD THE PHONE, people. Women are interested in sex??

    And here comes my favorite of this article, he explains that many men grow up being taught that women don’t want sex as much as men. Shocker, I know. That’s one of the themes of our little ‘ol blog, right here. I mean, that’s exactly why we started writing about our sexual adventures. We, the women of Vagina Antics, wanted sex as much as men wanted sex. Not our husbands. Obviously. But like other men who wanted sex.

    So despite my general disdain for FSoG (for poor craftsmanship on the author’s part), Barry’s article made me resent it less. If men can interpret it to mean that women like sex, then sally forth, gentlemen! Just be polite about it.

    ~Heather


  5. We are still US

    January 11, 2015 by Heather Cole

    The weeks leading up to my trip overseas, where my sir now resided, were a whirlwind of activity. I was in a constant state of motion, cleaning up, cleaning out, and packing. But all the physical activity was a distraction to what I was feeling. I was out-of-my-body excited to see sir. We had been apart for four months, and although we connected via Skype every single day without fail, nothing could compensate for the lack of touch. His kisses, his hands on my body, the reassuring bulk of him next to me at night… I missed those things so much that I couldn’t even admit to myself how I ached to be with him.

    I was also feeling nervous. Not about the trip itself, but how we would reconnect in the flesh. And in my darker moments, I felt jealous. Jealous of a geographical location. Sir’s new city had him, and he was building a life that I could only learn about through my incessant questions during Skype. That city with its exotic customs and foreign life had consumed him almost completely. From my perspective, I was my boring old self in our boring old life that we used to share. My anecdotes from sex blogging and writing work seemed lame in comparison.

    When I stood beyond the gate in front of customs, I could only gaze at sir and smile. I told him he looked amazing, and I meant every syllable. I had to wait until we were alone in his apartment to feel his arms around me and the feeling of being held by him made me cry. Even though we both made a lot of effort to connect despite the geographical distance between us, nothing felt as exquisite as his physical embrace. It felt like I had journeyed all this way into the heart of a foreign land to finally be home. Home with him.

    The tears didn’t last long, though, and after he dried them, he gave me a quick tour which ended in the bedroom. He proceeded to claim me then, in every way possible. He filled my mouth, my pussy, and my asshole. His body dominated mine just as his will did. He smelled different, but his cock tasted and felt the same. I shed more joyful tears, mingled with the sounds of our bodies joining.

    That first day was divided into sleeping, eating, and fucking. During one of our awake times, he dug into his closet and pulled out the toys he had accrued for us. He had made a flogger from a discounted pair of nunchucks and paracord. There was a pingpong paddle, a foot long plastic shoehorn from Ikea that stung like a sonofabitch, a wooden spoon, a belt, and his favorite rattan cane. How he got that through customs, which was notorious for confiscating any items sexually related, was a mystery to me. Maybe they thought it was a camel stick? He’s going to take me to the Souk (the traditional market) and make me pick out my very own camel stick that won’t be used on any camels, only this girl’s backside.

    I fell into the familiar rituals of a spanking with wholehearted enthusiasm even as a part of me hesitated at the edge of giving myself completely. I felt like we had to be reacquainted in some ways, and I waited to see if I would find our D/s connection as strong as it once was. Now we were in his new life, a life that hadn’t made room for my physical presence yet. Everything about this world was foreign, and I worried that he would be too, or that perhaps, we wouldn’t share a love of the things we used to. Eventually I told my monkey mind to shut up, so I could be present. I trusted sir with my body and heart, and I had to trust that my unease would vanish the more time we spent with one another.

    Sir had me suck his cock while he hit me with his belt. The pleasure I took from sucking and running my tongue along his shaft was punctuated by the licks of pain from the leather. I gasped around him, trying to focus only on what I could control:  my mouth, tongue, and lips. Eventually he pulled me up beside him where I cuddled into his side. He stroked my cheek and looked intently at me.

    “Did you like it when I hit you?” he asked.

    “Yes, Daddy,” I replied with a small smile.

    “What kind of girl likes being hurt like that?”

    It was a question that he had asked me in various ways ever since the beginning of our relationship. And staring into his beautiful hazel eyes, the answer practically exploded out of me.

    “This girl loves when you hurt her, Daddy. It’s because of you that I love it so much. The pain goes hand in hand with trust, and it moves us beyond our defenses. Together.”

    Lust swept through me as my words unlocked the last gate around my heart. I wanted him all over again, and I wanted him to consume me. This was our connection in action. This is what kept me at his feet for the long months that we could only talk through our computers. The fire that blazed beneath my skin was lust for this man, love, and a trust so deep that I couldn’t feel whole without it.

    I kissed him hard and pressed my body along the length of his. He pushed me gently back and thrust his fingers between my legs. The orgasm hit me immediately, and I cried out as my fingernails dug into his arm. A second orgasm followed on the heels of the first, and I squirted on to the sheets. Daddy laughed with delight and fingerbanged me to a third orgasm.

    I couldn’t believe that I had squirted. It had been so long since I had done so, and when he asked me about it later, all I could think of was how strongly I felt about us. That was what inspired and reassured me. Despite all the time apart, our bond was still powerful, and we were still us.

     


  6. Playing Big Sister in Age Play

    November 14, 2014 by Heather Cole

     

    A friend asked me to help with a BDSM scene. A long-time associate of hers, Jimmy, enjoyed wearing diapers, liked humiliation, anal penetration, and age play. My friend would take the role of “Mommy,” but she needed someone to be the big sister. Since I had the schoolgirl skirt and Mary Janes, I figured why the hell not? The idea of being someone’s kinky fairy godmother and making their fantasy come true appealed to me, even if I was slightly nervous about what that would entail exactly.

    I wore my short plaid skirt, ruffled white shirt, and pulled my hair into pigtails. I grabbed a long coat that hid my costume so I wouldn’t alarm the neighbors, and I set out for Mommy’s play space. I always get a case of the butterflies before a scene, even when I’m not the focus of the action, and I wondered what Jimmy would be like. I didn’t have much experience with age play outside of my own D/s relationship, and I worried that I wouldn’t know how to play “correctly,” as if there even was such a thing.

    The stereotype of Dominant women was that they wore latex or black leather all the time, and strode around in heels with a whip in hand. I had never seen my friend wearing any of that, and when I arrived, she was dressed in black skinny jeans, a scarlet red top, and heels. She didn’t need head-to-toe leather to appear dominant. It was in the way she moved, her energy, and the instructions she gave me. She assured me that I’d be fine and should follow her lead. I nodded and crossed my fingers that she would be right.

    Jimmy was a man in his fifties with graying hair and casual clothes. He was shorter than me with a compact frame and quiet disposition. He smiled at me like we were meeting for the first time at a coffee shop and not in a room with multi-colored sex toys and large bottles of lube residing along one wall. He shook my hand and didn’t appear nervous at all when Mommy introduced me as Heather, his big sister. She then turned to me to explain that Jimmy was my new adopted baby brother. I smiled at him and welcomed him to our happy family, and then Mommy got down to the business of taking care of baby.

    Mommy told him to take his clothes off, and then we all traipsed to the bathroom so that he could “get clean.” I twirled my hair and lounged against the door frame as Mommy cleaned Jimmy’s penis and balls with wet wipes. She explained to me that dirty boys needed to be cleaned, especially naughty boys who liked to play with themselves. Mommy asked him if he had saved himself for her, and he nodded. Then she snapped her latex glove and told him to bend over, so she could inspect her efforts. Jimmy obligingly parted his ass cheeks, and Mommy stuck a finger into his anus. He gave a soft moan as she slowly moved in and out of the tight hole. I watched his cock harden with her attentions, and she gave Jimmy permission to stroke himself.

    My posture may have been casual, but I found their interactions fascinating. It was the first time that I’d participated in a scene with a male submissive where I could observe and absorb the dynamic. Usually I was the receiver of the dominance and sadism, but in this particular situation, I had a front row seat.

    “You’re not allowed to come,” she warned him. “If you come close to orgasm before I give you permission, you may beg me for mercy.”

    “Yes, Mommy,” he replied in a breathless voice.

    With the inspection finished, Mommy withdrew her finger and tossed her gloves into the trash. “Let’s get you into your diaper, baby.”

    We walked back into the other room, and Mommy laid out all the items she would need for Jimmy’s change. Talcum powder and a large adult-sized diaper with blue sail boats sat beside the massage table. She instructed him to lie down with his bottom on the diaper and his legs spread, and then she turned to me. My task was to sit between his legs and powder him. I nervously grabbed the baby powder and eyed Jimmy’s penis. In retrospect I should have focused more on the sensual feeling of powder on skin, but all I could think about was making the powder go where I wanted. I squeezed too hard, and a giant plume of white powder puffed into the air. I suddenly got a case of the giggles.

    Mommy made clucking noises with her tongue and shooed me off the table. She neatly fastened Jimmy’s diaper. Then she handed me a coloring book and crayons.

    “You two can color, while I get a few things from downstairs. Look after your brother, Heather, and be a good girl.”

    “Yes, Mommy,” I said and put the coloring book on the floor. “We can color here, Jimmy.”

    We shared the crayons and began coloring a Ninja Turtle. Spread out on our stomachs with our legs in the air, I felt exactly like the little girl I was supposed to be playing.

    “You’re pretty,” Jimmy said.

    “Thanks, little brother.” I could feel a slow grin tug at my lips, a plan forming in my mind. “So tell me, Jimmy, are you a good boy or a bad boy?

    Jimmy heaved a loud sigh and furiously colored a turtle’s mask orange. “I try to be good, but I always seem to get into trouble somehow. How about you, Heather? Are you a good girl?”

    “Oh Jimmy, I am most definitely not a good girl.” And to prove my point, I broke my purple crayon in half and threw it across the room.

    Jimmy gasped, so I did it again. This time with a green crayon. “Let’s see if Mommy notices.”

    There was the click of the doorknob turning, and the door swung open. Part of me felt very naughty, and I couldn’t look up to meet Mommy’s eyes. I watched her heels cross the carpet, a flush stealing over my cheeks.

    “Have you two been good?” she asked.

    “Mommy, Heather broke two crayons!” Jimmy yelled.

    I had marked Jimmy as a goody-two-shoes from the beginning, and he had played his part perfectly. It took all my control not to burst into giggles again. Mommy frowned at me.

    “Heather, that is very bad. I’m going to have to punish you.”

    I tried to stifle my grin. “Oh no, Mommy. That would be terrible.”

    She shook her head at my obvious glee and motioned for Jimmy to get back up on the table. “I’m going to spank Heather, and since you’ve been a good boy, you may pleasure yourself while you watch.”

    As Jimmy settled himself, she unfastened his diaper and handed him a Hitachi. She warned him again that he had to announce if he was close to orgasm. The Hitachi buzzed to life, and Mommy pulled me over to a bench against the wall. I went over her lap, my ass sticking prominently into the air. With a few tugs, she had my white cotton panties around my knees, and I felt the first sting of her palm on my buttocks.

    I adored a good spanking, and I hadn’t had one for a long time. Mommy found a rhythm, and I closed my eyes to relish the feeling of stimulation and helplessness. Her fingers landed tantalizingly close to my pussy, and it was no stretch for my imagination to envision something even more personal happening. She switched to a closed fist when her hand tired, and the firm impact of her fist on the meat of my ass pushed me even closer to orgasm.

    “I think she’s enjoying her punishment a lot, Mommy,” Jimmy commented.

    “I think so too, baby, and your sister has such a nice ass to punish.”

    I squirmed on her lap and looked over to see Jimmy fully erect as he smoothed the Hitachi along the length of his shaft.

    “Let’s switch,” Mommy said and helped me stand up. Then it was Jimmy’s turn to receive Mommy’s attention, and she made him lie down on a medical pad she had spread on the floor. His diaper was discarded, and Mommy donned another pair of latex gloves.

    “Stand over his head, Heather, and let him see you.”

    I blushed and did as I was told, gratified when I heard Jimmy’s breathing increase. Mommy lubed up her fingers and pushed two into his anus as she worked the Hitachi up and down his cock. The effect was immediate, and Jimmy moaned his pleasure. I let one of my fingers skim the edge of my short skirt to find the thicket of hair at the junction of my thighs. I didn’t have to see his face below to know that Jimmy was watching.

    “See, little brother? I love being naughty,” I murmured, stroking my labia with a finger.

    Jimmy writhed against the floor, breathing hard. “I’m close, Mommy!”

    “Good baby. Good Jimmy. Come for Mommy.”

    And he did.

     


  7. Our Last Night Together

    August 27, 2014 by Heather Cole

    feet in bed 2

    Thursday was our last night together. I had rearranged my work schedule so that I stopped at 3:00 every day that week, and we spent the late afternoon and evenings eating all the foods we wanted, spending time with friends, snuggling, and fucking. The time leading up to this point had seemed to crawl by and fly like lightening simultaneously. Before I knew it, we were there… the eve of his departure.

    I had finished ironing the last of his shirts and joined him on the couch. I was fresh from the shower, my hair still damp, and I wore my most softest, green dress with the plunging neckline. I felt raw and vulnerable, my emotions simmering a hairsbreadth below the surface.

    “What would you like to do tonight?” he asked.

    “What would you like to do?” I countered.

    “I’m open to a variety of things. What do you think?”

    “First I need to cry,” I said and felt a tear streak down my cheek. “After that’s out of the way, I’m open to whatever you want to do.”

    “Let’s go upstairs, baby, and we’ll cry together.”

    For the next half hour he held me as I sobbed on to his shoulder. He murmured our litany of assurances into my hair that I knew by heart. It had almost become a prayer between us–all the reasons why his relocation would be a great thing for us both. Eventually my tears dried, and I felt like I could function as a somewhat coherent human being again.

    “So what are we going to do?” I asked.

    “Remember how you asked for an enema scene a couple of weeks ago?”

    I opened my mouth to reply and then thought better of it. A pro-domme had offered to give me a scene featuring an enema, with sir’s permission, but I had turned her down in favor of a relaxing massage for my owner. I was intrigued by the use of enemas in D/s scenes, not because of the enema itself, but because of the control exerted over the submissive. I found the idea of trying to control one’s natural bodily functions to please another titillating, and I had mentioned to sir that if I were going to do it, I would want my first experience to be with him.

    Oh how those casual words had come back to haunt me.

    “Instead of a water enema, I’m going to pee in your butt,” he added.

    My mouth dropped open. “REALLY?”

    “Yup,” he said. “Let’s get you into the bathroom.”

    My mind was reeling as we emptied the bathroom of the scale, a footstool, and the bathmat. I couldn’t decide how I felt about it. Repulsed? I felt like I should have been more grossed out than I actually was. I mean, what was the proper response to a man telling you he wanted to pee in your butt? Part of me was interested, maybe even excited, and then a larger part of me was ashamed that I felt that way. I could feel my cheeks grow hot as he spread out an old beach towel on the bathroom floor.

    “On your knees,” he said.

    I assumed the position that I had hundreds of times before this night. Fucking in our bathroom was commonplace although our actions tonight were a first for us both. I tucked my toes under the ledge of the bathtub as he pushed my dress around my waist. He was already erect, the head of his cock pushing against the crack of my ass. The lube he applied was cool against my heated skin, and to my surprise, he slid into my pussy first. My first orgasm took me by storm, and I was forced to admit, if only to myself, that I was turned on. A second orgasm quickly followed the first, his strokes long and deep. As I tried to catch my breath, sir pulled out and slid into my anus. Suddenly I was gasping for an entirely different reason.

    His rhythm changed when he began to concentrate on urinating. I didn’t feel him peeing exactly, but I noticed a full feeling beginning in my abdomen. His erection would relax slightly as he urinated and then stiffen again when he switched to fucking my asshole. I closed my eyes so that I no longer saw the geometric pattern on the linoleum and could concentrate more on the sensations that assailed me.

    “I’m going to come,” he said, pushing deeper into me. I stilled as his body came to rest against my ass, instinctively tightening around him to keep everything inside.

    “You can go sit on the toilet, but you can’t expel anything.”

    I slowly got to my feet and gingerly walked over to the toilet, silently praying that I could hold it. I felt like I was trying to keep a water balloon inside me, and I was mortified that I might fail. I sat on the toilet, letting my dress drape between my thighs.

    “What are you doing, baby?”

    “May I go to the bathroom, Daddy?” I asked in a small voice.

    I couldn’t help myself. I felt exposed and vulnerable, like a little girl sitting on the potty. I felt myself blush, and I couldn’t meet his eyes. There was no one else in the world that I trusted like sir, and even though I was uncomfortable with the intimacy, I also reveled in the sense of connection. I was willing to go to this unfamiliar territory, to push past my modesty and embarrassment, and bare myself according to his will. I felt little and powerful all at the same time..

    “Look at me, babygirl, and use your words.” I could hear the grin in his voice, and when I finally looked up his expression was equal parts kindness and mischief.

    “May I please…” My voice faded to a whisper. “…poop?”

    His eyes went wide with mock surprise. “What do you want to do, Little Pookie?”

    “Poop!” I exclaimed and buried my face in my hands. “Daddy, you’re embarrassing me!” I shrieked.

    Sir laughed out loud then and gave me the OK. As my bowels released, I slumped in relief and felt sheepish. I couldn’t think of any other time when I felt so raw, so human.

    “So what turned you on the most?” I finally asked, wanting to distract myself from being the center of attention.

    “The thought that I could do this to a girl and that she would let me do it made me hot. What kind of dirty girl lets a guy pee in her? You let me pee in your butt, and you’re my girl. That was the biggest turn-on.”

    My cheeks turned scarlet, but I was grinning too. His pleasure and satisfaction with the situation were almost palpable, and I felt an overwhelming sense of pride. I did that for him. On our last night together, I had given him a memory unique to any other experience we had in our collective sexual pasts. I was his girl, and I didn’t know of a better way to show it.

    The rest of the night passed with good food, our favorite TV show, and more orgasms. As I fell asleep with his arms wrapped tight around me, he whispered, “I peed in your butt tonight.” I giggled, smiling into the darkness. It was the perfect ending to our last night.

     


  8. A New Collar for a New Chapter

    August 8, 2014 by Heather Cole

    Collar 08_08_2014

     

    Sir said that he had been eyeing this collar for awhile, but it was a comment by Dumb Domme that spurred him to finally purchase it. I was surprised and delighted. Material gifts from Daddy were rare and extremely special. He made my toes curl with joy when I shook it free from its velvet bag. The collar was heavy and warmed to the same temperature as my skin after he locked it around my neck. It needed a special key to turn the tiny pin to open and close the circle, and as it fell into place, I felt the stainless steel as if it was his hand around my neck. I felt owned. Possessed. It felt like some kind of magic.

    Sir is leaving in two weeks–fifteen days to be precise. I have the day marked on my calendar in red. Dramatic, I know, but in some ways that red represents my heart’s blood. Ever since he accepted the contract overseas, we have lived in an odd sort of limbo. We’re posed on the precipice of goodbye perpetually, wanting to begin the next chapter and resisting it at the same time. It’s a horrible place to be, and yet there are gifts here too. Not only the shiny metal ones.

    The other night I burst into tears thinking about a possible delay in our tentative plans for an October visit. These cloud bursts of saline are not uncommon. I can hear a song, or read a passage in my favorite book, and the pain of sir’s departure will sweep over me like a rolling wave. I cope by crying until it fades, leaving me empty and somehow relieved. After my tears dried, I had an insight. If I loved sir any less, then I wouldn’t feel the pinprick of pain at the slightest reminder of our chapter ending. Honestly, I don’t ever want to reach a point where I don’t mourn our separation. Yes, I may be resigned, but I don’t ever want to feel neutral. Neutral would be the death of us, the final ending of our dynamic. So I do what all masochists do, I embrace the pain and surrender to it. When I think about sir leaving, I dive into the deep sadness and then come back up for air and continue living. The contrasts can steal my breath, moving in between the darkness and light, but I always manage to regain my equilibrium to move forward to the new chapter.

     


  9. Coffee and a Spanking

    July 26, 2014 by Heather Cole

    Our mornings usually began with coffee. I was a morning person, and rather than inflict sir with a cheerful good morning, I crept downstairs to start our morning pot of coffee. On this particular day, my mind was running through the events of the night as I threw out old grounds and filled the pot with water. In the past eight hours I had given two blowjobs and had been fucked thoroughly, but despite having enjoyed myself, something nagged at me.

    I straightened the kitchen while I mulled over matters, the aroma of fresh coffee swirling around me. I couldn’t decide if I was being overly-sensitive. My gripe seemed petty, but I no longer trusted my perspective on the situation. Sir and I were having more and more conversations about my behavior lately. I didn’t classify myself as a brat, but in recent weeks I had taken to talking back and even telling sir ‘no’ on occasion. He kept a sense of humor about it, and told me that he loved my sass, but I couldn’t seem to curb my tongue. Part of me didn’t want to, and as a result, I was pushing back and acting out.

    I wasn’t proud of myself. As I chewed my lip in front of the coffee pot, I worried that my irritation was only subterfuge, that I was fooling myself into thinking that I had a defensible position for my irritation. All the while the nagging feeling in my chest warned that if I probed deeper into the motivation behind my brattiness, I’d find a bigger issue that I didn’t want to deal with. And I really didn’t want to look into that writhing can of worms.

    When the percolating stopped, I took a cup up to sir still wrestling with myself. He was awake and propped up against the pillows, his laptop settled across his lap. The light from the screen highlighted his slightly mussed hair and hazel eyes. I loved seeing him this way, half-awake and drowsy with sleep. He murmured a thank you for the coffee, and his gaze followed me as I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth.

    “So what got you riled up in the middle of the night? Were you looking at porn?” I asked.

    “No,” he said, a small smile on his face. “I woke up with a boner and decided to put your face on it.”

    His wording made me laugh, and I almost spit toothpaste on the mirror. “You know, you woke me up from a deep sleep. I thought maybe I’d get a thank you for the service or at least a high-five. Maybe a ‘way to go, slave.’”

    I kept my tone teasing and light, but my earlier feelings of angst bobbed beneath it. I had blown him before we went to sleep only to be woken up a few hours later for a second blowjob. Oral sex was one of my duties as a sex slave, and it was one of my favorites. In the middle of the night, though, when I was yanked out of dreamland to suck cock… well, I tried to be gracious about it. And regardless of my feelings, I did it.

    This isn’t the problem, I thought. But I squashed it down and silently scolded my feelings to shut the fuck up.

    “I said thank you by filling your mouth with come. It’s your reward.”

    “Right,” I said, unconvinced. I knew he was teasing me, but I couldn’t muster a smile in return.

    “After I gifted you with my come, I wrapped you in my arms to snuggle you. But my phantom girlfriend was gone, disappearing into the bathroom. Without permission, I might add.” The look on sir’s face was pleasant, as was his voice, but I felt a twinge when he mentioned my disobedience.

    I had left our bed on purpose. I put my toothbrush away and came to stand beside him. He reached for my hand, but I avoided his eyes.

    “I didn’t want to snuggle you while feeling bitchy about your silence so I got up to clear my head. I came back right after I peed,” I said.

    “Perhaps there’s a better way that we can communicate so that you don’t feel like you’re unappreciated. Maybe you can say, ‘I felt ____ when ____ happened.’”

    I tried not to roll my eyes even though I knew he was right. I hadn’t handled it well, and I should have told him about my irritation rather than abandoning the situation.

    “Fine,” I said.

    Sir’s eyebrows arched with surprise. “I think someone needs to remember her manners.”

    “FINE. SIR.”

    As sir’s eyes widened with incredulity, I gave him a look that would have made any five-year-old proud. I couldn’t help pushing him, needling him one step further.

    “Come to the other side of the bed, please,” he said and patted the space beside him.

    “I have to go to work.”

    “This won’t take long. I’ll count to five. 1… 2…”

    I didn’t stall any further, knowing things would be so much worse if I delayed even further. He instructed me to get on my knees towards the edge of the bed with my ass pointing out towards the window. I stared at the jumbled sheets around me and wondered what kind of hot water I had landed in.The jingle of a belt buckle answered my unspoken question.

    “I want you to count, and I want you to thank me for each one, because you need a lesson in manners.”

    “Yes, sir,” I said meekly, my fingers digging into a blanket.

    He hit me hard, the sting of leather stealing my breath. I counted and thanked him, tears pooling beneath my lashes. I only had to count to five, but sir made every one of them count.

    After the last one, I stayed in place, trying to catch my breath. I heard the belt drop to the floor, and then sir’s arm gently pushed me down. I toppled on to my side, my emotions a zigzagging blur inside me. I felt outraged that I was punished even though on the heels of that came a giant wave of relief for it. All it took was those five strikes and my defenses were breached. I was laid bare, open and vulnerable.

    Sir’s arms came around me, and he pulled the blanket over us both. He spoke in my ear, his words soothing and sensual at the same time. The tickle of his breath on my neck, and the rumble of his voice against my back… I told myself to remember every last little detail. I wanted to soak in the experience through my skin and into my bones so that I could recall it in the lonely weeks to come. It was then that I realized that the quagmire of emotion inspiring my behavior was grief, an ocean of sadness that he will be leaving. It wasn’t a can of worms that I was avoiding. It was one giant, Dune-sized, earth-shaking worm of loss that I wanted to un-see. I decided to continue ignoring it even as it threatened to surface.

    We have today, I told myself. We have this moment.

    It had to be enough.

     


  10. Ask Heather: How Do I Pee in front of Sir?

    June 27, 2014 by Heather Cole

    Dear Heather,

    Sir and i were watching a film together with me sitting by His feet. In the middle of the film i felt the need to go to the bathroom. i got up and said to Sir that i needed to go to pee. Suddenly He asked me, “Do you really want to go to the toilet?” I replied yes. He then asked again, “Would you pee into a glass if I asked you to?”

    i should have known better but i immediately said “Are you kidding me? Of course not!” HUGE MISTAKE to be defiant. He said to me either i peed in a glass in front of Him or hold it. I did hold it till the end of the film and asked Him again. i still didn’t want to pee in from of Sir in a glass. So He ordered me to bend over my bench. He told be He was going to strike me with my paddle 40 times. He would continue till I would go pee in that glass.

    After a dozen of strikes, i said i would try. i tried but nothing came out. Some kind of muscle down there just wouldn’t relax enough for me to pee. Embarrassment was out of my head already. i just wanted to do what Sir wanted me to do. i failed and accepted the rest of the punishment.

    But Sir promised me that He will have me pee in that glass one day.

    Do you have any tips? No matter how much i tried to relax, the pee won’t come out.

    Zoe

    P.S. i am very happy with the blog you and Nikki have. I especially love your letter to your Sir at the anniversary. Very touching and inspirational.

     

    Dear Zoe:

    Thank you so much for writing! I had to squeal with joy that you gave me the opportunity to share this skill I’ve developed. Let’s face it. It’s not every day that you get to offer pointers on how to pee in a cup with an audience. (Although I suppose this would be helpful for drug testing.) Your email about the situation with your Master sent me tripping down memory lane to the first time I tried to pee in front of my sir. Like you, I couldn’t relax enough to do it, and I felt embarrassed that I had failed in my service even though my first reaction was, “YOU WANT ME TO WHAT?.” I’d say that my smartass mouth has improved since then, as well as, my ability to pee in front of an audience, but that’d be a lie.

    A little background for those VA readers who are wondering why the heck this is even a thing… in a dynamic of Dominance and submission, whether it’s part of BDSM or Domestic Discipline or whatever, the Dominant is the doer and the submissive receives the stimulus. Sometimes the action of the Dominant, in this example the command to pee, isn’t the actual fetish. It’s the aspect of control, of making your submissive do something he/she doesn’t really want to. And sadism can certainly play a part if the Dominant enjoys the sub’s discomfort, embarrassment, or humiliation. The submissive on the other hand, providing that the action isn’t a hard limit, often enjoys having boundaries pushed and likes complying with the command. Of course, how this specifically plays out in the dynamic depends on the people involved, but that’s the general outline of the game. And holy moly, can it be a fun fucking game.

    My dear Zoe, there are two specific things that helped my bladder get over its stage fright. The first thing was kegels. (I simply read the word, and I’m compelled to do them.) Here’s a simple how-to and why from the Mayo Clinic. If you don’t do them already, they will be very helpful in teaching you how to control the muscles that control urination. Not to mention the added bonus of tightening up your vag. Stopping your pee midstream while you’re by yourself in the bathroom can illustrate what those muscles feel like when you tighten and release them. This is the first step to many things sexually. Know your body and how it works! When your brain gives the command to stop peeing, you then have to give yourself the command to release. As you become conscious of this instinctive function, you’ll be able to control it more which will allow you to control it better when the time arises for you to do it on command. Hurray!

    I’m guessing that your punishment didn’t help matters either, because your body was tensed for the spanking. Once your muscles are in the place of receiving stimulus, it would be challenging to relax them enough to relieve yourself while feeling embarrassed about doing so (or failing to) in front of your Dominant. The trick is to become comfortable enough to pee and perform way before the situation gets to punishment. Although your spanking sounds pretty hot. Just sayin’.

    The other thing that really helped me was practice. I was partially forced to practice because sir took away my right to privacy. In our house, there are no closed doors except when sir wants his privacy. Otherwise, sir can wander in and watch me do whatever I’m doing in the bathroom. In the beginning, I was appalled. And grossed out. I mean, bathroom functions are private. I don’t like doing them in front of trained medical professionals let alone people I love and have sexy times with.

    I don’t think you have to start peeing with the bathroom door open, but you need to shape up your pee muscles by practicing with kegels. Then you need to practice more by peeing into a cup in the bathroom or wherever you want to do it. Don’t be afraid to make a mess. My first couple times I freaking sprayed pee everywhere. Thank goodness I was in the kitchen (and on the linoleum). I started out with a bowl then worked my way into smaller and smaller cups. When I finally could pee in a juice glass without spilling a drop, I felt like a badass ninja motherfucker. I’m pretty sure I yelled, “Fuck yeah!” and did a victory lap through the dining room.

    When I was finished writing this response, I read it aloud to sir for his feedback. He replied that he didn’t want to condone unsubstantiated claims on the internet (can you tell he’s a lawyer?) so he sent me downstairs to fetch a juice glass. Next thing I know, I’m standing in the bathtub and preparing to pee into the juice glass. I confess that I got a case of the giggles as I watched sir settle himself on the bath mat like he was preparing to watch something riveting on the television. No doubt he wanted to scrutinize the process and add to my nervousness. He suggested that I hum to myself to get things going, but once I focused on the task at hand, I filled that juice cup with ease. I was reminded of two other factors that may help in your training. 1.) It’s easier if you feel the need to go. Not an emergency situation, but wait to practice until you feel a significant urge to empty your bladder. 2.) The more delicate I try to be or the more careful (i.e. when I’m trying making it a trickle), the more I spray or dribble all over myself. It’s when I let go with confidence that I have one single, strong stream. Also, don’t hold the cup too high against your crotch. You’ll only make things messier.

    Once you become familiar with the series of muscles working when you pee, and you get used to peeing in things other than the toilet, I have the utmost confidence that you’ll be able to pee for your Master when the situation calls for it. And when you do, please tell me about your victory lap.

    *boob smoosh*

    Heather