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‘D/s’ Category

  1. I Called Him Daddy

    March 26, 2014 by Heather Cole

    When I first began exploring BDSM, it took me awhile to figure out that there were different ways to “do” dominance. There were Daddy Doms, Doms, Tops, Service Tops, Dommes, Mistresses and Masters, and there were hundreds of styles of dominance. As a newbie slave, there was one thing I was certain of. I didn’t want a caretaker. I wanted someone to worship and serve and fuck. I wanted my boundaries pushed, and I wanted pain to feed my masochism. Daddy Doms were slightly mystifying to me. I understood that being nurtured and cared for were wonderful facets of a relationship, but the loving Daddy dynamic held little appeal for me. Frankly, I didn’t get the attraction even though I respected the kink.

    Once I entered the local kinky community, my eyes were opened to new worlds of power exchange. I learned that many of my friends were adult babies, littles or middles or were the mommies and daddies of littles and middles and adult babies. I found age play fascinating, and I loved hearing about the players’ experiences and how play was incorporated into their lives. But it still held little appeal to me. Like the role of the caring Daddy Dom, I could appreciate it, but I didn’t particularly want it as part of my own D/s.

    Age play came front and center after I read a book by a friend of mine, Mako Allen. He wrote Auntie Eva’s Boarder, a fascinating look at age play and how one man became an adult baby. I expected to be entertained, because I thought Mako was a talented and creative writer. What I hadn’t expected was to find parallels between the age players and my own Master/slave relationship. And I really hadn’t expected to get turned on. As I read passages aloud to sir, I could see the wheels turning in his head.

    Our first foray into age play wasn’t successful, and it involved hypnosis. I didn’t like the feeling of being a little girl. I felt powerless, and the “little” feeling blurred the lines of sex from consensual into non-consent territory. Not because of anything my master did but because of my own perceptions of feeling little.  I was certain that being a mother to a young child also complicated the situation for me. Typically when I thought about children, I experienced the protective ferocity of a mother wolf. Add to that the fact that I was self-reliant to the extreme, often to my own detriment, being a little girl and dependent on another person felt more uncomfortable and conflicting than pleasurable. We didn’t manage to make it work for both of us, so I stopped thinking about age play and Daddy Doms and everything else. I stopped thinking about it, because life got interesting in unsettling ways.

    Sir had been interviewing for a new job since last September. Because of my custody agreement, and my choice to be a present and loving mother, I chose to stay in this area until my child went to college to share custody with my ex. I knew that sir would be leaving his current position since last spring, but for much of that time, I figured that he would take another job in our locality. My assumptions, though, were firmly in place because I didn’t want to think about the alternative. I didn’t want to think about what life would be like without him. We had spent a year forging our dynamic and creating a life where I woke up to his body beside me and his cock in my mouth, and every night I burrowed into his arms after a thorough fucking. But it was the day-to-day rituals and interactions that I looked forward to so much: cooking his meals, ironing his clothes, bringing him coffee in the morning, and showering together… The list of mundane togetherness went on and on, and I cherished each connection, no matter how slight it seemed. My life now revolved around him in significant ways, and his absence would mean… even now I lacked the words to describe that devastation. But I forced myself to take a good, long look at reality after sir had a second interview for a position overseas. Everything sank home at once. There was the very real possibility that sir would spend most of the next two years halfway around the world.

    This realization wasn’t graceful, and it was barely coherent. I spent most of one weekend in constant tears, lashing out at anything and everything. We debated. We cried. I felt overwhelmed by anger and hopelessness. Nothing had been decided, but I hated that many things that I loved in my life were now in jeopardy. I had done long-distance D/s before, and I knew logically that I could do it again. Really my anger was a product of my fear; that I was losing him somehow. I couldn’t stand the thought of being left behind, a slave without an owner. Our life together was something I had dreamed about for years. But if he left, our lives would be irrevocably altered, and the fear in my head whispered that we would never have this again. I was a mess, but I didn’t know any other way to process the cold hard facts of a possible separation.

    To sir’s credit he braved my emotional tempest with calm and equilibrium. He pulled me into his arms as I fell apart, soothing me the best he could. I felt like the walking wounded, like my pain and fear were this open wound I carried where my heart would be. He stroked my hair and called me his BabyGirl, and promised that he would take care of me. I’m your Daddy, he told me, and it was his responsibility and his pleasure to provide for me. He said he would never let me go, and that no matter where he went I would always be his BabyGirl. Somehow those assurances didn’t strike me as uncomfortable. He was a nurturing Daddy, and I needed him. I was in such a state of raw vulnerability that all I wanted was to be his BabyGirl and crawl into his lap to let him deal with everything. I needed his nurturing spirit and kind words. I needed his care.

    Since then the words Daddy and BabyGirl have crept into our daily vocabulary. I don’t think it’s age play exactly, although there are elements of that sometimes, but more like a caring Daddy Dom. Every day sir holds me, snuggling me close and reassuring me that he’s going to take care of me. And I soak in his words, basking in his strength and assurances. I’m learning to be comfortable in my vulnerability and open to his help. I’m his BabyGirl, and I’m starting to feel grateful for that.


  2. Happy Anniversary, sir

    March 4, 2014 by Heather Cole

    A year ago this week we had our second date. The first involved my introduction to Indian cooking, and I made your favorite dish, sag paneer, and chocolate cake. For dessert you tied me to a massage table and gave me more orgasms than I could count. Our second date took place at your office where there was more rope, a caning, anal sex, and 43 orgasms (you made me count that time) among your bookshelves and the scent of paper and incense. We were tentative and sometimes fumbling, but I was completely mesmerized by you. You had captured me, brain and body. I was yours, but I didn’t know it yet.

    All of those sensations and images run through my head when I think back to where we started. I thought I wanted a weekend-warrior-type kink style of domination. I thought that what I needed was to be tied up on occasion and beaten. My past experiences with Dominance and submission fell along those general lines, so I assumed that was what I was looking for when we began dating. I had my defenses firmly in place in case you were just another guy who thought they wanted a sex slave. I was prepared to cut my losses and walk once you proved that your intentions weren’t long term or serious. I had every expectation that this would prove to be yet another casual encounter, and I felt fairly certain that you didn’t know what deep waters you were messing with. You proved me wrong, though. Over and over again you proved that you were exactly the man and dominant that I needed.

    It’s funny. I’ve prided myself on being independent. Even without the people that I loved most in my life, I knew I would continue to function; I would continue to succeed in my life no matter what. You showed me, though, that it was OK to need someone. You once explained to me that you would tighten the tether between us until we were so close that we became a part of the other. I laughed when you said it, shrugging it away as if you didn’t know what you were talking about. I figured it was the kind of sentiment uttered in romantic BDSM novels and not anything that could be sustained in real life. And yet…

    I need you. Need in a way that is basic and fundamental to how I operate through life. You have become my center, my true north. What I’ve discovered is that I may balk at something you ask of me, but I will submit in the end. Despite my willful moments and sassy mouth, my submission to you feels like eating or breathing. Perhaps the face of it will evolve and change over the years, but I’m sure of it like I am certain of my heartbeat. As long as I have a heart, it will be yours.

    You understand facets of me that I couldn’t fathom before we met, and you make my most idiosyncratic parts feel “normal.” Like I said, it took the discovery of you to find all those lost pieces of myself. ‘You complete me’ is a  trite phrase, but it’s true. You took someone who was floundering and groping around in the dark and gave her a purpose. You gave me a different kind of goal:  to be the best person I was capable of being. You also gave me yourself, in all your flawed and battle-weary wonderfulness. You’ve shown me what it means to submit every day, in little ways and in big ones. Sometimes that means standing still and naked in the kitchen as you stroke the tips of ice cubes over the most sensitive parts of my body or being turned over your knee to take the birthday spankings at a party of fellow kinksters. And sometimes it means giving you my mind, my most cherished possession, and trusting that you will do wonderful things with it. Every day you show me what it means to be yours, and every day I strive to be your best girl.

    I’ve told you before that I wished to give you everything, every fiber of my being, every nook and cranny of my soul. That’s not to say that I won’t ever question you or balk at your guiding hand, but in the end, I will always submit. I will go to my knees when you ask it and try to bend my own desires to fit your will. I understand that you want me to fly, to stretch my experience to the far reaches of my imagination. And as much as I want to be launched into my wildest dreams, at the end of the day, I want to return to your feet and be locked inside the cage of your choosing. In the end, I want to return home to you. To the life that we have made together and the bonds that we both have chosen as Master and slave. In the end, I will choose you and our dynamic. Over and over again I will choose you. I want your ring, your hand, and our love.


  3. Sex, Shrieking Mind Monkeys, and Feelings

    February 21, 2014 by Heather Cole

    One of the main tenet of my slave contract was sexual availability and sexual service. First and foremost I was a sex slave, and when sir and I began this journey together I was vocal and explicit about my sexual needs. Objectification was a big turn-on for me, and I craved to be used. I enjoyed being a living, breathing sex doll of sorts. In fact, I insisted on it. It wasn’t that I didn’t want an emotional connection during sex, but it didn’t always have to be about the feefees. Sometimes what I wanted was to be bent over the kitchen counter and commanded to present myself for penetration. Luckily for me, sir was looking for that exact thing. We both had high sex drives, so when we crafted our contract, sex was number one on the proverbial “to do” list. This meant that it didn’t matter if I was in the mood or not. If sir wanted to fuck, or be sexually satisfied in any way, shape or form (in a way that wasn’t on my limits list) we did it. Even though he pushed my boundaries in his charismatic and loving way, I was game. It got intense at times, but we more or less saw eye-to-eye when it came to sex. And then December happened…

    I think it’s part of the human experience to have contradictory feelings about the holidays, but December was particularly intense for sir and me. Sir had the month off, and since I worked from home, we spent most days together. Sir called it The Month of Obsessive Compulsive Fucking, because we did it all the time. At least, that’s how that month felt to me in hindsight. When I think back on it, everything seemed blurry. It passed in a haze of come, sweat, rich foods, endless family visits, and booze. It felt like we squeezed a year’s worth of debauchery into 31 days. I wasn’t sleeping more than a couple of hours in a row, because we’d fuck in the middle of the night. There was a blowjob in the morning, at night, and sometimes in the middle of the day. He’d come downstairs, pull out a chair beside me at the table and tell me to get on my knees. We fucked all over the house, in all the rooms, using all my orifices. I took to keeping a tube of Aquaphor on my nightstand, because the delicate skin of my labia, lips, and anus were rubbed raw. It was an intense rush. I had never felt closer to sir emotionally, and it seemed like our physical joining was reinforcing that. On one level I felt amazing, but by the time January rolled around, I felt like I was falling apart emotionally.

    The first sign of trouble was that I began to resist being hypnotized. We have had a lot of fun with consensual mind games, but in December, more often than not, sir would put me under and I wouldn’t remember what transpired. One moment he was mid-thrust, and then my consciousness was gone. I would eventually wake up to our dark bedroom with sir fast asleep beside me. I’d be covered in bodily fluids, smelling of sex with come trickling out between my legs. Any other time, I would have been so turned on by that level of objectification that I’d wake sir up to fuck me again. I loved to be used in this way. I felt like a sex detective which made the disconnect in my brain fun. I’d take stock of my body and sensations and try to guess what had happened. Often sir would give me a brief recap of what had occurred between us, but it got to the point where I feared that I was hypnotized more than I was conscious. I began to have an emotional reaction to going under, and I couldn’t figure out why my sex doll role play wasn’t making me the horny, wanton slut the way it usually did. Sex wasn’t supposed to be a point of stress for me, but that’s precisely what happened.

    It took me a long time to work up the courage to say that I needed break. In fact, I still feel guilty that I said anything at all. I’m a prideful whore, and I take great satisfaction in pleasing my dominant. Admitting that I was beginning to unravel felt like weakness, but I had to do something. There was an internal war happening, and sir didn’t have any idea that I was ripping myself to shreds. I resisted hypnosis because on some level I felt like he was rejecting the conscious Heather (who had an opinion about everything) in favor of a doll that he could control completely. An insidious voice whispered that if I truly was as devoted as I claim to be, I could have endured. I could have stuck it out while silently hoping I’d be granted a reprieve. I learned, though, that there was a limit to how much pounding my body could take in the span of 24 hours. And I now know that even though I wished to submit and serve, I also wanted to be present. Not all the time, but for most of it.

    These feelings of criticism and self-censure were an echo of an old family message that I’ve struggled with almost my entire life. It takes time for me to become conscious of them, and part of my healing has been teasing apart the strands of what happened in December and articulating exactly what triggered those shrieking monkeys in my head. Sir and I both had to expose our feelings about the situation, and it turned out that the emotional landscape behind December was vastly different from what showed on the surface. Both of us grappled with outside stress and uncertainty, but we weren’t talking about it with one another. We clung to each other and tried to find solace and distraction in our favorite activity: sex. My mini-breakdown finally ripped off the cover to expose what was going on at the root of our compulsive fucking. We were trying to bury ourselves in sex and physical connection in an attempt to cushion ourselves from the pain of what we were feeling regarding outside circumstances.

    I’m still sorting out the repercussions of December. Hindsight is a helpful lens, and I’ve been able to open up more to sir about what I was feeling. Our conversations since Debaucheries December have revealed that there are innate expectations associated with our role of Master and Slave. It’s natural for sir to feel pressured to be in control of himself and everything else as a loving, caring dominant, and I have my own expectations of how a slave should behave. But without open communication regarding the feelings associated with D/s, we’re stuck playing shallow roles that have little to do with who we are as people. As my dear Mama pointed out, there is strength in vulnerability, and I think that’s the biggest lesson for me. It takes strength to open myself to the control of another, and it takes strength to advocate for myself as well. As uncomfortable as it feels in the moment, I’m learning that this kind of emotional exposure only strengthens the bond between us in the long run. I don’t want a robotic, super-human dominant who knows all without me uttering a word. I want a flawed, loving man to take the lead and who understands that I’m bringing along baggage as well. The gift in this has been forming a healthy dialogue and pushing past our perceived hurts to find the other willing partner again. It’s my sincere wish that we will always find each other again.


  4. Dear Heather: Is This Relationship Possible?

    January 23, 2014 by Heather Cole

    Dear Heather: I’m a hetero poly male who is interested in dating a hetero poly female. She’s also in a D/s relationship with another guy. What the heck is up with D/s, and is it possible to make something work when I don’t want anything to do with that kind of thing? She’s awesome, but I don’t know if I should pursue her given her other involvements. What do you think?

    — A no D/s Dude


    Dear Dude:

    I think you’ve asked one of the many complex questions of the universe, and my short answer is this: It depends. There are a lot of factors to consider in this equation, and I sympathize with your dilemma because I’ve been there myself. On the opposite end of it, though.

    The first question is can you honor her Dominant/submissive dynamic even if you don’t understand it? D/s and M/s are polarizing concepts even within the kink community. People have hundreds of legit reasons for why it does or doesn’t work for them, and there are always heavily debated pros/cons online wherever kinksters hang out. In fact, I’ve talked about my reasons for choosing M/s a lot on this blog, and we have a list of resources if you want to educate yourself.

    In it’s simplest definition, Dominance/submission (the DS in the middle of BDSM) is “a set of behaviors, customs and rituals involving the giving by one individual to another individual of control over them in a BDSM erotic episode or lifestyle. Physical contact is not a necessity, and it can even be conducted anonymously over the telephone, email or other messaging systems. In other cases, it can be intensely physical, sometimes traversing into sadomasochism. In D/s, both parties take pleasure or erotic enjoyment from either dominating or being dominated.”

    D/s can take many forms and each construct of the relationship is different depending on the Dominant and submissive involved. The levels of commitment and intensity run a broad spectrum from occasional play to a 24/7 lifestyle. As the definition explained, some people experience D/s solely through electronic means. It can be anonymous and casual. The other end of the spectrum is intense both physically and mentally and can involve long term commitments.

    You might not feel the need to understand what D/s means for your potential love interest, but you should get a sense of her commitment. You need to talk about boundaries and time. Is she in a 24/7 type of dynamic where she’s D/s all the time? Or is it a weekend here and there or maybe a couple of hours every week? The one question all my ex-lovers had was “how does your D/s affect me?” You need to ask this question too because the truth is that although she may not think it will, if she’s in a 24/7 D/s relationship, it’s GOING TO affect you. If you’ve had any experience with poly (and it sounds like you have) then you understand that we don’t have relationships in a vacuum. There may be overlap between your more traditional relationship and her D/s in some areas, and you’re definitely going to feel something about her D/s. Like I said, it’s a kink that generates opinions in everyone. If her D/s is something casual that she does on occasion to get her rocks off, then the effects on her other relationships will be less in my opinion.

    You liking D/s or disliking it isn’t the heart of the issue, though. More importantly, can you have your opinions and still respect hers? Her kinks may not be yours, and you need to honor her choices for anything (even friendship) to work. Because this is the part that gets under my skin. I understand that you may not ever understand or even like the fact that I call myself a BDSM sex slave, but you damn well better respect my right to choose this. Live and let live, brother. Nothing will cause more stress and conflict for the two of you if you belittle her dynamic. Asking questions and talking about it is really good, but don’t be disdainful or ridicule it. And most importantly, don’t think less of her or respect her less because she chooses to submit.

    There may come a time where she tells you about something she did with her consent and within the bounds of her D/s arrangement that inspires you to say WTF?! Trust me, this happens. Even if you find the activity baffling and maybe repugnant, can you give her the space and respect to have that experience without your judgment and condemnation? Because your negative reaction will make her much less likely to open up to you again about D/s, and less communication in any relationship is the opposite direction of where you want to go.

    What I’m trying to say here is that no one in this scenario is right or wrong. You’re both trying to figure out if you’re a good fit which is key in any type of relationship. But in my opinion, pursuing someone in a lifestyle that you don’t approve of or understand might not be the most suitable match.

    Rock on, dude.


  5. Hypnosis and Sex

    December 4, 2013 by Heather Cole

    If you had told me two months ago that I would be a great candidate for hypnosis, I would have replied that you were full of shit. My mind, my will, my consciousness… these are sacred things to me, and the thought of remanding them over to someone else seemed preposterous. Just no fucking way. Two months ago I didn’t know that my dominant was interested in learning how to hypnotize me, so when he and broached the topic on the ride to a party, I figured he was mostly kidding. It turned out that he was serious, and I soon found out how much.

    That party was the first time I was ever hypnotized. Our friend, Kuma, was happy to teach sir the fundamentals. Kuma taught classes on hypnosis and had years of experience hypnotizing people. He was an ethical man and a mentor to sir. So when he told me to stare at the iridescent knife, I obeyed. Part of me thought it wouldn’t work. I assumed that I would stare at the knife, indulge my master and then refill our drinks. The idea of hypnosis was exciting in theory in a similar way that the theory of a gangbang is exciting to me. The actual real life application, though, inspired some anxiety. I was a little leery about someone messing with my mind even though it would be my beloved.

    The reflection of light from the knife seemed to glow in swirling patterns of greens and blues. It was like staring down into a well of aquamarine water, the patterns undulating and ever-changing. Kuma’s voice was deep and even when he told me to relax and let my eyes shut. As I felt the last of the tension leave my muscles, I had the spark of thought that this felt like meditating. When I opened my eyes again, I was in the exact same position with sir and Kuma watching me intently.

    “Did it work?” I asked.

    Kuma picked up my arm and held my palm. “Can you feel this?” he asked. I watched as he pressed the point of his knife into my hand.

    “What did you do?” I shrieked.

    One blaring thought pushed to the forefront of my mind. I should be yanking my hand back. The knife point should hurt, but I didn’t feel a blessed thing. My right arm hung like a bag of meat from my shoulder, and my feet were stuck to the floor as if they were mired in cement.

    After the knife, a lighter was held under my palm and still I felt nothing. My brain was sending me all sorts of messages about what should be happening, but physically I felt the opposite. The cognitive dissidence left me breathless and unsure exactly how I should feel about it. I stood that way, slack-jawed and in awe, until I was released when Kuma said the word “broccoli.”

    We left the party that night with the promise from Kuma that he would teach us more. Sir was feeling pleased and excited. I could tell by the sparkle in his eyes and the tone of his voice, and he kept talking about all the fun we could have. I agreed for the most part. The catch for me was bringing the fantasy into our reality. My mind immediately shifted  into practical mode, and I couldn’t help but worry about the implications. I willingly submitted to sir on a daily basis. Hell, I lived most of my life in a  24/7 D/s relationship, and I was owned and collared in every sense of the word. But I considered my mind a stronghold of independence, the last frontier for lack of a better phrase. Even though Kuma assured me that I wouldn’t do anything under hypnosis that I wouldn’t do consciously, I still felt some reservation.

    The second time I was hypnotized, sir, Kuma and I were at my house. We had good food and great conversation, and afterwards we moved into the living room so Kuma could give a more formal lesson about hypnosis. I sat on the floor and looked at a swirling pattern on Kuma’s phone. This spiraling image became a vision in my head, the same kind of mental movie I get when I write. My eyes felt heavy as my body slowly relaxed, and when I closed them, I could see the white marble stairs that curved into a spiral staircase. My heels clicked on the stone as I stepped down, and the wrought iron bannister felt cool and smooth beneath my fingers. Down and down I walked until I reached the bottom. There was a room with a fireplace and a leather chair placed before it. I sat and relaxed into the chair, the leather warm from the fire. I watched the flames dance merrily, pulling me in further. Deeper. And I lost myself watching them.

    This time when I opened my eyes I was still seated on the floor, but I felt different. Mainly because I was no longer wearing jeans and a shirt. Kuma and sir were grinning at me like two Cheshire Cats.

    “Why am I in my underwear?” I asked.

    “Because Kuma told you it was really hot by the fire. You got sweaty and had to take off your clothes.”

    The fact that the fire they referred to was the imaginary one in my head in the vision of the room at the end of the spiral staircase was unsettling to say the least. Not only had I reacted physically to a vision they had given me, but they had also planted a trigger word. If sir spoke a specific word to me, I would drop into a trance immediately. I had visions of going under at a party, or even worse, at a dinner with friends. One thing was certain, I did not want to end up as a joke like the person who’s hypnotized and told they’re a chicken. Sir promised to be judicious, and I trusted him. And from the experiments done that evening, we determined that I was highly susceptible to hypnosis. There are people who can’t be hypnotized at all and others, like myself, who can be hypnotized easily. Most people fall between these two extremes of the spectrum.

    Kuma reminded both of us that if I didn’t consent to being hypnotized from the outset, and if I didn’t trust sir in this capacity, it would be impossible to hypnotize me. I had to want to go under in order for sir to be able to do it. He would also be able to make me remember everything he said or the things we did while I was hypnotized if he wished. Kuma then pointed out that hypnosis could be a powerful tool for reinforcing positive, constructive thoughts which was how I was familiar with it. My mother had used hypnosis as part of her therapy practice for years. And to illustrate his point, they hypnotized me and worked on replacing a mental block I had about running ten miles to make me think something positive and helpful instead. It worked. When I hit mile ten during the half-marathon, I felt a burst of energy and I had the thought, “this feels easy!” None of us knew that night that I would also need the positive message planted for miles 11-13 too.

    I still don’t know what the trigger word is, and so far sir has used hypnosis only during sex. I have a second to think, “Oh, so that’s what the trigger word is!” Then I’m opening my eyes again and can’t remember the word. Dammit! Sometimes the hypnosis feels like a skip in the vinyl record of my brain. There’s this hitch where the music and lyrics don’t flow continuously. For example, one night I gave sir a great (I like to think fantastic) blowjob. He had an orgasm, I swallowed, and I remember thinking that we could snuggle and fall asleep. Moments later, I was still kneeling beside him, but I was reaching for his cock again. I felt hungry for him, and I wanted his hardness in my mouth and his come down my throat. It was an overwhelming need all of a sudden and I acted on it.

    Sir said in mock innocence, “but you just gave me a blowjob.”

    “Are you complaining?” I replied.

    In that moment, I felt like I was the one in control. Even though I had a sense that my desire for another blowjob was his idea planted through hypnosis, it felt like my own. It was like the day-to-day concerns of my “regular” brain had been thrown aside to tap into the wild child that I keep (mostly) restrained. We fucked for hours with abandon, and I loved every moment of it. All it took was that one idea to throw open the doors of a fantastic night of sex that I hadn’t previously considered. Now I can’t wait for the next time.


  6. The Balcony

    October 17, 2013 by Heather Cole

    We were waiting.

    Sir and I stood on the second floor balcony of the barn and waited for the doors to open to permit us inside. It was full dark, and I could see the flames of the campfire flickering below us. There was a crowd around me, black silhouettes against an indigo background. Shadows moved over the faces of people I knew and some that I only recognized by sight. Sir wrapped his arms around me, and I sank into his embrace, listening to the various conversations floating through the dark.

    I should have known he wouldn’t keep his hands still for long. In the deep gloom of the barn, his fingers found my clit through the thin fabric of my pants. I squirmed in a half-hearted attempt to move away, but his other arm wrapped around my chest to hold me still. My back was towards him as he brought me closer and closer to orgasm. And since we had a rule that I must announce my orgasms, everyone I faced was going to hear me.

    I leaned my head back against his shoulder and stared up at the night sky. I could hear the crackle of the fire as a backdrop to the voices around me. My body was bruised and tired from the Slave Hunt, but the growing pressure of the orgasm felt delicious. I was about to burst into a hundred tiny orgasmic pieces when Kuma pinched me. It was completely unexpected. One minute I was marveling at the beauty of the universe and the next I was on my tiptoes trying to escape the fingers gripping the sensitive skin beneath my jaw. My only response was to whimper.

    A moment later there were different hands on me. By this time the balcony was more crowded, and although the faces were friendly, I didn’t know whose hands were doing what. Sir’s arm remained around my shoulders, a reassuring pressure, as hands pinched and caressed me. They moved over my hips and squeezed the meat of my ass. Their conversations continued past me as if they were completely independent of physical bodies. I was breathless from the contact, overwhelmed by the sensation of fingers, hands and bodies moving against me. My body seesawed between extremes. Did I want to come or cry? I rode the waves of both, waiting to see if I would crash on either side.

    “It’s like bringing a pretty toy to the party,” sir whispered in my ear. “I like that my friends want to play with my toy too.”

    I shivered as his words slid over me, delighting in the role he had bestowed. I was safe and loved like a treasured pet, a plaything to be stroked and teased. Sir silently offered me to our friends as a toy for the moment, and as their hands swept over me with greedy caresses, I felt desired and worshiped. The darkness became a blanket of intimacy, wrapping us closely together granting a degree of anonymity. It was thrilling, a rush of desire and lust and pain. And like every compelling ride, sir was there to catch me when it was finished. Eventually they dispersed like scattered stars returning to their individual orbits, and it was only sir and I under the night sky. Waiting.


    If you like this then you’ll love my new collection of erotica! Tales of a Filthy Good Girl is now at Amazon.

  7. A Different Kind of Collar

    May 24, 2013 by Heather Cole

    I’ve written before that I take my Master/slave contract seriously, and I probably considered it more thoroughly than I ever did my marriage certificate or vows. I thought that the contract was the biggest step and that a collar would be the icing on the cake. We had signed our contract weeks ago, and although collars had been discussed, sir hadn’t made any decisions.

    He offered me the silver pocket of fabric wrapped in a white, satin ribbon, after a particularly long session of anal sex. We were both sweaty and covered in bodily fluids. I felt a wide grin spreading across my face as I opened the present. I knelt on the floor in front of him, my clothes hanging off me in sweaty abandon. A round, blue box was revealed and inside was a ring. It was composed of a wide, polished band of silver with a silver bead in the middle, pierced by a silver ring. Sir gave me a Ring of O for my birthday.

    Sir told me I could wear it on any finger that fit, but he said that his preference was my left hand. The position of the ring felt significant, and even though he didn’t say it out loud, I knew he thought so too. I stared at the silver on my hand, letting the weight of it sink into me. The last thing I had worn on my left hand had been my wedding rings. I could feel something welling up inside me, but I tried to ignore it. I was ecstatic–overflowing with joy. And I felt the echo of something else… a warning.

    The ring was bait in a trap. And the echo of warning was a reminder of what I had sacrificed years ago for a different ring from a different man. Everything felt like a jumble, but I took a deep breath and reminded myself that all my safeties were in place. I had a safeword and a contract, and my voice and my strength. I wasn’t a victim this time, and sir wasn’t here to hold me back or try to make me into a different person. If anything, our dynamic was setting us free to do amazing things together. Things we had been fantasizing about and hoping for.

    As I stared at the ring, I realized that I also had something to lose. Frankly, I had something to lose since sir and I met for our first scene. Our relationship, my feelings for him…all of it had been building since our first email exchange. The ring seemed to solidify all these feelings, bringing them home in a way that I had been avoiding. I expected sir to be the one that had commitment jitters, not me.

    Sir herded me upstairs with the promise of a shower. I gently washed his body as he talked, my tension draining away under the hot, staccato spray. There were no emotional walls between us, and when I wound my arms around his neck, I whispered how grateful I was that he had found me. There was no relationship that would guarantee me a perfect happy ending, and I would be the biggest fool if I stayed on the sidelines because I was too afraid to try.

    I would have absorbed him into my body in that moment, merged our spirits in the same way that our bodies fit together. Water droplets clung to his eyelashes as I stared up at him, and he said, “I will protect you and take care of you.”

    “And I’ll do the same for you,” I said.

    I saw his intentions for us in this silver band, his commitment to me and to our future. We called it “our game” but its meaning was more akin to “our life.” A life together. He gently moved my body so that I was leaning against the back of the shower. I thought of more things I could say, more promises I could give, but my words were lost the moment his mouth touched my clit. I lovingly memorized the path of his spine to the curve of his ass as pleasure spiraled through me. I had time, I told myself. Time to tell him everything.

  8. Judge Heather

    May 15, 2013 by Heather Cole

    I tend not to write publicly about my breakups. Instead I retreat inside myself to analyze and ponder and nurse my wounds. Being a blogger means that pieces of my life experience are on display for complete strangers to examine, but I try to choose carefully what I reveal. As much as I want to hold your attention, my darlings, I want to protect the people who are intimately involved with me. I also want to shield my bruised heart.

    I’ve been learning some hard lessons lately, one of them being about criticism and judgment. OK, that’s two things, but you can see how they’re related. I’d like to point a finger and write about how I’ve been judged by my nearest and dearest, but really, I’m guilty of this exact thing.

    Boy Scout and I parted ways amicably. We both knew it was coming, and ironically, we had one of our best conversations the night we decided to be just friends. For the first time in our short relationship, we communicated exactly what we felt. We shared our thoughts freely. It was liberating, and at the same time, sad that it took the end of our romance to really begin communicating well. I even tweeted that it was the best breakup ever, because I felt like we were starting a new chapter to be better friends. Boy Scout was looking for a new submissive and who better to give advice than his old submissive? No, don’t answer that.

    It wasn’t until a week or so later that I caught myself saying something critical about the new slave that Boy Scout was considering. He had shared a few things that they were doing, and I called Nikki to bitch about the girl. I was being catty, and I knew it. My belief about BDSM being a unique journey for everyone seemed to fly out the window as soon as Boy Scout started discussing one of his new partners. I observed my mouth and tongue forming the nasty words, but I didn’t stop judging.

    It wasn’t until LH asked me point blank if I was jealous that I actually took stock of my feelings. It wasn’t jealousy. The tasks that Boy Scout was giving her wouldn’t have satisfied me. I didn’t envy her sitting in a restaurant with her panties stuffed in her mouth. The mouthful of silk would have irritated me, not inspired my juices to flow. No, the problem was my damn ego.

    I’m better than her, a voice whispered in the back of my mind.

    The dark side of my competitive spirit was to use criticism and judgment to make someone else, the person who “took” my place, appear less. I was being petty and mean. I didn’t know Boy Scout’s slave at all, and it was none of my business how they conducted themselves. Everyone was consenting in their power exchange which was the most crucial element. As for the rest, I just needed to shut the fuck up about it. I was breaking all my personal rules about respecting others’ relationships even if I didn’t understand them, and I felt embarrassed. And yes, I was ashamed of my behavior.

    As it is with the synchronicity of the universe, it was soon my turn to be scrutinized, and the biggest criticisms were coming from some of the people I cared about the most. In a fringe community like BDSM, I’m always surprised that we can be so judgemental of one another. Just as I judged Boy Scout and his new slave, people were critiquing my new M/s dynamic with LH. The real punch-in-the-emotional-gut part was that there was some truth in their judgement, and that’s what I’ve been looking at in the darkness of my breakup cave. I had a mirror held in front of me, and I could see the parts where I truly failed. I got so caught up trying to defend myself against all the criticism flying around that I didn’t see the heart of the problem until it was too late. I was so busy trying to meet others’ expectations that I neglected to voice that my own needs were being trampled or disregarded. It was a colossal breakdown on all sides.

    I have learned the hard way that compassion defeats judgement. And when we’re trying something new, like a new relationship or a better way of communicating, there are going to be times where we stumble and fall flat on our faces. Boy Scout and his new slave have every right to figure out their new relationship and create it in ways that suit their unique needs. They’re going to have hiccups and challenges and fights, but it’s not my place to referee that or comment. I have a new found compassion for the beginning stages of consideration; I have a new perspective and empathy for those of us living the M/s dynamic in general. Because we’re not born experts. We try, we fuck up, and we get up and try again. Hopefully we do it better the next time.

  9. Opinion: Sisters and Slaves

    April 18, 2013 by Heather Cole

    I love Dan Savage, so when Zen sent me this link today, I eagerly read to see what Dan had to say in this letter regarding a woman’s sister and her new slave:  SAVAGE LOVE Letter of the Day

    Clearly the focus of Dan’s response was about the sister’s assertion that her coming out as a Domme to her family was similar to someone of the LGBTQ community revealing their sexual orientation. In this regard, both Dan and I are in agreement. I don’t think it’s the same thing at all. In my experience, it was a thousand times more difficult for me to tell my mother that I was bisexual and in love with a woman than it was to tell her I was kinky. Maybe at some point down the road I will choose not to be in a M/s dynamic. I can never not “choose” to be bisexual. It’s my fervent wish for public tolerance when I hold my girlfriend’s hand at a concert, and I hope that someday our government recognizes our rights as a couple some day. I don’t expect that sort of recognition from the law for my BDSM lifestyle. (Although it would be nice for my state to acknowledge and honor that I’m consenting in writing to a caning.) But contrary to what Dan wrote, I’m not looking for permission from the general public to have sex in front of them.

    That’s where Dan and I disagree. I don’t think that a Master/slave dynamic is all about kinky sex. Of course it’s a huge part, and naturally, there are dynamics where that is the primary focus of activity. What lies at the heart of a M/s dynamic is obedience. Some of us hope for love, trust and loyalty as well, but above all there is obedience and submission. Humiliation can play a part, sometimes a big part, but all of the Masters and slaves that I know act like traditional couples everywhere. Because here’s the kicker, the power exchange exists in every day life in all sorts of couples, kinky AND traditional. As much as we get off playing our roles of Master and slave, we also want to have a life beyond our play space and that means complying with society’s rules, not to mention the law.

    What’s unclear in the letter is if the sister was bringing her slave in his latex gimp suit with a collar and leash or if they were attending the family gathering in reindeer sweaters and khakis. Was she going to ask him to get her more stuffing or was she going to dump the stuffing on the floor and order him to lick it off her shoe after she stepped in it? I have a lot to say about the gimp suit and stuffing humiliation, because through my own experiments with submission in public, there is a boundary when my fetish in public forces you (a passerby) to participate. The latter isn’t consensual which is a huge no-no in the BDSM community. She shouldn’t force her parents to safeword over the green bean casserole, because she’s making the slave her footstool. And that’s the biggest question here for me: was she forcing her kink on others?

    I understand wanting acceptance from those nearest and dearest to you. I wanted the same thing from my mother when I first told her I was kinky, but I told her my definition of kinky in broad strokes. I also sent her a book to help her understand where I was coming from. However, I don’t tell my mom the naked details about what I do with Zen, my traditional bf. I’m just as reticent about describing my role as a slave. What I do in the privacy of my bedroom is saved for you, my darling Vagina readers. Mama can always subscribe to our RSS feed.


  10. All About the Collar

    February 20, 2013 by Heather Cole

    Seven months ago I was an emotional wreck. I was a slave who had just left the service of her first owner and Master, and I was barely managing to keep myself together. The man who had been the center of my universe for over a year, my closest friend, lover and the man who possessed me body and soul, had broken our Master/slave contract. He didn’t have the courage to tell me that he had made his wife, already his collared and owned submissive, his slave as well. I was hundreds of miles away from the kink convention they attended, but I knew something significant had happened. Days later I finally confronted him, barely coherent through my hysterical sobbing. He told me it was only a matter of “semantics,” and perhaps some people would agree. To me, however, our contract was sacred. Those words had become vows that we made to one another. When he broke his word, he broke us. And to make things worse, he went public and spouted vitriol about me on Twitter. I thought the nightmare was never going to end.

    Three months passed and Liri, my beautiful amazing girlfriend, hauled me out of the house, insisting that I rejoin the kinky human race again. She was gentle but insistent that I get my needs met, and I was too chicken shit to tell her I was terrified to face a flogger again. Floggers had been my security blanket. The heavy, rhythmic thud of its impact had always calmed me down before, lulling me into a peaceful mental space. I was afraid that a flogger would no longer work on me, that somehow when I became uncollared, I lost the ability to love kink. Liri would tell me later that she was a little nervous about my re-entry too, but that didn’t stop her from tying me to the cross, flogging me, and then making me orgasm in front of a room full of people just to prove a point.

    I was a jumble of emotions afterwards, and even though relief and enjoyment were at the forefront, I still cried. There was this point after the scene, when the aftercare was finished and people were packing up gear to head home… that’s when I missed having an owner the most. There was no one to tell me I was a good girl and hold me as I curled up against their chest, no one I could text about my triumph, no one to snap my leash on my collar and lead me out to the car to go home. It wasn’t only that no one I knew wanted a slave, it was that many of my kinky friends didn’t understand what a slave even was. Hell, I was so emotionally wounded that I wasn’t entirely certain myself.

    I joked with Nikki that I was waiting for Prince Flogger to rescue me. He’d be single, monogamous (stop laughing), dominant, sadistic and own a full dungeon. He’d pull up in his vintage Camaro, toss me over his shoulder and whisk me away to live happily ever after chained to his bedpost. In my fantasy I wouldn’t have to figure out my slave needs. Prince Flogger would already know because he was the epitome of all that’s Dom-y and good in this kinky world.

    As I started my search for Prince Flogger, I was confronted with just how unique my needs were. I was introduced to BDSM with pain being the main aspect of my D/s dynamic. I’m a pain slut it’s true, but through some trial and error, I realized that I also needed the element of domination to my play. It was Liri who pointed out that I required intellectual play as well. A good mind fuck and a flogger wasn’t going to cut it any more. They were great, but it was the day-to-day challenge of tasks and games that made my toes curl with pleasure. It was hard for me to admit, but the more I discovered about what being a slave meant to me, the more I realized that slaves were work. I couldn’t turn off my submission or my need to serve. I needed tasks, challenges, something that kept me mentally occupied as much as I craved to be physically used and beaten.

    This was when everything got complicated. I discovered my Boy Scout, who was dominant and kinky, and I was certain that he was my Prince Flogger. In fact, I was insistent that he be my Dom ideal made flesh. There’s no flattering way for me to describe my driving intention to make Boy Scout into what I wanted. I was merciless and pushy in my desire to make him fit this unrealistic fantasy I had, and I did us both a great disservice. I discovered that Prince Flogger wasn’t just a simplistic dream. He was a poisonous illusion planted by a former owner who didn’t want me to move on. Believing that I only wanted Prince F was like saying I only wanted to eat oatmeal cooked by my mama for the rest of my life. I’d never leave Mama’s basement if that was my reality, and I never would have seen Boy Scout for his other incredible qualities that stretched beyond how he chose to apply his belt.

    I have no tidy conclusion for this post. My kinky life is in flux as I try to figure out what this new stage of my life means to me and my partners. There are new players, and it appears that my kinky life is going to be as poly as my romantic life is. Boy Scout is a wonderful man, and we have a solid, loving relationship, but we’ve had some tough conversations about our D/s relationship and the direction we’re taking. Or rather, the direction we’re not taking. Yesterday I had the thought that I may never choose to be collared again which I find to be as scary as it is liberating. And Boy Scout may never want to own me, but he’s willing to share this slave with other kinksters and Dominants which is part of why we work so well together.

    My journey began with the idea that kink could only be a certain way for me, dictated to me by a man who could only see other relationships as somehow threatening or detracting from us. It was a cage of my own choosing, but it was still a cage. When it blew up, I began looking for the real slave within me to discover what it was that I truly desired in a D/s relationship. It has been through the support and love of some amazing partners that I’m still figuring this out. In fact, it was my non-kinky Zen who inspired the insight to this post. I believe that the best adventures are just around the corner, and I have people in my life who encourage me to seek them. That’s more meaningful to me than any Prince Flogger and his dungeon of one.