RSS Feed

‘Kinky Relationships’ Category

  1. 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.


  2. Golden Showers: Two Perspectives

    March 12, 2014 by Heather Cole

    When it comes to watersports (Urban Dictionary definition: “In BDSM terminology, refers to sensual or erotic play involving bodily fluids, typically urine, saliva, and less commonly, blood. Considered ‘edge-play’…”) Nikki has had more experience than me, and she has written about her good times with Mr. K on Vagina Antics. When I entered the BDSM lifestyle, urine used as a facet of play time didn’t hit my radar. Not in a oh-this-is-so-gross-I’ll-never-do-it way, but more like I didn’t know it was a thing. In fact, Nikki didn’t discuss her water games with me until she was ready to write her blog post. My reaction was “you did WHAT? Of course you should write about it!” And that was my first exposure to erotic play involving pee. We can all blame Nikki Blue.

    We’re writing about both our perspectives today, because they’re so different. We both have fun with watersports but in different ways. I was going to make a joke about y’all reading in the “splash zone” but never mind. I’ll keep it classy.

    Enjoy!

     

    Heather

    On my list of kinks, urine was in the ‘I don’t have a fetish about this, but if you really want to I’m game to try something” category. It was never added to my play list, because I was having so many other firsts with D/s and my master. Urine first entered our conversation after a dominant friend of ours related a story where he used his sub hard and when she was crumpled on the floor in a sweaty, teary mess, he pissed on her then walked out of the room. I know what you’re thinking. Holy shit, that sounds so MEAN. For those masochists among us who were into a little humiliation, though, there was something poetic and degrading and… it gave me tingles. Not because of the physical feeling of being pissed on, or the actual urine, but the drama of the scene. There she lay, utterly depleted and used emotionally and physically, and the closing action was to be a receptacle of his piss. Afterwards he scooped her up, showered her, snuggled and told her how much he loved her. But in that moment, in that scrap of time in their universe, she was this thing to be used in whatever way he wished. From my perspective of masochist and slave, there was something terrible and beautiful in that like the best kind of dark fairy tale.

    After I related that anecdote, the element of watersports was assimilated into the fantasies of sir. He liked to brainstorm out loud, so I heard a lot of scenarios escape from that man’s mouth. Many of them freaked me the fuck out, but that was half the fun for both of us. He wouldn’t do most of them, because his intention wasn’t to damage me. Hurt me, yes, but not damage me. He began talking about pissing on me, and I listened, reacting appropriately when the ideas became extreme. And then one day as we showered together, he pissed on me. I didn’t have to look down to know he was doing it. He had this expression on his face that I could only describe as one that my cat had when I accidentally walked in on him using the litter box. The one that said he knew I’m watched him do his business and he could give two flying fucks. Sir had a similar attitude. Part of me wanted to act in a ridiculously squeamish way and whine about how GROSS it was even though it wasn’t disgusting at all. I mean, who didn’t pee in the shower on occasion? My reactions, though, were part of what sir looked for, so I sighed loudly and set about washing myself again in a resigned manner, ever the practical slave.

    The next time, though, I was sitting on the toilet after a particularly rough fucking. I still wore a sports bra and was taking a breather and relieving myself. Sir walked in the bathroom, as he often does (I’m prohibited from privacy so all doors were open when it was only the two of us), and ordered me to spread my legs wider. Next thing I knew, he was pissing into the toilet. I think my mouth dropped open, and before I could utter a word, he directed his stream over my breasts. I shrieked, NOT ON MY SPORTS BRA! He laughed and told me to get in the tub if I was going to complain.

    “I can’t believe you’re doing this!” I squealed and stepped gingerly into the shower.

    I was aware of the cooling piss dripping down my abdomen and the slight smell of ammonia. Part of me still couldn’t believe he was going to continue. The air felt cool in contrast to the hot urine, and I stood in partial shock as he pissed all over the front of my body. He smiled at my reaction then shook his head with mock chagrin.

    “What kind of girl stands still for a man to piss on her?”

    I felt my cheeks grow hot with shame. “A dirty girl,” I whispered.

    “Do you feel dirty?” he asked. I nodded, peeking at him through my lashes. The smile of satisfaction on his face made my heart beat harder.

    “How embarrassing for you” he replied.

    I was mortified and ashamed, and as soon as those two elements combined, I started to feel aroused. As sir watched me squirm, I wanted to fuck him again. Lips, fingers, tongue… I didn’t care. I was his dirty girl, the one he knew would do almost anything to please him. It was uncomfortable and the pee was starting to turn cold, but the look in his eyes as he watched my small humiliation made it all worth it. Eventually he helped pull off my bra and started the shower for me.

    “You’re such a good girl,” he said as he pulled the shower curtain closed. “Get cleaned up. I’m not done with you yet.”

    Nikki:

    Part of the beauty of my relationship with Mr. K is that we play with few limits. We’re open to trying most anything together and we are incredibly turned on by each other’s scent and body fluids. His slow licks down my sweat-soaked back while he fucks my ass make my head spin, he nearly orgasms when I spit in his mouth, and precum leaks from the tip of his cock when he cleans me with his tongue after I pee. And after everything, he kisses me long and deep, sharing what he loves with me. He’s always said he would never do anything to me that would keep him from kissing me afterward. Yep, he’s a keeper.

    I’ve written here and there about our foray into Watersports, so I won’t bog y’all down with the same warm, wet details, but I will say I still haven’t been able to successfully pee on Mr. K due to my bladder’s performance anxiety issues. And it’s something I desperately want to do for him. I can pee when we shower together and while sitting on the toilet with his fingers between my legs, but for now, peeing ON him seems to be a hard limit for my bladder. Fucking bladder.

    Like Heather, I get peed on as we shower too. Every time. But the difference between us is that I expect it, want it even. It’s a totally natural act for us and I love the feeling of the warm fluid streaming over my body. I watch as it flows and the look of pleasure on Mr. K’s handsome face as it does is a super huge bonus.

    With that having been said, it’s not often I’m able to say something that surprises Heather, but when it comes to my Watersports tales, I leave her in a constant state of WHAAAAAA? And I confess I kinda like it. I may have even rendered her speechless when I told her Mr. K had peed on my face, boobs, and in my mouth. I think she was pretty shocked when I didn’t find it gross, humiliating, or feel dirty, but that’s not how it was intended to be received. Mr. K would be horrified at the thought of making me feel that way. He pees on me because to him, drenching me with his body fluid is a wonderfully intimate expression. It’s a moment of sharing I will always welcome. Every golden, salty drop.


  3. Game Night

    January 14, 2014 by Heather Cole

    The great thing about having kinky friends is that many sexual things are possible. There are many instances, however, when sex doesn’t happen and we do completely traditional things like playing board games. When I was asked to host Game Night, I anticipated mostly wholesome behavior until I received a reminder text from the lovely Ms A that none of us should wear “granny panties.” If I had any doubts after that, sir dispelled them when he told me not to wear any panties at all. Being the good sex slave that I am, I complied and wore a black cotton minidress, pink argyle knee socks, and nothing else.

    The evening began innocently enough. Wine flowed and pizza was served. We talked about regular things like air travel, microbrews, and how old we were when we bought our first vibrators. Then at the urging of his girlfriend, DS shed his pants to show us his fabulous flame covered briefs. Everyone was impressed by his underwear and its well-endowed contents. You know you’re with a good group of people when even the hetero men feel comfortable complimenting another dude on the size of his dick. I was inundated with a feeling of goodwill  and camaraderie. Disrobing seemed to dissolve any restraint in the evening, and from that point on things got raunchier.

    I stood to clear the table and sir beckoned me closer. I didn’t need to ask what he wanted, because I could see the desire on his face. My heartbeat raced. His hand slipped between my legs, and I felt his fingers push inside me. I was already slick with excitement, the titillating view of a half-naked man fueling my fires. Sir’s fingers expertly swirled inside me, and I was ready to orgasm.

    “Announce what you’re doing, slave,” he said.

    “I’m coming,” I gasped as my muscles clenched around his hand. My orgasm caught everyone’s attention, and I was overcome by pleasure and embarrassment. I stared down at the table until I could pull myself together enough to continue clearing the table.

    Sir said that I no longer blush when he makes me orgasm in front of people. Maybe my embarrassment didn’t show on the outside, but part of me remained mortified that I indulged in such exhibitionism. I felt this weird cycle of excitement, embarrassment, shame, and joy. Part of me was horrified that I got off on other people watching me come, yet another part of me was exultant. It was an uncomfortable way to be sometimes, but when I was surrounded by kinky friends, I felt less appalled.

    When Ms. A came into the kitchen with dirty plates, I had to kiss her. She wanted to talk about scheduling our next date, and I just wanted to feel her lips on mine. She was too sexy not to touch, and I wound my hand in her hair to press her closer. If sir hadn’t reminded me of my task, I think I would have spent an hour exploring the sweetness of her lips and voluptuous breasts.

    The next couple of hours were spent playing Scribblish and then Jenga. The tequila flowed, and we laughed until we cried over the ridiculous pictures we had drawn. When the Jenga tower was assembled, I groaned out loud. Two margaritas were going to inhibit my coordination considerably, so sir gave me the option of blowing him under the table. As much as the idea appealed to me, I didn’t want to miss out on the gaming fun. When it was my turn to tease a block from the stack, I felt someone’s hand ease between my thighs. I wanted to say something witty about an unfair distraction, but someone’s cool fingers were already caressing the lips of my pussy. The fingers had a delicate touch that could only belong to Ms. A. I can’t explain how I managed to get the block free without tipping the entire thing as I orgasmed, but I did it. There really needs to be an award for that kind of tipsy coordination. Or a badge. I’ll add it to my dirty Girl Scout sash right next to my deep-throat award.

    I had been made to orgasm at least five times by the time Kuma suggested that we take a break, and it felt like the perfect segue to my living room floor where I leaned against sir as the beautiful Ms. A knelt between my legs. There was no unanimous vote that the toys would come out and cocks would be sucked. It just kind of happened. Ms. A licked and sucked my clit until I came, her peppermint lip gloss making me tingle in all the right places. I writhed on the floor surrounded by some of my dearest friends, my orgasm made more intense because of the added element of voyeurism. The tableau was seared into my brain. The sturdy warmth of sir behind me, holding and supporting me, the lustful magic of Ms. A’s amazing oral skills, and her creamy pale skin spread before me like some pagan goddess. Directly behind her sat our friends and lovers, watching and enjoying our sexual offering. It was a heady concoction.

    Ms. A’s clothes came off, and then sir practiced some florentine flogging on her. The flogging spurred her toward orgasm. She fell into the arms of her partner, and he helped her finish with his fingers on her clit. I had the opportunity to watch two people connect in a cloud of lust and love. I felt incredibly lucky to have friends who were comfortable sharing facets of their connection with me, because it served to feed and foster my own.

    DS then got his cock sucked by his girlfriend which was super hot because from my vantage point I could admire her shapely ass plus expert blowjob technique. This in turn seemed to inspire sir, because he motioned me over to his chair. He nodded at the fly of his pants, and I began to unbutton them. I took him into my mouth as the conversation continued around me. He was incredibly hard, and I relished pushing him deep into my throat. I heard the words “daisy chain” and then Ms. A’s fingers found my labia again. My mouth remained on sir as she played with my body, an orgasm building rapidly inside me. I shouted around sir’s cock when I came, and it took all my concentration not to dissolve into a puddle at his feet. The generosity of my loved ones continued to astound me.

    We talked until late, reluctant to end the fun-filled evening. After the last of our friends had left, I was ready to fall into a sound sleep. I’d had more orgasms than I could count. As I snuggled into sir’s arms, he told me to sleep and that he would wake me up in a couple hours to slake his desires. He whispered in my ear as I drifted off, telling me how incredibly sexy it was to hold me and watch as Ms. A pleasured me. I burrowed deeper into his arms, and I had just enough presence of mind to smile and thank him for the amazing experience.

    “Such a good girl,” he said, and I fell asleep.