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Posts Tagged ‘BDSM slave’

  1. Today I am a Slave

    June 28, 2013 by Heather Cole

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    **One more thought

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

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

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

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


  2. New Territory in My Submission

    June 18, 2013 by Heather Cole

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

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

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

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

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

    <SLAP>

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Do I have all of you, slave?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     


  3. 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.


  4. 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.


  5. sometimes it hits you on the head

    March 26, 2013 by Heather Cole

    Finding a Dominant that fit my submissive needs was much the same as it was trying to find a good fit in traditional dating. I was trying to find another person with the right combination of desires and aspirations, someone who not only met my submissive needs but inspired me to be a better slave. I had people in my life who willingly helped satisfy my masochistic desires, but no one who wished to dominate me. Not in the way that I needed, and after a couple months of trying to top from the bottom (I suck at that, by the way.) I gave up searching all together.

    The first time I went to LH’s office, I was told to wear my buttplug. We had agreed to meet to begin exploring a D/s relationship, one that ran along the lines of my favorite BDSM movie, Secretary. I wore a black dress and heels, and was freshly shaved and moisturized. I was ready for paperwork and secretarial duties or whatever else the man decided to do with me. I hoped his intentions for me stretched beyond my administrative skills, but I kept those expectations low. I fought not to let my hopes inch too high in case they were dashed by another incompatible Dominant.

    I was standing naked in between tall shelves full of books with the scent of sandalwood seducing my nose when I had the thought that maybe what I had been searching for all this time was standing directly in front of me. His hands were warm, and they moved my body where he needed as he deftly knotted a chest harness around me. It was only the third time I had ever been bound by rope, and when he produced a pair of nipple clamps, I realized that my new experiences weren’t going to end there.

    He then pulled out the toys he had brought with him that day, and I tried not to flinch when he showed me the canes. I had arrived late, and even though I assured him it wasn’t on purpose, it was still a test for him. If LH had ignored my slight twenty minute infraction, I would have known right then that he as wasn’t serious about playing with a slave as I’d hoped. I would have been disappointed but generally ok, because LH is handsome and funny and a skilled kisser. But I wasn’t disappointed, and I learned with every strike of that wicked cane that LH was seriously considering me. He showed me that I was worth the time and effort to correct, and that he was taking my submission to heart. He wanted to bend my submission to suit his will. He wanted to claim me.

    I met LH at a play party last summer, and our paths crossed again in the fall when he attended a munch with one of his polyamorous partners. My girlfriend, Liri, had pointed him out before this, and they enjoyed a flirtatious relationship. After watching them together I mentally placed him in the category of “wants in my gf’s pants.” I didn’t think he had any interest in me. When he sent me an email commenting on our brunch conversation about the two of them co-topping me, I didn’t think anything about it. I thought he was being polite.

    For two months we corresponded through email, and I found myself slowly and inextricably seduced by his words. He spoke candidly about his evolution with polyamory and in kink and how he was searching for his version of a Girl Friday. We traded favorite books and movies, and during the course of it, I had a revelation about what being a slave meant to me. I didn’t want the details of my life to be dictated to me in minutia, but I wanted the fantasy of Dominance and submission to stretch beyond the bedroom into reality. I poured out my slave soul in an email, and LH didn’t just respond, he affirmed my feelings. Rereading this still makes me cry:

    Thank you for sharing more about what it means to you to be a slave. It is a beautiful thing to see slavery through your eyes. I admire how sacred it is to you. You are a rare and precious treasure. For the right owner you will be an exceptional slave. Please don’t give it away again too easily. Consider your suitors hard. Make your future owner EARN the right to collar you. Be patient, and your birthright will present itself at YOUR feet.

    I stared at his words and told myself he couldn’t possibly be serious. He understood me, the slave me, and I had no clue what I should do about it.

    On the outside I was talking to my partners about LH. He became known as the “task guy,” because every week I chose three things to accomplish. These tasks were typically things that I had been procrastinating about, ranging from personal to professional. But I wasn’t talking about our conversations in detail or how I felt about them. Even though everyone involved was poly I knew that introducing another person, especially a significant one, was going to raise sensitivities. I was afraid to tell Liri how important to me the interactions between LH and I were becoming, that she’d smile and pat my hand in a way that told me I was, once again, wishing for a Dom who wasn’t really there. I probably talked more about LH and my love of tasks to Zen than anyone else, but I was only telling half the story. On the inside I was holding my breath, waiting for LH to say, “this was a fun game. Let’s play again sometime.” I was waiting for him to back out when he realized how serious I was about D/s, so I stayed quiet when I should have been relating my fears and exhilaration to my partners.

    Boy Scout openly encouraged me, reassuring me that he understood that LH was supplying something that I needed. Although I was grateful for his reassurance, I also knew that I was standing on the precipice of something deep and powerful. I knew that if our relationship was going to be as Master/slave as I expected, and desired, I knew that there would be waves made along our polyamorous connections. If I made this leap, things were going to change irrevocably. And true to my nature, I took a running leap into the arms of the unknown.

    LH didn’t just catch me, he welcomed me with his whole heart. It was like two pieces came together in a way that was seamless and effortless, and my dream finally manifested into this incredible dynamic that I had almost stopped hoping for. For the first time in a long, long time, I’m looking into the eyes of a man who truly sees the slave in me and knows exactly what to do with that knowledge.

    I’m still addressing the reverberations of my choice, and the fact that I didn’t fully disclose everything while it was happening. I’m talking specifics now with my partners, but things are far from settled. I’m addressing everyone’s concerns and making assurances and trying to find my footing again after the whirlwind of LH and me coming together. There are some hard conversations to come, and I’m feeling anxious about that. I don’t want anyone to feel displaced or hurt, and I’m afraid that there’s no way to avoid some of it. I love my people fiercely, and I hate knowing that I caused some major relationship stress. It’s an odd feeling to be ecstatically happy on one hand and worried in the other, but I’m working on that. All of it.

     


  6. Ask Heather: Is This Dom Copacetic?

    March 11, 2013 by Heather Cole

    Hi,
    I was referred to you by a man who identifies himself as a Dom. I’m struggling mightily here and don’t know what to do.
    I have been in relationship with a Master for almost 2 months now. We met on Twitter and we skype, etc., so I am confident that he is male, etc.
    When we first began chatting, he told me immediately to either submit or not; in other words, the choice to be His slave had to be made very quickly. I was collared within three days.
    He follows a Gorean model, that is, i am a full slave, this is a TPE…he used to tell me i had a long way to go but now he has requested that I move to be with him within 2 weeks. There are no safe words, etc. This would be ok, I think, except today he sent me a pic of someone else fellating him. I knew there were other women but I don’t want to see the pix and this surprised and hurt me. Also he is not willing to provide any documentation that he is free of stds, however I am supposed to provide such to him.
    He has asked that I scan and email my bank statements and pay stubs to him.
    I just don’t know if I can really do this and if this is what it is really like…I’ve had two Doms prior to this Master but i was the first sub for both of them and neither relationship ended well.
    So I guess my question is, does this sound copacetic? Does it sound like…typing it all out, part of my brain is screaming RUN AWAY FAST. lol. But I do so want to belong to an alpha male who will guide me to be my best…
    Any advice you can give would be appreciated.
    Thanks,
    Would Be Slave
    Dear Would Be:

    My first reaction is to agree with your brain that screams RUN AWAY FAST. There are so many red flags in this man’s behavior that I almost didn’t know where to begin. In other words, RUN AWAY FAST. Here are my top concerns:

    1. The “Gorean model” that you refer to is literally based on the science fiction novels by John Norman. In other words, Gorean philosophy is to kink what Scientology is to religion. Interestingly enough you don’t have to be a slave to be Gorean, and many people who follow the Gorean philosophy don’t own slaves at all. However, I don’t understand at all what appeals to slaves who choose this, because you’re essentially signing up to a fantasy where you have no sovereign rights. Gorean philosophy says that you do whatever your Master says without recourse or protection. There’s no safeword in this scenario. What if he wants you to pluck his butt hairs? Or sign over your entire paycheck? What if he told you that you had to give away your dog? Saying that “this is the Gorean way” is code for “I’m the Dom and I’m going to do whatever I want and you’re going to shut up and take it, Would Be Slave.” Sweet cheeks, if you want to follow some science fiction philosophy, I can recommend WAY better novels than this crap.

    2. Collaring – Being collared is a huge deal, and as much as it’s about being considered by a Dom, it’s also YOU considering HIM. Yes, you have power as a slave. Dumb Domme wrote a great post about the consideration phase here. I wrote about my own trials and tribulations with consideration too, because it’s a process that can take months and months. And even after all that time and trying different things, the dynamic may never work how you’d want it to. The fact that he told you that you had to make this life-changing decision in three days reeks of manipulation and coercion. If he had any desire to build a D/s relationship on trust and caring, he would give both of you ample time to foster those feelings in one another. For heaven’s sakes, you haven’t even talked about whether or not other partners are ok and if you want pictures of it! He seems to have given you the feedback that you ‘have a long way to go,’ but what about him? What’s he doing to impress you and convince you that he’s the owner you want? My bet is that he’s doing nothing except trying to control your every move.

    3. Your Health – I don’t care what the lifestyle is, if this man wants to have sexual intercourse with you then he should be completely honest with you about his STD test results. Good health is precious, and if he cares about you, he’ll answer all your questions and show you his bill of health. If he has an STD like herpes, for example, it’s imperative that you know what the risks are if you choose to have sex. The reverse is just as true. In my humble opinion, full disclosure is imperative to a good relationship. You shouldn’t gamble your good health on a man who won’t give you a straight answer.

    4. Your Money – Any person (I don’t care if it’s the President of the United States)  who starts demanding access to your private information before you’ve met in person WANTS TO TAKE YOUR MONEY. I’m concerned if you give him your financial information, he’ll swindle you. By the time you figure it out or your relationship suddenly sours, he will have spent all of your life savings.

    My dear Would Be, I deeply empathize with your desire for ownership. As a slave, I recognize that driving need within you. I feel a similar need in me. However, we choose our Dominants just as they choose us, and we need to select someone who helps us be better than who we are today. The man who owns you should value you as he would his most valued treasure and seek to guide you to be the best slave possible. A good Dom like that doesn’t grow on trees, but I know they’re out there. Listen to your heart, Would Be. Your heart is saying this guy isn’t worth it, and I agree. He doesn’t deserve you.

    Hugs,
    Heather


  7. An Invitation to Play

    September 25, 2012 by Heather Cole

    All in all, I said that I’m doing pretty well. That was my reply when I was asked, and it was mostly true. I broke up with my boyfriend recently, parting ways from the handsome and generous B. I was at a point in the creation of my new life where everything hung in the balance. I was on the cusp of building the writing business that I had been dreaming about for years, but it required so much of my energy and focus that I made a shit girlfriend. My daughter, my business and my writing had become my mantra, and unfortunately everything else shifted to the back burner. It wasn’t fair to hold on to B when I wasn’t giving all of myself, when I wasn’t trying to bring us closer together. We said goodbye, and my heart still ached from the loss of him.

    I placed something else in the background as well. My submission. Well, “placed” was too kind a word. Shoved, locked away, placed in a cellar and barred the door. She went quietly, nodding in understanding and telling me it was ok. That we would be ok. She’d just go away for awhile, and when I was ready, when I had time, she’d come out again into the light. The truth was, even though I couldn’t say it out loud, was that it was painful having her with me. My submission was a reminder of the Master I had left. A pain that was so deep that I feared the wound would never heal. So I packed my submission away, and she let me, because she was a very good girl. Always.

    I thought I was in control. I had an amazing scene at The Woodshed with Master Cecil, and I healed in a way that was as unexpected as it was incredible.  I returned home from Orlando with a new hope. My submission had come out to play, she had frolicked and howled in pain and orgasm and was left glowing for days. We were both satiated, and I thought that perhaps well-timed trips to Orlando might suffice. So I locked my submission back in the cellar with the same promises as before, but this time I wasn’t afraid. I figured that she and I could make peace with this arrangement, because she was a very good girl. She pleases and obeys and strives to do her very best for everyone involved.

    Then I read this http://www.mollena.com/2012/09/447-am/ Mollena was a hundred times more eloquent than me, and when she wrote about being a slave with no owner, her posts echoed within me like they lived there. The moment I absorbed her words, the cellar door sprung free and suddenly submission was there. Everywhere. She was a leviathan around me. She was me to my core, and she didn’t push or yell or shout that I pay attention to her. She waited like the good girl she was, knowing that when it was her turn, I would be whole in a crucial way that was as essential to me as breathing.

    As fate would have it, a Dom that I met in Orlando was nearby on business. We’ve exchanged emails and texts since meeting at The Woodshed, trying to get a feel for each other’s style of play. He had the advantage of seeing me with Master Cecil, but I only caught a glimpse of the beginning of his scene. His sub was tied to a hexagon frame, and her back was a mess of red. And I meant that as a compliment. Just like the more traditional back and forth between a man and woman, the are-we-compatible-in-this-way dance, we do a similar thing with BDSM. Is your domination/pain style with subs similar to what I enjoy submitting to? What I’ve gleaned from our correspondence is that he would push me well beyond what’s familiar. He had already figured out that I fear and love canes, and he had rope experience. We discussed the possibility of playing the next time I’m in Orlando, but now he’s in my neck of the woods. And I’m conflicted about whether to act on it or not.

    I know what my submission wants, what I crave. To kneel in response to a command, to stretch past my limits to please an exacting Dominant. To push past the anxiety of the pain that a caning will bring and then the agony of its ministrations. To sink into the power of giving myself in my entirety to another human being, if only for a precious hour. To feel and honor the beauty of my submission in all its glory. This Dom wouldn’t want me in a permanent sense, but I think we would have a lot of fun together with the time we do share. It’s the aftermath that I can’t help worrying about.

    Will I be able to return to the life of being uncollared without protest? Will I be able to pull myself back to life as usual without the hand of a Master steadying me? I’ve never done this before. It’s all new unexplored territory. I’d tell you that it sucks ass being unowned, but I would rather struggle with these questions and the sadness of being unused than make the mistake of contracting with a Dom that was wrong for me. So I may play if it works out with both our schedules. He told me that I’d have to supply the toys which will give me some control about how we scene. We’ll have a discussion of boundaries, and I’ll make sure that my support network is in place when I get home. Because I’m very much a good girl.


  8. What I Didn’t Know Was A Lot

    February 13, 2012 by Heather Cole

    When did I realize that I truly was a masochist? The day I spanked myself thirty times with a thick wooden spoon, of course. I was alone with M on the phone, his voice at its smoothest and most polite. The tone that told me my ass was grass. Or in this case, black and blue. I was bent over the back of a plush chair, my skirt bunched around my waist. The wooden spoon was the biggest size they sold at Williams-Sonoma and I had originally purchased it to stir giant pitchers of sweet tea at family picnics. Until that exact moment, I had no idea it would be an instrument of torture on my pale skin. I also didn’t know that I would be inflicting the strikes myself per the instructions of the dominant voice on the phone. This, my darlings, was the beginning of my relationship with M. At one point not so very long ago, he was my eDom. A man whom I had never met in person yet trusted with my body and soul.

    True to the nature of online relationships, our courtship was a lightning strike. He singled me out of a group tweet with Nikki as we bantered back and forth about our kids. Watching M and Nikki tweet back and forth was like watching a knife fight. They fought dirty, and after a few half-hearted thrusts, I retired to the sidelines to watch them duel. When M sent me a direct message, I couldn’t fathom his intention. He told me I’d make a good submissive, and I almost spewed coffee all over my laptop. My response was, “I don’t think I’d make a good sub. I’m usually the aggressor.”

    As I read back over the emails we traded, M came across detached and in control. I called him by his first name, and I was bratty. Brattier than I am today, if you can believe that. I told him that he’d have to “earn” the right to the title Master, and to my surprise he agreed. He explained that my submission to him was a gift and that it was his intention to earn my respect and the right to be called Master. We didn’t discuss “ownership” and he didn’t throw around a lot of kinky terminology. We eased into it together, it seems, in a way that I can only describe as organic.

    What amazed me about that first conversation was that once I accepted my submissiveness, I assumed there would be pain as well. I slipped into the role as if it were an old coat, well-used and comfortable. It was like finding the key to a mysterious lock I had been carrying around for years. Suddenly, everything seemed to fit. I wrote, “have you ever had a moment where you hear something and it’s exactly what you’ve been waiting to hear, but you never knew it? Reading your last message I just had one of those aha! moments.

    “So now I’m a quivering mass of…everything…”

    eDoms conduct their submissives and play partner relationships electronically, and it’s the perfect way to learn the ins and outs (pun completely intended) of a potential partner. M and I were a couple that needed the next physical step to real life. We knew from the start that we would have to meet. I ached to feel his hands on me, his breath in my ear as he commanded me to my knees and punished my body. Email only took me so far. Even now I need to taste, touch and fuck him to be completely satisfied. However, our online Master/slave interactions allowed us the time to explore each other in a completely safe manner.

    We traded pictures of what we liked and wrote erotic scenarios back and forth, but the big test came when M told me to fetch the wooden spoon. At one point I seemed to watch myself from an outside perspective and had the thought, “what the holy fuck am I doing?” The slave in me responded with certainty that M knew what he was doing, and that he was steering us in the direction that we both needed. Sometimes I’m a helluva better slave than independent woman, but don’t quote me on that. I don’t want M thinking I’m too pliable.

    I feel extremely fortunate that my online relationship with M was able to evolve into something dynamic and fulfilling in our real lives. But without that foundation to our relationship, I don’t think we’d be half as amazing as we are together. I know M and trust him in a way that may have been impossible if we began in person. There are as many versions of kink as there are stars in the sky, and I realize that the way we developed wouldn’t work for everyone. I’m grateful, though. Grateful to the bottom of my greedy, bratty, little slave heart.