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Posts Tagged ‘BDSM’

  1. 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.

    Category D/s | Tags: ,, | 4 Comments

  2. No Place For Judgement

    May 11, 2013 by Nikki Blue

    I studied the short profile before beginning the conversation with her, a self-titled unicorn who expressed interest in playing with Mr. K and myself this coming weekend. I’d already determined that she preferred women to men and that she’d been into the sharing lifestyle for a number of years. The cuffs decorating her wrists and ankles in one of her photographs gave me the impression she was submissive.

    “Do you know what BDSM is?” she asked.

    I snorted, reading the question to Heather who immediately tweeted what we thought was a laughable inquiry. The unicorn didn’t know me, though, and I seriously doubt she was testing my sense of humor. My response was delayed and it led her to believe I was at a loss which also made me snort. I contemplated an answer that didn’t sound all-knowing or condescending, informing her that I identify as a Switch who is much more dominant than submissive. She countered a little too quickly saying she’s “super submissive” and “super aggressive” in bed, which I found super contradictory. She also said she was uninvolved in the BDSM community but belonged to the Farm. To be honest, I have no idea what the Farm is, but I do know she has two Dommes. However, it was her confession that she enjoys sensual, erotic floggings that left Heather questioning whether her Dom has it all wrong and left me with more questions.

    “What are your hard limits?” I asked, hell bent on making some sense out of the increasingly confusing conversation.

    “What is that?”

    Are you fucking kidding me? “A hard limit is something you absolutely will NOT do.”

    “Oh! Blow jobs,” she replied.

    *face palm*

    I peeked at the words on the screen from behind my splayed fingers, unsure where to go from there. Disappointment cast a familiar shadow as the unicorn’s magic began to slowly fade, but the search thus far had been exhausting and I wasn’t ready to throw my hands up just yet. I decided to take a different approach, asking specific questions instead of generalized ones, and the answers I got in return were exactly what I was looking for. This unicorn was submissive, and like the other one I recently met, doesn’t like pain or anything that will leave marks. I told her not to worry because I’m no sadist. Well, mostly.

    Some kinksters would have judged her, calling it quits when it became obvious they were reading different editions of the BDSM dictionary, but I’m not a judgmental person. Except when it comes to dog porn, because that’s all kinds of fucked up. My point is, though, her misunderstanding of the vocabulary doesn’t make her version of BDSM any less valid than mine. That’s the thing that is so fantastically wonderful about kink; there is no rule book dictating strict guidelines. And each fetish can be characterized however your dirty little heart desires or custom fit to meet your definition, whatever it may be. Take anal play, for example. Some kinksters view anything involving the anus as scat play. But that’s their definition, not mine. To me, scat play is excrement with intent. It’s also a hard limit of mine. Like super hard.

    There are times, though, when differences in dialect mean that a person’s newbie is showing, and that’s okay. It doesn’t mean they’re wrong. It just means they’re still learning the ropes. There are no workshops giving demonstrations on the correct way to be kinky, no online classes that give concrete vocabulary that’s used by all kinksters. Each kinkster goes through their own trial, error and research when trying to find their kinky way. But what makes a star student is the willingness to learn. Besides, we all started somewhere, right?

    I’ve had my fair share of judgement from the kinky community and it’s a hard pill to swallow. Whether it’s from fellow bloggers who believe my relationship with Mr. K is destined for failure because we chose a monogam-ish relationship, or from people who find it surprising I don’t have incontinence issues from anal sex; their uneducated assumptions cause my cleavage to flush around my bedazzled blade. In my opinion, criticism is an ill-fitting mask worn in an attempt to cover-up insecurities. It’s an ugly affliction to bare. Kind of like the Elephant Man, but way worse.

    It’s part of the American identity that we think for ourselves. It’s what makes us individuals. It’s also what allows us to make the choices that are a good fit for our needs, so if the unicorn’s idea of BDSM differs from mine, that’s okay. It doesn’t mean hers isn’t right. It’s right for her and that’s what matters. And if I had halted the conversation because of the communication mix up in the beginning, I wouldn’t know that she has experience and specific hard limits. She just didn’t know there was an identifying term for them.

    We’re all kinksters following our own definitions. We’re supposed to be open minded, free thinking and embracing. I think sometimes we forget that.

     

    Category BDSM | Tags: ,, | 3 Comments

  3. Identity Crisis are Dumb

    December 13, 2012 by Heather Cole

    Do you ever have one of those moments where you’re sitting and doing something utterly mundane, like eating brunch with people you love, and someone says something that hits you like an arrow to the heart? Words that are so straight and true to the crux of your existence that you didn’t realize it was an issue until you’re fighting tears and thinking THAT’S WHAT’S FUCKING WRONG?!

    *sigh*

    I had one of those moments today, and I’m still recovering and processing. It was perfectly timed, because that one sentence summed up the conflict within me with breath-stealing clarity. I paused with a fork full of sausage halfway to my open mouth, looking for all the world like a landed carp and feeling my world shift slightly on its axis.

    “So you’re going to settle again for the same watered down version of the Dom you want?”

    Eventually I was filled with gratitude that Matt, my girlfriend’s boyfriend, said what he did. Despite wanting to run into the bathroom to have a good cry. There it was, one of my biggest fears laid out in mean black and white. And I’m frustrated to death of worrying about it. Am I settling? Will I ever find a Dom who suits me perfectly? Am I still a slave if I’m not collared and owned?

    My logical mind knows that this fear is leftover residue from the fallout of parting ways with my ex-Dom. He threw those words at me with the intent of an emotional hand grenade, and his aim was precise. It worked like a charm. In the wreckage of my broken heart, those cruel words took root, and I haven’t been able to excise my doubts. Not yet, but I’m working on it.

    In fact, I had a meltdown about it a week or so ago. I’m only in the consideration phase with the Boy Scout and haven’t earned my first collar yet. Our relationship as boyfriend and girlfriend, Dominant and slave, is only beginning, and the Boy Scout is deliberate and thoughtful. There is no rushing that man which is a contradiction to how I usually operate. As much as we’re in sync with our romantic/poly relationship, we come from different backgrounds in the kink perspective. The Boy Scout does not get off causing me pain, but I’m learning that even though my inner masochist stomps her foot with frustration, it’s his dominance of me that’s more important. I have several friends, not to mention my girlfriend, who will cane me until I sob. None of them choose to dominate me outside a scene, though, and none of them desire to own me. And those are the two things I’m searching for.

    I fell to pieces in an email to Liri, and she responded with the kindest message that essentially told me to get a grip. As she eloquently pointed out, kinky relationships develop just as traditional relationships do. Rarely can you start up a dynamic that is perfectly suited to both parties. There’s trust to be earned and love to be given. In short, she gave me a much-needed slap across the face and a homework assignment. I was to envision in specific detail what I needed from my new Sir, whether that be tasks to complete or protocols to follow. As talented as the Boy Scout is, he’s not a mind reader. He can’t possibly know everything I need if I don’t tell him.

    I warned the Boy Scout over dinner that I would be dredging this up for the blog. He listened again to me fretting about our newness and how he doesn’t beat me enough as I played with the napkin in my lap.

    His full lips twisted into a half-smile and he asked, “how many times have you looked at your phone since we got here?”

    I blinked. “Um, three times I think?”

    “ You’ve looked at your phone three times, and you still missed my last instruction?”

    My mouth dropped open. “I missed an instruction? No I didn’t  I was ready in ten minutes as you requested, and I thanked you for the invitation.” Blue eyes bore into mine.

    Shit

    I pulled out my phone again and scrolled through his texts. There it was, a command that I wear a dress. I had missed it completely in my rush to get ready. I felt my cheeks turn scarlet, and my ego pinched me. I was way too good slave to make that kind of rookie mistake.

    “It was an accident!”

    Part of me wanted to crawl beneath the table to lay my head on his lap and apologize until he forgave me, but my instincts to grovel were overruled by my identity crisis. I needed to know if we could make this dynamic work in one simple way. A spanking or paddling were things that I craved. The Boy Scout had to do something that I would loathe so much that I never forgot to double-check my instructions. He didn’t like physically hurting me, so how could he perform a punishment that I would actually hate?

    I tried to look contrite. How far would the Boy Scout go to put me in my place? There was only one way to find out. When he appeared completely unmoved, I did the only thing I could think of, I pouted and crossed my arms over my chest. I may have even uttered the words “not fair” but there’s no evidence of that. With a pleasant smile and his southern drawl in my ear, I was ushered home for punishment. Score one for Team Slave!

    Once home, Sir told me to place two towels on the bed with my vibrator and lube. Then he told me to strip and wait. I stood in the bedroom, my mind turning with the rotations of the ceiling fan. I still had doubts that he would be able to make me truly regret my error, but when I saw him return with a large glass of ice water, those doubts morphed into anticipation.

    There were ice cubes held to my most tender places and freezing water covering body parts that were never intended to be that cold. The soles of my feet were iced and then struck which spurred a round of fervent begging on my part. As I knelt in the cold, there was only Sir’s voice and the anxiety of fulfilling what he desired of me. The moment became hyper-focused on the two of us even though I was shivering and my knees ached. There were no walls separating us, and I had the thought that it was this emotional place specifically that I yearned for.

    Finally it was over, and I was permitted to stand. He told me to start the shower, a hot shower, and wrapped his arms around me as we waited for the water to warm. We climbed in and he held me for a long time under the hot spray as we discussed what had happened. I floated in a dreamy state that being dominated will bring me. Not the rush of endorphins that a beating brings, but the joy of pleasing my Sir completely. Finally we emerged from the shower and got back to his original after-dinner plan of towels, lube and my vibrator. We used all those items, all at the same time, until my body was limp from orgasms. Later I curled up beside him in the dark, my eyelids growing heavy.

    “Do you know what my favorite part of tonight was, Minx?”

    “No, Sir,” I murmured into the crook of his neck.

    “I loved holding you in my arms in the shower after your punishment. Anyone can beat your ass, Minx, and make you cry. It takes a very particular kind of person to own you.”

    I’m beginning to realize that he’s right.

    Category D/s | Tags: ,, | 7 Comments

  4. Let’s Talk, Jolly Man

    December 5, 2012 by Heather Cole

    Dear Santa:

    Oh the holiday yada yada about you. Dude, gimme a break! Your mall representation is creepy. I mean, what kind of person disguises himself in order to lure children into sitting on his lap? Ew. And no. You’re one small step away from clown classification, and we both know how scary that shit is. I’ve never believed in you even as a child, and I was terrified that you’d grab me in the mall. Lucky for you, though, I’m older and have developed a fondness for men with big sacks. And since you’re in the business of giving and I love to receive… I thought we should have a chat. There are a few things we need to discuss.

    I did some research, because I believe in knowing my enemies. *cough* Er, annoying legendary acquaintances. Your origins are decidedly pre-Christian which ups your interesting factor in my opinion. Parallels have been drawn between you and Odin, the All Father, of Norse mythology. A one-eyed mysterious god riding an eight-legged horse is pretty damn cool. I suppose eight reindeer look cuter on a Christmas card than a mutant horse, but c’mon, they’re deer. And deer are stupid assholes. Better yet, riding a unicorn would be much classier AND you’d have the added option of making threesomes more fun all over the world. Trust me, bowl full of jelly, there’s plenty of you to go around. Share the wealth! Literally!

    Oh, I know what you’re waiting for. You’re preparing to turn me down when I plead for a spot your “nice” list.

    Pffft.

    That’s what I think of your list. Give me naughty any day. Because if I had to choose one list (it’s a shame you don’t have a List of Contradictions) for evermore, I’d choose the Dark Side. In my world, my dear Mr. Claus, naughty is a good thing, and it’s the naughty girls who get rewarded. Should I send you a pic of what I’m talking about?

    My list of demands are simple:

    • a jeweled butt plug plus a training set of plugs (I’m all about expanding my horizons)
    • gift cards to Victoria’s Secret, because I’ve had more underwear ripped and taken by horny men than you have fluffy white pompoms in your wardrobe
    • an upgrade to my phone because my boob shots are seriously blurry with my current version
    • a latex skirt
    • gift cards to the grocery store – How else do you think I lure fine upstanding men and women into my bed? I offer them cupcakes! And biscuits. And homemade macaroni and cheese. Works every time.

    You see, for a brat like me, your threats are empty. Especially if there are switches involved. Forget the coal crap. First of all, coal isn’t an environmentally friendly option. Secondly, WHAT THE FUCK IS UP WITH COAL, SANTA? Turn me over your knee and take me to task with a switch. Two switches! Four? (of varying widths please)

    When It boils down to it, I bet my girlfriend hits harder than you. So give me your best shot, Santa baby. If you’re really good, I’ll let Mrs. Claus watch.

    Category BDSM | Tags: ,,,, | 2 Comments

  5. What I Want

    September 28, 2012 by Nikki Blue

    “What do you want out of it?”

    Heather and I were discussing the possibility of my first scene when I visit her next month when the question popped up. I couldn’t give her an answer, and the truth was that I really didn’t know. The query forced me to take a hard look at myself which can sometimes be as excruciating as a beatdown from a gang of hoodlums. Heather challenged me to don my waders and venture carefully into the treacherous swamp of my feelings which she knows is never an easy task for me.

    What do I want? Do I want to see how I fare in the hands of a sadistic Top wielding a riding crop? Or perhaps the bite of leather as the flogger is thrown against my bare flesh? Of course that’s what I want, but that’s a surface desire. It’s superficial, and I knew there must be a deeper need. I just had to uncover it.

    I thought about her question for days, not entirely sure where to look for the answer so I started with the obvious. I picked apart the different components of my personality, individually examining what each one needed. It was something I had already devoted a lot of time to as I became comfortable with my newfound identity that labeled me as a switch. This time I examined my dissected innards from a different angle, trying to determine what I was missing. I recognized that the submissive in me had the driving need to please, freely giving up control while my dominant side lay in wait, craving the rush from the return of that power. It was a delicate balance that required a steady flow of trust to remain healthy. And trust is something that doesn’t come easily to me.

    Then I remembered a conversation I recently had with Master Cecil about trust. He said that he could determine the amount of trust by a hug. If a person relaxes into him completely, it’s unquestionable. Before leaving The Woodshed that night I gave him a hug, and I had to ask myself if he could feel my trust. Did I melt into him as Heather had the night of their amazing scene? I didn’t know. I’m guessing I tried but was unable to let go of the control I needed to feel safe. Don’t misunderstand, I trust Master Cecil. I just have a difficult time giving up complete control. Then it struck me. Surrendering absolute control outside of a sexual dynamic is what I long for. I desperately need to let the dominant facet of me slumber and not wonder when she’ll wake up rejuvenated, rallying for control.

    I was pleased that I’d climbed inside of myself, digging through memories and feelings that are unpleasant and erratic without ending up on the floor curled into a fetal position. I know my inability to let go completely is a result of the crusty scab that formed over an old relationship that left me emotionally disfigured. When my high school boyfriend greedily took the power I gave him over me, he used it to cause me pain that I’ve never fully recovered from. I realize it’s time to let those wounds heal and take back all of the power I gave him. But in order to do so, I need to give every ounce of that power to someone else. Someone who will respect me and honor the gift of my submission. Someone who won’t abuse it and will return the power to me.

    In light of my revelation, I had to ask myself another question. How will I react when I give up all control for the first time in ages? Will I be afraid? Will there be an outpouring of emotion as harbored anger is conjured up and released? Or will I end up a sobbing mess? Honestly, that is something that can’t be foretold. And because of that uncertainty, I refuse to scene with anyone, hard or soft, without the security of Heather close by. She is my safe haven. She knows my demons by name, and she knows how to exorcise them.

    I don’t know if my first scene will be in North Carolina, or if it will happen close to home. The one thing I am certain of is that when it does happen, I’ll know exactly what I want to take away from it with no room for doubt. It feels good to be able to say that the answer came from within me, from pages of my life that haven’t been read in a long time. And knowing that I pieced it together on my own is incredibly satisfying. It’s reassurance that I’m growing as a person. It’s reassurance that I’m human.

    Category BDSM | Tags: ,,, | 7 Comments

  6. Dear Diary

    August 26, 2012 by Nikki Blue

    I had no idea what lay ahead of us that night, and to be quite honest, I was nervous as hell. I’d never been to a BDSM club before, and I felt like an unsure toddler on the first day of preschool. I was both excited and terrified. The incredibly strong vodka tonic I drank while getting ready for the evening helped calm my anxieties. As did the tears of laughter as Heather and I adjusted, rather ungracefully I might add, to the restrictions of our upside down corsets.

    Once inside the dimly lit dungeon, we were introduced to various people as we stood in a circle of conversation. He appeared to the left of us and pleasantries were exchanged, his English accent sending a shiver down my spine. Feeling like my brain had just been scrambled, I tried to keep up with the chatter around me as I glanced in his direction. I was being studied. I knew he wasn’t quite sure what to think of me and that only made me want to present more of a challenge. But I suddenly felt unusually modest as I looked up into the eyes of the Dom who was peering behind my carefully crafted tough girl facade. And it wasn’t because I was barefoot on the concrete floor, my stilettos in hand because my feet were killing me. It was because this Dom was a sadist with many years of experience in the lifestyle. I could feel his strength, and it left me rattled.

    Expressing his disappointment in not having more time to speak with me, his voice alone was enough to scale my walls. But before leaving, he wanted me to know what he knew about me thus far. He said he could clearly read the intelligence written on my face. He could also see the submissive inside of me. He never touched anything but my hand during our conversation that night and he didn’t seem to notice my boobs. For the first time in my life I felt totally submissive. And I liked it.

    Then we met Master Cecil, the owner of The Woodshed, and he was gracious enough to spend some time answering our questions. Okay, Heather’s questions. I just stood there and watched her go. She was so cute and bubbly as she asked one after another. Yeah, I said it. She was bubbly. And when Master Cecil asked if she would like to do a rope scene, I thought she would explode in all directions like a can of multicolored confetti.

    She stood barefoot in front of me, gathering her hair at the back of her head in a loose knot as we attempted to remove the black corset that accentuated her perfect shape. It was tightly laced and almost as difficult to take off as it was to put on. The center hook was stuck and no matter how hard I pushed on my soulmateclone’s ribcage, it didn’t budge. Bones are only meant to bend so much, and like a knight in black leather, Master Cecil came to our rescue. Okay, so it was denim and he was shirtless, but he still came to our rescue, sorta. He pushed and he tugged and in the end, he couldn’t free her either. I couldn’t help but giggle at the irony.

    Master Cecil assured me that Heather would be safe and that there would be no violence. I had no reason to doubt him. He told me that I should stay near, and he would tell me exactly what I would need to do for her aftercare. I took every word he said and held it close.

    I sat down very carefully on a couch a few feet away, watching closely as Heather walked naked into the beckoning arms of Master Cecil. I tried to get comfortable, but it was an impossible task. It wasn’t nerves or anxiety that kept me sitting upright, my posture appearing practiced and perfect. It was the steel boned corset that prevented me from sinking into the cozy couch the way I wanted. Oh, I tried. But I couldn’t bend and I couldn’t breathe, so I sat perched on the edge with my tits up to my chin.

    I couldn’t hear Master Cecil’s voice when I watched the rope slide across Heather’s creamy skin as if it had a mind of its own. They were words meant only for her, but her dreamy smile told me more than words ever could. It told me that even if her eyes had been open, she wouldn’t have seen anything around her. She wouldn’t have seen the Domme’s smile as she whipped her boy with a crop a few feet away. And she wouldn’t have seen the two subs bent over a table across the dungeon, holding onto each other as they were flogged. All she could do was feel. And as I watched the serenity light up her face and listened to her sounds of pleasure as Master Cecil pushed his thumb into her thigh, I felt envy. I wanted that feeling of peace for myself. I just didn’t realize how much until that moment.

    I witnessed Heather’s first scene in a public dungeon with a Dom who was, in my opinion, a true Dom, a respectful Dom. And it was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. Their chemistry was electrifying, and judging from the reaction of others in the room, I wasn’t the only one who felt it. That scene was significant in many ways, but the thing that struck home with me was that damage was being undone. I could tell Heather a million times over (and I have) that the spark would surface again between her and a new Dom. But I knew that until she actually felt that spark for herself, my words were just that; words. I was lucky enough to be there when that spark ignited.

    When the scene with Master Cecil ended and Heather and I had spent some time sitting on the couch, I helped her re-dress, sort of. We thanked everyone for a fantastic night, gave lots of hugs and made our way through the still crowded parking lot of The Woodshed with shoes and corset in hand. I couldn’t stand another second in mine and there was no way in hell I was driving home with Frankenstein arms. Once in a night was more than enough. Besides, I had an itch that was driving me nuts. Hoping I could slip out of it easily, Heather began to unlace it only to realize I had the same issue she did. The center hook was stuck. We struggled and pushed until it finally popped free. And as I discarded my purple and black brocade corset, my boobs dropped back down to where they belonged. I bent over forward because I could, and naked from the waist up in a parking lot, I took the first deep breath in hours.

    It was the end of a long night and I was happy. I was happy that Heather and I had the opportunity to visit our first BDSM club together. It was an experience I wouldn’t have wanted to share with anyone else. I was downright giddy that we were forging new friendships with the amazing people we’d met. People who will become my kinky support system in the BDSM community as I explore my submissive desires. But I was sad too. I was sad that Heather would be leaving me in less than four hours. She is my soulmateclone and we should never be apart. It’s a proven fact. I was also hungry for a cheeseburger and a giant coke. Because regardless of any questionable behavior we may exhibit at times (VAGINA!), we always keep it classy.

    Category BDSM | Tags: ,,, | 13 Comments

  7. Learning the Ropes

    August 23, 2012 by Heather Cole

    Sunday morning found me clutching my soulmateclone in the Orlando airport, repeating over and over again that I didn’t want to leave her. Our visit cemented what I had known all along–we were two parts of a whole and the idea of separating again broke my heart. Two men watched us with interest as we smooshed our boobs together one last time (That was all me. Nikki’s boobs are amazing.) and declared our undying love for each other. Then I dutifully stepped into line with the sea of tanned families embarking on their trips home.

    I had barely two hours sleep and my borrowed tank top was hiding red rope marks across my chest. My neck and cheek were decorated with bite marks, and I wore bruises on my ass and thighs. My nipples were sore from the friction of the jute traveling over my areolas, and if I moved a certain way, my skin still smelled of the Dom who had topped me hours earlier. I maneuvered through security in a golden haze of contentment, and not even the obnoxious woman with four overstuffed carry-on bags could penetrate my goodwill.

    My faith in Doms had been restored.

    Please don’t misunderstand. I know that there are thousands of good Dominants out in the world, and I know a handful of them personally. My faith was shaken regarding the right Dom for ME. I was haunted by the final conversation with my ex-Dom. He predicted that I would never find another Master with our kind of chemistry, and I believed him. My logical mind knew this couldn’t be true, yet the submissive in me, the slave that wished to be owned and possessed was afraid. Of course it won’t ever be exactly the same. Each Dominant and submissive possesses their own styles and personalities, but since my split from my ex-Dom, part of me despaired that I would ever find that spark again.

    Although I was in the land of commercial princesses, there was no Prince Flogger, riding out of the swamp on his partially trained alligator to whisk me off to his dungeon where I’ll live happily ever after, chained to his bedpost. I was OK with that, because I had my soulmateclone and a never-ending supply of vodka tonics. No, what happened, my darling vagina readers, was that I had an amazing scene. A-fucking-mazing! Let me tell you why…

    Nikki and I had been planning to visit The Woodshed, a BDSM club in Orlando, ever since we began our blog. It was going to be one of the highlights, we hoped, of our first weekend together as naked, power-ballad-loving bffs. I packed my black corset, black ruffled panties and platform heels and crossed my fingers that we would make the dress code. And we would have–if Nikki and I hadn’t put the damn things on upside down. During the ride to The Woodshed we’re both thinking, why is this corset digging into my thighs? Because that’s the sweetheart neckline, you dipshits!

    God bless kind, kinky strangers. As we stood in the crowded lobby of The Woodshed, filling out paperwork, two women approached us and asked in hushed voices if we were aware that our corsets were upside down. Nikki and I could only look at each other and laugh. We laughed until we cried while they hustled us into a dressing room to correct our fashion emergency. In the four hours we spent at The Woodshed, I learned more about corsets than I did from the website where I purchased the damn thing.

    The club was busy that night, because there were several birthdays being celebrated. There was cake EVERYWHERE and that reassured me. Because people who love cake can’t be awful people. It’s a proven scientific fact. The kindness didn’t end with our corsets. The first Dungeon Monitor (DM) we met gave us a tour and answered a ton of questions. So did the second one. They weren’t kitted out in Kill Bill leather outfits and thigh-high boots, looking like Barbie and Ken doing the Magic Kingdom the dirty way. They were real people who were generous with their time, indulgent of newcomers and educated about the lifestyle. As much as Nikki and I felt like clueless newbies, they welcomed us and offered to help in any way they could. Trust me, I had some ideas about that.

    So there we were, standing in an ocean of BDSM and trying not to ogle the various scenes going on around us. There was a Domme whipping her boy tied to a whipping post. One lucky birthday girl was tied to a shibari wheel dangling from the ceiling as five sadists circled her and struck her with various ouchy things. There was a shibari frame with women tied to it for spankings and padded tables for needle and wax play. Off in a quiet corner was a circle of couches where Doms and subs cuddled in blankets for aftercare. It was amazing and a bit overwhelming.

    Then we met Master Cecil.

    We had spoken briefly in passing when Nikki and I were in the lobby, but I didn’t know who he was. I remember looking at him and trying to figure out what had caught my attention. I don’t talk about energy between people for fear of sounding like a hippie freak, but something about Master Cecil made me sit up and pay attention. It wasn’t until an hour later that we were all introduced (I believe I yelled, “we’re Vagina Antics!” at the top of my lungs or something), and then the three of us ended up in the parking lot having a chat.

    I have to give the man a lot of credit, because I grilled him. The only thing missing was the interrogation room and the bright light in his face. He answered everything with humor and candor, and after asking “what kind of scene would you recommend for a newbie?” I found myself agreeing to do a rope scene with him. It wasn’t until my naked body was being shoved against the St. Andrew’s Cross that I remembered that I had a safeword. Oops…

    Master Cecil explained to me that a rope scene would consist of him figuring out what the rope wanted to do based on the energy between us. He also warned me that if it went well, I would never look at rope the same way again. I had plenty of opportunity to negotiate and state my preferences, but I didn’t. His honesty and emotional integrity during our impromptu Q&A session convinced me that I was speaking with an honorable man and an experienced Dom. The slave part of me was jumping up and down and clapping her hands with glee. My verbal reaction was, HOLY FUCK YES!

    It was arranged so that Nikki would be seated four feet away on a couch, and she was in charge of any aftercare I needed. I was naked because I’ll get naked at the drop of a hat, but also because I didn’t want there to be any impediment to the rope. I felt safe and respected by Master Cecil. I trusted that whatever he dished out, it was going to be good for both of us.

    Inside the dungeon, Master Cecil was barefoot and had removed his shirt. He opened his arms and beckoned me forward. I was a little nervous, but the skin on skin contact erased it. I melted into him, and the way we came together, I was able to bury my nose in the crook of his neck. He took a deep breath that I matched, and his voice rumbled deep in his chest.

    “Good girl,” he said.

    I’m not certain that I have the words to adequately describe what I felt. There was an echo of my old Master-slave dynamic in that touch, that moment of openness. That unspoken communication that I would offer him everything, he only had to take it. I told Nikki later that Master Cecil could have done practically anything to me in that scene, and I would have met him willingly and given every ounce of myself. It was as if his touch had opened a door inside me, one that had been padlocked shut and ignored.

    The instructions he gave me were simple. I was to keep my eyes shut, listen to his voice and feel the rope. The jute rope was scratchy and rough. He wrapped it around my torso three times with my breasts sandwiched between the loops. It felt pleasant, the rope humming against my skin as he worked. I was safe within those bonds. Then he grabbed me by the hair and swung me around, shoving my chest against the cross. The rope tightened and the pain began in earnest. There was his deep voice, his broad hand striking my ass, gripping my thighs, and the rope. Always the rope singing its own tale.

    There was no sexual component to the scene (both the club and Master Cecil have strict rules about that), but his spanking made me orgasm. I was up on my tiptoes, my skin rubbing against the wood of the cross as his hand made contact with my ass. The pain blossomed, and my clit responded. The throbbing between my legs joined the impact of his spanking, and I was lost. Don’t worry, I always ask for permission to orgasm first.

    When we were saying our goodbyes, Master Cecil told me that I was what he had suspected. When I asked what that was, he replied, “you’re a very good girl.” I couldn’t help but feel pleased. I had an amazing scene, because for the first time since being un-collared, I felt that spark to open myself up again. I am deeply grateful to Master Cecil for working with me. Maybe it was personal chemistry, his experience, confidence or skill…maybe it’s a combination of all those things… What matters is that I felt the spark, and I now know without a shadow of a doubt, that I will someday find another Dom that shares that amazing chemistry with me. Yeah, I’m still grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

    Category BDSM | Tags: ,,, | 21 Comments

  8. After-hours Examination

    July 28, 2012 by Nikki Blue

    The office was finally quiet as I sat cross-legged on the patient chair in the surgical suite, the stack of charts from the day’s surgeries piled on my lap. I was busy transferring notes to the third chart when I noticed him leaning against the door frame with his arms folded across his chest. He’d changed out of his scrubs and was impeccably dressed in black pants and a white button down shirt.

    “You know, this would go a lot faster if you’d help me.”

    “You mean the sooner we get it done, the sooner we can play doctor?”

    I laughed. “Maybe.”

    Grabbing the charts from my lap, he tossed them onto the counter without taking his eyes off of me. He lowered the chair until I lay flat on my back and kissed me deeply, holding my lip between his teeth as he pulled away.

    “I’ve been wanting to do that all day.”

    “Anything else?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

    He stripped me of my clothes and held my wrists together in one hand as he undid his belt with the other. Knowing what was coming next, I couldn’t help but smile as he pulled the strap from his waist and wrapped it tightly around my wrists. He moved my arms above my head and I winced as the leather pinched my skin when he secured me to the headrest above.

    His gaze intensified as he trailed his fingertips down my naked body as if he was memorizing a road map. He paused when he reached my knees and I wondered where his skilled fingers would graze me next. His touch was gentle but deliberate as he spread my legs, never breaking contact with my skin. And when he placed his hand on my swollen folds and pushed his middle finger deep inside, I thought I would come undone.

    “You will not move. Understood?”

    “Yes,” I replied, barely more than an unsteady whisper.

    A flush blossomed across my body and a thin veil of sweat formed on my skin. Despite the heat, my teeth began to chatter as my will began to crumble. I held my breath, resisting the need to open my legs wider and rock my hips against the palm of his hand. I trembled uncontrollably as I battled for control of my body. It became clear I was going to lose.

    “Please.”

    Brushing my cheek with his fingers, he seemed to take pleasure in my struggle. He’d pushed me until he had me exactly where he wanted me; on the edge begging for release.

    He smiled. “Now.”

    Category Flash Fiction | Tags: ,, | 3 Comments

  9. Late Nights

    July 26, 2012 by Heather Cole

    I stared through the glass wall of the office at the harbor below, the lights from the tourist cruises dotting the dark water like fireflies. The usual clatter from the company was silenced and the floor deserted. I clutched a pile of file folders to my chest as a reminder of why I was in his office. The lamp on the desk beside me offered a small pool of light against the bulky shapes of office furniture and bookshelves. I heard the door shut behind me with a soft click and then caught a whiff of cologne. My skin twitched when Jai touched me, seconds before I heard his voice in my ear.

    “Turn around,” he said with only a trace of an accent.

    Butterflies erupted in my stomach, and I grinned at the dark horizon. “Make me.”

    He growled something incoherent and with one hand released the clip that held my chignon in place. His fingers scraped against my scalp as he grabbed a handful of my hair while his other hand slowly wandered down my ribcage to my waist. His fingers dug into my side as he pulled me against him, and I could feel his erection pressed against me through the fabric of my pencil skirt.

    “Are you saying that you don’t want to look at me? I’m amenable to that.”

    Jai pushed me towards the desk, and I stumbled in my heels, dropping the files to the floor so I could catch my balance. I heard the metallic clink of a belt being loosened and then a zipper sliding on its metal teeth. My heartbeat ratcheted up with anticipation.

    I attempted to turn around then but he caught me with a fistful of hair. Slowly, inextricably, he pulled me to the desk, allowing me enough of an angle so that I could see his grin and the charcoal pinstripe of his designer suit with my peripheral vision. My palms were slick with sweat against the smooth wood, the buttons of my blouse poking into my sternum. My eyes fluttered shut when I felt his palm brush my thigh.

    “Tell me,” he demanded.

    I bit my lip and squirmed until my ass grazed his pants. He laughed and shifted his grip to the back of my neck. I had exactly three seconds to wonder what he was planning.

    The sting of his hand against my ass stole my breath, but I welcomed the pain.

    “Tell me.”

    He yanked my skirt up and swung again. The force of his palm against my flesh inched my body along the desk.

    “Say it.”

    Another hit.

    My panties were drenched, the warmth and pain of his hands driving my need. Drawing a deep breath through my nose, I shook my head and clamped my lips tight. I wanted to relish the power of withholding as long as possible. I waited for another blow but none was forthcoming. Instead he pulled down my underwear, his long fingers reaching for my swollen clit.

    “You know what I can do to you,” he murmured, “what we can do together. Two words and you can have it all.”

    His clever fingers stroked closer to the lips of my vagina.

    “Say it or I leave you here.”

    He held me like a butterfly pinned to a mat. In that critical moment of overwhelming desire and need, I craved both the reward and the pain. In the end, though, I always gave him what he wanted.

    “I’m yours,” I whispered.

    He laughed again, because he had never doubted it.

    Category Flash Fiction | Tags: ,, | 8 Comments

  10. The Meaning of Kinky

    March 2, 2012 by Heather Cole

    This post is dedicated to my friends, new and old, who have helped me, through their own journeys, see mine more clearly. Thank you.

     

    When I originally conceived of this post, I planned on starting with a basic vocabulary of kinky terminology. Nikki and I toss around kinky words like popcorn, but for much of our readership, there’s confusion about what it all means. In response, I made a page with a list of basic terms AND some resources that I found very helpful when I was figuring out what kinky meant to me. You can find it here.

    So why did my writing plans change? Well, because this morning I’m going for a biopsy. It will be a ten minute procedure at the doctor’s office, but the implications of what it means have been impacting my life for weeks. I’m not afraid. I know that whatever the doctors find or don’t find, I’ll deal with it. I’m strong and healthy and I have a great support network. The catalyst that spurred my spate of introspection was a comment made by my mother. Under the guise of caring and concern, she implied that the anomaly in my pap smear was a result of my lifestyle choices. I love my mother, and we’re very close, so these words were like a sledgehammer to my heart.

    Not so long ago, my mother asked what “being kinky” meant. I believe I gave her the worst explanation ever, because she didn’t want to know specifically what it meant to me. She didn’t want to know what got her daughter off, about the leather collar and the floggers and the man who dominated her. She wanted a generalized description, so I stumbled through an explanation of what I knew other kinksters enjoyed. It was a disaster all around, and I ended the call knowing that for the first time in my life, my mother was afraid for me. Afraid of my choices.

    This is the kick-in-the-nuts truth about being kinky: THERE IS NO HARD AND FAST DEFINITION OF WHAT BEING KINKY MEANS. There are as many versions of kink as there are stars in the sky. What does it for me may not do it for you. And just because we may be different, I would never say that you are or aren’t kinky. I’m beginning to agree with the Dom that Nikki referenced. Why call it kink? My sexual practices are perfectly “normal” from my perspective.

    This acceptance is sometimes hard to find in other people. It’s even harder to find within ourselves. That’s what I’ve been grappling with over these past weeks, my mother’s judgment only brought it to my attention. As much progress as I’ve made with accepting who I am as a submissive pain slut, that definition is evolving and it’s uncomfortable to feel uncertain. There’s no denying the fact that I’m a different woman today than I was even three months ago.

    I resist labels, because they’re stagnant. They work as a general, all-purpose shortcut in a conversation, but they’re not dynamic or flexible. I call myself a slave, but I have more freedom than many other submissives do. Other Doms wouldn’t tolerate my bratty mouth or my insistence at independence, but M says that I’m perfect for him. I’m a powerful human being whether I’m negotiating a writing contract, taking my child to the park or kneeling at my Master’s feet. No matter what I call myself or the toys I use, no matter who I choose to fuck and how I choose to fuck them, my sexuality is beauty, and power and joy. I engage my partners with love and respect, and I try to give as much as I receive.

    I don’t know if my mother and I will ever talk about kink again. I will answer her honestly if she asks, because I know myself and I will always try to speak my truth. Calling me kinky doesn’t really explain anything except to say that I’m different. And sweeties, that difference gives me some earth-shattering orgasms.

    Category BDSM, Heather, Kinky Sex | Tags: ,,,,, | No Comments