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Posts Tagged ‘Dominance and submission’

  1. H is for How

    June 8, 2014 by Heather Cole

    Today’s letter H stands for a question posed to my sir from one of our readers. I confess that I did a little dance of joy at the idea of sir answering. I can never get enough of the inner workings of the man. Or the outer workings, for that matter. Without further ado, here is my beloved:


    How long had you been “practicing” before you got together with Heather? When did you know you were dominant?

    These are deceptively simple questions. The more I thought about them, the more complicated and nuanced the answers became. They highlight the relationship between my nature (what kind of person I am) and my nurture (the ways those traits have been developed). In a real sense I was “born this way.” In another sense I “got this way.”

    Let me preface this by saying that I am not a particularly overbearing guy, nor do I consider myself to be a stereotypical alpha-type person. I am quiet in groups even though I am not really shy. I have a talent for fading into the background when I am not looking for attention. Kind of like Kaiser Soze.

    I suppose I have always had a dominant personality, but I never used that term to describe myself until I became active in the kink community. Growing up, I was what you might call rebellious, but not in a physical or anarchistic sense. I had this persistent feeling that rules didn’t necessarily apply to me. I appreciated the importance of laws and rules to govern interpersonal behavior, but I also saw that rules often applied more strictly to some people than to others (two reasons I ultimately went to law school). I studied the rule systems that applied to me so I could figure out where the “wiggle room” was.

    I have worked hard to develop my critical thinking skills and to become an effective advocate. I am fun to argue with (just ask Heather). In high school I was a competitive debater, studying argumentation, formal logic, and fallacies. In college I became more interested in the philosophical aspects of power relations. I focused on things like propaganda (manufacturing consent), class struggle, and grassroots political movements. I grew my hair long and read a lot of Michel Foucault and Saul Alinsky. I also discovered Noam Chomsky, and learned more about how power relationships function on a pragmatic level.

    I was always interested in the ways leverage and persuasion could compel others to do what you want them to do. Although I was never a salesman, that didn’t stop me from reading up on sales techniques and listening to a lot of Tony Robbins. Over time, I got pretty good at manipulating people and situations to get my way. I was never (rarely?) manipulative for malicious purposes; I just felt safer when I was in control of a situation. It was a form of self-preservation.

    Being a pretty clever person, I can get bored easily. I enjoy being challenged intellectually, and I enjoy challenging others. It is my nature, and something that plays a part in my dynamic with Heather.

    I have been kinky since before I knew it was a thing. I had a hosiery fetish at age five. One of my first childhood memories was burying myself in the fresh laundry pile, putting my mother’s stockings on my hands, and rubbing them all over my face. Mmmm. My parents were casual swingers, and although I didn’t realize it at the time, the swinger’s classifieds I found in my parent’s closet provided my first glimpses into non-traditional relationship structures. I lost my virginity at age 16, but before those fateful three minutes I spent most of my sex-starved adolescence contriving increasingly sophisticated methods of masturbation. I “discovered” my own anus years before I got to second base with a girl.

    After college I dated a stripper (who was also, incidentally, a former debater) for a couple of years, which was where I started to get into bondage, impact play, and humiliation. We dabbled in consensual non-consent. She was also a Republican, which helped me get into character (as I am not). Nowadays I would classify her as a babygirl with strong undertones of bratty princess.

    Tying her up while she struggled and then forcing myself into her resisting body really got us both off, but I was confused by the tension between what we were doing and how I had been raised to treat a lady. At the end of our relationship I apologized to her for mistreating her and for being a bad boyfriend. I was surprised at how surprised she was. She said that she had never been treated so well by a man in her life. I took that across the country with me to grad school and chewed on it for several years.

    After grad school I married a girl who is, to this day, the opposite of kinky. She is a wonderful person, a teacher, and a best friend, but sadly she is not a pervert. I still had the image of the stripper girlfriend in my mind, and figured that if anyone could coax a bad girl out of a good girl, I was the man for the job. She won that bet. I got a finger in her ass a few times, but that’s about the extent of it.

    Even though we never really connected on a sexual level, we have always had a strong spiritual connection. She is the one who got me back into meditation, the one who got me into yoga and chanting. We were both interested in mythology, eastern spirituality, and comparative theology, and grew our marriage around that instead of anal sex and ball gags. She was also a spender and, consciously or not, she seemed intent on undermining my plans for our financial future. In all of these ways, she was instrumental to me learning to let go and to lose control. She taught me about presence, and about the beauty of chaos. These tools have served me well in my kinks.

    Some lessons in letting go were harder for me to learn than others. With hindsight, my wife and I can both see that we were two alphas in a constant struggle for dominance. She was a formidable opponent, and ended up topping me more than I topped her. But I have always been a begrudging, grumbling servant, thereby ensuring that my submission is no fun for anyone involved. She now has a submissive (non-kinky) boyfriend and I have Heather, and we have never been more at ease with each other.

    I got back into kink pretty much by accident. My wife and I were struggling in our marriage, and I was literally sex-starved. I never never never got laid, which makes Joe a grouchy boy. I returned to my increasingly sophisticated and creative forms of masturbation, and we eventually agreed that it was OK for me to look for sex outside of our relationship. (Well, I told her I was. She wasn’t pleased at the time. Another story.)

    I browsed Craigslist, but it seemed like risky behavior. Plus, I was looking for ladies. If I had been into guys I think CL might have worked great for me. I found Fetlife next, and went to my first munch shortly thereafter. I was looking for a FWB situation, but instead I met a bunch of really nice and interesting people. Sex never even really came up, but I felt more comfortable and more at home than I had felt since college. I had found my tribe.

    This is where the kink part of my “nurturing” began, where I picked up the practical skills for topping and re-awakened my natural talent at mind fuckery. I read every BDSM article I could get my hands on, every opinion piece that came across Fetlife. I found an experienced mentor who talked me through the vocabulary and bottomed to me a few times.

    I was so awkward with my first bottom that I must have been adorable. I felt like a baby tiger enthusiastically climbing all over a patient adult, tumbling over my big paws. So many options! Among other things, she introduced me to rope bondage, but she was not interested in taking beatings from me as I ramped up that learning curve. I met another girl, an enthusiastic masochist who introduced me to caning and talked me through the finer points of building a memorable scene. She helped me to consider the arc of a scene, from the warm-up to the big finish. I got plenty of practice topping, and was finally getting so much pussy again that I was forced to refrain from masturbation for supply/demand reasons.

    I met Heather about this time. The first time I saw her I thought she was a snob. She was at a play party with her girlfriend and completely ignored me. We stood right next to each other in the kitchen and she totally missed that I was only pretending to ignore her so I would look cool, and she actually ignored me right back! Her girlfriend seemed like a snob too, but the “mean girls” vibe only fueled the sexiness later when Heather went up on the cross and took a beating from her girlfriend. And then the cunnilingus show on the couch that followed. Mmmm.

    Our paths crossed again later with different results (she was nicer), and the stories of our union have been well chronicled elsewhere on this blog. This last year and a half has brought on a whole new phase of evolution for both of us. In the beginning, I was not looking for a total power exchange relationship. I was looking for tail. Granted, nowadays I simply can’t imagine life without anal-on-demand or a morning without coffee in bed and a wake-up blowjob, but back then I was a different man. I once measured blowjobs by the occurrence, not by the hour.

    I knew M/s was a priority for her, so again I went to the internet to educate myself. The more I read, the more it seemed that everything I had done in my life up to that point had come together into a singularity. I began to understand the psychology of submission, and I was reminded of the ubiquity of power exchange relationships in the world. I began to see all of my relationships as varying degrees of D/s. My fascination with control was reawakened. It felt simultaneously familiar and foreign in this new context.

    Looking back, I now see that seducing consent was (and continues to be) my biggest fetish. I want to be in control, but ultimately Heather has to freely give it to me. The negotiations did not end when we signed the contract; they began. It is unfulfilling to just make Heather do something. It is also inefficient. For me to get off, I need her to buy in. I have to make her want to serve me. Even today, our relationship is a dance of constantly soliciting and granting consent. Heather asks me to do many of the things I do to her, even though she may resist actually desiring what she asks for. And even when she does not ask, after it is over I make her admit that it got her off. That she wanted it.

    I have grown as a person and strive to give back as much as I take from her. As in most “healthy” TPE relationships, our relationship is a lot of responsibility for me. It is not all rainbows and good morning blowjobs for Master. I have to do some work too. Her submission makes me responsible for her well-being, figuratively if not also literally. I do not have to pick up after her or do the emotional heavy lifting for her, but it does mean that I have to structure her experience. It also means that I have a moral obligation to serve as her guide, her mentor, and her source of consequences.

    My willingness to structure her experience demonstrates my commitment to the game, to the dynamic. If I do not make her set goals, if I do not follow up on her progress, and if I fail to punish her enthusiastically when necessary, then I am letting her down. Sometimes she wants to push my boundaries, but she does so to confirm that the boundaries are there as much as she does it to get away with something. Unlike me, she is not a rule breaker. She actually likes rules. Our rules and expectations envelope her in a constant tight hug. Personally, I would find it claustrophobic, but it makes her feel secure. Happiness in slavery.

    Creating expectations and consequences for Heather has also impacted the way I approach my own life. She provided me a safe harbor to regroup and recover, and to set a new course in my life. She loves me and surrenders to me without judgment. As a result, I have matured as an adult, and I (increasingly) hold myself accountable to my own rules (you know how I feel about rules…)

    In a real sense, our power exchange has been a rite of passage for me, the symbolic transition into manhood that I never received as an adolescent. Being an owner is not, as it turns out, all about sodomy and foot massages. It is not just about getting my way anymore. Ownership requires active management and personal reflection. I am regularly called to think about my strengths and weaknesses and to reflect on my best and highest use. I am still a rebellious person, but I feel more balanced in my approach to my own life path.

    To sum up, I guess I have always known I am dominant. The signs were certainly there. My relationship with control and domination has evolved over the years, and it continues to evolve due to my involvement in the kink community. Perhaps most importantly, I have learned that scene planning and toy proficiency are important skills for tops, but they are vehicles for a far deeper journey.

    And finally, the answer to your questions: I trained for a couple of years to tie Heather up good and to beat her hard, but I trained my entire life to own her, to control her, and to use her. And I am still training, so that I may keep her.



  2. Heather and the Gangbang

    December 16, 2013 by Heather Cole

    I sat on a thick oriental rug and watched the other masters and slaves from beneath my lashes. I felt shy, butterflies of anxiety erupting in my gut. I had been told to sit and wait for my master, so that’s exactly what I did. I didn’t recognize the faces around me, and I felt too awkward to approach any of them and start a conversation. They sat or stood, the chairs grouped in a loose semicircle at the center of the room. I stared at the pattern on the rug and tried not to fidget.

    Finally sir strode over to me with a smile on his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a mischievous look. He pulled me to my feet and into his arms, and I buried my face in the crook of his neck. He smelled like soap and sandalwood, and part of me calmed at the familiar scents.

    “I love you,” he murmured into my ear. “You are my treasure. Do you know this?” One of his hands grabbed a handful of hair and pulled my head back so he could see my eyes.

    “Yes, sir,” I replied, wincing slightly at the small pain.

    “Good girl.”

    He laced my fingers with his and led me to a sage green couch at the side of the room. I hadn’t noticed it before, but its wide cushions looked more like a bed than a couch you would see in a living room. My butterflies came back with a rush when I saw the dark leather circles of my cuffs resting on top of it. I turned to sir with a questioning look as he pulled out a silk blindfold from his pocket.

    “Do you trust me?” he asked. I nodded wordlessly, and I felt the cool material smooth down my forehead and over my eyes. “Do you trust me to make all your fantasies come true?”

    I could feel my lips tremble as I tried to form the response he required. Some of my dark fantasies should not have been forged into reality, because they often strayed into that gray area of consensual non-consent with strangers. But I couldn’t think of what to say other than ‘yes.’ There were no stipulations made with sir. I either trusted him with every ounce of being or I didn’t trust him at all.

    I couldn’t see the other masters and slaves in the room, but I heard their movements. I recognized the heavy fall of a flogger against tender flesh and the wet slapping noises of rough sex. There were moans and cries, and even though I wanted to see, I was also grateful for the blindfold. That way I wouldn’t know who was watching, and I could focus completely on my owner.

    Sir stripped me and then gently pushed me back on to the couch. I felt the warm slip of cotton rope around my wrists and ankles, and sir eased me into a spreadeagled position. I felt completely exposed, my flesh rippling into goosebumps. I also realized that I was growing wet between my legs with anticipation. I squirmed against my bonds, trying to sense where sir was. In that moment all I wanted was him inside me, claiming me and easing away my nervousness.

    I felt movement beside me and then the familiar weight of my master. His cock slid inside me, and I eagerly raised my hips to take all of him. I felt the beginnings of an orgasm as he thrust inside me, but the couch dipped again, and I felt another set of hands on my body. The rope was loosened, and someone pushed me so that I was on my side. Sir was still inside me, but he had changed position too and my leg was now held up in the air. I stiffened when I felt a second cock push against my anus. I gasped at the size, and my master’s voice was in my ear.

    “His cock is huge, and you’re going to take all of it. It’s going to feel amazing.”

    He was right. My misgivings about the man’s size vanished as soon as sir said the words. He told me I would love it, and my body obeyed even as my thoughts struggled to keep pace. I was safe with sir. He would protect me even as he pushed my boundaries. Silently I embraced the new intrusion with each movement of pleasure. The man’s size stretched me open in a way I had never experienced before, and I was awash in a mixture of shame and excitement and unadulterated lust. As I was impaled by sir and the stranger, a feeling of ecstasy washed through me. I held my position as well as I could, relishing the double penetration with my quivering body. I cried out when the orgasm took me, my fingernails digging into my palms.

    Suddenly there was a hand in my hair, and my head was pulled back. I felt the blunt head of a third cock push past my lips, and instinctively I opened my mouth to accommodate it. I was overwhelmed by the sensations overloading my body. The cock reached into the back of my throat, and my thoughts clicked off. I was nothing but a body caught and stretched like a butterfly pinned to a mat. I came again and again, my moans swallowed as the cock moved in and out of my mouth. The man above me grunted as he came, and then the man in my ass ejaculated. I swallowed, thinking that we would stop, but two more men took their places. As my master whispered encouragements and maintained his steady rhythm, I relished the feeling of submitting to him and being used as his pleasure toy. The sensations were intense, hedonistic indulgence overriding all logical thought.

    I was still licking cum from my lips when I felt the two men leave my side, and then sir was untying the ropes. I frowned when sir told me to keep my eyes closed as he removed the blindfold. Sir hadn’t finished, and he was the one that I wanted to please the most. But I felt like I had no bones. I was a puddle of sweat and sex, and my body ached from being penetrated. Even the back of my throat felt raw. Sir scooped up my sore body and moved to the edge of the couch and grabbed my hair.

    “On your knees at the edge of the couch.”

    I knew better than to protest, and part of me wanted to finish him. Master had gone to the trouble of making this fantasy come true for me. The least I could do was repay him with an orgasm. I felt my way to the floor and knelt between his legs. No further instructions were needed as I found the sensitive flesh between his thighs. He used my mouth roughly, always one hand twisted through my hair, angling my head in the way he preferred. Saliva dripped from my chin to the floor, my excitement growing at the sounds of sir’s pleasure. I hoped he would finish on my face, and the act was all the more precious because it was a rare event. With a final guttural yell, sir pulled out of my mouth and came on my face. I smiled as the sticky, wet cream covered my nose and cheeks and dripped down on my chest. I waited, still grinning, for the command that I could open my eyes and get up.

    “As I count backwards from 5, you will gradually awaken from your trance. You will remember everything we’ve done here, every word and every sensation. 5… 4… 3… opening your eyes and beginning to stir… 2… 1… fully awake.”

    I opened my eyes to find myself kneeling beside my bed in a pool of saliva and cum. There was no room full of masters and slaves, no rope or strangers penetrating my body. It was just me and sir and my vivid subconscious. I looked up at him, amazed and slightly chagrined.

    “I figured that a hypnosis gangbang would be as much fun as the real thing without the added hassle of finding and organizing the participants or the risk of contracting an STI,” he said.

    I’m sure I responded, but what came out was probably a stuttering garbled mess. I was in shock. Good shock, but shock nonetheless.

    As we cleaned up and eventually climbed back into bed to snuggle, I went over and over the events of the evening. It felt like the gangbang had physically happened and I had experienced a triple penetration. I think I said “I can’t believe it” a million times before sir shushed me to sleep. That night is now tinged with a dreamlike quality, but every part of me believes it happened. In fact, my ass was sore the next day like it had been stretched to accommodate a very well-endowed man. It was the most amazing mindfuck I had ever experienced.

    I wonder where we’re going next.


  3. Hypnosis and Sex

    December 4, 2013 by Heather Cole

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

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

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

    “Did it work?” I asked.

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

    “What did you do?” I shrieked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    “Are you complaining?” I replied.

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


  4. The Balcony

    October 17, 2013 by Heather Cole

    We were waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

  5. Fall Slave Hunt

    October 2, 2013 by Heather Cole

    And that's my "good" side.

    And that’s my “good” side.

    After an event like the Slave Hunt, it’s difficult to know where to begin describing my experience. At the spring Hunt, I focused on being hunted and then punished for trying to “run away.” The physical sensations of being chased and then beaten were overwhelming at times. It felt like riding a roller coaster, and at the end of the day, I literally collapsed into bed. I was emotionally and physically wrung out.

    The fall Slave Hunt was a deeper experience. The series of events was similar; I ran through the woods, hid and was captured by a Dom with a paintball gun. Once back at basecamp, I stripped and was dragged by the hair to the whipping post by a petite badass named Angel. I was then cuffed to the post by sir and beaten by some wonderful people. These things had happened before, but the feeling of it was incredibly rich. Like I was seeing everything through technicolor orgasm.

    What was the difference? Connection.

    There was a group of people waiting for me at the whipping post, their hands wrapped around all sorts of implements of torture. There were canes, paddles and a heavy duty sweat scraper, even kitchen utensils. Just because a spatula says “Be Mine” on it in fancy script doesn’t mean it won’t hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. And sometimes the thinnest canes are the worst. Four words:  Wandarella’s Baton of Agony.

    As they stepped closer, I had a glimpse of what it must have felt like to be an ogre surrounded by townspeople with pitchforks. The difference was that I knew these people. They were my friends, people I had met in the community and some I even considered family. In that moment, I felt buoyed by our connections. They wanted to hit me, and I wanted them to. And in the midst of pain, I found joy. The sting of impact transformed to love, and the energy bubbling around us felt like golden soaring happiness.

    Don’t get me wrong. The shit hurt like the devil, and I pride myself on being quiet and taking my beating like a good girl. I can assure you, this time I was the opposite of quiet when Timber sunk her teeth into me. And I screamed when she marked me, up one side of my back and down the other. Over and over again. The pain was searing, almost a tearing sensation because her teeth gripped my flesh in a way toys won’t. There were moments when I couldn’t see the end of it, and no matter how I twisted my body on the post, there was someone waiting to make contact with my flesh.

    I was on the cusp of dreamy subspace when Angel made her way over to us. In fact, sir was just about to bring me to orgasm when she pinched me using the strong tips of her fingernails. One minute I was about to plunge into ecstasy, and the next I was back at the surface shrieking with pain. Neither of them stopped, of course. Like fire ant bites, her pinches ran up and down my stomach, across my nipples, and over my pussy. Sir was caning me, I think, and then suddenly each one of them had a nipple in their mouth. I was so scared. Holy fucking shit, was I scared. I caught my breath, panic spilling through me as Angel pulled. Before I could react, sir’s fingers were rubbing my clit.

    “I can smell you,” he said.

    “I can smell you too,” Angel said. “You smell aroused.”

    I was too embarrassed to reply, because it was absolutely true. Sir’s other hand came from behind to tease my pussy, and then Angel’s voice was in my ear.

    “Is his hand in your pussy?”

    “Yes,” I said, feeling an orgasm begin to build.

    “Are you going to come?” she demanded.

    “Yes. Yes! YES! I’m coming!” I shouted.

    At least, it sounded like a shout to me. The roar of the orgasm and the pain of Angel’s pinches and teeth combined in a glorious cacophony in my head as the physical pleasure rippled through my body. My world had dwindled to the two sadists on either side of me, and the sensations rocketing through my body. I felt boneless and weightless and divine. I didn’t feel like I was done, but sir said I was. After a few licks from a friend’s new boot paddle, of course.

    Sir wrapped me in a blanket and made me sit down after it was over. He brought me snacks to eat and water to drink as I stared at nothing, totally blissed out on endorphins. I couldn’t help but think about how far we had traveled together since our last Hunt, and that was probably the biggest difference for me. Our connection has had five months to strengthen and mature. It has been tested, and we’ve both grown in our experience and dedication to our dynamic. We have made friends in the community together, and we’re learning what D/s means for us. Together we are part of this amazing web of people and connections and energy that makes up our community. And at the Slave Hunt, I had the opportunity to feel ALL of it.

    I didn’t get a chance to look in the mirror until we were home. When I did, I saw that my thighs were purple with scratches and bruises as was my ass. Each of Timber’s bite marks was ringed with deep red which I knew from previous experience would turn blue by morning. I had “BEAUTIFUL” written across my abdomen in blue marker that I can still see today. And maybe that’s the greatest takeaway of this experience. I see these marks and remember the people that gave them to me out of love and camaraderie, and I feel beautiful. I feel accepted. I had a moment surrounded by community where I could be exactly the thing that I am. The part of me that I used to be afraid to show, was set free to be seen by everyone. And that shadow animal was deemed beautiful too. Everything was just… beautiful.


  6. We Play Well with Others

    September 4, 2013 by Heather Cole

    Last Saturday was another first for LH and me. Although we had both attended play parties held by local kinksters, we had never gone to one as Master and Slave. Armed with buffalo chicken dip, raw veggies and a 30 lb toy bag, we headed over to the beautiful home of a kinky couple. The RSVP list featured 100 people at least, and I was a bundle of butterflies with thoughts of meeting new folks and having a public scene with sir.

    Once I plunked down the food, I was relieved to see familiar faces in the crowd. LH and I said hello to the people we knew, and I introduced myself to the hostess. In some ways, the play party looked like any other kind of party except there were naked people and others in fetish wear or lingerie. There was the usual party chitchat and sometimes a spontaneous spanking. As we walked through the house, we were able to peek at other scenes. I saw a Domme with her submissive in a sex swing, and I was a voyeur at a double-penetration scene. One of my favorite things to watch was needle practice for a future demonstration. The submissive stood with her back against a St Andrews cross as needles were inserted in a neat row down the side of her torso. I got goosebumps watching them. I found needles equally captivating and terrifying which is why I preferred to be the observer. Another turn around the room and LH was inspired to play. And to my surprise he brought reinforcements.

    LH chose an upstairs bedroom decorated in shades of pink, but any thoughts of cupcakes were banished by the large metal tripod erected in the middle of the room. A steel bar hung at the top, and he instructed that I strip as he pulled out my leather cuffs. I watched him and my co-Top of the evening, Kuma, begin pulling out their toys. I didn’t have the opportunity to see much, because LH slid the blindfold over my eyes. My hands moved automatically to grip the cold steel bar, and my awareness became focused only on the things I could hear and feel. Kuma asked what my limits were, and I couldn’t hear LH’s response. My nerves got the better of me and I blurted out, “no punching please.”

    “And let’s keep her face pretty.”

    It was a joke that LH liked to make, and we all laughed, but I couldn’t stop a flare of anxiety. My master would keep me safe, but he was also the one who enjoyed hurting me the most. The tension between my trust and my nervousness strung through my body, my muscles quivering from the strain. There was a soft shushing noise, and I felt the keen edge of a knife arc across my back. A second knife traced the line of my breasts, twisting its way to my nipples as I stood completely still. I was afraid to breathe as the blades danced against my skin. I was caught between laughter and fear, and then a knife found its way to my mons. I stopped breathing altogether as I felt metal scrape near my clit. “Maybe I’ll give you that trim you’ve been asking for,” he murmured.

    The knives disappeared, and the first blow was a hand to my ass. I jerked with surprise, making the metal jingle on my cuffs.The bare-handed spanking rapidly crescendoed until my ass was burning hot, and finally I couldn’t hold still any more. I shifted to the side to make the next hit glance to the side and sighed with relief when it stopped. There was no respite, because the fronts of my thighs were then hit with something small, round and hard. At the same time, LH’s rattan cane reacquainted itself with my ass. I could recognize the feel of that damn thing anywhere. Both men hit me repeatedly, and I was caught like a butterfly in a net. Finally LH leaned close to my ear and gave me permission. “You can dance,” he said.

    No sooner had he said the words, but I picked up my feet. I squealed and turned, trying to find relief from the beating. Suddenly warm hands grasped my nipples, and I went completely still. Chest heaving, I shook my head although I didn’t speak a word. Nipple torture was a favorite for LH, and mine were highly sensitive. I was going to have a strong reaction, and I dreaded it as much as I anticipated it. When I played in public, I tried to reign in my deeper emotions. In other words, I tried to keep my shit together for the most part, keeping the play light and fun. Nipple torture, however, managed to break through any safety walls I might have had in place. My reactions were visceral and immediate, and although I offered my breasts willingly, I also braced myself for the emotions that would bubble to the surface. I felt the familiar pressure of clover clamps, and tears leaked from under the blindfold. The worst pain wasn’t the clamping itself, it was the pain after my nipples were released. Kuma asked if I was done, but LH said I only needed a moment to regroup.

    He was right. The heavy weight of LH’s arm snaked around me as his hand found my clit. With a few expert turns of his fingers I orgasmed, my nose buried into the crook of his neck. “You’re my good girl,” he said. My heart soared at the praise, and as the golden undulations of my orgasm faded, I knew that I wanted to continue, to please sir as much as myself.

    The next round of blows came from a heavy-duty rubber crepe turner and a leather paddle. The individual strikes blurred together as the pain built. The intensity was overwhelming, and then I heard LH exclaim with surprise. My weight dragged against the restraints as I tried to catch my breath, and the most excruciating pain lanced through my nipple. The pain felt piercing like a needle, but I knew that LH wouldn’t attempt such a thing during an impact scene. A sob was ripped from my throat before my mind could process what was happening.

    “It’s ok,” LH murmured, catching my body against his. “We’ve had an intense week.”

    He was right. My dog had been put to sleep, and my ex-husband had revealed his marriage plans. I had every right to sob my fucking guts out. And I did. Kuma eventually took LH’s place, his deep voice a comfort in my ear. He then left to get me some water and LH decided it was a good time to end. He unhooked my cuffs and wiped the tears from my cheeks as I began to gather myself.

    The release of intense emotion I experienced was an echo of my week. Our scene gave me the opportunity to focus solely on physical sensation, the pain disintegrating the leash I kept on my feelings. In my day-to-day life, I had to stay level-headed and positive for my child and work. But for this one sliver of time, I gave up control of my body and did the same for my emotions. I didn’t know how it would all play out, but I trusted the Dominants in the scene to usher me through it safely. I felt no embarrassment for coming apart, and instead, I sat in a haze of giddiness and satiation. A broad smile spread across my face, and I thanked my tormentors. As I looked into their faces, I could tell that the shared energy of our scene had been good for all of us. Damn good.


  7. Ask Heather – Why oh why

    January 21, 2013 by Heather Cole

    Dear Heather

    I do have a question for you though and I hope you don’t mind me asking and feel free not to answer it, but I’m just trying to understand the Sub thing more. So……

    I can understand giving yourself up as Sub to a Dom in a sexual context, but I find it harder to understand how, as an obviously strong and self-assured woman, you keep that going in your day-to-day life.

    I’m referring to the situation when you and your fella are at the table and you miss a message from him and are mortified that you missed it and want to put your head in his lap.

    Please don’t think I’m disapproving of this, but if someone had have done that to me I’d have told them to feck off and stop bossing me about. Sooooooo my question is….. what is the motivation for living the Sub life as a lifestyle choice as opposed to a sexual episode thing?

    Is it that it’s an instinctive feeling that dominates your being? Where does the feeling of satisfaction at being beholden to someone come from?

    Sorry if this sounds rude, I’m not disapproving (as if I’d have a right to), but I find it fascinating that a woman who seems to self-assured and confident within herself would wish to have someone dictate their movements or feelings.

    Hope you don’t mind me asking.



    Dear Anon:

    I don’t mind you asking these questions at all, because I ask myself the same ones a lot. Plus you’re so very polite… how can I resist answering?

    To begin with, I have no definitive answer as to why I’m submissive. I suppose you could compare it to being bisexual. God made me this way. *shrug* It’s trite but true. There are some genetics at play, I’m sure, because my father is extremely submissive. He’d rather die than admit it, but the man can’t make one decision for himself. His wife does. Add to that my rural, traditional upbringing and throw in a dash of God’s great sense of humor = Heather Cole.

    As to my particular brand of submission–there are hundreds of versions of submission like there are styles of kinky or flavors of ice cream. It’s not a feeling of being beholden to my Sir, rather, it’s the drive to please him. When we are in the space of Dominant and slave, my only focus is him. My mission is to please him in whatever way he desires whether that’s by baking him brownies or wearing a butt plug or crawling behind him wearing a collar and leash. I get off on making him the center of my universe for that span of time.

    Have you ever wished that someone would take control of your life for just a little while so that you didn’t have to make all the decisions and shoulder all the responsibility? In my opinion, my submission is an extension of that wish. Together Sir and I make a safe place for me to do exactly that. He gets to dominate and command me while I get the joy of not having to decide a blessed thing. I’m focused solely on pleasing him in whatever way he wishes. I am free. I am his.

    Yes, it’s a complete contradiction to my daily persona! I’m fully aware that I don’t want my Dom to control everything about me. In fact, I need more autonomy than many of the other slaves I know. For example, I’d never permit him to dictate what I wrote or how I raised my child. However, when he and I are together, I find great freedom in allowing all my emotional walls to dissolve so that I can place my entire being into the hands of my loving Dominant. I want him to hurt me, mold me into the thing he desires then to use me until I’m nothing but a spent pile of limbs on the bed.

    I believe that submission, just like sexuality, is fluid. There have been times in my life where I’ve locked that submission away so that I could roll up my sleeves and get to work and other times where I was nothing but a submissive pain slut living in the moment of pleasing my Sir. I’m sure I’ll ride those fluctuations again. But even when I put her away so that I can live some other part of my life, she’s there. Patiently waiting in that dark closet to come out. When she does? Well, the words “sexual apocalypse” have been uttered.

    Thank you so much for writing!



  8. Emotional Baggage, Meet the New Guy

    November 13, 2012 by Heather Cole

    I was curled up beside him when he told me about her, a submissive who wanted a discreet affair. With my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, I tried not to freak out. I stopped talking, my afterglow dissipating as her presence filled the small spaces between our naked bodies.

    My relationship with the Boy Scout was only four weeks old, and I was still in the stage of giddy excitement where I always wore makeup and he had yet to see me wear the same outfit twice. We had our full disclosure conversations and knew who the other was dating and fucking, and he had already met my girlfriend. The last thing I wanted to do was be demanding or difficult or, God forbid, high maintenance. In the darkened bedroom after our first time as Dominant and slave, no way in hell was I about to give words to my thoughts. That’s when my emotional baggage opened up and I felt those old wounds being pushed. Old arguments, old tensions; they filled my head and I started to panic.

    I confess that I can be competitive and jealous, but I’ve learned to use it as a roadmap to indicate what I really want. When I feel the green eyed monster creeping up behind me, I take a hard look at my interactions. Do I need to ask for more time with my partner? Do I need more communication? If something with my partners gives me a twinge, I’m constantly asking myself why. I have learned the hard way that I can’t compromise honesty or transparency. It can be uncomfortable and exhausting plumbing the depths of my feelings, but I knew coming out of my last poly dynamic that I needed to change some things about myself if I wanted to build healthy, fulfilling relationships in the future.

    I pondered what the Boy Scout had shared with me regarding the sub and tried to define what were remnants of old relationship triggers and what was currently raising my hackles. I even called Nikki to bounce some ideas off her. She observed, “the only time you worry about other women is when they’re submissive.” She was right, dammit. So being the giant organizational whore that I am, I sat down and wrote out my fears. I even numbered them. Seeing it in black and white, it was obvious that there were two main concerns swirling through my brain; I require complete honesty and transparency from myself and my partners and the Dom who may someday own me can only own and collar one slave and that will be me.

    It sucks shit to have to communicate to your sparkly new boyfriend that you have demands, that I prescribe to a poly construct but that doesn’t mean that everything he does is just peachy keen with me. Or that we’re just beginning to explore our D/s dynamic but partnering with another submissive is out of the question for me. It sucks even more to have to bare an ugly wound from a previous relationship to the person you’re attempting to impress with your wonderfulness. I had to say something though. If I was quiet and suffered in silence, I would be choosing a well-worn path to heartbreak. Those damn mile markers are tattooed into my heart, so I hit send and waited to hear back that my fears were outrageous. I waited for the Boy Scout to turn tail and run.

    I’m reading through our ensuing text conversation and am amazed even now. We ended up on the exact same page, and he confirmed that it was OK to not be OK. He would rather have me say I couldn’t do something than gloss over it and have it blow up later. I was so relieved that I may have cried a little bit. (But I was home alone so it didn’t count!) I’m writing this post with a lighter heart, and I can even say the following with a steady voice. I require that if you’re going to be in my bed and in my heart I need absolute honesty and transparency between us and with our partners. And if this slave is going to her knees and gifting You with her submission, she must be the only one wearing Your collar. Wow, I rather like the sound of that.

  9. 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 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.