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Posts Tagged ‘D/s relationship’

  1. The Fallout of a Breakup

    April 27, 2017 by Heather Cole

    This post has spent a long time in utero. The seed of it took root during the weeks after I ended things with LH. I dissolved our contract around the holidays, and in the first weeks of that freedom after our breakup, I felt reborn. A weight had been lifted, and I could be myself without rules or restrictions. I knew in my heart that I had done the right thing even though re-reading our entries on this blog brought me to tears. The LH/Heather duo that we had been was nothing like where we ended up. I remembered those events, but they felt far removed from the people we were now—almost as if they happened to someone else entirely. The breakup, though, was new territory in the breadth and depth of its pain. I had never experienced a D/s breakup so gut-wrenching.

    LH and I didn’t stop talking right away, and as the strands of our relationship began to further unravel, I saw exactly how entwined we had been. Our communication became strained as we debated until each call and text felt like an exercise in breakup masochism—deliberate cuts to my heart with each word we spoke. But I was reluctant to cut him off. All my old protocols were there waiting to leap into action. It was ironic that a long-distance D/s dynamic had such a hold on me. The tendrils of our power dynamic had sunk deep into my psyche until it was a part of my emotional make-up. There were few parts of my life where I didn’t take him into consideration in some way.

    I spent a lot of time on this blog talking about my independence as a facet of my submission. I had a list of things that showed how independent I was, but when I emerged from the role of lifestyle submissive, I couldn’t help but feel how dependent I was on LH and our roles. For a long time after the breakup I was in denial about it. After the rush of freedom wore off, I turned once again to the man I had called “Daddy.” It was more than a habit that had worn its grooves into me over the years of our togetherness. The Little part of me, that girl that desperately wanted to believe that her daddy would take care of her, wanted to run back into his arms for reassurance.

    It killed me to know that I was afraid to be without him. I woke up in a panic every morning that our shared photos and files would be gone, that I would be blocked from his social media accounts, and I couldn’t bear to look at Fet to see if he had deleted me from his profile.  And those were only surface things. The real hold was that I had bought into the idea of being “his” so wholeheartedly, that I couldn’t imagine myself as anything but his submissive.

    What a galling position to find myself in. I played a role so well, and consented to play it, that it became my identity. And I wanted it. It felt good to me. I was naturally submissive, and with all my heart I wanted to be his. For years I had decided that no matter what happened I was determined to make things work. The man moved halfway around the world, and I insisted that we could continue a healthy dynamic. I convinced myself that a visit every three or four months was enough, and when those visits plummeted in quality and intimacy, I made myself be OK with it. It took me over a year to admit that I was miserable and then longer to muster the courage to change it.

    I spent a lot of time since our breakup questioning my reactions and memories. Didn’t we agree that his needs came first as the Dominant? Wasn’t it my place to serve? When I signed our contract, didn’t I agree to give him control? And I know what you’re thinking. That contract wasn’t anything legally binding. I could have protested and stood up for myself at any time. You would be right, but I wanted so much to be cherished, loved, and taken care of. I thought that if I gave enough of myself to him, that he would reciprocate in equal measure. When he didn’t, I told myself that I could make it enough.

    That’s when I had the big wake up call. With 2016 coming to an end, I took a trip down memory lane and leafed back through my journal. I wrote about the same heartache, the same emotional challenges, the same bullshit over and over again. Then I looked back even further at my serious relationships over the years and saw this string of selfish, manipulative partners. And then I said to myself, holy fuck Heather, DO NOT MAKE THIS YOUR LIFE STORY. I didn’t want to be on my deathbed and think, “Damn, I wasted a lot of time trying to convince emotionally unavailable people to love me.”

    The scales fell from my eyes. It eventually clicked in my brain that when someone said to me, “this is the best I can do,” without changing a blessed thing about their behavior, it meant that it was time for me to get out. It was just another way to let the entire emotional responsibility of a relationship slide off one person and on to another while pretending that it wasn’t a cop out. And when that same person chose to stay out all night drinking with random strangers rather than come home to me waiting in bed, it was a bigger more definite sign. All those signs and it felt like it took forever for me to do something about it.

    Now I’m doing all the things you’re supposed to do after a major split. I got back into therapy. I’m taking better care of my physical self, sleeping more, reading, and allowing myself the space to be alone. The thing is… it takes so much fucking time to recover. That whole annoying analogy of peeling away layers like an onion is irritatingly apt. Odd things will trigger a barrage of emotions, even after thinking that I had processed it and was feeling solid with whatever piece of our past I had dissected. Those patterns of thought where LH was the center of everything… I have to change them. I catch myself ruminating along the well-worn paths, and I have to consciously stop myself. Yet they creep up like insidious friends with false reassurances. Habit does not equal love.

    I do go on the occasional date, and I’ve had some tentative negotiations about playing with various people. None of it feels right to me yet. I probably see Guy the most and that’s sporadic at best. He has his own shit to work out, and we established early on that there are no expectations between us except honesty and authenticity.

    There was also a guy who wanted to explore my confessional fetish, but he failed to get the approval of his wife even though he said he had it. Even after several attempts to make a potential scene work between them, I had to say no. He did me a favor though. I now have a personal rule of no more married poly men or married men in an “open” relationship (unless I’m unicorn-ing, and they’re dear friends first). Then there was a primal guy who wanted a (human girl) pet while on his quest for the love of his life. Plus the super-intense vanilla guy who wanted three dates in a week, so he could judge my “level of engagement.” Not bad men necessarily, but they didn’t fit. I want more than what they offered, and as awesome as I am in and out of the bedroom, I deserve to get what I want.

    I know I’m not the only one in the history of D/s to hurt after a D/s dynamic has ended. I know that dominants hurt too and can find themselves just as fucked up. I guess what I’m trying to say in all of this is that what you’re feeling is real, and it’s a challenge to sort through the wreckage of your heart and head to find a place to begin healing. It’s possible, though, and that last person you fell in love with doesn’t have to be the pattern of the person you love in the future. Be patient with yourself and forgiving. Allow yourself lots of time to feel stuff and listen to what your gut is saying. How you did D/s the last time, doesn’t have to be the way you do D/s down the road. You’re going to be OK, and so am I.


  2. We are still US

    January 11, 2015 by Heather Cole

    The weeks leading up to my trip overseas, where my sir now resided, were a whirlwind of activity. I was in a constant state of motion, cleaning up, cleaning out, and packing. But all the physical activity was a distraction to what I was feeling. I was out-of-my-body excited to see sir. We had been apart for four months, and although we connected via Skype every single day without fail, nothing could compensate for the lack of touch. His kisses, his hands on my body, the reassuring bulk of him next to me at night… I missed those things so much that I couldn’t even admit to myself how I ached to be with him.

    I was also feeling nervous. Not about the trip itself, but how we would reconnect in the flesh. And in my darker moments, I felt jealous. Jealous of a geographical location. Sir’s new city had him, and he was building a life that I could only learn about through my incessant questions during Skype. That city with its exotic customs and foreign life had consumed him almost completely. From my perspective, I was my boring old self in our boring old life that we used to share. My anecdotes from sex blogging and writing work seemed lame in comparison.

    When I stood beyond the gate in front of customs, I could only gaze at sir and smile. I told him he looked amazing, and I meant every syllable. I had to wait until we were alone in his apartment to feel his arms around me and the feeling of being held by him made me cry. Even though we both made a lot of effort to connect despite the geographical distance between us, nothing felt as exquisite as his physical embrace. It felt like I had journeyed all this way into the heart of a foreign land to finally be home. Home with him.

    The tears didn’t last long, though, and after he dried them, he gave me a quick tour which ended in the bedroom. He proceeded to claim me then, in every way possible. He filled my mouth, my pussy, and my asshole. His body dominated mine just as his will did. He smelled different, but his cock tasted and felt the same. I shed more joyful tears, mingled with the sounds of our bodies joining.

    That first day was divided into sleeping, eating, and fucking. During one of our awake times, he dug into his closet and pulled out the toys he had accrued for us. He had made a flogger from a discounted pair of nunchucks and paracord. There was a pingpong paddle, a foot long plastic shoehorn from Ikea that stung like a sonofabitch, a wooden spoon, a belt, and his favorite rattan cane. How he got that through customs, which was notorious for confiscating any items sexually related, was a mystery to me. Maybe they thought it was a camel stick? He’s going to take me to the Souk (the traditional market) and make me pick out my very own camel stick that won’t be used on any camels, only this girl’s backside.

    I fell into the familiar rituals of a spanking with wholehearted enthusiasm even as a part of me hesitated at the edge of giving myself completely. I felt like we had to be reacquainted in some ways, and I waited to see if I would find our D/s connection as strong as it once was. Now we were in his new life, a life that hadn’t made room for my physical presence yet. Everything about this world was foreign, and I worried that he would be too, or that perhaps, we wouldn’t share a love of the things we used to. Eventually I told my monkey mind to shut up, so I could be present. I trusted sir with my body and heart, and I had to trust that my unease would vanish the more time we spent with one another.

    Sir had me suck his cock while he hit me with his belt. The pleasure I took from sucking and running my tongue along his shaft was punctuated by the licks of pain from the leather. I gasped around him, trying to focus only on what I could control:  my mouth, tongue, and lips. Eventually he pulled me up beside him where I cuddled into his side. He stroked my cheek and looked intently at me.

    “Did you like it when I hit you?” he asked.

    “Yes, Daddy,” I replied with a small smile.

    “What kind of girl likes being hurt like that?”

    It was a question that he had asked me in various ways ever since the beginning of our relationship. And staring into his beautiful hazel eyes, the answer practically exploded out of me.

    “This girl loves when you hurt her, Daddy. It’s because of you that I love it so much. The pain goes hand in hand with trust, and it moves us beyond our defenses. Together.”

    Lust swept through me as my words unlocked the last gate around my heart. I wanted him all over again, and I wanted him to consume me. This was our connection in action. This is what kept me at his feet for the long months that we could only talk through our computers. The fire that blazed beneath my skin was lust for this man, love, and a trust so deep that I couldn’t feel whole without it.

    I kissed him hard and pressed my body along the length of his. He pushed me gently back and thrust his fingers between my legs. The orgasm hit me immediately, and I cried out as my fingernails dug into his arm. A second orgasm followed on the heels of the first, and I squirted on to the sheets. Daddy laughed with delight and fingerbanged me to a third orgasm.

    I couldn’t believe that I had squirted. It had been so long since I had done so, and when he asked me about it later, all I could think of was how strongly I felt about us. That was what inspired and reassured me. Despite all the time apart, our bond was still powerful, and we were still us.

     


  3. 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.