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Posts Tagged ‘D/s’

  1. The Incidental Sadist

    October 31, 2016 by Heather Cole


    He requested tea with my beating. That was new.

    From my vantage point, with my arms bound behind me with rope and my ankle cuffs clipped to the spreader bar, I could see steam wafting from the cup. He sipped the tea and perused the implements spread across the table. It reminded me of someone shopping for the perfect fruit, not a British sadist in contemplation.

    Strike One – Heather

    Things were subtly different from the first time we played. Some of it was a consequence of my actions, deliberate and incidental. I had forgotten repeatedly to update my shared calendar which made scheduling time at the dungeon a challenge for the Sadist. Eve, the Domme supervising our play time and the coordinator of this event, “helpfully” shared my sassy texts regarding the calendar. I hadn’t curbed my tongue. Strike one – Heather.

    Strike Two – Heather

    On the day of our scene, I hit unusual traffic on my way to the dungeon. I arrived half an hour late, and although the Sadist accommodated the change, I was going to pay for it. Strike two.

    None of these occurrences compiled themselves in my mind to give me something to worry about. No, I arrived flustered and rushed to find that Eve had set up on her own. This meant that all sorts of items were out, things that I probably wouldn’t have chosen. Ouchy things. I had given my limits months ago when the Sadist and I first played, and I hadn’t thought about updating that list before arriving. But the Sadist wasn’t the only one changing things up. I was too.

    When the Sadist and I first came together I had a master, and I had everything approved by him before I played with the Sadist. Now I was free of my contract, and I was the sole person responsible for negotiating the scene. But I had mostly forgotten about that until I was dressed in the outfit the Sadist had brought and bound to the large wooden frame at the center of the room. My thoughts resembled a sheaf of paper being thrown into the air on a blustery day. He approached me with safety scissors in hand, and it finally occurred to me that I had no idea what was going to happen. I hadn’t been proactive about what I wanted during our interaction, and now it was going to bite me in the ass. Probably literally.

    Well, damn, Heather

    The Sadist pinched and caressed me through the black dress as I watched him warily. He used the scissors to cut away the fabric over my breasts and pussy. Before I could ask anything, his hand came down swiftly in a chopping motion against my right nipple. The pain was swift and immediate, and I felt tears form at the corners of my eyes. He didn’t pause and whipped his hand down the front of the other nipple. I couldn’t tell if I wanted to cry from the pain or whether the nipple slapping reminded me so much of my ex. It was my ex who had trained me to endure nipple torture. He would hit me like that in the shower or anywhere I might be exposed. He was the only man who had hurt me in that way, and now the Sadist was doing it too. My feelings got tangled with the pain. Then the Sadist gripped my jaw and brought my gaze to his.

    “You’ve been very naughty, Heather.” He tapped my cheek with his thick fingers. “You didn’t update your calendar and then you were late.”

    I started to protest, and he smacked my cheek. Another slap. And another. I began to cry in earnest.

    Again he began slapping my nipples, but I couldn’t bear it. I said “yellow,” and breathed a sigh of relief when he stepped back. Of course that respite was short. He cut more holes in the dress and abused more flesh. He tickled me, because he knew I hated it, then slapped me again when I laughed helplessly. When the cloth hung off me in strips, he shoved aside the remnants of the black thong I wore and rubbed my clit in rough circles. He knew I wouldn’t orgasm like that, but he handled me in such a way because he knew he could. It was degrading, and the humiliation made my cheeks burn in addition to the slaps.

    That was probably the biggest difference of all. The Sadist had arrived this day with the confidence of knowing the submissive he was dealing with. This was our fourth time playing, and he seemed confident that he could challenge me. I felt that self-assurance in every slap, every strike of the cane, in the way he tied me and pushed in ways that he hadn’t before. He punched the meaty part of my chest and paddled the bottoms of my feet. He explored the most sensitive parts of my body with brutal calculation, favoring the tender flesh on my sides and inner thighs. The hardest part, for me, was the predicament bondage that he had dreamed up for the occasion.

    The man tore off the remnants of my clothes and unhooked the spreader bar. He made me stand parallel to the wooden frame with my arms stretched straight in front of me. Around each wrist he looped rope that was then tied to the frame. If I dropped my arms, the loops around each wrist would tighten. He clipped pulleys to the chains at the top of the frame, and fed rope through each. He tied frozen bottles of water to the ends. But it was the other end of the rope that made me anxious. Each rope was tied to a zipper of clothespins. (A zipper is a term to describe clothespins tied in a consecutive line to rope or string. Once the clothespins are pinched on the skin of the submissive, the top can pull one end of the string and pull each clip off in rapid succession. When the clothespins are lining each side of the labia, for example, they come off like the teeth of a zipper.)

    One zipper had ten clothespins that pinched my labia, and the other longer zipper had clothespins circling each breast like a deranged porcupine. The issue was never the clothespins going on in these situations. The painful repercussions always happened when they were ripped off and blood rushed back to the wounded areas.

    My predicament was this: if I dropped the water bottles, the weight would rip off the zippers. If I dropped the water under two minutes, we would start all over again. If I held the freezing water bottles for longer, he would tie on more bottles and things would become heavier. The decision was agony. There was no way I could “win.” Any which way and those zippers would come off. I debated and squirmed as the icy bottles melted in my hands. Two more bottles went on as I danced in place. My arms were tiring quickly. I decided finally to drop the bottles on my left that were tied to the zipper around my pussy. Squeezing my eyes shut in tense anticipation, I dropped the bottles. They fell to the floor with a thud, but the zipper stayed.

    “What happened?” I shrieked, going on to my tiptoes in response to the tightened clothespins.

    The Sadist looked at me calmly. “I suppose we need more weight.” He grabbed the rope and yanked with all his might.

    The clothespins flew off my pussy, and I would have doubled over if I hadn’t been tied to the other one. I made a garbled exclamation, the pain between my legs distracting me from articulation.

    “Going to let go of the other?” he asked with mild amusement.

    It didn’t matter what I decided. No sooner had the bottle dropped from my hand then he was jerking the other rope. This time I shrieked and clutched my abused breasts. I hadn’t felt anything like that in ages, and the sharp pain of the blood circulating made me whimper. The Sadist pushed the frozen bottles against my nipples, and I begged him to stop being helpful.  

    He wasn’t finished with me yet. The Sadist had me lie down on the massage table, and then used almost every implement laid out beside his tea cup. He turned my body from pale pink to bright red. And he saved the cane for last. The thing that I loathed and loved, the only tool that was guaranteed to undo the last pieces of my self-control. Again it was because of my ex.

    The cane had been his favorite, and I through the years of us being master and slave, I had learned to read the strength and angle of its fall against my flesh like reading the sky for clues to the weather. I couldn’t be caned and not think of my ex. The Sadist didn’t know that part of it, so it didn’t slow him. The caning felt like it lasted forever, and the bruises it gave me matched the ones on my heart. I cried, my sobs muffled by the pillow beneath me.

    Finally he decided to finish it, and he pulled me to my feet and had me pick out a dildo. I pushed it into place on the fucking machine and sat down so that I straddled the stiff rubber cock. The Sadist then rocked me back and forth on the machine, controlling how fast the dildo penetrated my pussy. I had orgasm after orgasm, my tears replaced with sweat and cum. Finally he stopped the machine, and I tried to get my synapses firing again.

    I have no idea what I said or what he said at that point. We spoke of something pleasant before he left, I’m sure. I don’t remember much of anything except that I gave him many hugs in gratitude. My brain had stopped working but my heart was full. I hope he knew how thankful I was for the pain and the pleasure. And the bittersweet memories too.

  2. Ask Heather: Is This Dom Copacetic?

    March 11, 2013 by Heather Cole

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


  3. All About the Collar

    February 20, 2013 by Heather Cole

    Seven months ago I was an emotional wreck. I was a slave who had just left the service of her first owner and Master, and I was barely managing to keep myself together. The man who had been the center of my universe for over a year, my closest friend, lover and the man who possessed me body and soul, had broken our Master/slave contract. He didn’t have the courage to tell me that he had made his wife, already his collared and owned submissive, his slave as well. I was hundreds of miles away from the kink convention they attended, but I knew something significant had happened. Days later I finally confronted him, barely coherent through my hysterical sobbing. He told me it was only a matter of “semantics,” and perhaps some people would agree. To me, however, our contract was sacred. Those words had become vows that we made to one another. When he broke his word, he broke us. And to make things worse, he went public and spouted vitriol about me on Twitter. I thought the nightmare was never going to end.

    Three months passed and Liri, my beautiful amazing girlfriend, hauled me out of the house, insisting that I rejoin the kinky human race again. She was gentle but insistent that I get my needs met, and I was too chicken shit to tell her I was terrified to face a flogger again. Floggers had been my security blanket. The heavy, rhythmic thud of its impact had always calmed me down before, lulling me into a peaceful mental space. I was afraid that a flogger would no longer work on me, that somehow when I became uncollared, I lost the ability to love kink. Liri would tell me later that she was a little nervous about my re-entry too, but that didn’t stop her from tying me to the cross, flogging me, and then making me orgasm in front of a room full of people just to prove a point.

    I was a jumble of emotions afterwards, and even though relief and enjoyment were at the forefront, I still cried. There was this point after the scene, when the aftercare was finished and people were packing up gear to head home… that’s when I missed having an owner the most. There was no one to tell me I was a good girl and hold me as I curled up against their chest, no one I could text about my triumph, no one to snap my leash on my collar and lead me out to the car to go home. It wasn’t only that no one I knew wanted a slave, it was that many of my kinky friends didn’t understand what a slave even was. Hell, I was so emotionally wounded that I wasn’t entirely certain myself.

    I joked with Nikki that I was waiting for Prince Flogger to rescue me. He’d be single, monogamous (stop laughing), dominant, sadistic and own a full dungeon. He’d pull up in his vintage Camaro, toss me over his shoulder and whisk me away to live happily ever after chained to his bedpost. In my fantasy I wouldn’t have to figure out my slave needs. Prince Flogger would already know because he was the epitome of all that’s Dom-y and good in this kinky world.

    As I started my search for Prince Flogger, I was confronted with just how unique my needs were. I was introduced to BDSM with pain being the main aspect of my D/s dynamic. I’m a pain slut it’s true, but through some trial and error, I realized that I also needed the element of domination to my play. It was Liri who pointed out that I required intellectual play as well. A good mind fuck and a flogger wasn’t going to cut it any more. They were great, but it was the day-to-day challenge of tasks and games that made my toes curl with pleasure. It was hard for me to admit, but the more I discovered about what being a slave meant to me, the more I realized that slaves were work. I couldn’t turn off my submission or my need to serve. I needed tasks, challenges, something that kept me mentally occupied as much as I craved to be physically used and beaten.

    This was when everything got complicated. I discovered my Boy Scout, who was dominant and kinky, and I was certain that he was my Prince Flogger. In fact, I was insistent that he be my Dom ideal made flesh. There’s no flattering way for me to describe my driving intention to make Boy Scout into what I wanted. I was merciless and pushy in my desire to make him fit this unrealistic fantasy I had, and I did us both a great disservice. I discovered that Prince Flogger wasn’t just a simplistic dream. He was a poisonous illusion planted by a former owner who didn’t want me to move on. Believing that I only wanted Prince F was like saying I only wanted to eat oatmeal cooked by my mama for the rest of my life. I’d never leave Mama’s basement if that was my reality, and I never would have seen Boy Scout for his other incredible qualities that stretched beyond how he chose to apply his belt.

    I have no tidy conclusion for this post. My kinky life is in flux as I try to figure out what this new stage of my life means to me and my partners. There are new players, and it appears that my kinky life is going to be as poly as my romantic life is. Boy Scout is a wonderful man, and we have a solid, loving relationship, but we’ve had some tough conversations about our D/s relationship and the direction we’re taking. Or rather, the direction we’re not taking. Yesterday I had the thought that I may never choose to be collared again which I find to be as scary as it is liberating. And Boy Scout may never want to own me, but he’s willing to share this slave with other kinksters and Dominants which is part of why we work so well together.

    My journey began with the idea that kink could only be a certain way for me, dictated to me by a man who could only see other relationships as somehow threatening or detracting from us. It was a cage of my own choosing, but it was still a cage. When it blew up, I began looking for the real slave within me to discover what it was that I truly desired in a D/s relationship. It has been through the support and love of some amazing partners that I’m still figuring this out. In fact, it was my non-kinky Zen who inspired the insight to this post. I believe that the best adventures are just around the corner, and I have people in my life who encourage me to seek them. That’s more meaningful to me than any Prince Flogger and his dungeon of one.

  4. 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?!


    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.


    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.

  5. 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.


    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.

  6. 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.

  7. Flash Fiction: Change of Plans

    April 10, 2012 by Heather Cole

    “I’m feeling slutty tonight,” he said. He knotted his wingtips with a decisive motion and stood, staring at me in the reflection of the vanity mirror.


    I concentrated on threading a gold hoop through my earlobe and felt his words in my gut as if I had eaten too much ice cream too quickly.

    “Looks like it’s the corner bar then.”

    I didn’t change out of my red dress and heels. My only concession to this evening’s new plans was the string of condoms I added to my purse. I wasn’t the architect of tonight’s fantasy come to life, and like some masochistic Girl Scout, I decided to be prepared for anything.

    Two hours later we were ensconced in the dingy hangout, our best dinner clothes standing out like beacons along the coast of the bar’s midnight patina. I tapped a heel on the rung of my bar stool and shook my head slightly. It was the third potential I had rejected that evening. Women flocked to him. They always had. Something about the deadly combination of his slightly nerdish glasses and devil’s smile were a siren’s call to almost every vagina in the vicinity, but I always had the final say in who was to become his plaything for the night.

    I finally settled on a petite, young-ish woman, painfully thin with long blond hair. Almost the exact physical opposite of me. We drove her to a nearby hotel as he explained that I would enjoy watching him fuck her. I remained silent, observing her take note of the details of our clothes and the make of our car. When her hand settled on my thigh, light as butterfly wings, I knew she had committed herself.

    At the hotel he stripped off her thin top and micro-mini as I settled into a corner chair with a splash of whiskey in a hotel glass. Something inside me eased at the knowledge that she wouldn’t be able to please him fully. She was too much inexperience and not enough flesh to cushion his sharp desires. Even after he turned her over his knee for a brief spanking and had freed his cock for her to suck, I felt reassured.

    I stood silently, letting the thick glass drop to the desk, the sound almost completely obscured by the sounds of her enthusiasm. My dress fell to the floor with a soft swoosh, and I stalked towards them. His gaze turned from unfocused to sharp as he watched my approach, his eyes hungrily sliding from my heels, to the stockings and finally my corset and gold collar.

    I tapped her on the shoulder, almost laughing at her startled expression. “Let me show you how to do this properly.”

    I barely had time to brace myself before he had a fistful of hair and was pushing me to my knees. I wasn’t graceful, and he wasn’t gentle. Forcing his way past my lips and deep into my throat, I almost gagged on his thick cock. He didn’t slow his rhythm, the grip on my hair forcing me to meet every thrust. I stared up at him, watching the nuances of desire flit across his face, knowing that he was mine again.

    When he came, there was nothing but the sound of his guttural cry and the taste of cum. He collapsed back on the couch with a boneless motion.

    “She’s gone,” he said.

    It was only the two of us again.