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Posts Tagged ‘Heather Cole Sex Blogger’

  1. The Question of Submission

    May 11, 2016 by Heather Cole

     

    Credit: Depositphotos

    Credit: Deposit Photos

     

    I’ve been doing a lot of inner excavating lately, and one doesn’t go digging into the darkest part of their heart to find rainbows and fluffy kitties. I’m a seeker. I want to see what lies beneath even if it scares the ever living shit out of me. And let me tell you, I’ve found the opposite of kitties in the darkness of my soul. Even though the digging has been painful and dark, the earth I’ve turned over has been rich. Which is the whole point of working on oneself, right? You go through the pain to grow. At least, that’s what my therapist had told me.

    My personal seismic shift began last spring. The catalyst took the form of a visit from sir’s wife to stay with him for a month. I’m not going to go into detailing the series of events, because ultimately the specifics are irrelevant. The resulting actions, the reverberations of their time together and how it indirectly and directly involved me, shook the foundation of my relationship to sir and to myself. It was the latter part that pushed me into a tailspin. By the end of January 2016 (my last trip to see sir), I questioned everything, especially my relationship to BDSM, submission, and my role as a lifestyle submissive in a D/s dynamic. It felt like nothing fit anymore, and no matter how I had tried, I couldn’t make myself feel OK again. Something had to change. I had to change.

    As a result of the catalyst, I began examining my motivations for being in a D/s relationship with a man halfway around the world. We didn’t start that far apart, but that’s where we ended up. I discovered the hard way that the dependency we fostered as a submissive babygirl with a Daddy Dominant when we lived together couldn’t continue in the same way via a long distance relationship. All our protocols and expectations that we created and nurtured when he lived in the States could not withstand the time and distance that now existed between us. I think logically I knew that would happen, but I didn’t feel like it should. Up until last spring, I desperately clung to what our dynamic used to be, and the intimacy we had fostered, as we tried to cobble a semblance of it through text, email, and Skype. And then it blew apart.

    I was devastated. I felt like everything I had believed about submission, about being a submissive to this man in particular, was mostly one-sided. It wasn’t that sir didn’t love or want me, but he was busy creating a new life in a foreign land. And there I was at home, devoting much of my time and energy trying to keep a dynamic in place that was unsustainable given our new circumstances. It felt like I was clinging to a ghost, while everyone else moved forward into a new life.  I’ve called it a game before, but that submissive role was central to my way of life and how I viewed myself as a person. I never clearly saw my dependency on him or how central my sexual submission was to my identity before their visit. Or maybe I didn’t want to admit that I was in deep.

    I grieved for our loss and for the people we were. It was the summer of tears, but eventually I had to gather myself again and figure out how I was going to proceed. Once I began digging into the reasons behind my upset and bewilderment, I saw more clearly my motivations behind my affinity for D/s and BDSM. I took a long, hard look at why I loved the kinky things I did. Some of it was because I was wired this way and kinky shit got me off, and some of it was because I had daddy issues. The most difficult thing to admit was that I was cruel to myself, so that when a Dominant humiliated and degraded myself during play, I felt like I deserved it. Like deep down inside deserved it and should be punished for it.

    Up until that point, I hadn’t realized how I had spent most of my life feeling bad about who I was and how I looked. The changes in our relationship were on one level, but below that lay some core beliefs about myself that needed to shift as well. Getting in touch with those feelings… well, I had some really dark days. I was raised a feminist, and I firmly believed in equality regardless of gender, race, and sexual orientation. I would never shame another human being for their kinks or body type yet I didn’t hesitate to judge my own. Living that kind of dichotomy of beliefs yet remaining unconscious of it—I had to ask myself, why had it taken me so long to see it? Why did I think it was acceptable to treat myself poorly with such little regard? Who was I if I wasn’t a submissive pain slut who deserved degradation and humiliation?

    These musings brought me to the doorstep of what I enjoyed most in my kinky life. In the moments of a BDSM scene when I was the subject of humiliation or degradation, play that I loved, there was a part of me that believed it to be a reflection of my true self. I was a slut, dirty and shamed. And I reveled in those moments—desired it more than anything. Often times a scene was literally my inner critic coming to life, an external force that matched my internal one. In that glorious storm of physical and mental, I was made completely whole, because my internal beliefs had manifested outside of me. The inner critic had been embodied in my dominant, and my body was punished on the exterior in the same way that I punished myself on the inside. (Although sir had always been kinder to me than I was to myself.)  It usually culminated in a crescendo of endorphins that left me in grateful tears, while sir picked me up and helped me come back to myself.

    In those moments, I wanted to be a dependent babygirl who was rescued by her wonderful daddy. I also wanted to be the 24/7 sex slave who only existed to satisfy her dominant. The aspects of me, the most difficult for me to accept—the girl who needed saving and the shameless whore who wanted nothing but sex, were valued in this BDSM-D/s context. I suppose, to the average human being, this was obviously fantasy. But to me, in my heart of hearts, I so wanted them to be real. The feeling of alignment that I gained from a scene was such a relief, that I thought to have more of it was the key to happiness. I convinced myself that if I tried hard enough, my insecurities could find a home between me and sir. I had blurred fantasy with reality to the point that it had become detrimental to my well-being. When you’re waiting for daddy to rescue you, you’re not really addressing your own patterns of behavior or responsibilities. My submission was holding me back from one of my most important roles: being a caretaker of my own life.

    The catalyst in the spring brought me three truths: 1. Sir couldn’t save me. He had to take care of himself, his career, and his home first. 2. In order to save myself, I had to start truly loving myself—the whole way to my core. I had to banish my inner bully and love those pieces of me that were twisted and perverse. I needed to learn how to love myself in the moment, just as I was. 3. I had to stop serving everyone else’s needs before my own and make myself a priority.

    That’s where I am—standing amidst the rubble of the after effects of an earthquake and trying to figure out what to do next. I’m still in a D/s contract with sir, and we’ll be spending most of July together. Honestly, though, I’m not feeling all that submissive. It’s freeing and scary as hell all at the same time. I’m changing as I rearrange my priorities, and I think both sir and I are wondering where we’ll be after the dust has settled. I’m still sifting through the strands of what is fantasy and what is actually plausible in reality and adjusting my expectations of our D/s. I love him dearly, but I’m not the same girl I was. I’m also saying “no” a lot more. Do you have any idea how liberating that is? I say no in order to conserve my time and resources for things that are really important to me.  Most of all, I’m learning to be kind to myself and loving as I’m pushed out of my comfortable labels of “lifestyle submissive” to be something different. Every day I attempt to write a love letter to myself by making healthier choices and allowing space for my needs to be met. I no longer think of myself last thing on the ‘to do’ list.

    I had a dream last night that I was sitting in a college classroom. I had on a small, Hello Kitty backpack, and I leaned forward in my seat to talk to my friend seated in front of me. The professor, a tall man, walked up and down the aisles talking about a secret code that we needed to enter in order to take the test. He asked if anyone needed a pencil, and I raised my hand, feeling sheepish because I hadn’t been listening and was unprepared for class. Then I opened my folder and found three pencils inside. I had remembered them after all. They were short but sharpened. The professor gave me a pencil and made a joke with my friend. Something about if I ever got my act together, I’d be a force to be reckoned with.

    I’m taking that as a good sign. I may not know the secret code yet, but dammit, I have pencils. It’s a start.


  2. She’s just a girl on fire

    August 15, 2015 by Heather Cole

    woman with candle

    Fire brings up all sorts of emotions when you play with it. Even before the flames kiss your skin, there’s the rush of anticipation blowing through you, accompanied by a flicker of fear. It’s elemental. Primal. And when my friend texted me about joining her and her partner for some fire play, I was all for it.

    My introduction to fire play began with a text:

    “Can I light you on fire?”

    It was sent from my friend, Stormy, who is the queen of no-context texts. I replied, of course, with a similar cheeky attitude.

    “Literally on fire? No. I like these shorts too much.”

    S: “Oh, I’d need you naked first.”

    Me: “Then yes! You can absolutely set me on fire!”

    Before you think that I let any ‘ol person light me on fire, I already knew that Stormy’s partner, D, was experienced with fire play. She wanted to learn too, and she needed a demo bottom to experiment with. Add to that the fact that I adore them both and trust them implicitly, so I knew that I was in good hands for my first foray into fire.

    D created torches from fondue forks, cotton batting, and cotton finger bandages. He then dipped them in rubbing alcohol and set them on fire. I know there are a lot of details in the process that I’m missing, but my focus wasn’t on how it all worked. I was more interested in how it would feel. (Hey, if you want to play with fire, for heaven’s sake, do your research and go to a demonstration first.)

    Even with my full consent, I felt a spike of anxiety as I lay on the massage table in their bedroom and waited to feel the first burst of warmth across my body. We started out with me on my stomach on the massage table. D explained to Stormy the different techniques he enjoyed as the torches hovered over my body in various places. The gentle warmth was soothing as I closed my eyes, and some of the tension in my body drained away. Sometimes he drew a path of alcohol first, followed by a lighted torch that would burn the trail of rubbing alcohol. He often brushed behind the flames with his palm to ensure that all the fire was out. The point was to burn the alcohol and feel the fire without doing any damage to the skin. I appreciated that.

    The experimentation began, and Stormy lit lines of fire over my back. D watched from the bed with a blanket beside him in case we needed to smother an out-of-control flame. Even though we were consenting adults, we were playing with fire–literally. And it was better to have safety precautions in place beforehand instead of hoping for the best that there would be no accidents.

    Stormy’s light touch and the racing fire gave me all sorts of ideas. Her excitement about learning a new skill lent itself to my building arousal, and I couldn’t help but squirm beneath her ministrations. The way she manipulated the flames made me wish that she’d do even more with her hands. I felt a keen edge of danger that accompanied the heat, even though I knew logically that I was mostly safe. And all of it fed into a wanton throbbing between my legs.

    I didn’t act upon my desires, mainly because I hadn’t cleared any of that beforehand with my sir, and secondly, I can be a complete wimp when it comes to making the first move on a woman. At the end of the night I gave D and stormy friendly hugs and gratitude, and went straight home to work out my raging libido with my vibrator. I reported everything to sir, and enjoyed myself so much that when sir arrived stateside for his month-long vacation, he asked to learn fire play too.

    My second fire play scene began with me, once again, face-down on the massage table. Even though I couldn’t see the three people circling me, I could identify the individuals from their different fire styles. Stormy had an even rhythm:  fire, sweep of the hand, fire, sweep of the hand. She could have lulled me into a meditative, relaxed state, even when she traced the flame along the soles of my feet. D placed the alcohol and torch with more force. His movements incited a visceral reaction, something I felt in my gut. There was the staccato rush of intense heat, and then it was gone a split-second later that made me writhe. Sir’s effect on me was different.

    His flame was sneaky, and he enjoyed watching it burn along the dips and curves of my flesh. He didn’t have a particular rhythm or pattern, and he didn’t always sweep behind the trailing alcohol with his hand. As a result, the heat grew more intense depending on where he placed its path, and there were several times I squealed in protest, worried that it was burning too long.

    Daddy knows how to play with my mind like no other, and when he told me to turn over so that my front was exposed, I knew he was going to twist my feelings into the fire that played over my tenderest bits. Blue flame danced over my breasts and nipples, and he made me watch, chuckling when I begged to be allowed to close my eyes again. Seeing the fire made the sensations on my skin ratchet up in intensity, which fought against my will to remain as motionless as possible. Stormy came to sit between my legs, her hands stroking my calves and thighs.

    Again the desire built inside me. The stimulus was intense, and my instincts warred against one another. I wanted to kiss Stormy and arch against sir’s hand on my breast. I could have brushed against the front of D’s body when he bent over me or stroked the growing wetness at the juncture of my thighs. But I had to remain still as the fire bound me in place more effectively than any rope. Their attentions and the rioting sensations made the entire scene an intense roller coaster ride. To be honest, I can’t even remember if Daddy gave me an orgasm or not—everything began to run together in a long series of intense stimulus. I had no sense of time, but when they finally wound down, I was spent.

    D cleaned up while I clumsily got back into my clothes. After many thank yous to Stormy and D for the amazing experience, I asked Daddy to drive because I was spacey. He surprised me, and instead of going directly home, he took a detour to our favorite burger joint to feed me cheeseburgers at midnight. Later we snuggled in bed as my endorphin high gradually faded, and I reflected on the different sensations of fire play vs the impact play that I typically enjoy. Both are dangerous, and I’m lucky to have relationships where I skirt that danger safely yet still experience a thrill. I got to be that girl on fire.