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Posts Tagged ‘kinky relationships’

  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. Fifty Shades of NO: The Movie

    July 9, 2015 by Heather Cole

    Image courtesy of Salvatore Vuono at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

    I watched Fifty Shades of Grey the other night. I haven’t read the books, mostly because of the lackluster (poorly written) excerpts I read online. Sir watched it last week, though, and his feedback surprised me. He said there was a D/s contract and negotiation, and even though I was openly incredulous, I knew I had to watch it for the sole purpose of being able to discuss it with him. Plus, sir said that Mr. Grey’s playroom was kickass, and I’m a sucker for a well-appointed dungeon. I settled into bed after my child fell asleep, and watched the movie with my phone in my hand, so I could text Nikki about all the failings of the movie and its portrayal of D/s.

    I discovered that Fifty Shades of Grey, the movie, is about a woman who doesn’t want to be a submissive. She wants a billionaire boyfriend that treats her to amazing, spectacular adventures like flights in a glider, a helicopter, and buys her fab things. She wants love and romance, to be courted and swept off her feet. And there’s nothing wrong with that. The crux of the problem is that the billionaire boyfriend is a dominant and a sadist, and what he wants is a submissive with a signed contract that commits to a D/s relationship, which doesn’t guarantee emotional intimacy. At least, not the kind of emotional intimacy that a more traditional dating relationship would entail. Christian Grey also has a tendency to creep, stalk, and lurk. Add to these conflicting, fundamental differences the fact that BOTH characters are positively shitty communicators, and you have the basic gist of this movie.

    But… but… Heather, you say, aren’t you always going on and on about the physical and emotional intimacy you enjoy through BDSM? How can Mr. Grey be anything but a cad and a blackguard for wanting Anastasia bound and naked yet not wanting to cuddle with her overnight?

    My perspective of this movie is from the viewpoint of a woman who signed a D/s contract without the promise of romance. I committed myself to a dominant without the knowledge that we would fall deeply in love and that our partnership would expand into “regular” life. What I desired most of all was a man that would hurt me in all the ways that I wanted, who would use me, control me, and degrade me in the most delicious ways I could imagine. I wanted bondage, and pain; an outlet for those nameless things that clamored inside me–I wanted to serve. And I knew that sir was a decent man, one who would keep me safe while I explored all the dark, twisting turns of my desires. I knew he would be a caretaker for me in those times of domination and submission, but in the beginning, I didn’t have aspirations that our D/s would follow a path to romance and courtship. I had no expectation that we would live together, that my submission would turn 24/7, or that we would continue together despite an overseas relocation and months of separation.

    So no, I don’t think Mr. Grey is fucked up for being a dominant or a sadist. He lacks the ability to communicate his feelings to the unwilling, yet grudgingly submitting Anastasia. He utters the words “due diligence” to her, yet they fail to do anything except some light bondage and fucking six-ways-to-Sunday in the playroom. That’s all well and good, but she needed to do actual research on D/s (it’s called Google, Anastasia). Contracts in D/s can be a big frickin’ deal, and even though they aren’t legally binding, I would never enter into one without a lot of thought and consideration beforehand. But that’s a rant for a different day.

    Where Mr. Grey did fuck up (besides the stalking, lurking, and non-consensual control) was that he didn’t say anything regarding the trauma of his past (talking to someone when they’re asleep doesn’t count), or how it’s possible to be a loving sadist/dominant. Probably because he’s completely unfamiliar with what a functioning relationship may feel like.

    With such fundamental differences between them, you know the movie isn’t going to end well. It really doesn’t. In fact, it’s the last twenty minutes of the movie that made me hate it. Because nothing infuriates me more than a play partner begging for a certain thing, hating it but not using their safewords, and then when it’s all over, shaming the other person for doing the exact thing that they requested earlier. This sort of interaction is precisely why BDSM gets a bad rep when our lifestyle is actually based upon a foundation of consent and trust. And the simple act of writing about it has pissed me off all over again.

    sigh…

    I need a glass of wine and funny cat videos to forget this clusterfuck of a movie.

     

    For an eloquent fact-checking article regarding the “kink” (yeah, I placed that in quotes) in FSoG, Nikki found a great article written by actual kinky folks who engage in actual Dominance/submission. Read it HERE.

    ~And since Heather watched the movie, sharing with me a bazillion texts regarding its ridiculousness as it unfolded, I’ve agreed to finally read the clusterfuck of a book. Oy.~ Nikki


  3. Masturbation Monday: The Cucumber

    October 13, 2014 by Heather Cole

     

    It’s an old cliche:  the bored housewife decides to use a cucumber as a masturbation device. I had joked about surveying the produce aisle for sex toys, but in all my years as a sexually active woman, I had never placed food in my vagina. In fact, Nikki and I have preached, “NO FOOD IN THE VAG” for as long as we’ve had this blog. Because let’s face it, the vagina is a delicate ladygarden. A cucumber, though, with it’s protective peel and generous girth… I mean, it really gets one’s imagination spinning. Right?!

    Last Wednesday found me seated in a plush chair facing the flatscreen of my computer, my thighs spread wide for sir to see. I was nude and carefully positioned so that I was completely exposed. He stared at me from beneath heavy lidded eyes and gave me instructions in a voice that made goosebumps ripple over my flesh. It didn’t matter to me that half the world separated us physically. He was my Dominant regardless of distance, and despite the prickly feeling of vulnerability, I responded in the same way that I did when he was directly next to me. The man owned me, body and heart. And my responses were partially the product of habit and training, and partly devotion.

    His first command was that I fellate the cucumber. I blinked at him and felt ridiculous, but I did as I was told. I awkwardly placed the wide vegetable in my mouth, the taste of green peel coating my tongue. As sir coached me with encouraging words, I moved the cucumber in and out, pushing it further and further into the back of my throat. It was much wider than my esophagus and could only go so far. With watering eyes, I pulled it out and gasped for air.

    “It’s too big, Daddy,” I said and wiped my eyes.

    “You’re such a good girl to try. I miss your mouth, whore.”

    I blushed and squirmed beneath his gaze, unbidden lust rising inside me. I had been so careful to keep my desires leashed. Shoved inside a steel trunk and wrapped in chains, they had sunk to a shadowy place inside me while I dealt with the sadness of sir’s departure. I had spent weeks mourning the distance that now separated us, and more than one of our calls had consisted of me weeping in front of the computer. My body missed him with a physical ache, but I refused to acknowledge how deeply that sexual need was rooted. Dealing with the day-to-day challenges of missing him filled my time. I wasn’t ready to open the trunk and feel all of that captive sexual energy pour forth.

    A towel stretched beneath me to protect the fabric of the chair from lube and my own juices. A second cucumber and the bottle of lube sat on the table next to the computer, and I had two extra-large condoms nearby as well. Sir’s low voice demanded that I lube up the American cucumber. (The English cucumber was saved for my ass and a later date). I adjusted the angle of my hips so that they were raised slightly and squeezed more lube on to my fingers. My fingers worked the cool liquid around the lips of my pussy and then into the wet heat. I was physically ready, my body responding eagerly to the stimulus and my master’s presence.

    Nervousness made my hand tremble as I placed the cold cucumber at the entrance to my vagina, and in slow increments, I pushed it inside. It felt smooth and alien, stretching me wide. I glanced up at the computer screen to see sir’s eyes widen and a slow grin cross his face.

    “That is so fucking hot,” he said. “Now fuck yourself faster.”

    I complied, my eyes falling to the side as I felt another blush start. Spreading myself open for another person wasn’t exactly new territory for me, but there was something extra dirty about being on camera. Maybe it was the anonymity of it even though I knew the man on the other side intimately. And then there was the foreign object that I used to impale myself. I felt wicked which lent an illicit quality to my masturbation. All these elements combined into a whirlwind that fueled my desire.

    Every thought left my head, though, when I changed the cucumber’s angle to stroke along my G-spot. Suddenly my entire physical awareness snapped to attention, every synapse and nerve focused on the building pressure of an orgasm. My gaze met sir’s in an unspoken question.

    “I want you to get close, but I’m not going to let you come. You’re not permitted to come,” he said sternly.

    I nodded, too engrossed in the pleasure that rolled through my body. I was almost there.

    “Please may I come, Daddy?” I panted.

    “Beg.”

    “Please please please may this girl come, Daddy? Please let this girl come for you.”

    The words slurred in the rush to expel them. My hand slipped along the cucumber that was now slippery with my arousal. I could feel my inner muscles tightening in anticipation of orgasm, and the vibrations, both and internal, almost pushed me over the edge. The fantasy in my head imagined that I could feel

    “Come for me, baby.”

    The orgasm exploded, golden sparks of ecstasy sparking through me. My eyes squeezed shut, and I cried out, the cucumber falling from my hand. Sir murmured his appreciation as I fell back, my legs sprawled like a rag doll.

    “You’re such a dirty girl barebacking a cucumber like that,” he said with a smile.

    I giggled. “I probably should have bought organic.”

    “Thank you, Daddy. This girl is happy to please you.” I made a motion to sit up, but he stopped me.

    “Let yourself relax and enjoy this moment. There’s nothing but me and you. No rush. No responsibilities.”

    Two months ago I would have placed my head on his lap so he could stroke my hair as I basked in the afterglow. That was impossible at the moment, so I smiled and let my eyes drift shut. Sir was right. For this brief space, it was only the two of us again. I loved being there with him, and at the same time, I acknowledged that it was fleeting. We couldn’t remain on Skype forever.

    “Pick up the cucumber, babygirl. I want you to go again.”

    I pushed away the bittersweet thoughts to grab the vegetable. Later I would peel and slice the still-warm cucumber for my salad. Dinner would be eaten alone with the erotic thoughts of my faraway lover and the echoing sensations of our electronic date. First, though, I had to orgasm again.

     

    Want more #masturbationmonday? Check out Kayla Lords’s post and the other steamy, sexy participants!

     

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  4. Golden Showers: Two Perspectives

    March 12, 2014 by Heather Cole

    When it comes to watersports (Urban Dictionary definition: “In BDSM terminology, refers to sensual or erotic play involving bodily fluids, typically urine, saliva, and less commonly, blood. Considered ‘edge-play’…”) Nikki has had more experience than me, and she has written about her good times with Mr. K on Vagina Antics. When I entered the BDSM lifestyle, urine used as a facet of play time didn’t hit my radar. Not in a oh-this-is-so-gross-I’ll-never-do-it way, but more like I didn’t know it was a thing. In fact, Nikki didn’t discuss her water games with me until she was ready to write her blog post. My reaction was “you did WHAT? Of course you should write about it!” And that was my first exposure to erotic play involving pee. We can all blame Nikki Blue.

    We’re writing about both our perspectives today, because they’re so different. We both have fun with watersports but in different ways. I was going to make a joke about y’all reading in the “splash zone” but never mind. I’ll keep it classy.

    Enjoy!

     

    Heather

    On my list of kinks, urine was in the ‘I don’t have a fetish about this, but if you really want to I’m game to try something” category. It was never added to my play list, because I was having so many other firsts with D/s and my master. Urine first entered our conversation after a dominant friend of ours related a story where he used his sub hard and when she was crumpled on the floor in a sweaty, teary mess, he pissed on her then walked out of the room. I know what you’re thinking. Holy shit, that sounds so MEAN. For those masochists among us who were into a little humiliation, though, there was something poetic and degrading and… it gave me tingles. Not because of the physical feeling of being pissed on, or the actual urine, but the drama of the scene. There she lay, utterly depleted and used emotionally and physically, and the closing action was to be a receptacle of his piss. Afterwards he scooped her up, showered her, snuggled and told her how much he loved her. But in that moment, in that scrap of time in their universe, she was this thing to be used in whatever way he wished. From my perspective of masochist and slave, there was something terrible and beautiful in that like the best kind of dark fairy tale.

    After I related that anecdote, the element of watersports was assimilated into the fantasies of sir. He liked to brainstorm out loud, so I heard a lot of scenarios escape from that man’s mouth. Many of them freaked me the fuck out, but that was half the fun for both of us. He wouldn’t do most of them, because his intention wasn’t to damage me. Hurt me, yes, but not damage me. He began talking about pissing on me, and I listened, reacting appropriately when the ideas became extreme. And then one day as we showered together, he pissed on me. I didn’t have to look down to know he was doing it. He had this expression on his face that I could only describe as one that my cat had when I accidentally walked in on him using the litter box. The one that said he knew I’m watched him do his business and he could give two flying fucks. Sir had a similar attitude. Part of me wanted to act in a ridiculously squeamish way and whine about how GROSS it was even though it wasn’t disgusting at all. I mean, who didn’t pee in the shower on occasion? My reactions, though, were part of what sir looked for, so I sighed loudly and set about washing myself again in a resigned manner, ever the practical slave.

    The next time, though, I was sitting on the toilet after a particularly rough fucking. I still wore a sports bra and was taking a breather and relieving myself. Sir walked in the bathroom, as he often does (I’m prohibited from privacy so all doors were open when it was only the two of us), and ordered me to spread my legs wider. Next thing I knew, he was pissing into the toilet. I think my mouth dropped open, and before I could utter a word, he directed his stream over my breasts. I shrieked, NOT ON MY SPORTS BRA! He laughed and told me to get in the tub if I was going to complain.

    “I can’t believe you’re doing this!” I squealed and stepped gingerly into the shower.

    I was aware of the cooling piss dripping down my abdomen and the slight smell of ammonia. Part of me still couldn’t believe he was going to continue. The air felt cool in contrast to the hot urine, and I stood in partial shock as he pissed all over the front of my body. He smiled at my reaction then shook his head with mock chagrin.

    “What kind of girl stands still for a man to piss on her?”

    I felt my cheeks grow hot with shame. “A dirty girl,” I whispered.

    “Do you feel dirty?” he asked. I nodded, peeking at him through my lashes. The smile of satisfaction on his face made my heart beat harder.

    “How embarrassing for you” he replied.

    I was mortified and ashamed, and as soon as those two elements combined, I started to feel aroused. As sir watched me squirm, I wanted to fuck him again. Lips, fingers, tongue… I didn’t care. I was his dirty girl, the one he knew would do almost anything to please him. It was uncomfortable and the pee was starting to turn cold, but the look in his eyes as he watched my small humiliation made it all worth it. Eventually he helped pull off my bra and started the shower for me.

    “You’re such a good girl,” he said as he pulled the shower curtain closed. “Get cleaned up. I’m not done with you yet.”

    Nikki:

    Part of the beauty of my relationship with Mr. K is that we play with few limits. We’re open to trying most anything together and we are incredibly turned on by each other’s scent and body fluids. His slow licks down my sweat-soaked back while he fucks my ass make my head spin, he nearly orgasms when I spit in his mouth, and precum leaks from the tip of his cock when he cleans me with his tongue after I pee. And after everything, he kisses me long and deep, sharing what he loves with me. He’s always said he would never do anything to me that would keep him from kissing me afterward. Yep, he’s a keeper.

    I’ve written here and there about our foray into Watersports, so I won’t bog y’all down with the same warm, wet details, but I will say I still haven’t been able to successfully pee on Mr. K due to my bladder’s performance anxiety issues. And it’s something I desperately want to do for him. I can pee when we shower together and while sitting on the toilet with his fingers between my legs, but for now, peeing ON him seems to be a hard limit for my bladder. Fucking bladder.

    Like Heather, I get peed on as we shower too. Every time. But the difference between us is that I expect it, want it even. It’s a totally natural act for us and I love the feeling of the warm fluid streaming over my body. I watch as it flows and the look of pleasure on Mr. K’s handsome face as it does is a super huge bonus.

    With that having been said, it’s not often I’m able to say something that surprises Heather, but when it comes to my Watersports tales, I leave her in a constant state of WHAAAAAA? And I confess I kinda like it. I may have even rendered her speechless when I told her Mr. K had peed on my face, boobs, and in my mouth. I think she was pretty shocked when I didn’t find it gross, humiliating, or feel dirty, but that’s not how it was intended to be received. Mr. K would be horrified at the thought of making me feel that way. He pees on me because to him, drenching me with his body fluid is a wonderfully intimate expression. It’s a moment of sharing I will always welcome. Every golden, salty drop.