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Posts Tagged ‘Master/slave’

  1. Coffee and a Spanking

    July 26, 2014 by Heather Cole

    Our mornings usually began with coffee. I was a morning person, and rather than inflict sir with a cheerful good morning, I crept downstairs to start our morning pot of coffee. On this particular day, my mind was running through the events of the night as I threw out old grounds and filled the pot with water. In the past eight hours I had given two blowjobs and had been fucked thoroughly, but despite having enjoyed myself, something nagged at me.

    I straightened the kitchen while I mulled over matters, the aroma of fresh coffee swirling around me. I couldn’t decide if I was being overly-sensitive. My gripe seemed petty, but I no longer trusted my perspective on the situation. Sir and I were having more and more conversations about my behavior lately. I didn’t classify myself as a brat, but in recent weeks I had taken to talking back and even telling sir ‘no’ on occasion. He kept a sense of humor about it, and told me that he loved my sass, but I couldn’t seem to curb my tongue. Part of me didn’t want to, and as a result, I was pushing back and acting out.

    I wasn’t proud of myself. As I chewed my lip in front of the coffee pot, I worried that my irritation was only subterfuge, that I was fooling myself into thinking that I had a defensible position for my irritation. All the while the nagging feeling in my chest warned that if I probed deeper into the motivation behind my brattiness, I’d find a bigger issue that I didn’t want to deal with. And I really didn’t want to look into that writhing can of worms.

    When the percolating stopped, I took a cup up to sir still wrestling with myself. He was awake and propped up against the pillows, his laptop settled across his lap. The light from the screen highlighted his slightly mussed hair and hazel eyes. I loved seeing him this way, half-awake and drowsy with sleep. He murmured a thank you for the coffee, and his gaze followed me as I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth.

    “So what got you riled up in the middle of the night? Were you looking at porn?” I asked.

    “No,” he said, a small smile on his face. “I woke up with a boner and decided to put your face on it.”

    His wording made me laugh, and I almost spit toothpaste on the mirror. “You know, you woke me up from a deep sleep. I thought maybe I’d get a thank you for the service or at least a high-five. Maybe a ‘way to go, slave.’”

    I kept my tone teasing and light, but my earlier feelings of angst bobbed beneath it. I had blown him before we went to sleep only to be woken up a few hours later for a second blowjob. Oral sex was one of my duties as a sex slave, and it was one of my favorites. In the middle of the night, though, when I was yanked out of dreamland to suck cock… well, I tried to be gracious about it. And regardless of my feelings, I did it.

    This isn’t the problem, I thought. But I squashed it down and silently scolded my feelings to shut the fuck up.

    “I said thank you by filling your mouth with come. It’s your reward.”

    “Right,” I said, unconvinced. I knew he was teasing me, but I couldn’t muster a smile in return.

    “After I gifted you with my come, I wrapped you in my arms to snuggle you. But my phantom girlfriend was gone, disappearing into the bathroom. Without permission, I might add.” The look on sir’s face was pleasant, as was his voice, but I felt a twinge when he mentioned my disobedience.

    I had left our bed on purpose. I put my toothbrush away and came to stand beside him. He reached for my hand, but I avoided his eyes.

    “I didn’t want to snuggle you while feeling bitchy about your silence so I got up to clear my head. I came back right after I peed,” I said.

    “Perhaps there’s a better way that we can communicate so that you don’t feel like you’re unappreciated. Maybe you can say, ‘I felt ____ when ____ happened.’”

    I tried not to roll my eyes even though I knew he was right. I hadn’t handled it well, and I should have told him about my irritation rather than abandoning the situation.

    “Fine,” I said.

    Sir’s eyebrows arched with surprise. “I think someone needs to remember her manners.”

    “FINE. SIR.”

    As sir’s eyes widened with incredulity, I gave him a look that would have made any five-year-old proud. I couldn’t help pushing him, needling him one step further.

    “Come to the other side of the bed, please,” he said and patted the space beside him.

    “I have to go to work.”

    “This won’t take long. I’ll count to five. 1… 2…”

    I didn’t stall any further, knowing things would be so much worse if I delayed even further. He instructed me to get on my knees towards the edge of the bed with my ass pointing out towards the window. I stared at the jumbled sheets around me and wondered what kind of hot water I had landed in.The jingle of a belt buckle answered my unspoken question.

    “I want you to count, and I want you to thank me for each one, because you need a lesson in manners.”

    “Yes, sir,” I said meekly, my fingers digging into a blanket.

    He hit me hard, the sting of leather stealing my breath. I counted and thanked him, tears pooling beneath my lashes. I only had to count to five, but sir made every one of them count.

    After the last one, I stayed in place, trying to catch my breath. I heard the belt drop to the floor, and then sir’s arm gently pushed me down. I toppled on to my side, my emotions a zigzagging blur inside me. I felt outraged that I was punished even though on the heels of that came a giant wave of relief for it. All it took was those five strikes and my defenses were breached. I was laid bare, open and vulnerable.

    Sir’s arms came around me, and he pulled the blanket over us both. He spoke in my ear, his words soothing and sensual at the same time. The tickle of his breath on my neck, and the rumble of his voice against my back… I told myself to remember every last little detail. I wanted to soak in the experience through my skin and into my bones so that I could recall it in the lonely weeks to come. It was then that I realized that the quagmire of emotion inspiring my behavior was grief, an ocean of sadness that he will be leaving. It wasn’t a can of worms that I was avoiding. It was one giant, Dune-sized, earth-shaking worm of loss that I wanted to un-see. I decided to continue ignoring it even as it threatened to surface.

    We have today, I told myself. We have this moment.

    It had to be enough.


  2. Let Go, Baby

    April 23, 2014 by Heather Cole

    I was snuggled under his arm as we watched Game of Thrones in bed. Despite losing myself in the story and the feeling of his warm body next to mine, I could feel a tight coil of tension at my center. The stress of worrying about the future and mourning our impending separation was my constant companion. The mornings were easiest when I had work and caring for my child to distract me. By the time sir returned home for dinner, though, I could feel tears threatening. I knew it was about needing a physical release for the emotional tensions of my day, but I was reluctant to give in to it. I didn’t want to be Debbie Downer, and I really didn’t want sir to begin associating his return home with a deluge of my tears every time he walked through the door. So I mentally placed those coils of tension in a small box somewhere around my stomach, and tried to ignore it.

    After the program ended, I grabbed my phone from the nightstand to set the alarm. Sir disentangled himself from the bed sheets and got to his feet to go to the bathroom, I presumed. To my surprise he strode to the closet instead and began digging through the toy bag. I watched in disbelief as he pulled out black clover clamps and walked over to my side of the bed.

    “Stand up and take off your pajamas,” he said.

    My mouth dropped open in disbelief, and I stopped myself a second before asking why out loud. Asking for an explanation of sir’s motivations would only get me in hot water.

    I did as he commanded, and he took a seat on the edge of the bed. He watched me intently, one hand on his lap and the other holding the clamps that I loathed. Finally I stood in front of him wearing only knee socks, my arms crossed tightly over my chest.

    “Step out,” he said and motioned for me to spread my legs.

    My heartbeat kicked against my chest, and I took a tentative step. His expression was pleasant, but I heard the underlying hint of steel in his voice. His hand went to my crotch, but I backed away. I stared at the clover clamps glinting at me in the dim light.

    “I can’t handle clover clamps on my pussy,” I said.

    Panic blossomed through me, and I found myself shaking my head. My eyes were wide, and that box inside me where I had kept the day’s fears was threatening to spill open. There was no way on God’s green earth that I could tolerate the merciless clamp of metal on my sensitive nether regions. The thought was overwhelming. I couldn’t do it. Not even for the man I loved.

    Sir laughed. “You say that like you think there’s a Door #2 or something. There’s no other option. Come here.”

    “I can’t do it,” I repeated and shied away from his questing fingers.

    “You’re going to do this,” he said, “or I’m going to beat you with a wire hanger.”

    If he had threatened me with any of our usual toys, a cane or whip or flogger, I would have dived for the alternative. But a hanger was so outside our usual play parameters that I recognized it as a true deterrent. Plus, I had seen Mommy Dearest. Did I think he would actually do it? Probably not, but I understood the message beneath the uncommon implement. Sir was dead serious.

    My voice caught in my throat. In that moment I knew there was nothing to be done but submit. I could feel the emotion welling in my throat, along with defeat, and there was no denying that the avalanche of feeling contained within me would break free. Tears slid down my cheeks as I slowly stepped forward and gave him access to my labia. I couldn’t bear to watch him apply the clamps, so I shut my eyes and looked away. My tears fell faster, and I started to shake. Big hiccupping sobs shook my chest as I felt sir’s hands move from my pussy to my breasts. Still I refused to look.

    His fingers gently teased my erect nipples as he clamped them, and the familiar weighted chain felt cold against my skin. Relief that he wasn’t going to clamp my pussy washed through me, but it couldn’t stop the torrent of emotions that had been unleashed. I continued to sob as sir murmured endearments.

    “Just let go, baby,” he crooned. His lips grazed the underside of my breast, and then he kissed a clamped nipple. He gently caressed my skin with his hands as his lips planted sweet kisses over my chest.

    As he wrapped his arms around my waist to pull me even closer, I rested my cheek on the top of his head. Finally my tears were spent, and I took a ragged breath. I felt exhausted and empty, exhumed of all tension and sadness.

    “Thank you,” I whispered.

    Sir sat back on the bed and carefully removed the clamps. “I think you really needed that.”

    “I did.”

    “You know, I was never going to put these clamps on your pussy. That would have been mean.”

    I shook my head and felt a small smile bow my lips. “You really are a champion mind fucker.”

    We crawled into bed and returned to the positions that had originally started our evening. I snuggled into his side, my head on his chest, and I took my first deep breath of the night. Deep feelings of love and gratitude swept through me, and I pulled them tight around me like a blanket. I wanted the moment to last forever.


    IMG_2233 Smashwords


    Want more stories of a good girl being naughty? TALES OF A FILTHY GOOD GIRL by Heather Cole is now available on Nook, Kindle, and Smashwords.


  3. Happy Anniversary, sir

    March 4, 2014 by Heather Cole

    A year ago this week we had our second date. The first involved my introduction to Indian cooking, and I made your favorite dish, sag paneer, and chocolate cake. For dessert you tied me to a massage table and gave me more orgasms than I could count. Our second date took place at your office where there was more rope, a caning, anal sex, and 43 orgasms (you made me count that time) among your bookshelves and the scent of paper and incense. We were tentative and sometimes fumbling, but I was completely mesmerized by you. You had captured me, brain and body. I was yours, but I didn’t know it yet.

    All of those sensations and images run through my head when I think back to where we started. I thought I wanted a weekend-warrior-type kink style of domination. I thought that what I needed was to be tied up on occasion and beaten. My past experiences with Dominance and submission fell along those general lines, so I assumed that was what I was looking for when we began dating. I had my defenses firmly in place in case you were just another guy who thought they wanted a sex slave. I was prepared to cut my losses and walk once you proved that your intentions weren’t long term or serious. I had every expectation that this would prove to be yet another casual encounter, and I felt fairly certain that you didn’t know what deep waters you were messing with. You proved me wrong, though. Over and over again you proved that you were exactly the man and dominant that I needed.

    It’s funny. I’ve prided myself on being independent. Even without the people that I loved most in my life, I knew I would continue to function; I would continue to succeed in my life no matter what. You showed me, though, that it was OK to need someone. You once explained to me that you would tighten the tether between us until we were so close that we became a part of the other. I laughed when you said it, shrugging it away as if you didn’t know what you were talking about. I figured it was the kind of sentiment uttered in romantic BDSM novels and not anything that could be sustained in real life. And yet…

    I need you. Need in a way that is basic and fundamental to how I operate through life. You have become my center, my true north. What I’ve discovered is that I may balk at something you ask of me, but I will submit in the end. Despite my willful moments and sassy mouth, my submission to you feels like eating or breathing. Perhaps the face of it will evolve and change over the years, but I’m sure of it like I am certain of my heartbeat. As long as I have a heart, it will be yours.

    You understand facets of me that I couldn’t fathom before we met, and you make my most idiosyncratic parts feel “normal.” Like I said, it took the discovery of you to find all those lost pieces of myself. ‘You complete me’ is a  trite phrase, but it’s true. You took someone who was floundering and groping around in the dark and gave her a purpose. You gave me a different kind of goal:  to be the best person I was capable of being. You also gave me yourself, in all your flawed and battle-weary wonderfulness. You’ve shown me what it means to submit every day, in little ways and in big ones. Sometimes that means standing still and naked in the kitchen as you stroke the tips of ice cubes over the most sensitive parts of my body or being turned over your knee to take the birthday spankings at a party of fellow kinksters. And sometimes it means giving you my mind, my most cherished possession, and trusting that you will do wonderful things with it. Every day you show me what it means to be yours, and every day I strive to be your best girl.

    I’ve told you before that I wished to give you everything, every fiber of my being, every nook and cranny of my soul. That’s not to say that I won’t ever question you or balk at your guiding hand, but in the end, I will always submit. I will go to my knees when you ask it and try to bend my own desires to fit your will. I understand that you want me to fly, to stretch my experience to the far reaches of my imagination. And as much as I want to be launched into my wildest dreams, at the end of the day, I want to return to your feet and be locked inside the cage of your choosing. In the end, I want to return home to you. To the life that we have made together and the bonds that we both have chosen as Master and slave. In the end, I will choose you and our dynamic. Over and over again I will choose you. I want your ring, your hand, and our love.


  4. Sex, Shrieking Mind Monkeys, and Feelings

    February 21, 2014 by Heather Cole

    One of the main tenet of my slave contract was sexual availability and sexual service. First and foremost I was a sex slave, and when sir and I began this journey together I was vocal and explicit about my sexual needs. Objectification was a big turn-on for me, and I craved to be used. I enjoyed being a living, breathing sex doll of sorts. In fact, I insisted on it. It wasn’t that I didn’t want an emotional connection during sex, but it didn’t always have to be about the feefees. Sometimes what I wanted was to be bent over the kitchen counter and commanded to present myself for penetration. Luckily for me, sir was looking for that exact thing. We both had high sex drives, so when we crafted our contract, sex was number one on the proverbial “to do” list. This meant that it didn’t matter if I was in the mood or not. If sir wanted to fuck, or be sexually satisfied in any way, shape or form (in a way that wasn’t on my limits list) we did it. Even though he pushed my boundaries in his charismatic and loving way, I was game. It got intense at times, but we more or less saw eye-to-eye when it came to sex. And then December happened…

    I think it’s part of the human experience to have contradictory feelings about the holidays, but December was particularly intense for sir and me. Sir had the month off, and since I worked from home, we spent most days together. Sir called it The Month of Obsessive Compulsive Fucking, because we did it all the time. At least, that’s how that month felt to me in hindsight. When I think back on it, everything seemed blurry. It passed in a haze of come, sweat, rich foods, endless family visits, and booze. It felt like we squeezed a year’s worth of debauchery into 31 days. I wasn’t sleeping more than a couple of hours in a row, because we’d fuck in the middle of the night. There was a blowjob in the morning, at night, and sometimes in the middle of the day. He’d come downstairs, pull out a chair beside me at the table and tell me to get on my knees. We fucked all over the house, in all the rooms, using all my orifices. I took to keeping a tube of Aquaphor on my nightstand, because the delicate skin of my labia, lips, and anus were rubbed raw. It was an intense rush. I had never felt closer to sir emotionally, and it seemed like our physical joining was reinforcing that. On one level I felt amazing, but by the time January rolled around, I felt like I was falling apart emotionally.

    The first sign of trouble was that I began to resist being hypnotized. We have had a lot of fun with consensual mind games, but in December, more often than not, sir would put me under and I wouldn’t remember what transpired. One moment he was mid-thrust, and then my consciousness was gone. I would eventually wake up to our dark bedroom with sir fast asleep beside me. I’d be covered in bodily fluids, smelling of sex with come trickling out between my legs. Any other time, I would have been so turned on by that level of objectification that I’d wake sir up to fuck me again. I loved to be used in this way. I felt like a sex detective which made the disconnect in my brain fun. I’d take stock of my body and sensations and try to guess what had happened. Often sir would give me a brief recap of what had occurred between us, but it got to the point where I feared that I was hypnotized more than I was conscious. I began to have an emotional reaction to going under, and I couldn’t figure out why my sex doll role play wasn’t making me the horny, wanton slut the way it usually did. Sex wasn’t supposed to be a point of stress for me, but that’s precisely what happened.

    It took me a long time to work up the courage to say that I needed break. In fact, I still feel guilty that I said anything at all. I’m a prideful whore, and I take great satisfaction in pleasing my dominant. Admitting that I was beginning to unravel felt like weakness, but I had to do something. There was an internal war happening, and sir didn’t have any idea that I was ripping myself to shreds. I resisted hypnosis because on some level I felt like he was rejecting the conscious Heather (who had an opinion about everything) in favor of a doll that he could control completely. An insidious voice whispered that if I truly was as devoted as I claim to be, I could have endured. I could have stuck it out while silently hoping I’d be granted a reprieve. I learned, though, that there was a limit to how much pounding my body could take in the span of 24 hours. And I now know that even though I wished to submit and serve, I also wanted to be present. Not all the time, but for most of it.

    These feelings of criticism and self-censure were an echo of an old family message that I’ve struggled with almost my entire life. It takes time for me to become conscious of them, and part of my healing has been teasing apart the strands of what happened in December and articulating exactly what triggered those shrieking monkeys in my head. Sir and I both had to expose our feelings about the situation, and it turned out that the emotional landscape behind December was vastly different from what showed on the surface. Both of us grappled with outside stress and uncertainty, but we weren’t talking about it with one another. We clung to each other and tried to find solace and distraction in our favorite activity: sex. My mini-breakdown finally ripped off the cover to expose what was going on at the root of our compulsive fucking. We were trying to bury ourselves in sex and physical connection in an attempt to cushion ourselves from the pain of what we were feeling regarding outside circumstances.

    I’m still sorting out the repercussions of December. Hindsight is a helpful lens, and I’ve been able to open up more to sir about what I was feeling. Our conversations since Debaucheries December have revealed that there are innate expectations associated with our role of Master and Slave. It’s natural for sir to feel pressured to be in control of himself and everything else as a loving, caring dominant, and I have my own expectations of how a slave should behave. But without open communication regarding the feelings associated with D/s, we’re stuck playing shallow roles that have little to do with who we are as people. As my dear Mama pointed out, there is strength in vulnerability, and I think that’s the biggest lesson for me. It takes strength to open myself to the control of another, and it takes strength to advocate for myself as well. As uncomfortable as it feels in the moment, I’m learning that this kind of emotional exposure only strengthens the bond between us in the long run. I don’t want a robotic, super-human dominant who knows all without me uttering a word. I want a flawed, loving man to take the lead and who understands that I’m bringing along baggage as well. The gift in this has been forming a healthy dialogue and pushing past our perceived hurts to find the other willing partner again. It’s my sincere wish that we will always find each other again.


  5. Today I am a Slave

    June 28, 2013 by Heather Cole

    I’ve had a Master before LH and a man who considered me for a time, and those relationships gave me the opportunity to grow and explore what I thought I understood about submission. They also led me to realize the things I didn’t want. It became apparent to me that I needed more than a weekend dominant, and I yearned to serve beyond the bedroom. More than anything I craved a dominant who would push me to be a better slave and partner while at the same time pushing my boundaries of submission in a healthy way. I longed for a symbiotic relationship, one that was mutually beneficial in real life ways that would help us both. As much as I wanted to build my sex slave fantasy, I also wanted it to reach into my reality.

    Honestly, I didn’t know how that would manifest in my life exactly. The reality of voluntary kinky slavery is that I’m giving up my rights to another. It’s a constant submission that extends further than a scene, further than a day… it could become my entire life if I wished it. On the surface, I understood that in a logical way. I’m an intelligent, willful woman. I read the rules of our game, and I had my safety nets in place. At any time I could use my safeword or I could tear up my contract and give back my ring. Nothing bound me but my word and my love for LH.

    In many ways, the past few months have felt like a whirlwind romance with a swift engagement and marriage. LH and I seemed to occupy a wacky romantic comedy; two people that met, fell madly in love and hijinks ensued. Our whirlwind, though, was preceded by a lengthy interview process. LH and I played games and learned about one another, swiftly establishing an emotional intimacy that made me feel secure as much as it left me exposed. Our dates were traditional in some ways as we traded life stories over steak nachos, and different in that they often ended in bondage and bruises. As spring gave way to summer, we were well into establishing our roles as Master and slave, and I was riding the high of new relationship energy. I was euphoric and deeply in love.

    LH told me when we signed our contract that I would soon learn if I liked his brand of slavery. By that time he was helping me towards my diet and fitness goals by cooking healthy meals with me and making us exercise daily. I joked with my mama that he had become my life coach, and in many regards, that’s exactly what LH was doing. He spurred me to devote solid writing time towards my professional goals and gave me the motivation (a caning) to get my shit done during the week.

    When June arrived, LH was living with me most of the time and my typical work day at home was conducted in the nude if my daughter wasn’t home. Rules were in place. I had no right to privacy, for example, which meant that I was forbidden to shut a door, and I had to ask permission to use the bathroom. I fed LH at meals and sat at his feet if we watched television. When my little girl was with me, the rules relaxed of course. But when she left to vacation with my ex, I was suddenly left with a long stretch of continual slavery. We were alone, and I existed to serve LH and to submit to whatever he desired in the moment. The intensive training had become a slavery bootcamp of sorts. LH was helping me meet my goals, and at the same time, he ensured that I felt objectified; I was a thing that existed purely for his pleasure. I felt appreciated and loved and cared for. I also felt used and dominated, and sometimes, exhausted by the constant dance along the edge of being a “normal” partner and a sex slave. I was living beyond the fantasy full time, and it brought to light a serious issue.

    It was easy for me to fall into a pattern of being a victim. I had been a victim for a large portion of my life when I was married which was enforced by my family’s message of “put your head down, shut your mouth and endure.” That sounds like the perfect mantra for a slave, doesn’t it? To some extent it did serve me. In the middle of a caning, for example. But it hurt both LH and me when I fell into my old pattern, when I reverted to the silence of a person who was too beleaguered to use her voice to say she was upset, or exhausted, or at the end of her rope.

    It didn’t serve me Wednesday night as I knelt in the dark to give a blowjob, tears trickling down my face. LH had asked me over and over again if I was ok, and I had replied with a simple yes then went back to a resentful silence. I submitted, doing what was asked while inside I despaired that I wouldn’t be able to continue being his slave. I couldn’t submit constantly with a smile on my face and a song in my heart. I was tired to death, and all I wanted to do was curl up beside him and sleep. Why didn’t I tell LH this? Because I figured that my limbs were still attached, and my heart still beat in my chest. In my illogical thinking, none of that was reason enough to call RED. RED was for uncontrollable bleeding or heart attacks. Besides, I didn’t want to inconvenience my lover. I was a slave after all.

    In the cold light of day, LH made me talk about it. My words came out in bits and pieces, and before long I was crying again. I told him I could be better, promising to be more considerate and understanding. But that wasn’t what LH wanted. He wanted my honesty, and he needed me to talk about where I was emotionally even if it brought our play to a screeching halt. In order for him to take us to the darker parts of our fantasies, he needed to trust me that I was being honest about how I felt. My victim pattern was hobbling our relationship and undermining the trust between us, and it caused both of us to take a hard look at what we were trying to create with this M/s relationship.

    The most challenging part of this wasn’t vocalizing my feelings, it was believing that I was absolutely worth the inconvenience of stopping a scene or the disappointment of plans changing. The worst part of my victim pattern was the belief that the things my abuser said about me were true. It kept me silent for so many years–this small voice in my head that told me he was right. I was too ugly, too fat, too flighty to be considered an equal. LH wasn’t that man, but that feeling of not being worthwhile persisted. But I didn’t realize it until I was on the verge of saying that I couldn’t continue being a slave.

    I have more to process, but I feel a hundred times lighter now that I can see why I remained silent in the darkness. Instead of the silent victim, I now feel angry. Angry at how I was treated in my marriage and in my family. I want to rage and cry, but mostly I want to hit the pavement and run until my head is clear and I no longer feel like kneeing my ex-husband in the balls. Good thing LH and I have a half-marathon to train for. LH and I have agreed on a series of words that I can use as shorthand to communicate where I am during a scene or during the day. He told me that I didn’t have to have an articulate or concise answer for him, I just needed to continue communicating even if it was to say that I needed space and time to process.

    LH has often given me the push I needed to get past my fears to try something new, to move past my shyness and natural reticence. But most important to me is the bond that we have forged, a bond that surpasses the labels of Master/slave. We are connected emotionally and energetically in ways that I never thought possible. He’s a part of me–a force of nature in his own right. He is mine as much as I am his. I will stare again and again into the darkness of my soul, into the abyss, because this connection is worth it. We are absolutely worth it.

    **One more thought

    The first draft of this post was different. Nikki returned it to me with her edits, the big message being that I left out the hard parts of slavery. Let’s face it, if it were easy-peasy-breezy all the cool kids would be doing it. Her edits corresponded with my crisis and the blow job, so I included it in my post. (LH calls it the “resentful blowjob” while I have dubbed it “the blowjob of despair.”) When I wrote this I was still processing that night, and I wrote this post as if I were peeling back my skin to examine the nerves that had been exposed. I spilled my guts, and I realized later that it wasn’t comfortable for anyone concerned.

    What I’ve realized since writing this is that my pattern of victimization and my consent to be a slave are two different things, apples to oranges if you will. There is overlap in that now I know that aspects of my service to LH will trigger those victim feelings. However, it wasn’t LH or our dynamic or our total power exchange that made me feel victimized. It was ME. It was my self-esteem challenges, my past toxic relationship patterns that I still enact (dammit!), my family’s history of abuse… All these things are bound up in me, and I was telling myself that I wasn’t allowed to protest. I was in the process of convincing myself that I had no power to speak up for myself, and that made me think that maybe I didn’t have the inner resources to be a slave.

    LH and I have many words that I can use in a scene or in our daily interactions that will communicate how I’m feeling. My slavery and his domination of me aren’t stopping me. In fact, the architecture of our relationship gives me ample room to articulate exactly how I’m feeling. What I’m striving to improve is my feeling of being worthy of speaking up, an issue that began long before I discovered BDSM or found my amazing LH. What I’m working on is something a lot of us, regardless of sexuality and orientation, struggle with–respecting and honoring ourselves despite flaws and failures and knowing that we’re absolutely worth loving. There’s no overnight fix for this, but I’m grateful for that terrible moment with LH that shed a beacon of light onto the shadows of this issue.

    Last night LH and I had another lengthy discussion about this post and our subsequent feelings and revelations. I voluntarily articulated that I wanted to be his slave, and that I wanted to continue building and refining the total power exchange between us. We celebrated with rope, clover clamps and forced orgasms. Then we snuggled in bed and had the quarterly review of our contract.  I don’t really believe in happy endings, but I’m very happy about the work-in-progress us.

  6. A Different Kind of Collar

    May 24, 2013 by Heather Cole

    I’ve written before that I take my Master/slave contract seriously, and I probably considered it more thoroughly than I ever did my marriage certificate or vows. I thought that the contract was the biggest step and that a collar would be the icing on the cake. We had signed our contract weeks ago, and although collars had been discussed, sir hadn’t made any decisions.

    He offered me the silver pocket of fabric wrapped in a white, satin ribbon, after a particularly long session of anal sex. We were both sweaty and covered in bodily fluids. I felt a wide grin spreading across my face as I opened the present. I knelt on the floor in front of him, my clothes hanging off me in sweaty abandon. A round, blue box was revealed and inside was a ring. It was composed of a wide, polished band of silver with a silver bead in the middle, pierced by a silver ring. Sir gave me a Ring of O for my birthday.

    Sir told me I could wear it on any finger that fit, but he said that his preference was my left hand. The position of the ring felt significant, and even though he didn’t say it out loud, I knew he thought so too. I stared at the silver on my hand, letting the weight of it sink into me. The last thing I had worn on my left hand had been my wedding rings. I could feel something welling up inside me, but I tried to ignore it. I was ecstatic–overflowing with joy. And I felt the echo of something else… a warning.

    The ring was bait in a trap. And the echo of warning was a reminder of what I had sacrificed years ago for a different ring from a different man. Everything felt like a jumble, but I took a deep breath and reminded myself that all my safeties were in place. I had a safeword and a contract, and my voice and my strength. I wasn’t a victim this time, and sir wasn’t here to hold me back or try to make me into a different person. If anything, our dynamic was setting us free to do amazing things together. Things we had been fantasizing about and hoping for.

    As I stared at the ring, I realized that I also had something to lose. Frankly, I had something to lose since sir and I met for our first scene. Our relationship, my feelings for him…all of it had been building since our first email exchange. The ring seemed to solidify all these feelings, bringing them home in a way that I had been avoiding. I expected sir to be the one that had commitment jitters, not me.

    Sir herded me upstairs with the promise of a shower. I gently washed his body as he talked, my tension draining away under the hot, staccato spray. There were no emotional walls between us, and when I wound my arms around his neck, I whispered how grateful I was that he had found me. There was no relationship that would guarantee me a perfect happy ending, and I would be the biggest fool if I stayed on the sidelines because I was too afraid to try.

    I would have absorbed him into my body in that moment, merged our spirits in the same way that our bodies fit together. Water droplets clung to his eyelashes as I stared up at him, and he said, “I will protect you and take care of you.”

    “And I’ll do the same for you,” I said.

    I saw his intentions for us in this silver band, his commitment to me and to our future. We called it “our game” but its meaning was more akin to “our life.” A life together. He gently moved my body so that I was leaning against the back of the shower. I thought of more things I could say, more promises I could give, but my words were lost the moment his mouth touched my clit. I lovingly memorized the path of his spine to the curve of his ass as pleasure spiraled through me. I had time, I told myself. Time to tell him everything.