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Posts Tagged ‘power exchange’

  1. She Stabbed Me, and I Bubbled

    May 10, 2014 by Heather Cole

    I was dressed in a plaid miniskirt and a white ruffled blouse. I wore ballet flats, complete with little bows, and my long hair was divided into two pigtails. As we crossed the foyer of the hotel, my only thought was how I didn’t blend in very much. Especially because I wore my thick, black leather play collar. The silver rings on it jingled softly, but they might as well have been clanging bells as far as I was concerned. I felt obvious, and my discomfort only increased sir’s pleasure with my appearance. The women at the check-in desk followed our progress, their gazes burning holes in my back. We obviously weren’t members of the wedding party staying at the hotel. We were attendees of the “other” group (400+ kinksters), and we were headed to “Try It Out Scouts” in the main ballroom of our first kink convention.

    The room was dotted with tables full of different implements and supplies. An expert in the application of a particular tool (like clothespins or rope or fire cupping etc) stood beside it to help attendees “try it out.” I started with my standard favorites, impact toys, and climbed on to a spanking bench to try out paddles and a series of cane-like items. I enjoyed the different spanking styles and the different weights of toys. The things, and the person, that I had been anticipating sat in the back corner, but sir steered us to other tables first. Whether he deliberately tried to draw out my nervousness or not, the effect was the same. My stomach did tiny somersaults as we winded our way through the tables. Finally he pushed me towards Angel’s table.

    “Time to try your first needles,” he said with a nudge.

    Angel and I have had a colorful past full of bitten nipples and pulled hair which was pretty benign stuff as far as her repertoire was concerned. I thought she’s the bee’s knees. She was smart as a whip, sweet as an angel, and sadistic as a… alas, words failed me to describe the depth of such sadism. Suffice to say she charmed me and terrified me by turns. Sir had always had her in mind when it came to trying needle play, and I was excited to have a chance to try them out with her in a casual setting.

    I had no idea whether or not I was going to like needles in a play context. I had acupuncture most of my life, but those needles were as thin as a cat’s whisker and only went a couple millimeters into my skin. I got my tattoo in my mid-twenties, and the feeling of the tiny needles dancing over my back relaxed me to the point where I fell asleep. The rest of my needle experience was purely medical and mostly unpleasant. During my years of trying to conceive, I had jabbed needles into my abdomen, ass, and arm, and I promise you, it all sucked. Because of the contradictory sensations, I really had no idea what to expect from my try out with Angel.

    Sir and I watched as she slid needles into the breast of a beautiful woman. The needles had light blue handles, and Angel didn’t hesitate as she slid them just under the surface of the skin, poking the ends back to the surface. It reminded me of how my mama and I pinned fabric when we sewed. The woman smiled and Angel beamed, and I thought, maybe I could do this after all. When they were finished, Angel turned to look at the line of people that had formed by her table.

    “Oh, you’re next darlin’,” she said to me with a evil smile.

    FINE! (I’m being dramatic) She looked her adorable, devious self. I plunked myself down in the folding chair opposite her, and she squeezed my hand.

    “Now lift up your skirt.”

    I didn’t have a clue what that had to do with needles, but I stood up and grabbed the hem of my skirt.

    “I’m just kidding!” she laughed. “This is going to be super easy. In fact, you’ll look back when I sew your pussy shut like this was nothing.”

    I laughed, but my palms were sweating. Having my tender bits sewed together had been a fantasy of mine for a long time. To be more accurate, it was a nightmare and a fantasy all at the same time. Part of me wanted to try it, and part of me said that I was absolutely insane to think it was a good idea. Hearing Angel talk about it made it feel like we were one step closer to it actually happening, and adrenaline was zinging through me mixed with a little bit of panic.

    She told me to unbutton my shirt, because she would place the needles through the skin of my breast, just above the cup of my bra. I took a deep breath and centered myself. I focused on Angel’s face and refused to look down to watch the needles pierce my skin. I saw the motions of her placing the needle, but I didn’t feel anything.

    “Look at that. How does it feel? They’re my thinnest and shortest needles.”

    I stared at the pink plastic jutting out from gleaming stainless steel. “Um. I don’t feel it.”

    “Want another one?” Again there was lots of grinning on her part.

    “Yes, please.”

    She placed three more after that. I felt those more, because my body had become sensitized in that area. Like it knew that poking was happening so I should feel it. Logically I knew that I should feel the needles as I’ve felt them before, but this sensation was overall pleasant. Then Angel pushed with her finger on the center where the needles crossed.

    I’ve heard other people describe the endorphin rush from needle play as “flying.” When Angel pushed on the needles, energy bubbled out of me like the fizz of an Alka Seltzer. It was an endorphin rush, yes, but I felt like one of those erupting volcanoes that you make for the science fair. I had to have been grinning like a dope as I sat there and gushed.

    “Energy is just coming out of you like crazy,” she said and motioned for sir to come closer. “Touch her arm.” Angel looked at me again. “Can you push that energy into your sir?”

    I tried. I looked inward and visualized moving the bubbly feeling up sir’s arm and into his body, but to be honest, I don’t think I did a damn thing. I felt boneless and more relaxed than I had in days. Eventually sir stood back again to watch.

    “Ready?” Angel asked. “I want you to look down.”

    If she hadn’t called my attention to the needles, I would have missed the entire thing. I certainly didn’t feel it at all. With a swift downward motion, Angel stabbed the last needle into my breast. Trust me when I say that the word “stab” is no exaggeration. She plunged that needle into me like Norman Bates through a shower curtain. My jaw dropped open as Angel rocked back in her chair and started to laugh.

    “Well, that’s kind of mean,” I sputtered, not really meaning it.

    I would have laughed too if I wasn’t so high.


  2. I Called Him Daddy

    March 26, 2014 by Heather Cole

    When I first began exploring BDSM, it took me awhile to figure out that there were different ways to “do” dominance. There were Daddy Doms, Doms, Tops, Service Tops, Dommes, Mistresses and Masters, and there were hundreds of styles of dominance. As a newbie slave, there was one thing I was certain of. I didn’t want a caretaker. I wanted someone to worship and serve and fuck. I wanted my boundaries pushed, and I wanted pain to feed my masochism. Daddy Doms were slightly mystifying to me. I understood that being nurtured and cared for were wonderful facets of a relationship, but the loving Daddy dynamic held little appeal for me. Frankly, I didn’t get the attraction even though I respected the kink.

    Once I entered the local kinky community, my eyes were opened to new worlds of power exchange. I learned that many of my friends were adult babies, littles or middles or were the mommies and daddies of littles and middles and adult babies. I found age play fascinating, and I loved hearing about the players’ experiences and how play was incorporated into their lives. But it still held little appeal to me. Like the role of the caring Daddy Dom, I could appreciate it, but I didn’t particularly want it as part of my own D/s.

    Age play came front and center after I read a book by a friend of mine, Mako Allen. He wrote Auntie Eva’s Boarder, a fascinating look at age play and how one man became an adult baby. I expected to be entertained, because I thought Mako was a talented and creative writer. What I hadn’t expected was to find parallels between the age players and my own Master/slave relationship. And I really hadn’t expected to get turned on. As I read passages aloud to sir, I could see the wheels turning in his head.

    Our first foray into age play wasn’t successful, and it involved hypnosis. I didn’t like the feeling of being a little girl. I felt powerless, and the “little” feeling blurred the lines of sex from consensual into non-consent territory. Not because of anything my master did but because of my own perceptions of feeling little.  I was certain that being a mother to a young child also complicated the situation for me. Typically when I thought about children, I experienced the protective ferocity of a mother wolf. Add to that the fact that I was self-reliant to the extreme, often to my own detriment, being a little girl and dependent on another person felt more uncomfortable and conflicting than pleasurable. We didn’t manage to make it work for both of us, so I stopped thinking about age play and Daddy Doms and everything else. I stopped thinking about it, because life got interesting in unsettling ways.

    Sir had been interviewing for a new job since last September. Because of my custody agreement, and my choice to be a present and loving mother, I chose to stay in this area until my child went to college to share custody with my ex. I knew that sir would be leaving his current position since last spring, but for much of that time, I figured that he would take another job in our locality. My assumptions, though, were firmly in place because I didn’t want to think about the alternative. I didn’t want to think about what life would be like without him. We had spent a year forging our dynamic and creating a life where I woke up to his body beside me and his cock in my mouth, and every night I burrowed into his arms after a thorough fucking. But it was the day-to-day rituals and interactions that I looked forward to so much: cooking his meals, ironing his clothes, bringing him coffee in the morning, and showering together… The list of mundane togetherness went on and on, and I cherished each connection, no matter how slight it seemed. My life now revolved around him in significant ways, and his absence would mean… even now I lacked the words to describe that devastation. But I forced myself to take a good, long look at reality after sir had a second interview for a position overseas. Everything sank home at once. There was the very real possibility that sir would spend most of the next two years halfway around the world.

    This realization wasn’t graceful, and it was barely coherent. I spent most of one weekend in constant tears, lashing out at anything and everything. We debated. We cried. I felt overwhelmed by anger and hopelessness. Nothing had been decided, but I hated that many things that I loved in my life were now in jeopardy. I had done long-distance D/s before, and I knew logically that I could do it again. Really my anger was a product of my fear; that I was losing him somehow. I couldn’t stand the thought of being left behind, a slave without an owner. Our life together was something I had dreamed about for years. But if he left, our lives would be irrevocably altered, and the fear in my head whispered that we would never have this again. I was a mess, but I didn’t know any other way to process the cold hard facts of a possible separation.

    To sir’s credit he braved my emotional tempest with calm and equilibrium. He pulled me into his arms as I fell apart, soothing me the best he could. I felt like the walking wounded, like my pain and fear were this open wound I carried where my heart would be. He stroked my hair and called me his BabyGirl, and promised that he would take care of me. I’m your Daddy, he told me, and it was his responsibility and his pleasure to provide for me. He said he would never let me go, and that no matter where he went I would always be his BabyGirl. Somehow those assurances didn’t strike me as uncomfortable. He was a nurturing Daddy, and I needed him. I was in such a state of raw vulnerability that all I wanted was to be his BabyGirl and crawl into his lap to let him deal with everything. I needed his nurturing spirit and kind words. I needed his care.

    Since then the words Daddy and BabyGirl have crept into our daily vocabulary. I don’t think it’s age play exactly, although there are elements of that sometimes, but more like a caring Daddy Dom. Every day sir holds me, snuggling me close and reassuring me that he’s going to take care of me. And I soak in his words, basking in his strength and assurances. I’m learning to be comfortable in my vulnerability and open to his help. I’m his BabyGirl, and I’m starting to feel grateful for that.


  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. Fridays are Filthy

    October 4, 2013 by Heather Cole

    IMG_2233 SM

    I mean “filthy” in the best possible way, because this week I released a new collection of short-short stories called TALES OF A FILTHY GOOD GIRL.

    This has always been a dream of mine… to be used while being cherished, degraded and respected for it. These things shouldn’t coexist in a relationship, yet I experience them every time we’re together. I am his beloved. And I am his whore. 

    Tales of a Filthy Good Girl offers a glimpse into the lives of a Dominant man and his sex slave, a very good girl who discovered how delightful it was to be naughty. Full of love, power exchange, and erotic play, these tales offer a look into just what happens when a good girl turns filthy.


    You can buy it here on Amazon.


    I’m particularly proud of the cover. My friend, Phoenix Eddy, was kind enough to tie me up, place me at his antique desk and take a bazillion photos. The man is a top notch rigger and photographer, and I love his interpretation of being a writer. You know, I’m not joking when I say that I’m “chained to my desk.”


    Here’s a tidbit of what you’ll find inside TALES OF A FILTHY GOOD GIRL:

    There once was a scullery wench who married a prince. Trust me, she was just as surprised about it as you are. The prince thought she was funny and smart and pretty. But he didn’t approve of her humble family, her plain clothes, or how often she wanted to fuck.

    He told her in a stern voice, “I will marry you and give you my royal name and all the wealth and privileges that go with it. You will never have to wash pots in the scullery again. However, you must leave behind your poor beginnings and your odd predilection for sex. Upstanding citizens, particularly royal ones, do not have sex except when appropriate.”

    The scullery wench was flattered for the most part. It wasn’t every day that a fancy man of royal lineage looked her way. But she felt self-conscious. She looked at her work-worn hands and the hole in the hem of her skirt. She fidgeted where she sat, knowing that if she reached between her legs she would find she was aroused. Before the prince had made his offer, she had been about to ask him to adjourn to the royal bed chamber for a round of enthusiastic lovemaking.

    Were all these things as disgraceful as he implied? What if he knew that she liked to be spanked and bitten hard on the ass? She glanced around the finely appointed room and the servant standing at attention by the door. It would be nice to have more stability. Being a scullery wench meant living hand-to-mouth most of the time. Besides, she didn’t need to be spanked every time she had sex. Taking a deep breath, she smiled at the prince.

    “I will marry you. Now can we fuck?”


    I hope you enjoy reading these stories as much as I enjoyed writing them!

    *boob smoosh*