RSS Feed

‘BDSM’ Category

  1. New Territory in My Submission

    June 18, 2013 by Heather Cole

    Saturday night I was riding the unicorn high. I had returned home from a successful evening of dinner with friends and some good discussion about me being their unicorn. They wanted a friends-with-benefits arrangement that had the potential to be sexy and kinky. I felt desirable and horny, and when LH arrived, I was ready to get naked and fuck. Not that I said anything about my desires, because I was fairly certain I could peel us out of our clothes and he’d take the hint. Yes, I was feeling that confident in my powers of seduction.

    When LH walked through my bedroom door, I sensed he was in a mood. He smiled at me, but it was the smile of a predator. Right away I sensed he was in Master space. I didn’t listen to the cautionary voice in my head who whispered to tread lightly and pay attention. I blithely talked about my evening as I made the bed, excited about the opportunities that hovered on the horizon. Because even though my intuition was wicked accurate, I often ignored her words of advice. sigh… because I’m an idiot and like to live on the edge.

    Sir grabbed a handful of my hair and pulled me up to look at him. His eyes captured mine, and he gave me the barest hint of a smile. “I’m going to make you cum, and then I’m going to hurt you. Do you understand?”

    I nodded, still not quite believing him. He continued to explain what he had in store for me as I changed tack, slipping off my dress and unbuttoning his shirt and shorts. His hand hovered over my cunt exactly where I wanted, and I tried pushing myself closer. All I could think about was getting those fingers inside me, but he pushed me away and told me to get on the bed. I did as he said, still thinking that I could cajole him into doing what I wanted.

    Biting back a word of protest, I lay on the bed and spread my thighs. I lay there silently inviting him to ravage me, offering myself and wishing we could get on with it. I pouted when he refused to touch me and gave him my biggest, bluest eyes. I felt mildly irritated that he was resisting my playfulness, but figured he would soon succumb to my wiles. After all, I was a unicorn. I had magical powers of glittery seduction.

    <SLAP>

    The feel of his hand across my cheek froze me in place. I gasped, and he hit me again.

    “There’s my slave. I see her now,” he said. Stunned, I didn’t say a word but waited for my next instruction.

    Getting slapped was a trigger for me–a trigger in a good way. The blow placed me firmly at the edge of the deepest part of my submission, a place where we had played before with wonderful results. I eagerly waited for the next thing that would push me into the abyss and transform me into the enduring, peaceful slave that always dwells inside me.

    Much to my shame and frustration, I never got there.

    As the night proceeded, sir kept me precariously balanced at the edge of submission. There was no meditative state for me, no peace in my grudging submission, and it was driving me crazy. I felt frustrated as he encouraged me to struggle against him, pulling my arms free from his grasp as he fucked me. I had orgasm after orgasm against my will as I desperately tried to find the peaceful place within me that could just accept the stimulus with open arms and without judgment. I wanted to find that place within me that endured without complaint, that would take whatever sir gave me with unflappable calm. That was my definition of a “good” slave, but I couldn’t seem to attain that state of grace.

    After a particularly messy fucking of my ass, sir shoved me into the shower. I stood naked and shivering as he poured cold water over me, gently scolding me for being such a dirty whore. Part of me loved being roughly used while a smaller part seethed with frustration. No matter how hard I tried or how much I wanted it, I couldn’t dive into my slave self to fully embrace and revel in the degradation and pain of our scene. And for the first time ever, I was angry at LH. Again he grabbed my face so that he could see directly into my eyes.

    “Do I have all of you, slave?”

    When I remained silent, he wrapped his fingers around my jaw. “Use your words. Do I have all of you?”

    “No, sir,” I replied and closed my eyes as my cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

    I didn’t realize it until I said the actual words, but I was holding on to one last piece of my free self. If sir wasn’t going to give me my familiar cues that would launch me into deep submission, then I’d fight him and hold on to that one last bit of independence. I clung to it, making a small barrier between us. The problem was that I wanted to give it up more than I wanted to possess it, but I didn’t know how. The back and forth tugging of our play had upset my idea of peaceful submission, and I couldn’t figure out how to get back to familiar slave territory from this new position.

    “Thank you for telling me the truth,” sir said, and kissed the top of my head. But he wasn’t finished with me.

    Seemingly on impulse, sir decided to cane me for a missed text earlier in the week. I fought the beating tooth and nail. Refusing to lie still, I actually sat up and tried to grab the cane out of his hand. I’ve never done such a thing in all my BDSM days, and I felt an odd combination of exhilaration and shame for attempting it. Finally when sir called the scene over and pulled me into his arms, I tried to believe his reassurances. He was thrilled with the territory we had explored, but all I felt was frustration with myself and disappointment.

    I’m still processing everything that happened, and LH and I are still talking through the many things that occurred and the feelings we experienced. (Damn the feefees!) This morning I knelt beside him on the bed, dressed in running clothes and ready for coffee. He said, “You’re a beautiful, desirable and powerful creature. But I want you to remember that you and your empire rest under my boot. Under those clothes you’re wearing, you are my naked slave.”

    I’ve thought a lot about that statement, carefully analyzing the layers of my reaction. I wondered if the whole point of the scene was to claim me or was it to teach me that there was more than one way to dominate a slave. Or even more intriguing, is sir offering me the chance to explore an entirely new territory of my submission–a place where I’m permitted to struggle and fight. It will mean revising my definition of what a “good” slave does, and I’m starting to be OK with that. In fact, I believe I’m going to thoroughly enjoy myself.

     

    Category BDSM | Tags: ,, | 2 Comments

  2. No Place For Judgement

    May 11, 2013 by Nikki Blue

    I studied the short profile before beginning the conversation with her, a self-titled unicorn who expressed interest in playing with Mr. K and myself this coming weekend. I’d already determined that she preferred women to men and that she’d been into the sharing lifestyle for a number of years. The cuffs decorating her wrists and ankles in one of her photographs gave me the impression she was submissive.

    “Do you know what BDSM is?” she asked.

    I snorted, reading the question to Heather who immediately tweeted what we thought was a laughable inquiry. The unicorn didn’t know me, though, and I seriously doubt she was testing my sense of humor. My response was delayed and it led her to believe I was at a loss which also made me snort. I contemplated an answer that didn’t sound all-knowing or condescending, informing her that I identify as a Switch who is much more dominant than submissive. She countered a little too quickly saying she’s “super submissive” and “super aggressive” in bed, which I found super contradictory. She also said she was uninvolved in the BDSM community but belonged to the Farm. To be honest, I have no idea what the Farm is, but I do know she has two Dommes. However, it was her confession that she enjoys sensual, erotic floggings that left Heather questioning whether her Dom has it all wrong and left me with more questions.

    “What are your hard limits?” I asked, hell bent on making some sense out of the increasingly confusing conversation.

    “What is that?”

    Are you fucking kidding me? “A hard limit is something you absolutely will NOT do.”

    “Oh! Blow jobs,” she replied.

    *face palm*

    I peeked at the words on the screen from behind my splayed fingers, unsure where to go from there. Disappointment cast a familiar shadow as the unicorn’s magic began to slowly fade, but the search thus far had been exhausting and I wasn’t ready to throw my hands up just yet. I decided to take a different approach, asking specific questions instead of generalized ones, and the answers I got in return were exactly what I was looking for. This unicorn was submissive, and like the other one I recently met, doesn’t like pain or anything that will leave marks. I told her not to worry because I’m no sadist. Well, mostly.

    Some kinksters would have judged her, calling it quits when it became obvious they were reading different editions of the BDSM dictionary, but I’m not a judgmental person. Except when it comes to dog porn, because that’s all kinds of fucked up. My point is, though, her misunderstanding of the vocabulary doesn’t make her version of BDSM any less valid than mine. That’s the thing that is so fantastically wonderful about kink; there is no rule book dictating strict guidelines. And each fetish can be characterized however your dirty little heart desires or custom fit to meet your definition, whatever it may be. Take anal play, for example. Some kinksters view anything involving the anus as scat play. But that’s their definition, not mine. To me, scat play is excrement with intent. It’s also a hard limit of mine. Like super hard.

    There are times, though, when differences in dialect mean that a person’s newbie is showing, and that’s okay. It doesn’t mean they’re wrong. It just means they’re still learning the ropes. There are no workshops giving demonstrations on the correct way to be kinky, no online classes that give concrete vocabulary that’s used by all kinksters. Each kinkster goes through their own trial, error and research when trying to find their kinky way. But what makes a star student is the willingness to learn. Besides, we all started somewhere, right?

    I’ve had my fair share of judgement from the kinky community and it’s a hard pill to swallow. Whether it’s from fellow bloggers who believe my relationship with Mr. K is destined for failure because we chose a monogam-ish relationship, or from people who find it surprising I don’t have incontinence issues from anal sex; their uneducated assumptions cause my cleavage to flush around my bedazzled blade. In my opinion, criticism is an ill-fitting mask worn in an attempt to cover-up insecurities. It’s an ugly affliction to bare. Kind of like the Elephant Man, but way worse.

    It’s part of the American identity that we think for ourselves. It’s what makes us individuals. It’s also what allows us to make the choices that are a good fit for our needs, so if the unicorn’s idea of BDSM differs from mine, that’s okay. It doesn’t mean hers isn’t right. It’s right for her and that’s what matters. And if I had halted the conversation because of the communication mix up in the beginning, I wouldn’t know that she has experience and specific hard limits. She just didn’t know there was an identifying term for them.

    We’re all kinksters following our own definitions. We’re supposed to be open minded, free thinking and embracing. I think sometimes we forget that.

     

    Category BDSM | Tags: ,, | 9 Comments

  3. I want to see you cry

    May 7, 2013 by Heather Cole

    My head wasn’t in our game, and I didn’t have a lot to say. I felt like I was waiting for something, perhaps an idea that would set free the heavy weight of emotion that sat in my chest. Or a word from sir that would unlock the chains I had wrapped around the unfamiliar sadness. I was grappling to understand the source of my upset, and even though I knew that I needed to concentrate on our game, I was stuck.

    We began on my bed, missionary position, and I suggested that he take off his button down shirt. The shirt was stiff, a barrier, and I needed skin on skin. I lay on top of the quilt, my naked body sprawled over the precise squares of blue and red, waiting for him to disrobe. When he returned, though, the tone of the game had changed. His expression was serious, the smile gone from his eyes. Resolute was the word that came to my mind, and I knew we would be exploring new territory between us. The thought made me nervous.

    He grabbed my left breast first, one large hand forming it into a fleshy mound. His other hand drew back and slapped my nipple. The pain made me gasp. It was sharp and immediate, and I barely had time to prepare for the next slap. I struggled to cope with the pain and maintain my position. My nipples were on fire as the edge of his hand dragged forward and backward over my sensitive skin. Breast torture wasn’t new to me, but sir’s intense focus on hurting me was.

    I intuited that he was thinking about slapping my face, but I hadn’t convinced myself that he would actually do it. I assumed he played like this with his other partner, but we had never specifically discussed it. Part of me was still shocked that he would want to slap me. It’s an ingrained premise that we don’t hit the ones we love which was why my brain stumbled over the thought. I had always wondered what a face slap would feel like but never had the experience.

    I almost didn’t see it coming, his open palm hitting the fleshy part of my left cheek and the backhand catching my right cheekbone and nose. It hurt more than I had imagined, the pain bright and stinging, and I saw stars for a moment. Tears welled in the corners of my eyes. I wouldn’t meet sir’s gaze as I tried to marshall my breathing.

    “Are you afraid of me?” he asked as his cock plunged into me.

    “Yes, sir.”

    For the first time I was. Not in a way that made me fear for my well-being, because I could always say “red.” I could use my safeword and the scene would halt, and I would be swept into sir’s arms for comfort. But I wasn’t ready for comfort. I loved the feeling of anticipation of the next slap while fearing it at the same time. I winced instinctively as he drew back his hand, but there was no way I wanted our scene to end prematurely. Whatever was happening in this moment between us was working loose the vice-like grip I had on my emotions, and I wanted to ride this out for the fulfillment of us both.

    When I could meet his eyes again, our game had shifted but it was because of me this time. My engaging, willful self went into the background to be replaced by my slave self. My slave self is calm like the eye of a storm, watchful and enduring. She welcomes suffering and submits over and over again. I wouldn’t describe myself as passive when I’m in this place of deep submission, but I’m less verbal and more watchful.

    Sir grabbed my face, keeping eye contact. “I want to see you cry.” He slapped me again, and I did exactly as he commanded. “Now you feel like my slave.”

    I remained silent until I asked permission to come, but even my orgasm was a quiet one. Finally sir pronounced himself finished even though he was still hard. I let him roll me onto my side, and his arms came around me.

    It took me awhile to come back to myself. Sir held me and murmured soothing words. He described the change in me when I mentally stopped struggling to comprehend the fact that he wanted to slap me and merely endured his attentions instead. Through our conversation I gradually resumed my usual persona. I agreed that our experience had been amazing, and I reassured him that the slapping had been a great experience. Because believe it or not, even sadists need reassurance that they’re not terrible people for wanting to hurt you. The intensity of our interactions had ushered me into the deepest part of my submission, and even though I enjoyed playing in the deep waters, it took me awhile to disentangle myself from the murky depths.

    Something emotional had shaken loose during our scene. The sadness that I had felt before was now in full bloom. Its exact definition and cause were still vague, but I could now embrace it. It rapidly became clear to me that the chains I had weighing down my emotional morass were now in pieces, and I was feeling it. ALL of it.

    “You seem so sad,” he said when he kissed me goodbye.

    “I am, but I don’t know why yet.”

    “Please tell me when you do. I want to talk about it,” he said.

    “We will,” I promised.

    I always try to keep my promises.

     

    Category BDSM | Tags: , | 9 Comments

  4. Slave Hunt

    May 4, 2013 by Heather Cole

    slave hunt

    I was naked, my wrists encircled by thick leather cuffs and tied high above my head with rope. The sun was hazy behind the clouds, and a slight breeze caressed my naked breasts. I could see stretches of bare skin beside me, another naked woman tethered to the same wooden post. She shrieked as she shied away from her tormentors, and I glimpsed a modified cattle prod skim her upper thigh. I made a mental note to include cattle prods on my list of hard limits at next year’s Slave Hunt.

    There were a dozen of us tied to whipping posts, our hard limits printed on white cards above our heads. Mine read: no penetration, no food, no glitter, no Wanderella’s diamond plated broadsword (which was a moot point, because Wanderella had a heavy duty rubber paddle the size of my torso instead.) Everything else was encouraged, but I wasn’t afraid for my safety. LH would be with me most of the time at the post, and my girlfriend was there too. Plus I had the safeword “asparagus” that would halt everything if I became overwhelmed. No, I didn’t pick it.

    The beauty of the slave hunt was that it was the closest I could get to being hunted and captured without being in any real danger. Bounties were offered by the submissives, we were turned loose into the woods, and sadists with paintball guns hunted us. It didn’t matter that I had signed a waiver, declared my hard limits and wore a paintball mask for safety reasons. My survival instincts kicked in hard when the air gun signaled an end to our lead time. The feeling is primordial–fight or flight. Adrenaline shot through my veins and I ran.

    The hunting ground was a small section of woods on a private property, and there were few places to hide. My sneakers made little noise against the thick layer of pine tags, but my breathing was hot and loud inside the mask. I had a moment right before we were signaled to run, a feeling of crystalline awareness of internal preparation. I was readying myself, and despite the jitters I experienced on the surface, my body was preparing physically and mentally for subspace. Whether it had been conscious on our parts or not, LH had been training me for this hunt. Every scene we had gave me more experience, and as he tested my limits, he gave me the skills to go deeper and adapt better. It was our first public outing as Master and slave, and I wanted to make him proud. More importantly, I wanted to prove to myself that “pain slut” wasn’t just another pretty title.

    I had no intention of winning my heat. I wanted to avoid a paintball welt by surrendering, happily giving up my cinnamon rolls to my captor (not a euphemism). My real goal was the whipping post and the strangers that wanted to torture me. Anyone could touch me as long as they honored my limits. My true challenge was whether or not I could manage the pain they were eager to inflict.

    LH began my warmup at the post with his flogger. The rhythmic thud of the leather against my back lured my brain into silence and pushed me into the quiet place where I go in a scene. When Angel stood beside me, one of the post monitors, I barely registered her request to play with me. Her crop smacked my thighs as she smiled up at me. I think she said I was pretty right before her teeth sank into my left breast. I exhaled loudly through my nose, and I had a second to adjust before she let go and grabbed my nipple between her teeth. The exquisite pain of teeth cutting into me stole all coherent thought. I moved with her as she pulled to the left until I felt another set of teeth fasten on my ear. I was suspended on a gossamer thread of pain, rendered immobile.

    “Why aren’t you moving?” Angel demanded.

    “Because I have her ear.” The voice was a deep rumble behind me.

    She looked at me and grinned. “What do you want to lose–your ear or your nipple?”

    “You mean I have a choice?” I asked.

    The sadists laughed, releasing me, and I forced myself to breathe and move back into position. Pain lanced through my abused ear and nipple, but I refused to take stock of any injuries. This was just the beginning. The air held a carnival-like feeling, and a crowd of people surrounded the posts, talking and heckling. I had forty-five minutes to endure before the next heat was bagged and brought into camp. I permitted myself to scan the crowd to find my girlfriend, and she smiled at me in encouragement. I could do this.

    The man who grabbed my ear, Kuma, struck me with a rod that came from a set of Venetian blinds. I didn’t know that’s what it was until later. Caning, regardless of the material, can offer a sharp, cutting pain depending on how it’s applied. It can steal your breath and deliver a pain so sharp that you’re jerked to the surface like a trout from the water. I tried not to anticipate the strike, which would lead to fear and cause me to lose subspace, but focused instead on my body’s reaction. My mantra was “accept the pain and disperse it.” Kuma’s voice was low and soothing as he hit me, and he asked LH if I normally “dropped” this fast. For a second I was confused, but then I realized he was referring to the fact that I was already in subspace. I was in the zone. There were shrieks all around me, but I couldn’t watch anyone for long because a different man began florentine flogging me.

    I had been introduced to him earlier in the afternoon. He had an open smile and a leather duffel bag overflowing with floggers, canes and other toys of torment. He had a beautiful whip that he showed me, and watching his hands caress the tan hide made me think decidedly explicit thoughts about other things those hands could do. When he asked to play with me at the post, I practically orgasmed on the spot. It was my first florentine experience, but really, that man could use anything on me and I’d be thrilled.

    “Wow. You can take that?” he asked after hitting me with a silicon rod sporting a glittery rainbow core.

    I didn’t turn to look over my shoulder at him, trusting LH to gauge my reactions. When LH said, “yes she can” there was another blow to my ass. And another.

    At one point he and LH both had floggers and were hitting me at the same time, and I had the stray thought that it had become a fun competition. Who could hit Heather the hardest? I rocked forward on the balls of my feet from the combined impact, and I did a mental scan of my body. Nothing hurt too much, but I could feel the heat radiating from my abraded skin. LH’s hand came to rest at the base of my neck as his other hand moved between my thighs. His fingers rubbed tight circles over my clit until I was gasping, begging him to let me come. I leaned into him and let the orgasm take me, my mind and body overwhelmed by sensation.

    Eventually LH gave me over to my girlfriend, because he wanted to check on his play partner. It was a relief to hear Liri’s voice in my ear when she told me what a good girl I was. I wasn’t screaming or protesting. When I saw the grin on her face, though, I knew it wasn’t over. “I can’t believe they’re neglecting your tits,” she said.

    That woman slaps tits harder than any dude I know.

    After I was taken down from the post, I floated high on endorphins and the pleasure of a job well done. Eventually I found clothes, and LH and I delivered my cinnamon rolls and chocolate chip cookies to the sadist who captured me. He sent me the nicest thank you note:

    “It was quite nice slinging a real woman over my shoulder and carrying her up the hill. The cinnamon rolls are beyond fucking amazing. Like mouth watering bliss in a sticky cinnamon bun. Amazing skills right there. Thank you so very much for such a treat.”

    The entire day was a treat–a glorious day of firsts. I participated in my first hunt. I had my first public scene with new players, and we attended our first community event as Master and slave. I’m sure it must seem odd to some people that I would derive such pleasure from public submission and pain. I couldn’t tell you why that works for me, but I’m pleased as punch no matter how you slice it. I’m a pain slut, y’all. It’s what we do.

     

    Category BDSM | Tags: ,,,,, | 19 Comments

  5. An Apology

    April 16, 2013 by Heather Cole

    Last week I attended a gathering of women and men who identified as slaves or submissives for an evening of learning and discussion. I was nervous about attending, because I didn’t know a soul. But I arrived with cookies fresh from the oven and figured no one could possibly dislike someone who brought dessert.

    A round of quick introductions brought my attention to the woman across from me. She wore a steel collar, a steel cuff on each wrist and one on each ankle. LH and I had been discussing that exact style of day collar and cuffs. I could barely restrain my excitement, and I asked her if anyone ever inquired about her “jewelry.” She told a funny story about the one woman who did, and when she talked more about her background, she revealed that she had been trained as a Gorean red silk slave.

    SHIT! my brain shouted. Fuckity fuck fuckit, I whispered.

    For several awful moments all I could think about was the unflattering things I said about followers of Gor in a “Dear Heather” post last month. Never in a million years would I have discounted the woman sitting in our circle about her training, but I had done exactly that in a blog post. And for that, I feel an apology is in order.

    I’m very sorry for my careless words. I’m NOT sorry that I advised Would Be Slave to ditch the suspicious Dom she was considering. However, I retract my Gorean/Scientology comparison, because let’s face it, no one I like should be compared to Tom Cruise’s spiritual practices.

    My darling vagina readers, here comes my lesson for the week. My kink isn’t necessarily your kink, but that doesn’t mean that you’re doing it “wrong.” If you have enthusiastic consent from all parties, are using sane practices and are safe (This is a widely debated definition, but I’m not getting into that now.) then you’re doing your kink right. It’s true that I have absolutely no interest in creating a BDSM fantasy around a series of science fiction novels, but that doesn’t lessen my slave friend’s service in any way or any other slave who follows the Gorean ways.

    One of the best pieces of advice I ever read was, “if someone tells you that they know THE right way to do kink, they’re lying.” There is no right way. It all depends upon the individuals playing. This goes for all sorts of protocols too. Capitalizing Sir and using lowercase “i” as a pronoun for slaves and submissives is pure preference. It’s a decision made between a Dominant and submissive within their dynamic. Just because LH and I don’t use that in our written communications doesn’t mean that we’re not Master and slave. We just happen to be a Master and slave who adhere to the grammar rules of the Chicago Manual of Style.

    To the slaves that follow the trainings of Gor, you have my sincerest apologies if I offended you. All submission is a gift, and I need a reminder of that sometimes. I’ll even bake you peanut butter chocolate chip oatmeal cookies if that makes me a better candidate for forgiveness, and we’ll declare the slate wiped clean. Or I can send some feed for your bosk. Ha! I kid.

    Boob smooshes,

    Heather

    Category BDSM | Tags: ,, | No Comments

  6. Marks

    April 7, 2013 by Heather Cole

    Heather Sinful Sunday

    As a young woman, I hated my pale skin. I had freckles, and I never tanned. Even when I wore a high SPF, I burned. My German Irish ancestors were to blame obviously.

    It wasn’t until I experienced my first flogging that I understood how rewarding my skin could be. I marked up like a dream.  Fingernails, teeth, rulers, paddles, riding crops… regardless of the implement, my skin embraced it.

    Rope leaves kisses too.

    Sinful Sunday

    Category BDSM | Tags: ,, | 24 Comments

  7. Pics of a Rope Bunny

    April 5, 2013 by Heather Cole

    Instead of joining my large extended family around the dinner table to celebrate Easter, I was hundreds of miles away with LH, en route to our first rope suspension class. I was in charge of navigating which was a nice distraction from my nervous stomach. The orgasm midway didn’t hurt either. It wasn’t only that I probably wouldn’t know any of the kinksters in attendance or that I was new to the world of rope suspension, I knew there were going to be pictures too. As much as the exhibitionist in me loved photos, I also partially dreaded the results.

    I had written in my Fearless Press column, A Kink in the Curves, that rope was helping me improve my body image and had bolstered my confidence. However, in an entirely new setting with new people doing a new thing–my nerves were jumping and I felt shy. Yes, I said it. I felt SHY. The first thing someone said to me was, “you’re dressed awful formal just to get naked.” The comment actually made me laugh. My dress and ballet flats were the best kind of camouflage. I looked like a good girl on a Easter outing.

    After signing our waivers and being introduced to other people in the line, LH and I made our way to the social area of The Hangar where the class would be held. The Hangar looked exactly like its moniker except that the inside had been divided into large rooms. We sat in a social area lined with carpet and couches, a table that supported a variety of snacks and water, and a stereo system. An industrial winch hung halfway down, suspending a long iron bar with silver rings.

    LH gave me a tour into the back rooms, one of which held a cage and a giant spider web made of wire. I went into the cage, of course, and LH took a series of photos with his phone. With the throw pillows to sit on, it wasn’t an uncomfortable space. All I needed was a “Please Feed the Pet” sign to hold. Then he made me sit on a large wooden throne that looked like it had been lifted straight out of a Viking’s hall, and I felt out of place perched on the edge of the cushion. Again there were more pictures as I tried to sit still, but I really wanted off the thing. My butterflies were back.

    I sat at LH’s feet on a pillow for the duration of the class. There was one other slave in the group, and she had come in her collar. Part of me relaxed when I saw her especially since she sat on the floor like I did. Finally the handouts were put aside, and we got to our feet. LH told me to take off my dress, and I stripped down to my panties. My Batgirl panties, to be precise, because I’m a badass. The other slave and I were the only naked submissives. Everyone else wore a leotard or some sort of workout gear. At first I felt a little self-conscious, but once the rope started winding around me, I forgot about everything else.

    LH murmured encouragements in my ear, his hands warm against my exposed skin. Rope crossed over my chest, around my waist and around each thigh. It felt like a meditative exercise as LH worked on me, ensuring that I’d be safe when I was finally hoisted into the air. This part was familiar to me, and I didn’t start squirming until the camera came out again. LH did beautiful rope work, so I understood why he wanted to document it all. All the women in the room and the one male submissive had bumps of skin where there weren’t any before. Rope can be a great equalizer, because once you’re trussed up for a suspension, even the leanest submissives get curves.

    I was suspended maybe three feet in the air, and the experience was like nothing I’ve felt before. Being tied on the ground felt night and day different from going up in the air. The weight of your body was distributed along the rope which was actively pressing against you. Logically, I knew all this. We had a lot of supervision and expert advice, but when I got up there, my brain experienced a hiccup.

    How I processed discomfort or pain was through breathing and visualization techniques, but every time I went to draw a deep breath, I felt the rope tighten across my chest. My breathing wasn’t constricted, and I could draw normal breaths, but my brain snagged on that feeling of rope pressed against my chest. I ran through my mental checklist and felt all my limbs to make certain that I wasn’t in pain or uncomfortable. My body checked out just fine. It was my mind that was uneasy. I was never in any physical danger, and if I wanted down all I had to do was tell LH. As I dangled there, staring at the red mat below me, I understood clearly why mental freakouts were the number one reason for a failed rope suspension scene. It didn’t help that I was in the middle of being sick with an upper respiratory infection. This was another valuable lesson learned: rope suspension and lung congestion didn’t mix. (You can file that under “Duh, Heather.”) And then there were more pictures…

    I hated being Debbie Downer but I didn’t like my suspension pics very much. I realized that my body was going to naturally contort into different forms depending on how I was suspended, but all those bumps and bulges gave me serious sadface. I knew I needed to gag and bind my inner critic and focus instead on the amazing afternoon I had with rope and LH. I mean, I was suspended! In the air! That was crazy fun! So what if I didn’t look like a fetish model? Shut up, stupid inner critic.

    There were a bunch of photos taken at the end that I thoroughly enjoyed. I liked seeing the rope patterns appear across my skin, and I did a couple of cheeky poses that turned out to be funny and looked like me instead of a stunned deer/heartburn victim. A couple days after our rope adventure, LH had me choose my favorites. He wanted me to post them so that we could see my evolution from novice to experienced rope bunny. Part of me appreciated his theory. Now I need to work on the rest of me.

     

    Category BDSM | Tags: ,, | 9 Comments

  8. sometimes it hits you on the head

    March 26, 2013 by Heather Cole

    Finding a Dominant that fit my submissive needs was much the same as it was trying to find a good fit in traditional dating. I was trying to find another person with the right combination of desires and aspirations, someone who not only met my submissive needs but inspired me to be a better slave. I had people in my life who willingly helped satisfy my masochistic desires, but no one who wished to dominate me. Not in the way that I needed, and after a couple months of trying to top from the bottom (I suck at that, by the way.) I gave up searching all together.

    The first time I went to LH’s office, I was told to wear my buttplug. We had agreed to meet to begin exploring a D/s relationship, one that ran along the lines of my favorite BDSM movie, Secretary. I wore a black dress and heels, and was freshly shaved and moisturized. I was ready for paperwork and secretarial duties or whatever else the man decided to do with me. I hoped his intentions for me stretched beyond my administrative skills, but I kept those expectations low. I fought not to let my hopes inch too high in case they were dashed by another incompatible Dominant.

    I was standing naked in between tall shelves full of books with the scent of sandalwood seducing my nose when I had the thought that maybe what I had been searching for all this time was standing directly in front of me. His hands were warm, and they moved my body where he needed as he deftly knotted a chest harness around me. It was only the third time I had ever been bound by rope, and when he produced a pair of nipple clamps, I realized that my new experiences weren’t going to end there.

    He then pulled out the toys he had brought with him that day, and I tried not to flinch when he showed me the canes. I had arrived late, and even though I assured him it wasn’t on purpose, it was still a test for him. If LH had ignored my slight twenty minute infraction, I would have known right then that he as wasn’t serious about playing with a slave as I’d hoped. I would have been disappointed but generally ok, because LH is handsome and funny and a skilled kisser. But I wasn’t disappointed, and I learned with every strike of that wicked cane that LH was seriously considering me. He showed me that I was worth the time and effort to correct, and that he was taking my submission to heart. He wanted to bend my submission to suit his will. He wanted to claim me.

    I met LH at a play party last summer, and our paths crossed again in the fall when he attended a munch with one of his polyamorous partners. My girlfriend, Liri, had pointed him out before this, and they enjoyed a flirtatious relationship. After watching them together I mentally placed him in the category of “wants in my gf’s pants.” I didn’t think he had any interest in me. When he sent me an email commenting on our brunch conversation about the two of them co-topping me, I didn’t think anything about it. I thought he was being polite.

    For two months we corresponded through email, and I found myself slowly and inextricably seduced by his words. He spoke candidly about his evolution with polyamory and in kink and how he was searching for his version of a Girl Friday. We traded favorite books and movies, and during the course of it, I had a revelation about what being a slave meant to me. I didn’t want the details of my life to be dictated to me in minutia, but I wanted the fantasy of Dominance and submission to stretch beyond the bedroom into reality. I poured out my slave soul in an email, and LH didn’t just respond, he affirmed my feelings. Rereading this still makes me cry:

    Thank you for sharing more about what it means to you to be a slave. It is a beautiful thing to see slavery through your eyes. I admire how sacred it is to you. You are a rare and precious treasure. For the right owner you will be an exceptional slave. Please don’t give it away again too easily. Consider your suitors hard. Make your future owner EARN the right to collar you. Be patient, and your birthright will present itself at YOUR feet.

    I stared at his words and told myself he couldn’t possibly be serious. He understood me, the slave me, and I had no clue what I should do about it.

    On the outside I was talking to my partners about LH. He became known as the “task guy,” because every week I chose three things to accomplish. These tasks were typically things that I had been procrastinating about, ranging from personal to professional. But I wasn’t talking about our conversations in detail or how I felt about them. Even though everyone involved was poly I knew that introducing another person, especially a significant one, was going to raise sensitivities. I was afraid to tell Liri how important to me the interactions between LH and I were becoming, that she’d smile and pat my hand in a way that told me I was, once again, wishing for a Dom who wasn’t really there. I probably talked more about LH and my love of tasks to Zen than anyone else, but I was only telling half the story. On the inside I was holding my breath, waiting for LH to say, “this was a fun game. Let’s play again sometime.” I was waiting for him to back out when he realized how serious I was about D/s, so I stayed quiet when I should have been relating my fears and exhilaration to my partners.

    Boy Scout openly encouraged me, reassuring me that he understood that LH was supplying something that I needed. Although I was grateful for his reassurance, I also knew that I was standing on the precipice of something deep and powerful. I knew that if our relationship was going to be as Master/slave as I expected, and desired, I knew that there would be waves made along our polyamorous connections. If I made this leap, things were going to change irrevocably. And true to my nature, I took a running leap into the arms of the unknown.

    LH didn’t just catch me, he welcomed me with his whole heart. It was like two pieces came together in a way that was seamless and effortless, and my dream finally manifested into this incredible dynamic that I had almost stopped hoping for. For the first time in a long, long time, I’m looking into the eyes of a man who truly sees the slave in me and knows exactly what to do with that knowledge.

    I’m still addressing the reverberations of my choice, and the fact that I didn’t fully disclose everything while it was happening. I’m talking specifics now with my partners, but things are far from settled. I’m addressing everyone’s concerns and making assurances and trying to find my footing again after the whirlwind of LH and me coming together. There are some hard conversations to come, and I’m feeling anxious about that. I don’t want anyone to feel displaced or hurt, and I’m afraid that there’s no way to avoid some of it. I love my people fiercely, and I hate knowing that I caused some major relationship stress. It’s an odd feeling to be ecstatically happy on one hand and worried in the other, but I’m working on that. All of it.

     

    Category BDSM | Tags: ,, | 3 Comments

  9. Being Submissive Doesn’t Make Me a Doormat

    March 24, 2013 by Heather Cole

    I’ve said that a lot since I came out as a BDSM slave, and it’s a common misconception even among kinksters. Just because I submit to my Dom, doesn’t mean that I submit to every Tom, Dick and Harry that crosses my path. Nor does it mean that I’m passive in my “regular” life. I consider myself a feminist… a feminist slave! It’s the most beautiful contradiction. And I’m not alone.

    “Being submissive is very compatible with feminism because it is choosing your own form of sexual expression. In the end, sexuality is empowering—and you can empower people in all the diverse ways that they enjoy sexuality. Power exchanges are one of those ways.” — Susan Wright, founder/president of a sexual rights organization called the National Coalition for Sexual Freedom (NCSF)

    This article is a must read for anyone (traditional or kinky) who wants to better understand the submissives they interact with or want to dominate.

    Submissive kinky women are far from the shrinking violets that BDSM’s critics have characterized them as being. Often they’re women who know exactly what they want.

    Category BDSM | Tags: ,, | 3 Comments

  10. Ask Heather: Is This Dom Copacetic?

    March 11, 2013 by Heather Cole

    images (6)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Hugs,
    Heather

    Category Ask Heather, BDSM | Tags: ,,,,,, | 5 Comments

Older Entries
Newer Entries