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Posts Tagged ‘D/s’

  1. 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

  2. Shifting Gears

    February 22, 2013 by Nikki Blue

    When I had the brilliant idea to write about needs, I had no idea I’d end up staring at my laptop most of the day. The blank google doc mocked me cruelly and left me wanting to stab it over and over again with my rhinestone fountain pen. It would seem my idea wasn’t genius after all. I was adrift on choppy waters and heading for topic failure.

    The problem is that one’s needs stem from feelings, and I tend to lean hard towards ‘feelings intolerance.’ For me, feelings are intricate workings that I find incredibly difficult to digest and even harder to put into words. What do you need? may sound like an uncomplicated question to some, but I’ve found that verbalizing a response can be an impossible task. Like feelings, needs are far from simple. They’re thought provoking and often puzzling. They’re not to be taken lightly and sometimes, they’re extremely hard to admit.

    Mr. K doesn’t say he needs things often. But when he does, it’s usually a nap. Or me. Or a nap after me. Anyway, my point is it’s not a word he tosses around freely. He’s selective when choosing the appropriate time to let it fly. And even though need didn’t enter the conversation as we discussed our debaucherous plans for Monday night, what he wanted was clear. He wanted face slapping, hard fucking, spitting and nipple torture. He wanted me to make him cry.

    It had been a particularly rough week for him and the stress of business was wound tightly around his throat. He was tired and distracted and I was powerless to help. It circulated through my mind more than once that he might cancel altogether, but he wanted me with him. It was vital that he breathe again and I promised to give him everything he needed.

    “Want. What I want. I need a solution to my problem. I want my ass fucked,” was his reply.

    I may have thought something along the lines of riiiiiiiight, but decided it was best to keep my reaction to myself.

    I was more than willing to give him the stimulation he desired and the release he craved. But as much as he needed to give me power over him, I needed to take it. I needed to hear the sounds of his pleasure rising from deep in his chest. I needed to draw it out. Physical freedom was only part of my agenda, though. I was going to push him farther than I ever had before.

    I know that want and need are often indistinguishable. And at times it can be impossible to tell where want ends and need begins. But I planned to show him. I had no hesitation about climbing inside his head for the first time. It felt right. I was going to break through the wall and open the floodgates of his submission. I was going to make him see that calling me “Mistress” as he pleaded for my strap-on wasn’t something he merely wanted. It was something he needed.

    Everything I would require was laid out neatly and in order of appearance because I’m OCD, and all systems were go. I played the night out in my head as I waited patiently in knee high socks and a sweater for him to come through the door. I may have chewed on my lip and giggled a little with anticipation, but I knew what he needed to find peace and I would happily give it to him. But the second he pulled the socks from my legs, I realized I had it all wrong. I didn’t feel frustration or disappointment that things didn’t go according to plan. How could I? He needed tenderness. And he needed it from me.

    I slipped easily from the Domme I was to the girlfriend he needed. Like any role we switch to, the transition was fluid. There is never any need to shift headspace or redirect needs. It’s a natural transformation. It’s part of what makes our relationship so wonderfully right.

    It wasn’t domination, or toys, or spanking or tears he needed to relieve his stress. He needed to lay between my legs and inhale the scent he hungers for, his breaths long and deep. He needed hugs and kisses and to hear me say, “I love you.” He needed to talk it out and laugh through it while I used his cock as a gear shift. He needed me to play Naked Nurse and tend to him the best I could. And just so we’re clear, it was not an injury inflicted by me. The bite marks on his chest, however, are a different story.

    He also needed to have his nipples twisted painfully hard as he exploded inside me. And he needed to feel my fingers in his hair as he drifted off to sleep. He just needed me.

    We’re incredibly kinky people. Whether it’s attempted watersports or Mr. K eating a Twix bar from my asshole, we find pleasure in things that some may view as pretty fucking weird. That’s fine, though. It’s not their ass face-sitting Mr. K, it’s mine. But we don’t always need kink to get us off or turn sex into a competition to see how many times we can make the other orgasm. Sometimes we just need each other without the toys and power exchange. And that’s okay too.

    Category Kinky Relationships | Tags: , | No Comments

  3. All About the Collar

    February 20, 2013 by Heather Cole

    Seven months ago I was an emotional wreck. I was a slave who had just left the service of her first owner and Master, and I was barely managing to keep myself together. The man who had been the center of my universe for over a year, my closest friend, lover and the man who possessed me body and soul, had broken our Master/slave contract. He didn’t have the courage to tell me that he had made his wife, already his collared and owned submissive, his slave as well. I was hundreds of miles away from the kink convention they attended, but I knew something significant had happened. Days later I finally confronted him, barely coherent through my hysterical sobbing. He told me it was only a matter of “semantics,” and perhaps some people would agree. To me, however, our contract was sacred. Those words had become vows that we made to one another. When he broke his word, he broke us. And to make things worse, he went public and spouted vitriol about me on Twitter. I thought the nightmare was never going to end.

    Three months passed and Liri, my beautiful amazing girlfriend, hauled me out of the house, insisting that I rejoin the kinky human race again. She was gentle but insistent that I get my needs met, and I was too chicken shit to tell her I was terrified to face a flogger again. Floggers had been my security blanket. The heavy, rhythmic thud of its impact had always calmed me down before, lulling me into a peaceful mental space. I was afraid that a flogger would no longer work on me, that somehow when I became uncollared, I lost the ability to love kink. Liri would tell me later that she was a little nervous about my re-entry too, but that didn’t stop her from tying me to the cross, flogging me, and then making me orgasm in front of a room full of people just to prove a point.

    I was a jumble of emotions afterwards, and even though relief and enjoyment were at the forefront, I still cried. There was this point after the scene, when the aftercare was finished and people were packing up gear to head home… that’s when I missed having an owner the most. There was no one to tell me I was a good girl and hold me as I curled up against their chest, no one I could text about my triumph, no one to snap my leash on my collar and lead me out to the car to go home. It wasn’t only that no one I knew wanted a slave, it was that many of my kinky friends didn’t understand what a slave even was. Hell, I was so emotionally wounded that I wasn’t entirely certain myself.

    I joked with Nikki that I was waiting for Prince Flogger to rescue me. He’d be single, monogamous (stop laughing), dominant, sadistic and own a full dungeon. He’d pull up in his vintage Camaro, toss me over his shoulder and whisk me away to live happily ever after chained to his bedpost. In my fantasy I wouldn’t have to figure out my slave needs. Prince Flogger would already know because he was the epitome of all that’s Dom-y and good in this kinky world.

    As I started my search for Prince Flogger, I was confronted with just how unique my needs were. I was introduced to BDSM with pain being the main aspect of my D/s dynamic. I’m a pain slut it’s true, but through some trial and error, I realized that I also needed the element of domination to my play. It was Liri who pointed out that I required intellectual play as well. A good mind fuck and a flogger wasn’t going to cut it any more. They were great, but it was the day-to-day challenge of tasks and games that made my toes curl with pleasure. It was hard for me to admit, but the more I discovered about what being a slave meant to me, the more I realized that slaves were work. I couldn’t turn off my submission or my need to serve. I needed tasks, challenges, something that kept me mentally occupied as much as I craved to be physically used and beaten.

    This was when everything got complicated. I discovered my Boy Scout, who was dominant and kinky, and I was certain that he was my Prince Flogger. In fact, I was insistent that he be my Dom ideal made flesh. There’s no flattering way for me to describe my driving intention to make Boy Scout into what I wanted. I was merciless and pushy in my desire to make him fit this unrealistic fantasy I had, and I did us both a great disservice. I discovered that Prince Flogger wasn’t just a simplistic dream. He was a poisonous illusion planted by a former owner who didn’t want me to move on. Believing that I only wanted Prince F was like saying I only wanted to eat oatmeal cooked by my mama for the rest of my life. I’d never leave Mama’s basement if that was my reality, and I never would have seen Boy Scout for his other incredible qualities that stretched beyond how he chose to apply his belt.

    I have no tidy conclusion for this post. My kinky life is in flux as I try to figure out what this new stage of my life means to me and my partners. There are new players, and it appears that my kinky life is going to be as poly as my romantic life is. Boy Scout is a wonderful man, and we have a solid, loving relationship, but we’ve had some tough conversations about our D/s relationship and the direction we’re taking. Or rather, the direction we’re not taking. Yesterday I had the thought that I may never choose to be collared again which I find to be as scary as it is liberating. And Boy Scout may never want to own me, but he’s willing to share this slave with other kinksters and Dominants which is part of why we work so well together.

    My journey began with the idea that kink could only be a certain way for me, dictated to me by a man who could only see other relationships as somehow threatening or detracting from us. It was a cage of my own choosing, but it was still a cage. When it blew up, I began looking for the real slave within me to discover what it was that I truly desired in a D/s relationship. It has been through the support and love of some amazing partners that I’m still figuring this out. In fact, it was my non-kinky Zen who inspired the insight to this post. I believe that the best adventures are just around the corner, and I have people in my life who encourage me to seek them. That’s more meaningful to me than any Prince Flogger and his dungeon of one.

    Category D/s | Tags: ,, | 50 Comments

  4. Connecting the Dots

    December 15, 2012 by Nikki Blue

    The thought that something was wrong with me has been a worry that plagued me for most of my life. It wasn’t a health concern or a physical flaw; it was an internal chaos that began when I was just a young girl. For a long time, I tried to lay blame for my scandalous behavior on people or circumstances, and for years, my parent’s ill-timed divorce took the fall for my early promiscuity. But that wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t their fault. I wasn’t left vulnerable as a result of my broken home and my innocence didn’t make me susceptible to potentially hazardous situations. You see, I was innocent in theory only.

    I asked myself time and time again why I was different, why I wasn’t “normal?” Was I the only girl my age who hungered for the rush of tangled body parts and the feeling of blissful euphoria that followed? Or was I just the only one bold enough to act on it, not caring about the consequences? And it was that inner turmoil that led me to feel trapped in a fiery, and at times, brutal relationship for over three years as a teen. I realize now that deep down, fear had little to do with my reasons for staying with the bad boy who choked me on the hood of his Camaro after a tutoring session with the school loner–it was need.

    It wasn’t the unwelcomed pain he inflicted as punishment that made my heart thrash in my chest. It was the roaring in my ears as if I were caught under a pounding wave, it was my vision fading as everything but us seemed to disappear, and it was the gut wrenching I’m sorry’s that spilled from his lips in rapid succession; his tears burning my skin as his grip tightened in my hair; his teeth sinking into my shoulder. And it was knowing as vehemently as he swore that it wouldn’t happen again, inevitably it would.

    Our relationship bordered on obsession, and the lack of a power exchange resulted in bruises that left behind invisible scars I still see hints of from time to time when I look in the mirror. I gave him power over me so freely that he greedily took it all, ultimately using it to manipulate me and cause me pain. Eventually, I found the strength to say no one final time, and as I pushed open the door of his work truck on the shoulder of the road, my face battered and some of my hair still in his hand, I took back the power I’d given him over me.

    Confusion became part of my daily diet over the next few years as I tried to recover some semblance of normalcy. I changed my hair and the way I dressed, but it didn’t change the fact that underneath the new style I’d adopted, I had about as much control as the Tasmanian Devil. And I needed it. I used sex as a way to replenish what had been taken from me, giving me the control I needed to feel safe. It worked for awhile, but it was never enough. No matter how much control I regained, the insecurity remained and I began to worry I’d never feel solid again.

    A lifetime later, I did nothing to stop my marriage from falling apart. I was miserable and once again, I had been drained of control, but this time I was determined to take it back. I wanted answers to the questions that haunted my memories, and I wanted to know why I adored the feel of fingers gripping my throat; why being called “slut” made my head swim. I knew if I ever wanted to be happy again, I needed to make peace with the conflict inside me.

    I read books on D/s to gain understanding, and I joined FetLife for support. I talked to Heather, a lot, and I talked, and I cried, and I talked some more, reliving the rawest moments my life over and over again. As I did, the sins of my past began to take on meaning, the subtitles finally matching the scenes. My demons lost their power over me and for once, I could breathe unrestricted. At last, I knew why I craved the sting of a bare-handed spanking; why I longed for the coldness of steel cuffs around my wrists. I desired them because I was a good girl– I was a submissive.

    Then he found me, a kinkster who saw in me an unrealized dominant streak. He believed he could see it in my eyes, that he could hear it in my voice. In my opinion, though, he was full of shit. I’d finally figured out I was submissive, what gave him the impression I would be interested in exploring something I clearly was not? I wasn’t a switch, and if I’d been able to convey it in a text, I would have stomped my foot in protest. He was emphatic that he knew different. When he expressed his desire to wear my plug, I didn’t hesitate when I spread his ass cheeks, slipping it inside. It felt right. The thought of wearing a strap-on, on the other hand, gave me pause. Could I do it? Did I want to do it? If I liked it, what did it mean? Was I capable of re-defining myself, again?

    I could feel the shift within me the first time I topped him. It wasn’t brief and it wasn’t subtle. It was an explosive quake that rocked me to the core, unleashing feelings I never knew I was capable of. My entire body was covered in chills, but I began to sweat as I absorbed the sight of him on his knees offering me something he’d never given to anyone. And he was begging for it. I felt powerful, but then I felt nervous. What was to happen next? Was I supposed to wear a latex catsuit under my harness and grind his balls under my stiletto? No, and thank God we agreed that’s not my style. Neither is pain or humiliation. Although, I have bitten him hard enough for him to need a moment to regroup.

    I didn’t have to re-define myself, though–I evolved. I’m still evolving, and now I know there is nothing wrong with me for wanting the things I did. There never was. It wasn’t rebellion against my parents, or learned behavior from questionable influences. It’s the way I’m wired. Don’t misunderstand, the submissive in me is still on her knees, but the dominant in me is much stronger now and demands to be sated. It doesn’t feel like a skin I’m trying on for size when I instruct my boyfriend to lick his come out of me–it feels like the skin I was born with.

    Category D/s | Tags: ,,, | 12 Comments

  5. Identity Crisis are Dumb

    December 13, 2012 by Heather Cole

    Do you ever have one of those moments where you’re sitting and doing something utterly mundane, like eating brunch with people you love, and someone says something that hits you like an arrow to the heart? Words that are so straight and true to the crux of your existence that you didn’t realize it was an issue until you’re fighting tears and thinking THAT’S WHAT’S FUCKING WRONG?!

    *sigh*

    I had one of those moments today, and I’m still recovering and processing. It was perfectly timed, because that one sentence summed up the conflict within me with breath-stealing clarity. I paused with a fork full of sausage halfway to my open mouth, looking for all the world like a landed carp and feeling my world shift slightly on its axis.

    “So you’re going to settle again for the same watered down version of the Dom you want?”

    Eventually I was filled with gratitude that Matt, my girlfriend’s boyfriend, said what he did. Despite wanting to run into the bathroom to have a good cry. There it was, one of my biggest fears laid out in mean black and white. And I’m frustrated to death of worrying about it. Am I settling? Will I ever find a Dom who suits me perfectly? Am I still a slave if I’m not collared and owned?

    My logical mind knows that this fear is leftover residue from the fallout of parting ways with my ex-Dom. He threw those words at me with the intent of an emotional hand grenade, and his aim was precise. It worked like a charm. In the wreckage of my broken heart, those cruel words took root, and I haven’t been able to excise my doubts. Not yet, but I’m working on it.

    In fact, I had a meltdown about it a week or so ago. I’m only in the consideration phase with the Boy Scout and haven’t earned my first collar yet. Our relationship as boyfriend and girlfriend, Dominant and slave, is only beginning, and the Boy Scout is deliberate and thoughtful. There is no rushing that man which is a contradiction to how I usually operate. As much as we’re in sync with our romantic/poly relationship, we come from different backgrounds in the kink perspective. The Boy Scout does not get off causing me pain, but I’m learning that even though my inner masochist stomps her foot with frustration, it’s his dominance of me that’s more important. I have several friends, not to mention my girlfriend, who will cane me until I sob. None of them choose to dominate me outside a scene, though, and none of them desire to own me. And those are the two things I’m searching for.

    I fell to pieces in an email to Liri, and she responded with the kindest message that essentially told me to get a grip. As she eloquently pointed out, kinky relationships develop just as traditional relationships do. Rarely can you start up a dynamic that is perfectly suited to both parties. There’s trust to be earned and love to be given. In short, she gave me a much-needed slap across the face and a homework assignment. I was to envision in specific detail what I needed from my new Sir, whether that be tasks to complete or protocols to follow. As talented as the Boy Scout is, he’s not a mind reader. He can’t possibly know everything I need if I don’t tell him.

    I warned the Boy Scout over dinner that I would be dredging this up for the blog. He listened again to me fretting about our newness and how he doesn’t beat me enough as I played with the napkin in my lap.

    His full lips twisted into a half-smile and he asked, “how many times have you looked at your phone since we got here?”

    I blinked. “Um, three times I think?”

    “ You’ve looked at your phone three times, and you still missed my last instruction?”

    My mouth dropped open. “I missed an instruction? No I didn’t  I was ready in ten minutes as you requested, and I thanked you for the invitation.” Blue eyes bore into mine.

    Shit

    I pulled out my phone again and scrolled through his texts. There it was, a command that I wear a dress. I had missed it completely in my rush to get ready. I felt my cheeks turn scarlet, and my ego pinched me. I was way too good slave to make that kind of rookie mistake.

    “It was an accident!”

    Part of me wanted to crawl beneath the table to lay my head on his lap and apologize until he forgave me, but my instincts to grovel were overruled by my identity crisis. I needed to know if we could make this dynamic work in one simple way. A spanking or paddling were things that I craved. The Boy Scout had to do something that I would loathe so much that I never forgot to double-check my instructions. He didn’t like physically hurting me, so how could he perform a punishment that I would actually hate?

    I tried to look contrite. How far would the Boy Scout go to put me in my place? There was only one way to find out. When he appeared completely unmoved, I did the only thing I could think of, I pouted and crossed my arms over my chest. I may have even uttered the words “not fair” but there’s no evidence of that. With a pleasant smile and his southern drawl in my ear, I was ushered home for punishment. Score one for Team Slave!

    Once home, Sir told me to place two towels on the bed with my vibrator and lube. Then he told me to strip and wait. I stood in the bedroom, my mind turning with the rotations of the ceiling fan. I still had doubts that he would be able to make me truly regret my error, but when I saw him return with a large glass of ice water, those doubts morphed into anticipation.

    There were ice cubes held to my most tender places and freezing water covering body parts that were never intended to be that cold. The soles of my feet were iced and then struck which spurred a round of fervent begging on my part. As I knelt in the cold, there was only Sir’s voice and the anxiety of fulfilling what he desired of me. The moment became hyper-focused on the two of us even though I was shivering and my knees ached. There were no walls separating us, and I had the thought that it was this emotional place specifically that I yearned for.

    Finally it was over, and I was permitted to stand. He told me to start the shower, a hot shower, and wrapped his arms around me as we waited for the water to warm. We climbed in and he held me for a long time under the hot spray as we discussed what had happened. I floated in a dreamy state that being dominated will bring me. Not the rush of endorphins that a beating brings, but the joy of pleasing my Sir completely. Finally we emerged from the shower and got back to his original after-dinner plan of towels, lube and my vibrator. We used all those items, all at the same time, until my body was limp from orgasms. Later I curled up beside him in the dark, my eyelids growing heavy.

    “Do you know what my favorite part of tonight was, Minx?”

    “No, Sir,” I murmured into the crook of his neck.

    “I loved holding you in my arms in the shower after your punishment. Anyone can beat your ass, Minx, and make you cry. It takes a very particular kind of person to own you.”

    I’m beginning to realize that he’s right.

    Category D/s | Tags: ,, | 7 Comments

  6. Santa’s Got a Brand New Bag

    December 8, 2012 by Nikki Blue

    Dearest Santa,

    I’m not the little girl who once left a glass of milk and red velvet cake on the table next to the tree. Surely you remember the thick slices slathered in cream cheese icing. By the way, the sprinkle of chopped pecans was my responsibility. But you never ate more than a bite or two, and the worry that you may not have been pleased was unsettling. There was a time when I wondered if you knew I spent half of the night on my knees at my bedroom window, staring at the sky hoping to catch a glimpse of you in your sleigh. But you’re Santa Claus. You know everything.

    The wide-eyed child who wrote a detailed Christmas list on a yellow legal pad, complete with page numbers from the Sears and JCPenney catalogs is gone. I’m all grown up now and she’s a mere memory of days long ago. It’s about more than being an adult though. It’s about evolution. I’m not the same person I was twenty-five, okay fine, thirty-five years ago. Hell, I’m not even the same person I was ten months ago. I’ve unfolded in a way I never expected. ‘Sir’ no longer rolls off my tongue, and I’m up off my knees. I’m on top now, Santa. It’s where I belong.

    My wishes aren’t complicated. They’re straightforward, and few. You may see them as unthinkable, and well, you probably won’t approve. Your lap is no longer appealing, but your face I intend to use. You’ll be mine to play with; my fuck toy, my boy. Your thoughts will wander to my strap-on, to my taste, and to my scent. You’ll close your eyes and imagine it, remember it, and want it. But it’s really not about what you want, now is it? So let’s start with this:

    • a La Femme strap-on harness, because ruffles, and pink bows.
    • a curved steel anal plug with a ring on the end for um, steering. One with a sizable head, and a secondary bulge. Heh, bulge. Just thinking about this one makes me all gooey inside, because like a slinky, it’s fun for a girl or a boy. Okay, not like a slinky at all.
    • a toy box with a lock. I think my track record of toy discovery mishaps speaks for itself.
    • sexy thigh high stockings with little bows on the back, because I’m all girly and shit.
    • a ‘how to’ book on giving Golden Showers. I need it, obviously.
    • a ________ ______ for my boyfriend. I know it’s not for me per se, but I really want one. The anticipation of the surprise is making him a little nervous, but I’ve assured him it will be worth the wait.

     

    I think you can agree, boy, that I’m not unrealistic in my requests. What I want from you is fair, and I won’t take anything you don’t want to give. It’s unlikely a safeword will be needed, but let’s play by the rules and go with ‘red.’ I’ll respect you, but I’ll use you. And I promise you will beg.

    Category D/s | Tags: ,,, | 4 Comments

  7. Let’s Talk, Jolly Man

    December 5, 2012 by Heather Cole

    Dear Santa:

    Oh the holiday yada yada about you. Dude, gimme a break! Your mall representation is creepy. I mean, what kind of person disguises himself in order to lure children into sitting on his lap? Ew. And no. You’re one small step away from clown classification, and we both know how scary that shit is. I’ve never believed in you even as a child, and I was terrified that you’d grab me in the mall. Lucky for you, though, I’m older and have developed a fondness for men with big sacks. And since you’re in the business of giving and I love to receive… I thought we should have a chat. There are a few things we need to discuss.

    I did some research, because I believe in knowing my enemies. *cough* Er, annoying legendary acquaintances. Your origins are decidedly pre-Christian which ups your interesting factor in my opinion. Parallels have been drawn between you and Odin, the All Father, of Norse mythology. A one-eyed mysterious god riding an eight-legged horse is pretty damn cool. I suppose eight reindeer look cuter on a Christmas card than a mutant horse, but c’mon, they’re deer. And deer are stupid assholes. Better yet, riding a unicorn would be much classier AND you’d have the added option of making threesomes more fun all over the world. Trust me, bowl full of jelly, there’s plenty of you to go around. Share the wealth! Literally!

    Oh, I know what you’re waiting for. You’re preparing to turn me down when I plead for a spot your “nice” list.

    Pffft.

    That’s what I think of your list. Give me naughty any day. Because if I had to choose one list (it’s a shame you don’t have a List of Contradictions) for evermore, I’d choose the Dark Side. In my world, my dear Mr. Claus, naughty is a good thing, and it’s the naughty girls who get rewarded. Should I send you a pic of what I’m talking about?

    My list of demands are simple:

    • a jeweled butt plug plus a training set of plugs (I’m all about expanding my horizons)
    • gift cards to Victoria’s Secret, because I’ve had more underwear ripped and taken by horny men than you have fluffy white pompoms in your wardrobe
    • an upgrade to my phone because my boob shots are seriously blurry with my current version
    • a latex skirt
    • gift cards to the grocery store – How else do you think I lure fine upstanding men and women into my bed? I offer them cupcakes! And biscuits. And homemade macaroni and cheese. Works every time.

    You see, for a brat like me, your threats are empty. Especially if there are switches involved. Forget the coal crap. First of all, coal isn’t an environmentally friendly option. Secondly, WHAT THE FUCK IS UP WITH COAL, SANTA? Turn me over your knee and take me to task with a switch. Two switches! Four? (of varying widths please)

    When It boils down to it, I bet my girlfriend hits harder than you. So give me your best shot, Santa baby. If you’re really good, I’ll let Mrs. Claus watch.

    Category BDSM | Tags: ,,,, | 2 Comments

  8. Emotional Baggage, Meet the New Guy

    November 13, 2012 by Heather Cole

    I was curled up beside him when he told me about her, a submissive who wanted a discreet affair. With my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, I tried not to freak out. I stopped talking, my afterglow dissipating as her presence filled the small spaces between our naked bodies.

    My relationship with the Boy Scout was only four weeks old, and I was still in the stage of giddy excitement where I always wore makeup and he had yet to see me wear the same outfit twice. We had our full disclosure conversations and knew who the other was dating and fucking, and he had already met my girlfriend. The last thing I wanted to do was be demanding or difficult or, God forbid, high maintenance. In the darkened bedroom after our first time as Dominant and slave, no way in hell was I about to give words to my thoughts. That’s when my emotional baggage opened up and I felt those old wounds being pushed. Old arguments, old tensions; they filled my head and I started to panic.

    I confess that I can be competitive and jealous, but I’ve learned to use it as a roadmap to indicate what I really want. When I feel the green eyed monster creeping up behind me, I take a hard look at my interactions. Do I need to ask for more time with my partner? Do I need more communication? If something with my partners gives me a twinge, I’m constantly asking myself why. I have learned the hard way that I can’t compromise honesty or transparency. It can be uncomfortable and exhausting plumbing the depths of my feelings, but I knew coming out of my last poly dynamic that I needed to change some things about myself if I wanted to build healthy, fulfilling relationships in the future.

    I pondered what the Boy Scout had shared with me regarding the sub and tried to define what were remnants of old relationship triggers and what was currently raising my hackles. I even called Nikki to bounce some ideas off her. She observed, “the only time you worry about other women is when they’re submissive.” She was right, dammit. So being the giant organizational whore that I am, I sat down and wrote out my fears. I even numbered them. Seeing it in black and white, it was obvious that there were two main concerns swirling through my brain; I require complete honesty and transparency from myself and my partners and the Dom who may someday own me can only own and collar one slave and that will be me.

    It sucks shit to have to communicate to your sparkly new boyfriend that you have demands, that I prescribe to a poly construct but that doesn’t mean that everything he does is just peachy keen with me. Or that we’re just beginning to explore our D/s dynamic but partnering with another submissive is out of the question for me. It sucks even more to have to bare an ugly wound from a previous relationship to the person you’re attempting to impress with your wonderfulness. I had to say something though. If I was quiet and suffered in silence, I would be choosing a well-worn path to heartbreak. Those damn mile markers are tattooed into my heart, so I hit send and waited to hear back that my fears were outrageous. I waited for the Boy Scout to turn tail and run.

    I’m reading through our ensuing text conversation and am amazed even now. We ended up on the exact same page, and he confirmed that it was OK to not be OK. He would rather have me say I couldn’t do something than gloss over it and have it blow up later. I was so relieved that I may have cried a little bit. (But I was home alone so it didn’t count!) I’m writing this post with a lighter heart, and I can even say the following with a steady voice. I require that if you’re going to be in my bed and in my heart I need absolute honesty and transparency between us and with our partners. And if this slave is going to her knees and gifting You with her submission, she must be the only one wearing Your collar. Wow, I rather like the sound of that.

    Category D/s | Tags: ,, | 12 Comments

  9. Playing it Safe

    August 4, 2012 by Nikki Blue

    I’ve accepted that I’m kinky. I’m proud of it and talk about it openly. But that wasn’t always the case. When I was a teenager, I wondered why I was so different from other girls my age. Why I wanted the things I did and why the word “no” never crossed my lips. I had no one to talk to about the desires I had and no one to guide me. I was reckless, not caring how my actions affected others. Or myself for that matter. My sexual exploits earned me the reputation of a slut and I accepted it as fact. My behavior eventually caught the attention of the town bad boy and like gasoline and fire, we were a dangerous combination. I like to think it was my sparkling personality that drew him to me like a moth to a flame, but that’s unlikely the case.

    Like me, he was different. Control seeped from his pores and I could feel his strength in the air around me. I could feel it in the way he dug his fingers into my flesh, the way he wrapped my hair around his hand. I knew I belonged to him and I felt safe. But there came a time when the line into non-consensual territory was crossed and he used the very things that attracted me to him as means to cause me pain. No matter how many times I said “no” or pleaded with him to stop, he hurt me.

    Beyond my unhealthy relationship as a teen, I considered myself the aggressor when it came to sex. For years, I used sex as a way to replenish some of the control that had been taken from me over and over again. But the sliver of control I took from each sexual encounter never really left me feeling satisfied. So I sought more, always feeling like something was missing.

    The pieces of my life that I’d always questioned began to fall into place just a year ago. I joined Twitter to promote my writing and as I added more followers to my list, I became part of a clique whose conversations were laced with sexual innuendo or were downright raunchy. It didn’t take long for me to realize they were kinky and as they tweeted about riding crops and floggers, I retreated to the sidelines. I didn’t fit that mold. At least I thought I didn’t. But the more I watched the conversations fly, it hit home.

    Holy motherfucking shit.

    I wasn’t a bystander. I was on the team.

    I poured my guts out to Heather and she helped me sort through the viscous chunks of my life that still had the tendency to bleed like fresh wounds. Suddenly, gray areas that felt like gaping holes in my soul were being filled in with the answers about who I was. Who I always had been. I am a submissive woman and I finally understood that I was never weak, that it took an enormous amount of strength to place myself in the hands of another. But even with this newfound identity tingling every sense that I possessed, I didn’t dive into kinky endeavors without lots of research. I became a sponge, soaking in every word from books on D/s relationships and I asked experienced kinksters tons of questions before the palm of a hand ever touched my bare ass.

    I was ready to be on my knees with my wrists bound behind my back knowing that I wasn’t an abomination, but I needed a play partner to do so. I created a brutally honest profile on a dating site expressing my needs and within days, Mr. Kryptonite was hot on my heels. He claimed to be the Dominant I needed, saying all the right things as he wooed me. I found no obvious red flags. I’d read the books and was mentally prepared, but reading and doing are two totally different things. I breathed deep and even got a little teary-eyed as I gave myself to this man who promised to hurt me. In a good way. His spankings were precise and the sting of each slap shot through my body tearing into my brain. The realization that I liked the pain he was inflicting was earth shattering. I was finally at peace with myself, and I wanted more.

    That was my first experience with bdsm after “coming out.” And even though I was high with the anticipation of what lay ahead of me, I didn’t fly into it blindly without a safety net in place. I gave Heather the name of the hotel and the room number. She passed the information along to a friend who lived an hour south of me just in case I didn’t check in with her as we’d agreed beforehand. She was prepared to call the police if necessary.

    It worries me when I see people jumping head-first into the lifestyle without an understanding of it on the front-side. I want to hold their hands between mine and say, “honey, slow down.” I want to lift their chin with my finger and look into their eyes saying, “you need to read. A lot.” I want to shake them by the shoulders and shout, “what do you mean you don’t know what a safeword is?!”

    I’ve heard complaints about all of the rules and protocol and blah, blah, blah. And it’s true. There’s a lot to learn and it can be overwhelming. As with anything though, rules are in place for a reason. In the case of bdsm, they exist for your safety so quit your bitchin’.

    Category BDSM | Tags: ,, | 17 Comments

  10. Flash Fiction: Change of Plans

    April 10, 2012 by Heather Cole

    “I’m feeling slutty tonight,” he said. He knotted his wingtips with a decisive motion and stood, staring at me in the reflection of the vanity mirror.

    “Alright.”

    I concentrated on threading a gold hoop through my earlobe and felt his words in my gut as if I had eaten too much ice cream too quickly.

    “Looks like it’s the corner bar then.”

    I didn’t change out of my red dress and heels. My only concession to this evening’s new plans was the string of condoms I added to my purse. I wasn’t the architect of tonight’s fantasy come to life, and like some masochistic Girl Scout, I decided to be prepared for anything.

    Two hours later we were ensconced in the dingy hangout, our best dinner clothes standing out like beacons along the coast of the bar’s midnight patina. I tapped a heel on the rung of my bar stool and shook my head slightly. It was the third potential I had rejected that evening. Women flocked to him. They always had. Something about the deadly combination of his slightly nerdish glasses and devil’s smile were a siren’s call to almost every vagina in the vicinity, but I always had the final say in who was to become his plaything for the night.

    I finally settled on a petite, young-ish woman, painfully thin with long blond hair. Almost the exact physical opposite of me. We drove her to a nearby hotel as he explained that I would enjoy watching him fuck her. I remained silent, observing her take note of the details of our clothes and the make of our car. When her hand settled on my thigh, light as butterfly wings, I knew she had committed herself.

    At the hotel he stripped off her thin top and micro-mini as I settled into a corner chair with a splash of whiskey in a hotel glass. Something inside me eased at the knowledge that she wouldn’t be able to please him fully. She was too much inexperience and not enough flesh to cushion his sharp desires. Even after he turned her over his knee for a brief spanking and had freed his cock for her to suck, I felt reassured.

    I stood silently, letting the thick glass drop to the desk, the sound almost completely obscured by the sounds of her enthusiasm. My dress fell to the floor with a soft swoosh, and I stalked towards them. His gaze turned from unfocused to sharp as he watched my approach, his eyes hungrily sliding from my heels, to the stockings and finally my corset and gold collar.

    I tapped her on the shoulder, almost laughing at her startled expression. “Let me show you how to do this properly.”

    I barely had time to brace myself before he had a fistful of hair and was pushing me to my knees. I wasn’t graceful, and he wasn’t gentle. Forcing his way past my lips and deep into my throat, I almost gagged on his thick cock. He didn’t slow his rhythm, the grip on my hair forcing me to meet every thrust. I stared up at him, watching the nuances of desire flit across his face, knowing that he was mine again.

    When he came, there was nothing but the sound of his guttural cry and the taste of cum. He collapsed back on the couch with a boneless motion.

    “She’s gone,” he said.

    It was only the two of us again.

    Category Flash Fiction | Tags: ,, | No Comments