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The online diary of an ethical pervert.
Some days, trying to be a doll isn't exciting or fun or even nice. Today, I don't feel so great. I've had a hard week and I'm a bit low on energy and generally low in and of myself. This means that the doll and myself are currently at odds. The same pleasures that I usually derive from preparing and preening start to mean something quite different. Because the doll is perfect, she makes me imperfect. Each bit of body maintenance that I need to do in order to create her blank, pristine slate is an act of penance paid for not always being this beautiful. Dressing up stops being fun. It starts to become a disguise to cover something that needs hiding.
Of course, these are all part of the tropes that I knew I was engaging with when I starting this project, and that there would be difficulties, particularly with regards to my own feminist beliefs and values. Concepts of "beauty", "perfection" and the body politic are part of the project. It was obvious to me from the start that I would playing in a world of enhanced gender stereotypes. The doll is, in most of her forms, an exaggerated and grossly overblown facet of different sorts of socially constructed feminities. I know her to be unreal and unattainable and also a false definition of any sort of womanhood. She is also, always, always fake. Non-human. Alien. I had hoped that this knowledge would protect me from any uncomfortable feelings towards this type of play, that because she is such a fake I would be untouchable, unreachable behind that mask.But I'm not. Because a latex skin is not very thick. Thinner still is a layer of make-up. And the stereotypes from which the doll is derived are also very real and present in the world in which I live. As long as I identify as both woman and female, they will affect me on a day-to-day basis whether I chose to be a doll or not. The doll merely exemplifies and enhances them - she brings them to the fore.
What I suppose I wasn't prepared for was the effect that playing a doll can have on my self-worth. The difficulty with anything that plays upon identity is that it problematises your own. Although I often refer to the doll as a mask, it's a mask that leaves marks, soaking into the skin a little, mingling with my own sense of self. The desire to wear the mask comes from me: being a doll is not an externally imposed activity, it's very much my own kink, however the type of mask i.e. what the doll looks like and how it behaves does not always come directly from myself. The doll project is about me being very self-consciously into "not-me". A lot of my kink stems from being subsumed and erased in order to simply experience. In that respect the doll is very powerful and very exciting. But when I start to genuinely think about myself and my own desirability, about whether people like me or find me interesting the fact that I play as a doll can make that difficult. After all, might it not be the doll identity which is the one that is desired, rather than my own? As I put on her form, I erase myself in order to be wanted, taken, fucked. So here's the worry - when I am a doll and my partners play with me in that form, who do they desire: the image I am projecting or the person who is projecting that image?
Then there is problem of overlap. Obviously, the doll is made from me, and in that sense, we are the same person. There are things that I do for myself, that I also do as to put on my doll persona - if the doll is fake, then surely the parts of me that I share with her are also fake? A simple example would be waxing. I like being smooth, I don't like fuzz. Dolls aren't fuzzy, either. We're both faking at being perfect with the one exception - the doll is the aspiration level I'm trying to live up to.
On most days, in better moods, being smooth and soft makes me happy, it makes me feel good and I think it makes me look good. On a bad day, I see imperfections, I see strands of hair where there shouldn't be, little nicks or marks in my skin that mar the overall effect. What I see is not a human being with the normal, natural flaws that anyone has, outside of a perma-airbrushed expensive advert. I see myself failing to become that perfected, desired entity that I want to be.
It's the weekend. I'm in a room full of other women in various states of undress and I've gotten to the not-quite-sleepy but very serene state. The pain has receded, that part is over. I've an undercurrent of unsated desire - Hedwig claims she can smell me and I'm not about to deny it. I've gone kittenish, curling up by the heater, lapping water lazily from a bowl that someone has kindly provided. Using my hands doesn't feel right and I roll my fingers into my palms.
Hedwig starts to tie me up. Plain, undyed hemp in neat coils, the mark of someone who knows their craft. I find being put into rope bondage very meditative. I like to think I'm a good rope bunny: I'm long and lean and reasonably flexible (not quite enough for Captain, but then, there's always further that one can go). The important thing is to relax soft muscles and loose limbs can be pulled into better positions. Also, don't try and "help". Move if you are told to move, but otherwise let yourself be wound around. I like to flex a little once they are done, test the rotation and give of the bonds, especially if suspended and I can spin on a heel or similar. But this is floor work, and I'm becoming gradually more enclosed. Arms tied behind my head, elbows spread like a sun lounger catching rays. A harness around my breasts, squeezing them into flat points of pleasant pressure. One leg gets bent, ankle to hip then coiled round and round and round in beautiful, intricate flow of rope and knots. The other leg goes up into a ballet point, I giggle a little as a piece of rope goes through my toes, but otherwise I am content to be silent, smiling hazily. The more I'm tied, the more relaxed I become - it's permission not to engage, and I find myself shutting down a little, as if covered with a duvet and lain down in a darkened room to fall asleep.
There's a strength and expertise in her ropework that I wasn't expecting. I knew she was good, but not this good. I can tell, because she has a definite and defined style, which I am able to appreciate from close quarters: her attitude is controlled but also artistic, making something pretty, creating something. She's quick and doesn't hesitate much, or pause, instead deftly wrapping rope around me in long fluid movements. The rope is firm and well-placed (no flaccid, floppy bands that need to be tightened later!). Instead, when she is done, there is an engaging lattice structure. I feel like a mermaid, caught in a net. A silly, grinning mermaid, all spaced out.
"Shut up. Don't say anything"
I'm scared. I can feel a ball of panic rising in my throat and I bite my lip. Majeste scares me. This sudden turn from the jovial banter we'd been enjoying whilst I curled on the floor watching the other women play. The gentle nudge and calm decision "I'll play with you now", the pride and flush of happiness, at being the one who was picked (and this from someone who was always last against the wall at games and an awkward teen). Those things are gone. Now there is this. The press of her face right against mine and the hiss of her command as one hand grasps my face and with the other clamps a peg onto my nipples. Inside, I scream. I hate pegs. Especially on my nipples, where the metal piercings seem to make everything more sensitive, reminding me of the fragility of my extremities. I've had a couple of nipple injuries over the years and the memory stays with me, making me flinch at the thought. I wince at the white-hot crush as the pegs go on, that specific pain that slows to an aching throb which is broad but never dull and never goes away, never fades, but peaks and troughs as if the brain is only able to process so much at once. Then there's the knowledge that they will hurt more when they come off. I'm also scared of pegs. Scared of them being pulled off by violent hands, visions of ripping flesh, blood. She's stronger than me. Much. I'm strapped to a chair, ankles, wrists and a leather band around my chest. I feel weak, captive. Frightened.
Being unable to make any noise has a number of effects. First, it makes the pain worse. It makes it worse because there is nowhere for it to go - I can't let it out. Second, it makes me further beholden to Majeste, in order behave, to be the good girl I need to be, not only must I take this pain that I hate but I must be quiet too. Finally it makes what we are doing private, secret and a little bit more frightening. Her voice is insistent, focused, pushing me to comply with pain in silent suffering, like the cruel bully who does not wish to attract attention. My entire body is clenched with the effort of being quiet. I shake and tears prick my eyes. I want to cry, to demonstrate to her how much this is costing me, how good I am being, but I can't. The tears would involve noises. And I have to be quiet.
"Beg me to take it off." My mind does cartwheels. I'm stuck. I can't do this. I shake my head, teeth gritted like a non-compliant torture victim. Which I am. I know that I'm behaving badly, but I can't help myself. I still can't beg. Not even for a release that I genuinely crave. It would be a giving-in, a collapse, rather than a submission. The submission is in offering myself to her, in taking the pain. To ask for respite would be an admission that I am not good enough, not strong enough, not worth anything. I want to be brave. But I'm scared and I hurt. I shake my head again and she presses down. I see blackness beneath my tightly closed eyelids, feeling like my lungs are two balloons about to pop with the screams they contain. I'm conflicted and that doesn't help my fear: she clearly wants me to beg, but I can't do it and remain honest, it would be a fake begging, a begging staged for her benefit rather than one that came from a real place. And she deserves better than that. I'm better than that.
Eventually, somehow (pain play makes my brain hazy) it does stop. There is the softness of her flesh as she holds me to her and I feel safe once again, she is my rescuer, just as she was my persecutor only moments ago. Her hair falls against my bare skin in light touches like the brush of a flogger. As she unties me I cling to her, coming back to myself, feeling sorry that I couldn't give more, take more. Then there's the rush. The heady relief and realisation that the pain is over, that it's done, that I am released. I grin. She grins. I thank her. We kiss.
I've been encouraged by Hedwig (amidst lots of lovely praise) to give a bit more breathing room in my posts. So you get two write-ups from the Ladies Dungeon Day, rather than one.
We kick off with a journey. As all good adventures do, though this one involved lots of black coffee to get me up before noon on a weekend. Each of us had brought something along that we especially liked. I had a violet wand and black pallet wrap, Mrs Magpie was sporting a fetching red mac and carrying a latex catsuit, Hedwig had oodles of hemp and Spiral was wheeling an enormous suitcase and pool cue bag that probably contained everything hitty, thuddy and snappy item in the world. We were all quite over-excited and managed to clear an entire carriage with our discussion topics before arriving. Start as you mean to go on, one supposes. It's a rare moment that catches me so comfortable in a group of women, especially women I haven't already known for years and years. But, like the get-to-know-you-dinner a few weeks ago, we were very relaxed with each other. There was a lot of giggles, smirks and snickers. I was personally assured by Spiral that my silly grin at her lugging a large suitcase would garner retribution.
We met up with Majeste, Painted Lady and another two ladies after arriving at the dungeon, (which we got into only once a kind soul came out to collect us from milling about and destroying country cottage holiday home prices with our London pervert attitudes). It was a lovely space - very well equipped, and a cosy size which meant that we ended up sat in a circle, looking a lot like a fucked-up WI meeting. Especially given that between us we had brought enough snacks and drinks to host a country fayre. I was initially worried that there might be a hesitancy to get started, something I've encountered before in group play with relative strangers, however Spiral offered to show someone how to tie a hogtie, I volunteered and stripped off then we were away.
I had worried that it might be difficult to relax or to get into anything approaching a good headspace, but once the clothes were off and the rope was on I flopped contentedly onto the padded floor, letting the conversation circle around me, as if it came from far away. A ball gag and blindfold helped me fall further down and I found myself in a very comfortable and warm space. Not precisely submissive, but limber and happy to be moved one way or another. If I were a doll it was a rag-doll, floppy and without much form. Petted and played with like a favoured toy.
After a while, enough time for my face to be in a pool of my own cooling saliva - something that always kicks me into submissive mode - Spiral picked me up and strapped me to a chair, legs spread, still blind and gagged. Then the pain started. Light at first, soft and exploratory almost, brushes of a flogger, taps with some kind of paddle (I'm slightly convinced, from waffle-patterned red marks that this may have been a ping-pong bat, but haven't pinged her to check). They got harder and more stingy as time went on, she interspersed this with a Hitachi against my cunt, which had the effect of tempering the blows. The two worked in concert - the drive to orgasm and pleasure from the Hitachi (a relatively new experience having been so used to it as a torture device) gave me a rounded, building "high" which allowed me to coast on the pain. Similarly, the heat and stings from the pain made the pleasure better, stronger. I let my head loll a little and went where she took me, carried away. There were a couple of difficult moments had me jolt with panic - clothes pegs on the inner thighs were unexpected and threw me totally, unable to cope with them and having to shake my head violently, which made me feel a little unhappy at having to say "no". But the anxiety was fleeting, much less stressful or unhappy-making than I have experienced in one-on-one situations. I suppose this was part driven by the way she was handling me, lots of pauses to check I was ok, plenty of hair fluffing and holding my head to her, letting me breathe out some of the pain. The other was the context of the group experience itself. There was an eroticism in the air, the light noises of other women in pain or pleasure, the murmur of conversation, the silence of concentration gave the space a focus. The knowledge that others were there, engaged in their own games or possibly watching ours, with no one person belonging or particular to another gave a sense of balance and safety. Much as I love firm and complicated hierarchies, that afternoon gave me an appreciation for a different sort of dynamic, one that was both more flexible and self-determined. No-one was "taken", everyone offered up, whether it was their skills as a top or their bodies as a bottom, the space felt very giving.
I am extremely loathe to put this down to the fact that we were all women, but I am sure that this single gendered space had an effect on how we played. Maybe not because we were all possessing of a uterus, because that is bonkers, but because it gave us a group identity. Perhaps it was the acknowledgement of equals, perhaps it was that we more or less felt the same about how we wanted the day to pan out, perhaps it was that women do play with women in a certain way which is different to how men play with women. I'm not experienced enough with this type of dynamic to say for sure. I know that there isn't one way of playing that women adopt - each of the three tops I played with had their own very specific flavour and I responded to all three in different ways, meaning that I don't submit to women in a particular way either. I'm not entirely convinced that I responded to them "as women" in that sense, certainly I didn't feel as if being hit by a woman was particularly different from being hit by a man. The differences were very minor and generally unconnected to any sense of D/s. Some were quite welcome in fact - it's nice being clasped against soft breasts when you are crying or shaking with pain, for example. Very soothing.
I'm starting to think that my BDSM is very gender-blind, and this certainly adds more grist to that mill - certainly I've found that the more I play with people the less interested I am in their gender than in how they play and what dynamics we create.
One of the curious things about keeping this diary is how what I'm going to write about changes in the space between my actions and when I get to a computer. I try to keep this time to the minimum, but practicalities and politeness tend to ensure that a while is whiled away betwixt kink and keyboard. This can mean that my sometimes my original thoughts have cooled a little, sometimes they have improved with the brewing and sometimes they have been replaced by something completely different. Take this morning. I should be writing about the eight-woman-in-a-dungeon-romp. But I'm not going to, not today, because I don't have the correct attitude on. Instead, I have drop.
Drop is a funny little thing, widely acknowledged, but not really given a lot of serious attention in the mainstream of BDSM writing (no article on it on wipipedia, for example - though there is a one line description of "a really bad feeling like a drug come-down" in the advice to submissives section) but there is plenty to be found online in more personal, anecdotal accounts. Of which this is another, of course. We all know it's there, but we're not really talking about it? Perhaps. But then again I am not in the most logical frame of mind right now, so I'm going to save that thought for a rainy day.
What is drop? I've only had a few instances of it, although more recently, which is probably indicative of emotional background noise. I can't speak to how it feels for others, just for me. I wake up and know something is wrong straight away: that anxious feeling when you don't want to leave your bed because the day is waiting for you and you are not sure you can handle it. Some of this is just straightforward loneliness, and not uncommon for me on a Sunday morning. I can tackle it well enough, usually, with application of gym sessions, Eggs Benedict, being somewhere else with someone else or masturbating until I can fall back asleep and wake up better. Not today.
I know what it is and what causes it, but that doesn't really help in the way that knowing the twelve pints you drank last night caused your hangover doesn't make the headache recede. I know that I'm tired, that I've got the knock-on effects of the euphoria and adrenaline from yesterday. Not just the absence of those feelings, but something else, a further absence. I feel quite, quite empty and very sorry for myself, which gives the whole thing an air of self-pitying indulgence and that doesn't make me feel much better. There's the serious lack of someone to help me through this, and that is hard. For me, these days, drop is that awful realisation - after sex or after play, when you've gone home and it's all done - that really you are just by yourself, alone.
So here I am, with all my personal flotsam and jetsam washed up on the shore after the crashing waves have long since departed. Which is a lot how like how it feels - during play things come to the surface and most of the time this is good, because you can push them out, get rid of them. But sometimes when you wake up the next day they are still there, clinging to you like old ghosts, weighing you down and making you feel just plain sad.
I've been thinking recently of doll archetypes, of how I can take socially constructed bastions of identity and use them as a stereotyped template for my creations. Stereotypes are always fun to play around with, particularly as they come with their own context, like accessories on a Barbie. You see one and instantly are put into a certain frame of mind, with set routines and speech patterns. Part of what I'm doing whilst adopting these roles is exploring their edges, seeing what they are made of as well as how they impact on myself and those I'm playing with. From going through a number of them I will be able to derive some commonly held doll appearances and behaviours, BDSM uses of the doll and finally links to more global gender theories and explorations on "forced" feminisation of a female body. I'll be picking up different archetypes as a I go along (suggestions welcome, as ever), but they generally will conform to the following rules:
- They will be femme or feminine
- They will be solid, easily recognisable identities that are different from my own involving outward changes of appearance and behaviour
- They will be fictional caricatures drawn from primarily British social mores (that's my background)
- They will be submissive in part or in whole - part of the playing the role will be to examine how they are submissive
Today, I'm exploring the secretary. I have my pencil skirt and shiny heeled shoes on to help with this. My movements are defined by my outfit. My tight skirt creates little steps, forcing my feet into a one-in-front-of-the-other pace that is entirely unnatural. Galumph would be a good description of my standard walking pace. There is no way of merely "walking" in heels, I have learnt. One struts, wiggles, wobbles, sashays or trots. I turned heads clicking my way along the street, There is insinuation in every leg movement. And bottom movement. My hips sway. I walk slowly, because I have to, and that gives me time to survey how people are responding. I appear to be telegraphing the phrase sexually available woman to everyone, getting smiles, wolf-whistles and people opening doors for me. I'm not sure how comfortable I am about this, I find it a bit funny, a bit curious - an effect of being a doll is to realise which bits of you and which bits of your appearance get what sorts of reactions. I'm good looking, so I normally get the odd bit of eye contact, but nothing like this. At work, I get plenty of compliments, and the assumption that I must be doing something "special" this evening. I feel rarified and out of the ordinary. On the downside, my feet hurt a little and I am limited in what I am able to do - being mostly desk-bound for the day whilst the real work is carried out by people in appropriate footwear. There's a little bit of power in being able to make others fetch and do, but mostly annoyance at my own inability to do so, however, strangely, no-one seems to mind that I am not doing things and take it for granted that, given the way I am dressed, I am incapable of doing certain things and that this is perfectly fine.
As well as live action research I have re-watched the eponymous film as well as Joan Harris and Miss Moneypenny alongside my own thoughts and opinions to give something of a summary on how the secretary functions as a doll.
The secretary is an interesting one because at first glance she is neither submissive nor a natural bottom. Her professional outlook, organisational capacity and role as gatekeeper to the "man in charge" give her a rather domineering attitude. In respect to her clothing, she is most certainly a doll: presentation is vital to the secretary, her sexuality is in disclosure or lack there of. Tight, restrictive clothing that leave much to the imagination. Like the heels she wears, she implies sex rather than shouting about it. Feminine mystique. She also has an element of cool unflappability, always organised and with the right documents at her perfectly manicured fingertips. Certainly she separates the wheat from the chaff - only those with the right credentials can get passed her, so there is an element of cachet in possessing her. To others, she is the belle dame sans merci deflecting unwanted callers and protecting her boss from rough trade. In that sense, she also appeals to voyeurs - her untouchability makes her all the more desirable.
She does not belong to all-comers, but only those within an exclusive club. Generally, the more exclusive she is, the higher she is prized, a common trope within fetishised ownership. The submission is one-to-one, the secretary to her employer, which is concretised in the almost (and easily manufactured into) D/s interactions between the two. Some of these practices have become common office slang for affairs or sex - "taking dictation" as a cypher for giving head - which was a nice tweet sent to me today when I started today's archetype test drive. She is implicitly connected with office sexuality - the common worry of whether one's partner is sleeping with the secretary, as if she is automatically and by rights the sexual possession of her boss.
Another element of her submission comes precisely from her seeming untouchability, giving opportunity to be broken. A classic case of submission, where something valuable and important is handed over to be used in a contractual power exchange. This is the part I particularly enjoy - dressing up into something beautiful and strong to be made beautiful and weak. There is beauty in both, but they are of different sorts.
Sadly, I am not doing anything special this evening, so am lacking in a partner to entertain with my outfit, which means that the final part of trialling this archetype will have to wait. For now.
Some more thoughts about threesomes and power dynamics after the weekend. I've had chance to think a bit more on how it worked and how it felt. One of the most interesting points was that of agency, and how my personal levels of control altered over the morning. At first, I was playing a very submissive role, letting both Captain and Maple move me around, put me in place. This worked very well with how I wanted to be that morning - passive, receptive, a doll-like offering up of myself, letting my body be manipulated for the pleasure of others. Exactly the sort of safe and comfortable submissive space that I naturally veer towards. No speech. No initiative. Riding the waves of external desire.
She suggested the strap-on, he put it on me, tying me in to the thick leather straps, adjusting the rubber cock and holding me in position, to fuck her whilst he fucked me. Every now and then he would take hold of my hips and press me into her a little faster. It felt a little as if he was fucking her through me - I was a tool or a toy that he was using on her. I started to come out of my morning reverie and really pay attention to what was going on, moving beyond just the warm empty space of my own body. It was a little like waking up. Changing from one state to another, from being very fluid and liquid and becoming more solid, more present. Little things at first, a slight adjustment of position, whereas normally I would wait until someone moved me. Reaching out to touch her, to talk to her, check whether she was ok with my first, uncertain, initial thrusts. I watched her, rather than looking at her. Enjoying the feelings I was giving her, and feeling as if I was giving those feelings rather than him through me. I felt a change in the balance of power with him also, as we exchanged looks over her body as she started to moan, like two diners about to eat a much anticipated meal. I smiled at him, eyes looking at him in a way I would not have normally done. I felt very relaxed, comfortable in what I was doing, keen to do more. An active participant instead of a plaything.
Part of this was about becoming accustomed to the strap-on, as well as the dynamic. The lack of feedback was very strange, but despite that I could imagine (especially given that I was also being fucked at the time) how it felt. I started to get more involved, to hold her, move her hips against mine, grab her shoulders or move her legs to get a better angle. I started to feel more in control, more toppy, more involved in managing her feelings rather than letting her take her pleasure. It wasn't about feeling like a boy, or feeling like the strap-on was "mine" or a part of me. I didn't feel a gender switch, just a BDSM switch. The strap-on was certainly part of how I felt, but only insomuch as it was a tool for me to be on top - I've felt similar reactions to using a violet wand or a vibrator on someone or even fucking cowgirl stye. It was about doing unto rather than being done, about moving from a state of absenting control to accepting it.
The power balance shifted, I realise now, with the presence of a third person. And underneath all of that was an increase in my own confidence in my interactions with Captain. I generally feel less nervous about what he wants and needs and can start to take the initiative without worrying I'll upset the dynamic. When I play I like to able to anticipate as well as respond - to be able to give pleasure without always being told exactly what to do, but that takes time. And this was one of those times. I came out of my perma-passive state and into something that more closely reassembles myself and was still desired, still exciting - more so by being desired by two people. I'd let go a little, I suppose, and it felt good. We'd increased the borders in which we play, and I like having room to manoeuvre. I moved from only ever being his toy to use to playing with someone together. And I'm pretty keen to do it again.
"I don't wear high heels, there's no point because I'm tall."
Captain looked at me as if I'd just demanded to spank him. Confused, surprised and amused.
"That's not the point," he said patiently, "the point is that they look hot."
I have training shoes. He got them for me to wear as his dolly. Now I need to practice with them. They are black, shiny and very high. They come with rules, I must wear them for an hour each day until I get better at them. Although never expressly mentioned I am taking for granted that this hour must be spent on my feet rather than, say, sat in a comfy chair reading a nice book. Today was day one. I'll be attempting infrequent updates as to how I'm getting along with them. First of all, I took some photos. One of the shoes, and one of a shoe next to my current tallest pair of heels, just to give an idea of the difference in scale. To give you more of a mental picture, I usually wear doc martens. Or trainers. I maybe wear high heels once a fortnight, for a couple of hours in a club. I sit down a lot. This is going to be difficult.
I put them on. It's the second time I've worn them and I'd forgotten just how tall they are. I stand up, enjoying my status as the tallest land mammal in a very wide radius. I'm probably around six foot three in these things. Maybe a bit more. I wobble. The tops of my feet hurt as they are compressed. My toes have no space. My shins are distinctly unhappy with the entire situation. The balls of my feet don't sit flat in the front, so I'm walking ever so slightly on tip-toe. I bend my knees instinctively to compensate for being thrust forward, then realise that is probably not the ideal look and try to straighten my legs. I wobble again and clutch the door for support.
I try walking. That is a dismal failure. My normal pace is somewhere between a stride and a forced march - I like to get places quickly. This does not work in these shoes, I keep collapsing on my ankles as my joints clench in terror at the impossibility of maintaining balance on needle-point at speed. I try little steps. That works better but is annoyingly slow and feels rather silly, as if I'm shuffling along. I assume that the goal is to glide serenely like a geisha. Currently I look a bit like Bambi on ice only less endearing. I realise this is going to take some time. I manage a few, experimental little totters from one side of the room to the other.
Everything is taking forever and it's very inconvenient. I can't walk in a straight line, for a start, I keep leaning from one side to the other so I'm moving in a haphazard zig-zag like a crazy drunk. How do people do this when they are actually drunk? Each time I move one leg, I am subconsciously trying not to fall over on the one side, so list towards the other. I am vaguely concerned about giving myself motion sickness. I also keep walking in to things, because I'm six inches above where I think I am, and accidentally-on-purpose leaning against tables for support when I'm stood close to them. I'm too tall to do things properly - I need to bend at the waist a little to slice some bread on the kitchen counter. I realise I'm route planning my way around the house. Moving requires serious concentration. I recall that swinging ones hips is a good way of offsetting the imbalance. This sort of works, but I'm not sure I'm doing it right. I decide to go upstairs to find a full length mirror.
Stairs are a challenge. Getting up them is ok, I've got a rail to hold on to and I walk very slowly. I examine myself in the mirror. I'm still bending my knees. I straighten up. My hips thrust out forward as if there's a chain pulling me by the navel. I tuck them in. My bottom sticks out. As does my chest. I look pretty good, balanced on my points. I imagine how they would look in suspension, or the heels tied together. After some adjustment I can at least stand up (sort of) straight. I try walking again, putting one foot almost in front of the other in teeny-tiny dainty steps, like a tightrope walker. That seems to work, but it is very forced and uncomfortable.
Going down the stairs is much hard. I am in fear for my life. Whilst "death by misadventure" is a hoped-for goal of mine I had wanted it to be much later on and not fully clothed. By this point my shins are really rather painful, as if I'm pressing weight against them. I've got ten minutes to go. I spend this staring at the clock. Willing time to pass. I attempted to pace a little, but that was difficult because I can only move in penguin steps, so pacing doesn't really have the same stress-relieving properties when done like that.
Finally, it's time. I take them off and put my feet flat on the floor, wincing. My soles are tingly with pins and needles. One hour down, goodness knows how many to go.
Three in a bed. Not the most comfortable of sleeping positions, neither physically nor emotionally. My thoughts turned what should have been a rather cosy experience (three drunken kinksters collapsed in a heap) into a long dark night of the sofa as my subconscious kept flickering back to my last experience of how three was a crowd. How hard and uncomfortable it was the last time I shared a man with another woman, even though we were never in the same space like this. In fact, it was a totally different set of people and circumstances, but I couldn't sleep and fretted over my own insecurities and uncertainties. The difficulty was, in part, over the lack of clarity in who was here with who and why. I felt little or no sense of place or understanding of what my relationship was with my bedmates, which reminded me in an odd way of how uncertain and thereby unhappy I had been in the poly relationship with The Photographer. Connections made by the brain in the middle of the night are rarely logical or designed to give you an easy time. Having put two and two together and made about twenty-three I was fairly all over the place and upset.
Captain collected me from the corridor in the early hours, having worked myself up into a state and contemplating getting the first tube home to get myself back to a secure place. He hugged me and I came back to bed. I lay there, still uncertain, still feeling a little lost, but comforted nonetheless by his body next to mine. The assurance of the flesh. I slept.
The morning proved my fears and worries wrong. By a country mile. His hand rested on my bottom as I came to, I naturally rose to meet it, widening my legs a little as his fingers parted my cunt. He moved to slide his cock inside me and I held my breath, wondering whether we would disturb Maple as she lay sleeping, whether our fucking would disturb or upset her. Feeling a strange guilt and also a little jitter of excitement, the exhibitionist in me thrilling to the close quarters. After a short while I realised she was awake, he was able to stretch out an arm and bring the two of us closer together. She was smiling, sleepy and beautiful. Relaxed. My concern ebbed away. She wasn't here to usurp me, but to be with me. I wasn't the one in the way or the one to be pushed aside and abandonned, but to be part of it.
Something in my brain clicked. I was going to enjoy this.
My tongue on her clit. Pierced. The taste of metal was pleasing against the soft, wetness of her cunt, as was feeling her move against my mouth, hearing her moan. Captain fucked me. I licked her. Smiling as I did so, something in the pit of my stomach urging her to orgasm with a need that easily outstripped my own desire for satisfaction. Because this was satisfaction, the ability to arouse someone like this with only the lightest flicker of my tongue.
She didn't want him to fuck her. She wanted me to do it with a strap on. And that made me feel about a mile tall. Heady with the pride of it. I was grinning as I slid the rubber cock into her, feeling my way blind, unsure at first but then surprisingly quickly getting into it as we moved positions about, all three of us. There was a moment, perfect and entire, as she used the hitachi to bring herself off whilst I was still inside her. I watched her face, rapt. And a bit smug.
I was enamoured with the entire situation. With the easy comfort and confidence of it. With the way all three of us interacted, the toppy rush as Captain and I fucked her. With the fact that she let me do this as a first. A first for all three of us, as it turned out. My first time fucking a woman like that, her first time also. His first time with two women.
I nestled in Captain's arms as she went to put the kettle on. As sure and satisfied with where we were as last night I had been unsure and restless. We drank tea and got dressed lazily, heading out together for breakfast. Each of us having popped a cherry from each other.
A Valentine's to remember.
Wherever there's a problem, look for the woman. That's part of what I'm doing with the doll project - looking for her, looking for the problems with her. And she is problematic. Tricky. Full of things that on first glance seem natural or normal. Obvious. But actually turn out to be smoke and mirrors, diversionary tactics. Take shoes, for example. High heels = feminine. There's a fairly common social staple, but thinking about why this might be so, suddenly causes all sorts of confusion. There's nothing natural or inherently "womanly" about high heels. They make us taller, when "naturally" we are generally shorter than men, they make us walk funny and cause all sorts of problems for our biologically-issued real bodies. But they do make us "feminine". Our legs are elongated, feet bent in a mimicry of the throes of orgasm, our bottoms and chest thrust out to compensate for the fact that we are constantly trying not to fall over. And we have to walk slowly, more carefully, with more thought for how we look - they make us into a display item.
The only real woman in the doll project is me, and she has very little to do with what I actually look like. The contrast between who I am and what I do when I become a doll is part of the fetish - the clash between my own flesh, my own personality, my own feelings and the artifice of the feminine, passive and empty doll. The important thing, I've found, is to draw a line between my own identity as a woman and the feminised doll. The two aren't the same. A man could also do the latter (which would be extremely interesting, and anyone who wants to come play should contact me). I'm a female drag queen, playing up and performing my own socially constructed gender and trying not to slide into pantomime damery.
The doll project is in part, about looking for the femme/feminine, that mysterious "other" traditionally ascribed to be the stuff of woman, but really a fabricated form that fascinates, full of faerie glamour, vanishing in the morning. A woman is born, more or less. The feminine is built. It's a doll, through and through. The doll is put on and taken off. Very little of what it does is real. I'm a big fraud, a fake, but a knowing fake, with my knowing smile. Which is another problem - sometimes I wonder if I'm cheating, because I am dressing up and putting on an act. Does that mean that part of my BDSM is faked, or that being fake is part of my kink? I like to think that the latter is true, that the doll fetish is a fetish for the unreal, for the fabricated, plastic and wipe-clean. A space in which to play.
A number of incidents have caused me to think about the way that we perverts interact with each other over the internet. Particularly in potentially hurtful and thoughtless ways, ways that are made possible and often exacerbated by the fact that we are all sitting behind glass screens. Put simply - I'm not sure that the following two situations, one personal, one a bit more public, would have occurred in the same fashion had they been done in meatspace.
The personal first. As some of you know, I use various internet sites for dating. With mixed results. Them's the breaks. However, I was recently contacted by someone (no image, barely any profile text - that should have alerted me right off) with the charming request "u come talk to me cunt". Now, text speak and profanity aside, it's hardly the most alluring offer I've ever had in my life and a quick glance at his total-lack-of-profile - which still managed to be sexist in only two sentences - confirmed that he was not my type. I wrote a brief reply stating that acts of gorilla-chest beating didn't really do it for me and that if he wanted respect he might want to show some. He replied, with more rudeness and accusations of my not being a "true submissive". Presumably because a "true submissive" would have come over all wet-of-cunt at such a provocative and manly display of "true dominance". The key thing here is the difference between my perceptions of what D/s is and his. Wildly varying, which is fine, but things become less fine when one person's perceptions of what is good and kinky are labelled as "wrong". In his eyes, I was not a submissive, and my refusal to accept his definitions (or his rudeness) resulted in more abuse and more anger.
Second example is taken from that great bastion of internet arguments, the online forum. Specifically Informed Consent. I'm not going to go into details because I wasn't part of the original thread and merely witnessed the fall out and some later comments from people I did know. Plus the whole thing really, really does not need to be re-hashed. However, some of the same effects were observable - differences of opinion on kink becoming "right" and "wrong" ways of being kinky. whereby one person's perceptions of something shift from being a point of view (often passionately held) and into facts that need supporting with endless credentials, themselves also points of view. People got very upset and the whole thing became a version of my own experience - more abuse, more anger.
Some of this links in quite closely with my thoughts on how there is no one, true scene. There are no rules written in stone tablets - no matter how strongly we hold to safe, sane and consensual we still need to define, often for ourselves, what we mean by those three words. Once we start to define them, we may then come into conflict with others who disagree with our choices - and because our sex lives are so personalised, especially in BDSM, we can find it hard to separate an attack on how we fuck with an attack on us. Certainly the two can become conflated - for example I read "you are not a true submissive" as "you are not worthwhile as a person" because being a good submissive is part of my identity. I'm not saying that I'm crying myself to sleep due to what a fool on the internet typed at me, but merely offering an example of how this operates.
I once argued (actually, at least several times) that the internet offers an immense additional playspace as well as opportunities to connect for kinksters. It is not without it's drawbacks. I am reasonably certain that both of those incidents would have played out very differently had we all been in the same room at the same time. Seeing each other as people, rather than blocks of angry text full of unpalatable button-pushing words and phrases. Red rags to each other's bulls.
Again, I'm left with the question - what to do? Is it time to all get in the same space and start to say what we mean to each other. Face to face. Whilst I accept that it may be practically difficult to do that for every kinky person in the UK (or the world, let's realise the spread of this) I'm up for attending if such a thing ever materialised. But until then, here's my offer. If you have a problem with anything I've said or done, or if you ever do in the future. If I make you angry, upset or if something I've said just sticks in your throat: send me a note, write me a comment, tweet at me. Then let's meet for coffee and take this whole thing offline.
It's a date.
I had a really good night out with some of the ladies with whom are plotting a women-only dungeon romp in a couple of weeks. I think we may have disturbed and upset the snooty french waiter who was supposed to be attending to us in the restaurant with our discussion topics although maybe he was just naturally that rude. The group was a mix of folk I already knew and had played with before: Hedwig and Painted Lady alongside some people who I knew less well or even not at all (Spiral and Majeste).
The topics were many, varied and wide-ranging. There was the practical - whether or not we wanted to bring knives to the venue, how many different colours of pallet wrap we had between us and who wanted to be top, middle or bottom. Then the philosophical - whether identity, particularly gender and sexual identity was inherent or constructed, whether there was a "core identity", the nature/nurture debate. Then the political - how we defined ourselves and lived our lives as women, as sex-positive, feminist and kinky women, as queers, mothers, child-free, bisexuals, lesbians, "misc" (that's me, by the way).
What really struck me was how quickly and how easily we gelled as a group. I'm almost always nervous about meetings of womenfolk, possibly due to teenage issues at school, and am therefore relieved and gladdened when such an event turns out positive. Everyone was very relaxed and comfortable with each other, almost from the get-go. This meant, amongst other things, that there was an awful lot of honesty flung around, questions asked and answered without fluster or fumble, about the most private of matters. We spoke bluntly about play, what we liked, what we didn't, what worked and what didn't. We spoke about desires and worries. We laughed a lot.
Something that Majeste has really stuck in my head, it was about group dynamics with respect to play and how having a focus on the group, rather than one particular object of attraction, would lead to better play. A more mix-and-match session instead of people paired off with their partners, which is certainly something that has happened to me before. This time, I think it will be very different, not only because the group is comprised of non-couples, but I also think that it will be interesting to see how a group of women play together.
Met up with Knight of Wands for dinner recently in what seemed like the first time in many moons. We went through the usual round-up before I was able to quiz him on a curious situation I find myself in. He knows me pretty well so I was keen to get his insights. Of late, I've been pondering on why I feel as if I'm holding back in my kinky explorations, I don't feel as if I'm going as deep as I could do, or really, truly letting go. I'm getting a lot of "thus far, but no further" from my brain - I find getting into a light trance state very easy, I can drop into that without any problem, but I can also pop back up equally quickly.
There's something in my head. Watching me. Checking up on me. And in a lot of cases, narrating and describing what is happening. My internal blogger is taking notes. Knight of Wands pointed out that this is a perfectly normal, sensible and safe thing to have, which I agree with, but wonder if the "this is me, doing this" mental scenario might be stopping me from getting to the next level. Two other thoughts were about my style of play, which is very responsive/reactive and overwhelmingly dependent on the other party to provide the shape of the play. This means that I wait, I anticipate, I prepare. Additionally, I need input on the value of my responses, because I want to be a good girl, so I monitor what I am doing to try and be better, more pleasing. In other words, I think a lot. I have the impression that if I could switch off more, let go more and think less I might be able to enjoy/endure more. Which I'd like. A lot.
I've also been thinking about how this limitation might be physical manifesting itself - for example my seeming inability to orgasm for a partner, or, to be honest, with any other type of manipulation beyond masturbation, under the covers, on my front, in my own bed. Typing that makes me feel as if I have some secret vanilla-orgasm shame, but realistically I think it's more about physical familiarity and the confidence to proceed. I can orgasm for myself, by myself because that is what that engagement is for. I often feel nervy during play about the potential for orgasm, partly because I feel like a "bad submissive" if I come before my partner (fortunately this has only ever happened once or twice) and equally, if I don't come as a result of what they are doing (unfortunately this has happened an awful lot). I never feel confident that I am allowed to orgasm during a play session unless specifically ordered to, so therefore I hold myself back. Equally, I am historically totally unable to orgasm on command so I get stressed and distressed which turns into a self-fulfilling prophecy.
It all seems to be about letting go.
To me, that is a lot about trust. To be able to let go I need to feel extremely comfortable and confident in my current play partners (who are, to be fair, still quite new to me, so this is no reflection on them and more a representation of my own feelings). It's not about trusting them to respect my limits or to respond to safe words or whatever - I would hardly play with anyone who didn't. It's more about knowing them and their style of BDSM enough to know I have the space to fail. That if I don't manage to do what they want me to do, if I can't take that pain or maintain that position that we will still be ok. This isn't about wanting to avoid punishment - in many respects that is a very important act of catharsis - it's about trusting that if I let go, if I fall backwards and am entirely myself, it will be into safe hands. That when I respond and react automatically from deep within, without the checks and balances of my own careful monitoring, no matter what happens, what I say or do, they will pick me up and help me get back together again. That they will still be proud of me, happy to have played with me, desiring to do it again. Fundamentally, I worry that if I don't concentrate I'll fuck up.
That by letting go I will let them down.
I learnt a valuable lesson. My "weekend off kink" that was supposed to be all about relaxing and resting up ended up being so horrifically stressful for RL issues that I am never doing that again. I'm still a bit frazzled by it all, so have nothing to report of an exciting physical nature. The most I managed was coffee with Captain on Sunday where he offered several hugs which did make me feel somewhat better. He also smelt really good, for those who are interested (pheromones interest me...)
So, some posts of a more philosophical or political nature for the next few days, at least until Festival of Sins at the weekend when I shall make merry. First off the bat is something that came out of a conversation at the midweek drinks last Wednesday, when I got into a discussion about the different generations of kink, how they interact (or don't) and how we understand the kinky social contract and rules of engagement.
Lots to take in, which is probably why we managed to clear the entire table within five minutes. Graphs were involved. Perhaps we might have got a little animated for a "friendly social" but I think what we were discussing was extremely valid. The nub of the conversation was this. Once upon a time, before the internet, BDSM was a smaller, more personalised community. People knew each other and there was a slower progress of meeting people, attending munches and eventually a party or a club. This meant (in theory, personally I was not entirely convinced at the idea of a golden age of kink) that generally, by the time someone got to a club they knew how to interact, what the rules were and were a safer, saner player than they might have been otherwise. With the advent of the internet and with a more open society, more people were able to find out about kink, reach out to kinky organisations and kinky people and get out there without going through that same process of "vetting".
So much the better, perhaps. After all, it has meant that those who might otherwise have been mired in vanilla misery, dissatisfied and unhappy, are able to meet other like-minded folk. The scene has gotten bigger (and perhaps more diverse). The scene has also gotten younger, which is neither a good thing, nor a bad thing, but certainly I got the impression from the conversation that the driving force behind the increased number of people on the scene was more people starting earlier on in their sexual careers.
What my conversation partner was concerned about was twofold. First, that there now appears to be a generation gap, of younger and older players, who rarely meet, especially now there are so many clubs and events, each with their own niche market and each which seem to tend towards one or the other end of the spectrum. The second point was that each tranche has its own modes of behaviour and ways of relaying information about the scene. To create a grotesque stereotype the older group is more likely to be more secretive, less public, less of an internet user and more of a private player. The younger group is more open, more club based and very internet savvy. The younger group also includes more recent joiners - so at any one time will have a higher proportion of less experienced players (which isn't to say there are no young, experienced players, there are many, it's just a group that contains a lot more new people and a lot of people who only play a little and not very often). I'd like to add that this is entirely from my own observation and conversations with others. Therefore totally anecdotal and without a single "fact" to back it up. I might well be wrong and there may be hordes of octogenarians racing to start their retirement by beating each other up. I hope this is true.
What this meant, and something we were both interested in was that the two groups do not really socialise or share information. This makes sense, because they do not necessarily share the same values, life goals or want the same things from BDSM. Worse still, there are difficult and challenging misconceptions that both groups hold about each other which prevent them from meeting in a friendly, open fashion: the old guard are laying claim to inscribing kink upon stone-tablets and citing privileges of rank whilst whippersnappers are arguing the natural ascendancy of the young-and-therefore-beautiful alongside our right to discover things for ourselves and not be told what to do. Neither side is entirely right. Neither side is entirely wrong - there are fools and heroes on both sides of the generation gap. What it does mean is that there is no one scene. There are multiple scenes. In other words, we don't have a kinky community. We have communities that are kinky. Some people don't even want to be part of any community, but still want to (quite understandably) tie each other up every now and then. This is a natural state of affairs for any movement that has grown through time but is problematic for us because parts of what we do are illegal. Other parts of what we do are certainly in the moral grey as far as society as a whole is concerned.
We have no real consensus, as a group, on what we hold as common ground. We are not a firmly established political entity. We have rules, but they vary from situation to situation. To take an example - what does "safe, sane and consensual" mean? Different people will have different views. There is also no process in how we explain this to new people, so a lot of the time, people pick things up as they go along. We are an informal, peer network, which is not necessarily a bad thing - it's certainly an open system, with no-one at the top handing down proclamations and it can foster a responsibility for each other. It does also have gaps. People get missed out, no-one is in charge so no-one is actually accountable. The way we share knowledge is very much catch-as-catch-can, which would be fine if we were all into knitting, but knitting isn't especially dangerous or illegal whereas parts of BDSM are. I'm sure we can all agree that it would be a good thing for everyone who was interested to get all the info they needed to be safe in case someone gets hurt or even (God forbid) arrested, but who will do this? I'm certainly not going to quit my day job and declare myself to be in charge of doing that. Besides, any number of people would then point out my total lack of qualifications for such a role.
So, the question becomes what do we do? I'm personally against any sort of hierarchical system of apprenticeship such as that operated by our cousins across the pond (a friend of mine was recently told he couldn't be a proper Dom unless he'd "served his time" as a submissive to an older Dom, which is not only extremely patronising to submissives - implying their status as a mere stepping stone to the "superior" position of dominance - but a bit unpalatable to someone who doesn't really want to be submissive). I'm also averse to harking back to a system whereby each person first had to find other kinky people, then jump through any number of hoops before actually picking up a crop. For a start, it's impossible in a world of the internet and high-street sex shops and secondly do we really want to be the Masons? I'm not sure what is the best way forwards. Certainly more open discussion, seminars and workshops would be wonderful, but you can't enforce attendance and I'm not sure that handing out brownie badges for kinky skills is within anyone's remit.
More thought required.
"You should take a break. I'm worried"
My flatmate, on observing me walk passed wrapped in a not-very-large-towel a few days ago. I can see her point. My knees are bruised, as are my arms. There are some cuts on my elbows and purple impact splatters on my back. There are also red lines cut into my upper arms and over my shoulders. There are other marks that she couldn't see. All in all, quite a lot to take in.
There's a few ways to handle this sort of comment, but the best one is to take a good long look at the person talking to you and take it in the spirit in which it was meant. It's easy to be over-sensitive to this kind of comment, to fly off the handle, to go into a death-spiral of teenage hormone infused stress over other people making decisions on your life. It's also easy to be blase - to brush it off in a "huh, I've done much worse!" one-up-manship style contest. But pushing aside comments like this is not the same as defending BDSM. It's not the same as defending your right to be hit as much as you like. It's partly about realising the wide scope that your play has on others - in my case, the effect that seeing these marks (although it was by accident) had on my flatmate. It's part about developing a context for your actions that goes outside the kinky-verse. Mostly, though, it's about the importance of another point of view.
Sometimes other people can see you better than you can yourself. Not always, but it's often worth listening, rather than just knee-jerk reacting and carrying on as normal. Her comment made me actually look at all the bruises and think about them, not just in the smug, smirking satisfaction of re-living how they were made, but viewing them as what they are: bodily damage. Regardless of the fact that I bruise easily, so that, in my opinion, the bruises are not an accurate reflection of the pain taken, they are a reflection of the damage caused to my flesh. And that needs time to heal. Not because someone made a comment, but because my body is telling me something and it would be stupid to ignore it, given how much heed I pay to it in other circumstances.
So, I've been spending a week with plenty of rest, plenty of arnica and a weekend booked with no impact play whatsoever. They've already healed up very well and I anticipate by the time next weekend rolls around I'll be white as snow and ready to start again.
Sometimes, the doll project puts me in compromising positions. Like at Sweet Torments, over the weekend in which I was dressed up as a "chav slut". White tracksuit, gold hoops, oodles of lipgloss, white stilettos and leopard print knickers. All class.
I was fairly relieved when it was time to take my clothes off. There was something exceptionally strange about being in the wrong uniform - feeling out of place and as if I didn't belong. Naked, I was more clothed in the conventions of the group, I felt more a part of what was going on. There was also the sense that in that choice of outfit (admittedly, chosen for me by The Professor) I was slightly taking the piss - which I wasn't, I hasten to add. Also there was an element of feeling like I was playing a game of BDSM, by poking holes in conventions, and I wasn't sure whether that made me an acceptable act of comedy or a shameless tourist. No-one complained, a few people laughed, a couple even thought it was hot so overall I don't think I offended anyone. I did stick out, and unusually for me, the exhibitionist it was uncomfortable. A woman in white velour in a sea of black leather.
Once laid out on the bench, I began to feel more at home, relaxing into what turned into an amazing double-domming session with The Professor and O' Hara, a female friend of his who I'd only be introduced to a few hours earlier, however, The Professor and I have had a couple of discussions regarding what was acceptable and what wasn't, and ultimately, I've known him for long enough to trust him and those around him. I wasn't wrong.
Cotton wool pads go over my eyes and clingfilm is wrapped tight around my head and neck. After the briefest of pauses, a finger pokes a hole into my mouth so I can breathe. Cool gel is rubbed on my back and there's the crackling hum of an alternator. I feel my muscles relaxing, melting slightly into the bench as they take control of my body, moving me through different levels of sensation from giggly warmth through to the deep, blackness of pain-causing-sorrow.
The play works in two ways at the same time, like particles and waves. The waves keep me going. They are the regular inputs, the ongoing build that peaks and troughs, each time allowing a pause or gap for me to catch my breath, to reassure or be reassured that I am fine (more than fine, that I am giddy with pleasure and submerged in a rolling arc going onwards, onwards to a crescendo). And after each pause, the build starts again, a little higher and heavier than before, so that each crest is harder than the one before and thus I move inexorably onwards. Within each pause, the sensation softens utterly, turning me to jelly, but never stopping, never leaving me alone or uncared for. Within each wave, the type of object used and the pain received changes, getting more powerful - hands become floggers become heavier floggers.
The particles are the interspersed dots of sudden sensation, from many different sources. They make me jolt, jump and scream. Unlike the wave, they are unpredictable, they do not build, they are fleeting moments of pain. Arriving then gone. Darts of electrical current, stabbed through my inner thighs, bites to my shoulders, bottom and upper arms that plunge me into adrenaline thumping fight-or-flight responses. Later, there is a knife, pressed against my back, my neck, my face and then against my cunt and clit in repeated, controlled stabbing motions. Just as the wave reassures me, the particles panic me - that wet-mouthed awareness of fear and helplessness, of not knowing what is going to happen or when.
They work in tandem. The waves carry me down, heavy and pressing into thick and fuzzy headspaces. The particles push me up, keeping me sensitized and crackling - they also hurt with the sharp, bright pain that forces gasps and cries out of me whilst the waves make me want to purr and moan. Finally, towards the end, something in me lets go and I am caught between these endless, increasing, alternating sensations. I start to cry. This time I know where my tears are coming from, and they are almost deliberate. Here is a safe space to cry, to let out that sorrow and loneliness that comes upon me in a controlled and managed scenario. Like primal scream therapy I'm using these sensations to force an internal catharsis, choosing how and when I will mourn for my own (still present, still keeping me cold) heartache. The pain is a trigger in and of itself, but together with those shadows in my heart it becomes something more as I let my emotions mingle with the physical sensations. It all pours out. I cry. It is wonderful. They are wonderful. I'm high as a kite, half-curled up in pain and all-over-shuddering from the pleasure of it all.
When they stop, I stop crying, almost immediately. Something which The Professor found curious and at the time I could not explain but now can. The pain is a channel through which I can express these emotions. When it's their I can let them go. When it's not I chose not to, because that is what getting better is all about, being able to put these feelings in their place.
I'm missing kisses at the moment. I don't get any. Not proper ones, I've got peck-on-the-cheek hello kisses, arty-farty air kisses and lips-firmly-shut kisses. I love kisses. I could live without oral sex sooner than I could live without kissing. Which is a shame, because currently I'm living without both.
Captain doesn't kiss me. I have still to fathom out why and it makes our interactions strange and very removed. His only response thus far is that he hadn't really thought about it. But I'm thinking about it, certainly. Lack of kisses has a definite effect on how I feel. Sometimes I feel like a client. Sometimes a prostitute. Sometimes I feel lonely. Sometimes I feel nothing at all and that's a problem, because after all, feeling is the point. Kisses are, of course, emotive and I can understand not kissing whilst "in scene" as it were, indeed, witholding kisses has always been an important part of feeling like an object. Objects don't get kissed. But people do and afterwards, or before, or just for kicks, I'm a person. Kisses are about caring, about desire and opening-up. Without them, the interaction can feel very superficial, mechanical and transactional. Which is fine, for what it is but it's limiting me. For all the powerful physical activity, something is sorely lacking and it's keeping me at arm's length, stopping me going as deeply as I could, keeping me on the coolly intellectual outside. Looking in.
A real kiss can be one of the most erotic things in the world. Whether historical rumour or no, I can well believe that Edo period geisha considered it an esoteric sexual art and it was a therefore a specialist and prized talent. I remember all the good kisses. A bad kiss is an instant no-no. All my partners must be fantastic kissers. My first kiss with The Photographer is burned into my synapses and I can recall with perfect clarity the sensation of it and the ensuing buzzing wave of pure desire that kept me on a wet-cunt high for days afterwards. I didn't know I wanted him the first time we spoke, the first time we saw each other or the first time we touched. But the first time we kissed I wanted him so badly I thought I would explode. The kiss is in fact my only exception to my hatred of begging that springs to mind - I've pleaded, whinged and promised the world in exchange for kisses. And will do so again, given half the chance.
"Beg for it."
Instinctively, my mouth clamps shut, jaw setting in a familiar (to my day-to-day persona, at least) stubborn position. There's a "fuck you" that I think but don't say - because I'm not quite that stupid. But inside, I'm a begging refusenik. Always have been. It doesn't sit happily with my submission, I have an inherent dislike of the do-me sub, but there's more than that. It's about vocalising need or want, which I'm usually loathe to do, preferring to stay silent and placid - a space for other people's desires, not my own. Begging is also a demand on the dominant and I don't want to demand or require anything. Having me beg also implies, tacitly, that they might not want to give it to me, and frankly, if they don't want to give it, I don't want to have it. Part of this might be the fear of refusal, of rejection. Which is of course, the flipside of wanting to be desired. I've already done my negotiation and discussion, that happened before. Now I'm here. I'm all yours. You want it, you take it. I offer up. I don't beg.
He slaps me in the face and I jerk a little against the bonds. I'm tied in a kneeling crouch at the end of the bed, arms spread out and tied with heavy duty cargo straps to the metal frame of the bed, shoulders pressing down on the cool iron.
"Beg..."
There's a warning in his voice, easily heard. I can't do it. He's playing with himself in front of me and I want him to come. The lack of begging is not a lack of desire, not about a lack of wanting him. Far from it. I just don't feel right saying it. He hits me again, holding my chin up lightly with one hand to get a better aim. First one side, then the other. Then again. One blow catches me around the ear and I get a black flash as my hearing dims instantly. My face is hot, extremely sore and I am welling up with tears. Yelping but not speaking. He doesn't stop hitting me and doesn't stop asking me to beg.
"Please." It's tiny. A voice from far away. A voice that has its roots firmly in "please stop" rather than "please come in my face". It is, however, still "please". He orders me to keep saying it, because he finds it hot and that I can manage. Whispering please, over and over again in a faint, flat, defeated monotone as he orgasms in front of me, covering my face in semen. He ruffles my hair, happily, letting me rest my face against his stomach for a while, chest heaving, starting to come to a little. By this point, I'm happier too. He's come, that's important, so he's sated. I've done my job.
There is a part of me that knows I didn't really, that I didn't quite follow his request as it was intended, which is a small betrayal. But I also can't lie to him - that would be worse. Not with my voice or my body. I can't say things that don't feel right, that don't make sense to me. And begging does not currently make much sense. Obviously I understand it intellectually. But deep down, in my stomach, something flips and keeps saying "no". I anticipate a conversation about this at some point, if this is going to become part of any play we do - to try and work out what it does for him, what was so difficult about that moment and that context, in order to see whether I can choose to beg in the future.
When he picked me up of the floor, Captain kept me hooded and blind and lowered me onto what felt like a padded bench with a rigid dildo in the centre. I'm wet from earlier, so I slide on easily enough but the angle is uncomfortable and there's no adjustment I can make to avoid it. I'm stuck. Impaled. He picks my heels off the floor and straps my calves to my thighs so all my weight is pressed down. A leather sleeve pins my arms together behind my back, arching me slightly forward, increasing the thrust of the dildo inside me. Clamps attach to my nipples and are pulled taught - the sharp pain takes my breath away but also centres me somehow, unlike the dull pressures of the hood, the sleeve and the penetration this is a "high" pain, cutting through the soporific, submissive daze of sensory deprivation and bondage. It's a cruel pain also, if I move, it pulls more, each time clearing me out of the refuge of sub space and refreshing my ability to feel everything keenly.
The dildo starts to move, in what is probably a rough circular motion, but it's hard to tell. Then the entire bench starts to vibrate in a heavy, powerful washing-machine or motorbike fashion. At first, the sensation is mostly pleasant - the throbbing waves between my thighs make me tense, and the dildo is actually less uncomfortable now it is moving a little. I feel myself start to get into the feeling. If I had free reign I'd probably be squirming against the machine fairly happily by this point. The sensation is against the whole of my cunt, not just my clit, so there's an overall feeling of hard pressure with elements of pleasure. It's a long way away from the gentle, precise masturbation that I use to come so I don't feel as if I am going to orgasm, but I feel as if I perhaps could with practice and smile beneath the hood.
Then he turns the power up and everything changes. I'm not being pleasured, I'm being abused. The pressure is enormous, the vibrations like being punched. The dildo is a stiff, invasive rod hammering at the inside of my cunt, shattering my insides. I'm not riding the sybian. It's riding me. And I'm screaming. Not the gaspy, panting screams of the pre-orgasmic woman, but the loud, bellowing bottom-of-the-lung screams of pressured pain. For the first time that I can remember I shout "stop, stop". Angry at myself for such a failing. It doesn't stop. I keep screaming - by this point I am crying with the effort of screaming.The machine is forcing itself upon me and there is nothing but deep, dull, internal pain. I can hardly describe it because the experience was so intense my mind is finding it hard to re-conceive and my memory of those moments is deeply shaky. I think he pulled on the clamps on my nipples every now and then. I think he hit me in the face. I can't remember. Describing the effect of the machine itself reduces me to bad metaphor: it's a pile-driver; a torture device. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. I can't twist away, can't alter my position, can't do anything but scream. The pain is bad, but worse than the pain is the knowledge that I might have perhaps enjoyed this. That perhaps I should be enjoying this and experiencing 4,000 orgasms a minute but, for some reason to do with my own biology, yet again I cannot orgasm. I am broken, somehow. And I am failing to deliver. Not only does it hurt but my pain is futile - there is no final release to this, only a collapse into nothingness and more pain, the sorrow at not being a good girl who can come to order, at not being able to take what I am given.
After some time, I really do not no how long, it could have perhaps only been a few minutes, he turns off the machine, removes the clamps and the hood, he half pulls, half carries me over to a nearby sofa, laying my head down on the seat whilst he fucks me briefly doggy-style. That this hard, cold fucking is a welcome respite says much about the machine. He pulls out, and I wait for more pain, more punishment, something in response to my failure to come. But that doesn't happen. He sits down with my, letting my head fall against his legs, he touches my hair briefly, telling me I'm a "good dolly" and I almost collapse with relief. I broke. But he wanted me broken.
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