Silver foxes

Someone asked me a very good question a few days ago, concerning my list of "don't want" activities on a dating profile. It was an older gentleman, in his fifties, checking in on my disinclination for age play. Given the politeness and reasonableness of the question - oftentimes this sort of thing can turn into a terrible "why won't you play with meeeee?" but not so here - I thought it worth spending some time actually considering the subject in more detail. After all, there have been many things over the years that have moved from the red column through to the amber, some of which now jump up and down excitedly in the green. Some have still stayed red, and age play is one of them.

Now, before I go any further it's worth mentioning once again, for the record, that these are just my thoughts and my opinions on how I practice my BDSM. I did actually think twice about writing this post given that two people I know and respect have a rather lovely Daddy/girl relationship that I admire without wishing to emulate. I'm not casting aspersions on anyone who chooses to engage in these activities. What I am doing is dissecting why I am not drawn to them.

I often say that I don't like "roleplay" within sex. At best, they can be silly messing around games in which I try hard not to giggle. At worst they completely ruin scenes for me because I end up adopting a role that is made-up, pretend and has no link with myself or my personality to the extent that I don't really feel connected. Finally, I work in theatre and have performance related hobbies outside of kink and for my own sanity I like to have a nice, thickly drawn line between this and BDSM.

Obviously, I play games with identity. I adopt personas - particularly with the doll project, but they tend to be versions of myself, or parts of me turned up to eleven. Equally I will drop personality and attempt a blank-slate attitude, or even an animalistic one. But I have never wanted to be a schoolgirl, or a police officer or a nurse or a washing machine repair-woman. They are fun dress up characters, perhaps, given the right context, but I don't want to engage in a kinky sex scenario whilst in those roles. When I fuck, I want to be me. When I'm building a D/s scenario with my partner is even more important that I'm me, because the connection that we have needs to come from somewhere genuine, from somewhere inside.

Now here's the part that I needed to write the disclaimer. For me, engaging in age play would be to play in this made-up game. It's a role too far away from "me" for me to be able to understand: I do not see the attraction and I don't get anything out of it when I think of it. Now, I'll cheerfully admit that I've never tried it, so will accept all criticism of "don't knock it till..." but at the same time, the lack of desire to do something perhaps speaks something for itself?

As I dig into this I start to think about the types of D/s I do enjoy and the roles I do and don't like to play. I have never felt comfortable as the "little girl" personality, I have played with the look as a doll outfit, but the attitude and type of power-exchange it represents don't work for me: I am a grown up woman and my submission is to someone as an equal, not as their junior in any respect. I don't enjoy being "babied" and can find it very patronising - even when that was not the intent - the paternal, father-knows-best attitude coming from a male dom is something almost guaranteed to make me want to explode. Given that outlook, I've tended to steer clear from those types of play scenarios.

Some of my attitudes towards age-play are less straightforward. I like the feeling of safety, of being looked after, of belonging and I can see very clearly how these are all strongly at work within a Daddy/girl situation but power exchange is nuanced and personal and this flavour doesn't mesh well with me, although ostensibly it would seem to provide what I might enjoy. The gender balance doesn't make much difference - having thought about it I'm fairly sure I don't want a Mummy either, although the nurture, fierce love and pride in their "child" are all attractive tropes in a D/s relationship.

Finally, there's an issue of overlap. I have a Dad, my long-suffering father who I love very much and have an incredibly good relationship with. To even think about calling someone else "Daddy" and to have them intrude, even slightly, on that area of my life is very uncomfortable, especially where sex is concerned. My Dad is a complete rock and generally all-round amazing bloke, and I don't want another one. I understand that the D/s Daddies are different, but, like with roleplay in general, I need to keep my family life separate from my kink and this is a definite line in the sand.

I suppose that it is all a question of context. Different sorts of situations suit me better. I have no issue with the Master/slave dynamic, and actually have a lot of fantasies in that area - the cold disconnect, the person/non person inbalance, sexual service, ownership and training. I wonder if perhaps there is an aspect of emotional management going on here. Clearly, the "Daddy/girl" scenario has a lot of connection, a lot of love already built in from the get-go. Daddy can be firm and strict, certainly, but everything is in a context of care. Master/slave less so. I'm talking here about the flavour of the roles, within an established D/s relationship M/s couples can be very much in love, but the appearance and reality don't always match up. Perhaps it would be better to say that the emotions in M/s can be hidden, certainly the "I can't love you, you're my slave" situations with The Photographer were some of the most intense and powerful pieces of D/s I'd ever gone through. Hard, but worth it.

Grumpy bitch

Today I was in a pretty dire mood. I've no idea where it came from, but I do know the major cause - lack of sex. I'm not getting enough and that certainly caused problems this morning. For one reason or another, Captain and I didn't have sex the night before, which guarantees I'll wake up horny. The sunlight filtered through my eyes at around 6am and I spent the following few hours wondering whether it was too early to wake him up for sex. It was. So there I was, awake with him asleep and I had a swollen, unsatisfied cunt, coiling snakes of desire in the pit of my stomach and was generally feeling ratty, aroused and not at all sure what to do with myself other than make occasional little whiny noises.

I just couldn't ask for it. The words failed me. Perhaps part of it is some sort of embarrassment, but I wouldn't call myself exactly shy. I know that I loathe having to ask for it. It makes me feel like a bad submissive - that I don't have the strength of mind or character to patiently wait to be given what I'm offered. I don't have a problem asking ahead of time and can usually write a fair amount or chat endlessly about my likes and dislikes in advance. But when with someone, whilst in a power exchange scenario (and certainly I tend to be more like that than not around Captain) it's much, much harder. For a start, asking for it highlights the fact I'm not getting it, which makes me feel unattractive and unwanted: I have to ask, because no-one wants to give it. I feel like I'm wheedling, or begging or doing all of those hateful pathetic things that make me feel weak and small. Worse, when it comes, I feel as if it only came because they felt sorry for me. A pity fuck. At best. I don't want pity. Just fucking.

I'd rather masturbate, frankly.

Which was pretty much where I'd gotten to once all of these thoughts had churned through my mind and I had gotten myself pretty angry and fed up. Rather than actually deal with any of this in anything like approaching an adult manner, blinded by horniness and rage, I got up and declared furiously to a that there was no point me staying if I wasn't going to get any. I then spent a few minutes stomping around the place before getting ready to leave. Fortunately, wiser and calmer heads prevailed with Captain bringing me back to the bedroom and making me talk about it. Then strapping me down with many leather belts, a Hitachi between my legs, gagged and blind. I opened myself up to the sensation, there were a few minutes where I even thought I might orgasm but thought the better of it. Deciding that given what had happened I didn't deserve one. After a while of this he undid my legs and fucked me, hard. That worked. The pressure and heavy thump of him pushing violently into me was the right tempo and force for the rage and sickness I had inside of me. It matched my anger - both at myself for having behaved like this and at the force of my need. Slowly, I started to come to.

He came, we went back to bed and in a serious gesture of benevolence (I wouldn't have been this nice to me had the shoe been on the other foot) he let me masturbate to orgasm. We dozed then I took him out for an apology breakfast, trying to explain myself. Glad of his kindness. I went home still very out of sorts.

It's obvious to me that I need to get into a situation where I can have regular sex. But not just any sex. I need regular kinky sex and companionship, which means having partners who work with me, who I can build up a trust and who can deliver what I need. Kisses, passion, filth. Finding them takes time, energy and serious effort. Keeping them even more so. And whilst I am certainly enjoying having the liaisons that I do, it's clear that I need more and more often. And I need it at my beck and call. Which means it's back to the dating pool to dip my toe once again for that perfect male bottom - who I can use and abuse whenever the urge takes me.

Piss

"There you go. Good girl."

He steps back, and I catch his eye, then swallow. Piss hasn't got much of a taste without access to oxygen it doesn't give off that specific acrid smell and so, straight from cock to mouth, it's a lukewarm liquid with a faint tang. He kisses me and I wonder whether he can taste it too or whether I've just got the memory of flavour in my mind. It's a rare kiss, as they all are, and I savour it as much as I can, my mind warm and fuzzy at the edges. Being used in this way pushes a number of my buttons: the casual familiarity and intimacy of it, the service value that I can offer up and the slight edge of unpleasantness about it too - of being a repository for something that, although sterile, is considered dirty.

A little later on and I make a moue and a small noise when he heads over to the bathroom and he raises an eyebrow. "You asked for it." He holds me firm whilst standing behind me, eye contact and face to face is often the first thing to go when he moves from being casual to more serious. He unbuttons my dress and half walks, half drags me over to the toilet box. It's a black cube with a toilet seat and lid fitted over a hole in the top. There's an arch underneath and clips on the side, the former is where my head goes, the latter where my cuffed wrists are fixed. I'm on my back, staring at the ceiling. It's quite relaxing: there's certainly nowhere else to go, it's getting dark and the pleasant odour of the wood mingles with the smell of incense that I've come to associate with him. He's somewhere else in the room, arranging things, making noises. He comes over and places a loo roll on the edge of the seat. I curl my toes. Piss is one thing, shit is entirely another. On the other hand I am where I am and there is a certain freedom in this kind of captivity - certainly from responsibility, choice, blame. I will go through whatever he chooses to put me through and come out of it having experienced more, gone further.

In the end I get a lot of piss. An awful lot. At first, I'm able to swallow it, lifting my head up so that I can lick it from his cock, grinning as I do at thoughts of what I'm doing. He wriggles around splashing my face, soaking my hair. The smell is stronger now, confined into the box and lying in it as I am. He shuts the lid and leaves me for a while. I can hear the piss sloshing against my ears, my hair spreading out in the liquid, soaking it up, I expect. Other than that, it's quiet and I'm left to my thoughts, of which there are calmingly few. I am here, that is all - to be used or not used as he decides. It's reassuring, in a way.

Some time passes, probably not much. There's a hand against my leg, pulling it wide and he starts to fuck me. I'm wet and he feels good although I feel curiously (or perhaps not so curiously) disembodied. It's a feature of our sex life that more often that not my face is hidden whenever he fucks me. I'm never quite sure what to make of it. On the one hand I am free from distraction, I can vanish inside myself and only exist as a body, a channel to be used. It focuses my feelings to the physical only, distancing me from both of us as people. When we fuck without faces we are not people, we have no emotional connection. We are interchangeable and anonymous. That is the part that I don't like. The feeling of nothing in my mind and my heart, that frozen bit of emptiness in which there is no desire, passion or care. The concern that we mean nothing to each other outside of what we are doing right now. Two bodies, rutting. I flip between these conflicting thoughts, usually immersed in the former but sometimes I fall into the latter and can make myself upset. At the time, I catch myself and am able to relax into his rhythm, feeling my cunt get wetter and just enjoying the sensation, the mild sense of degradation becoming both thrilling and comforting as I allow myself to think that this kind of use means he feels that I am worth being his.

A few nights later and I'm being threatened with shit again and the same concerns surface. He's poised over my face, arse an inch or so above my mouth and I'm wriggling my legs and pinned down arms in uncomfortable distress. I can't do it. I hate saying no because to say no is to fail, to be sub par and that never makes me comfortable. He moves away and pressing a pillow against my face, starts to fuck me. Enclosed in the hot dark pressure I am unable to orgasm because my fingers are too numb and tired, there's also some feeling of unease in the back of my brain, pit of my stomach, that I can't push away.

We've recently been going into some types of D/s play that I'm finding genuinely difficult and challenging and that's making me consider whether I'm getting what I need in order to feel happy. The harder the D/s the more I need the satisfaction that these difficult, nasty things are part of something worthwhile and meaningful. Part of this is probably stiIl a hangover from my previous relationship with The Photographer - I'm vulnerable to fears of abandonment and challenges to my self image mean that when I'm feeling exposed I need to also feel special, wanted, desired and to know that, for one person at least, I stand out from the crowd. For the most part I like what we have. I like that it is friendly, calm, fun and easy going. But it can sometimes feel cold and flat outside of the "active" D/s that we do. I'm not ready for big capital letter "L" love or huge emotional intensity but I am ready for a little more connection and intimac. I find myself requiring an acknowledgement of a jointly shared passion: flirtation, dirty words that make me smile, fingers touching and holding hands, hungry kisses that keep me horny. The lighter side of the coin that means when you flip it, it's bigger, stronger and better.

Shapes and sizes

This is a conversation that has been doing the rounds lately: BDSM and body shape. I had a very interesting chat with Offensive Charmer, and on and off with Captain, also with The Ladies Who, at length so there's a lot to go through.

Offensive Charmer and I were shooting the breeze over wine on Friday, whilst re-engaging with each other and our kinks and he mentioned that he has recently been playing more with women who were larger than "usual" type and finding how and where kink and traditional sexual attractiveness overlapped. This is especially interesting as he is involved in the New York scene were there is, according to him, a strong pressure to focus on the kink activity as the primary motivation rather than what someone looks like and whether you find them attractive. It is allegedly at such a point that labelling oneself with parameters for physical desires makes one "heteronormative" and therefore a bad person. And there is a special place in hell for you if you dare to utter the word "fat".

Following on from feminist musings by Susie Orbach, amongst others, I'm prompted to ask whether fat is a kinky issue? Like being white and discussing issues of race, I'm always somewhat uncomfortable as a slim woman talking about size. But I'm also of the opinion that the less we discuss things, the more mysterious and difficult they become. Additionally, other people are talking about it and certainly I have things to say.

Let's start with the tricky language involved. The word "curvy" for example, is used as much as a euphemism for "fat" as it is used an accurate descriptor of women with hips, breasts and bottoms. We don't know what we are talking about when we use these words. Unrealistic imagery of women in the media, clothes-hanger super models and poorly constructed methods of calculating BMI, together with hpyed-up issues over the "obesity scare" means that we aren't at all sure what size women are supposed to be. Added to that the leftist tendancy to get worried over phrases such as "supposed to be". We don't like talking about people in general, or about what might or might not be normal and consequently end up struggling when dealing with extremes. Yet there is patently a lack of representations of "normal" women, solely the extremes of super-skinnies and super-sizes paraded around. Consquently, we don't really know what mean when we say or try to imply "fat". It's a word heavily laden with social prejudice and we are squeamish about using it, except when we are trying to hurt or criticise.

Before we have started, we are in a difficult position. Add to the mix the persistent rumour that those involved in the scene are a) less attractive than those with more mainstream sexual desires and b) that body-shape should matter less to kinky folk because we are supposed to be open minded / find the "alternative" attractive. I think that "attractiveness" overlays heavily on body shape and size so I've spent a while prodding these ideas with sticks and encouraging other people to do the same. First, I don't think that people in the scene look particularly different to other people. I've met folk I find hot and folk I don't find hot. The second point is more challenging to unpick, after all, I have had satisfying BDSM experiences from people I don't neccesarily find attractive. This came about because I have been seeking out specific skills and types of play and they were the people who could do it, so in that situation it has been the kink that has driven my desire. However, the people I play with often, the people I play with regularly and certainly those I have developped relationships with have been those I've found attractive in and of themselves. Critically, when it comes to talking about size, however, the majority of those people have been men. And ultimately, a larger man comes under a lot less fire than a larger woman, because society cares less about what they look like.

In life, as in kink. The attractiveness of the man is less important than his abilities. The abilities of a woman come after her attractiveness has been weighed and measured. We can accept the less than attractive gentleman if he delivers a good flogging, but not so the lady. We reflect traditional prejudices within the scene and nowhere more clearly than here. The conflation of "female" with "submissive" is a big factor in this, as is the assumption of women as objects for male sexual consumption (whether the male is submissive or dominant doesn't seem to matter - the look of the woman is the important thing). However, there are signs of change here, as society turns it seems that kink will turn also and that the issue of size might become less problematic as we stop viewing women in a particular way. Action is as important as theory when it comes to challenging these prejudices. One of the activities that has come out of The Ladies Who (and I think we are a good selection of many-sized kinky women) is a femdom event in which women are encouraged to dress, behave and play exactly how they want to, rather than just within the confines of a stereotypical Domme "look".

Canes

I'm scared of canes. Before I even knew what they felt like, I was scared of them because everyone told me how much they hurt. They are my own personal bogey man, the thing under my bed. I now know that they do hurt an awful lot, and the knowledge has not made me any less afraid. But for the first time in my life, I actually want to be hit with a cane.

This all stems from Monday night. I can still feel the three stripes on my thighs from the "light taps" I received from Captain, and I'm trying to bring the sensation that caused them to mind. As always, I know that it hurt a lot, that it was intense, but the exact amount of pain is hard to say. It's always more than I remember and always unpleasant and delivers nothing but pain, taking my breath away and forcing out a cry. It's a clean and sharp pain, a hot cut that slashes the skin and pushes deep into the muscles. A bright pain too, I almost always see stars behind my closed eyelids. It almost always makes me cry.

Tied face down to a leather padded bench. Rope criss-crossing me and pulled tight like a net from the tips of my toes all the way up to my head. I was relaxed, lying sweet and comfortable, setting into the nest of tense rope that holds me in like a comfort blanket. That was before Captain went over to get the canes. I saw them earlier, all laid out, as he sprayed them with water to keep them supple, so I was already partly aware of possible intentions. We'd been playing with some shibari positions, working out which ties could be slipped easily, which were actually secure, what felt "right" and what pulled awkwardly. I'd happily been moved around into different positions, a content and supple doll for rope practice. Now, upon hearing the swish of a cane cut through the air I went tense, an attempt at readiness that can never be realised.

The first few blows were taps, and the relief I felt was balanced out by the knowledge that the cane was going to be used, not just a noise to surprise or shock me. When the first stronger blow came I cried out, there's no control or resistance when I'm being hit with a cane, it's just pure aversion response. I can't keep quiet and keeping still is hard. The rope took care of the latter. A few taps and another blow later and I was in floods of tears. Being frightened makes me cry, being in pain makes me cry. But more than that it was the sadness at being so vulnerable, so unable to take what is perceived as such light and little blows. Unhappiness at my own weakness, at the speed at which I gave in and cried. Added to that, the uncertainty of not knowing how long this would go on for, whether the blows would get harder.

The tears were cathartic, crying is energising in a way, allowing those horrible thoughts and feelings to bubble out and disperse - pushing them away from my mind and body. There is something satisfying in having a good cry, and having a reason to do so. The same with canes. Which is why when he leant over me, so I could feel how hard he was and how much he was enjoying himself I felt better, happier. He asked me whether I would take more, for him and I replied "yes, Sir" instantly, naturally. Because that helped me. Knowing that I was doing it for him, that it was pleasing him and having that connection. The thing I was giving up. The thing he was taking. As the words left my mouth I wondered at the pleasure in saying yes like that. In acquiescing to something I was scared of, something that hurt. It's wrong to say I got no pleasure from it. There was the thrill in being brave, in saying yes, certainly there was the knowledge that I was pleasing him (of course) but there was also power in consent.

Which brings me to the strange realisation that I do want more. To give myself over and to endure. I have a strong suspicion that when it comes to it, I will not want it, but now, removed, I do. I want the pain and the fear not for themselves, but to have someone take me through them, beyond my own personal barriers and aversions and into a place where the pain can become something beyond the pain itself. I want to be able to take more than I currently can, so in a way it is part of a personal challenge. I want the cane to be in context, to be part of something that is meaningful. I also want to be able to inhabit the pain in a way that I can do for other sensations - flogging, needles and spanking spring clearly to mind. They all give me something else, deep spaced out sensations or high as a kite giggling. I'm sure that there must be some equivalent with canes rather than just short, sharp shocks of pure punishment.

My right hand

Time for another post on masturbation, in the wake of many conversations with Captain on the subject. We're talking about my orgasms - how to, how not to, how much and how much is too much. Which means, inevitably, we're talking about wanking.

I have a lot to say on the subject. Starting with the fact that I don't (I have never) reached orgasm by penetration alone and that getting to orgasm in anything but one or two very specific positions and situations is very hard, nigh impossible. Untangling the whys and wherefores of this is something I'm keen to continue. I am reasonably sure that habit is a major part of it - I've become accustomed to climax in certain contexts and therefore associate orgasm with those particular movements and scenarios. It's easier to slip into the mindset and to let go, or push myself towards. I usually orgasm alone, which means free from distraction, from other people and other stimulation - I am by myself and with myself and have nothing else to concern me beyond my own pleasure and satisfaction.

During sex or sexual play, I tend to think a lot about my partner - I find it hard to climax if they have not already done so. I particularly feel the sensation of someone else's orgasm, riding the crest of their wave. The closest I get is by experiencing the build-up to an orgasm but am unable to actually come. It's the latter that really interests me, after all, I'm getting the stimulation, I am physically able to orgasm in other situations, yet there is clearly something about being done to, rather than doing for myself that means I cannot come. I know from past experience that there are two situations in which someone else has made me orgasm, and even these are rare and not guaranteed. The first is fairly obvious, I assume the position (on my front, legs spread) and they mimic what I do, substituting my fingers for theirs. The second is oral sex, which usually takes forever and sometimes I can be too wet, too tired and too over-sensitive before I actually come. The latter produces a very different sort of orgasm - longer, deeper and much more powerful, in contrast to the delicacy of the sensation that produced it.

Captain has asked to be notified whenever I am going to masturbate, which means late night text messages and the odd one in the morning. Sometimes he sets a remit: number of orgasms, which hand to use, whether to take my time and tease or go for broke. I like sending him those little notes, status reports that acknowledge his control and my response, part of it is feeling cared for and attended to, another part is about having someone else participate in my long, drawn out experiments with my challenges with orgasm. Finally, I like rules. They give me operating parameters, which are reassuring, make me feel safe, wanted, a part of something. This request (order?) is clearly the start of something and I'm interested to see where he's going in terms of control and management.

Needful things

Inspired in part by this very thoughtful piece on the importance of touch in a BDSM context I've been thinking about need and desire.

Submissives are often characterised as "needy", which is a difficult label to walk around with. I remember that one of the initial conversations I had with Captain was around his nervousness over the responsibility he would have to assume in that situation, which led him to ask how needy I thought I was. And I replied that I wasn't. For me, needy is a bad word. It has connotations of childish petulance, wimpish lack of self-reliance, of whining, bickering brattishness and of that socially constructed entity that hangs over the heads of all women like Banquo's ghost: the nagging, needy girlfriend. I am a grown up woman, with grown-up wants and desires that are real, important and powerful. However, I am also sexually submissive and that means that situations which turn me on put me in positions where I rely on others for satisfaction and gratification in my sex life.

That's not a position unique to D/s. Everyone all over the world has been in a place where they have wanted sex and their partner has been busy/tired/washing their hair/non-existent. In such situations there's usually little you can do beyond grumble then masturbate, but in a D/s context you are effectively putting yourself in a power-exchange situation in which this witholding is a deliberate and ongoing part of your sex life. The submissive desires rely on the dominant providing them. In many instances, the dominant sexual drive relies on being in a situation where they can control this provision.

Now, there is where the discussion of need gets really interesting. Clearly, dominants have needs too, yet you rarely hear them called "needy". This is because their desires don't manifest in a way that we would consider socially undesirable in the same way that submissive desire maps onto the construct of a needy person. The cool, calm persona, unflappable and radiating authority never strikes us as needy, yet in many ways the dominant is actually the ultimate expression of need. They need the submissive, and control of the submissive in order to satisfy their own desires. Yet their need is invisible, or rather it appears as strong and silent. We don't "see" their need, only that of the submissive. This is how the power exchange causes the perception of a needy submissive and a non-needy dominant. Dominants conserve power, submissives give it up, which means that dominants have a surplus and submissives a lack - hence the imbalance. But both get off on the situation. Both need each other in order to have a healthy and pleasurable sex life, they are fulfilled by each others desires and wants, so why are we critical of the submissives drive, when it is an essential part of the dynamic?

Perhaps part of it is that we view it submissive desire as an absence rather than a presence in the traditional arena of binary signification. As I expressed above, the power exchange is viewed as zero sum, what one has the other cannot have and we always view the power as lying with the provider, in this case, the dominant. In this way, we devalue submissive need because it appears weak to us, incomplete. We privilege dominant need because we do not perceive it as a need, so the appear strong. D/s relies on these agreed constructs in order to operate but really, both desire and both provide.

The important thing here is to separate out "good" criticism from "bad" criticism. To me, there are ways in which the motif of need is a valuable and useful part of the D/s dynamic. Need can be hot. Guilt, shame, humiliation and feelings of "less than" are tools in the D/s arena. The shadows of neediness can give all of these and more, especially given that it is an endlessly repeating cycle - need creates submission and submission creates need. The more I want something (an orgasm, flogging, sens dep, bondage) the more submissive I feel towards the person who provides. The more submissive I feel, the more I need. They feed off each other, especially when my need is emphasised during play.

The references to submissive neediness becomes problematic when it spreads into non-sexual areas. I appreciate that for 24/7 or more ingrained D/s relationships there is an argument that everything is coloured by the D/s and hence sexual so I'll try to clarify. Where there is a belief that because someone is a submissive they are therefore needy (weak) in all areas of their lives, that becomes a problem. Where neediness is assumed as a bad thing which the submissive should be blamed for, rather than a natural part of their sexuality which gives pleasure to them and to their dominant, then that's a problem. Where there is an assumption that because someone is submissive they are automatically always needy and hence unable to control themselves, manage their wants and desires or protect themselves from unwanted attention because of the inferiority implied by their needs, then that's a serious problem.

My submissive need is not and never should be taken as a weakness of character or mind. It's a demonstration of strength and confidence in expressing myself and actively seeking to fulfill my desires.

May the force be with you

So, Captain and I continued to display our mutual appreciation for showing off and being silly by heading over to Subversion on Saturday in BDSM renditions of a silver latex Boba Fett and mostly blue but actually naked Twi'Lek slave girl respectively. We were joined by Boy Wonder who managed the least clothed version of Darth Vader I have seen (shiny latex shorts maintained dignity). I had an awful lot of fun spending the afternoon curled up by Captain's feet painting, sticking and building costume for the pair of us, thus combining my love of geekery, kink and Getting Creative and Making Things.

Painting myself blue was something I'd wanted to do for ages, but had been lacking in a good excuse. As the colour spread over my skin my features vanished and I became strange and unusual. I love dress up. Being able to put on a different form and the escapism and sheer, stupid joy of play that comes with it. Sometimes we can take ourselves too seriously (especially when we want to be taken seriously on the scene, or known as being safe, sane and consensual players) - this was a good opportunity to kick back and muck around.

"Come on then, let's punish the dalek"

"I'm a Twi'lek"

"Blue thing, whatever"

Which is how we ended up re-enacting a comedy routine in the centre of the club. I'm tied to the gallows winch, up on my tip-toes in front of a smiling audience. Captain is hitting everything except for me, because the visor offers extremely limited vision, I'm giggling and wriggling about and playing to the crowd. After we've raised enough laughs, he begins in earnest. It's a new flogger and I'm falling a little in love with it. Just enough weight, just enough stinging and just enough thumping. I like floggers best of all the impact toys - the balance between the heft and the bite gives them a short initial burst of fresh sharp pain which then tingles and glows into a firmer, warmer sensation as it spreads. All the better when built up. And it does build.

He's concentrating on my arse, which (naturally) I'm wiggling to good effect, appreciating how this must look in my mind's eye - some version of a nerd fantasy, no doubt. And that pushes my buttons too. The audience watching, either amused or turned on or better yet a mix of the two. And the build of the flogger. I push myself out towards him, feeling moisture between my legs as I get turned on. I haven't had sex for a while and I'm fairly horny, this kind of play always makes me want to fuck, the pattern of the warmth caused by the pain is perfect foreplay and I can actually feel the beginning of an orgasm start to build. Just light, but absolutely, definitely there. Later, after an extremely long shower to get rid of most of the blue (he didn't want to fuck a blue alien lady...) I'm allowed to masturbate to orgasm, which I do in a handful of seconds.

Looking forward to the next silly night out.

Coming in from the cold

I've been having a strange week. After getting the email from The Photographer, he's been on my mind a lot, especially after seeing Reined In at LAM who told me that he thought we were very good together and that he'd like to see us both again. This made me think about the relationship that we had, what I miss, what I'm glad to be without. It also made me remember that whilst nothing is perfect, whatever you do there is rough and smooth, some things can be too rough, not enough smooth. I always think it's easier to just miss the "good bits", in hindsight, especially if you are a bit low or feeling a little lonesome (I've been spending rather a lot of time by myself recently, with illness and suchlike).

For example, I can be sad about that strength of connection we had, the love and the bone-deep satisfaction of "being his" without also remembering the misery of knowing he loved someone else and how I could never really square our D/s within the shadow of the other woman. The mind is a funny thing. What I am forever forgetting is just how stressful it all was - the mystery of polyamory, the issues with long distance relationships, the endless groping around for a way of "fixing it", the amount of tears and frustration I had. The quantities of words spoken or written in emails circling around whether we could work or not could fill volumes. I must have cried more during that relationship than during my entire life.

Yet I also miss the dailiness of it, those little assurances and reassurances of being part of someone else's world, part of their world view. Being together is more than the sum of its parts. Quiet moments as well as loud ones. Holding hands. Falling asleep curled up against his chest and listening to his heart beating. That I was with him and that he was with me meant a great deal, if only just the simple knowledge that he was the person I went to first, when anything happened, large or small. The difficulty with us was the imbalance. The fact that I to him was not the same as him to me, something often exacerbated by our D/s.

The absence of it is still a space I feel rather keenly. But also one I'm not rushing to fill. Because I'm frightened of getting hurt again, for a start, which is making me view things in a very transactional, friendly light. It was a big deal this week when I told Captain that I liked him, that I was happy with the D/s relationship we had set up. I felt like I was warming up a little, after being quite cold for a while. Beginning to build up my confidence and trust to reveal a small amount of feeling, whereas before I wanted the world at arms distance. I took a small step forward.

It was hard, and it continues to be hard - there's a part of me that still wants to run away, or eat my words. I'm nervous about having developed (or revealed) any element of feeling, but it's said now and perhaps for the best. After all, aside from a quick flurry of clarification, there was no immediate rejection, thankfully. And it's nice to be able to open up a little, to not feel so closed and self-reliant. I know that D/s is better with a "real" connection and it would be good to be able to build something that relies more on the balance of power between us both than between my own willingness and desire to submit to him.

My kinky vote

Thursday is election day. I thought it worth spending a little time deciding which, if any, of the three major parties might benefit my BDSM lifestyle, and that of those kinksters around me. A handy springboard for this is the rather lovely mygayvote.co.uk which lists percentages of party members voting on certain issues of concern to the gay community. There's clearly some overlap with kink lifestyle here - particularly age of consent, adoption rights and civil partnerships, but with a rather major difference. Same sex is not illegal. Certain elements of BDSM are. Whilst being kinky is beginning to be recognised as a sexuality in its own right rather than some sort of very extended foreplay or, worse, mental illness it is still only partly understood by society (celebrity scandals such as Max Mosely spearheading both positive and negative interest), rarely publicly and openly accepted and certainly the kinkster has very limited protection in law. It's important not to forget, that the marks we like to look at in the morning are technically illegal, more to the point, I am not considered to have the wherewithal to consent to receiving them. Although, of course, I can have a tattoo.

Needless to say, none of the major parties have taken an obvious stance on BDSM within their literature. Which means I am reading between the lines a little, and dealing with more than a bit of popular prejudice and inference - a friend mentioned that the Tories would be the obvious party for CP. Where they do talk about sexuality, the focus is on the gay community and where they talk about equality the focus is on race and "women" (we have our own special section in each manifesto which always references childcare and makes me feel all warm inside, like a burning, angry fire). Rather than trawl through the manifestos point by point, which will take up rather a lot of space and involve a lot of irrelevance, I'm going to highlight a few areas of specific concern to me, which mostly focus on legislation around personal freedoms as well as the type of lifestyle and living patterns encouraged or discouraged by the various parties.

Taking the party in power first. Labour have been criticised in the press for eroding civil liberties, which is not a very good start, however they have been generally positive in terms of increasing the number of officially recognised relationships from just marriage to include civil partnerships implying at least in theory that other types might yet emerge. The main bugbear here are the sections of the Criminal Law and Immigration Act 2008 which pertain to sex acts and pornography however it is fair to say that this legislation was supported by other parties. I think realistically we can expect more of the same - no better and no worse.

On to the Tories. Not the natural party for change or liberal thinking (they are conservative after all). I'm a little nervous about the focus on the family, particularly the use of tax breaks to support those who have chosen to marry or engage in civil partnerships because I think that smacks of social engineering and whilst kinksters may certainly marry, there are reasons where the lifestyle might make it difficult or they are simply happy just living together without a piece of paper. The fact that there is a section on "Family" is a little worrying, because it makes me think about the sort of family that they are talking about. On the plus side, they do want to invest lots of money in giving Britain "the fastest high speed broadband network in Europe" But given their support for the Digital Economy Bill and the Extreme Porn Act we won't be able to download anything worthwhile.

Finally, the Liberal Democrats. They want "fairness", which is nice (although I would vote for "consensual unfairness" but that doesn't appear to be an option). Attitudinally, one would assume that they were the natural kinky vote, but they are a bit hard to get a read on in any concrete sense - I wonder if we perhaps know what it means to be Labour or Tory and end up viewing the Lib Dems as a none of the above. The one nugget of their manifesto that struck me was one on their plans to introduce The Freedom Bill which whilst not immediately and obviously pertaining to kink does focus on increasing the ability to be actively political.

So, from those meagre scraps I've managed to pull together, well, not a lot for the kinky voter I'm afraid. Fuck it. They are are fielding Anna Span. I'm voting Lib Dem.

Take your time

I'm putting on the doll suit, it's taking a while because we can't initially locate the right lubricant. Also, I did have it back-to-front the first time which did not help matters. Captain is making sure the studio is warm, fitting bits of the vac bed together then finally has to come and help zip me up because I have slippy, plastic mitten hands.

Kinky sex. It isn't a quick fix. But oh, oh, oh. It is worth it and then some.

On my knees and elbows, my limbs strapped up so I'm poised on all fours. My cunt, mouth and two pinprick eye holes are the only parts of me exposed. He fucks me. I feel amazing. My brain is a melting pool, fuzzy around the edges, like the moments before sleeping. My body, by contrast is wide-awake. I'm wriggling against him, thrusting, moaning and completely lost in the moment, riding high on his pleasure and my own. I love those instances when you seem to catch the wave of sex at just the right point and end up in complete sync - like a closed loop of euphoria. Pushing everything away. It is impossible to think about anything, there is no thinking, there is just fucking. Not quite animalistic, I'm too caught up with his movements. I am his sex doll. And it is fantastic.

He stops and unstraps me, putting me on my back, I let myself be adjusted until he's happy. Missionary is always a strange position. I want to put my arms around him, to feel his skin through my fake plastic hands, press against him. An automated lover. But something doesn't seem quite right about moving whilst in the suit, about deciding what to do rather than responding to him. It's the wrong action for this type of submission. I stop myself and feel him holding me instead, arms around my shoulders, drawing me close and tight. That's better. I open my eyes and can dimly see him looking at me, but can't make out his expression. I hope he's grinning.

Later, in the vac bed, I'm doubly wrapped and safe from the world in two layers of latex. I feel a million miles away from anything outside of this small cocoon of sensation. A hitachi grinds away at my cunt, but I'm too far gone for orgasm. My thighs feel numb, but I'm still squirming. The vibrations hold me in a place of ongoing and deep pleasure that goes on forever, without end or climax. It doesn't concern or upset me, though, I'm deliriously happy where I am. The only moment of panic is when my air flow stops, but that's just a flash in my brain, vanishing quickly, because the experience is totally different from before. The pause is only brief (eleven seconds, I'm informed later) yet it feels much longer. The air stops and I feel pushed deeper into the blackness as every tiny molecule of air pops out of existence around my face, pressing the latex even harder onto my flesh. I am floating in my own mind, without form, thought or motion. I have rarely been so still or content to be so. This is what mind blowing feels like.

When he stops and lets the air back in I just lie there, unable to move. The ripples of the latex feel like tiny waves, as if I'm lying on my back in the sea, drifting. It takes me a long time, even with help, to crawl out and follow his lead towards the open puppy cage. I still cannot think, or form any sort of human vocal response. I collapse, happily, gratefully, into the cage and close my eyes. The floor is cold, but I don't care. My wobbly limbs and more wobbly mind simply want to rest. Especially here. Locked up safe and sound. A blanket is put over me. I am well cared for. There's a point of sadness when he takes me out, tinged with the ache of my knees as he helps me stand up for what feels like the first time in a long while.

We go upstairs, he the man and I the doll. He follows me up, guiding my hands and keeping me from stumbling on uncertain, trembling legs. Still light headed, a part of me imagines how we look. Dressed and undressed for bed. Skin and plastic. I'm tired, giggly, silly with the pleasure and the sheer joy of it all. I collapse gratefully in bed, curled up on our sides, with his arm around me. Perfectly happy.

Worth every second of the wait.

How to be scared

I've been looking forward to being well enough to play again, and one of the things that was especially on my mind was rubber enclosure - body bags, the doll suit and the vac bed. Talking to Captain about missing that dreamy space, where everything slips away and it's just you in the warm blackness. Later on, thinking about it more, remembering the press of vacuum packed rubber around my face I felt a tightening around my chest, a cold pang through my heart. I was frightened. Not of that sensation, but because of the necessary associated condition of having my breath controlled. Or stopped. The panic-memories of last time are still very fresh in my mind and I realise I am now somewhat scared of doing this again.

That led me on to think about playing as a submissive and the situations we deliberately put ourselves in. Aside from the physical aspects, we also play in what can be troubling emotional waters, places where it is actually harder to guarantee "safety" because (I've found, certainly) this is an area more prone to the unexpected, more variable from day-to-day and often full of unpredicted consequences. Fear is one of those. I'm going to try and write something about a few different submissive emotional states over the next few months, but given this one is already in my head, it seems a good starting point.

Fear is generally considered a negative emotion. Physiologically, it's an almost entirely autonomic brain response (specifically the amygdala) to a stressful stimulus. The response produces particular emotional and physical effects. The physical effects include energized muscles, perspiration, heart racing, fast breathing - note that these are all also signs of sexual arousal - the body is readying itself to do something physical and is therefore excited. There is an interesting theory that along with a small handful of others, fear is one of the few basic or innate emotions we have, given its importance as a survival mechanism.

So why on earth are we would we deliberately let ourselves be scared? Short answer: it's hot. Or rather, we find it hot. As mentioned above, many of the physical responses associated with fear can also be associated with sexual activity, and so it can be considered as a sex analogue. Like a lot of BDSM individual taste is key here and we can end up talking about things like "fear - in a good way" which isn't particularly elucidating, yet we all know what we mean. That feeling of trepidation, nervousness, thrill (which layers rather interestingly with humiliation play as I realise I'm using very similar words to the ones I did for potential public embarrassment, which is certainly a fear, albeit a lighter one). I've talked a little about the "roller-coaster" theory of fear management.

Emotionally, fear is often conflated with anxiety or worry, which means that trust, control and knowledge of the situation or outcome are important methods in making fear manageable and fun. For example, we get a rush when in a roller-coaster because we have a trust in the machinery, we feel that the situation is well controlled and we know that it will last a certain amount of time, go through two loop-the-loops and a tunnel etc. We therefore feel safe, so are free to enjoy the adrenaline rush, the fight or flight response, with a kind of mental safety blanket. And this can often be true of a lot of kinky activity. We operate in the assumption that our dominant partner is doing their level best to terrify us, but not cause us any serious harm.

But for all that analogy works well for some sorts of play, it doesn't for others. Breath play is one of them.This is because, effectively, as far as your body is concerned there is no functional difference between being starved of oxygen for kink and being starved of oxygen by someone who is trying to kill you. The roller coaster theory breaks down somewhat here - no matter what you "know" deep down about how safe you are, how in control and how careful your dominant is, you still cannot breathe and your body will react accordingly. Especially given that as a submissive your situation is very different to a ride on the big dipper. It's likely that there will have been some play beforehand, so you are already viewing the world through space, you are not sure of what will happen next, how long it will take and you have not had the reassuring vision of seeing many people walk out of the roller coaster hale, hearty and happy. All of this means your brain and emotions will be geared more towards "fear" than "thrill". There is only so long that your lungs can send crazed, oxygen desperate signals to your brain before fear, actual fear, not just the exhilaration of the roller-coaster, kicks in. The fear experienced here is stronger, more pronounced.

When the fear is over, there is still more to be experienced. Surviving fear creates strength. Internal strength of the "I did that" variety is a fantastic bolster to the ego, especially alongside the smug grin of satisfied kinky sex (and fear is apparently an aphrodisiac, certainly we can all recognise the giggly, silly high of coming out of a roller coaster, the rush of which can be similar to sexual stimulation). Secondly, it strengthens the bond between submissive and dominant - the levels of trust required, the depth of feeling explored, these are serious places and a well-negotiated fear scenario speaks volumes about the intimacy and strength of the D/s relationship. For me, one of the most compelling parts is the way that the person who has just put you through hell is also the person that you automatically reach out and cling to when it is all over.