What is the fucking difference?

One.
Tentative, careful, soft. His eyes looking up at me as his mouth devours my cunt. Watching for the signs of orgasm. His fingers inside me, searching for that spot. Teasing my nipples. Kissing my neck. Relaxing into me as I take him in my mouth. Allowing me to lead him into other positions. Pulling me to him afterward, the nestling into his shoulder. Soft words.

Two.
Waking in the morning, hearing him still sleeping beside me. Paralyzed, not from fear, but because I'm still tied to something. Something that won't budge. His waking, gradual. He brings his cock to me, flaccid. He doesn't reach out, am I there? He simply brings himself to me, with the knowledge that I'll be where he left me. He grows in my mouth, pumping. No need for skill now, just warmth. He grunts when it's enough, and pulls me into position. Enters me with no formalities. Nothing, then everything. He sets into his morning release, my pleasure a peripheral. He moves my body to fit what he wants. His eyes on my mouth or my tits or his cock moving in me. He rests on me, the sweat clammy and making our skin stick, his breath loud in my ear. Then a quick kiss and a hair tousle as he unclips the binds and says 'Coffee, and grab the paper.'

There. The fucking difference.

With a Pretty Pink Bow

I was contacted recently by a man who typed..."I believe submission is a gift, born out of strength, fed by trust and kept by regards and respect."

After I stopped laughing at the sum of his message, I chose to respond to that idea alone.

Submissiveness is a state of being. A default stance. What we find to center or ground us.

Submission is an inevitability.

Of course, it does not (can not!) occur with every person we meet, there is chemistry in it as in any other aspect.

For some of us, the desire for submission is so strong that we are able to ignore a lack of chemistry. It's no different from a person ignoring a lack of emotional or mental connection. This is also called grasping at straws.

For others of us, the desire is stronger for other qualities to be present before being able to relax into submission.

Submission is not a gift. It can't be given away and placed on a shelf, or worn on a birthday. You can't say, "Remember that submission I gave you last year? It was the best submission ever."

There are Dominants who can beat you, who can make you lust for them, who can mentor you. But there is a short list in Fate's hands of the ones to whom you can truly submit.

Playing Dress-up

I have a confession.

I capitalized on the last two posts. You. He. When no capitalization was called for grammatically.

It offends my perfectionist nature, honestly.

But I watch and learn, and I see those who follow the protocol rigidly. Sir. Y/you. Always deferential, respectful.

It's not that I am not a polite person. I use titles every day. Yes, sir. Yes, ma'am. Thank you, sir. But it never means quite the same thing without the digital (as in fingers) acrobatics of capitalization, nor is it apparent anywhere but in type, here.

Frankly, I'm always a little giggly when I do use a title here. Or in person. When it means something. Yes, Sir, may I have another. It just doesn't seem quite right. A little ridiculous, in fact. Like I've put on my mother's clothing and am clomping around in her shoes.

What, then, do I say? Just yes? Since there are NO no's. Yes. May I taste you? Yes. Please may I have more.

Do I add the Sir? Do I show the proper respect and hope the formality grows on me, becomes second nature? Will you (You?) eventually require it, expect it, penalize me without it?

Everything is so damned hazy.

On the Offensive

I've often read that many submissive women are actually in positions of authority and power during their normal lives...work, personal but non-sexual relationships, financial, family hierarchy. It makes sense to me, that being in control creates a desire...no, a need...to throw off those metaphorical shackles in favor of physical shackles.

The slippery slope logic follows, then, that men or women who gravitate towards dominance have the opposite situation. They are weak or powerless in their normal lives, yes?

I don't like to think of it this way, yet so often those I meet (virtually, really, I don't give them much of a shake in terms of meeting in person) are ones with a grudge against the opposite sex, ones who were controlled by their mother or father, ones who don't work, can't provide, have no concept of social responsibility or obligation.

Again, I am saying slippery slope logic, so as not to offend (much). I know there are those who do not fit this description, who are strong simply because they are, not in reaction to being made weak during a formative stage in their lives.

But they are few and far between. I'm not complaining, mind you, I'm just making a statement. I don't mind the wait.

But to any of you who read my blog and who match that description...man up. Sort yourself. Don't take submission as your due simply because you added Sir or Master to an online profile.

Through a Glass, Darkly

The note on the bed was clear. "Remove your clothing. Place the blindfold over your eyes and tie it tightly. Stand in the middle of the room." She let her fingers trail over the silk of the blindfold and felt a frisson of fear.

With a delicious anxiety, she follows the instructions. Clothes are removed. Blindfold is tied, tightly. She waits in the middle of the room, nervously shifting from foot to foot. It seems like hours, but likely only moments, before she hears the soft rub of the door over the carpet, and the click as he shuts and locks the door behind him.

Silence, deafening silence. She imagines him nearly touching her, his breath on her skin. Then he speaks, from farther away that she expected. She jumps, startled...she was concentrating so intently to hear that she missed his words. Her mouth opens to ask and her voice falters, scratchy in the blind space around her. She swallows and tries again, "What did you say?"

A quick footstep and SMACK that she hears before she feels. "What did you say Sir," he says. Breathlessly she hastens to say, "What did you say, Sir, I'm sorry Sir."

"I said, you look lovely."

She blushes at the compliment, and is shamed at having to ask for it to be repeated. Her head lowers slightly as she murmurs "I'm glad I please you."

"Stand with your arms slightly in front of you, with your palms forward and the backs of your hands resting against your thighs." he orders. She complies immediately, wondering at the specific placement of her hands.

"I'm going to wrap you now. Be very still."

He begins at her chest, tucking the end of what feels to be plastic wrap beneath her arm, then walks slowly around her, holding the wrap taut. The wrap feels smooth against her, and the tightness of the application seems like a cocoon. Around and around he wraps, carefully positioning her breasts with each wrap so that only the nipples are exposed between the layers. He continues down her body, leaving her hands exposed and then tapping her ankles to indicate that she should spread her legs. He wraps each leg individually, down to the ankle. Thinking he is done, and has left her pussy exposed, she hopes that he means to take her this way, but her hopes are dashed when he begins to wrap again.

"Close your legs." he says, and wraps her from waist to knee, very tightly. The plastic is so warm, she can feel her body heating up underneath it.

"Now, carefully, walk to the bed and turn your back to it."

Walking blindly, she positions herself so that the backs of her knees are pressed against the edge of the bed, and he slowly lowers her until she is reclined. She feels completely helpless. He reaches down and lifts her feet and turns her on the bed so that she is strategically placed in the center.

All is quiet again, her senses are on high alert, trying to feel or hear where he is. Unbeknownst to her, he is sitting on a nearby chair, just watching her, testing how long she can remain quiet. The moments stretch out, longer and longer, and she feels restless in her helplessness. She whispers, "Where are you?"

A sudden pressure on the bed from his rapid approach, and another smack."What did you just say to me?"

"Sir, I'm sorry, Sir, I'm just frightened." she explains, mentally cursing herself for her own forgetfulness.

Feeling the bed shift beneath her as he straddles her body, resting on her wrapped thighs. Her hands feel the fabric of his pants, and the hardness of his legs.

"I think it's time to begin." he says, and places a gentle fingertip on one of her exposed nipples. She moans in response, and feels a pulse in her pussy.

Ever so lightly, he strokes her nipples, teasing them to hardness. He alternates between using his open palm to rub the erect nipples, and using his forefinger and thumb to roll them. She is shameless in her reactions, trying to twist her body to have his hands come in more contact with her breasts. He chuckles and spanks her breast, telling her "No more of that, be still or I'll stop altogether."

He raises himself from the bed, and she hears the telltale noise of him disrobing. The bed is jostled again, as he lays beside her, on his side.

"Now, I think I'll have a bit of fun." He bends down and takes her nipple into her mouth, and sucks strongly. Her body arches, as much as it is able, and she groans in pleasure. Being wrapped, she is incapable of touching him in any way, and the frustration is immense. She feels him thrusting against her, rubbing his hardness against the plastic wrapping her body. She is lost in desire, his mouth on her is steady and relentless. Her body is on fire, the plastic encasing her is holding in her body heat and making an inferno of lust and sweat. Her pussy is dripping, she feels the wetness against her ass, held there by the plastic as well.

It goes on and on, this wonderful torture. She orgasms again and again, begging him to release her, to take her, to do anything but to leave her nipples alone, now, please please please. His response? Suckling more strongly.

After a particularly strong orgasm, when she has dissolved in tears and begged him again to stop, he reaches to the nightstand to collect the large pair of scissors that he placed there before she arrived. She is sobbing, so grateful that it's stopped, and barely notices the slight tug as he pulls up the bit of plastic wrap just at her crotch. She hears the snip of the scissors, and feels the cool air on her heated skin. Then she feels the cold steel of the scissors, rubbing so carefully against the swollen folds of her pussy. The tip catches slightly, and she feels the potential pain, sucking in her breath and hoping that he will take them away.

Knowing that he is smirking at her fear, she relaxes, believing in the trust she has placed in him.

Another test passed, he smiles down at her unseeing face, and places the scissors back on the stand. Then he slips a finger between her legs, and lightly runs it along her pussy. The contact makes her gasp and push toward him, and he lowers his head to attack her nipples once again.

Her legs are still bound by the plastic, only that small slit gives him access to her. She wants so badly to spread for him, to give him more, to feel more of him on her and in her, but she is constrained to just that little bit of barely-there rubbing that makes her desperate for more.

She begins to cry in earnest now, and feels an anger well up at being so incapacitated. Her body heaves as she tries to extract herself from the wrap, or twist away from his greedy mouth. He knew this was coming, and rides it out, his mouth never leaving her sore nipples, his finger continuing to brush against the wet exterior of her cunt. She fights and struggles for several long moments, and then stops, exhausted. He grins around her nipple as she finally submits fully, and reaches his free hand up to stroke her hair. "Very good, my dear, I'm proud of you." he says, and even in her defeat she is happy.

Once again taking up the scissors, he cuts away the makeshift plastic skirt, until her individually wrapped legs are not so tightly bound. She remains still, breathing heavily, waiting for the next torment. He pushes her legs apart and looks at her pussy. It is swollen, and so wet, and red from the heat. His desire has taken over now, and he mounts her quickly. Her upturned palms feel his thighs against her, and her aching cunt finally feels his cock pushing its way in.

He buries herself in her, holds himself there for a long moment, then lies full body against her. As he thrusts into her, steady and relentless just as his mouth was, he whispers in her ear, again and again..."Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.

White Corset

I want a white corset
Straight-backed and resolute
Deceptively virginal

Kneeling behind an almost open door
Stricken by fear and desire
Blindfolded against my judgments

My nose ears mouth envelop you
I am pliant, open, soft
Bend me, hold me, bind me

It bubbles up slowly
A quiet resistance, a gradual push
But soon I am biting hitting
screaming flinging my heat
and tears of rage and want and need
and giving in

Over the edge, I'm taken
In ways I never understood
Dark blooms on paleness
Drops of red litter the virgin
Stained with color and belonging
Until no longer sure where corset ends and I begin.

So Soon, the follow up

You may. But I didn't.

Effortless denial. Willing. Eager.

I'm living in my skin today, not my head. It's liberating.

Please

Arrogantly, I told him that I read of orgasm denial with disbelief. How would they find out? Why not lie? Hope hope hope that he heard the challenge, the unspoken request. Knowing that he did, but won't be led so easily.

Gritting my teeth and waiting my turn.

I don't go so willingly into this, he knows. I steer, or try. He waits me out like a cat.

Conclusion - Part 3

“I squealed as he struck me for the second time, and then I heard myself shrieking as I had never done before, with my nails compulsively clawing and releasing the edge of the mattress, while he kept beating me unmercifully with the slow, steady, relentless rhythm which was the same as when he was taking possession of me; and my shrieks grew worse, he shifted his arm which lay across my shoulders and buried his hand in the nape of my neck and held my held down and held my face crushed against the bed, half choking my cries.”

My need is not for pain. My need is not for humiliation. My need is to have my emotions and mental state controlled to a point that I don’t struggle, or revel in the struggle. What I find most often is this costume of a lifestyle, or a latent infantilism in the games and desires professed by these men claiming to be Doms.

Yet I continue to bide my time here, surrounded by those who slip on a skin of submissiveness or domination with no thought of anything but sexual deviancy. And while I’m continually disappointed in the intelligence and sensibilities here, I have found a strange sense of family…a friendliness rarely encountered elsewhere. This, in and of itself, is enough to stay, enough to consider real-life acquaintanceships, enough to play for the sake of playing.

Understanding - Part 2

“My grandmother had a saying, ‘There are people who have to be forced to their happiness’; and every time he dominated me against my will and forced me to accept the pain he inflicted on me, and not to fight it, he made me feel angry and ashamed.

Yet, above and beyond these emotions, he filled me with a deep extraordinary happiness and satisfaction which I had never known before. It was like the commonplace experience of taking off in a plane in bad weather, flying first into a sheet of thick clouds and then rising still higher into the clear sky and brilliant sunshine. When he possessed me so fiercely that he drove me to the brink of darkness, he gave me the ecstasy of knowing that I had reached the one thing, the only thing, I had ever wanted.

When he was about to take me, I was yearning for him to shatter me and to break me down, and perhaps this was the reason why I made difficulties. Perhaps I put up this defence in order to provoke him to shatter and to break. But at the same time, my resistance had another, a different meaning. I was also longing to shatter him and to break him down. Each time we lay together, I was hoping to achieve it and to drag him into my darkness, and each time, when I regained my senses and opened my eyes and found him clad in his dressing gown and moving about the room quite unconcernedly, I felt a fury of disappointment which, in turn, added depth to my delicious feeling of defeat.”

Not long ago, I met a man on the website, and agreed to meet him for drinks. His experience and wisdom went straight to my head, and I felt compelled to obey him. When we met, he spoke of his youth, and a fight, and showed me his ear – a piece of which was missing. I was disturbed and enthralled. It confused me, placed me out of step. When he dropped me off, he asked for my panties. I capitulated immediately, absolutely no hesitation, and it simply reinforced this craving I have for a man who is strong enough to control me.

Revelation - Part 1

This is the first in a series of three, part of an essay I wrote at the request of someone here.

“He did not throw me and he did not push me. He took me around the waist and by the shoulders and bent me backwards. I was terrified I would fall, but when I touched a surface of cold stone beneath me the surprise of encountering the stone relieved me of my fear. He laid me down; a hard edge cut into the backs of my knees while my feet were on the ground, and as soon as I was fully extended, he was inside me. The whole was achieved in a matter of about four seconds. It was speedy and casual and effortless and at the same time seemingly impossible, like any virtuoso performance. And of course, nobody could have called it a rape; there was no struggle and no violence and no menace and no overcoming of a resistance. I was neither willing nor unwilling. I was nothing at all. I had not been given the choice to be either. I had not even been aware that there was a stone bench behind me when we had halted in our walk and he had broken off speaking in mid-sentence.

Prostrated as I was on the chill, hard surface, I felt utterly helpless. I had never before felt so helpless in my life. And he went on, as casually as he had started, neither embracing me nor holding me down. I closed my eyes. For all I knew he had his hands in his pockets. Then I hoped he would continue and was afraid he might stop, and almost immediately after this my hopes and fears were resolved and I felt like weeping with relief, but no tears came and I was shaken by dry sobs. I was still struggling for breath when he ceased.

He took me by the wrists and raised me into a sitting position. I kept my eyes closed. He slapped me lightly on the cheek and said, ‘You are my little girl,’ and then: ‘Come on, get up now.’“

When I first encountered a man with dominant tendencies, it was a soft man. A man with effeminate characteristics. A man who I thought an easy conquest. This man was not at all this way. He taught me more about myself, about the desires I harbored, than any other man before or since. I don’t even know if he considered himself a Dom, or if he just inherently enjoyed the physical acts that come with domination.

After this man, I looked for others with similar traits. Unfortunately, dominant thoughts seem to come packaged in misogynistic packages, which never seem to be true or lasting. But here and there the rare man seems to find me, and I discover again my true nature.

My First Taste

I married young, rebelling for the first time, and moved away from all that I knew. My marriage was not successful. He was chameleon-like, always with a different face for each new situation. I was unsettled, and turned to other men.

After my divorce, I spent many years alone, with no desire for male companionship. I was content with my books. Eventually, though, my urges drove me back into a more social life.

Then I met a man. A boy, rather, as he was younger even than my own young age. He was gentle and soft, almost womanly. I needed that as a reintroduction.

But he came with a surprise. A kink I'd never experienced. What did I know of kink then? I said yes, whatever you like (I should have known then) as he feathered my wrists into cuffs, and alright, if you must as he whispered my ankles into restraints.

He stroked me calmly and promised that there would be no pain, then proceeded to flog me.

He was right. I felt no pain. Only this glorious disentanglement from the responsibility of the experience. This is the closest I've come to transcendance. I misinterpreted that meditative mood as sleepiness, my body felt so full and soft and heavy with contentment.

Twelve years later, I remember clearly that moment, and the freedom it afforded.

Far, Far Away

In all ways, I am completely turned inward. This introspection taints every part of my life. Here and there, a brief respite from the continual analysis, the wiggling of loose teeth, the prodding of a bruise, the peeling of a scab. I feel so removed from my life.

I had a short fling with a man who claimed domination, but reality proved feeble. Our first encounter was....satisfactory. He took his time, but his method was crude. Domination, apparently, is the sexual portrayal of misogyny. At least to him.

Our second encounter was disappointing. My capitulation to his previous crudeness sparked some vague romantic notion. There were strawberries and chocolates. He did not brush his teeth prior to my arrival. I removed myself further.

He demanded, I retreated. It was cat and mouse, physically. I left immediately after, his eyes were barren and hard as I said goodbye. We never spoke again.