Continuing with the theme of whips, here is part of a journal I wrote about Max’s visit, where I describe our scene with my whip. It was a … breathtakingly powerful scene.
Standing there, facing you, I felt awe at the way my whip came alive in your hands. It was a beautiful sight: your body and the whip moving together; the whip flying and curling in the air towards me; the liquid electricity flowing down your arm and through the length of leather, making the silk cracker hiss. At that moment, I stopped seeing the whip as an instrument. It became an extension of your will, your touch, and your energy. I could feel its yearning to make contact with my skin.
And with each throw, I could hear the whip sing – an expression of pure joy at fulfilling its maker’s purpose. Finally.
I watched my whip, listened to your words, felt the sensuality in the first few light touches – almost caresses. There were not many of those. Time sped up as I felt the whip hit me like a punch to the gut, or a blazing trail of fire. Time slowed down between strokes, as I emptied my lungs and fought the instinct to curl into a ball and hide from the searing pain. Holding my arms above my head only made my belly curve outward like an invitation. I could not see through the white-blinding sensations. All that existed was your voice counting out each stroke and telling me not to move, the force of the whip across my body, and the throat-shredding sounds being ripped from my lungs.
A lifetime later, you reached “20,” and it was over. There are no words I can really use to describe my relief at hearing the finality behind that “20” – seeing you coming towards me, wrapping your body around mine, bringing me down to the floor while I clung to you – combined with the ecstasy I felt at being able to withstand the pain, hold still and keep my arms raised while you whipped me. The two states, relief and ecstasy, merged and expanded to fill my body, and were exhaled out through the sobs that I could not hold back.
The pain faded remarkably quickly and just as quickly was replaced by giddy pride. Pride in taking that pain, but also pride in my whip flying straight and true in your hands, and the delight and joy you took in wielding it. Knowing that the catalyst of this electricity, and heat, and power, and magic, was something I created with my own hands made me want to laugh through the sobs, to exult in our connection.
You told me you’d never done a scene like that – never used a whip on the person who’d made the whip. I could not stop grinning. Neither, of course, had I. I felt high as a kite; I suspect you felt similarly.
Lately I’ve had a lot of little quips, comments, and quotable tidbits of Max’s playing through my head. I think my favorite is this:
What they never tell you about poly is all the laundry that’s involved!
There was also a conversation he and I had, the first night I was in Seattle, where I mentioned having read the column Mistress Matisse wrote on Top Types. I asked him which one of the types he identifies most predominantly with, and he replied that it would have to be service. That didn’t surprise me; I had gotten a good read on that from being in service to him for eight days. Then he added that, to him, a lot of the pain he inflicts falls under the category of service as well, and this gave me pause.
I hadn’t thought about pain in that context before, but suddenly it made a lot of sense in terms of how I react to that particular sensation. A lot of the hardest, most painful scenes I’ve had have been where I endured for the pleasure it gave my partner. And it also helps explain my continued hesitance to label myself as a masochist: I’m not completely in it for the sensations.
My whip scene with Max is a perfect example. I was tied only by my hair, and while this did limit my range of motion somewhat, that was not what held me in place (or what kept my arms raised out to the sides) each time he cracked his whip across my body. I was bound there by the urge to serve and to please, which was stronger than my fear of the pain.
There was also the spectacular scene I had with T a month back involving extremely tight pallet strap bondage. The intensity of that bondage left me nearly in tears, begging to be freed – something that does not happen often (though of course that could be because usually, if I become uncomfortable in bondage and mention it, I’m untied or ties are loosened soon thereafter).
Not this time. This time, regardless of my whimpering about my deadened arms, restricted breathing, inability to maintain a particular position – T continued to push my limits. He’d tighten or adjust a strap, then lean down and whisper to me, I want you to take this for me just a little while longer: this pain.
And so I would.
But none of that is to say I don’t enjoy pain for its own sake sometimes as well. Otherwise there is no way I’d even come close to being able to handle the truly sadistic streaks of my various play partners.
I certainly obtain a level of pride from being able to handle having my limits pushed. The issue then arises of wondering if I’ve been able to take what my partner thinks I should be able to handle. One night in Seattle, bound in front of the fireplace, Max pushed me down into what basically amounted to a horse stance. I lasted all of probably a minute, though that may be a generous estimate. I instinctively tried to push myself up to lessen the strain on my legs, but Max kept me firmly in place by his favorite handle: my hair. And after more wobbling and straining against his hand, I couldn’t take the position anymore, and he pushed me flat to the ground (ostensibly to let me rest).
I wished I had lasted longer. And perhaps if I were still practicing tae kwon do, I would have. That is a damn shame, and something I am hoping to improve upon with workouts and some kind of climbing regimen.
Because it I find myself in a horse stance in front of Max’s fireplace again, how wonderful it would be to feel the pleasure pulsing through his hand in my hair as I hold that position, just a little. while. longer.
I’m back to reality and a little dazed by the suddenness of the transition. I anticipate a heavy drop after being in service for over a week – yes, we decided to extend the original plan past Monday to this afternoon.
And it has been a wonderful week indeed. But because of the intensity of my experience, I am finding myself at a loss of what to do in the vast emptiness of the afterwards. I feel like crying, for no other reason than as a source of release and so my head and body can process it all and catch up to the present.
But it’s okay, it’s all really okay. Incredibly, amazingly, exquisitely, delightfully so.
Which, frankly, I don’t think I would’ve been able to say two days into this. His insistence on my opening up for him, of allowing myself to trust him and let him inside my mind, frightened me more, I think, than even I realized. I was scared of being manipulated and emotionally abused. Who wouldn’t be? Who was this man, that I could feel secure enough to lower my defenses and trust him not to abuse the privilege?
It was much easier to take the physical attention. I have rope marks, whip marks, cane marks, and sore muscles galore from his many ministrations, and one particular scene that remains clear and striking in my mind came from one of the play parties at the Fringe, Saturday night. I found myself tied to a mast (literally, it had cloth “sails” rolled up on top) in the center of the main dungeon by only my hair. He wrapped rope around my hair in ponytail fashion and attached it to a point somewhere high above my head, pulling it taut until I was standing on my toes.
Then he proceeded to whip my front and back, with my arms raised when I was facing forward. This became my point of focus for the scene: concentrating on keeping my arms raised at my sides, palms facing up. During the most vicious strokes, all of my will narrowed to purely keeping my arms up. I was sobbing, screaming, on fire, by the time he laid the last stroke on my thigh, but I kept my arms up.
Which made it all the more convenient to collapse against him when he rushed up to embrace me and untie my hair from the mast.
And yes, all of that was much easier than, say, the first dozen or so times he asked me to look him in the eye. Or incorporating the usage of “Sir” into my conversations with him.
I stumbled through those first few days, trying to understand our dynamic and my place at his side (or feet, as it were). I heard multiple comments throughout the weekend at Folsom Fringe that he and I had good energy together, with each other. I could feel it as well.
But it still took time, and prodding, and a lot of internal struggle. There were times when I wanted to push away, to shy away; and there were times when he pushed too hard, and we both had to stop and back up. He stretched the limits and boundaries of my submission in ways I’d never experienced it before, in ways that fulfilled me beyond anything I could have ever hoped for.
It still frightens me, the level of submission and commitment he demanded from me. I am all too aware of the damage and emotional wounds that can occur at this depth. It’s become easy for me to play casually with a few people without developing any close emotional bond. And it’s almost painful to admit that now, because what I’ve discovered so clearly this past week is that I want nothing more than to give myself over, utterly and completely, to another, and for them to accept that responsibility, with full understanding of what it means for me.
Since moving into my apartment in San Francisco, I’ve been spending an absurd amount of time and energy getting furnishings. While I had some basics – bed, nightstand, and closet with a bit of shelving – I needed a few more items to really feel moved in. I initially scrounged through Craigslist hoping to find what I needed for cheap, but after dealing with flakes, no-answers, and sorry-already-takens for a week, I finally caved and decided to go to IKEA.
What I thought would be a tedious but necessary trip to the megastore took a very interesting turn, however, when I mentioned it to T over chat the night before. He said that he was thinking of going as well to look at shoe racks. Now, after my last visit a couple days prior, we had talked about the possibility of my being his “pet” for an afternoon. It looked like meeting at Ikea would provide such an opportunity.
I immediately received a set of rules of behavior for the outing. Once I accepted them, we made plans to meet the next day, Sunday. I went to bed that night filled with anticipation and not a little anxiety. And maybe a little bit turned on.
I left for the store close to noon, after waiting the morning for yet another no-response Craigslister. I met up with T at the entrance lobby to Ikea, and when I saw him the butterflies in my stomach all started flapping frantically to get out. But when he asked me if I was ready, I nodded.
“Then kneel, please.”
I looked up at him, the shock plainly lit on my face. He waited expectantly as I turned my head from side to side, eyed the people walking around us, then quickly knelt on the floor of the lobby, my ears burning. I saw his hand go into his pocket, at eye level with my head, and take out a thin, smooth silver collar. I felt it circle my neck, and with a small click T secured it with a lock.
He helped me back up to my feet, and we turned and walked into the main hall.
Here were my rules for the day:
1. Pet will always use the word Sir when speaking to me.
2. Pet will always obey all commands given.
3. Pet will conduct herself in the proud manner appropriate to her position as my pet.
4. Pet will keep hands behind her back, crossed at the wrists, when idle. While seated crossed at the wrists on the lap is acceptable.
5. Pet will not use furniture, eat, or operate vehicle doors without permission.
6. Pet will accept punishment for transgressions of the rules.
With that in mind, I kept my hands behind my back while we walked through the store except to check out a lamp or dresser. We browsed through each area, noting the many pervertables in the kitchen section, and in the offices and desks area, T sat down at an office set-up and had me kneel in front of him again. My reservations about what other people in the store might see were quickly washing away by now; I slid easily to my knees. We imagined this taking place in a more domestic setting, and I laughed that if it were really in his home office, he would get no work done.
We moved on to bedrooms and closets, looking over small dressers for me and shoe racks for him. T found some racks in one of their modeled bedrooms, which even had a walk-in closet. T entered one of these closets and I followed. There were dressers and shoe racks and things inside, but all I really remember is suddenly feeling his fingers around my nipple, pinching deep through two layers of cloth. He continued to check out the inside of the closet, and I concentrated on not making any noise.
We walked down aisles of wardrobes, and upon opening one, T said,
“This would be perfect: to have you tied on your knees in here, with a rope around your neck tied to that bar to keep you upright, and when it’s bedtime I just close the door…It would give me something pretty to look at in the morning…”
With that image at the forefront of my mind, we continued down the aisles. Eventually we reached the end of the top floor and came out to the food court area. Sneaky Ikea, putting a restaurant at the end of their maze of furniture, knowing we’d come out hungry. So we got some food and found an empty table. I got drinks and napkins before T allowed me to sit and eat.
Then we headed downstairs to collect our actual merchandise. After hunting down each item, paying, and getting everything to our cars, we made a side trip to a nearby Home Depot so I could get bulbs for my new floor lamp, as well as rebar for the upcoming Burning Man. After that, T asked if I wanted to continue with him for the afternoon, to which I promptly responded, “Yes!”
So we dropped my car off at his place, and he drove me to a nearby mall. We walked through several shoe stores and I tried on more heels than I’ve ever put on before. For each pair, I walked down the aisle and back, and sometimes stopped to see what the shoes looked like in the mirror. I was surprised to find myself enjoying this – me, the girl who owns 6 pairs of shoes, among them flip flops, sneakers, and hiking boots.
Much as I had to actually experience spanking, caning, bondage, and a plethora of other kinks and fetishes to really get their appeal, my afternoon spent trying on shoes to model for T gave me a much better appreciation for shoes and the people who love them (and I mean really love them). At one store, T told me to pick any two shoes to try on, and one of the pairs I chose felt incredible. It was a kind of shiny black strappy heel, with thick straps tapering as they ran down the foot. It’s hard to describe exactly, but every time I moved a foot, the straps clung, gripped, or shifted in the most delicious way.
In any case, we didn’t exclusively look at shoes, but they were definitely the focus. And it was during these last few hours that I made two infractions to the rules. While walking back to T in a pair of heels, I forgot to keep my hands crossed behind my back. And then T realized that I had not used “Sir” at all throughout the day except when repeating the rules back to him in Ikea at the beginning.
I had been aware of the latter, since I have a lot of difficulty calling someone “Sir” to begin with. It takes getting used to, I suppose, and I am very much out of practice. But it was still an infraction, and I was left to wonder what the punishment would be.
After a quick food court dinner we left the mall to head back to T’s place… But not before T had me hand him my underwear in the parking lot, much to my embarrassment. Even more embarrassing was the obvious evidence of just how much I enjoyed the, ah, shopping experience.
Back at the house, I spent the first half hour or so on a pillow on the ground, nestled against his legs as we watched TV. We watched Night Shift, and soon after it started I was invited to sit on the couch and massage his feet. I love giving massages, too, though the only feet I’ve really ever massaged are my own. So it was fun to get deep into the arches and soles of his feet, and I elicited the most delightful groans.
I love those kinds of sounds.
Much of that night passed in a blur. I remember more nipple torture, orgasms, and more foot massaging. I ended up half-asleep against T’s legs, Law and Order playing, and my ankles tied. T announced after the show ended that it was bedtime, and as I was immobilized with rope and almost asleep, he carried me upstairs to the cage. I crawled in, he locked the door, and I promptly fell asleep.
The clang of the lock coming off and the door opening was my alarm clock for the morning. I peered drowsily from the mound of blanket around my face to see T at the door, taking my legs and gently unfolding them and massaging them. My muscles protested as I straightened from my half-fetal position, making me groan. As I crawled halfway out of the cage, I heard T say,
“I want you to take your clothes off.”
Still only half-awake, I struggled to take off my clothes, my ankles still bound in the rope from the night before. T helped me to my feet, and in the space of a few minutes I was gagged, handcuffed, and in black heels. Oh, yes, and a red clip on each nipple. Then he turned me around and bent me over the top of the cage to accept my punishment for the previous day’s infractions: 5 strokes with a cane.
I will not lie – if it had been more, I might have started crying. By number three I could feel my eyes tearing up, though I’m not sure if it was the pain or the shock that caused that. I felt like it didn’t so much hurt, but I can’t place why the sensation was almost enough to make me cry. (And I admit: I almost wanted more)
After the fifth stroke I just stayed in place, breathing through the impact. Then I felt fingers slide between my legs.
“Oh, someone is wet. Did you enjoy that?”
But I couldn’t answer because those fingers had start to move and slide and, well, I was gagged anyway.
I don’t remember how many times I climaxed, but once I was able to stand steadily on my legs again, T fed an end of rope through the eyebolt on the front of my gag and led me to his bathroom, to his full length mirror. I stared at the image in front of me; leather covering almost the whole front of my face, nipples painfully taut and aching in the clips, legs precarious atop shiny black heels, hands still shackled behind me.
I felt beautiful.
I’ve been thinking a lot about erogenous zones lately. Perhaps it is something to do with the attention some of those areas of my body have been receiving of late. It amazes me how immediately a touch can leave me a helpless puddle, whereas another makes me want to sink my teeth into flesh.
It’s been good to take a break from writing here, though a lot has been going on as well. I’ve secured myself amazingly affordable housing in the great city of San Francisco, and have devoted the rest of my energy and time between finding a job and preparing for Burning Man. I would never have recognized the direction my life is going a year ago, but I find myself more comfortable, more stable, and – dare I say? – happier than I was a year ago as well. I take these to be good signs that I am heading more towards a self I am proud to embody.
I also find that I am traveling further and further away from the kind of intimate relationships I have been used to and discovering the shadowy realm of multiple play partners. It has been a mind opening journey, certainly, but I’m not sure where it will land me in the end.
Experiences have abounded though: my first fireplay and cupping scene, a more disciplinary kind of play involving very high heels and a leash, rough manhandling and rope at a public nightclub, sleeping in a cage while shackled…
Am I starting to sound like a sexual deviant yet?
I find these scenes flashing through my head at random times, all involving different guys I still know so little about. It feels a little dangerous, or at least not entirely safe. Nonetheless, my mind starts naturally to wander through these memories: of tipsily standing on way-too-high heels, leash tied above my head to a metal bar – a leash I am straining and practically strangling myself on because I am coming too hard.
Or of being pushed into an alcove on a public street after going to a kinky party and being pressed against the wall from behind, hands roughly pushing and groping and dirty whispers passed to my ear.
Or, from a little while back, of having my head encased in plastic and electric tape, feeling my breath becoming shallower and more frequent as the air is slowly used up, almost hyperventilating before a hole is ripped open near my mouth. And then to be fucked through that hole, so that I could only breathe when he withdrew anyway. And then at the end, to have my face untaped, finally be able to open my eyes, only to see the thin edge of a knife almost touching my eyeball.
Huh. Well, I initially started writing to talk about some of the lovely sensitivities of certain parts of my body, but I seem to have wandered off that track. It’ll have to be a post for another day.
The first time I was slapped in the face – a legitimate, hard snap of the hand across my cheek – I was immediately transformed. Needle-sharp tingling heat bloomed outward from my cheek, my breath was suddenly caught in my throat, and sparks ignited behind my eyelids, under the latex binding them shut. Then the slapping continued, back and forth from cheek to cheek, my head jerking from side to side with each hit. The sensation was overwhelming; not exactly painful, but more a dizzying and building heat and the breathlessness that accompanied each forceful impact. And with each slap, I could feel something regressing inside my head, frantically and mindlessly asking the question, “Why?”
“Why was I being punished? What did I do wrong?”
A couple times I could hear the Why? pressing up against my throat, but all that would come out were dry sobs. The delirious combination of mental and physical assault of being face slapped was, in a word, intense. The link between face slapping and punishment is strong for me. Here I was, being slapped – not because I was being punished, but for the simple pleasure of the one doing the slapping. That idea makes me shudder with lust and fear, but my mind is frazzled by the disconnect with punishment. In my head, there has to be a reason.
After all, here I am, having sex with this man, hearing him whisper demeaning names and fantasies that clench down on my mind and my groin, enjoying the pain he delivers to my body even as I am begging him to stop, exulting in the giddiness and rush of endorphins. Perhaps the slapping punishes me for all of this depravity.
But, no. My head rang from each smack as he fucked me. I was almost crying, and each dry sob that heaved from my lungs seemed to free me of some invisible weight. Even the gibberish of my regressed mind was freeing – like some deep inhibition shaken loose of its tight hold on my ribcage.
That night, being slapped hard for the first time, I finally caught a glimpse of that opening, that transformative release that I have been seeking. It is a perfect melding of the physical and psychological; at least for me.