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.
It’s been awhile since I’ve been able to really take any potential HNT photos, given the roadtrip, then apartment searching and furniture buying. I thought about using a cropped photo from the roadtrip collection, but I think taking these photos at my new home is a nice way to commemorate my moving in to the great city of San Francisco!
I’ve had this rather nice purple suit jacket that I picked up at a thrift store but never had an opportunity to wear. I suppose now that I’m job searching the chances of my having to wear clothes like this will increase, but for now I’m content just having it around for occasions like this.
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.
Here is the bite on Monday, teeth indents still present. Red and puckered, broken capillaries galore.
And two days later, Wednesday night, it is yellowing and fading. Makes me wonder and shudder to imagine what it takes to get the dark purply bruises so often shown off by other masochists. Yes, okay, I have verified that I am, indeed, a masochist (thanks to all who’ve, ah, helped me on the road to this particular discovery).
The area is still tender to the touch, but I am more or less fully recovered. Which means, of course, that it is time to return for more.
But, please. No more tickling. Hard limit.
I have a yellow bruise beginning to fade below my collarbone, the really only lasting remnant of a long, packed weekend. The whip marks were gone by the time I drove back to campus on Sunday, and the other marks on my back gone as well when I checked in the mirror yesterday. Thankfully the lines around my neck are gone too, preventing the potential for embarrassing inquiries.
Just as quickly the memories start to fade, though if I concentrate, details begin to percolate back into my mind. The first night, at a Hampton beach boardwalk, the flashing, garish lights of an arcade, frisbee in the dark, and dashing into the cold salty surf in my underwear. Experiencing the terror and thrill of being surrounded by four sadistic riggers (unbelievably, none of whom had rope with them), and then the aftermath of trying to get sand out of places sand should never have access to.
The second day began messily, with what should have been an 18-minute drive (according to Google Maps) taking instead one hour of missed turns, dead ends, and one very, very frustrated driver. But we made it to the Bound in Boston con, just in time for a group ice-breaker and stretching session with a yoga practitioner. The stretching calmed me down enough to heartily enjoy the next couple hours of rope classes, involving pegs and rings, bamboo poles, and some spectacular escape games. I learned that I am a horrible rigger, but I also learned how to improve.
I sank into blissfully deep ropespace twice on Saturday, experienced my first play party with a fully decked out dungeon. Suspension points in the ceiling, rows of whips, floggers, cuffs, and sex toys hanging along the wall, and lots of people dressed in fetishwear. I was out of place in my tanktop and stretchy pants, but it didn’t matter because soon my top was forced off and I was being whipped, first my back and then my front, then my back again. To hide from the humiliation I was graciously blindfolded and saw nothing of my surroundings for the next hour.
More humiliation was to come as I was ordered to grind against a proffered leg until orgasm. I came, but quietly.
I floated in and out of consciousness in between bouts of whipping, flogging, biting, and hair pulling. The upstairs kitchen provided a reprieve and boosters: soft drinks, alcohol, and table snacks. I refueled with sugar and chips, then descended again to be tied while sitting in a half-lotus, my body folded up like a clam. Hardened piano wires flicked across my nipples, sending sharp coursing pain straight down my spine.
My poor nipples. I take it back, they are probably the most bruised and tender part of my body and remain sensitive to any friction from cloth. They were whipped, twisted, bitten, rubbed, flicked, and pulled in excruciating ways.
And the sex. Oh yes, the sex. Sex that left me sore and tearing latex from around my throat. By Sunday, I was too sore. Sex hurt. I resisted, but was fucked anyway. I screamed and tried to push away, but a low voice whispered close to my ear that he like hearing me scream. I whimpered, and he praised me for whimpering for him.
I begged in a small voice to be hurt, and he happily obliged. He slapped my face till I saw stars, then tightened latex around my throat so I couldn’t breathe. I convulsed, he convulsed, and the latex tightened more.
Afterwards I curled into a small happy puddle of endorphins and didn’t emerge until my stomach grumbled for attention. A small contest of wills ensued with my bedmate (safeword: gumdrop) before I untangled myself to run for the shower. I first stopped to admire the marks scattered across my body, then winced as the hot water hit my skin and reminded me where it hurt. Namely, everywhere.
And when I’d returned and dried off in the room, he came over to admire his handiwork, and decided the bitemark below my collarbone should be emphasized. I tried to pull away, really I did, my palm pressed against his head, pushing away as he leaned in and “emphasized” the bite.
And that is the yellowing, fading bruise I have left from this past weekend.
I am just rereading an e-mail I sent to a friend describing my weekend. One part of it really sticks out for me. It reads:
He used a hand on my throat. Sometimes he covered my nose and mouth. He told me that I wasn’t done until he was. It was true.
A lot of the things that I experienced this past weekend makes me squirm to remember, but that statement just causes me to shudder. I’ve realized that those words hold the culmination of desires and wants that started in my early childhood. It is the same shudder of fear/thrill I feel when I read of evil, sadistic villains in fictional stories, and of the utter helplessness of their victims.
I had never really felt that before – that fine, razor-thin line between fear and lust, amplified by helplessness, and it captured my imagination very early on in my life. The idea of a person who enjoyed causing physical pain to another for the pure pleasure of it – well, that both aroused and terrified me. And now, I’ve finally experienced a brief taste of that kind of personality. Just thinking back, remembering, leaves me heady.
How can I adequately describe the events of the past weekend? Should I concentrate on the workshop, where I was tied in my first suspension, a horizontal tie that left my legs free to swing and kick and maneuver within the suspension rig? Should I go into detail on the evening, which found my back pressed hard against the far wall of a hotel bathroom, my shirt rolled up to my collarbone as I was first whipped, then punched and pinched until I had to cross my arms over my chest and slide down to the floor?
Or perhaps the evening before, when I found myself sitting between two sadists as they used my body to show each other their favorite pressure points for causing pain or for take downs. Or when a latex Theraband was stretched across my face, over my mouth and nose, so that each increasingly short breath caused my body to shake and spasm. Or the caning, the biting, the struggling to get out of rope as it was being tied around me.
Or, even, the awe and privilege of getting to climb up the limbs of a majestic, 200-year-old beech tree in the yard of my gracious host. Eating Thai food with a bunch of kinksters and geeking out about chromatin looping and computers. The first night when I started dozing off in a stairwell while the above two sadists chatted about sci-fi/fantasy novels.
Already so much of those three days has become a fuzzy blur of sensations. I wish that I could fully articulate how thrilling it was, or that I could pin down every detail of each scene and event that happened. But it’s already taken me this long to process everything enough to write anything at all. And now the last few marks on my body from rope are fading, and the bruises are healing. I am no longer so sore and stiff that I have a difficult time removing my bra. Amazing how it all so quickly dissipates into memory, isn’t it?