Archive for the ‘submission’ Category

Afternoon program

October 2, 2012 1 comment

“You are going to entertain me.

You are going to tell me a story.

It will involve power, and terror.”

I watched his instructions appear on my screen, feeling a familiar mixture of heat and fear rising with each command.

Heat at the power and easy confidence behind those words, in his knowing that I am compelled to obey.

Fear at the challenge of weaving a story out of thin air, in the moment, having had no forewarning at all.

And fear of the prompt:

“You are going to tell me about the next time I pierce you.”

My heart leapt at those words. It is no secret that I hate needles. The sickly drag of metal under skin; the twin pricks of pain as my skin is opened up and made vulnerable; the dull throb and enflamed swath of skin that persists long after the initial piercing; these are things that I cannot process.

It is also true that he pierces me on occasion. Because he can. Because it amuses him. Because it is an unmistakeable statement of his ownership. And, to further drive himself deeper into my psyche, he has trained me to come from being pierced.

I licked dry lips and cleared my throat nervously. How do I even start this? Where is the setting for the story? The context?

But even as the questions ran through my head, I was already beginning to visualize the scene. I could see the low, warm glow of his nightstand lamp. There is a body there, on the bed, lying face down on crumpled sheets.

Ah. Okay.

After a few false starts, I finally began.

We are in bed.

We have been playing – just as hard, and as primally – as we often do. I am lying facedown. My hands are tied in front of me – my wrists bound together with the remaining rope lashed around my waist, so that my hands lie between my legs.

I hear you move away, and the mattress shifts as you get off the bed to grab something from off the floor.

I hear and feel your body as you return. You set the object down on the bed. My heart begins to race when I hear the familiar “pop” as you open that black box. That terrible, black box.

I hear the soft crinkle of plastic as you withdraw 5 needles from the box. I turn my head away. I can’t look. I never can. You separate the needles, letting them fall onto the bed beside my body.

And, all the while, my lizard brain is screaming at me to move, to run away, to hide from the pain that I know is coming.

Instead, I hold very, very still. You’ve taken out the first needle, and I hear your voice above me, low and soothing. Speaking of your ownership. Reminding me that I belong to you.

I belong to you.

I belong to you.

I feel your fingers on my back, grasping for a chunk of skin.

I belong to you.

I try to mentally prepare myself for the sensation. It never works.

I belong to you.

It’s all I can do to not move, to not flinch at what’s coming. I breathe, breathe, breathe as you slide the first needle. In.

It’s all I could do, even in the telling, even in the imagining, not to cringe away and hide from that mental image.

I could feel the skin on my back responding, tingling and sensitive, as if in anticipation.

I don’t want to keep going. I don’t want to be pierced. But, at the same time, I do. It’s very confusing, Sir.

He knows.

I let out my breath in one sharp exhale. My skin burns. It always takes me by surprise, the sharpness of that pain. I never get used to it.

It never gets easier.

Even as I am collecting myself, the second needle is in your hand. You slide it. In. Through. And back out, underneath the first. I groan through it, still holding very still.

With each needle, it’s harder to not move, to not thrash around and relieve the burning pain in my back.

With each needle, I feel myself growing wetter. It is almost impossible to ignore, and my hands are right there, between my legs.

As you slide the fourth needle under my skin, you tell me that I will come when the fifth needle is embedded in me. That I will come. Because I belong to you.

You take the fifth needle, rest it against my skin.

Come, you command, as you shove it in.

So I do.

Categories: submission, writing


July 30, 2011 1 comment

I keep thinking I should write something here – anything – so as not to let this blog stagnate. Then today I happened to glance at my stats page, and did a double-take at the spike I saw in traffic. Thanks, Jane’s Guide, for the link and review!

So I guess I haven’t been here in a while. What’s new, world? I don’t think I can even begin to summarize everything that’s happened since I last posted, in (cringe) April. I find myself writing less and less, in general, and drawing less as well. Actually, since SEAF, I haven’t felt an ounce of drive to do much of anything creative. Except make myself a new whip, but that’s been a long time coming, anyway.

Life is far from mundane, however. During Max’s most recent visit, we delved deep into a very intense, psychological kind of play; the kind I’ve only ever dreamed of from afar, too afraid to even name it or peer too closely at it. This has opened up all sorts of doors for me, and it’s unleashed a hunger for more that I can’t contain – and don’t want to. There is a sweetness to the brutality I experienced, that I could experience because of my trust in Max, that is, frankly, addicting. And there is joy, too, at knowing how completely and utterly I am able to lose control, have it drawn out of my body like blood, through Max’s ministrations. As someone whose internal monologue is never shut off and whose need to maintain control can be inhibiting, that kind of release is nirvana.

And then there’s T the Programmer, a new partner that I’ve been seeing for a few months now. This means I’m now a fully practicing polyamorist, no longer merely espousing theory and concept. And – yeah, it’s complicated. It’s made me question myself many times, but when it’s been good, it’s been very, very good.

I’ve also been dabbling in what is essentially drag king dress-up, which has been exhilarating and has thrilled me in a way no dress or skirt ever has. I put together a “dapper gentleman” outfit for one night of SEAF, with help and encouragement from Max. A month later, a revised version of that outfit came out again for Pride, when T the Programmer and I did a bondage demo/performance while I was in full drag. I have a feeling this is just the tip of the drag iceberg for me.

Now, I am a week away from the upcoming Paradise Unbound kinky camping event, and before that I’ll be staying with Max and attending his monthly Bondage series workshop. It promises to be an activity-filled trip with many moving parts, and while I’m wary of the poly-related challenges that are bound to crop up while I’m out in the woods, I’m hoping for the best.

[Edited to update T’s name to the Programmer – I’m so bad at coming up with monikers for the people I write about here. – 10/16/2011]

Categories: admin, links, polyamory, submission

Clocked out

November 1, 2010 Leave a comment

I haven’t had much time or frame of mind to be at the computer the past few days.  First, I spent Wednesday through Friday last week finishing my first kangaroo hide whip. Saturday, Max arrived in San Francisco, and I gifted him the finished whip that day.  And now my weekend and week is all about Max, which means I am barely connected to my phone or computer.  It’s a glorious feeling.

With that, we are getting ready to head out for an evening of leather hoods, sushi, and rope.  Yum.

Categories: life, submission, sundry

My whip’s first scene

August 26, 2010 Leave a comment

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.


August 21, 2010 Leave a comment

It is not an insignificant thing for me to be proclaiming a relationship, or any intimate connection, after guarding my independence so closely for so long.  Yet here I am, announcing not just that I am intimately connected to another, but also owned by him.  It’s been a long while since I’ve been in such a relationship.

The beautiful realization now is that I am no less independent; rather, my life is made the more enriched by this addition.

A phrase that I learned quickly through the poly byways was “new relationship energy,” or NRE.  Because of our distance and thus infrequent visits, I found that the NRE has stretched out over a longer period of time.  It makes the time between visits more difficult, but certainly builds up the anticipation and desire for each next encounter as well.

This status change, while changing nothing of how we have interacted together from the very start – my wearing his collar, him filling me with his will and power – does signify the continuation of our encounters, each time bringing us deeper into the other’s bodies, and hearts.  I could not be more thrilled by the thought.

Thank you, Sir.

Categories: love, submission

“thoughtful profile”

July 15, 2010 3 comments

Some conversation came up in our household a week or two ago concerning received messages on Fetlife, when I was suddenly reminded of one that I had gotten some five months ago.  I remember distinctly vacillating between disbelieving hilarity and plain incredulity over this message.  I don’t know why I should have been so surprised; e-mails in the same vein and of the same consistency are sent and butchered by their recipients for public consumption all the time through media outlets.  Yet I almost couldn’t believe that someone wrote something like this in complete seriousness – surely this was a poor attempt at irony?

I suppose part of my shock came from the thankfully low numbers of these kinds of e-mails I get on Fetlife (and elsewhere).  The vast majority of my inbox’s contents are from people that I know, or have met at a party, or are friends of friends.  Even the occasional stranger’s hello is frequently nothing but cordial, a couple times coming from someone wanting to ask about navigating the scene as a newcomer (imagine, me being asked that!)

Then, just today, I came across a Fetlife post titled “A Field Guide to Creepy Dom” – you have to be registered and logged into the site to access that link – that once again reminded me of this one, specific message.  I’ve also started reading a fantastic book called The Gift of Fear, by Gavin de Becker.  All of these writings relate somewhat to the message I received, which I’ve reproduced in whole below, save the hapless man’s signature (bolded emphasis mine – those were especially juicy phrases, I thought):

Hello Nell, I like your thoughtful profile; There is a saying..”Still waters run deep..” so although you may seem sad on the surface you may have deep feelings and emotions underneath. I am a master at reaching those and releasing your full potential. I can imagine what your responses were like. I know and respect Eastern ways, after visiting Hong Kong & Singapore and still practice yoga. We are so close by & I am often in SF. So tell me about your thoughts, a little about where your family is from and the best way to contact you. My best e-mail is via Yahoo, so we can chat & share pictures there.What is your e-mail there? You had better discribe yourself a little too. Are you tall, average shape or slim or what parts are you most proud of? Also which part of the city are you near? We can talk first. Well Nell, I look forward to finding out more and sharing some new interesting parts of your life and feeling you grow as a more fully complete lady as your self-esteem and confidence blossom under my guidance…You will be able to do whatever you want and feel free and strong too! But you have to take that first easy step and reply. You must show willing to learn… Your new mentor, master & guide, [deleted]

Where to even begin with this?  It is almost too easy an exercise to dissect this word for word, and hopefully five months after this writing (I never responded, of course) he has likewise no interest in pursuing me any further – and hopefully doesn’t read my blog.  I won’t even touch the solid, unbroken paragraph of barely acceptable punctuation, questionable grammar, and creative sentence structure.

So, despite being five months late, I do in fact have a reply to my would-be “mentor, master & guide”.

Since I am currently halfway through The Gift of Fear, some of the traits the author discusses as common to potential victimizers immediately sprang up – forced teaming by using the collective pronoun “we”, loan sharking, and having too many details.  However, in this case, it was not so much feeling threatened as recognizing the attempted, barely subtle manipulation in his words.

His assumed arrogance that I would happily fall at his feet in subservience and answer all of these incredibly personal questions is laughable to me, yet the prevalence of these exact types on any social network centered around dating, finding partners, or even just connecting with other kinky, sex-positive folks is disconcerting at best.  The Fetlife link to the Creepy Dom field guide describes it perfectly and clearly, and I highly recommend reading it if you are on Fetlife.

Likewise, I found many warning signs to attribute to this email from the Fetlife post: using “master”, coming on too strong and too quickly, and claiming extensive experience and connections (here, to “Eastern ways”).  The focus of the guide centers around Creepy Doms as defined by their desire to control, manipulate, and “prove” their dominion over their fantasy slaves.  These traits are equally applicable to abusers and other victimizers, so I thought it especially timely that I read that right before starting de Becker’s book.

So, lots of academic points there.  That aside, however, I was immediately repulsed and insulted by the implications made at every word.  The man could not have dug himself a deeper pit.  It was as if he was trying to push all of my buttons.

The first sentence clause I emphasized, for instance.  Right from the beginning, I was already aghast at this man’s gross assumptions about me.  Sad?  Oh really.  And, I “may have deep feelings and emotions”?  That is supposed to read as a compliment?  Using “may”, which intrinsically dictates that the opposite may also be true?

In fact, for most of his statements I have to do no more than repeat them with an emphatic question mark appended in disbelief.  He really believes visiting a couple Asian countries and practicing yoga creates a bridge of understanding just because I happen to be Asian?  Yuck.  Just the thought of that makes me feel unclean.  (This, incidentally, is why I have a heavy dislike for “Yellow Fever” pursuers.  Whatever others’ personal views are, are theirs, but my ethnicity is not a fetish.)

Where my family is from?  Where they are from is none of your business, and I was born in the United States, thank you very much.  This brings me back to a speech made by one of my peers to the incoming freshman class.  This upperclassman was an Asian female, and she lamented over a persistent question faced by many minorities in this country, “So. Where are you from? No, where are you really from?”  She talked about the multiple generations of her family that had resided in her home state, and how they were longstanding, devoted fans to a specific sports team in that state.  How she was a full-blooded American citizen who lived in the same section of town her great-grandparents had lived.

And, yet, always that question: “Where are you really from?”

So many questions!  Where to even begin?  But, thankfully, through him, I will be able to blossom into myself completely and feel strong and free!  As long as I take that first step, and “show willing to learn”.

about that phobia…

June 27, 2010 Leave a comment

I was going through the archives, wanting to revisit some specific moments from last year, when I reread this post, entitled “childhood phobias”.  I suppose it is a testament to how long it’s taken me to process Max breaking through my needle phobia that I’ve not yet written about it – here, at least – since it happened in April.

My SEAF weekend visit to Seattle at the end of April was intense in many ways.  Of those days, Saturday and Monday were particularly memorable.  But Saturday is what this post is about.  It was a full and eventful day: a late morning brunch with new friends, a surprisingly stressful shopping trip, a short break for dinner and some chores before heading out to SEAF again, and then, there was the rest of the night.  The post-SEAF evening found me tied by my hair to a tree branch outside Max’s house, in frigid Seattle April weather.

Before long, I was inside the house, on my back, my hands tied behind me, already buzzed and high and not at all expecting to hear the popping of a container lid as Max said softly, “It’s time to poke some holes in you.”

And because I was already soaking in endorphins, it took a moment for the impact of that statement to fully hit me.  By then, Max was already sitting on top of me, taking needles out of a little black box (an evil black box), and before I had time to exhale the breath I didn’t know I was holding in, he was sliding needle after needle into my chest.  I would have screamed – from feeling that first pinprick of pain, then the needle sliding sickeningly against skin and flesh, and the second stab of the needle coming back out – except I was afraid to move my chest.

By the time Max was done, there were seven needles in my flesh, and I was utterly gone.  My eyelids felt like stone, and I was breathing short, shallow breaths.  I could barely think past the high, much less speak.

And removing the needles was just as heady and intense.  I could feel how the needle dragged across my flesh as it slid out.  Max counted each as he pulled them out swiftly and methodically, dropping them into the sharps container nearby.

And then it was over.

Afterwards, in talking with others about this scene, I was asked frequently if I enjoyed it.  And I’d hesitate, finding it difficult to give a short response.  I don’t know how well I responded to that question for the first week after it happened, but now, what I would answer with is this:

I can’t tell if I enjoyed the needles specifically, it having been my first piercing and a built-up phobia.  But then, this was not about enjoyment.  It was about giving someone a part of me that was very hard for me to give.  It was about trusting someone enough to let them take control.  It was about the intention of the act, and knowing the pleasure he took from it.

Taking all of that into consideration, then, I can say that I enjoy the aftereffects of the piercing.  It was a powerful experience, and one that brought me closer to Max.  In the earlier post on phobias, I wrote: “For something like this, I’m sure it will take a much longer-term relationship: of building closeness, trust, and intimacy over time.”

It is pretty thrilling to realize that I have been able to build up that level of closeness, trust, and intimacy with someone.  And, well, it is pretty spectacular that that someone is Max.

Not about

June 6, 2010 2 comments

It’s not about sex, he said.  His body pinned mine close,
my hair curled around his fists like so many coils of rope.

It’s about possession.  Ownership.

Fists tightened with each statement.  My scalp burned.

It’s not about sex, he repeated.

No.  I agreed weakly.  Weak with relief.  I stared back,
saw myself reflected within the depths of his eyes.
Saw myself embedded there, as deeply as he was embedded inside me.
Fingers stretching around my heart, around my lungs, my ribcage.

In his eyes, I saw kindness, and a fierce joy, and exultation.

They only deepened in fullness with each welt,
his pleasure fueled with each guttural scream torn from my throat.

Not. About. Sex.

Categories: love, memories, submission, writing

Memorial weekend

June 3, 2010 Leave a comment

I’ve brought back congested sinuses and a phlegm-y throat amongst a bunch of great memories and marks from Shibaricon.  The enormity of those memories threaten to overwhelm, and yet I keep flipping through them like a slideshow; images and moments and words running in constant stream through my head.

Shibaricon has been imbued with many different meanings for me.  If I had to give it a one-sentence summary, this is what I would write: a multi-faceted event encompassing various traits of family, community, and camaraderie.  From seeing the incredulously many familiar faces at Thursday’s meet and greet hour, to being welcomed home by Psychokitty at the opening ceremonies, to geeking out about ropes with new and old friends, to serving Max and wearing his collar throughout the weekend – I felt myself an integrated part of a whole.

Some highlights, roughly chronological:

  • Max tying his leather turk’s head collar around my neck.  I’ve only worn this kind of collar once before, for the week of Folsom 2009.  I’m glad to have gotten a little time alone with him that first night, reconnecting and rejoicing in seeing him again.
  • Everyone.  There is simply no way to list all of the wonderful people I got to meet or see again.  Thursday’s meet and greet set the pace for how overwhelmed I would feel the rest of the weekend.  I also got to see friends at the IML vendor fair as well as meet Dan Savage!
  • I feel like I didn’t actually go to that many workshops or classes.  I didn’t go to any on Monday, and missed Saturday afternoon due to a volunteer shift.  I also missed all of the Sunday morning classes in favor of sleeping in.  I do really wish I’d gone to more classes, but there is always next year, and I can’t really complain considering my late-night dungeon fun.  But I did especially enjoy Scott Smith’s Abductions and Takedowns class, Max’s Partial Suspension class, and Zamil’s Efficiency of Movements class.
  • Eating delicious cooked meals with the Boston crew and thereby saving much money I would have otherwise spent on hotel food.
  • Getting kicked around by Max before my afternoon volunteer shift.
  • A dynamic, co-self-suspension done with Fivestar, where much laughter, puppeteering, and general mischief ensued.
  • The amazing scene between Max and PopeBacon directly afterwards, one of the hottest scenes I saw that weekend.
  • Getting a bar of chocolate from Lani as a reminder of how we met at Folsom Fringe.
  • Watching Dov get taken down by 7 girls and one guy at the end of the Abductions class.
  • Taking photos of Max’s and my boots (aka baby Max boots) side by side.
  • My extensive play date with Max, which encompassed aiding him during his scene with the beautiful Symetrie, then doing his boots in the social lounge – an act which has become the closest to being spiritual and ritualistic that I have ever felt, and an act that singularly consumes my body with lust and desire.  By the end we were both filled with tranquility.  I was high, high, high, and we followed the bootblacking with a rope scene that left me snarling and panting, and with whispered words of ownership slipping down my throat and wrapping themselves around my ribcage.
  • Throwdown with Dunter at the end of Zamil’s class.
  • IML.  Getting the opportunity to attend the vendor fair, have my boots done for the first time (by someone other than myself), and just take in the vastness of the event was incredible.  I was a little intimidated at first, but was soon asking vendors for advice on bootcare and trying on leather vests eagerly.  While waiting to get our boots done, Max put rope on me and used me as a footrest.  He also got me my first leather vest, for which I have not yet thanked him enough (Thank you, thank you, thank you, Sir).  I have been loathe to take off the vest since.
  • The last hurrah at the hotel bar, hanging out with new and old friends and sipping on Bailey’s before leaving for the flight home.

Some of the more difficult parts:

  • Being in the hotel with two other conventions; one a giant frat party of dart-throwers who’ve co-habited the same venue with Shibaricon for years, and the other a high school quiz bowl competition.  As if it were not difficult enough for me to be around so many people to begin with – Shibaricon capped off at somewhere around 750 attendees this year – I had to navigate around drunk partiers on one side and intelligent and undoubtedly curious kids on the other.  There were a couple times when I just retreated to my room rather than deal with all those crowds of people.
  • Going to a convention without a partner with whom I could practice ties cut down on the classes I felt comfortable attending.  I know I probably could have found a partner fairly easily, but I felt a bit hesitant to let a stranger tie me up, even for a class.  That said, I did manage to get partnered for a couple classes where I knew others, and that was quite fun.
  • Negotiating scenes ahead of time is something I need to work on, as there were people I was really looking forward to playing with but just didn’t get to plan them out beyond “we should talk about playing!”  Not to mention all the boots I wanted to black but didn’t get to!
  • Sunday evening to Monday morning was a difficult period for me.  I could feel myself dropping by Sunday afternoon, and that combined with knowing Max would be removing my collar Monday afternoon sent me into a bad headspace.  I spent Monday morning fighting it, calming myself down, and talking as little as possible, and finally requested, once we reached the vendor fair, that I spend a little time by myself.  I had begun to feel that coming to IML had been a mistake, that I’d have been better off being alone back at the hotel.  But the hour or so I spent wandering the vendor booths helped tremendously and I was able to come out of my mood and enjoy the event.
  • Max taking his collar off.  I could have cried when he untied the leather from my neck and rewove it around my wrist.  I didn’t, however, partly because I felt no different, no less possessed and under his will, once the collar came off.  And partly because, well, I have a hard time crying anyway.
  • The flight home.  Dear lord, this had to have been one of the worst flights I’ve ever taken.  Between the extended delay, sitting in the plane through another delay, and then being delayed during landing, we didn’t arrive in SFO until after midnight.  And during the final leg of the trip, for whatever reason I had intensely painful pressure buildup in my right ear, and nothing I did relieved it.  While I could clear the pressure from my left ear, the right continued to build and build, becoming this brightly focused arrow of pure pain.  I wanted to drive a spike into my ear.

Overall, I hope to make Shibaricon a yearly tradition from now on.  A special thank you to those I met, connected or reconnected with, worked with, shared meals with, and played with, for all the memories.  And especially to Psychokitty for just being the wonderful, amazing guy he is, to Fivestar for being a rocking roommate and for co-engineering our suspension, and to Max for carving out the time during this ridiculously packed, whirlwind of an event to have me at his side.

“ophelia” by D’jaevle

March 31, 2010 3 comments

“I want to watch you drown,” I said.

It was the way you looked up at me, all dark eyes and trust, while my knee pressed against your chest, making it difficult and then impossible to breathe.

It was the way you waited for me.

It made me wonder how far you would go; would you let me hold you under until you had no choice but to press back, your need to breathe outweighing your need to be still?

Would you struggle?

“I want to watch you drown,” I said, and you said nothing in return.

But you reached for my hands and placed them around your throat.


These words have burrowed deep under my skin, latched on with barbed claws to some space below my diaphragm, because suddenly I am finding it difficult to breathe myself.

Beautiful, simple words.  Thank you, D’jaevle.

Categories: fantasy, links, submission