They hold little conferences like this so he can discuss her behavior with her. He lets her know how much he appreciates her submission. But, he also tells her where she’s failed him, how she could serve him better, and exactly what about her bothers him. He picks her apart. She just has to listen and nod understandingly as she feels his eyes boring into her, his words reforming her, the chair beneath her growing wet.
submission
She said I was only into “fancy” submission.
I asked her what she meant.
She said I was only up for very formal orders, very defined boundaries, very cut and dry notions of “good” and “bad” during play.
I weighed what she said. It was true. Sudden, harsh punishment tended to upset me. Punishment that I didn’t enjoy upset me. I misbehaved solely to provoke the reaction that I thought was characteristic of the dynamic I was exploring. It irritated her. It irritated me that it irritated her.
My initial exposure to the lifestyle was with a partner who was terribly lenient and who did not completely desire to explore the numerous implications of submission. It was all, for a lack of better words, a very porny sort of submission. My punishments were almost as pleasurable as my rewards. There was no growth, no true submission, no change.
I still have an attachment to the sort of “fancy” submission she talked about. The very “refined” sort of playing with no larger implications. The idea of stripping oneself down very briefly for play and for quickly restoring oneself without any sort of modification or understanding of the dynamic.
And, yes, while I find “fancy” submission to be within my comfort zone, it’s the other kind that I find to be truly rewarding.
He brought me flowers when he came to see me on Valentine’s Day. I insisted upon cutting them myself before putting them in water. When I was younger, one of my close relatives was a florist and I absolutely relished taking the time to cut the flowers the way I had been taught: with scissors, on an angle.
He sat down at my desk while I stood, working at cutting each end smoothly. As I picked up maybe the fourth flower, I felt his hand trace up the inside of one of my thighs, barely even grazing the skin. I looked over my shoulder at him, but he just nodded for me to keep going.
I continued to cut the flowers, having to pause every few seconds as his hands continued to wander over my body to give a light shiver. I felt my trembles building as he went down my arms, up my legs, over my stomach, never once touching anything remotely erogenous but getting me fired up all the same.
He started to remove my clothing, causing me to pause between flowers to lift my arms and my feet. Now nude save for my panties, my body was even more receptive to his touch. I slammed my hands down on the desk when his finger traced over the line of my slit through my panties, gasping audibly. I couldn’t remember a time I had been this worked up from just having my skin touched, but there was something about the quality of his hands that made just one sweep over my sex near electric, practically orgasmic.
“Hm?” I could hear his smirk, “what’s wrong?” He pulled the panties to one side and ran his finger over my slit once more. I probably died about six times. “You’re soaked. Now how is that?” He spread my lips with his fingers and chuckled, “I haven’t even touched you here much until now. And still you’re wet. Explain to me why that is.”
My cheeks reddened and I shook my head, “I…I don’t know.” I practically screamed when he flicked his thumb over my clit. He just laughed.
“Finish the flowers,” he ordered and went back to running his hands over my legs. I pouted and picked the scissors back up. The back and forth continued for a few more minutes. I would get too overwhelmed and drop everything, he’d tease me and make me pick it back up.
I finally filled the vase and went to put the scissors away when he started to rub my clit. I froze before setting the scissors back on the table, dipping my head back and letting out a gratified moan. He pulled me into him, tracing slow circles over my clit. “Look at you,” he teased, “all I have to do is rub your clit and everything else just fades away. That’s all that matters to your little one-track mind. What a simple little whore.”
I cried out as he sped up the circles and he just laughed. “Can’t even argue, can you? Thoughtless little girl.” Suddenly, he stopped and pushed me forward. I stumbled toward the middle of the room and looked back to him. My legs were threatening to give way. I could feel my thighs soaked with myself. My hands were shaking.
“Take off my shoes,” he ordered. “Take off my shoes and set them aside.” I sank to my knees and crawled over to him. I untied one after the other, tugging them off and setting them down side by side before looking up at him expectantly. It was always shocking to me how docile I could become from being reduced to some moaning, bucking creature.
We continued on this way. I removed his shirt, his pants, everything before I was brought over to the bed. I was his simple little whore. I had that one-track mind. I was focused only on pleasing him. And in this way, I was undeniably content.
I love when someone can sum up a universal feeling in a clever kind of figurative way.
She wanted some discipline.
One person to tell her no.
Until she said yes.
To everything.
I just don’t even know what to say besides the fact that I absolutely want to belong to her.
Preach, sister.
What was it about silence speaking louder than words? Can we apply that to muffled cries underneath a hand? Either way, the commentary here speaks volumes.
“Mmm hmmm mmnf mumf gumf.”
As loud as you want sweetheart.
The word passion comes from the Latin stem pati, which means to suffer and to endure. This was, of course, grounded in a very deep suffering on a religious level, but I don’t want to get into that right now.
What I’m more interested is how we use it now. Crimes of passion. Passionate love. Passionate sex. We simply throw this term around without even realizing what we’re implying. Crimes of suffering. Suffering love. Suffering sex.
I feel as if we don’t want to suffer. We don’t want to endure. And rather than seeing love as a means of suffering, we see it as an end to suffering. Which, in my opinion, it is not at all.
I don’t mean to say here that suffering is a bad thing. It’s not. Suffering is a human trait. It’s not necessarily being crucified or tortured or oppressed. It’s not even necessarily a bad feeling. It’s more of just this constant tug that drags us from room to room in life, the constant nagging that keeps humanity yearning, the innate tortured aspect of the human condition that allows us to feel so broken that we need someone or something to share and halve it. “You shall love your crooked neighbor with your crooked heart,” says Auden.
Love is suffering. Suffering is love. It seems we always talk about love as this very comfortable thing. And I mean love on all counts. Familial, religious, romantic, platonic, etc. Love is not benign. Love is not the solution. Love does not suddenly calm the storm, save the damsel, and feed the hungry.
And I think that’s why we get so shocked when love is not so simple and when we can’t just be like, “well, we’re here” and then just sort of close the book on the whole thing. Love doesn’t want to handle us lightly, it would drop-kick us to our knees whenever it had the chance. Love is this wild and crazy creature that is this embodiment of our suffering. So, no wonder love is passionate. Sex, too.
I think that’s part of the reason why I love BDSM so much. Aside from the trust, the control and the pleasure aspects of it, it’s an incredibly powerful physical manifestation of our passion, our suffering. The entire process is one of endurance. From enduring the suffering, you experience the pleasure. That’s a hell of a lost of passion there.
I’ll cut this little rant off right here before I just ramble on forever. But, God, language is mind-blowing.
Not a sound, slut. Or I’ll just stop right now and you can wait another month.
The First Time Ivy Tried Knifeplay, Part 3
(part 2 can be found here) (part 1 can be found here)
I was a never a huge fan of having my, or anyone else’s, panties in my mouth. Mostly because cotton gets all waterlogged and nasty, lace becomes scratchy, so on and so forth. And, on top of that, I really don’t like the taste of lace, cotton, etc mixed with the taste of a woman. The second one can be damn good on its own. But with some sort of textile? Blegh.
Now tasting myself and praising my choice of wearing thin, cotton panties, I was going over in my head the details of my situation – the being blindfolded whilst tied down to my girlfriend’s bed as she hovered over me with something only slightly less threatening than a sushi knife – when I heard the wooden handle settle onto her bedside table. At least she had put the knife down.
She started smacking over my thighs, causing me to jump and whimper and quiver with each hit. She stopped when they were stinging, practically screaming with what I’m sure was blatant redness. It was then that she straddled the left one and started to get herself off, eliciting a whimper from my lips each time her knee brushed my desperate sex.
I wanted her so badly. I wanted anything right now. She knew her effect on me when she pleasured herself on me, but she just took her sweet time in acknowledging it. Her hand moved down to my breast, squeezing and twisting my nipple painfully until I cried out around my panties.
And finally, after what had seemed too long, her fingers sank between my legs. “Does slutty want to cum?” she cooed. I bit down hard on the panties, trying not to scream in frustration as I nodded. She pressed on harder, not giving explicit permission until what felt like forever.
When I had finally regained composure, she removed the blindfold and smiled down at me as my focus returned. She pulled my panties from my mouth and held the sopping wet mess of fabric in front of my face. I had bitten down so hard at some points that I had literally munched holes into my panties. I laughed dryly as she leaned up to remove my cuffs and I tried my hardest not to just pass out from exhaustion right there.