Sunday, November 25, 2012

collar

On the bench in the dim light were his tools. He had laid out what he may use this first time they met. She stood looking at the bench where her eyes were greeted with bright and shiny metal and there was some leather too. Chains and paraphernalia lay silent in a small plastic Tupperware container. Though she has never experience these things she recognised most of the objects from the stories she had read and the pictures she had viewed on her journey to this room.

She felt herself throb as she took in the clover clamps, the sharp gleam from the Wartenburg pinwheel and from the corner of her eye she saw the collar. Two inches width of black shiny leather. She took in a sharp breath as she tried to look at it. The red thread stitching on the cuffs with it matched perfectly. In the centre of its length the collar held silver metal O ring anchored to the leather by a another thicker and quite beautifully crafted ring fixed to a round metal plate which in turn was embedded in the body of the collar.

The absence of a curve in the leather told her that the bindings had never been worn. Many weeks earlier during one of their many conversations He told her that He had acquired a set of cuffs with a collar just for her. "They are yours." He said. She had let the comment slip out of the conversation feeling both a sense of nervousness and excitement.

She didn't allow herself to look at the collar for more than a second or two. During her next few visits to the room the collar lay on the bench. It was quietly insistent on her attention. She had accepted the cuffs with ease but the collar was something different, even if it was only in play. Her next visit to the room she admired the collar from a distance. She began to wonder about the feel of it on her tender neck; what would it look like as she watched her own submission play out under His hand.

The next time she came to the room she touched the black leather and shiny cool metal as it lay on the bench. Her finger tips skimmed across its smooth surface. She began to long to feel it on her skin. Still He didn't beckon her to bring it to Him. Her breath grew short as she imagined herself with this small piece of leather circling her neck, His finger looped through the ring to guide her and push and pull her where He desired.

She felt the insatiable need in her as she travelled to the room. He would be waiting having had prepared the room to his liking. She knew the collar would be on the bench, like a beacon for her. The collar had a life of its own as it lay in silence waiting for her to come to it. She walked into the room on that final day. She undressed as He bade her, as He always did. Then without invitation she walked to the bench and with no hesitation she picked up the collar, turned and with an outstretched arm handed it in silence to Sir. She gathered up her hair and bowed her head as he placed the collar around her neck fastening the buckle at her nape. He hooked His finger under her chin and lifted her face to look at him. He smiled and kissed her cheek.

"Good girl."



photographer unknown. Sourced from the Internet

Friday, November 23, 2012

the littlest things

It's funny how the littlest things can bring a sense of reverie. The warmth of dreamy notions as I move through the most unusual of places.

I was in the supermarket aisle yesterday rushing from errand to errand in my life. Next on the list? Rice. Basmati. Jasmine is nice but there's nothing like the aroma and texture of Basmati. There it was, just down on the lower shelf. I bent at the hips and then remembering my state of knickerless-ness and a shorter skirt, a little rule left me by a distant Local D,  and I quickly bent my knees to retrieve the small prize of white kernels.

I gazed at the packet as my thoughts drifted, hurtled really, back to a man who had found me searching for a Dominant character. Just over a couple of years back I hardly knew who I was or what this thing was in me that tapped at my brain, pushing me forward into the unknown. He found me and claimed me. It was a slow process, it always is. We never met, as is the way with D/s in a lot of cases these days, we were content for that time with an online connection. I was far too timid to even step in a direction that would see us come into the offline world. He lived in another state. We were at least in the same country and he travelled a great deal. Up until then I had kept most potential Dom's at a distance, safely with an ocean in between us. I lived in the knowledge that we would meet one day, though the very idea of that terrified me. I was able to explore this thing in me and have almost unlimited contact.

I loved how he exerted his control. He was a methodical man and controlled my dress, everyday. I sent him a list of all my known activities for the week or two if he was to be travelling overseas. I had previously delivered to him a not insubstantial list of all my lingerie.  In return he somehow provided me weekly a list of garments I was required to wear (or not) for my activities. This frankly, impressed me. He rarely missed a beat. The list was always delivered to me in time to know what to do. I never had to make a decision, though there was an established rule around that should the occasion arise. He did not care for black and over time he trained me not to care for black very much either. To this day I rarely wear black though it still fills my draw with it's lace and filminess in case...one day...

In the supermarket aisle I gazed at the company name, his company name, on the packet of rice as my thoughts drifted back to my first Daddy. My first real taste of another's control. As I held the packet of rice made by his company in my hand, this simple food, a staple of so many people, I remembered with some fondness my first time. Now that same packet of rice sits in my pantry, a memory of Daddy gone but certainly not forgotten. That small packet connected me in that moment to Daddy-gone. There was a small sense of loss too in that packet. A little sense of regret. If only he had come into my world at a later time, when I was more brave. But then he is one of the reasons I have become braver. He was who I needed at that time. Now there is one (or two ;)) who I need at this time. One or two who guide me further on the journey and in their own way encourage me to be braver still.

Source Internet: photographer unknown


Monday, November 19, 2012

failed submissive girl (again)

Writing to Daddy, I reflected that secrets are the ultimate submission. The revealing of secrets that is.

I have many secrets, we all do I would argue. In submission the holding of secrets is a theme that doesn't seem easily tolerated. I keep many secrets from Local D. I have fewer secrets from Daddy.  I can honestly say I don't think I hold any secrets from Daddy. Would I give him the passwords to bank accounts?  No, so there are some secrets there but the secrets related just to me, about me, I tell him. Daddy has been patient, gaining my trust over time.

Local D? Secrets upon secrets. Nothing that threatens his well-being or safety, but secrets about me. Revealing everything causes me real and fundemental anxiety. I'm partnered to another and Local D, so called because he lives nearby, has the power to bring down the house of cards; family, career, life, should things go horribly wrong between us and he chose to exercise that power. That fear is at the heart of my secrets.

Until I am able to reveal everything to him in trust without fear or question, I am never going to be able to let go and truly submit to him. Until that moment, it is all only play, inauthentic, fun, genuine for what it is, but inauthentic.



Source Intranet: photographer unknown

Sunday, November 18, 2012

am I in trouble Daddy?

I was set a task which I undertook with some to-ing and fro-ing and with some lack of promptness in Daddy's eye's. The trail of email between us ended in a paragraph I sent in an attempt to explain the friction I felt inside. I received his response (in red next to my words). I laughed out loud when I saw the simplicity with which he was able to expose my constant consternation and reframe it as silliness. So with permission:
 
Now am I in trouble over not cumming before the pics? Butt of course
But yes I did do it for your pleasure..because you wanted it..that still confounds and confuses me. How I do that..need to do it..need to do what you ask. Need to do what you are told by ME. I have always been a rule follower Daddy..always. You were told what to do but it got lost in your sea of worry---not allowed---you were told to focus on my pleasure. Is this an extension of that..even when my 40 something year old brain is screaming..age has nothing to do with the need to submit and obey. Noooo this is not sensible, this is not 'nice'..of course it is nice to please Daddy--no matter what he demands---- Does that make sense? Cos I can't figure it out! Clarified now young lady? DO WHAT I TELL YOU AND PROMPTLY (NO MATTER HOW MANY CHICKENS ARE AROUND).

The chickens? A constant distraction. Missed appointments because they fly the coup and I need to run through the neighbourhood back yards trying to find them. Missed tasks because one of the girls is broody and I need to find a cure in the form of a fertilised egg from a nearby farm. Daddy's reference to the chooks as distraction made me laugh out loud.


Source via  the Internet: photographer http://lexoweb.com/ 

 

Saturday, November 17, 2012

reclaiming His

He opened the door to the small beach shack he had secured for their weekend and she walked  over the threshold.

She gently placed her bag on the bench and reaching down to the hem of her dress pulled it slowly over her bare rounded cheeks and over the nakedness of her exposed breasts as she lifted it over her head. The light filmy material fell from her fingertips to the floor.

She turned to face him, the reflection of the strong sunshine bouncing off the water outside the door warmed her and relaxed her like she hadn't felt in a very long time.

He had enjoyed the unwrapping of his girl. She stood quiet and calm in her demeanor, meeting his gaze with her clear hazel eyes. He had always loved these large almond shaped pools though never so much as when they looked up at him from his groin, her mouth filled with cock.

He moved to the chair by the window taking in the view of the beach and the water. He had chosen a secluded beach and shack. Nobody to bother them for the whole weekend. He had needed to reconnect with his girl and she him. She needed to be stripped bare, exposed and centred in a way that only he could accomplish in this secluded far away setting.

'Kneel.'

She came to him, her ample breasts bouncing slightly with each gentle step. She knelt at his feet looking at him for his next instruction. He picked up  book and began to read. She remained where she was, content. When he had finished his reading he sat her with her back to him, her legs wide and knees bent. He leaned over her exploring her body, rolling her hardened nipples between his thumb and forefinger. His hand slid to her slick pink flesh, his hot breath in her ear, his lips skimming her cheek. Her eyes closed as a sigh escaped her mouth.

He worked her little sensitive button, the palm of his hand pressing her mound. Her pelvis dancing to the pleasure he allowed her. Rocking forward and up into his hand, desperation growing to engulf his finger in the wet heat. He worked her, his teeth sinking into her cheek just to let her know she was still his, no matter how far she drifted.

The heat built in her. The pressure on her button building the pressure in her pelvis. His fingers sliding in side her to relieve her internal ache. He made her remain there through that sensitive part where she felt she could take no more of her clit being pulled and remodelled and she whimpered for relief.

Like some macabre hommage to a film crew art, the sound of the sea crashing to the sand floated on the breeze though the open window as she came to his touch, to his bite, to the pull and pinch on her hard nipple.

Wet, slick, sweat.

She turned to balance on her knees as he stood, his zipper opening to release his hard, hot and she thought, enormous cock. Anticipation made her mouth water as he began to slap her cheek with her reward.

He would make her beg today. He relished the need in her eyes, the desperation in her lips. He knew too well the ache that her need created in her slut pussy.

Source: the Intranet, photographer unknown.

Sunday, November 11, 2012

hot drip

He pushed her firmly back to sit in the chair. The cold metal pressed into her heated flesh.
A simple chair, heavy and anchored to the ground by its weight.

Her legs were open wide, she dare not close them, his instruction was clear. The wrist cuffs were clipped either side to the metal frame and her ankles were fastened in the same way to the front legs of the chair. Her collar and cuffs reminded her all the while of the reason she was there. At His pleasure.

He had refrained from tying the ropes around her thighs and fastening them to the chair. She had promised to keep her knees wide where he could admire the glistening of her cunt.

"Close your eyes now honey."

She always complied, or tried to do what he bade her. Her mind was racing as she heard him move around the room. This was new and he was preparing something at the table where he kept all the toys he used when she came to the room.

She didn't dare look. His hand covered her mouth and pushed her head back so far she thought her neck might snap. Then in an instant the heat and burn seared her nipple. She heard the muffled exclamation of surprise and realised it came from her own lungs. Her eyes remained shut. Panic didn't even have time to take hold before the sensation subsided. The heat came again quickly. Her skin was on fire. She began to writhe. The burn dripped on her nipples and little splashes sprang to her belly and thighs.

His hand moved to cover her nose and mouth. Her cunt tightened and throbbed. Then as she began to settle into the sting and burn of her flesh, her clit screamed in pain as the burn found its tender mark. She was growing dizzy without oxygen. Writhing, squirming, her thoughts slipped away and all she knew was the burn.

He released his hand and she drank in two gulps of sweet air before he pushed into her face again bending her back over the chair. Her collar digging into the nape of her neck was to leave her marked that day.

Her wet pink flesh burned. She thought nothing and felt everything. The burn overwhelming her as the waves of joy moved through her tremouring body. She was his, giving him her pain and fear in the moment she came. He considered her muffled scream and wax drenched body was one of her most beautiful moments.
  
photographer unknown

Friday, November 2, 2012

submission 11

11) Do you include service as a part of your expectations of your submission? How do you define service? What does it mean to you? If not, what is it about the concept of service that is not for you?

This is a tricky one for me. What is service? Is it not doing what is asked, demanded, expected that is at the core of what I want and underpins my need to please. If service is defined in this way (and *not* solely with mop and bucket in hand), then yes service is my expectation for my submission. To please him gives me pleasure, a kick, gets me wet...him playing with me makes me excited. Yin and Yang. Consider then, do I service him or does he service me? I read once the argument that a Dom by his very nature is in service to his sub.  Controlling his sub gives him and her much needed and mutual pleasure. Can it not be argued then that a Dom/me and their subbie are in service to each other?

A Dom/me needs a sub to submit in order to express their lead, and a subbie needs their Dom/me in order to submit. One cannot exist without the other. There is a symbiotic reationship between Dom and sub, Master and slave, Top and bottom, Yin and Yang. Other than this, I don't really understand 'Service'.

photographer unknown: Source the Interweb


Pinch & Punch

Found it ..Andrew Tarusov calendar apocalypse 2012!

for your viewing pleasure and happy November.

Andrew Tarusov

Thursday, November 1, 2012

October running late


Well this is supposed to be November's calendar girl but I can't find her..I will contiue to look. For now please enjoy Octobers treat, forgotten..oops 'my bad'
 
Andrew Tarusov - Apocalypse 2012