I can't really begin to express how difficult it is growing up and being entranced by the idea of slavery, of being owned and helpless to another person's whim.
I devoured books about slavery all through my childhood- Roman, Greek, Egyptian, American, various and sundry other cultures - simultaneously horrified and enthralled. My very fascination amplified my horror - what sort of person gets tingles when reading about these things?
What was best, when I read the sometimes-fictional books, was when the owner and slave developed a true affection for each other, and then when it became sexual, although not always in that order. There was choice, but there was not choice; there was joy, but there was also ownership.
I tried to pretend the fascination was only academic as I grew older, to mask my fascination with slavery in all its forms with what looked like a voracious love of history, but I never could eliminate the tingly feeling I got when I thought of being possessed, of being owned, taken, controlled. The guilt always came along for the ride too - the guilt of knowing that I shouldn't be so fascinated, that the very concept should be repugnant to me, and that the world should advance beyond those base concepts of people owning people. The pleasure and the guilt became so intertwined that I wasn't always sure which was which. At least in my fantasies I was always the slave and never the owner, though that was a minimal balm at best, since the guilt still told me I was disrespecting people who had no choice in their slavery.
These days, I am a little more comfortable with myself, and I feel much less guilty. I very much identify as sex slave. I know there are people out there who will take issue with that, because I'm not "extreme" enough and because blah blah blah, whatever. Slavery is defined by the Master, not by anyone else. That has always been true - your situation as a non-consensual slave absolutely depended upon who you wound up with.
When my husband pulls me into his arms and says "Mine!" or, even better, whispers into my ear "You belong to me," it thrills me to my core. Every single time. When he further whispers that he is a lucky, lucky man, I can only be grateful. I feel that I am most definitely the lucky one to be gifted with his ownership and his acceptance of who I am. Most importantly, that I made the choice to give him my body, my soul, my Self. Certainly I never would have made that choice or given the gift of who I am to a lesser man.
Sometimes, I think he forgets. He's a lovely person, a sweet and caring husband, and he can be an absolutely demanding master and sadist. In all that, I think he forgets sometimes that there are simpler joys in owning a sex slave, things less complicated than long scenes or multiple orgasm sessions.
There is pleasure to be had from me that doesn't require his energy to be expended beyond a bare minimum. I just want to make his life better. He takes such excellent care of me - really, I am a very very very spoiled girl. It wouldn't hurt him to take a little more from me, even if he doesn't hurt me in the process. Or even if he does. Either way, really.
At the same time, I know that sex trafficking is real. I know that there are women and girls out there in the world who have been born or sold or married into a lifetime ordeal of not having the choice of who experiences their bodies and who does not. I do what I can to support organizations that can help.
http://www.equalitynow.org/
Showing posts with label history. Show all posts
Showing posts with label history. Show all posts
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Grafting
My husband and I are that couple.
You know, the ones always lingering near each other, with their hands reaching, their arms around each other, the ones who stop and kiss on the sidewalk for no apparent reason.
Often, when a suggestion is made that involves one of us not being with the other for any extended period of time (like an entire night), we panic, get depressed, then make a solution to fix it. "You go with me," he says, or "We go together."
He was wrapping his arms around me last night and he said that. "We go together."
"Do we?" I asked. "Do we 'go' together, or did we 'grow' together? You know, like the tree that ate the bicycle."
"Maybe a little of both," he said.
"But that's not quite right, is it?" I asked thoughtfully. "Because that's a growing thing that carried a static thing along with it. We're both growing things."
"Mmhmm. Like two trees that fall into each other?" he said, trying not to fall asleep.
I thought about it for a moment, thought over our history, and then it came to me.
I'm a gardener. I would pore over the plant and seed catalogs all winter, dreaming of sunshine and dirt under my fingernails. One thing that I learned was that many fruit trees are not all the same plant. One plant is bred for its roots, and one for its fruit. The fruit of the root plant won't be as nice as the fruit of the fruit plant, and it's likely the roots of the fruit plant wouldn't be as strong or hardy as the roots of the root plant.
The root tree has the top of the fruit tree grafted onto it, and they grow into each other until, if it's done correctly, you'll never know it was two different plants. The original shoots of the root plant are then cut off, and the roots provide nutrients to the top of the new tree, which will be planted in its final destination or shipped off to a nursery.
If you're interested in learning more about the process:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grafting
Before my husband and I were a couple, he was drifting. Aimless, anchorless, like a hot air balloon with no pilot. Nice guy, but he wasn't really headed anywhere. Admittedly, he was quite young.
Before we were a couple, I was casting about for something as well. I wasn't quite sure what was going to happen in my life, I was lonely and didn't see the point in working or being alive. I, too, was quite young.
We came together, and suddenly we were both motivated and things started happening in our lives. From our union came joy, and from that came the confidence to do wonderful things.
I'm the roots - I spread out beneath the surface and nourish us.
He's the flowers and the fruit. He is magnificent - a rock star - brilliant. He shines and has a confidence that has really taken him places - even if a great deal of the time he's just "faking it."
Because we grew together.
Without me, he'd shrivel up and die, and without him, I'd have nothing to live for.
We still have separate facebook profiles, though. Tsk, people.
You know, the ones always lingering near each other, with their hands reaching, their arms around each other, the ones who stop and kiss on the sidewalk for no apparent reason.
Often, when a suggestion is made that involves one of us not being with the other for any extended period of time (like an entire night), we panic, get depressed, then make a solution to fix it. "You go with me," he says, or "We go together."
He was wrapping his arms around me last night and he said that. "We go together."
"Do we?" I asked. "Do we 'go' together, or did we 'grow' together? You know, like the tree that ate the bicycle."
 |
| A visual aid for my readers. I know, I'm awesome. |
"Maybe a little of both," he said.
"But that's not quite right, is it?" I asked thoughtfully. "Because that's a growing thing that carried a static thing along with it. We're both growing things."
"Mmhmm. Like two trees that fall into each other?" he said, trying not to fall asleep.
I thought about it for a moment, thought over our history, and then it came to me.
I'm a gardener. I would pore over the plant and seed catalogs all winter, dreaming of sunshine and dirt under my fingernails. One thing that I learned was that many fruit trees are not all the same plant. One plant is bred for its roots, and one for its fruit. The fruit of the root plant won't be as nice as the fruit of the fruit plant, and it's likely the roots of the fruit plant wouldn't be as strong or hardy as the roots of the root plant.
The root tree has the top of the fruit tree grafted onto it, and they grow into each other until, if it's done correctly, you'll never know it was two different plants. The original shoots of the root plant are then cut off, and the roots provide nutrients to the top of the new tree, which will be planted in its final destination or shipped off to a nursery.
If you're interested in learning more about the process:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grafting
Before my husband and I were a couple, he was drifting. Aimless, anchorless, like a hot air balloon with no pilot. Nice guy, but he wasn't really headed anywhere. Admittedly, he was quite young.
Before we were a couple, I was casting about for something as well. I wasn't quite sure what was going to happen in my life, I was lonely and didn't see the point in working or being alive. I, too, was quite young.
We came together, and suddenly we were both motivated and things started happening in our lives. From our union came joy, and from that came the confidence to do wonderful things.
I'm the roots - I spread out beneath the surface and nourish us.
He's the flowers and the fruit. He is magnificent - a rock star - brilliant. He shines and has a confidence that has really taken him places - even if a great deal of the time he's just "faking it."
Because we grew together.
Without me, he'd shrivel up and die, and without him, I'd have nothing to live for.
We still have separate facebook profiles, though. Tsk, people.
Monday, March 11, 2013
Long distance, body parts, and craftiness: Q&A
From wingbowl (no link): I love reading through your blog. Based on your most recent post, how long were you involved "long distance" before you reestablished physical connection?
Thank you!
The word "reestablished" here gives me pause, as it implies that Husband and I were an in-person couple who had to endure separation for a brief time before we could be together again. But no. We met online, as so many people do these days, but not so many people did back then. There was an ocean between us, but we were drawn together. It's really quite a good story.
To answer the question, though, we were involved for just shy of two years before we managed to get married. We had long visits (4 weeks, 6 weeks) where we got closer and closer, and the times apart were desolate wasteland nightmares where (I at least) just held on to the moments we could spend chatting on AIM. He proposed after one of his visits had ended and he'd gone back home.
From fiona: What's YOUR favorite part of your body? What's your favorite part of Husband's body?
Not sure what favorite actually means here. It could be one I like the best or one that appeals the best to me in a visual sense. I love my clitoris because insane amounts of pleasure come from it. I think that qualifies as a favorite part?
As for my husband, it's a hard call between his legs and his hands. His legs are long and lean and they wrap around me just so, but his hands do so many wonderful things, from stroking my hair while we're watching a movie to making all the magic happen in bed.
Yeah, hands. ♥
From Riley: what gave you the idea to start making floggers? And since you're clearly crafty and talented, have you made anything else kinky or vanilla?
I'm vegan, and many many floggers are not - animal hides depress me. I don't want to be depressed during a joyful time, or really support sales of animal hides, even though the animal was probably killed for food. (Because yes, being hit with things makes me happy.) After doing a little research, the few floggers that I found for sale that were vegan seemed either badly put together (cheap), ugly, too intense (rubber), or far, far too expensive for me to pay for something I wasn't even sure I'd like.
So I bought some rope (which wasn't cheap), and started making my own. I had some leftover materials after that first round, and made another, which a few bloggers urged me to sell. And then I discovered I was addicted, because the only thing better than making beautiful thing after beautiful thing is not having to find somewhere to store all the beautiful things. (there are only so many floggers a couple can use). They don't sell so fast as to making a living at it, or really do more than just support the habit, but it's soul-refreshing to make them and have other people enjoy them - vegan or not.
I have crafted since I was a wee thing. I used to crochet, do needlepoint, taught myself to knit, do plastic canvas. Later, my need for creativity was met by writing programs, by planning flower and vegetable gardens and growing plants from seeds. It's amazing how godlike you can feel just by encouraging a seed to do what it was always meant to do anyway. Moonflowers are especially gratifying.
Even later, I started working on an old house. There are people who will tell you that sewing and sawing are worlds apart, but it really is just a letter.
March is question and answer month! If you have any burning questions (or things you're mildly curious about) feel free to ask!
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Anal angst
If the title is not warning enough, this post may be a little too much information for some.
There was a time in my marriage when I, as the more sexually educated half of us, the one who was more aware of the things she wanted and needed, perhaps should have stepped up to educate my husband a little better.
I mean, really, how hard is it to say "Lots of lube, love, and go slow, but often, please?"
Harder than you'd think. My submissive sexuality only complicated matters, since I so often confused "Giving him what he wants" with "Waiting until he finds out what he wants and then asks for it." My husband, while I adore him and think he's amazing, is not the most proactive of souls. He doesn't actively seek out things on his own the way I do. I still have remnants of that problem drifting around due to this fundamental part of his makeup.
What I did instead worked, but I don't recommend it. It can lead to some confusion.
I would bathe, cleaning myself thoroughly, inside and out - this part I still do. Afterward, my skin still damp from the bath, my long hair dripping down my back, I would lean over the bed provocatively to lube myself. The fantasy playing in my head in those instances was always one of non-consent.
"No, not in my ass, oh, oh, that's so sensitive, please don't, don't," I would beg my imaginary tormentor as my own fingers made me slippery and ready for penetration. A subfantasy would often run alongside this one, that my husband would walk in and find me like that, call me names, tell me what a dirty, dirty girl I was. He'd be overcome with lust and take me, forcing me to stay bent over as he slid into my pre-prepared ass.
"How nice of the dirty girl to lube her ass for me to fuck," he'd say as he slammed into me and I groaned, protesting, writhing, kicking my feet uselessly.
That never happened. He'd always stay in the other room politely until I came out.
The fact that I often screamed quite loudly in surprised terror the few times he did walk in on me (not in lube-mode) when I wasn't expecting it didn't help either.
So, unbeknownst to the man, I would be pre-prepared for anal. Later, during sex, I would ease myself off his cock, shift, making my desires known, and he would slide into my ass.
The worst part of that? I never knew how far along in the process we were. Sometimes I'd miss the window entirely, so enjoying the vaginal portion of the sex that I would not get anal because he'd come, not realizing I wanted more.
Now is better, because he decides. But it's also worse, because I expend all the effort to make myself presentable and so very often he does nothing about it.
"Why you no like anal sex anymore?" I asked him recently, as we lay spent in each other's arms after some particularly thrilling sex. Yeah, I sometimes talk like that when I'm all used up.
"I suppose I enjoy myself just fine without it!" he said, sounding a little surprised. "Also, it's a lot of extra effort, you know."
Lube. He meant the lube. The lube that he applies when he is ready. Perhaps he also meant the effort of slowing down so as not to tear me open, I'm not sure.
Visions of the effort it takes me to prepare myself flitted through my head. The effort that so often is for naught. The cumulative hours that I have spent for no good reason.
Being submissive doesn't mean I want to waste my time, not even if it's more convenient for my dominant 1/30th of the time.
Sometimes, it thrills me a little, to know that I do this for his convenience and he can choose not to partake. More often though, it feels like there is no recognition that anything is happening on my side. It's just one of those things that goes on out of his view, like brushing my teeth or washing my hair, that he may or may not be aware of. Part of what I love about him is how accepting he is of me, with joint compound and paint on my clothes, sawdust and spiderwebs in my hair, or all dressed up - he seems to find me equally appealing regardless. I realize this is possibly just the flip side of that. Man who doesn't care doesn't care. Gasp.
So I still have those fantasies. Those bent over, lubed fingers sliding into my backside while I beg them to stop, dirty talking fantasies. He plays his part well when he chooses to play it, because I have had quite a lot of anal experience with my husband and it only serves to feed the fantasies deeper.
Typical for me, I am greedy.
I want more.
I always, always want more. Kisses, blowjobs, vaginal, anal, manual, flogging, spanking, biting, pinching, pulling, twisting, hugging, touching, stroking, squeezing. I just want more. There is never a moment when I am thinking "Nah, no more contact for me for a while."
(Amusing aside: as I wrote this post, my husband came up behind me and kissed me, three times quickly as I tilted my face back to his. I left my face tilted back when he pulled away, and he came back to kiss me again. "You always want more than three kisses. What's up with that?" he asked, grinning.
I smiled hugely at him and pointed to the sentences I had already written above. He laughed.)
It's surprising the man doesn't give up in exhaustion, because the more amazing he is, the more of that I want from him. Perhaps he is thinking "Can't this woman ever be satisfied?"
Technically, no, I can't.
Because while I can be suffused with elation, my every sense sated in the moment, I'm insatiable.
I think that's a credit to the man for whom my hunger burns.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
True confessions
I have a secret.
Sexy photos and videos aren't my thing, which is no big secret to anyone who's read my blog for a few posts. I love words; they are the fuel of my arousal. However, reading stuff does not generally turn me on.
"Whoa, Nelly," I hear you say, "how is that even possible, sex blogger who reads lots and lots of sex blogs and sexy stories and spends so much time doing so?"
A scene I described in the novel Beloved Bondage did, in fact, arouse me to the point of masturbation.
Another scene, when I was much younger, in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe also aroused me to that point, though it was clearly not meant to.
Once, having netsex with my ex, I was very, very aroused.
But in general? Nope. Nothing. I have an intellectual response to things I find insanely hot. "That would be really hot if it happened to me," I think, or "Wow, that must have been amazingly arousing to be in that situation." I can even have a "Oh, wow, I want to go try that right fucking now" response, but actual arousal? Nah. Not so much. Before I was married, I spent a lot of time reading sex stories, but honestly, just for ideas. Somewhere buried in the often crappy prose and terrible dialogue, I would find a nugget of hotness, and I'd keep it for my very own, to experience one day.
Some stories I'd evolve into my own personal fantasies, and I would use the hot elements to spin my web when I did want to be turned on later. I'd touch myself as I rewrote the stories to suit myself in my head, but never while reading.
Another confession: Before my husband, I never had an orgasm. I'd masturbate to almost there, but when I got close I just couldn't keep enough energy to get myself off. The sex I had with my ex during our brief two weeks together in person certainly didn't do it.
Then came my husband. We had a bad netsex experience together once, before we were a couple, though it's not what you're thinking. We got stuck in a chat with two other people who were really, really bad at it, and shouldn't have been doing it there in the first place. We stayed silent there, watching awkwardly, as it was too amusing to look away, and making jokes about it over ICQ. It became one of the weird bonding experiences we had to lead us to our couplehood.
I think in part due to that experience, it took us quite some time to lead up to netsex ourselves, though I'd been quite the avid participant with my ex. Even after we'd met and been intimate in person, it didn't quite happen for us online. It took some gentle leading to get there. I was his first everything, so I didn't want to frighten him away by looking like a sex maniac.
I knew if we ever worked up to that point it would be amazing, because this man was able to turn me on with his words without even trying. I spent a lot of time helplessly aroused by his sincerity, by the endless depths of his love for me. The man was into me, and it was hot. Reading him was turning me on.
There was a stumbling block besides his innocence: he didn't seem to get the point of netsex. Just a weird thing for weird people to do in his mind, I guess. I couldn't get him there, no matter how often I tried. So I wrote him some steamy emails, which had the desired effect of turning him on.
He got it then, and he ran with it, keeping me in a state of almost perpetual arousal for weeks at a time, sometimes with long sessions, sometimes with a well-placed comment here or there, sometimes with his own steamy emails.
Reading him was really, really turning me on.
I had a few orgasms with him, without ever touching myself. I never did masturbate during cybersex, with the exception of fondling my breasts once in a while, or feeling the wetness as it slid down my thighs. I don't know if he did. He never told me exactly. Probably he did; I've learned that's a thing people do. My body responded to his words so beautifully without my interference though, I never felt the need to do anything during but marvel at my own sexual response to a man who was so very very physically removed from me. It seemed like self-stimulation would take away from the magic for me.
He allowed me to buy a sex toy though, kind of a rabbit vibrator, and he'd give me permission to masturbate with it in those lonely hours after he was asleep. Occasionally he'd get me all worked up first and then leave me to it. I'd write him about it sometimes, what I did, while I was doing it, made easier by the fact that my computer's keyboard was on my bed. Once, he required me to write him about it.
Reading generally does not turn me on. But reading this man, my soul mate, turns me on beyond belief. Reading my own writing with his words in it can often have that same effect.
I miss his writing though:
Sexy photos and videos aren't my thing, which is no big secret to anyone who's read my blog for a few posts. I love words; they are the fuel of my arousal. However, reading stuff does not generally turn me on.
"Whoa, Nelly," I hear you say, "how is that even possible, sex blogger who reads lots and lots of sex blogs and sexy stories and spends so much time doing so?"
A scene I described in the novel Beloved Bondage did, in fact, arouse me to the point of masturbation.
Another scene, when I was much younger, in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe also aroused me to that point, though it was clearly not meant to.
Once, having netsex with my ex, I was very, very aroused.
But in general? Nope. Nothing. I have an intellectual response to things I find insanely hot. "That would be really hot if it happened to me," I think, or "Wow, that must have been amazingly arousing to be in that situation." I can even have a "Oh, wow, I want to go try that right fucking now" response, but actual arousal? Nah. Not so much. Before I was married, I spent a lot of time reading sex stories, but honestly, just for ideas. Somewhere buried in the often crappy prose and terrible dialogue, I would find a nugget of hotness, and I'd keep it for my very own, to experience one day.
Some stories I'd evolve into my own personal fantasies, and I would use the hot elements to spin my web when I did want to be turned on later. I'd touch myself as I rewrote the stories to suit myself in my head, but never while reading.
Another confession: Before my husband, I never had an orgasm. I'd masturbate to almost there, but when I got close I just couldn't keep enough energy to get myself off. The sex I had with my ex during our brief two weeks together in person certainly didn't do it.
Then came my husband. We had a bad netsex experience together once, before we were a couple, though it's not what you're thinking. We got stuck in a chat with two other people who were really, really bad at it, and shouldn't have been doing it there in the first place. We stayed silent there, watching awkwardly, as it was too amusing to look away, and making jokes about it over ICQ. It became one of the weird bonding experiences we had to lead us to our couplehood.
I think in part due to that experience, it took us quite some time to lead up to netsex ourselves, though I'd been quite the avid participant with my ex. Even after we'd met and been intimate in person, it didn't quite happen for us online. It took some gentle leading to get there. I was his first everything, so I didn't want to frighten him away by looking like a sex maniac.
I knew if we ever worked up to that point it would be amazing, because this man was able to turn me on with his words without even trying. I spent a lot of time helplessly aroused by his sincerity, by the endless depths of his love for me. The man was into me, and it was hot. Reading him was turning me on.
There was a stumbling block besides his innocence: he didn't seem to get the point of netsex. Just a weird thing for weird people to do in his mind, I guess. I couldn't get him there, no matter how often I tried. So I wrote him some steamy emails, which had the desired effect of turning him on.
He got it then, and he ran with it, keeping me in a state of almost perpetual arousal for weeks at a time, sometimes with long sessions, sometimes with a well-placed comment here or there, sometimes with his own steamy emails.
Reading him was really, really turning me on.
I had a few orgasms with him, without ever touching myself. I never did masturbate during cybersex, with the exception of fondling my breasts once in a while, or feeling the wetness as it slid down my thighs. I don't know if he did. He never told me exactly. Probably he did; I've learned that's a thing people do. My body responded to his words so beautifully without my interference though, I never felt the need to do anything during but marvel at my own sexual response to a man who was so very very physically removed from me. It seemed like self-stimulation would take away from the magic for me.
He allowed me to buy a sex toy though, kind of a rabbit vibrator, and he'd give me permission to masturbate with it in those lonely hours after he was asleep. Occasionally he'd get me all worked up first and then leave me to it. I'd write him about it sometimes, what I did, while I was doing it, made easier by the fact that my computer's keyboard was on my bed. Once, he required me to write him about it.
Reading generally does not turn me on. But reading this man, my soul mate, turns me on beyond belief. Reading my own writing with his words in it can often have that same effect.
I miss his writing though:
As you work your indescribable magic, and I near a state of perfect bliss, I retract myself a little, and indicate to you that it'll do for now. You make a curious face, and I start to kiss it, assuring you there's nothing you did wrong. Stroking your hair again, my eyes get lost in yours. There's a bit of a blur...and your eyes return to me, except now in a picture on my desk, which I find myself sitting at again. You're gone from the bed, but I still feel you with me, and I long for the days we can make all our fantasies come true.
Until then...good night, beautiful. I love you...We make our fantasies come true a lot, nowadays, and there are only so many hours in the day. It's his extreme levels of hotness that lead me to want more and more of him - whether that's in my mailbox or in our bed.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
The healing embrace of a good relationship
We like to cuddle. He wraps his arms and his leg around me and I'm wrapped in his body, his warmth, his love. I can feel it, that love, as it responds to mine. It's a sort of pulsing power source, and it's amazing. It takes my love, amplifies it, sends it back to me in waves. We're connected by it as surely and irrevocably as any physical tie. More so.
"Can you feel it too? Is it just me?" I ask him, sometimes. I'm convinced that I could be crazy, or just tuned to a different emotional wavelength than everyone else.
"I think I can feel it too, love," he assures me. We make happy noises, wrapped up together like that, and I feel like the luckiest, most loved woman in the world. I talk a lot about how amazing he feels to me, to the point I worry that I talk about it too much.
"I like to hear your love," he says, allaying my fears for the umpteenth time.
I could feel that power source a month into our relationship, when he was thousands of miles away from me, an ocean between us, and we'd never met in person, 12 years ago. I could feel it. I wrote him an email about it.
Amidst a sea of rambling, trying to feel my way to my point by writing there, I got to this:
It healed me, that love. I was seriously heartbroken, not that long before we got together, and pretty damaged from the treatment I'd received in that previous relationship.
He was so incredibly sweet, patient, and good, that when I began to reveal my true needs - my submissive nature, my need to be dominated - he didn't balk. He has accepted every single kink I've revealed to him as if it's just a thing people do. He's amazing, and even when I was struggling with him being a nice guy, with wanting him to have more demands of me, he handled me beautifully.
How can two people who've never met be so connected? How could those threads pulling us together, connecting us across all those miles and all that water, even exist?
I'm convinced we were made for each other. Over the years, we'd been friendly acquaintances, always too distracted by other things going on and, of course, for me anyway, by the extreme distance. I once asked a friend: "Why couldn't I have fallen in love with someone like him?", due to his extreme sweetness and niceness and general all around great person-ness. Another time, another friend suggested I get together with him, and I laughed. "Hahaha, right, me and him, sure." I felt confident in making that into a joke, because I had spent a lot of time with him. We'd spoken on the phone. We kept winding up alone together in various instances. The universe was trying to tell us something, but we weren't listening. We weren't ready to listen.
But... it wasn't such a joke, after all. We even talked about it later, something trying to get us together. He put it well.
"It's like something was saying look, you'll be good together, and that's that."
Something kept telling us that. It's kind of amazing, considering the many hour time difference between us, that we were ever around at the same time at all, to be honest. For it to keep happening, over and over?
Surely there's some design in that. Or our souls just pulled to each other, furiously, irresistibly, despite our conscious selves ignoring it. He was pulled to me so fiercely that he crawled out of the womb early to be born just after I was.
We're meant for each other. Yes, I really, really believe that. I'm not sure everyone has a missing part of themselves out there in the world, but we did.
Submitting to this man is not always easy, but it does tend to be, because he adores me. What he wants is our mutual happiness and the health of our relationship, and for us to be together for a long, long time. Ideally forever, though the both of us realize that's not terribly likely to happen. The choices he makes, the things he asks from me, make both of us better, because - here's the awesome part for me - he's a better person than I am.
I've become a much better person in the time I've been married to him, so that that may not even be true anymore, but if it's not? It's all thanks to him.
I once struggled with wanting him to want more, in these endless cycles, infinite loops where I would resolve to be okay with it, but then the need to be overpowered kept coming back. I'd spend whole months perfectly fine and then I'd rebel, and after years of that, in large part thanks to spewing out my inner turmoil on this blog, I had a realization: Just submit. Just do it. Show him what it can be like. So I began to look for little ways to please him, making "I'll do whatever you want," a reality, not just inside the bedroom. If he asks me for something, whether it's a cup of water or a particular dinner or to go for a walk with him, I try my darnedest to give it to him.
Then the magical thing started to happen: he responded. He responded beautifully. I gave more without him forcing so hard, and then he became more comfortable taking. The thing I was missing all those years was the way he works, while I'd been so focused on how I work. I should have noticed it. It's been there all along. He's quiet, but he dominates the way a gentle stream can cut channels into rock if given enough time. It's even the way our relationship started: he was just there, until I couldn't imagine him not being there anymore. He's slow, but especially now, pretty damned sure of himself, and I am softer, more yielding to him.
I once told Kitty that submission feels like softness - and that's what it feels like for me. I just stopped struggling so bloody hard and let it happen, let him dominate the way he can dominate, because a submissive who's always trying to shape her dominant is not being submissive. My periodic internal struggles arose from the fact that I was trying to submit to an idea of dominance rather than the very real kind he was giving me, from the fact that I was an oxymoron in myself and my submissive nature balked at it.
The power that I give him in this power exchange we're in becomes a part of that power source that binds us together, is fed with our love, and feeds it back to both of us, restoring us from the ravages of living in the world. I give him the power, but it feeds both of us with positive energy. It's beautiful.
He is my jasmine. He's gently intoxicating, unassuming yet overpowering. He surrounds me and I breathe him in and my life is infinitely better, happier, for having done so.
I can't imagine being happier in a relationship. Being wrapped in him makes everything better, even if it's just for the time we spend cuddled together, though often enough it lasts well beyond those moments. It's literally a healing embrace, and I'm delighted and feel like the best-cared-for woman alive to be able to experience it so often.
"Can you feel it too? Is it just me?" I ask him, sometimes. I'm convinced that I could be crazy, or just tuned to a different emotional wavelength than everyone else.
"I think I can feel it too, love," he assures me. We make happy noises, wrapped up together like that, and I feel like the luckiest, most loved woman in the world. I talk a lot about how amazing he feels to me, to the point I worry that I talk about it too much.
"I like to hear your love," he says, allaying my fears for the umpteenth time.
I could feel that power source a month into our relationship, when he was thousands of miles away from me, an ocean between us, and we'd never met in person, 12 years ago. I could feel it. I wrote him an email about it.
Amidst a sea of rambling, trying to feel my way to my point by writing there, I got to this:
I'm frightened at the depth of the feelings I have for you. I mean. . . Gah. I usually feel things deeply, but. . . This. . . this is. . . gah. Suffusing my entire being. . . not that I didn't feel sort of that way before, with him. I did, else he couldn't have hurt me so badly - and twice! - but it was. . . different. This is..... gah. I keep saying gah like you know what I'm trying to say. Sometimes. . . Sometimes, I just want to devour you.
Okay. . . I don't really want to sound corny, but. . . the thing is, I can feel your feelings coming back at me. . . I mean, as opposed to having these feelings and dumping them into this giant black hole, and losing all this energy due to it, it's like a whole other power source. That frightens me a bit too, because I'm not really sure of the whys of it. . . Not that I'm not glad of it, I am, but.... I.. mmf. I don't think I deserve it.We'd known each other for some time, but the relationship was new. It terrified me, seeing as how in my previous relationship, all the love had come from me, into the other guy, and sort of died there. New relationship energy, you'll say, but it wasn't. It's only grown stronger, so that now when we are together, it just pulses there, a bright thread of love and life and contentment and true, honest-to-goodness happiness.
It healed me, that love. I was seriously heartbroken, not that long before we got together, and pretty damaged from the treatment I'd received in that previous relationship.
He was so incredibly sweet, patient, and good, that when I began to reveal my true needs - my submissive nature, my need to be dominated - he didn't balk. He has accepted every single kink I've revealed to him as if it's just a thing people do. He's amazing, and even when I was struggling with him being a nice guy, with wanting him to have more demands of me, he handled me beautifully.
How can two people who've never met be so connected? How could those threads pulling us together, connecting us across all those miles and all that water, even exist?
I'm convinced we were made for each other. Over the years, we'd been friendly acquaintances, always too distracted by other things going on and, of course, for me anyway, by the extreme distance. I once asked a friend: "Why couldn't I have fallen in love with someone like him?", due to his extreme sweetness and niceness and general all around great person-ness. Another time, another friend suggested I get together with him, and I laughed. "Hahaha, right, me and him, sure." I felt confident in making that into a joke, because I had spent a lot of time with him. We'd spoken on the phone. We kept winding up alone together in various instances. The universe was trying to tell us something, but we weren't listening. We weren't ready to listen.
But... it wasn't such a joke, after all. We even talked about it later, something trying to get us together. He put it well.
"It's like something was saying look, you'll be good together, and that's that."
Something kept telling us that. It's kind of amazing, considering the many hour time difference between us, that we were ever around at the same time at all, to be honest. For it to keep happening, over and over?
Surely there's some design in that. Or our souls just pulled to each other, furiously, irresistibly, despite our conscious selves ignoring it. He was pulled to me so fiercely that he crawled out of the womb early to be born just after I was.
We're meant for each other. Yes, I really, really believe that. I'm not sure everyone has a missing part of themselves out there in the world, but we did.
Submitting to this man is not always easy, but it does tend to be, because he adores me. What he wants is our mutual happiness and the health of our relationship, and for us to be together for a long, long time. Ideally forever, though the both of us realize that's not terribly likely to happen. The choices he makes, the things he asks from me, make both of us better, because - here's the awesome part for me - he's a better person than I am.
I've become a much better person in the time I've been married to him, so that that may not even be true anymore, but if it's not? It's all thanks to him.
I once struggled with wanting him to want more, in these endless cycles, infinite loops where I would resolve to be okay with it, but then the need to be overpowered kept coming back. I'd spend whole months perfectly fine and then I'd rebel, and after years of that, in large part thanks to spewing out my inner turmoil on this blog, I had a realization: Just submit. Just do it. Show him what it can be like. So I began to look for little ways to please him, making "I'll do whatever you want," a reality, not just inside the bedroom. If he asks me for something, whether it's a cup of water or a particular dinner or to go for a walk with him, I try my darnedest to give it to him.
Then the magical thing started to happen: he responded. He responded beautifully. I gave more without him forcing so hard, and then he became more comfortable taking. The thing I was missing all those years was the way he works, while I'd been so focused on how I work. I should have noticed it. It's been there all along. He's quiet, but he dominates the way a gentle stream can cut channels into rock if given enough time. It's even the way our relationship started: he was just there, until I couldn't imagine him not being there anymore. He's slow, but especially now, pretty damned sure of himself, and I am softer, more yielding to him.
I once told Kitty that submission feels like softness - and that's what it feels like for me. I just stopped struggling so bloody hard and let it happen, let him dominate the way he can dominate, because a submissive who's always trying to shape her dominant is not being submissive. My periodic internal struggles arose from the fact that I was trying to submit to an idea of dominance rather than the very real kind he was giving me, from the fact that I was an oxymoron in myself and my submissive nature balked at it.
The power that I give him in this power exchange we're in becomes a part of that power source that binds us together, is fed with our love, and feeds it back to both of us, restoring us from the ravages of living in the world. I give him the power, but it feeds both of us with positive energy. It's beautiful.
He is my jasmine. He's gently intoxicating, unassuming yet overpowering. He surrounds me and I breathe him in and my life is infinitely better, happier, for having done so.
I can't imagine being happier in a relationship. Being wrapped in him makes everything better, even if it's just for the time we spend cuddled together, though often enough it lasts well beyond those moments. It's literally a healing embrace, and I'm delighted and feel like the best-cared-for woman alive to be able to experience it so often.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Becoming, part II
Becoming, part I
I know, it's been a long long time since I posted the previous half of this history, this timeline of how I shed my social conditioning to become more or less comfortable in my own pervy skin. But I'm ready to continue now
A last note about books before I move along into other media: Nancy Friday's Women on Top. I have no idea what that book is about, right? But my mom bought it and she let me read it after she had. I kept it. I skipped over all the psychoanalysis of the fantasies right to the fantasies themselves. The ones I remember are the ones I read over and over. The only lines stuck in my head after all these years are these. "I longed to experience the ultimate, to be fucked in the ass," and later in that same fantasy, "I begged and pleaded to be left alone, that it hurt, but..." I don't remember the rest. I loved the begging and being ignored part.
Buffy the Vampire Slayer first aired less than a month after I turned 17. I'd enjoyed the campy original movie, but this show was something else. The titles of these posts, I actually shamelessly lifted from Buffy.
I don't want to spoil any of you who haven't seen the show, but Buffy is this itty bitty slip of a girl who fights vampires as the Chosen One and struggles to have a somewhat normal social life. There are books of philosophy based on this show, and the entire show is brilliant (season one less so). If you haven't seen it, go, now. I'll wait.
There is vampire sex in Buffy, and there are Spike & Drusilla.
Season Two. Go watch. I'll wait.
Spike's an ass. But he's so solicitous of her, and she's so creepy-crazy, the way they move around each other, it made my 18-year-old pitter-patter go putt-putt. Still does.
Look at that photo. See that intensity? See how he touches her?
Fuck. Bloody good acting, says I.
I'm not one to swoon over actors or celebrities in general; I don't have a "list" of people who it would be okay to fuck. I have no desire to have sex with someone I don't know. What I did swoon over was that behavior, although not the homicidal asshole part. I still wasn't aware that this was an actual thing with a name, and not just my own extreme failure to be 'normal' and want 'normal' things.
I was 18, and I met my first boyfriend online. He lived roughly 14 hours' drive north of me, but we didn't ever do that drive. He was kind of an ass, but introduced me to the joys of netsex, which hell yeah I enjoyed. He never made specific time to see me, we'd just talk when he happened to be online, so I'd often wind up waiting for him for hours and hours. Oddly enough, that's probably how my relationship with my husband developed over time; he was often there, funny, sweet acquaintance, when jerkass was not.
During many of those waiting hours, unbearably horny, I started surfing the net for porn to read. Since rape and torture in the form it took in my romance novels were what had gotten me off since forever, I searched for stories of nonconsent. They very rarely actually did anything for me at the time, because so much of it ended with "Oh hahaha, you actually set all this up yourself after all."
Fuck that, wtf, I thought. What's the point? It's text. Why's everything got to be consensual at the end in text? So I found this long, rambling, multi-part story. Maybe you've heard of it.
Captured Caroline by Quin
I can't remember the name of the website where it was hosted, but I remember it had a old-fashioned style drawing of a sexy woman very tightly bound to a chair, that titillated and repulsed me at the same time. I wish I could see it again through the eyes of the person I am.
There's a part in the story somewhere, after much conflict, coercion, attempts to escape, punishment, raping, and talking, when he looks at her and he says "What are you?" and she responds "A slave for your pleasure, master."
I melted. I fucking melted. Biiig puddle of sexually aroused goo, me. I can't tell you where exactly that is because I last read this story fourteen fucking years ago.
That's how much impact it had on me.
I know, I know, he beat her down into it, it's not as sexy as if she just gave it up on her own through wooing and courtship and her own decisions. I agree with you. But in my head at the time that's how it had to be, she had to be forced in order for her to be able to enjoy it. Clearly she wouldn't enjoy such a thing if he didn't force her, train her, make her like that. Right? Something was wrong with me to want to be her, right? RIGHT?
The guy in the story had all of this stuff. My mind boggled. He didn't make all of that stuff. Where did he get that stuff? The gags and chains and wrist cuffs with attachment points and bondage collars. Qu'est-ce que c'est?
Enter these bizarre initials. BDSM. Yeah, that was a category on one of the free porn sites, yep. So then I found Alice.
Yeah, that link drops you into the middle of a story. That's where I was dropped, except it was somewhere else, far away from anything resembling that sort of organization, and I had no link to the other parts. I was aroused though, and I checked that site every day (the links in each category were different stories every day) until the other Alice stories came around. In between I devoured every bit of BDSM text I could get my hands on. Some of it was truly excellent and some of it was extraordinarily mediocre.
My boyfriend at the time had no idea about any of this. Our regular netsex perhaps had a few more blowjobs, more random positions, and he expressed his delight at these things, but he didn't know. I didn't trust him enough to share that part of myself with him.
But that's another story.
That relationship ended in a spectacular display of nothing. We met, we fucked. He was an ass and stopped talking to me shortly afterward.
Enter my wonderful, fantastic husband, months later. After our initial meeting, spending most of every day in bed kissing and touching each other, I began to share bits of myself with him, what I still considered the darker bits, and he, being European, didn't seem to mind all that much or think I was all that weird. I was just me to him. Huh. How about that?
And so we embarked on this crazy kinky journey together... and here's where we are.
Oh, and yeah, there's a scene near the beginning of The Avengers that apparently made me make a little noise, according to husband. Didn't realize it myself.
Most definitely not
The End....
I know, it's been a long long time since I posted the previous half of this history, this timeline of how I shed my social conditioning to become more or less comfortable in my own pervy skin. But I'm ready to continue now
A last note about books before I move along into other media: Nancy Friday's Women on Top. I have no idea what that book is about, right? But my mom bought it and she let me read it after she had. I kept it. I skipped over all the psychoanalysis of the fantasies right to the fantasies themselves. The ones I remember are the ones I read over and over. The only lines stuck in my head after all these years are these. "I longed to experience the ultimate, to be fucked in the ass," and later in that same fantasy, "I begged and pleaded to be left alone, that it hurt, but..." I don't remember the rest. I loved the begging and being ignored part.
Buffy the Vampire Slayer first aired less than a month after I turned 17. I'd enjoyed the campy original movie, but this show was something else. The titles of these posts, I actually shamelessly lifted from Buffy.
I don't want to spoil any of you who haven't seen the show, but Buffy is this itty bitty slip of a girl who fights vampires as the Chosen One and struggles to have a somewhat normal social life. There are books of philosophy based on this show, and the entire show is brilliant (season one less so). If you haven't seen it, go, now. I'll wait.
There is vampire sex in Buffy, and there are Spike & Drusilla.
Spike's an ass. But he's so solicitous of her, and she's so creepy-crazy, the way they move around each other, it made my 18-year-old pitter-patter go putt-putt. Still does.
Look at that photo. See that intensity? See how he touches her?
Fuck. Bloody good acting, says I.
I'm not one to swoon over actors or celebrities in general; I don't have a "list" of people who it would be okay to fuck. I have no desire to have sex with someone I don't know. What I did swoon over was that behavior, although not the homicidal asshole part. I still wasn't aware that this was an actual thing with a name, and not just my own extreme failure to be 'normal' and want 'normal' things.
I was 18, and I met my first boyfriend online. He lived roughly 14 hours' drive north of me, but we didn't ever do that drive. He was kind of an ass, but introduced me to the joys of netsex, which hell yeah I enjoyed. He never made specific time to see me, we'd just talk when he happened to be online, so I'd often wind up waiting for him for hours and hours. Oddly enough, that's probably how my relationship with my husband developed over time; he was often there, funny, sweet acquaintance, when jerkass was not.
During many of those waiting hours, unbearably horny, I started surfing the net for porn to read. Since rape and torture in the form it took in my romance novels were what had gotten me off since forever, I searched for stories of nonconsent. They very rarely actually did anything for me at the time, because so much of it ended with "Oh hahaha, you actually set all this up yourself after all."
Fuck that, wtf, I thought. What's the point? It's text. Why's everything got to be consensual at the end in text? So I found this long, rambling, multi-part story. Maybe you've heard of it.
Captured Caroline by Quin
I can't remember the name of the website where it was hosted, but I remember it had a old-fashioned style drawing of a sexy woman very tightly bound to a chair, that titillated and repulsed me at the same time. I wish I could see it again through the eyes of the person I am.
There's a part in the story somewhere, after much conflict, coercion, attempts to escape, punishment, raping, and talking, when he looks at her and he says "What are you?" and she responds "A slave for your pleasure, master."
I melted. I fucking melted. Biiig puddle of sexually aroused goo, me. I can't tell you where exactly that is because I last read this story fourteen fucking years ago.
That's how much impact it had on me.
I know, I know, he beat her down into it, it's not as sexy as if she just gave it up on her own through wooing and courtship and her own decisions. I agree with you. But in my head at the time that's how it had to be, she had to be forced in order for her to be able to enjoy it. Clearly she wouldn't enjoy such a thing if he didn't force her, train her, make her like that. Right? Something was wrong with me to want to be her, right? RIGHT?
The guy in the story had all of this stuff. My mind boggled. He didn't make all of that stuff. Where did he get that stuff? The gags and chains and wrist cuffs with attachment points and bondage collars. Qu'est-ce que c'est?
Enter these bizarre initials. BDSM. Yeah, that was a category on one of the free porn sites, yep. So then I found Alice.
Yeah, that link drops you into the middle of a story. That's where I was dropped, except it was somewhere else, far away from anything resembling that sort of organization, and I had no link to the other parts. I was aroused though, and I checked that site every day (the links in each category were different stories every day) until the other Alice stories came around. In between I devoured every bit of BDSM text I could get my hands on. Some of it was truly excellent and some of it was extraordinarily mediocre.
My boyfriend at the time had no idea about any of this. Our regular netsex perhaps had a few more blowjobs, more random positions, and he expressed his delight at these things, but he didn't know. I didn't trust him enough to share that part of myself with him.
But that's another story.
That relationship ended in a spectacular display of nothing. We met, we fucked. He was an ass and stopped talking to me shortly afterward.
Enter my wonderful, fantastic husband, months later. After our initial meeting, spending most of every day in bed kissing and touching each other, I began to share bits of myself with him, what I still considered the darker bits, and he, being European, didn't seem to mind all that much or think I was all that weird. I was just me to him. Huh. How about that?
And so we embarked on this crazy kinky journey together... and here's where we are.
Oh, and yeah, there's a scene near the beginning of The Avengers that apparently made me make a little noise, according to husband. Didn't realize it myself.
Most definitely not
The End....
Monday, April 16, 2012
Becoming, part I
As I get older, I find that I don't change so much as I become more myself. I shed layers of social conditioning that I never realized I could do without, and once I do, the result is far more "me" than what I was before.
My husband has played a large part in that, but he's not where it started.
The home I grew up in was loving, but extremely conservative. I was home schooled and my mom worked long hours. I spent a lot of time alone, but the time we spent as a family, my mom, her parents, and me, found a lot of talk about race and religion and choice and I was so often left with a bad taste in my mouth. In my young mind I thought that's just the way the world was, even though racism and fundamentalist Baptist teachings just made my mind boggle. I definitely developed my own opinions quite early, but I knew better than to sow dissent at home. I had to live there. My mom sympathized with me, and nurtured my having of opinions when we were alone, but she just wanted me to stay silent when we were in a family group. It made her life easier because her parents would light into her if they thought she was raising a liberal.
I discovered Star Trek at 13, and my jaw hung open. These folks. They supported each other, they believed in each other, they didn't care what color anyone was, and the Vulcans. IDIC, oh, yes, Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations changed my life. The way it was in my house wasn't just The Way, it was A Way, and not a very good one. Oh, wow. First epiphany. Star Trek led me to every other kind of science fiction, TV and books and to the X-Men comics and the entire world opened up. The X-Men and their extreme diversity and sense of family despite all their differences wormed their way right into my little geek heart and my opinions got even stronger from this point. One layer of unnecessary junk away, and more "me" was left behind.
My grandmother was big on reading "little love stories," Harlequin romances, religious romance books, and chaste historical romances from Barbara Cartland. I read plenty of those too, but I always felt something was missing. I was about 13, yeah, around Star Trek discovery time, when I started wishing for more descriptive sex writing in those romances, and to please please please read a romance that my grandmother hadn't first verified as suitable for me. Any other book I could read! I read young adult novels and Elizabeth Goudge and Nancy Drew books by the armload from the library. So why not romance? What on earth could be so bad? I read Green Dolphin Street when I was 8; I was a clever girl. Books could only help me learn, right?
I spent a lot of time hanging out at a popular fast-food chain as a child, because my mom managed one in a bigger city an hour's drive away from our small town, and in order to spend a bit more time with me, she'd take me with her now and then. Once, her decision to take me with her was spur of the moment and I came with her unprepared. No book to read, no school work. She took me in to Wal-Mart to buy me a novel to read. I was still 13.
There it was, on the shelf. It called me, and even though it had been written 11 years earlier, it was sitting there for me.
Reviews for the book are mixed, but I am here to say it changed my life. Yes, the sex was written with flowery descriptions of manly members and womanly softness and so on, but there was sex. The sad sack lack of communication between the main characters doesn't recommend it, and Regan was a complete asshole.
And yet.
Sirena marries a horrible man while brokenhearted, and he does things to her. Perverted, sadistic things that were meant to solidify this man as the villain. And those things? Turned me on.
Turns out this book was the second of a series, and so I went and got the rest of them, one at a time, from bookstores.
Depravity abounded in the other books in the series as well. Evil smelly pirates, rape, a scene in which a young woman was forced to crawl around on the floor while the man she'd thought would be her loving husband kicked her and called her names and just generally left her an emotional wreck.
It was Very Bad Stuff, but it really aroused me. And here's the crux of the matter: I thought I was a Very Bad Person to be turned on by these things that were clearly meant to be Bad. I read them over and over. In my fantasies I'd stitch elements from different ones together and I'd be a happy, happy girl. I remember actually crawling around on my bedroom floor, playing that scene in my head.
It was okay to like that stuff, because in the fantasy I wasn't a party to it, it was forced on me. It was okay because it wasn't my idea. I wasn't a bad person, just an unfortunate victim of circumstances.
I started buying historical romances by the packing box full at library book sales. Tales of slavery and seduction and love and always, the dreadful communication between men and women which seems to be a staple of romance writing. The situations though, I found intoxicating, and the 'evil' parts especially so. The ones with actual slavery were especially fantastic for my needs.
These types of books had deals where you fill out a card, send it to start a subscription to the books, and you get a free box of four books and a glass. Yeah, I don't know why the glass. Then you pay for each monthly shipment of books after that. I would start the subscription with different publishers and cancel it after the second shipment, getting 8 books for the price of 4. I was young, I didn't have much money, you know. But one of those shipments contained this:
The book was interesting for me on a number of levels. The woman was married, and though the family had fallen into political disfavor, she had far more power than did the man, who was her slave. I learned a lot about history from historical romances, and this one definitely taught me a lot about ancient Rome.
Anyway, there's a scene in this book in which the lady and her slave-lover trade roles for the Saturnalia, and it. was. so. fucking. hot. That scene was my first indication that these things can be entered into by choice, and it can still be okay in the end. She gave him her power and for the duration of that scene, he dominated her, but didn't degrade her. He told her what to do and she did it and it was hot.
I had this indication, but I still had the niggling doubt that I was a Very Bad Person. I mean, slavery is BAD. Surely being turned on by someone having that kind of power over you is also BAD.
Anyone noticing that these first two stuck-in-my-mind books have the words "Captive" and "Bondage" right in their titles, amongst other books with names like The Raven and the Rose? I didn't at the time. I had just become a little more "me," though.
To be continued...
It was okay to like that stuff, because in the fantasy I wasn't a party to it, it was forced on me. It was okay because it wasn't my idea. I wasn't a bad person, just an unfortunate victim of circumstances.
I started buying historical romances by the packing box full at library book sales. Tales of slavery and seduction and love and always, the dreadful communication between men and women which seems to be a staple of romance writing. The situations though, I found intoxicating, and the 'evil' parts especially so. The ones with actual slavery were especially fantastic for my needs.
These types of books had deals where you fill out a card, send it to start a subscription to the books, and you get a free box of four books and a glass. Yeah, I don't know why the glass. Then you pay for each monthly shipment of books after that. I would start the subscription with different publishers and cancel it after the second shipment, getting 8 books for the price of 4. I was young, I didn't have much money, you know. But one of those shipments contained this:
The book was interesting for me on a number of levels. The woman was married, and though the family had fallen into political disfavor, she had far more power than did the man, who was her slave. I learned a lot about history from historical romances, and this one definitely taught me a lot about ancient Rome.
Anyway, there's a scene in this book in which the lady and her slave-lover trade roles for the Saturnalia, and it. was. so. fucking. hot. That scene was my first indication that these things can be entered into by choice, and it can still be okay in the end. She gave him her power and for the duration of that scene, he dominated her, but didn't degrade her. He told her what to do and she did it and it was hot.
I had this indication, but I still had the niggling doubt that I was a Very Bad Person. I mean, slavery is BAD. Surely being turned on by someone having that kind of power over you is also BAD.
Anyone noticing that these first two stuck-in-my-mind books have the words "Captive" and "Bondage" right in their titles, amongst other books with names like The Raven and the Rose? I didn't at the time. I had just become a little more "me," though.
To be continued...
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Asking for more: spanko edition
After my previous post, a commenter posed this wonderful question, and I thought it deserved more attention than I could really give it in the comments section:
Mostly my breasts.
But, since my husband started out vanilla, I was really worried about asking him to hit my sensitive parts, the parts he normally stroked gently, kissed tenderly, and generally caused to feel really nice by being nice to them. I didn't want him to think I was an even bigger freak. He was very aware of my generally submissive sexuality, but the thought of actually punishing parts of me that so enjoyed being treasured never even occurred to him.
It became clear, over time, that if I wanted this I'd have to do something. Probably ask for it.
No big deal, right? He already knew I was submissive, that I enjoyed bondage, that I liked being spanked, being "forced" to perform sexually, and on, and on.
Wrong. It was a big freaking deal to me. I don't know why. Just, somehow, coming out and randomly saying "please spank my breasts!" seemed completely unthinkable, undoable. The idea made my breath catch in my throat, I'd choke on my own words.
So, he'd spank me in the normal way, and we'd move on to more intimate moments. He'd have his hand on my breast, stroking gently, groping, or squeezing, and I'd arch toward his hand and plead, "Hit me, please hit me."
My poor husband. He would comply. He'd move his hand from my breast and strike my ass.
Not quite what I was going for.
I believe I tried it like that for some months, always with the same result. I wasn't trying every night, just when circumstances combined to make it seem natural. It just wouldn't register to him that hitting a woman's breast was a thing you could do, no matter how tempting a target I would try to make for him.
I realized I'd have to ramp up my game a bit.
So, finally, we were spooned together, he was kissing my neck, squeezing my breast, tugging gently on my nipple. I was running my fingertips over the back of his hand, over his arm, as I often do. I stopped my hand over his, lifted his hand to my mouth and kissed it passionately, tenderly, then replaced it on my breast. I squeezed his hand down over my breast, hard enough to hurt (because I like that), and arched my back, pressing my flesh even more into his hand. "Hit me, here, please," I begged, my voice soft. I pressed his hand down against me a little more before slowly lifting my hand away from his.
"Hit you here?" he asked, massaging me gently.
"Yes, please."
"But you're sensitive there." He tugged on my nipple to prove his point, and I moaned softly.
"I know."
"If you say so," he said, and he hit me.
It was good.
He has never taken my requests for being struck in one area as carte blanche to strike me in any other, which is actually excellent, even though the asking part feels awkward. So, after the success of the request for the breast spanking, and he didn't seem to think I was any more a freak than he already did, I eventually figured that I could ask for other things in much the same way, without having to have a "talk."
So my inner thighs were the next thing... though that didn't happen in any real heat of a moment, I just pressed his hand to my inner thigh one day when he was rubbing me there idly and said "I'd really like it if you'd hit me here sometime."
Again I got the "But you're really sensitive there."
Again he got the "I know."
He didn't hit me that day.. but he did remember, and eventually it became something that would happen when he felt like it.
Somehow, having the conversation when you don't have to name the parts you'd like to be hit makes it so much easier. He was just beginning to rub my pussy the day I asked for him to hit me there. He was very, very unsure about that one. He will still only hit me once or twice there - but life's a journey, and we're making lots of progress and enjoying ourselves a whole lot too.
I'm interested to know how you approached your husband to do more than just spank my bum? I'd love if DH would slap/spank other areas, but I'm afraid to mention it to him.I remember, once I got him to start spanking me and he'd been doing it for some time, fervently wishing for blows to something besides my bottom. Specifically, my breasts, and at times, my inner thighs, my pussy, and often, the backs of my thighs.
Mostly my breasts.
But, since my husband started out vanilla, I was really worried about asking him to hit my sensitive parts, the parts he normally stroked gently, kissed tenderly, and generally caused to feel really nice by being nice to them. I didn't want him to think I was an even bigger freak. He was very aware of my generally submissive sexuality, but the thought of actually punishing parts of me that so enjoyed being treasured never even occurred to him.
It became clear, over time, that if I wanted this I'd have to do something. Probably ask for it.
No big deal, right? He already knew I was submissive, that I enjoyed bondage, that I liked being spanked, being "forced" to perform sexually, and on, and on.
Wrong. It was a big freaking deal to me. I don't know why. Just, somehow, coming out and randomly saying "please spank my breasts!" seemed completely unthinkable, undoable. The idea made my breath catch in my throat, I'd choke on my own words.
So, he'd spank me in the normal way, and we'd move on to more intimate moments. He'd have his hand on my breast, stroking gently, groping, or squeezing, and I'd arch toward his hand and plead, "Hit me, please hit me."
My poor husband. He would comply. He'd move his hand from my breast and strike my ass.
Not quite what I was going for.
I believe I tried it like that for some months, always with the same result. I wasn't trying every night, just when circumstances combined to make it seem natural. It just wouldn't register to him that hitting a woman's breast was a thing you could do, no matter how tempting a target I would try to make for him.
I realized I'd have to ramp up my game a bit.
So, finally, we were spooned together, he was kissing my neck, squeezing my breast, tugging gently on my nipple. I was running my fingertips over the back of his hand, over his arm, as I often do. I stopped my hand over his, lifted his hand to my mouth and kissed it passionately, tenderly, then replaced it on my breast. I squeezed his hand down over my breast, hard enough to hurt (because I like that), and arched my back, pressing my flesh even more into his hand. "Hit me, here, please," I begged, my voice soft. I pressed his hand down against me a little more before slowly lifting my hand away from his.
"Hit you here?" he asked, massaging me gently.
"Yes, please."
"But you're sensitive there." He tugged on my nipple to prove his point, and I moaned softly.
"I know."
"If you say so," he said, and he hit me.
It was good.
He has never taken my requests for being struck in one area as carte blanche to strike me in any other, which is actually excellent, even though the asking part feels awkward. So, after the success of the request for the breast spanking, and he didn't seem to think I was any more a freak than he already did, I eventually figured that I could ask for other things in much the same way, without having to have a "talk."
So my inner thighs were the next thing... though that didn't happen in any real heat of a moment, I just pressed his hand to my inner thigh one day when he was rubbing me there idly and said "I'd really like it if you'd hit me here sometime."
Again I got the "But you're really sensitive there."
Again he got the "I know."
He didn't hit me that day.. but he did remember, and eventually it became something that would happen when he felt like it.
Somehow, having the conversation when you don't have to name the parts you'd like to be hit makes it so much easier. He was just beginning to rub my pussy the day I asked for him to hit me there. He was very, very unsure about that one. He will still only hit me once or twice there - but life's a journey, and we're making lots of progress and enjoying ourselves a whole lot too.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Blast from the past
I found this and thought I'd share it here..
I showed this to my husband in 2008, but I believe it's a journal entry from years before that. I don't currently have access to my journals, so I can't date it exactly.
My husband amazes me sometimes. He made love to me endlessly last night.. it was glorious.
He'd started rubbing my nipples, and I asked "Aren't you a married man?"
"Yeah, of course," he responded.
"Should a married man really be rubbing a girl's nipples like this?"
"Oh, my wife doesn't mind, she wants me to practice."
I showed this to my husband in 2008, but I believe it's a journal entry from years before that. I don't currently have access to my journals, so I can't date it exactly.
My husband amazes me sometimes. He made love to me endlessly last night.. it was glorious.
He'd started rubbing my nipples, and I asked "Aren't you a married man?"
"Yeah, of course," he responded.
"Should a married man really be rubbing a girl's nipples like this?"
"Oh, my wife doesn't mind, she wants me to practice."
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Trust and submission
I've mentioned a few times that I had a previous relationship. I was deeply in love with him. He was smart, a year or so older than I was. He was also a bad, bad person who broke my heart not once, but twice. I was 18 when I met him in the very same online community where I met my now-husband. He was a "bad boy" in geek circles, a "hacker" in the sense that he was good at finding exploits, security holes in software that needed patching.
The first time he broke my heart was when his old girlfriend contacted him out of the blue and he dumped me for her. We maintained contact, I was devastated but still very much in love with him. We resumed netsex while he was still with her. I did not really like this, but she interrupted my relationship with him, so I justified it like that. As their relationship began to crumble we grew closer, until they were no more and our relationship was established again.
The first time he broke my heart was when his old girlfriend contacted him out of the blue and he dumped me for her. We maintained contact, I was devastated but still very much in love with him. We resumed netsex while he was still with her. I did not really like this, but she interrupted my relationship with him, so I justified it like that. As their relationship began to crumble we grew closer, until they were no more and our relationship was established again.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Shiterotica and a memory
I giggled until I had to stop for air.
Go, read, laugh!
Shiterotica
I was reading this post over there, and in the comments were some interesting observations of the use of the capital for the top, in this case the "H," when writing D/s scenes. That's never been my thing. I get that it is some people's thing, and I respect that. It's not for us though, there's no place for it. My husband, god of all things sex though he may be to me, is not actually a god.
As my still-amused brain perused these comments, a memory came to me.
My husband was my fiancé, still living thousands of miles away from me. An ocean was between us. We played online board games and emulated Dr. Mario (and other Nintendo games) together over the Internet. We used the heck out of AIM and had plenty of netsex. We sometimes shared porn stories, which is where I'm going with this.
I showed him a particular BDSM story that had tickled my fancy on Literotica - no, I don't remember it now ten plus years later - and he read it. "Is she having sex with God?" he asked me, genuinely confused. I giggled, and there, that moment, describes how down-to-earth and fantastic this man really is.
Any time I was down, upset, or feeling small, I would regress into using "i" instead of "I," not from my submissive mindset, but just because I would feel like the effort of capitalizing myself was more than I could muster for such a lowly being as I was at that moment. He would become mildly alarmed those times and try to help. He knew how important language was to me and for me to suddenly disregard such a basic rule was definitely a distress signal.
He's never assumed he's worth more than I am, in fact all of his discourse to me on the topic indicates quite the opposite. Regardless of anything he might say to turn me on, we are of equal worth, and neither of us transcends the rules of the language.
Go, read, laugh!
Shiterotica
I was reading this post over there, and in the comments were some interesting observations of the use of the capital for the top, in this case the "H," when writing D/s scenes. That's never been my thing. I get that it is some people's thing, and I respect that. It's not for us though, there's no place for it. My husband, god of all things sex though he may be to me, is not actually a god.
As my still-amused brain perused these comments, a memory came to me.
My husband was my fiancé, still living thousands of miles away from me. An ocean was between us. We played online board games and emulated Dr. Mario (and other Nintendo games) together over the Internet. We used the heck out of AIM and had plenty of netsex. We sometimes shared porn stories, which is where I'm going with this.
I showed him a particular BDSM story that had tickled my fancy on Literotica - no, I don't remember it now ten plus years later - and he read it. "Is she having sex with God?" he asked me, genuinely confused. I giggled, and there, that moment, describes how down-to-earth and fantastic this man really is.
Any time I was down, upset, or feeling small, I would regress into using "i" instead of "I," not from my submissive mindset, but just because I would feel like the effort of capitalizing myself was more than I could muster for such a lowly being as I was at that moment. He would become mildly alarmed those times and try to help. He knew how important language was to me and for me to suddenly disregard such a basic rule was definitely a distress signal.
He's never assumed he's worth more than I am, in fact all of his discourse to me on the topic indicates quite the opposite. Regardless of anything he might say to turn me on, we are of equal worth, and neither of us transcends the rules of the language.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Pressed into pressing: my husband as Dom
My awesome fellow blogger maui girl feels she's lacking submissive counterparts with vanilla husbands; submissive women who struggle with their husband's overly-kind version of niceness. I boggled at this. Surely, my husband was as vanilla as anyone.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
A few loosely related memories
Before I got pregnant, we wanted a child pretty badly - a breathing testament to our love for each other. We were trying, but we weren't planning on seeking fertility assistance. I was buying pregnancy tests from Dollar Tree in bulk and taking one randomly 2-3 times a week. They were always negative. I had periods back in those days that put me in bed all day, writhing and - literally - screaming. To put my pain tolerance in perspective, when I finally had my child and was in unmedicated, induced labor (which I've been told is more painful than the natural kind), I barely grunted.
One of those days, my husband actually took off from work and spent the day in bed with me, giving me orgasms (Best. Pain relief. Ever.) and rubbing my back alternately.
One Saturday morning, we were snuggling together until quite late, and I worked my way down his body and I did that cocksucking thing that I so love to do. We were grieving the recent loss of a family member at the time so everything was slow and gentle. Afterward, I went into our bathroom and took a pregnancy test. The second line showed, but only so faintly that I was unsure. My husband came in when I whispered in a hush for him to, and I showed it to him and asked him what he made of it. "Maybe you're a little bit pregnant?" he said, followed by "but you can't get pregnant doing what we just did."
So funny.
One of those days, my husband actually took off from work and spent the day in bed with me, giving me orgasms (Best. Pain relief. Ever.) and rubbing my back alternately.
One Saturday morning, we were snuggling together until quite late, and I worked my way down his body and I did that cocksucking thing that I so love to do. We were grieving the recent loss of a family member at the time so everything was slow and gentle. Afterward, I went into our bathroom and took a pregnancy test. The second line showed, but only so faintly that I was unsure. My husband came in when I whispered in a hush for him to, and I showed it to him and asked him what he made of it. "Maybe you're a little bit pregnant?" he said, followed by "but you can't get pregnant doing what we just did."
So funny.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Talking dirty
maui girl mentioned in a comment that my husband talks a lot during sex.
Oh yes, he does. It is fantastic. My brain latches right onto his words and they are so hot they burn into my brain and I remember them until the next time.. hence my ability to repeat them in writing verbatim.
It wasn't always like that though. Once upon a time we had hot sex, but all the talking was in my head. I'm a woman with a lot of varied interests, and if there's no dialogue to keep me focused on what is going on right at that moment, no matter how steamy it is, my mind will drift. To programming problems, to a new recipe I want to try, to the price of copper and how much it'll cost to rewire a house, to what happened in the last episode of some intriguing show we watch, to some assignment that was due... so I would craft a dialogue in my head to anchor me in the present. I often told him this. Sometimes he would actually talk and it would clash with what was going on in my head, and that was disorienting for me and not terribly encouraging for him.
But clearly, what I wanted was him to talk more. His voice was the most important first turn-on I got from our relationship. We met online, not at any kind of hookup or dating site, just an entertainment themed chat. Back in the day that was a bit odd and we were just friends for years first, but it worked for us. Webcams weren't nearly so prevalent, nor were cell phones. We had neither. We did have crappy digital cameras to send occasional photos to each other. In between physical visits we had a lot of IM sex, and an occasional phone call. He was shy on the phone. Still is, actually.
I knew from the IM sex that there were words in that head of his, and I wanted them in our real relationship too. Once in a while he would rise to the occasion and those were the best times - but mostly he was still reticent and kept the glorious words from me. "I'm shy," he'd say. "I don't want to say the wrong thing," he'd say. Of course, in an instant message he had time to craft his responses to perfectly tickle my fancies. Naturally that was a bit easier for him. I remember the last IM chat we had before he got on a plane for the last time to come and marry me, I talked about how I would miss those chat sessions. Not enough to keep him away, no, because that was torture all by itself. I knew, though, that building in reality what we had built in fantasy would be hard.
It was. I shan't recount our first night together after being married.
Eventually he (or I suppose, we, as I didn't know it either) discovered that a nice quick way to turn me on was to whisper to me directly into my ear. I started actually placing my ear as close to his mouth as I could get it during sex, and he would oblige me by whispering naughty things to send chills down my spine.
The clashes with what he would say and what was going on in my head didn't work for either of us. For me to truly submit to him, he has to talk to me. That's the only way to bind my mind. He asked me for a list of the types of things I'd like to hear; he also wanted to make sure he avoided any words that would directly turn me off, so he'd be free to venture from my list of likes so long as he didn't venture onto the list of definite dislikes. He started pretty slowly, with things like "You like that, huh?" and slowly graduated into the sex talk GOD he is today. Each time he would speak and bring me more into him and turn me on more, generating an actual physical response from me, it just urged him further. He has become more and more comfortable with it, and he enjoys it now probably as much as I do.
His literal response to maui girl's comment - "She should tell her husband she'd like him to talk more." Which is basically what happened with us... but it wasn't as easy as he makes it sound.
As a sidenote: Another morning!
Oh yes, he does. It is fantastic. My brain latches right onto his words and they are so hot they burn into my brain and I remember them until the next time.. hence my ability to repeat them in writing verbatim.
It wasn't always like that though. Once upon a time we had hot sex, but all the talking was in my head. I'm a woman with a lot of varied interests, and if there's no dialogue to keep me focused on what is going on right at that moment, no matter how steamy it is, my mind will drift. To programming problems, to a new recipe I want to try, to the price of copper and how much it'll cost to rewire a house, to what happened in the last episode of some intriguing show we watch, to some assignment that was due... so I would craft a dialogue in my head to anchor me in the present. I often told him this. Sometimes he would actually talk and it would clash with what was going on in my head, and that was disorienting for me and not terribly encouraging for him.
But clearly, what I wanted was him to talk more. His voice was the most important first turn-on I got from our relationship. We met online, not at any kind of hookup or dating site, just an entertainment themed chat. Back in the day that was a bit odd and we were just friends for years first, but it worked for us. Webcams weren't nearly so prevalent, nor were cell phones. We had neither. We did have crappy digital cameras to send occasional photos to each other. In between physical visits we had a lot of IM sex, and an occasional phone call. He was shy on the phone. Still is, actually.
I knew from the IM sex that there were words in that head of his, and I wanted them in our real relationship too. Once in a while he would rise to the occasion and those were the best times - but mostly he was still reticent and kept the glorious words from me. "I'm shy," he'd say. "I don't want to say the wrong thing," he'd say. Of course, in an instant message he had time to craft his responses to perfectly tickle my fancies. Naturally that was a bit easier for him. I remember the last IM chat we had before he got on a plane for the last time to come and marry me, I talked about how I would miss those chat sessions. Not enough to keep him away, no, because that was torture all by itself. I knew, though, that building in reality what we had built in fantasy would be hard.
It was. I shan't recount our first night together after being married.
Eventually he (or I suppose, we, as I didn't know it either) discovered that a nice quick way to turn me on was to whisper to me directly into my ear. I started actually placing my ear as close to his mouth as I could get it during sex, and he would oblige me by whispering naughty things to send chills down my spine.
The clashes with what he would say and what was going on in my head didn't work for either of us. For me to truly submit to him, he has to talk to me. That's the only way to bind my mind. He asked me for a list of the types of things I'd like to hear; he also wanted to make sure he avoided any words that would directly turn me off, so he'd be free to venture from my list of likes so long as he didn't venture onto the list of definite dislikes. He started pretty slowly, with things like "You like that, huh?" and slowly graduated into the sex talk GOD he is today. Each time he would speak and bring me more into him and turn me on more, generating an actual physical response from me, it just urged him further. He has become more and more comfortable with it, and he enjoys it now probably as much as I do.
His literal response to maui girl's comment - "She should tell her husband she'd like him to talk more." Which is basically what happened with us... but it wasn't as easy as he makes it sound.
As a sidenote: Another morning!
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