My orgasms come relatively easily, quickly and in multiples. Because of this, I don’t value them as much as I might – while pleasurable and desirable, they are often commonplace and functional – rarely the Earth-moving fireworks display that fiction has programmed the modern woman to expect – even demand. I’m hopeless at self-denial, only managing once to hold off for any length of time while playing solo – a wholly gratifying experience but one I have not yet had the self-discipline to revisit. I know that if I back off at the last minute enough times, the release when I finally get there is intensified to the near pyrotechnic point I mentioned earlier. I’m just too greedy and impatient to bother.
CW: this post describes disturbing feelings and harm-related imagery. Please, if that will distress you, don’t read any further. Always take care of yourselves and each other.
I had a difficult end to my day. Things got away from me. I panicked.
Panic, for me, manifests as anger. In fact, most disturbances to my emotional stability become anger at some point, whether as waypoint or destination. I’ve learned to recognise it for what it, although getting a grip on it still eludes me.
I call it the demon.
(I’m ok now, by the way. Feeling much better)
Now here’s a topic I have ambiguous feelings about.
Some aspects are totally hot – voicing my submission, vocalising the power and control that I have gifted to someone else, uhuh, oh yeah.
Begging for permission to orgasm, and getting only a cruel smile and a firm no in response.
Pleading for mercy as the slap of leather, or wood or plastic meets my tender reddened skin.
Making wide beseeching eyes of entreaty to a stern unyielding Dom/me as I am tormented and used to their satisfaction.
All of these things excite me.
But there are things I will not beg for because they come with too much baggage – sackfuls of shame, duffels of doubt, tote-bags of trepidation.
I will not beg for attention. I hate being made to feel as though interacting with me is effort or chore.
I will not beg for sex. Too many years in a relationship where my partner could not be honest about his absence of physical desire for me wrecked my self-confidence. I hinted, I flirted, I enticed, I begged – and finally I left. I can’t cope with the feeling that I’m asking for something I should have, don’t deserve or that I’m simply unworthy of. I might – in the heat of the moment – beg for teasing to turn into fucking, but rarely so and only if I know for certain that that is indeed what we both want.
I will not ever beg for freedom or love. Even though one is mine by right and the other is elusive; to be the supplicant for either feels like an outrage. Don’t I deserve both?
Ahhhh, my favourite thing. There aren’t enough words in any language to express how much I love…want….need bondage in my life.
No-one has ever offered me a collar – I’ve just never been in a relationship where that was either desirable or appropriate. Although I fantasise about having that intensity of D/s relationship, in many ways I’m still too jaded and distrustful to contemplate that degree of commitment without fear.
Having been (briefly, disastrously and unhappily) married, I’m wary of any kind of ceremonial binding that indicates permanence. In that, I am a hard-headed rationalist first and a romantic last. Nothing is permanent. Everything changes. Promising lifelong devotion is just setting myself up for failure. I made those promises once before a roomful of happy people, and I broke them. Extenuating circumstances; but nonetheless, I did.
I know that collaring doesn’t mean permanence unless the participants choose it to do so (and even so, the relationship can be dissolved by either party at any time) – in that, it’s much more sensible (to my mind) than the model of marriage we have in this country at the moment. And that makes me wonder if my aversion is more sour grapes than principle, simply rejecting the idea because it’s not within my reach? It may come within my reach someday and if it does, perhaps my feelings will change. Perhaps, if ever offered a submissive’s collar by a Dom/me who I love and trust enough to accept the symbol from; I will admit that this is what I’ve wanted all along.
And perhaps not.
I do have a couple of leather collars that I wear because I enjoy the look and feel rather than any symbolism. I like having my throat encircled. I like to run a chain from one nipple clamp, through the ring on the collar, to the other clamp so that my breasts are lifted, and they tug at the collar as they swing to the rhythm of being vigorously fucked.
I worried at one point that it was somehow ‘not ok’ for me to appear in public wearing a collar for my own pleasure, that collars were somehow reserved only for subs who had been granted them by their Dominant. And then I thought ‘sod it, I’m not hurting anyone by wearing something which I like simply because I like it’ and stopped worrying about it. Feel free to disapprove of my choices but do please refrain from sharing it with me.
Collaring is not something to which I aspire.
CW: This post contains details of a sexual assault and some rather unpleasant reactions to my reporting of it. If that will cause you distress, please don’t read any further. Always take care of yourselves and each other.
Back in May, I was at a professional event in my vanilla life, and there were drinks at the bar afterwards. I was standing, chatting to a friend when I felt someone grab my bum hard as a man walked past me.