There’s an instant when the expression in his eyes turns from adoringly playful to speculative intent. That look, as he sideslips from boyfriend to Dominant; hunger turning to command, sparks heat and a flood of wetness in response. My legs part of their own accord, my breath hitches in my chest, my mouth parts in anticipation. Signalling to him my willingness – my eagerness – to be owned and used and taken by him.
He cuffs my ankles, fastening them to either end of the spreader bar so that they are held wide apart. I’m forbidden to come until he gives permission, he tells me, his voice low and calm. Naturally, at this ominous news, I moan and squirm in excitement. It’s going to take a long time, he warns with a smirk. Unnff.
I know lots of stuff. On some specific (niche and uninteresting-to-most) topics, I know loads. I’ve learned a lot about myself too over the last few years; my character, my sexuality, my triggers and vulnerabilities, blind spots and biases. Sometimes this all gets in the way, meaning that I fall back on the knowledge I have already collated. rather than learning and adapting. There’s a small window of learning opportunity between fear and arrogance; sometimes I sidle through that window, other times I get stuck and flail about until I panic or get angry and fearful and sad. When that happens, Things I Know get filtered through Things I Feel and a vicious circle can develop.
Oh yes. Oh definitely. I didn’t know this had an actual name until I started this Pervember exercise, but this is certainly a significant one for me.
I’m a good girl, aren’t I? See how hard I work, to bring you joy and make you smile. To cause your groans of pleasure. To taste abandonment and indulgence. I’m on my knees for you; mouth open, eyes wide, beseeching you to use me for your satisfaction. I’m stretched and bound for you, open and willing, offering myself for your delectation. I need your words of appreciation. I crave your lustful gaze. I long for your admiration.
Uhuh. Now we’re back on track. This is something I can write about with enthusiasm, whether fiction or fact.
Tonight she is slave. Not Sarah, wife and mother. Not the pharmaceutical lab tech. Not humblesub69. Just slave.
She kneels in the centre of the studio floorspace, knees spread wide with her weight on her heels. Palms upturned on her thighs and head bowed. Her only adornment is her collar, although she will likely be wearing a variety of accessories this evening. Some of them will hurt.
That’s it. Grab it, a good handful now. Twist it round your fist. Control me. Hurt me.
Hair-pulling is one of those things that I mostly have to indulge in through fantasy more than practice, because there’s too much of a risk that I’ll dislocate, or subluxate or strain something, which would take all the pleasure out of it very quickly.
There is so much to enjoy about sensory deprivation. For myself, as a submissive; the element of handing over control to someone else and making myself vulnerable, is all kinds of delicious.
It was with great enthusiasm then, that I participated in the sensory deprivation workshop at Kinkfest, earlier this year which was led by the wise and experienced Phoenix Flight. The Mr was willing and eager, (although I suspect he was only half-joking when he let out a sigh of relief and declared “this is why I really came along” after fastening a gag firmly in place around my head)
Ahhhh, my favourite thing. There aren’t enough words in any language to express how much I love…want….need bondage in my life.
This is part 6 of the tale of the Governor’s Wife – you can catch up with the story so far at the links below
She runs her fingers lightly across the welts and bruises blooming on her pale skin, luxuriating in their heightened sensitivity, their vibrant colours. She has never felt so alive and so much at peace; bound and beaten she was finally freed from the constraint of corsets and conventions which had thus far imprisoned her spirit.