Kneeling

It's impossible for me to be with my Sir, without wanting, irresistibly, to kneel. It isn't something foreign to me, this impulse, I have felt comfort in kneeling at other times. But with him, it's risen to the level of a force, some gravity in him that pulls me downward. When we first met each other I didn't recognize or understand it, was unaware of any submissive impulses, barely aware of the word submissive, certainly not aware of its relation to myself.

So this last time, I end up in my happy place, at his feet while he sits in the chair and we talk, very quickly. It is here, kneeling, that I can put my head on his knee to be petted, here that I turn my lips up to his to be kissed, here that he takes my hair in his hands, touches my breasts softly, then roughly. Here that he holds my face and brushes his lips against mine gently, here that my silly heart, which had thought to regain some control in this relationship, thought to put him in his place as just another man to me ... falls again.

This time of reconnecting is so precious to me. When I miss him the most, its these moments I think of to comfort myself. Yet, suddenly in the midst of my content, I'm restless. Not just randomly restless, specifically in need suddenly and desperately for his touch.

I'm unable to ask, although looking back I suppose I should have. Instead, I decided to hint. I put myself across his lap, head down, arching my bottom up to him, hoping his hand will slide down and stroke my pussy. But, alas, he only began to spank me, not realizing perhaps how far past that point his chaste kissing had brought me. Somehow, I'm not really certain exactly, I ended up bent over the foot of the bed, his belt striking my thighs and ass, my body responding in shock and arousal.

It's been months since we played in this way. There was a time this would have been light play for me, but now, unused as I am to this kind of treatment, a concern began to build inside me that this might actually hurt. What if the magical something I used to have, my special relationship with pain that I was unaware even existed until a few years ago just left me? Suddenly I flew back away from myself, and realized, I'm alone, all alone, with a sadist. He wants to hurt me. I could feel my pussy flooding at these thoughts, just moments before I was snapped back into myself when he grabbed my hair and pulled me to the floor before him.

This kind of play disarms me the most. This is something I could only do with someone I love and trust completely. Being treated roughly under other circumstances frightens me too much - I've done it once and ended up with my teeth chattering so badly and my pussy so dry the poor dom had to stop the whole thing. But with my Sir, it feels so different because I want so badly to make him happy. His cock is hard for me, because of me and my suffering for him, because he can hear me whimper, see me close to tears, see how aroused I become, he's hard for me and I do my best to swallow his cock all the way down my throat. My ass is suddenly so hot, I don't even rest it against my heels, but I swallow and suck and feel the heat.

Then I'm back on the bed again and he's using the belt. I don't know how many times we alternate this way, but eventually I'm in some kind of rhythm because I just vacillate between my knees and the bed, his cock becomes larger each time I return to it, my pleasure and happiness growing because I know I'm pleasing him.

Somewhere in there I begin the change, the reason i do these things, for the moment I abandon myself in him, where I and my needs stop existing. I've forgotten about my pussy and how badly I wanted him to touch it. Now I'm his toy entirely, there to be used and abused if he desires, willing to do and be anything if it will only win me his smile. He orders me onto the bed and I go - suddenly lost as I kneel there, should I kneel, should I stand, or lie? I hover there, kneeling but up on my knees, waiting for orders. My legs tremble, my brain feels fuzzy and I think it again, I'm alone in a room with a sadist... why that phrase, why the distancing?

Three years ago if you would have told me I'd be here, I would have never believed it. Three years ago I was unhappily married, in some kind of sexual hibernation, ducking myself into hidden places to vent the painful crying that seemed to come out of nowhere. Sometimes I'm a stranger to myself, this woman I've become, this creature with her special relationship to pain, her lover a stranger, really, if you count the proportion of her life that he's been witness to.

Kneeling on the bed alone while I wait, I float in this uncertainty. Until his touch and voice bring me back to myself and to him and I'm home again in one piece, the only spot in the universe that truly feels safe.

Homecoming

When we're together its what we both call home. In the little lover whispers, the lexicon of owner and owned, home is when we are one.

I crawl into my bed, deliberately naked, his smell on me still, my body aching from his touch, his hands, his teeth, his belt. Each welt and mark and ache evidence that I'm loved, treasured, that I belong to someone...that I'm real.

My bedroom window remains open from when I left to meet my Sir. Now the sun spills in through the trees outside, the wind blowing across the bed where I lay, remembering. The parts of him I love the most: the smile I only see at certain times, the rounded part of his hand below his thumb that I sucked and mouthed as my head lay on his lap, his ears, the thickest part of his arm, his soft skin, his teeth and how they aren't straight but have a distinct shape - I would know them on my skin even if I were blindfolded...his voice, particularly when he's stern, his bottom lip, fuller than my own and how hard it is to ever resist lingering there when we kiss.

How can I be this in love with someone who can bring me to tears from pain, who rarely gives me what I want just when I want it or how, who forces me to his will in nearly every encounter, who makes me feel simultaneously small and unworthy, and at the same time like I'm the most important thing in his life? How can I give him things I don't necessarily want to give, but only do so because they are for him?

I wonder, does he know all these things I feel, or does he suppose I liked them all before him? Its as if I'm being reshaped and formed into a creature of his design, interrupted off my own path and redirected to his ... does he know or does he just assume that's the way it is?

A Summons and a Kiss

I was summoned recently. It was quite a surprise to me, to be called so abruptly and out of the blue. "How close are you?" He asked and I told him. Even as I finished I was altering my course to get to where he was. My heart began to pound, the worry began in my head about what I was wearing, how my hair was. My Sir has requirements about how I look - but I'd had no notice at all this time, no chance to prepare.

I was wearing shorts because of the heat, and a thin t-shirt. At a stop light, I undid my bra, sliding the straps down my arms and slipping it off beneath my shirt. My breasts ached and felt heavy - but it was a relief all the same as I threw my bra into the back seat.

A text came, telling me specifically where to be, where to wait for him, and for me to let him know when I arrived. My nipples began to ache ... while I drove I pulled out my hairbrush and ran it through my hair with one hand.

I parked in the corner as instructed and replied by text to him - "here". Then made my way to the spot I had been told to be. A door opened and he stepped out. Within moments he was upon me, his lips against mine before I could even murmur a hello. One hand held my hair in the way that melts me and my stomach began to do that thing it does whenever I'm nearby him. The way he touches me makes me feel small, owned, invaded. One hand in my hair is all it takes, but his other hand immediately went to my breast. I had a fleeting relief that I'd remembered and removed my bra - its expected, but would have been so easy to forget. I gasped as he grabbed a nipple - I'm used to his rough touch here, it pleases him to pinch and twist and pull while I squirm and whimper. I can almost feel him soaking up the noises I make - only this time he's not letting up.

The pain lasts the entire kiss, as his fingers turn and pull, my body alternating between pleasure and desire from his kiss to frantic sounds as I will myself to not struggle against his hand. The pain is ... delightful, sending itself down to my pussy. I try to pull my mouth away from his for a breath, so I can gasp or moan but he holds me there against him, each sound I make muffled by his mouth, his hand not letting up on my poor nipple.

He releases me from the kiss, and I gasp as my nipple is let go, the pain seems as much as if a nipple clamp had been on it. I still haven't said a word, barely had a look at him and my eyes are down now, drinking in the sensations and composing myself, preparing to meet the eyes of my Sir, feeling small and humble as I know he recognized what he does to me, how much power he has over my body, how I respond just with his nearness.

Before I look up, he is gone. "I love you" he says and his voice is deep and growly, sending chills up my back as I know the desire and intent behind it. But he's already back through the door - returned to his meeting or whatever business he had.

I'm left there to compose myself alone. To make my shaken and delirious way back to my car, to ponder the hot, wet readiness a few moments with him creates. My nipple is throbbing and erect, my lips ravished and very likely swollen. I taste him in my mouth still.

It's not until I arrive home that I realize I never got to say hello or even a single word.

Slave Space

Tonight I was reading some of the other blogs I follow and I read one wherein the writer mentions her "slave space".

It made me wonder... do I have such a place, a space in my mind where I go to when I'm experiencing my submissiveness at it's deepest? I fear that I do. My love and desire for my Sir is leading me into places I didn't intend to go. The place where what he wants is important, more important than what I want, or else they are the same. The place where I circle back to his way even when I believe I'm thinking on my own.

Right now I'm a submissive. At times a conflicted submissive. I still struggle with things, still have moments of pause. Days when I attempt to impose my own way.

Something very emotional is triggered within me at the use of the term slave. A longing, a desire to explore what that would mean. I'm drawn to it, and at the same time am afraid of it, afraid to go deeper into this.

I feel the lure of accepting a collar, yet am unsure if its the commitment, the unknown, the inability to recant that stalls my steps.

surrender, dorothy

When I decided to begin this blog and needed to choose a name, I had some difficulty. Most of the blogs I read that touch on similar subjects involve the word "submission". However, I don't feel that I fit the typical "profile" of a submissive. Surrender seems to me to be the more appropriate word for how I engage in a D/s context.

Letting go of my own sense of "the way" and allowing something else to be imposed upon it requires that I surrender, not merely submit. Or at least that's how it feels to me.

Accepting guidance, even when I know its needed and may be more appropriate than my own way requires a conscious act, not just a submitting, but a letting go as well - hence the feeling of surrendering. Abandoning the thing I cling to that gets in the way.

A couple of days ago, I asked Daddy to explain to me how he sees something, how he looks at it and understands it, a situation in our lives that we differ on. I wouldn't say its a disagreement, but more of a perspective. I hoped, by understanding his view, that I would be able to embrace it and therefore avoid the consequences that arise from my own view.

I haven't got his answer yet, but the basis for my question was, I think, a fear that we view the circumstance dramatically differently. I wanted validation of my own viewpoint, either a reassurance that it was in line with his own, or perhaps the discovery that his was so very different, and I could adopt his point of view and save myself some ... thinking and plotting.

But it hit me overnight somehow, that I don't need to understand his perspective at all. I don't need to be like him, to adopt his views, or agree with them. I simply can just adhere to the agreement between us to understand his wishes and if not that, to do things his way, to obey. I don't have to change myself or my thinking, just let go of it, even if momentarily.

What I find, though, is sort of anticlimactic. Maybe it's just peace. But without the struggle, internal or otherwise, its ... vanilla?

Last week, my mind was set on adventures, outings, parties, events I wanted to attend that he put limits on. I dressed carefully, knowing he'd approve or disapprove the outfit prior to my leaving. I got permission prior to everything, throwing myself into a veiled tantrum when he said no.

It's as if a switch has been flipped somehow. It's the weekend. And I've lost all desire for engagement in kink activities. The people I wanted so desperately to see ... meh - I saw them, they're still there, nothing really has changed since I've been gone. My desire to be beaten has withered. The excitement and suspense that once accompanied interactions in the scene and community have just evaporated.

It may be temporary. But in some ways it's a relief. There is nothing I want to do that is forbidden, out of line with his wishes, or even in the general neighborhood of what he normally regulates. The influence of his will may need to become more personal and less global, I suppose, for me to feel it's confines.

bound by words

My Sir and I have always had a literary relationship. My first inkling of interest in him was due to the discovery we had a love for the same authors. He is the only man I've known who can make me drip merely by writing a sentence or two. My heart beats faster and skips when I see his name in my email box. This is how he owns me first, and always has.

It makes me wonder, though, at how common this could be. As it happens, although we write to each other a great deal, we met in person first, and fell in love with each other's minds through our correspondence.

What if I'd never met him, didn't know the face and voice to match the words would it have been the same?

His "voice" - his writing voice, is what lures me and makes me love him so fiercely. He compels me to obedience with it, pulls out tears and laughter, consoles and comforts, controls and dominates me without once needing to lay a hand upon me. Is it any wonder I fight to not drop to my knees in his presence? The intensity of the flesh incarnation of my Sir, the carnal and weakening effect his presence has on me is difficult to endure. I feel such an idiot at times, unable to think or be as clever as I feel I sometimes am when we only write. My wits are entirely gone when I see him. I wonder, does he miss the woman he writes to, question if she's even the same person? I'm so much more flirtatious and intelligent when I'm not under his actual influence.

I've never experienced this kind of involvement - the pure lust I can be driven to by the least mention of what he'll do to me when I see him. The sweet aching and painful longing that accompanies our good-byes, whether in person or apart. The miracle it seems to be when we're together, as if I've invented a lover in my head who's been transformed into flesh by some magic.

His words echo in my mind when we're apart, memories of things he has said or written that can make me blush in business meetings. They contribute to the feeling of being his, as if he's within my head, an active part of my smallest moment. I rarely ever feel truly alone or without him. I invent conversations that never happen, little things I must remember to say to him, sigh over missed viewings of pretty skies or funny events he will miss. I try to silently communicate all these lost moments when we're together, pressing up against him, an effort to melt into him as long as I can.

For all the words that pass between us, our times together are much more silent. We talk and visit, but there's also so much communication only with looks or the awful inability to look into his eyes for too long. Because we spend so much time writing to each other, it improves our nonverbal abilities somehow. We sink into the silent moments, initiated often when I'm in mid-sentence, unaware, my guard finally down and becoming comfortable with him. His possessive touch that undoes me, and renders me once again mute.

Boundaries and Fear

I struggle with boundaries and limits. Identifying, setting, and adhering to them. Its bad enough when they're my own, I can change them at a whim then, with only myself to answer to. I may feel regret afterwards, or be angry at myself, or frustrated at whatever situation or person contributed to the breach. Not surprisingly the boundaries I try to set involve less self-disclosure ... even as I write here relatively anonymously I recognize the need within me that I dislike, to share things about myself that maybe I should not. Part of it is exhibitionism, sure. Being a girl who has always been burdened with secrets, I rationalize that it's my need to steal the power from them that leads to the violations. Maybe. I think other times it might be motivated by the searching for the one I could tell my secrets to who wouldn't see them and look away.

Boundaries around my body are different. I don't like to negotiate, to set limits. I think part of it is a lack of knowing what I want and don't want - do this, maybe I'll like it, maybe not - it depends. Sometimes I like things only if they're forced on me, there are things I want that I might never agree to because that would be admitting it. I'm an adrenaline junkie, I get bored, I find drama. Boundaries keep drama out. Another side of myself I dislike, but without it, am I even me?

Having boundaries set for me by someone else is difficult. It's so easy to just say do what you want to me, or to obey, to learn to not resist, to hold still. I'm the perfect toy, because I will do almost anything. Its getting me to not do things that can be a struggle.

It isn't that I don't want to please, it's just so hard to do things someone else's way. I can't think of a time before now when I've done that, or even tried to. Instead I do them my way, and try to fuck someone into still wanting me, use my body to impose my will onto them. I do things my way and scare others away - after all, if you have no self control or limits, if you can't learn to reign yourself in or be reigned in, are you safe? Not only for yourself, but are you safe for someone who needs to be in control?

This is how I found myself at a play party - not playing. I dressed the part, short skirt, fuck-me heels, tummy revealing top. But I wore a push up bra, padded in case errant hands tried to pinch my nipples and full panties (blue) in case my skirt was lifted, rather than go without or wear a thong. These days my body is no longer mine, and therefore I cannot give bits of it away randomly. So I avoid eye contact with former play partners who might otherwise use it as a signal to grab me and begin beating, as in the past. I move away from the inquiring flick of a cane tapping my skirt as I pass. I eye the bench where I've had nearly every man presently in the room take turns trying to make me cry out in the past, where all I could do was giggle and ask to be hit harder. I sit there, watching the other bottoms squirm and scream ... not letting the thing out that wants to rear its head, or at least lift an eyebrow. I could be there, I wouldn't scream - the way I play usually gets attention which I always crave. So many people, so many new people who would be shocked or scared by what can be done to me before I'll scream.

I chatted, tortured myself by watching, smiled, tried not to be envious when I conversed with my friend, obviously high on endorphins. Left after a long hour and a half ... time moves so much faster when you engage and allow yourself to lose track, so slowly when you're being obedient.

The entire time I thought of my Sir, of his wishes for me, his requirements and most of all what consequence to disobedience. It wasn't that I couldn't play. I just would have had to talk to someone, negotiate, and then run it past him first for ultimate permission. Talking, negotiation, not skills I'm used to employing, so I don't play until I get up the nerve.

One success. I feel no triumph, just the relief at not displeasing him, trying to make myself feel something other than the desire to never attend another party under those conditions. It felt like wandering through a warm rainstorm in a plastic suit. What's the point? No emotion, no fear, no suspense or potential for anything unexpected to happen. Very safe, though.

I console myself I'm doing things his way, this is how he wants me, he's pleased. And I have to admit, its calmer, definitely not the roller coaster of endorphins, then returning home alone to get droppy, bruised and sore and weepy and alone the next day.

But are those the only alternatives? Maybe, for right now anyway. I don't see much else around me, only the extremes.

Another boundary today. I may not go someplace I really want to be. His reasons are valid, although he was disappointed I wanted to know why, that "because" wasn't good enough. There's a whole world of other places I can go and things I can do. But, because it's not allowed, its the only thing that appeals to me.

I slept instead. Instead of walking or writing, or reading or watching a movie. I crawled into bed and shut down.

It would be easier if he just wanted to play S&M games. Or sex games. Control in sex is a huge turn on. D/s outside of it is making me squirmy. I don't inhabit my own body the same way. Its much more difficult for me to accept this kind of control.

Its bringing back to me a couple of other times I've been very drawn to someone, someone who probably didn't know they were dominant, but who I have lost because of doing things my way. I'm trying to not mess this up. It seems I'm emotionally in a position where if I do fail, it will hurt an incredible amount.

But I do wonder, can I do this? Maybe it should be easier, if it were the right thing, wouldn't it be? Its not that I wouldn't do anything for him, but this "not" doing things for him is what's cost me vanilla relationships. I suppose I thought there would be fewer restrictions in this world. That how I am naturally would be enough, would be okay. Or maybe he's targeting my boundaries in this way because it is the most difficult thing, or because he knows it's best for me?

Judgement and Hiding

I haven't quite pinned down what it is I have to hide, but I know there's something...

I have always loved theater and performance. As an only child I was required to entertain myself and play alone a great deal of the time. As a result, in addition to being an avid reader and spending hours in the woods around my childhood home, I've spent an inordinate amount of time in front of the mirror. I lip synced my way through all the albums of musicals my parents owned. My Fair Lady, Guys and Dolls, L'il Abner, Rose Marie, The Music Man, Oklahoma ... I'd make up plots to accompany the songs, acting out the story I contrived as I mouthed the words. I learned to look at myself without embarrassment or self-consciousness as long as I was being someone else. It was okay to adopt the sultry moves I imagined went with the words, make faces, smile - animation I rarely exhibited as the shy and invisible girl I really was. I still remember the embarrassment I felt if my parents stumbled upon me when I was doing this...worse than being caught masturbating would have been - an abrupt transformation from the creature I was in my imagination to the awkward child pretending to be something I wasn't.

Later, when I actually auditioned for plays in school and was able to engage in "real" theater, with other actors and players, it was the first place I felt comfortable going outside the boundaries without fear of judgement. I found it's easier to try new things and take risks, to be someone, as long as there's a layer of alter ego between myself and the one taking the risk. As a young actress, I stumbled drunkenly around the stage as Sunny the rag doll (trying to channel the straw man in the Wizard of Oz), minced around in a flirty outfit as a hillbilly in L'il Abner, danced a can-can dressed as a tart in a flouncy skirt. I even had my very first kiss onstage. The theater department was my place - the first place I felt I was truly "seen" in school, a lending of legitimacy to my solitary and secret practice of escape. I ate up the attention, even as I realized it was for being all those someones I was not, not for being just me. I never meant for this to become a theme of my life, but it has.

In life there is always judgement. In a situation where there's an audience, they can either love what you do, hate it, laugh when they should or walk out. But in theater, nothing is real. You adopt a persona, and you can bleed out anything into it you choose with a layer between you and the vulnerability that might be there otherwise if you exposed those same aspects of your character in real life. In theory, this protects you from any judgement because if there is any rejection it's not of you, but of what you projected.

The risk is that you can become dependent on this separation. I've used the option to act 'as if' so much, it's taken up more hours of my life than the times I'm really me. I'm not a super star, not a celebrity, but I imagine sometimes I spend as much of life in a role created just for the public as Madonna or any other performer might. It's gotten me through tough situations, job interviews for one. Conflicts at work are easier when you can play someone else. It's been helpful in many stressful situations.

So, back to hiding. I understand in D/s there can be no hiding, no dishonesty. Its similar to being onstage, a theater of two, only there is no play acting. Or rather the play acting that is done is just a vehicle that assists in the uncovering of the truths.

It takes a lot for me to expose myself. Not sexually, I'm comfortable with my body, it's just a shell, a place I live in, nothing really to do with me. In fact, it's often a useful barrier, to distract others from the rest of me. Although even as I write that I realize it's no longer true, because knowing my body belongs to someone else has changed that ability to disengage. Its as if I'm more present in myself when I'm owned.

What is the most difficult to expose is my head and my heart. I understand that with control and will bending, there must be instruction. I have to be made aware when I've transgressed. I have to understand what is required and what is inexcusable. Its difficult to know where the line is. Cold words make my heart pound in a scene, but they also cause anxiety. Being reminded of my shortcomings always leads to fears of rejection and abandonment, and an urge to run away and hide. When I'm asked to share my feelings and desires, its difficult because I'm not certain they're okay. What if I open up, trust that much and then am found so flawed and inadequate anyway? There is no person who can truly love unconditionally.

Keeping my eyes down, holding still through pain, kneeling, spreading my legs when told to is easy, when compared to opening my mind to the scrutiny of another when it matters so much.

A Consideration of Disobedience

I have nothing to prove. There is no prize for minding, for being a good girl. My transgressions have normally been of the kind where I'm just clueless as to what it is that I've done wrong. Understanding how to be in tune with my Master is a struggle, was a struggle since early on. I never meant to do a single thing that was anathema to his will. He seemed puzzled at how blithely I did my own thing, I know he tried to not break my spirit. Now I fear it's set too well, the awareness of his mind within my own.

In the past, my errors were of a disregard for my safety. I didn't set appropriate boundaries when I interacted with play partners. I took risks, accepting car rides, trusting too easily. I'm not as careful with my body or with my life, actually, as he wants me to be. I wanted him to do these things for me, to make the decisions, speak to my partners, say yes to this, no to that. On some level it was the hotness of being given to another to play with that I wanted, the being withheld from someone who wanted to toy with me, the exertion of his power and control of me, his ownership displayed openly. On the other hand, it was also me just wanting to avoid making those choices on my own ... I like being told what to do, what not to do - as long as it's what I want anyway. He wants, I speculate here, for me to assume his values and mores, to incorporate them into my own processes and apply them independently. Again with the offering ... so I'm not to merely be told what to do, I must instead absorb what to do without instruction - offer anticipatory obedience rather than just minding him?

My Sir is protective of me. But sometimes caution is so boring. I like excitement and risk, I enjoy doing things I shouldn't be doing, the danger, the chance of being caught. I like to do things I'm not quite ready for, drive too fast. Tell me someone or something is dangerous or forbidden and it's as if a beacon turns onto that one thing, lingering in my mind to tempt me constantly.

So, right now I may not attend kink events. It's for a good reason, has been a wise decision he made that served me well. And in a very short time from now this restriction will be over. But suddenly my awareness of the things I'm missing and my itch to go do them has overwhelmed me. The opportunities are numerous and enticing. And my Master is otherwise occupied at the moment.

I made a decision to go to an event tonight. I thought about it, weighed the risks in my mind and decided it was safe. I heard his voice in my mind, knowing he would say to wait until the time he had set for me, but I pushed it away.

For a bit, I felt fine with my decision. It is, after all, ultimately my life, right? I wasn't going to let anyone touch me, its my life but his body, so I could protect what was his and just socialize harmlessly with what is mine. Then I began to worry, who might see me there? Do they know him? Would they report to him that they saw me, innocently for sure, but still. How could I avoid that potential? A disguise? Furthermore, as my habit is to tell him my plans, what was I to do about that? Lie? An outright black and white, no question of nuance lie, as to my plans? Or lie by omission? Or lie by claiming an accident - "I thought it was just a normal event at a bar, not one of THOSE parties"?

I knew that wouldn't work, I'm too transparent to him. He would see through it in an instant, in fact even thinking of lying to him began to make me nervous - I worry at times he has a special sense that lets him know when I'm thinking of doing something I shouldn't. I find myself telling him things that there is no reason he could ever know, except that he seems to meander through my mind at times and know things there is no way he should.

So I sat down, finally to write him a note - letting him know where I was going and what I was doing and why. Something along the lines of "I've chosen to disobey you, although I can't recall if it's just a recommendation or an order" and perhaps asking his forgiveness in advance, knowing he'd be extremely displeased, hoping it wouldn't be taken as a sign I wanted to be released, hoping the punishment wouldn't be silence. I intended to put in my note that I would take full responsibility should any negative event occur in my life as a result of my taking this risk, no matter how small.

I didn't get two sentences into it before abandoning the project. I want to go. But although he's not here, I know the answer. I think if he were here, if we could discuss it, he might agree with me the risks were minimal. He might even be persuaded against his better judgement to allow it. But absent that grudging permission, if I disobey him ... telling him of my intention to do so, even having thought it out, how will he feel? What will he do? Its almost worse to disobey after such prolonged consideration, isn't it?

I don't know if its the fear of punishment, or of his disappointment, or of what it would say about our dynamic if I do something I want to rather than what he wants me to do. Its not fair. He should be here with me, then, if he says no. Its not necessary, he should be reasonable and see that. Shouldn't he be happy with me that I'm not contriving to lie, that although it crossed my mind that I could do so and get away with it, I chose instead to advertise my failure to obey, to telegraph my disobedience?

But I can't. Maybe it's my need to follow the rules of the game? Some childish extension of needing to color within the lines, even though I hate it when I do that and will color outside them just because I catch myself at staying within them? But then, if I break one of the most basic and simple rules...

I'm a grown up, its just a game, right? I can walk out that door and do whatever I want and he'll probably never find out or by the time he does, the danger will have passed and I'll have been proven right, nothing happened as a result of my risk. But he'll know, then, that when it comes down to my will or his, which one I choose. And I can't bear the idea of looking into his eyes if it came to that.

I really want to go. But instead I stay and I write, my brain in turmoil, not quite understanding. Is bending my will to his a choice I make, I do have a choice, right - or am I past that? There is no prize for being a good girl. I have nothing to prove...so why?

A Treatise on Anal

I have a love/hate relationship with anal sex. Perhaps it's an analogy for my ambivalence and confusion about D/s and why it is, how it is that I'm drawn to it. In theory and fantasy, emotionally and symbolically it is perfection in submission. I dread it, if I'm told it will happen.

I once had a small curiosity about it, similar to my interest in skydiving perhaps, but nothing that would compel me to become serious enough to actually engage in it. I am not, however, left to my my own choices in this, the event, the time and manner are never my call. It is in this exercise of domination, this very specific act, that my submission and obedience to another's will plays out most fully. This one experience is what tells me without a doubt that I've crossed some line that exceeds the predictable. I can feign obedience, I can kneel without feeling, my lips can form words that sound acquiescent. I can take a lot of pain, I can soak it up and never return the energy, remain in the power seat... my true letting go isn't achieved easily, my instinct to resist is too deeply ingrained. There are many ways to play at D/s, much to my chagrin. I do wish it were easier for me. It always takes time before I sink into it completely. This thing, the state of mind ass fucking brings me to, for some reason I cannot fake.

You may find me on my knees sucking cock, find me tied to some contraption or other being whipped, wearing a collar. You may see me crawling or even begging if I'm told I must. I can do any of these things and still remain my own. I can do these things and even be distracted by my grocery list, or concerned with how I look, aware of those who watch instead of focused on my task or my tasks master. But when I'm taken in the ass, there is guaranteed to be nothing else on my mind and such an event can only happen through the most deliberate and helpless surrender of my entire self to another. My entire focus is on sensation, the desire for it to stop, the surprise at the pleasure, then the shock of the fullness, the concept of what is happening washing over me.

When my pussy is being fucked, there's this thing I can do, an angle of the hips that will prevent the deepest penetration, I can, unless I'm told not to, assume some control of what happens in that way. Sometimes I'm told to stop, to open to him, to my Daddy, but doing so is voluntary. Anally I have absolutely no control of the depth, the speed, the angle. It may be my inexperience, perhaps there are ways I can eventually learn once the shock diminishes, when this becomes familiar. Until then, the loss of bodily control is absolute.

At times I know it's imminent. My body trembles with anticipation of the inevitable. The usual thrill I might experience as my mouth slides over his thick cock, feeling it swelling and becoming harder as I suck and try to take it all down the back of my throat is tempered by the future. I feel every inch nervously, my lips pressing against the fullness that I can barely handle. His thrusting both excites and worries me, knowing exactly where these motions will soon be employed. Even the strength of his arms draw my attention to the vulnerability I'll soon experience, for he can lift and hold me, prevent any movement of mine.

His weight would easily keep me in place, were I to succumb to the impulse to escape. This thought flits across my mind as he kisses me, pressing his body onto mine, his lips and teeth moving me past my anxiety into arousal. I'm played thoroughly, his instrument to torment, seduce, my pussy dripping for him - in vain it seems, for if he's not going to use it, what difference if I'm ready or not? My body is his traitor, giving in to it's owner, even though I'd delay my response to win any extension.

At times I float away, my only escape, hovering above us seeing me as he might. Small, somewhat pale, weak, trembling and dizzy with lust. The room is thick with his desire and intention, for he knows this is how best to command me. He's patient, loving, gentle ... slide back love, take your time, push against me ... he's all patience and light until the moment I waver and decide to withdraw, avoid the stretching and the burning. It's that instant that he seems to spring and I don't really know what happens for those moments but suddenly he's deep within me and I've gotten past it and there's always some relief in that. It's like jumping off the high dive, the moments during the fall oblique, the only memory the bursting up through the water into the air, alive and through it ... only to realize you're still in the deep end of the pool.

He moves and I pant. He may remind me to breathe, as sometimes I hold my breath, just as I'm holding still. He can't go in deeper if I'm quiet, can he? Oh yes, he can and he will. I admire his control, because I know what this does to him. My body tight around his cock, my whimpering, my hands clutching at anything I can hold ... my head to the side, his little girl keeping her eyes shut. I know what overwhelming me does to him, how the possibility that it might hurt and I still take it affects him.

How I want to please him, now that I'm here. I want to move, to fuck him and give him what he wants to take. I beg for it now, or ask for it nicely, please, my voice sounding unfamiliar, higher, desperate. I feel him move inside me, stretching and filling me in places I never am aware of. My ass has abilities to feel things my pussy never does, each inch and throb and thrust. My bottom vibrates with his movements, but I can't synchronize, even the ability to cooperate is gone. The only participation I have is through my joining to his will to accept and enjoy this, so I arch my back and become one with his purpose.

Sometimes I orgasm, when I come this way I scream. My bottom is numb afterwards, I feel my ass all day, for two days even, it's as though I've got a new body part, like a sore muscle you never knew you had. Except it doesn't hurt, it's as though I'm constantly being touched there. Worse than I imagine wearing a butt plug around would be. I feel stronger, more owned, somewhat altered and just a little bit dirty.

But it's what occurs later that is truly the telling part for me. If he lost interest in my ass I'd be okay - its not something I crave in a physical sense. I worry when I know it will happen, when he warns me. But when I'm alone, when I'm bored and want to make myself come, nothing else works lately. I think of ropes, of biting, of his hand on my throat and how he has teased me with his cock, refusing to enter me until I begged ... nothing pushes me over until I remember the powerful rhythm as he shoves his cock into my ass, biting my shoulder, claiming me for his and reminding me who I belong to. I can't even engage in masturbation on my own terms. He's entrapped even my solitary fantasies with his will and control.

Struggling into Submission

I never considered myself submissive in the past. I've been called willful, rebellious, stubborn and contrary. I tend to be argumentative and to want my own way. I'm more selfish, rather than selfless. Focusing on the needs of another has been something I've resisted in the past. My service-orientation has been limited to my need to tend to my children, the only place I've truly understood the satisfaction of making things better for someone else. In short, I don't tend to the traits associated with submissives. I admire these traits in others, and the lack of them has at times made me feel unfeminine.

How then, did I discover these hidden and powerful places inside of me, the latent desire to be overtaken, the longing to kneel before another, the wish to be made to do that which I do not want? Why would I ever bend to someone else's will? I honestly have no idea. How do these conditions translate to fulfillment,the sexual and emotional and spiritual completion?

What I know is that "it", the desire to submit, was there within me before I knew the words, and that it's been something I've resisted most of my life. In fact I would guess that significant portions of my personality have been the direct result of my efforts to conceal and shield my real nature from those around me. My brattish manners, my need to challenge anyone I react to in a way I now recognize as submissive ... I've been in battle perpetually with this part of myself. I recognize it in the panic and turmoil I felt, and still feel when exposed to overt submissive behavior, or when confronted with dominance. I struggle to contain these feelings, to resist them, to not look.

My awareness of what exactly it is that was setting me off began when I entered the bdsm scene, thinking I was there only to explore sexual play or, rather, play that would enhance and feed my sexuality for later expression in private. I was interested in spanking, whipping, bondage - as though I could experience those activities in public and bottle up the results for later on, fodder for my private sexual life as a married woman. I had heard the term submissive but doubted it pertained to me.

My interest or need revealed itself as agitation at first. Outrage at the idea of ownership when I heard it discussed. My distress at a photo of a woman in pearls and formal wear eating her dinner off the kitchen floor, at seeing my friend wearing a collar and leash. Later, at being told I had to ask for things I wanted such as a kiss. Wanting to be close to someone, knowing there was no place to sit but at his feet and the senseless concern over how to get from standing in the middle of the room to kneeling beside him. Confusion over where these feelings were coming from - why out of the blue would I have a compulsion to kneel before someone, where does that originate, suddenly and unbidden? And more importantly, where do these kinds of compulsions lead?

The need to submit, in my mind, goes beyond and through the easier sexual sort of submission that makes my heart speed up and my body tremble. That can be done in the context of a sex game, that level of submission is easy ... hold your arms here, touch me there, don't move - innocent games any lover can accomplish for fun. Where it becomes tricky is the place, the line where trust and control intersect, where I have to abandon and release my own preference, instinct, want and intuition and replace it with the directive of another. In sexual terms its the difference between the lovers game of bondage, of force and resistance, and the more subtle relinquishment of will. The elimination of restraints and force, the need to take morphed into those things instead being offered.

Offering implies freedom. But I don't think that to be the case, because I've learned to offer things I don't desire innately on my own, not from my own need or purpose. At first the offer is insincere, an effort to please, to meet the expectation, to avoid disappointment. Later I sense it will be more genuine, an automatic response. Holding still while clamps are applied. Not pulling back despite an instinct to do so. Relaxing into pain rather than resisting. Learning to sigh instead of cry out. Most difficult, offering something when I so much want the option to say no, or to be able to change my mind after we start. There is an offering, but the word is also synonymous with sacrifice, which I find more accurate. In that sense, offering as a submissive is similar to an offering made on an alter to appease a personal God...it is usually either something precious, difficult or painful to give up, or something requiring work or effort. Very different from taking, more difficult for one resistant to submission. And therefore, more profound?

Its the being observed and left open to judgement or rejection, the vulnerable place where I put my lips to a boot, kneel, cast my eyes down and say Yes, Sir and am not laughed at for the emotion and passions that erupt. In my life it's living in certain ways according to the preferences of another, the desire to avoid disappointing someone that makes me try harder and make different choices. In sexual terms its surrendering my body to the desires of the other - receiving pleasure yes, but the pleasing more, experiencing the joy abstractly, as a function of proxy.

Today, I still "resist" because I enjoy the sensation of my walls. I've waited so long, it turns out, for this ... guidance that I need to feel it's presence. I crave the stern tone, the reproach, the glance that makes my knees buckle. I strain in his presence to not kneel on the floor because I want to prolong the moment when I do so, either at his hand or on my own. It's the descent downward that thrills me, the elevator ride I take from belonging to myself to belonging to him. I want to feel that change, experience the transformation again and again. It's nearly as moving to not submit in the midst of my strong compulsion to do so, like holding the breath, knowing the relief that will come when it's released, when I can let go and exhale and know I am safe.