Pet

It began before they left for the lake house, with her ass arched up and her cheek pressed to a pillow. She obediently spread herself open; her fingernails, painted hooker red, dug into to her slick, snowy skin. Behind her she heard the snap of latex gloves and then moments later fingers pinching and prodding at her achingly exposed pussy and ass. She moaned, not knowing whether it came from humiliation or the attention to her throbbing lips. But at the same time, the gloves made his touch feel coldly medical. She ached from the lack of heat from his body, and the texture of his fingertips.

She squealed as he squeezed lube onto a gloved finger and pressed it into her asshole. Then he removed his finger and spit on her still open ass. She caught her breath and sqeezed her eyes shut against the embarrassment. He gave her cheeks a few swats, warming them with his hand, and then swiftly replaced his finger with a plug about twice that size. She took measured breaths, letting her body adjust to the invasion. He continued examining her, pinching her clit and nipples, pressing his fingers into her mouth and making her gag on them. All of this making her squirm and writhe with a desire to be used, and making her painfully aware of all the parts of her he used for his sexual gratification.

He grabbed her hair and pulled back, stretching out her neck. Three heavy swats to her ass landed before she could even react to them. She clenched around the plug in her ass, and moaned despite her growing humiliation. "You're going to learn to love this paddle over the next few days, girl."

"Yes, Sir," she breathed.

She had worn no panties, by his order, and the pleated skirt which was now thrown half over her face as he warmed her ass with heavy, rhythmic swats. The emotional cocktail she always felt when serving Him- that desire laced with fear, infused her. Her squirming stilled, and she unashamedly began to lift her ass even further to meet the paddle. Being the sadist he was, he chose that moment to stop. She was allowed to lie there only for a few minutes while he fastened cuffs to her ankles and wrists. He was noticeably more gentle when he put the collar around her neck. When he asked her if it felt ok, she bit her lip and nodded. He forgave her speechlessness, though normally it would have earned her a slap.

Still foggy with the chemicals of lust and pain, she climbed into the passengers seat of his blacked out truck. "Hands behind your neck," he said. And when she obeyed but did not acknowledge his order with, "Yes, Sir" he redden her thighs with swift swats. He fastened the links on her cuffs to a bungy cord attached behind the seat so that her hands were bound behind her neck. She sat with her legs spread, a gesture acknowledging his unhampered access to what was his. "Good girl," he said. She blushed. He reached into a bag and pulled out out a leather bit with a bridle. She looked at him helplessly and kissed his hand as it passed her lips, the only way she could beg for his mercy. "Open," he said, and again fastened it with some attention to her comfort. It was only after he started the truck that she understood why she was gagged and bound. He pulled a tiny remote from his shirt pocket and turned the dial a quarter turn. The plug inside her ass began to vibrate softly, and she moaned and squirmed, moving her hips as if to fuck herself. Her shame already shedding from her.

"You are a greedy whore, aren't you?" he said, pulling her breasts out of her shirt. She moaned her response. He spit on each of her nipples, pinched them until they stood out, and then attached clothespins to her nipples. Only then was he satisfied with his plaything, and put the truck in gear. She moaned, feeling every bump of the road in her nipples and in her ass. Her pussy soaking her thighs. But even through all that perhaps the helplessly humiliating part was how the bit forced her salivating mouth open, so that drool ran down her chin and on to her aching breast.

She stayed in that position all the way to the lake house, while he tortured her nipples and increased the vibration in her ass when she was a very good girl and took her pain gracefully. By the time they drove up the the lake house, she had earned the strongest vibration and the right to wiggle and bounce on it while he petted her sore nipples. He was proud of her.

He walked around to her side, unhooked her wrists from the cable and pulled her out of the truck and to her to her knees. Instinctively she kept her hands behind her neck even though they were not bound that way anymore. Her jaw ached from the bit, and her nipples from their torture, and yet she trembled with anticipation. He pushed her down so that her cheek was pressed into the dirt drive. He held her there with one hand while he attached a leash to her collar and pulled it up so that it choked her. "You're going to crawl for me," he said tugging it tighter, "like my bitch."

The word hit her like a slap to her face. She moaned. If he had said "my slut", she would have blushed and bit back a smile - knowing how hard she had trained to be that for him. "But bitch," she half thought with a gasp, "It's like I'm his dog." When he let go, she choked back a sob and shivered. He guided her as she crawled, petting her head, into the house where he took the bit out of her mouth. He left her on the floor and sat on one end of a couch. She was angry at him though she knew better than to show it. And at the same time he had made her so hungry and trained her so that she could not bear displeasing him. She keeled, nose to the floor, ass up, and arms stretched in front of her, a perfectly posed slave.

But he noticed she was tense, and it was a long time before she let out a breath. He smiled at her struggle to obey. "Come, bitch."

She winced and a small noise escaped her as she lifted up to hands and knees and crawled toward her Master. She was allowed to lay her head on his thigh, and he stroked and scratched her, murmuring, "Good, girl." She felt herself surrendering to him. She remembered how she used to be offended by the name slut, before she was trained, and how she took such pride in it now.

He turned the vibration up on her plug, and she moaned gratefully and kissed his leg. She had not even realized through the ordeal he had turned it off. "Down, girl," he said without anger. She slid down his leg to the floor where she keeled at his feet. He ordered her to take off her clothes, and she slid out of them obediently and returned to position. "Arch your back," he said, pressing a paddle into her back, "lift that ass up like a little bitch in heat." She let out a cry and buried her face in her arm, but she obeyed immediately. He pushed the vibe in and out of her twice before putting more lube on it and shoving it in again. She became nearly frantic with desire, squirming and pushing up her ass.

"Greedy bitch," he said, and she blushed a deep red. He paddled her evenly across her cheeks, making her fair skinned ass the same color. Sometimes he allowed her to suck his cock as he paddled her, forcing her down on his cock til she gagged and then lifting her up and slapping her hard across the face, to which she moaned, "Thank you, Sir."

He mocked her unmercifully. "Quit whimpering. I'll bet you're soaking wet," he said, "Spread yourself open." She reached behind herself and spread open her pussy lips. She felt wetness ooze down her thigh and blushed in humiliation. "Oh you fucking bitch," he said as he cupped up some of her wetness and flicked into her face.

He left her there on the floor spread open and went to a bag they had brought in with them. Out of it pulled a long pole with a dildo attached to the end. From where she was on the floor she couldn't see what he had retrieved, she only felt a wide rubber object being jammed into her dripping pussy. He moved it up so that she scrambled to get up onto her tiptoes and fingertips. He gave her upturned ass and thighs several more blows before letting her back down onto hands and knees. He turned her collar around and took hold of the leash, then rammed the dildo into her forcing her forward. "Crawl, bitch," he said sternly. She crawled in front of him, the dildo every once in a while hitting deep enough to hurt and hurrying her along.

He led her toward the back door and when they reached it she hesitated a little. She was rewarded by a hard swung paddle to her ass. "Open the door," he said calmly. She was terrified, though she knew they were secluded from anyone else for miles. She crawled onto the back porch with her head hung, until he yanked on the leash forcing her almost to her fingertips again and at the same time ramming the dildo deep within her. "Stay," he said. She almost whimpered with humiliation. She could hear him get things from the inside and return. "When I say 'heel' you're going to come over here and sit on your heels with your hands behind your head." He sat down in the porch chair. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir," she replied, and trembled nervously.

"Heel."

She scrambled toward him almost tripping on her leash. She blushed that she wasn't more graceful about it. She felt like a puppy too eager for its Master. She got into position, sitting on her heels with her knees and lips apart, open to him, and her eyes lowered. He twisted her nipples and watched her face contort to the pain. He slapped her breasts several times, making her nipples hard. Then he attached the clothespins back onto her aching nipples. She moaned and bent to kiss his hands fervently. "Is that to show gratitude or ask for mercy, my bitch?"

She winced in pain, but begging for mercy would be a disappointment to him. "Yes, thank you, Sir."

"Good, girl." He pulled her hair to raise her face toward him, then took an ice cube, which he had brought in a bowl with him and ran it across her forehead. She sighed gratefully. "We're going to play fetch now, my little bitch. I'm going to toss these ice cubes and then i'm going to start counting," he explained all this to her while twisting the clothespins attached to her nipples. "And whatever number I get to by the time you get back is how many swats of my paddle you get. Do you understand?"

She swallowed hard. "Yes, Sir." Being outside she felt even more exposed. Now that she was being made to fetch she felt herself fighting to yield to such humiliation. When he tossed the first cube, he was on 2 before she moved. She crawled quickly and taking it in her mouth retrieved it and placed it in her Master's hand before he said 8. He immediately pushed her down and put his foot on her cheek, pressing it into the wooden slates of the porch. Then he shoved the ice cube deep into her pussy, making her gasp and wiggle under his foot. "Don't ever hesitate to obey, bitch," he said dealing 7 hard blows to her upturned ass. "Now, heel."

She kissed his boots and she returned to position and lowered her eyes. Her attempt at asking forgiveness. And like a sadist, he let her believe he didn't notice it and merely through another ice cube and began counting again. The ice cubes mixed with her juices as they melted inside her, and after a few she was dripping wetness down her thighs. She tried hard not to squirm away from the swats she earned. By the end of his game her ass was stinging with welts and burned to the touch. Her pussy was embarrassingly wet.

"Good girl," he said as he led her back inside and sat down on the couch, letting her kneel across his feet. She was much more at ease in her position now. The game had made her feel less than human, but as he was comforting her, she felt freed by that and took no shame now in kneeling with her red ass upturned and her dripping pussy exposed. "You want to feel that big cock inside you again don't you, my little bitch?"

"Yes, Sir," she said, almost wiggling her ass.

He put his foot over her check again, pressing her down, then rammed the dildo hard into her pussy, fucking her hard and fast so that her aching pussy was near orgasm within seconds. "May I cum, please, Sir?"

"No. Bet that tight asshole of yours is feeling neglected now, isn't bitch?

"Yes, Sir," she said nearly in tears. She knew the dildo was large and would stretch her.

All at once he stopped and commanded her to go get the book she had brought with them and when she got back to lie across his lap. She obeyed quickly, and with much anticipation. He told her to read the chapter about the slaves and she quickly flipped to the page. "Read," he said, as he landed the first blow across her cheeks. She moaned and arched her back. She read from the book while he laid rhythmic swats across her ass. The scenes of the slaves being tormented day and night, used and violated by so many people in great halls of onlookers made her ache to be his whore and his property. Soon the girl in the book was being fucked, meanwhile the large dildo was pressing against her hole, and finally it entered her and she lost herself in submission and gratitude. He fucked her until she begged to cum, and then stopped and paddled her into submission again. He repeated this over and over again until a single thrust or a swat threatened to send her into wild orgasms. Yet he never let her be satisfied.

And when he tired of that game, he chained her wrist to ankle so that she couldn't get up from the hands and knees position and led her around the room with the dildo in her ass, making her set the table for dinner. She served all his food on her knees, crawling when she didn't have anything in her hands, and encouraged by swift swats to her ass. He gave her a little wine in a dish, which she lapped up gratefully as he held her leash and ate. She realized with some surprised how quickly she had lost all shame in being his pet.

subCulture Launch

It seems pretty obvious to me that people participate in BDSM at different levels. There are people who get their fix for power exchange and sadomasochism behind the safety and privacy of a computer screen. There are people who are the "weekend warriors" of BDSM - who might come to an event here and there, and generally keep their kink confined to the bedroom. There are some people who involve themselves in BDSM community because they feel a sense of belonging and connectedness to others who understand just how delicious pain can be, or how right it feels to have a submissive kneeling with her head in your lap. And there are some people who pursue power exchange and sadomasochist practices ambitiously, with the hope of reaching a point of artful distinction. It is the latter that most fasinates me.

I've been working on a few pieces on practicing BDSM as a cultural pursuit. As something that can be learned, practiced, and excelled at the same way any other art form can be practiced and mastered. They will be part of a new blog I'm launching called subCulture. My goal is to highlight BDSM as a artful practice that requires skill, training, and perhaps even natural talent. I also want to write about BDSM as something that creates a lens through which we see the world around us, as power exchange and sadomasochism take on philosophical and spirtual hues.

I'm really looking forward to feedback. The BDSM community is not just the intended audience of this blog, but also the reason for it.

with love,

e.

The marks I carry were a gift; a lilac bouquet of bruises laid across my skin. Their reflection in the mirror brings a Mona Lisa smile to my face – a secret I wear under my clothes that is mine and his alone. And the bruises themselves mirror a feminine tenderness, and the strength of endurance whenever my skin is touched by hand, or seat, or clothes. They serve as a badge of my submission. The lengths to which I will go to suffer passion.

It’s been a few days since I received them though, and those purple petals are turning brown and wilting into a sickly green. But even the short life of my bruises outlived his affections. Without the Man behind them, they are an ugly and mocking reminder of my failure.

I dared to hope that he might be the one to rein the maverick. To keep me from bolting in skittish sprints from the unfamiliar and intimidating, keep me from bucking the lead and snorting at authority. I wanted to be broken. I wanted to be led to my place of cultivated sirenity serenity and feel the cathartic release of tears. I wanted to overflow and spill myself out onto him.

I got what I wished for. The tears came after all. Too bad he wasn’t here to see them.

Dom Chat

It still amazes me after all this time how much of a sense of a person you can get even over IM. The diction and tone a Dom uses when he speaks to me over IM tells a lot about what kind of Dom they are. It's nothing that I can really put my finger on. But I can almost immediately tell by the way that I answer them whether or not I could submit to them. There are some Doms that I like enough to chat with them, and I soon discover that they don't make me "feel" submissive. I feel too much like a peer, like a friend, or, to be honest, like I could too easily manipulate them.

There are others though that have that Alpha male quality that permeates the space in which they occupy, and it is apparent even in the words they speak. I feel smaller next to them, even in chat. I immediately give the respect of titles - saying Yes Sir, asking permission to leave the chat for whatever reason, and taking on a submissive tone in my words.

I wish I knew exactly what it was that makes the difference between the two. It happens so rarely, it seems.

I wonder also if there are submissives that have the same effect on dominants. Do I behave in a manner that makes them feel more or less dominant? What are those behaviors? Do they pick up on the difference the way that I do?

I wonder if the Doms that have that effect on me have that effect on everyone, or if it is just some connection or spark that is specific to us?

I wonder what it is that makes me so eager to say Yes Sir to some, and so reluctant to say it to others?

Wandering

Two days without feeling control is far too long. I'm starting to wander. I'm starting to doubt.

At the same time, its moments like this that affirm my belief that this is not a phase, or a game, or something I play at. This is my life. I'm not even sure anymore that I chose it in the sense that I had another option to chose. It almost seems to have chosen me, from the very beginning. Every event bringing me closer to the point where I was ready to hear the Truth and accept it as the path for my life.

I am also amazed at how many ways this lifestyle parallels spirituality. That subject happens to be a theme in the novel I'm writing. I hope it is as eye opening as it is subversive.

Even my blogs are wandering....

Study

A student comes to a young professor's office hours. She glances down the hall, closes his door, kneels pleadingly. "I would do anything to pass this exam." She leans closer to him, flips back her hair, gazes meaningfully into his eyes. "I mean..." she whispers, "...I would do...anything."
He returns her gaze. "Anything?"
"Anything."
His voice softens. "Anything??"
"Anything."
His voice turns to a whisper. "Would you...study?"

I have believed for a long time that the best way a submissive can serve is to become a student of her dominant. Not just in the techniques and protocol that he will demand of her, though certainly that, but also the unspoken desires and subtle nuances that arise from day to day interaction. It is such a heavy load for a dominant to take charge of another person. It requires such a devotion of time, energy, and thought that I always felt the need to lighten his load in whatever way I can. I’ve learned that the best way to do that is to learn to anticipate the small needs and wants he has and to take initiative to fill them before he has to ask for them to be filled. If I am successful, if I have been a diligent student of his every whim, then just maybe I will get to see that spark that occurs when he is both surprised by and grateful for something I have done.

Laura Antoniou says that a “slave's life is mostly composed of patience and study. Yes, study. If not with actual books, then following the example of greater, senior slaves. Or learning every nuance of their owner's character, so that they can more completely and seamlessly offer themselves at the right time and in the right manner.” We do things for our dominants we never dreamed of doing before in order to be pleasing and obedient. Often we do scary, painful, dirty things for our dominants – but how often do we serve in small details? How diligently are we willing to study and learn them so that the contours of our service fit like a missing piece into their lives?

Music

Trying to explain this lifestyle to someone who has not experienced it is like trying to explain music to someone who has never heard a song.

I can talk about the different kinds of music - submission, dominance, masochism, sadism, fetishism - the different instruments that are used to make the music - floggers, paddles, feathers, talons, canes, hands, words (perhaps the most powerful tool of all; of course, I'm an English major and aspiring writer, so I might be biased, but I digress...). I can talk about the feeling you get when you play the music - the intensity, the mood, the emotions, the release, the joy, the pain. I can talk about the history of music - from Egyptians, to early monks, to Spartans, to the leather movement, to the French. I can talk about the major musicians - the Marquis de Sade and Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, the leaders in the Leather community who travel the country teaching the tricks and tools of the trade.

All of this amounts to nothing if you have never experienced music first hand. If you have never been held captive in the eclectic symphony of pain and pleasure - if you've never felt the beating of the music coursing through you, destroying your ego with every note that strikes your skin, if you've never known a crescendo that climbs the hours of the clock, that stretches your soul and arrests your mind - then you couldn't possibly understand.


Words are inadequate.