Monthly Archives: September 2012

A Song for Sir – Part II

I couldn’t think at all straight. I had to calm down somehow. I grabbed the bottle of Rescue Remedy I used to use for performing and took 4 drops. Ok. Now this is daft, ridiculous and demeaning. Am I really going to go there? I’d glanced at the website to find the address and thought about reading more. Better not. It might put me off. Ah! So you want this then do you? Right.

I arrived at an unprepossessing front door in Long Acre about a quarter to four. I’d decided on my jeans and boots, for confidence, but could feel the suspender clips painfully rubbing through tight jeans anyway. I didn’t dare ring the bell early so I meandered along the road, looking at the beautiful people who all had money, style …. and probably couldn’t sing at all…. Walking back, I felt a resolve drop into my depths. I would do this. Whatever it was. It couldn’t be more difficult than performing.

I was let in when I buzzed. Just a normal consultation. Walked through a hallway and spotted a sign on a door “John Hammond”. I knocked. Out of body.

“Come in”

As I did so, my brain wheeled into cut-off. It suddenly seemed like the beginning of any consultation with a professional, I just couldn’t quite pinpoint which.  As I looked at the man coming to shake my hand, dressed casually but wearing a jacket, I couldn’t figure out why I’d come. The pleasantries over he beckoned me to sit. Two chairs facing each other, fairly close, no desk.

“So tell me about performing and the concert you have coming up? When is it?”

I started to relate how it feels to be preparing for something you really, really want to do, and yet to have such utter fear about being able to pull it off. How I only had 3 days to go, how nervous I was. He listened intently, with a strange calm in his eyes. I kept looking away for some reason I couldn’t fathom. I noticed I was wringing my hands as I spoke. I crossed and uncrossed my legs, acutely aware of my stockings. I talked on, gabbled on about singing and its importance realising that I really had nothing more to say, and terrified to think about why I had really come. I can’t let this into my mind.

“I think I will be able to help you, Ruby. Stand up and come here” – such a calm, controlled voice, so contrasting with the explosion of terror I felt.

Horrified, I found myself complying. I started to shake. I couldn’t, couldn’t ask what was going to happen. My mind refused what my body seemed so willing to go to. He took my arms as he sat forward. He explained he was going to undress me, just enough to go over his knee for a spanking. That he would give me time to breathe, but that I wasn’t to say anything.

And then it began. I looked down at his hands as he took the waistband of my jeans and gently undid the button and pulled down the zip. Mortification rocked me on my already unsteady legs. I willed the trousers not to slide down my legs, tried to bend with them to prevent it, to not have to undergo it. He gently stood me straight again and told me to bend over his knee. At least my face was hidden now, and though utterly undignified, I wasn’t looking straight at him anymore.

Soft hands stroked my bottom. Until my stiff body relaxed to its fate somewhat. Then he began. Soft, slow slaps to get the measure of me, to let me feel how it was. To understand fully that he was in control. I stared at the carpet, unable to react for humiliation. My mind now swung the other way. Now, ALL there was were these sensations. I didn’t exist anywhere else. The slaps got harder and more regular. As my bottom warmed, my limpness increased. Then a mild sting began, building with his regular pulsing contact. As it reached an uncomfortable point, I felt him draw me into his body with his free hand. I tipped over into panic as the blows kept coming. He felt it and stopped, rubbing my bottom to ease the sting. This process went on for some time, each time I was taken further along, required to endure more. At last, I couldn’t stop myself from wriggling to avoid the blows. At that point he stopped.

“Now, Ruby, I have to take you beyond a point of comfort for this to work. Do you understand? You may answer.”

“Ye…yes,” I answered to my amazement. Somehow, I already missed his hand’s regular rhythm on me.

I felt him slide my panties down to reveal my buttocks and a wash of shame ran through me at the view he would be getting. I felt completely naked in that moment, as I had acquiesed to my own exposure. That’s what I couldn’t work out, how I could want two totally disparate things at the same time. I stopped trying to as the spanking continued, harder, rhythmic as before. This time he didn’t stop. I writhed, I begged, I apologised for myself, for being scared, for lying to him, for ringing him not texting, for anything I could think of to make it stop.

Eventually, eventually it did. I lay panting and sobbing over his knee for some time. Until I came back into myself somewhat. I returned to my body but to a delicious langour I had never felt before, I didn’t seem to mind at all that I was lying there, over the rough material of a strange man’s knee.

Part 1 of a story for my online Sir

A Song for Sir
I was nervous. There was nothing for it but to admit that this was hell. It always was, but I had carefully side-stepped that thought when deciding to go ahead with the concert. Because the music was so bloody wonderful, so exciting to sing and I had thought it would carry me along. But a week to go, and the agony set in. It was like entering a tunnel. One you just have to accept you are in and wait to come out the other side, unscathed hopefully. But it had been a long while since I had experienced it, and forgetfulness is a cruel master.
I woke up after a bad night the Sunday before the big day. Another 4 in the morning rehearsal of the whole programme before I could get back to sleep and I was knackered and tetchy. FUCK IT, why did this have to be so hard? Who needs bloody ART anyway. I longed to be let off, but it was all booked and sorted. I could just see the faces of the audience as they smiled expectantly and warmly at me. Fuck off – just FUCK OFF!
I was due to rehearse at the venue later  – a sweet little church in the City, holding its own amongst the skyscrapers – and I had to get myself together. Wearily, I went through the motions, wondering if I would be able to muster an appetite for breakfast, whether there was even any point in trying to eat for the next few days. Nothing but remembering the words and music mattered. I sat at my computer randomly typing things into google as I drank a cup of tea. “Save my life”. “Overcoming panic”. “Therapy for nerves”.
I wandered absent-mindedly back from the loo to find a website I’d clicked on as I rushed off, suddenly desperate for a pee. “Need help with your fear? I have an unorthodox approach to calming nerves but if you have tried everything else, why not come and talk to me?” Central London.  Just that, and the picture of a sweet, unthreatening-looking man smiling. And a phone number. Well what the hell, I’m desperate enough, it can’t hurt to call – even if it’s just a cry to the universe, I thought. I dialled and left a message and my number with an answering service then promptly forgot all about it.
Coming out of the church that evening I felt much better. I always feel better when I sing. It’s the surest way to put all of me back together, getting absorbed in line, tempo, dynamics, expression – and the wonderful creations of others just as passionate as me. Nothing else matters, my happy place. The fresh air seemed friendly and I walked along rehearsing the tunes in my head, feeling alive, excited. A pang of hunger made me stop at a shop. As I was paying for a random mixture of wine, wotsits, milk, bread and bacon, my phone rang. Nice, someone loves me…
I got back, dumped my stuff, poured a glass and sat with my new-fangled phone that I had only just got. I listened to a startling message. “Hello there, John Hammond here. I got your message earlier. I guess it’s a big deal performing again. Perhaps you’d like to come and see me tomorrow and we can talk about getting you ready. I spank people to help them with their nerves. It’s only fair to tell you now, that if you come, that’s what will happen. And then you can make up your mind if it’s effective. Go and visit my website tonight (there followed an address) and text me in the morning to let me know if you want to go ahead.”
I just sat there dumbfounded. What the fuck! I threw the phone down. That’s all I need. A weirdo to help me. Great. I went to bed furious, outraged and a little shaken by my stupidity in ringing this crazy.
In the middle of the night, I woke up, in that awful hour when it’s ages till dawn and there is no respite from hellish thoughts of exposure and humiliation on stage. But instead of running my songs through, I began to think of that phone call. Annoyingly, miserably I had to admit that I was turned on by it – the thought of being spanked. Old memories of films and TV programmes I’d seen as a child flitted across my mind and got caught into half-dreaming vivid scenes, aching longing. I tossed and turned, awake enough to know what I needed and not awake enough to do anything about it. Finally, I must have fallen asleep as it was 7 before I was conscious again, light coming in the window.
It was going to be a busy day. Work in the morning and evening, teaching other poor hapless people who wanted to do what I do. I banished all thoughts of my contact with John Hammond, focussing on being the proper thing for others. It wasn’t a bad morning. It’s nice work. When I don’t have to do the singing…
————————–
Around lunchtime, it all came back. I was taking off my jeans to put on something more comfortable and the sound of my belt buckle as I cursorily undid it, broke my night-time thoughts into consciousness again. I stood stock still. Oh blimey! This was going to happen. It had to happen. I was transfixed. I didn’t care about the concert, that was the best part. I didn’t care about anything other than finding my phone and dialling that number. I moved as two people. One saying – and is it bacon for lunch then? What time is Sarah coming? – and the other riveted to finding my phone. I did, shaking, and dialled his number before I had time to stop myself.
Click – ‘the offices are closed between 1 and 2, please call back after this time or leave a message’. ‘Ah, hello… um…. this is a message for John Hammond. Er… you called me yesterday, thanks. Um…. I would like to come, I mean book a session with you, if that’s still alright. Actually I’m free today if you have any slots”… I trailed off, and quickly ended the call.
I sat in a daze, wondering and blushing at myself and my throbbing, pulsing pussy. What ON EARTH was going on? I laughed out loud. Suddenly all the songs I was singing in my head crashed in and I started to sing. I felt strong. And I desperately wanted him to ring back. I decided to practice till he did. It was the only thing that would get me off the tenterhooks of anticipation. I put on the recording my accompanist had made of the songs we were to perform and sang, full volume, full passion.
Suddenly, as I was totally caught up in the work, a rude noise interrupted. Bloody new phone with it’s hideous ring tones, must buy a new tune from Booseys. I picked it up, managed the new swipe manoeuvre and said hello.
“Hello, John Hammond here. You rang me earlier”.
“Oh yes….yes, thanks for calling back.”
“So, you would like to see me today?”
“Er…. ah, yes…. I really would…”
“I could see you at 4 o’clock if that’s convenient. I presume you have looked at the website and know where to find my practice”.
“Yes… yes, of course, thank you” I lied.
“And you are happy about the terms of our meeting?”
My mind raced. Was I? What the fuck was I doing? Was I doing this, really? At the same time as my mind veered from the certainty that I was, after all I could just not turn up, I found myself saying “Completely”.
“In that case, I’ll see you later. Please wear white panties and stockings, suspenders, not hold-ups. I look forward to it.” He rang off.
BLOODY HELL! was my first thought after that. My second thought was, who in God’s name calls them ‘panties’. A huge blush of shame swept up and down me. Clearly he did. And clearly I would from now on, judging by the reaction I felt in my knickers. I looked at my phone. It was 2.30 pm.
I fumbled around on google maps to work out my journey, feeling underwater. What to do first? Plan the route, see if I had any white pan… knickers, stockings oh fuck, when was the last time I wore them. And what do you wear on top when you know it’s largely irrelevant. Oh God!! Why am I even having this thought…. I’m NOT going to take my clothes off in front of a complete stranger. Am I?

Musings on secrecy

There is an upcoming programme on Radio 4 about how much online communication has altered the way we relate to one another. Has it made us more homogenous, or has it allowed individuality to flourish? In terms of “kink” (a word I hate), never has it been easier to contact and write to other like-minded people. However, there remains something sad in it all to me. Here I am named Blackbird. What does that tell anyone really? What’s in a name…

Well, a lot. Our history, our sense of self, our identity as we have known it all our lives. Our names contain something of our souls. When we meet someone, it’s the first thing we tell them. In well-run groups, knowing names is given paramount importance.

I am uneasy particularly because I have spent all my life trying to join up the various aspects of existence. My work isn’t something I “go to” because I have to make money. It arises out of my passion for singing and a desire to share it with others. I don’t “socialise” – I have deep and personal friendships with others, where I seek to find out what the major issues of their soul-searchings are and bear witness to them, rather than swop tips about making the world an easier place to negotiate or show off achievements or holidays.

In my experience the world is a very difficult place to be because not many are concerned with their own internal journey. Few are courageous enough to question their own motives or constantly revise their interraction with others on the basis of new information gained in relationships. We don’t like to be challenged, it’s painful and there isn’t time. And we don’t like the pain of others being evident because it reminds us of ours.

Online friends write from the heart more often because they can hide behind identities created to separate out the “wordly” from the “internal”. I realise I take an extreme position on this. We should all be allowed privacy. But writing one’s deep sexual truths online has already crossed that boundary and made the private, public so the argument doesn’t hold water.

And who do we think is receiving our revelations? It can be enormously comforting to be met online. It can be a moment of grace towards a hidden part of oneself that dare not speak its name in other contexts. But it can also feel like sand running through your fingers when the lines are down and you can’t just pop round for a cup of tea.   

I tell my friends about my sexuality and they are interested (as long as they don’t have to take on board the gruesome details!) because of the emotional dynamics of it. What it means to me. I bring it up judiciously because it is usually of benefit to them too, to think about their own.

I don’t have a conclusion here. Just a sadness that we can’t trust more.

My name is Rachel, by the way.

24/5? How on earth can that work…?

That’s the offer on the table. And thoroughly reasonable it is too. T needs space to kick back into himself after 25 years of not doing so and who am I to begrudge him that. “Little sub”, that’s who….. She would rather be spanked, caned, controlled, put in the corner, constantly erotically humiliated – anything but be ignored for 2 days. He understands, just can’t comply. He even professes to want 24/7 himself eventually. He enjoys the power exchange just as much as I do. It’s just he’s not ready for it. We have a short hand for his needing space. We call it “Captain Beefheart” time. Stemming from a conversation when he said he needed to be able to listen to Captain Beefheart for hours on end if he wanted sometimes. (cue: Madness, My Girl’s Mad at Me)

Well he has plenty of it now (if that’s sounds angry, it is, I can’t help it). Since I have started taking my sexuality out of his exclusive hold – something I loved and wanted for a long time, I find myself less desperate for him and more like a teenager going out on the town, new forum, new spanking people to talk and flirt with. And one dear online Sir who hasn’t disappeared altogether into realms vanilla.

And I must paint my walls, and work out my new phone, and write and cook and… and…. and check for emails from him too often. Too often Blackbird….

The story I was finagled into writing by my online dom

When a young lady makes contact, out of the blue, demanding that a story be written for her, there are only one or two possible outcomes.  Neither involves me writing the story.  One stings a lot, and the other produces the following.  You, the reader, must decide if her effort is satisfactory, her fate to be determined by the comments you provide.

It was getting on for 11 when I cracked. He wasn’t going to budge. I knew I was in serious trouble because silence was the ultimate sanction, the one he knows I hate the most. It drives me bonkers. Earlier in the evening I had managed to justify my actions quite easily to myself. It had been very hard to get through the new list of tasks, and to have failed at one was hardly a sign of rebellion. Or so I thought. But as the night wore on and I flicked the tv around and drank wine too quickly, I realised my mistake. I had agreed to obey him in everything he required, I had even ASKED for increased discipline, for Pete’s sake, and now, on the first day, I’d blown it because it hadn’t been convenient to me.

I looked at my phone again. The text I’d sent him said 7.23 pm; ages ago. He had told me that I wasn’t to come and see him that night. It would be good for me to write my journal and dwell on the effect the tasks produced in me. I was to text him that they were done, and get to bed early. Oh God! I’m too honest for my own good. Why couldn’t I just have lied about cumming? He would never have known as there was no opportunity for him to inspect me. I’d known why I had to earlier in the day. I get so ratty and distracted when I’m worked up and I needed my thoughts straight to be on top of things. But now, I realised it was the worst instruction to have flouted. It was the control he loved best, to have me walk around all day in white knickers with no release until I was given permission.

I couldn’t bear it any longer by 10.15. I knew I only had a small window before I’d be too drunk to cycle. I would have to go round and throw myself on his mercy. Only I knew that would be the last thing I’d get. I fumbled around for lights and keys, my hands too nervous, my mind too distracted to be competent. At least it wasn’t far. I breathed in the abruptly colder Autumn air and braced myself. Thank God my bike practically knew the way on it’s own. I reached his door, my mind racing over the possibilities of what might happen. This was different now. Any memory of past minxy misbehaving to get spanked had vanished. I knew, as I’d asked for his serious discipline, I was not going to like the consequences of my actions. At all.

The catch buzzed open. He was an osteopath so had door release to let in clients. Woefully I made my way in and went in search of him. He was nowhere to be found. It dawned on me he must be in his consulting room at the back. I pushed the door open gently to find him standing next to his couch. The jolt of the look he gave me will stay with me forever. I had failed my tasks, I’d interrupted his evening plans, I’d come to see him unbidden. My humiliation was complete. I hung my head in shame and waited.

“Jessica, put your hands on your head. Now.” He moved around the room, gently moving things and preparing.

I started to shake. I knew better than to speak.

His tone was cold. “Come here.”

I moved through water it seemed. I had to look up to see where the couch was but daren’t meet his eyes. I drew closer to him and felt a surge of lust, even in my predicament. He was so damn sexy. I looked down again as he reached out, matter-of-factly and started to undo the buttons of my coat. My arms fell to my sides to help its removal but as he drew it off my shoulders I realised there was no ounce of affection in the gesture. I felt naked already. Next, my dress. Whisked up and over my head in one gesture. Unclipping my bra, pulling down my tights for me to step out of, leaving me standing in only knickers, I felt like a little girl being dealt with before her bath. Perfunctorily.

“Bend over, Jessica.”

I had no doubt he meant the couch. That place of healing that usually had such wonderful associations was now ominous. He had never spanked me in here before. It felt terrible, terrible that he had stepped so far away from the usual sessions over his knee. They now seemed glowingly loving in comparison to this. I bent over and gripped the far edge covered in toweling, such inappropriately friendly material to be in contact with.

He made me wait. All he did for what seemed like an age was pull my knickers up into my bottom cleft to expose me. And to smooth his finger along the tightness it created over my soft lips. Too soft. I understood the gesture. He owned me there and I’d had no right to flout his instructions. I heard the cane swish behind me and my stomach dropped. Oh God, the cane. The highest implement for expression of disapproval in our hierarchy. The hairbrush hurt the worst, but the cane dug deepest into my mind. Bad girl, bad, bad girl.

I had only received it twice before. I didn’t want to remember why. I just lay my head down and tried to concentrate my will on not moving. If I did, the stroke would be repeated. And yet I knew that it would be his pleasure to witness my inability to control myself as the outrageous stinging pain ripped through my bottom. All of them would count.

“Jessica, it’s 24 strokes. 12 for disobeying me and 12 for coming here and interrupting my evening. You must stay still, or I start again, from the beginning.”

What! From the beginning? My mind raced to take in the impossibility of withstanding the punishment again from the start. And yet I wouldn’t be able to stay still…

“Do you understand, Jessica?”

T

We met again yesterday for a talk. His emotions are a real stumbling block. In many ways he is the most sophisticated human being I’ve ever met. Get him on Shakespeare and his understanding of the nuances and ambiguity of human desire are peerless. Get him talking about himself, and he doesn’t know. Not his fault. He wants to know, unlike so many people, but he is missing some vital bits of the jigsaw puzzle. He can’t allow too much pain to enter his consciousness for fear of anihilation. As Jung would have it, there is too much in the shadow. He is never able to cry, and if there was ever a man that needed to grieve his losses and wounds, it’s him.

It makes me think again about the relationship of “kink” to the emotional. I don’t believe the desire to dominate, or be dominated, is merely a reaction to past humiliation. That’s too simple and clearly not, from reading and talking to people, a defining factor in whether one wants to spank or be spanked. But it is a conduit, as any deep passion is, to understanding and possible healing. That I know from my own experience, both vocally and sexually. And T, when he was in dominant mode gained a surety and confidence in himself that seemed to put a missing piece back in his make-up. And I too, when submissive have access to parts of me, young parts, that were similarly neglected or trampled upon in the past.

It was a tantalizingly close thing. We are both subtle and intelligent thinkers and the creatviity we brought to a putative 24/7 D/s dynamic was exciting, restoratative, deeply erotic and fun! But it has been blown out of the water by his moving back home. He has never managed to inhabit his own space – choosing to live with others most of his adult life since the break-up of his marriage. A small flat he bought in order to care for his, then, 5-year old daughter on his own, languished towards dereliction in that time. I knew when we met he would have to go back there, to reclaim something important to his soul. So whilst exploring my submissive self, all the time “grown-up” me was arranging builders and encouraging him to go there. I ended up splayed between his need to at last take possession of what is his and my growing need for a constant dom. The image of legs and arms tied to a rack in an S/M dungeon spring to mind. One that slowly stretches the poor victim apart until they split….

I want to thank particularly here, my dear online dom – who has in some measure stopped the gearing from ripping me completely asunder and held some vital part of my submissiveness, through his stories and his attention over the past couple of weeks. Priceless.

Thought wins

Yesterday turned into a very interesting time of stimulating conversation, first with a singer I teach (also a friend) and later with P. Each drew me out of the swampy mass of emotion which seems to be my dwelling-place these days and it was very good indeed to put my feet on drier land for once. Since this is a blog primarily about sex not singing, though they are equally honest pursuits, I’ll talk about the evening.

I did wear the nylons – under tight jeans and my long boots, which I always wear for confidence and walked up the road to the pub. I realised as I got there that I hate going into pubs on my own at the best of times but right now, it seemed almost impossible. But I did, wrapping around me the blanket my online dom had notionally given me for protection as he went back to his vanilla world. I bought a large glass of red wine and stood waiting and watching the Friday night meet-ups and collective sighs of release from the work-a-day week. P turned up rather breathless and apologetic though he was only a little late, and with some internal amusement I treated it like the beginning of a singing lesson when I often have to allow time for someone to “arrive” in the room. You can’t sing if you are not in your body. It struck me again how very considerate all the doms are I’ve met over the years. It seems they are almost too sensitive to be in the world without the counter-balancing sexual desire to control – enjoy some power. Hardly Fifty Shades of Grey, from what I hear.

We didn’t find a seat, though there was one, but P thought it was taken, displaying another common trait I find in doms, lack of worldly confidence. So we stood and I launched into a discussion of D/s, whilst enjoying his presence and those piercing blue eyes. We first met 3 years ago. It was a crazy week when I was at the height of my “playing” and had been with 4 men already. Reckless but fun. I gave them all the perfect premise on which to punish me. “You are such a naughty girl for allowing a strange man into your flat in the middle of the night” – swish, crack! They were right really, I wouldn’t be driven to it by my desires these days. But I don’t regret it either. I trust the way people write. If they can express themselves with sophistication, good spelling and grammar, there isn’t much to be afraid of I find.

As the evening wore on, P reminded me of that time before T, when sex was for playing. He is polyamorous, sincerely so. It’s not an excuse to rush around having sex, he loves his play partners – and has kept a tenuous connection to me over months and months, so I guess he is at least interested and fond of me too. It’s the glasses partly. He loves women who wear glasses. Lovely for me. He is a self-confessed misanthrope (though I don’t believe it) and lives in highly impatient tension with the modern world, the chattering, vacuous media, and the hordes of people rushing pointlessly around jabbering (his words). He loves to spend life painting in his studio, domming girls and engaging in good conversation (and food). A modern day twist on epicurianism that I like very much. I’m a mirror image – though my art is different.

We left the noisy pub with relief after one drink and walked back to my flat, the drinks are cheaper here and I wanted to find out if anything was going to happen. I mean from my side. He was obviously up for it, but only if I was. Again, that considerateness – the delicious, paradoxial position of “I will only take your pants down and ruthlessly punish your bottom and humiliate you if that’s ok with you”!  It wasn’t. But not in a bad way. I got to see the flash of his “dom look” which I love and felt it was only right to show him I was wearing the tights he asked for. But other than that, it felt too risky emotionally in my present state.

No, what I got out of it was hearing about what happens in all those clubs and dungeons around London, from someone who is honest and is able to navigate what I would find scary and distasteful to witness. I can’t imagine enjoying public displays of humiliation and beatings – especially, as he said, because some people are clearly going through it when they don’t want to. You can get easily hurt if you don’t know yourself.

And what about “neediness” P? I asked. Where do you take your vulnerable self? He admitted, as I thought he would, that he deals with that side of himself on his own, and has no patience with needy subs. Counts me out then. But of course, there is the paradox of knowing about a side of oneself and honestly speaking about it which renders it almost attractive so he wasn’t put off me.

There is something that doesn’t match up here. P loves a brat, he says, and we all know bratty, demanding behaviour comes from neediness, unless it’s an act. So I concluded the women in his life are holding something emotionally for him. They have to express the “neediness” of both parties in their submission and then let him walk away. This was confirmed by him talking about his primary girlfriend who feels compelled to tell him all her sexual adventures whilst he is a little bored by them, and doesn’t feel the need to reciprocate. Poor her.

There might be some fun mind games in future with P, but I’m not really interested in someone who can’t express the whole of themselves. It gets so wearing doing it for them.