Tag Archives: submission

Drifting away

It’s not possible, not possible. So much potential just slipping through our fingers. There is no way for us to make 24/7 dominance and submission work – and we are so talented at it. But there are other needs. The daily round, work, independence, separate homes. T needs time to dream himself into being again. There is so much blocked up, that may never be released, so much hurt that dare not speak. And whatever submission I offer is not enough to change things for him. I can dig his garden, wash his sheets, strive, strive to please him, knowing I will fail somewhere and be over his knee for the stinging smacks that are our soundtrack. It has been the rhythm of a year together. But it can’t hold us.

What beauty there is in the moment when the pain becomes too much, my mind beholds the certainty that I will be taken beyond what I can bear and the pleading and writhing starts. What pleasure he took in Lording that moment. What hidden pulses came alive to that energy in his swinging arm as he spanked me beyond endurance and witnessed my undoing. But there is no place for it now. What I need is a deep unravelling of my will and he is not able to provide it, try as we might.

The Story of T

I relented. 24/5 it is. Or whatever that turns into. I need this man. I need his mind, his heart and his dominance. I only wish I never had to be out of his sight, that life was one long bout of lying across his lap, for his caresses and his spanking, however impractical and ridiculous a wish.

The urge to submit is so strong that I shall submit to what I REALLY don’t like – to have to live apart sometimes, each with our own home. In our year together I have often felt life circumstances punish me more harshly than any actual hairbrushing that has me squirming and begging over T’s knee. The latter at least is certain, has a beginning and an end, is intolerable whilst it lasts, but then restores me to myself and his love in a way nothing else can. But the open-ended “let’s see how it goes-ness” of actual real-life relating often has me reeling with uncertainty about whether I’m loved or not.

The power of D/s is in its pin-point  accuracy. Submitting to T, I find my whole self enhanced because I’m safe. This is also its cruelty. To have the light of it switched on and off, in a way that any vanilla couple would think a perfectly natural coming and going, is torture.

I am a submissive, not a masochist. Very important distinction. I don’t want to suffer. The pain of a physical punishment is clean, decisive and cathartic for both involved. It promotes security, fun and constant sexual excitement. But it can feel like sand running through my fingers when it is gone.

My challenge, which I seem to have accepted, is to hold on when it’s not there. I can only do that if I separate it from early childhood needs which were unmet and set the adult part of me to the task. That is a partial solution in this chapter of the story of T.

Not a lot of fun.

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.

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?”