Why me?

This is an excerpt from a story I was writing and abandoned months ago.  The story itself isn't salvageable, but certain pieces of it may be.  This is one of my favorites.
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“Why me?”

 

“Because, Olivia, you are different.”  Jacob circled her, stopping behind her back where she could no longer see him.  She started to turn around, but his hand on her shoulder stopped her. 

“When I came in to speak with the hiring manager that day, I had an entirely different resource in mind and then I saw you.”  His hands moved as he spoke, adjusting the tension in the rope around her wrists and forearms, pulling it tighter, forcing her back to arch as her arms were pulled closer together behind her back.  She sighed in mounting relief as she waited for him to continue.

“You were getting coffee in the kitchen.  In a room full of people coming in, greeting each other, chatting, you were completely alone.  A compact, self-contained powder keg of unexploded tension, practically radiating spiky waves warding others off.  I don’t think you even noticed people moving out of your way.  You are used to that, aren't you?  You glanced at me as you passed by on your way out, do you remember?”  Jacob paused, giving Olivia a chance to answer but she just shook her head, the feelings coursing through her making it difficult to think let alone remember.

Jacob continued working the rope, layering and twisting as Olivia began to drift, relaxing into the strands and the safety they provided.  Her eyes closed as she prepared to float, but Jacob wasn't done yet.

 

“It doesn’t matter, you were so wrapped up in your own thoughts, I doubt you saw anything around you.  But you see me now, don’t you?”  Again he paused, waiting, his hand resting lightly between her straining shoulder blades. The feel of his warm palm on cool skin sent shivers of impatience down Olivia's back.  She whimpered softly and pressed back against his hand, urging him to keep going. 

“Don’t you?”  Suddenly, it was no longer a question, it was a command.  Still she remained stubbornly silent. The feel of rope coiling around her limbs and beginning to snake around her torso was intoxicating, making her reckless.

“Answer me.” Jacob’s fingers tangled in the curls on the back of her head, tugging on them, bringing up her face. 

A shudder ran through her, warring sensations of pain and arousal settling deep in her belly as her eyes sought him out. 

“Yes, Sir.”

“Yes, Sir, what?”

“Yes, Sir, I see you now,” her lower lip trembled, the pressure in her scalp bringing unwanted tears to her eyes.  Instantly the pressure eased and blood rushed back in, heating her face.  His fingers massaged the spot, sending darts of pleasure through her entire body as her eyes drifted shut.

“Good girl.”

Going without...

I didn't think I would be adding any further posts to this blog.  With each passing week and each passing month, a bit of the "me" who wrote all those entries atrophied until I woke up one day and the life that made this blog possible was gone.

It was a gradual loss.  A slow dulling of senses and numbing of feelings.  An almost imperceptible seeping away; the cracked bucket of water on a sandy beach.  One minute it's filled with water and you think it'll just sit there waiting for you, but the next time you look it's empty.  While you were busy paying attention to something you thought was more important, while you took the water, secure in its bucket, for granted, it escaped.  It escaped so stealthily and slowly that the sand underneath is already bone dry.  It's as if the water was never there to begin with and you can't help but wonder if you imagined it. 

Had I imagined the whole thing?  Had there really been a time when a single look from Him could send shivers down my back and make my stomach contract with pleasure and fright?  Had I made up the bruises and the rope marks and the long red remnants of a knife dance?  Had I really swung, tied up and naked, in front of strangers in an exhibition hall?  Had I really enjoyed that?

My body held no memory, no scars, no residual afterglow and there was no one around to remind me.  The insidious numbness has set in so slowly and so thoroughly that by the time I realized the full extent of it, it was far too late for recovery.  Still, I tried.  I turned to the books and stories I loved, I went back to my own writing, I even came back to this blog and nothing helped.  None of it made sense, none of it connected or found an answering echo of a sensation.

So I stopped trying. 

I put away the books.  I filed away the stories.  I pretended this blog didn't exist.

You might ask, so what's so wrong with a life without D/s?  Nothing...  There's nothing wrong with it.  It's a fine life.  A fine, dull, boring, lifeless life.  A life lived at half-volume.  It's not too sad and not too happy.  On a scale of emotions from one to ten, a life without D/s is compressed to a scale of three to eight.  By all accounts, it's a safe and normal life.

It's a life that leads me to take a knife to my own arms just to feel something.

I may not remember what a life with D/s feels like, but I remember that it's better than this and I'm ready for this to be over.

A scene...

I love editing...  Writing comes and goes.  Sometimes my fingers can't keep up with my thoughts.  Other times I feel like I'm dragging the words out one by one; words that neither resist nor cooperate.  If I give up, I am annoyed at myself for quitting.  If I persevere, what ends up on the page is flat and dull and sets my teeth on edge it's so bad.  

Editing is always fun though.  It's lazy - the meat is already there, I am just adding the trimmings.  Here's one of my lazy efforts at editing something I wrote years ago.

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So, you'd like me to tell you what a 'scene' is like.  I can see the barely contained curiosity in your eyes; the glint of anticipation at the voyeuristic pleasure.  Do you think you're open-minded enough to hear all the graphic details without flinching?  Do you think you can see me as you do today, a confident, independent woman, and reconcile that image with one of me naked, bound, and helpless on my knees in front of a man who is as likely to strike as to caress?  Is that hesitation I sense in your gaze?  No?  All right, if you're certain…

A scene begins with a collar.  A band of tightly woven leather that he secures around my neck with a small padlock.  A short, chain-linked leash hangs from the ring in the front.  Are you wondering why he needs a leash if I am a submissive?  The answer is simple - submissive isn't the same as controlled.  The leash is to further his control of me, of my body.  To force me down to my knees if he wants me kneeling.  To pull me up, if he wishes me to stand.  To show me that he can make my body obey even when my mind rebels and resists.

After I'm collared, he'll have me undress.  I'll be allowed to keep my stockings, perhaps my bra, occasionally my high heeled shoes, but nothing else.  He won't undress, but I may be allowed to remove some of his clothes later; much later.  What he does from scene to scene varies, I have no control over any of it, except for my safeword.  You want to know what a safeword is?  It is what it sounds like – a word to keep me safe.  Something for me to say if I wish him to stop what he's doing.  My safeword is "red" and I've never used it.

You seem perplexed by that.  Are you recalling the bruises you've glimpsed in the past?  Yes, of course he hurts me, but the safeword is not to prevent hurt, it is to prevent harm.  A subtle difference to be sure, but pain is not something to be avoided.  Not when you play as we do.  Some pain is sought and cherished.  Like the pain delivered by him.

You want to know why I speak of him with such reverence?  Reverence...  Surely it's a sacrilege to use that word to refer to what we do.  But that's how I think of him.  In his role as my Dominant he's larger than life, he's everything and I revere him. 

You don't understand, do you?  No, I'm not laughing at you.  Don't take offense, none is intended.  It's just not something that I can explain.  You have to experience the dizzying rush of surrender, the absolute freedom of utter powerlessness, the release from all thought in order to understand.

Each scene is different and yet, the same…  He'll often blindfold me and then use cuffs and ropes and padlocks to restrain me.  Sometimes I'll be able to move, sometimes I won't.  Sometimes he'll secure me to the door, my arms stretched high above my head, wrists held together, standing on tiptoes, exposed to his eyes and hands.  Sometimes he'll suspend me from bolts in the ceiling, leaving me shuddering and writhing at the sensation of ropes cutting into the flesh whose weight they bear.  At other times he'll restrain me with words, leaving me bound by nothing but his commands to obey.

What does he do once I'm restrained?  Whatever pleases him…  He'll touch and caress, hit with his hands or fists, strike with a whip or a flogger, drip hot wax or run ice-cubes over bare skin, contort my body into poses I didn't know it could take.  And through it all, I will moan, whimper, sigh, laugh, cry out, and sometimes plea and beg him to stop.

My brain will commingle pleasure and pain, my vision will be lost to the blindfold, my other senses overwhelmed by the barrage of sensations he delivers.  The sound of his voice, the warmth of his body, the taste of his skin, an overwhelming feast for my insatiable hunger.  The sweet torment will go on for minutes or hours and when it's over, when he releases the bonds and takes me in his arms, gently stroking my hair, I will finally be at peace; sated and content.  And safe.  Always safe with Him.

Do you understand now what a 'scene' is like?

Anticipation

I've been re-reading and revising some of my older writing pieces and came across this one...

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Alone, in the middle of the room, her slender, petite frame is wracked by shivers.  Nerves tingle like over tightened violin strings, ready to snap.  Toes curl inward and then back, caressing the short nap of the soft rug under her nylon clad feet.

Air floats over the exposed skin, the bare back, arms, breasts.  Nipples tighten, pushing forward the silver rings threaded through them.  

She flexes her fingers, letting the tips skim over her thighs, feeling the goosebumps above the lace band of the thigh high stockings.  Her breath comes in short impatient gasps, keeping pace with the racing heart.  The wait is taxing, all she wants is to stop thinking and start feeling.  Finger flex again, hands ball into fists, short nails press into palms, leaving deep grooves.  Quick bursts of pain rushing through, but it's not the same as pain delivered through Him.

Footsteps on the hardwood floor, the creaking is disorienting.  He could be on the stairs across the room or right behind her, just off the rug's edge.  She shivers again and swallows, tasting the tang of excitement commingled with fear.

"Close your eyes."  She tenses for a moment and then exhales, He's right behind her.  Eyes drift shut, accompanied by a deep breath.  The relief is so close she can almost taste it.

The smooth cotton of His shirt caresses her back for a moment as His hands fit the blindfold over her eyes.  The cool fabric settles over her trembling eyelids, offering protection for the tentative gaze hidden inside.  another swallow, another taste of fear and arousal and now impatience.  What does impatience taste like?  She runs her tongue over her parched lips, catching the bottom lip between her teeth, biting down gently.  She can't see Him, can't feel Him, her entire being is concentrating on her remaining senses.

The warmth of His breath invades the shell of her ear, the soft whisper of instructions melting her insides.

"Turn to your right and walk forward.  Slowly."

Complying, she feels the ground under her feet change from rug to hardwood floor.  One step, two, three...

"Stop."  This time the voice is harsher, coming from far away, freezing her in place.  "Arms up in front of you, palms forward."

The coolness of the painted wall greets the overheated palms, a welcome balm to the grooves from her nails.  She lets the momentum carry her forward, folding her arms, forearms joining the hands, letting the wall absorb the heat, inhaling the crisp cleanness of the paintwork.  Forehead bows to the hard surface, pleading for a place to rest.

His fingers tangle in her short curls, sending the blood rushing to her scalp.  Head pulled back from the wall, only her palms touching it now, just as He intended.  His voice is seductively soft as He asks,

"Did I say you could lean against it?"

"No, Milord..."  her reply is scarcely a whisper, floating gently between them, barely audible but unmistakeable in its penitence.

His hand withdraws and for an endless moment she is wondering if He walked away.  Or, even worse, if He is standing there watching her.  Ears pick up the trace of His even breathing a scant moment before His mouth settles on the base of her neck, nipping, licking, drawing the tender flesh between His teeth, before releasing it and leaving her alone again.  She whimpers softly, the brief burst of pleasure already receding, but the scorching need inside burning brighter.

Silence again...  She knows that He delights in the torment of anticipation, in teaching her patience, a lesson she finds the hardest to learn.  Past scenes, conversations, shared fantasies are floating through her mind; has she guessed what He intends to to?  A breathless pause and then the blessed relief of knowledge.  The soft hiss of the whip presages the strands kissing the exposed skin.  Hot streaks of pain accompanied by a soft moan of pain and contentment.

The wait is over and so it begins...

Rope

There are so many different ways to bind someone - leather collars and cuffs, metal restraints, spreader bars, chains, a combination of any of the above. And then there is rope...

Treated hemp happens to be my favorite, although the feel of silk or bamboo rope on bare skin is lovely. But the softer, gentler types of rope just don't appear to be as serious in their intent as hemp can be. It's a personal preference and certainly there are ways to bind limbs and body just as effectively with silk as with hemp.

There is just something so infinitely seductive about the rough smoothness of hemp coils settling on your skin. Being bound in hemp makes me think of being hugged by a python - an embrace that is at once strong, reassuring and dangerous.

I've escaped from rope countless times, but I prefer escaping from synthetics or the softer rope types. Hemp is just too inviting, I want to prolong its bonds not leave them.

Rope is a pleasure and a challenge at once. I'm not as limber as I'd like and yet, with rope, there's always the temptation to bend further, to fold myself into its strands, to forget that limbs fall asleep. Bending and twisting when I'm being tied is something my body does without any commands from me.

I hate being blindfolded but when I'm being tied, I almost always self-blind. I do not want anything to distract me from the physical sensation of rope on my skin. I'll close my eyes, I'll tune out all sounds but the sound of rope rustling against itself or against J's hands. All my senses are tuned to the sensation of being bound. It's incomparable to anything else.

When being tied for actual bondage rather than practice or decorative play, there always comes a moment when I am sufficiently bound to relax into the ropes. That moment is magical. It's like holding your breath and then letting it go and feeling your lungs settle into the safety of your rib cage. The blending of bondage and safety is intoxicating and that's when I start to float.

I've never taken mind-altering drugs, but I would imagine that floating in rope is similar to letting your mind go under the influence of drugs. There's a sense of being suspended between reality and dream, a feeling of weightlessness and languor. It's a sensation I have not experienced to the same degree under any other circumstances.

And then there's playing while bound in rope, but that's a topic for another post.

Pain

I'm fascinated by pain. Physical pain.

Self-inflicted pain is finite, at least it is for me. There's only so far I can go in hurting myself before I stop. I suspect that I stop well before the point where I would invoke my safeword, but then with myself there's no pride in continuing. I already know just how much of a coward I am so there's no fooling anyone or pretending to be someone I'm not.

What I find more intriguing is pain inflicted by others whether with or without my consent.

When someone bumps into me or steps on my foot or when I walk into the edge of a table, my instinct is to hit back, to return the favor. I don't, of course, but there's restraint involved with not lashing out in response. This kind of pain is not welcome and it enrages me to suffer it. I view it as a personal affront even if I am the klutz who walked into the same damn protruding corner yet again.

Then there's pain that I consent to receiving. And this is where pride comes in. I'm not too proud to scream and cry and even ask for it to stop. But I won't use my safeword because I hate admitting defeat and until I've said "red" somehow I haven't surrendered. It's an illusion of semantics, I realize that. Of course, I do.

And sometimes I can't help but wonder just how far I can be pushed before pride yields to cowardliness, before pain becomes more intolerable than loss of face and that hated word emerges amid screams. I'm torn between wanting to find out and wanting to preserve the illusion, if only to myself, that I won't reach that point.

J knows me well and after years of playing on and off, He can read my body. He doesn't push me to the limit. He has His reasons and I've learned not to question Him when He is Milord. I do enough questioning when He's just J.

He pushed me to the breaking point once, years ago, very deliberately. To show me that He can. Since that one time, He was always the one to draw the line, to stop the scene. He knows how much I can take and I know that He's holding back, but do I want Him to stop? To find out exactly where I would draw the line if I held the pen in my hand?

I don't think so... for the simple reason that I trust Him more than I trust myself.

Apology

Life has been filled with things not suitable for this particular blog so instead, here's a quick little sketch that I've unearthed in my files.


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The door opens with a soft whine and she tenses, pulling on the bonds without thinking. She cannot see the person walking in, chained as she is facing the wall, but she knows it's him. His voice is soft and comes from so far away that she decides he must be standing right in the doorway.

"Are you ready to apologize?"

There's silence as she bites her lip, barely suppressing a sob and yet unwilling to speak. She doesn't dare admit that she no longer remembers the verbal transgression for which she's being punished. The details fled her mind almost the moment he left her alone; the moment her mind began to drift. This must be what being high on drugs is like, she remembers thinking absently.

His return now has pulled her back to reality but the resurfacing is abrupt and jars her into tensing and feeling stupidly self-conscious. How ridiculous since he's seen it all. Still, being on display and yet unable to see in return is excruciating. One of those things she doesn't think she'll ever get used to.

"Very well..."

She gasps softly, tightening her muscles in a wordless plea for him to stay, to not leave her alone again. Like an air bubble, the safeword floats to her lips and she grits her teeth, savagely clenching her jaws, swallowing it before it can escape. The door clicks shut again and she slumps against the wall, resting her burning cheek against its rough, cool expanse.

Her arms are chained to bolts above her, spread at the same wide angle as her legs which are chained to the floorboards. On a bed, she'd be spread-eagled, beguilingly inviting. But instead, she's on her feet, stretching up, naked except for her ever present fuck-me heels and black, thigh high stockings.

A sigh that ends in a plaintive, barely audible moan brings tears to her eyes, but before the treacherous tokens of weakness can roll down her cheeks, she hears an unmistakable swishing sound. She has less than a millisecond to react before the rush of air is followed by the feel and sound of a heavy, multi-stranded flogger striking bare flesh. Her gasp seems unnaturally loud but on its heels comes another strike and now the tears flow freely.

Tears of relief and submission; tears of apology.

The show

A little sketch for the enjoyment of the voyeurs out there...

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When she enters the playspace, every head turns. People involved in their own scenes pause for a moment to watch the petite form moving through the parting crowd. Barely five feet tall, she carries herself with the unconscious bearing of an ice princess. Head held high, her posture is imperiously straight through the line of a bare back. In the dimly lit playspace sudden snatches of light dance on her pierced nipples as she walks.

The eyes that follow her take in the firm buttocks framed by a black web of a gossamer thin thong and the taut legs encased in silky black thigh-high stockings. Six inch heels click a staccato of control through the hushed space. Silently, she moves through the little groups of watchers and players, clearly one of them but different enough for their gazes to trail after her in curious fascination.

Even more jarring than the sudden jolt of energy created by her entrance, is the leash snaking from the tight black collar encircling her slender throat. The man holding the other end of it is almost an afterthought in her wake. And yet, a single glance at his calm and impassive face makes it clear that this strange and beguiling creature belongs to him. And now the eyes are on both of them, slipping from one to the other, as if attempting to discern the meaning of the unlikely pairing.

She stops under a recently vacated suspension frame and gracefully sinks to her knees, her hands resting palms up on her thighs, her face lifted up to him in rapt attention. The men in the room watch him; envious questions clear in the barely concealed curiosity. Who is he? What has he done to get her, to tame her?

His eyes give nothing away as he drops the lead into her lap and steps back. She shudders, but doesn’t move; continuing to watch him from her position on the floor.

His lips part as he speaks to her but neither his face nor her expression reveals the content of his message. In response, she reaches for his hand and bows her head briefly, kissing his fingers. Still on her knees, she leans back, lifting her arms and stretching until she’s resting on her back on the floor. Her body arches up, in a graceful backward bow, arms crossing at the wrists, continuing the line of her back, palms still facing up. It is a pose of aching vulnerability and surrender.

He moves to stand astride her, his boots framing her waist, engendering a cascade of shivers down the slender frame beneath him. The silent audience watches as his hands deftly work on the wooden beams above him. Soon, various lengths of colorful hemp hang down and once again his lips part, issuing further commands.

The motionless body tenses and changes shape, moving gracefully into the strands of rope, accepting their captivity. His hands skate over her, forming loops and ties and twists until suddenly, with a final tug, she’s flying. A suspended study of shifting form and beauty; a macabre vision of requited love and trust and submission.

The flogger swishes through the air, greeting the waiting flesh and the audience sighs in appreciation. The show has begun.

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Longing...

Last night I saw a movie. It was the second time for this particular movie but it didn't get any better. It's poorly made and the acting is mostly horrendous with a few bright spots that do not unfortunately manage to salvage it. I wasn't watching it for the acting though, I was watching it for the content. I was watching it because I wanted to feel part of it.

I've written before about my love/hate relationship with the book Story of O. On my other blog, in the list of books you'll note that I recently read the sequel, Return to the Chateau. Don't bother picking it up, it's not worth the hour or two you'd spend leafing through it. Story of O is intriguing, puzzling, infuriating, and ultimately unfulfilling, but it's still worth reading. Return to the Chateau is none of those things. Instead, it's a shining example of why "quit while you're ahead" is such an enduring phrase.

I just cannot seem to reconcile myself with the lack of well-written books on the subject of BDSM and D/s specifically. Story of O, for all its failings, is beautifully written and I only regret that I'm unable to read it in the original. But it's the exception rather than the rule and I've lost count of how many books I've picked up and forced myself to slog through only to find that my original assessment was correct and they weren't worth reading. So why do I keep trying?

To say that I'm a masochist would be too simple of an explanation and it would also be wrong. I may be something of a masochist when it comes to physical pain, but not when it comes to reading badly written books. That's not masochism, it's an exercise in boredom and frustration.

I keep trying because I haven't lost hope of finding a book that combines both beautiful language and an engaging and believable story. I long for a story that I can read and relate to. One that can excite and touch me. What I wouldn't give for a story that inflames the senses and quickens the breathing. A story that makes you want to recreate the words in real life.

I long to find a book that speaks to me but instead I keep coming across crippled stories. They seduce me with a lovely and engaging premise as a skeleton but the body is so grotesque and misshapen, one loses sight of what's underneath.

Reading these novels and stories, all I can think is, "can it really be this bad?" and often I will find myself flipping back to the cover, to the brief snippet of the skeleton that deceived me into buying the book. Most of the time, I want to forget what I read; to flush the terrible writing from my mind and start again with just the snippet and the hope of something good to come, but it's no use. Some of the worst ones stay with me the longest and then I wonder, "could I have done better?"

Perhaps one of these days I'll do it... one of these days, I'll take the snippet and create my own body on that lovely and engaging skeleton.

I want...

... to love and be loved in return.

... to trust; completely, absolutely, and with no reservations.

... to be challenged and rise to the challenges, again and again.

... to dissolve in surrender.

... to feel my heart expand and my thoughts quiet each time I kneel in submission.

... to be pushed further than I thought possible and watch the barriers crumble.

... to bend and be molded but never broken.

... to forgive and be forgiven.

... to accept and learn and to be understood and accepted in return.

... to be achingly vulnerable and to feel safe.

I want it all. I want to be His.