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?
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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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?
