Garters and Gags

A not-so-vanilla woman's foray into the world of kink

On the acquisition of a new Dom

To those of you who are yet unaware, I’ve come to find myself in the possession of a new Dom, or rather, I have come to find myself to be the possession of a new Dom. It’s a striking change from one to another, and I’ve come to realize that perhaps Parataxis is, in truth, my first Dom and Mephestus was simply a top.

Among other things. The sheer difference between what I deal with now and what I dealt with before is simply staggering, and I feel as though I’ve become a neophyte and a novice again. Where, under Mephestus, I would simply be a punching-bag of sorts, or a fucktoy, under Parataxis there seems more fullness, a far more rounded and powerful exchange. I’m not simply there to bend over when his other girlfriend(s) isn’t in the mood.

I have a few small rules to follow in public, and a few small rules to follow in private which have proven a little more difficult – a strange thing, as I had expected quite the opposite. In public, I must wait for he to begin a meal before I do; wait for he to pass through doors before me; small, little things that no one else would notice. There’s a new level of respect I’m not used to, it seems, as, one night I jokingly interjected, “Oh shut up!” and was promptly reminded to watch my language. (Truth told, this has now happened a small number of times, and I’m beginning to catch myself.)

I must admit, though it will prove a little difficult I feel far more ‘at home’ with these little rules. They’re little things I have to remember, and little things that, in turn, remind me. An ugly brand and a moniker hardly make me feel at home; a reminder when I’m in his presence that I am not to eat until he has, or that I must ask for permission for this and that. I feel a submissive. I enjoy this. I feel in my place, and though, at times, I feel immensely inconvenienced, at the same I feel as though I’m a little happier for it.

In the meantime, I’ve also come to acquire something more of a boyfriend; my terrible luck, of course, shines through in that, while it turns out that the boy is kinky, he’s a bottom. I should make a point of learning to top. I’ve already begun that journey.

That I am not allowed to decide officiality of relationship status without permission was, most certainly, a surprise given the other day. A lesson learned, but unlikely a lesson to be repeated any time soon.

As it is, I’m content, complete and whole. Between the two, I don’t think I could possibly ask for anything more. I’ve all that I could ask for. I’m happier than I’ve been in quite a while.

And to think, I didn’t really even have to ask all that much.

Ivan Pavlov

“You don’t ask for things, do you?”

I’d spent the night curled up beside him, quite content and, simultaneously, discontent with the sheer amount of touching that’d gone on through the night. He’d raked his nails down my stomach, against my thighs; he’d pinched my nipples until my back arched and my breathing took a desperate, hurried turn. I was conscious most of the night for every grind of his hips, and every brush of his fingers over my breasts, and now that morning had broken I was wet, and wanton, and it had all just gotten more fevered.

Fevered, for me, is probably a small twitch of my lips that looks more like concern, and the arch of my body into every touch and caress and tease. I get more vocal, it becomes obvious that I want it, and yet will I ask?

No, I’ll wait in agony until it’s offered, or taken away, or I’m told to beg for it.

This thought occurred to me this morning.

Light-fucking-bulb.

Funny how something so simple can suddenly and deftly click on in your head: I am the only thing holding me back from what I want.

I was raised more-or-less on the principal that I was to ask for nothing; if I deserved it, it would be granted, and it’s funny how that mentality has continued on today. It’s funny how I never even realized how badly this little quirk was affecting my life until today.

I’ve decided to try and change that aspect of myself. I’m the only reason I can’t have nice things. if i want a drink at a friend’s house, I’ll ask rather than shifting uncomfortably and finally squeaking out a pathetic query as to whether or not they’d be so kind as to allow me a small glass of water to drink.

Funny how I started this ‘new chapter’ off by asking for a Dom, and even that showed just how far I have to go in the process of ‘asking for what I want’.

“Would you, possibly, consider taking me on as a sub, by chance?”

“Are you asking me to be your Dom, or just asking me if hypothetically I’d consider it?”

“Well, uh, I was wondering if you’d take me into consideration?”

“Are you asking me to be your Dom, or if I’d consider it, or is this all hypothetical?”

Insert about five minutes of typing out replies to try and word it just right. No, delete. No, delete. No, delete.

“I want you to be my Dom.”

“Good girl.”

 

I have a long way to go; I know that now.

Triumphant Return

I’ve been scarce, and for good reason. ‘Master’ decided my blog was inflammatory, decided he wanted nothing to do with me; I broke up with him, as I was never attracted to him in the first place. For a guy with however-many girlfriends, he took the break-up rather hard.

The details aren’t important, but he wants the blog down, all the pictures of me. “The brand on your hip is mine; I don’t want to be associated with you, so you have to take all the pictures down.”

No. You put it there. You know it’d be permanent. You’re a big boy. You learn to deal. Maybe you should have thought of this when it was suggested. Maybe you should have turned around and said, “No, permanently scarring a newbie is probably a bad idea.”

Well, that’s your issue now. It’s engraved upon my flesh and I’m taking it as a mark of the past no different to any other scar. ‘And this is from when I tore my foot open on a fence, and this? Oh, I was a slave.’ A key point in my life; a big, well-meaning guy with whom I made some bad decisions and with whom bad decisions were made with me. We’re all at fault here.

Let’s forget all that though. There’s more important things than the sudden disappearance of our favourite blogger; more important than the sudden status of ‘flying solo’.

Yep, that’s right. I don’t have an owner, a Dom, a Master, nor any one person from whom I’ll be taking my beats. One man, ‘D’, the boy of a girl I hooked up with? He’s claimed me as his sultry little concubine. Offers from couples, offers from couples, polyamoury, open relationships, everything everywhere, so many offers and I’m not so sure I’m interested.

Is it bad that, just for a little while, I want just one person who is mine? One person to whom I’m their one? Monogamy’ll probably get boring and mundane quickly. Maybe. Possibly. I don’t even know any more, but there’s that want to be possessed, and that want to possess, that want to be just a little bit jealous, and that want to cause just a little bit of jealousy – I love that, I miss that in poly relationships how easy it is to get into trouble, and how easy it is to get out. Well-meaning, no harm, never any real intention, just a flirt and a tease, and than whoosh, back in the arms of what’s mine, and my possessor.

So I’m flying solo, playing the field, I’ve garnered interest in me – that’s step one, and step two? Find those I’m interested, check.

No, wait, there’s a fatal flaw.

Those in whom I’m interested aren’t so interested in me; those who’re interested in me? I’m not so interested in.

Damn.

How’d that happen? Never had so many offers, and here my standards are too high., my wants are too closed. ‘No, you’ve got a girlfriend; no, you’re not attractive enough; no, you’re not smart enough, or funny enough, or literate in the slightest. None of you’ll do.’

I feel shallow. But then again, I’ve never had standards. I’ve always just gone for what was offered and considered myself lucky. Now I feel like I deserve something good, I’ve kissed my frogs, I have standards, I have wants, and damned if you won’t fulfill them. No, you’re a good guy. You’re just not good for me. Go find someone else, someone who deserves just a little bit less than I do.

 

So I’m flying solo, playing at parties and getting my beats from three, four, five men in a night once a month. A pain-slut, I guess, jumping from one man to the next. Is that okay? I don’t even know any more, I don’t know, nor do I care. I’m enjoying it. I’m playing the field. I’m testing and judging. I’m allowed. Try before you buy? Maybe. Or maybe I’m just surfing the Costco of Kink at lunchtime, snatching up free-samples until I’m full and then waltzing out and buying nothing.

I’m single now. I’m gonna enjoy it. So long as I’m safe, careful, I should be okay. And for all the slander and libel i’ll hold my head proud and take it like a good girl, take every lash of tongue and whispered sting as I would a belt or whip. I might whimper, I might yelp, but I’ll gather a crowd while doing it, and damned if I won’t be walking all the taller tomorrow.

I always did love bruises. Even better when I can show them off.

Subspace

I’m settled on the bus, the familiar repetition of bass, drums and synth that makes up Daft Punk’s Da Funk coursing about me in loud and pounding waves, and drowning out the world – it’s a welcome distraction from the trembling, failing fingertips of emotion and irritability that still grasp my emotional core. A mistake was made, and I know now that I ought to have been more firm with Master. I protested weakly on Thursday evening. I know now that I’ll need to learn to say ‘no’ as opposed it ‘it’s okay, maybe some other time’.

I’d asked to try for subspace. That was my second mistake – assuming that the buzz I’d experienced so long ago was the fabled and romanticized subspace I’d heard so much about. I’d wanted that buzz, that euphoria, that calm and happiness, and asked instead for subspace.
I’m reminded of a tale told during my Spanish classes back in high school, of Mr. D settled around a table during his youth, still on unfamiliar ground with the language, still unsure but trying, and announcing to the table, yo estoy muy embarasado. He’d made a valiant effort, but psudofamiliarity and assumptions led to the announcement of an impending pregnancy, and not the agitation he’d intended. The language of kink is my Spanish. I asked for one thing, under the assumption it was another.

My third mistake was to request a date, and request a date at the end of my weekend. Master, as I have since learned, holds fast to his promises, even against protest. As it happened, vanillas had also mentioned they’d be paying a visit, a visit forgotten in light of other events, and this was met with a momentary curse and a promise that we’d begin as soon as the vanillas had gone home. It was at this point that I began my protest – it’s okay, we could do it another night, I wasn’t upset at all and in truth, considering the passage of time, I was honestly hoping that we would put off the previously scheduled date and try another time, perhaps during the day, or on one of my proverbial ‘Friday’s. But Master holds to his words, and after serving as a fire-cupping example for the vanillas, at the time of their departure, I was instructed to the bedroom, and we began…

I’d stripped and settled upon the floral sheets so unbecoming of Master’s bedroom – the knives, and blindfolds and floggers juxtaposed against the pastel blue. The only bears that ought grace those sheets, I swear, are teddies, and not the hulking behemoth I call Master. I, however, almost fit against them – I admit, I feel small in Master’s presence but never so small as that.

Perhaps it was the new ‘toys’, or the intimidation thereof. Perhaps it was that I knew what was coming or more so that I knew I didn’t. ‘Little one’ he calls me. I had never felt so fitting of that title as then.

Sitting back, I know now, more than ever, the role that emotion and mentality plays in this little game we call kink. Knives frighten me. I’ve cut myself countless times and at countless levels of purpose behind, and every score of flesh and drop of blood has left a scar – I mark more easily than most, a feature both beloved and damned. I scar easily, I welt easily, and I bruise easily. I’m a tiny woman, too, – around five-foot-three and the smallest one in my family – and was raised very much on the premise that everyone is out to hurt me. Knives, especially in the hands of men, terrify me, and there I was, stripped, blindfolded, laying astride Master’s knife and about to hand over all control to a man over a foot taller, over twice my weight, a decade my senior. I was, naturally, absolutely terrified. A large part of me – a very large part of me wanted, then and there, to call red and scramble to my clothing, and rush out the door toward home. I don’t know why I didn’t. Perhaps the knowledge that Master would be at least a little disappointed, perhaps the craving to push past my ingrained mistrust of men, or perhaps the fact that I had been looking forward to my trip past everything I thought I knew and knew I wanted.

The steel was ice-cold against the heated flesh of my rump, and though the dull and flat side of that evil thing was used, it almost felt as though it cut, and my flesh burned behind it more from fright and terror than actual sensation. A few sharp swats with the flat stung. Even now, a good few days later, my mind is swimming again with the terror and sensation. I’m frightened and excited all over again. It barely played into the scene, and yet…

Whether the blade was sheathed or simply tucked to the side I do not know, or do not remember. There was certainly the slice of twine, that much is for sure, as I soon had chopsticks clamped upon my nipples – normally able to put up with a great amount of abuse until, it seems, Master takes over. Tight, they pinched, and brought a flood of sensation, not all of it pleasant, and I became suddenly and acutely aware of my flesh and breasts; this in itself is a wholly new sensation I’ve experienced with Master almost solely.

Pain coursed my being as the makeshift clamps were twisted and their captives teased each in turn. I’m sure I arched my back involuntarily – in truth, almost every movement I made from then on must have been without conscious thought as all I can remember are thoughts and sensations, and the swift and now-familiar flow of pain. I scarce remember Master’s own queries and utterances. I believe I may have been experiencing that rush and buzz quite fresh into the scene for this reason – most is a haze. A haze of sensation and little else.

The rest of the experience is a blur of intense pain, and the realization that ‘yellow’ doesn’t always mean ‘stop for a second’. There were clothespins clipped to places they ought not have been, and every toy of Master’s was exhausted, including me. Three hours, maybe four – I remember the clock ticking over to four AM, and I’m quite sure we started around midnight – three or four hours of the most intense beating I’d experienced, screaming into pillows, biting my lip, yelping until my voice felt hoarse, and twisting and writhing – an act for which I apologised later, as I knew well that Master dislikes beating subs who squirm and writhe and move.

I don’t remember how I got there, but I remember the trip.

Master asked me one of his questions – ‘what is a good colour for a tank?’ was the query of the night. I remember stumbling over my answer, uttering a confused, ‘hunh?’ and grasping blindly for the answer which was blurted out as a distressed and confused ‘pink!…..?’
Master stopped the beating then.

During my training sessions, Master will often ask questions at random intervals just to ensure I’m still cognizant enough to use a safeword. Usually I can answer well. Sometimes it takes a moment. Sometimes he destroys the lovely buzz of pain by asking something that can be answered scientifically, and I curse his name for the next while as my focus is lost. [As an example, most questions are nonsense, but have a definite 'still there' as with 'what's a good day to cook a bananafish?'; once, I was asked what colour the sky was on Venus - I answered blue, thought, and then snatched my phone to ensure my answer was correct which, I'm sure, had Master quite confused for a moment.
For the record, the sky is blue on Venus, and though I was proud of knowing that off-hand, my entire buzz and high was ruined for the evening.]

That moment, I had hit, or was a hair’s breadth away from subspace. Real subspace. The subspace that causes your brain to shut down and your motor functions to cease, and everything is funny and stupid, especially you. I dislike that feeling. I hate it. I take too much pride in my intelligence and intellect that being rendered unable to colour a tank (or for that matter, put on underwear,) left me feeling put of sorts, useless and incredibly humiliated. I felt ill and nauseous, I felt sick and twisted. I giggled. I felt on the verge of tears. I was ready to laugh, and cry, and crawl into a hole all in one motion. It was strange and surreal and wholly alien. I was drowning, suffocating, and yet I had no desire to open my lungs, to breathe, or save myself.

Given, I had no chance to enjoy, or really experience fully, that bout in subspace – poor timing on my part had me rushing home within the hour, crawling into bed, sleeping for a grand span of two hours, and then heading off to a nine-hour shift at work.

The crash was terrible. Master blames my poor attention to nutrition – lots of trail mix and water, and a package of instant noodles mostly consisting of sugar, salt, MSG and carbs. In hindsight, I’m forced to agree.

I became snippy, angry, ornery. Working a customer service job, I suffered as much as my customers. My prior mention of Fluttershy still remains – I raged much as she as well. That was my fault. When I battle depression, I’ve come to learn to do so on my own. I refused to ask Master for help, and worked three long shifts with little sleep, little food, and little care and attention save for the comforting texts that Master sent me.

I failed miserably. Something a sub ought to rejoice and seek, and somehow, I found it a terrible experience.

I’ll ask Master for another try one of these days. I’ll try anything twice…

Brandings, Bashings, and the dreaded ‘L’ word

No, not ‘lesbian’, the other ‘L’ word.

…No, not ‘lesbians‘…

A few weeks back, some time around the 13th, I was branded. Three women – Kiesa, XXWHY, and myself, – each subjected ourselves to a process known colloquially as cell-popping, a form of micro-banding in which a thin-gauged wire inserted into a dowel is super-heated and then pressed to the flesh to brand small almost singular pixels of a larger design. While Kiesa received a star, and XXWHY a small scorpion (which, might I add, I’m really quite jealous of, as it looked wonderful when it was done, especially at the finer-gauge), I received, upon my indecision, and half-descision prior, a mark designed quickly by Mephestus who I’ve now claimed as something of a Master, a Dom, and a teacher.

I’m now the owner of a rather evil-looking ‘M’ upon my hip – a temporary scar that should heal over the course of the next year, – and while I insist jokingly that he’s now quite stuck with me until the mark fades, there’s a part of me that takes almost an unsettling amount of comfort in being marked, or at the least, I take comfort now, as the healing process of having such a large burn upon a joint was rather excruciating, and left me over the span of about two weeks almost unable to rise from bed by any measure in a timely manner, as movement of that joint brought with it a rather intense, and might I add, unwelcome, pain. Add in to that healing process the constant irritation of clothing, a cold, and the removal of two wisdom teeth, and one can imagine, I’m sure,how hellish that healing process was. Exaggerated as this sounds, keep in mind that you’re speaking to a woman who has never been hospitalized, nor ever experienced any mass amount of trauma.

I can move again now – and am subsequently excited! Never will I take for granted the ability to simply move in comfort. But ah, silly thing that I am, I’ve already plans for a new brand, this one of my own design, and most certainly upon my arm where fewer nerves lie, and less irritation shall be wrought. The process is painful, and while it may seem that all masochists enjoy that stingy-burny pain, as did (or at the least, seemed!) Kiesa and XXWHY, I cannot say at all that I enjoyed it, and did quite shy away and require momentary breaks and produce lots of squeaks and squawks. I’ll admit, too, that I’m grossly amazed at the silence and dignity with which the two other women took the pain – I honestly feel I can no longer call myself a masochist in light of this little incident.

It has been weeks since I received this brand, and the healing process was hell incarnate, more so even than the branding itself. Once the scabs form, the flesh tightens, pulls at every tiny movement, and aches and stings during the transition from inactivity to activity. It came to the point where I finally, in the bath, braved the pain inherent and attacked the water-softened scabs. I braved the pain better than I had expected, and suffered not as much as I had imagined yet still pain tore through my hip. The next morning was the first what felt like a millenia where I could rise in a normalized manner.

The brand has since scarred over, and now simply itches and stings when touched, and I’m quite adamant that the summer heat is completely failing to help abate that now-constant itch of forming scar-tissue and tightening flesh. My Master has taken quite a liking to slapping it when he has the chance, much to my own chagrin – an action he had played at previously while movement was still a slow and agonizing process, with the words, ‘do you really think I’d do that?’ to greet my flinching.

And speaking of Master, a funny thing happened on the way to an orgasm last week…
I’m usually the first to pull out the ‘L’ word – perhaps it’s simply that I’m a woman, albeit I usually use it first in the sense of, ‘Oh mer gerd, best donair ever. I love you, mang!’

You can imagine, then, my amazement when my Master said those three, somewhat dreaded, words in the heat of the moment.

I was honestly lost for words, and again when he reiterated later on. Momentarily, I shut down. My processes went blank, and I not only was left unsure of what to reply, but unable to reply as a whole.

I suppose this is where I ought to clarify – I met Master a few months ago, along with his primary Cherub, and have grown to care about them deeply. They have been my window into kink, my friends, a second family, and Cherub is almost a sister to me. I love them platonically, and I love them sexually, but I cannot, at this point, honestly say that I love them on a romantic level. Perhaps there’s some mental block there, as I know that my mind processes Master as Cherub’s lover and therefore off-limits; perhaps the fact that he is, in essence, my friend and Master, that I cannot process romance into that relationship. It will come in time, I’m sure, and that day will arrive and likely coincide with my acceptance of their offer to be second, but for now, I am left unable to truthfully say that I love Master in that capacity.

In the realm of training, I’ve been taking more and more impact with every session under Master’s hand. It was announced not long ago that I have been subjected to almost every toy he owns, and have taken (most of) them with grace. I have been subjected to floggers of vinyl and suede, to canes, and crops, and three-tails. I can say without a doubt that Master knows my favourites, and if ever there came a need to punish me, no consideration would be needed as to the implement of my torture: undoubtedly the carbon-fiber arrow repurposed into a ‘cane’ of sorts.

Suitors and Safewords [Part 1]

Things seem to have found themselves becoming far more serious and real at a much faster pace than I had ever expected. I suppose, for a woman who has lived all of her life in the world of vanilla where a certain structure of familiarity and dating find themselves the norm and status quo, to be thrust into the fast and fluid world of kink, BDSM, and all that follows with it is a wholly new experience – I dipped my toes into a creek and found myself drawn in to the undercurrent and coursed away by a swiftly flowing river, and I, unable to fight against the only pace it has ever known. I feel as though I am suddenly less human, and more a character in some strange and twisted short fiction when I consider all that is happening in my life and at such a rapid pace.

I was one of those girls who, in high school, couldn’t get a boy to notice her if her life depended on it; suddenly, the opposite seems true.

It was announced a short while ago that I am now under consideration as a possible secondary so far as Mephestus and Cherub are concerned – a development I’d hardly known as existing, let alone being a possibility, though one I am taking into deep consideration as both pros and cons abound and in so being so wrought with the curse of seeing all sides, my decision may take some time.

In the end I’ve up and decided to hold o9ff for the time being, perhaps even for the next few months. At the moment, I feel the three of us, Mephestus especially, are caught in a phase easily enough summed up by the phrase, ‘ooh, shiny’, and in so being, decisions made now would be rash and rushed. Once all is said and done, once the novelty has worn off, and we all know each other better, we may, God forbid, decide it simply won’t work. I’m logical to a fault, I suppose. I ought to live in the moment, say yes, and be done with it, and yet I’m settled here saying no, let the novelty wear off, then decide.

Then again, ‘logical to a fault’ says the woman who is now fighting off the pain of having Mephestus’ brand a solid three-inches across upon her hip. In my defense, there’s no friendships or romances riding on a temporary brand.

I also had a coworker and close friend, an older gentleman, profess his attraction to me – the second, now, over twice my age to announce an interest in me, and still I’m unsure of where I stand on this issue, especially as he is nearly thrice my age, and not at all involved in the kink scene. I will admit, I had seen this particular announcement coming, as it had been hinted at on prior outings, yet still I find myself taken aback to the positive and affirmative answer to my, then teasing, query of, “Oh, you’ve got a crush on me?”

This issue in particular has settled in the niggling little corner of my mind for a time. I’ll admit that I’ve always had an attraction to older men, and have always had a certain connection with my elders that vastly superseded that of my connection to my peers, and I’ve far to many less-than-savoury graphic novels upon my shelf that involve just that: romances between young adults and those in their middle-age or older; it’s a theme that has invaded much of the fiction I’ve written and yet when presented with the opportunity, twice over might I add, I’ve become hesitant to pursue, though I am unsure as to why. There are, of course, reasons of logic, and of practicality: should I pursue such a thing and should it hold fast, by the time I am at my ‘sexual peak’, as they say, T would be well into retirement, and L would be, dare I say it, well into a nursing home. There are also issues of societal norms: after all, walking arm-in-arm with a man twice my age would assuredly garner looks, though I’m sure that I can scarce use that as an excuse as I am used to the odd looks I receive when I walk about in my corsets.

Furthermore, I’ve found myself involved in a terribly nasty break-up. I cannot say I’ve ever been involved in something quite like this – that is to say, a ‘break-up’ with a man I have yet to meet face-to-face for reasons that boil down to you know my ex. I find it both cute and confusing being on the receiving end of such a clearly emotional epoch as, to be honest, though I thought from what chatter had passed between the two of us that he was quite endearing, I’d scarcely felt such a strong emotional connection to he as he seems to have for me. I’m not normally one to laugh at others, but I find myself unable to control my amusement at his obvious distress.

Love, in short, is a messy and sordid affair, and I’m beginning to remember why I enjoyed being single, vanilla, and reclusive: it’s far less effort and confusion. I will admit, though: this has its perks.

On the topic of safewords:
I’ve found myself becoming more comfortable with them though it’s certainly proved an interesting battle. I’m quite a passive person so far as the enjoyment of others is concerned. I’ll quite happily allow myself out of my comfort zone if I know another is gaining enjoyment from some arbitrary form of abuse of my person. I’ll admit, I’m quite easily used and abused in my daily life, and enough people seem to have picked up on this little fact and made a damn fine use of it. To some degree, it’s a part of who I am, though a part I’ll admit I’m ashamed of – rarely will I deny another of something, and if I do, I devolve into Fluttershy, and begin stammering and stumbling over my own words.

Yep, that looks about right.

It’s a fatal flaw, though one I’m working on overcoming, and it seems as though things are becoming easier and easier.

A Party [To be re-written]

The last few days have been a hell of fatigue, and I dare say that I’m heaxing towards being ill with a flu or other such demon so wonderfully wrought by a job that deals so.closely with the public. Currently, I sit, recumbent, topless, upon Mephestus’ ‘love seat’ which, his height taken into consideration, it is. To anyone else, a couch that could easily sit four.

To those who may question, my current state of dress is more indicative of the morning’s activities than those of the evening prior, for upon waking, as Mephestus, Cherub, and the Blue Eyed One were still well asleep or otherwise, shall we say, engaged, I busied myself by tidying up from the night previous which, of course, included the moving of empty vessels and the scrubbing of dishes, the latter of which would have otherwise soaked my cuffs.

I hate to say, but I feel almost dirty. Not often do I spend evenings over at the homes of others, and assuredly I ended up forgetting my toothbrush and various other necessities all of which will undoubtedly be purchased upon my arrival at work. I may take a shower, but again, it would be an odd and strange experience as it isn’t my shower, or shampoos.

But this morning and how I have come to writing this post are the least of your interests, I’m sure, and the night prior will undoubtedly be your whole reason for even visiting. I shall recall it thus, as best I can, in as vivid detail as I can.

Immediately after work, and only a short walk away from, one of the local munches was held to which I had been invited. Though apprehensive, I changed and rushed down to the small pub where the event is held, straihtened my skirts, and, upon the arm of Mephestus, slid into the pub and immediately into the fray.

It must be noted here that I’m not a person who blossoms socially in large groups. I dare say I positively clammed up, in fact, for a solid few minutes as I seached faces, and managed only to recognise a small number – Tinman, a fellow steampunk and an older gentleman whom I knew to be coming, a date from Thursday evening whom I also recognised, and Cherub and Mephestus.

I am still unsure if I am wholly glad the I knew so few people, as I ended up losing sight of Mephestus, and milled about awkwardly in the entrance until I found Tinman, and took to hunkering down beside him. (How one loses sight of a man almost six-and-a-half feet tall is beyond me, but easily enough achieved, for I’ve done it a number of times with a number of men.)

Tinman and I had met about a month or so prior as I was drinking coffee, as I am often wont to do, and he approached me to compliment my outfit, at the least, my corset. We had spoken extensively, though I can often be a little slow to trust, and had spooked, so to speak, after having misunderstood his sentiments. Now settled beside him, apologies and explainations were offered from both ends, and introductions made back and forth.

I was introduced to DildoDoctor, and a few others whose names, real or assumed alike, I cannot remember, and after a gin-and-ginger to settle my stomach, and a second, which resulted more in settling my nerves, as the ‘ginger’ portion was foregone or forgotten by the bartender, and I was instead rewarded with pure Beefeater, I began to open up and become a little more social with those in my immediate vicinity.

The banter was light, and conversation flowed easily, and soon enough, Mephestus and Cherub reappeared with an announcement that it was time to go. Goodbyes were bid, and after paying for my drinks, (and gracelessly tripping up a step backwards,) I was introduced to Parataxis, the Blue Eyed One, and I believe ‘Numbers’. Blue Eyed One, Numbers, and I piled into the back of Mephestus’ car, and after a rather eventless ride, we arri ed at Mephestus’ home.

So began the party.

The ‘vanilla’ portion of the party was rather small and not quite as vanilla as I had assumed as, in the momentary absence of the single ‘vanilla’ couple, there were croppings a-plenty. Furthermore, the ‘vanilla’ couple remained to watch, and then partake in, a firecupping demonstration.

Upon the evening settling in further, a few new faces appeared, as well as the return of the DildoDoctor, with whom I ended up trailing behind as a default, as Mephestus and Cherub often found themselves busy.

Shortly after I had slipped outside for some air, I returned to find myself offered a handful of straws by a tall woman named XXWhy. My queries as to the nature of ‘drawing straws’ were met with jibes that I should just go with it, and hesitantly, I reached into the fray to draw…

…the shortest straw.

There’s a part of me that is quite insistant that I must have been set up; some ‘hazing ritual’ that went exactly as planned, though that same part of me in the bitter part of me that tends toward ill luck and poor logic.

Attenpts to lengthen the straw were met with laughter and an assurance that it was still too short, and I.was met, soon enough, with a dog’s shock collar strapped to my thigh, and tough the Blue Eyed One offered to take my place, I insisted that no, I had drawn my straw and would serve my punishment.

I served it well.

The remote to that collar was passed around the room, and my squeaks and squeals as fitful bouts of shock were met witg constant laughter until I grew used to the sensation and my yelps grew quieter. Of course, that was met with simply stronger shocks until the strength could be turned up no more. Then they simply increased in length until the ‘animal cruelty’ override began to kick in and not every shock processed.

I’m still not sure if I’m a fan of electricity or not. I’ve a feeling I’ll be forever neutral. Over the course of the night, the collar found itself moved about from left to right and inched back and forth to new flesh. While not wholly unpleasant, neither was the experience wholly enchanting either. I did find myself trained to that damned beep, however, as when the ‘warning’ went off, my attentions went full-focused on who had that damn button.

The night went on, and the crowds thinned. I was given the occasional slap, took a shoehorn to the rump (which solidified my assurance that I dislike sharp, stinging pain), and ended up quite thoroughly groped. As it is, I have two small red welts upon my thigh from the electrodes, and bruises abound as well. I did not by any means come away unscathed…

As the night wore on, I was invited to ‘play’ with Mephestus and Blue Eyed One, though I politely declined for a number of reasons, among them that I work today, again, and could not do three straight days on the thinnest scrapings of sleep.

Speaking of, this will be day three on a grand togal od about ten hours’ sleep now.

Thinnest scrapings of sleep indeed.

There’s more to write, but I’ll need to get dressed, and head to work. Perhaps another entry will be posted later pertaining to glazed-over details.

Perhaps not.

And to those whom I met, I thank you for a wonderful evening. It was scarcely what I expected. It was entirely fun though.

An introduction

Before an object can begin to move, it requires an outside force to move it: this is one of the first things one learns in the study of physics, as it applies to all things, even blogs. This particular object, my newfound blog (one of three, mind,) found its beginnings in a rather odd set of circumstances following the simple appearance of a friend from days past appearing online at seemingly the right time, and through that tiny push, and the force of gravity that is fate and circumstance, I’ve found myself here: a tiny little marble perched precariously atop a gravitram, lost in the maze of wires and loops, coasters, doors and pipes with only a vague understanding of the final mechanism’s purpose; I’ve become an instrument in a Rube Goldberg machine.

But what, exactly, am I about to fall into? What is this massive, wild, woolly new era I’ve found myself thrust into with only scant knowledge and immense interest?

The world of kink, of bondage, of willing slavery and misogynistic views; a world ranging from something as simple and tame as sexy lingerie, to as adventurous as hogties, knives, and permanent body modifications and more.

And here I am, a young woman no-longer on the outside peering through cracks in the curtains with curiosity, but thrust whole into the center of a room, surrounded on all sides by all the monsters and beasts, fauna and flora of a new world she’d only glimpsed; thrust, nude, into the center of a room, open to the stares and glances and ogling of others, and assuredly, though the crowd would likely not care, nor notice, or shift at all, it most assuredly feels as though all eyes are on me, waiting for a slip up, a sign of weakness, a vulnerability, and calculating, judging, my nakedness.

 

I should start by introducing myself,
I am Evelyn, a young woman working a mundane job and a mundane life. I’m a little bit pudgy, a little bit curvy. I enjoy chocolate-chai soy lattes, long walks along the lake, fishing in the ocean, and cross stitch. I don’t smoke, I don’t drink; I avoid clubs, go to bars for dinner, not for one-night-stands, and prefer a latte and a shared muffin for a date as opposed to bars, or clubs, or sky-diving, or kovies, or even expensive dinners.
The number of people I’ve slept with still doesn’t require my toes, and most of them were virgins. The kinkiest thing I’ve done was a threesome, and that was a gift from a friend to his fiancee. I’ve explored kink in a literary sense – writing fantanies, and reading the occasional bout of erotica, and I still giggle every time someone says ‘penis’ or ‘wang’, or ‘vulva’ or ‘nipple’. I’ve only ever dated a single person at a time, and have only had a single one-night-stand. Ever.

 

So how did this get started?
Long ago, I knew a couple, S and T, who happened to be into the whole ‘kink’ thing. I knew them well – had sleep overs, watched movies, and a few times ended up the voyeur of their little fantasies. This was fine, though somewhat awkward as at the time, I had recently broken up with my boyfriend. Awkwardness ensued, of course, though the end of our friendship was a petty squabble over virtual goods on one of those large-scale MMORPGs. We went our seperate ways, though a few years later – a few months ago, in fact, – I contacted T once more. Conversation went on, and he and I chatted for a little while. The subject of kink was raised, and I was told to join one of the larger fetish communities on the web as it was known that I had a passing interest in the world of kink. I signed up, looked around, lost interest.

Well, that’s a piss-poor ending for a story, so I assure you that the end is yet to come, for after a query posted on the ‘kink’ forum of Craigslist (of all places to seek dating advice!) the mention of that website was risen once more, and I again gave the site a look. Perhaps I had had a better chance to look around this time, or perhaps it was that I was less interested in looking around, and more interested, at the time, in seeking out a potential date, but something caught my eye, and I ended up actually setting up my profile. I began listing things I was interested in, and was soon enough messaged by a young woman, from here on referred to.as Cherub, who, after a few messages back and forth, I met for nachos, along with her lover and dom, a great bear of a man towering a solid foot over my tiny five-foot-three stature, referred to here as Mephestus. We spoke extensively, and ended up heading to a small beach a ways off, to sit and chat and hike (in my heels, corset, and ankle-length skirt). The night wore on, a friendship appeared, and inside-jokes found their footing in solid and quick succession.

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