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.

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.