Trigger Finger

127532515_0bbeb8b4ba_bDamn it, I miss my boy. Enough is enough. I completely get he is away for a very good cause, and never would I interfere with that. But damn it….I don’t like being apart like this. They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, and that’s true. But what do they say about a Dominant woman? What grows within her during absence? The heart?? Yes, the heart does indeed yearn. The body? Yes, that yearns too. But so does my trigger finger. And it just so happens that my trigger finger is the same exact one that is used to point. To direct. To beacon. To silence. To snap. With that one finger, I can make my grown boy cry. And that I do very much enjoy at times.

I am missing our routines. Can I take care of myself? Yes, of course I can. But I don’t want to. Not in all aspects. I am missing the daily rituals of him undressing me at night. Of the gentle removal of jewelry from my body. I miss watching him as he puts away my clothing, my things. I am missing his daily devotions. His kissing of all my bits and places.  His licking. His attentive hands and mouth.

I am missing the petting. The holding. The coffee. The warming of the car. The bed being made. The perfect cocktail at the end of the day.

Yes, I am without him and I am making and drinking coffee. I am putting away my clothes. And making the bed.

But I don’t prefer to do these things. I much prefer to point. To beacon. To snap. To point and command.

Even if there is a huge, wicked smile upon my face.

Ruff Days!!

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My dog crawling around on his hands and knees, seeking a treasure from the sea

I couldn’t resist choosing this as the title. I giggle at it, smiling at the memories that are revealed in the photos for this post, and those memories make me happy.

It’s been a challenging couple of weeks for my pup. I empathize with the curve balls life has thrown him. Nothing insurmountable, nothing that time and patience won’t heal, but still – pain in the ass stuff. Mostly around his car. And travel plans.  And work. And logistics. All first world problems, we know. But still, we can feel it. It squeezes him much differently than I squeeze him. I dare say he likes My pressure much more than life pressure right now.

I’ve worked with care to keep him on a short leash during this time. My dog can have his day, but his upset is only allowed to go so far. He is not permitted to bring cranky into the bed. Like dust on a dog, he must shake it off before getting naked and jumping beneath the covers with me.

The other day we went to a small, local beach that is not widely known. It’s our secret gem right outside of the biggest city in the state. Being Maine, that isn’t too big of a thing, but still… it’s so wonderful to have it. It is really only accessible during low tide, and when the waters retreat, a beautiful little stretch of beach reveals itself to whose who know of its carefully hidden location. If there are 15 people on the beach, it’s crowded. It’s a place where almost anything goes. Small groups of adults will gather with a bottle of wine and a plate of nosh and watch the sail boats go by. Kids can strip down to their underpants and take a quick swim before heading home, and no one cares. And dogs are allowed off leash, at all times.

Nosh at secret beach

Nosh at secret beach

I took my boy there the other day. It was during the height of his crankiness. He probably would have rather stayed home, but I insisted that he come with me. We packed up and off we went. The tide was perfect, the day was stunning. And because dogs are permitted off leash, my boy was under strict orders to be under voice control at all times.

I got him up off his chair and ordered him to find a way to crawl around the beach area on his hands and knees. “But there are people here, all around us” my boy mildly protested. “I don’t care” was my reply. “Find a way to do it, and do it now” was my final answer.

And so he did.

Feigning a make believe interested in exploring up close the tiny sea critters that climb among the rocks when the tide is right, my boy crawled on his hands and knees. I was walking next to him, and to the average onlooker, it appeared as though my man was intently exploring some type of marine biology with intellectual passion, but really, he wasn’t. He was following my softly spoken commands.

Crawl for Me, boy. That’s it… crawl forward on your hands and knees”.

And he did.

Dig in the sand, boy. Find Me a gift. Dig for me. Fetch me a sea present“.

And he did.

Sniff something, pet. Put your face down low, and sniff something for Me“.

He did.

Dig for me, pet. Use that paw, and dig me a hole“.

Of course, he did.

If you’ve been a regular reader of this blog, you’ll know that we aren’t really into puppy play. It is somewhat rare that we actually do this sort of thing. We will use little, endearing dog references, but otherwise, puppy play is not our thing. But on this day, it was. I was enamored at the opportunity to play in public like this. It is one of my favorite things to do. Right out in the open, in public, for anyone to see, my boy was crawling around on his hands and knees, following the softly spoken orders that I gave him. No one seemed to notice. No one seemed to care. People walked by him, engaged in their own conversations, and occasionally someone would smile at the man on his hands and knees, exploring the rocks and seaweed, accompanied by a woman who was taking pictures. The only thing that could have made this better would have been to have him naked, with toy troy next to him. In my mind, and in my imagination, he was very naked. And collared. And leashed. Because even in a playground with few rules such as this one, it’s nice to have order.

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Gift from the sea. The sand dollar that my boy found while digging, placed on his back, next to the brand I had placed on his skin a year ago.

 

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My feet, and his hand, as he crawls near the rocks, digging and sniffing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The List

I wake nearly each morning entangled in my boy’s leash. That is because I sleep each night with one end  wrapped around my wrist, and the other end attached to my boy’s collar. I miss waking and quietly extracting myself from that entanglement. Being an early riser allows me to look down upon his sleeping, naked, collared form and I miss starting my day that way.

I miss setting aside coffee for him. I miss whispering in his ear before I leave for work the small chores I expect him to accomplish before he leaves for the day.

I miss telling him what he can expect for the evening. I like telling him what he might be cooking for dinner, whom he might be serving for supper, what cocktails I am in the mood for, if any at all.

When others are around, I can give him a look from across the room, and he knows that I am calling him to my side. And when we are alone, I miss uttering the single word ‘Come’, knowing that he will get up from whatever he is doing and come to me. And if I snap and point, he’ll crawl to me.

I miss looking over at him in the kitchen. I drink in his sexy, muscular male form, and I delight at watching his body move beneath a fitted shirt.

I miss his eyes upon me as they follow me when I head to bed for the night. He silently gets up and follows, closing the door softly behind me.

I miss the kneeling he does as I stand before him at night.

I strip naked, and he folds the clothes as they fall off my body. He will bend from that position and kiss the tops of my feet. My toes. My ankles. And when I choose to turn, his lips will kiss my thighs, the cheeks of my ass, the small of my back.

This may be an image of Delilah and Samson, though it's unclear. It was found through femdomartists.com but no artist was attributed.

This may be an image of Delilah and Samson, though it’s unclear. It was found through femdomartists.com but no artist was attributed.

I do nothing at night but strip naked, and get into bed. I lay there in pillows, watching him pick up after me. Occasionally he’ll pull my panties to his face and breathe in deeply and smile. Often times I will have him wear those same soiled panties to work the next day. I miss that too.

I miss what happens or doesn’t happen in the nighttime hours. Sometimes there is sexy, torrid torture, and sometimes I simply grab and squeeze his balls while his whimpers lull me to sleep.

Most nights there are back rubs and petting. He gives and I receive. He works while I sleep.

And every night, there is the worshipful cleaning. The homage. The pleading look that cuts through the dark, where he feels my nod more than he sees it. I will feel his beard upon the skin of my back as he kisses his way downward beneath the covers. Many night he will lay inverted… his face against My ass, his arms wrapped around My legs, his body pressed against mine.

It’s like a thousand warm hands touching me. I am missing each and every one of those hand.

Come back to me soon, my pup. Life is not nearly the same without you.

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Not the best of days

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It has not been a good week. The past 4 weeks have been challenging, but this past week has been especially hard. All vanilla stuff. My wonderful, loving, family oriented dad got his legs kicked out from beneath him, and at age 76, he is dealing with a life altering sense of sorrow I have never seen him deal with before. A first world problem perhaps, but it’s a problem for him none-the-less and I am deeply saddened and distracted by it.

I spend my days at my job (thank god I really enjoy my work!) and I come home to my dad. I am with him  until he sleeps. Then I sleep. And then I get up and do it all over again. That’s pretty much how it’s been. I have not spent this much time with him in decades. I’m happy to do it, but it’s not without adjusting to it.

I have been amazingly fortunate. I have not had overly needy children or  parents. Nothing out of the ordinary. I come from self-sufficient stock, apparently.  I am well aware at what a wonderful thing this is. But now that has changed, and will stay changed for the immediate future. Not forever, or even for a long time. Hopefully, next week will bring a lot of resolution. But for now, this is how it is.

I have put mostly everyone on hold. It is all about him right now, as it should be. No nights out, no writing of the blog, no scheming or planning….fucking or beating.

I have had small moments where I feel seized with worry about my boys….my john and troy.  I don’t like feeling like I am not caring for them. It sounds and feels odd for me to say that. I am the Dominant, after all. But I see them as possessions. My cherished possessions. And out of necessity, I have had to put them on a shelf for a bit, and let them be.

But I also have bigger moments where I feel deeply confident in them. They know me, they know my family and they understand what I am dealing with. They are respectful, loving, loyal, caring, kind. Exactly what I want and need them to be. I think this is the first time that my vanilla life has so fully interjected itself into my kinky world for a prolonged period of time, and I sense that troy is not sure what to do. My guess is that he is giving me space and privacy, and I appreciate that. I am, however, disappointed that I didn’t get my flowers this week.  My table has been bare for days. Each week he is to bring me one small bouquet. I’ll admit that I feel disappointed. This is one of those rare and perhaps awkward times when no one is quiet sure what to do or how to act and so therefore we are just simply being good and kind to one another. And this is a good thing. I am not knocking it at all.

But I miss their attention. I miss time with them. I miss john. He pets my back and body every single night before I fall asleep, and I miss it. I miss the comfort of his quiet confidence. I miss how he knows me so very well and how he kneels before me as I undress for bed. I miss the homage he pays to my ass each night. I miss a thousand things about him. I miss troy cooking for me. I miss parading him around. He is tired too. It’s the craziest part of his year work wise. I don’t want to berate him for being as human as we all are. But dammit, boy…where are my flowers??

Sigh.

So….my point, exactly?? My point is this: I am just as awkward as any other human being right now. I am the boss of this domain, and yet I feel a bit powerless. I am the dominant, and yet I am wishing someone else would decide what’s for dinner, or what we’re going to do with the early evening hours. I don’t like these long leashed that are currently attached to my boys, and yet I appreciate very much that they aren’t tugging upon me, adding strain. I want things from them that feel selfish. And I feel guilty about feeling selfish. Yet… I have never apologized for wanting what I want. Right now, I want to demand things of them without having to spend the mental energy thinking about how I demonstrate that appreciation. I have moments in my day where I feel really damn demanding of them, but I have mostly been quiet. Add it all up, and it feels awkward. My kink feels awkward right now because I am not sure if I should let it all go and be pushy with them this week, or if I should not. Do I get louder, or quieter…..that’s the question.

I really miss kink. Good to know that it is right there waiting, but wow….I really miss it. Those boys had better watch out. There’s a lot of lost time to make up for.

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At risk of falling in

I know I still haven’t written about all the wonderful things that camp had to offer, but camp is still with me. And on top of that, my denial continues. And my submission to Chloe continues. And it’s not stopped. And that’s unusual for us. Usually we take a bit of a break. This year, perhaps because we are living together 24/7 and living a much more FLR, we haven’t taken a break. Even with me having my children for weeks at a time, I am still Chloe’s boy. And she’s continued to run with it.

And that’s where I find myself at risk of falling in too deeply. I can, sometimes, fall very deeply into my submission to her. Into that place where I will do anything for her. And I trust her completely, which is good, but damn, I could be at some serious risk here. And it’s not like I’m going to jump off a bridge for her, but the primary risk is that of losing myself – my “John-ness” which attracts her to me – in favor of my submissiveness. I suppose the easiest way to describe it is that I could turn from that nice strong guy she loves to be around (and loves to torture) into the doormat slave that goes into the “Yes, Mistress” to all the queries she makes. And that doormat kind of submissive is not what either of us find sexy. And yet, I’m at risk of being there.

At risk of falling very deep with no escape

At risk of falling very deep with no escape

I think that, after the kids head back to their mother and I can get a break for a few days, I’ll be okay. Once I can get some of the writing out of my brain and into the screen, I’ll have purged some of the deeper submissiveness and made room for that John guy.

In the meantime, I have made my more dominant side make an appearance or two, which is heartening. And I think that if I were not as switchy as I am, I would definitely slip into being a very submissive slave and into the doormat world of slaves. And while that may be okay for some, it’s certainly not our kink. I just have to see where we are evolving in our kink and how we both fit into it.

Okay, so more writing to come, including more Dude in Distress and clothespins and pee and more teasing and denial than you can shake a cane at!

Unwrapping the weekend

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Breakfast served by naked and collared

What a lovely few days it has been. John was off to far away lands where he was able to ‘slave’ and play and be in service around thousands of other dominants and submissives. More on those details in the near future, but suffice it to say, I am glad he is home after a lousy 10 hour drive from the DC area.  While he was away, I got to spend several lovely days with toy troy who although wasn’t feeling 100%, put a lot of effort into his service and submission.

The picture in this post is the breakfast I woke up to on Friday morning. I don’t know that I can recall having had a candle-lit breakfast! I generally don’t eat much in the morning, but this was too beautiful to pass up. Troy was naked, in his collar, and seems magically at home in the kitchen. He is a good cook and I got to be the beneficiary of that. Several times, actually.

My vanilla girlfriend and I did go down to the Fetish Flea this weekend. That too was an event that held thousands of kinky people. She had never been before so it was fun to watch her watching all of the latex clad lovelies stroll around the enormous hotel complex. There was lots and lots of shopping and looking. Many, many vendors selling all sorts of anything dastardly and sexy you can imagine.

We were treated well. Troy had created a picnic for us that was insanely amazing. A dozen containers of meticulously packed foods, all beautifully thought out and packaged. Smoked meats and cheeses, nuts, fruits, jams, olives, pickles, slices of spiral ham separated with orange slices. We had croissants. Fig jam.  We had ceramic plates and cloth place mats and napkins, even a baggie with candles and matches. We drank wine and finished with chocolate. My girlfriend declared it was too beautiful to eat, and she was nearly correct.

I loved picturing troy at home doing all of this prep work. I know he really likes my friend and thinks she is wonderful and sexy (she is!). I think it made troy feel happy to be serving both of us in a way. I love the attention to details, the beauty of what he created. It made me feel proud of him when we shared this bounty with many others; he got an A++ for such efforts, and was rewarded with a few hand crafted toys of his own that I purchased for him from the flea.

One of my highlights of that trip was the unexpected encounter we had at a local restaurant after the flea had ended for the day. My girlfriend and I had gone to a steak house that was incredibly crowded. It was a two hour wait for a table. Thanks, but no thanks. Just as we were about to leave, two seats opened up at the bar, and we nabbed them as no reservations were needed and no one seemed to be waiting for them.

There was a very sexy couple sitting to my right. We didn’t talk for most of the meal, but they looked sharp and dressed and ready for something other than a steak house. I started chatting with them towards the end of the meal, making some comment about how crowded the restaurant was, etc. They asked if we were local, and I said no. They asked what brought us down to Rhode Island.

I smiled, and asked, “Do you really want to know??”

They looked at one another, looked back at me, and said, “Yes, sure. Of course”.

“I am here for the Fetish Flea”. I said, smiling, knowing where this would go.

“The what???“, they asked in unison.

“The Fetish Flea. Fetish flea market.”, I again said, smiling.

“What’s that??” they asked with widening eyes and open faces.

Again……“Do you really want to know??”

Emphatic head bobbing confirmed that they did indeed want to know.

I proceeded to tell them, with my girlfriend leaning over and chiming in on the conversation. We told them about the 50 or so classes they could take on kink and power exchange. About the demonstrations.  About the shopping. About rules of the hotel and how people could walk around in various states of dress or undress, as long as your pretty parts were covered. We told them an overview of the entire event, that it went on all weekend, and they were shocked. “We have been living in this town for 25 years and we had no idea this was going on a mile from our house!!!”. They went on to say, “We have been looking for something like this for years! Oh my god, we are going tomorrow. We can’t wait. We are amazed….how did we not know??”

I don’t recall seeing two people leave a restaurant so quickly, practically pulling each other out the front door. The woman stopped, ran back to the bar in her fur coat and high heels, and grabbed both me and my friend, pulling us tightly to her perfumed bosom, thanking us for telling them, and dashed off to be with her man.  It was a fun moment. A sexy moment. With total strangers. How lovely to say to someone, “Do you really want to know??” and have them say “Yes!!”.

Valentines Day was lovely. Insanely cold (twenty below!!!). We woke, had coffee, napped, woke, napped, showered, went out for a lobster lunch, did a little shopping and then to a local bar. I got to meet many of troy’s friends, and that was really nice. All excellent people who seemed very curious about me. Troy said to be honest about how we met, so Craigslist was the truthful answer. Everyone seems to think that Craigslist is junk these days. It is not, we assured them, smiling.

John is back. We spent last night cuddled in bed, fucking and talking. We were under the covers by 7pm, asleep by 9, I think. My boy is not feeling well either; its the month of colds, it seems. More on some of his stories over the next few days. Lots of good stories. He came back exhausted and happy. I haven’t looked over his body enough to see if there are bruises or marks. I am still figuring out if he gave more or received more….seems to be a good amount of both. It was fun for us to recount for one another our adventures. If we couldn’t be together, then we we will do our best when apart. I think we all got an A++ this round. Stuff like this makes the dead of winter survivable.

 

 

 

 

Nutshells in review…

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So, I have not really posted since the holidays. Typically, January is my month of hibernation. I have to steel myself against the coldest, harshest month in order to get through it. I have done that pretty successfully, I am happy to say. I have spent the month with family, cleaning up body and mind from holiday over indulgence,  feeling confident and overall, things are good.

Here’s the nutshell:

My boy john continues to be a loving, patient, devoted presence in my life. My boy has not had his leash tugged at very often, he has not had his ass violated, he has not been beaten or sexually used like I know he likes, and yet, he stays close to my side, always steadfast, nearly always agreeable. I cannot appreciate him enough for this. I know he is happy to see my kinky awakening now that adult child has headed back south.

My toy “t” continues to be a lovely presence in our world. He is the toy I found on Craigslist. He is a gem, and I am delighted to have him. He is devoted, eager, happy, curious, kind, and a damn good cook. I am thoroughly enjoying how he tends to Me. My john has been instrumental in helping train and mold ‘t’ to the things I like and how I like them. It is going quiet well. ‘t’ is thrilled to be a part of things even though things have not been all that exciting in January.

I am dealing with guilt around ‘p’, the other craigslist contender. I am the one who dropped the ball on this one. I think I lost some mojo around the whole thing because I know he is straight out with work and I don’t like the idea of taking him from that when I know how important it is to him. I am not a perfect dominant. I wrestle with feelings and guilts like any other person. I pretty much let ‘p’ slip away and I am not feeling great about that. It still feels unresolved to me. I am still thinking about it, thinking about him.

There has been a sexy and interesting development;

Someone has emerged in January who I have been writing with for months and months. Oh, I do like him!!! I do believe that I will be writing about adventures with him a fair amount. He is dominant, and he is an excellent candidate for many of the deviant things I am interested in seeing happen to my boy(s). I am going to leave it at that. We have gotten through the “meet and greets” and the negotiations. I think there is a lot of potential in this. I am excited. If you enjoy reading about m2m adventures, you should check in often. I smile.

I received an email recently from someone who I really enjoyed playing with but who disappeared a while back. He is a dominant and I met him about 8 years ago as an occasional play partner for myself during the times I am interested in bottoming. I liked him a lot, but he fell off the radar and I moved on. He has returned and I find this very interesting and rather exciting. I am not the same person I was then, and he seems very at peace with that, and with himself. We will see where it goes, but it brings me joy to see him back, and that is a good thing.

I need to go back and re-read older posts from December. I feel as though I have unfinished stories to tell from last month. I will do that. For now, I wanted to post a brief update of the happenings and not-so-happenings in the house of the exquisite dungeon.

:-)

 

Once upon an abduction… Part 2

This post is part four of a week long series entitled “Looking Back”. They are a few pages from our ‘photo albums’ that I wanted to write about as john and I celebrate 10 years of living in a kinky power exchange. We hope you enjoy, and as always, thanks so much for reading and for sharing your comments with us.

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Again…..

What.

The.

Fuck.

I’m about to tangle with a grand inquisitor and I am aroused?

And so it began. German guy wanted the numbers and I told him to go fuck himself. I heard his heavily laden sigh, and he mentioned something about feeling regret that this was my answer, but he has been prepared for such a response. There was a moment of still. Of quiet. I was left with my own anticipation, and it built to heights I didn’t know were possible.

I don’t know exactly how long the torture went on, but I do know it was many hours. Back and forth it went…..the inquisitor playing both good cop and bad cop. I resisted. For hours, I resisted. The thought of giving that bastard anything that John trusted me with broke my soul.

Others helped too. The hands that abused were many. I remember crying deeply at times….my tears and snot covering my face beneath the hood. Occasionally a straw was pushed up to my mouth where I could suck in water, which I did. Sometimes I hungrily swallowed that water, and other times I tried to spit it at them through the hood.

Other times I yelled, defiant and deeply angry.

GO FUCK YOURSELF, MOTHERFUCKERS!!!!”

I would sob…..You are not getting jack shit from me!

But that is hard to maintain when your naked thighs are tied open to a wooden chair, and you are caned so often, so precisely, you start to tremble on top of your trembles.

I think it was the nipple torture that eventually did me in. It was such a small part of my body, so sensitive and sweet….and it was enduring things I had never even imagined.

I gave some of the numbers. I gave fake numbers to that account. The German would leave and check those numbers, determining quickly that I was lying.  I would be badly beaten for those lies.

And so it cycled.

Eventually, I just couldn’t do it any more.

What I remember so vividly was that my brain told me when it was enough. I felt it. My body shook from the abuse. I could both feel and tell that others were checking on me….more water, hands and feet being examined,  ropes adjusted. But it was my brain that waved a white flag. It was looking out for me. It said that I was done. My body was aching in every possible way, my mind had been distorted and tested, but in the end, it provided.

I gave the numbers. One by one, I recited those numbers. By the end of that series, I was crying with every ounce of heart. I was so broken to give those away. I felt as though I was giving away trust. I was breaking that inner circle he had let me into. I was not strong enough to protect his Swiss secret. I could no longer lift my head off my own chest, my collapse was complete.

“Good girl”, I heard in soft, tender German.

And that was that. Within seconds, all those hands untied me. The hood was left in place, but I was guided tenderly to a big bed that was very nearby, and naked, I was laid upon it. Bodies immediately were pressed against mine as a blanket covered us all.

Slowly, the hood was removed, my eyes blinking, my skin flinching. I opened my eyes as slowly as I could. In front of me was John’s beaming face….his eyes searching my own with joy and pride and pleasure.

I looked around me, and all I could see was a wall of smiling people. My abductors. My captors. My torturers. My friends.

“Happy Birthday!”, they said. “Happy, happy birthday, Chloe!”

I cried and smiled and laughed and then the abduction crew went upstairs for cocktails while John touched me, hugged me, tended to my many bruises and then fucked me beautifully. I fell asleep in his arms still hearing his German accent echo in my head “Good girl, Chloe. Good girl.”


The guy at the bar? The one who sat near us, the one I thought was checking us out? Yeah, he was in on it too. He was the one who took the parking garage pass from John in order to move and hide John’s car. I never did find out who he was.

About 9 months before this abduction took place, John and I negotiated an abduction and had me sign a release. It was a kinky release, he explained, in case a scene we were doing ever went wrong. Each abductor carried a copy of the release “just in case”. It was a consent form, basically, so that no one would get arrested. That is how long this abduction had been in the works.

Oh, and there is no Swiss bank account. He is not secretly rich. But as my birthday slowly approaches he keeps talking about his “Cayman Island” paperwork.

Once upon an abduction… Part 1

Gagged and bound girl

Gagged and bound girl

This post is part three of a week long series entitled “Looking Back”. They are a few pages from our ‘photo albums’ that I wanted to write about as john and I celebrate 10 years of living in a kinky power exchange. We hope you enjoy, and as always, thanks so much for reading and for sharing your comments with us.

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I was the very happy recipient of a beautifully orchestrated, magnificently executed abduction for my birthday around 6 or 7 years ago. For a kinky person, it was the stuff of dreams. Nightmares too, in that dreamish sort of kinky, nightmare way that only kinky people can love.

But before I share that tale, I must tell you another story first. A story within a story.

John had told me once, in confidence, that when he was in high school, he had taken a senior trip to Switzerland with his classmates. One of the touristy things to do at the time (the 1980’s) was to open a Swiss bank account. All the kids were doing it, he said, and John opened one as well, putting in a few bucks.

He went on to tell me that for the next twenty years, he dumped extra money in that account; birthday checks, tax refunds, side job money. For two decades, he added money to that account and the total was substantial.

He told me that I was only the second person in the world to know about this account, and he was telling me this because he felt someone else should know about it if anything ever happened to him.

Important side note: John is a very cautious and calculated man. By nature, he is very careful with privacy, he is more suspicious than trusting in a lot of things, he is a quiet investigator, and always looks before he leaps. Me? Total opposite. That is why we attract, I think.

So, back to the story within the story…..

John told me that he was sharing this Swiss account information with me because he trusted me. This trust was a very big deal. I remember that my heart felt swollen with pride. He considered me a part of his inner circle, and considering how small and selective his innermost sanctions were, I felt enormous responsibility to safeguard his secret. All he asked me to do was to memorize the account number. He didn’t want it written down anywhere. He’d rather I commit it to memory in case I ever needed it, and that was that.

I did as he asked. I memorized it like a phone number and promised I’d never forget.

4,8,15,16,23 and 42. Those were the numbers I had committed to memory. Good thing for John I was never a big TV watcher.

He’d quiz me about it once in a while, for a couple of months, and he’d smile with pleasure when I recited them correctly.

Now…..back to the abduction story:

John had taken me out to dinner for my birthday. We had parked in the garage he used for work, with the parking pass they had issued him. John had mentioned something about hoping it was OK to use his work parking pass on a weekend, but figured it would be fine, so we parked and headed to dinner.

We followed up a lovely dinner with a cocktail at a sultry, dimly lit Irish pup close to the parking garage….a night cap before we headed home. At one point, a man came to the bar and sat near us, and seemed to check us both out, but I didn’t think anything of it. I went to the bathroom and when I came back, the guy was gone.

We headed to the garage, arriving at the floor where we had parked. We were deep in conversation, and at one point, John stopped and looked around, puzzled. Were we on the right floor, he wondered? Where was the car??

We were certain we were at the right spot. Level 3, against the wall. We were both certain of it. John began to wonder if perhaps he had been towed because he was using the pass for a non-work parking event. I also wondered if it had been stolen.

We stood together, touching, in a near empty parking garage, looking around, wondering what to do. It felt like a total buzz kill after a lovely, romantic evening. His car was gone. I could see him getting upset. The glow from dinner was quickly fading.

A vehicle started on what seemed to be the floor above us. No doors had been opened or had been closed, but an engine started. I noticed this, as though it was some dim recognition that tried to poke at my brain, but I was too distracted by the missing car and John’s upset. Besides, near empty parking garages are creepy places. I wanted to leave.

The vehicle on the floor above us started its descent. It rounded the corner, headlights off. It was a mini van, harmless looking, really. I pulled John over to the side, our arms still linked, so the van could pass.

Instantly, it sped up to where we were standing, it slammed on the brakes, and all doors suddenly flew open. Four masked people jumped out, all dressed in black, and came running towards us. A scream got stuck in my throat, my brain seized, my arm tightened around John. Within two seconds, they were upon us, ripping us apart from one another. I remember John being pushed to the ground, and him yelling up for me. I saw someone in black lean over him, and it looked like they were going to punch him. They knelt upon him, keeping him pinned to the concrete  floor.

A black hood was thrown over my head, a hand was roughly clamped over my mouth, and I was manhandled into the waiting van. I did every single thing I could to get away. This was no joke. Seeing John on the ground like that did something to me that made my brain react and not think. A part of me thought, “This has to be a scene. It has to be”. But I don’t know….something about seeing him treated so roughly made me question myself. It felt real, and therefore, it was real.

I didn’t know anything at that moment.  Portland is a pretty quiet little city. But stuff like this happens all over the world. The reality was, I was being very roughly dragged into a car, by 4 or 5 very aggressive people, and I was not able to get away. I could tell by how quickly they got me in the van and sped away that they were in a hurry to get out of there. I heard John from outside the van screaming “CHLOE!!!!!!” but it didn’t matter. I was gone. The van was gone.

I was on the floor of the vehicle, and I had boots, hands and legs holding me down. I still tried to fight, and at one point, I grabbed the skin of someones leg and pinched as hard as I could. I was immediately slapped very hard in the face and was told that if I did that again, I would be hit so hard, my brains would come out of my ears. That got my attention, and I was more subdued.

It was the most fucked up thing ever. I could not wrap my brain around what was happening. I could not tell with absolute certainty what was happening. I think I started to cry; I was scared out of my mind, and I wanted John, and I had no idea where he was. Or, where I was, and where I was going. How could he come help me if he didn’t know where I was??

We drove for what seemed like a very long time. The van finally stopped, I was hauled out, my upper body was tied with rope and I was roughly escorted into a building. I could see nothing, and no one was talking.  Except me. I remember finding my voice, knowing that once I was inside of wherever they were taking me, I’d pretty much be screwed. So, I gave it one last huge effort….fighting with my brain, my body and my vocal cords. I cursed every curse word I could think of. I spoke like an irate sailor. I threatened, hurled insults, begged, laughed. I wanted them to think I was a crazy person so they’d let me go.

It didn’t matter. They did not let me go.

Within moments, I was tightly secured to some sort of interrogation chair. My hood was never removed. I could tell an intensely bright light was pointed very closed at my face because I could see it and feel the heat, but I could see nothing except occasional, blurred shapes. The direct light was oddly blinding despite the hood. I had to keep my eyes closed in order to not squint.

I was left alone for a while. I could tell that people were around me, and I was ungagged, but no one touched me, no one talked to me. I was left with my own building of fear.

And then, out of nowhere, someone started to talk to me. I knew the voice, but the accent was completely wrong. It was German. It sounded like good German. It was smooth, calm, even, quiet. It had no emotion I could detect, except something I could describe as empathy, but not exactly.

This voice went on to acknowledge that I must be very uncomfortable, and he explained that he was very troubled by my situation. He was very sorry to have me in such confines, and he certainly hoped I could be released soon. My release was really in my own hands, he assured me with his heavy accent, his face uncomfortably close to mine. I could feel his closeness. It was ominous.

He explained quietly that he was going to ask me a question, and that as soon as I provided the answer he sought, I would be released with no further harm. It was one easy answer. He assured me of this. He even reached out and stroked my face where I had been slapped, feeling the heat of my skin through the hood.

My brain was rattled. It was on overload. You need to understand that my mind was not used to such complex situations, where so many things were assaulting it at once. I don’t have a lot of experience with trauma. My mind was processing trauma to a certain degree. I knew in my core that this had to be a scene, but there was a tiny shred of doubt that said, “Yeah, but what if its not??”

The accent was creepy. It got into my brain like an oily criminal… your worst nightmare from which you could not wake. This voice had a false sense of compassion, and it rattled me completely. It was purely monotone. The words said, “I am so zorry for your dizcomvort” but the tone said, “I will think nothing of breaking you into a thousand pieces”.

It felt deadly to me. It scared the shit out of me. All I had to do was give him one piece of information and I could go. I believed this to be true.

But what was that one thing he wanted from me?? What did I have that he could possibly want??

And then I found out. Then I learned.

The one thing he wanted, the one thing he was not going to leave without was a small series of numbers to a certain Swiss bank account. He needed and wanted nothing from me other than those numbers.

The moment he said, “Chloe. Be a good girl und just give us ze numbers und you vil be releazed. It is easy. Provide zem to us, und you vil go home. It is zat zimple”, my mind exploded. It shattered. It was though a mama bear rose on its hind legs, defending her most precious and vulnerable things. There was NO WAY I was going to break the trust my John had put into me when he asked me to safeguard his Swiss account, his nest, his youth.

No. Fucking. Way.

Again, my brain….struggling for composure.

Okay, I think I knew that the German guy was really John. I knew that. But I could not see, I could not touch. And not a single thing about him sounded like John except the tone, and even that was distorted. The last image I had of John was him thrown to the garage floor, screaming for me, just as vulnerable and scared as I was. My brain could not compute that he could now be something else, someone else… a torturer, a living nightmare, a grand inquisitor… all focused on breaking me.

I was staring down the very likely reality that my John… the one I loved so much, and felt so good to be around… the one who made me feel safe and cared about, and pleasured… this same John was now someone else, and he was about to do really bad things to me.

John… German John… was going to torture me, and I could feel it coming. He loved me, and he was going to hurt me.

And the harder part for me to comprehend was that while my brain was trying to process all of this and make some semblance of  it, my pussy was swelling with arousal, my nipples hardening in anticipation.

 

Continued in Part 2 tomorrow…

 

Once upon a slave auction

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This post is part two of a week long series entitled “Looking Back”. They are a few pages from our ‘photo albums’ that I wanted to write about as john and I celebrate 10 years of living in a kinky power exchange. We hope you enjoy, and as always, thanks so much for reading and for sharing your comments with us.

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One of my favorite memories that my pup and I share was the time that I put him up for sale at a slave auction.

We had heard about this event, and it intrigued us both, deeply. My pup indicated that he wanted to participate, which delighted me. We were still in the earlier years of taking our play on the road and including other people and other places, so those things alone had us a bit elevated. From what we gathered, it was a Romanesque type event, with Caesar himself presiding over the bidding.

What I recall most was my pup’s beautiful nervousness. I had brought everything I needed to dress him and prep him for his sale. I carefully draped him in clean, cream colored muslin. His toga was secured with gold roping. I was feeling very proud of my slave and wanted him to catch the attention of several of the buyers. I loved so much the way he looked. His flawless, tan skin glowed against his robes, his muscles ripping beneath his oiled sheath. As I fastened a rope around his neck and started leading him down the path towards the auction house, I could feel his hesitation as I pulled upon his leash.

We could see the lighted pavilion through the darkness, lit up with festive lights and many tiki torches. It was like an oasis of beauty against a wooded backdrop during a hot summer night. As we approached, we could see a line of slaves gathering outside of the structure. They were arranged in an orderly row, their ankles shackled to one another, prohibiting them from running away. The guards that stood watch are one of the other things I remember most….intimidating, fierce, enormous….whips and extra rope dangling close to their hips, in case they needed either.

I brought my pup to his place in the line, and with the assistance of a guard, began to shackle him to the slave before him. I could hear my property’s meek whimpering, meant for my ears alone, and could see the wide-eyed look upon his face. I felt compassion and delight in him in those moments before I left him standing there, alone.  It was really happening…..he really was about to be auctioned off for his services. This was no longer something that we were talking about but instead it was something we were doing.

For a last few moments, we stood together, looking into the open-air structure at all of the people gathered beneath it. It was spectacular. There is no other word for it. I don’t know that I can remember seeing such a sight as this one. It was magical. Sparkling. It was a movie set to me, the air crackling with the building energy. Everyone looked amazing. So many beautiful woman, donned in white, silky, sheer layers, their skin dusted in fine gold powder that shimmered beneath the light of the torches. The men looked just as amazing, they too dressed to impress. There were slaves lined up for every palate, and many perspective buyers walked the slave line, admiring, inspecting….and building a ravenous appetite.

I took my place among the other buyers. I was served a summer cocktail by a naked beauty, and stood watching with the others. A dashing man came to me, pressing into my hand a fistful of round, wooden tokens for me to do my own bidding, and soon, more were offered to me.

The bidding began, and one at a time, slaves were brought up flanked on either side by frightening looking guards, preventing any attempts at escape. The array of slaves was fascinating to me.

Some were sultry and sassy…..nearly dancing their way to the front of the stage where Caesar stood waiting. He read off a scroll their list of talents…cock sucking, foot worshiping, massage. He revealed their limits, and mentioned their owners.

Other slaves had to be dragged quite reluctantly to face the crowds by guards who were more than happy to wrestle them forward. Not a single slave was able to evade their grasp. One by one, slaves were presented. Many were stripped of their garments and stood naked as they were inspected. Some remained in robes. It had been determined by their Mistresses and Masters how they would be presented.  Slaves of all ages, orientations, shapes, colors were offered. The audience whooped and hollered for every single one of them.

My boy was placed somewhere in the middle of the procession.  I watched his chained ankles slowly shuffle their way closer to the front of the line. Often, I could see him when he could not see me, for I blended easily with all of those around me. I could see him searching for me, his face full of wonder and fear, his hard cock making statements of unquestionable pleasure.  I was happy to see him engaging with the other slaves, and as time when on, I could see his edges relaxing laughing as he mingled with his shackled peers.

They say that misery loves company, and this was certainly no exception.

But that laughing stopped when my boy was about 3rd in line to be brought forth. I slipped out of the crowd and went to see him one last time before he was marched to the front. His eyes pleased with me to release him, but his cock told another story entirely. When I cupped his face, and told him that I would not be releasing him, but instead he would be paraded to face Caesar and the hungry crowds, his cock throbbed as I squeezed it in my hand. My delight felt so complete in that moment… I felt so enormously lucky to be doing such a pleasurable thing with such lovely people.

It was that moment when you pause, and realize that fantasy and reality had tangled beneath the bed sheets, and you were bequeathed their successor.

I left my boy there. I could feel, but not see, him reaching for me as I disappeared back into the crowds from where I had come.

The two guards secured each of my pups’ arms, and a third unshackled him. They started to walk him to the ramp that lead to the front of the auction block. I could see my slaves’ composure wilting. I had instructed him to make me proud, and I could see him struggling with this. He began to resist and push against the guard, but he was no match for the three of them. His attempts to back away made people in the crowd lean forward; they were an audience that loved an overwhelming.

My pup was presented. He was inspected. His list of sexual and service oriented talents were read along side his limits and restrictions. My boy was being offered to anyone who wanted him… man, woman or group. I had placed no restrictions on that.  When the bidding concluded, it was a woman who came forward to claim him, and she lead him into the audience. I could see them talking, and soon after, he was released to me. It has been arranged that my pup would fulfill his slave duties for her the following day, as most slave owners did not wish to leave the confines of such a starry night too soon and retreat to their cabins.

After all, this was a hedonistic environment of sorts. Sex was everywhere, play was 24/7 constant, and no one was in a hurry to depart from it’s sexy folds.

I cannot and will not write about what happened the following day as my pup headed off to another cabin to fulfill his slave duties. That is not what this story is about. This story is about all that lead up to that moment. It is a story that reminds me that kinky people are wonderful people because we can and will make fantasies come true. It reminds me how exciting it can be to play with edges and to play with sexy fears. If D/s is a consensual power exchange… and it is… then to me, this beautiful night was the best in show.