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.

Battling it out…

Today is going to be a quiet day in terms of posting.

john and I are battling.

John and i are battling.

It is a beautiful Sunday, and we are home for a large part of it. A lazy Sunday of sorts, as our plan is to drift through cooking and some cleaning….perhaps digging out holiday decorations. Perhaps not.

Except we are not getting as much done as I’d like.

Because we keep going at it with one another.

We are fighting.

With each other.

All four of us, swatting, pulling, grabbing, hammering, pawing, clawing, grasping at one another.

One house, and it’s me, Me, john and John.

Top vs bottom, Dominance vs submission.

John keeps pushing me into the bedroom, thrusting himself deep inside me, knowing I can’t talk when he does that. He is big. I’ll just say that. And when he really hammers it inside of me, I can’t get past it that easily.

And that is exactly what he is doing. Smiling the entire time he hammers into me. I don’t know how I know he is smiling, because my eyes are closed, because I can’t open them, because the hammering can be that hard.

I love it. I hate it. I love it.

I love it.

Hate it.

Love it.

Love it.

It can be uncomfortable, which is why he is smiling, I think. That, and the fact that he knows I love it far more than I hate it.

He stops either when he has had enough for the round he is in, or, because I have managed to push him off of me with my foot. Or, something like that.

And then it’s my turn. As soon as the fucking is done, the caning begins.

Boots and a santa hat

Boots and santa hat, is anything more needed?

Because, if he’s gonna play, he’s gonna pay.

Because despite everything, I am the boss, the leader of this household, and that trumps everything, all the time, for every reason.

It’s not even noon, and I think I have caned him 100 times. And the bastard keeps coming back for more.

We can’t stop laughing today. We are both wearing hats in the house. His is a Santa hat, mine is an Elf hat. He is naked and collared and he’s wearing a Santa hat. I am still in my pajamas, in my hat.

If we get too close to one another, either one of a few things is going to happen; a fucking or a caning.

Or a deep, lingering kiss. That leads to the bedroom. That leads to a fucking. That results in a caning.

It’s a beautiful fucking day. Literally.

Sadistic, torturing bitch – that’s Me!

Aw, poor baby

Aw, poor baby

In the last line of john’s last post, he refers to me as a beautiful, sadistic, torturing bitch. I find that to be an enormous compliment, and I feel delighted that he sees me as that way. It IS how I see myself at times. It IS how I feel most of the time. And it DOES inspire more of the very same.

But my very first, initial response is to discredit the comment. My own personal saboteur (that bastard of a devil that sits on one’s shoulder and says we’re not good enough, not smart enough, and fills us with self doubt) can get in my way if I let it. That is often the struggle with me….not to let it. More and more, I am making that saboteur go away. I am chasing it away. And I am winning. The saboteur gets less attention and john gets more. It’s a “win-win” for everyone!

But this post is not about that. It is not about what I can’t do, but rather, what I can do. What I want to do. And how I delight in sadism.

I am sadistic.  I don’t have to be this way, but more and more, it grows within me. Sadism is different things to different people, but we can all pretty much agree on a generic definition of it. My pleasure is sexual sadism. I am also a big fan of one fingered sadism. More on that in a moment.

I am finding more and more that my sadism comes in short bursts. I would much prefer to engage in 20 little moments of sexual sadism throughout a day and night, than to have one big moment. At this point, I think my boys’ body is trained to a biological rhythm. I get up early, and always have. At around 7:30am, I come into the bedroom each morning to start the process of waking him. john is a slow riser. It takes him time to wake up….his systems slowing rising through the depths of slumber.

I am the opposite, completely. The minute my eyes open, I am alert and at high levels of functioning. Our best kink is the morning because of this.

I will go into the bedroom at 7:30am, and john will be sound asleep. I can tell by his body, his breathing, that he is no where near waking. And yet, as I peel back the covers to reveal is naked and collared body, his cock will be completely erect. Hard as a rock. This is not a “need to pee” hard on. It is a hard on because his body has become attuned to varying amounts of morning torture that I inflict upon him almost daily.

I am not typically creative with my moments of morning torture. I don’t feel I need to be. Generally, though, there is a lot of nipple biting or pinching, cock pumping and squeezing. Certainly ball torture. That’s among my most favorite things. I love how full his balls become after 50 or 70 or 90 days of not being allowed to cum. The days in between his being allowed to cum are long. The torture of his parts and bits is daily.

And the one finger thing?? I can inflict a lot of discomfort with one finger. My hands are my most favorite toys. I keep my nails long and manicured. Not polished, but shaped. My hands can bring pleasure to my boy, and I can also make him cry. There are times when I have a certain look upon my face, and I hold up one finger to him, and he’ll start to retreat and whimper. Poor boy…..this only feeds my fire…..don’t you know that??

I would like my boy to have other experiences with torture. I am working on that. He has his lover, the very talented Lady J, who helps greatly to contribute to his suffering when opportunity permits them to get together. But finding something closer to home would be good too. I am actively working on that. In addition to bringing both t and p along in how I want them to serve, I have this to look forward to as well. And….then….well…I have my own private, sexy, scary, ventures I am considering. More on that within a few days.

I have several sticks in the fire. john should be careful….those sticks will burn when they become pressed against him.

 

 

ISO update

I’m still in the ‘getting to know you‘ phase of  things when it comes to new boy #1 and new boy #2. Things that I like include how into this kinky thing they both are. I like how different they are from one another. I like that one of them has some experience, and the other has none. He is my new toy to mold and shape. How lovely to be the brand new beginning for someone else.

I like the enthusiasm they both demonstrate. It’s not loud, they’re not shouting it from rooftops (that I know of, anyway) but they both admit to being happy. Excited. Hopeful.

‘Hopeful’ is something that applies to us all.

I found these two from Craigslist. I placed an ad, got a ton of replies, and these are the two that agreed to meet. It is so interesting to me that out of the nearly 100 replies I got seeking a male submissive, nearly all didn’t believe that the ad was real, or that I was real. What got ‘t’ and ‘p’ through my front door is that they took a chance that I was real.

Taking chances. It seems to be theme for me as of late. But more on that in a later posting.

I had dinner with ‘p’ last night. john was home alone, studying for a meeting, and I had ‘p’ meet me at a pub. I had brought with me a BDSM checklist, and I had him do it in front of me. All the fetishes practically known to man, all condensed on a couple pieces of paper.

It was delightful for me. I loved watching him as he filled out the answers. I could see the blushing in his face. I could see his eyes widen, and the pencil bounce in his fingers. I played with my phone in an effort to give him some privacy and not be staring at him too much. But I couldn’t help watch the adorable squirming on the other side of the table.

I don’t know how things will pan out. I really do want a service submissive to be a part of the dynamic we have. Occasionally, I want to be wined and dined. Pampered. It’s that simple. I don’t, and won’t, apologize for it. I want a variety of experiences. I want a range of opportunities. It is mostly fun and games in an adult world. But there will be times when it is more than that, and even less.

So, that’s the update in ISO.

There is more brewing in our kinky world. I have not written about it yet, but I will. There are some deeper, darker, sexier, raunchier things in the works, and I am looking forward to them. I feel in some ways like I am playing the part of artist. I have a bunch of things piled in front of me, all different mediums and textures, colors and shapes. I can assemble them in a thousand different ways. I have not figured out yet how it will look. Maybe the pieces will assemble themselves and they’ll create their own life force and beauty. Maybe I will be the maker of shapes. I don’t have any idea yet. But it feels exciting. That much I know is true.

Until tomorrow…..

t time and cowering

Heart shaped owie

Heart shaped owie

Last night’s dinner was a happy success. Date number 1 is now going to be referred to as “t”. I might change this later on, but for now, “t” will suffice.

“t” was on time and dressed in shirt and tie, just as instructed. Both boy toys were given the same instructions, and both looked incredibly dashing.  He met us at the door, and I could tell he had some nervous but excited energy about him. I smiled at this. I had a good feeling that he and my boy were going to hit it off, and they appeared to do just that.

We got a corner table in the back. Not one I would normally seek or even approve of (no one puts baby in the corner, remember??) but it seemed appropriate.

I had instructed each boy toy to bring with them three to five questions that they would present to the other. They each wrote down five things they wanted to know about the other. The list also included one thing they wanted to share with the other regarding something they were concerned about. An example could be, “I am worried about pain, and how much I can tolerate”. That sort of thing.

We each ordered a big, lovely cocktail and that helped set the stage. All three of us are foodies and specialty cocktail people, so it was a good platform form which to start chatting. The tally of similar interests what significant, and talking was easy. We filled the minutes as the minutes turned to hours. Every gap was filled.

Our talk was largely vanilla. I did not want to scare him off. I know he was deeply nervous but as the night progressed, he admitted that his anxiety was waning. He was enjoying himself, as we all seemed to be.

I am not going to say much more, except that I did have to keep sexy and evil thoughts at bay during certain points of the evening. t would be talking, maybe something about work, and in the privacy of my mind, I really wanted to see him in my kitchen, naked, with a gag in his mouth, doing some cooking or cleaning. Nothing major, nothing to scare him off, but certain enough to make sure he knows who runs the show.

It was a great evening. I am pleased.

I don’t know if john is all that pleased, though. Not with dinner, but with what followed dinner. I am not sure what got into me, but when we got home, he sort of pushed upon me the seventh fucking of the day, and I got a bit rough with him in return. I needed to hear his whimpering and begging to make sure he knew who really was in charge. It’s me, in case there is any doubt. I was rough on him. I beat  him for a while, simply because I wanted to. I made sure he spent some moments cowering because I wanted him to cower for a bit. Not too many moments, but some.

The photo that accompanies this post is a mark I left on his body. My mouth put it there. I like how it looked.

Even in our consensual pain, there is love.

 

 

Two dates in 2 days.

16470696989_a45113a33f_zAnother winner. I have had two dates in two days as a result of my Craigslist ad, and they were both terrific. I am lucky, happy, blessed, even. I have not had to deal with anything uncomfortable or unfortunate. I hate having to say to someone, “Thanks, but no thanks”. Rejection is terribly hard. I don’t like having to administer it, and I don’t like receiving it, either.

But very happily, I don’t have to talk about that in this post. I tried to be very selective in who I decided to meet. I do not want to take on more than I can chew, more than what is fair.

What did I almost love most about meeting these two submissives?? They were so very different from one another. I don’t even feel there is a competition (and I never wanted it to feel that way, to be structured that way). They are in different places developmentally (meaning, in their D/s development). One is more open, more ready, more confident, more eager and fun. That person is date number one. I loved his energy. He appears to me to be “turn key ready”. I love that and am totally turned on by it.

Date number 2 is a wee bit more tentative. More inquisitive. Has a bit of a “deer in the headlights” look about him. I will admit that this delighted me. I could see his nervousness, and he admitted a few times from across the table that he was terrified. I got a thrill from this, in a very compassionate way, of course. Isn’t it the sexiest feeling of all to be aroused and nervous at the same time???

His terror reminds me of my own, once upon a time. I will write about that another day, absolutely not now. But it resonates with me. He inspires me to want to show him a bit of what this is all about, and do it the right way.

I have thoroughly, thoroughly enjoyed my two experiences. I can’t say that enough.

But this comes with some challenges too. I am writing publicly about two human beings, with two different personality types. They have feelings, hearts, desires, tender places like we all do. I know they read this blog. Talk about feeling naked!!! I feel naked knowing that I am writing and they are probably reading. But I promised from the minute I became kinky that I would always be honest. I was not honest once, one time, to one person, and I have lived with that regret since then. I will write about that too some day. Not now, but some day soon.

So, I am going to write about this experience, and I am going to be honest…no matter who might be reading.

Date number 2 has me inspired to teach. I want to be a good teacher to him. I want to get things from him, yes. Totally. I am not entirely sure that he grasps what I want for service. I worry a bit because he seems to work really hard in his vanilla world. A hard job, where he labors a lot. I struggle with some guilt in situations like that. I find it hard to say, “Hi. Welcome to my dungeon. I am very glad you are here for the day. We are going to work and play and work. You have chores to do today. I want the bathroom cleaned, the mudroom organized, the car washed. You will do those things, and I will make it fun, and we will play but you will do those things because you are my submissive, and that is what I want of you right now”.

Why do I find it hard? Well, because the nice part of me knows that this guy (date number 2) works physically hard and I am a bit uneasy saying, “Hi, welcome to your weekend. Come work some more”. BUT….BUT, BUT, BUT….I also placed this ad with very clear expectations that work is a part of what we do. I work hard, and I want a fully compliant, submissive pet to work along side of me. And, many times, harder than I do. So, if someone does not want this, then they can tell me that they are not the submissive I am looking for, and all would be fine. I would very much appreciate their honesty.

So, there is that. I do not have these feelings with date number one. I pretty much want to work him right away. He seems up for the adventure and joy of learning about one another, and I am chomping a bit to get it started. I smile when I think about it. I think john will like him. I really do. I am most hopeful that they have good energy for one another. With date number 2, I need to get him to get Me first, and then I can work on seeing what sparks might fly between he and john. Good sparks, that is.

And hey….I am not at all discounting that I might just decide to have date number two as my own private toy/minion. Maybe I’ll want that. It will unfold as it is meant to be….I feel certain of this.

AND….I am not at all discounting the fact at all that I just had two dates, where we did a “meet and greet”. They could absolutely send me an email and say, “It was nice to meet you, but I’m not into you that much. Good luck”. I 100% know that I could be rejected. It hasn’t happened yet, and I hope it doesn’t, but I realize that it might. And if it does, back to the drawing board I go. :-)

I have to be mindful of my compassionate side. It can get in my way sometimes. I am determined with this search to be a bit less of the nice person I usually am and more of the loving bitch I really want to be. I placed an ad, yes, because I want a plaything for john, but I also want to better spread some of my own dominant wings. I want to improve. Get better.  Get sexier. And I need actual people to do that. I need the opportunity to put fantasy to life. I will not get it right all the time and I both need and want good people who can help shape me and guide me. Any submissive I have is not going to be a doormat. If I want a door mat, I’ll go buy a  doormat. They will shape me as I shape them. That is what this is about to me. Or, a big part of it, anyway.

So, that’s the update. For now.

John’s post for today is very interesting. I don’t know if he published it or not, but he asked me to read it, and I did. It’s hot. It kind of messes with my head a bit, in the most delicious of ways, of course. Maybe this is one of those rare, rare times when we are both feeling dominant. Two rams, locking horns, vying for top dog, grinning at one another from ear to ear as we secure our footing and jockey for position.

I will win.

I will absolutely win. He wears a collar every single day. I do not.

I will win because I will order him to lose.

This is the coolest thing ever!!!!!

 

 

The Lady and the tramp

I am wondering if it was confusing to read about the additional play partners my boy has had when we really have not mentioned much about that part of our relationship in the past.

We have alluded to it, referred to it briefly here and there, peppering our entries with mention of lovers much like the spicy and sweet essences that can take you by surprise when you’re not expecting them.

Yes, we are in an open relationship, and have been saying as much for nearly 10 years. But ‘open’ means different things to different couples. In no way is my boy allowed to go out and fuck anyone he wants.

I can, but he cannot.

Well, pretty much that’s de rigueur .

The biggest rule? Neither of us stick our dicks in crazy.

Or in my case, my strap on.

The other rule, equally as big? I am the number one girl in his life. Period.

If I don’t approve of the person john wants to be with, then he can pretty much assume he is not going to be with them. There are a few slight exceptions to this, and those exceptions all pretty much take place when we are at our kinky camp. If my boy wants to go top someone at camp that I don’t know, I am generally fine with that. His toppy side has far, far more exemptions to the confines of our relationship than his submissive side will ever know.

Sometimes I order him to top another person because I get wind of the fact that they want him to top them. Sometimes my boy has been asked to help assist in the take-down, kidnapping and violation of a consenting camper, and he goes off to fulfill these duties quite happily. During those instances, I feel like a doting housewife, seeing her man off for a day of hard work. But instead of handing him his briefcase and a cup of coffee as I send him out the door with a peck on the cheek and wishes for a good day, I instead hand him his whip, a set of cuffs, I send him out the door with a caress on the ass and wishes for a safe and happy fucking.

And, finally, sometimes my boy simply has his eye on someone he wants to be with. I am more curious about those folks, and it’s fair to say that I have to be mindful about spikes of jealously that can poke at me when I don’t want them to.

This is the stuff that takes a long time to figure out. At least, for us it does. My feelings change, sometimes seasonally. If I am feeling a lack of confidence in my own world, then his leash is going to be shorter. If I am feeling strong and centered, then I am apt to give him a much broader range of motion. Is that always fair? I don’t know; maybe not. But I am honest about it, and for us, that is sometimes the way it goes.

My boy has one particular woman that he has an intimate relationship with.  I am not sure they have an established set of pronouns they use with one another on any sort of consistent basis. They are many important things to one another, but how they refer to one another, and when, I’m not actually sure.

I do know that all three of us agree that they have something significant and meaningful between them. They are play partners, lovers, friends, intellectual counterparts.

If she were an artist, he would be her muse.

They are Lady and boy. Or, because my boy tends to be a bit of a kid in a candy store when we’re at camp, they are The Lady and the tramp. I smile.

As is my mostly inflexible rule with this blog, I don’t name names, I don’t name places unless I need to. I have decided to leave this explanation as it is. I like this Lady very much. I have grown because of her, and I’d like to think, I’ve grown with her. We have had moments we have needed to figure out, but we have succeeded in those moments, and we are better for them.

My boy has others he flirts with. My feelings are that that he was this way when I met him, so why try and teach an old dog new tricks?  He knows my rules. He knows my expectations. He is allowed to be flirty and fun, but he knows never to betray my trust and confidences. We don’t betray these things in one another. Yes, I am the boss, I am the Domme, but we are also partners. Primary ones. Good ones. Fun ones.

And sometimes trampy ones too.

 

 

Camp-Enchanted Forest

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I will share in this post the tale about an enchanted forest of sorts. You’ll see what I am taking about in a moment. And it’s all real, it’s all true.

My boy loves a particular forest event at camp. I lead him on collar and leash and he is naked, sometimes blindfolded and loaded with a backpack that holds our supplies. I lead him down a path, around  a small pond and to the entrance of the woods. We will pass many people as we make our trek, and they will smile, knowing that something special is about to happen to my boy. Sometimes I will make my blindfolded and naked boy wear a sign that says “touch me please”, and many will stop us along the way, hands petting my boy all over his body. Most hands are gentle and soothing. A few are not. But these few are usually the hands of the friends we have made, and they take greater freedoms with my boy because I give the silent, smiling nod of approval.

We enter the forest where perhaps thirty other participants have gathered. I choose a station for my boy. It could be a fallen log, a place under a dangling rope hanging from a sturdy branch. It doesn’t matter, it’s just a spot. I will secure him there, hands often cuffed, sometimes feet too. I am his monitor and protector, and sometimes I have company in this task. I am there to approve what can happen to my boy, and what cannot.

I take him to this place because it is a wonderful opportunity for him to have playtime with other adult males. Lovely, sexy adult males. Women too….just as adult, just as sexy. But here it is generally the males I am after, wanting their attentions on my boy.

My boy knows not what will happen to him. But generally, this is what happens: My boy will be bound, naked, collared and silent as he waits for what befalls him. I will sit nearby, my poster board sign encouraging certain behaviors, forbidding others. The silence is good. I do not want my boy to hear the negotiations that often take place. I want him to hear only his own breathing, the inaudible whispering of his caretakers, the warm breeze in the trees, and the moans of the others who are just like him…..naked and vulnerable.

Imagine being this way…..so fully unaware of what is going to happen, so exposed, so nervous. And yet happy. Aroused. Curious. Hopeful. Afraid. And completely safe, inside and out.

My boys knows that I am never far. That I guard him fiercely. That we do this because we enjoy it, and because it makes us happy to be able to live out fantasies such as these. There is no point in doing it if it doesn’t have a happy ending.

My boy waits, his arousing anxiety building, and then it starts. A man will approach. Perhaps two men together. Or a man and a woman. They are sometimes wearing leather, sometimes just jeans. A few are naked too. They will approach my unassuming boy, take a look, and then read my sign, learning what is ok, and what is not. Like a hungry person at a buffet, they will circle him, looking him over, deciding which are his tastiest parts. A hand will caress an ass cheek. Or lift a leg so that cock and balls are fully exposed.  My boy will feel fingers under his chin, tilting his head upwards so they can get a good look at him. It takes a few minutes, this dance. And all the while, john is left wondering what is about to happen to him.

It doesn’t really matter what happens to him. I will leave that up the imagination. I will let john share if john chooses to share. Just know that he gets to spend a couple of glorious hours as a human statue…. being petted, caressed, spanked, flogged, used and ignored while many others around him are experiencing their own similar fates. When I have decided that he has had enough, he is walked to a nearby blanket that I have brought, somewhere near that little pond, and we lay together in dappled sunlight, my pet pressed against his Mistress, a soft smile of deep contentment on his lovely face.

Adult Camp

 

3498831389_87172fb44a_zMany have asked over the years about this “camp” my boy and I go to on average two times a year. Some years, we go three times. For 8-10 days we get to live in adult, naked bliss. The word “camp” is generic. The experience is anything but.

Since I will be away and unplugged for a week, I thought I would schedule some posts about camp, sharing the things I love about it. I am not naming this place, I am not naming the dot com who owns and runs it, and I am not naming any names. But suffice it to say, it is all very real. For these weeks, we get to create and participate in a magical wonderland for consenting adults. Sometimes up to 1,200 of those consenting adults.

Twelve hundred sounds like a lot. And it IS a lot. But, it’s intimate, which is what I love about it. The camp has a few different locations that it changes according to the season, and for the most part, I love the summer season ‘camps’ the most. It means being outside, naked, and it means pretty much any kind of SSC play imaginable.

Camp has indoor places, with indoor plumbing, and indoor play spaces. But it has just as much outside stuff too.

A typical day at camp will find my boy naked, collared, and milling about the communal outside space of our group cabin. Camp chairs create a circle, and folks will gather, some clothed, some not. Music may or may not be playing, but if I had my way, my boy would be providing coffee to all of us with J.J. Cale crooning sweetly in the background. My boy has morning chores to do. Coffee, the making of our big bed, putting my clothing away, cleaning up our bar/kitchen area, organizing the toy bags, providing massage, running errands naked. Our cabin is one of many on a tree lined road. No cars are allowed, so there is lots of pedestrian traffic to gaze upon. We wave to friends, we smile to those we have not met, we compliment on costumes or cane marks if that is all they are wearing.

We outline our day. What shall we do today at fantasy camp for grown ups? Swim naked in the large, in ground pool (always a ‘Yes!’ vote in Chloe’s book!)? Go to any number of classes or demos that are taking place all around us? Go find one of the many play spaces and go play? Or, do I loan my boy out to others so that he might provide service to them?? Or, do I go play with another? Do we play with one another (again, always a ‘Yes!’ in my book)?  Do we nap?  Stroll around the grounds and play voyeur?  We can do any or all of those things. And we do any and all of those things daily. Rinse, lather, repeat.

My boy knows that starting around 4pm or so, he is on duty for cocktail hour. We love cocktail hour. We don’t drink much at night, because night time is dungeon time if we so chose. But happy hour is my kind of hour. We have an enormous communal bar with our cabin mates, and each day, we have a drink special. Anyone is welcome to come by, visit and share with us. What makes it ‘special’ is that it is shaken or stirred and served from a slave. Or, at least, someone playing the role of slave. :-)

Night time has us dressing for events. There are several nightly events, and sometimes we do several, and sometimes we do none. That is the beauty of camp. There is nothing you have to do. But with so much amazing stuff taking place, it’s hard to pass stuff by. Some people get dressed up in the most amazing of fetish gear. If its a hot, summer night, some continue to walk around naked. For me, I prefer a skirt on bottom, topless on top. That is about the extent of it for me.

Sometimes my boy will be requested to top someone else. I love when this happens. I love watching him get Dom’d out. I think he is sexy as hell, and as we are a switch couple, my pleasure button gets pushed hard when I see him upload himself in this particular way. But more on THAT subject later.

I will schedule another post about camp and I will share it here over the next couple of days. I do so because this is a part of our lives. We do this for real. This place really does exist. We get to create fantasies and then go to safe places to act them out. Such as kidnappings. Have you ever been been kidnapped by a bunch of tough dudes, dressed in boots and camo? I have, and it was awesome!

I am hoping my boy will post intermittently with mine some of his own memories and reflections about camp. It is a unique experience for each of us, and yet we share in it together. In other words, it is art imitating life.