I am an idiot – parts 1 and 2

Part 1

Mr OMG called when I was at work in the temp gig office. In a shining example of disciplined behaviour, I grabbed my phone and bolted towards the exit to take the call. However, the phone was connected to the computer while the battery was charging. The USB cable ended up coming with me and it was only pure good luck that I didn’t haul the computer off the desk as well.

We had an easy and relaxed chat about Christmas and our previous conversation about mental health and the hardening state of his cock (I didn’t intend for us to talk about that). I rode along with his positive mood and we ended up agreeing to meet the following night. Later in the afternoon we exchanged about 20 text messages and he sent two nude photos.

Of course, what goes up must come down. At lunchtime on the day I confirmed the time and venue; an hour later the little voice in my head that knows he checks his phone at lunchtime said that he’s going to cancel. I finally received a message saying he had a family thing that he’d forgotten about and if we could pencil in the following night.

I took a few deep breaths and asked him to conjure a more convincing story, and to not bother about the next night. It’ll be a while before we talk again.

Part 2

I received a series of calls one night from M1 (potted history: first man I met as part of this journey, haven’t seen him for more than two years, dominant, pissed me off by not being appreciative one night when I cooked a meal with my hands bound to my neck). I ignored the calls as he’d been sniffing around before Christmas and intimating that we should re-visit the past. However, his messages were so carefully worded that he could have feigned innocence if I told him I wasn’t interested in sexual contact, so we were in a stalemate of me waiting for him to overstep the current boundary.

The next morning I sent a note saying I couldn’t talk. A long reply followed saying the phone had been found, I was in the contacts list and could I contact the owner to collect it from the police station? Sure, it’ll give me practice at not being such a tetchy ex. I tidied things up via e-mail and he got his phone back thanks to the kind and persistent stranger. Then the real M1 called to ask me to lunch to say thank you.

I said yes and then began to regret leaving the door open to more contact. But we met and had a reasonably relaxed conversation until he said he had a DVD of mine and he’d bring it next time.

I don’t think I’ve heard that tactic to ensure a second date in advice columns since I was about 17 years old. I stared at his smiling look how clever I am face and didn’t know whether to slap him for being so cheeky or shake his hand for having the gumption to try. I said it wasn’t my DVD and he replied that it must be because he’d written it in his loan book. The whole hour had turned surreal after hearing that, together with his sidestepping mention of buying new bondage toys I might like to see one day but not inviting me expressly to test them, so I wandered off and wondered what it all meant.

Final impressions of M1

The rest

The past suddenly bores me (seems to be a reflection of my present worldly ennui) so time to hit the ‘publish’ button and close this chapter of the past before returning to my ‘now’.

I accuse myself of thinking and analysing too much and sometimes taking too little action. The mental side of bondage and discipline is one of the few things that makes me live in the now: when I was bent over M1’s knees with my bare backside catching the breeze and trying to predict when a blow would land, I’d know I was alive. The guesswork of trying to sense when, where and how hard I’d feel an impact clears my mind of all other thoughts and makes me live each second. The constant anticipation is unexpectedly draining and the only time I’ve needed my safeword was not from physical pain, but because I had hit mental and sensory overload.

When my left wrist and left ankle cuffs were clipped together and my right side was a mirror image, nothing existed in life except the moment and trying to predict the next few seconds of my life. Would M1 straddle me and make me gag on his uncircumcised cock? Or find the uninterrupted view of my wet cunt too much to handle and fuck me in this defenceless state? If he was in a pleased frame of mind, he’d pull the collar so my neck and head were suspended in controlled animation as he fucked me. I will walk barefoot to the end of the earth across molten lava fields to experience that mix of control and helplessness again; joyfully, Jekyll has developed his own spin of biting my ear while holding a hand around my throat. I don’t know how and don’t know why but I get lost in a rush of conflicting but compatible discomforts and pleasures.

One day M1 took me to a shop that specialises in fetish clothing and accessories. My eyeballs almost exploded from the phantasmagoria of books, clothing, collars, toys, chastity devices, footwear and hitting implements. I wish, though, it wasn’t one of those uncomfortable pauses in people’s conversations that I said a little too loudly, “It’s like a big jewellery shop … but … with really cool stuff.” I received a glare from M1 for slipping out of role but the man at the counter and I shared a secret smile.

I’ll always remember the night M1 was driving us home from the fetish club and we were pulled over by police for roadside breath testing. I relaxed in the passenger seat as he had his alcohol level tested, knowing he’d be under the limit, but forgetting I was still clad in collar, cuffs and the leash draped in my lap until the policeman’s torch illuminated my side of the cabin. Whoops. Hello. That was the start of many policeman fantasies that are yet to be fulfilled.

M1 was the medium through which I found ways of creating lightness in what was a pit of cerebral darkness. And gave me the first sex I’ve had on a New Year’s Eve – brief, sweaty and uncomfortable in stifling humidity but this year is the only one I’ve started with a bang and a smack.

An anniversary of sorts – Part II

The good (and the funny)

From a deeply depressed period when physical pain and disrespect were what I craved and thought I wanted, I underwent a period of sexual evolution like a child left in a lolly shop after the doors were locked for the night. I’ll have a big, big bag of B(ondage), fill this box with D(omination), give me a few packets of S(ubmission), a handful of the other S S(adism) and I’m not sure I’ll like the aftertaste of M(asochism) so I’ll leave that for now.

Shedding the importance placed on others’ labels of people based on rituals, roles, pleasure and pain has made it easier for me to say, “I’m just me and I like what I like.” I’m not dominant, I’m not submissive, I don’t like the use of ‘switch’ in its derogative form to label those as people who don’t seem to know what they want. I’m not straight but I’m not what I think of as truly bisexual; I think ‘fluid’ is the closest term to describing my preferences. I’ll dress to my body type and not to stereotype, and if I laugh when I’m being urinated on and upset a serious humiliation session, so be it.

I like lots of things – perhaps the liquorice allsort of sexuality — and I’m sure there’s plenty I haven’t discovered yet. Try to worship my feet and I’ll use them to run a mile, but offer to bind them and I’ll be your best friend. Dress in a nappy and pretend to be infantile for me? Not in my worst nightmares. Dress in nothing and show me the vulnerability that’s usually hidden by strength? I’ll respect and honour that trust.

M1 helped that process of growth actively through his discretion and encouragement, and reflectively when I realised I had outgrown his sexual groupset and wanted to test my new self elsewhere.

M1 and I went to a BDSM club night a few times. He seemed to like that although I was collared and attached to his hand with a leather leash, I radiated a sense of the untouchable rather than possessed. Several past partners have commented on the wall I have around the core of my psyche – I didn’t know how or when I was doing it in those times, but when kneeling on the fetish club’s ageing carpet I could channel a reasonable Greta Garbo façade when I didn’t want the unaccompanied, leather-vested dominants leering at me like a potential late supper.

I liked to use the unspoken social code that others’ submissives are not spoken to without permission. In any other situation I’d treat what I consider as idiocy with disregard, but I used the periods of solitude to gaze at others going about their hidden lives. Fetish venues are a lifeline for those who have no other outlet, especially for cross-dressing men who were avoided by almost everyone (myth smashed that BDSMers were generally more open-minded than the ‘normal’ population!) but they could at least indulge their desires safely.

A female dominant caused confusion one night when she was preparing her two male slaves for a suspension bondage demonstration. Her corset so tightly bound her abundant figure that she appeared to have breasts spilling out the front and back of her body. My near-sighted eyes couldn’t tell if she was coming or going.

The Drummer may not have understood my yearnings but my roaming with M1 allowed new erotic material to fill his mind. On many occasions I’d arrive home with swollen lips, aching jaws, battered vagina and second-hand anus and The Drummer would be almost manic with lustful images of me being used by M1. Within minutes of hauling my weary frame in the door he would push me on the closest piece of floor, bedding or lounge suite and demand his fill. If we were canine, I’m sure it would have been the equivalent of re-marking his territory.

The Drummer’s protectiveness towards my personal safety didn’t align with some aspects of bondage, such as not being able to use a mobile phone at times. One morning M1 had me tied to the bed, fantasising I was his pony girl as he smacked me bright red with my riding crop. We lost track of time and I didn’t leave until later than expected, and I had forgotten to turn my phone on. Feeling refreshed and tingling after an enjoyable session, I stopped at the local shopping centre to take home lunch, having no idea The Drummer had left a dozen messages, contacted my parents and called the local police saying he thought I had fallen victim to foul play.

At the same time, I had parked my car immediately outside the police station he called because the shopping centre car park was full. I stopped to check my messages before getting out of the car and nearly died from embarrassment when I heard the panic that had ensued in my post-flogging daze. The Drummer was thankful I was alive but furious I had caused him such alarm, my parents had become aware that I sometimes disappear for the night (they haven’t mentioned anything since, thankfully) and the police – some of whom I know professionally – were on the lookout for me. I slinked home with my tail between my legs (and asked The Drummer to call off the police search rather than have me drop by the front counter to say I was alive and well).

An anniversary of sorts – Part I

The bad and the ugly

It’s been a year since my first external sexual encounter after The Drummer and I opened our relationship two years ago (yes, I took 12 months to shed the mental ties of jealousy, envy and confusion, and to tap into the freedom we had given each other). I smile with embarrassment thinking about the dichotomy of being a scaredy-cat sex fiend.

M1 was first. He is a sexually-dominant man who introduced me into the BDSM world. I met him through a sporting activity but can’t for the life of me remember how our conversations progressed to sexual interest and taking the leap to meeting one-on-one. It’s like the memory tries to erase traumatic experiences with time but has done it mischievously with a positive experience.

We were involved for about seven months, meeting at his family’s holiday house every second or third weekend as schedules allowed. While I’m vague on how we got together, I’m clear about ending our involvement as my interest waned and I lengthened the time between meetings with excuses. I lost the ‘always on’ mindset of a submissive – the feeling of service without accompanying desire was the death knell that told me to move on.

The sense of achievement gained from completing his homework dulled after several tasks to insert kitchen implements in both holes and send photographic evidence. I used cutlery, wooden spoons, spatulas (handle end only on the inside, thanks), and almost everything short of egg rings, but his demands kept coming without giving even thanks in return. I started dreading his messages.

My role also evolved into more of a service submissive than a sexual submissive. My duty was to supply and change bed linen, maintain a stock of condoms, take (and pay for) ingredients to prepare meals and ferry cups of milky tea when I wasn’t kneeling at his feet waiting for something to happen. Before departing for our other lives I’d also clean the kitchen, vacuum, sweep floors and bag up the rubbish to take home (the holiday house was bring everything in/take everything out and I did the bringing everything in and taking everything out). With the benefit of hindsight, domestic duties were tolerable when sexual rewards were fresh and plentiful but I became resentful when the scales tipped permanently to his advantage.

Occasionally he set tasks that guaranteed failure to meet his unspoken desire to inflict punishment. Manipulation of power and setting up a submissive for guaranteed failure are among the biggest potential ills of dom/sub relationships. One night both wrist cuffs were attached to my collar and I had to prepare and serve a meal with my hands somewhere near my chin and my ankles bound to allow about six inches of movement. I didn’t mind challenges with a degree of difficulty (watch me hurl hot food from stove top to table without burning my nose!) but sometimes he’d throw spanners in the works to see me fail. He seemed gleeful at seeing me muddle along before he ‘had’ to step in with punishment.

On this occasion I managed the evening meal adequately until I served and fed him dessert. The pastry encasing the lemon tart had hardened in the fridge and the spoon wouldn’t cut with the limited leverage I had. The more I hacked, the more he sniffed his opportunity to hurt me. I ended up bent over a coffee table with the thick leather paddle applied to my bare arse. The ‘damned if I do, damned if I don’t’ frustration caused more tears to flow than the searing heat of the beating. The dominant is not always correct and he never displayed the strength to admit weaknesses in judgement or behaviour.

As I developed greater confidence and self awareness, I could isolate what worked and what didn’t as part of my wish list for future encounters. His few attempts at performing oral sex on me were out of duty than pleasure — life is the longest thing we have but it’s still too short to live without mutual oral pleasures. One day he urinated on me in the shower stall without allowing me to remove the leather accoutrements, knowing full well I’d be cleaning the piss off them afterwards — I have enough domestic work to do at home without adding more in my personal life, thank you very much. They were interesting lessons for me learn that I don’t serve purely for service’s sake.

Ultimately, he was left by the wayside as I craved newer and broader experiences to sate my growing hunger. Submission in isolation was a profound learning experience at the time but I also had domination and other adventures on my mind.

It wasn’t all bad and the good times deserve a separate entry.

Postscript: M1 left a message about an hour ago and we haven’t spoken for a couple of months. Perhaps his ears started burning that I was ‘talking’ about him.

Cutting me free

The Drummer surprises me sometimes. I’m always left shaking my head with amazement at the way he attacks me lustfully when I return from an encounter, as if removing the scent of someone else and marking me again with his own.

The first night I roamed sexually with M1, The Drummer was driving and too distracted by his uncontrollable imagination to concentrate on the road. He had to pull over and masturbate in the car before continuing his journey. When I returned the next morning he re-claimed my body while insisting on a blow-by-blow account of how the sexually-dominant M1 took me.

He’s been quiet this week, even though my day with Jekyll and Hyde is confirmed and looming. I have been low-key in making arrangements — I think it’s because his last liaisons with Dee were cancelled and he’s been right in saying meeting is easier for a woman. I struggle sometimes with having him and an ‘other’ while his ‘other’ side is less weighted than mine at present.

He bounced back today. This afternoon he said he had a surprise for me when we got home. I asked and prodded and harangued but he held his cards close to his chest. After we ate lunch he led me to the bedroom and pulled the surprise out of his backpack: a handful of industrial-strength cable ties, each about two-feet long and half an inch wide. There were no elephants or ships in the room that needed restraining and within seconds my wrists were joined by an unforgiving strip of white plastic.

I laughed at his creativity for someone who doesn’t express a strong interest in bondage. He ripped my jeans and underwear off. I kept giggling and he stuffed his dick in my mouth. It was more difficult to laugh with my mouth full and he thrusted until I was quiet.

He withdrew and pushed me on my back with my legs apart. He broke the silence as we were fucking by saying the cable ties were for my meeting with Jekyll and Hyde but he wanted the first try. He withdrew again, pulling my feet together and fixing a cable tie around my ankles. I was pushed on my side and fucked from behind, and then manoeuvred onto all fours and screwed doggy style.

After, he snipped the ankle tie, flipped me around on my back and went down on me until I thought his tongue would seize. Anti-depressants have an unerring way of bubbling quietly in my bloodstream until I am 90 per cent of the way to orgasm – then stir and leave me hanging there, giving and taking a few per cent until I think I’ll die of frustration.

I stopped The Drummer as 95 per cent was as far as I could get, stood him up and lubed his balls, rubbing them as he masturbated. He came in my mouth, down my hand, over his hand and on the quilt cover. I laughed again when he woke from his orgasmic daze and saw the mess he left.

I’ll throw the remaining cable ties in my tool bag in case Jekyll and Hyde want to get rough – and remember to include sharp scissors.