Bad Scene Part 3: aftermath

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I wish I could say that it all went away, that I walked out of the bathroom and he apologized, I apologized, we made love and everything was peachy. I don’t think I could lie that well if I tried.

The truth was that while I stood in the shower, punishing myself with water so hot I almost could not stand it, I was desperately contemplating my options. If I hadn’t left my car at home, if my dog was not waiting on foot surgery, if we didn’t have plans for a road trip with his daughter, who was gleefully anticipating the event, I would have gathered my things and left.

Hell, if it wasn’t for my dog and his daughter I would have taken my things and walked, but as hurt as I was, as much as I needed to get away from his disgust, I couldn’t hurt them. Instead I took my time, showering, drying, getting dressed, the longer I was in the bathroom, the longer I could avoid his gaze.

When I finally felt brave enough to exit my sanctuary, I paused for a minute. I thought back to the few times I had tried to explain to my ex how I felt about sex; how I had asked him to do some things for me and I had been met with that same disgust, that look of revulsion that I believed was behind my Doms anger.

When I found my own anger, I held onto it with an iron clad grasp; if he couldn’t handle this, he never should have agreed to this. If he really thought that was what I wanted, then why were we here, doing this, and why would he have said all the things he had up until that point? Stepping out of the bathroom I wouldn’t look at the bed where he lay waiting for me, I moved as quickly as I could out of the room.

“Are you going to come and talk to me?” he asked when I reached the doorway.

“I don’t know,” I replied honestly, my voice as unsteady as my emotions. I told him I was angry and turned away from him and went to the couch.

Trying to find a comfortable position after the numerous sessions we had over the last 24 hours was more than a little difficult. Finally I sucked it up and lay on my back, using the pain as a distraction for the torrent of overwhelming hurt that was welling up inside me.

A few minutes later I heard him call my name and I ignored him. The second time he called my name he added, “Come here”. Petulant as I can be some times, I waited a moment or two before I got up and went into his room.

He asked me to join him on the bed; I lay down stiffly, focusing on a spot on the ceiling. He asked me to look at him, and I refused. After a few minutes he asked me to talk to him, and in my anger I refused again. I felt like everything we had been working towards was shattered in that one horribly defining moment; every agreement and negotiation reached was broken the moment he made me feel like my kink was wrong.

Looking back on it now, that was the night I stopped wearing my amulet. I had been without it for only a few hours the day before, but I stopped intentionally reaching for it that night. That would lead to its own set of problems.

It took a few minutes, and one or two more firmly worded requests but finally I explained. His words hurt, they made me think that he thought I was perverted, fucked up and broken, asking for abuse. I felt like he had judged me, and found me severely wanting. It reminded me of how my ex had looked at me, sneered at me and been turned off by me and my desires. I was angry, I was hurt, and I didn’t believe him when he apologized.

There was a silent pause, and then he apologized again. I rolled my eyes and tried to move away from him but he ordered me back. I still refused to look at him and silently cursed myself for my weakness.

It took him some time but he was able to explain that he wasn’t mad at me, he was mad at his reaction to the marks he left behind. That he didn’t like hurting the people he loved, and he didn’t like seeing me in pain. What scared him was how much it turned him on, how much he wanted to cum all over the marks and bury himself inside me.

It took a while for that to sink in, and even when it did, I didn’t believe him. I was too hurt, too upset to think straight, and when he asked me if I would sleep beside him I said no. At that he gathered his pillow and his blanket and followed me out into the living room. Whether I liked it or not he would sleep beside me, and if I was going to sleep on the couch, then he would sleep on the floor in front of it.

No matter how much I argued he wouldn’t budge. When I protested too much he turned around and snapped at me. Part of me thinks he was scared I would get up and leave in the middle of the night, and that same part of me thinks that was a pretty realistic fear.

So I lay on the couch doing my best to muffle my tears. My backside was throbbing and my clothing did nothing to ease that. It didn’t take long for him to fall asleep, it never does.

I lay awake for what seemed like hours. When sleep finally came it was filled with night mares.

Bad Scene Part 1
Bad Scene Part 2

Bad Scene Part 4

Bad Scene Part 2: The Line

We managed to navigate our way through the first use of my safeword relatively unscathed. Our miscommunication might have been a sign we should explore more carefully, but it was one we ignored.

That night, after a full afternoon of playing in solitude, we teased and tempted each other. Sore and on my euphoric cloud I hopped on Pinterest and found an amazing number of tantalizing photos of women gloriously marked by their partners/Doms cane.

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With every image, with every glimpse of this previously taboo idea, my heart skipped a beat. By the time he led me into his room I was beside myself with anticipation.

I wanted this, more than anything. Forget that just before dinner his daughter had arrived, and was now sleeping on the other side of the apartment. Forget the fact I had sworn to myself I would never risk her finding out.

I knew it would hurt, I knew that I would feel a pain unlike any I’d felt up to this point. He had told me once before he would have to hit me much harder to leave the kind of mark I wanted to see. I didn’t care, the fact that it would be his mark on me, a physical sign of his possession of me was enough. That thought excited me so much, I knew I would take any pain that meant I could bear that gift.

I lay down on his bed in nothing save my shirt and bra, nervous and excited, and not quite sure how to contain myself. Like it does every time we play, his voiced dropped and he promised me three strokes. I wasn’t to make a sound, we couldn’t risk anyone hearing.

The first stroke I again flew off the bed, but no sound escaped my lips save a gasp. The second came a few minutes later and I moved away from my place on his bed. With my head buried in his pillow, I fought the tears. I felt him lay down beside me, and when I had gathered myself, I turned my face towards him.

I should have known at that moment. He was watching me with such worry in his eyes, so much concern for me it should have been clear. You see the man behind my Dom is a champion for those who find themselves in a troubled place. It’s his job to look for signs of abuse and care for those who may not be able to care for themselves.

It is for this reason I find it so easy to love him, but this side of him also makes it a struggle for him to cope with the more sadistic side I seem to require.

We talked, about what in particular I cannot remember, but one or two things stand out to me. At one point I said I could handle more, as much as each stroke hurt. I smiled up at him and teasingly said, “you did promise me three.”

There was a pause before he told me that he would do one more, to see if he could do this. So I lay back down, my already aching ass bared for him.

The last stroke was clearly the undoing for both of us. I’m sure I elevated off the bed, I buried my head in the blankets, the tears falling down my face as I listened to him pace behind me.

Snippets if what he said as he paced beside me still linger in the back of my head.

“Is that enough of a mark for you? Does that make you happy”

“This has gone beyond submission.”

“Do you really want me to beat you? Because that’s what this is.”

As I listened to the angry tone of his voice and those sharp, unforgiving words, my euphoria slipped away slowly…..behind it flowed every fear I had ever imagined, however briefly, when I contemplated entering this relationship with him.

I felt sick, disgusted with myself because at that moment it felt like he was right. I was asking him to beat me, abuse me. Was this some twisted shadow left behind from a childhood I’d rather leave behind?

Before I finished the thought I launched off the bed and gathered my clothes. My head down cast, I moved towards the bathroom. When he met me at the door I slid passed, too blinded by tears to even look at him.

For the first time I felt like he thought I was sick, which hurt more than I care to admit even now. For everything else, he had looked at me with lust not disgust in his eye. I was convinced we were over, how could I ever look at him again, knowing he thought that way about me.

I locked the door beside me and sobbed as quietly as I could manage. I turned to examine my marks in the mirror and felt nothing but shame.

Stepping under the hottest shower I could muster, I scrubbed my self furiously. When my skin was red and my tears eased, I leaned against the wall and felt a little of my shame wash away under the searing water.

No matter what we did now… Nothing would ever be the same again.

Bad Scene Part 1
Bad Scene Part 3
Bad Scene Part 4

Bad scene

So this particular post has been spinning around in my head since the very early new year. I have hesitated for a few reasons, which I am sure will come to light as you read this two-three post series.

Isn’t it funny how Bdsm is referred to as a ‘scene’, as if we are all D-list actors in some low budget porno. I get that we often script out our play, talking out our various limits before playing it out in the hopes that we avoid those slight misunderstandings that can potentially ruin a good relationship. However there is a chance in any scene that you don’t plan for every contingency, this unfortunately was my experience with caning.

Not too long ago over breakfast with the man I call my Dom, the subject of caning was laid on the table. I’m not exactly sure how it started, but it probably had something to do with how much I like to have his marks on my body. As much as I love his thick brown leather belt, the one he wears almost daily, the marks it leaves behind are not of the lasting variety.

I tend to get wet at the drop of a hat, and being the twisted little masochist I am, this was no exception. So there I sat, squirming in my seat, dripping wet across the table from him; oblivious to the crowded restaurant, my mind was focused on kneeling face down on his bed, my ass in the air and the distinct sting of a weapon I had not yet had the pleasure of experiencing, delighting my senses.

He loved the idea, or at the very least my reaction to it, either way, it was clear that I was not the only one tied up in knots over this wicked idea. On the way back to his apartment we stopped at the local hardware store where he led the way to the doweling section…..he knew exactly where to go. No hesitation, no contemplation…merely determination.

My clit throbbed as he fingered the smooth blonde wood. Carefully, he chose 4 rods of three different thicknesses, the smallest of which he doubled up. I couldn’t control the pounding in my chest; part of me was convinced that every person there knew what those rods were for.

I spent that afternoon writhing on his bed, as my Dom wrote the story of my submission across my pale skin. Periodically while I thought he was letting me rest he took pictures of my ass, bright red, aching with need.

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For the first time in three months I used my safe word, I know he was beginning to think I didn’t have a limit, but he found it that day. The issue we had was that he didn’t hear me, with my head buried in the pillow I can understand that, and when I rolled away from him and he laid another across me I got angry and reached for the cane and resisted the urge to snap it.

My accusing gaze and tear stained face were met with what I thought was anger towards me. I was angry because I had finally used my safeword and I felt like he ignored me. My Dom was upset because I had only said it once, and he hadn’t heard me and instead of repeating it, I had gotten angry at him.

After I had calmed down, after our miscommunication had been cleared up and the pain had dulled to that bittersweet ache of not quite enough he looked over at me with an odd gleam in his eye. “You could do more,” he exclaimed in wonder.

What is a girl to say in a situation like that? Do I lie and say, no I’m not hoping for one more, one more to really leave a lasting mark? So I told the truth, and he gave me one more. My whole body arched off the bed, I sat back on the mark causing a bolt of pain to shoot from all parts of my backside up my body.

As I came down off the rush of pain, I didn’t want him to touch me, everything in my body hurt; that delicious, intentional hurt that lit my sick little fire of desire and made me wetter than ever for him.

Yes a part of me was upset at him for hitting me that hard, anger was my initial reaction that first time, but when I reached around to gingerly brush my fingers over the raised skin, my heart fluttered.

There is something so very primal about being marked by ones mate. I love to feel the ache beneath my skin, but more than that I crave a visible reminder that I belong to him. This mark, this bright red, tender mark turned me on more than any amount of play we had experienced to date, and I wanted more.

We both seemed excited by it, our pheromones were pouring, our endorphins running and all evening we teased each other. I told him I could probably do two more, and he said that I’d have three more before we went to bed.

If I had known just how much those next three marks would change our lives, I would probably never have agreed to them.

If you’d like to read the next section, drop me an email or comment below….

Bad Scene Part 2
Bad Scene Part 3
Bad Scene Part 4

What is it?

Last night in bed I wondered aloud….what is it about having his hands around my throat that catapults me over that edge of sexual desire and excitement?

Does the fact that this excites me so much make me crazy, sick or perverted?

My Dom looked over in that sweet way he does, and reached over to grasp my throat in his strong, warm hand. “So,” he said, the deep timber of his voice a perfect compliment to my soft gasp, “tell me what this feels like.”

I lay under his hand my heart racing, gently arching against the weight at my throat. No matter the time of day, or where we are, when he puts his hand on my neck a fire ignites at the apex of my thighs.

It’s the possessiveness of the gesture, I am his. When he stands behind me as I kneel at his feet and holds me against his body. My head presses against his thighs and I imagine looking out at the world and smiling. ‘Yes, I am his,” my eyes tell them, “and you will never know this pleasure.”

Lying beside him with his fingers buried in my wetness, his other hand around my neck it impossible not to lose myself in my orgasm. When I reach that peak I shatter, no other explanation comes close to describing the intensity or that feeling.

I don’t remember who initiated it, I don’t care, the discovery that I love this crazy kink as been almost exciting as learning just how much of his cane on my ass I can truly withstand.

He knows just where to hold me, how to take me to that edge and each time. He knows how much pressure I want, and how much pressure I need to push me over the edge. He knows my body, my reactions and my mind, sometimes more than I do.

Even if it makes me crazy, I wouldn’t give up the feeling that comes when I am writhing under his hand, my body quaking as wave after wave of pleasure rolls over me.

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Are we all wired a little differently

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I would be lying if I told you that I am your average woman. I’m not consumed with thoughts of some future wedding. I am not desperate for a ten carat engagement ring.

Unlike so many women I know, my desire to belong to someone manifests its self in a much more primal fashion.

I have battled with this side of me for a great many years, and in all honesty, I am still struggling with it. How am I to navigate the world along side women so completely different from me?

The 22 year old that I work with spent all of last year planning and executing an elaborate wedding, she was so obsessed by this I struggled to feign interest. Desperate to out shine her sister, her friends and her cousins in everything from the size and sparkle of her rings (because an engagement ring and wedding band were not enough, she is also wearing the 5 year anniversary ring), to the place settings and venue, she would never be able to fathom what I seek out of a partnership.

Her white gold rings glitter and sparkle, a visible, well known sign of the position she holds in this life; while the silver and amber amulet that hangs around my neck can never be known for the meaning it holds. Mine is no less significant, to me it means so much more; this is a symbol that I have given my body, mind, soul and will to another. Every day we function knowing that we must trust, care for, and work to keep our place in life, because one word from eiother of us could be the end, because of this we value it, and don’t take the relationship for granted.

So when some one leans in to exclaim,”What a beautiful necklace,” I smile with fond memories and reply with a somewhat flushed, “Thank you, it is very special to me.”

When my Doms daughter asks from her place in the back seat with my dog, “I wonder what it’s like to wear a collar,” I am forced to choke back my embarrassment as I reply demurely, “I think it would be a lot like wearing a necklace all the time,” as I finger the weight around my neck, and avoid his knowing smile.

When most women are sharing their stories of babies and honeymoons, my fingers reach up to brush across the nearly unrecognizable bite marks on my forearms, shoulders, or the back of my neck and I shiver in excitement.

When the women I know giggle and whisper about long, soft, lingering lovemaking, I smile and nod; silently praying that tonight will be the night he ties me down and marks my ass with his cane. They talk of feathers and chocolate dipped strawberries while I dream of long lengths of rope and dark purple bruises.

Am I crazy for loving the heat that is left behind when his leather belt dances across my ass? Is the fact that I get so much pleasure from feeling that lingering pain when he leaves bruises on my backside? Would most people cringe at the secret name I call him in the heat of my passion?

Probably. Definitely.

To me a critical part my submission is knowing my Dom does not judge me for being a little, or very different. The difficulty is finding the balance between my masochism and his desire never to abuse me.

It’s important to me that I am accepted for who I am, however fucked up the world might find me. I’d like to think that I won’t be judged, but lets face it, that wicked beast called human nature won’t let us let go of what we label as, the norm.

So to the subs, slaves, littles, pets, sadists, masochists and any other twisted blend of being; others may label us sick, perverted, deviant or weird, but I say God, in whatever form he/she takes, just wired us a little differently.

How to kill my mother in four sentences or less

Today, while I was sitting in the Tim Hortons by my work, telling my mother and uncle about the new guy I’m seeing a very funny thought crossed my mind. What exactly would happen if I told these people who have known me all my life exactly the kind of relationship I have with this new man?

You see, my mother may pretend to be progressive, she may pretend to be accepting and modern in her thinking; but when it comes to sex, that carnal act between man and woman, woman and woman, man and man or any variation in between, my so called “free thinking” mother becomes one hell of a prude.

For instance, when I turned 19 and got a tongue ring it took me about three hours to figure out exactly why she was so disgusted by it. She was so disgusted by it that she couldn’t even look at it. Not because of the piercing, oh no, my mother thinks tongues are dirty.

You try and talk about sex and she gets this deer in the head lights look, her face goes red and she starts to squirm in her seat. It’s actually quite funny, I’ll admit, from time to time I do use her discomfort for my own enjoyment.

It makes me wonder though if she’s ever really enjoyed sex…..I do, a lot. I think I’ve made it my life’s mission to give the best head possible, even with the tongue ring gone. This one of many fundamental differences between my mother an I.

So today I started thinking evil, wicked thoughts. My family has reacted quite well to the fact that my Dom is 14 years my senior. My mother shrugged and said, “you’ve always been older than your years.” They didn’t mind that he has a 9 year old, in fact my mother can’t wait to meet her.

I really don’t think the same could be said about my love of BDSM. I don’t know how I would describe our relationship in such a way that wouldn’t cause her to have a coronary or launch into a homicidal rage.

How about…..

“Hi Mum, I’d like you to meet my boyfriend, he’s a Dom and I am his submissive. No I’m serious, on the way over here I begged him to pull over and finger me until I came, I didn’t think I would until he wrapped his hand around my throat. I have to say, of the four I’ve had today, that was definitely the best orgasm.”

Maybe that’s a bit much, lets try for short and sweet shall we?

“Hi Mum you remember my boyfriend don’t you? Oh these marks? Well before you came over I was hog tied on the kitchen table while he came all over me.”

Still too much? Hummm, how about this…

“Is he THE one? Well if you mean is he the guy I begged to mark my ass with his cane, the one I bare my neck to in anticipation of a dozen teeth marks along my collar bone, the one who ties me up at his feet while he works and the one I’ve promised to obey without question for the next three months, then yes….I think he’s the one.”

Just thinking about the look on my mother’s face has me giggling in wickedly evil glee.