My brain was screaming loudly, though my mouth remained clamped shut. Silent.
Staring at the blank screen in front of me I had been counting down the hours until my deadline. That had now passed, words for the extension request almost failing me too. It was the worst case of block I have ever experienced and the cause of it was entirely unknown. The screaming continued, louder by the day. Drowning out every little piece of understanding that sat in the recesses of my brain. Strange how running quieted my grey matter brat. While thundering around the trails I could form sentences, prove my understanding and make headway with the words.
As soon as I sat down to that little screen the paragraphs evaporated.
They came eventually. Dribs and drabs of incoherent blathering. Not up to my normal standard, but technically I wouldn’t need to hand this one in to get a pass mark so I could afford this temporary glitch. Stretching back in my seat I growled. The frustration coming out in a growl of rage, my inner brat vocalising for the first time. With her voice came hot tears, burning at my eyes and clawing to get out. Angrily swiping them away with my sleeve I knocked the laptop with my elbow and brought up the internet browser.
As I’m here I’ll just have a quick look…
My Xhamster login was automatic, and my favourites easy enough to pick through, to find exactly what was going to hit the spot. Hot tears dried and dormant folds began to heat and swell. Dropping my hands to my pussy, stroking gently in time the slaves hands as he stroked his mistresses clit. Delving into my inviting wet hole with more vigour than I’d realised I had in me while his colleague fucked her withe shiny black dildo gag. Climaxing with the Domme on the screen as her body was wracked with sensation, gushing over my cushioned chair as her mouth poured obscenities at those caged boys.
The brat was quiet, for the first time in a couple of days. Sated…
During my marriage I was made to feel like I couldn’t do or achieve anything without having P hold my hand. I now see that for what it was: him holding me back for fear that I would gain confidence and leave. For about a year after I moved him out I still struggled with groups of people, I wasn’t sure how I would fit in, or survive without someone there to comfort and reassure. That all changed when I went to my first ever munch. Of the people I would see there I had only met a couple of people in private and spoken to one other online. I walked in, fake-confidence plastered all over my face, and got stuck in.
There was no one to hold my hand that day.
It was a slippery slope from there on. I attended another munch in quick succession. Smaller this time, but I had not met anyone else, online or in person. Then came my first event. Now, years later, I am comfortable in new venues, chatting to groups of people I haven’t met before. I have recently been asked to take over hosting duties at my favourite munch, a task I have accepted after much soul searching. It seems relevant to say, given the prompt, that I have a strong supporting network of friends who will be holding my hand as guest hosts each month. I won’t be able to manage the 30+ kinksters without them, and look forward to sharing some of that responsibility. This is never more important than those days when I don’t feel that I have any people-skills. Occasionally they elude me completely, but the fake confidence can be plastered on again so that I can get through.
That fake confidence sometimes spills over into actual, real self assuredness.
A knowledge that I can do it, or at least that I want to do it so much I’m sure it will be alright. That I am enough, if that makes sense? That’s what I felt last July, when I saw that early bird tickets had been released for Eroticon. A rush of excitement and knowledge that I would be fine enveloped me, and I hit the purchase button. There is a long time between July and March, and over those months I started to grow nervous. Organising my train ticket and booking the hotel were practical steps I could take to quell those nerves but once that was done…. I had nothing! I reached out to my real life friends, they listened to my nervous ramblings during late evening phone calls, extended a Whatsapp hand hold when I needed it, just like they do when I’m floundering at registration for runs.
Eventually though, with my bags packed and my mum flapping about how dangerous London is, there was nothing to do but head off.
The nerves built on the train, on the tube, and at the coffee shop after I had checked into my room. I thought I would run around a bit of the city, calm my nerves before the meet and greet on Friday while also doing a recce for the conference and social locations. It did not help! Eleven miles I ran, and did not once see where I needed to go. Showering I rushed out the door, google maps providing a commentary in my ear. Even then I managed to walk a two mile loop when it was, in reality, less than half a mile from my digs. When I finally reached the venue I was lucky to bump into Kayla Lords and John Brownstone. They pointed me in the right direction and I promised to introduce myself properly when they got back to the event. Once inside I felt completely overwhelmed, and struggled to get my bearings. I have no idea how many people there were, but I knew nobody. I wondered what on earth I had been thinking! How could I possibly fit in with these people, everybody seemed to know at least a few people, or they had their significant other to keep them safe. I met Toy for Sir in those first minutes after entering. She was in the same situation as me, but had not long landed from the US. Needless to say, we were both swept off in different directions. Each somehow finding a guide to hold our hands while we got settled in. I met so many wonderful people that first night while fuelled entirely on Lime and Soda, and I slept like a baby afterwards.
It is so exhausting, meeting so many strangers. Putting faces and voices to genitals and writing styles.
The conference itself brought more people into my sphere. And I learnt so much from the speakers. When I found my way into the workshop for the demonstrations by Mactyre I was able to enjoy some time out in the vac bed, interact/abuse Jenby in the vac cube, and spend some time in the inflatable latex body bag. Although I felt utterly ridiculous in this new latex plaything (in a silly, fun way) I did learn that not all men in kilts go without! After being kicked out of the play room, I disappeared before the evening do. Decompressing with a short run, and some dinner before heading back to the evening social. I had met some really wonderful people during the day, and managed to chat to a few people before realising that I was drooling more than talking (it had been a long day!) and I headed back for some sleep before the second day of talks. Equally as amazing as the first day, I struggled to choose between the presentations. So many wonderful insights from fellow delegates and presenters alike. The deep exhaustion that has followed while I catch my breath is so entirely worth it, and as I come back to normal I shall start to decipher my notes, and look up the online round ups. I am looking forward to seeing how I grow and develop over the next year, both as a blogger and as a woman.
Do I wish I had someone here to hold my hand?
Sometimes I do, sometimes it is what I feel most in need of. To feel that someone else is there should I slip and stumble. But really, I am happy to not have that connection to hide behind. As things are I am forced to reach out of my comfort zone, to meet new people and start conversations. To find new people whose hands I can hold, however briefly, while we explore new territory. Be that munches, events or sex blogging conferences.
I am confident that I wouldn’t have met half of the people I now consider dear friends had I had the safety net of another’s hand to keep me safe from Stranger Danger.
Looking down she trailed her fingers along the parallel lines of her suspender straps.
The smooth sensation of the belt gripping her soft flesh; snug but not too tight, gripping but not biting. Picking up one stocking she worked her fingers to the toes, bunching up the flimsy nylon. Rolling the fabric over her toes, heel and then calf she stretched her leg away, pointing her toes. Admiring the length of her outstretched pin she continued to adorn herself, finally attaching the clips of the strap to the stocking top. First the front, and then standing for the back. Repeating the process on her left leg she sat down, and swung her toes out in front, both legs together and apart, watching the straps flex and the nylon shift as she moved gently on the edge of the bed.
Feeling sexy and glamorous she marvelled at the outward difference in herself.
And though she felt similar in some ways, her life had hopped from one course onto another track, in the same way as her fingers snaked from one suspender belt strap to the other one running parallel on the opposite thigh.
You would imagine that it would get easier, and in many ways it has. I can now celebrate the many times we enjoyed, and I can look back with joy in my heart rather than total devastation and, more often than not, anger. Anger with you for not going to see the doctor sooner, that they couldn’t catch it in time because you wouldn’t tell anyone. You fought it for a number of years, never admitting that you were going to die, even after they said it had spread to your bones, and liver. The time they thought you had a stroke, but it was really rogue cells floating around in your brain.
Your strength has probably inspired me more than I admit.
For many years every time I saw someone whose life you had touched they would say “oh, haven’t you got your father’s eyes.” They always missed out the eyebrows, chin and nose! And what about your stubbornness, dry wit and sense of adventure. Did I get those traits through nature or nurture? You were a stay at home dad until I started school, and even after that I was like your shadow. Saturday mornings in the shop are memories I will always treasure, the touch of felt will always take me back to that time.
Grief is a funny thing though.
Every year in the lead up to your anniversary something makes me feel like my heart has been broken. I never equate the two immediately, but tonight was a quicker realisation than the standard day or two. Maybe I am learning with time. Perhaps next year I will surprise myself with allowing the sadness without needing other hurts to bring it out.
This evening I was driving home from delivering my children. It’s the holidays and I get a rest too.
I was thinking about events from the last week or so. You see, when Sir left again in July I felt a little sad. I knew that I wouldn’t hear from him until at least February, and even if I did I wasn’t sure how that would feel. My need to submit took a sabbatical. I have been exploring this wonderful world of kink in different ways and enjoying myself greatly, but as time wore on my mojo drifted. Recently a few things have happened which have made me realise that, although enjoying the opposite sides of myself, I had actually been hiding my submission. It hadn’t left me, just curled up inside too scared of being exposed and vulnerable. The intensity of my submissive love and the loss thereafter too hard to face again. Grief is not just felt for those who have died.
Driving along I felt my heartbreak all over again, my eyes burning with tears held back too long.
I knew that I needed to run, and once I was safely home I did just that. Not 200m from my front door I realised why. I have come home and spoken to one of my lovely friends (you’d love her, she’s completely mad) and I have talked about you more than I have with anyone in years. I hope you would be proud of the woman I have become, the way I have conducted myself when times have been hard and the way I am raising the two grandsons you will never get to meet. More often than not I need to be strong just like you were, sometimes I need to laugh until my sides aches and occasionally I need a good cry.
“It will be fun” he said as he took my hand, encouraging me from the bed.
“You won’t need to get dressed, just stay as you are.” Down the stairs we went, peering through sleepy eyes and feeling the cold blast of fresh morning air as he excitedly bundled me to through door. Camera bag slung over his shoulder, wonky smile caressing his lips and two thermal mugs of tea in the hand not holding mine, he’d left the car engine running when he came to rouse me. “Just get in, you’ll love it once we’re there.”
The sun was just starting to peek over the horizon as we crested a hill and he pulled in to a neglected gateway.
The view was beyond beautiful, and we sat for a moment. Still chilly in my long nightie and bare feet I was surprised when he hopped out of the car and ran round to open my door. “No… No, no, no, no NO!!!” But there was no dissuading him, and I reluctantly stepped from the car, again taking his hand and allowing him to lead me through a gate, under some dense bushes and up a muddy bank until… In front of me there was a derelict cottage, entirely invisible from the road. Bathed in the glow of the rising sun we sat together on the doorstep and watched the day start to unfold before us, I barely noticed the chill air, safe with his arm wrapped around my shoulders and a mug of tea in my hands.
“One more thing before we can go back to the car” he stood up and retrieved his camera bag. “I want you to see inside.” With that he was off, and I was left to follow him through the detritus of the rooms, scattered with the clutter of a life well lived. Stopping in the kitchen I was distracted by the cans and bottles, left on the shelves for nature to retrieve. Use by dates long since passed.
So absorbed I didn’t register him taking my hands behind my back, biding me, restricting me.
As he rounded me I was lifted into position under a beam covered in dusty tea towels. Kissing my neck I melted as he attached the upline to my bindings. Looking me up and down I realised he thought something was missing. Stroking my legs he lifted my nightie up and away, before taking a rusty blade from the table and slicing the flimsy cotton fabric. As soon as he had free access he gently lifted my knee and bound it to the beam as well, those dark eyes on mine. “Higher?” is the question that fell from his lips though it wasn’t one I had the choice to answer as my planted foot and the beam took up the strain. Next my hair was tied, that tightness on my scalp intensifying the arousal spreading through me.
“One more thing…” his eyes lower now, and I noticed the blade again.
Fear rising, I flushed as he grabbed the cloth covering my breasts. I managed to breathe as I realised he just wanted me exposed. Milky white breasts on show. Whispering that I was his “ethereal beauty” he turned to leave, looking over his shoulder with a smirk (no,THAT smirk) on his lips and humour in his eyes “Don’t go anywhere” and I heard his footsteps echo through the building. In my rope bubble I was daydreaming about the lives that had been lived in this home, the peaceful meanderings of a busy brain which has been bound and set free. It was then that I noticed he had come back. What gave him away wasn’t his footsteps on the crunchy floor. No, it was the sound of his camera, the focus whizzing in the low light. Was it nearly time for breakfast I wondered as my gaze met his through the lens.
“Just one more thing…” As he placed the camera down, his lips met mine and his hand reached for the soft white flesh of my thighs…
This week’s prompt for Wicked Wednesday is:
If I was taking an erotic photograph of you, I would ask you to…
I opened up my twitter this morning and at the top of my feed was a post under the hashtag #fitbutfat. It’s not entirely random, and it’s certainly not a self-depricating search. My study has me wading through the muddy waters of social media in an entirely uncomfortable fashion. The overdue assignment I’m currently struggling with (because writing is not my friend at the moment) is about healthy obesity, hence the search. And as if by magic this picture popped into my messages from a shoot yesterday.
I’ve lost a lot of weight and am close to being “just” overweight.
But the tee shirt represents my ever increasing good health. And the strap on, well… That is another new side of me. One I’m not quite ready to share in full on here, but by the time I am up to date I will be further along and have a clearer idea of what it means to be me.
There I was, outside the door that would take me to him.
I had dreamt about this moment since he first came into my life, since the first time I was allowed to see him, albeit a photograph. Though the fantasy that I knew would never be brought to reality had been deep-rooted since my teens, being invited to one of his gigs was almost as good. I could stand in the crowd, listen to him play, watch his fingers dance over the frets knowing exactly what those fingers could do. I would mirror those fingers as I followed my instructions, to edge myself during the course of his set. I wasn’t allowed to orgasm, but he wanted to be able to find my eyes and see my heat through the crowd.
Dressed to his exacting standards I would have easy access to touch myself.
Knee length swing skirt, lacy black knickers stuffed inside (“we can’t have you dripping down your thighs N”), heels that I could stand in for the duration and a halter neck latex vest. I’d been asked to wear make up too, with lots of mascara and slut red lips, nails to match. Pushing the door to the bar open I made my way to order a drink. While waiting for service I leant forward feeling the air tickle across the back of my thighs, and the cane stripes from our scene the previous week. I felt fingers tracing a line up the sensitive flesh and gasped as he whispered in my ear “don’t turn around, remember, we don’t know each other… Just pretend I’m not here…” and as he reached over to grab the water bottle being handed over to him I felt him lift my skirt to expose my pussy to anyone who may have been stood behind us. My body flooded with the kind of heat that only comes from such erotic shame. Swollen lips pulsed around my lacy knickers and as I groaned quietly I heard him chuckle as he stepped away from me.
Shortly after that the lighting changed and the band took to the stage.
There he was, just as I had always known he would be. His energy just as powerful up on stage with his mates as it was in our time together. As the set list continued I gyrated to the music, edging but never allowing myself to crest. He knew that this was one of my favourite things in private, for solo tasks or for play, but he liked to push me, and public play was always a favourite fantasy. Now, NOW it was proving too much. Very occasionally our eyes would meet. I had rarely been allowed to look into is eyes, and now I felt so vulnerable under his gaze I could barely hold it together. Somehow I did, and as the encore finished he surreptitiously nodded to a door beside the stage, signalling me to meet him there. Ten minutes later the door cracked open, and I crept through into the dark space beyond, not wanting to draw attention to myself. “Do you know what it did to me, watching you play with yourself tonight? I saw the pain cross your face as you stopped 8 times.” All the while he was pacing around me in the dark room, I couldn’t make out what was surrounding us, but he clearly knew the space like the back of his hand. “Slut, MY slut, come…” and he kissed me deeply before taking my hand, slowly walking me through the void as he attached cuffs at my wrists. Folding me over what felt like a large speaker he attached more cuffs at my knees, and bound it to the matching wrist. I was stuck now. on all fours over this unknown article.
He then pulled on a latex hood. It covered my nose but nothing below.
Hearing the lights click on and his footsteps return he started talking again. “A tease, that’s what you are. You now need to make amends for my discomfort tonight. You will start with my cock” and with that he rubbed his jean clad mound in my face. I could feel his thickness growing behind the thick fabric, before I could grasp the zipper between my teeth He had pulled his turgid length free. I could hear his breathing change while my mouth and tongue worked hard to please him, delighting in the pre-cum that always. Tasted. So. Sweet. Hearing his dark chuckle as he grabbed my head and started to use my throat for his pleasure. As I gagged and drooled he pulled my head back and insisted I be more careful. He had to get back to his band mates soon after all!
I couldn’t be sure, but was that a chortle?
Slapping my cheek he lowered my head back down to his cock, pushing between my slut red lips, it was me marking him tonight. I heard him again “Go for it.” Huh? Then what sounded like a condom wrapper. Perhaps he is preparing…? As he retreated to allow me a rasping, gasping breath there was pressure at my asshole and ohhhhhhhhh, that’s-not-Sir… I could barely register what was happening before his cock was placed at my lips, teasingly this time. My tongue reaching out to taste him. Them? There was another head there now. I tried to concentrate on both cocks as my ass was used roughly by the first unknown man, but I felt Him shift away while the friend stepped up to take His place, gently placing his cock in my mouth and allowing me to work my magic. “Use her properly!” called the stranger behind me “Don’t waste your chance with this slut?”
“I think we should move her now” came His voice.
And with that He reached down and pulled my panties from my hot, wet hole. Swiftly replacing the second strangers cock with my soaked knickers. Listening to them talk I realised they thought I was a random slut from the crowd, desperate to be their backstage girl. As I was moved onto my back more condom wrappers were removed. He started to torture my flesh by pinching my nipples and grazing my swollen clit with those deft fingers. I was soon floating. Initially just one cock was fucking me, then with a bit of scrambling I was enjoying double and then triple penetration. His hand never leaving my sweaty, trembling body as waves of orgasm threatened to overwhelm me.
Once the band had enjoyed me, they cleaned themselves up.
Emptying their used condoms all over my heaving breasts, they left me to rub it in, laughing as they left. “MY slut, you did so well tonight,” hands running over my swollen, wet flesh. One hand raised cum from my chest to my lips, the other removed the hood. “Perfect” he cooed as I sucked his finger clean and looked into his eyes, black streaks running down my cheeks. It had all been part of the plan, His Master plan “MY beautiful slut”. Now I could thank him properly for making my fantasy reality.
It has been ten months since I began blogging, but for as long as I can remember I have been writing.
From tentative forays into creative writing as a pre-teen girl, allowing the poetry to bubble over through my adolescence and then more technical writing for study and work. I have always found it easier to communicate my thoughts and feelings through the written word; troublesome and happy memories often become tangled up together in my brain like spaghetti, the writing helps to seperate and smooth. When I first met sir he nurtured this by allowing my thoughts to flow through emails, never stifling me. Tasks, reviews and fantasies. Nothing could stop the depraved contents of my mind seeping onto the screen.
MrN also enjoyed my indulgent emails, and M enjoyed love notes dropping through his post box…
When sir came back into my life at the start of the year the blog that he tasked me with seemed overwhelming, confusing. But he knew me, and wanted me to continue to grow, in skill as well as confidence. It wasn’t long before the fear passed and I embraced this new world of communication. I have found a wonderful community where I can share with like-minded souls and, even when the words dry up, I can participate with images and pouring over the writings of others.
The task was to share the story of how I became the woman I am today.
Over the last ten months I have meandered my way through thoughts and memories to March 2017, all the while writing new memories. As I mentioned in my Everyday is #Boobday post last week I have just celebrated my birthday. Over the last four years I have made some wonderful friends, and one such lovely lady, Dr Lovelace, organised me an utterly awesome weekend away. It started with a flogging workshop with Aemelia Hawk, of Kabunza Craftwerks. Her workshops have been on my bucket list for a long time, and I came away with skills (some very exciting skills) and some beautiful floggers.
Oh, and a shameless selfie!! Fangirl moment…
A whistle-stop tour of the hosting club gave us a peek at the exciting times that could be had on future road trips before we dashed off to our next stop, Ticklemania!! I will write in depth when I catch up to now, but as a curious woman with no previous experience I was oddly nervous. Well, oddly for me. However, saturday night saw me as the newbie, and I could not have been made to feel more welcome. I made some new friends, experienced some new things and can wholeheartedly recommend this event, and venue to Lees, Lers, and kinksters. There was also cake…. It seems that my 36th birthday coincided with the tenth Ticklemania, and who doesn’t like cake on their birthday?! (Or any other time, but then I’m a cake slut!)
Worn out from the days exertions we headed back to our hotel in the early hours.
The next day saw us heading to the Birmingham Bizarre Bazaar. This has been on my list since before I’d even heard of Aemelia, and when our planned photo shoot was cancelled the week before we decided to head along. I’m so pleased we did. We bumped into people from the night before, and I met Zak Jane Keir whose blog I have been following for a while, but didn’t recognise her. As I bought a book we chatted about her writing, and the anthologies she had worked on. A conversation followed on all things Eroticon and writing in general. Life doesn’t seem to be getting any less exciting.
What a wonderfully wicked weekend!
It seems I had better get my writing head back on, so many memories to think about, process and enjoy all over again. And the list doesn’t seem to be getting any shorter! That’s ok though. As Benjamin Franklin is quoted as saying:
Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing.
That’s a piece of advice I can adhere to.
Click on the button to see what everyone else is up to for Wicked Wednesday.
I received a message from M one day while I was at work.
He was listening to The Cure in his workshop and while Love Cats was playing he immediately thought of me. We had been seeing each other on occasion for quite some time, he was a firm friend and I was taken aback by his open expression of interest. We had been talking on the phone most days and he was so supportive while I was going through counselling. With the message landing in my phone our relationship developed into something else, something much more. Immediately I was on YouTube, I thought I knew the son but wasn’t sure. Listening to the lyrics I was blown away, especially when he told me the following lines were what made him think of me:
So wonderfully, wonderfully, wonderfully
Oh you know that I’d do anything for you
That was quite a hard thing to hear at the time. It made me smile and cry, all at the same time.
I had grown so much over the two years since meeting sir, but the damaged woman who had been abused by her husband for twelve years was never far below the surface. We arranged that I would visit him the following weekend, but it was too far away. The next evening he drove up to see me and found me while I sat on the beach after my late summer swim. I can still clearly remember the feel of his warm body wrapping around me while I watched the large moon rising over the cliffs and the fire in the sky raged behind me. Looking around into his face the world felt like a nice place again. We sat on the pebbles until the sunset had completely faded from the sky, and the sea breeze was chilling the warmth that was coming from that embrace. Picking up some food on the way home and then curling up in bed together we stayed awake into the early hours.
Talking, laughing and making love, generally getting lost in each other.
It felt comfortable and loving, not anything I had really been used to before. With P I had been made to feel uncomfortable and unloved, and with Sir I had always felt accepted, safe and secure but never snuggly… and certainly not comfortable, but my comfort was never the point. Things escalated with M fairly quickly from there. He asked if I would like to be in a monogamous relationship with him, and I that felt like the right thing to do. My desire for kink was in a lull at that point, I was still sad about Sir leaving, and though I had been involving myself with the fetish community I saw myself as an owned submissive without her dominant, and playing with others held little appeal.
M and I had enjoyed a number of kinky interactions over our casual relationship, so I knew that he would be able to scratch that itch when the time came.
He wasn’t a dominant in any way though, and the whole idea of being in a relationship where power exchange played any part made him feel deeply uncomfortable. This never posed a problem for me, or us. I didn’t need to submit to anyone else; as I had said to sir when he went away I was his, I didn’t know where this new adventure with M would take me, but I was ready to embrace life again. Him getting to know my boys properly after having spoken with them occasionally on the phone, and me spending time with his family was wonderful. It felt very much like a natural progression to our relationship and also a vital step in my recovery. My little family of three (with occasional plus one) seemed to be working very nicely, and as time passed, when M was around I had a fully fledged grown up standing with me when I needed support. The decisions I had made for the children had previously had to endure P taking the opposite route to me. The stress levels in my home decreased dramatically, particularly when, following a challenging bedtime, there was a strong pair of arms to wrap me up.
To protect me from those demons of self-doubt that threatened to overwhelm me and my parenting.
Through my personal development with sir I had learnt that I had worth, but I feared that I was unloveable. I had not been able to see it. And here was my friend, my play mate, showing me that I was very much deserving the affection I had not known was out there. I still didn’t particularly need or understand these feelings, and the fear surrounding this particular form of vulnerability would appear eventually. For now though it was a warm safe space for this particular love cat to continue growing into the woman that she had never realised she would be.