Reunion - #freestory #BDSM #Submission

In my post two weeks ago, I talked about the difficulty I sometimes have distinguishing between actual experiences and the stories they have inspired. Here’s a bit from the story Reunion that I mentioned in that post. It’s based quite closely on real events. I could swear my Master has actually seen me in my corset, but he claims that I’m mistaken.

In any case, re-reading this never fails to get me wet ... a full twenty years after that rendezvous.

The tale was originally published in Rachel Kramer Bussel’s anthology Do Not Disturb: Hotel Sex Stories. You can read the entire story for free on my website. In case you’ve never visited, I have dozens of free stories available, all neatly classified. 

 

This hotel is more than a hundred years old. I selected it deliberately, hoping that it might offer some Victorian style, but the room is fairly ordinary – no four-poster bed, no fireplace, no curtain fastenings that might serve double duty as attachment points for bonds.

There is, however, a fine wing-back chair next to the window, with a footstool. My master tosses his backpack in the corner and settles himself into the chair. He grins at me, and butterflies swoop through my stomach. “Well, Sarah. Alone at last.”

I stand on the other side of the room, the bed between us, clutching my bag. What I really want to do is to rush over and kneel at his feet. I can’t move, though. It seems as though I’m in a dream, rooted to the spot. Hardly surprising. I’ve dreamed about this meeting for months.

How shall we start, then? Should I strip? The last time we were in a hotel room together, years ago, he bound me to the desk chair with my stockings. The time before, he unscrewed the post from the fake colonial bed and fucked me with it until my screams brought the hotel management knocking on the door. But that was in another life, before I misread my master’s heart and chose a different partner.

“So, what do you have in your bag?” he asks finally, after watching me squirm for long moments.

“I have the corset.” I’d purchased it for myself, thinking to please him, knowing that there was no way he would ever buy me one.

“Good. And the other things that I told you to bring?”

“I have the ruler, the rope, the alligator clips, and the timer.” I remove the items one by one, arraying them on the bed for his inspection. Without announcing it, I take out a package of condoms and place it on the bedside table. His eyebrows arch in a silent question, but he just nods.

“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t find a rug beater, or the switches. It’s too late in the year; the trees are too brittle. Anyway, I wouldn’t have been able to carry them...”

“No excuses!” He sounds stern but I can see a smile twitching at the corner of his full lips. “I’m sure that you know better than to disobey me. We’ll see about your punishment later.”

He settles back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Right now, I want to see you in your corset.”

I carefully extract the gorgeous black satin garment from its tissue paper wrapping. My master looks relaxed, but I know he’s not missing any detail as I pull my jersey over my head and attack the buttons at my waist. Of course I’m not wearing a bra. My nipples feel hot, as if illuminated by a spotlight. They seem to scream “look at me, see how stiff I am”.

My rayon skirt pools around my ankles and then I’m naked in front of him for the first time in nearly two decades. His eyes widen but he doesn’t say a word.

“Why don’t you close your eyes while I put it on? It’s rather an awkward process. And I want you to get the full effect.”

“You can’t hide anything from me, Sarah,” he says, but still, he turns to look out the window while I struggle with the clasps and laces.

My fingers don’t work at all, I’m so nervous. I know he’s getting impatient, yet I can’t seem to reach the last hooks. I suck in my stomach, worried that I’ve gained weight and I won’t be able to fasten the thing, but finally, I manage.

The boned curves press into my flesh. I move a bit stiffly, my breathing shallow so that I don’t burst open the hooks. The corset elevates and separates my breasts; they spill lushly over the top of the garment. Meanwhile, I can feel my bare buttocks bulbing out behind.

“Okay – I’m ready.”

My master leans forward, eager, his smile baring sharp white teeth. “Very nice. Come over here.”

Stumbling a bit in my high heels, I circle the bed and stand in front of him.

“Very nice indeed. Walk around for me, Sarah. Let’s see more of your tits and your ass.”

His mocking, lecherous tone thrills me. I’m terribly embarrassed, but I love showing off for him, and he knows it. My pussy swells and moistens. My nipples harden further, so painfully sensitive that one touch might send me into orgasm. He doesn’t touch me, though. He just watches, while I strut back and forth in front of him, swinging my hips.

I notice the seaweed scent, rising from between my dampened thighs. I’m close enough to him. I know he can smell it to. I don’t dare to look at his face. Instead I hold my head high as he taught me, imagining that I’m wearing the collar he once promised me.

I feel his hot eyes ranging over my body, and I rejoice, knowing that I please him, that he’s as aroused as I am. And all at once I’m awed by the power of our complementary fantasies. I want him to watch me; he has flown three thousand miles to do just that. He nourishes all my perverse notions, rewarding me for being the outrageous slut that I secretly am, the submissive, devoted wanton that he recognized in me, long years ago.

“Bend over,” he says, his voice gruff with lust. I know exactly what he wants. I stand with my back to him, between the chair and the ottoman. I bend at the waist, presenting my ass to his gaze, holding the stool for support. He leans closer, but for a long time he still doesn’t touch me.

His gaze traces paths across my bare skin. I swear I can tell when his eyes linger on the pale globes, or probe more deeply into the shadows between them. This inspection excites me beyond belief. I know that he’ll touch me, sooner or later. I think that I’ll die if he doesn’t do it soon. 

**** 

Read the rest of the story here!

Hurt Me, but Don't Tell Me What to Do

by Annabeth Leong

The more I think about it, the more I’m uncertain about why the acronym BDSM is strung together this way, as if all the activities it describes are related. There’s a constellation of kinky stuff that’s treated as if it always goes hand in hand, but that doesn’t really make sense.

When I started showing up at kink events, I said I was submissive because I knew I wanted to bottom and receive pain. I didn’t realize there were distinctions here, and most of the events I went to elided them, too.

Over time, however, I recognized a growing anger in myself. I hated, viscerally, the experience of being treated as submissive. Of course, I met some cool people. I also encountered a lot of smarmy sneering, people talking to my dominant instead of to me (which, depending on your point of view, might have been proper protocol), jokes that irritated me, incorrect assumptions, and stuff that pissed me off in general.

I had a partner at the time who I called my dominant. Really, my partner was my sadist. We weren’t using proper vocabulary, but most people around us weren’t either. When we went to events, my partner adopted what they saw as a dominant-type persona, and I found it embarrassing and cringe-worthy.

At the same time, I truly do enjoy bottoming—as in, I love being on the receiving end of intense sensation. I love being tied up for a variety of reasons. I like it as a meditative state, I like it as a way of inducing discomfort, I like it as a decorative art, I like it as a way of experiencing the sensation of textiles on the skin, I like it as a way of drawing blood flow to certain areas to make them more sensitive, and lots more. I also love receiving pain. Impact play is a favorite for me, but I also love electricity, clamps, biting, and so on.

Over time, I realized I needed to distinguish between bottoming as a masochist and power exchange situations that framed me as submissive. These two things are so commonly associated that I’ve encountered many people who respond with disbelief or confusion when I try to explain that I want to be hurt but there’s no way in hell I want to submit.

I think a lot of kink activities boil down to being about trust. I do have to trust a top or a sadist. For me, that trust works best when I’m in the situation as an equal. It’s also easier for me to trust myself to speak up when I need to.

What’s funny about this is that I have a lot of submissive instincts. I am very, very good at service. It is easy for me to subsume my needs and focus on those of others. If you give me an order, my first reaction is to obey.

However, I don’t like that stuff about myself. I don’t want to feed it. What I’m working on in my life is to stop knee-jerk obedience. I don’t want to practice it on the weekend.

I know that many people experience submission as freeing. For me, it’s much more freeing to meet a top as an equal and figure out together how to hurt me for fun.

The more I’m around kink events, the more the dynamics around power exchange feel touchy and delicate to me.

For example, there’s a big kink con in Rhode Island called the Fetish Fair Flea Market. I go every year, and usually have a mixed experience. In some ways it’s awesome, and in some ways it infuriates me.

Early on, I went in clothing that identified me as an s-type (a sub or bottom). I didn’t always love how I was treated, but I didn’t know anything else.

One year, I went alone in these hot boots that I really loved. I didn’t think much about it at the time—I’m into feet and shoes, and these were just hot. They were thigh-high black leather boots that laced all the way up, with at least a three-inch heel. I felt gorgeous in them.

I could never have anticipated how much the boots would change my experience of the Flea. Apparently, the boots made people read me as a D-type. All of a sudden, I saw everything from a different perspective. I got more respect in the vendor halls. People answered my questions. The conference opened before me like a flower.

I still got regularly sexually harassed, don’t get me wrong. Random dudes still came up to me to share their sexual fantasies about me (I still presented female, after all), it was just that those fantasies had changed. Still, it was shocking to be freed from receiving the biases and assumptions that had come at me when people saw me as an s-type.

These days, when I go to the Flea, I struggle to find a way to dress. There’s not an obvious outfit that says masochist, at least not that I can think of. It’s hard not to wind up looking s- or D-. But really, I’d like to be able to step outside of power exchange with my kink experience.

And there are times when the distinction is subtle.

Last fall, I went with a top to a carnival. My top tormented me with unpleasant, frightening rides, laughing delightedly at my misery (I love that kind of thing, so while I was horribly uncomfortable, I was also having a great time). They pushed me to get on these things relentlessly, one after another.

I would call that a masochistic experience, not a submissive one, but I think, if we’d been in a different place, that it could have been a submissive one. In my case, the focus was on unpleasant sensations. My top was administering them, but I was receiving them because I find unpleasant sensations fun/fascinating/arousing/oddly compelling. In the submissive case, I think the focus would have been more on doing these things for the top, on being obedient despite the discomfort.

The emphasis on obedience is one of the things I really hate.

I’ve revised the way I describe myself at kinky events more times than I can count, and this probably still isn’t the final answer. However, it was really important for me to realize that what I’m interested in is sensation, not power.

And I hope this goes without saying, but I want to be very clear: I hold absolutely no disdain for those who do identify as submissive and enjoy it. It’s just not for me. Because I’ve spent time in that role, I have observed some dynamics around it in the community that I think are messed up, but I’m absolutely in support of people who want to explore the role itself.

Meanwhile, I’ll be looking for sadists who want to treat me as an equal.

Glamour: A True Story from the Seventies

By Lisabet Sarai

I wonder, sometimes, if I imagined it all. But then there's the evidence: the photographs, bound in a loose leaf notebook with my name in gold ink on the cover. Each print is lovingly mounted on heavy paper of a color that compliments its hues. There are no captions; these pictures speak for themselves.

My heart quickens when I leaf through the album. The woman in these photos is glamorous, sophisticated, utterly desirable. She gazes at the camera from beneath half-lowered eyelids. Her scarlet-painted lips are parted. Her expressions are languid, sensual, mysterious. She does not smile. She is dressed as though for a nightclub: patent-leather high heels, a red satin jumpsuit that highlights her curves, a black silk blouse dusted with sequins, a stretchy jersey showing off her cleavage.

In the images further on, she is nude. She reclines on burgundy velvet, the curve from hip to shoulder simple and perfect. She kneels on a window seat, illumined by winter sun, hands clasped behind her head, face turned away from the camera. The arch of her back, the swell of her elevated breasts, the graceful line of her neck flowing downward from her upswept hair: I cannot look for long at this particular image without tears gathering.

The photos remind me of who I was: young, experimental, hungry and open. At the same time, I have to smile, recalling that in those days I never wore make-up, and was more likely to be shod in sandals than stiletto heels. The woman in the album is an artistic creation, a work of imagination and passion. These photos grew out of an intimate collaboration between my younger self and a man with remarkable vision.

His name was Ron. We were introduced by my lover, Pavel, who always enjoyed tempting me and egging me on to outrageous adventures. Pavel told me that Ron enjoyed photographing women in sexy clothes. Apparently, Ron had suffered a heart attack a few years earlier, and had to live a quiet life. Pavel implied that Ron's hobby was a surrogate for sexual activity made impossible by his health.

I was intrigued, as Pavel knew I would be. Motivated equally by perverse curiosity and sympathy, I agreed to a photo session with his friend. At ten A.M on a February Saturday, I showed up at Ron's apartment, nervous and excited.

I guess I was expecting someone frail and infirm. Ron was a small, trim man with graying hair and a mustache, who seemed perfectly healthy to me. His quiet manner and obvious intelligence won me over immediately.

"Let's start with make-up," he said with a quirky smile. From his bedroom, he retrieved a cosmetic kit worthy of a movie star. It didn't strike me as odd, at the time. Already I was caught in a kind of sensual trance, accepting whatever happened.

He tied a sheet over my blouse and jeans and set to work. His fingers were deft and gentle. It felt perfectly natural to have him touching me. For half an hour he labored over me with lipstick and eyeliner, blush and mascara, implements and products that I couldn't even name. He hummed to himself as he worked. I tried to remain still, a canvas for his art. It started then, my delicious transformation into a passive object of desire. I did not understand at the time why I found his attentions so arousing. My nipples were taut under my clothes, and my sex ached. Yet I felt no urgency.

I surrendered myself to him, gave him my face and my body to fashion into his image of beauty. I basked in the light of his focused attention. I wanted only to be worthy of his efforts.

I know now that this need for surrender is something fundamental to my nature. I require mastery, crave discipline, find my deepest satisfaction in submission. Then, I was innocent. And Ron was no master, not in the sense that I now understand. Nevertheless, I reacted instinctively, eager to bend myself to his will.

At last he put down his pencils and brushes and brought me a mirror. "What do you think?," he asked, clearly pleased himself.

A shock ran through me as I gazed at the face reflected back at me. My face, my features, and yet strangely altered and enhanced. My brows arched elegantly over dark-fringed eyes that seemed emerald rather than their usual dull hazel. My lips were fuller, my cheekbones higher. My whole countenance had a sculpted quality that made me think of dusky marble.

I was speechless. Ron just grinned. "Costumes, now," he said. I had brought a few things of my own, but he had an entire closet of slinky, suggestive garments." They belonged to my old girlfriend," he told me then, and I believed him. I wonder, now, whether this was the whole story. But what does it matter?

He had jewelry, too, heavy gold-colored chains, long strands of faux pearls, hoop earrings and bangles. I felt paralyzed, incapable of choice. "Try on the red jumpsuit," he suggested, "while I get the camera and lights set up."

The jumpsuit fit perfectly, just tight enough. All of the costumes fit. I was not surprised by this; I accepted it all, moving serenely through the day in total trust.

Back in living room, Ron posed me. Hand on my hip, my face in profile. Curled in an armchair with my ankles crossed. Back to camera, spine arched, looking over my shoulder. Sometimes he would give verbal directions. Often he would come over, adjust my limbs, raise my chin a bit to catch the light. The shutter clicked and the film whirred, again and again.

His face was flushed and his breathing was ragged; clearly he was excited. However, he never deviated from his calm, professional manner. His fingers never brushed the nipples that poked eagerly through the spandex top. Unbuttoning the silk blouse so that it could fall open slightly, he may have glanced into the shadows that opening revealed, but that was all.

I found his manner simultaneously frustrating and comforting. I wanted more. He progressed to increasingly provocative poses. I opened myself to his lens.

When he asked me whether I would model naked, it was simply the next logical step. I felt no embarrassment as I stripped in front of him, only exultation. I saw my desirability mirrored in his eyes.

Morning flowed into afternoon. The session took on an endless, dream-like quality. Our interactions seemed a stately kind of dance. The time between successive poses lengthened. He would position me and require me to be still. Then he would gaze at me for long minutes before finally triggering the shutter. My muscles cramped and goosebumps peppered my bare skin, but I didn't mind. We were lost together in a convergence of fantasy.

Finally, I noticed how tired he looked. His complexion was ashen, and his breathing was shallow. "Let's stop, Ron," I invited him. "You need a rest."

I donned the silk kimono he handed me. We sat at his kitchen table, drinking Portuguese rosé and talking as though we had known each other for years. But the spell was still on us; in the midst of conversation he would suddenly fall silent, staring at me. I would blush and then straighten my back proudly, allowing the robe to fall open. After a few minutes, we'd smile sheepishly and go back to our discussion.

Of course we made love. It was a natural extension of intimacy we had already shared. Yet in a sense, it was an anti-climax. I was preoccupied, worried silly that he might collapse in my arms. And Ron - Ron was grateful in a way that made me understand how great a gift he had given me. A gift much finer than the seething orgasm he wrung from me with his gentle fingers and nimble tongue.

I kissed Ron goodbye in the early winter dusk and headed home. I never saw him again. About a week later, Pavel dropped by my place and handed me a package. Inside I found the album.

"Did you look at them?" I asked my lover. He grinned in that mischievous way of his and nodded. Then he took me in his arms and wrestled me to the carpet. He was a wild one, Pavel was.

I don't show these photographs to many people. When I do, reactions vary. My husband simply shrugged. "Nice," he said, "but they don't look at all like you." My fundamentalist mother claimed that they were the work of the Devil. My feminist brother was concerned about my being a sex object.

Occasionally, though, someone will leaf through the pages and see the truth. They'll see my parted lips, my lowered gaze, and understand that I was enchanted that day, held still and willing as a stranger molded me into his ideal of beauty. Totally open, free of fear, surrendered to the moment with a purity that I've been seeking ever since.

The Tales My Browser History Could Tell

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Writing from the soul

by Kim Dare

For anyone who doesn't know exactly how this blog works, we all take it in turns to pick a topic to talk about each week. This week was my turn. It seems to me, you have two options when picking a blog topic.

Either you can pick a topic that you believe you have something interest to say about, or you can pick something you'd like to hear what other people have to say about. I'll confess that I picked this topic mostly because I was curious what everyone else would say.

You see, although I write BDSM every day, it's not actually a subject I find it easy to say a lot about. It's a bit like someone asking - why do you like the colour red? Um... because I do. Or why do you like a certain song? Um... because it just feels right when I listen to it.

However, since I obviously need to say something more than that, I decided to look through my old stories and see exactly when I started writing con-kink, or BDSM or D/s or whatever you want to call it.

After a lot of reading, I found out when I started to write about sex, and I discovered when I started to write about romance, I even discovered the point at which I started to write something that looked like a vaguely competent story. But as for when I started to write BDSM? As far as I can work out I've always written it.

There was, however, a point at which I didn't know the right words for all the things I was writing about. I wrote a lot of submissives before I knew that was the right word for what they were. I wrote negotiations and scenes and whole D/s plots without knowing any of the right words for the sort of relationship I was describing.

I found excuses for the relationships to be based on dominance and submission for a long time before I realised that excuses weren't needed. Fantasy, sci-fi, historical, paranormal. Looking back, I tapped every vein I could think of because I think, deep down, I was aware that most people in the real world around me didn't see things in quite the same way - so I went out and invented societies that did.

Now, I'm not talking about societies that were about a dominant gender or class or race suppressing another. I think I knew right from the start that my own ideas of dominance and submission weren't about that. I invented characters and situations which made the dominance and submission about love - about giving each character the chance to be happy with their lover, and inside their own skin too.

Earlier in the week Jamie mentioned doing research on various websites. I'm familiar with quite a few of them, but when I went on them, it was less like discovering a new world or a new way of doing things, as much as someone suddenly providing a dictionary of proper words for ideas that existed inside my head, but which I didn't have the right vocabulary to express.

There are quite a few words in the kinky vocabulary I'm not fond of. For example, I don't call my submissives slaves, no matter how complete their submission or no matter how thoroughly they are owned by their masters. I just don't like the word. The real world connotations are too strong for me to find it erotic. It's a term that will always be non-consensual in my mind. But still, by and large I'm happy to say the vocabulary of BDSM is now my vocabulary.

And I happy to admit, the psychology of dominance and submission is and always has been very much my psychology. I've never researched it. It came built in, lol. My understanding of vanilla, though, that's a different story. I find it as hard to understand the appeal of that as others find it to understand the appeal of BDSM.

That's why, all in all, I'm left without anything very interesting to say on my own choice of topic.

I write BDSM because the stories inside my head and the characters who live inside those stories are intrinsically tied to ideas of dominance and submission. Take that out of the stories and you take part of the soul out of them.

I write BDSM because I think BDSM, and maybe because it's part of my soul too.

************************************

On a similar topic :)

I'm one of the authors in Total-e-bound's Night of the Senses anthology. It's a BDSM anthology and each story in the collection focuses on a different sense - sight, smell, taste, touch, hearing, and extra-sensory!

My story - Whispers - is the extra-sensory one. As an M/f, vampire story about a 24/7, D/s relationship.

Here's the blurb:

Charlotte is more than happy to offer her master her body, her blood and her submission. But her mind is her own, if he really is listening in on her thoughts, he has to stop – Right now!

As soon as Zachariah feeds from Charlotte’s blood, he begins to hear her thoughts whispering into his mind. A rare blood bond forms between them and Zachariah is thrilled. He’s sure the bond and his new insights into Charlotte’s mind will solve all their problems.

Charlotte was ready for her master’s bite to hurt – she was looking forward it. She thought she was ready for anything else too, but she wasn’t ready to let her master into her mind. The bond isn’t the solution to anything. The bond is the problem.

Zachariah has to solve a whole new set of problems if he’s going to prove he’s the master Charlotte’s always wanted, and Charlotte has to learn to do something she’s never done before – trust a master with her mind.

And an extract:

(At this point Zachariah has taken his first feeding and has just started to hear Charlotte's thoughts whisper to him over their mental bond. She is still unaware of the bond's existence.)

With gentle kisses, and teasing caresses, his hands and lips roamed over her body. He felt tension build very slowly in her muscles. He sensed the pleasure building, oh so slowly in her body. He forced himself to be patient. Human women could not be expected to have the same speed of reactions as a vampire man.

He ran his hands up her arms, intending to wind his fingers through hers. With his hands around her wrists, Zachariah leaned forward a little bit too far. His erection brushed against the soft skin on the inside of Charlotte’s thigh and slid higher. He felt the slick moisture gathering along her slit ready to welcome him.

With the extra sensitivity of the recent feeding, it was almost impossible to not to plunge forward, to bury his shaft inside her with one smooth stroke. His grip tightened around her wrists as he fought his body for control.

She caught her breath.

With a silent curse, Zachariah immediately softened his touch.

He looked to her wrists, but it was too soon to know if his grip had been too harsh, if he would leave a mark on her skin.

Charlotte shifted underneath him. He desperately tried to concentrate on her thoughts—on his only chance of discovering if he really hurt her—because he was damn sure she wouldn’t tell him.

Harder!

Obviously the bond wasn’t reliable right from the start. He would have to practise reading his pet before he could rely on the bond to report accurately to him. He had no choice but to resort to more traditional means of communication.

“Did I hurt you, pet?”

“No, master.”

Yes.

He stared into her eyes, trying to read her expression. How could a woman hide pain from him so easily? Not even the tiniest flash of fear showed in her eyes. Before he could retreat, before he could explain to her such carelessness would never happen again, another thought came through to him.

Want more.

More? He frowned down at Charlotte. He was so sure the bond would be the solution to every problem between him and his pet. He’d been so eager for it to be a magic pill.

Want more!

The thought rammed into his mind, hard and certain.

Zachariah stopped trying to think about anything logically. He stopped trying to think at all. It was impossible to argue with the bond when every single part of his brain told him to trust it.

Aware he might be about to make the biggest mistake of his life, he replaced his hands around Charlotte’s wrists and slowly tightened his grip.

Yes!

She liked it. Even if he’d mistaken the words, the bond whispered into his mind, unequivocal hot pleasure flowed in a steaming torrent across the bond.

Zachariah tested his theory. He cautiously tightened his grip again.

Like.

He pinned her wrists firmly to the mattress. “Do you like this, pet?”

“I like whatever my master wishes to do with me.”

He hated those words so much.

Suddenly he had to get truth from her lips. He kissed her—not the usual gentle brush of mouths he was so used to employing with human women. It was a harsh demanding kiss, all about making her show a response—any response.

A soft whimper escaped from the back of Charlotte’s throat.

Zachariah felt the pleasure course through her and pushed her harder, letting more of his weight rest on top of her so he pinned her firmly against the bed at every point of contact. He made the kiss even rougher. Keeping his teeth to himself be dammed. Nipping at her lips, he thrust his tongue into her mouth.

The kiss became a simple statement of dominance. She was his. He could touch her however he wanted, kiss her however he wanted.

Yes! Want! Master! Please!