The signs had been good. Slowly getting back into wanting to play 'properly'. Certain types of scenes: caring, DD, and relatively easy headspaces. With time and practice and the desperate need to reclaim my head I was starting to get into proper roleplay again. Some times it's been easier than others but all the while I've definitely been moving forward. And within that, little by little, going deeper and deeper.
When Abel and I played a school scene during the week I felt I was almost back to where I used to be: so quickly had I slipped into Lucy's shoes; how easily I'd been that errant young student; and how ashamed I felt to have let myself and my school down.
And so I confidently planned scenes in advance of my recent visit to HH; I felt ready.
The first scene was to to start from the train and was intended to help me cast off my work persona and get into a good space to play. It was a fairly innocuous scene in theory: a young woman who'd lost her way and got into too much trouble, sent to a new guardian to make a fresh start in life. The idea was that careful guidance and a certain amount of discipline would set her back on track. There was nothing dark or abusive about it and I had planned to play her lightly - not taking the new life very seriously, at least at first.
To my surprise it was far from light. Ally turned out to be a complicated character and one I became so immersed in that I could see every aspect of her life: her past, her fears, her frustrations. All of which were hidden by the outward defiant persona that Mr Wilson (HH) was seeing.
She fought back on everything from refusing to answer to Alison, to disdainfully wearing the clothes provided and insisting she wouldn't obey his stupid rules. She even refused to go across his lap for a spanking earned through her rudeness. Nor was it a cursory refusal as I would often do in a scene: it even getting to the point where it could have derailed the scene completely. Ally was outraged about being spanked and twisted and kicked and punched against him, but he was too strong for her. Finally overpowered, she gritted her teeth as she lay across his lap, waiting it out, trying not to show that it was hurting. Each time he paused to check on her attitude she threw barbed insults at him.
When he tried to take her knickers down the battle started afresh, with no let up from her, even when he threatened to rip them off. Normally in something like this EJ will take over and give in to keep the scene on the road, especially if a pair of knickers was at stake. But Ally was in charge. So Mr Wilson changed tack: sat her on his knee; explained how he could help her; made her aware that if he really wanted to beat her into submission, he could, but that her life had to change; emphasised that she no longer had any friends or family who cared about her and this was her last chance. It worked. Breaking into tears she let herself be hugged as she admitted she just wanted to go home.
Ally stayed in my head for a long time afterwards. And even when EJ eventually resurfaced I didn't feel at all like I normally do after great immersive play; I was down, upset for Ally and unable to forget her. The feeling lasted much longer than usual and it troubled me. Yes it was normal to have a period of resurfacing after scenes but these feelings were surprisingly painful. I couldn't cast off her despair. Was it because those feelings of misery were too like those I'm experiencing in my real life?
It made me doubt the other scene we'd planned: a much darker context. A maid who had breached her contract and had been sent to the House of Correction as punishment. It was to start with admittance to the institute and a private flogging which I knew would be severe. Despite changing the original premise of the scene, from one where she was blameless to where she was culpable of the offence and had redemption and hope when she finished her sentence, I still expected it to take me to dark places. I just wasn't sure I wanted to go there anymore.
I was worried about how I would feel post scene. What if I didn't fly? What if I got trapped in her misery and struggled to come out of the horrible dark place? I was also worried on practical level: I hadn't played a severe scene in a long time; I was afraid of how much it would hurt. In the end I decided to go for it, letting my fear build up as HH made his preparations.
Again I quickly slipped into Nancy's head: she was regretful of treating her employer so badly; wishing she had worked harder for him and not been so lazy; pitying herself for being sent to the House of Correction. Her hands shook as she made her birch, needing several attempts to secure the bundle. Blushed as he made her strip naked, laughing at her predicament. She was already crying by the time she was chained to the whipping bench. A properly terrified girl.
Anyone who's ever been spray birched can attest to how agonising it is and for Nancy nothing could have prepared her for the searing pain. She screamed in shock as the first few strokes fell, building quickly on each other; anticipated each following stroke in terror as she heard it swishing down with the shards breaking off every time it connected with her skin. It wasn't long before she was sobbing. At times she couldn't breathe, couldn't understand how she was surviving it. But she had no choice: whatever feelings EJ had on the matter were dismissed - there was only Nancy and the warden.
He was thorough and vicious: alternating between slow and fast strokes; ensuring the birch crept into the sensitive places exposed by how stretched she was over the bench; taking his time to land strokes precisely on her inner thighs, laughing at the louder shrieks of pain this elicited. He was a man determined to take her to the point of doing anything to make him stop: when he demanded what he wanted she didn't resist but silently complied. And then the last dozen strokes fell on her limp body as she lay crying silent tears.
Post this scene I hid under the bed covers on my own trying to come out of the scene. At this point HH always checks if I want him to stay near or leave the room. Either way he waits until I want him but he knows I can't be touched until I take Nancy out of the scene and then get out of her head. I cried until I retched, for her, for her misery, for the promise of more abuse to come, for the physical pain I was feeling.
But when I started to calm down and disassociate from her I cried even more to realise I wasn't feeling the usual relief in surfacing. The misery and fear refused to leave, the despair hung over, it all felt too familiar. Now I was crying for me, for the familiar feelings of fear and despair that are never far away. And I wondered why the hell I roleplayed such misery and fear when I've had so much of it, seen so much of it this year?
I didn't really recover from this scene until we played the rest of it the next day. When the Master took his turn to abuse her: birching her on her breasts and thighs, threatening a full repeat of her recent birching, so she was amenable to what he wanted. And when she faltered at a request, took a strap to her until she screamed, stuffed her mouth with his handkerchief to muffle the screams and then whipped her some more until he was satisfied she was fully compliant.
The difference with this scene was that I didn't go nearly as deep - I was Nancy, but EJ wasn't far away. But it brought closure to the character and in the end I did fly and feel thankful that I could go back to the deep dark places and it wouldn't kill me. But then the real life deep dark places don't kill you either: you just make your way back, slowly, slowly, slowly.
Monday, January 21
Sunday, December 2
Pain
I can't take the pain. It's too much. Too severe. I want it to stop. He holds me, saying nothing, listening to me scream.
"Please, it's too much, I can't cope, I just can't cope"
I'd never imagined anything could hurt so much. I thought I was tough, I thought I was brave, I thought I was invincible.
I fought the tears of course. Tried not to give in. I've learned that if you build the walls high enough you can fight off most onslaughts. But he knew what he was doing. They all do. Expertly find the chinks in my armour with their weapons of choice: kind words, sincere hugs and unexpected presents; sometimes they even cry with me.
His weapon was putting me over his knee, spanking me hard until the walls loosened, gently then so the tears started and finally a short firm burst, until I was sobbing.
Afterwards, when I've cried myself out I lie quietly, feeling better for now: beautifully, emotionally numb. My mind wanders to other times I've cried like this with him. The levels of physical pain he has caused me; the dark places he has taken me to and how much I loved the pain and misery that accompanied those times. I used to think I knew what severe pain was: I was wrong.
In real life there are no safe-words. There is only time and love, and eventually the faint stirrings of hope.
Saturday, May 19
Discipline, rules and consequences.
As regular readers of the blog will know, discipline and punishment is one of my main kinks. It's a dynamic that I have with HH, and only with him. It's not something that lends itself to multiple relationships and it requires a deep level of trust and understanding.
In the past few months when I haven been playing much the discipline has still been important. I ask HH for help with things: generally eating and sleeping properly and staying safe. I've written about such punishments on here previously and, generally, serious punishment doesn't happen very frequently.
A few weeks ago I sent him some new rules I wanted help with; ambitious ones. So ambitious that I soon gave up even adhering to them. On one level I knew I was getting into trouble and that made me happy (temporarily), and on another I excused myself as they were too stringent in the first place.
Combined with my return from the non-kinky wilderness I threw caution to the wind: I wanted to play and play hard. Somewhere in my head the line between roleplay and discipline muddled itself. So I made sure he knew I wasn't even trying with the rules. I wanted to be punished. I wanted to have no reason not to go through with it.
HH pulled me up on both of these things: wanting to be in trouble and setting rules I couldn't or wouldn't adhere to.
My 'don't care attitude' lasted about a week and then an email from him brought me down to earth. He reminded me the rules were meant to be about keeping me safe and healthy - not an excuse to enjoy being in trouble. Therefore he was going to punish me in such a way that neither of us would enjoy it, to make sure it didn't happen again.
In advance, we talked about how our weekend would work and I asked to be punished immediately so we could enjoy the rest of it. I also suggested being punished from the train, something we'd never managed to do before when I came to visit.
On the day I had to write him a list of all the rules I had broken and email it to him; it was a very long list. My initial attitude had been that if I was already in trouble what did it matter how many rules I broke? Writing the list it started to dawn on me that it would matter. His response confirmed it.
I was sick and nervous for the rest of the journey, and not in a good way; there was no anticipatory thrill, not relishing being in trouble.
When I arrived at the station he wasn't at the platform to greet me. Although I knew that he'd be waiting in the car it still hurt. Having to get into the car, with no hello, no hug, and driving home in silence was awful. Reality was dawning and it wasn't a comfortable one.
Once home he sent me upstairs to wait for him. The tears were already pricking so when he came up stairs and made me look him in the eye, as he lectured me, they started falling immediately. He didn't mince his words. Told me the rules were not for fun, not convenient reasons to find excuses to play. That he respected them, respected me; more than I did. Told me how he was genuinely disappointed to have to punish me knowing I hadn't even tried, that there was nothing to be proud of me for. That he wasn't used to having nothing to be proud of in my behaviour.
Looking into the eyes of someone you respect as much I respect HH and hearing that broke my heart. I was ready to accept all the pain he could create for me so I could absolve myself. At that point I needed for the guilt to be thrashed out of me.
But that wasn't to be. I wasn't allowed to escape that easily. He had warned me he would punish me in ways I truly wouldn't like and so he did. And some of it hurt, but mostly it just made me face up to parts of me I don't like and be bitterly ashamed of myself.
Once the initial lecture was delivered he took my jeans and panties down and put me over his knee. Calling me by my real name, he explained this wasn't EJ having her naughty bottom spanked, it was me, he spanked me with his hand. It wasn't even very hard, leaving me to think about how the real me, the career girl, oldest sister, control freak, perfectionist was across someone's knee getting a spanking. The stuff of fantasies once upon a time; the stark reality made me cry pitifully.
Afterwards he put me in the corner: nose to the wall for 6 minutes, timed with an egg timer. It doesn't sound like a long time but believe me it was an eternity. Having to stand still, time to think, feeling your panties and jeans pooled at your ankles, dreading what was to come next.
And next was being back over his knee again, another lecture directed to Me. The eggtimer again, this time for a steady hairbrushing. If 6 minutes had felt like an eternity, this 3 minutes felt like eternal hell. And as much as I tried to be brave and to not kick and wriggle I couldn't manage it. Another piece of me died.
The next part is so hard to think about, let alone write about. I swore afterwards I wouldn't blog it but it was a big part of the punishment and HH was adamant I couldn't hide during it. Hiding from my blog seems wrong.
He put me over his knee, my bottom high up in the air and gave me an enema. As he did it he described every step in detail, repeatedly using my name. There was no place to hide: his voice in my head, the uncomfortable sensation inside, the water trickling out; I was mortified.
When he was finished administering he hair brushed me, still over his knee, as I struggled to maintain control. And when he was finally done I pleaded to use the bathroom, natural urges overcoming my embarrassment.
But that was denied, I had to serve more corner time first. When he finally gave permission he told me he would allow me to close the door, but if he ever had to seriously punish me again he would stay in the bathroom with me. This small crumb of comfort broke any resistance I had left and I cried emptily.
I was completely broken and ready for the punishment to be over. He had made his point. But no, I hadn't been punished for everything yet. It was a long list, he reminded me.
Making me wear a pair of white panties and a white vest, he sat me at the school desk to write 100 times: "Agreeing rules and then disobeying them is silly and childish". For every line that wasn't perfect he would give me one stroke of the cane.
The shame burned on so many levels. Not permitted a uniform to escape into a role, wearing white after the enema and not being allowed to leave the desk until my task was complete, not to mention the lines.
For people who don't know me very well this was another horrific task. I do not have neat hand writing and I'm too impatient usually for my writing to be even legible. It was one of the worst tasks he could have given me, but he knew that. Somewhere I applauded his ingenuity but mostly I hated how well he knew me and how that could be used to terrifyingly to my disadvantage.
Something inside me snapped. I was humiliated to the core, afraid of what was to come next and set up to fail with writing lines. I needed to fight back, but quietly. So I tried my hardest with the lines. I wrote each one slowly and carefully, concentrating on every letter. It took me well over an hour to write them all. My hand ached and I was cold, but they were perfect and I didn't get one cane stroke. It was a tiny victory.
Unfortunately we still weren't done. Printing out my email of transgressions he set it in front of me and asked me to write a list of the punishments so far and then read it to him, so I had to say it aloud. He explained so far he had punished me for all but two of the rules I'd broken: there were two more punishments to come.
Taking me downstairs he told me to get the slipper. I didn't have the energy to beg or resist, just cried silently as I fetched it and got into position. He placed me over the bed, with my bottom and thighs tight and struck with his full weight behind it. It was excruciatingly painful and resulted in the normal howls of misery.
But it was familiar at least, and I could cope with it. Afterwards I was out of it, completely drained by the evening and promising never to do anything to earn such a punishment again. HH confirmed what I suspected: he hadn't enjoyed it either. He promised that over the weekend we would revisit the rules and come up with new ones that were less ambitious, with no excuses for not obeying them. He reminded me part of the lesson I was learning was not to be disrespectful of the discipline dynamic and to not set unrealistic expectations, putting to much pressure on myself.
The cuddles and reassurance afterwards were much needed. And although I had the exercise punishment to come, I knew I had mostly paid my dues and things would be OK.
That said by the time we did the forced exercise routine on Sunday I was shattered and bitterly resented having to go through more punishment. So what should have been a straightforward work out started and ending with a hard tawsing on my bottom and thighs and included an over the knee spanking in the middle, with me crying tears of misery throughout.
A friend texted during the weekend saying she'd never understand why I do the punishment stuff but just wanted to check I was OK. The truth is I don't understand why I do it either. It's just something I need; deep down really need. I don't want to receive a punishment like this ever again but it appeals to my kink knowing that the boundary is there, that HH will enforce it, if I need it.
It's all about discipline, rules, consequences and ME.
In the past few months when I haven been playing much the discipline has still been important. I ask HH for help with things: generally eating and sleeping properly and staying safe. I've written about such punishments on here previously and, generally, serious punishment doesn't happen very frequently.
A few weeks ago I sent him some new rules I wanted help with; ambitious ones. So ambitious that I soon gave up even adhering to them. On one level I knew I was getting into trouble and that made me happy (temporarily), and on another I excused myself as they were too stringent in the first place.
Combined with my return from the non-kinky wilderness I threw caution to the wind: I wanted to play and play hard. Somewhere in my head the line between roleplay and discipline muddled itself. So I made sure he knew I wasn't even trying with the rules. I wanted to be punished. I wanted to have no reason not to go through with it.
HH pulled me up on both of these things: wanting to be in trouble and setting rules I couldn't or wouldn't adhere to.
My 'don't care attitude' lasted about a week and then an email from him brought me down to earth. He reminded me the rules were meant to be about keeping me safe and healthy - not an excuse to enjoy being in trouble. Therefore he was going to punish me in such a way that neither of us would enjoy it, to make sure it didn't happen again.
In advance, we talked about how our weekend would work and I asked to be punished immediately so we could enjoy the rest of it. I also suggested being punished from the train, something we'd never managed to do before when I came to visit.
On the day I had to write him a list of all the rules I had broken and email it to him; it was a very long list. My initial attitude had been that if I was already in trouble what did it matter how many rules I broke? Writing the list it started to dawn on me that it would matter. His response confirmed it.
I was sick and nervous for the rest of the journey, and not in a good way; there was no anticipatory thrill, not relishing being in trouble.
When I arrived at the station he wasn't at the platform to greet me. Although I knew that he'd be waiting in the car it still hurt. Having to get into the car, with no hello, no hug, and driving home in silence was awful. Reality was dawning and it wasn't a comfortable one.
Once home he sent me upstairs to wait for him. The tears were already pricking so when he came up stairs and made me look him in the eye, as he lectured me, they started falling immediately. He didn't mince his words. Told me the rules were not for fun, not convenient reasons to find excuses to play. That he respected them, respected me; more than I did. Told me how he was genuinely disappointed to have to punish me knowing I hadn't even tried, that there was nothing to be proud of me for. That he wasn't used to having nothing to be proud of in my behaviour.
Looking into the eyes of someone you respect as much I respect HH and hearing that broke my heart. I was ready to accept all the pain he could create for me so I could absolve myself. At that point I needed for the guilt to be thrashed out of me.
But that wasn't to be. I wasn't allowed to escape that easily. He had warned me he would punish me in ways I truly wouldn't like and so he did. And some of it hurt, but mostly it just made me face up to parts of me I don't like and be bitterly ashamed of myself.
Once the initial lecture was delivered he took my jeans and panties down and put me over his knee. Calling me by my real name, he explained this wasn't EJ having her naughty bottom spanked, it was me, he spanked me with his hand. It wasn't even very hard, leaving me to think about how the real me, the career girl, oldest sister, control freak, perfectionist was across someone's knee getting a spanking. The stuff of fantasies once upon a time; the stark reality made me cry pitifully.
Afterwards he put me in the corner: nose to the wall for 6 minutes, timed with an egg timer. It doesn't sound like a long time but believe me it was an eternity. Having to stand still, time to think, feeling your panties and jeans pooled at your ankles, dreading what was to come next.
And next was being back over his knee again, another lecture directed to Me. The eggtimer again, this time for a steady hairbrushing. If 6 minutes had felt like an eternity, this 3 minutes felt like eternal hell. And as much as I tried to be brave and to not kick and wriggle I couldn't manage it. Another piece of me died.
The next part is so hard to think about, let alone write about. I swore afterwards I wouldn't blog it but it was a big part of the punishment and HH was adamant I couldn't hide during it. Hiding from my blog seems wrong.
He put me over his knee, my bottom high up in the air and gave me an enema. As he did it he described every step in detail, repeatedly using my name. There was no place to hide: his voice in my head, the uncomfortable sensation inside, the water trickling out; I was mortified.
When he was finished administering he hair brushed me, still over his knee, as I struggled to maintain control. And when he was finally done I pleaded to use the bathroom, natural urges overcoming my embarrassment.
But that was denied, I had to serve more corner time first. When he finally gave permission he told me he would allow me to close the door, but if he ever had to seriously punish me again he would stay in the bathroom with me. This small crumb of comfort broke any resistance I had left and I cried emptily.
I was completely broken and ready for the punishment to be over. He had made his point. But no, I hadn't been punished for everything yet. It was a long list, he reminded me.
Making me wear a pair of white panties and a white vest, he sat me at the school desk to write 100 times: "Agreeing rules and then disobeying them is silly and childish". For every line that wasn't perfect he would give me one stroke of the cane.
The shame burned on so many levels. Not permitted a uniform to escape into a role, wearing white after the enema and not being allowed to leave the desk until my task was complete, not to mention the lines.
For people who don't know me very well this was another horrific task. I do not have neat hand writing and I'm too impatient usually for my writing to be even legible. It was one of the worst tasks he could have given me, but he knew that. Somewhere I applauded his ingenuity but mostly I hated how well he knew me and how that could be used to terrifyingly to my disadvantage.
Something inside me snapped. I was humiliated to the core, afraid of what was to come next and set up to fail with writing lines. I needed to fight back, but quietly. So I tried my hardest with the lines. I wrote each one slowly and carefully, concentrating on every letter. It took me well over an hour to write them all. My hand ached and I was cold, but they were perfect and I didn't get one cane stroke. It was a tiny victory.
Unfortunately we still weren't done. Printing out my email of transgressions he set it in front of me and asked me to write a list of the punishments so far and then read it to him, so I had to say it aloud. He explained so far he had punished me for all but two of the rules I'd broken: there were two more punishments to come.
Taking me downstairs he told me to get the slipper. I didn't have the energy to beg or resist, just cried silently as I fetched it and got into position. He placed me over the bed, with my bottom and thighs tight and struck with his full weight behind it. It was excruciatingly painful and resulted in the normal howls of misery.
But it was familiar at least, and I could cope with it. Afterwards I was out of it, completely drained by the evening and promising never to do anything to earn such a punishment again. HH confirmed what I suspected: he hadn't enjoyed it either. He promised that over the weekend we would revisit the rules and come up with new ones that were less ambitious, with no excuses for not obeying them. He reminded me part of the lesson I was learning was not to be disrespectful of the discipline dynamic and to not set unrealistic expectations, putting to much pressure on myself.
The cuddles and reassurance afterwards were much needed. And although I had the exercise punishment to come, I knew I had mostly paid my dues and things would be OK.
That said by the time we did the forced exercise routine on Sunday I was shattered and bitterly resented having to go through more punishment. So what should have been a straightforward work out started and ending with a hard tawsing on my bottom and thighs and included an over the knee spanking in the middle, with me crying tears of misery throughout.
A friend texted during the weekend saying she'd never understand why I do the punishment stuff but just wanted to check I was OK. The truth is I don't understand why I do it either. It's just something I need; deep down really need. I don't want to receive a punishment like this ever again but it appeals to my kink knowing that the boundary is there, that HH will enforce it, if I need it.
It's all about discipline, rules, consequences and ME.
Sunday, March 11
The words won't come...
I'm waving shyly at you lovely readers and hoping my absence will be excused. That's the first problem I face returning to the blog that I have shamefully neglected. Shameful not just because of the perceived neglect of the readers I've had for so long, but the neglect of myself and my need to document and process.
All I can offer is that it's been a challenging couple of months with health issues and family and personal stresses. But I feel in a better place now; not a perfect place, but a good place. Nothing is easy, but nothing is impossible either. Kink wise I'm playing with the people I love and trust the most and when play doesn't work out I still feel safe and cared for. And I'm surrounded by my friends, some of whom happen to be kinky, but it's not the defining link anymore. As ever my family are special and important.
Finding energy and space to write hasn't been a priority, yet I know I'm missing out on so much: I miss my blog and I miss my readers. But the words won't come. I want to talk about the wonderful kinky weekends and parties I've had and been too, the scenes that were great and the people I love. But the words won't come. And nor will the capacity to process the more difficult elements: the scenes that didn't work; the sudden and irrational anger, frustrations and jealousies; the relationships and groups dynamics that are tough to navigate. The words just won't come.
So here are some pictures to keep you close to me and let's all hope the words come back, when they're ready, when I'm ready.
All I can offer is that it's been a challenging couple of months with health issues and family and personal stresses. But I feel in a better place now; not a perfect place, but a good place. Nothing is easy, but nothing is impossible either. Kink wise I'm playing with the people I love and trust the most and when play doesn't work out I still feel safe and cared for. And I'm surrounded by my friends, some of whom happen to be kinky, but it's not the defining link anymore. As ever my family are special and important.
Finding energy and space to write hasn't been a priority, yet I know I'm missing out on so much: I miss my blog and I miss my readers. But the words won't come. I want to talk about the wonderful kinky weekends and parties I've had and been too, the scenes that were great and the people I love. But the words won't come. And nor will the capacity to process the more difficult elements: the scenes that didn't work; the sudden and irrational anger, frustrations and jealousies; the relationships and groups dynamics that are tough to navigate. The words just won't come.
So here are some pictures to keep you close to me and let's all hope the words come back, when they're ready, when I'm ready.
I celebrated my 30th birthday recently and had a party with a London Blitz theme - the house was decorated in blitz style and all our guests wore 1940's costumes, and thanks to Lucy, all had perfect 1940s hair too. Below is just one of the many decorations and posters my dear Catherine Thomas made for the party! And the fabulous cake Kinky Ella made (using all her ration for months to do it!). Of course I went as an evacuee, determined that EJ's girly spirit was just as strong, even in my 30s ;-)
I've been trying to improve my overall health by getting fit and having a better diet. HH and Abel are very supportive of this, so much so they delight in over-seeing my training. This is all for my own good you see; as is caning me as extra motivation. Nothing whatsoever to do with their sadistic natures, apparently.
The last two are from a recent weekend away in the darkest countryside with HH and Abel - a weekend where I was their play thing, abused and used for their pleasure. Abel has written a great post about it here, for those of you who would like more detail. But I think these two pictures tell it all: the submissive girl, birch in hand going to meet her fate and the broken girl, sore and sobbing but yet feeling comforted and safe by those who know her best.
Sunday, January 1
Happy New Year!
I couldn't decide which photo to use on Christmas Day and in the end I took the lazy option and decided to share the other picture with you today.
It was taken by HH, at Kinky Towers; a fabulous venue hired by Abel for a kinky weekend with some of our closest friends. This was just one of the amazing rooms in the house; a medieval kitchen with huge fireplace.
I love how vulnerable I look, shivering naked in the fireplace, a little girl in the enormous room. This was taken just after a particularly severe scene with Abel and HH, which I intend to blog about later, but it's enough to say that the redness of my bottom and thighs only tells half the story!
I hope that my Kinky 2012 will have the same ingredients as this picture has: sadistic partners, pain, humiliation, great friends and fabulous weekends of pure escapism. Happy 2012 everyone!
It was taken by HH, at Kinky Towers; a fabulous venue hired by Abel for a kinky weekend with some of our closest friends. This was just one of the amazing rooms in the house; a medieval kitchen with huge fireplace.
I love how vulnerable I look, shivering naked in the fireplace, a little girl in the enormous room. This was taken just after a particularly severe scene with Abel and HH, which I intend to blog about later, but it's enough to say that the redness of my bottom and thighs only tells half the story!
I hope that my Kinky 2012 will have the same ingredients as this picture has: sadistic partners, pain, humiliation, great friends and fabulous weekends of pure escapism. Happy 2012 everyone!
Sunday, December 25
Merry Christmas!
Thank you, dear readers, for your support again this year; particularly in the past few months where I've been distracted by real life and not blogging as frequently as I'd like to.
As I said in my last post, I see my blog as a safe place where I can be me. From the start I've loved processing aloud, sharing my thoughts with you all. But, increasingly, I'm also enjoying sharing the photographs that capture the spirit of me.
This year's photo was taken by my good friend Master Retep during a visit to Camden Town over the summer. It's very fitting as this year's photo, symbolising the main change in my life this year - the move to London. But also showing EJ's cheeky, girly side that lurks within the confident career girl who more regularly travels on the London Underground. And the faint blush of a smacked bottom reminds me that I'm never too far away from my next spanking.
I hope you love this photo as much as I do. To my surprise and delight, Abel had it printed on canvas for me and it now proudly adorns my bedroom wall.
Merry Christmas to you all and I wish you lots of love and good fortune in 2012!
As I said in my last post, I see my blog as a safe place where I can be me. From the start I've loved processing aloud, sharing my thoughts with you all. But, increasingly, I'm also enjoying sharing the photographs that capture the spirit of me.
This year's photo was taken by my good friend Master Retep during a visit to Camden Town over the summer. It's very fitting as this year's photo, symbolising the main change in my life this year - the move to London. But also showing EJ's cheeky, girly side that lurks within the confident career girl who more regularly travels on the London Underground. And the faint blush of a smacked bottom reminds me that I'm never too far away from my next spanking.
I hope you love this photo as much as I do. To my surprise and delight, Abel had it printed on canvas for me and it now proudly adorns my bedroom wall.
Merry Christmas to you all and I wish you lots of love and good fortune in 2012!
Friday, December 9
Safe Places
When I was little my Grandmother’s house was a safe place; a refuge from the world of alcoholic parents screaming at each other, and being the eldest child who grew up very quickly. A place where I didn’t have to be in charge and where I was unconditionally loved.
Uni was my next safe place. Living away from home, making new friends, getting involved in things that interested me and for the first time feeling it was all about me.
In my kinky life my blog became another safe place. Where I processed my new experiences and grew up in the scene. Amelia Jane put it best when she said her blog is her sitting room where she invites you in to sit down for a chat, but it’s her place and you are a guest.
I feel like that about my blog. It’s my personal place where I talk about what’s important to me in the scene and in my kinky life, sharing with other like-minded people. But I have been reluctant to let too much of my real life invade this safe place. I preferred to record and live my kinky life only. I’ve never even talked about why I like discipline and rules in my kink, as so many others dissect. The truth is: I’m text book Freud; I grew up without either, I’ve always felt an adult in my house and I love to regress to be without responsibility. In my real life I am organised, controlling and at times domineering.
Apart from discipline and submission I love the catharsis of play. When I’m feeling vulnerable and emotional in my real life I find it empowering to play dark and abusive scenes, where I immerse myself fully and come out the other side having survived.
In roleplay I also get to act out another life. Caoilfhionn is the smart, sporty girl that’s uber confident. Lucy Plackett is the bitch I never was, even if I was capable of it. My Regency ladies are pretty, accomplished and composed; the equal of everyone else.
And sometimes my EJ is petulant and moody. Sometimes she says things that aren’t nice. But luckily people who care about her don’t let her get away with it. The residual guilt that being nasty leaves me, is effectively dealt with through punishment.
But despite those intentions real life is creeping in. I can’t explain where my head is at without giving real life context. And where my head is at, influences my play. Which is why back in May I blogged about losing a member of my family; I needed to process the link to roleplay and feeling disconcertingly disgusted by my kink.
Once again I find myself dealing with another family trauma; this time it’s my Grandmother. She’s dying of cancer and I am scared of losing my safe place. As I come to terms with it I am leaning on my friends who are staying with me, despite the tears, rage and irrationality; a tantrum of epic proportions.
All my friends are being so supportive it’s humbling. Whilst both HH and Abel are offering shoulders to cry on, hugs for when I’m cried out, gentle admonishments when I’m out of line and discipline when the subsequent guilt sets in. The most powerful of which happened at Kink Towers, when HH strapped me for being a bitch and Abel observed. When I petulantly asked why was he even bothering if I was such a nuisance, his patient answer made me cry before the strap landed.
I’m hoping that opening up my blog to these things won’t take away the safety of it. After a couple of years in the scene I thought I didn’t have anything else to learn. The past six months have taught me I can’t pretend kink and real life can be kept separate. I can’t switch one off when I please; they both clamour for my attention and both insist on impacting the other.
Just as my friendships can no longer be defined as kinky or vanilla. They are simply friendships and how we met is now irrelevant. And the ones that have prospered the most are those where all aspects of our lives intertwine, easily and beautifully. I have found another safe place.
Sunday, October 9
Socially out of my depth?
There have been several posts about social media and kinky life lately. I've held back from commenting on any as I didn't think a mere comment would suffice to explain my views. So these are my own personal thoughts on my online life and the community I'm part of. Those of you who are in the same community, or at least an intersection of it (think Venn diagram), may see it a very different way. That's the thing with online interaction and the use of social media in general; we all approach it from a different direction and want different things from it. What we want even changes through time, circumstance and personal evolution.
When I first came online, in the kinky sense, I wanted to be noticed; by anybody in any way. I made pathetic attempts to comment on the popular blogs and retreated in rejection when no-one replied to them. By the time I set up a Fetlife account I was more sure of myself; I had a few kinky friends to call my own, but I still wanted to be noticed.
So I friended people, including 'personalities' like Mija and Kami Roberston and Abel, hoping that people would notice me. And finally they did; the day HH messaged me on Fetlife made me feel I'd made it as a fully paid up member of the online scene. (I'm not even going to try to rationalise those intial preoccupations!)
I started blogging to record my kinky journey but also to join in the blogging community I'd envied for years; to show off the scenes I'd done, to tell the world who I was playing with and eventually even posted pics of myself enjoying my new found confidence in myself. I blogged every day. I wanted to be seen, heard, included in this kinky life I had admired from afar.
But then the blog changed. The more real world people I met, the less I had to write. The deeper my play relationships became the less I needed the attention. Blogging became more about me and my need to process. Of course some motivations remain the same: there's still the 'look at me element', still the joy in readers' comments and the thrill of being linked to from the likes of SpankBoss and Chross.
And then there's Twitter. It too has changed over the two years I've been a member. At first I friended everyone. At first my feed was open, even running on the blog here. Then more and more I found myself talking about real life stuff as many of my Twitter circle blurred into real friendships that justified this change.
But what of all the other people who might be reading? I worried I was over-sharing. Worried I could be too easily identified. I don't work in a liberal industry - my company would easily find reason to fire me if my kinky goings-on became public. And on the personal side of things, it's not that my family aren't loving and supportive: they are when it comes to things they can understand, but some of my vanilla friends who I've explained this to are lost. I can't expect my parents and God forbid my Grandmother having to deal with knowing what I get up to.
So my account is private and I don't allow anyone to follow me I don't know or who hasn't earned my trust in some way. Now my Twitter feed is a smaller circle of friends, whilst Fetlife is the wider circle and the blog is to everyone.
But that means Twitter is now a little micro society all of its own, which comes with its own problems. The real life worries have migrated to it, and they can be constant. Am I interesting enough? Do people like me, respect me, notice me? Can I keep this mask of wonderfulness up? Can I always portray a well-meaning, kind, generous patient person? And do all that whilst allowing and accepting others to have those same failings.
Rationally, of course not, but yet I still try! Irrationally, the 24/7 on-button causes me a hell of a lot of stress. There are friends in real life that I love very much but I don't spend every waking moment with them, whom I don't share every though. (If we did we'd probably not be friends anymore.) Yet on Twitter we are always interacting. Always sharing; sometimes over-sharing. We take strength from the kind words and advice of people there but then there are times when people damn right annoy us: say something we fundamentally disagree with, perceive that they have made a cutting remark or said something ignorant. The word perceive is important - usually it is we who have the problem; it is who have taken a comment out of context, misinterpreted a tone.
Therefore as much as I love Twitter, I find it a confusing place to be sometimes, find myself out of my depth. Not sure what the rules are but aware enough to know that we're all playing by a unique set that we don't understand and can't share. Rationally I understand should take this knowledge on board and not worry about it so much. But I do.
I find myself judging myself on how interesting I am by the number of responses I get to a tweet. I find myself irrationally angry over a tweet from somewhere I've never met or ridiculously disappointed to hear someone I admire say something I disagree with. I hate the squabbles, passive aggressive tweeting, the duty of following certain people, the perceived rejection of people who don't follow me. Most of all, I hate how seriously I take it, and how it provokes in me the same behaviour that I dislike in others.
Lately I've been asking myself whether Twitter is actually for me? Or is it detrimental to my sanity? There are people I find it difficult to interact with. I like them very much on email, blogs and in real life, yet find myself disliking their Twitter persona. How many people think that of me? Should I just admit defeat; that I'm too sensitive, too reactive, too emotional, take things too personally. (So much so I've actually been banned from Twitter for two weeks until I learn to appreciate it again. A ban given at my request and a mutual concern at how wound up 140 characters was making me!)
And then there's Facebook which often feels less intrusive and far more straightforward; if I accept I'm only sharing 60% of my life on there. I only interact with real life people there. That includes the people I met through kink who are now valid members of my offline life. That's not to say that the kinky friends I don't interact with on there mean any less to me. Some don't have vanilla accounts or vanilla accounts they want to share with me - we're still friends off-line and that's the most important thing.
But I can only include friends who are fully paid up members of my real life.There is no-one on there I worry about my nilla friends and family asking about or wondering if they'll meet them when they come visit. As I moved primarily to be nearer this new(ish) circle of friends, they represent my new life, assure my nilla friends and family (both those aware and unaware of my kink) that I have a full life here. In that context it isn't about kink, it's about people. Therefore I restrict that account to people using their real names, who want to meet my other friends and to be a full part of my life. (Not to mention the privacy issues, which again have been much debated already.) Facebook, for me, is the representation of my complete and vanilla life.
Again I'll pull out the part of that sentence I think is most important: 'for me'. I know other people have different views on Facebook. Many kinky friends have duel accounts (one for kink, one for Nillas) or freely mix vanilla and kinky friends; I respect that.
So am I out of my depth with all this social media jazz? Or to be more literal: am I out of my depth being online so much and putting so much of myself out there? Should I just restrict myself to blogging and being the entertainment at parties? I don't honestly have an answer to that.
The only conclusion I have about social media in the kinky online world is that we should understand that we are all at cross purposes in how we use these tools of interactions. That nobody is right or wrong and we shouldn't apologise for choosing how we interact with different people and circles. Like everything in life mutual respect of other people's choices goes a long way.
When I first came online, in the kinky sense, I wanted to be noticed; by anybody in any way. I made pathetic attempts to comment on the popular blogs and retreated in rejection when no-one replied to them. By the time I set up a Fetlife account I was more sure of myself; I had a few kinky friends to call my own, but I still wanted to be noticed.
So I friended people, including 'personalities' like Mija and Kami Roberston and Abel, hoping that people would notice me. And finally they did; the day HH messaged me on Fetlife made me feel I'd made it as a fully paid up member of the online scene. (I'm not even going to try to rationalise those intial preoccupations!)
I started blogging to record my kinky journey but also to join in the blogging community I'd envied for years; to show off the scenes I'd done, to tell the world who I was playing with and eventually even posted pics of myself enjoying my new found confidence in myself. I blogged every day. I wanted to be seen, heard, included in this kinky life I had admired from afar.
But then the blog changed. The more real world people I met, the less I had to write. The deeper my play relationships became the less I needed the attention. Blogging became more about me and my need to process. Of course some motivations remain the same: there's still the 'look at me element', still the joy in readers' comments and the thrill of being linked to from the likes of SpankBoss and Chross.
And then there's Twitter. It too has changed over the two years I've been a member. At first I friended everyone. At first my feed was open, even running on the blog here. Then more and more I found myself talking about real life stuff as many of my Twitter circle blurred into real friendships that justified this change.
But what of all the other people who might be reading? I worried I was over-sharing. Worried I could be too easily identified. I don't work in a liberal industry - my company would easily find reason to fire me if my kinky goings-on became public. And on the personal side of things, it's not that my family aren't loving and supportive: they are when it comes to things they can understand, but some of my vanilla friends who I've explained this to are lost. I can't expect my parents and God forbid my Grandmother having to deal with knowing what I get up to.
So my account is private and I don't allow anyone to follow me I don't know or who hasn't earned my trust in some way. Now my Twitter feed is a smaller circle of friends, whilst Fetlife is the wider circle and the blog is to everyone.
But that means Twitter is now a little micro society all of its own, which comes with its own problems. The real life worries have migrated to it, and they can be constant. Am I interesting enough? Do people like me, respect me, notice me? Can I keep this mask of wonderfulness up? Can I always portray a well-meaning, kind, generous patient person? And do all that whilst allowing and accepting others to have those same failings.
Rationally, of course not, but yet I still try! Irrationally, the 24/7 on-button causes me a hell of a lot of stress. There are friends in real life that I love very much but I don't spend every waking moment with them, whom I don't share every though. (If we did we'd probably not be friends anymore.) Yet on Twitter we are always interacting. Always sharing; sometimes over-sharing. We take strength from the kind words and advice of people there but then there are times when people damn right annoy us: say something we fundamentally disagree with, perceive that they have made a cutting remark or said something ignorant. The word perceive is important - usually it is we who have the problem; it is who have taken a comment out of context, misinterpreted a tone.
Therefore as much as I love Twitter, I find it a confusing place to be sometimes, find myself out of my depth. Not sure what the rules are but aware enough to know that we're all playing by a unique set that we don't understand and can't share. Rationally I understand should take this knowledge on board and not worry about it so much. But I do.
I find myself judging myself on how interesting I am by the number of responses I get to a tweet. I find myself irrationally angry over a tweet from somewhere I've never met or ridiculously disappointed to hear someone I admire say something I disagree with. I hate the squabbles, passive aggressive tweeting, the duty of following certain people, the perceived rejection of people who don't follow me. Most of all, I hate how seriously I take it, and how it provokes in me the same behaviour that I dislike in others.
Lately I've been asking myself whether Twitter is actually for me? Or is it detrimental to my sanity? There are people I find it difficult to interact with. I like them very much on email, blogs and in real life, yet find myself disliking their Twitter persona. How many people think that of me? Should I just admit defeat; that I'm too sensitive, too reactive, too emotional, take things too personally. (So much so I've actually been banned from Twitter for two weeks until I learn to appreciate it again. A ban given at my request and a mutual concern at how wound up 140 characters was making me!)
And then there's Facebook which often feels less intrusive and far more straightforward; if I accept I'm only sharing 60% of my life on there. I only interact with real life people there. That includes the people I met through kink who are now valid members of my offline life. That's not to say that the kinky friends I don't interact with on there mean any less to me. Some don't have vanilla accounts or vanilla accounts they want to share with me - we're still friends off-line and that's the most important thing.
But I can only include friends who are fully paid up members of my real life.There is no-one on there I worry about my nilla friends and family asking about or wondering if they'll meet them when they come visit. As I moved primarily to be nearer this new(ish) circle of friends, they represent my new life, assure my nilla friends and family (both those aware and unaware of my kink) that I have a full life here. In that context it isn't about kink, it's about people. Therefore I restrict that account to people using their real names, who want to meet my other friends and to be a full part of my life. (Not to mention the privacy issues, which again have been much debated already.) Facebook, for me, is the representation of my complete and vanilla life.
Again I'll pull out the part of that sentence I think is most important: 'for me'. I know other people have different views on Facebook. Many kinky friends have duel accounts (one for kink, one for Nillas) or freely mix vanilla and kinky friends; I respect that.
So am I out of my depth with all this social media jazz? Or to be more literal: am I out of my depth being online so much and putting so much of myself out there? Should I just restrict myself to blogging and being the entertainment at parties? I don't honestly have an answer to that.
The only conclusion I have about social media in the kinky online world is that we should understand that we are all at cross purposes in how we use these tools of interactions. That nobody is right or wrong and we shouldn't apologise for choosing how we interact with different people and circles. Like everything in life mutual respect of other people's choices goes a long way.
Sunday, September 18
Beautifully me
I never thought I’d come to enjoy my body being photographed, either fully clothed or naked. I looked in appreciation at photos of other people. In my own head I applauded their braveness. And in my own way I was envious. Not of how they looked; what appeals to each individual is subjective, we see different beauty in everybody. No, I envied their confidence to share their pictures, in such glory and detail. Imagine liking yourself enough to do that.
HH being a keen photographer has been taking pictures of our play from the start. Back then for me it was just a record of a particularly interesting scene: I had no intention of sharing them publicly. I had seen his photographs of Nikki and Kami and many other girls who I considered worthy (and by worthy I mean pretty and sexy and interesting enough) on the blogs. I would not be competing with that.
So at first I paid little heed to the photos; a brief look and a shiver of repulsion and I’d look away. Usually the marks were all I cared for. But as time went on I began to appreciate the story my face and body told. I came to understand how the photos could add to the scene write-ups and in time I came to enjoy looking at myself, both in the moment and looking back at scene gone by. I started to appreciate my body. To think that being pictured in the thrall of my kink was actually worthy; of being looked at and being shared.
Like many people I know, I spend a lot of time frowning in the mirror, sucking in my tummy and standing on tip-toe trying to improve how I look. I agonise over weight gained, favourite clothes not fitting, wish I was taller and thinner, struggle to stay as fit and healthy as I believe I ought. (Please do not reply with a ream of platitudes and assurances that I am perfect as I am - that is not the point of this post. Let’s accept that we all have our own insecurities and hang-ups.)
So it gives me a thrill to see a picture of me that I like; one that makes me feel sexy and confident. More and more I ask to be photographed, both in scenes (as often documented here) and outside of them. The past week with HH in Scotland we had ample opportunity for out of scene shots and this post includes a selection of my favourite ones.
Of course I’ve discarded those I felt to be unflattering. Photography hasn’t achieved miracles with life’s on going insecurities; the fact I find any that I like at all is the positive thing! Now I share these photos completely narcissistically, for once indulging in being beautifully me.
Sunday, September 11
A day of punishment
As I write this I'm wearing a very unflattering dress and white knee socks. I'm also sitting very tenderly: my bottom is red and sore from multiple spankings and strappings. I'm resolutely blogging and my phone and knickers have been confiscated. You see today has been a day of punishment.
It's one that I asked for, but that HH has dictated. Borne out of me being rude and snappy over the past day, saying hurtful things and generally being damn right unpleasant. Even in play, I've been a nuisance, whining about my spankings and actually storming off in the middle of two of them.
It makes for a poor guest and an even worse play partner and I don't want to be either of these things. Yes, there are underlying frustrations and stresses and we've been talking them over, with HH as ever sympathetic and pragmatic. But we both agree it's not a justification for being a bitch. And we both want and need me to be in a more accepting and safe place. To enjoy the week ahead on holiday and the many fun scenes we've planned.
So a discipline fetish really does come in handy sometimes. My day has been mapped out completely; a series of chores and tasks assigned. As you can gather this was my time for blogging. Although I lacked motivation initially an OTK slippering (junior version, not senior) provided what was missing.
I can already feel myself back on a more even keel and the change in my attitude is very apparent. Asking 'May I, sir?' for every little request makes one very humble. Being spanked for every minor infraction makes one much less likely to snap. And having all the control taken out of the day makes it both stress free and belittling. Not to mention in this frame of mind I want to please HH, I want him to be proud and recognise I'm trying to make amends.
I know I'll go to bed sore, but happy and calm and grounded again, in my happy disciplined girl place. And tomorrow I'll be ready to be in control of myself again; a happier, freeer me.
It's one that I asked for, but that HH has dictated. Borne out of me being rude and snappy over the past day, saying hurtful things and generally being damn right unpleasant. Even in play, I've been a nuisance, whining about my spankings and actually storming off in the middle of two of them.
It makes for a poor guest and an even worse play partner and I don't want to be either of these things. Yes, there are underlying frustrations and stresses and we've been talking them over, with HH as ever sympathetic and pragmatic. But we both agree it's not a justification for being a bitch. And we both want and need me to be in a more accepting and safe place. To enjoy the week ahead on holiday and the many fun scenes we've planned.
So a discipline fetish really does come in handy sometimes. My day has been mapped out completely; a series of chores and tasks assigned. As you can gather this was my time for blogging. Although I lacked motivation initially an OTK slippering (junior version, not senior) provided what was missing.
I can already feel myself back on a more even keel and the change in my attitude is very apparent. Asking 'May I, sir?' for every little request makes one very humble. Being spanked for every minor infraction makes one much less likely to snap. And having all the control taken out of the day makes it both stress free and belittling. Not to mention in this frame of mind I want to please HH, I want him to be proud and recognise I'm trying to make amends.
I know I'll go to bed sore, but happy and calm and grounded again, in my happy disciplined girl place. And tomorrow I'll be ready to be in control of myself again; a happier, freeer me.
Sunday, August 28
Your space or mine?
Since I've moved to London I've encountered a problem that I didn't have in Ireland. No not having to remember to pronounce H and R a different way or understand that supper isn't a bowl of cereal before bed, or all those numerous little details that one has to navigate in a new culture.
No my problem relates to playing in my house, or more to the point, my space. In Ireland playing in my house was usually out of the question due to my lovely, but vanilla flatmate. So when Abel came to visit we played in his hotel or when HH came we rented a house out of the city. Otherwise I just played at clubs and parties.
It's a new departure to have a nice big house and a kinky flatmate who's not going to be shocked at what she might hear. It was even something I looked forward to in advance of moving: being able to play in my own house, inviting people over for play dates, not always having to travel for my beatings. Oh the freedom of it.
Except it hasn't quite worked out like that. I'm finding it incredibly hard to play at home, to be submissive there. My house, my rules and all that. If a guest comes for dinner and I'm entertaining and cooking then it's very hard to switch to submissive mode, to let them into my head, to let them beat me. I feel my space is being invaded and the control freak in me rebels.
It's compounded by trying to play on school nights, when the brain hasn't quite moved out of work mode. As well as the worry that Furball will be upset or the neighbours will hear. Most of my play partners have more suitable houses for such things, particularly HH with his Kinky Narnia where no-one can hear you scream.
I am trying though. I managed at the party when there were enough people to make it feel less like my house and more like a club venue. And Abel and I did play a fun, little scene the other night where I was being spanked and made to clean up my messy bedroom which was just light enough to be bearable.
And with HH there's been no 'choice'. If I've earned a punishment then it will be delivered, no matter where we are. Complaining I don't want to be spanked in my house would likely result in another side of the road spanking! It's not easy though. The first evening is a battle of wills. Usually my control freak against my submissive side with HH refereeing. I am expected to obey him, expected to take deserved punishments sufficiently contritely and above all let him in my head.
He is not pleased when I resist letting him in and has a very suitable repertoire of words to break down my defences. Still the first 5 minutes of any Friday night spanking usually involve me tense and stubborn, riding out the pain, blocking him from my head. In the end he gets there and I feel relieved. It's a place I want to be; the good, obedient girl he expects.
But even he has his limits: morning play is far more difficult to achieve in my house than his and on his last visit he obviously thought discretion was the better part of valour and let me sleep on!
For all that I do prefer going to visit him or Abel. And upcoming holidays with both of them offer new opportunities to play, completely new spaces to be conquered and for me to feel anonymous and submissive in. Who knows what that will lead to?
I am curious though, am I the only one to experience this problem? Is it just because I've changed from never playing in my own space to trying to do so quite often that the shift feels too much? What do you toppy types prefer: is it easier to play in your space or mine?
No my problem relates to playing in my house, or more to the point, my space. In Ireland playing in my house was usually out of the question due to my lovely, but vanilla flatmate. So when Abel came to visit we played in his hotel or when HH came we rented a house out of the city. Otherwise I just played at clubs and parties.
It's a new departure to have a nice big house and a kinky flatmate who's not going to be shocked at what she might hear. It was even something I looked forward to in advance of moving: being able to play in my own house, inviting people over for play dates, not always having to travel for my beatings. Oh the freedom of it.
Except it hasn't quite worked out like that. I'm finding it incredibly hard to play at home, to be submissive there. My house, my rules and all that. If a guest comes for dinner and I'm entertaining and cooking then it's very hard to switch to submissive mode, to let them into my head, to let them beat me. I feel my space is being invaded and the control freak in me rebels.
It's compounded by trying to play on school nights, when the brain hasn't quite moved out of work mode. As well as the worry that Furball will be upset or the neighbours will hear. Most of my play partners have more suitable houses for such things, particularly HH with his Kinky Narnia where no-one can hear you scream.
I am trying though. I managed at the party when there were enough people to make it feel less like my house and more like a club venue. And Abel and I did play a fun, little scene the other night where I was being spanked and made to clean up my messy bedroom which was just light enough to be bearable.
And with HH there's been no 'choice'. If I've earned a punishment then it will be delivered, no matter where we are. Complaining I don't want to be spanked in my house would likely result in another side of the road spanking! It's not easy though. The first evening is a battle of wills. Usually my control freak against my submissive side with HH refereeing. I am expected to obey him, expected to take deserved punishments sufficiently contritely and above all let him in my head.
He is not pleased when I resist letting him in and has a very suitable repertoire of words to break down my defences. Still the first 5 minutes of any Friday night spanking usually involve me tense and stubborn, riding out the pain, blocking him from my head. In the end he gets there and I feel relieved. It's a place I want to be; the good, obedient girl he expects.
But even he has his limits: morning play is far more difficult to achieve in my house than his and on his last visit he obviously thought discretion was the better part of valour and let me sleep on!
For all that I do prefer going to visit him or Abel. And upcoming holidays with both of them offer new opportunities to play, completely new spaces to be conquered and for me to feel anonymous and submissive in. Who knows what that will lead to?
I am curious though, am I the only one to experience this problem? Is it just because I've changed from never playing in my own space to trying to do so quite often that the shift feels too much? What do you toppy types prefer: is it easier to play in your space or mine?
Monday, August 22
When I first met..
There's a very nice topic trending on Twitter this past week: #whenIfirstmet. The idea is to tell about your first meeting with who ever in one single tweet. For example Jessica said of me "#WhenIfirstmet @lilemmaj I thought she was trouble. The good kind". And I said of Abel: #WhenIfirstmet @AbelJenkins I wasn't as scared of him as I expected cos I was laughing so hard at his shirt."
I've enjoyed this topic for many reasons. Not least because it's lovely to think back to the moment I met so many wonderful people who play a huge part in my life right now. And of course it's fun to hear what people's first impressions of me have been. But I also find myself analysing those early meetings: how I came across, what people thought of me and what my initial impressions were. And what, if anything, changed over the years.
Particularly considering where I am in my life now. I went from a spontaneous trip to London to meet Abel and 14 other kinksters to see a play, to having close relationships and friendships within that circle, to moving country to be nearer this group, this community.
Over the past two years, via the Gods of Ryanair, I bounced along to parties, roleplay events, the odd night-out I could manage and several intimate weekends with my partners. I was carefree, without repsonsibility, an escapee from the real world. So for at least 80% of that time EJ was on show. The vibrant, attention-seeking, entertainer. Less frequently you saw the real me: the career girl, bossy oldest sister person.
Of course people like Abel and HH saw it the most. Not least the arguments in the kitchen over the best way to 'skin a cat' or in HH's case avoiding my kitchen altogether. Or listening to me in work mode on the phone or my tales of older-sister-ness. (For example when my lil sister failed an exam she asked my Mam not to tell me!)
For most other people they are seeing that side of me more often; the grown-up me. Particularly those that have visited my house and experienced me trying to be a considerate host. (One can't dance on the tables whilst dinner needs preparing.) And I find it near impossible to play with anyone if I've been entertaining first.
Or those who've met me on week nights out. A couple of friends have even asked me was I alright, so quiet and different I seemed. On these nights, especially when I've come from the office and am still dressed in my suit, it's very hard to be the carefree EJ. And of course my housemate certainly lives with the real me. The person who is anal about matching crockery, laundry being sorted into three separate loads and what chopping board we use for the meat.
Not that I feel this is a bad thing. And certainly don't think people love or hate me any the less. I know people who like me accept all sides of me and that fundamentally I'm the same person. It's just a very interesting situation to have to relearn the person we thought we knew so well. Because of course it's the same for me: I am also learning about 'real' people. Having to change my perceptions, realign values, do things a different way.
The more we interact in non kink environments, the more we share and show our real selves. The thing that brings us together, our kink, for some of us our greatest secret, has been like a fast track system to immediate friendship. My friend Morena visited a few weeks back and was both curious about, and delighted at how comfortable I was with people I knew for what, in reality is a short period of time.
In comparison she and I have built a deep, lasting friendship over 10 years. She knows everything about me, my past, my family and my what makes me tick. We have a trust based on time and experience, from being together through the highs and lows of life's experiences.
Yet with my kinky friends there was almost instant trust, an immediate liking. For me I suspect that I'm predisposed to liking other kinky people. Especially those who I've met through blogging or via a mutual kinkster friend. I expect to like them and for them to have similar values to me: I want to like them and I want them to like me.
So for me #whenIfirst met was as much about reflecting on what I thought then and what I think now; what others thought of me and how they see me now. The initial uncertainties that steadily developed into deep friendship, the chemistry that became love, the dynamic that became the deepest of kink connections, the spontaneous friendships that grew to make me move country.
#whenyoufirst met @lilemmaj I was a child standing enviously on the edges of the playground. Now I'm firmly in that playground, usually playing messily in the sandbox amd I've even learned to share it. But sometimes I find myself retreating from that playground and want to be seen and treated like a grown-up, and for everyone around me to be grown-ups too. But that's OK, cos that's just being ME.
I've enjoyed this topic for many reasons. Not least because it's lovely to think back to the moment I met so many wonderful people who play a huge part in my life right now. And of course it's fun to hear what people's first impressions of me have been. But I also find myself analysing those early meetings: how I came across, what people thought of me and what my initial impressions were. And what, if anything, changed over the years.
Particularly considering where I am in my life now. I went from a spontaneous trip to London to meet Abel and 14 other kinksters to see a play, to having close relationships and friendships within that circle, to moving country to be nearer this group, this community.
Over the past two years, via the Gods of Ryanair, I bounced along to parties, roleplay events, the odd night-out I could manage and several intimate weekends with my partners. I was carefree, without repsonsibility, an escapee from the real world. So for at least 80% of that time EJ was on show. The vibrant, attention-seeking, entertainer. Less frequently you saw the real me: the career girl, bossy oldest sister person.
Of course people like Abel and HH saw it the most. Not least the arguments in the kitchen over the best way to 'skin a cat' or in HH's case avoiding my kitchen altogether. Or listening to me in work mode on the phone or my tales of older-sister-ness. (For example when my lil sister failed an exam she asked my Mam not to tell me!)
For most other people they are seeing that side of me more often; the grown-up me. Particularly those that have visited my house and experienced me trying to be a considerate host. (One can't dance on the tables whilst dinner needs preparing.) And I find it near impossible to play with anyone if I've been entertaining first.
Or those who've met me on week nights out. A couple of friends have even asked me was I alright, so quiet and different I seemed. On these nights, especially when I've come from the office and am still dressed in my suit, it's very hard to be the carefree EJ. And of course my housemate certainly lives with the real me. The person who is anal about matching crockery, laundry being sorted into three separate loads and what chopping board we use for the meat.
Not that I feel this is a bad thing. And certainly don't think people love or hate me any the less. I know people who like me accept all sides of me and that fundamentally I'm the same person. It's just a very interesting situation to have to relearn the person we thought we knew so well. Because of course it's the same for me: I am also learning about 'real' people. Having to change my perceptions, realign values, do things a different way.
The more we interact in non kink environments, the more we share and show our real selves. The thing that brings us together, our kink, for some of us our greatest secret, has been like a fast track system to immediate friendship. My friend Morena visited a few weeks back and was both curious about, and delighted at how comfortable I was with people I knew for what, in reality is a short period of time.
In comparison she and I have built a deep, lasting friendship over 10 years. She knows everything about me, my past, my family and my what makes me tick. We have a trust based on time and experience, from being together through the highs and lows of life's experiences.
Yet with my kinky friends there was almost instant trust, an immediate liking. For me I suspect that I'm predisposed to liking other kinky people. Especially those who I've met through blogging or via a mutual kinkster friend. I expect to like them and for them to have similar values to me: I want to like them and I want them to like me.
So for me #whenIfirst met was as much about reflecting on what I thought then and what I think now; what others thought of me and how they see me now. The initial uncertainties that steadily developed into deep friendship, the chemistry that became love, the dynamic that became the deepest of kink connections, the spontaneous friendships that grew to make me move country.
#whenyoufirst met @lilemmaj I was a child standing enviously on the edges of the playground. Now I'm firmly in that playground, usually playing messily in the sandbox amd I've even learned to share it. But sometimes I find myself retreating from that playground and want to be seen and treated like a grown-up, and for everyone around me to be grown-ups too. But that's OK, cos that's just being ME.
Sunday, August 21
Ritual
For me the ritual of a spanking is just as powerful, or perhaps even more so, than the actual spanking itself. When I fantasise about the simplest of scenes it’s always the ritual I dwell on. It’s been that way forever. From Enid Blyton perversions to designing my own school and rules.
Even now, despite all the school scenes I’ve played I never tire of that formality that comes with the ritual. Perhaps so much of the shame and humiliation comes from going through the carefully crafted routine that you know you could have avoided but didn’t.
So if it’s a school scene there’ll be the knocking on the door beforehand, standing before the headmaster, being scolded, adjusting clothing before bending over. In my fantasies I gloss over the actual spanking. As much as I gloss over the spankings etc. in spanking porn; I prefer the build-up, the story unfolding and the anticipation.
And I love how different people have their own rituals. Abel for example will regularly roll up his shirt sleeve before delivering a caning. Carefully removing his cufflinks, methodically folding the sleeve the correct number of times before he’s satisfied his arm is sufficiently free to deliver the punishment.
Whilst HH will tower in front of me, looking down as he casts sentence, often raising my chin with his finger so my eyes can’t escape his censor.
Even Mr Allen, who I don’t role play with, also seems to have his rituals: taking his time in selecting his implements, weighing each in his hands and examining it carefully. Then with with great precision chooses his stance, measuring the implement exactly to the bottom, before any stroke is permitted to fly.
Then there are the rituals we create; that seem private to us. Although it’s unlikely they are, we just like to feel it is so, as proof our own special connection.
My favourite one with HH is having to ask permission to pull my panties back up after a spanking or such. I can’t even remember when it started; if he first reprimanded me for not doing so or whether I asked for permission. That’s irrelevant now, but it’s one of the most endearing and lasting of our rituals.
I always ask: whether we are alone or in company, whether the spanking was light hearted or severe, whether in role or as me. And I say “may I?” not “can I?”; that’s important too. It makes me feel incredibly head spacey; almost as much as the whole scene before it. Usually he grants permission, but sometimes he refuses, enjoying my discomfort at being denied.
And I never forget. Until, I did, last weekend. On the Sunday HH gave me a final spanking before he was due to leave. Only his hand (as hard as it can be), given how sore I was. We cuddled afterwards chatting a while, me naked from the waist down. Until the time for departure drew near and I offered him a cool drink for the road. As I slipped from the bed to fulfil the request I absentmindedly retrieved my panties from the floor and pulled them on.
The elastic had barely snapped into place when I swung around in horror. HH was shaking his head. ‘Oh I forgot, I’m sorry. I never forget.’ I wailed, dramatically. On the scale of transgressions it’s a pretty small one, but I pride myself in remembering.
Of course it didn’t go unpunished. Despite how sore I was, over the bed I went for a short but firm hairbrushing. But I was glad to be dealt with for it, secure in the ritual and all that it means to us.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
