Letting go is hard. Both in real life and in scenes. The degree to which I do it in a scene can vary. Most of the time I can give way to what's happening, either to me or my character. And often the character's emotions can be magnified by real life events. If I'm feeling all bottled up and need a release from the every day working stresses it's good to play and be beaten and abused and made to feel small. Or if I'm raging against the world it's good to fight and be made to surrender in more cathartic ways. Or if I'm being a grumpy so and so it's useful to be reminded of how I should behave.
But sometimes I'm tired and low on energy, or overwhelmed by everything that's going on in life. In this frame of mind I can't always predict how I will react in scenes. Sometimes it's good, I'll be even more miserable or feel more ashamed or cry more tears. Other times I'll struggle to engage.
During our recent reformatory weekend hosted by Lord Fawcett and Jessica, I managed to experience both the negative and positives of my real-life state. I arrived undone from life's excitements. This coupled with lack of sleep meant I was verging on exhaustion. Yet for the first evening this state of mind worked perfectly for my character.
Poor Fanny Evans, the most pitiful girl you could ever meet. She stole her Mother's jewellery back from her Father (her Mother had given it to her) and ran away to London, to get away from his abuse. But alas was caught and charged with theft and sentenced to the Lowewood Institute for Debauched and Delinquent girls. She was a little innocent mouse terrified of her own shadow, the other inmates and of course the masters!
Therefore the induction to the institute was an awful ordeal for her. Being made to strip naked in front of the other girls, not to mention in front of the men. Scrubbed with nasty carbolic soap and inspected by Dr Grimace himself, in all her private places. It was all she could do not to cry, and when Eirlys whispered comfort as she fled to her bed, she finally gave way to the tears. Fanny was overwhelmed. EJ was over wrought.
But as the weekend went on I found myself too lacking in energy to continuously wear her mantle. I found myself coming in and out of character. A weekend long institutional play is difficult to maintain at the best of times anyway, but in my current state it was even harder. And looking back I regret not having stayed fully in role. Thankfully this didn't mean the weekend wasn't a success and there were many hot scenes with the masters and the other girls, where we were abused and terrified in many inventive ways.
Similarly when I play with Abel and HH my physical and mental state is a big factor in how successful the scene is. As well as they can both read me, if I'm off, not myself, it's nigh impossible for them to predict how I'll respond.
At the weekend, with HH, we played two scenes that ordinarily would leave me broken, needing to resurface. But in both I never quite got there. The first was a military scene where I was in the brig for passing information to wiki leaks. I was unrepentant about my actions and as a consequence was experiencing a secret form of justice - learning complete obedience to my superiors. It was a humiliating scene,with the individual parts giving me shivers thinking back on them. But I blocked out the overall experience, refusing to let him in. Until the very end, when he I had had enough, wasn't capable of much more and he showed me a small act of mercy that completely undid me. Alas it was just a small break through.
The second scene worked even better for me but still I didn't let go. Natalie, the senior house prefect, observed by her Housemaster getting intimate with her boyfriend. He is distraught to see his favourite pupil behaving so and makes her tell him, in embarrassing detail, exactly what she had done with her boyfriend before caning her harshly. At one point making her lie on her back, legs spread in the air, as he viciously caned her thighs. In almost every way this scene broke me, yet I did not cry.
Afterwards this puzzled me; I usually cry easily in scenes. On reflection I think given the upheaval (all good I promise) in my vanilla life I just couldn't let go. I couldn't switch off enough.
In fact I cried only once all weekend; my bedtime spanking on Saturday night. The hand spanking was hard. The slipper undid me. There were only four strokes, but they were at the fierce level that I have come to be afraid of. I'm psychologically more scared of the slipper than any other implement, even though other implements can hurt far more. I've never quite figured it out, but it's the only thing guaranteed to make me cry.
And last night in bed when the enormity of the changes in my life, as positive and welcome as they are, hit me, I finally had that release that was so absent at the weekend. I cried copiously. Cried indulgently at getting everything I wanted, crying even though I don't want it any other way. And at that moment I wished desperately that this had happened at the weekend, over HH's knee with his firm hand spanking all the emotion out of me, and providing the reassurance and hugs afterwards. Or on Abel's next visit where crying could give way to the planning and excitement of a new life.
But still, at least it was letting go, in more ways than one.
Thursday, April 7
Sunday, April 3
An interlude...
'What's wrong?'
Nothing,' I answer, turning away so he can't see my lower lip pouting.
'What's wrong?' he asks again, firmly, patiently.
'I'm just a bit cross, a bit grumpy.'
'Well we can't have grumpy Emma Janes, can we? But I know just what you need,' hands rest on my shoulders, reassuring, firm. 'Hmmm?'
I try hard not to disagree with the spanking that's coming. It wouldn't do any good. But when one is grumpy already it's an effort to submit nicely to a spanking.
He leads me to the bed. Sits down on it. Looks at my trousers expectantly. 'We'll have these down.' I slowly unbuckle my belt, open the buttons, ease my trousers to my knees, concentrating hard on not doing anything to earn a real punishment. After all this is just a get-me-out-of-my-grump spanking. After the briefest of pauses I slide my knickers down too. He nods in approval.
'Over you go,' he orders gently. Without dignity I place myself over his knee. Me, Emma Jane going over his, HH's, knee. At times like this, when it's not roleplay and there's no 'real' demeanor in question, that I'm going over his knee because he feels I need it and I do so because on some buried level I agree, it's the most humbling and littling of all.
His hand smacks down quickly and firmly on my already tender bottom. I can't help but protest: it hurts. 'Now this is what grumpy Emma Janes need, isn't it? He waits for a response: 'Isn't it?'
My answering 'yes' comes out more whiny than is acceptable, and lacks the S word. The smacks get harder until I'm crying out many, proper 'Yes Sirs.' When the volley finally stops I relax over his knee. Definitely less grumpy.
Until he picks up the hairbrush, explains that six should drive the message home. I teeter between feeling newly grumpy and accepting of what's to come. Acceptance wins out and I give a sorrowful 'oh' before tensing again, burying my head in the bed. The six are hard and all on the crease and thighs. I'm not brave and I cry out, but I don't whine or moan. And when I'm finally allowed up I tuck myself gratefully into his arms. My mood has indeed improved, grumpy no more. Once hugs have been properly dispensed I shyly ask, and receive, permission to pull up my knickers.
And we go on with the rest of our day. Scenes to plan, walks to take, dinner to make. The above just a brief, but important interlude.
Nothing,' I answer, turning away so he can't see my lower lip pouting.
'What's wrong?' he asks again, firmly, patiently.
'I'm just a bit cross, a bit grumpy.'
'Well we can't have grumpy Emma Janes, can we? But I know just what you need,' hands rest on my shoulders, reassuring, firm. 'Hmmm?'
I try hard not to disagree with the spanking that's coming. It wouldn't do any good. But when one is grumpy already it's an effort to submit nicely to a spanking.
He leads me to the bed. Sits down on it. Looks at my trousers expectantly. 'We'll have these down.' I slowly unbuckle my belt, open the buttons, ease my trousers to my knees, concentrating hard on not doing anything to earn a real punishment. After all this is just a get-me-out-of-my-grump spanking. After the briefest of pauses I slide my knickers down too. He nods in approval.
'Over you go,' he orders gently. Without dignity I place myself over his knee. Me, Emma Jane going over his, HH's, knee. At times like this, when it's not roleplay and there's no 'real' demeanor in question, that I'm going over his knee because he feels I need it and I do so because on some buried level I agree, it's the most humbling and littling of all.
His hand smacks down quickly and firmly on my already tender bottom. I can't help but protest: it hurts. 'Now this is what grumpy Emma Janes need, isn't it? He waits for a response: 'Isn't it?'
My answering 'yes' comes out more whiny than is acceptable, and lacks the S word. The smacks get harder until I'm crying out many, proper 'Yes Sirs.' When the volley finally stops I relax over his knee. Definitely less grumpy.
Until he picks up the hairbrush, explains that six should drive the message home. I teeter between feeling newly grumpy and accepting of what's to come. Acceptance wins out and I give a sorrowful 'oh' before tensing again, burying my head in the bed. The six are hard and all on the crease and thighs. I'm not brave and I cry out, but I don't whine or moan. And when I'm finally allowed up I tuck myself gratefully into his arms. My mood has indeed improved, grumpy no more. Once hugs have been properly dispensed I shyly ask, and receive, permission to pull up my knickers.
And we go on with the rest of our day. Scenes to plan, walks to take, dinner to make. The above just a brief, but important interlude.
Thursday, March 31
The cycle of kink
I'm feeling in a dark place, play wise. I want to be mentally and physically abused. Objectified and demeaned. Made to feel worthless. Made to cry in shame at my nothingness. But I'm not concerned about it. I'm embracing it. I'm enjoying it. I know it's just part of the cycle.
Because my penchant for certain play does move in a cycle. One that has no rhyme or rhythm but a pattern all of its own. I have learned to appreciate and accept the cycle. Not to force an appetite for a different type of play.
The intervening periods are of indeterminable lengths, often overlapping. There are times when I primarily want to play hard, when I want only loving, gentle play, when I want dark abusive scenes or light hearted fun scenes. There's even the part where I don't want to play at all and I am powerless to overcome it.
Sometimes the cycles vary with the person. Whilst blogging about our lovely hockey captain scene Abel talked about how less and less we do dark scenes together, preferring softer more comforting scenes. That's our cycle for now, but it can change too. It wasn't always so.
Towards the middle to the end of last year it was all about hard play for me. I did two severe JCP scenes and lots of private play at a hard level. I buzzed with the adrenalin of it all. Flying high on a wave of pain and endorphins and survival. I couldn't get enough.
But there was only so much of that play that I could sustain. I took a long time to heal from my December JCP, physically and mentally. Even after the visible marks on my bottom had disappeared I could still feel the impact deep down. And on playing I marked much more easily, felt the pain go deep. Fancied that my right crease was more tender, was concerned that I wouldn't fully heal.
Then there was the mental healing. It's very terrifying to put yourself in a position where someone can inflict that much pain. As I've blogged my control freak gets quite upset when I put myself into such situations. And after December's JCP she got her own back, albeit temporarily. I haven't wanted to repeat such a scene. I haven't wanted to feel that stomach churning, palor inducing fear of knowing that a world of unimaginable pain is going to descend and that you can't (won't!) stop it.
At the Spanking Writers party a few weeks ago I played harder and longer than I had in months.I got that flying through pain and endurance feeling again, although on a much lower scale. It was very reassuring I still enjoyed it. And hearing Catherine talk of her recent JCP I feel my interest stirring in such a scene again. Although I shan't be signing up for over 300 strokes with a manx birch like my darling (but mad!) twin.
The current dominant mood is the need to be shamed and it's being well indulged. Apart from Claudia who was shamed to tears there's been several other such characters. And a very recent scene with Abel and HH (blogged here on Spanking Writers) made me want to die. Very unusually it affected me both in and out of character.
I was a school girl made to work as an escort to pay off her guardian's debts. The gentlemen running the agency made poor Charlotte take a series of increasingly embarrassing and lewd photos for their website. From partly dressed to legs spread wide, to naked on all fours, to being spanked and caned on film. I thought the humiliation couldn't get any worse than having to walk around with a butt plug deep inside me while they photographed my red face and tearful eyes.
Yet when Abel calmly bent me over the bed and fucked me, as HH silently watched I was humiliated beyond anything I'd ever experienced before. Understandably from Charlotte's perspective because she was so violated. But even more so personally, for me Emma Jane. To be so objectified by the two men I am closest to in my life. To be so used by one in front of the other. Both dispassionately making nothing of me. It was very hard to bear, and the tears I cried were barely in role, it was me Emma Jane that was completely humiliated.
Still I haven't had my fill of this shame business just yet. Remind me to tell you about Natalie next week, a poor prefect that falls out of favour with her Housemaster. I dread to think what HH has in store but i'll be delicously dark.
Because my penchant for certain play does move in a cycle. One that has no rhyme or rhythm but a pattern all of its own. I have learned to appreciate and accept the cycle. Not to force an appetite for a different type of play.
The intervening periods are of indeterminable lengths, often overlapping. There are times when I primarily want to play hard, when I want only loving, gentle play, when I want dark abusive scenes or light hearted fun scenes. There's even the part where I don't want to play at all and I am powerless to overcome it.
Sometimes the cycles vary with the person. Whilst blogging about our lovely hockey captain scene Abel talked about how less and less we do dark scenes together, preferring softer more comforting scenes. That's our cycle for now, but it can change too. It wasn't always so.
Towards the middle to the end of last year it was all about hard play for me. I did two severe JCP scenes and lots of private play at a hard level. I buzzed with the adrenalin of it all. Flying high on a wave of pain and endorphins and survival. I couldn't get enough.
But there was only so much of that play that I could sustain. I took a long time to heal from my December JCP, physically and mentally. Even after the visible marks on my bottom had disappeared I could still feel the impact deep down. And on playing I marked much more easily, felt the pain go deep. Fancied that my right crease was more tender, was concerned that I wouldn't fully heal.
Then there was the mental healing. It's very terrifying to put yourself in a position where someone can inflict that much pain. As I've blogged my control freak gets quite upset when I put myself into such situations. And after December's JCP she got her own back, albeit temporarily. I haven't wanted to repeat such a scene. I haven't wanted to feel that stomach churning, palor inducing fear of knowing that a world of unimaginable pain is going to descend and that you can't (won't!) stop it.
At the Spanking Writers party a few weeks ago I played harder and longer than I had in months.I got that flying through pain and endurance feeling again, although on a much lower scale. It was very reassuring I still enjoyed it. And hearing Catherine talk of her recent JCP I feel my interest stirring in such a scene again. Although I shan't be signing up for over 300 strokes with a manx birch like my darling (but mad!) twin.
The current dominant mood is the need to be shamed and it's being well indulged. Apart from Claudia who was shamed to tears there's been several other such characters. And a very recent scene with Abel and HH (blogged here on Spanking Writers) made me want to die. Very unusually it affected me both in and out of character.
I was a school girl made to work as an escort to pay off her guardian's debts. The gentlemen running the agency made poor Charlotte take a series of increasingly embarrassing and lewd photos for their website. From partly dressed to legs spread wide, to naked on all fours, to being spanked and caned on film. I thought the humiliation couldn't get any worse than having to walk around with a butt plug deep inside me while they photographed my red face and tearful eyes.
Yet when Abel calmly bent me over the bed and fucked me, as HH silently watched I was humiliated beyond anything I'd ever experienced before. Understandably from Charlotte's perspective because she was so violated. But even more so personally, for me Emma Jane. To be so objectified by the two men I am closest to in my life. To be so used by one in front of the other. Both dispassionately making nothing of me. It was very hard to bear, and the tears I cried were barely in role, it was me Emma Jane that was completely humiliated.
Still I haven't had my fill of this shame business just yet. Remind me to tell you about Natalie next week, a poor prefect that falls out of favour with her Housemaster. I dread to think what HH has in store but i'll be delicously dark.
Wednesday, March 9
Shamed to tears...
On my last visit to HH he took me to new levels of shame in a scene, that almost rivalled the depths I plummet to when I'm being punished. I had written to him in advance with my idea; a slave who had disappointed her master. Unusually for me I was very detailed in my description:
An hour before our friends were due to arrive HH put me in role as Claudia, standing me on a low stool and caning me harshly as he reminded me how angry he was with me, how I had embarrassed him. Then gave me a torn singlet to wear. We had agreed in advance that he would choose the outfit and it would be best to give it to me in role. I was worried I couldn't bring myself to wear it and how right I was!
The singlet was so low cut it just about covered my nipples, and it didn't actually cover my bottom or my crotch at all. If I pulled it down I got an inch more protection down below but then exposed my breasts completely.
Already I was feeling headspacey, ashamed to have let him down. I was also struggling with how cold and distant he was with me, how there were no words of encouragement or praise at all. This proved to be particularly difficult to adjust to, and yet it's what made the scene work so well. But I realised later that in all the scenes I'd ever done previously, HH would always encourage in some way. Even if it was a dark, abusive scene there would be words of praise of my eventual acquiescence. It was therefore very hard that no matter how I tried to show obedience, willingness to accept my punishments and desperation to please he was constantly dismissive of me.
Whilst waiting for our guests to arrive I was made to kneel up against the wall, hands on head, ankles neatly together. Just as the position would become unbearable (I was too afraid to flinch) he would call me over to him to remind me of how I had failed him. Then I was strapped or caned: he wanted my bottom to show his displeasure as much as his tone did. In between I waited nervously, dreading the arrival of the guests but almost wishing them to come so afraid of being alone with him was I becoming.
When I finally opened the door to them I wished the ground would swallow me up. I was mortifyingly conscious of how little I wore, and that it highlighted my private places more than if I had actually been naked. Even worse, Elspeth was wearing the most sumptuous corset and bustle skirt with delicate high heels. Mr Hawthorne barely looked me over, I wasn't worth his notice!
My first task was to serve drinks, wine to Mr Hawthorne and water for his slave. I was berated for not bringing the drinks on a tray. When I returned to my position against the wall hearing him coldly describing my disgrace to our guests, brought the first tears to my eyes.
In contrast Elspeth sat at her master's feet, her long, silky hair fanning out over her corset. When the gentlemen praised her beauty and her obedience I wanted to die. I was ignored until my next punishment was due and tried to take the strapping as gratefully as I could, but I was not acknowledged. Yet when Elspeth was brought forward for a strapping of her own she earned praise for her beautiful posture and manners in thanking each gentleman for her punishment.
At one point I was stood on a low stool facing our visitors, as the men objectified me completely. Discussed if I could ever become anything useful again, wondered if I was worth breaking? And the full weight of my shame made the tears fall openly as I hid behind my hair. I was very deep in role and distraught to be held so low in regard.
The evening continued in this vein, with me being talked about dismissively or ignored. Made to kneel in the corner or be beaten. And at one stage suffered a humiliating and detailed inspection at the hands of Mr Hawthorne. Whilst Elspeth was petted and praised and played with.
It was hard, however to sustain the momentum and after an hour or so I began to disengage, to pull back from feeling so hurt and worthless. Noticing this HH called time on the scene and I buried myself in his arms, too embarrassed to turn around and face our guests! It was a really great scene and fabulous to play with Marlow and Lily in that way for the first time. He was the perfect visiting master and Lily was far too good at being the hated 'perfect' slave. Afterwards we giggled about what a role reversal it was for her to play such a good girl, and how hard she had to work at it!
Our evening turned to more pleasant pursuits and Claudia was retired, but only briefly.
We resurrected her the next day, with the scene starting with the bailiff whipping her before locking her into the hole to sleep for the night. (The 'hole' being a very confined place beneath the floorboards where HH incarcerates deserving girls!) It was dark and cold and dirty and the singlet gave little protection. Although I'm not very tall I had to curl up in a ball to lie down as ordered. HH went off and left me there for 10/15 minutes. I'm not really sure how long it was, being too busy trying to channel Claudia's headspace from the night before, as much so I wouldn't start freaking about spiders or being in the dark.
When he returned he let me out, now being Claudia's master. I was pathetically grateful to see him. But again the dismissive tone was hard to bear. He dragged me out of the hole, complaining that I was dirty and needed cleaning. Then forced me under a cold shower and scrubbed my skin with a rough brush.
As horrible as it was, I tried to accept his ministrations bravely but the tears soon fell. And I cried all the more feeling his strap as I lay cold and wet on the bench. I tried not to make any sound to show him I was repentant, yet could not help crying out.
But he seemed pleased by my cries. Intensified his torture; whipping my breasts, twisting my nipples, slapping my thighs. Told me I was now his pain slave, that he would take his pleasure in causing me pain. Finally gave me a crumb of praise, that he was enjoying hurting me...
'Although strict, he is, in general, a fair and generous master, as long as she is obedient in fulfilling all of his needs. When he is pleased with her she is permitted many privileges. She sleeps in his bed, eats at his table, chooses her clothing (from those that he has provided) and when guests are present, although she serves and entertains, is permitted to socialise under his watchful eye.And after further discussion, and consultation with close friends, the scene was planned as an evening of entertaining master's friend and his personal slave. One who was impeccably behaved and whom master held up as a shining light of servitude.
On the last occasion he had a visitor she failed him. Too busy enjoying herself to attend to her duties, over indulged in his wine and became belligerent, resisting the advances of a guest at who's disposal she was put.
She's already been severely whipped for her behaviour and all her privileges have been removed. She now sleeps on the floor in a separate room, wears what he orders, sometimes nothing but her collar. She must prove her worth to him again and although the whipping made her cry, the shame at failing him is worse and she is trying very hard to regain his trust. He is not making it easy, with little encouragement and chastising her for the most minor faults...'
An hour before our friends were due to arrive HH put me in role as Claudia, standing me on a low stool and caning me harshly as he reminded me how angry he was with me, how I had embarrassed him. Then gave me a torn singlet to wear. We had agreed in advance that he would choose the outfit and it would be best to give it to me in role. I was worried I couldn't bring myself to wear it and how right I was!
The singlet was so low cut it just about covered my nipples, and it didn't actually cover my bottom or my crotch at all. If I pulled it down I got an inch more protection down below but then exposed my breasts completely.
Already I was feeling headspacey, ashamed to have let him down. I was also struggling with how cold and distant he was with me, how there were no words of encouragement or praise at all. This proved to be particularly difficult to adjust to, and yet it's what made the scene work so well. But I realised later that in all the scenes I'd ever done previously, HH would always encourage in some way. Even if it was a dark, abusive scene there would be words of praise of my eventual acquiescence. It was therefore very hard that no matter how I tried to show obedience, willingness to accept my punishments and desperation to please he was constantly dismissive of me.
Whilst waiting for our guests to arrive I was made to kneel up against the wall, hands on head, ankles neatly together. Just as the position would become unbearable (I was too afraid to flinch) he would call me over to him to remind me of how I had failed him. Then I was strapped or caned: he wanted my bottom to show his displeasure as much as his tone did. In between I waited nervously, dreading the arrival of the guests but almost wishing them to come so afraid of being alone with him was I becoming.
When I finally opened the door to them I wished the ground would swallow me up. I was mortifyingly conscious of how little I wore, and that it highlighted my private places more than if I had actually been naked. Even worse, Elspeth was wearing the most sumptuous corset and bustle skirt with delicate high heels. Mr Hawthorne barely looked me over, I wasn't worth his notice!
My first task was to serve drinks, wine to Mr Hawthorne and water for his slave. I was berated for not bringing the drinks on a tray. When I returned to my position against the wall hearing him coldly describing my disgrace to our guests, brought the first tears to my eyes.
In contrast Elspeth sat at her master's feet, her long, silky hair fanning out over her corset. When the gentlemen praised her beauty and her obedience I wanted to die. I was ignored until my next punishment was due and tried to take the strapping as gratefully as I could, but I was not acknowledged. Yet when Elspeth was brought forward for a strapping of her own she earned praise for her beautiful posture and manners in thanking each gentleman for her punishment.
At one point I was stood on a low stool facing our visitors, as the men objectified me completely. Discussed if I could ever become anything useful again, wondered if I was worth breaking? And the full weight of my shame made the tears fall openly as I hid behind my hair. I was very deep in role and distraught to be held so low in regard.
The evening continued in this vein, with me being talked about dismissively or ignored. Made to kneel in the corner or be beaten. And at one stage suffered a humiliating and detailed inspection at the hands of Mr Hawthorne. Whilst Elspeth was petted and praised and played with.
It was hard, however to sustain the momentum and after an hour or so I began to disengage, to pull back from feeling so hurt and worthless. Noticing this HH called time on the scene and I buried myself in his arms, too embarrassed to turn around and face our guests! It was a really great scene and fabulous to play with Marlow and Lily in that way for the first time. He was the perfect visiting master and Lily was far too good at being the hated 'perfect' slave. Afterwards we giggled about what a role reversal it was for her to play such a good girl, and how hard she had to work at it!
Our evening turned to more pleasant pursuits and Claudia was retired, but only briefly.
We resurrected her the next day, with the scene starting with the bailiff whipping her before locking her into the hole to sleep for the night. (The 'hole' being a very confined place beneath the floorboards where HH incarcerates deserving girls!) It was dark and cold and dirty and the singlet gave little protection. Although I'm not very tall I had to curl up in a ball to lie down as ordered. HH went off and left me there for 10/15 minutes. I'm not really sure how long it was, being too busy trying to channel Claudia's headspace from the night before, as much so I wouldn't start freaking about spiders or being in the dark.
When he returned he let me out, now being Claudia's master. I was pathetically grateful to see him. But again the dismissive tone was hard to bear. He dragged me out of the hole, complaining that I was dirty and needed cleaning. Then forced me under a cold shower and scrubbed my skin with a rough brush.
As horrible as it was, I tried to accept his ministrations bravely but the tears soon fell. And I cried all the more feeling his strap as I lay cold and wet on the bench. I tried not to make any sound to show him I was repentant, yet could not help crying out.
But he seemed pleased by my cries. Intensified his torture; whipping my breasts, twisting my nipples, slapping my thighs. Told me I was now his pain slave, that he would take his pleasure in causing me pain. Finally gave me a crumb of praise, that he was enjoying hurting me...
Monday, March 7
Dark fantasies and landmines
A while back I wrote about how difficult I find it to articulate or communicate my dark fantasies to other people. There was one fantasy I was struggling with at the time that prompted that post. In the end I did manage to write a context for it through a short story and I followed that up with random facts and examples of the violations that person would commit. For his part HH did his own research and between us we came up with the scene. On my last visit we attempted to play it.
It's a scene I've wanted to play for a long time. And one of the first we discussed in our initial emails. Back then I spoke a lot about authority figures as below:
Each of us in our roleplay takes parts of real life happenings as inspiration, through what we've read or heard. Our fantasises feed (consciously or unconsciously) on such material. But it doesn't mean we condone what happened, or that we would wish for such things to happen to us, without our consent. Just as consensual 'rape', i.e. the illusion of being raped bears no relation to the real horror of actual rape. I no more approve of the children beaten at school under the guise of discipline than I do of the priest who abused the children in his care. Yet a school girl caning scene is probably more palatable than a priest abusing the same girl. But our fantasies are OK, aren't they? Each to their own and all that, right?
I'm actually trying to convince myself, as much as any of you here. Because I do struggle with it. And despite wanting to play a priest scene it's taken this long for me to attempt it. The publication of the Ryan report made me hate myself for having such fantasies in the first place and it's taken almost two years for me to consider it again.
In advance I was worried about my ability to go through with it, but wanted to try. HH was supportive, leaving the decision up to me. He had his cassock, I my 1960's short dress and brogues. As the housekeeper's daughter I was caught reading an inappropriate book from his shelves and we took it from there. From the start I found it hard to let go. HH was scarily convincing as a priest and although I went through the right motions of fear and shame, I was very conscious of my every move.
And then the landmine hit. HH asked me to say a certain prayer. As I struggled to remember it my Grandmother floated into my head. She had taught it to me. She was the last person I said it with. It's a prayer that she says for me regularly, a prayer to keep me safe. I went numb and HH spotted it immediately. End of scene.
He took me upstairs and consoled me as first I babbled incoherently and then sobbed loudly about how I was walking all over my Grandmother, one of the most important people in my life. How I felt like I was throwing everything she believed in back at her by making a mockery of her religion. I felt so distraught it shocked me. How could I not have seen this coming?
It took a long time (and much hugging from HH) for me to calm down about it. To forgive myself for treating my Grandmother so disrespectfully. And to accept it was OK that I couldn't do that scene, to come to terms with the fact some things run deeper than we can appreciate.
It doesn't mean I won't do any more dark fantasies though, just not this particular one. And although I'll be no more capable of preventing another landmine from hitting, at least I'll won't be as shocked by it.
It's a scene I've wanted to play for a long time. And one of the first we discussed in our initial emails. Back then I spoke a lot about authority figures as below:
"For me any authority figure works well, especially a male authority figure. To some extent I naturally believe in authority, rules and legitimate power: headmasters, prefects, policemen, master of the house, rugby coach, tutor, father, guardian etc. And because of that I'll try to behave, respect their rules and accept punishment if I fall short."Eventually I admitted that Catholic priests came under that umbrella too. One that fell into the abuse of power category, which was even more appealing as a fantasy. It was difficult to admit that I had such fantasies, both from the point of view of being an Irish Catholic myself, and also because of the stories of abuse that have shocked our country.
Each of us in our roleplay takes parts of real life happenings as inspiration, through what we've read or heard. Our fantasises feed (consciously or unconsciously) on such material. But it doesn't mean we condone what happened, or that we would wish for such things to happen to us, without our consent. Just as consensual 'rape', i.e. the illusion of being raped bears no relation to the real horror of actual rape. I no more approve of the children beaten at school under the guise of discipline than I do of the priest who abused the children in his care. Yet a school girl caning scene is probably more palatable than a priest abusing the same girl. But our fantasies are OK, aren't they? Each to their own and all that, right?
I'm actually trying to convince myself, as much as any of you here. Because I do struggle with it. And despite wanting to play a priest scene it's taken this long for me to attempt it. The publication of the Ryan report made me hate myself for having such fantasies in the first place and it's taken almost two years for me to consider it again.
In advance I was worried about my ability to go through with it, but wanted to try. HH was supportive, leaving the decision up to me. He had his cassock, I my 1960's short dress and brogues. As the housekeeper's daughter I was caught reading an inappropriate book from his shelves and we took it from there. From the start I found it hard to let go. HH was scarily convincing as a priest and although I went through the right motions of fear and shame, I was very conscious of my every move.
And then the landmine hit. HH asked me to say a certain prayer. As I struggled to remember it my Grandmother floated into my head. She had taught it to me. She was the last person I said it with. It's a prayer that she says for me regularly, a prayer to keep me safe. I went numb and HH spotted it immediately. End of scene.
He took me upstairs and consoled me as first I babbled incoherently and then sobbed loudly about how I was walking all over my Grandmother, one of the most important people in my life. How I felt like I was throwing everything she believed in back at her by making a mockery of her religion. I felt so distraught it shocked me. How could I not have seen this coming?
It took a long time (and much hugging from HH) for me to calm down about it. To forgive myself for treating my Grandmother so disrespectfully. And to accept it was OK that I couldn't do that scene, to come to terms with the fact some things run deeper than we can appreciate.
It doesn't mean I won't do any more dark fantasies though, just not this particular one. And although I'll be no more capable of preventing another landmine from hitting, at least I'll won't be as shocked by it.
Thursday, February 24
Aftercare
Apologies for the radio silence. It's been a busy few weeks. After the interrogation scene I had a wonderful week in the UK catching up with friends and enjoying lots of treats and parties.
Asides from that, and the vanilla activities which have also been keeping me busy, I haven't actually felt like blogging. I've come to accept that and to not panic when I can't make myself write. Partly it was because I was still processing the big scene. Right now I look back at it and think 'wow can't believe I did that'. Even have to think a little bit harder to capture those feelings of terror formed on the night.
After the scene I was as high as a kite. It was the middle of the night and we had a long drive back to London so after a brief time going over the scene we had to split up and head back. Cath and I passed the time chatting excitedly and texting Abel who hadn't been able to sleep until he'd heard from us.
Once back in London we crashed out for a few hours sleep, exhaustion getting the better of the adrenalin. The next morning I crashed immediately. I had woken before Cath and lay replaying the scene over, inspecting the bruises and marks, thinking the fear through. I needed her to wake up, to talk, to relive it. But even then that wasn't enough. I knew I'd see Abel later that day but I had to call HH, the only other person I've gone to places that dark with.
I told him every detail, of how scared I was, how horrible it had been and I cried for the first time. At that moment I would have given anything to be able to hug him, and he felt the same. How hard it was for him to hear my ordeal but not be able to check for himself that I was OK.
Mistress Switch commented on the original post about the importance of aftercare, and being looked after emotionally after such a massive scene. Unfortunately I hadn 't appreciated how much I'd be affected and had a whole weekend of events planned .
So I wasn't free to go back and meet the interrogators and the other victims over the weekend. And this was something I badly needed; I needed to come down with the same people I have gone up with. Luckily I was with very close friends however, who were wonderfully understanding and supportive. Like Jessica and Scarlett and Haron who generously let me talk at length about the scene. And of course I had Cath to bounce off and Mistress Switch checking in regularly. Not to mention my dear Abel to provide hugs and support and try not to fuss me to death ;-)
And I had my blog. It has become a really important step in processing deep scenes and in this case was much needed. I felt better once I'd expunged it all from my mind, didn't have to cling onto all the details so tightly, could let them start to fade naturally.
Between all the lovely people I was nicely distracted, hanging out with Jessica and the menage, an evening of adult kinky fun at Mr Jenkin's bordello and preparing for the Fawcett Hall Speakeasy on the Saturday which was a really fun party.
But I had a little breakdown Saturday night, when I came face to face with Mr Allen and Ms Stoker. Two former victims (and in Mr Allen's case interrogator) they knew exactly where my head was at and provided much needed emotional support. We talked at length about the scene, my concerns and how I was feeling. Then Mr Allen gave me a deliciously hard strapping that let me cry out my release.
A day of chill with my darling Eliane on the Sunday meant I was almost completely restored Sunday evening. And my final act of processing was to email Mr Evil and Mistress Switch with my queries on the scene. The why and when and what happened over the night.
Sometimes when I'm droppy I feel negative about things and in this case I was worried that whilst I had such an amazing experience what had they got out of playing with me? I hadn't fought back, should I have? Was it boring for the interrogators dealing with me when I spaced out? Why did I get more cycles of water, did they not think they had broken me? All of which seem funny now, the whole idea of wondering whether I was a good enough water boarding victim! I was firmly reassured on all counts! And when we met for drinks mid week the final stage of processing was complete as we all laughed and teased each other as equals, interrogators vs victims no more.
Thank you all who made the experience what it was and those who picked me up afterwards, including all the comments on the blog. I am privileged to know such wonderful people.
Asides from that, and the vanilla activities which have also been keeping me busy, I haven't actually felt like blogging. I've come to accept that and to not panic when I can't make myself write. Partly it was because I was still processing the big scene. Right now I look back at it and think 'wow can't believe I did that'. Even have to think a little bit harder to capture those feelings of terror formed on the night.
After the scene I was as high as a kite. It was the middle of the night and we had a long drive back to London so after a brief time going over the scene we had to split up and head back. Cath and I passed the time chatting excitedly and texting Abel who hadn't been able to sleep until he'd heard from us.
Once back in London we crashed out for a few hours sleep, exhaustion getting the better of the adrenalin. The next morning I crashed immediately. I had woken before Cath and lay replaying the scene over, inspecting the bruises and marks, thinking the fear through. I needed her to wake up, to talk, to relive it. But even then that wasn't enough. I knew I'd see Abel later that day but I had to call HH, the only other person I've gone to places that dark with.
I told him every detail, of how scared I was, how horrible it had been and I cried for the first time. At that moment I would have given anything to be able to hug him, and he felt the same. How hard it was for him to hear my ordeal but not be able to check for himself that I was OK.
Mistress Switch commented on the original post about the importance of aftercare, and being looked after emotionally after such a massive scene. Unfortunately I hadn 't appreciated how much I'd be affected and had a whole weekend of events planned .
So I wasn't free to go back and meet the interrogators and the other victims over the weekend. And this was something I badly needed; I needed to come down with the same people I have gone up with. Luckily I was with very close friends however, who were wonderfully understanding and supportive. Like Jessica and Scarlett and Haron who generously let me talk at length about the scene. And of course I had Cath to bounce off and Mistress Switch checking in regularly. Not to mention my dear Abel to provide hugs and support and try not to fuss me to death ;-)
And I had my blog. It has become a really important step in processing deep scenes and in this case was much needed. I felt better once I'd expunged it all from my mind, didn't have to cling onto all the details so tightly, could let them start to fade naturally.
Between all the lovely people I was nicely distracted, hanging out with Jessica and the menage, an evening of adult kinky fun at Mr Jenkin's bordello and preparing for the Fawcett Hall Speakeasy on the Saturday which was a really fun party.
But I had a little breakdown Saturday night, when I came face to face with Mr Allen and Ms Stoker. Two former victims (and in Mr Allen's case interrogator) they knew exactly where my head was at and provided much needed emotional support. We talked at length about the scene, my concerns and how I was feeling. Then Mr Allen gave me a deliciously hard strapping that let me cry out my release.
A day of chill with my darling Eliane on the Sunday meant I was almost completely restored Sunday evening. And my final act of processing was to email Mr Evil and Mistress Switch with my queries on the scene. The why and when and what happened over the night.
Sometimes when I'm droppy I feel negative about things and in this case I was worried that whilst I had such an amazing experience what had they got out of playing with me? I hadn't fought back, should I have? Was it boring for the interrogators dealing with me when I spaced out? Why did I get more cycles of water, did they not think they had broken me? All of which seem funny now, the whole idea of wondering whether I was a good enough water boarding victim! I was firmly reassured on all counts! And when we met for drinks mid week the final stage of processing was complete as we all laughed and teased each other as equals, interrogators vs victims no more.
Thank you all who made the experience what it was and those who picked me up afterwards, including all the comments on the blog. I am privileged to know such wonderful people.
Friday, February 11
If...
Mistress Switch, the organiser and one of the main interrogators of the scene I alluded to in my last post, has given me permission to disclose the details of the interrogation. At this point I make little attempt to analyse my feelings, but to merely recount the scene and how I got through it.
Before you read this please remember that although I was going into the unknown I completely trusted the two main players, Mistress Switch and Mr Evil. (I did not know until after who the others were, but knew they too would be trustworthy and capable). The premise of doing such a scene is to come in with an open mind and see it through to the end. There are no limits and there are no safewords. By entering into it you are giving consent for them to do what it takes to break you.
All are very experienced people who know what they are doing. Furthermore, there are several of them, all very closely monitoring each participant. I would not do this type of scene with anyone I don't trust 100%. And whilst there are parts of this I never wish to do again, I do not regret a moment of it. I am proud to have survived it. And I am still buzzing from the high!
If you can fill the unforgiving hour,
There were five of us. Three men, only one of whom I knew and my twin, Catherine. Waiting to be transported to our destination, all nervous. Our phones beeped, each given the three pieces of information we we were not to reveal to our interrogators. For the first time I felt optimistic about the scene, I now had a purpose. It was game on.
We finally set off and after a long drive we arrived in the wooded camp. As instructed, got out of our car and knelt on the ground in a line facing forward, with arms out stretched. They approached us from behind, one captor for each of us. Dropped hoods across our heads and dark goggles across the hoods. Our sight was gone and would not return until the end of this ordeal, some four hours later.
We were led away, one by one and ordered to strip naked. Given a thin paper jumpsuit to wear and ordered to put just one of our shoes on. And finally our wrists were secured tightly behind our backs, in my case with cable ties.
With sixty minutes worth of distance run,
Once restrained I was led to the sound room where various static and white noises played loudly. I was put in a variety of positions, for 15-20 mins at a time. Each uncomfortable and made worse by having only one shoe on, making it impossible to balance the body. I tried to block out the noise but could not, and in the second position could feel myself begin to faint. I'd read about stress positions and sensory deprivation, but nothing prepared me for the reality. I started to buckle out of position, nausea building. One of the captors put me back into position. A few mins later I buckled again.
This time they moved me to kneeling upright on the floor, I swayed from side to side, happy to pass out, hoped it would happen even.
Suddenly grabbed roughly from behind and dragged outside. My heart quickened. But despite my fear the fresh air was welcome and I breathed deeply through my hood. They marched me round the woods, my one bare foot scratching on stones and thistles. Left me to stand alone for a short time then dragged me back down to the main building. Forced my poor bare foot into a bucket of cold water, but I did not flinch. I was already retreating into my self, into my own head. It was lovely there. These people couldn't hurt me there.
Over and over I recited Kipling to myself, it became my main way of coping and as the ordeal wore on I focused on it more and more.
When I was finally let out of the water they lay me face down in the mud. It was lovely and soft and earthy and I was happy to use the two senses they hadn't cut off. I would happily have stayed there for the rest of the night.
Then it was more stress positions, this time outside. One, head on a table, shoulders hunched, knees bent and feet uneven. Again I retreated in side my head, until one of then rapped on the table hard, the impact made me bite my lip in shock. But I made no sound. Because I was not there. I was gone.
Then yours is the earth,
I have no idea how much time passed before I was brought before him, the chief interrogator. Sat on a high stool, my hood and goggles removed, I staring at a the bright light in front of me. Tried, and failed, to see the man behind it.
The questions were easy, but I struggled to answer. I was not there, my conscious had floated away and talking had become an effort.
'What age are you ?'
I wasn't sure, was I 28 or 29, I had a birthday soon my foggy mind reasoned, but then was I 30?
'What are your brothers called?'
Oh yes I told him, I had two brothers didn't I? It took a long time to get their names out. He mentioned my Dad, called him by his name. How did he know that I vaguely wondered? What did my Dad do for a living? My answer made little sense.
Then he asked who was Harry? My conscious became more alert. Harry (my teddy bear) was in my rucksack in the car and I was afraid. What would they to do him? I told him I didn't know any Harry. He asked again and wasn't happy at my refusal to answer.
A plastic bag over my head was my reward. Sealed tight, they then opened and shut it slowly, releasing little whiffs of air. I tried to keep calm, panicky gulps of air were not going to help. The bag came off and he asked again? Asked what was in my rucksack. I named every item except Harry.
When they finished with me I was led back to the edge of the sound room. Made to kneel up, head on a stool. My leg quickly went dead but strangely I found a vaguely comfortable position by sliding my head to the side and then I disappeared again. Bocking out the pain in my leg, the weight of my shoulders, the stiffness in my wrists. It must have been at least half an hour before I was moved. When they lifted me up I promptly fell over, my foot was too dead to feel, to stand on. So they leaned me in a corner, my head dipped in support, until my leg agonisingly came back to feeling.
I had heard little from my fellow captives through the evening, semi aware of them being moved around. Once I heard Catherine fighting back, another time I heard moans of pain from someone in the distance.
Then from beside me came more definite moans of pain, getting louder, until he was told to shut up by one of the captors. I trembled wondering what was next to befall me. ( Later Loki explained his handcuffs had become unbearable.)
All of a sudden the static sound was turned up very loud. Listening to it made me dizzy again so I chanted Kipling aloud. And suffered a bucket of water in consequence, but again I made no sound, I was not there.
Yours is the earth and everything that is in it,
It felt like a very long time before they came for me. Led me outside. My bare foot felt water on the ground, I could sense several of the captors around me and the terror set in. I knew even before being lifted onto the bench that this was the dreaded water boarding.
I was laid out flat, my head at the edge. A thick, tight fitting hood was placed over my head. I immediately felt claustrophobic. The chief interrogator asked me did I have information for him. I denied it. He pushed me back on the bench, someone sat on my legs, others gripped my arms. I tried to brace myself.
The water started to pour, I held my breath, but eventually my nose and mouth were filled with water, and I struggled desperately to get up. When they released me I was panicking, gulping for air. But my big gulps just made the hood tighter, and I inhaled more water. He ordered me to calm down and I blurted out the information he needed. But he laughed and told me he hadn't asked for it yet. When they pushed me back I begged and pleaded hysterically to be let go.
The second time was worse, knowing how it would feel in advance. Again I held as long as I could, and again came up screaming and panicking. The third time was just as horrendous. That awful moment when you have to open your mouth and the water consumes you. I thought of all the things I could say to make them stop. And yet there was nothing I knew would work. I have never felt more terrified or helpless in my whole life. Even now I can feel that fear. On the 4th time he told me if I could stay down as long as he expected me to, if I took it well and didn't fight or struggle he might stop it there.
I held my breath as long as I could, I took the water as long as I could until I jerked my head up. And screamed in terror that it hadn't been long enough, that he'd do it again. Right then I would have given him anything he asked for, even Harry.
(What I didn't find out until later was that I was taking staying down for logner than the others and therefore taking a huge amount of water. All because I was too terrified of him to think of fight back!)
When they let me down they led me shaking and weeping to a tree nearby where I found Catherine and two of the men already there. It had taken two attempts for her to reveal the information and I could not believe her bravery in resisting after the first round of it. We clutched hands, and wet and shivering we listened to the last of our party be broken. When he finally joined us at the tree I had managed to compose myself slightly, was able to extend my hand to him, whispering comfort.
They came for each of us then, once at a time. In my turn I went in terror, praying they wouldn't do anything else. I was broken. I almost fainted with relief when Mr Evil declared that was 'it'. Fell into Mistress Swtich's and my co-captives's arms in ecstasy at having survived.
And which is more, you will be a man, my son.
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