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.

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.

Whipped

The first Christmas I knew HH I gave him gun money as his Christmas present. (Gun money was what James II paid his soldiers with in the fight against King William. It was meant to be transferred for legal tender on his victory; but that never came about). The gun money came with a scene idea – a poor girl naively accepting the money as payment for work. When she tries to spend it is brought before the magistrate and sentenced to be whipped to set an example to others trying to do the same.

We’d long planned to play the scene but there was never a suitable time, until during our holidays, in a Scottish Castle, the setting was too perfect to pass up.

She was a poor girl, quite alone in the world, making her way to Dublin to try and find work. But she was soon to learn that people took advantage. After a few weeks working on a farm she was grateful to earn a whole half crown. The work had been back breaking but the money would see her to Dublin and help her find her feet. She thought it looked different to regular money, but the farmer assured her it was newly minted at the orders of the new viceroy.

Alas for our girl, she had been tricked into taking gun money; not only illegal but also showing her as a supporter of the papist James. When she tried to use it in Dublin she was arrested and brought before the district magistrate. Under orders to stamp out any perceived support for James and to rid the market of the gun money the magistrate made an example of her. She was to be turned over to the bailiff and whipped severely.

The next day she was taken down to the whipping room and hung from the ceiling to await her fate. She shivered in the cold, her bare feet numb on the icy floors, the thin drawers and chemise giving little protection from the chill.

By the time the bailiff came to deal with her she was weak from cold and fear. But he offered no comfort.

He removed her drawers and chemise, openly ogling her body. She flinched as he ran his hands over her, but this entertained him more: he assured her she’d soon do anything to stop the pain.

Laughing, he promised to make his little papist slut sing like a canary so the whole prison could hear her. She shivered as he picked up his whip. Long and black, with many thick strands of leather it looked terrifying.

She soon learned it felt even worse than it looked. The first few strokes made her gasp for air, spraying across her bottom and thighs, the ends biting into her cruelly. Before long she was screaming aloud with the pain.

In between the lashes he tormented her with his words and hands, laughing as she screamed. As bad as it was on her bottom and thighs when he switched his whip to her breasts and back she nearly fainted with the pain.

When he finally put the whip down she sagged in relief, burning all over from the nasty whip. But he was not done yet. Picking up a heavy leather strap her beat her relentlessly with it until she was hanging limply, crying noiseless tears. Her hands tied tightly above her were turning blue and lifeless.

Satisfied at last he stepped back to admire his work. Pinched and groped her lewdly, knowing she wouldn’t resist. Before leaving her hanging there, all alone, afraid of what might befall her next.

Intern in trouble!

One of the joys of going on holiday with a kinky friend is being able to exploit your surroundings in a scene context. Abel and I spent a night in Brussels recently and inspired by the types of people we observed around us, came up with an intern scene.

I was working in the city earning just enough to get by, but certainly not enough for any treats such as expensive meals out or new clothes. So I'd come up with a plan. I'd target business men on their own, go to the restaurants they'd eat in, flirt with them and see what I could get out of them.

Mr Jenkins had seemed very nice and had fallen under my spell as easily as the men before him. He had generously bought me dinner and cocktails after and walked me home, like a gentleman. The next day he texted to say he's bought me a present and invited me to his hotel to get it.

This was very promising. Usually the men didn't give presents so easily: I was thrilled. He was staying at one of the posher hotels and I made sure to look smart and sophisticated whilst also very sexy in heels and a short, tight fitting dress, under a demure black coat.

He seemed pleased with what I was wearing, looking me up and down appreciatively. The present was a beautiful handbag, very to my taste. This was so easy, I grinned to myself. And maybe we'd get up to some naughtier fun too, I was quite attracted to him: he wasn't not at all bad for an old guy.

But then things took a weird turn...

He told me about a friend of his who was often in Brussels. A friend who had met a young girl, just like me, who’d flirted with him in the same restaurant we had met in. I laughed nervously, what a coincidence.

Indeed it was he agreed smiling. Then told me firmly he knew my game and thought I had been very silly and reckless. If my daughter put herself in such compromising situations I'd be very worried he explained. I tried to explain I was in no danger that I could look after myself.

It was a good argument until I was up-ended over his knee and he was spanking my bare bottom. I was outraged but couldn't do anything and he seemed to enjoy making this point as his hand rained smack after smack: 'That a girl who turns up in a man’s hotel room could have anything happen to her!' When he finally let me up I was hot and sore, rubbing my bottom petulantly.

He continued to scold about personal safety: not trusting strangers, working for my treats and not blagging them from unsuspecting gentlemen. I'd hoped we were finished but he felt I needed a stronger lesson. Taking his belt off, he made me bend over the bed and strapped me very hard until I was crying and begging. How could it hurt so much?

But he had a nice side too, cuddling me in his arms afterwards he warned that he'd be keeping an eye on me. It felt very safe. And then he introduced me to other naughty pleasures I'd never even considered and that was lovely too…

Up to Mischief!

Abel and I went on holiday recently. We had a lovely time and got up to lots of mischief. Of course some kinds of mischief can get a girl into trouble. Like when we visited a lovely walled garden, full of delicious fruit for any naughty girl to be tempted by.

I couldn't resist and got so distracted that I didn't hear the gardener enter. I was caught in the act, stealing his prized apples. I was so afraid I ran away, but didn't get very far. The gates were locked and despite my efforts I couldn't get over them!

The gardener was very annoyed and told me I was in for a sound spanking. Over his knee I went there and then, squealing loudly as his hard hand punished my poor bottom.

And aftwerwards he tied me to a post, my red bottom on show so that everyone could see exactly what happens to naughty little thieves!

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.

Look what we made!

It's a book! A collection of fabulous stories by 20 of the scene's best writers and bloggers! Abel and Haron have been the driving force, coming up with the idea, bringing everyone together and doing all the hard work of getting it published. Everyone gave their story for free and all proceeds go to Cancer Research UK. I'm sure you're all eager to buy it so click here for all the details you need. And while you're over there, give Abel and Haron a congratulatory hug: I hope they are very proud of themselves today as it's finally published!

As for me I am disgustingly excited to be part of it. All the stories are great but I'm honoured to share a book with my pre-scene, lurking day heros Paul Bailey, Serenity Everton, The Lowewood Writers, Casey Morgan and Abel.

I'll write again about my story but here's a little hint: the cover, painted by my wonderful twin Catherine Thomas, depicts a scene from my story (with me as the model gulp!) and it's called Slipping up.

And for those of you who are lurking on here, wishing you could be part of this community, take inspiration from Eliane's introduction :)