hnt august 13 2009

“You have such beautiful hair.”

I love my hair.

My hair is a source of pride for me. Instead of inheriting my mother’s thin strands of hair, I boast thick, heavy tresses. It’s so heavy that I can’t even put it up into a bun or any sort of updo without copious amounts of hairspray and no less than a dozen bobby pins. I end up pulling it back into a side ponytail when it’s hot.

Even as a little girl, I would draw comments from the other hairdressers about my hair. I cried hysterically when my father cut most of it off during my preschool years. He claimed it was because it took too long to wash and comb out my waist-length hair.

I can’t remember a single first time with a play partner where they didn’t compliment my hair.

Of course, I fucking love hair pulling.

I love face slapping as well, and if you put those two things together? Mmm. Two good things go very well together.

I love it when Mark’s fingers are curled up in the tangles of my hair. . .

He tugs on it. He grabs it and pulls, hard.

I gasp. He slaps my face.

I pull away instinctively and he pulls me back by the hair.

It’s one of those things that immediately puts me into a submissive headspace.

It may not look like much from the back, but it’s full of natural wave and body. I’ve never dyed it so it’s full of natural highlights. I’m a very femme girl, and I can easily go a year without cutting my hair. I’m afraid to get it cut now, because it’s so long.

So here’s a picture of my backside. . . the view that my play partners get right before they reach out and sink their fingers into my hair.

- – - -

Mark and I have been exploring and playing by ourselves. We’ve been growing and staying in lately.

I’m hoping to get involved in the NYC scene in the fall. I also need to update this blog! I’ve been so preoccupied with school and life and growing up that I think I should remember to slow down a bit.

I should remember to let down my hair more often.

Happy HNT!

I was giving up.

It was summer 2007, and it was August.

I had spent the summer meeting men off of craigslist, and I was tired of it, and I was giving up on finding someone to fuck regularly. I was getting ready to go back to a college I hated and to work at a job that bored me.

Yes, Mark and I met on craigslist. I almost didn’t post the ad that led me to meet Mark.

But at the time, I figured that one last post, one last hurrah, wouldn’t hurt.

I know that craigslist, that virtual meat market, is slammed by a lot of people in the BDSM community. It’s full of posers, full of crazies, full of psychopaths, people wail. Who needs craigslist? I won’t deny that I haven’t met weird people off of craigslist. However, I still love craigslist. I think it’s a very honest place, in some sense. Where you could post the most fucked up things that you want, because no one will know it’s you. Your posts are not connected to an image or a composite of yourself. It’s just out there. There’s no worrying that people will recognize you. You are just an anonymous, automated e-mail address.

Mark uses it when he’s looking to bottom to a man. It’s just easier to use CL because there’s no profile to maintain and no worry that people will recognize him.

That’s the oddly comforting thing about CL, that anonymous aspect. It’s why I used it to satiate my desire to fuck around with a lot of different men during a hot, muggy summer in NY. I spent my days working retail and working for a non-profit organization. I spent my nights in NYC meeting men and getting into trouble.

It’s also weirdly gratifying to put up a post on CL in the morning and to fuck some stranger that night. I’m not saying it’s the healthiest thing or the safest thing in the world to do, but by summer 2007, I was tired of doing the healthy and safe things.

I was stressed, angry, cynical and eager to explore my sexuality. I was starving myself, too apathetic to eat anything. I was smoking cigarettes. I was too young to drink in bars, or I would have started doing that instead. I smoked a lot that summer. I even fucked a guy who smoked, who let me smoke in his bed after we fucked. We both chain smoked during our vanilla meeting in a park. (He smoked Camels, I smoked Marlboro Lights.) He liked dressing me in different types of pantyhose, and slathering bright red lipstick on my lips, just to wipe it away with his cock. I pranced around in his apartment on teetering high heels. He owned a shoe store on Park Avenue. I chain smoked on the way to the subway, after he kicked me out of his apartment, after our third session. “You’re not submissive enough. Come back and see me in ten years.” He said as I got dressed, stuffing my feet into my battered Chuck Taylors. He told strange stories about his time in California being a submissive. He was just a strange man.

Another strange man was the high school teacher that I met. We fucked in an hourly hotel that had one channel of cartoons and four channels of porn. I stopped seeing him because he wouldn’t stop showing me pictures of his students.

There are a lot of strange people on craigslist. There are also a lot of normal people on craigslist, just searching for something. Normal people searching for love, for their lost iPhone on the subway, for an apartment, for a submissive, for a bike, for a dominant man or for a free bookcase.

When I told him I was writing this post, Mark wondered out loud, “Are freaky people attracted to craigslist? Or are normal people just freakier when they use craigslist?” Good question. It’s both, probably. I’ll be damned if I know.

For women, it’s just so fucking EASY. It’s so easy to find men on there. Illustrative example; I received 65 replies to the post I made when I met Mark.

I fucked my way through the summer solely off of craigslist. I didn’t even GET an alt.com or collarme.com account until I met Mark.

I used craigslist because it just seemed less intimidating than actually registering for other websites.

I honestly did not think anything would come out of the post I made. Something about my post must have touched a nerve with people, because I received quite a few decent responses from people. I “flagged” the ones that were interesting. I was actually surprised at the range of men that replied. Teachers, businessmen, journalists, writers, artists. Most of them over 35 and expressing gratitude that I liked older men. A lot of them were well-spoken. Some of them were creeps.

Yes, I did spend a week talking to another man before I messaged Mark. I feel stupid for it now, since Mark is so perfect for me. A week after I figured out the other guy wasn’t for me, I started talking to Mark over Yahoo Messenger. I saw him on webcam! (I didn’t have a webcam at the time.) Then it came time for the all-important in person meeting at Starbucks. (So much love for Starbucks for craigslist meetings, by the way. It was so useful when I wasn’t old enough to have drinks in a bar. That “third place” atmosphere really helped me feel less nervous. I can’t help but wonder how many people use Starbucks to meet their internet hook-ups. Heh.)

I’m a shallow slut; I chose Mark because his pictures were cute. But he also seemed smart, sane and like he knew what he was doing. Plus, he was older. Everyone knows I adore older men.

He was actually LATE for our meeting! He was stuck in traffic. I wandered around waiting for him to show up. Then I tucked myself in the back of a Starbucks and cracked open the book I was reading. When he did show up, we talked for two and a half hours. We talked about sex, about television, about everything. We just had this very real connection. (We often use this particular Starbucks as a meeting point when he comes to NYC now, since we both know where it is. Sometimes he even sits at the same time we sat at the first time.)

I actually had a connection with some guy I met off of a craigslist ad. A genuine connection that did not seem dirty or sketchy. We stood around outside the Starbucks afterward, both of us lingering, not really wanting to leave. I didn’t smoke around him. (I waited until I walked away.)

I’m going to probably totally humiliate myself doing this. . .

This is the actual text of the ad I posted. You can tell that it was the end of the summer, because I was tired of being shy and cajoling and coy. I knew what the fuck I wanted.

- – - -

girl next door seeks something more sinister – w4m

——————————————————————————–
Reply to: pers-xxxxxxxxxx@craigslist.org
Date: 2007-08-16, 3:22PM EDT

I’ll be blunt.

College student looking for a dirty old man to:

-act out her long suppressed older man/younger girl roleplay fantasies (take your pick: daddy/daughter, teacher/student, etc.)
-act out rape fantasies
-generally revel in the fact you’re helping to corrupt a younger woman (oh, the horror)

Said dirty old man must be:

-YOUNGER than 45 (older than my father is a little -too- old and quite frankly a little creepy) [this girl next door happens to love the suit-wearing business set]
-willing to host, either at your place or a hotel
-safe, sane and have a little experience with this
-in Manhattan or Brooklyn

I don’t care what goes on in your personal life, married, divorced, whatever- I’ll be just as discreet as you are.

ONE LINERS and dick shots get you deleted.
PICTURES and detailed responses get you to the front of the line.

I’ve done this before, I know what I’m looking for and I can smell bullshit from a mile away. Let’s not play games now.

My university classes are starting up again soon, let’s end summer with a bang.

- – - -

Hahahaha. It’s kind of funny to read it now.

I just can’t hate on something that allowed me to meet so many interesting and sane people. I still have email correspondence with some of the people I chatted with online that summer. (I never met any of them in person for one reason or another.) And I just can’t hate something that brought me to Mark.

People don’t hide their surprise when we casually reveal that we met on craigslist. Mark and I were kind of embarrassed about it in the beginning. As if meeting on craigslist makes us any less legitimate, pffft.

“I found, like, a really awesome couch on craigslist once. But never a girl!” – Direct quote from someone that we met at a BDSM club.

So yes, we used craigslist to meet. We used craigslist to meet and both of us thought that we would just be each other’s friend-with-BDSM-benefits.

I like craigslist. I know that there’s a lot of weirdness on craigslist, and that it was sheer fate that I found Mark. But I still dig craigslist. Because if I never met Mark, I would be a completely different person right now. I kind of shudder when I think about where I would be if I never met him. It’s a little freaky.

Of course, we didn’t expect to fall in love and actually, you know, have a relationship. We just thought we’d fuck.

I wouldn’t have my first scene with Mark until a few weeks later.

But that’s for another post. . .

One Saturday night, a few weeks ago, I sent Mark a message over BlackBerry IM.

Delilah: I had this totally bizarre thought of getting my anger out by beating you up. But that’s too weird!
Mark: I thought of that too. Letting you beat me.
Mark: If you think it would help. . .I would totally do it.

We took the plunge and did it.

We decided to explore something new. I topped Mark.

Relationship problems had left both of us feeling angry, guilty, frustrated and upset. Mark lied to me about certain things. I hid my emotions from him and that made the problems escalate. The straw that broke the camel’s back was that Mark and I were apart a lot, due to his travel for work. We scrambled to figure out a way to reconnect to each other.

I thought of topping him. I suggested it, a sort of “haha, wouldn’t it be funny” idea. I never thought he would actually be behind it.

Why did I want to switch?

I wanted to experience something new. I wanted to please Mark. I was fucking curious.
I wanted to reconnect to Mark on a whole different level.

Mark is a “switch”. I use quotes because I know he has his own thoughts on how he defines his sexuality. He usually submits to men, but has submit to women before. Usually, when he submits, he looks for a male Dominant.

When he does submit to someone else, it doesn’t bother me. On FetLife, some women expressed real despair at the thought of their Masters submitting to someone else.

However, I think it’s fucking hot to watch Mark be in pain. Really, really hot.

I don’t doubt that I’m a submissive. This isn’t some sort of crisis where I sit around wonder whether I’m really submissive or not. I’m a submissive. Whether or not I have a healthy, sustaining interest in learning how to top, is another story. I don’t know if I could top anyone else but Mark right now.

I’ve never felt comfortable making a grand statement such as, “I have a submissive heart/soul/whatever”.  I don’t think I’m a 100 percent “I will ALWAYS BE A SUBMISSIVE” type of girl.

I’ve been presented opportunities to top before. I’ve been approached by men (while uncollared) who have asked if I would be willing to top them. I always sent them away, wailing to Mark on the phone that “I just don’t know WHAT TO DO with them!”

But with Mark, I feel safe. I feel secure. I know Mark. I know Mark’s body. I can communicate with him. I have more of a sense of what he wants, what he needs and what I should do.

Plus, now I have a year and a half of being a bottom under my belt.

That’s not to say that I didn’t hesitate a hell of a lot before I actually walked into the room and gave my first order. I think I paced around the bedroom for at least twenty minutes before I came out and got Mark.

Mark once told me that I would make a cute little top. That I have this slightly demented, cute thing going on. I dressed my part. Pink American Apparel socks, a black polo, pink and white panties with pink glitter polka dots and jeans.

I didn’t wear pigtails. (Though I’ll confess I’ve had more than one daydream about wearing a schoolgirl outfit and topping someone. Hahahaha.) I kept my socks on.

I was tentative at first. I didn’t trust my instincts as a top. I was not a service top, because I wasn’t taking orders from Mark on how to hurt him.

I think my favorite thing to do right now is tit torture. I love watching him squirm in pain. It’s just so BEAUTIFUL. Just the way he moves and the way he moans and whimpers and how his knuckles turn white yanking down on the chains. . .

I did it again last night. I used little wooden clothespins. I put them on his nipples and around his nipples. I cuffed his hands, but I was a teeny bit tipsy from a few drinks, so I erred on the side of safe and didn’t lock them. I slowly placed the clamps on his tits.

Then I took my finger, and flicked at the clothespin.

flick

He yelped in pain.

flick

He yelped and twisted again. His cock surged, raging and hard.

flick flick flick flick flick

“Fuck! Fuck!” He was whimpering and bucking his hips. “Fuck, it still hurts!”

flick flick flick

“Touch me, please touch me, please touch me!” He was begging.

I would touch him a little bit, or drag my tongue along his cock.  I kept playing with the clamps. Then I started stroking his cock faster and faster and pretty soon he was orgasming all over the place.

I’ve used the butterfly clamps on his nipples and yanked up on the chain while he was laying down. I just like the way he looks when I’m clamping his nipples, and it always makes me really wet.

I’ve also used the cane on him. I left welts! I left welts on his ass! I cannot even tell you how ridiculously happy that made me. I actually GIGGLED when he text messaged me that he could feel the welts the next day.

I’m really excited by all of this. It’s another way to love Mark. It’s another way to connect to him.

Seeing him submit to me or seeing him take pain does not mess with our D/s dynamic at all. It doesn’t “ruin” him for me. It’s revealed to me this whole other side of him that’s absolutely gorgeous. A side I never would have seen if I hadn’t made that off-the-cuff suggestion.

I know that some submissives try topping their dominants and that it sometimes doesn’t end well. But this works for Mark and I. It works wonderfully.

I’m still his pet and his slut and his property. I don’t doubt that. Not one bit.

This is just something new to explore, together.

I’ve decided to start over.

A new blog layout (nice and minimalist and not all black or all pink), a new outlook, and a renewed relationship with Master.

I could go back and recount all of the drama of the last few months.

But there’s no reason to.

I don’t feel a need anymore to go back and wring my hands over the angst and drama of the last few months. I learned a few things about trust, relationships, D/s and communication. I can let all of it go now.

I want to look forward. Turning 21 was amazing. Master gave me a much better celebration than my own parents did. (My parents kind of made me cry on my own birthday. That’s not unusual for them, however.)

Maybe it’s the three glasses of homemade iced coffee talking, but I have new goals for myself. New academic goals, new personal goals and new things I want to explore within my own sexuality.

Particularly, I want to learn how to top. I get this kind of giddy glee when I switch with Master and I hurt him. I’m totally open to learning new skills relating to topping.

I’ve been twittering. I have a ton of blog post drafts backlogged. I want to start blogging and I want to start participating in HNT again.

All of the instability and drama between Master and I has kind of affirmed something for me. It affirmed that for now, at least, I’m not polyamorous. I’m totally supportive of other people who are poly, but it’s just not me. At least not right now.

Hooray for spring and for new beginnings. I’m ready to jump back into all of it again.

I could go into all of the deep emotional stuff that I’ve been through for the past few months. But I won’t. Not yet, anyway.

This is a major milestone in the life of a college coed.

I turn 21 next week.

Yes, your coed will finally be able to legally drink. And now I can get into all of those mysterious BDSM/swinger parties that are 21 and over! I won’t have to worry about being carded because I will be LEGAL!

I turned 20 in Mark’s apartment. I celebrated 20 by chugging orange juice and rum in a dirty, sticky frat boy penthouse later that night.

A lot happened during my 20th year. I discovered my sexuality and re-discovered my voice. Not only my writing voice, but my own inner voice. I learned what real love is, I learned what real intimacy is, and what it is to be fearless and honest.

I learned about protocol and collars and plastic wrap bondage. I learned about TES and sex blogging and college BDSM groups. I learned about topping men. I experienced my first suspension bondage session, first session topping, first whipping, first punching scene, first long-term bondage, first session of orgasm torture and my first BDSM conferences. I signed BDSM contracts. I read lots of BDSM blog posts.

I laughed and cried and sobbed and screamed and yelled. I had freak-outs and break downs and experienced incredible joy. I forged the deepest, truest, most genuine connection I’ve ever had with someone that I probably would never have met had it not been the combination of BDSM and summer angst that led me to put up that craigslist ad in the first place.

I had the honor of being collared by the smartest, funniest, sexiest, most handsome and caring man that I’ve ever met. Ever. And even though he’s twice my age, and even though he can be a real meanie to me, I love Mark with everything I have. We’ve probably exchanged almost a thousand text messages over BlackBerry Messenger, hundreds of e-mails and lots of kisses.

And in between all of that, I went to lots of classes, drank lots of Starbucks, crammed for exams, played World of Warcraft, got drunk, fled to California three times and just generally lived a very fulfilling 20th year.

And even though things have been shitty lately, even though I have to go through the process of resurrecting this blog because I haven’t posted anything of note in so  long, I’m pretty satisfied with how 20 went.

Mark and I have been going through some intense emotional stuff. But I can talk about that later.

For now, I’m just trying to savor my last couple days of being 20. People keep telling me, “It’s all downhill from here!” but I kind of doubt that.

Here’s the real problem; do I go out and do the college thing and get absolutely smashed on my birthday? Or do I go out and go to a BDSM party with Mark and hope he doesn’t give me my birthday spanking in public?

Choices.

Hmmmm. . .

I don’t know what is heads or tails anymore.

My posts on here and my drafts in Wordpress are all scattered and nonsensical. I climb into bed with Mark at night and have random hysterical crying fits. Our relationship is hitting a rough patch and we had a lot of hard discussions about our future, and about us. I don’t really know what’s going on anymore and I’m not at all secure.

I’m not collared, and we tried talking about contracts and protocol last night and I started hysterically crying.

I need to regroup. I need to fix this blog, bring it back into focus. I need to get myself back together.

I spent this New Year’s Eve being a normal college girl, eating jello shots, drinking beer and playing Halo. I’m back in University housing, which means I’m also back to sneaking away to spend time with Mark. We’ve spent the last two days together, and there’s a sweetness and a slowness to us. We’ve been cuddling on the couch, spooning each other in bed and sleeping in until 11 in the morning.

I’m really struggling. I’m really having a hard time. I get hit with random, unexpected bouts of anxiety that sap away any sort of urge to be submissive. I become anxious and I curl up into a ball on the bed, I shrink away from Mark’s hands.

I feel like I’ve fallen flat on my back and had security and stability yanked out of my hands the moment the collar left my neck. I know that’s stupid. But I feel ridiculously off-kilter.

I need to smooth out my jagged edges. I need to get myself back together. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m flailing around out here, hoping someone will find me and bring me home. I guess you could say. . . I feel lost.

Blah blah, New Year, blah blah, changes, blah.

I know every blogger out there is writing these wrap up posts, looking back at the year and looking forward to 2009.

I have no huge regrets for 2008. None. I have a few small ones, embarrassing moments that I could have gone without, poor decisions. On a whole, I’m amazingly pleased with how much I’ve developed as a person and as a submissive.

Despite how uncertain our relationship seems at the moment, I love Mark very much and I would not take back anything that we did. “Your love woke me up. It healed me.” He said, during one of our text messaging conversations. His love did the same for me, woke me up out of the three year sleep I was in.

We had an incredible year together; San Francisco trips, two BDSM gatherings (Folsom Fringe and TESfest), two contracts, dozens of scenes and thousands of hugs, kisses, and text messages between us.

I don’t know what the future holds, but I have a few resolutions.

1. Have anal sex. My tiny Asian body tends to reject any sort of object going into my ass, silicone or otherwise. I have to be patient enough to let this happen.
2. Cook more.
3. RELAX! and manage my time better.

Below is the continuation and conclusion of my other post, Things I Don’t Want to Say, about a scene that Sir and I had when our contract ended.

Sir looked at me evenly. I was still naked and my hands were still bound.

We eased into the pain. It’s all a blur.

I was still chained to the radiator, my hands and my collar were chained up. He started off just pinching and slapping my breasts and pinching certain parts of my inner thigh very, very hard. (Which really does hurt!) He was a little tentative, going slow, making sure that I was okay with it. I think He could sense that I wanted the pain so I would stop thinking for a bit, get me out of my mind and back with Him.

After He started warming me up for the pain, He gently pushed the yellow, soft, stretchy ball gag into my mouth. “I need to see your eyes this time, pet. I want you to look at me.” I nodded.

He went through all of the canes. He started off with the dense, heavy, wooden cane that we received as a prize at Folsom Fringe. He pinched and bit down on my nipples, my skin, and I started moaning through the gag. I wasn’t thinking any more, just feeling; what I needed and exactly what I wanted. He lifted my legs up, revealing my ass and swatting me with the heavy cane. (I happen to really like that position.)

He pushed me up onto my hands and knees and brought out the two smaller canes, the thin rubber/metal one and the rattan cane. The metal one is the worst. It’s pretty much like being hit with a car antenna. He pushed my pain limits to the absolute maximum, switching between light rhythmic stinging swipes and hard strikes that brought me crashing onto the bed. “Get up! Get up or I’ll hit you harder. Pet, get up.” He said loudly, giving me time to compose myself.

I didn’t want it to stop. I started moving my body, back and forth, almost as if I was silently asking Him to hurt me more. Rocking my body back and forth, side to side, to deal with the pain. I never, ever do that.

“You are so beautiful like this.” He said, unzipping His pants. He stood back and watched me move before starting to strike my ass again. My arms were rigid straight and I clenched my eyes shut, just thinking about getting through the pain. I felt connected, I felt something, something real. I was in this moment again, not trapped in my past with a boyfriend who never thought I was good enough or pretty enough or sexy enough. I was in the present with a man who loved me and thought I was absolutely perfect the way I am.

He stood back and watched the welts come up on my skin. He was touching Himself, looking at my ass. “Fuck, you are so fucking beautiful.” I could hear footsteps as He took a few long strides over to the drawer where He kept protection. “I need you, I need to use you right now, just like this, stay like that. On your knees.”

The bed creaked and dipped as He lined up behind me and pushed me down so my ass was in the air. As He put His hands on my ass and hips, I groaned in pain. “This is going to hurt, pet, but you can take this, you’ll take this.” He sank into me and I moaned, the warm skin on His hips hitting the hot skin of my ass. He was using me hard, incensed by the beating I’d gotten. Hard crashing thrusts that made pain shoot up my spine. I couldn’t orgasm with all of that pain, but He came hard, panting into my hair.

“I love you.” He was kissing the side of my neck, my cheek. I would have said it back, had I not still been gagged.

“You need to come. You definitely need to have an orgasm.” He turned me over and the chains made delightful clinking noises as I settled onto my back, my hands up near my face. I was relaxed now.

He took out the Hitachi and turned it on low, curling up next to me. He was relaxed, too.

I am very particular about how I use vibrators. I prefer to have them be in that one perfect spot, as opposed to rubbing all over my pussy. Even tiny pocket rockets have that small sweet spot where they are in that absolute perfect place. Thus, it makes it very frustrating to be gagged, desperate to come, and have someone else holding your vibrator. Sir sensed that I really wanted an orgasm after the beating and after my little break down earlier in the evening. Finally, the gag was yanked out of my mouth. It hung around my neck, wet with spit. I told Him where to put, to stop moving it, to concentrate it on one place.

I was still flush with adrenaline and I couldn’t relax into the Hitachi, let my mind go. Sir pressed Himself against me and I concentrated on His skin against mine. My hands were still bound.

Then I could feel the licks of pleasure starting, all the way down at my toes. I moaned, losing myself in the feeling. It intensified, more, more, more and I was orgasming, I was crying out. I felt so much relief, relief down to my bones.

Then it stopped for a split second.

Then it started again.

I was moaning and bucking again, not believing that it was still going. (No, I don’t know if I squirted.) I caught Sir’s eye and He was watching this unfold, watching me unfurl in front of Him.

Suddenly, I was seized by the exquisite agony of another release and I suddenly felt like I was going to cry with relief, as if someone in me had been held inside so long, crying was the most natural way to express myself. I really don’t know how to adequately describe it. I wasn’t overcome with despair or in pain or anything. Something in my brain just said, “Oh, this new thing is happening! Fuck, what am I supposed to feel, what are we supposed to tell her to do?! Quick, maybe she should start crying. Tears, STAT!”

Before I could start crying, I started hysterically laughing. It was a really crazy moment, a total loss of control. My head was spinning, my heart was pumping and I couldn’t stop laughing and smiling and laughing again. Just orgasms that kept going in waves. Sir said, afterward, that I smiling so hard.

“It’s not stopping. It’s not stopping! Oh my god, it just keeps going!” I cried out, the wand still going, my body moving, moving, moving, my pussy clenching over and over.

I was just absolutely helpless, rocketed into euphoria, moving back and forth. He took the wand away and I was still shaking, glowing, full of energy and life. I kept saying over and over again that I had multiple orgasmed, and I was giddy at the prospect.

I was practically trembling afterwards as I was laying there. I was hyper and absolutely high on adrenaline.

After I calmed down, Sir and I talked about the communication breakdown that happened. I have my own thoughts about it, but this post is long enough.

I don’t remember falling asleep, but I remember Sir holding me throughout the night.

Hi everybody. I’m back! I’m more or less whole, despite going through the WORST finals week I’ve ever gone through. I pulled multiple all nighters, I broke down into several crying fits and bouts of absolute despair. Ugh.

But now, I am home. I’m home, and I’m relaxed, and I’m also. . . uncollared.

Our contract expired. And I don’t know if we’re signing one again. And that absolutely fucking terrifies me.

Keeping to my promise, this is a post I wrote in November about the end of our contract, but never posted. I want to try to clean out as many old posts as I can. I’ve been taking care of myself, relaxing, eating, sleeping in and doing a lot of thinking.

I also got a MacBook for Christmas, and I’m thinking of doing some podcast posts.

This is part one of that night. I’m writing another post to finish it; it was a very eventful night.

- – -

I grew up in a very stoic household. I’m Asian. Culturally, we do not seek help for our problems because we are ashamed. Shame drives us to hide things, to hide our emotions, to uphold the honor of the family and ourselves.

I was very precocious as a child, and my parents demanded nothing less than perfection, even though I was already very high functioning. I was identified gifted in second grade. All of my spelling tests that came back as A- would be questioned as to why I only got an A-, not an A. My parents are emotionally distant towards each other and it bled over to me. My mother said that being overweight was shameful. They also refused to take me to counseling because they were ashamed that I needed counseling in the first place. They laughed off my very real anxiety problems and ignored the fact that I really needed help.

Shame is a very powerful and debilitating emotion for me.

This still haunts me now, as an adult and a submissive. I am very quick to feel ashamed of myself, and as Sir puts it, it paralyzes me. I emotionally shut down. Sir can see it on my face. I judge myself over every little thing wrong. Every thing I do wrong is another reason for someone to judge me, hate me, leave me.

My parents made me feel ashamed because they thought I would work harder, be better, make them prouder if I felt ashamed.

C made me feel ashamed because it made himself feel better. He made me feel ashamed of my body, my sexual desires, everything about me. He felt stronger, I felt weaker and I faded away.

At the end of the contract, I felt very, very ashamed.

I was ashamed of how much I had failed Sir, how many times I had slipped up. All the slave tasks gone undone, emails unsent, food eaten. I felt horrible.

After cleaning His bedroom and operating under speech restriction (no speaking), He forced me onto my knees and chained my collar to the radiator. Then He threw a pad of paper and a pen on the floor and told me to write about all the ways I had failed Him. I was balancing on my knees, on a small white pillow.

I was floored. I was absolutely devastated. I didn’t know why this was happening. I felt my heart close up, I felt myself shutting down. I started staring at the floor. I wouldn’t look Him in the eye. I tipped my head over so my hair fell into my fave. Even when He grabbed my head or my hair to force me to look at Him, I would look away.

Then I started crying. I started crying, sobbing, begging to not have to do this. I fell from on my knees to a sitting position on the floor. I told Him all the ways I felt I had failed Him. I wouldn’t stop crying.

Then He pulled me up onto the bed and I kept crying. I started screaming. I started screaming at Him. I started screaming about how I didn’t want to do this, how I wanted to be unchained. I was too tired to fight, too emotionally distant. I felt like I was on the outside looking in.

“I hate myself so much right now!” I was screaming. “I HATE YOU!”

“You -hate- me?” Sir said, with deliberate emphasis.

“I HATE YOU AND I HATE THE WAY YOU’RE MAKING ME FEEL! I HATE MYSELF SO MUCH RIGHT NOW! I WISH I COULD DIE!” I was hysterical.

He held onto me and I fought Him. He started whispering to me. Trying to console me. “You want to know what would be on my list? Nothing. You’re the one who is torturing yourself, pet. You never failed me. You could have done everything wrong all the time and I would still love you. I love you more for being imperfect.”

But I had already pulled away. I was already gone. I had already dissociated out of the moment. I felt numb.

Even now, I’m emotionally distant just writing this. Sir hadn’t meant to push me that far, didn’t expect that I would react the way I did.

I felt absolutely blank. No anger, no emotions at all. I pulled away from Him and started shivering. I felt cold.

Sir could see the blank look in my eyes, across my face. We talked about what had happened, how I had felt. Tears would drip down my face, big fat tears.

I really, honestly, felt absolutely devastated on the floor of His bedroom. I felt like I was being forced to admit that I was a horrible person to His face.

It was just a total breakdown of communication at the wrong time. He thought it would go much simpler than that; He thought I would write out a list of things, He would look at them, and THEN tell me that I never did anything wrong. We never got to that last part, because I started breaking down. He didn’t expect my reaction.

I felt totally disconnected to everything, including Him. I stared at the ceiling. For a long time, I didn’t know what I needed.

I needed to reconnect. I needed to feel safe. I needed to feel loved.

“What do you need, pet?” He whispered, softly, tenderly. He was kissing my neck.

I looked Him in the eye. “I need you to hurt me.”

The legend goes that one day, someone asked an Ivy League kid how they were getting to finals week; running to the finish line or limping with a broken leg?

Their answer? “Running with a broken leg.”

Finals week is descending upon my university. I have papers, presentations and tests. I’m cramming in reading whenever I can. And what am I doing?

Looking for a female partner to mess around with. And not necessarily in a BDSM sense, either. Just some playtime with a woman. I’ve been looking at craigslist and alt. Gasp.

For my first time, I don’t know if I want Mark to be there. He’s off on a solo vacation, and I’ve been looking at some potential female partners. I’m not looking for a female top, exactly. I just want to experience having sex with a woman. I do want to have scenes one day where Mark is involved, but for my first time? I don’t know. Part of me wants it to just be about me and her, part of me wants to take that for myself. I need to think about this more.

I don’t know how to talk to girls. I’m serious. I have a hard time forging friendships with women, how am I supposed to seduce them? Argh!

I would write more, but Mark would kill me if he knew that I was blogging when I should be studying or sleeping.

I do have something planned for the end of the year:

clearing out all 21 of the drafts that are in my wordpress.

YES! I have posts in there about all sorts of shit. I never did talk about Folsom. Or Halloween. Or my complete breakdown in front of Mark.

You know, all of that.

Back to work. . .

The truth is, both Mark and I are kind of scattered and all over the place. Mark has had a lot of work, and I’ve been pummeled with work at school and  at Obnoxious Public Relations Firm. I register for classes next Wednesday. Our contract ends next Monday.

We’re having some contemplation time before we sign another contract. I’m trying to get my head on straight. Sometimes, college feels like one crisis after another. Mark and I love and support each other, but I feel like in this next contract, there are some things I would like to reconsider and some places where I want to grow.

I’d like more protocol, for one. I loved the protocol training weekend that we had over the summer. I would like to do more protocol. It wouldn’t have to be as formal. I know that for both of us, it can be hard to switch between mindsets. That is ultimately what stops us short of having protocol; the mind blocks. I have desires for those periods of protocol and restriction, but we don’t do them very often.

Particularly, I’m fascinated when I’m on speaking restriction. The silence that surrounds us is nice to experience.

If I’m being REALLY honest with myself, I LIKE Him knowing where I am all the time. Even though this strict protocol that I’m living under right now is only supposed to be temporary. . .maybe elements of it can sneak into the next contract.

I want to live joyfully in my submission. That probably sounds so cheesy, but I want to exist happily in it, instead of worrying about my submission or worrying about whether I’m submissive enough or not. I tend to worry so much about my submission, even when I’m under strict protocol. I want to worry less.

I can’t really think of anything else at the moment. I’m post very quickly because a) I have to be at work soon and b) this satisfies my requirement for the day. Yay! However, it has also given me something to think about, so that’s good.

BUT, now I can ask permission to play World of Warcraft: Wrath of the Lich King later! YES!

I am the WoW player out of the two of us, I tried to get Him into it, but He just was not having it. Heh.