Lost and Found

i have almost no sense of direction, so i get lost, easily and often.  i have comfort zones, areas that i know and can travel confidently, but outside of them,  i actually have different ways of being lost.   These are:

1.  i don’t know where i am – i look around and don’t see anything familiar.  i don’t have a clue where i am or which way to go. 

2.  i don’t know where i’m going.  i have no clue where the address or business is, i’ve never been there, and i know i might get lost.  

3.   i know where i am, and i know where i’m going, but i don’t know how to get there. 

There are variations, but those are the three main ways. 

And i HATE getting lost.  i hate everything about it.  i feel scared and stupid.  i don’t want to ask for directions.  i don’t want anyone to know i’m lost, again.   i think i’ll be lost forever. 

i know i’m not stupid.  i know there’s nothing to be scared of.  It doesn’t matter.  Let me say it again.  When i get lost, i feel stupid and scared.  And i don’t want anyone to know.

But one day, Sir happened to call me right when i was so lost that i was sure i would never find the store i was looking for and there wasn’t even anywhere to stop and ask directions.  So when He called, i was so relieved that i just told Him i was lost, and he stayed on the phone with me and told me exactly where to turn until i got to where i was going. 

It was like a little miracle, and He didn’t laugh at me or act like it was ridiculous or bizarre that i could be lost.  In fact, He said i could call Him anytime i was lost – instead of mapquest, i’d have Sir-quest and He’d get me there. 

That kind of “being taken care of” touches me.  It pulls at my heart, and surprisingly, arouses me too.  Not as much or as immediately as the belt, for example, or cock worship, but there’s definitely a line running from my heart to between my legs. 

So it happened again a few weeks later – i was lost, and i shouldn’t have been, i should have known where i was going, but i didn’t.  So this time i called Him just before i got into panic mode.  And He did it again.  He didn’t act like i was imposing on Him or anything.  He just talked to me the whole way and told me exactly how to get where i was going.

So.  i had an early moring appointment this week and Sir invited me to breakfast afterwards at a restaurant He liked.  i knew exactly where the restaurant was.  i knew exactly where my appointment was.  i was sure i could get from point A to point B.  Even when He asked me about it, i said, “o, yes, i know how to get there.” 

Really.  It was only about 5 minutes away.

Only, you know.  When it came time, i had directions but they weren’t written down and i panicked and turned left too soon and had to go around the block and try to find the right place to turn – i mean the right place to turn left, and then i was supposed to turn right, but shouldn’t it be left if i’ve turned too soon?  And then the block curved instead of being square and i thought it was this way cause the street was familiar but then i’d gone a long way and didn’t see where i was supposed to turn right again so it was probably wrong and i turned around and – yeah, that’s how i end up lost.  That kind of thinking.  And while i’m driving around, He’s waiting for me at the restaurant. Which just makes it worse.

So i found my way back to where i’d started and i was going to try again but i kept running into one way streets that went the wrong way – so i called Him.  And by then i not only didn’t know how to get to the restaurant, i wasn’t quite sure where i was either. 

But we figured it out, what street i was on, and He started giving me directions, and He didn’t sound angry or impatient, so i was following the directions and feeling hopeful.  But then i knew i’d done something wrong because he was saying, now turn right, and i was back at this same stupid one way street where i could only turn left, and i was pretty sure i was in the Twilight Zone and would never get past that street and all the panic was there – – – – – –

And He says, really calmly, “Pull over and park somewhere.  I’m coming to get you.  Just pull over somewhere that you can tell me where you are.”  And He doesn’t sound pissed off or even annoyed – i mean, He might have been, but He didn’t sound like it.

So i pull over.  Just like that.  “I’m at First National Bank, in the parking lot,” i say.  Then i turn off my car and wait.  i think about all the times i’ve been lost.  i think about all the times my mother used to say, “If you get lost, just stay where you are and I’ll come find you.”  i used to tell my kids that too.  I think about how my mother would have  come and found me anywhere, and about how much i wanted my dad to want to find me instead.

i think about what it feels like to be sitting in my car waiting for Sir to come get me.  

It feels good.  Odd, but good.  This whole “being taken care of thing.”   Very seductive, and very dangerous.

Let me  be clear – I don’t need it.  I can take care of myself just fine.  I would have managed the panic and figured it out,  I always do. 

But to hand over the responsiblity and just wait…  feels like submission to me.  Some strange foreplay.  Like waiting bent over the arm of the couch, like waiting with my mouth hovering above His cock.   What is that about?  

i wonder, without worrying, how He feels about coming to rescue me.  Wonder if it feels the same as making sure the collar’s not too tight – just one more way He takes care of me.

And right when i see Him, just when He pulls into the parking lot, i have a moment of, “He’s going to be pissed, of course He will be, i told Him i could find it, He had to come all this way, …

And there He is, looking down at me from His van window – and His expression just says, “There you are.”  Like you would say if you just found the shirt you were looking for last week.   “There you are.”

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

So is it a Dom thing, this ability to take care of me in a matter-of-fact way that makes me feel so good?   Or is it just my Sir?   When i read posts on Fetlife, it sounds like it’s part of  being a good Dom.   And of course Sir’s a good Dom, there’s never been any doubt about that. 

But allowing myself to be rescued taps into the same part of me that allows Him to have power over me, that allows Him to spank me and fuck me at His whim.

It is not a trade-off.  Not “He takes care of me so i let Him spank me,” at all.  Getting rescued, letting Him press a battery to my clit, or offering my ass for His belt all tap into the same part of me.

It’s NOT the part of me that won’t ask for help, or directions, not the me that is always competent, capable, and in control.  It’s that other part, the me i used to always hide.  

 “What are you?” Sir says.  “Say it.”

And i whisper, “Submissive, Sir.  I”m submissive.” 

Corrections

i got an e-mail from Sir that was titled “FYI”  It said :  

I read your latest blog  ..I liked the addition of the pictures   HOWEVER the battery used on you was an Energizer  (appropriately named, in my opinion)

 

Also, the ends of the ropes were taped with electrical tape before they were cut to prevent it from ravelling

 

The rope is 1/4 inch cotton sash cord

 

 

i stand corrected – Thank You, Sir.  

Sparks

 

“I’ve always wanted to see if it would work somewhere other than on your tongue,” he said.  “You know, the battery thing.  You take a 9 volt battery, the rectangular ones, and hold it to your tongue to see if it’s live, it there’s any juice in it.”

“Ohhh!” i say.  “You mean…?”

“Yes.  i’d like to see if it works on other – delicate tissue, shall we say?”

“O, my.  i don’t know.  i don’t think i’d like that.”

His eyebrows go up, “Do you have to like it?”

“O.  No, i guess not.  Um, no, Sir, of course not.”

It’s a few night later – i’d pretty much forgotten the battery conversation.  He is coming over for playtime, running a few minutes late, which he seldom does, so i’m at the window when he pulls in.  i watch him upack his van – the red toolbox, a black plastic box, and a clear plastic toolbox.  And a bag.  O, my.

“You may end up wishing I hadn’t come over,” He says, setting His supplies on the dining room table.  Then, He settles into His chair, “Bring me the clear toolbox, please.  Don’t try to see what’s in it.”

So i carefully look away from the box as i present it to him.  Seconds later i know that it’s full of rope.  Fairly thin rope, but strong. 

                    Only it wasn’t rolled up, it’s in long, loose pieces

 

And the ends look like this:

i don't know if it was plastic or what...

   i’d never been tied with rope before; chained, but not tied.  It’s  fascinating watching Him tie me.  “Hold this,” He says once.   And i hold a piece of rope so He can pull it tighter, or knot it again, and pretty soon it runs from my neck down my middle, through my legs, through that delicate flesh, between my ass cheeks, and back up and around my breasts.  and then He pulls it tighter and i can feel it, o, all the time, i can’t move without feeling it more. 

i don’t think anything could distract me til He decides to wrap my breasts in rope, and that’s a whole different sensation.  Then He ties my hands behind my back too and i’m so distracted, so focused on the ropes binding me, i can barely respond when He says, “Kneel.” 

But i do kneel.  Feeling the rope between my legs, my breasts extended and swollen, i still want my mouth on His cock.    i lean forward, try to lean forward to take Him in my mouth, but i’m off balance.  i fall forward, face down beside His cock, on His leg instead, and i guess it could have seemed funny, but it doesn’t.  i can’t get back up, the rope is cutting into me, making me so wet and hot, and i can’t get back up.

He lifts my head and steers me so my mouth is in the right place.  He’s holding my head between His hands, controlling my movements.  i try to focus on Him, but the rope still has my attention.  i manage to wiggle a little to ease the pressure, but then He moves my head, or i shift the wrong way, and the rope tightens again and fills my mind.   i manage to suck His cock, trying to focus, to please Him, but i don’t think i’m doing very well.

He makes me straighten up, takes His cock away from me.  He lifts my head so i can sit straight.  He gets out the nipple clamps.  i’m rocked back on my heels a little, my hands are tied behind my back, and He shows me the nipple clamps.  i whimper a little.

“What?” He says.

i shake my head, “Nothing, Sir.”

They are the clamps i showed you a picture of before, the adjustable ones.  He puts the first one on, and it hurt sooooo bad, i squeel a little  and squirm.  Which made the rope tighter.   

“Too tight?” He says, meaning the clamp, and i nod. o, ouch.  “What do you say?” He asks.

But i can’t think, i don’t know what He means.  He has to prompt me, til i say, “Mercy, Sir? Please, Sir?”  And then He loosens the clamp a little, and i’m grateful. 

After a while he takes the clamps back off – oh, ouch! – and unties my hands.  “Turn around,” He says, “Bend over.” 

I offer my ass so He can use His belt on it,  And all this time i’m getting wetter and more turned on.  i know the rope is going to be soooo wet when he takes it off.  i squirm as the belt comes down on my ass, the rope is always there.

And then there’s a flexi-pleaser in His hand.

It vibrates

 And that between my legs, on my nipples, and the rope, and the pleasure and the pain all mixed up together… and just when i think i can’t take any more, He stops.   He even loosens the rope a little bit.   i am more relaxed.  Then –

“Sit on the couch,” He says.  “Lean back.”  So i sit on the couch, recline really, with my legs stretched out down the length of the couch.  “Open,” He says. 

So my legs are spread wide, the rope still pressing against my clit, when i see what He has in His hand.

I had really forgotten our conversation

But i’m not actually worried about it til He hands it to me and tells me to press it to my tongue.  Yikes!  It tingles and burns!  i jerk it off as quickly as i can.  He laughs.

“Give it here,” He says.  He holds it to His tongue – just holds it there for a few seconds. He takes it off and does it again, a couple of times.  “See,” He says.  “If I can do it…”

“Yes, Sir,” i sigh, “Then i can too.”   So i do it.  But it stings!!  So i do it quickly, and jump when it touches my tongue, every time.  He laughs again.

“If you hold it on  there, it actually hurts less,” He says.  And i’m sure He’s right, but try as i can, i can’t bring myself to hold it on my tongue for more than a split second. 

Then – you know what’s coming next right?    Yes.  There i am, all open and exposed anyhow, and He takes the battery back, and “Open yourself,” He says.

i don’t understand – “i am open,” – “Open your pussy lips,” He says, “i want your clit exposed.”

“Mmmpf,” i say. 

“What?”

“Nothing, Sir.”  i open myself with one hand.  i am even more exposed.  He leans over me, battery in hand.

Nothing – nothing – then “Mmmmpf!” and i jump.  It burns!!

“Oh,” He says, “So it does work on other – delicate tissue.” 

“Yes, Sir, apparently it does!’

“Close your eyes,” He says, “and hold still.” 

Eyes closed, i can feel it touch me, it doesn’t hurt, he moves it a little, doesn’t hurt, moves it – “MMMMMPF!”   My eyes pop open and i jerk away from it.

“Do I have to restrain you?” He asks.

“No, Sir, no, sir, You don’t.”

“You really don’t like it do you?’  just curious.

“No, Sir, i really don’t”

“That’s good to know.  Maybe this will be how i make you beg.” 

“Yes, Sir,” i say uncertainly.  i’m pretty sure i’m not going to beg. 

When He bring the battery toward me again – yes, i’m still open, my legs spread, my clit available for this torture, i kind of try to beg.  “Please don’t, Sir, o, Sir, no, please, Sir, don’t.”

“You really don’t want me to?” He says.

“No, Sir,” i say, but then i ruin the begging moment by adding, “You know, unless You really want to.  Then of course You can.”  So of course He does.

Ouch.  Yikes.  “O, no, Sir, please don’t do it anymore, Sir.  Well, unless You really want to, Sir.”

Does He know how confusing this is for me?  i don’t know if He wants me to beg, or wants me to want to do what He wants, or what.  i don’t know what i want.

Well, i don’t want the battery.  i know it can’t hurt that much, i just can’t help jumping when it stings.  But i don’t want to beg either.  Not for real.

Finally, He looks at the battery affectionately, and puts it away.  He unties the rope that has been tormenting me.  He holds it out to me, the part that was running between my legs.  “Feel that,” He says.

I take it from Him, run it between my fingers.  It is soaked.  i knew it would be.   

“What do you feel?” He asks.

“It’s wet,” i whisper.

“Yes, it is wet.  What is that you’re feeling?  What makes it wet?”

“It’s me,” i’m still whispering, taken down another notch or two.  

“You?  Tell me what it is.”

“It’s my – my – juices.  My pussy.  It’s wet from my pussy juices.”  i make myself say it distinctly.   My pussy is throbbing, longing to be touched.

“Yes,” He says.  He takes the rope back, he’s folding it, putting it away. 

“Bend over the couch,” He says.  He takes one of the pieces of rope and slaps me across the ass with it.  “O!” i gasp.  “O!  That stings!”

“Oh, you should see this,” He says.  “I bet it does sting.”  He does it again – Ohhhh!  It really stings.  “You’ll wear these marks with pride,” He says.

Twice more He brings the rope across my ass.  He’s barely touching me with it, but oh!  It’s intense.  But i take it, i don’t jerk away.  When He’s done, “Go look in the mirror,” He says.  He’s smiling, He follows me into the bedroom.

The marks are bright red, slashes across my ass.  “O, my,” i say.  “O, look at that.”  They don’t hurt anymore, but i can feel them if i touch them.  “Wow.”

He looks pleased.  “Come on,” He says, “Put some clothes on, we’ll go get some ice cream before it gets too late.”

More Sensations

“What are you doing?” He says.   He is not pleased.   “Did I tell you to lean forward?” 

“No, Sir,” i say, but i giggle just a little as i say it, and immediately, i regret it.  He releases my nipples – he had been holding them, each one between a thumb and forefinger – but now He drops them as if He’s completely lost interest, as if He can’t imagine ever having any interest in them again.  

“i’m sorry -” i start, and  “Do you think this is funny?”  He says.

“No, Sir – no, Sir, i don’t, really i don’t.”

“Well, you laughed.”

“It was – i didn’t mean to – it was nervous laughter, Sir,” i insist.   “i’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”   At least i’m hoping it won’t.  i am kneeling in front of Him.  He had taken my nipples firmly in hand, so to speak, and pulled.  i had leaned forward, easing the tension.   It still makes me want to giggle, don’t ask me why, but i’m not going to.

So He reaches out and takes my nipples again, holding them firmly, but not so tightly it hurts.  i’m watching His hands, waiting for Him to pull again, but instead He says, “Lean back.” 

i do.  About a quarter of an inch.  Barely enough to impact the tug on my nipples.  And i still feel like giggling.

“More,” He says sternly, and i move another quarter inch.  But i’m feeling a little less giggly now, i know i’m pushing it.  i don’t know what’s going to happen next.

“Mmmmpf,” i gasp as the pressure on my nipples increases about ten times.  He’s pinching them so tightly i’m thinking that Mr. Hanger might be a relief.

“Do I have your attention?” He says.

“Yes, Sir, o, yes Sir,” i can’t say it quickly enough. 

After a moment, he eases the pressure a little.  “Listen .  Carefully,” He says, and i do, all my attention is focused on His words. 

He speaks a little bit slower than usual, and distinctly, each word is clear.   “When I say ‘lean back,’ I expect you to lean back, slowly but smoothly, and keep leaning back until I tell you to stop.   Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir,  i say earnestly.

“Tell me.  When i say, ‘lean back,’ what are you going to do?”

i’m nervous now, but i say, “i’m going to lean back, Sir, slowly but smoothly, and keep leaning back ’til you say, ‘stop,’ Sir.”

“Good.  Now.  Lean back.”

And i do, leaning back slowly and smoothly, feeling my nipples being stretched, and stretched, and just when i think i can’t stand it another second, He says, “Stop.”  And i do, gratefully.  The urge to giggle is gone.

“Relax,” He says, and there’s a lilt to His voice that warns me not to get too comfortable.   But i sit up; He’s still holding my nipples, but it feels good now.  “Good,” He says.   i feel a rush of pleasure flood through my body, a shiver.   I’ve pleased Him.

“Again,” He says, “Lean back,” and i do.  This time i’m trying to look graceful, trying to be more pleasing, as the tug on my nipple increases, increases – ahhhhhh – “Stop,” he says. 

Thank goodness.

“Good,” He says, and again, satisfaction fills me, i feel my pussy quiver and tingle.

i think about my behavior earlier, my giggling and trying not to obey, and i feel bad.  “i’m sorry, Sir,” i say.

“For what?” He says, and He just sounds curious.  

“You know,” i reply, “For not leaning back before , for laughing.”

 He nods.  “That’s ok,” He says, so calmly and evenly that i know it is ok.  “You didn’t know what i wanted.  Now you do.”

“Yes,” i smile, “i do.”  i am still kneeling at His feet.  “Sir?” i say.

“Yes?”

“May i suck Your cock, Sir?”

“Would you like that?” He says, and He’s looking at me consideringly, as if He’s really not sure if He wants me to or not, and for a minute i’m afraid He’s going to say No.

“i would like that,” i say, “Very much, Sir.”  And i wait.

“Then you may,” He says.  “When I tell you to.  Open.  That’s it.  Just leave your mouth right there  for now.”

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

i want to talk about the power exchange, to  figure out how i so easily become someone who wants only to please Him, when in my real life i’m not like that.  But i’m still too taken with the sensations and what they do to me.  The intensity of being touched by Him, the discomfort, and my willingness to serve are all wrapped up in one mysterious package.  

And just as i am pleasing Him, He is pleasing me, so how does that work?  Where’s the power exchange?  He’s working as hard as i am, putting as much energy into it. He may not experience pain, but i think He’s missing half the fun.   

Sigh.  Someday, i’ll untangle all that, but not tonight.  Tonight, i’ll just take my hot, tingly self to bed.  Sigh.

Sensations

I want to talk about philosophical matters – the paradox, the shifting sense of power and control, why D/s is different from abuse, why it’s similar to religion.  There’s so much to talk about, so much to think about.  But the intensity of sensation is on my mind first.

Sir said, “You’ll learn to crave the belt.  You’ll get so, it won’t feel right unless you’ve felt the belt that day.”

I thought that was unlikely, at best.

I was wrong.

I think about it now.  Remember the sounds of the belt.  Remember the feeling of – dread?  Anticipation?  Excitement?  What is that feeling?

“Go lie down on the bed.  Pull your panties down and lie on your stomach.”

O, my heart races, huge adreniline rushes pumping through my body – i should be running, or fighting.  Instead, i obediantly go lie down.  Why do those words make me hot?  And they did long before i met Sir, even though i rarely admitted it.

Naked, exposed, vulnerable… 

The sting of the belt across my ass.  The welt, slightly raised.  

The heat spreading through my body, his fingers pressing between my legs.  “You’re wet,” He says.

“Yes, Sir.” 

He was right.   i crave it.  

 

Memories and Orgasms

Before Sir, before my brief second marriage, there was Mike.  Mike Moore. 

When I talk about Mike, I say something like this: 

“Mike taught me about dominance and submission without ever using any BDSM terms.  He never spanked me, restrained me,or punished me, but he  surely directed me.  And I obeyed him – joyfully. 

“He set me free emotionally to express my submissive sexuality, and I’ll always be grateful to him for that.  He’s dead now, but I’ll hold him in my heart forever.”

Mike used to say, “I want a women who’ll mind me,”  – in that old-fashioned sense, like my grandmother who was from Appalachia used to say it, “Mind me,” meaning ‘obey me.’  

And then sometimes he’d add, “You know the best way to make a woman mind, don’t you?’   Whoever he was talking to – and he didn’t care who it was – would shrug or say no and Mike would say, “The best way to make a woman mind you is –   don’t tell her to do anything she doesn’t want to do anyhow.”  And he’d throw back his head and laugh.

Of course that’s right, and most of the time I was delighted to do what he wanted.   He had a few rules,  but they weren’t hard to follow.  I wasn’t allowed to undress myself, but he was quick to do it for me when it needed doing.  He shaved me.  Sometimes I wasn’t allowed to wear panties.  Just little things.  Sometime maybe I’ll tell some of those stories. 

But mostly he made me have orgasms.  Mmm-hmmm.  Pretty tough, huh?   

 “You are so sensitive,” he’d say.  “Someday, I’m going to be able to make you cum just by touching your arm, right here, by just touching your arm, and saying, ‘Cum, Aisha, cum now for me.”  Of course, usually when he said that he was making me cum in more direct ways, which made the whole thing pretty believable. 

But I’ve been thinking about this one story he used to tell me, a fantasy, I guess it was, although you could never be sure with Mike.  He’d be making me cum while he told it.  My skirts around my waist, he’d have one hand between my legs, making me cum “over and over and over,”  leaving me in a melted heap by the end.  And all the while he’d be telling me this story, talking in an almost Irish lilt, close to my ear.

“In the special forces,” he’d say,” They taught me how to make love to women, how to please them.  Most men don’t know how to do that, most men prob’ly don’t care about doing that.  They just want to fuck.  But in the special forces, they taught us how to please women so we could seduce them.  We had to know all about their bodies, the anatomy of it all, and just how to touch them, where to touch them, to make them have an orgasm.”

He’d pause a moment, “Like this,” as he took me up and over another peak.  “See, you like that, right?  Don’t you?”  

I could barely talk, but I”d manage, “O, yes, omigod, yes.  I do.”

And he’d go on with a smile.  “Women do, generally, like that.  Now, this wasn’t the special forces the government talks about, this was the special forces they don’t talk about, the one they keep secret.  So they taught us things about pleasing women so that, say we needed a place to stay, we could always find a woman who’d want us to spend the night.  Particularly if we might need an alibi.  They just taught us all this so we could use women.

“They would have liked to use you in their training, when they were teaching us what to do.  Did I ever tell you what they used to do, how they trained us?”

I’d make some “mmmm” noise that could have been yes or no.   If I could get the words out, I’d say, “Tell me.”

And he would.  “They’d be in a big room, like an operating room where people can observe.  You know, where the operating table is down at the bottom like on a stage almost, and there’s a gallery that runs around the top of the room that’s glassed off.  And the students sit in the glassed off area.  They can see everything going on down below on the table, and there’s speakers so they can hear everything.

“Except these aren’t ordinary students.  These men and women would be working for the government, learning how to do all kinds of things that people wouldn’t expect the government to want their people to do.  It wouldn’t be a big group – maybe there’d be ten of ’em, men and women, up in the gallery, all watching you.

“The instructor would make you lie on the table.  You wouldn’t have any clothes on, maybe a sheet over you at first, but he’d take that away once they got started.  There’d be a couple of guards in the room maybe, for your protection really, and they might have you strapped down to the table.  You wouldn’t be able to get away if you wanted to, but you wouldn’t want to go anywhere, at least not once they got started.  They might strap your arms down, they wouldn’t want you to be touching yourself, even if you wanted to. Because you’d be the model, the demonstration. 

“It’d be warm in there, there might be a little bit of sweat right here, between your breasts, but not too warm.”

Remember, while he’s tellin me this, his hand is still between my legs, fingers deep inside me.   Sometimes he’d pause and just hold me simmering for a minute or two , thumb brushing against my clit, making me whimper, before he pressed deep into me again and took me over the top.  Again.

“At first,” he’d say, “You might feel embarrassed, laying there on the table with your legs wide open, all shaved and exposed, while the instructor talked about what he was doing to you, while he commented on how you were responding.  Maybe pointing out when your nipples get hard.  Maybe showing ’em when you get wet, pushing your knees back up to your chest so they could see.  And they’d all be able to see you responding, hear you making noises, those little whimpers and moans that you do.  Moving your hips.  Just like now.

“But after a while, you’d get caught up in it and you wouldn’t even care that everyone was watching you, watching you cum, over, and over. and over.

“And after a little while, it starts getting to them, the people in the gallery.  They can’t look at each other, they’re just watching you, fascinated.  You know, men love it when a woman can cum over and over, makes them wanna fuck her real bad.    So they’re getting a little uncomfortable now, shifting in their seats.  The women watching, their pussies are getting wet and the men’s dicks are hard, but they’re trying to act like it don’t bother them.”

And remember, while he’s telling me this, we’re sitting on his couch, and my legs are open just about as far as they’ll go, he’s leaning over me, manipulating my pleasure with one hand and almost whispering in my ear.  I can see the gallery he’s talking about and people watching me – I can see myself on the table, open and being probed – just like he’s doing.

“A woman in the gallery breaks first,” he says, “She’s sitting a little ways away from the others anyhow, and she pulls her skirt up.  She’s not looking at anyone around her, like if she don’t look at them maybe they can’t see her.  And she slips her hand between her legs, slips it under her panties and begans to rub herself.   Her head falls back a little bit, she’s still watching you, but she’s starting to get lost in her own pleasure, rubbing her pussy right there.

“And pretty soon, another woman’s doing it too.  So wet and hot, she just can’t stand it anymore.

“Then one of the men.  He’s been watching you, and now he can hear the woman who’s rubbing herself, and kind of see her out of the corner of his eye, and he can’t stand it anymore either.  He unzips his pants and starts stroking his dick.  It’s warm in the gallery now,  they’re all warm and starting to sweat a little bit.

And they’re watching you.  The men are wanting to fuck you, and some of the women are too.”

And I can see it, the way he tells it, I can see it – me on the table, having orgasm after orgasm, whether I want to or not, while some faceless man describes what he’s doing to me.  And  above me, all these men and women, watching and playing with themselves.

And then he’d make me cum one more time, riding another wave of pleasure.  They weren’t big orgasms you know, not “rock-my-world” orgasms, and they weren’t even g-spot orgasms.  They were just that nice series of peaks that finger fucking can give you, that wave of orgams that you can ride for a long time. 

And then he’d pull his fingers out and pat me lightly on the pussy.  “Come on, now,” he’d say, while I was sitting there feeling all wasted and drained and perfectly happy in a puddle of my own juices.  “Pull your skirt down, let’s go get something to eat,” he’d say.  As if I’d just been sitting there with my skirt up for no good reason.

Mike used to say he wanted to make up for every time a man hadn’t treated me right.   And he surely did.  I tried to count up how many orgasms I thought I’d had with him, in the 3 or so months we were together, and decided it was something like – well, help me do the math.  I saw him about 5 days a week.   And every day I saw him, he’d make sure I had maybe 5 or 6 orgasms before I went to work.  And at least 5 or 6 when I came over right after work.  And another – yes, really –  another 5 or 6 before we went to bed.  So that’s – 5 days a week, times 12 weeks is 60 days, times 15 or 18 orgasms a day is – somewhere between 900 and 1,080 orgasms. 

I am not making this up. 

I walked around in a daze of pleasure.  I glowed all the damn time.  I lost weight without even thinking about it, even that last 5 pounds I can never lose.   I used to think that he really did give me at least one orgasm for every time in my life that someone else had “gotten his” and I hadn’t.  I felt like he gave me a level playing field to start from – I could never quite feel like I’d been cheated sexually again.

The problem was – there’s always a problem, isn’t there?  The problem was that he wanted to seduce me into his brand of Christianity.  He wanted me to accept a God who’s an angry white man, a God who  judges us all harshly, all the time.  Who judges him especially harshly.   

I, on the other hand, was moving closer to finding a God who was both Father and Mother, who loves us all infinitely, and who wants us to be who we are, express all the ways we are, with joy.  A God who forgives and understand.   A God who loves Mike infinitely.

One night, in the early days, we’d come home and he decided he wanted to read  to me from the Bible.  Which was fine with me, so I settled in on the couch to listen.  Of course – you saw this coming, right? – he started reading the passage about women submitting to their husbands.  Which made me angry. 

And – long story short – we had this big argument and I left , certain I would never come back again.   Which I didn’t.  Until the next day when I discovered I’d left my jacket at his house.  And when I went to get it – well, after that, we came to an agreement. 

I agreed to listen to him talk about his beliefs sometimes , and to pray for guidance, and he agreed not to pressure me to accept his beliefs.  It seemed like – it still seems like – a good deal.  And it mostly worked.

So it was weeks later when he said to me, “I don’t know why you get so upset about the idea of women submitting to their husbands, Aisha, you’re about the most submissive woman I’ve ever met.”  

Shocked, I could only stare at him.

“You are,” he insisted.  “You’ll do any damn thing I tell you to do.”

I started to protest, “I do not – I” and then I was stuck.  I couldn’t think of anything he’d told me to do that I hadn’t done.  “But,” I said, “I wouldn’t – I mean, I work, I’m independent, I’m not ever going to stay at home and just take care of some man.”

“Well, of course not,” he said, “And I’d never ask you to do that. Being a housewife, that’s good for some women, but that’s not who you are.   Your job’s important, and you need to do that.  Hell, since I’m retired anyhow, if we was married, I’d prob’ly have dinner on the table when you came home from work.  That’s not what I”m talking about.

” You mind me,” he went on.  “You do whatever I tell you to do; you want to please me.   I don’t understand why that would make you so mad, there’s nothing wrong with it, that’s just how you are.”

And I wanted to argue about it.  I even said, “Well, I’d never do what you said if I thought it was wrong.” 

But he just snorted – “Of course you wouldn’t – and you shouldn’t.  But I haven’t told you to do anything wrong, now, have I?”  And I had to agree.

Before Mike, my sexual world was divided  into live vanilla sex and fantasy.  For the first time, I opened my mind to the idea that there might be some live kinky sex out there, and I might want to get involved in it.  

But that’s a story for another day.     

 

Memories and Munches

He reaches in his tool box.  “These are nipple clamps,” He says, holding them out like Exhibit A.  

Adjustable nipple clamps with spring action

“Here,” he hands them to me, “Look at them.  Take your time.  Really get to know them.”  The chain makes a little noise as it pools in my hand, and that sends shivers through me – shivers of – anticipation?  fear? delight? 

i’m looking at them but i’m distracted by the cloud of wondering what they’re going to feel like.  

“See,” He says, “They’re adjustable.  You can make them so loose they’ll barely stay on,” He takes one back, demonstrates turning the little screw, “Or…”  and i watch the opening in the clamp disappear, “excrutiatingly tight.”  His voice is calm, just describing.

i can barely breathe. 

He takes the clips back.  “Of course, you don’t even need real nipple clamps,” He says.  “A clothespin, a couple of clothespins will  work just as well.” 

“Oh,” I gasp, “That would hurt!”

“Your point?” He says. 

Then, “Where do you keep your clothespins?”

“i – i don’t think i have any,” i say, hoping that’s true.

“Ok,” He says.  “No problem.  A clothes hanger will work too.”  My eyes widen, and he nods, “You know, the kind you hang pants on.  Here, I bet you’ve got one in your closet.”

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

I went to a munch this weekend.  A gentleman I’d been talking to on FetLife sort of talked me into it, and I’m glad i went.  It was nice to be around people with similar interests (sexually, anyhow) and I hope it’ll keep my kinky self from completely atrophying. 

Yes, I know it’s only been a week in real time since my last playtime with Sir, but in sub time it’s been ages, particularly since I’m pretty sure i’ll never again actually find a Dom i want to play with, much less have a relationhip with.  😦   Not that I’m in any hurry. 

So, I don’t like new situations, meeting lots of new people, or stepping too far outside my comfort zone, and yet, there I was at the munch, in a room full of wonderfully kinky people, all new to me.  Whew.  Just as I was starting to maybe feel a little bit comfortable, chatting with some young people across the table from me, this other young guy says, “Hi, what’s your name?”

“Aisha,” I say, of course.

His eyes get big.  “Aisha?!” he says, “Isn’t that – it is, man – Aisha – she’s a power ranger!  Wow, man, you’re a transformer!!!”

Stunned, i shake my head, “no,” power ranger Aisha has nothing to do with Aisha, the favorite wife of the prophet Muhammad.  But maybe i had actually become a transformer, he certainly couldn’t hear me.  He began talking to the guy beside me about their favorite power rangers.   Power rangers.  I didn’t even know they had names.

I thought, “Good grief, what on earth am i doing here?  I’m at a munch and Young Guy here’s about 12 years old, and he what?  Thinks Aisha’s a power ranger?  OMG.”

But then I thought, “O for heavens sake, he’s like 12 years old.  So what.” 

So I looked her up.  Here’s the other Aisha. 

She may look a little perky for a Power Range, but hey, I guess she loses that perkiness when she transforms, right?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here she is ready to kick ass and take names. I guess...

So I ended up having a good time at the munch despite Young Guy, and  I guess if the issue comes up again, i’ll just go ahead and transform and kick somebody’s ass, right?  

You may be wondering what the connection is between the munch story and the nipple clamps.   Truth of the matter, there isn’t one.  Sorry.  I guess I’m just trying to make the transition from memories of pleasure and, yes, pain, to the more mundane reality of my not-so-kinky current life.  

Sigh. 

Sometimes, i miss Sir.

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

Getting back to that hanger He was talking about…  He had me bring Him one from the closet, just an ordinary skirt hanger with the spring clips, except He said it had to be one that He could move the clips back and forth on the little bar.   Cause, you know, He had to be able to adjust how far apart they were so they’d fit on my nipples. 

O, my. 

He didn’t even use them that night.  The next day, He called and told me that i had to spend 5 minutes looking at the hanger and touching it, and then write about what it was like.  Here’s what i wrote:

“Dear Sir,

As you instructed, I examined the hanger for 5 minutes.  Here are my thoughts: 

“I can’t believe I’m really doing this.  I can’t believe doing this can make me wet.  Do I just get wet no matter what he says?  It’s a nice enough hanger.  There’s the clips.”  I moved the clips up and down several times.  I played with the part that goes on the closet rod a little, spinning it round and round.  “I don’t think he could really put these on my nipples.  I think it might, like amputate them.  That would be sad.”  Then I just began to get pictures of memories – of the other night, in bed, the hangar, holding the clips near my nipples, thinking about you saying that you’d make me hold them open over my nipples, then other things from that night, your hands, the mark of your hands on my ass, and all the time, I’m looking at the hanger, so now when I look at the hanger it’s going to turn me on.  “OMG, he’s frigging eroticizing the hanger,” I say to myself.  My body tingles.  Especially my nipples.  I touch my nipples with the steel rod of the hanger (through my clothes.)  I feel myself getting wetter.  I think some of the same thoughts I had earlier over again.  

 

Finally, five minutes are up and I start writing this.  Writing this turns me on too.”

 

 

That was back in the early days, i wasn’t even using “i” instead of “I” in my writings yet.   Feels like a long time ago. 

 

 Nipple clamp hangers vs Power Ranger Aisha – it’s no contest what i’d rather be writing about, is it?  Sigh.  

 

 

He had me put the hanger in its own designated spot in my closet, it wasn’t supposed to mix with my other hangers.  Really.  So when i’d see it, i’d think about – well, you know. 

 

It’s still there too.   Oooh,  sort of makes my nipples tingle just thinking about it… 

 

 

 

 

 

Inspection

“Come here,” He says.

i stand in front of Him, He is in “His” chair, the one He always sits in at my house.  The one i like to kneel in front of.  But i’m standing now, i’m thinking He will say “Kneel,” next, but i’m waiting. 

i used to try to anticipate his wants, but i’ve learned not to do that.   One time, when i was sucking his cock, i felt His hand on the back of my head, and i thought he wanted me to take Him deeper, so i instinctively went deeper before He pushed me further down.   He was not pleased.

“Why did you do that?” He said.  i couldn’t really answer Him because, you know, my mouth was full of His cock, so i just made some noises that were supposed to mean, “i don’t know.”  

“Well, I think you thought I was getting ready to push your head down, so you just went ahead and took it deeper.  Is that right?” 

Of course, i nodded, and made “mmmhmmm” noises;  after all, that was right. 

“What?”  He asked, and i remembered that “mmmhmm” wasn’t acceptable, so i said, “‘es ‘ir,” which was as close to “yes, Sir,” as i could get under the circumstances. 

“I see,” He said.  “Well, I guess I won’t punish you this time, but don’t do it again.  What if I wanted the pleasure of pushing your head down?  Did you think about that?”   i managed a “‘o, ‘ir,” and He patted my head and said, “Just don’t do it again.”  But that made sense to me – if He wanted to push my head down, He should have the opportunity to do so.

So now when He says, come here, i just go there, and don’t try to anticipate what He might want.  i’m standing in front of him and He’s looking at me, which sort of takes my breath away anyhow.  Then he says, “Inspection,” and i can hardly breathe at all.   “Turn around,” He says, and i do, so my back to him now, and there’s a pause…

i’m mentally checking, long black button-down-the-front shirt made out of some filmy material, not actually see through, but almost.  Unbuttoned.  Black bikini panties, check.  Black push-up bra with lace.  Freshly shaved.   My red heels, toenails to match.

“Pull your shirt up,” He says.  “Show me your ass.”  Obediantly, i pull my shirt up.  “Open,” He says, and i spread my legs apart.  i want to look over my shoulder to see His face, to see if He’s pleased, but i know better.  

“Open,” He says again, more sharply, and i spread my legs further apart, far enough that i feel a little shaky in my cfm heels.   But i’m also shaky with excitement, and i can feel myself getting wet, my panties are wet.

“Good,” He says.   i’m standing close enough that He could have reached out to touch me, but He doesn’t yet.  He puts a foot on each side of my feet, which is a relief: i had felt like my shoes could have slid our from under me on the wood floor, but now i feel anchored.  And it’s a good thing, cause, “Bend over,” He says. 

“Mmf,” i say, just a little noise, but He catches it.  “What?” He says.  “Is there a problem?  Do you have an issue with that?”

“No, Sir,” i say.  “i just – no, Sir, no issue, just, let me see,” and, kind of carefully, i bend, and discover it isn’t a problem, that i can put my hands on my knees quite easily, and even go all the way to the floor with my hands.  Which was actually good, cause now i’m braced on the floor and between his feet on my 5 inch heels.

Of course, my shirt falls up over my head, and my ass and pussy are exposed and then He does touch me, He reaches out and pulls my panties down,  just to the top of my thighs, but i think the heat that generated might make me catch fire.   i’m so wet and so exposed and when He takes one finger and just barely touchs the wetness between my legs, i think i’m going to fall over, but i don’t, i stay on my feet, i just gasp. 

He spreads my cheeks and traces the crevice between them with a finger already moist with my own juices.  i moan and tremble.  i want more.  

Then, “Good girl,” He says.  “You can stand up now,” and i’m pleased to discover that i can stand back up – not too ungracefully either, i just walk myself back up my own legs til i can raise up easily.  Then i do look over my shoulder to grin at Him, and He smiles too,  for a second. 

Then, “Turn around,” He says, and i do.  He nods at my panties, still around my thighs, “Off,” He says, and i slip them off quickly.  Then, “Kneel,” and i do, quite happily.  He tosses me a pillow for my knees, a consideration i appreciate, and unzips His pants…

You know where the story goes from there – but here’s my question.  How does this work?  Why does that sequence of events make me so incredibly hot i’m on the verge of orgasm?  Even writing about it turns me on again.   i catch my breath when he says, “Bend over,” when he touches me.  i want – o, my, i want to be touched again, to be spanked, to be stroked, to be all of those things that we did…

It’s the idea of pleasing, no doubt, the “good girl” is worth so much.  It’s about obeying, it’s about giving up control, it’s all those things.  And maybe there’s no point in trying to figure it out.  For sure, i can just relax and go with it.

But.  Here’s where it gets complex.  The things I talked about – the pleasing, the obeying, and giving up control – those are the same things Christians are supposed to do for God.    Now, i’m not a big Born-again Christian – i’ve got my own spriritual life, and i’m quite content with that.  But i don’t think it can be a coincidence that the language is so often the same.  i just don’t know what it means.

So – for example – Brooke at http://subbrooke.wordpress.com/ writes a lovely post about the joy of being owned, and experiencing pain, not because she’s into pain, but because it pleases Him.   And how is that different from Christians who talk about the joy of being martyred, or of being ok with suffering  for “the Lord?”  

Ok, there are differences,  but there are similarities too.  And part of what i want to do with this blog is explore some of that.  For now, i’ll just lay the comparison out there.  In some ways, our (submissives’) relationships with our “Him’s” parallel devout Christians’ relationships with God.   Even the capitalization thing.  Even the idea of inspection – isn’t that what’s going to happen at the Second Coming?  Weird.

Maybe too weird to think about.  But isn’t that part of BDSM – going where most people won’t go?  Not being afraid to uncover the shadow side of life?  What are your thoughts on this idea? 

Beginnings

We met on a dating website, Sir and i did.

O, my.  i guess i need to quit calling him just “Sir” as if He is the only “Sir” who exists, which He was and still is at the moment, but probably won’t be forever.  i hadn’t thought about that.  Well.  Maybe i’ll leave it for now and figure it out later.

Anyhow.  We met on a regular dating site and for the longest time just exchanged a message from time to time.  i didn’t think i was interested in Him.    i didn’t think He had much to say.  Then we talked on the phone and i discovered He was funny and smart and interesting; he just doesn’t like to type.

More time went by.  We were exchanging messages one day and He said something about me being “good at following directions.”  Something inside me sat up and began to pay attention. 

So i pondered a while before i messaged back, “yes, but good directions are hard to find.”  i don’t remember what he answered, but a little question mark lingered in my mind.  Could he possibly be???

i remember talking about boots; telling him about my really cool ones with the laces in the back.   He expressed enough interest in seeing them that it made me wonder.

Then he asked me out for dinner the first time.  (No, i wore my other cute boots.  You gotta save something for next time.)    We lingered after dinner, still talking, and i still wasn’t sure if i was attracted to Him at all or if He was just another nice guy.  i wanted to know.  

i said, “i have a favor to ask of You.”  

“Yes?” 

i said, “May i see Your hand?”  

He gave me His hand.  And i touched him, slowly, sensuously, caressed his palm, traced the length of His fingers.  And watched Him respond.     My heart beats faster remembering it, i can still feel myself sitting across from Him, glancing from His hand to His face.  My nipples tingled, i felt warmth between my legs.

And when i was through, He took my hand and returned the favor – a blessing, really.  We blessed each other that night.

And afterwards, after it was clear that this had been a pleasure for both of us, He said, “But you know, it wasn’t fair of you to do that.  I mean, you wanted me to respond  but you could have been testing me and NOT wanting me to respond.” 

Playing at demure, i answered, “i’m sorry, You’re right.  It wasn’t fair.”  And added, with downcast eyes, “i’ll never do it again.”

He paused, just long enough for me to look up, long enough for me to feel His eyes on me.  He said, “Yes, you will.  When I tell you to.”

i can still feel the delighted shiver that went through me at those words.  Mmmm.    i squirmed in my seat.  O, my. 

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

As i write my memories of Him, i realize (even though i already knew) that i’m going to miss Him a lot.  i realize that it might be a really long time before i’m interested in anyone else. 

It occurs to me that right now may not actually be the time to look for someone new, even though i’d like to move on.  Well, not to mention i don’t know what the heck i’d do with this blog if i did get involved with someone else – will i have to start over???? 

I was looking for quotes for my status on fb today and stumbled across these two back to back:

Moving on, is a simple thing, what it leaves behind is hard.”

Don’t ever give up on something or someone that you can’t go a full day without thinking about.”

And then i remember that He didn’t want me.  i remember Him telling me the other night that sometimes He felt guilty spending time with me because that meant i wasn’t trying to meet other people,  reminding me that he had wanted me to keep meeting other people, that it was just me that didn’t want to.  

So, ok. Enough of this frigging, maudlin crap.   i’ll use my space here to write my memories and my fantasies. 

What we had was good.  No regrets.  None.  It was what it was meant to be, and i’ll always remember our time together with love and affection.  And now it’s done.

For years i’ve had a prayer i use about relationships.  i ask God – the God who is within each of us, and around us, and above us – i ask God to help me find the relationship i’m supposed to be in that will take me further along whatever path God wants me to be on.   The next relationship that will bring me closer to being the soul i’m called to be, that will deepen my ability to love, that will increase my capacity for joy. 

Then, even though i do some things to reach out, i wait.  So, i may get back on a dating site,  hang out on fetlife (you can find me at aisha_54), or go to a munch, but mostly i’m waiting. 

“For everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven…”