Thirty Days of Kink - Life's No Dress Rehearsal

by Erix! on flickr

Day 28: How do you dress for kink/BDSM play? What significance does your attire have to you?

Because I don't yet play publicly, I don't dress.  


I undress.


When Shepherd bids me strip, with that throaty, hungry growl, I am with every item of clothing removed moving into that mindset of being used for his pleasure.  Nothing of me stands between him and his prey, his food, his girl.  This is a significant transformation for me, and it results in amazing peace and subspace that feeds exactly what I need.


I do plan, at some point, to play in public.


I do plan to pay close attention to what I wear (or don't) in those scenes, too.


I mentioned in yesterday's post that I love laces and ribbons and corsets.  I fantasize about ripped stockings and smeared lipstick and torn skirts.  The clothing I wear for kinky play in public will represent my frame of mind -- being tied in ribbon, wrapped in silk and lace, or simply bound in a scarlet rope.  I want to be that visual prey, that sensual treat in every sense, and that includes what my partner sees.  I want to step into the magic, the fantasy, and lose myself completely... and I wanna take my big, bad wolf along with me.


So bring on the leather, the lace, the period costumes, the fishnet, the white cotton panties beneath my skirt...  


I want it all.

Thirty Days of Kink - Is That So Difficult?

by stevensnodgrass on flickr

Day 16: What are the most difficult aspects of having a sexuality that involves kink or BDSM for you personally?


I'm not sure I find having a sexuality that involves kink or BDSM particularly difficult.  It's not like I tell everyone I know about my sexual activities, and really, why do they need to know that I get off on pain, or on submission, or fear?  None of the girls at work talk to me about how they love it doggie-style, or on the washing machine, or to the soothing sounds of Marvin Gaye.  


That's not to say that I don't acknowledge that there's a preconceived idea about the type of person who is into BDSM.  It's why my kink blog is anonymous.  It's why when someone asks me about my weekend, I don't offer the story about what I experience at the dungeon.  It's why my Sadist always tries to make sure the bruises are well hidden.


I guess maybe the question makes me feel a bit false.  I don't struggle to keep my co-workers, or my family, or my vanilla friends out of my bedroom.  If by some chance, someone asked me about it, I'd share just as much information as they needed to satisfy their curiosity.  Of course, there are things I'm not exactly ready to share, but I do a fairly decent job of keeping my private life private.


I am not my sexuality.  
It is a part of me.  
That's not so difficult, is it?

Appetite for Darkness

I believe in the impossible, in fairy tales. I believe in the magic that hovers in shadows, perches in tree branches on gnarled claws and whispers dark incantations on the night air. There’s a little girl in me that carries a flashlight aloft and chases fireflies at the edge of the forest, who attempts to reach into mirrors, who peers into the deep, dark depths of wardrobes, ever eager to slip through a portal from the mundane world into the fantastic. And it’s not just the happy endings that bring out that little girl in me. It’s the frightful possibility, the hunger flickering in the eyes of the wolf, or the envious rage of the wicked queen. I confess, I’m enchanted by the frigid hand of fear that fastens itself upon my heart and compresses my breaths into frantic gulps.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/alyssafilmmaker/4386251915/sizes/m/in/photostream/

Fairy tales were not always meant for young ones. "The term fairy tale, now used as a generic label for magical stories for children, comes from the French term conte de fées, which refers to for a group of 17th-century tales written for adults.” Quote borrowed.

Originally, a fairy tale did not sew up all the loose ends of itself with happy-song and passionate-kiss threads. These fantastical myths probed the darkness, and prodded the wild spirit that lives in each of us and thrives outside of us, as well.

Fairy Tales were meant for the likes of me, and I love them. I believe in them. They feed my hunger for wildness, and for the foreboding that burns the back of my throat and reduces me to a trembling little girl, with a feral imagination that races with the pounding of my heart -- this appetite is the creature that taunts me in the darkness, fuels my yearning for that man with a growl living in the back of his throat -- who bares his teeth in an innocuous grin, but is betrayed by the craving in his eyes; it is why I look for ways to escape into the shadows and let the girl inside me get lost in the forest, wandering in wide-eyed trepidation.

Therefore, I was thrilled when Shepherd --- a man with wonderfully frightening growl --- recently invited me to board a plane and fly 251 miles to see him, and to spend an afternoon in a strange dungeon, with a virtually unknown crowd. I’m still fairly inexperienced when it comes to public play and dungeons. Most of my explorations into the darkness have been in my creative fiction writing, and one-to-one with Shepherd. He’s very good at feeding the masochist in me. I wrote about my first dungeon experience back in October, and it was something that awakened my appetite for the intensity, the energy exchange that happens between a submissive and a dominant, a top and a bottom. I am captivated by the quick intake of breath, the flash of hunger, the glint of steel, the scrape of rope, or the sting of leather gripped by trusted fingers, laid against quivering flesh. I was eager to experience it all again in a new space, with new people.

The dungeon warehouse Shepherd took me to was amazing, aptly described as a haven. There were people from all walks of life enjoying the darkness. Every corner was filled with things to make a girl’s flesh tingle.

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There were rooms in the dungeon that had a profound effect on me, but none like the very small chamber bisected by iron bars. The cell itself was dark, and confining. In the corner outside the cell rested simple tools of torture. Stepping into the space, I shivered and felt a rush of adrenaline. My imagination flew in a hundred directions at once. I think if I’d been alone, I would have entered the cell itself, slid down into the corner with my tiny notebook, and scribbled some notes or a poem about how deliciously vulnerable I felt there.

More than just the spirit of the space, what drew me in and made me feel at home was the passion of the individuals at play. When I wrote about my first dungeon experience, I focused on the energy exchange that happens between submissives and their dominants, tops and bottoms; and once again -- in this sanctuary - I saw that same trust and vulnerability painted on faces, written on torsos, recorded in flesh. I confess that I admire anyone who has the courage to bare themselves in public, in pursuit of that endorphin rush, that contact high.

I’m not just speaking about the actual nudity - full or partial - that often accompanies a scene. I admire that sort of abandon, to be sure, but there’s a vulnerability, a nakedness, if you will, that goes deeper than that. A submissive, or a bottom, who will bare themselves, and share their pain, their pleasure, their bliss, with an audience: is brave indeed. Of course, I acknowledge that that baring may well be part of the voyeuristic pleasure derived --- still, as an observer, the gift is not lost on me. I watch, I receive, and for that I’m grateful.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/bradlindert/132565415/

I found one scene between a beautiful female bottom, and a charming male top particularly moving; and when what would take place was described to me, I never expected to have such a visceral reaction to it, as I did. It sounded like fun - Saran wrap, bare breasts, balloons popping -- doesn’t that sound like a carnival to you? And it was, great fun. But there were moments.

I’m not sure I can describe it, and do it justice, but there was a delicious sting that I very nearly felt every time the top in this scene popped a balloon against the bottom’s bare flesh. There was a shiny, large blade that flashed in the low light, and when I saw her shiver as she sighted it, I felt the chill on my skin. I held my breath along with her at each caress of the blade, silently voiced her yelps and felt my body tingle as she shuddered at each sting of broken rubber that snapped against her ivory flesh. I observed as her eyes flashed and locked with his gaze, seeking his strength, the reassurance of his control, and the subsequent surrender to sensation. I saw in her expression a serenity that I craved, and felt vicariously, because she was so honest and vulnerable.

It lasted only a few minutes, but I felt it... acutely, spiritually, physically.

And I treasured the gift both of them offered to the crowd.

I think I’d like to go back to this haven, Shepherd's shared refuge. I would love to capture on film, on paper, and eventually in my own flesh, the beauty and the power that fed me that day. I can say that later, in the privacy of Shepherd’s home, the hunger in my flesh for that pain was fed, and for me, that is an important part of my journey. I need that pain. But my soul also needs the beauty that shimmers before my eyes when I witness the scenes I did in that dungeon. I am very much a watcher, and a recorder of that exquisite grace that happens in a split second between those of us who understand the pain, and how it feeds us.

Someday, I will be the exhibitionist. I hear the darkness beckon, drawing me farther, deeper, making irresistible promises. I do not doubt that it will have its way with me. For now, I am the voyeur, and to those who allow me the pleasure, I respond with humble, consummate gratitude.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/icopythat/18470314/sizes/m/in/photostream/

For firing my imagination and for feeding my appetite,

Thank you.

It Was the Pain

I was amazed.

Not shocked -- in the way you might think one should be -- but overwhelmed. Dare I say it? Titillated. I saw unsurpassed beauty in the nudity of average bodies, and did not look away. I was captivated. I heard the sounds of leather, wood, rope and metal against flesh, and did not cover my ears. I heard gasps and groans and cries of pleasure, and I smiled, I shivered, I watched in awe.

I bore witness to the grace of a Top who knelt before his beloved bottom, and bid her breathe, trust, relax as she was lifted from the floor by ropes that intricately bound her body. His gentleness and her surrender brought tears to my eyes, and made my heart trip in my chest. I felt the pleasure I saw painted on her flesh, on her face for the rest of the night.

I observed as two old friends negotiated and agreed to something they'd never done before, and then marveled at the exquisite beauty of her body as he deftly drew the pleasure from her flesh with the sting, and strike, and slap of one tool then the next. He watched her, carefully, read her breath, her trembling muscles, her groans and giggles, until she erupted with a look of surprise etched across her lovely face.

It was my first dungeon experience, and I had no idea what to expect. I found myself among friends. I relaxed, and chatted, and wandered around and watched. I became the fascinated spectator, holding my breath, trembling with the gift of their generosity, aching with epiphany. I realized that what brought each of us to this place was something truly phenomenal. It was, for me, a very spiritual experience.

I found myself, again.