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Mere oblivion [Jul. 15th, 2011|12:37 am]
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Daddy and I have long played with the idea of my getting choked out. It's very nearly cliche, the choking and breathplay, but I long-ago learned that I find it hot: the hand on my throat, the control over my very air, and especially the gentle squeeze at my carotids that makes my vision go all soft and my brain go fuzzy.

Even better than that, perhaps, is what Daddy threatens me with during this: that he'll choke me out and I'll wake up with him fucking me in the ass, owning me completely without me even realizing it.

For the longest time this felt like a hot thing for him to say, but not something I actually wanted, although I was curious. So a few months ago, Daddy finally choked me out, without telling me he was going to, just as a kind of idle experiment. I really didn't like it, and was frightened when I woke up and couldn't remember what had just happened. It felt like my experiences with Salvia, which is a drug I do not enjoy - the ego loss is so complete that I spend most of the trip - which is mercifully only about a minute long - trying to figure out where exactly reality is, who I am, whether my memories and thoughts are accurate. During the part where I'm gone, there's simply nothing. When he choked me out on the couch that day, it was the same way: I was there, and then I wasn't, and then slowly I was back, and had no idea what had occurred.

That said, that first experience wasn't in an erotic context: I was lying comfortably in Daddy's lap, just talking with him. I remember I was resting my elbow and letting my hand sort of float in the air; I then remember literally making a kind of "ahh" fainting sound, and my hand dropping. After that, I wasn't interested in the reality of being choked out anymore; only the fantasy.

But one day Daddy and I were having some ferocious sex, and he had his hand on my throat, and suddenly I felt this overwhelming need. I wanted him to take me all the way there, to possess me so completely that it didn't even matter whether I was conscious or not, to do what he had threatened to do for so long. I could tell that he wasn't sure about it, that he wasn't that into the idea; he likes the threat better than the reality, and it seems the act reminds him of the man he used to be, the man he spends some energy not to become again.

The almost comical part of it was how difficult it turned out to be. When I was expecting it, I tensed against it, and he was trying to apply the least amount of pressure necessary to make it happen. In the end, he had me kneel in front of him and applied a figure-4; I did my best to relax into him.

The next thing I knew, I was getting fucked. I was barely conscious, barely aware of myself, only aware of pounding and pleasure. In a few more moments, it began to dawn on me who I was, and that I was having sex. It seemed like I had been having sex forever, like I was in a fever dream of fucking, with no beginning and no ending. Over endless more seconds I came to know what was actually happening, who was fucking me, how it had happened, and finally, that what I had wanted had occurred: he had choked me out and started fucking me while I was out, and now I had awakened to that reality.

It was at about that point that I began to come my face off. :)

It was very strange, to have that eroticization work, to want so badly to try something again that I knew I hadn't enjoyed. But it's typical of my pattern: I have to see, to know, to be sure. And I have to keep putting myself more and more into his hands.
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Consensual nonconsent, continued, or: Daddy's rights [Aug. 25th, 2010|02:05 am]
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This morning began in difficulty.

I've often experienced the joy of falling asleep with my Daddy, nestled in his arms and snoozing off into sweet oblivion. I've also often experienced waking up with him: this dynamo who needs about half the sleep I do, and who continues to find me so irresistible that it's hard to wake up next to him, no matter what the hour, without getting fucked several times before breakfast.

I should have such problems, right? But at times it has become a bit onerous, and I am, to say the least, not a morning person. (I was about to type, "not a fucking morning person," but it seemed a bit too literal in this context.)

Luckily, over time he has come to be patient with my sleep needs, and these days generally lets me get, say, seven hours in a row before pouncing. After that though, all bets are off.

This morning I was feeling particularly snuggly and comatose when his iPhone started to buzz insistently into my dreams. Once he turned it off, it became clear that I wasn't going to be permitted to sleep any longer. Curled up behind me, he pressed into me, rubbing his cock into my crack, easing into all my soft places. I whimpered and pulled away, wanting more snoozes. But he wasn't having it. He kept insisting, and I could tell from the way he was pushing that no wasn't going to be an option.

We've dealt before with some difficult consent issues; there have been times when I haven't felt that my "no" was being heard, and yet it's so difficult for me to say no to him when we have this power dynamic. This morning this question reared its ugly head again.

On the one hand, I felt his power. Not power in that dominant, Daddy sense, but just the power of what he was feeling - an incredible drive and attraction and need. I know that feeling in myself, and in him. It's pure energy, loving and intense and beautiful, and I don't want to bring him down out of it or refuse him anything when he's directing it toward me. But at the same time, if I'm not feeling it myself, it makes me feel strangely alienated. Like suddenly he's feeling all the intensity of our relationship without me. Meanwhile I'm sleepy and shut down and just don't want to be fucked right now, but I can't make him stop. That is, I probably could make him stop if I really, really, REALLY insisted, if I turned and fought and kicked and screamed. But that's so not what I was on about. I didn't feel unsafe, like I needed to fight. Just sad. Just upset that my saying "no" and "I don't want to" wasn't enough, that I couldn't dissuade him simply by not being interested.

Probably the worst part was that it wasn't that he wanted to force himself on me. I could tell that that wasn't what this was about. It was, as he explained later and I feel I intuitively understood, that he was feeling what he called "one half of a oneness," and that this feeling was so intense that he needed to plug into me, literally, and share it. I knew that at any other time of day I would have been completely up for it. But in the moment I just got more and more alienated, sinking inside with this feeling: he's experiencing this alone, but it's about me, but I'm not there, and he's telling me he loves me even though I just want him to stop and he won't, and if he loved me he'd stop and so what does he mean by 'I love you' right now, and it was just awful.

What I realize is that it's so much worse to contemplate the idea that he's not in sync with me or understanding me fully than to imagine that he wants to rape me, and that's the really weird bit. Of course I don't want to be raped - who the hell does? - but it would be easier, I realize, if he just said that he was going to take me whether I liked it or not, if he were deliberate about it and made it, in essence, part of the elaborate game (so not a game) that we play together. That, I could handle. That has context, and meaning, and ritual. That indicates an understanding of who we are to each other. Then, when he said "mine," I could understand what he meant: it means that sometimes, I just don't get to say no. And that knowledge would help me get to the place I got to next much faster and with a lot less angst.

Because the next thing that happened was that he turned me over. He pressed his body, his heart, to mine, held me face to face, and entered me. In that moment I suddenly felt what he'd been feeling all along: the oneness, the incredible depth of connection we share, and I started coming almost immediately and I don't know how long it took me to stop.

But that doesn't mean I didn't end up sobbing afterward, telling him how difficult it was, how hard it was to be with him when he was like that. That oneness, I told him, that incredible beauty: it happened not because of him ignoring my 'no,' but in spite of it.

The thing is, though: do I want to go there with him? Do I enter into a world with him where my will is subsumed, deliberately, by consent? Will removing my ability to say no help me to experience our relationship more fully and with less pain?

In some ways, I think it will. I know that when he has eroticized nonconsent, it has worked a lot better for me. It's not that I care that much about my autonomy when it comes to him. It's more that I feel the loss of it when he takes it from me casually and doesn't acknowledge that that's what he's doing. Admittedly, when I entertained the notion earlier today of becoming his more formally, it thrilled me: I thought of the things he might order me to do, the ways he would control me. And if he decided to have sex with me whether I liked it or not, well, there would be context: Daddy's rights. No need for arguments or angst or worries. No need to get caught up in my head, thinking about how I should have autonomy, how he should be listening to me because it's simply not right for him not to.

But then I think: what if I still feel it anyway? What if I still have those thoughts, still get trapped in my head and feel alienated and awful? What can I do then, when I've already willingly signed away my rights?

What did he do, when he'd given himself to his mistress completely, to control? In the end, he had to be rescued.

What path am I walking down?

He said that if we did this, it would have to be only when we were alone, and I agree; our lives are too complicated for us to live like this full time. But will doing it part-time have the effect needed to ease my mind and let me enjoy him, trust him fully?

I think I want to experiment with this. Play with it a while. Be his, his to mold and shape as he wills - for a time, to see what it's like. As I write it it takes shape in my mind, and I feel myself grow soft and pliant and aroused at the idea. The thought of him shaping me, and being able to let those voices in my head rest, let the rest of of me have what it is I think I truly crave.

Perhaps. Perhaps. For a time.
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It's lonely being a little girl [Jul. 30th, 2010|12:07 am]
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My husband and I have always had different approaches to certain aspects of polyamory. In specific, I really like to talk to my lovers about my other lovers; it makes me feel closer to them to share the intimacy I share with the other people I care about. Sharing my sexuality and profound emotion with someone is one of the things I feel defines me, and so I'm happiest when I can have a moving or titillating conversation with one lover about another.

But my husband is different. He doesn't really like hearing details and often seems put off or threatened by them, and he doesn't generally share details himself out of a sense of respect for the other party's privacy. I don't mind terribly much not hearing about it, though I definitely encourage him whenever he's up for sharing. But it can be difficult sometimes, him not wanting to hear.

Recently he's met someone, and she - like another queer woman he had an interesting evening with - is opening him up to the possibilities of gender and orientation fluidity. This, in case you haven't been paying attention, is a subject near and dear to my heart. He was in the mood to talk about his experiences, and I was in the mood to hear. Part way through, he stopped and hesitated and asked, "Is this okay, my telling you this?" in such a sweet way that I had to resist the urge to laugh. "You know I like to hear this stuff," I had to tell him again.

I had hoped that this development would make him more open to hearing about me and my Daddy - though of course I didn't put it that way to him. But tonight I mentioned it, that I hoped I could tell him more about the gender stuff that I'd been exploring, and he told me that he still didn't want to hear about him. I guess I knew that would still be the case, but it still hurt, surprisingly much. Daddy is the closest lover I have, and our time together shapes me tremendously. I want to be able to share that with my husband, but it's hard to share something when the other person just doesn't want to hear it.

Tonight, though, he told me no after thinking for a while, and softly, with a sincere apology, and that actually moved me. "I want to give you everything I can," he said, "but I don't want to be dishonest with you." He said that he does want to hear about my part of the journey, but it's so hard to talk about without talking about what I did to get there. How to tell the story of what it feels like to be a boy, without talking about how that boy relates to his Daddy? How to talk about the power of my cock when I wear it, without bringing up that I'm fucking him with it? How to share all the things I've written about here - the intensity of experiences I've had and how key they have been to my happiness and continued self-discovery - when he'll flinch at the knowledge?

And how to know him fully and have him know me fully, otherwise?

One of these days, this blog will morph into a book, and it's a book I can see being published, being the successor to Carol Queen's erotic masterpiece, The Leather Daddy and the Femme. It's proud, I know, arrogant even, but I see it.

Will he read it? Will he want to, knowing what it's about? If he does, will he love me less? Feel threatened? Finally decide he can't deal with being with the kind of freak I really am?

These are the darkest fears. As it is now, I share these words with this journal, in this space. I tell my girlfriend about him. I let him read this, so he can see what's going on in the mind of his girl. I carry on.

But it's still strange and lonely, having these experiences, living this life. Being someone who chronicles. It seems to me to be why a lot of people probably write erotica: not to titillate others, but to remember themselves. To share those moments of utter inner truth with someone, anyone, else.
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Thorny consent [Jun. 30th, 2010|12:03 am]
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On the one hand, you've got vanilla sexual relationships. In these, while someone will occasionally "take one for the team," clear-cut consent is supposed to be the norm. Absent such consent, enthusiastic and understood either physically or verbally, you've got rape.

On the other hand, you've got full D/s relationships. Depending on the specific relationship involved, one of the things that may be understood is that the submissive isn't always going to have a say in what happens to him/her. The dominant may want to use the submissive for his or her pleasure at any point, and part of their erotic agreement is that this is possible - the consent for potential nonconsent has been given in advance.

Partly because we're poly and both have spouses, and partly because of both of our switchy natures, my Daddy and I don't have that kind of agreement. I don't think either of us truly wants total submission to the other: he's been through it before and knows to well where it can lead, and I am simply too much of an independent person to deal with it. Overall, I think full-time sex slavery is a nice fantasy, but I wouldn't want to do it in reality for more than, say, a week. I've had enough real glimpses now to know that that kind of dehumanization is too frightening, too much of a loss of self - and in reality, is not my kink.

But that doesn't mean that sometimes, he doesn't just come and take it from me. I've written about him doing this before: sometimes it's blisteringly hot and works perfectly, and even though I'm hurting and some part of me wants it to stop, I'm so turned on by his desire and furor that I end up coming as hard as he does. And then sometimes it just hurts, it makes me feel used, and yet there's something precious about that too, a sense of being owned.

It's hard not to sink into this experience with him so frequently using the language: mine. However we have or haven't solemnized it, I've been his from the very beginning. It's true that he's mine too, in a way; but there's still a way in which I'm more his. His little girl. His cunt. All his. Mine, mine, mine, he chants into me when he's about to come some days. And it's true. It's all true.

And the truth of it makes it really hard for me to say no to him, even when I'd like to. When he wakes me in the morning - my worst time of day - and tries to fuck me straight off, with very little preamble and still sore from the previous night. When I first arrive and he bends me over the couch, and I really want to feel his skin or at least be warmed up a little first, but he fucks me instead.

It wasn't always this way. In the beginning, if he hurt my genitals at all or felt I wasn't enjoying the fucking, he'd get soft and stop. But something shifted along our path. Something that my body wanted became something that his body wanted. My whimpering and no-ish sounds started to turn him on. He started to want to possess me, whenever he wished.

The first few times he did this, he told me he was doing it, that this was for Daddy, and I was going to take it. That made it okay, somehow; it made it hot. But as time has worn on, it's happened with more frequency and less explicitness - or at least it seems so to me. I feel some lines have been blurred: I've been taking it as part of my training, as part of the way he pushes me and I love to be pushed, as part of the way he is continually shaping me.

And yet I've been in really unpleasant mental spaces the past few times it's happened. I've found myself where I want him to stop but I can't find a way to say no that doesn't sound cute and whimpery and erotic. I'm not even sure I want to say no: I don't want to disappoint him and there's some part of me that loves how he takes me. But then my mind goes to the fear place and I feel the rape that's happening in some part of my head as I recognize that I can't find my true 'no' anywhere.

He told me that I'm not his slave, and I don't have to be available to him at all times, though I'd expressed a strange desire to be, an aspiring, perhaps. I told him that I never wanted to be in a place where I was just shutting off and waiting for it to be over. That's the place, I think, that feels like rape to me. (It's worth wondering here how I would know, as to my knowledge, I've never been raped. But this feeling of non-erotic helplessness and fear, followed by resignation, has happened before.)

But I do want to be able to play with this, still: this idea of him taking me for him. It's not what I want our sex life to be all the time, but I don't want to shut off the possibility completely just because it fucks with my head sometimes. I like to think I'm more sexually sophisticated than that, but maybe pushing my own limits has become too dangerous a hobby. I definitely don't want to get to a place where him fucking me is something I dread.

Because I love it. I love it. When it's for us, when it's for him, sometimes when it's just for me. But I have to retain a coherent 'no,' or my continual 'yes' becomes meaningless.
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Being a caretaker [Jun. 13th, 2010|11:46 pm]
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I've long since come to terms with the fact that in a lot of ways, my Daddy takes care of me, and that's a big part of what I love about being with him. It makes perfectly obvious sense: if we're going to talk about being a Daddy and a little girl, then it follows that he's going to be taking care of me. But I'm still often surprised at how often it leaks over into everyday life.

Part of the reason for this is that I'm called upon, most of the time, to be a caretaker for my husband - my other partner in crime. In the past while, though, he's been less of a partner in crime and more of, well, a mess. It's continually frustrating to me, and I'm grateful for both my therapist, with whom I can talk about this stuff directly, and my Daddy, with whom ditto - and he talks to me about his issues with his wife, as well.

For a while I worried about this fairly often: it seemed like it could be a bad idea to complain to each other about our spouses. I know how this sometimes works in poly situations: people who are dating complain and confide to each other about their spouses. Affection grows through this activity and the bond is increased through the power of commiseration. At the same time, one or the other of the people involved begins to feel defensive of the other against his or her own spouse, or begins to feel resentment toward said spouse for hurting the person they're dating. This causes a rift, and whether consciously or not, one or the other of the people involved may start to wish that the other person were single, or that the spouse were out of the picture...I've seen marriages of poly people break up, men leave their wives for other women even though they're all poly - hell, my own husband entered my life, and his intensity of feeling for me and mine for him were so forceful that it destroyed my other relationships. I know how this works.

But at this point I've come to peace with what's really going on in my relationship with Daddy with regard to our spouses: we really just need someone to vent to, and doing so helps us blow off steam. Once we blow off steam, one of us helps the other to strategize on how to handle the problem. As a result, we don't return to our spouses mad and frustrated, and we may even have a way to start working it out.

Add to that our ultra-hot sex, and we're definitely not suffering too much from our partners' unintentional neglect.

But that doesn't mean it still doesn't get to me.

I'm trying very hard to allow myself to be in the caregiver role, while my husband recovers from months of chronic insomnia and stress so crippling he landed in the emergency room with crushing chest pain. I'm trying not to expect anything from him except for continued exhaustion, and the irritability and shitty judgment that comes with that. I'm trying to enjoy the occasional times when he's lucid and bright and emotionally intelligent and focussed on me.

I'm trying not to let it hurt my feelings too much that he sent me an email from work on Friday, telling me he wanted to do some ritual sex this weekend; that I went searching out in the neighborhood for the appropriate candles, in preparation for the work we were going to do, and then that he came home exhausted and unfocused, and didn't want to do it anymore. I'm trying not to be upset that it never actually happened this weekend at all, and that in fact, we had no sex of any kind aside from the orgasm I gave myself, lying next to him while he was already passed out.

I'm trying to be okay with the feeling I've had for a long time, which is that his romantic attention is like the fucking sun, and when he removes it it's like living in England in the winter. He says to me, from time to time, how important I am to him and how I take precedence over everything. But I don't feel it, I never feel it anymore.

But there's nothing I can do about it, not while he's still sick, not while he's just starting therapy, just trying to figure out what the hell he's on about. There is so much he hasn't processed, so many little griefs I've seen him endure and just shut away. And big griefs, too, in his past: things he just doesn't think about, but which I believe affect him every day of his life.

How long, though, will I have to wait before he's mine again? Before I feel his attention and energy again, like a laser, piercing the heart of me and making it whole? Before I feel that when he speaks about my importance in his life that he means it?

It's especially hard to deal with when he's off chasing skirts and looking for the next big Wow. Each and every one of them seems to crumble when they realize either that he's projecting onto them something that he wants, or that he's overcommitted and therefore totally unstable.

At least he's not doing that, right now. Some self-awareness may be emerging, at last. But it would be wonderful if I could know when I get him back. If ever.
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Clean, take two [Jun. 10th, 2010|11:42 pm]

I'd been cleaned out before, a little. It was all a part of the regimen: the process of stripping me of my shame. First, I had to get used to pissing with the bathroom door open. Then, he would be in there with me. Finally, I did something that I'd never done in front of anyone since I was a child: shitting while he was present.

A childhood bereft of privacy and space had instilled a fierce protectiveness in me about being alone, with a closed door, during these simple bathroom rituals. It took a Daddy to bleed them out of me, bit by bit, just as he finally bled me literally and drank from the little wound, when before I couldn't imagine a knife being brought near me.

We started simply, the first time or so. He has a wonderful shower, and an attachment to the hose that slides easily inside. Black and made of some kind of hard rubber, it hurts viciously to be hit with, but is gentle on bottoms when inserted. When we started, he just let me feel the slight discomfort of cramping, the little bit too-full feeling when you've counted to ten and you just have to let it go.

But those times were when I was actually a little constipated, and a little enema really helped. The stuff that came out stank to high heaven, and I whined and blushed and couldn't look him in the face. "Look at me," he kept saying, his voice all gentleness, and I would, staring into unashamed blue eyes as my guts drained into the toilet. He was being kind to me, this time. "It's not about humiliation," he said. "I'm not interested in shaming you. I want to take away your shame."

But every time I clear another of shame's hurdles, Daddy lines up more for me that I didn't even know were there.

It's telling that I'm even talking about this at all. If you had told me three years ago that I'd be writing anything about shit and enemas in a forum that was meant to be erotic - aside from talking about how I don't play with that stuff - well. I'd have told you you were crazy. And even this wasn't really playing. It was something else, something I don't have a word for yet.

But there's doubtless an erotic charge to this whole process. There is tremendous power in it, tremendous taboo. It's no wonder, as Daddy pointed out, that so many people have fetishes around something so private, so shameful. Something that he himself has never done in front of anyone, or done to anyone else.

I'm talking, of course, about the high colonic, that thing that you hear mentioned in jokes about health food nuts, or as some kind of abstract threat. This isn't ten seconds up the bum a couple times with warm water and done. This is the whole enchilada, all the way up to the top of the large intestine.

He's harsher with me when I'm his boy. He has a direct sewer drain in his shower, and so he made me sit against the wall in the corner, my knees up, while he filled me and told me to relax and let it go. Right. I've never shat anywhere in my life other than on a toilet. I don't have those muscles trained, the ones that let you shit between your feet while squatting, and certainly not sitting on a tile floor, leaning back, letting the shitty water flow toward him into the drain. The horror of it combined with cramps so intense I thought I would throw up. In fact the entire experience was fraught with concern about things coming out one end or the other.

But once we'd begun, he said, we had to go all the way. The stuff up inside the large intestine, the stuff that isn't quite shit yet, it's called chyme. And it can have some sharp edges, and cause little tears if it's not cleaned all the way out. That's no good, and so, even after begging him to let me up and go to the toilet, after sitting there for five, ten minutes at a time, trying to let everything drain, he would usher me back into the shower and do it to me again. Counting to twelve in a pathetic whisper. Letting the water fill me. Feeling it snarl up in my guts, meeting with the stuff that was there. Wanting so much to relax and let it go, but not even knowing how, the body's prohibition so strong and the process, the smell, so revolting.

I whined and cried and begged for it to stop. I pleaded with him to let me go to the toilet and empty myself there. He wasn't as harsh with me as he could have been.

He knew what it was like.

I've had my entire fist inside him several times now, and he has told me about cleaning out beforehand. I had no idea how horrible it is, how uncomfortable and painful and embarrassing. He rubbed mint soap into my chest as I tried to empty, letting me lean my head against his belly and breathe.

He'd never done it to anyone else. And rather than shaming me, he again wanted to free me - and to reveal himself, his vulnerability in that state. Now you know, he seemed to say. And as usual, knowing it was humbling.

I told him, later, that showing me that way wasn't exactly the most risky way to reveal his vulnerability. There's nothing like subjecting someone to the thing you're trying to be revelatory about to take away its power to bring you ridicule or shame. How could I possibly think badly of this thing he does regularly for my pleasure, once he'd put me through it and shown me how difficult it is? He removed all possibility of my finding fault in him for doing this to himself.

He didn't remove all possibility of my hating him for doing it to me. But I didn't. And I don't. Sometimes I have no idea why I let him do things to me. Why, even when it's awful, I kind of love it. I'm coming closer and closer to the place I know many submissives inhabit, where the suffering is the point, where being put through hell is what they're there for.

I'm not at all clear that that's where I want to be. But I will say this: after a little while of feeling incredibly drained, I felt a lot better. Light, and free, and clean, all the way up.

There's something strangely noble about that.
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Clean. Or, What The Fuck Was I Thinking? [Jun. 8th, 2010|11:35 pm]
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I was well and truly schooled last night in the lesson of being careful what you wish for.

Daddy asked me, a few days before I came over, what I might like or be in the mood for. I told him that my best guess was that I'd want to be boyed a bit: cleaned out and fucked in the ass, maybe tied up and beaten. I was definitely in the mood for some fairly heavy submission and headspace.

I wore my plug to see him, and went there in the clothes he'd lent me after we went wrestling together. I wound up wearing the plug for most of the day: through him fucking me vigorously, through our errand-running, through most of dinner in a restaurant. The thing is actually quite comfortable, and wearing it all the time kept me juiced up for him.

When we got home, he tried to fuck me, and I realized that I didn't want to, just then. I was full of food, and expecting to be left alone to digest for a bit. But Daddies don't leave their little girls alone very often; they can be quite ravenous and get distracted.

A rough thing came up, here: we've been playing more and more with him fucking me even when I don't particularly want to, or when it hurts, and him getting excited by the hurting until his excitement fuels my excitement, and then, well...

It's...unfortunate might be the wrong word. All I know is that when I met him, he would go soft whenever he perceived that he was truly hurting someone he was fucking. I didn't at all mean to, but I seem to have somehow trained him out of this, and now he actually gets off on it sometimes. There is a part of me that just wants to please him, and gets off on it, definitely. But there are some times when I really, really just don't want to, or it really hurts or feels wrong or whatever, and now that this pattern is in place, it can be really hard to have my "no" heard and acknowledged.

This is, of course, both of our faults, and a tough one to figure out. But now it's out there as something to be solved.

Once he realized I wasn't up for any of that, he ordered me downstairs and into the shower instead. I was to be cleaned out, and my ass played with.

And I realize I can't write about this when I'm this tired. To be continued.
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His boy [Jun. 3rd, 2010|11:33 pm]
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It's the second night of the party, and I'm to be his boy, for real, in public, for the first time.

It's hard for me to overestimate how powerful this is for me, and how strange. I have been his little girl for so long, and there's something about that that anyone looking on can understand, and even find a little hot. I'm easily femme, and take to feminine clothing and makeup well. Even without the context of being with him, people know me, recognize me as who I am: the sexy, femmy, powerful woman they're used to seeing in corsets and latex or pretty lingerie, at ease in my high heels.

I'm not gender dysphoric, and I'm not trans, not even close. I don't want to be a man, or even identify as genderqueer. It's just that I have a thing for gay leathermen, and while my Daddy technically isn't one, in a lot of ways he is. Except for the part where he loves to fuck women.

The Leather Daddy and the Femme is by far the hottest book I've ever read, and it spoke to something I hadn't ever even been able to articulate: the fierce desire to be part of a sexual world inhabited by leathermen, and to be one of them while also being able to be female, and polymorphously perverse.

That weekend, I got to do it all: be his little girl, his lover, his boy...and his mistress. But that is a story for another time.

This is the story of how I became his boy.

First he stripped me. My body felt almost embarrassing in his naked femininity, my broad hips and butt, my breasts hanging out there. But he pushed me down on the bed and told me to lick my girlfriend, who was there, watching us prepare. I went down on her and he started to fuck me from behind, hard. He told me that I was not to come or even think about coming; I was there for both of their pleasure.

My transformation began here.

Being his little girl means I get to come whenever I want, whenever he wants. It means I get tied up and teased and squeezed and loved and I whimper and complain and pout and sometimes he's a little rough with me but then he kisses my tears and makes it all better.

Being his boy means I'm tough. It means I don't come unless he tells me to. It means I swallow his cock, whole, now, boy, and I don't open my mouth otherwise. It means I take what he gives me, until I can't take any more.

My lessons were only beginning.

He stood me up and had me put on my underwear. I didn't pack; there was no need, as his boy wouldn't be using his cock. In any case my cock was there, ethereal but erect, ready for use or ignoring as he saw fit.

He bound my breasts down, using Vetwrap, until my chest was as flat and tight as any boy's. In the end I had almost a little shirt, black, accented with red. My breathing was restricted, but I admired so how I looked. I put a slim Under Armour shirt over the top of it, long-sleeved, streamlined and sexy. And tactical pants he'd bought me, with padded knees. I pulled my hair back and watched how my walk changed.

I watched him change, too. Watched his eyes go hard, his sexuality go completely male, fierce and domineering. His voice dropped in pitch and affect and I found myself following a few steps behind him. I was meant to observe, to be seen and not heard, and to do whatever he told me. This was made clear without words.

Once I was boyed up, I discovered that I was no longer attracted to women. A girl who tends to follow him around like a puppy dog came bouncing up and flirted, and it was all I could do to not give her a look of disgust: a true gay boy, turned off by femininity and threatened by women encroaching on my Daddy's space. It hurt me, but I could barely even get excited by my girlfriend. But my Daddy explained to me that he is bi, and that as his boy, I was expected to follow him into any adventures he chose.

I felt eyes on me. I felt people look at me without recognition, and watch our interaction with a subtle kind of discomfort. Finally my Daddy threw me at another bi boy I knew, and he slammed me against the wall and kissed me like I was really a boy. He felt it; he understood, and responded accordingly. From that moment, I was completely in it.

He took me to a room with a suspension frame, and solicited the help of a rope top we trust. Together, they half-stripped and suspended me, face-down. I had been told I'd be hurt. I had no idea how much.

Daddy had something to teach me; I felt that in every moment of our interaction. He had something he wanted to show me, something he couldn't show me when I was his little girl. Something I needed to know if I was going to be his boy.

Our friend started to cane the fronts of my thighs. At first I cried out, losing for a moment the depth of voice, the masculinity I'd dropped into as easily as I dropped to my knees for him. I whimpered; my voice got high.

He told me: Fight.

I breathed. He hit me again, harder. I struggled. Daddy kept telling me to take it, that I had to take it and not give up. I grunted. I growled. I shouted, "Fuck you!" Tears pricked my eyes but I didn't let them fall.

Daddy put out his forearm for me to bite. He pushed it into my mouth, into my teeth, staring into my eyes with an intensity I'd never seen. Fight, he kept saying. I took the next blow, not flinching, but grunting my pain in one burst into the flesh of his arm. Good, he said, and I felt such a swell of pride that the next blow was less difficult than the last, and even though they got harder and harder and I could feel the bruises blooming under the strokes, I didn't cry, I didn't beg. I fought. I fought for my Daddy.

He looked into my eyes and fed me his arm, telling me, "This is what it means to be my boy. You have to be strong. You don't have to hold out forever, but you have to take it until you can't take any more. You have to fight until there's no fight left in you. You have to learn how to take this, for me." And as I watched, his own eyes filled and reddened, his voice cracked, and he let his own tears fall over a clenched jaw, never looking away, as I bit down on him.

And I swore in that moment I would not disappoint him. There was no way I would fail him. The blows fell, and his tears fell, and I took and took until the pain blinded me and I entered some other consciousness. Somewhere in there they stopped, and slowly took me down from my bonds.

I'm fairly sure he held me, then, while I drank water and came back to myself, slowly emerging from the haze of awe and pain and beauty I had endured, and feeling all the more how much I still had to do for him, to prove to him, to earn the tears he had already shed for me.

"His" means something so different when I'm his boy. And the way I long for it almost scares me, the longing for something forbidden and not quite real. But there is nothing more real than when I'm at his feet, worshipping his ever-increasing male beauty, searching only for ways to make him happy, to make him proud.
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Extremes [May. 27th, 2010|06:28 pm]
Last night the power went out while the hubby and I were watching the finale of Lost. While this was of course a tragedy, the power being out in the whole neighborhood for a little while was actually quite lovely; an extreme of peace and beauty that I don't often encounter. We lit candles and listened to the sound of the refrigerator not humming, the dishwasher not running, the lights not making their little almost-undetectable buzz, the computers not running their fans. We sat in the darkness and silence of it all for about half an hour, feeling the cooling breezes finally creeping through the windows after two days of merciless heat, enjoying the soft buzz we had going from the wine we were having to accompany the show.

In a little while, the power clicked back on, and everything seemed blinding. I went around the house, shutting off lights, and we winced and squinted as we turned our TV back on and faced its blue glare. I wound up staying up later than I wanted to, letting that peace and tiredness become a memory and staring into my computer until nearly 2 in the morning.

Today I didn't wake until 1pm, and I looked at my phone, panicked that I had to be somewhere in an hour and still felt hung over. And an email from my husband, who thinks he might lose his job.

Everything seems so tenuous, so precious, in the dark.
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Choked out. [May. 26th, 2010|12:16 am]
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Last night, we were cuddling on the couch together, and doing the things we do when we do that. One of the things he likes to do is gently press on my throat, to let me feel the slight light-headedness, the floatyness, of moving toward unconsciousness.

He never takes me past a slight dreamy feeling, and the sense that he truly owns me; he tells me to let him know if I begin to see spots, and he's never brought me there.

Once, at a party, I watched him tangle with a tough girl. She's the type of hard player who likes to challenge someone she considers a match, and she was needling him. He, of course, is male, quite a bit bigger than she is, and considerably stronger. He told her, more than once, that she was getting close to drawing blood with her nails, and if she didn't stop, he'd choke her out. He made it clear, he felt, that he was serious, but she didn't let go. "Let go," he said to her again, but she just kept staring at him and digging in.

So in one swift motion, he spun her, headlocked her, and lowered her gently to the ground, where she briefly lost consciousness.

He stayed with her of course; brought her back, made sure she was okay. She didn't have any idea what had happened. I was both frightened and intrigued by his behavior, and talked to him about it, mostly to my satisfaction at the time.

Last night, I was doing nothing to provoke him, but all at once he put my neck in the crook of his elbow instead of his hand. I was propping my elbow on my leg and holding my hand softly up in what was probably quite a feminine gesture; in a moment, I made a sound like "Ahhh" and my hand dropped.

I don't remember anything until about ten seconds later.

The experience taught me something important, which is that I don't like being choked out, really, at all. He wanted me to know the difference between playing that edge and really going unconscious, and now I know, for sure, that I like it better when he gently massages my throat and threatens to choke me out and fuck me while I'm unconscious than when he actually does it.

It's like nothing quite so much as smoking salvia in a high extraction: the disorientation and ego loss is total, and the return from it contains a terror of not knowing, not only where you are and what's happening, but even who you are. Salvia, as I explained to him afterward, is considerably worse, but this was definitely unpleasant. There's losing control to someone. Then there's losing self, and reality. It's too much.
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