Fire Monday, Dec 26 2011 

I hate fire. I hate fire I hate fire I hate fire…
The drop of hot wax lands on my back, clings, burns, and I whimper and twist in fear. I am kneeling, bent over myself in a ball, arms pulled out in front and held firmly by one of my tops. He strokes my hair gently and I lean into his hand, try to beg with my eyes.
“Shhh. You’re doing very well.”
“Thank you sir,” I whisper, shivering and fearful. That was only the third drop of wax. The heat terrifies me in a way no other pain does. That is why they are both here, why I am held in hands and not by ropes, to keep me calm.
The one behind me caresses my back. “Next one.”
I hide my face, hold my breath, fight against panic. The drop might be fire for all I can tell, and I tense and gasp and stay still by force of will.
“Good boy. Next one.”
I whimper. Not yet not yet not yet. Fire on my back. I pull helplessly against strong hands.

[Note: I’d really like to do this one.]

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Tears Monday, Jul 11 2011 

I want to make Artemis cry.

Sometimes, when I play with them, their eyes go wide and their face goes slack and their breath catches, and I find myself watching for tears. I listen for that hitch in their throat to become sobbing, and I hunger.

There is an edge there, and I balance on it. I want to hurt them more, bite them harder, push them further. I want them to endure more for me. I want to feel them break under my hands. I want to push them over the edge and be there to catch them as they fall. I want to take their control of themself away from them.

I am afraid to make Artemis cry.

When their face goes slack and their eyes go wide, when their breath catches in their throat, I back away. I see the edge coming and dare not go to it. I am afraid of breaking them – what if I can’t put them back together? What if they never forgive me? What if I am wrong, and they cannot endure more?

I balance there, caught on myself.

Co-Subbing Wednesday, Jun 15 2011 

So here’s the thing: when I’m topping someone, I don’t like to share. I’m possessive and protective and I don’t play nicely with others.

When I’m in a submissive mindset, it’s a different story.

I went to the London Fetish Fair on Sunday. I’d come from doing other things, so I wasn’t really dressed for the occasion. It didn’t feel right, not having anything to show that I belonged, so I wrapped a coil of rope around each wrist and left the ends dangling at the back of my hands. Naturally, one of the tops I’d come with tied the ends together behind my back.
We went to watch a demonstration, and I knelt with my back to a wall. Partly I just didn’t want to stand through the whole thing, and partly I was feeling submissive. Janus, who’d tied my hands together, started playing gently with Artemis, and I found to my surprise that I wasn’t jealous. I didn’t feel possessive of Artemis, who also subs to me, or of Janus, who was currently my top. He was playing with someone else instead of me, and that was okay. I felt like a loyal toy – if he wanted to play with one of his other toys instead, that was his right, and it didn’t hurt that he’d chosen to. He’d play with me later, if he wanted me, and in the meantime I’d just kneel here and wait for instructions.

When Artemis came over and knelt beside me, we leaned on each other affectionately, and the mindset that I was a loyal toy didn’t change. It was okay for us to be affectionate, because nobody cares what the toys do when they aren’t in use. And when Artemis asked me to play with them, that was okay too – but I needed Janus to give permission before I let Artemis untie me. I could know I wanted to top them within the co-subbing mindset, and I could know that it was permitted for us to play with each other, but to be untied without permission would have felt like rebellion. It wasn’t that topping someone was rebellious, it was that I had been tied up by the boss, and the boss had final say over whether I could be untied.

Later, Artemis was being beaten by Pandora. I was delightfully floaty from subbing, and I knew I was going to feel left out and possibly jealous if I switched into topspace, so I made an effort to keep myself subby. I knelt down again, in an out-of-the-way corner where I could watch the scene without interfering, and tried to summon up the mindset I’d had earlier.
It worked – it was easy. I was a sub, they were a sub, they were being played with, I was being allowed to watch, and life was good.

Self-Defining Dynamics Monday, Jun 13 2011 

Power dynamics are hard to change.

A friend and I were playing conmen in a LARP recently. I was the brains of the operation, Cassandra was the fast talker. I came up with the plans, she played whatever role was needed, and our third partner carried out the thefts. Our cover story for this particular con was that of a noblewoman and her maid – not her bit on the side, how dare you suggest such a thing? We figured people would be sufficiently distracted by the scandalous lesbians that they wouldn’t question the rest of the story, and we were right.
For both the characters and ourselves, the power dynamic being enacted was reversed. It felt very, very strange to sit at Cassandra’s feet and have my hair stroked possessively – we haven’t played together, but if we did there’s no doubt that I’d be on top. Trying to flip that dynamic just didn’t work. It was a dead end.
I was directing submission at someone who couldn’t do anything with that energy. Cassandra was being handed energy that she couldn’t work with. Both of us were very uncomfortable. It was a skin-crawling kind of feeling, something deeply wrong with the world. I’m fairly sure we only managed it for the hours we did because the characters were themselves reversing roles – I could react to my discomfort by having my character resolve to take revenge later.
The confusion generated by those few hours lasted for some time afterwards. We’d twitch and flail if the other used the tone and title belonging to the forced dynamic – “Girl” and “Milady”. It was not pleasant.

It was very educational. We learned a valuable lesson about not trying to force a power dynamic to be what it doesn’t want to be. And we are neither of us inclined to repeat the experience.

Thinking Of England Tuesday, Jun 15 2010 

Prometheus and I went for a little holiday, just two nights. It was really a glorified day trip to the zoo, but the zoo was too far away for a comfortable day trip, so we made a weekend of it.
After the zoo, we were in our hotel room, reading books and relaxing. My thoughts turned towards getting some dinner, and Prometheus was horny. I was not horny. I wanted my tea. But Prometheus wanted pre-dinner sex, and I didn’t mind as long as I still got to eat, so we kissed and groped and took our clothes off. When he asked if I wanted sex, I said something along the lines of “Alright then.”

“Do you want to?”
I thought about that for a moment.
“Honestly? I am willing.”
“Then let’s go and get dinner.”

Prometheus felt really bad about this, and so did I. He was upset to have misread me, to have thought I wanted sex when I didn’t. I was upset that he was hurt by my willingness. I was reasonably indifferent to the offer of sex: I wasn’t hungry for it, but it’s pleasant, so meh, I didn’t care.
Prometheus wanted me to care. He doesn’t want to have sex with me unless I want to have sex with him. He has a point: where’s the fun in mere willingness?
I agreed to have sex with him because he wanted it, not because I did. Why I did so is a very good question – I’m not sure myself. I have a lot of mixed-up and contradictory ideas about sex in my head and my reasoning is not usually, well, reasoning. I do what seems like a good idea at the time.
Why did it seem like a good idea, then? What are the ideas about sex that make having sex when I’d rather be eating my dinner a better idea than saying “Can we do post-dinner sex instead”?
Men always want sex. Have sex with him or lose him. Good girls say yes. Lie back and think of England.
I didn’t decide not to say no; it just never occurred to me. If you can’t distract him before you get to taking off clothes, you’ve missed the boat and you have to say yes unless there’s a seriously good reason not to, and “I want my tea” isn’t a good enough reason. You can’t just outright say no! You can suggest other activities and demure and stuff, but you can’t deny a man sex. It isn’t fair. It isn’t done.

I’ve been brought up to lie back and think of England, and by that I mean my mother instructed me that that precise action would sometimes be necessary. It’s a stupid and unreasonable rule and I wish it wasn’t in my head. Among other things, it leads to domestic discord. More importantly, it violates Prometheus’ consent if I say “yes” for any other reason than desire. He only wants to have sex with me if I want to have sex with him. His offer of sex is conditional on this principle.

How do you clean this rot out of your head?

Why Can’t She Act Like Decent Folks? Tuesday, May 11 2010 

I had difficulty thinking of a serious post today, so I thought I’d just put a fantasy up. This blog has a whole category devoted to my fantasies, after all. I might as well use it. So I flicked through my Big Book of Fantasies, which is in my head, and picked out a nice simple one that wouldn’t be novel-length, and then I hit a problem.
I didn’t want to post this particular fantasy. It’s a favourite of mine. I enjoy it very much. I return to it often. But I didn’t want to put it up on this blog, because in this fantasy I am in the submissive role.
Now, this is very silly. I have openly identified as a switch on this blog. You can read it here and here and here. But all the fantasies I have thus far posted have been from a dominant point of view, quite by chance. Most of them were sparked by reading femdom blogs, so naturally that was the direction they took. I never decided to pose as a femdom.
So why do I feel reluctant to post a submissive fantasy? You know I switch. I know you know I switch. Why this reticence to be seen acting like a switch?
I have a belief that switches are not respected in kinky spaces. We are neither one thing nor the other. We are confusing and can’t be neatly classified and it’s difficult to fit us into your fantasies of The World Is Like That. I think that’s why switches get ignored and insulted: if you want to believe that Men are Superior or Women Are Superior we don’t fit. We can be ignored, though, if we stick to one role in public like decent people.
This is a thing I believe about kink culture: it is considered impolite, even indecent, to switch in front of people, and especially in front of people you have played with. You can be a switch, as long as you keep it under wraps and let people keep you in their Dom or Sub mental categories. Being dominant in the sight of someone you’ve submitted to is rebellion after the fact, and being submissive in front of people you’ve dominated is a betrayal of their trust in your superiority.
And thus I come to feel that posting a submissive fantasy on a blog where I state upfront that I am a switch will result in my no longer being taken seriously. It will taint the dominant fantasies with unreality, and it will be proof that I am not ‘really’ a dominant person, I’m a sub who’s playacting. Or something equally daft.

I Tied Up My Teddy Bear Monday, Apr 26 2010 

When I was a kid, I had a small but well-loved collection of cuddly animals, and I used to tie them up. My little rabbit was a beautiful princess and she used to get kidnapped and made to formally surrender, in public, whilst wound about with the silver chains from my jewellery box. She was tied up and wearing jewellery at the same time. And to the crowds, it looked like it was just there for pretty, but she knew and her captors knew that she couldn’t take it off and run away.
When I was a kid, I used to have play-fights with my brothers and the boys from down the road. One time, probably when we were playing cops-and-robbers, I managed to get myself chained to a climbing frame. It was fun, I liked it. I felt very comfortable, on my own in the garden, chained to the climbing frame, calmly working my way through the combination lock.
When I was a kid, I already had a fascination with power, with restraint, with coercion, with putting a normal facade over these things.
Kinky is my sexuality, and it is as close to inborn as makes no difference.

Want Me, Do Saturday, Apr 17 2010 

I want to be desired. I want to be wanted. I want to make men’s heads turn and their thoughts stutter.
I am starting to know what it feels like to be desired, and I love it. The man in an open marriage who, quite earnestly, propositioned me; the man who, when I mention on a chat channel that I am trying on clothes, “sends camera drones”; the man who invites me to sit on his knee: these are all beloved to me. Their desire is a blessed event, making me Viola and not the awkward, shy, frightened girl I was.
I am writing a sex blog. I sometimes look in the mirror and marvel at that. I have somehow gained the confidence to say these things in public. Yes, they are under an assumed name, but more importantly, they are in a public place where they can be read and responded to by anyone. This is partly because I understand myself enough now to know what to say, but it is also because I have a new surety that I am desired, I am desirable, I am seen as sexual.
The assurance, by action, that I am considered a sexual being considerably reduces the cognitive dissonance involved in writing this blog. Before, I expected having a sexuality to shock people. Now that some men have made it clear that I am included in the category of potential sex partners, I don’t worry about that. The nature of my sexuality might surprise people, but not the fact that I have one.
I love it.

Why Write This Blog? Friday, Mar 19 2010 

Because I want to add another sane voice to the world of Internet kink.
Because I want to speak truth about what it is like to live and feel as a switch.
Because I want all the components of my sexuality to be understood.
Because I want young people to have more ways to understand themselves.
Because I want to show by example that being kinky does not make one evil or insane.
Because I want young people to know that they are not alone.
Because I want to be able to talk about who I am.
Because I want to feel that I am not alone.
Because I want to live in a world where I can be myself without fear of ostracism.
Because I want to help build a language to talk clearly about sex.
Because I want.

Crushing On The Doctor Wednesday, Mar 17 2010 

I know why I like the Doctor. I can tell you exactly why I like the Doctor. It’s because I love love love the sight of David Tennant on his knees, with his suit all shredded and his face all beautiful with blood, shaking with relief and grief and then hearing his death knoll when he thought he was free. It’s because I love Chris Eccleston tied up and electrocuted and not letting it matter. It’s because he’s the Doctor, he’s the Time Lord, he’s oh so pretty and clever and I want to hurt him. I want him to be hurt for my sake. It’s because he’s so brave and so broken and still being so brave. I love me some of that emotional sadism, bring it on. Men crying. Men looking desperate and begging and pleading and the Doctor in a suit begging his dearest enemy not to die. Yum. Give me more. Give me the Doctor in chains and a whip. Please.

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