I Bottomed For A Girl And I Liked It

I am heteroflexible, which I define for myself (your results may vary) as loving and appreciating women as beautiful creatures. Certain women arouse in me sisterly love, or sentimental, or melancholic attachments, but none arouse me sexually. Pictures of beautiful women are objects of art to be appreciated, and women who are in my circle of friends are there because I see beauty in their strength and qualities. I can only gain arousal, and until now, the thrill of all that is BDSM, with a male. Separating ‘scene’ from sexuality has always been a distant concept for me. I could never imagine one apart from the other, nor could I ever envision giving that type of control to a female who could not also arouse me in the process.

During the playtime portion of our recent group meeting, I knew my friend had come hoping for someone willing to play. She spread her toys out on the hotel bed, rolled in a custom-made tapestry, with a slot for each implement, lovingly arranged. She fingered each one and showed them to me, a little sparkle in her eye as she described what she does with each one. She made particular mention of the displeased reactions she gets from her bottoms, then giggled a little, as if the memory amused her. And yet, as she showed me a little leather paddle, I mused to myself how cute and harmless it looked as she explained she only used this one for warm up.

She showed me her other things, among them a heavy, black flogger with soft, velvety falls and an intricate pine cone-like handle binding. Feminine, but menacing. I breathed in the scent of the leather , a favorite fetish of mine, and wished I could feel it touch my flesh. I absolutely love floggers, and Master wasn’t geared up to play this particular evening, having arisen early for work that day.

Impulse, curiosity, or frustration from lack of opportunities lately, I’m not sure which of these sparked my boldness, but somewhere in the middle of our conversation I was compelled to comment. “I’ll let you play with me.”

“Really?” her eyes lit up, at first looking honored and grateful, but I remembered suddenly too, this girl was a sadist, just over half my age. I might have bitten off more than I could chew.

She seemed to be most interested in using her dragon tail whips. One was of far too intimidating a length for me to even consider (and she admitted her aim still wasn’t so great with it), but the other was fairly short, and though I knew it would have quite a bite, it was seemingly manageable in my mind.

The usual negotiations were made, and after Master gave his carefully thought out co-consent with a hearty “You have permission to do whatever you want to do to her.” (Thanks, Master :/), we were off to find a suitable corner in which to play.

Of course I have undressed in front of women at play parties numerous times, and since my top was, well, topless, I felt it appropriate to do the same. The panties stayed on, however, as she arranged them just half over the cheeks with a giggly “they look cute that way”. Whatever suits, since she’s now in charge.

Straight away, she began smacking me with that ‘cute’ leather paddle. Hard. Like nailing shingles to the roof hard. Like Jesus on the cross hard! It was shaped like a mini meat tenderizer, and I could feel my skin and muscles getting beaten tender, all right. Apparently the special today was top and bottom round roast, and I was the entrée.

She was fascinated by how quickly my skin became reddened, and I told her that it never stayed. I get redness and marks all the time from impact play, but it never seems to leave any lasting remains. My skin usually goes back to normal fairly quickly.

She dispensed with the paddle and moved onto the heavy flogger. This was the part I wanted to enjoy, as I waited for the familiar sensations, building from the soft, rounded strokes, up to the hard, fast blows, like a crescendo.

WHACK!

What the fuck? Wait…

WHACK!! Whack whack whack…

Holy shit this chick hits A LOT harder than Master!

WHACK WHACK WHACKITY WHACK WHACK!! <giggles heard from behind me>

She was enjoying hurting me, and watching my skin get redder and redder.
We bantered back and forth as she accidentally slipped a blow to my right shoulder, which I had previously told her was sore. She apologized, and I redefined the area I needed her to avoid, and we continued. I figured now she’d dial it down a tad, to allow me time to process the accidental shoulder thump.

WHACK!! (Buttocks this time).

FUCK!

<giggles erupting into all-out laughter>

Out came the dragon tail. I knew this not by announcement, but by the sudden bite to my left shoulder. It stung, as I had anticipated, but nothing at all like I had feared, though I was glad I didn’t opt for the bigger one.

By now my brain chemicals had risen to a level where even the meanest blows with the dragon tail felt more like fiery ant bites, more of a hum than actual pain. And then, she was smacking my back, and pinching my skin where the welts had appeared, watching them deepen and redden even more. More giggles turned to laughter as she raked her fingernails across my already sore and burning skin.

Then, she figured out my kryptonite. Fingernails + certain spots = instant ticklishness. She was amused by this, and kept repeating the process, as if she’d found pleasure in a shiny new toy.

Skin on skin, she made it a point throughout our play time to invade my space, to push herself against me with her nakedness, knowing I that I would be frustrated and unaroused by it. So evil. (Part of why I love her.)

When she was finally through, she leaned into my ear and whispered a growly “That’s it, we’re done.” Once I got my momentum going again we trotted over to the bathroom mirror to survey the results, and discuss how we thought things went.

She was surprised when I told her she was the first girl I’d ever let top me. I don’t think I’d even considered it before that evening.

“So what was different now?” she asked, and she really wanted to know, and that’s also why I love her.

“I trust you, and I’ve seen you play with others. And it helped me to learn to separate sex from the things we kinky people do, and discover that they can be wonderful and equal all on their own.”

On top of that, it was wonderfully cathartic.

Plus, Master got a free show, and he didn’t have to lift a finger. Is that Domming from the top, or the sidelines? I’m still not sure. 😉

So, thank you my lovely friend, and yes, I’m sure we will play again sometime soon.

Peace out,

toriko

Pretty Stones

She shuffles into the kitchen yet again, fetching the coffee cup she left on the counter, and shuffles back to where he is sitting, the iridescent glow of the TV screen reflected in the lenses of his glasses.

She hands the cup to him and he grunts approvingly, but doesn’t speak a word, or offer any eye contact. She takes this to mean he is satisfied, kisses the top of his head gently, and limps away back toward the kitchen when he comments “Sugar”. Of course, she forgot. One spoonful of sugar. Mentally calculating the extra steps she now has to take, to kitchen, back to sofa, and back to kitchen, before she can take a long awaited sip of her own coffee, her shoulders slump downward, but only slightly, as he has always been able to detect even the slightest negativity in her mood. Strange how a man who never looks her in the eye can sense these things, but it’s his one superpower, and she accepts it almost comically.

“Apology for the sugar.” she offers, as she clinks the teaspoon inside his mug just a second or two longer than necessary, testing him a bit to see if he will look up. He does not, and she removes the spoon, resisting the impulse to grumble a taut “You’re welcome” under her breath. Instead she remains silent, and toddles off once more into the kitchen to rinse the spoon. From the kitchen she hears the TV blare some inane reality show, and can pinpoint the exact places where he will snort and chuckle here and there, his mirth almost always reserved for distant things he needn’t touch.

She gazes at her reflection through the window in the soft light of the fixture over the sink. Strangely, she can still pick out the features of a young girl underneath her sagging jaw and tired eyes. Grey hair is a relentless feature anymore, and she battles it with boxes of red hair color whose defenses seem to provide less and less coverage. Her hands, she notices as she dutifully rinses the sugar spoon, have begun to pucker and swell with the constant contact with the dish water, making them look even older than usual. She notes simultaneously, how keeping them under the warm, running water seems to ease the ache in her fingers, worn and gnarled from years of service.

Later, as she and the gentleman crawl into bed, she instinctively reaches to touch the smooth band of gold around her left finger, and realizes suddenly that she has left it on the counter near the sink. All those dishes. She doesn’t like to sleep without it, but the gentleman requires warmth, so she dutifully lies still beside him, allowing him to soak up her body heat, while she is chilled by his cold hands and feet upon her back. She snuggles closer, hoping to establish some equilibrium and warm them both.

Now wide awake, she waits for the covers to warm, and the rhythm of his breathing to slow and regulate. Quietly, she slips out from between the sheets and dons her robe and slippers. The house is chilly, but she has always heard that sleeping in cooler temperatures is healthier, and so she has insisted on it, oddly one of the few “couple” things which the gentleman has always allowed her to decide.

She realizes she is more tired than usual tonight, and almost decides to crawl directly back into bed, but the thought of sleeping without the ring compels her, as she has not spent a night without it on for over forty years.

When first she beheld his gift, she was dismayed. It had no pretty stones like the ones she had seen at the store. It almost made her cry, struggling with her identity as she was at the time, as if he thought she was only worthy of being plain, but inside her something whispered that she would have to make a conscious choice not to determine his love by tangible things. She already knew he was a man who would love her deeply, but it would never show. No longer could she rely on her five senses to navigate. This one would require faith. She took that leap, and he never disappointed.

Now, shuffling into the kitchen for what must have been the hundredth time that day, she spots the circle of gold beckoning her from the windowsill, glinting in the glow of the sink light. A seemingly long time passes, and she realizes she isn’t able to reach it. Instead she is falling, falling, all the while desperately searching, focusing on the spark of gold just ahead, until it too begins to fade, while inside her head a mantra hums “grab the ring grab the ring grab the ring”, and she does, finally.

___________________________________________________________________

In the local grave yard, a young sociology student on a study hunt stumbles upon the most striking headstone he has ever seen. Made of the whitest, brightest marble, and polished to a mirror like shine, it stands out among all of the other drab grey stones jutting out around it, like a diamond solitaire sparkling in the bright noon day sun.

He grabs his camera to take a shot of this stunning specimen, and afterward steps forward to inspect it more carefully. Arrayed on and around the stone are various little trinkets, oddly, a coffee cup, a spoon, and a few pictures, in particular one of a girl with bright red hair in a pretty wedding dress, looking as happy as any girl could be on the day of her dreams coming true. He finds the girl’s name carved into the stone, and steps back a bit to read the rest of the inscription so he could transcribe it into his notes.

For my best girl who deserved the prettiest stone. Forgive me it is so late.

Pictures Of Words

I wish that I had the talent to draw or paint, like the many great artists of a bygone era. I especially loved the impressionists, who painted with many colors scenes of muted detail, characters and situations left to the viewer’s imagination.

There are people in my family who have the inborn talent for creating images from their imagination and a few raw materials, into beautiful, breathless pictures. But this talent was passed over me in the gene pool. Instead, I was given the gift of words. Forever I am doomed to write, to speak, to say in order to communicate, and it is my undoing.

As time goes on, I am becoming increasingly aware that my words are often too many, too inappropriate, too revealing, too early or too late. They cut and burn, bind and loose. My words, especially, have caused me much trouble throughout the course of my life. The older and more aware of the follies of life I become, I find myself holding them back, reserving them, changing them from their original form in thought to something that is more pleasing to the hearer.

And yet, as though I am a river endlessly moving forward, unable to contain the flow of myself in and around, and through those with whom I share my world, inevitably somewhere I spill, a pouring, raining, flooding torrent of words, words better left unshared rush forth, unsolicited, unwanted, misunderstood. My words are unchained like the waters breaking forth after the crumbling of a mighty dam. They twist, they push, they rearrange the landscape with a force unstoppable, and I cannot protect myself from the consequences of their release.

I have so often desired to be a silent being, a muse, mime who speaks only in silence, a shadow who alludes to the story, but influences no one with my speaking. Let life go on as it will, how it will, where it will, and let my words be silenced before they proceed out of my mouth. How easy and trouble free a life that would be, I think.

Oh, to paint in marvelous colors and light, to sharpen or mute the scene to set a mood, a thought, to allow the viewer to see what he or she desires to see, without punctuation or phrase. To be a silent and beautiful statue without the scars of pronouncement, and posture, and opinion.

Pictures are a story subjective to the reader, a question left unanswered. Words are truth. They are sharp, piercing, impulsive, destructive. They are my enemy, and yet daily they are demanded of me…”might you know…would you ask…tell us…please explain…why did you…can you answer…” Am I not enough without my words, which expose me? I am naked and uncovered for my words, and I am shamed by their display. Silence is a powerful weapon. Were it my shield I would be happy at last.

There Will Be Pain

You lovingly uncoiled the new whip from its nesting place inside the plain white box. You smiled, thanked me for the gift, tested its weight in your hand, and ran your fingers along the braided handle, woven in red and black, the colors of bruising, and blood.

“Are you sure you want me to use this on you?” you asked, genuinely curious, and added “That’s a lot of pain.”

“Yes.” I replied, hoping you’d understand that I knew what my “yes” meant. We’ve had this conversation before, you and I, about pushing limits, about pain, about my reactions to it, and the places within its corridors where I am willing, and unwilling to go.

I’m not a masochist. I see the pictures my friends post after nights of hard play, and I cringe at how deep and bloody their bruises are, as I mentally calculate how long it will take them to heal, and how long it will be before they again crave to be the canvas for the sadist’s blows. I wonder silently if it’s ever good to go to that place so repeatedly, not judging, but curious as to how they could want it so much, and so often.

I cry when you hit me hard. I tell myself every time I’m not going to, but I always do, and you respond by taking the level down, slowing the hits, making them softer and less impacting. Then later, when we are through, I always ask “Why did you stop?” I try to explain to you that the tears are cathartic for me, that they are natural, and they don’t mean I’ve been damaged, and that I am willing to go a little bit further.

But I know why. Because you are not a sadist. Oh, certainly you are intellectually cruel, like when you are teaching me to be patient when you know I really want something now, or when you are navigating me through the waters of a delicious mind fuck, or taking an extremely long time to answer a question I have asked, even pretending not to notice I have spoken, and then later, jumping up suddenly and doing the thing I requested, as if you had never made me wait. You know how to make my mind wrestle and squirm with all sorts of delightful, thoughtful anguish, but physical pain is not something you enjoy giving on a regular basis, and most of the time that suits me just fine.

But sometimes, I need to go to that place, the way some survivors of the holocaust feel the need to visit the prison camps where they were held and tortured, a place where pain is deep, and lasting, and real. I need to embrace it, face it head on, like a haunted house in which I once dwelled, or an old foe who never dies, one whom I must periodically battle to prove I can conquer it, and keep my universe safe. I seek its sharp taste on my tongue, like a rare delicacy that one only consumes a few times in life, but when the craving for it becomes overwhelming, they will do anything and everything to find it until they are satisfied. I need to feel the flames of its fire licking at my skin, until it burns everything that is chaff inside my soul, and I come out on the other side, re-forged, stronger, new.

There was a scene between us not long ago. We were in a public place. You suspended me by my wrists, arms stretched up high, toes on the floor, just barely balanced, completely vulnerable. Something inside of you must have been charged by the sight of my naked flesh exposed so openly, nowhere to escape, no place to cringe, or hide from the attack. You struck, and you struck some more, and you continued to strike, past the point of my tears and begging, far past the point where you normally would have stopped and released me from my anguish, loosened my bonds and let me rest. You kept going, harder, faster, crueler with every blow, until finally you knew I was spent, when I was sweating and trembling, unable to balance myself any longer, looking to you in silence where my words failed, but my eyes said “Enough. No more.” Only then did you unfasten my bonds and allow me to fall into your lap, a shivering, melted mess. It was everything I needed.

I love your care for me, your concern that hurting me too much will somehow damage me, or bring back things to the surface I no longer wish to remember, times when others hurt me without regard for my safety, or my sanity. They hurt to please themselves, and not for good. You are good. You please yourself, but you want to satisfy me too. I love it that you keep me warm, and protected and safe. I love it that you receive some of your best enjoyment from giving me orgasms that blow my mind and bring me the kind of pleasure I never knew existed until you found me. I love it that you are loving, and kind, and always in control.

But I’m not a baby in this life we live anymore. I’m growing up. When I first came to you I was afraid, full of nightmares, and bruises on my heart that wouldn’t heal. I’m not afraid anymore. You’ve given me so much confidence, but like the worried parent of a teenager, you are cautious, and ever mindful. There are many things I’ve only seen up close, and never felt for myself, but I am ‘old enough’ to know I want them. I’m self aware enough to know what makes me curious, what I like, and what I need. I know what pain is, and what it can, and cannot do for me.

When you tell me, as you run your hands over the new red and black whip, “That’s a lot of pain.”, it’s meant to caution me that I may be asking for something for which I am not prepared, but I promise you, I’ve been prepared all of my life.

When I was emotionally and physically abused by those who were supposed to take care of me and love me, that was a lot of pain.

When my grandmother, whose favorite I was, and who was the only person from my childhood who truly loved me, died before I was even grown, that was a lot of pain.

When my oldest daughter disappeared from my life at the age of two, and still I have never seen her face to face, or held her since that day, that was a lot of pain.

When I wrecked my car late that awful night, and they had to piece the shattered remains of my right arm back together with metal rods and pins, that was a lot of pain.

When my apartment caught fire, and I lost many of my most sentimental possessions, like photos and letters, that was a lot of pain.

When my children were born, two without anesthesia, one who nearly tore me apart, and one who stubbornly refused to come out until I had pushed with every last bit of my strength for over three hours, that was a lot of pain.

When those whom I have called friend died from cruel, horrible diseases and tragedies far too young, that was a lot of pain.

When they boarded up the windows of my house, changed the locks, and put a sign out front saying it now belonged to the mortgage company, and I realized I would never again walk inside and feel the warm breezes blow through my living room windows, kissing the lace curtains that hung there, or that I would never again sit with my children on that front porch swing and read and sing to them while my pink and white dogwoods bloomed in the front yard before me, that was a lot of pain.

When my last marriage ended, and my children and I lived alone in the world, on the verge of poverty and hunger, and I was devoid of hope, and in despair, that was a lot of pain.

When a former lover whom I foolishly allowed back into my life out of loneliness kept me prisoner inside my house one day for hours, beating me, boxing my ear so hard my eye was swollen shut and I was deaf for a week, that was a lot of pain.

The pain in those things was not in the things themselves, but in their unapologetic finality. There is no parting of the stone wall as the car careens toward it, no mercy with a greedy corporate bank, no coming back from death, no aftercare in abuse.

No pain that life can give will ever cut as deeply now that I belong to you, the one who cares for me. No whip held in your hand could ever bite my skin and leave a mark as indelible as any pain I have already endured, despite its sting.

There will be pain, and I will cry, but it will have a purpose, and I trust you, and your love, to cover it.

toriko

Abuse And Manipulation: My Analysis of The ’50 Shades’ Movie Version

First, let me preface this writing by saying that I have never read any of the three E.L. James books, nor do I have any intention of doing so, as I see no need in order to understand the basic premise of the story. Knowing more details included in the printed version will not likely change my mind or opinions.

Last Friday I went with three other ladies to see the by now notorious opening of “50 Shades of Grey”. So far, I’ve kept quiet about the movie, choosing instead to sit back a while and read what others have written about it. Within those writings I have gleaned a lot of what I see as truth from their perspectives. I’ve also read some things with which I heartily disagree, but that’s the beauty of living in a place where we are free to express our opinions: Everyone is entitled to their own perspective.

I’ve tried all morning to organize my random thoughts about what I saw in this film into something as concise and well put together as some of the other pieces I’ve read, but unfortunately my mind just doesn’t work that way when dealing with subject matter laden with emotional impact, so I’m simply going to outline my most dominant (pun intended) thoughts in no particular order.

1.Regarding the outcry from those of us in the community who bash this movie for its technical and relational faux pas as they relate to actual BDSM encounters and/or relationships:

I think it’s an important fact to remember that E.L. James did not write these novels, nor did Hollywood make this movie with the intention to accurately depict the realm of actual BDSM. This is a classic bad guy/good girl suspenseful love story, nothing more, albeit with abusive elements throughout (more on that later). BDSM is simply the vehicle the author has chosen through which to portray the dark side of Christian Grey. It’s the door that opens and allows us to see more deeply inside his character, and why he is “the way he (is)”. (Christian repeats this line more than once in the movie when queried by Anastasia about his need for BDSM. “It’s just the way that I am”. Unfortunately, in this particular installment of the story, we are only given a glimpse of what actually makes Christian tick, as none of it is clearly explained until (I assume) the story progresses in the content of the two following novels in the series.

2.The Character of Christian Grey uses dangerous stalking behavior to manipulate Anastasia into desiring him and his “tastes”.

The stalking was the first behavior that struck me as inappropriate and scary on so many levels. Early in the movie he suddenly appears at her job, having secured a suite at a hotel nearby to where Anastasia lives and works. In a later scene, having been smitten by his curious appeal, she drunk dials him from a local bar after having profusely celebrated with friends, and he instantly “knows” where she is, and comes to “rescue” her from her night of debauchery without not only her coherent consent (she gives in, but she is drunk at the time, having first told him that she has friends to take her home), but also without consulting her friend as to whether or not she needed his assistance. He then brings her to his hotel suite instead of her own apartment, effectively isolating her from the safety of her friends should anything untoward have occurred there. Later still, he sneaks up on her in her new apartment while she is busy arranging her things, and later still, breaks in on her in the middle of the night after they had an internet conversation where she teases him. In an even later scene still, jealous and angry that Anastasia has gone to Savannah to visit her mother, he suddenly shows up at a hotel where they are dining and having drinks, chastising her not only for leaving him to go on the visit, but on how much alcohol she is drinking, even though at this point in the story she is not technically “his” anything, girlfriend, sub, or otherwise, at least not by the standards he has set forth to her from the beginning. He also secures a room in this hotel, so that Anastasia basically has no safe place she can go to remove herself from this man’s presence and gather her own thoughts about anything, including their relationship.

3.Christian Grey’s character is that of an emotional abuser who uses jealousy, manipulation, and classic “push-pull” behavior to draw Anastasia in, and then keep her at an emotional distance once she is there.

There are just so many wrongs here. From the very beginning Christian tells Anastasia that he is not interested in a romantic relationship, that he does not “make love”, he “fucks”, that he will not touch her in any sexual way until the contract he has provided her is signed, and that he does not sleep with the women with whom he is involved. Almost immediately afterwards, alone in an elevator with Anastasia, he growls into her ear the sexually charged line “Fuck the paperwork.” and proceeds to kiss her passionately. In a later scene, Anastasia tells him by happenstance that she is a virgin, and he immediately responds by wooing her into his bedroom and making torrid, vanilla-style love to her on the spot, followed by sleeping in the bed with her all night afterwards, an act which obviously lulls the character of Anastasia into thinking that perhaps he can love romantically and his “evil” exterior is just a mask, as evidenced by her smiling at him sleeping beside her. Then, in almost every sexual interaction afterwards, he flatly refuses to do this again, much to her consternation, and even leaves her alone in her “room” in his apartment after her very first intense BDSM encounter with him. (More on that later also.)

His emotional abuse goes even further. He regularly rebukes her express desires regarding the need for mutual touch and affection. He chastises her for things she does that are against the “rules” even though their negotiations have never been completed, making her feel that she has been “bad” when in fact she has done nothing wrong. He also (seemingly) feigns a dinner date with a previous female counterpart after she calls him from her mother’s house in Savannah, a visit of which he did not approve and about which he was not happy, to implant doubt and jealousy in her mind.

Also, his contract includes a non-disclosure agreement, which Ana does sign, which states that she is not allowed to discuss any aspect of their relationship or activities with anyone else, ever, effectively silencing her and isolating her from seeking any advice or feedback from her protective circle of trusted family and friends. He also constantly devalues her relationship to a close male friend who is obviously a true gentleman, and interested in her, and thwarts his every attempt at closeness with Anastasia by making sure he is there to block his efforts, thereby giving Ana little opportunity to explore the possibility of growing relationships with others.

4.There is barely a hint of implied consent in the BDSM encounters in the movie, and the “rules” are more often than not broken in favor of the passion of the moment.

One of the main props in the story is the ubiquitous “contract” which Christian Grey requires to be signed by all of his submissives before any sort of relationship or contact begins.

However, in the case of Anastasia, a decidedly (at first) frumpy, unkempt, inarticulate graduate student, it is decidedly unbelievable how this industrious, driven, determined young billionaire of 27 who has thus far managed to maintain the discipline it requires to develop and maintain a huge corporation, and also get a helicopter’s pilot license with permits to carry passengers on top of that, and ALSO have time to have been, before Ana appears, Dominant over FIFTEEN different women, can be so easily swayed and smitten by her immaturity and feminine charms, which are few at first, but grow increasingly, (but obviously) cat and mouse like. One would think that a man of his implied intelligence and discipline would be able to steel himself (especially since he repeatedly verbally attests to his own distaste for “romance”) against the wiles of such a babe in the woods, and not only that, but her novice status, paired with his implied experience, would cause him to be extra careful with such a girl when it comes to taking kinky things slowly.

He begins by generously obliging her curiosity and growing desire for light kinky play (in reference to the scenes with the infamous grey silk ties), despite having told her previously that no such acts will occur without her express signed consent in the aforementioned contract. At one point, he eventually introduces her to play in the “red room” where he performs a number of BDSM acts upon her, again, with her implied consent, but no firm consent and contract (as per his own rules).

In fact, we are quickly disappointed to find that Christian Grey thinks with his dick first, like so many other men in vanilla relationships, and men with kinky desires but not a clue as to how they should be acted upon in such a way as to not cause physical or emotional harm to their chosen bottom. Sure, we hear the subject of safe words mentioned more than once in this movie, and he reminds her of them during a scene that is portrayed, but still one comes away with the feeling that Anastasia was so carried away by the sexual aspect of what he was doing, and her growing love for him, that he could have led her anywhere and she would have followed, even to her own detriment. And let’s not forget, that EVERY one of their scenes in this movie occurred without his own contract, which he insisted earlier was uniquely important, being signed by Anastasia.

5.If BDSM carried a license to practice, Christian Grey should certainly have had his revoked, or at least suspended.

Christian Grey was not what I would consider to be a safe, or even compassionate player in any way. It really was all about him, and how his desires could be satisfied, and he was willing to manipulate a shy, unwitting girl in any way he could to impose those desires upon her.

Two particular scenes stand out in my mind regarding this comment. After playing with Anastasia for the very first time in the red room, Christian carries an obviously sub-spaced out Anastasia to her “room” in his apartment, lays her down on the bed and leaves her there for most of the night, while he returns to the living area and broodingly plays the piano. She awakens sometime later, physically giving cues that she wants his attention, and he carries her off again to “make love”. The latter part of the scene isn’t what troubled me. It was the first part, where he left her alone in a room behind a closed door in an obvious state of sub space, in a place where she was unfamiliar, and didn’t stay behind to make sure she was physically okay, emotionally okay, or that she didn’t hurt herself in some way accidentally. NOT cool.

In the final BDSM encounter between the two in the movie, Anastasia, in a desperate attempt to “understand” Christian’s darkness and need for these elements in a relationship (um, was she on some other planet before, or didn’t she get the memo while he was busy tying her up and flogging her, et. al?…he gets his rocks off on it honey, or wasn’t that obvious?), there is this weird shift where he turns all doom and gloom and alluded to the fact that it is indeed all about punishment (huh?) and concedes (albeit dubiously) to her demand that he “show” her “how bad it can be”, at which point he takes her to the playroom, instructs her to stay still and count, while he wales on her with a braided belt at full force six heavy strikes. Now, I’m no expert by any means, but any Dom worth his salt who KNOWS without a shadow of a doubt that his sub doesn’t have a clear understanding of heavy impact play, or what it feels like, should not be going whole hog on her the first time in with six heavy strikes with anypotentially damaging instrument. It is true that Anastasia asked for it, but it is also obvious that she did not know exactly what it was she was asking for. Nor did she feel safe during that encounter, as she had during past encounters with Christian, since just prior to the scene, his demeanor had changed into something deeper and darker than she had seen before in him. He also didn’t bother to explain to her that darkness or its origin beforehand in an attempt to make her understand, or feel safe. He did ask her if she was sure she wanted it, and she agree, but again, he also was aware that she had no idea what she was about to experience, and therefore could not have given what one would consider “informed” consent.

6.Finally, to those who wish to vilify Anastasia Steele for her own “consent violations” against Christian Grey, here are my thoughts:

Sure, she manipulated him and teased him a bit mid way through the movie, realizing for the first time that she had “game” and the ability to drive a man crazy with desire. That feeling is empowering for any woman. She also, according to some, used that growing desire he had for her against him and attempted many times to push him into the type of relationship that he had reiterated numerous times he didn’t want, begging for things like dates, affection, and sleeping together. But, he also used these things against her, again, to gain his own desires, by constantly throwing her carrots as she followed him. He took her on spectacular surprise activities. He slept with her (once), conceded during their contract negotiations to regular “dates” once a week as a reward for his appreciation of her investment in the process of negotiating with him, and even introduced her to an airplane pilot, and more importantly, to his mother as his “girlfriend”. Therefore, I think it’s reasonable to say that if there is any blame at all in the relationship being purposefully misappropriated, it lies with both, but certainly more with Christian, who was clearly more experienced at the game of manipulation, and had more weapons at his disposal (money, power, etc.) than she.

:::SPOILER ALERT::: The movie ends (thankfully) with Anastasia returning to Christian all of the gifts he has given her, and after having indicated that she wished to end their relationship, very firmly leaving him behind the closing door of the elevator, and if you ask me, that’s the best way the story could end in finality.

Alas, however…there are two more installments to come. Enjoy, girls. I probably won’t be attending any of those. 🙂

Your Dominance Is My Gift

I give myself to you, every day, this is true, but my submission is not a gift. It was my choice to submit to you, but was is not altruistic, or even for reasons of honor that I first served you.

You didn’t ask for me to come and be your slave. You simply offered me a chance, a choice. You gave me the option to choose to be with you, or not. If I hadn’t come you wouldn’t have fallen desperately into some deep depression over the lack of something precious you had been denied. I chose to be owned by you because eventually I knew I could trust you. This was not a gift. It was a revelation. If I had not made this choice, your life would have gone on without me as if nothing had happened at all.

I didn’t come to you out of grand respect, or reverence. I came to you out of need. On so many levels I needed someone to rescue me, to reclaim me, to dust me off, bandage my wounds, and give me a place to heal. These were the things you provided for me first, room to breathe, to think, to process all that had happened before this time, and to find myself again in the midst of the ashes. Peace was the first gift you gave to me.

In those early days I was angry, petulant, difficult, and moody. I spoke of submission but I didn’t know how to submit. There was nothing beautiful or poetic about my succumbing to your will. It was a penance I felt I had to pay, to repay, for your time, your care, your provision. You didn’t wrestle it from me, and I didn’t give it easily. You simply waited. You waited for me to calm the waters, to see clearly, to believe, to trust you. Patience was the second gift you gave to me.

In the months that followed you proclaimed your love over me. You told me this every day, despite my dubious looks and my shattered heart that refused to acknowledge that love could even exist under such circumstances. I was still a girl you hardly knew, an orphan, a challenge, a conquest. You couldn’t possibly love me, one who had made such a mess of so many things, who was intelligent and strong and yet still couldn’t manage to make something out of her own pathetic life. I pushed you out of my heart, and denied you access to it, until slowly, slowly you managed to soften it, to make it pliable, responsive to you, and connected to you. Love was the third gift you gave to me.

Yet, though there was now love, still I challenged you almost relentlessly. I was not an easy girl to love, not eagerly obedient, not graceful and quiet, not even respectful most days. I rose against you in anger, wanting things I didn’t even know how to express, and rejecting the things you offered, thinking I knew better what I needed. I ignited your anger more than once, and yet you still never beat me in punishment, or denied me access to communicate with you, or put me out, as you might have many times. Mercy was your fourth gift to me.

And here we are now, well over two years later. Oceans of words and misunderstandings, and things learned, and re-learned surround us, and bear us up. In this quiet little oasis, which I now confidently call my home, in your arms into which I now settle with the trust of the child needing your strength, I find peace in knowing you truly own me, heart, body, and soul. I no longer doubt, or fear, or fret about not having things I see in others, because what you have given me is, and always has been perfect.

Your Dominance is your highest gift to me. Every time you chase away my demons at night after one of my nightmares, every time you take on a challenge for me and smooth the way, every time you defend me, protect me, correct me, encourage me, uplift me, make me smile when I am too serious, despite the fact that you’ve had a long, hard day out in the world, providing for the four of us, every time you show me you are capable, dependable, and absolutely and without a doubt in charge, it is my gift. I have given you nothing except to return to you what you deserve in respect and gratitude. My submission is rightfully yours for all you have done, and more importantly, for who you are, and have proven yourself to be for me, for U/us.

You Master, are my gift, and I wouldn’t choose any other.

Wet

You sit next to me in our little office. We are never alone. A constant parade of people move in and out around us, a dangerous, yet blessed distraction as we type prescriptions and try to decipher the scrawled notes of the physician’s assistant on duty.

“Dick” you scribble on a post it note, sliding it over to me as the PA, not our favorite, drivels on and on about the patient in room #2, and how this is the last time he is going to prescribe her usual medicine unless she learns to comply with his orders. I snort in spite of myself, and study you as you purse your lips together, pretending to be intent on reading your computer screen as his voice drones on. You’re subtly mimicking his gestures, eyes widening and narrowing with each pompous comment, and by now I am nearly in tears from trying not to laugh.

“Did you get all that?” He startles me and I nod, not having comprehended anything he said. “Shit.” I mutter. “I didn’t get any of that.” You laugh out loud at me, but I know you aren’t making fun of me, and that unlike me, you heard every word.

“Let me show you what he means.” You lean into my space to reach my computer, your long, slender fingers dancing softly on my keyboard. I try to remain intent on your explanation, but your closeness has me captivated. One firm breast hovers, suspended right under the palm of my hand. I imagine what it would be like to touch it, then shake the thought away.

Jesus, what am I doing? I’m old enough to be your mother, though your earthly age is far younger than your age in wisdom. In your fiery light blue eyes I see an old soul, savvy, confident, strong. It is these things that set my heart beating quickly every time you are near.

I try to focus on the screen. You finish your explanation and go back to your work. You’re patient with me and I appreciate it. You started this job fresh out of school and have been here far longer than I. I’m a middle aged divorcee with two kids to raise on my own, a roll of belly fat, and grey hairs that stubbornly refuse to succumb to being colored for very long. My hard life shows in my body, and my face. I got this job through pure luck, and most of the time I’m faking knowing things I should just to keep it.

It isn’t lost on me how in this little world we share, our roles are reversed. You know I struggle and yet, unlike most your age who thrive on competition and would sabotage me for job security, you have my back. You’re one of the few people around whom I can relax, and don’t have to pretend. You get it. You’ve been there. Before you were 23 you had four kids and already had your tubes tied. Life has dealt with you hard and fast. We’re a match, you and I.

The phone beside my mouse pad vibrates and I see it’s my current male counterpart. This is the eleventh time he’s called in twenty minutes and I’m a nervous wreck. He’s in one of his moods today. I stare at the phone, pick it up, and put it down again, conflicted. Do I want to risk another night long tirade of him coming to my door at midnight, demanding repeatedly to be let in?

He knows I won’t let it go on forever, and that I don’t want him to wake the kids. Weary from the relentless knocking and pleading, I reluctantly open the door. It is not long afterward he is able to woo me again into complacency, and takes what he came for, while I silently curse myself for being so easy to take, but loneliness is a far more cruel partner than deceit, so I endure. Later, when he’s satisfied I’m asleep, he leaves me in the softening pink light to go meet his estranged wife for morning coffee, and probably fuck her too. He thinks I’m oblivious, both to his leaving, and his liason, as I cast one shielded eye across the room and watch him stumble around for his clothes. He hovers to kiss me goodbye, decides not to risk waking me, and tiptoes out.

“Why do you put up with his shit?” you ask, snapping me out of my deep thoughts. It’s almost more of a statement than a question. I don’t need to answer you. We’ve had this conversation many times, and you look at me with the disappointment of a mother who knows her child can get a better grade on a recent test. I feel strangely worse for disappointing you than I do for not answering his call.

The clock finally reaches the pinnacle of the work day. Time to go home. We follow each other out to the exit and open the door. Huge thunderclouds pour out a deluge of rain, threatening to drown us. Neither of us has an umbrella, or a coat. Your quick, clever mind tells you to say “My car is closer. I’ll make a run for it and pick you up and drive you to yours, okay?”

You pull up and I squeeze inside as fast as my heavy frame will let me. You drive one of those baby sized crossovers, and you are sitting close enough for me to count the raindrops sliding from your hairline down the nape of your long, pale neck. The inside of your car smells like cotton candy and rain, mixed with the pomegranate body lotion you apply to your hands and arms religiously every day while in the office. I mentally note the paper trash, toys, and sippy cups strewn about, and remember that you are someone else entirely when you leave this place. Mommy. Wife. I try to imagine you at home in bed with your husband, spooning naked, his cock impaling your pretty flesh. I am jealous.

The reality of what awaits me later after my own kids have gone to sleep washes over me suddenly in a torrent. You are only a girl, and yet I find myself feeling like a scared child, reluctant to go home, wishing you could protect me. I want to lay my head in the crook of your neck and inhale your scent. I want to bury my face in your shoulder and cry long and deeply. I want to taste your lips and tongue while you smooth my hair and shush me and tell me everything is going to be alright, letting your fingers find that warm place where I ache to be touched by someone who really cares for me. Hot tears begin to form behind my eyes as I realize I will never tell you any of this.

In a flash, we are at my parking space. You smile at me generously with those bright eyes and say “See you tomorrow.” I thank you and begin to exit, and you punctuate it with one more thing. “Don’t get too wet.”

“I’ll try not to.” I reply, and watch you drive away, soaking in the rain.

Copyright 2014 torikosoul

Safety In The Scene

Those of us who have been in the lifestyle for some time are aware of (and hopefully practice) the tenets of Safe, Sane, and Consensual, and/or R.A.C.K. (risk-aware consensual kink).

These words should be self-explanatory on some level, but for those of us who are less experienced, or are exploring our kinky side for the first time, let’s examine more deeply what these words really mean in practical terms.

(Disclaimer: This writing is not meant to be an all-encompassing, comprehensive list of all of the potential advice that can be given on safety in the lifestyle, but merely lists examples of how this can be achieved. It is highly recommended that you become involved in a local munch or group in your community that provides either educational resources, and/or members seasoned in the lifestyle who can and are willing to act as mentors and guides to help you find your way on your journey.)

SAFE:
Your safety as a practicing kinkster is paramount. There are obvious (and not so obvious) risks involved in the things that we do. It is your responsibility as an adult to take measures to ensure your own safety. Some common sense rules of thumb should always apply.

NEVER travel to meet someone you don’t know or haven’t met and become comfortable with first. If you do intend to arrange play with someone new, always arrange to meet in a public place first, not for play, but to get acquainted with one another, and get a feel for the person, etc. Trust your gut if it tells you something is “off” or not quite right with the person’s answers to your questions, etc. It is understood that many people in the lifestyle want to keep personal details of their lives separate from their kink, but anyone who wants to eventually play with you privately should be willing to at least answer a minimal amount of questions that satisfy your comfort level.

When you do meet publicly for the first time, ALWAYS inform a trusted friend or loved one of your intended destination, whom you are meeting, and the approximate time you intend on being there. Arrange for this person to call you at a pre-specified time, and make sure you answer the call (this is known as a “safe call”), so that they know you are not in any danger. If play is negotiated between you and your date during this first meeting, always call your “safe-call” buddy and let them know you are going to play, where you will be, and how long you intend to be there. This will give them a frame of reference as to your whereabouts should problems arise. When you are finished with your play time, call your buddy and let them know you are on your way home safely, or have arrived home safely.

Never reveal to anyone you do not know and trust, either online or in person, your address, place of employment, or any piece of information that will cause them to be able to locate you and give you unwanted attention or cause you harm. Check your privacy settings on all social media accounts and make sure that any information you do not wish to get into the wrong hands is secure.

Always have a cell phone handy and fully charged, and some form of GPS to avoid becoming lost in unfamiliar areas. Keep emergency supplies in your car in case you are broken down unexpectedly, or become injured and are not near any available sources of help. If you can do so legally, keep something handy you can use for a defensive weapon in case you are assaulted.

When responding to personal ads on FetLife, or any other kink site, pay close attention to the person’s profile. What sort of information do they offer in their “about me” section? How many friends do they have, and are any of them mutual to yours? How many photos and of what type? What groups do they belong to? What do they talk about most in their writings? Are they open and honest about the other relationships they might be in? If they are involved in multiple relationships and levels of relationships, are their other partners aware of and approving of their activities? All of these are good indicators as to whether you are dealing with someone who is safe, or even a real person who is who they claim to be, in some cases.

SANE:
What type of play is considered “sane” to one person may differ for another. In this case, the term is subjective, but certain things should (hopefully) always be considered.

*For instance, if you are into breath play, always make sure the person with whom you are playing has appropriate training on how to revive you in case of emergency, or that another person is present to “spot” the activity to make sure tragedy does not occur.

Don’t insert things into orifices that could potentially break inside and become impossible to remove and/or cause morbid internal injury. (A person can die of internal bleeding in as little as 20 minutes depending on what blood vessels or organs are involved in the bleeding.)

Use common sense when, for instance, fulfilling a fantasy of playing in an open area. Don’t risk a potentially life-threatening outcome, or a possible jail sentence. It simply isn’t wise, and could ruin, or worse, end your life. There are all forms of extreme kink out there, but all of them can be practiced with common sense and keen presence of mind to avoid far-reaching consequences later on.

CONSENSUAL:
In order to be able to fulfill any of our kinky fantasies with others, we must all adhere to this one vital rule, consent. If a person has not consented for you to perform a certain act upon them, or engage in a certain activity with them, and you do so, you have violated their consent, and vice versa. Always remember, despite the tongue-in-cheek jokes you’ve heard, unless otherwise specified beforehand, “NO means NO!” Period.

The way to ensure proper consent in any play session is to first negotiate the terms of play. Negotiation should be practiced both for impromptu play in public spaces, and certainly before any play in private is done.

In negotiation, questions are asked and answered which pertain not only to the person’s general state of mind before play, but also specific things that need to be covered. For instance, what are your hard or soft limits, (things you will absolutely NOT do, vs. things you might consider doing, but find daunting). What things are you completely on board with, and what are you willing to do with no further negotiation needed? How is your general health, and are there any conditions you have that might prevent say, being tied up in a particular fashion, hung upside down, flogged repeatedly, poked with needles or scratched, etc.? Do you have any phobias? Allergies (especially to things like latex)? What will be your safe word, (or gesture if gagged, hooded, etc.) if you wish to end the scene? What is it that you hope to gain/learn/experience from the sort of play in which you are about to engage? This is not a comprehensive list, by all means, but it illustrates the importance of what should be discussed.

A good place to start for discovering what sort of things interest and/or repel you involving kink is by printing and going over a BDSM checklist. This can be done either alone, or with a play partner, or life partner, if the two of you are exploring kink for the first time, or wish to gain a clearer perspective of your roles and expectations in such a relationship. An example of a good BDSM checklist can be found here: (but there are others also).

http://www.cepemo.com/checklist.html

Finally, RISK-AWARE:
Be aware that in all forms of kinky expression, some activities carry more risk than others, but they all carry risk, both physical and emotional. Accidents happen. Injuries occur. Feelings get hurt when relationships are not clearly stated and are perhaps misunderstood. The chemicals released by the body during play can trigger all sorts of emotional responses, some good, some bad. People are fallible and make mistakes, either in negotiation, or in inferring consent, or otherwise. It is important when things like this happen to be able to discern whether it was an intentional act, an honest mistake, or a mere reaction to the play itself. The goal is to come out on the other side as happy and fulfilled as possible, with no (or minimal) negative impact. Don’t throw the baby out with the bath water if something you tried doesn’t feel or go right the first time. Perhaps it just wasn’t the right time, or the right person, or circumstances. Don’t be afraid to try again, or change gears and try something different.

The key is to know yourself and specifically what you want and desire out of this lifestyle, and do the things that fulfill those desires, with open eyes, and an open mind. Eventually you will find yourself growing, and your wants and needs evolving. This is common. You will try things that you thought were exciting at first, and discover later you didn’t like them at all. You will also discover that you are one day drawn to do things you never thought in a million years you would, or could. The possibilities of discovery on this journey are endless. Keep yourself safe, but don’t forget to enjoy the ride!

toriko

Darkness

It was a quarter till midnight, and she was still shaking from the sting of his whip, followed by fifty whacks from the horrid wooden spoon he kept in the nightstand drawer specifically to tame her occasional insolent behavior. Fifty. He had never hit her that many times before with any instrument, even in play, and that alone was enough to make her understand that tonight would be different.

She had been punished for her prideful tongue, this she knew, but there was something else he wanted from her this time, he said, his eyes searching hers for the fear he knew he would find there after he spoke the words. A sinister grin played upon his face that sent shivers down her spine as he touched her cheek ever so lightly. He carefully traced the line of her jaw, eventually finding a lock of her long, curly hair, and wound it around and in between his fingers, ever tighter, weaving an imaginary tapestry, the design of which she could only anticipate, or dread, as he led her over to the corner and ordered her to her knees…

Now, all was silent. The room was pitch black, thick and heavy with the absence of light that shrouds one with its weight, slowly creeping inside one’s soul, until there is no division between inside or outside, body or mind, only darkness, eternal and hopeless.

In this darkness she sat, or rather squatted uncomfortably on the tile floor in the alcove just at the edge of the bathroom door. Shackled as she was, she was unable to move more than an inch or two either up or down, or to either side, as if she could be sure any longer the concept of self direction, since the blackness had stolen not only her outside senses, but the ones related to time and space as well.

She had no idea how long she had remained there, awaiting his instructions. Once he had fastened her bonds to his liking, and drawn the thick, heavy black curtains across the windows, designed specifically for his particular intentions, he told her he would return shortly and tell her what she was to do next. His eyes had taken on a frightening look, deep and swirling with a darkness of their own, and she could see he had gone into the depths of his own depravity and arranged for her to be the medium through which he would manifest every bit of his horrendous, evil thoughts.

She squirmed inside her carefully threaded bonds like a helpless, tortured puppet, not permitted to speak, unable to do anything but implore him with a look meant to garner his sympathy, even for a brief moment. He rebuked her silent pleas as if they burned him, and commanded her to cast her eyes down, that she was not worthy to look him in the eye, much less hold her head up in his presence. She was truly reticent for the way she had spoken to him earlier, aside from the chains and the feeling of impending doom that now crept inside her belly like a horrible insect, but her apologies had of course, come far too late.

She immediately complied, and heard him rise and walk over to the doorway. The moment he switched off the light, she was plunged into sudden and utter darkness that caused a small gasp to escape her lips, as if to protest, but she hushed herself, biting her tongue to keep from crying out, knowing she would get the lash again for her complaint.

Her thighs and ass were already sore from his beating earlier, and she realized now she also was wincing from the pain within her bonds, drawing blood from her lip as she bit down hard, trying to contain the tears that refused to submit to her attempts to suppress them. They burned and stung her eyes, rolling in hot rivulets down her cheeks, but she could not brush them away, chained as she was, with her hands behind her back, nor could she bend down and wipe her face against her arms or legs, since she was also chained snugly from collar to waist, neck bent back slightly, so that moving her head forward even a small amount caused her to choke as her collar pressed firmly to her throat.

The chain continued between her ass cheeks, and around to the front, in between her cunt lips, so that each way she moved caused an opposing friction that was both painful, and at the same time frustratingly arousing. Her nipples stiffened in excitement, bare of any instruments, as he preferred them to be, so that he had access to torture them with his cruel, twisting fingers at any moment.

She felt the wetness building between her legs each time she struggled to shuffle into a more comfortable position. Quickly realizing there was none, she settled for merely trying to keep balanced on the balls of her feet, since any sudden movement to either side would surely cause her to topple, lose her footing, and land on her side, rendering her utterly helpless, and this she wanted to avoid at all costs.

She squatted there for what seemed like hours in the thick blackness, occasionally managing to make small, shuffling steps this way and that across the cold tile, in an attempt to ease the cramps in her aching muscles, which were already screaming to be loosed from their torment. Along with her growing fear and frustration at her predicament, she was also forced to deal with the increasingly strong need to urinate, which she had previously tried to ignore. She frantically contemplated her options, and reluctantly squeezed her inner muscles tighter inside herself, trying to avoid the inevitable.

It was then he spoke, punctuating the darkness with his thick, low voice, startling her out of her private thoughts. She could hear that he was some distance from her in the room, and she had no idea how long he had been there watching her struggle. He had long ago proven to her that his night vision was far superior to hers, and she was certain that despite the darkness, he could see and sense every pitiful movement she displayed with the keen eye of a cat toying with its prey before the kill. She squirmed uncomfortably in her shackles, ashamed for him to enjoy her suffering this way.

“Use the floor.” was all he said. Matter of fact. Cold, with just a hint of a smirk underneath.

She bristled for a moment, unsure at first what he meant, and realizing just as quickly his intention, wondering how he was able to discern her plight. She hesitated, hoping that feigning misunderstanding would cause him to change his mind. It did not.

“Use the floor, cunt.” he said again, this time less amusingly and with a hint of malice. “Piss.” he clarified, extending the “s” sound, repeating it slowly, as if he were simplifying his instructions to a toddler or a small child.

She hesitated yet again, and felt a swift, sudden movement as his foot nudged her ass, nearly toppling her over to her side like an unsuspecting cow. Miraculously, she retained her balance, after a slight wobble, but the sudden impact had startled her and caused a bit of urine to begin to dribble out on its own, against her will. How pitifully amusing she must have looked to him, still trying to retain even a shred of dignity, foolishly daring to think she even had a slight bit of control over her own fate in this predicament.

“Piss on the floor, bitch!” he commanded, loudly this time, and with great impatience.

Just as her body was able to respond instantly to his commandments to cum during times when, at the pinnacle of rough and heavy play, her arousal had built to such an extent that refusal was physically impossible, so too was her body’s response to this unexpected demand. It was entirely beyond her control. Her bladder was too full to hold back any longer, and at his command, she immediately let loose a flood of hot pee, helpless to stop it, as it spread all around her on the cold, hard tile.

The feeling was an odd mixture of horror, shame, and incredible relief as her bladder mercifully emptied itself, her piss pooling onto and around her feet. The force of its contact with the floor caused it to splash onto her legs, tits, and even onto her face. She puffed and blew in an unsuccessful attempt to try to avoid the spray touching her eyes and lips, but she was doomed to her fate. She would endure every bit of indignity he meant for her, with none to spare. Little did she know even this was not the last of his insults.

“Now clean up your mess, cunt.” he spoke again. She could tell his voice had moved further away, possibly in an attempt to avoid the backsplash of her piss and its spreading wake. She bristled, not understanding how he expected her to accomplish this task. Her thoughts raced at the options available, none of which were pleasant.

“Bend down and mop the floor with your hair.” he said. She could tell by his low, relaxed tone, and the slight creaking sound of something large and wooden, that he had settled himself into his chair, the one with the high back like a throne, where she undressed him lovingly every night, looking into his eyes as he fondly cupped her breasts in his hands and playfully pinched her nipples to try to distract her from her task. It was their game nearly every evening. How she longed for a night like that, instead of this humiliating torture. Yet, despite her misgivings and cringing at the thought, his words made her instantly wet.

Her hair? Surely he did not really expect her to do this. He had very strict rules in place as to how she was to care for it, which products to use, its color, its length, the style in which she wore it. Her hair was his primary means of control, the leash by which he steered the direction of her head while directing her through a scene, and the reins by which he drew her onto himself deeply as he fucked her. Her hair was the one thing about her he nearly always complimented and admired. She knew he cherished it as much as she. Surely this had to be some kind of cruel joke.

“Apparently the cunt has a hearing problem tonight.” he replied, as if reading her thoughts. She could hear the soft smacking sound coming repeatedly from the direction of his voice and knew instantly he had secured the dreaded spoon in his left fist and was hitting his right palm with it. “She had better comply or I shall become very impatient, and I know she does not want the spoon again…or this.”

She heard another sound then too, more sickening than the first, the soft click of metal upon metal. It took her a moment, but she suddenly realized with horror that it was the sound of scissors, cutting the air, mocking her, threatening her hesitation to obey. Although it was pitch black inside the room, she could almost see his twisted smile before her eyes, she shook her head violently from side to side as if to say “no”. The clicking became louder and closer, until eventually it was just beside her ear. She became instantly still and shriveled inside herself with fear and dread, until the sound disappeared once more. “Better hurry.” he said with a dreadful lilt in his voice.

In a panic, desperately willing her sluggish brain to speed up, the matter now was not whether to comply, but how, since any level of bending over at even the slightest angle would surely send her falling over, or choke her to death. She quickly reasoned that her hair was possibly long enough to bend her head to the side just slightly, and be able to catch her spilled fluids with the ends as a gesture of compliance. She hoped it would be enough.

She clumsily tilted her head sideways, managing triumphantly to touch the tips of her long tresses against the cold, wet tile. As if mocking her victory, from out of nowhere he was swiftly upon her again, managing to grab a large handful of her hair and using it to bend her face forward mercilessly onto the floor, so that it soaked up the spilled, shameful liquid like a sponge, and became promptly saturated with piss, snot, and spittle, since she had also against her will begun to cry and sputter uncontrollably at this new harshness.

Her sniveling face touching the floor made it impossible not to inadvertently slurp small amounts of her own piss into her mouth and up her nostrils. This, along with the pressure upon her impeded airway left her gasping for breath moving her mouth in a helpless rhythm, like a beached guppy.

His firm and unrelenting arm pressed her nose down further into the mess of her own filth, moving her head from side to side as if she herself were a human mop, a wet, pissy rag doll for his sheer amusement. “This way, back and forth, like THIS!” he hissed as he pushed her even further onto the tile, the chains in her ass and pussy straining against her flesh, biting and teasing her simultaneously. “I swear to Christ, after all this time doing the chores around here you still don’t know how to mop a floor? Stupid cunt.”

He abruptly let go of her head and hair with a grunt, as if disgusted by her incompetency. His swift abandonment caused her to finally fall over onto her side, lying in the now cold puddle of her piss, sweat, and tears. Her humiliation was complete, and she wailed softly from deep within her belly like a wounded animal, in complete survival mode.

Her obedience now having shifted into auto pilot, she somehow mustered the strength to blindly begin swishing her head from side to side as he instructed, wriggling in her bonds like some kind of human snake. She wrestled this way and that, managing against the odds to wipe every bit of her urine off the floor, letting it seep into her long, brown hair, saturating it, until it was dripping as if she had showered in it.

Undone, she lay there in the utter darkness, sobbing and sopping wet, covered in her own juices from every orifice, sputtering out feeble, unintelligible cries that fell on his seemingly deaf ears. He did not come and smooth her hair to comfort her, or pat her head and tell her what a good girl she was for her obedience as he normally would have done.

Instead, he pierced the air once more with his voice and uttered one word, and she was shattered. “Come.” he said, and she did. No crescendo or pleasant, rising waves, just one, instant, shuddering, thundering orgasm, long and hard, making her limbs twitch and her teeth rattle with its force. She came until she thought she couldn’t come any more, and as if by insult, her body betrayed her and rocked her again with another orgasm as large and as jarring as the first.

Finished and spent, she lay there in the dark, silent, floating, not even feeling or caring anymore whether he would loose her from her bonds or turn on the light and shave her bald headed. She only wanted to sink deeper into the darkness of the animal he had forced from within her to without.

Just as her thoughts drifted down into the depths of her most primal self, she sensed him move softly to her side and begin to loosen her shackled wrists, feet, and neck, slowly, with precision, as if he had memorized every point. He scooped her up off the floor and onto the bed, having placed a towel on her pillow for her, and she knew he meant for her to sleep this way all night, covered in her own disgusting scent, but not until he had fucked and used her thoroughly first, sweating over her with growls and groans that seemed to come from a place so deep she hadn’t known it existed in him. He filled her and marked her insides with his very self, like a huge, hungry beast.

Later, he lay spooned close beside her, one hand at the collar around her throat, the other hand stroking the soft and tender skin on her ass, and in between, tracing the bruises he had left there earlier, as if to place his signature on her marks. He leaned into her neck and inhaled deeply. “Mmmmm.” he said, satisfied. “Mine.” he whispered, and she cooed and moaned softly in spite of herself, enveloped now in his soothing darkness. Deeper, still deeper, until she finally slept. Filthy. Foul. Complete.

Copyright 2014 torikosoul

Chosen

I was so new. Anyone could easily see I didn’t know what I was doing. I was searching for all of the wrong things, following the sounds of the bells and whistles as they called from the night like distant trains in the darkness. I was fumbling for a light switch where there was none to be found.

A blip on the screen. One face, small as a postage stamp. Always there. Every day. Watching. Patiently waiting for me to notice, to speak, as if to say “What are you doing, little one? Why are you seeking everywhere to find what isn’t really for you?” Every day your face was there. It reassured me, despite its silence.

All the while I struggled to obey the commands of those who wanted to train me the way animals are trained at the circus. Pseudo-Doms with constant, never-ending demands. A performance every night, with pictures, but hardly a morsel to eat as a reward. Keeping me caged when they weren’t using me. Hungry. Bereft. Unfulfilled. They took away much more than they ever intended to give, and I grew tired of the invisible walls that would never allow me to see their eyes as they spoke, or feel their hands upon me with anything but imagination. It wasn’t enough. I needed more. I needed you, but I didn’t yet know it.

You were there the night I sat in my car and cried for hours over one who finally agreed to be “real”, someone with whom I had followed all of the rules of safety. Met in public…twice. Researched. Vetted. All the references checked, all the i’s dotted, and the t’s crossed, so let’s begin. The promise of a first session, oh the things he would do, whatever I would allow. He laid out the menu and I eyed it greedily, trying not to behave as if I were starving. Face made, nails painted. Prettiest, shortest dress. Perfume. Push-up bra and heels that hurt to walk in, but it was worth it because something real was finally going to happen.

Except it didn’t. He never showed. I called. Once. Twice. Three times, and I felt my dignity and my hope shrivel like the petals of a crushed rose in the hot sun. He would never show, and the calls remained unreturned. I’ll never understand to this day the cruelty of his promise, or the secret laugh he’d surely had over my eagerness, and subsequent disappointment; a stupid, staring cow, alone in the field, ripe for tipping, or milking, whichever came first.

The last was the one who was ready to take me away in an instant, to live with him, pack up everything, sight unseen and be his slave. He seemed so perfect, so benevolent, so kind…..too kind. I was, by now, so untrusting, and rightly so. I wasn’t ready to go off the grid and disappear from everything I knew in such a rush. There were too many what-if’s, and worries. The old adage kept repeating in my head. “If something seems too good to be true…” and “If it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck…”. It hurt him when I declined. He had invested much emotion in me, and been the kindest so far, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I would have been giving much more than I needed in return, that his emotional display was really a brightly waving red flag that spelled “needy”, and deep inside I had nothing to give, not yet. I was the one who needed.

But your face. It became so familiar and reassuring that I found myself disappointed, even crying a little, the few nights I didn’t see it there, looking back at me. “Your profile has been viewed by —— at xx:xxpm.” The face that visited me nearly every night before I drifted off into fitful, lonely sleep, keeping the TV always on just for the sound of a human voice. Such a serene face. A kind face. No guile or arrogance, only a deep, peaceful look. I would trace it with my fingers on the screen, long before we ever spoke, and imagine what your voice was like, what you were like. What was it like to be so peaceful, I wondered?

I spoke first. Not that you were shy, but you were honoring a request in my profile rejecting men who still had ties to their exes. Somehow, finding this out aroused me even more to know you. I couldn’t help it. I was hungry, thirsty, aching for something, anything. I didn’t know what I would find, but before my mind could protest, my fingers began to type their first words to you, and magically, you replied.

The rest is history. I could go on with the details of your heroic rescue of the girl no one wanted. I could try in vain to explain what it was about you that made me trust you enough to make a life with you here, allow you to claim ownership over me, when another had offered the same thing and I declined, but none of it would explain how or why it was I chose to trust you above all the others.

My most cherished memory of us so far, when we were still new. It was one of those rare, enveloping moments when each was absorbed into each. You looked into my eyes and said “How could anyone have ever thrown you away? They don’t know what fools they were.” You said that. You may not even remember it, but I do, and have carried it in my heart ever since.

That was the day I decided to finally open myself and give you permission to love me without struggling against it. It was the day I decided I no longer wanted to drown, and chose instead to swim these waters, trusting in confidence that you would be there to hold me up when I couldn’t do it on my own.

If I had never gone down those dead-end paths, never had my heart seared with the burning sting of rejection and abandonment over and over again, I might never have met you. You chose me long before I knew it, and have kept a watchful eye on me ever since, never faltering, never wavering in your promise to keep me and take care of me. Not once.

I learned from the broken promises, the mistakes, the ones who only sought a plaything akin to a half-dead mouse in their hungry feline mouths. I have learned so much, that it isn’t about what’s going to happen next, or which scene will play out, or what things will be experienced in the physical realm. It’s about trusting the one who has proven worthy of trust.

Love and trust are inseparable. Without one, the other cannot exist in its pure form.

It’s your face I see always in my dreams, and your face to which I awaken in the daylight to discover I am still safe. I still belong to you, and you will keep me here with you forever. I trust you. You have chosen me…..

One face. One in a million chances, and you chose me, and I am forever grateful.

your humble servant kneels and thanks you, always….

toriko