A dominant and submissive life

Hair – from IC, April 08

Mine is getting longer which, he says, is a Good Thing. It takes forever to dry, though – and as it is so fine, it does pretty well need to be washed every day. There is also more grey these days, so it is coloured. Nothing too wicked – a shade lighter than my natural one.

*sigh* When i was five, my hair was white blonde – it has darkened steadily ever since.

I’ve never been one for major hair re-vamps – an occasional “red” rinse has been about as extreme as it got.

So a recent conversation with someone who was aiming at purple hair for the Lash party struck a chord. Why would you want purple hair, I ask?

Then the Domly one wagged a warning finger (metaphoricaly speaking): he has plans for my hair, he says.

This requires an entry in the book, asap – hair may be grown/cut at his whim, but anything else is a hard limit!

What is it about the “crowning glory” thing for women? And, I’m sure, some men. It is part of me, something i can hide behind or show off, subject to mood. Something that can be useful, tied into rope. Grabbed and pulled. Used to dry something tender and loved after i have “washed” it clean. Why do i want to hold it back as mine and not his?

I don’t want to stand out: i am a shy, conservative (note the small c!) soul. I have changed enormously in terms of dress in recent months, and posture. People have noticed. All of a sudden – I am visible. I am told not to walk with my head down.

The idea of purple or, indeed, any other colour! – is scary as hell.

He may have been joking – but one can never tell and maybe that is why I woke at three a.m. feeling nervous.

Or maybe I was just missing him.

The higher you fly, the harder you fall

I’ve never been sure that I’ve actually experienced “sub drop”. I’m still not sure. And I’m definitely uncertain about the pleasure/pain principle. You know the one: if I enjoy myself, somewhere on the horizon is a figurative slap in the face that will “balance the books”.

But – the occasional “low” feeling after a play session, or even after a pretty intense D/s time, had nothing on the misery (yes, I’ve tried to find another less emotive word, but nothing else will do) for my feelings after what was very nearly a 28 hour “day” of amazing sensations and emotions.

OK, I am indeed greedy: i will grab sensations with both hands (assuming they are not bound) and throw myself in to experiences whole-heartedly.

I am also still a great believer in that synergy/vortex thing whereby I please him, he shows it, I try harder, he smiles, I try harder still.

So – I’m back on a more even keel now, and wondering: was it sub-drop? Or just a natural reaction to counter-balance the amazing highs? I may never know.

Originally written for my “Informed Consent” blog – March 08

Waxing her fou-fou

Last night I waxed her fou-fou. Not for the removal of hair – she’s quite well disciplined in matters depilatory – but for my pleasure. Mind you, when it comes to hair I think this experience has probably taught her to pay more attention to those that grow in the folds around her cunt.

“I’m going to wax your fanny” I said. “OK” quoth she, and shuffled off to pop on her wrist and ankle cuffs and her collar.

I spread a blue tarpaulin on the sofa and the floor (wax gets everywhere) and lit two candles. I use Spa’s cheapest – after many years I find them the best – not only the lowest melting temperature but also when it cools the wax is quite brittle – making it ideal to peel away, mould-like, if one wants a memento (and I did), but also by far the easiest to brush off carpets and furniture. It also clings like a limpet to hairs, as she was to find out.

Low temperature candles are good for accuracy too – you can hold them quite close to the victim without the screams becoming unendurable.

She positioned herself , thrusting outwards and stretching everything for me as I attached my longest spreader bar between her ankles and a second, slightly shorter, to her collar and then her wrists. At first I fastened it behind her neck but she whinged and I relented, re-fastening it in front. After all, it was not my purpose that she should not be comfy – just that she should not be capable of interfering.

She closed her eyes. I dribbled a little wax on the inside of her thigh. She seethed. I let the dribble move closer until a steady two or three drips per second (these Spa candles burn fast – another advantage in my book) was dripping onto the top of her business end and dribbling down a little further before it solidified, creamy white. At this point she was roaring and I was ignoring it.

For twenty minutes or so I dribbled the pool of first one candle, then it’s twin, onto my darling’s lotus until the whole thing was covered by a carapace of wax, around 5mm thick. We’d used more than half of both candles.

I took pains to make sure I did not just create another layer, but always covered some fresh flesh too: we didn’t want the bellowing to stop, did we?

But, I could see her becoming more uncomfortable (more from the bondage than the wax) than I desired, so I let her blow out the tormenting flames and released her legs and arms. And took a gentle finger to lady jane. She moaned – but quite differently to the angry hippo bellows drawn from her by streams of hot wax.

“Is that nice?” I asked. Fervent nods. Sighs through half-parted lips. “would you like to try?”. “Yesssss”.

She took three fingers and began to rub the wax back to a state of warm translucency. I gently bent away two of the fingers, reminding her that this was a spectator sport and not for her satisfaction, and let her carry on for just a little while.

Then we started to strip the wax. Most came away in a single chunk – a sort of plug (I think, someday, she may be taken out in this condition: It would amuse me greatly). And I got my memento – the wax cap clasping her clitty came away easily and now resides in my treasure box, along with two nipple moulds from an earlier session.

Some of the bits running along each side of her slit refused to budge though, caught on unshaved hairs. I volunteered to deal with them and just pulled hard (and fast – most unsubtle). The bellows were the evening’s best.

We cuddled, we talked. She obviously wanted to play with her clitty again. “Was it strange? I asked, “when it was covered with wax”.

“Uh-huh: It didn’t feel like it was me doing it, not quite – it felt like we’d been separated. It was good. Different – but good”.

“Would you like to do it again?”. Vehement nods. “Now?” “Mmm – err, yes” she said, quietly and unsure whether she’d be allowed the privilege. I re-lit a candle.

Originally posted on Informed Consent, May 09.

First night; an exhibitionist’s tale

I took her home. I told her to make ready.

It was her desire, her fantasy. But she would not have done it except for me: she needed to know she was pleasing me.

She wore her reddest lipstick and almost her reddest nails, her red, lacy, bra and panties and beautiful sheer black stockings, her scarlet heels and covered herself up with her black macintosh. Before we left I insisted she wear her ankle and wrist cuffs. What colour? Red of course.

She walked proudly to the car – but I knew she was nervous, terribly nervous. She wasn’t the only one. She had smudged her nails readying herself – but I was taking wrong turnings to the destination, 20 minutes away, where we had promised to meet our first audience.

I kept glancing at the tom-tom and gave her a countdown. “Just 9 minutes to go” I said. “I think I am going to vomit”, she replied.

She was breathing heavily. I squeezed her hand.

We drew into the appointed place. At first I could just see one white van – but then, further down, Other dark shapes lurked.

We parked between them, switched off. I kissed her, held her for a moment and asked if she still wanted to please me this way. She looked terribly scared but nodded, tight lipped. “Sure?” , I said. She nodded again.

I told her to take her mac off and asked if she were ready. She pulled a black mask from a pocket and tied it around her eyes. “Your public awaits” I said and switched on the interior lights.

She changed, in an instant – and, as the car doors slammed around us, I saw my showgirl grin.

She lay back on the reclined seat as I asked her to play with herself. I told her she had four, maybe five observers, all watching eagerly, attentively, quietly.

I told her to take her bra off and hold up her breasts for her viewers. She did better – one by one, she pulled her titties up to her moth and bit and sucked her nipples til they were, I think, harder than I’d ever seen them before.

I told her to turn over and kneel – to push her arse in the air and pull her panties tight over her cheeks. She knew she was being naughty, so I spanked her. Not hard, because this was good naughty – but hard enough to produce an attractive wiggle.

Now it was time to reveal all – I asked her to remove her panties and to show everyone her freshly shaved and sopping pussy.

She was really into it by now and I knew she’d do anything I asked, without disturbing her showgirl smile.

I told her to raise her legs onto the dashboard to give everyone a clearer view. She did so, eagerly, and slammed a heel into the wheel, setting off the horn. Our audience took a step back – and she started to laugh, almost hysterically. Within a moment the guys outside realised we hadn’t wanted to scare anyone off and gathered around again. They took a pace back again when I started the engine – our windows had got rather steamed up and the air conditioning rapidly cleared them.

By the time our public could see her clearly again she had taken the silver dildo from the glove compartment and was sucking it suggestively in true porn-star style.

She lowered it and pushed it into her dripping fanny, smiling eagerly. I asked her to use her fingers and had to instruct her to spread herself properly and use just one red talon to rub, so as not to obscure people’s view.

She knew what she was there for, to show herself off for others’ pleasure, and she obliged, touching herself slowly and sensously, with much pouting and wriggling.

I was so proud of her.

I turned her over again and invaded her anus wih my finger. She moaned and sighed and then bucked hard into my fist: She was enjoying herself: “My turn” I said. She knew what to do.

I reclined my seat, unzipped my fly and pulled my penis out. She covered it instantly with her clever mouth and sucked and licked. I was ready and took only a moment. She held it all and licked me clean.

Then she sat up, holding my semen in her mouth and smiling, closed-lipped. She straightened, looked – for the first time – at the guys outside and then back at me. I assented: She gulped and swallowed – just like she does at home. I kissed her.

“Time to switch the lights off?”. She nodded.

Perfection

I posted this as a thread on Informed Consent on 12 February 08. C_b was just a twinkle in the eye.

I thought it defined aspects of what I saw then as submissive perfection so closely that it was worth putting here: C_B has brought her own brand of perfection, but refleting much of what I thought i wanted too.

Perfection: a dangerous subject: first because it doesn’t exist and secondly, because writing about it might make some think that one won’t settle for anything other. Finally, because a post like this (seriously but lightheartedly meant) is likely to attract comments that range from the witty to the sarcastic. Still, my shoulders are broad.

I am risking the post, however, because I think a person’s vision of perfection at least gives other people an idea of how the author’s mind works – and that may be useful.

So, here’s my vision of subly perfection – I’ve thought about it and I suspect I’m about to expose myself as the stereotypical male Dom. Here goes:

She’s proud of herself and likes to make me proud of her too – she strives to excel in all aspects of her life and service.

She knows her limits but wants to be eased (sometimes cajoled) beyond them

She desires her limits and wants rules and rituals to reinforce them

She expects respect – and shows respect

She sees her submission as part of all of her life and not just a sub set of it

She gains my attention through her behaviour – but never asks for my attention

She revels in praise, but accepts that punishment is a vital part of dispute resolution

She wants me to want to show her off – and her dress, grooming, deportment and behaviour reflect this at all times

She expects to be protected and adored and is not afraid to expose her vulnerabilities (to me) to achieve this

She expects to support and nourish me – and thus I am unafraid to expose my vulnerabilities, when I feel them

She appreciates formality and can associate it with intimacy, not aloofness

She has strongly held views and expects to express them, in a respectful context.

The maturity to accept there will be differences and the attitude and desire to overcome them (an addition courtesy of BearofTwo)

She delights in delivering her curtsey.

If Betty Page and Audrey Hepburn had had a daughter together – she’d be her

Disappointment vs anger: rite of passage

What’s worse? Doing something stupid & thoughtless and making him angry? or doing something stupid and thoughtless & hearing THAT tone in his voice: you have failed to meet the standards he expects and he is disappointed.

The punishment is swift and not hugely severe – but every stroke feels like a hundred and the tears are not from the pain but from the fear.

Fear that he will decide that I am not worth working at, not worth the effort: after all, why should

he bother if I am not prepared to make a proper contribution to the dynamic? Why should he persist, if his requirements are over-ridden?

And suddenly it becomes real – rules are rules, and infringements will have consequences.

And it’s a rite of passage, that tiny yet monstrous step into the the D/s unknown that accepts the first rule. That he has been given, and will take, the right to decide what is important. Talk the talk, even write down the rules – but if it is to mean anything, it must also be real.

I don’t learn easily at times, but I think I have learned this lesson the hard way today.

From my Informed Consent blog. March ’08

Thoughts, not well expressed

It seems you persevered

Although pursuit seemed slow;

A deep considered pace

to make impatience grow.

So now we interlace

Both bodies and desire;

You seek no gentle sighs

But deep submissive fire.

Use sweet finesse of pain

To make my breath come fast:

I’ll beg that, once again,

Mild cruelty will last.

(From informedconsent.co.uk, March 08)

Yoga, And Serious Fun (IC, 13 April 05)

My submissive took up yoga – and ultimately made it an important part of her life. We thought of it originally to enhance our enjoyment of bondage – it seemed a good way of improving suppleness to give us more play options. We had no idea that, over time, what it would really achieve, was mental stamina – her ability to tolerate all sorts of trussings for longer and longer improved enormously, and she put this down to mental focus.. and her ability to focus was unlocked by her yoga.

But, what I really want to write about today is the connection we discovered between yoga and submission. I’m not saying that one directly relates to and improves the other, but that a number of qualities that yoga, and meditation, seem to encourage the development of a strong and capable submissive personality.

Two examples:

Inner peace: It’s not always possible to be content with the decisions that have been made for you. Contemplation helps.

Self discipline: A fundamental and often overlooked quality of submission, I guess strongly related to “inner peace”: Strong self discipline eliminates laziness and encourages its possessor to strive always to improve.

As a footnote, I’d like to comment on fun. Several here have wondered whether the serious and intense nature of the relationship I was fortunate enough to experience meant it was not much fun. This is probably the most painful thing I’ve written to date: Gosh it was fun, it was joyous, mischievous, exciting, surprising and enormous fun. Two people had pledged themselves to design their entire lives to please the other. It was a game. A game played at Olympian standards – but still a game. A game where you had to know when not to smirk… But always a game. Maybe, apart from politics, the only game for grown-ups.

I am migrating my blog from UK BDSM website, Informed Consent (due to close in February 2013), to this, my private blog and also to the new community website it seems most likely that c_b and I will use going forward, Fetbook. This blog “The Rules We Lived By” was first published on Informed Consent on 6 April 2005. My private blog is belasarius.com

The Rules we Lived By (IC, 6 April 2005)

This is really a continuation of my last post. I thought I’d share what service meant to me and my significant other, so many years ago…

First of all, service was not (except in special and particular cases) about cooking (try keeping me out of the kitchen!), cleaning or other domestic chores. We both worked and domestic drudgery was shared. No, service was about rituals and rules that shaped our lives and the way we related to . It evolved into a complicated pattern and included many specifics all designed to pin us into our roles as master and servant (I’m not sure slave is quite right – I think we aspired in that direction but never quite achieved it).

Some of the specifics included:

She never spoke unless spoken to or unless seeking and being given permission to speak. This pertained in private and in public – in public situations we used subtle signals to ask, give or deny permission.

I would always let her know when I was expected home each evening – and she would endeavour to be there before me, groomed, lubricated and available in case of my need and with my favourite drink mixed and ready.

In company, at parties, etc, she would fetch both our drinks, she would stand in queues at the buffet/barbie, etc.

At home, she would not sit in my presence without permission, nor ever on furniture unless invited. In public, she would always sit at my feet if at all seemly.

She did not pee nor poo without my permission.

She laid out my clothes of an evening and always tied my tie in the mornings.

She would not feed herself without my permission. It was common for us to share a large plate, with me feeding her, or her dipping in when given permission.

She would usually retire 20 minutes before me, to groom, shave and prepare herself in case I required her services.

We shared a love of books. We’d often turn off the TV and she’d read to me, aloud.

She always drew my baths.

She always sought approval for anything she was to wear, if I had not already made a choice.

In public I always opened doors for her, helped her into cars, did her seatbelt. If ever asked why, we always said to protect her fingernails from harm: They were, in fact, spectacular.

I am migrating my blog from UK BDSM website, Informed Consent (due to close in February 2013), to this, my private blog and also to the new community website it seems most likely that c_b and I will use going forward, Fetbook. This blog “The Rules We Lived By” was first published on Informed Consent on 6 April 2005. My private blog is belasarius.com

Having her informed consent (belasarius.com)
BDSM protocol – a definition (belasarius.com)
Our protocols (belasarius.com)

The Beauty Of Service (IC – 4 April 2005)

I thought I’d write this blog, after seeing other, similar ones because, to me, “the beauty of service” is at the root of the relationship I enjoyed, and would be the core of anything I might be fortunate enough to enjoy in the future.

I feel helplessly inadequate in expressing my feelings here: But, for me, it is my role to adore, cherish and control someone, to thrill her by piloting us both on a journey that always has new and more challenging destinations.

My reward is the right to make her mine and to shape her as I want her. Fundamental to this is the respect that comes from service offered because it expresses her attachment to me – service offered joyously.

For me, the sexual side of D/s is a celebration of all this, and discipline & chastisement are tools

we initially agree to use to help us achieve our joint objectives. Neither of these aspects are fundamental -they merely help us express our natures.

Re-reading this, it seems pseudish in the extreme, but I have no better words. I really want to know how others see this.

I am gradually migrating my blog from UK BDSM website, Informed Consent (due to close in February 2013), to this, my private blog and also to the new community website it seems most likely that c_b and I will use going forward, Fetbook. This blog “The Beauty of Service” was first published on Informed Consent on 4 April 2005. My private blog is belasarius.com

My D/s Beginnings (belasarius.com)

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Related articles

Share this:

Related articles

Share this: