The Collared Coed

I looked at the measly shoe collection I had. Dorming at ECU for the summer left me with very little shoe choice. A pair of exercise sneakers. A pair of Vans-like sneakers. Gorgeous, sparkly high heels that are murder on my feet but are absolutely fabulous. They’re black, studded with rhinestones. I kicked off my soggy Vans sneakers. I had stepped in a puddle and they were wet. Sir informed me of a violet wand demo at the nearest fetish club.

I was in a mood. Not horny, as Sir asked me. If I were horny, I would just have asked permission to masturbate with my vibrator and be done with it. No, I was in a mood to talk to people, interact. Make trouble. So I wore what I had worn around all day (polo, skirt, stupid blue polka dot panties) and walked to the public transportation. Oh, okay, I made a little bit more effort than that. I wore contacts, brushed and pulled my hair back into pigtails and used mouthwash. I locked my collar around my throat. I sighed and shoved my feet into my black flip flops. You know the kind. Old Navy flip flops. Plain black. With sparkly red nail polish on my toes.

After the violet wand demo, to my disappointment, most of the interesting looking couples left. I made a big dork out of myself at the demo. (I don’t think I like violet wands that much. Go figure.)

You see, Sir put in place a few rules.

• I could play with women.
• I could play with couples.
• I could only play with guys if I was EXTREMELY comfortable.
• I had to tell people I was not only collared, but owned.

Which made me feel a lot better.

So of course, men filtered into the club after the demo. Men looked me over, said hi. I subconsciously stroked and touched my collar. One Master I remembered from TESfest complimented my collar.

I was sitting on the couch watching a femdom and her sub boy onstage when a guy in a black shirt and jeans came up to me. He asked me my name. Then he asked if I was ever very mad at a guy before. I didn’t know where the conversation would lead so I didn’t really give a hard answer. Then he asked if I would be interested in stepping on his chest.

Note: For all my blog reading, I did not know that trampling was the BDSM euphemism for this. I learned about this later.

He lay on the floor and after I asked him a good number of times if this was really okay, I tentatively stepped on his chest with bare feet. He made a noise and I gasped and asked if he was okay.

“Honey, I’m in heaven. And you’re light as a feather.”

“Don’t flatter me.” I said dryly. With a shock, I looked up and noticed a small crowd had gathered of men. Some very jealous looking men.

He asked my age as I shifted my weight around. I hesitated.

“I shouldn’t tell you my age. I started exploring BDSM 20 years ago.” He said with a groan as I planted my foot in the middle of his chest. I was giggling, God help me. Giggling as I was, well, trampling on a man.

“My Sir is 40.” I said.

He laughed, with almost made me lose my balance. “I’m 39.”

After he had me push down on his chest with my feet and bounce up and down a bit, he helped me off and I scurried outside to call Sir. I told him what happened.

“Wait… you stepped on him in bare feet?” He said as I chewed on a nail.

“I wore flip flops out here.”

“You wore flip flops to a BDSM club? I love you.” He laughed.

I went back inside and he proceeded to give me a foot and leg massage as I talked to a friend of Sir and I. He massaged and massaged and then proceeded to actually lick my toes. He didn’t take any part in the conversation. Men stalked by, eyeing both him and I. One guy stuck around and watched me even though nothing sexual was going on.`He licked and nibbled at my dirty toes. (Flip flops in the big city mean that toes and feet get very, very dirty sometimes.) I guess I was… objectifying him, wasn’t I? Having him rub my feet and not acknowledging him, on his knees, while I carried on a conversation with another man. Hmm.

Then he accidentally tickled me and my foot flew out and accidentally kicked him in the face.

“OhmygoshI’msosorry!” I said all in one breath. I sat up. He looked… happy. He certainly didn’t look like he was in any sort of distress.

All of a sudden I just have this urge to play with a sub boy. Fuck him with a strap on. Torture his cock and balls. Make him worship my feet. Watch Sir flog him. Spanking the sub boy with a paddle, not my tiny, girly hands. Using those tiny hands to pinch his nipples. Slap his face.

Sir ordered me to pinch His nipples while I gave Him a handjob yesterday. While He was listening in on a phone conference, go figure. He would urge me to go harder, harder, harder. I was so tentative. Making sure He was okay.

“You can go much harder than that, pet.”

So I did. I was pinching hard as I stroked His cock. I liked seeing Him grimace and saying “fuck” underneath His breath as I pinched. I was squeezing hard when He said abruptly “Don’t stop.”

So I went harder. I was surprised at how hard I could pinch and watching His face closely, closed eyes, pursed lips. Then His cock exploded all over His stomach and my hand- which surprised me too.

I  was surprised at how, well, fun it was. Fun to pinch His nipples and watch Him hiss in pain. Just like I was surprised at how fun it was to stand on a man’s chest and make him suck on my dirty toes.

So maybe I’m ready to explore this side of myself. I have these urges, but sometimes they feel overwhelming, like I quite don’t know what to do. I guess I have to see how things develop.

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Whirlwind is a good word to describe TESfest2008. Constant activity and motion, a desire to see everything. It overwhelms you.

I can’t even begin to talk about the myriad of things I learned and saw and felt. What stands out to me, right now, was the impromptu scene Sir and I did the first night we were there.

Now, being in dungeons makes me nervous. Combine that with the intense nature of BDSM events (people who wait months to be able to play intense, hardcore scenes that they don’t usually play) and just the sheer overwhelming number of people, it makes me fidget and be nervous.

Sir and I got dressed and went down to the dungeon. Even though Sir was at my side, I was still nervous. Being in the dungeon made me downright uneasy, because I just kept hearing women screaming and crying, and even though deep down I KNEW they were safe and okay, I still felt on edge. Sir could tell I was anxious. As we walked around the dungeon, we spotted an empty padded table. He sat me on the table, lifted my skirt, and started to spank me.

I started laughing.

I didn’t know why I was laughing, I just started. He swatted me harder. I kept laughing. Loudly. Unabashedly. There we were, women and men grunting, crying, screaming in various levels of pain, and I’m hysterically laughing. He keeps spanking, spanking, spanking me. He actually has to stop because His hand started throbbing. He was absolutely hitting my ass much harder than normal. I almost couldn’t breathe it was so funny.

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I don’t know why it’s so hard for me to talk about TESfest. Maybe because I don’t know where to start. This is going to be a short post, but I will definitely talk about it soon.

I’m collared. I’m a slave. And yet I still have this fear telling Sir what I fantasize about.

Every day, I send Sir my plan for the day. Every day, I have to do one act that reaffirms my place as property, slave and pet.

1. Update this blog.
2. Exercise.
3. Write a sex fantasy.
4. Go to His apartment and clean.

I thought that once I was collared, this fear would go away. That I could tell Him all my sexual fantasies and not be embarrassed. But I still get embarrassed! Why? Why am I so shy? Why am I so afraid that His desire for me is easily influenced and swayed?

I should be secure in my collar and chains, secure that He loves me and wants to train me, hurt me, own me.

I know it’s vestiges of my last relationship, where “I love you” could be taken away in a second. But I’m past that.

I’m with someone I trust with my life. But I worry and fret over telling Him what I masturbate about. I wish I could be more open. Slave guilt. I have this worry of being judged. Of being seen as… perverse. Dirty. But those are qualities that Sir likes. And whenever I DO tell Him what I think about…

He always thinks it’s hot.

Maybe I should do that sex fantasy slave task more often. Force myself to open my mind up for Him, let Him see inside.

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Testing out all the ridiculous technological widgets Sir plastered all over my beloved blog.

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Sir was brisk in His instructions for me.

1. Clean the floor of the bedroom.
2. Bag up laundry to be taken to the cleaners.
3. Make the bed.
4. Put together the toys and put them on the bed.
5. Be in panties or less when He arrives.

On His way home, He text messaged me to put the blindfold on and kneel on the bed. He asked me if there was anything that I thought about doing in particular.

I admitted that I thought about Him hitting me with His fists. Thumping. Punching. Whatever the BDSM euphemism is.

It was a blur for a while after that. A punishment caning for forgetting my metal collar the week before. Sir’s voice stern and commanding and it made me feel good inside. Some nice rope bondage. Nipple clamps, brutal ones. Him thrusting us back into the intense relationship. No excuses any more for slacking off on the duties that I agreed to under the contract.

This is me reminding you what you are. This is me owning you. You don’t get a choice.

There was a nice moment, a moment that made me feel really submissive, and that Sir would later disclose made Him feel really good too:

Me naked, metal collar around my throat, rubbing His feet. Ass sore from my caning. Just something about the moment made me feel amazingly good as a slave, as His submissive and really made me feel like His cherished pet.

But then, later, after clamps, canings and bondage, He ordered me to sit on the bed.
He steadied me.
He balled His fist.

The first punch was a dull hurt. So was the second. He was tentative, careful, but some of them did hit tender spots and I cried out in pain. He kept going.

I felt myself slipping away as He punched me forcefully, rhythmically on the chest. I felt submissive. I felt put in my place. I felt myself slipping down into a different place. Almost like I wasn’t paying attention. Which disturbed me, because I felt like that moment, letting someone hit me with their fists, would require my utmost attention. Instead, I felt my eyes closing, and Him pounding away, and myself, who I was, floating away. It wasn’t subspace, it wasn’t a floating bliss or an escape from the pain. The pain tethered me to the moment, the dull throbbing and the sharp pain when He hit certain spots.

It wasn’t giving up, giving in, giving out. It was something bottomless and frightening I can’t adequately describe. I wasn’t crying. I wasn’t even fighting. The expression on His face was intense, focused. I didn’t recognize Him. I didn’t recognize this person that was beating my chest with his bare hand. He looked genuinely angry at me, angry for something I did. I started to fret, then panic.

I started feeling angry, but then I just felt helpless. He would tell me later that He could sense my anger. It bubbled beneath the surface, never really coming up. I whimpered that I didn’t like this any more. He leaned me forward and hit my back.

No. I get to put you in this place. This is what you signed away to me. This, right here, this is what I get to do to you.

I was slipping into a space I didn’t want to be in.

I wanted out.

I wanted back in, because I didn’t want to face the moment after that, realizing what had happened.

I didn’t know what I wanted.

He pulled me to my feet, and I felt like I was going to crumple at His feet. I didn’t want to play this game anymore.

It’s real now, isn’t it? The pain is real. He had said that earlier, as He placed clover clamps on me. But the words rushed back to me as I stood in front of Him, limply. This wasn’t what I planned, what I wanted. I thought the beating would make me feel good. Not like this.

I don’t remember how I ended up on the bed with all the rope off. I remember wanting to fall, I remember holding myself up with the bed. I lay on the bed and He hit me a few more times. Then He told me to go on my back.

Then He told me that it was over.

I could feel my anxiety growing inside me, and my hands instinctively covered my chest and collarbone. He loomed over me, then climbed into bed with me. Sir’s tone of voice changed, and when His hands when up to stroke my hair, instinctively, I pulled away. He was trying to soothe me, and I was still filled with anxiety. I was in a defensive space. I didn’t want to be touched. I didn’t want Him to look in my eyes. I shied away from Him, whimpering. I curled up into a ball on the bed. “I just want to make love to you.” He said softly. I shook my head no. “No? You don’t want that?” He said, worried. His eyes were full of concern. I shook my head no again.

I wanted to run. I wanted Him to hold me. I was shook up, terrorized. Any joke He made at this state made my voice boom in a whine, “That’s not funny! Don’t say that!”

I felt unsafe. I felt scared.

In a tiny voice, I asked tentatively, “You would never hit me in anger, right?” My eyes wide.

He assured me He would never do that. He kissed my body all over, my sore breasts. Telling me He loved me.

He would imply later that the beating triggered something. It probably did. I’ve never been hit as a child, or as a teenager in an abusive relationship. There was always the threat, the danger of it, during out of control times. C balling up his fists until the knuckled turned white. But it never happned. I wanted Him to hit me. I told Him I had thought about it since our discussion about it, one muggy morning a week ago.

But afterwards, I faced away from Him, curled up in a ball.

He rolled away from me and stared at the ceiling, upset.

I asked Him to hold me. I needed to feel myself relax in His arms. I can’t describe the uneasy feeling I felt that night. The fear, the desire to run far away from Sir, but the desire to have Him hold me and tell me He loved me. I didn’t feel like crying. I didn’t know what I needed. This was something I couldn’t name. I still don’t understand it now. We’ve talked it out, almost to death. We are willing to try it again, after I fully process everything. Neither of us was expected the way I reacted.

All either of us knew at the moment, was that I was uneasy and I needed Him to take care of me.

I asked Him to touch me. I asked Him to hold me. He spooned with me.

I needed to feel safe and secure again.

He kissed the back of my neck and held me as long as I wanted.

“Sir?”

“Yes, pet?”

“Make love to me.” He slipped His fingers into my cunt. I was soaking, sopping, noisily wet.

We kissed. I eased myself back into His touch, touched Him greedily, grabbing at Him, His smooth skin easing my weary heart. I kissed Him hard, asked to orgasm as He made love to me. He said yes.

I orgasmed.

I held Him as close to me as I could. Squeezed Him. I told Him I loved Him, very much.

I don’t think I could have loved Him any more at that moment.

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One of the reasons I stopped posting here for a long stretch of time was because my relationship with Sir broke a little. I didn’t have my three day training session.

Sir had sex with one of His former partners, and didn’t tell me. Our relationship has ambiguous boundaries, but this particular woman always made me feel very insecure. At it’s core, it was a fundamental betrayal of the trust I put in Sir. I might discuss it in more detail later.

What I do want to talk about is the trust rebuilding aspect of a BDSM relationship. We were supposed to start on a new five month contract, that evening. The evening that I found about about His… transgression. I was going to sign a contract that would be more intense, more restrictive, and more challenging. I was trusting my Sir with, literally, everything I have.

He asked me if I still wanted to sign it. He asked me, and I said I didn’t know if I could. I felt betrayed and hurt and angry. I also didn’t feel submissive any more. I felt like nothing, just an ache and a general sadness. A few days earlier, Sir had literally beat into me, during a hard scene, that I was beautiful, amazing, extraordinary, concepts I have a hard time grasping. I felt all of that work unravel and drain away. I felt ordinary.

“I feel like I broke something very, very precious. Because you don’t feel like you can submit to me.” Sir admitted during an instant message exchange a few days later.

When I read BDSM blogs, I read very often about submissives who disobey their Masters or Mistresses in a major way and who are often punished for their actions. Submissives betraying trust, disobeying, being punished harshly, severely, and blogging about how much they want to be forgiven.

What happens when it’s the other way around? When it’s your Sir, your Master, the person you trust to take your breath, slap you until you see stars, beat you until you cry? When it’s someone that you CAN’T punish.

Everything just kind of flip flops. Suddenly, you’re not a submissive, you’re a girl again. Sir apologized to me a hundred times, in different ways. The roles felt like they had dissolved. We had drifted away from each other. It was me that was angry, and at the same time, not certain how to deal with my anger. It was me that was sad. It was Sir that tried so hard to make me feel better, even obliging me when I requested that we stop and get alcohol so I could drink. It was Sir feeling guilty and upset.

This also occured a few days before we were to depart for another California trip. A whole week this time.

So we took this trip to reconnect with each other. Kind of rediscovering and relearning and getting back into each other’s groove. We didn’t do any hard pain scenes. What we did do, was play a lot; in the mornings, at night, right when He got back from work. Sir was right; playing with each other and sleeping with each other helped both of us to feel better, and to reconnect. Waking up with each other, cuddling, messaging each other throughout the day, and the fact that we didn’t have to compete with much to spend time with each other, all helped.

I think that if the trip hadn’t come when it did, the trust rebuilding wouldn’t have gone as fast as it did. Spending lots and lots of time with Him accelerated the process. Maybe it’s the fact I’m a submissive, maybe I’m just an easy forgiver, but I didn’t and still do not feel a need to ‘torture’ Sir over what happened. I think Sir punished Himself enough. Sir apologized to me over and over again, but it was the unspoken things that helped to build my trust again. Build up my trust enough so that I could sign a contract.

I signed a contract on my hands and knees in a beautiful hotel room, late at night. Sir fingerfucked me while I read the neat, printed, three page contract aloud. I’ll talk about what I signed away in another post. He stripped off my dress, unzipping me out of it.

He slapped me. Repeatedly, tenderly at first, then more and more harsh. My breath escaped in shudders and gasps. I didn’t feel like crying. My face stung, my cheek felt warm, then hot. He slapped me with one hand first, then both hands. I was perched on my knees, the carpet biting into the tender skin on my kneecaps. I felt my knees weaken, but I dared not move.

Suddenly, I broke. I cried, and collapsed onto the carpet, falling from being on my knees. Sir sat on the floor, picked me up, and cradled me in His arms.

Ssh. Ssssh. You’re safe. You’re safe with me.

I cried into His shoulder as He held me close.

Looking back now, I think the whole fiasco, as painful as it was, helped bring us closer. I suspect that if our relationship wasn’t as solid and open, it would have fallen apart.

As Sir puts it, I will always have the ‘memory of the hurt’, unfortunately. That moment of being hurt. However, now we can move on to different and much more fun things.

—

What’s next?

TESfest 2008. Our new contract and my recollaring. Putting a couples profile on ALT. And whatever else pops into our heads.

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