The Collared Coed

Blah blah, New Year, blah blah, changes, blah.

I know every blogger out there is writing these wrap up posts, looking back at the year and looking forward to 2009.

I have no huge regrets for 2008. None. I have a few small ones, embarrassing moments that I could have gone without, poor decisions. On a whole, I’m amazingly pleased with how much I’ve developed as a person and as a submissive.

Despite how uncertain our relationship seems at the moment, I love Mark very much and I would not take back anything that we did. “Your love woke me up. It healed me.” He said, during one of our text messaging conversations. His love did the same for me, woke me up out of the three year sleep I was in.

We had an incredible year together; San Francisco trips, two BDSM gatherings (Folsom Fringe and TESfest), two contracts, dozens of scenes and thousands of hugs, kisses, and text messages between us.

I don’t know what the future holds, but I have a few resolutions.

1. Have anal sex. My tiny Asian body tends to reject any sort of object going into my ass, silicone or otherwise. I have to be patient enough to let this happen.
2. Cook more.
3. RELAX! and manage my time better.

Below is the continuation and conclusion of my other post, Things I Don’t Want to Say, about a scene that Sir and I had when our contract ended.

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• I respond to protocol. Protocol meaning speaking restrictions, routines, strict orders and daily assignments.
• I can experience subspace!
• That it is possible for me to feel comfortable within the BDSM community.
• That Sir and I really fit well together.
• I also like very restrictive, long term bondage.
• I have an interest in dominating a boy.
• I’m a painslut.
• Oh yeah, and some other stuff that’s not actually related to BDSM. Shocking.
• Like that I’m addicted to Starbucks and cheap books.
• Summer classes suck.
• I love my university!

I split my time this summer taking summer classes and spending time with Sir. Sir had me spend the weekend with Him and undergo training.

• I was not to speak, make eye contact, sit, stand, eat, drink, use the bathroom, or orgasm without permission.
• I was not to sit in a chair or on the couch.
• I had to wear my metal collar.
• I could not close a door on Sir, I had to leave a door open in the apartment with Him at all times.
• He chose my clothing.
• I had to sit on a cushion on the floor.

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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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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 my new obsessions in food are these tasty popsicles that Trader Joe’s carries. Knock-off frozfruit bars, basically. I love them. I eat them all the time. However, every time I mention that I’m eating a popsicle, Sir snickers at me over the phone.

Everyone has hangups, things that happened in the past that don’t really go away. People in the scene are not different. Everyone has something they did once that they didn’t like.

Me? Foreign object insertion.

Sir LOVES to make fun of me for this one. It isn’t really so dire or negative, it’s just turned me off from sticking objects in my cunny.

When I was first starting out in BDSM and searching for someone who had experience, I met up with an odd bird of a guy. 32. He lived alone, and seemed very self contained. No pictures, not a lot of personal effects. He lived in an apartment building and was very self conscious about noise. So he’d always blast classical music during our scenes.

I’ll talk about him more in my ‘points of origin’ series, but the main bit of the story is that one day, while hogtied and naked, we experimented with object insertion. He had a mattress on the floor, we weren’t in a bed or anything. At first, it was just toys and vibrators, which I was fine with.

Then I felt something big and COLD press up against my pussy. It was cold, and painful, and sticky. It was one of those pops that come in the yellow box. You know what I mean. It melted quickly, from my arousal and from it being warm in his apartment. I bucked and shrieked, not caring if my noises weren’t being sufficiently covered by the music. It was SO fucking painful, even though I was going numb.

He fucked it in and out of me a few times, as much as he could. Then, he pulled it out and stuck the mess in my mouth. I tried to be a good girl, tried to relax, but it wasn’t helping.

I was shaken, the popscicle a temporary gag in my mouth, as I felt something else pressing up against my cunt. I didn’t know what it was, I spit out the popscicle and gave in, shrieking the safeword, physically shaking at this point. Piano sonatas still playing to futilely cover up the noise. He fumbled with the knots while was freaking out, but then he pulled out his safety shears and cut me out. I was still shaking as he carried me over to a chair and sat me in his lap, patting my back and waiting for me to calm down. I eventually did calm down, and he revealed that the second thing was only his fingers, but my cunt was so numb from the popscicle that I couldn’t tell.

So there’s one of my stories, one of my hangups. I still feel panicky and anxious at the thought of any sort of object going in there. Everyone has things in BDSM they won’t try anymore because of a bad experience. I won’t try it any time soon. Maybe another time in the future. But definitely not anytime soon.

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(Not quite a ‘point of origin’ for my OCD mind; a pre-point. Haha. And can you tell it’s almost finals week here at ECU? Look at all these posts!)

Fall of 2006, I decided to try and fulfill my BDSM desires in secret. Finding someone just to fuck. I rationalized that if it was just sex, it wasn’t that bad. I know, I know. More than a little flawed. I had my reasons for what I did. I felt trapped and oppressed and felt like fucking someone else would ease that pressure. I’m a cheater.

I had looked at craigslist ads with varying degrees of intensity. Collarme just overwhelmed me, and I didn’t even know about alt until I met Sir. craigslist is a funny bird. It’s great for women and absolutely horrendous for men. I wrote that I was inexperienced at BDSM and was looking to explore it with someone. I also wrote my real age, that I was 18. I hit “post”.

I rethought something, went back and edited my post, adding the postscript that older men were welcome. I shut the browser down.

And then promptly drove over to C’s house for a date. I kept fidgeting and was acting flighty during the whole date. I came back to my room six hours later and had 50 or so replies.

Despite my insistence that I wanted ‘intelligent’ domination, I received a lot of dumb, misogynistic, or just plain idiotic replies from people. I also had a disturbingly large age range. People took my post script a little too seriously.

I could talk about craigslist for multiple posts. The important thing is that from all 100+ posts I received, only one stood out.

We might be able to have a mutually beneficial relationship.

A man in his early 30s that seemed smart, funny, sane and at least somewhat versed in BDSM. I quickly sent out an email. We played a fast set of email tag. We learned about each other. I quickly deduced he was married. Let’s call him G. G wasn’t feeling too much guilt fooling around with a college freshman; apparently, he had cheated on his wife before. We exchanged phone numbers. He said he would call me later on in the week.

I got a rather hot voicemail (from a payphone, go figure) from him. He lamented the fact he had missed me, and said all sorts of dirty things.

The next email from him, he discussed meeting. I’d like to take a walk with you. A walk into the woods.

Ha. I initially thought he was joking. He wasn’t. His initial reason for meeting in the woods, he informed me later, was so that he could touch me. “And it’d help me determine whether you’re really up for this.” He wrote.

So I obliged. I wore a skirt, but I had to wear a parka because it was November. In my car, I slipped my fingers into my pussy and rubbed a bit of it behind my ear. What he wanted. I waited for him at the train station, nervous as hell. I swear I nearly walked away a few times. Then he came up behind me. He put his hand on my shoulder. I turned around. He looked like his picture. Handsome, unassuming. A dermal punch in his ear. Blue buttondown shirt, jeans, a jacket, glasses. He put his hand on the small of my back and we walked into the woods.

We made awkward small talk; what classes I was taking in school and whatnot. Then he pressed me up against a tree, my nose pressed up against the tree bark. He came up behind me and put his face in my hair. Then he slowly pulled my hair to one side and smelled behind my ear. “Such a good girl.” He said warmly. He grabbed my ass underneath the skirt. Then he slid my panties aside and slid his finger into my pussy.

“Fuck, you’re fucking tight.” He groaned into my ear. I could feel him pressing himself into my ass. He pulled his finger out and turned me around. “Did you like that?” He asked me. I nodded.

He jammed the wet finger into my mouth.

Then he took my hand and pressed it into the bulge in his jeans. I could feel his hard cock, and the amphallang piercing through the head of it. I sucked on his finger. “Do you want to suck my cock?”

My mind reeled. I was aroused, wet, overwhelmed, excited. I nodded yes with his finger still in my mouth. He gently guided me onto my knees in the middle of the forest, in the middle of the morning, and tugged his cock out of his jeans. I’d never seen a pierced cock up close. I sucked his cock for a little bit. Gagged on the piercing. Then he pulled me up. He didn’t come. He handed me my parka, told me to zip up, it was cold. We trekked out of the woods.

We talked a little more, then went our separate ways.

Then I went to my car and masturbated furiously. I was so turned on and light headed and bewildered and excited.

We wouldn’t fuck for the first time until the next week. I’d get my first spanking, too.

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I spent yesterday with Sir, mostly unwinding from a long week that He had. We cuddled and watched television and drank coffee and just squashed ourselves together on the couch without worrying about phone calls or work. We discussed the fact that the contract we have now is ending soon. I have to give the collar back while we discuss the next level of my training and our new agreement.

I think we hit new territory yesterday.

I cried.

I cried during our play. While we were talking, He undressed me. Then He positioned my arms and legs and made me maintain a certain position. Fuck. I loathe when He does that, because it’s AGONIZING. Downright agonizing.

Then He slapped my face. Backhanded it. Then slapped me. Again, and again, and again.

I didn’t know why, but the act of maintaining the position while being slapped brought tears of frustration to my eyes. I felt them filling with tears. He paused for a second. Then continued.

I cried. I kept crying. It wasn’t that it hurt a lot. I was crying out of helplessness.

“Why are you crying?” He asked. I said I didn’t know and He slapped me again.

“I don’t know what you want!” I sobbed. It seemed like the right answer.

Then He asked me if this is what I really want. To be pushed and trained to tears. Possibly repeatedly.

Why would I want this?

I want to see what I’m capable of. I want to see if I can do this. I feel like I would come out of the other end a better person. I know I’m not weak. I know I’m not truly powerless. I know I’m not a small person.

But I want to feel powerless.

I want to be made weaker.

I want to feel small.

And then prove over and over again that I’m not really any of those things.

I want to give Him the gift of my submission, tears, sweat because I feel this deep connection that He is the one that could take me down those paths and make sure I come out whole on the other side.

He could break me and put me back together into something bigger, something more.

Why would I want this?

Because if I don’t, I’ll forever wonder if I could have done it.

I cried again when He told me that if we were to do this, He would put a clause in the contract that lets me out whenever I want.

“Why do you think I would do that, pet?”

I shrugged. Said some other, incorrect answer.

“You’ve been trapped before. You’ve felt so trapped you thought suicide was a legitimate way out. I never, ever want you to feel that way again. You are not trapped. I don’t want your submission if you don’t want to give it to me.”

Tears came back to my eyes because I felt so loved, so understood in that sentence.

I really feel like yesterday was the start of something new.

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Sir and many other men that I’ve spoken to about BDSM all, at one time, expressed envy that I grew up in the Internet age. No magazines or slow downloading times or text-based Internet for me. Any porn or erotica I wanted was just a click away. I think I was the nightmare of many parents, the latchkey kid with the Internet access who got up to no good. I think I was so horny and so unsatisfied with my boyfriend at the time that I’d consistently watch porn almost every other day during junior year.That’s the problem with growing up having all this knowledge of what you want. I went to a local BDSM social group last Tuesday, Sir-less. When I introduced myself as a college student and, when asked, showed them my collar, they were all impressed and a little jealous.

I was picking at my food and talking to two older couples. Sir had suggested I stick with couples so I wouldn’t feel creeped out being there alone. One couple in their 50s, whose wife had just been collared, made it known that she was envious. “God, if I had known when I was your age, what you know now, I would have made very different life choices. You’re so lucky.” She smiled at me, a little sadly.

What I feel like they don’t see, is that it DOES cause some problems. Mainly, before I met Sir and discovered that it was TOTALLY OKAY to feel like this, I had far too many awkward moments with my teenaged boyfriend, C. Granted, we had huge emotional problems, but as my desire for submission became more and more defined, it was harder for me to tolerate having vanilla sex. Don’t get me wrong! I love vanilla sex. But I became more and more curious about BDSM and desperately wanted some sort of indicator that it was okay to be like this. I didn’t know how to communicate it. The only reason I say it was hard for me to tolerate vanilla sex is because I very, very badly wanted to have D/s, BDSM sex even once. Just once.

It became this really horrible give and take situation. There were a billion things he wanted to try, like any teenaged boy with a girlfriend who happens to be a bit more sexual than most. Some of them I tolerated, some I just downright disliked. I didn’t -hate- anything. There were some that I found a little strange at the time, but I don’t anymore. Things like titfucking (when I’m barely a B cup) and giving him a footjob after he watched me give myself a pedicure, I approached with an open mind. I was less happy about fucking in the woods, only because I wasn’t getting any pleasure from it and frankly, we were too close to civilization for me to relax fully. (What’s ironic is that Sir keeps alluding to playing in the woods, and a few years later, I’m totally game on for it.) I was also less happy about fucking in cars and fucking in weird locations, only because we got busted by the cops once and they almost hauled him off on stautory rape because I didn’t have a state ID on me. It didn’t help that he LOOKED older than 18 and the cops thought I looked closer to 14 or 15.

In the midst of all this, I felt like what I wanted would just be seen as completely crazy. Being tied up and slapped, spanked and throatfucked, being made to cry and then orgasming while I’m still crying… you get the picture. It was like it was MORE culturally acceptable for me to fulfill his wishes, then for him to help me fill mine.

Around this time, one of his friends had approached C and I in confidence; one night after fucking his own girlfriend, and experimenting with spanking her, she HAD started crying. He was horrified and so was C, and I had to sit and pretend that I hadn’t masturbated the night before to being hit until I cried and being fucked anyway.

Of course, we experimented. Really awkward experiments. He blindfolded me, and tied me to the headboard of his bed, NOT from my suggestion, mind you. His own. He didn’t quite know what to do with me, and he did not want to hit me at all. I had to do the same to him, tie him up and blindfold him and THAT was EXCEPTIONALLY awkward. I hadn’t a fucking idea what to do with him. It was extremely uncomfortable. Then I would go home and masturbate in the dark of my room, under the covers.

So there is this downside to having this sort of advanced knowledge. You know what you want, and it’s just out of reach. You watch porn, read erotica, even troll craigslist and look at the ads of people. To reach it would involve cheating, or leaving the person you’re with. For a good two years, those weren’t options.

Then I decided it was an option. To cheat.

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I keep telling myself I’m going to post. But I never seem to get around to it. Whether it’s because of homework in my communications major, or going to see Sir, or going out, I seem to leave this blog behind.

So I have to go back, way back, to March. March meant Spring Break, and Spring Break meant San Francisco!

Sir bounces back and forth between the East Coast and the West Coast, for his job. I go to University in a major East Coast school, as I’ve mentioned before. A few months ago, Sir was talking about having me come out with California with Him for a few days and staying with Him in His room and sightseeing while He logs in His hours at work. And lo! I flew out with Him on an early morning flight. I had a big list of things to see, and of course, I wanted Sir to take me to Madame S off of Folsom Street.

Unfortunately, I had to go collarless for airport security. I have an allen key, and so does Sir, but He was afraid that if I tried to wear it through the security, they might either a) hold us up through the security line or b) confiscate it. A small chance, but one we didn’t want to take. I took it off and slipped it in my backpack.

When I got to San Francisco, I wore it constantly, despite the few dirty looks I got from people. However, I was blushing when a submissive came up to me in the fetish store Sir and I went to on Monday night and he commented on how much he liked it. I even put my shiny heart shaped padlock on it, something I don’t feel as comfortable doing here at East Coast U. It makes it blatantly obvious that it’s a collar. All the little polo shirts I wore showed it off. It made it easier for Sir to do something else. It made it easier to chain me to our hotel room bed.

The two days before we landed in San Francisco, Sir went to Home Depot and purchased ten feet of a heavy, weighty chain. I liked the feeling of being chained up in a beautiful hotel on Fisherman’s Wharf. He tied the chain to the bottom of the bed and left it there every day. I would undress and He would take His keyring out and chain me to the bed after being to sure to ask me if there was anything I needed to do before being chained for the night. Being chained made me feel like real property, which I really enjoyed. Despite the fact the chain took on any sort of chill and makes it like ice when a pet needs to turn over in bed during the night.

I only had to ask to be unchained once, even though I was worrying about having to ask to be unchained.

One of Sir’s laments is that we never seem to get into a rhythm to establish a routine for me. San Francisco was the start of getting me into more of a service headspace.

I was supposed to set a little alarm for myself on my BlackBerry and wake up earlier and give Him a blowjob before going to work every morning. It was a strange feeling, I really felt like I was ‘of service’. Being a good little pet and waking up early to service my owner, even when it was still dark outside. Of course, things happen and I never actually serviced Him to completion, most of the time He’d just start to touch me and we would end up fucking. I also got to experience other types of servitude, mainly just trying to make life easier for Him. I’d done it before, cleaning up after He’s gone for the day, getting lunch for Him, maybe cleaning the apartment or cleaning the bathroom if I got to the apartment before He got there. In SF, I got to massage His back and His feet after dinner.

I react positively to service. It wouldn’t surprise me if some submissives don’t enjoy domestic service. I do, though. I like hearing his contented sighs and little groans when I just hit that right spot in His back, or my fingers knead out the little knot in his foot with some of my heavy duty lotion. I like pleasing Him in any way I can. Even if it means taking a Hitachi Magic Wand to His back at 5am just so I can work out a kink in His back. (I snickered at the fact that we were using the Wand for it’s original intent.)

More recently, last Friday, Sir had me strip and clean His bedroom and prep it for play. Then He informed me that I’m to do that every time before we play. Then He went to take a shower as I worked. I worked my little pet ass off! His room was a wreck! I swept and bagged trashed, picked up clothes, made the bed, prepped the toy bag, and tried to keep myself looking presentable. I was already sweaty before we started playing!

I think I like a small amount of ritual. And I like being forced to serve domestically. Another level to pull me down into my submission. Since Sir and I don’t do as much formal play as we would like, any sort of ritual is welcome to me. Of course, spontaneous scenes can be delicious as well.

Sir certainly seems to enjoy my spontaneous offers to rub His back. Just as I enjoy spontaneous face slapping and breathplay scenes right before bed. Mmm.

San Francisco has a lot of little stories for me to tell. I’m going to try and interweave SF stories with what’s been going on more recently.

That is, unless my college girl ADD strikes again. . .

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