The Collared Coed

“Do you trust me, pet?” Sir asks while He holds the gag loosely in His hand. I barely squeak out a “yes” before He’s shoving it into my mouth.

And I instantly feel relaxed. I can’t speak. I can’t see. And I don’t have any choices.

- – -

I’m on a restrictive remote protocol until this contract expires. We’re renewing it again, that’s not a concern for either of us.

• back to telling him everything I eat and drink.
• morning tasklists for the day with times and addresses of where I am.
• no sweets. no junk food.
• emailing Him every time I exit and leave a building. Basically, enough information for Him to know where I am all the time.
• back to slave tasks to reinforce my status as pet and property.

Last night we had a quick and dirty scene. I just needed pain, and lots of it.

He tied my hands up above my head and blindfolded and gagged me. He clamped my nipples and caned me with the huge, thick wooden cane and the thin metal one. Just repeated swats. Over and over and over. Last night, I just didn’t think. My mind went completely blank. It was so freeing.

Sir used me very hard last night. I was sopping wet from the caning and the clamping. He loved taking the clamps off while He was using me, so I would thrash around in pain. He kept saying over and over how I have no choices, how I can’t fight or resist, how I’m property and a slut. Fuck. It was so good. I couldn’t come while being fucked, so He used the hitachi on me. Mmm.

I crave pain much more lately. I also crave breathplay. Sir was pinching my nose shut while I had the gag in and it was so fucking hot. Probably mildly unsafe, but so fucking arousing.

I think I’m growing as a bottom, if that makes sense. My pain tolerance is increasing and are my desires for breathplay and restrictive bondage. I don’t know if I would have wanted these things so much a few months ago. Hmm.

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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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Going back to talking about San Francisco, something happened that brought up some subbie inferiority issues. Besides the BDSM attire/lingerie thing I talked about in my last post, another issue I have is with anal sex.

On the computer screen or on paper, I’m more than willing to have anal sex. I think I’m fixated on it. In person, in front of my Sir, I just CAN’T seem to relax enough. And that pisses me off and frustrates me. I want it! I totally want it! So why can’t I do it? What’s wrong with me?

In San Francisco, we bought a really fun shaped anal plug toy at Madame S. We went out to dinner on the Tuesday we were there and after we came back, we decided to have a little play session.

(The room happened to have a mirror in front of the bed, which fascinated us when we first got there. Sir fucked me from behind shortly after we got there, making me look at myself being used. Which was actually really hot, I’m not going to lie. He pressed a hand against my mouth. I watched intently.

“This is me taking your voice.” He said to my reflection. I couldn’t meet my own eyes in the mirror, I had to look at Him.

“This is my taking your breath. Look at yourself.” He covered my nose and mouth and I fought to not close my eyes.)

But that night, that session, we didn’t use the mirror. The focus was on playing with the new anal toy. Trying to get me to open up. It was just not happening. I could not relax myself enough to make it not hurt so much. He pushed the plug into me firmly and I cried out in pain, begging incoherently for Him to stop. He was concerned about noise, so He didn’t take the anal play further than that. (We were in a respectable Fisherman’s Wharf hotel! What would the other guests have thought?)

So, we had to be concerned with noise, which we usually aren’t. I have to hand it to Sir, however. He is particularly resourceful. Because we went to San Francisco on Sunday to Thursday, we didn’t get the opportunity to go to any fetish clubs together while we were there, which is a shame. Sir took the fact that we had to be more quiet than normal and turned it into a new way to mindfuck me during a scene. Mmm. Sir shifted focus from anal sex to the other kind of pain. The good kind, of course.

Sir didn’t even need to tie me down, He just ordered me not to move and not to make a sound during a caning. While the force of the canes wasn’t as hard as it’s was in the past, the fact that I could not cry out or move or even pant loudly completely messed with my head. I had to just take it and whimper or breathe quietly through the ball gag. I felt like an object then. Objects don’t cry out, they don’t move when struck. I slipped into a smaller version of subspace even though we didn’t play for too long. I was pretty scared, actually. It was amazing. I think that experience really cemented my desire for objectification during play.
I endured it, and Sir grabbed me, shoved in His fingers so He could fuck me after the caning and started verbally berating me for “complaining so much” about the caning, because I was sopping wet.

“You complain so fucking much like it’s so god damn hard.” He said almost breathlessly as He pounded into me from behind.

“But you’re so fucking wet. You really are just a little slut, a fuckhole, aren’t you?” His hands on my ass, slamming me back into Him.

I’m still a little disappointed in myself, however. A few weeks later. I’m trying so, so hard to please Him, and one of the things He desires is to train my ass and I just can’t seem to relax enough to take anything but a small plug. Anything larger and my knuckles turn white as I’m gripping the bedsheets and begging rather pathetically for Him to take out the plug. I want to, I desperately want to. It’s not that I would find this distasteful or something. I want it so bad, but I don’t know how to relax enough for Him to train me. It’s caused a bit of anxiety for me. Maybe I should read the anal sex book that Sir ordered for me more closely. I fret over things like this. It’s in our written contract, He has the right to train my ass, but it just hurts so much, He hasn’t pressed forward with that too much. I feel like if I’m collared, if He owns my little pet body, then dammit, He should be able to fuck me in all my holes.

So why can’t I do this? I want it! I want it very badly!

I endure things I DON’T like and pull those off successfully. Such as taking canings. Or having my nipples clamped. Or having my labia clamped. (Well. Maybe I like that last one. But not at first!) I can even taking my bastinado punishments and successfully not move. Those hurt like a bitch. But I can’t have anal sex? Something that’s supposed to be pleasureable? That makes me feel like an inadequate pet sometimes.
I suppose I should go find a large book to hide that anal sex book in so I can read it in my dorm room and not freak my roommate out.

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Sir and I hadn’t seen each other in a few days, so it wasn’t any surprise that He stripped me within twenty minutes of being in His apartment last night. He stripped me when He felt my shirt and saw that I was wearing a bra. He doesn’t like my bras, thinks my breasts are “perfect” and fine without any enhancing bras. (Sorry, I’m a child of the Victoria’s Secret generation.)

However, I was surprised to find my hands cuffed to the chain at the foot of the bed later on that night. I figured Sir would be too tired to play. Mmm. It wasn’t a long scene like the one we had done the week or so ago, but it was *so* satisfying. You see, I’ve been on this sudden anal sex kick- really interested in it, masturbating about it, watching anal sex porn. Instead of feeling nervous when I felt Sir applying lube to my ass and slowly sliding in a plug, I was aroused. Except when He said it; “Don’t let it fall out, pet, or I will punish you.”

Of course, I tensed, which is the OPPOSITE of what I should have been doing! I was nervous! He applied nipple clamps and made me kneel on my hands and knees on the bed, preventing me from resting my torso on the mattress. I liked the fullness of the anal plug, but I was concentrating *so* hard on not letting it fall out. I was full and in pain from the clamps, and Sir still spanked me, used the slapper on my ass.

“You want to come, don’t you?” I heard some mysterious rustling in the toy bag.

“I’m afraid the plug will fall out, Sir.” I begged. I knew that if I had to move at all, it was falling out.

“It’s in just fine, pet. You’re allowed to come. Just don’t let it fall out.” And I felt His hands down near my pussy and He flipped it on. The magic wand. I shrieked.

(Yes, I am a magic wand convert. I’ve never orgasmed so quickly with anything else.)

I was doing what I do when I’m in a lot of pain, pulling down on the chains HARD. Two hands. Despite the fact I was rocketing towards an amazing orgasm. I didn’t dare want to move, I was afraid the plug would slip out.  It was incredibly, insanely intense. The plug, the wand, the clamps. I wasn’t gagged, so I must have sounded downright incoherent. Sir seemed to know exactly where to pivot the head of the wand to make me scream. “Don’t let it fall out!” Sir was barking at me. I was struggling so hard.

I orgasmed, shaking, crying out… and still as a stone. I did NOT move at all. I HATE having my feet caned. This shows just how much.  Even though I did end up having them caned for letting the clamps fall off my nipples when I was orally servicing Him. Oops.

It was just *so* nice to see Sir again. Our schedules have been so hectic and busy. He chained me to the bed last night before we went to sleep. Some of my hair got caught in the chain. Sir needs to get bigger chain. Sir has told me to go get myself a mini toy bag. In my haste to get to His apartment, I forgot a few things. Grr.

And today, I am just relaxing and content and happy. Woke up next to Sir all nice and warm. Mmm.

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I officially live up to my namesake now! I am officially collared.

(Not to say my collar is ‘nothing’, but I wanted to be all, you know. Witty. Bloggers are usually witty, aren’t they?)

Sir and I signed a three month BDSM contract, and He locked my collar very late last Friday night. On my knees in His bedroom, naked in front of Him, I scratched out my signature on the neat, well written, two page contract. He came up right behind me and pressed Himself against me as He signed the contract right underneath my signature and slammed the pen down.

My collar is very pretty, very elegant and is extremely comfortable. After using me on Friday night, I curled right up against Him and fell asleep. Didn’t even fidget a bit. Mm. I love waking up in the morning next to Sir. All warm and comfortable and safe. I especially like when the two of us are still groggy and He’s guiding my hand to His cock to stroke him. Or when He’s absently touching my pussy and I slowly spread my legs for His hand, half-asleep.

Now I’m in a bit of a dilemma. I’m proud to be His, and I want to wear shirts that show off my collar. I’m all happy and giddy and proud. But I can’t really do that. My suitemates, my roommate in particular, would not be amused by this. So I feel like I have to stuff it under my collar, wear my college hoodie more.

However, sometimes I get that feeling I alluded to, that “I don’t give a fuck what you think” feeling, and I let it ‘pop’ out of my shirt. I’ve been doing it more and more. In class, on the train, on the street, sitting in a coffee shop. Peeling off my college sweatshirt and wearing a polo shirt underneath, the collar in plain sight. It’s different when I’m surrounded by strangers, by acquaintances. But when I’m with my roommates, or close friends, I feel more on guard.

Sir tells me I’m making a big deal out of nothing. That if I don’t draw attention to myself, no one will say anything. I’m trying to listen, but it’s just a fucking habit. To want to blend in. I’m getting better about it now.

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Today was the first play session where I felt real panic.

I’ve been playing with Sir since September. We play quite often, we’re very close. We have established safewords and safesignals and I’ve used them responsibly. And He has always been responsible as well. Hence, I’ve never felt panic with Him. I’ve felt ‘scared’, but in an exciting, exhilarating way. Even when something goes wrong, Sir takes care of me.

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During the first play session with my Sir, He lightly slapped my face. Not hard. He puts it as a “pay attention!” tap, type of slap.

My reaction? Volatile. I felt myself tense and simultaneously wonder, “What the fuck did he just do?” and “…will he do it again?”

Apparently the look on my face was so expressive that He was overcome with the desire to slap me again. So it began. Later, Sir would tell me that, that was the moment He sensed the chemistry between us.

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