The Collared Coed

Sir makes jokes about being afraid He’s ruined me, exposing me to all of this, you know. BDSM. Heh. While I don’t think He’s ruined me, I do think I’ve reached this point in my life where I can say, I can’t go back to a vanilla relationship. I like this too much.

“This” does not signify only the activities, the sex, the munches, TESfest, meetings or the clubs. It also means the intimacy, honesty, emotional and sexual fulfillment and sense of completion it gives me. I feel, at the point I am right now, if I were to give all of this up and go into a vanilla relationship, I would be devastated. If I had to go into some sweet, boring, blah relationship, I would be so FUCKING BORED. I would feel so stifled. I feel like being a BDSM relationship allows both people to be more honest, with themselves and with their partners.

I feel like I would have to hide so much of myself, those things that I bare so openly right now. The things that Sir wants to hear, urges me to tell him; my needs, my desires, the thoughts that scare me and all of the things I’m curious about. I’m tired of hiding. I spent my high school years behind masks.

I mean, I feel safe enough to be able to say, “Yes, I liked when you were choking me while you were fucking me” or “I like it when you slap my face” or “I think about crawling on the floor in front of you.” I really don’t think I would feel anywhere near open enough with a vanilla partner to say those things.

Spending my formative sexual development years with a boy who was bloody awful in bed made me realize something. Every relationship I have after that, will need to have amazing sexual chemistry.

It’s awful to spend four months lying beneath some boy you don’t give a shit about; you might as well be a knothole in a tree. I felt no sexual attraction to my exboyfriend, C, after a while. I felt no need to initiate sex, I felt distant and I began to hate myself after having sex with him. I don’t orgasm from oral sex, because my previous long term partner didn’t care enough to make me orgasm and made me feel guilty about wanting oral sex.

Read that last sentence over.

No woman should ever feel GUILTY for wanting consensual sex. I almost can’t believe that I let that happen to me for so long.

And now I can’t orgasm from oral sex, and it makes me cry with frustration. I obsess. I feel guilty with Sir’s mouth between my legs. I feel like He’s annoyed with having to do it. I feel like I just can’t orgasm from it, so I try to close my legs and push him away. I always had to beg C to go down on me, so I didn’t believe it when Sir said that He LIKES to go down on women.

This is why I cannot be in a relationship right now where I would have to hide my sexuality. I’m already making up for lost time. I refuse to be in a relationship where my sexual needs are not being met. I can’t do that again. I can’t let it happen.

I love how BDSM is helping me grow as a person.

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I hate fucking in cars.

There. I said it.

Maybe it’s the disappearance of those secret places where you can park a car in peace, or maybe with the advent of more compact cars, I just cannot get into any kind of messing around in a small car. If someone were to suggest car sex, I would look at them askance.

Vans are different. Vans have seats that go back, and are spacious enough that you’re not sitting on a gearshift while you’re blowing someone.

Sir and I, during the drive back from our first visit together to a BDSM club, stopped at a rest stop and crawled into the backseat. (“You’ve ruined the term ’service station’ for me, pet.” He says, now.) He drove a minivan. He pulled over spontaneously. THAT was fun, that was deliciously naughty; clothes unbuttoned and unbuckled, Sir taking His cock out of leather pants, leaning back, bare chested. He looked so delicious. Even now, I love when He’s shirtless but wearing leather pants. Fuck. Even shirtless and wearing the utilikilt is hot.

I wore eye glitter to the club, and His hands were in my hair, tugging at it. I was smearing glitter everywhere, there was even glitter in the zipper of his pants. We were sweaty and the windows were fogging up against the 2:30am cold outside. “I should fuck you right here,” He whispered, tugging my mouth down onto His cock, “I almost don’t care who sees us. Almost.” The rest stop was a little too populated for our tastes, even though it was so late. The feel of His exquisite, uncircumcised cock in my mouth, moving in and out, made me melt. That’s the kind of car sex I like. When it’s spontaneous, a secret shared between two people, and a search for immediate gratification.

All of these hybrid cars don’t make for hot making out in the backseat. Those cars are tiny! I’m all for gas conservation and hybrid cars, but I am a little sad that eventually, people won’t fuck in cars anymore. Suburban sprawl has killed Lover’s Lanes, and cops are more aggressive and on the prowl to bust kids for drinking or drugs.

This happened to my exboyfriend C and I. We were in his mom’s minivan, after the winter concert at school (I was in the orchestra, haha.) and it was nearly midnight. The lights were off, the engine was on, the seats were back, and we were going at it.

For once, I was completely into the act. Too often, I was often wheedled and begged into being fucked in that same van, and would just stare blank eyed at the sky as he had his way with me. It makes me sad, all the sex between the ages of 15 and 19 that I just sat through. But I guess that’s for another post.

But this night, this windy cold night, I kissed back just as hard as I could. I was wearing all black, a black blouse and a black skirt with pink underwear. My panties were off and my shirt was unbuttoned. We didn’t notice the lights. The two of us caught up in that world of teenage lust and hormones. We didn’t notice the cops until the flashlights were shining inside.

There was a problem. I was only sixteen. I was technically underaged, while C was not. C was visibly nervous, as was I, and he told me to say that he had only performed oral sex on me, no more. They tapped on the glass and then opened the door. I was still undressed. They were staring as I put myself together.

I didn’t have ID. I didn’t have anything that said how old I was. All I had was a stupid high school ID. That was a problem.

The police hauled me away from C, as they inspected his ID and questioned him to why we were out there so late.

“Are you here on your own free will, Miss?” The officer asked, quietly. I said yes, of course. C was terrified that he would be arrested.

Eventually, they let us go, telling us, “Just go home, guys. It’s too cold out here and we got calls from the nearby houses.” It was terrifying. We got out of there as quick as we could.

So I can count the positive experiences I’ve had with car sex on one hand. Since I live in the big city, I don’t drive much anymore. Sir’s van is full of trash. Cars are getting smaller and smaller. I don’t see myself having sex in a car any time soon. I don’t really miss it. Pfft.

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“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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I haven’t blogged here for a variety of reasons.

a) Midterms. Enough said.

b) My internship at Obnoxious Public Relations Firm (disguised for obvious reasons) has suddenly dumped a lot of work on me at once. I work there three days a week.

c) The remote protocol I was under, fell apart.

Things with Sir and I went back and forth, throughout October. It was a very, very difficult month.

He’s been away on business more than He’s been here, which made it difficult to maintain protocol and feel connected.

So I pretty much dropped my protocol of emailing Him my food intake and tasklist for the day and doing slave tasks, for the latter half of October. They were causing me major anxiety and freaking me out, more than they were maintaining my ‘property’ mindspace.

These few weeks have not been the easiest. We struggle to find time to see each other, and we struggle with maintaining a connection. My stress levels have been running high, and so has Sir’s. The problem is, we both react to stress in different ways. I feel less submissive and pull away, and Sir feels MORE submissive.

We’ve had hard scenes dispersed throughout the month. We have hard scenes and then Sir leaves on business, for His job.

. . .I don’t know. I needed something here to break this silence that’s come over the blog.

On Sunday, we decided to change things.

He constructed a new remote protocol for me to follow, temporarily.

I swear I will blog more here in the next few days. I have Halloween, some more scenes and Folsom to talk about. And of course, my new protocol.

This feels weird. So, hi.

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I find it ironic that I’m a communications major sometimes, considering the problems I have with communicating my feelings. I study and analyze how people communicate. How advertising communicates what we as a society find important. I study phone sex. (I have to do a presentation on phone sex in my Human Communication class in three weeks… I officially love my major even more.) I study how people communicate in video games. My specialty is going to be international communications.

So why can’t I communicate to the person that I trust with everything? Why do I hold back my communication about my feelings? Why can’t I just be honest about how I feel? I mean, fuck, Mark knows everything about me.

I don’t know why I forget this one, simple fact; BDSM can’t exist without a connection.

I grew up in an age of increasing isolation. I grew up with AOL, literally. I had two computers when I was five, I remember my father writing out DOS run commands for me and taping them to my computer desk. I once bid AND WON a Beanie Baby on eBay when I was in middle school. I was more comfortable IMing than having real communications with people. I was in a long term, emotionally abusive relationship where real, true communication was mocked. So was Mark. We were both told in different ways that our feelings don’t matter.

I seem to be an amnesiac when it comes to the important of communication, because when I don’t feel connected with Mark, all my desires to submit fall away like petals from a flower ripped from a bush, fluttering at my feet. I feel flat.

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I really have not been doing my slave tasks or my email reports or my daily picture.

I need to remember what all of this comes down to. I’m property.

I’m still property and a slave even if I’m crampy, stressed from school, stressed from work or tired. I’m wearing a slave collar.

I signed a contract at Sir’s feet because I need this. It was my choice and my choice alone. I signed it again even after Sir broke my heart in June because I forgave Him and I trust Him enough not to break it again. I did not sign it without a lot of soul searching, deep conversation and makeup sex.

I crave this feeling of being property. I need this. I feel better with a collar around my throat. The collar Sir yanks on when He’s fucking my throat. The collar He holds onto when He slaps me. Being a slave, having no choice, gives me somewhere to just be, as Sir puts it. And that’s perfect.

If I’m really honest with myself, my collar also makes me feel safer. Safe enough to handle being slapped, punched, caned until I’m crying, cry in front of someone else in general… I had a really intense orgasm on Sunday and almost started crying from the release. I feel beautifully present and whole during a scene.

I’ve never felt so close to someone else. I’ve never been so in tune and so connected with another human being. Sir treats me very well, and even when He is hurting me… still great at it. Ha.

We had a conversation last week about where our relationship is going to go, which always scares the shit out of me. It was good to have a frank, honest conversation. I don’t want to fuck up the time we have together now, by worrying about what will happen later. Everything will work out in the end. If it’s meant to be… let’s just say everything will be okay.

I want to enjoy everything right now. Present. Present.

I’m a slave.

I’m property.

I chose this.

I will choose this again.

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I slept fitfully on the plane to California. I had rushed around all day; packing, buying food (that I ended up leaving in my dorm, oops), commuting to the airport and rushing through security. I was stuck in economy next to a man with awful breath. I was mesmerized by the movie that was playing in flight, “Speed Racer” and I listened to the in flight radio. After that was over, I was very restless. I was also starving, but I was being stubborn and didn’t like any of the airline snack boxes.

I was so, so glad to touch down in SFO. I ran to the bathroom after we were let off the plane, then I ran down to baggage claim where Sir was waiting. I wanted to jump in his arms.

We drove to San Jose and prowled around for food. Sir dragged me to a casino that happened to have a diner in it, and we had to sneak in because I’m not 21. Basically, I didn’t go to bed until 2am PACIFIC TIME. Which was 5am to my poor body.

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So there’s this girl in my writing class.

And she’s fucking gorgeous.

And I don’t want to fuck her.

She’s a freshman, which kind of freaks me out. I mean, I worked with freshman during Orientation.

She looks like an honest to god porcelain doll. She had beautiful pale skin, cheeks that are pink and the softest looking, most kissable lips I have ever seen on a woman. Wide blue eyes. Long light brown hair. And her breasts are gorgeous. She wears these low cut, square neck, innocent looking lacy tops that just accentuate her breasts SO nicely. She looks so pure and innocent and it’s kind of eerie.

And I’ve no desire to fuck her. I can’t imagine her in any sexual context. Sir says, “It’s just because you’re not a GUY.” I don’t think so.

I want to protect her. She’s a FRESHMAN. College is going to change her and I want her to know she’s beautiful the way she is. I want to tell her things that she should know about the next few years. I want to hug her, not take her clothes off and fondle her.

I notice all these beautiful girls on campus and I can definitely imagine doing dirty, dirty things to them… but not to her.

It’s strange.

Since we’re on a school theme…

I am a College Democrat. I am an insane supporter of Obama. So is Sir. Both of us were obsessive checking our respective preferred politics websites ALL Folsom weekend. (fivethirtyeight.com for Sir and OhNoTheyDidn’t Political, pollster.com and politico for me.)

Sir also took it upon himself to force me to watch the debate naked, tied up and cringing the whole time. We were in our room at Folsom Fringe last friday. He had a few rules.

When one candidate said the other’s name, He would hurt me.

When someone said SARAH PALIN, He would hurt me A LOT. He would also hurt me on Biden, but not AS much.

He would pinch my inner thighs so hard I would be screaming and wailing behind the gag, flailing on the bed. He started cheating and would do it even when nothing was happening, just because He LOVED my reaction. He would spank me. Slap me. Pinch my nipples.

I’m cringing as to what would have happened if we were together for the vice presidental debate.

“I get to hurt you whenever Palin says ‘maverick’…” I would have probably ended up a sobbing heap on the mattress, considering Palin used “maverick” one hundred and four times…

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Yes, I am feeling much better. Mark wrote that post as I dozed in our bed at Folsom Fringe. I was fighting the jetlag that happens when you fly out of the East Coast at 6PM and don’t go to sleep until 2am Pacific time.

I’m really pressed for time right now, I’m dealing with a) being back in “real life” b) all the homework I kind of, sort of, blew off to go to Folsom and c) trying to process the ENTIRE FUCKING WEEKEND.

This post is really to say a big HELLO to all my new tumblr followers that appeared over the weekend. This is Delilah, of the converse knee high boots, the vertically challenged girl, etc.

I swear I will write more about Folsom. I’m actually being kicked out of my school’s computer lab (class in here) so I will update more later!

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Mark here…

I want to rest assured that Delilah is feeling much better from her last post, but has been insanely busy since then getting ready for this weekend!

Delilah and I just registered at the Folsom Fringe.    We will be attending the classes today and tomorrow and the party tonight.

Tomorrow evening we will be driving up to San Francisco for the SF Citadel party.    I went last year, and really liked both the people and the play space.

And then Sunday we will be enjoying the Fair, and then slumming back to the East Coast on the redeye.

So we will both post some blogs about our adventures.

If any readers in attendance at any of these events should PLEASE introduce yourselves!

Yay!

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