The Devil I Love

"In the end, I was the mean girl
Or somebody's in between girl
Now it's the devil I love
And that's as funny as real love"

- Neko Case, "Hold On, Hold On"

We're taught that love wins. Love trumps evil. What if you're in love with evil? With the wrongness of things? 

Love doesn't always conquer all. There are a ton of people who have lots of love in their lives, and are still living with discomfort, shame, dissatisfaction, disappointment. Loving someone doesn't mean you get what you want, or that your needs are being met. Raven Kaldera talks about falling in love with a dynamic, rather than a person. It can lead to disappointment, being in love with a concept represented by a person, rather than a person themselves. But maybe it's possible to be satisfied with this, but I don't see how - people are not static and have, unfortunately, faults and biases and egos. 

It's a little chicken-and-egg: Did you fall in love with a person, or did you fall in love with your Owner/Master/Mistress/submissive/slave? Are you even "in love"? 

I am attracted to wrong. I am attracted to subversive, gritty tough darkness. I long for emptiness, and restriction, and shadows. These things, these concepts do not make me happy, but they are necessary for my happiness. Halloween is coming. 

*Tarot card "The Devil" by Wren McMurdo

a little something

a possible play date has come up in the kinda-near future.

part of the complications of being poly is that - well - it's somewhat difficult to find poly people with whom you'd actually like to become involved with. anyone out there who's poly is probably saying "ya think?" finding my way through the mire of the different definitions ("open", "poly", "slut", "etc") has been an ongoing challenge. i gave up a long time ago, and began using the term "polyamorous" because it seemed as close as i could get to what i was talking about.

i don't make the decisions regarding sex in my relationship with my owner. not when i have it, not how i have it, not with whom. i suppose i have some input, and i certainly have opinions, but ultimately, it's not up to me. as a result, i've ended up in some sexual situations in which i was pleased as punch, and in others where it kinda sucked.

but the possible one upcoming has me nervous. the last time we met with this person, i almost-barely survived. okay, that's not literal, but it felt like it at the time. while my owner scares me in a primal way that only he knows how to accomplish, this person scares me - differently. physically. i've tried to articulate it before, but i can't quite seem to come up with the right words.

he is not my owner, but he does care about me. those are two separate things. he is not my owner, so his personal obligation towards keeping the property intact, healthy, and humming along smoothly, is non-existent. he may very well care about those things, but because he cares about me as a person, a friend. but as a dominant, it's not his problem.

he's there for the show.

it's turning over in the pit of my stomach with a sickly twist like nausea, but my mind's eye sees it coming like a car crash that i can't wait to see.

fear, and where it lives

i'm not shy about saying that i am actively afraid of my owner. i am not afraid of my own strength, my own emotions, or my own ability to make sound decisions, but i am sometimes afraid of him. not his decisions, or his emotions, but his strength - both physical and emotional.

i am afraid of consequences if i fuck up. this is primarily why i try not to fuck up. i wish i could say it was only because i live to serve, or because i'm a "born slave", but really, it's a lot because i'm scared of him.

it's not like he's given me any reasons to be afraid. his responses to my behavior, both good and bad, have been exceedingly appropriate, given the nature of our relationship. he's never given me cause to think his reaction will be "too much", or that he will ignore something either positive or negative that i have done.

but i am afraid. i don't clearly understand why, but it is also an integral part of the dynamic, and i know it simply wouldn't work without it.

the truth pops up everywhere

"Where you lead, I will follow
Anywhere that you tell me to
If you need, you need me to be with you
I will follow where you lead..."

-carole king

i've been reading this book called "deep survival" about the neuroscience of who survives extreme conditions and why. basically, it comes down to the ability to re-do your "mental map" to include the reality of the situation on the fly, rather than trusting your logic and/or emotional ability entirely. it's considerably more complicated than that, but that's one of the basics. not something you learn as much as something you are.

when we were talking about this, he asked me how i handled crises. "i go into some sort of shock," i said. "it's almost as scary to watch myself shut down and function only minimally as it is to go through whatever-it-is that's happening."

i've been in enough survival situations to understand how i work. what's instinctive in me is the ability to quickly (and i mean instantaneously) re-asses a critical situation and immediately aim for the necessary action. i don't dilly-dally, i don't cry a whole lot, and i hear myself speaking as if in a fog.

but i get it done.

the author was talking about survival situations, and risk takers, in the context of mountain climbing. or piloting aircrafts. he was talking about how the memory of the adrenaline rush and expectation of satisfaction and happiness can override one's ability to use reason, thus creating "accidents". in other words, there are no accidents.

when you apply any of that to bdsm, and risk taking either physically (think: breathplay, suspension), or emotionally (consensual nonconsent), and although the time frame may be less-than-instantaneous, it makes perfect sense.

how many risks have i taken? a lot.

dig

you dig into me with your teeth with your fingernails with your stare ditchdeep i'm sunk, deeper deeper i only have tunnel vision back to you a thin line a thread a line of spit slowly falling to the ground where my knees belong and you dig dig deep down dirt daughter dark your open hole.

the very definition

ob·scene: (ŏb-sēn', əb-) adj. 1. Offensive to accepted standards of decency or modesty. 2. Inciting lustful feelings; lewd.

last night when my owner was fucking me on the floor my face muffled unforgivingly in the rough carpet, my arms pinned down and my feet mercifully loose but trapped by the position, he firmly lodged the laptop on my back and continued his conversations pausing only periodically to lodge himself further inside me or to force my face harder into the carpet. there were small noises of pleasure, but i think they were mostly because he found his conversation partners charming. due to an incident of forgetfulness earlier in the day, i was (am) on orgasm restriction until further notice.

it was a long night.

annhilation nation

"it's not 'your' world, any more than it is 'your' orgasm."

it's not my world, it's yours, and i just live here.

i am nothing, (no)thing, and really, there is no "i". speaking in third person seems appropriate when the self vaporizes, only captured by a wish and your will. today a day when this-thing-that-is-yours is fluttering and waiting to have substance again at your feet.

(pic credit from blog observantbystander)

parting

i'm struck by the fact that i'm not new to this.

one of the most intense parts of play for anyone, i think, is that raw breaking feeling you get when you meet someone for the first time - the shakes, the giggles, the mouth-parted-eyes-focused newness of it all. your cunt is wet, your feet are dancing in their shoes, and you're wildly terrified, blown away by your own audacity and opportunities.

i could be new to someone, but no longer new to myself. i treasure each act i've never done before, each new scenario, every touch he gives me, every new season we're doing this together. but it's not the same thing as being brand, spanking, new.

the introduction

sometimes i say things that later come back to haunt me. so i have no doubt that this one is in the making.

we've planned this weekend for weeks. we don't have much time, usually, so the few moments we have alone and unscheduled, you jump on with excitement. a dinner, a show with loud music, and i'm wearing thigh highs in the summer heat. frantic dash for a cab and we're laughing at our escape.

it's a long drive, and it gets quiet as you close your eyes for a rest and i'm watching the city moving along the glass window. my eyes are lulled by the glittery night lights, and my body is lulled by your steady breathing, and i fall asleep.

you're shaking me awake, gently. i wake up quickly, as your hand snaps out at my cheek. i grab my cheek, in shock - "but i'm awake!", and you smile, big, teeth, saying "i know. i just want the handprint there. come on." and we're out of the cab, in front of a tall building. we may be in the middle of a big city, but suddenly i feel like we're in the middle of nowhere, alone. no protection. and my skin goes cold despite the summer heat.

the entryway, the elevator, you're silent. i'm staring at you, my hand on my cheek. small ding, and you push me off the elevator, and grab my shoulder to push me down the hallway to an office. too dark to notice the name outside, but my heart is my throat because i know where we are, now, although i've never been here before.

"there you are! i was getting a little worried..."

"sorry, the show ran a little long. good to see you..." and hugs between the two men who haven't seen each other in a long time. i'm standing there nervously, looking at him, looking at the floor, my feet, nowhere for very long.

"so, this is your new property." he's taller than i expected. he's looking at my face, and grabs my chin. i'm much shorter than him, so he pulls it up to stare into my eyes. "one glance, bitch, and then you're not to look at me anymore." i gasp a little, my eyes drink in his face, and shut tightly. he laughs. "she responds well. i think this might work for a trade."

"yes," you say. "she's born for this."

his hand lets my chin go, and reaches up my skirt, stabbing fingers. "spread," he says, and i do. i hear you laugh. "she's wet, isn't she."

the man laughs. "soaking."

"a born whore."

down

it's a complicated place to be, with your head hanging low over a low bowl.

i should have known, when you brought one fork, one plate, one glass of wine. i should have known that my head would spin. in a fog, i had a half thought of what kind of pet you thought i might be until i realized that i was only myself. a pet. an animal fed from your hand, gazing at you in hope and hunger.

and you fed me from your fingers, until the hunger became something else, and then you fed that, too.

all the time since i have only felt at home at your feet, leashed by your side. my human skin only holds the animal you keep.

suffer, bitch. an analysis.

[from a lovely correspondence i'm having on fetlife regarding emotional masochism.]

"What is it about this suffering that makes you fulfilled? It turns you on, so what's hot about it?"

a friend of mine who has some of the same inclinations asked me the same question just yesterday. the best i could come up with was that we (i) have eroticized victimization, on some level. i could go through my life experiences and psychology to detail why i think that's the case for me personally, but that's what it amounts to. i don't know that there's a reason for it, as much as the fact that i know when i am victimized in some fashion, my body's wiring interprets that as arousal. on a physical level, things like my heartrate increases, i start to sweat, endorphins kick off (probably an instinctive survival mode, even for difficult emotions). my body interprets those physical changes as the same thing as arousal, so i get wet. and there you have it.

my owner calls this a version of modern-day alchemy - turning a "bad" emotion (like anger or jealousy) into "good" one (arousal, or service via submission). i tend to agree. i'm not a very angry person, so i'm impressed with my own ability to transmute the badstuff into goodstuff.

i guess that also answers the "why is it healthy for you," question also. any time i can turn a negative experience into one that is at minimum a learning one, i'm all for it. the fact that it's sexually arousing is kind of icing.

...when D and i started discussing and reviewing my fantasies, especially the ones i'd held since i was a very little girl, it became obvious that suffering was a Huge Deal, a center-piece of most of them. it got to the point where it was the great white elephant in the middle of the room i refused to discuss (figuratively), until i just - acknowledged it. once i was able to say it out loud, it transmuted as well - from something shameful and bizarre to spiritualized and (this is going to sound odd) almost normalized. so yes - it does have a higher purpose - it's deeply, deeply satisfying to suffer. for both of us.

all worked up

funny - i wonder if i have a horny cycle along with all the other cycles.

i read a friend's blog the other day that spoke volumes, and i haven't shaken the drowsy humid lust feeling since. makes me want to crawl and beg and all that stuff, but i'm too dreamy about it to get out of bed. a scheduled event today was one of the most emotionally difficult i've had to go through in a long while - perhaps the languor is just the counterbalance for the manicky panicky thing from this morning.

but it doesn't matter. nasty vicious porn is being designed in my head as we speak, and if the fates smile on me, sometime soon it'll come true.

i love my life the way it is, warts and all.

value

a quick stab again of needle-thin jealousy.

jealousy, as pointed out somewhere recently, is not the same thing as betrayal. jealousy is fear, and fear turns me on. risk, turns me on. it starts low in my belly as a cold sweat panic until i identify what it is, and then it becomes something wholly different, something masochistic and gasping.

an invitation: i know i would suffer for her, too.

limited

yes, i want to bleed for you.

no, i do not want the pain. i'm not wired that way, i can't just find pleasure in pain. pleasure in suffering, yes. pleasure that turns into a white hot wire from my brain to my cunt and you know it, you just know that i cannot refuse because of the way i am made. why, why, why would you make me say a choice?

"because it doesn't really matter what you want anyway."

and there it is.

oh thank goodness

it's amazing how one phone call, 10 minutes of just random talking can make me feel better. i don't really remember what he said, or what i said, because i was half asleep.

but i don't care. i feel better. spring is here. and spring is sexy.

(yes, i know we're due for two more days of icy rain and potential snow. but that's it, right?)

kiss and tell me

i'm still getting off on the memories of last week. well, "getting off" being an operative term because i've actually been cut off from getting off in the traditional usage of the word. no, i don't know when this particular interlude will conclude, i only know that whining about it won't help my odds.

but back to the subject at hand: kissing. i've long held a fantasy about being the toy between a couple. there's a scene in laura antoniou's the slave where robin is blindfolded and used simply as a sex toy for her trainer, chris, and his friend rachel. of course, in *my* version, it's much more violent and degrading, but still. it's a taste. at any rate, i keep circling back to this inner photograph of the couple kissing above me.

i do like kissing. it's not my favorite aspect of intimacy, or sex, but i do like it. but the intimacy of face-to-face contact, the general lack of aggression, makes it a more egalitarian part of the act than seems worthwhile, when i could be enjoying myself enormously more as an object instead. in fact, one of the absolute-hottest-moments-of-my-life was last week when my owner was sharing this lovely intimate moment. with someone else while fucking me violently.

i can't get this out of my head. i now know what it looks like, the way he moves and touches and hurts and fucks. and for some people, the intimacy of kissing is a giant no-no, even in the world of polyamory, because of exactly the vanilla connotations. usually folks don't like to see their partner sharing that with someone else. but for me, watching this, thinking about it, imagining it over and over and over has become my favorite goddamned porn movie ever. and i'm a lucky, lucky bitch - for a moment or three, i really was just the toy.

(for a much more pornographic reference to the scene itself, please refer to a beautiful girl. i don't think you'll be sorry.) (pic by thesescarz on deviantART)

the angry erotic

i wished he was angry at me. angry, i know how to deal with. when someone is angry with me, i know how to absorb, deflect, or distract in whatever way i deem necessary in order to gain control of the situation. i'm used to angry - i've seen a lot of it in my life - and it's a reaction i'm very familiar with.

it can be kinda hot. i mean, angry and passionate and sexual and dominant can all go in the same basket, no? i can eroticize anger, even when it's misdirected to me (see previous writing re: "grudge slave/fuck"). i like angry, because it's very very dangerously close to something the angry person cannot control. and danger is hot. yes, circular argument.

but my owner is not, in general, an angry man. i can count on one hand the times i've seen him actively pissed off. but bizarrely, i suppose, these incidents are very very erotic to me. it emphasizes my shame, my degradation, my suffering - it's quite the masochistic attention whore's dream come true.

i have little experience with men who are even tempered, for the most part. they're harder to read (read, control). one of the ways my owner controls me is by using his negative emotions sparingly. i hate to admit that, because it's acknowledging that i am susceptible in ways i don't like to see. i fear and desire his anger at the same time, and because it is something i want on that very warped plane of slavish existence that is indescribable in truth,

i don't always get it.

witness, part II

i was the witness this time. i never got to watch your face before, when you strike, or when pleasure crosses paths with sadism on your face. i know my lips were open and i waited for your eyes to catch mine as i knew they would. i am usually the recipient, the sufferer, and the result of your work, but this time i watched it from a small distance.

i know you must wonder, as all people do, how it looks. it looks like this:

my owner, his face suffused with the headiness of needs met and lust not yet sated and the piercing eyes and lips set firmly and cruelly. both of us, she and i, were caught in his net and couldn't have escaped if we'd wanted to. i don't want to. you would imagine someone at a moment like this showing an achilles heel, a vulnerability, but there was none. i'd fantasized about how it would look, what his face would show me. my fingers still remember at night. i recall his face and the back of his hand clamped on her head, forcing and using. a thrusting hip bone and a set jaw. her pinched voice begging and a murmuring from his throat that i know in my skin.

i wish i was a photographer, to show you again and again.

insulated

if i could live in the bubble, i would. if i could keep your presence, your need, your smell of woodsmoke and sex around me like a shawl, i would. it's a dance of the seventy-five-thousand veils, every day with you, little pieces revealed slowly in the firelight. three slick lines on my thigh that glistened with blood. do you know my skin well enough to know if they will fade, and when?

sometimes you are a playmate to run screaming and giddy circles with. sometimes you are a god i find, to my horror, suddenly in my presence and needing sacrifice. and sometimes you are an adversary.

fetish