Fuck Material

"Hi slut, i want to rent you from your guy and fuck your brains out. Do you think he will allow"

(My most recent friend request on Fetlife)

It's an interesting question. Will he allow?

Probably not. But not for the reasons you think. It mostly has to do with grammar, location, (this dude's from Belgium. I am not located anywhere near Belgium.), but most has to do with making assumptions. 

It's a natural human response, to make an assumption about someone else based on your own history, the impression you have of them, their behavior and actions. It's how we get along in life, how we form our own created families and relationships as adults. We call it social context, and friendships and families are based on it. There's this new modern complication (or maybe it's not that modern, we just didn't talk about it as a society as much) of created families rather than biological ("family of origin") ones, and those require, I think, even more emotional investment. That's part of how assumption works, it's a psychological tool humans use. 

Who am I to him? There are so many descriptors. I title myself "slave", but that's kind of a fantasy term, since legally there's no way to follow through on that. I'm a wife, a deputy, a "helpmeet" (I kind of love this one), an object, a warm hole or three, and sometimes a pain in the ass. 

We ran into another gentleman who was very interested in playing with me. Not particularly interested in playing with my owner, and the gentleman in question made a lot of assumptions about *how* we play, and what our dynamic is. How we function together, what turns us on (and off) and that, more than anything else, was the reason it was a no go. 

Making assumptions about people is a tool to use as we get closer to each other, we use it for safety purposes and for empathy, and closeness. It's also a dangerous edge tool, because making the wrong assumptions push you further apart. 

congratulations

funny, i don't really feel the need to celebrate this. when people ask how we met, they turn it into one of those "internet success stories", as if two people meeting each other electronically and then in person and taking a year and a fucking half to decide what to do about it is magic.

i dunno. i feel weird hanging up clothes in his closet. finding room for my cookbooks. it feels presumptuous, i told him. not bad, but weird. i guess deep down in the bowels of my heart i never truly expected this, and hadn't really prepared for it, even as it was being discussed in minute detail.

i expected this to fail. i expected it to run it's course, and be done. i figured i'd suck this dry of everything i could, every slight change in the shade of it, experiencing the most intense power dynamic i'd ever found, and that would be that.

this isn't really a success story, because it's not done yet. but the other side of it is that it feels perfectly and totally natural to behave the way we are together. there are moments when anyone would view us as a really happy vanilla couple. what's amazing is that as this slowly moves forward, i feel almost completely uninterested in the words that get used. i'm used to being obsessed with words and their definitions and how to articulate and describe what i am, what i am to him, what he is, what we are.

is this contentment? that, i have almost zero experience with.

witness part 3

"In physics, the term observer effect refers to changes that the act of observation will make on the phenomenon being observed. This is often the result of instruments that, by necessity, alter the state of what they measure in some manner."

- wikipedia, heisenberg's "observer effect"

for someone who has extreme exhibitionist tendencies, it's not often i find myself in the position of wanting privacy. the nature of who i am has a huge element of observation inherent to it - it's taken me a long time to come to terms with both the narcissism and vulnerability that entails.

i'd love to be able to shout to the world that i don't give a fuck what anybody thinks. and for the most part, that's true. but as my owner once stated, the act of witnessing something validates it in a way that couldn't be achieved otherwise.

big changes are in the midst right now, and i'm finding myself unwilling to talk about that. i don't need external validation for once, which i'm actually cherishing. observation, or witnessing, has the effect of inherently changing the nature of the act, and right now i'm more interested in the act remaining genuine. so.

eventually i'll talk about it. but it's interesting to me to recognize the whole observation-as-interference aspect of things.

Outside In

as a companion piece for friendly and my owner's post "Out in the World", here's my take on being outed:

the thing is, it's one thing to out yourself to someone you know, who you know fundamentally loves you. it's another to be outed by someone else. mind you, i'm not in any way saying my owner couldn't have or shouldn't have (in fact, i'm awful proud that he's done it), but it's an interesting place to be when that process includes their knowledge of *me* by default.

kind of like something is being done to me without my consent, or cooperation, even.

so i end up having mixed emotions about it - on one hand, i'm thrilled that i don't have to do the tedious excercise of "hiding" something perfectly natural to myself. on the other, it's a bit perturbing that there are now people in the world who's opinion of me is highly valued that now have information about me i didn't intentionally share.

and on the third hand, it's awfully hot to be used.

i think i'll stick with the third hand.

(photo credit: "insideout" - a stunning painting by deborah poynton.)

let me explain why you were uncomfortable

the event played out unexpectedly for me. i was distracted with other thoughts and worries when he picked me up, and when i asked in the car "should i be nervous?" before we met, he said "yes." and then my world tipped sideways as i slid my panties down my legs and over my boots. we went in.

it's not that i don't like girls; i do. i love having girlfriends, i love the way they look, the things they say, the frank discussions and tight clothes. i love the comraderie and the understanding that our bodies work (mostly) the same way, and not like those aliens we call "men".

i've never been a toucher, and i've never been a good touchee. i don't like it when people touch me in general, and i don't like it any more when it's a woman. i could not look at you, i could only look at my owner, indignant that he was allowing it, encouraging it. wanting it. i did not hate him, and i did not hate you, but i did not want what was happening.

i did it because i am owned and because i did not have a choice. not because i was happy or comfortable or wanted it or turned on. because i saw the look on his face when he knew i did not like it and it solidified there as lust.

happiness

"...happiness
is a warm gun..."

- The Beatles

how do you make someone happy? i'm asking this, and it's a two-sided question. part one involves is it possible to force, make, coerce, your property to change it's feelings? and part two, is it possible, or correct, to use the phrase, "you make me happy"?

i'm not always in a good mood. in fact, i've been characterized as moody, brooding, tempermental, sad. sometimes happy, balanced, too, but that's more recent. and sometimes i'm not having a good time. yes, i serve my owner happily most of the time, and it's gratifying to do so. sometimes i serve him and i am not happy about it. sometimes he has me do things i don't enjoy, and would otherwise not do. large gatherings (otherwise known as "parties") for example. i hate 'em, i'm no good at them. i'm a terrible wallflower, i have not much of interest to say to anyone, especially when i don't really know them. i'm - uh - shy.

i know this doesn't make him happy. it doesn't make me happy, either. so there we both are, not happy. and yet, we do make each other happy overall.

can he make me enjoy myself? no, but he can make me fake it. he doesn't like the faking it, either, though.

i suppose all property has it's limitations. you can't make a laundry machine cook your dinner, and you can't make your car be a nanny.

another reason i can't be at the other side of the dynamic, an owner, a dominant, a top, even, anymore. i don't understand what to do with someone else's limitations. is it trainable? forceable? i suppose somehow it's brainwash-able - to force me to somehow enjoy something i don't otherwise.

thinking about all this, in it's own ironic way, makes me happy though.

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."

quietly

quiet quiet there are people that could be listening and may not be but it's no matter because what it is for us isn't any different if they're listening. sometimes when you don't want me to have a voice i turn inside-out and every sound and color is as sharp as your teeth biting my skin. quietly quietly

yes i cling to your arm yes i do that i touch it and stroke it and i pay attention because i may not get another chance because i am grateful for just the small moment of sweetness when you let me show you that i am not just owned because i can't not be but because i.chose.you.

pricey whore

Powered By Favorite Sex Toys

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.

witnessed

there's only so much you can hide on a busy street in brooklyn. you'd think that being inside a car with the windows fogged up from the rain and body heat would help, but despite my best efforts, i felt like i was back in my stripper days, pressed up against the inside of the windshield glass. on view, on display.

i thought i'd let go of shame. i don't struggle as much these days with what you demand of me. i belong to you, and i'm yours to toy with and do with what you will, so it's irrelevant, shame. it doesn't change the demand. it doesn't change that what i agree to, what i like or don't like or want or don't want - doesn't matter.

you told me that, when you stripped my private pleasures away.

you told me that, when i asked you to stop.

you told me that, as i laid my head down on the dashboard while you fucked me in the car, trying to hide my face from the passers-by on a busy street in brooklyn.

strong enough

"I have a face I cannot show
I make the rules up as I go
It’s try and love me if you can
Are you strong enough to be my man?

When I’ve shown you that I just don’t care
When I’m throwing punches in the air
When I’m broken down and I can’t stand
Will you be strong enough to be my man?..."

-Sheryl Crow

most of the female submissives i know are the strongest people i've ever met. don't know if it's the ones i'm meeting by coincidence or if i somehow attract those like myself, but i don't often meet silly, vapid female submissives. no offense to male submissives, female dominants, or male dominants - it's just not the topic today.

i got to hurt a beautiful girl yesterday. and i'll tell y'all, i never, ever would have been remotely interested if i hadn't found her to be dynamic, gorgeous, smart. i read on someone's profile recently (apologies - i can't remember who's) that she was neither bi-sexual nor bi-"curious", but "bi-playful". perfect. i'm stealin' it.

yep. a great time was had by all.

the dinner party

i was thinking about this. i think about this a lot. for many years.

in the cab on the way over, you touched my hair, my cheek, my lips. your eyes sparkle, and we're happy. we step out, and my hands smooth over my hips, my dress flaring out a little as i step lightly after you. you reach for my hand.

and pull me inside, saying hello to someone. you do not introduce me, although i get a quick assessing stare up and down. i'm shaken, a little bit by that. the hallway clears out, you're still talking to someone. i stand awkwardly, ignored. we're alone, in the hallway. and you stare at me, your smile gone, and pull me into what i think is a closet.

it's a bathroom. you force me down to my knees, in my pretty dress, pushing your fingers into my mouth, gagging me. the words come raining down, and then it's your cock, fucking my mouth, hard. quickly, you come, and you tell me to stand up, jerking me up and pulling me out the bathroom. i can feel my face, hot, burning, my lipstick smeared across my cheek, and i reach my fingers to smooth it, but before i can you grab my hand away, pulling me down the hallway.

and we walk into the party. you, neat. my hair disheveled, lipstick smeared, and stumbling. you drop my hand and head to the bar, and i stand alone. people are wandering around, some wondering who i am. most of them look at my face, catch my eye. some smile, mostly men. the women just look.

eventually, everyone sits down. i'm at your side, trying to gather myself. you haven't spoken to me, and when you voice comes, quietly in my ear, it shakes me.

"you look like a whore."

i look down at my napkin.

the dinner begins. i'm not aware of anyone staring at me until i look up. there's a woman down the table, her eyes caught by me, her wineglass in her hand. i catch her half way between a gasp and a smile. as that happens, i become slowly aware of you, speaking, at my side. you're not speaking to me. i try not to be obvious, i slowly turn to see who you're speaking to as you say "...in the bathroom. in the hall." and slowly chuckle. i can feel my face turn hot as i catch someone's eye, and look down at my napkin again. you don't look at me, but reach over and grab my thigh, as you continue speaking.

the sentences you're saying don't make sense at first, i do not understand the words. i begin to translate them into something i know via the other person's loud questions. the first one i only hear in pieces through the table talk. "...always? whenever you want?" and you're nodding at him. i feel sick - i realize as the woman slightly further down the table gasps lightly, what you're talking about.

i finally hear more of your words, as they sink through me. "...outside. the first time was hard. she didn't want to. i had to leash her." i can't catch my breath, and there's a lull in the conversation from the people you're speaking to. i finally hear a full question as the din gets quieter a little. "you make her fuck people? without asking? or anything? i don't believe that," from the woman who gasped. you push your fingers into the v between my legs firmly. "yes," you say with the grin i know means there's a long night ahead. "i do." finally, for the first time since we walked in, you look at me, and say "and i'll prove it."