Nirvana

What I Hope My First Kinky Experience Will Be Like

When I think about my first kinky experience, I imagine it being intimate, deliberate, and full of tension. I want to feel anticipation before anything even starts ....the kind that makes my stomach flip and my skin buzz.

I picture being told exactly what to do, hearing my name in a voice that leaves no room for arguing. I want to feel hands pinning me down, the rush of being controlled but knowing I’m safe. I want spanking...sharp enough to sting, slow enough to make me squirm and ache for more. I want my breath caught in my throat when he whispers rules or commands, and the thrill of following them.

Restraint excites me too. Rope or cuffs, something that makes me surrender my body fully, where every movement feels magnified. I want the teasing... being edged, denied, brought right to the brink and then pulled back again until I can barely think straight.

But it’s not just about the physical. I want the words, the tone, the presence that makes me feel owned and claimed in the moment. And afterward, I want to be pulled close, kissed, stroked, and reminded that I’m cared for just as much as I was controlled.

That’s what I imagine: my body pushed, my mind quiet, my submission unlocked, and the sweetness of being seen and held when it’s all over.

Xoxo
Nirvana

Any early experiences that, in retrospect, hint at your kinks?

When I think back, it’s funny how many little moments were hinting at where I’d eventually land. At the time I had no idea, of course… I just thought it was me being dramatic, or obsessed with certain tropes in books. But looking back? Yeah… those were the early signs.

For starters, I was always hooked on storylines with authority figures, structure, and someone being taken care of in this really intense way. Wattpad was my kryptonite, and while most of my friends were reading sweet high school romances, I was devouring the ones where there was a “strict” love interest who demanded respect, laid down rules, and punished bratty behaviour. That mix of power and tenderness was magnetic to me.

Even outside of reading, I remember how much I liked the idea of being “kept in check.” Not in a scary way…more like the thrill of someone noticing my attitude and being like, “Nope, not on my watch.” It gave me this delicious mix of butterflies and safety. I couldn’t explain why it felt good, I just knew it made me feel… seen.

Another clue was how much I loved being cared for in small, almost childlike ways. I’d get attached to mentors, teachers, or older figures who showed me patience and gentleness. The part of me that melts at the idea of a Daddy Dom today? Yeah, that was always there, tucked under the surface. I didn’t know what to call it, but I knew I craved guidance and protection, even while pretending to be independent.

There were also all these little things I brushed off as quirks at the time. Like how fascinated I was with rules… I’d roll my eyes at them, pretend to hate them, but secretly I thrived on the structure. Or how obsessed I was with characters in books or movies who were called “little one” or “princess” in this protective-but-firm way

I didn’t think of any of this as kink at the time…I mean, which teenager was? But now, when I connect the dots, it’s so clear that all those little fixations were the building blocks. They hinted at the submissive side of me, at my craving for structure, at my desire to be cared for but also challenged.

Looking back now, I kind of laugh at myself. Like, of course I ended up here. The signs were written all over my teenage obsessions. It wasn’t random… it was me, all along, quietly gravitating toward exactly the kind of dynamic that makes me feel alive today.

Xoxo

Nirvana

How I Discovered I Was Kinky

If I had to name the moment when I realized I was kinky, I’d have to admit it came from the most cliché place possible: Fifty Shades of Grey.

I was in high school when a friend mentioned the book to me. By then, I was already a hardcore smut romance reader, thanks to Wattpad. That was my secret world, where I spent hours soaking up stories that went far beyond the innocent “boy meets girl” plots everyone else around me seemed obsessed with. So when my friend whispered about this scandalous book, I was curious. I got my hands on it, read the first one in record time, then tore through the second and third like my life depended on it.

I was hooked. Not just in the “this is spicy” way, but in the “something deep inside me feels alive” way.

There’s one memory that still makes me laugh: I was sitting in an exam hall, waiting to write English Paper 3, which is creative writing, "oh the irony".There was still an hour to go before the exam was to start, and instead of quietly revising like a good student, I pulled out my copy of Fifty Shades. My English teacher, who was moderating the exam, walked past my desk. She was a woman who loved literature with her whole soul, and I could see it on her face when she spotted my book. She picked it up, flipped it over, and the look of pure disappointment she gave me was unforgettable. She didn’t even have to say a word...the disapproving head shake she gave as she set the book down and walked away said everything.

Most people would’ve been mortified and shoved the book into their bag. Me? I kept right on reading. Because by then, nothing could stop me. That’s how much it pulled me in.

And it wasn’t just the books. I went on to watch all three movies, and...don’t laugh...alongside The Sound of Music, the Fifty Shades trilogy has become my comfort films. They’re still ones I can put on and sink into like a cozy blanket. But if I’m honest, Fifty Shades was only the spark. The truth is, I had already been circling these ideas for years.

On Wattpad, I was devouring stories that now I realize were all about BDSM dynamics...I just didn’t have the language yet. I would fall in love with the plots where a broken girl, scarred by life, would be taken in by a Daddy Dom who nurtured her with gentleness, calling her “little one” while giving her the safety and structure she craved. Or the rebellious teen who was on the wrong path in life and somehow found herself over a Doms knee everytime she rolled her eyes, punished with firm but caring discipline. Those stories weren’t just entertaining; they made me ache in a way I couldn’t explain. I didn’t know why I kept rereading them, but they resonated with me in a way nothing else did.

When I discovered Fifty Shades, it was like someone finally gave me a vocabulary for the feelings I’d had all along. Suddenly, what I thought was “just me being weird” had names: D/s, DDlg, bondage, control, rules, structure. It wasn’t just about the sex. It was about trust, power, safety, ritual, and intensity all woven together. The contrast of discipline and tenderness, of structure and surrender, made me feel whole. Like I had finally stumbled into a world where my fantasies weren’t only possible....but accepted.

I wouldn’t say Fifty Shades alone made me kinky. But it was the first time I saw myself reflected in something outside of my own imagination. It put a face, a story, and a definition to the secret world I’d been carrying inside me. From there, I dove deeper, exploring more stories, more blogs, and eventually the BDSM community itself.

So yes, my origin story is cliché. But it’s mine. And when I look back now, I see that teenage girl reading in the exam hall with her teacher glaring down at her, and I smile. Because she had no idea then that the book in her hands wasn’t just a guilty pleasure...it was the doorway to a part of herself she’d keep uncovering for years to come.

And i am proud and glad to be kinky because i would not have it any other way

Xoxo

Nirvana

 What are your kinks?

Okay, so let’s talk kinks. This is always the fun part because it feels like pulling the curtain back and saying, “Here’s what actually makes me tick.” And trust me, there’s a lot that makes me tick. Some of it is playful, some of it is dark, and some of it is just… well, complicated. But that’s what makes it interesting.

First and foremost, I live for power exchange. That’s the heartbeat of everything I do in kink. There’s something so DEVINE about giving up control...not because I’m weak or incapable, but because I choose to. That moment of saying, “Here, I trust you enough to hold this for me,” is ridiculously hot. It makes me feel small, safe, and free all at once. But don’t get me wrong, I can be stubborn as hell about it too. Part of me loves the game of testing, pushing, and then finally giving in. That push-pull is half the fun.

Impact play? Yep, that’s definitely on my list. Spanking isn’t just a slap on the ass for me, a wooden spoon or paddle hitting my bare ass. It’s about the build-up, the anticipation, the sound ringing in my ears. It makes me feel present and grounded. And depending on the mood, it can be playful (me giggling and wiggling away) or serious (me being reminded exactly who’s in charge). Both sides turn me on in different ways.

Restraint and bondage are another huge thing. Whether it’s rope, cuffs, or just a strong hand pinning me down, being held in place does something to my brain I can’t even fully explain. It forces me to stop fighting, stop overthinking, and just exist in the moment. That loss of control is intoxicating, even when I pretend to resist it. Actually… especially when I pretend to resist it.

Psychological kinks? Oh, I have plenty. Consensual non-consent is a big one. There’s this thrill in dancing on the line between “no” and “yes,” knowing that underneath it all, I’m still safe. The mind games, the intensity, the roleplay... it all feeds into that craving I have for being overpowered but protected at the same time. It’s scary and hot, which is exactly why it works.

And then there’s the softer stuff....praise, structure, rules, rituals. The nurturing side of kink is just as big for me as the rough side. I love being guided, cared for, and even spoiled a little (okay, maybe a lot). Hearing “good girl” will never not melt me into a puddle. But here’s the bratty part: as much as I crave structure, I also love breaking the rules just to see what happens. When i do it, its not about disrespect; it’s about the thrill of being caught and the intimacy of that little battle of wills.

So, what are my kinks...in a nutshell? They’re a mix of rough and gentle, dark and soft, playful and serious. Together they tell the story of who I am as a submissive: someone who wants to surrender, be challenged, be cared for, and yes, sometimes get away with being just a little bit naughty.

Xoxo
Nirvana

Dom, sub, switch? What Parts of BDSM Interest You? Give us an interesting in-depth definition of what that means to you. Basically define your kinky self.

If I had to put a label on myself in kink, I’d say I’m a submissive and little. That feels like the most accurate and honest description. But it’s not a flat, one-size-fits-all kind of label…for me it’s layered, textured, and very personal. For me, submission isn’t about weakness or blind obedience. It’s about deliberately choosing to hand over power, and in that choice, I discover a different kind of strength.

What draws me in is the balance between structure and freedom. On the surface, it might look like I’m giving something up. But when I allow myself to follow someone’s lead… someone I trust, someone who has earned that place…I actually gain something much bigger. I gain peace. I gain freedom. I gain safety. I gain the ability to step out of my own head and stop trying to control everything all the time. Submission, to me, feels like exhaling after holding my breath for too long.

That doesn’t mean I can’t stand on my own… I can, and I do. But there’s a side of me that lights up when I can lean into someone stronger, steadier, and more demanding of me. Submission feels like a softening into myself, where I don’t have to carry every burden or be the one steering every decision. It’s not just about play. Yes, the sting of impact, the excitement of being told to kneel, the intimacy of rituals, and the physical thrill of surrender. But what keeps me in kink is the emotional and psychological side. I love what those physical acts mean. Rope isn’t just rope…it’s the experience of being held. Impact isn’t just pain… it’s a conversation between trust and vulnerability and all the space in between.

It is about the transcending unspeakable and profoundly deep connection and devotion present in a dynamic. Rituals aren’t just rules or completing tasks… they’re grounding anchors that remind me I’m cared for and claimed. These things aren’t just sensations; they create connection. That’s the part I can’t get enough of.

I wouldn’t say I am completely a switch but do have my moments where it comes out. I am however a BRAT and boy oh boy is it fun, and I’ve learned to love it. It’s not about wanting to be blatantly disobedient, but about enjoying the push-and-pull, the spark of playful resistance. Sometimes I poke at rules, not because I want to break them, but because I want the thrill of being pulled back in. That mischievousness makes me feel more deeply seen and cared for, and it keeps my submission fun and alive. And being put in my place ..welp who would say no to that lol

Beside my deeply submissive side and bratiness…there lies a little. Soft, cute, playful and always eager to please. When I first entered into kink I started off as a little but at the time being a little and trying to understand myself and what I was feeling was a bit too much for me to handle at the time and I hide her away. It is only in the last few months that I gave her a chance, and I’m glad I did. Our favourite little pastime would have to be Bluey, whether it is watching it, or colouring in. we are trying too build our stuffie collection, we currently have 2, CupCake and Sparkles and we are hoping to make a big stuffie army to take over the world!

The more I explore, the more I realize that being a submissive isn’t something I “do”.. it’s part of who I am. I crave structure, I crave connection, and I crave the grounding feeling of giving myself over to someone I can trust. Kink gives me all of that in a way nothing else does. It doesn’t make me less it actually makes me feel more: more woman, more whole, more alive, more free.

So if I had to define my kinky self, I’d say this: I am a submissive who finds strength in surrender, freedom in structure, and intimacy in power exchange. I’m still learning, still growing, but I know this part of me is real. It’s not just play… it’s a truth I carry, and a journey I’m walking one step at a time.

That is the kinky self I’m choosing to grow into, day by day.

Xoxo
Nirvana

The bedroom was caught in the half-light between day and night. Sunset bled through the curtains in slow, ribbons of red and orange that painted everything with a molten glow; the room felt like the inside of a flame. A low, wordless music threaded the air, a pulse behind the pulse of their hearts, low and sensual, curled through the air like incense, weaving its rhythm into the stillness.

The bottle of oil in her hands was warm enough that the heat felt like permission. She stood with oil in her hands, her fingers trembling not from nerves, but reverence. Warm, slick, fragrant. It pooled across her palms like liquid sunlight. Each drop was smoothed across his skin with devotion. She pressed it into his chest first, spreading in broad circles, her fingertips lingering at the slope of his collarbone. Every kiss she placed was both soft and deliberate…one at the hollow of his throat, one over his heart, another against the curve of his ribs. The oil glistened where her lips had been, and the room seemed to hum louder with every offering. Once she was done, she took a step back and clasped her hands behind her back as trained.

His gaze was fixed on her now bowed head. Taking in her skin, the rise and fall of her chest as she waited for what was next. “Turn around,” he said with finality, and she did exactly that. “Hands Up,” he said, voice steady, commanding. She obeyed, arms lifting overhead like a prayer. He poured oil into his hands, rubbing them together before touching her fingertips. His thumbs moved with ritual slowness, tracing each finger down to the palm. He kissed the inside of her wrist, the hollow of her elbow, the curve of her shoulder.

“You are radiant. You deserve this. You belong. Breathe with me.”

He worked lower, massaging oil into the length of her arms and collarbones, lips grazing the oiled path, voice threading affirmations into her skin like vows. His arms moved lower…down her back, over her ass, between her legs. By the time he finished, her body felt not just touched but consecrated.

He made his way around her and sat himself at the foot of the bed and watched her for what felt like a lifetime. His eyes were burning with something unspeakable as he watched her…the setting sun casting a golden glow on her already glistening skin, the way she tried to rub her thighs together, he saw it all. He pulled her onto his lap, the grip around her waist painfully tight. She straddled him, thighs gripping his waist, their bodies aligned like two halves of a single thought, foreheads pressed together. The world contracted to their eyes, their breath. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. He set the rhythm, guiding her to mirror him: four counts in, hold, six counts out. Their breath tangled until it felt like a single body inhaling itself. Her chest rose and fell against his, and the stillness grew so charged that it buzzed between them like a taut string ready to snap.

Then he shifted. His strength spun her onto the bed in one fluid motion. And in the blink of an eye, a coil of rope coiled around her wrists…rough, fibrous, smelling faintly of earth. He tied with precision, pulling the knots firm but careful, his thumb pressing the circulation points, checking her skin. “Safe?” he asked, voice low against her ear. She nodded, and he tugged once more, securing her wrists to the bedpost. The rope didn’t just restrain; it framed her, drew lines of surrender across her body.

His touch turned mercurial. At times, his hands pressed deep into her muscles, kneading, grounding her body into the mattress. At others, his fingertips barely skimmed, raising goosebumps like whispers. A sharp spank landed against her thigh…not brutal, but enough to jolt her breath. Before the sting could bloom fully, his palm soothed it, slow circles, a kiss against the same spot. Pain braided with solace, and suddenly the two could not be separated; the two were an offering and a response. She let out a sound that was part laugh, part surrender…”You deserve everything I am about to give to you.”

“Feel everything. Stay here with me.” The cadence of their breathing grew urgent as he hovered above her. His lips brushed her ear, his words slow, deliberate. Then, like an answered prayer, he oh so gently slid inside her. Slow as if he was telling her we had all the time in the world, “Let me feel you,” he said as one hand slid between her breasts to grip her throat, and the other grabbed her hip. And just like that, he began. Slow, deep thrusts that caused shallow gasps and whimpers to fall from her mouth. She never left his eyes…they were fixed on him, and his were fixed on her. Even when he would pull all the way out and thrust back in, their eyes never left each other.

He hovered over her, his forehead resting on hers. She breathed in what he breathed out, and he breathed in what she breathed out. She was part of the rhythm, her hips moved with his…meeting his slow thrusts. Her hands ached to touch him…” I want to touch you” was all she said, and he let her. Reaching over, he undid the knots, and before her hand was even fully free, she wrapped them around his neck. Rubbing and dragging her palms across his back. She reached for his hands and held them as his thrusts got deeper…she allowed her eyes to close as her head fell backwards in bliss.

“Inhale when I take… exhale when I give. Let me inside your breath. Let me inside your body. Let me inside your soul.” He guided the ritual of their union the way a priest keeps tempo: slow invocation, measured pressure, breath as prayer. Each movement they made together was matched to inhalations and exhalations. Inhale as he leaned in, exhale as she softened into him. He threaded words between each breath, not empty praise but anchors. “You are seen. You are held. You are mine.” The repetition turned his voice into a rope of its own, winding around her until she could not tell what was what.

When the turning point arrived it did not explode so much as break open. The sensation rose, a building tide that made her ribs hollow and then stretch…something temporal that pulled sensation into focus until it became almost too bright to bear. Her breath stuttered, then broke, and tears welled hot at the corners of her eyes as release tore through her in waves…a climax so consuming it emptied her, then filled her with something unnameable. He stayed with her through it, eyes locked on hers, guiding her breath back to steadiness. When the tears spilled, he kissed them away, murmuring against her damp cheeks.

“You are safe. You are enough. You are mine. Always.” The affirmations fell like soft cloth over her trembling body, wrapping her tighter than any rope ever could. He pulled her into his chest, stroking her hair, rocking her gently as she drifted down from the high. Their breathing returned to one rhythm again…slower, softer now.

After, the world was a wash of afterlight and quiet. They lay tangled: one arm over shoulders, a forehead resting on a chest, breath slowing from flamed cadence back toward a steady shore. Words still tumbled between them, but softer now…assessments and worship, the tidy suturing of two people reknitting. He murmured practical things as well as tender ones: Drink. Stay. You did well. She clung to the sound of his voice like a map home.

Outside, the sunset completed its arc and the red shifted to twilight. Inside, the air smelled of oil and rope and skin and the faint residue of incense...a room that had been consecrated for the span of an evening. The heat had burned out to embers; the glow remained, slow and sure, and in that steady warmth they rested. The music faded into silence, but the room still hummed with the imprint of what had just passed: devotion, surrender, and the alchemy of two souls daring to meet without armour.

Affirmations on their own can feel like simple positive thinking. But when I pair them with my breath, with stillness, with awareness of how the words move through my body, they shift into something else. They become tantric. It’s intimacy with myself. It’s the union between word, breath, body, and spirit. So this practice isn’t just a list of affirmations. It’s a ritual of remembering who I am, even when life tries to make me forget.

This past week has been one big poop show. In fact, if I sat down and counted the cracks, I’d run out of fingers. Life pressed, tugged, pulled me in directions that didn’t always feel kind. But still...despite everything...I decided I’m going to hold on to the one thing I can choose: POSITIVITY.

And so I began a simple practice. A ritual of breath, word, and awareness. Feel free to do it as well.

🌬️ Inhale deeply. Feel your chest rise.
🌬️ Exhale slowly. Let your shoulders fall.

✨ Inhale: I am free.
✨ Exhale: I release what cages me.

✨ Inhale: I am divine.
✨ Exhale: I return to my sacred self.

✨ Inhale: I am strong.
✨ Exhale: I ground into the strength of earth.

✨ Inhale: I am resilient.
✨ Exhale: I bend, but I do not break.

✨ Inhale: I am brave.
✨ Exhale: My heart stays open.

✨ Inhale: I am courageous.
✨ Exhale: My body carries me forward.

These words are a reminder. A reminder that even when my voice trembles, I still speak. Even when my knees wobble, I still stand. Even when my heart aches, it still beats with purpose.

Sometimes I laughed at myself, because I must have sounded like a broken record. Like some scratchy vinyl replaying the same line. But maybe that’s the beauty of it all. They loop, they repeat, they remind you of the melody you might forget when the world is too loud.

And so continue to hold onto my melody this week. My own vintage soundtrack of resilience.

I am FREE.
I am divine.
I am strong.
I am resilient.
I am brave.
I am courageous.

I am everything I need to be, and I will continue to be all of these things...Not because life has been easy. But because I am here. Despite everything, I am still here.

Xoxo
Nirvanva

Week Two
Sunday: How do I express pleasure in non-sexual ways?
For me, pleasure lives in the little things...like the feeling of warm water hitting my back in the shower, or a warm cup of rooibos tea on a cold morning. It’s putting on body lotion slowly, not because I’m rushing to get out the house, but because it feels good to glide my hands over my skin, and feel ME!

I’m laughing so hard I snort...more like the hyenas from Lion King. It’s blasting music and dancing around. It’s being silly with someone I love and not having to perform or explain why I am the way I am. IT'S LAUGHING AT MY OWN JOKES....Pleasure doesn’t always have to be sexual. Sometimes, it’s just letting myself enjoy something fully, without guilt or needing it to “mean” anything. I think the more I allow myself to feel good in these small, everyday ways, the more safety I’m building in my body to receive pleasure in bigger ways, too.

Monday: What physical sensations do I notice most often?
Tension. Let’s start there. My shoulders are always tight. My jaw clenches even when I sleep. My belly? Usually knotted up or held in. I catch myself in this low-key state of bracing, like I’m preparing for something...without even knowing what that “something” is.

But when I do slow down, I notice other things too. Like how my thighs feel when I'm sitting cross-legged. How the fabric of my shirt brushes against my arms. How my breath gets shallow when I’m anxious, and how I can feel my heartbeat in my throat when I get excited. Or how I slightly stick out my tongue when I am focusing.

I’m learning that these sensations are messengers. That my body has a whole language, and I’ve just been ignoring the vocabulary. The goal isn’t to control the sensations...but more so to notice them. To let them tell me what I need. And then maybe… to actually listen. I think realising that my body is BODY (like it's a living thing...if that makes sense)...i think i was just living in some sort of limbo or disconnect from my body. I did not realise that it is MY body and it feels things...tells me what it needs etc. 

Tuesday: How do I nurture myself emotionally?
That’s still a work in progress. LOTS of it. I, for one, am still teaching myself not to dismiss my own emotions. Which is proving to be rather difficult but we push forward. 

Sometimes I nurture myself by just saying, “Yeah… this is hard,” instead of trying to force myself to be okay. I let myself cry when it builds up. I journal. I vent. I let my voice notes be messy and long and full of thoughts that don’t connect perfectly...and I send them anyway. I comfort myself...which feels so validating...in that instance, I allow myself to be sad/angry/mean/frustrated and i feel much better than i would have had i i tried to tell myself that i am overeating or it is not a big deal, etc. 

I also give myself softness in practical ways. Cleaning my room when my mind is chaotic. Making something nice to eat, not because I have to, but because it makes me feel cared for. Taking naps when I know I’m emotionally exhausted, not just physically. Allowing myself to take breaks from people/friends/family without feeling guilty or the need to explain why. 

Nurturing myself emotionally means not abandoning myself when I’m triggered. It means saying, “You’re allowed to feel this” instead of, “You should’ve known better.” And I don’t always get it right...But I notice the shift when I do. My whole body thanks me. i feel better...even though the situation is not resolved or anything, but me simply feeling better helps me handle it better.

Wednesday: What fears do I have around intimacy?
Whew. Deep breath. I am not a fan of this one...*womp womp*...I think my biggest fear is being fully seen and then... being left. That someone will witness the softest, most tender parts of me and decide it’s “too much.” Or worse...not enough. Intimacy is so fuzzy for me...i have a lot of mostly fearful thoughts about it. I think mainly because of past experiences.

I’m scared of opening up and then being met with silence...rejection. I fear repeating the past...where I gave too much, loved too loudly, trusted too soon. Where I tried to be easy to love, and still wasn’t chosen....There’s also a fear of being trapped. That if I get too close, I won’t be able to leave even if something doesn’t feel right. That I’ll stay out of loyalty or fear of starting over.

So yeah...intimacy feels beautiful and terrifying. I want it so badly...I want to be known, seen, and heard in deeply profound intimate way… but it’s wrapped in all these quiet fears I’m still unlearning. I’m working on holding those fears gently. Not letting them run the show. Just noticing them… and choosing softness anyway.

Thursday: How do I feel about being vulnerable with my partner?
If I had to sum it up in one word? Scared. But also craving it. It is along the same lines of my sentiment to intimacy.

Vulnerability used to feel natural to me. Now it feels earned. Like I need to test the waters first, make sure they’re really safe before I open up. And sometimes, by the time I feel “safe,” the moment has passed. And I’m left wondering if I missed out by guarding myself...But I want to be vulnerable. I want to be able to say, “This hurt me” without feeling dramatic. To say, “I need you” without feeling weak. To show the unfiltered, messy parts of myself and still be held.

So, how do I feel? Hesitant. Hopeful. And still learning what it looks like to let someone see me without needing to manage how they receive it. That is my biggest thing how the person will receive it...i am scared of being vulnerable because i am scared of what the person i am telling will think. "What if it offends them...what if i sound needy...what i come across as someone with a lot of baggage". That’s the edge I’m standing on...wanting to be met there, without flinching.

Friday: What does "sacred sexuality" mean to me?
Sacred sexuality, for me, isn’t about aesthetics or performance. It’s about presence...The intimacy that feels honest. Where I don’t have to suck in my stomach or arch my back just right. Where I can laugh, cry, moan, breathe, and still feel desired...It’s when sex becomes a meeting place...not just of bodies, but of energy... intention...mutual care.

Sacred sexuality is when I feel safe enough to let go. When the experience isn’t about doing things to each other, but with each other. Where I’m not performing softness, I am softness. I’m not chasing connection...I’m in it. And even though I’m not always in that space right now, it’s what I’m working toward. A version of intimacy that honors both me and the moment.

Saturday: How do I connect to my breathing during intimacy?
To be honest? I forget to. I want to....but I often get too in my head, too focused on the other person, too worried about how I look or sound. My breath gets shallow, stuck in my chest. Sometimes I even hold it without realizing. I am so in my head...there are so many thoughts floating around in there..and i am trying to get myself to be present that I miss the breathing part altogether. 

But when I do remember to breathe? Everything shifts. My body softens. My mind quiets. I feel more… here. And I think that’s the goal...not perfect performance, just presence. Breathing is what brings me back into the moment when my mind tries to run ahead. So I’m working on that...on *cumming* (wink wink) back to breath during intimacy, not just when I meditate or do breathwork.  But it is where I can remember that I’m not just in the act....I’m in my body, too.

A Little Softer Every Day:

Week Two is done, and honestly? I’m proud of myself.

This week felt deeper. More intimate. Not just with others, but with me. These questions pulled things out of me I didn’t even know I was holding. They reminded me that I’m still learning what it means to slow down, to trust my body, and to allow pleasure and softness to show up in ways I don’t always expect. Some days felt light. Some felt heavier. But through it all, I felt present. That’s progress.

Here's to week 2 and onto week 3

Xoxo

Nirvana

I need to be told to kneel.

6

Not gently. Not lovingly. I need it said with weight, with finality. A command that cuts through the static in my chest and drops me to the floor before I even realize I’ve moved.

I need the scrape of concrete or tile beneath my knees, the bite of discomfort anchoring me to the present. I need to feel it...physically so I remember I’m here. So I remember I’m yours.

I want my posture corrected. Not with kindness...with firm purpose. Your hand at the back of my neck, pressing me straighter. Fingers curled under my chin, dragging my gaze up when I try to look away. “Eyes on me,” you growl and my thighs clench. I’m shaking, not from fear, but from relief.

I need structure. I need to be told what to do. How to breathe. How to hold myself. I need to be spoken to like I belong to someone... because right now, I don’t feel like I belong anywhere.

I want rules. Sharp ones. Edges I can bruise myself against. I want to be contained, bracketed, owned. I want to cry because you’re not soft....but cry harder when you are.

I need to be brought to heel. Put in line. I want to be made small in the way that makes me feel safe. In the way that says, “You don’t have to hold everything anymore. I’ve got you. Now. Kneel.”

Reduce me to nothing except Yours...

I need to be stripped of this noise in my head. The overthinking. The pretending. The tightness in my throat that I carry through every damn day like it’s a job. I want to be undone by the sound of your voice alone.

I want the world narrowed down to your breath at my ear, the taste of your skin on my tongue, the sting of your palm on my ass, and the dizzying stillness that follows when you say, “Good girl.”

I need to be dominated. Thoroughly. Completely. Not because I want to feel sexy, but because I need to feel real.

Right now... I just want to kneel and finally, finally stop running.

Xoxo
A Submissive

WEEK 1

Sunday: How do I feel in my body today?
Heavy. Like emotionally bloated, if that makes sense? I’m not in physical pain or anything, but my body feels... dense. My shoulders feel like they’ve been carrying something all week, and my jaw? Tight as hell. I catch myself clenching without realizing it. My stomach feels tight too...like it’s bracing for something even though nothing’s happening. That’s the part that confuses me... because on the surface, everything’s okay. But my body clearly doesn’t believe that.

I think I’ve been holding tension for so long that I don’t even notice when it creeps in anymore. It’s like my body is always on alert, expecting something to go wrong. And I’m tired of that. I want to feel safe me. I want softness to come back...not just emotionally, but physically. I want to wake up and feel light. Not disconnected or guarded. Just... here.

But I also get that it’s a process. So I’m not rushing it. Just naming it. Breathing through it. Giving myself credit for noticing. Because that’s where it starts, right? Noticing.

Monday: What emotions am I holding onto right now?
Whew. Where do I even start?(the beginning lol)

There’s definitely some resentment buried under my calm. I can feel it when I think about how certain people treated me and how I kept showing up for them anyway. And there’s shame too...not loud or obvious, but that quiet kind of shame that says things like, “Why didn’t you listen to your gut?” or “Why did you let that slide?”

I’m also holding fear. Not the kind that stops me from living, but the kind that makes me hold back emotionally. The fear of being too open again. Of getting vulnerable with the wrong person. Of doing all this inner work and still ending up in the same place I started. It’s exhausting. But I’m also holding hope. I don’t always admit it, but I am. Hope that maybe, this time, softness won’t get me hurt. That maybe I can create safety within instead of waiting for someone else to do it for me. That maybe I’m learning to protect my heart without having to lock it away.

So yeah, there’s a lot in here. But the fact that I’m feeling it, noticing it, and writing it out without sugarcoating it? That’s a win.

Tuesday: How do I define sensuality for myself?
Sensuality, for me, isn’t something performative. It’s not about being sexy or trying to “look” sensual. It’s when I’m fully in my body...tuned in.  It’s when I put on lotion slowly and actually feel my own skin. It’s when I’m combing my hair with care instead of just rushing to get out the door. It’s when I let my hips sway to music in my room with no audience, no pressure, no choreography. Just me, being with me.

It’s softness. It’s presence. It’s knowing I don’t need to perform to feel it. I don’t need to be in someone else’s arms to feel wanted. I just need to slow down enough to notice how my body speaks to me. How it responds to warmth, to rhythm, to stillness. How it softens when I stop judging it.

It is so freeing to define sensuality for myself, about choosing it on my own terms, in my own timing, without apology. It reminds me that being in my body can be sacred, even if no one else is watching. Especially if no one else is watching.

Wednesday: What does sexual energy feel like in my body today?
Today? Mmm, it’s like background music...there, but low. Not buzzing. Not urgent. Just... humming quietly. It feels like warmth behind my ribs. Like my body’s reminding me I still have that fire, even if I’m not actively using it. And honestly, I kind of like that. I like that my sexuality doesn’t need to be this big, loud thing all the time. That it can be subtle. Slow. Private.

There used to be a time when I confused sexual energy with pressure. Like, if I felt it, I had to do something with it. Touch myself. Text someone. Find an outlet. But now? I just sit with it. Let it rise. Let it pass. Sometimes I breathe into it and smile, like “oh hey…you’re still here.” That, on its own, is powerful.

I don’t need to act on it to know it’s real. I don’t need it validated by someone else. Just feeling it...letting it move in me, without fear or shame...

Thursday: How can I honor my body today?
Honestly? By listening to it. Like really listening...not just when it’s screaming in pain or exhaustion, but when it whispers. When it says, “Hey, we need rest,” or “Please drink some water before that third cup of coffee.” I’ve ignored those whispers way too many times. Pushed through, smiled through, dressed up, showed up, performed....and meanwhile, my body was just trying to get my attention.

Today, honoring my body might look like staying in bed an extra 30 minutes. Or taking a longer shower. Or stretching my hips before bed. It might be choosing food that actually nourishes me, not just distracts me. It might mean not going out when my energy’s tapped...even if I feel guilty for saying no.

Sometimes, honoring my body means being gentle. Other times, it means being firm. But either way, it means not abandoning myself just to be liked, wanted, or productive. My body is not an afterthought. It’s home. And I’m trying...really trying...to treat it like one.

Friday: Am I fully present during intimacy? Why or why not?
If I’m being dead honest… not really. I want to be. I crave those moments of deep connection, where everything feels raw and real and nothing else matters. But most of the time, my brain is somewhere else. Watching myself. I wonder how I sound, how I look, what they’re thinking. Overanalyzing every touch. Too scared to speak up if I am not enjoying myself.  And half the time, I’m so deep in my head that I miss the actual moment.

And I hate that. Because when I am present, when I do let myself be soft and vulnerable and messy, it feels like magic. But that takes trust. And that’s something I’m still rebuilding....not just with other people, but with myself, firstly. 

I think I’m still learning how to feel safe in my own skin. To stop performing and start receiving. To breathe, instead of brace. But I’m working on it. Slowly. With intention. I want to get to a point where intimacy doesn’t feel like something I have to survive, but something I get to enjoy. Something I get to feel. Fully.

Saturday: What is one thing about my body that I love?
My smile. Hands down.

Not just because it’s cute (even though it is, okay?), but because it’s honest. When I smile for real...like laugh-out-loud, full-cheek, nose-wrinkled kind of smile...it feels like freedom. Like I’m not holding back. Like my softness is spilling out, even if just for a second. That smile has survived heartbreaks, breakdowns, disappointments, and still shows up. That smile has comforted friends, made babies giggle, and brought strangers into little moments of connection.

It’s proof that the soft version of me still exists. My smile is my rebellion. My reminder. My softness, loud and proud...So yeah. I love her.

Conclusion

This past week? It actually went better than I expected.

I started this four-week Tantra journaling challenge as a way to slow down and reconnect with myself...my body, my breath, my softness. Every day came with one question, and every answer helped me check in, reflect, and just be with whatever came up.

I didn’t go into it trying to fix anything, just trying to feel again. And honestly? I’m excited. Week One felt good...gentle, honest, grounding. I’m curious to see what the next three weeks unfold. 

Which question was your fav and what would your answer have been?

Xoxo

Nirvana