Perception

It's been a journey. A to B to F to E. Triumphs 

and failures. Moments I will remember forever;

moments I’d like to forget. Chatrooms and online 

munches. Flirting and sexting. Picture swaps. 

The first tangled lines of submission. Rules and 

check ins. Driving with my tits tied and my nipples 

clamped. Cumming in a clothing store, making eyes 

with the sales clerk. Being spanked in the back seat 

of a Jeep and interrupted by a mall cop. Not

my finest moment. In person munches and dungeon

classes where they set me on fire and sent me 

into a trance. Bondage and whipping. Face down

and fucked. Face fucks. Orgasms in front of a vista,

Suspension and caning in front of a crowd. Fire play

and fear play. Sensory play and sensory deprivation.

Tears and pleading, gasps and moaning. Snatches, 

snippets of that thing that I'm looking for. 

Disappointments and reflection. Try, try and try 

again. And now, with notches in my belt and

A spank bank full of memories, what am I looking for? 

A ride out of the desert plains. Standing on the side 

of the highway, th

umb up (legs open?). 

Touch. It's about ownership. This is my flesh, 

my skin to mark, my body to take. A stroke

across your hip, a glide over your back. Pinching

your nipple to say, are you paying attention? 

The hand around your throat reminds you

that you are fragile class and he is a club.

Softness at first. Learning you; relearning you. 

Gentling you, like you are a skittish mare. 

The scene is a coil that will wind tighter and tighter,

And this is the first twist. The beginning. 

We move on from there to the harshness. A fist

in your hair, twisting tight. A slap of your ass, 

a prelude of what's to cum. Perhaps he'll position you. 

Head back, back arched, ass presented. Muscles

strain. It's uncomfortable. How long can you hold it?

Not long enough. Never long enough. That's the point.

It's a reason to punish you. The first notes of a song,

the prelude to the dance. Winding the coil. 

Building the tension. Focusing your mind. 

Attuning all of your senses to him. Where is he?

What is he doing? What's to come? The wait. 

The anticipation. When the pain finally comes

it's almost a relief. You know this part. You know

how to endure. How to breathe, how to take the pain 

And mold it into a gift. How to give in to it. Be it. 

Surrender. You'll be rewarded for it. Choked by it, 

fucked by it. Pulled this way and that. A plaything. 

A toy. Handled and manhandled. Touched, 

to the very depth of you. 

Be careful what you wish for. Between

one moment and the next, oh yes can turn

to oh no. Too much, too hard, too fast. 

Your brain is a whirlwind of thoughts. Sub space 

whispers away and self preservation takes the reins.

Can I take this, can I handle it? Can I hold on,

and just endure? Know yourself, know the kinkster

that you are. Know when it isn't for you and say

no. Stop. Red. I don't like this, and I don't want this.

There is no shame in taking back consent. 

There is no failure in not being able to take

what he has to give. The idea is to bend, 

not to break. To enjoy, not to regret. Red

is there for a reason. Use it, if you have to. 

Don't wait until you wish you'd said it

seven strikes ago. Your flesh will heal, the bruises

will fade, but that moment when you didn't feel

safe, and when you didn't feel seen, will stay. 

Be careful w

hat you wish for. 

Up on the table. On your back. Noise bubbles

around you. Cool air slides over your skin, 

then fingers. Touching, stroking. Learning you. 

A stranger's face. A kind smile. And eyes that say,

Ready? Tingles at first, rolling over you like a feather

tipped with a thousand tiny blades. Up, down. 

Slow, sensual. Bliss. Your eyes close, your tense

muscles relax into the padded table surface. 

Time for a little lesson in electricity. A zing, flicking

against your skin, a lick of fire with a pointed tongue.

Your eyes fly open and that kind smile has evolved

into a wicked grin. Repeat the process. Stroke, cajole, lull… then strike. Jolts that get sharper and sharper, 

Lightning strikes against your side, your hip, your arm, 

Your nipple, your nipple, your nipple. Shriek, gasp. 

Cackle. Repeat the process. Fingers claw at the sheet, 

feet wiggle back and forth. Mustn't move; must move. 

A respite. Fingers move up and up, into your hair, 

electricity crawls over your scalp. Your eyes roll back in your head and you moan. Arch. Please …

pain. Your nipple, your nipple, your nipple. Scream

when it happens, pout when it doesn't. More, 

in more places. Slick places. Kindness here;

cruelty there. People are all around but the room

is empty. The room is gone. The space where you live

is in his fingertips. Shriek. Gasp. Cackle. Moan.

Repeat the process. Hyper-sensitive. Trembling. 

Utterly at his mercy an

d delighted to be there. 

Mindlessness. The ultimate goal. Someone

Who can find my off switch and my on switch.

Who can pull me out of my mind and into 

my body. Make me exist there. Immediacy.

Pain and pleasure. Anticipation and then

touch. Make me a creature who doesn't think,

doesn't worry, doesn't brace for what's to come.

Move where I am moved. Bend when I am

made to. Take what I am given. A crop, a paddle.

A hand around my throat. A gag made of silicon 

or cock. Or the thickness of a bedspread. 

Crawling without self consciousness, writhing

without embarrassment. Whining. Whimpering. 

Gasping and crying out. Seeking more and

seeking mercy. Slipping into subspace 

where I am not me, but also all me. 

A trace and an escape. A breath of air 

against the choki

ng grip of life. 

I dream of it. Touch, hard and soft. Use, 

soft and cruel. Service, eager and painful. 

It's not time yet. My body is not ready, but

I was never very good at listening to voices

that said wait. Slow down. Be patient.

I miss that place when I can crawl, mindless

and mindful. At peace and in the moment. 

Someone's slut. Someone's whore. Someone's

sub. 

I'm having a moment. A new me

shaped under the surgeon's knife.

Unrecognizable to my eyes, my hands. 

Whose body is this? Patience. Flesh

will settle, become a part of me. 

It's a conundrum. Something I longed for

For twenty, thirty years. Now here. 

Nothing sexual, not yet. It's all too foreign,

too strange. I haven't claimed ownership,

or settled into this new skin. A step at a time. 

A slow process. Not something I'm good at. 

Perpetually in a rush. Moving forward, looking

ahead. But before I can be someone else's, 

I need to be mine. So. A seat on the sub's bench.

(Surgery done! The boobs have shrunketh!)

 
Don’t cum. His words echo in my ears as I lie splayed out on the spanking bench. It’s the one without the cushioning, the top thinner than the span of my hands.Drool slicks the surface beneath my face courtesy of the ball gag in my mouth. The edges are digging into my breasts as they spill over the sides. My arms are bound to the front legs, my ankles to the back. I’m on my tippy toes, just touching the floor, trying to relieve the pressure of the bench cutting into my inner thighs. 

I’m also trying to lift myself away, just a little from the wand that’s buzzing between my legs.

Don’t cum. That was the order. Right before he switched it on. 

“What are you doing?” he murmurs. A hand lands on the small of my back and pushes down. Precarious as I am, it takes almost no pressure to make me collapse full weight onto the bench. My inner thighs protest the bruising pressure. My clit pulses in delight.

Don’t. Cum. 

“I like this new thing you bought,” he says. I hear a swishing sound and realize he’s whipping the cane I purchased through the air. Uh oh. I got that recently, and it hadn’t looked too terrifying at the vendor’s stall; hadn’t stung too badly when I’d whacked it against my palm.

He hits harder than I do, though.

“I bet this will make some pretty stripes,” he says. 

That’s all the warning I get before he swishes it against the back of my thighs. It isn’t a hard strike, but usually he warms me up with the hand and the flogger. Today, all I got was the vibe and the cool cut of the spanking bench. 

I hiss and lift up, trying to get away. I can’t: I’m bound at wrist and ankle. 

“Ah ah,” he says. “Stay down.” 

He pushes me back down against the wand, pressing hard so that my clit is crushed against it. For a second it’s too much, but then pleasure rushes forward. Oh, yes. There it is. Orgasm, about to flood through me.

Fuck. No. I tense, retracting my pelvic floor as hard as I can. The orgasm recedes, but it doesn’t go far. That’s not good. We’ve barely started. 

His hand strokes across my ass. 

“Did you just…?” he asks. 

“Noooo!” I mumble around the gag.

“What?”

“No, Sir,” I correct myself quickly. 

“Hmmm.”

One, two, three strikes in quick succession, all on the back of my thighs.

I feel the sting and hiss, and then it hits me, the deeper pain. The flare and throb. Fuuuuuck. I make pathetic little crying sounds, hoping for mercy.

“Oh yes,” he says. “Lovely lines. And they’re perfectly even, if I do say so myself. Now, we just need to do your ass to match. 

I make an urgent little noise that I hope he’ll interpret as “please no”. Unfortunately he hears, “yes, please!”

Whack. Pause. Whack whack. 

It’s worse this time. Pain ricocheting from my ass all over my body. He grabs my ass and pulls my cheeks apart (damn him, he knows I like that) at the same time as he forces me down harder onto the constant buzzing of the vibe. 

No. No, no, no. I hold the orgasm off by sheer will, my teeth biting down hard on the ball gag, my forehead pressed into the slickness of my own saliva, my eyes squeezed closed. 

“Almost had you there,” he says. I hear the smugness in his voice. 

He steps away and I take the opportunity to lift myself up onto my toes, make the tiniest gap between my cunt and the wand head. What next? 

The pinwheel. My absolute favorite. He runs it up the back of my abused thighs, across my ass, and it hurts but it also brings every happy nere to life. As he rolls it over my shoulders and along the sides of my breasts, I shake uncontrollably. It’s like an all-body orgasm. Like trails of fire across my skin. 

It’s not my clit, though, so it doesn’t count. #loopholes

“Careful,” he says. “I’ll turn your ass and thighs into a tic tac toe board if you cum.”

What he doesn’t know - and I’m not going to tell him - is that the pleasure running through my body right now is making me forget all about my clit. I’m in a hazy, happy place. I could do this all day. 

Eventually, sadly, he takes the pinwheel away and I stop shaking. I lie heavily on the bench, my hips grinding down onto the wand. Now I want that, too. 

“Take this and you can cum,” he promises me. 

What is “this”? I turn my head and try to peek, but he’s behind me and I’m bound too tightly to the bench. 

“Head down,” he tells me. He straightens my head so that my face is pressed nose to bench, then sweeps my hair over my shoulder and out of the way. “Stay just like that,” he says.

What is he up to? I just have time to think the thought when SPLAT. A drop of hot wax lands at the top of my neck. Splat, splat, splat. He decorates my shoulders with droplets. It stings, but it doesn’t hurt. I love heat, and this feels amazing. I mewl like a cat, arching my back to show how much I like it. Drip, drip. He makes a trail down my spine. My every thought is fixed on the sensation. Chasing it, waiting for the next one. Lower, I think, lower, and he gives me what I want. The small of my back. The top of my crack. One hand pulls my ass cheek apart and it’s only then, when my clit pulses in absolute joy, that I realize I’m in trouble. 

SPLAT. 

A dribble of hot wax lands directly on my asshole and I explode. The orgasm is on me before I can think to stop it. I ride it out, pressed to the wand, my asshole clenching and dislodging the quickly drying wax. Oh God. Oh wow.

“Oh dear,” he says. 

The amusement in his voice pulls me out of my orgasm haze. Don’t cum. That was the instruction. 

“Oops?” I offer hopefully. 

“Oops, indeed,” he replies. I hear him move across the room and then… shit. There’s that swishing sound again. 

“So,” he says. “Tic tac toe. Do you want to be noughts or crosses?”

I don’t have time to answer before the cane lands with the first WHACK.

Hello. How are you? What are you looking for?

Round and around and around we go, over

and over again. Conversations that progress

in fits and spurts. Miscommunications and 

little white lies. Optimism that dies 

an increasingly dramatic death. Everyone 

angling for something, and willing 

to bend the truth to get it. Each false start

something inside me dies a little more, but, 

at the same time, the sub who's just seeking

that impossible, indefinable, utterly essential 

thing, grows a little more desperate. 

A little more willing to try the places and the people 

she already knows won't be the thing

she's looking for, just in case. And where 

does that lead us? To more disappointment.

More frustration. More cynicism. More desperation.

Around and around and around we go. Down 

and down and down we go. And the surface, 

the sunlight, the air, gets further and further away.

The thing I have always been frightened most of

is drowning. And yet, here we are. 

I don't kiss on the mouth. Pretty Woman,

circa 1990. That line never struck me as odd.

I suppose, in the scheme of things, kissing 

didn't seem so important. Not when there were

other things: sucking his dick, 

wrapping a hand around my hair, 

yanking back my head and biting my throat.

Fucking me, from behind, my face 

pressed down into the bed covers. 

What was kissing compared to being spanked 

until I cried, forced to orgasm until I screamed?

But then, recently, someone told me that

kissing was a hard limit. 

An absolute no-no in their ENM arrangement, 

and I thought, oh. No. I don't like that. 

I think that hard limit for you might be a hard limit 

for me. Suddenly, kissing became everything. 

A way to surrender, letting your mouth

conquer mine. Our breath intertwine. A way

for me to plead for mercy, or to show you

what I want, when I'm too shy to say the words.

A prelude to fucking. No, a foreshadowing of it. 

Sensual. Intimate. To press into you, against you,

and offer myself up to you. To bite at your lip,

stealing control for a moment, and have you

take it back with aggression. With force. 

Bruise my lips. Trap me between the crush 

of your mouth and your hard grip in my hair. 

Kissing was something small, unimportant.

But take it away, tell me I can't, and suddenly,

I don't kiss on

the lips became unfathomable.