Quite a while back (on another website), a question was asked about people's favorite "toy." Me being the smart ass I am, I started to respond, "her body." Only, her body wasn't my toy, it was my playground.
Any road, someone brought up their collar. Well, I hadn't really thought of a collar as a "toy." However, being mostly fifty shades of white belt to all this BDSMery at the time, I didn't exactly approach it with the respect and even reverence that I later learned to appreciate.
Any road, here's the tale I told in reply to someone mentioning a collar...
*****
There was a time when I was younger (hard to believe, I know) and I, perhaps wasn't quite careful enough in considering and modulating my reactions.
Now, Love was... I almost hate to say it since it would really hurt her feelings, but she was actually pretty prim in her public persona. Like literally the leader of a church youth group and such.
That was, needless to say, before she fell into the gravitational pull of my dark sphere of influence.
One of her favorite positions was doggy style. Which was a tad problematic as she'd had her left knee blown out by a shotgun blast and "rebuilt" (for some definitions of the term) with steel plates in place of the joint that did not bend. So, the only way we could manage was on the couch with her right knee up, her left on the floor, and her elbows on the arm. Which pretty much left me playing tightrope walker on the edge of the couch as I tried to find the leverage to give her what she needed.
Now, as I say, she was actually pretty prim and proper and the natural use of coarse language was more than a bit of a problem for her, even more so than communicating what she wanted which was problematic enough in the beginning.
So, there we were, and no horse-shit. She was in position, and I was doing my balancing act and trying like hell not to fall off while giving her the hard stroke she craved. And, 'lo and behold, out of nowhere, she busts out with, "That's right! Mount me like the bitch I am!"
After a frozen moment of "what the fuck did she just-" I lost it, both my composure and my balance, and fell off the couch cackling. Felt like absolute shit about it since I knew she was just trying to talk dirty for my enjoyment. And when I finally did regain control, I had to take her in my lap and cuddle her for a long time while I explained just how many ways what she had done had struck me as funny. Not least that if ever there was a woman who was less of "a bitch," I have yet to meet her. (*cough* Um, that's not a slight to any of you here, it just... Well, putting up with me alone should have garnered the woman sainthood.)
Any road, we worked it out and it even became something of a joke between us. Even years later, she could make me smile by referring to herself as my bitch. And I so am not even going to explain the blanket with the pair of wolves on it to anybody.
(*She did get much better at cursing under my expert tutelage and years later could walk into a bar and have sailors bailing out the windows, blushing and covering their ears. But, that's beside the point.)
Sadly, I have a vile sense of humor and always have to carry the joke just that one step too far. So, one... mmm... can't remember if it was Valentine's or Anniversary or what. (This was a couple of decades ago.) Any road, one of those, I went down to Pets Mart and made a couple of acquisitions. And got a really strange look from the fetus running the checkout.
Fuck her. The engraving machine said I could engrave what I wanted with a price listed per character.
Fortunately, I found the woman whose sense of humor (also vile) most closely matched my own and when she opened the necklace box gleaned from a well-known jeweler to find that collar sitting in there, she cracked up as well.
I didn't actually expect her to wear it.
You see, her brother when they were children had a habit of choking her until she either passed out or almost. This when he wasn't setting her Barbie car on fire as he pushed it down the driveway. So, she had definite issues with having anything around her neck. Even her blouses had to be roomy through the collar.
(We won't discuss the moment when she took my hand and placed it there and informed me in no uncertain terms that her life was mine to do with as I wished. She'd been reading bodice rippers again, so I don't really count that time.)
I would imagine you can imagine my surprise when she actually put it on. Of course, the effect was a tad ruined when she barked and then started whimpering and brushing her face on my shoulder. And then licked the corner of my mouth. With the entire length of her tongue.
The thing is... Well, in my younger years, I'd actually had a problem learning to moderate my strength. Yes, actually, I'd ripped the doorknob off a door when I got distracted and didn't get it twisted enough before yanking on it. Twice. And I'd actually caused some pain, not the good kind, for a couple of lovers when I was still first coming into my practical experience.
(Not what you're thinking! I'm not that well endowed.)
Well, Love had managed to convince me that I could be a little rougher with her, that she wasn't made of crystal. However, I'd also been known to break cinder blocks and bricks... So, I was still careful. More careful than she liked, although I didn't completely understand that since, as I say, articulating her wants and needs didn't come easily to her.
Over time, that collar became something of a symbol. When she put it on her neck, and she only ever put it around her own neck, it was a message to me that she wanted to be taken and used, her boundaries pushed with the one hard limit that if I came anywhere near her with a shotgun, she was the fuck outta there.
The night I pushed her over the edge and brought her through twenty-three climaxes in fifteen minutes and caused her to squirt hard enough she soaked the bed from her waist to her knees the first time, she was wearing it for me.
We hadn't tended it or taken care of it for a couple of years before she passed. There just didn't seem much point since she couldn't wear it anymore, along with everything implied. The leather is cracked and aged. Then again, so am I. I don't know why we kept it, really. Or why I still have it and have even now dug it out and am fiddling with as I scan over this to see if I really want to post this or not.
I don't know. I mean, I know that wasn't what you were looking for with this thread. But, I guess maybe it's telling that the 8' braided leather bullwhip is gone, the leather flogger with fifteen strips of leather, the Velcro restraint system, all of her toy chest with the various sized vibrators, dildoes, butt plugs, nipple clamps, anal beads, and whatever the fuck else it was that we accumulated over the years for me to use on her whenever she put on this fucking thing. (Me scampering ahead of her son to get rid of it before he could see it. [Which was probably a good thing considering the amazing shade of purple he turned at the one piece of lingerie I missed.])
And yet, I still have her collar wrapped around my fingers. Haven't been able to part with it...
*****
Oh, and by the way. Anal beads should not be used like a lawnmower pull start cord. You will definitely not get her motor running that way. I'm just sayin'. That was a hard lesson to learn way back then. (Harder on some than others!)
