I thought about for a long time afterwards – why
are
feet such a big deal anyway? The thought of it made me flush, my body reacting like I was right back there in that moment.
7
Words are funny things. When I am in my submissive headspace I will grovel, I will beg, I will say whatever it is my dominant demands of me. True, some of the words will flow freely, while others will stick in the back of my throat. Pleading for him to fuck me, punish me, use me, are all things I used to find difficult, but now – thanks mainly to Tom’s obsession with making me say things I find embarrassing for his amusement – my voice is assured despite my debasement, proud and wet at pleasing him by demeaning myself. Calling him sir is harder, my voice then is quieter, and if I can get away with it I hide the humiliation I can’t quite overcome behind the curtain of my hair. But even though it chafes I can do it. I do. And my submission ultimately brings great pleasure and release to us both.
But the word that grates, no matter how often it is said around me, is
slut
.
I know. It’s a little word. And in BDSM terms it is not even a derogatory one. I am comfortable with the dual nature of my personality, the fact that I am independent, capable and in control for most of my day, and yet crave giving power to my top for mind-blowing nights. And afternoons. Mornings too, actually. But there’s something about the word slut that, even immersed in the mostarousing scene, will jar me out of the moment like a needle scratching across a record. Men who like sex are studs. Women who like sex are sluts. I know this is the vanilla meaning. I know when I am kneeling naked in front of Tom, sucking greedily on his cock and he calls me it the context and thus the meaning is as different as night and day. But it doesn’t stop my glaring up at him even as I suck him further into my mouth.
He laughs when he sees me bristle at it. I’m hardly a prude and there are so many other words which wider society as a whole would consider worse and which don’t bother me at all, but slut is the one I hate. And he knows it, loves pushing me, making me explain to him exactly how much of a greedy, grateful, horny slut I am before he’ll let me come. And while in the back of my mind there is a part of me bridling at the terminology and wishing I could tell him to fuck off, I obey. I obey in spite of every fibre of my being saying I don’t need to do this, for the small voice which whispers that I do. It is not the most demeaning thing he makes me do but it is one that stings most. An act of pure submission.
So when I saw the paddle I had to buy it.
Tom’s birthday was looming and while I’d bought a couple of great vanilla presents I was looking for something extra. Symbolic. Special. Sexy.
I was looking at crops when I saw it, pondering whether it was bad form to give someone a present which I was going to get at least as much pleasure from as he would. It was on the end of the shelf, beautifully boxed, and in thesplit second after I realized exactly what it was, I felt a flutter in the pit of my stomach.
SLUT.
Well actually TULS, cut into twelve inches of vicious-looking black leather attached to a sturdy handle.
I couldn’t even look directly at it. I stared at the toys next to it, behind it, sneaking little glances. I knew he’d love it. Love marking me with it. But the thought of walking around with that word emblazoned across my arse like a brand made me shiver in revulsion. It was perfect. But I hated it. And I knew he’d love that even more.
I stood in front of the shelf for a good ten minutes until a saleswoman came over to ask if I needed any help, presumably fearful I was a demented potential shoplifter. Her approach was the impetus I needed. I reassured her I was fine, grabbed the box – heavier than I anticipated – and almost ran to the till to pay. I’d even stopped blushing by the time I was halfway home.
In the ten days between
are
feet such a big deal anyway? The thought of it made me flush, my body reacting like I was right back there in that moment.
7
Words are funny things. When I am in my submissive headspace I will grovel, I will beg, I will say whatever it is my dominant demands of me. True, some of the words will flow freely, while others will stick in the back of my throat. Pleading for him to fuck me, punish me, use me, are all things I used to find difficult, but now – thanks mainly to Tom’s obsession with making me say things I find embarrassing for his amusement – my voice is assured despite my debasement, proud and wet at pleasing him by demeaning myself. Calling him sir is harder, my voice then is quieter, and if I can get away with it I hide the humiliation I can’t quite overcome behind the curtain of my hair. But even though it chafes I can do it. I do. And my submission ultimately brings great pleasure and release to us both.
But the word that grates, no matter how often it is said around me, is
slut
.
I know. It’s a little word. And in BDSM terms it is not even a derogatory one. I am comfortable with the dual nature of my personality, the fact that I am independent, capable and in control for most of my day, and yet crave giving power to my top for mind-blowing nights. And afternoons. Mornings too, actually. But there’s something about the word slut that, even immersed in the mostarousing scene, will jar me out of the moment like a needle scratching across a record. Men who like sex are studs. Women who like sex are sluts. I know this is the vanilla meaning. I know when I am kneeling naked in front of Tom, sucking greedily on his cock and he calls me it the context and thus the meaning is as different as night and day. But it doesn’t stop my glaring up at him even as I suck him further into my mouth.
He laughs when he sees me bristle at it. I’m hardly a prude and there are so many other words which wider society as a whole would consider worse and which don’t bother me at all, but slut is the one I hate. And he knows it, loves pushing me, making me explain to him exactly how much of a greedy, grateful, horny slut I am before he’ll let me come. And while in the back of my mind there is a part of me bridling at the terminology and wishing I could tell him to fuck off, I obey. I obey in spite of every fibre of my being saying I don’t need to do this, for the small voice which whispers that I do. It is not the most demeaning thing he makes me do but it is one that stings most. An act of pure submission.
So when I saw the paddle I had to buy it.
Tom’s birthday was looming and while I’d bought a couple of great vanilla presents I was looking for something extra. Symbolic. Special. Sexy.
I was looking at crops when I saw it, pondering whether it was bad form to give someone a present which I was going to get at least as much pleasure from as he would. It was on the end of the shelf, beautifully boxed, and in thesplit second after I realized exactly what it was, I felt a flutter in the pit of my stomach.
SLUT.
Well actually TULS, cut into twelve inches of vicious-looking black leather attached to a sturdy handle.
I couldn’t even look directly at it. I stared at the toys next to it, behind it, sneaking little glances. I knew he’d love it. Love marking me with it. But the thought of walking around with that word emblazoned across my arse like a brand made me shiver in revulsion. It was perfect. But I hated it. And I knew he’d love that even more.
I stood in front of the shelf for a good ten minutes until a saleswoman came over to ask if I needed any help, presumably fearful I was a demented potential shoplifter. Her approach was the impetus I needed. I reassured her I was fine, grabbed the box – heavier than I anticipated – and almost ran to the till to pay. I’d even stopped blushing by the time I was halfway home.
In the ten days between
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