Sinful Sunday 370: lightbulb moment

I’m a rank amateur in photography. Strictly a mobile phone person, no tripod. Hell, I don’t even own a selfie stick. So for me, half the challenge of Sinful Sunday is finding new ways of balancing the phone and getting the shot.

This week I had the genius idea of using my light shade as a tripod to get a never-before-seen birds-eye view. The bonus touch I hadn’t anticipated was the lightbulb acting to preserve my anonymity. Sometimes these things come together nicely.


See who else has been swinging from the chandeliers this week by clicking on the lips below.

Sinful Sunday
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The unbearable heaviness of being

I kneel every day because it’s a necessary corrective to the stresses of modern life that would leave me bent out of shape. It’s the point of connection with @fireandhoney that transcends 4,000 miles of distance and leaves me feeling in a state of grace. It is also a weathervane for the balance of my submission, which I needed to relearn this week.

It is, of course, a movable feast – I can do it more or less anywhere – but my preferred method is naked, except for my collar, because the sense of needing to be vulnerable and utterly, demonstrably submissive reinforces the feeling I get and the sense of connection to Miss. Which tends to limit the number of places I can practically do it.

Externally it is a form of meditation like any other – clearing the mind, subduing the body, reflecting on the self and trying to attain a sense of calm whilst disconnected from the material world. With D/s kneeling though, of course, it is actually to gain a deeper meaning of my submission, running mental checklists, and testing for my own wellbeing. But it poses an interesting question about its performative nature – how much it is demonstration and how much an actual ritual and, by extension, the whole of my D/s.

Because one of the key features of my submission (and maybe generally, though I’d hate to speak for us all) is the need for validation by my D. I’ve blogged elsewhere about my neediness for attention in the symbiosis of D/s and how its deprivation is the worst punishment to bear. And my kneeling this week revealed to me how much my kneeling had moved from ritual to performance in my needy search for validation. I’d started to not only tell my D about my kneeling, but to photograph and send it to her. Though this was done with the best of intentions, I realise its effect was to dominate the conversation. In driving the discourse with my need for approval I was, effectively, topping from the bottom. Violet’s acute observation had made me realise that probably, deep inside, the image was becoming more important than the ritual. This was performance for approval not kneeling for connection.

So last night I went back to basics to rediscover the lost meaning of that ritual. I cleared my mind to feel the carpet under my legs as I sat slightly parted, feeling the tension of muscles in my thighs, the shiver of self-aware nakedness and, above all, the weight of my need to submit. As you hold the position, aware of just the slow passing of time and the lessening awareness of your own body that blurs into a lump of stretched, aching numbness, it becomes more like a shell that holds something inside, a vessel for the soul, for want of a better word. This is the point you stop thinking about or ‘doing’ the submission and become the submission

This is the beauty of ritual I had gotten away from, taking the time to get to that point of stepping off onto a different plane and it was almost overwhelming. The point I know I’ve reached it is when my body becomes literally too heavy to support. I need to get low, as low as I possibly can to the ground – my doubled-up legs slide into a semi splits that pushes my pelvis into the ground and my shoulders touch the carpet, arms spread out in full supplication. At this point I am simply compelled to be the weight of my own submission in a way that shows I have nothing left to give. Though this looks performative at this point there is no one else here except me and the presence of my D that is now immense and overwhelming and I am rendered immobile in gratitude. It’s my DIY subspace in which I am held secure.

 

 

 

Sinful Sunday 364: prompt week – humour

In many ways the respite of prompt week for Sinful Sunday for this month is a bit of a Busman’s Holiday. The use of humour in my SS photographs is an ironic reflex action for me; strategically positioned items to block full frontal nudity is as much a deep insecurity about my body image as an indulgence in levity.

As a way of swerving my body-image issues, humour is a way of deflecting sexual attention. That may sound bizarre in such an act of exhibitionism, but by using a humorous set-up I can pose naked but with the get-out of saying “oh, I’m not taking myself seriously, you see”. It deflects accusations of pretension – that I might think myself worthy of sexual desire and attention.

I’m aware this is not necessarily a healthy attitude to have but it’s my way of grappling with the issue. It’s also usually a way of working a theme of my week into the photo.

This weekend I’ve been at my parents who’ve had plumbing issues. Meaning I’ve only been able to come up with a dribble in the mornings.


Find out who else has been getting drippy with their pics by clicking on the lips below.

Sinful Sunday

#SOSS – Share-our-shit-Saturday: 31 March 2018

I don’t do this nearly enough, and seeing everyone’s weekly posts sometimes feels like, in light of the very real threat of shadowbanning, I’m smoking a fag on a listing ship while all the other tweeters are below deck bailing out water. Something highlighted by the fact I was uncertain how to punctuate it; ‘Share our shit, Saturday’ sounded like I was using the Imperative Mood; ‘Share our shit Saturday’ seemed to be exhorting others to tell of the terrible start to their weekends. In the end, I opted for the unambiguous hyphen.

So what has forced me off my metaphorical arse this week, and onto the exercise bike of sharing? Lots of good stuff, probably too much to share here, but I always feel there is more to read. Never mind, let’s not let ‘good’ be the enemy of ‘I didn’t read as much as I wanted’…

1) My dearest and bestest on here, @fireandhoney, wrote several pieces this week that ticked my boxes, and it was a genuine struggle to know which to pick. But this moving piece to accompany her stunning #boobday pic today was too good not to share, both in its meaning and the sheer unnff of the pic. I heart this hard:

https://fireandhoney.wordpress.com/2018/03/29/boob-day-shame-is-the-lie-someone-told-you-about-yourself/

2) Also the delightfully delightful @_mastersEye has been amusing us with her musings on putting the sex into sexagenerian, and blogged beautifully and honestly about how it felt, in the bustle and emotional challenge of Eroticon:

https://cleareyedgirlblog.wordpress.com/2018/03/30/turning-60-and-eroticon-2018/

3) And @HannahLockhardt writes well, thinks hard and shares bravely about a life in smut, submission and super prose. This piece inspired by @coffeeandkink starts with one of the crispest couplets I’ve read so far, and never lets up. Proper skilled, controlled prose that keeps you hooked to the finish:

https://hannahlockhardt.wordpress.com/2018/03/25/she

4) My favourite pick of the pics from Sinful Sunday last week was by @confess_hannah not least in admiration of the logistics of doing this shot by yourself. While I love shots in well-dressed locations or with breathtaking views, I’ll always be drawn to contributors who can conjour a bit of magic from an ordinary setting:

http://www.confesshannah.com/sinful-sunday-ladder/

Finally, finally, I wanted to do another shout out for @fireandhoney for her erudite attempts to get us all to write proper and to #WriteBigSexyWords – each week, some new moist choices for when you’re seeking the mot juste.

https://fireandhoney.wordpress.com/2018/03/27/sexy-verbs-writebigsexywords/

Let me be…

the shoreline carved by the sea, waves that pound and break me down, drag me under and rebuild me, far away, where I am something new.

a brimming cup into which you drip to see the surface tension stretch until it splits and spills, running in rivers down the edge.

crumbs on a plate you press greedily with your tongue to gather and savour, licking your lips to get the last of them.

a coin you roll to the edge of the ledge of an arcade Penny Falls, rhythmically bumped from behind, stubborn to drop.

the wave of heat from an opened oven door; inside the risen rolls, brown and round, bursting with seeds. When cooled, you break them open to reveal the soft, warm and moist centre.

the pile on a carpet between naked toes that cushions your step and feels like a meadow when you close your eyes.

Weights and measures

This week, my first collar arrived in the post. With trembling hands, and with Miss @fireandhoney on Skype, I put it on. Miss and I just looked at each other across the miles, our faces side by side in flickering pixels, with moist eyes and lumpy throats. It was one of the most joyous occasions of my life, and after only four days, I have noticed a change in my whole approach to our D/s that is significant. It has made me consider the whole nature of the symbols and signifiers we use in our discourse, their weight and meaning.

Up to this point, I had been a periodic cage-wearer, though strictly a wader in the shallow end of that particular pool – a symbol of submission not a permanent barrier to touching. When Miss and I started our adventure, getting a cage seemed a natural priority, because it was how I had, to that point, learned to measure my submission. Although my new cage was considerably more comfortable and less ‘argumentative’ than Mk I, it was not without its moments of working loose, pinching and catching and general eye-popping jiggery-pokery. But this came with the territory, I believed.

By contrast, the collar was easy. It comes off and on quickly and it is discreet (well, my one is, eschewing, as I have, the studs, seams and chromework that characterise some collars). But for that it is no less present than the cage, though considerably lighter. More to the point, it has made me realise a paradox at the heart of my submission: the cage was making it all about me.

I’ve remarked elsewhere that cages should really be called anti-chastity devices, because they are the worst possible thing to wear if you are actually trying not to get aroused. Like a big red button that says DON’T PRESS THIS! It is deliberately trying to tempt you as a form of trial, which can be tremendous fun for both parties. And the sense of ritual, of locking and controlling is hugely sexy – and many a D gets off on the prospect/thought/reality of the erotic stress their s is under. A beautiful symbiosis under the right circumstances.

You can see, of course, the bonus effect of this play is to create anxieties in the mind of the cage wearer about orgasm expectation. For the long term chastity follower, this doesn’t so much arise (nor does much else, I believe), but in the mind of the casual cage wearer, it becomes the focus of concern, and a seemingly constant negotiation, even if tacit or unspoken.

As soon as I put the collar on, I felt almost a different mindset take over. Immediately my internalised focus on my cock vanished and I found myself much more able to take a broader view of my submission and the needs of Miss – which are, after all, primary. It was like someone had suddenly shown me the answer to a particularly complicated sum, and I realised I had known it all the time.

Removing the cage took my cock out of the equation, and made the cage now one of a number of tools we have to play with, when dialling up or down the mood, instead of a binary off/on, locked/unlocked, denial/release.

It has to be said this is probably exacerbated in the case of long-distance relationships, where symbols, rituals, words and the imagination have to do a lot of the heavy lifting that daily skin-on-skin would take care of.

But by realigning my focus where it should be, I also realised how much more receptive I was to subtle changes in mood, how my awareness grew of Miss’s needs and how she wanted the dynamic to work at that particular moment.

Miss had known this all along – knew I had to reconnect with my cage in order to get to the point where I realised my focus on it as a tool of submission was holding me back. The collar was there waiting for me when I was ready to move to it. And having put it on, I find it fits me beautifully now.