The mind’s heart

They say the greatest sexual organ is the human brain, and anyone who’s done a Long Distance Relationship (LDR) knows the truth of that. Where screen to screen replaces skin on skin, the mind must create the palaces where the senses can feast. And the greatest gift you can give your partner is your imagination.

On Wednesday, Miss and I were scheduled to enjoy a Skype call without any interruptions. She was feeling ‘top end Domme’ (she’ll tell me, day-to-day, how strict she is feeling, as these things tend to be on a spectrum rather than a binary). Uh oh. That meant pain for me for her pleasure, as she gave me the list of things I was to bring. So I was knelt, naked bar my collar, as we dialled in.

In the end, it was blogworthy for the example it provided of how you have to create your D/s across the distance, because rarely does everything happen as you planned: technology, events, real life and the human body can all conspire to skew things, as they can for everything. On this occasion, though Her ardour was not dampened, an oppressive migrane caused by climatic change was preventing Violet from looking at a screen. This was going to have to be a four-sense occasion.

LDR not only teaches you how to cope with these little inconveniences (and how not to blow them out of proportion) but, actually, how to engage positively with shifting conditions to make something new out of the unexpected. We’ve done voice-only play before, so I shut off my eyes and became alive to feeling the flow through her voice, the words landing like impact play, my fingers as her surrogate to deliver her demands and just my voice to feedback the effects.

To give added intensity to the session, Miss likes often to focus attention on just one area and press my resolve until I break and she can gather me to rebuild. Today was only about CBT, so with my cock and balls cinched by my own necktie and pumped until its swollen, ridged surface was like an overflowed candle in a gothic mansion. By narrowing the focus down, it seems to bring an intense intimacy despite the distance; a small area of my body is primed in response to her commands that seem to wash over me like a balm. The headphones reinforce the feeling of her being inside me. It also makes her super sensitive to every aspect of my breathing and every noise I make. I become acutely aware of the literal significance of every utterance – the signal it makes and how it guides her response. Suddenly the world is shut off and we are cocooned in a bubble of our own responses.

My bristling skin is now supersensitive, and we begin the process of driving me to the edge of endurance. Miss likes a technique of alternating between not enough and too much; teasing me to the point of desperation and then making me touch the sensitive areas – cock head, frenulum – with hard rubbing to push through any pleasure into pain.

What is often a disadvantage of the LDR – the lack of physical presence – we have also learned to turn to our advantage: because I have to administer this myself, under strict control and dominance, resistance must be broken hard. The natural response to pain is to stop doing whatever is causing it, but here it is what we want. When you are bound and at the mercy of a D you can simply focus on managing the pain and finding the sub space. When it is self administered, you must overcome your own instincts to stop, to break your own mind yourself and trust Miss to gather the pieces after. As your mind seeks to detach itself from the pain into that special place, the body also seeks to detach itself too – to become a relentless, mechanised tool, an extension of the D, which reinforces the separation. This duality of separation gives an edge to the intensity of the D’s requests and the s’s submission.

By the end, whether I come or not is almost beside the point. I’m curled, whispering into a microphone, tears and snot smearing my face and whimpering pleas. I am both here and not here, I am almost not in my body. There’s almost no sense of any physical sensations just a voice that I cling to, a rope that suspends me above a chasm as I drift into the deliverance of Her.

I have no idea how long this has taken. I am in a timeless state as her voice nurses me back to the world. The sluggishness gives way to a sudden tremendous rejuvenation – I am suddenly aware of how ravenously hungry I am, how intensely I see and feel things, and how wonderfully in thrall I am to Her.

I dress as we say our goodbyes, and I go looking for the world’s biggest pizza. Centred, comfortable, incredibly aware of my own physical self and the renewed inner confidence. I am loved, owned and given over to Her and I will eat like it’s my final meal.



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

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:

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:

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:

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:

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.

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.