Mending

The first words ever uttered to me in session were, “Get undressed, bitch.”

I am a fantasy, I thought.  This isn’t real.  I’m not me.  He can’t get to me.  “Yes, master,” I replied calmly.  He saw what he wanted to see: a pretty little girl doing his bidding.  His kink was to be powerful.  To be obeyed with no hesitation.

I existed as a mirage for years, a lucid fantasy concocted in the deep psyches of men.  Half-real and half-dream, floating in and out of the consciousness of my clients.  I’m probably still tucked away in some corner of their minds as a blurred image, a whisper, a tug.  Well – not me, I mean.  Her.

When I tell people I worked in a dungeon, half of them reply, “Oh – you mean that whips and chains stuff?”  I don’t.  I personally never used a whip; they take a remarkable amount of practice and skill to use without incurring unintentional injury.  I have used chains in session, though mostly to hook handles to the ceiling so I could pick myself up and swing my heeled boots deep into someone’s testicles.

People are really surprised when I tell them that most of my sessions in the dungeon were more like therapy.  If a serious masochist came in and wanted to be tortured, we weren’t a good fit – my heart was never in hurting people, and there are a million instruments and toys I just never learned how to use.  I didn’t wear a lot of black leather or bark orders at anyone; there are a LOT of women who do this exquisitely, and I am not one of them.

Likewise, while I thoroughly enjoy pain, I can only handle so much.  And I have no desire to be verbally humiliated – even if I’m being paid for it.  There were clients who came to see me who pushed my limits in ways I explicitly told them I didn’t want them to, and I never saw them again.  She never saw them again.

The clients who came to see her again and again were ships lost at sea who were looking for a safe harbor.  They were mostly people stuck in marriages with spouses who either didn’t approve of their kinks or worse, didn’t care anymore.  Even though the services I provided were ostensibly kinky in nature, they never felt like a media portrayal or performance of what mainstream culture thinks of when it thinks of kink.

I wore slinky dresses, kimonos, or lingerie, made a lot of eye contact, asked questions, spoke in a soothing voice, listened.  I never feigned interest in a client who was sincere.  What I did felt more like somatic therapy – a gentle caress, a loving beating, an acceptance and normalization of wants and needs.  This is what I excel at: empathy.

Don’t get me wrong – there were beatings and bondage and worship (oh my!), role play and anal play (I also excel at finding a prostate), but the vast majority of my sessions were with people who were looking to connect with another human on an intimate level who wasn’t going to shame them.  Many of them just wanted to be seen and heard and cared for earnestly.

Sex workers are therapists and care takers.  We meet clients where they’re at and walk alongside them… or inside of them.  It’s hard work.  Emotional labor is labor, and I was shaken badly by a couple of sessions.  But mostly, my clients brought joy and relief through surrender into my life.  They also taught me everything I know and made me a better kinkster.  I learned on the job from my clients, and that’s why I can now teach The Engineer how to use a cane properly.  Their impact (see what I did there?) on my life reaches far beyond our sessions, and I hope my impact on them does as well.

 

P.S.  For every hour session I did, I worked another hour of prep and clean up.  Tip your sex workers, people.  Sex work is work.  Especially those of you who write out entire dialogues and insist on going back and forth via several emails going over every single detail of the session before going into it – that takes time and effort.

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Dirty

This one is for you, my nest.

 

I come home one day to find you out back in the garden; you’d come home from a long day at work, ready to relax, only to remember that you’ve got a ton of stuff to take to the tip, and it has to go in the morning – so you’d better load up the car tonight.  By the time I get home, you’ve spent an hour carrying armfuls of heavy rubbish; you’re sweaty, dirty, and sore.  I float in, cool as a breeze after having been in an air conditioned office all day, to see your back muscles flex as you pick up the last load.  You turn around, look me in the eye, and drop it where you stand.

I chuckle.  “Long day, lo-?” I start asking, but before the words are out of my mouth, your lips are pressed against it and you’re clutching me with soil-crusted fingernails, not giving a shit if you leave streaks on my pale peach blouse.

You are ravenous.

You charge, forcing me to the trellis against the back wall of our building – the one with the overflowing plum-colored bougainvillea – and crush the flowers with my back as my purse slides down my arm and slips to the ground.  “Stay,” you order me, as you rummage for something among pots, tools, and patio furniture.  You find a length of twine underneath a pair of gloves and swiftly tie my wrists together like a boatswain before attaching them to the trellis above my head.

Bougainvillea, Flower, Blossom, Bloom

You unbutton my blouse and shove the top of my undershirt under my tits, letting them spill out so you can apply vacuum pressure to my nipples; I’m so taken with surprise that it’s a few minutes before I realize that the neighbors could see this.  All of them.  The thought of it makes my cunt burn.  I want to get on my knees in the earth and take you in my mouth, only I can’t.

As soon as I think it, your belt is unbuckled and your cock is out, popping up from behind the confines of your jeans.  Watching you stroke yourself and not being able to touch you is torture and rapture.  You reach under my skirt and move my knickers to the side so you can gather up my nectar with your fingers to use as lube to stroke yourself with.  I watch you take the flowing juices from my body and use them as your own, wanting to tell you that it’s not fair – if you’re going to smear them on your dick, do it by sliding into me – but I don’t.  Instead, I watch wide-eyed, heart thudding, as you continue to wank with fervor.

Suddenly you stop.  You press your mouth to my ear and whisper, “Do you want my cock inside of you?”  I choke back saliva, and before I can answer, you’re on your knees, yanking my knickers all the way down and my skirt all the way up.  “Well done, love,” you say, taking a hooked finger and drawing silky webs away from my thighs.  I whimper.

You draw up a chair, tell me to spread my legs as wide as I can, and continue wanking.  Deep into your reverie, you stand up and leave me alone outside for a minute, exposed for all the world to see; you come back, work a large dildo into my cunt, and tell me to clamp my legs.  You sit back down and watch me intently while stroking yourself until your pleasure forces you to close your eyes halfway; I try to clench the dildo hard enough to make myself come, but I’m not quite there.  Perhaps you take pity on me seeing me strain – or perhaps you just want to fuck me.  In any case, you stride over, take me down from the trellis, and lead me in by the twine, assuring me that the best is yet to come.

Paper Moon

I understand the benefits of pretending to be someone else; being able to act out your fantasies in a safe space is a powerful thing.  The reason I loved reading as a child is because I got to imagine myself as a character in a world wildly different than my own.  I got to go on adventures, be courageous, and do things I could never do in real life.  This is one appealing factor of Dungeons and Dragons, LARPing, cosplay, the Ren Faire, and Halloween parties.

Knights Yield Renaissance Fair Horse Lance
White people are so weird.

I will gladly don a costume and get into character for one of those activities, but when it comes to sex and kink, role play is a big “meh” for me.  I chalk this up to the fact that I’ve done professional sessions as both a domme and a sub, and the roles that my clients prefer me to play (student, nurse, cheerleader, maid, secretary, interrogator…) always feel so cliché to me – like I’m in a bad 1970s porn.  Don’t get me wrong: I have SO much fun playing these roles (oh my god, so much fun!!!) in the same way that I have a great time at costume parties – but the dialogue, characters, cues, and tropes make me laugh rather than turn me on.  I get into my character’s head space and make an effort to be as believable as possible in session because to do otherwise would be a disservice to my clients, but for me, it’s make believe.  A game of pretense that doesn’t feel sexual to me even in an overtly sexual space.  Even when my clients allow me to be myself in session, I’m not me.  I’m the character they see on the website, a woman of a different name, a flawless minx. Add role playing, and it becomes a dream within a dream.

Perhaps because I’ve had to perform roles for work, it doesn’t work for me in real life.  I’d much rather be myself and play with my partners as themselves, because they are the people I choose to be with.  The Engineer doesn’t have to be anyone else other than exactly who he is, because he’s the person I love.  And I don’t want to be someone other than who I am, because who I am is pretty great, and because, well – it feels like work.  I want to be spanked and flogged and caned not because I misbehaved or got bad grades or made a typo, but because I like it.  It feels good.  I want him to tie me up and use me for his pleasure because it makes me happy.  Because it makes him happy. Because it turns us on.  Because it’s him doing it.

Brought To My Senses

I close my eyes and think of scratching.  I see the pale skin and broad shoulders of my first love, the one who faced his back to me whenever we fell asleep together (his parents let me sleep in his bed with him when we were high school students, which I still find shockingly progressive) and asked me in a plaintive voice to scratch his back, followed by a relieved and happy sigh.

I feel my nails – always bare and cut short, but no less sharp – dig into the haunches of a dozen lovers, carried away with scraped-out longing for my legs to spread wider so they can be deeper inside of me.

I smell pine needles as bark scratches against my hip bones and hands while The Texan fucks me hard against a tree just off a hiking trail.  We can see a hiker walking by 150 meters away; we don’t stop.

I taste a lover’s cunt in my mouth as she begs me to scratch her, to bite her, to just fucking mark her in any way I can and god make it hard.  Make it hurt good.

I hear the sharp intake of my sub’s breath as he feels the tips of my steel claws, not knowing what they are or what I’m going to do with them.  I scratch them lightly up the inside of his thigh and punctuate his scrotum, walking up his balls with the tips.  I press them harder into him until he cries out – and then I press a bit harder.  I tell him to turn around and drag them slowly down his back, his ass, and hope that the marks vanish before he goes home.  Claws leave beautiful, precise marks – and you don’t need to press very hard to leave evidence.

I love having any kind of marks on my body, and scratch marks are no exception; when someone accidentally scratches me during sex and apologizes, I press their nails harder into my body and whisper, “I’m your canvas.  Paint me red.”

 

In Suspense

I was finally put into full rope suspension for the first time last fall; it was comfortable and calming, and the mistress who bound and hoisted me was brilliant (she’s a friend, so I may be biased).  Can’t wait to do this again someday!

P.S.  Many of you noted in the comments that you were interested in being suspended; I asked Cammies on the Floor for a piece of advice or a tip I could put on the website for folks who were interested, and here’s what she wrote: “Going to rope practice classes and socials is the best way to meet someone. Being a practice bottom isn’t very fun, but it’s important to a top and segways into knowing a top well enough to suspend.”

Sinful Sunday

Grown

My freshman year in high school, my closest friend (on whom I had an immense crush) and I walked through the halls, clicking away on the tiles with our brand-new, matching, shiny white gogo boots.  We wore miniskirts and lip gloss; we linked arms and sashayed into rooms like we owned the joint.  It wasn’t just that the heels on the boots made our legs more shapely; it was the way we had to bend down to zip and unzip them*, the way the line of the boot draws the eye upward, the way poise is affected by confidence is affected by poise.  A feedback loop.  I felt untouchable – an intoxicating emotion for a fifteen year-old who criticizes and doubts everything about herself.

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My father was in the military for thirty years, so I’ve always associated boots with power.  When he would head off for weekend or summer trainings, he shined his boots beforehand ‘til they glowed like fresh ink on a typewriter page.  He laced them lightning quick, ready to go in an instant in case of emergency.  When I smell shoe polish, I think of his nimble fingers pulling the strings just so and whipping them around hooks before tying bunny ears.  There are pictures of me as a toddler stomping around the house in his big black boots – laces undone, dragging on the floor.  I was in Nepal on a hike when I realized that I lace and unlace my boots just like he used to, and it made me cry in the middle of the mountains.

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I’ve worn boots as both a domme and sub in session; I’m a bottom by nature, and it can be difficult for me to inhabit a dominant headspace.  Attire makes a huge difference!  I know that a true dominant can do all their domly domming no matter what they’re wearing, but… I’m just not a top.  Wearing boots is the number one thing – at least from a physical standpoint – that helps me get into a dominant role.  Be it cowboy boots used to step on someone’s dick (love that guy), heavy, thigh-high black vinyl boots being worshipped by a man on his hands and knees, or – any boots, really – used to boost my height and assertiveness, boots make me feel in command.  Self-possessed.  A force to be reckoned with*.  I feel like my fifteen year-old self: swaying my hips, begging to be looked at, and acting grown up – not even really knowing what that means.

*…or a snow bunny.

*

 

Go Inside

Blindfolds allow me to be immersed in my body.  When I can see someone looking at me – especially a new partner – I feel more pressure to perform pleasure than to experience it.  Don’t get me wrong: There are times I love looking into a partner’s eyes.  When I’m riding The Engineer and have my whole body wrapped around him, then pull back, look him in the eye, and kiss him long and deep, it feels like magic.

But.

There’s something about having a scarf, bandana, or slip of satin suddenly thrown over my eyes that shifts my perspective from pleasure collaborator to receiver of pleasure.  It allows me to fully accept pleasure in a way that I have a more difficult time doing if I can see my partner, especially during oral sex – even better if I’m immobilized.  If the blindfold is used as part of a BDSM scene, it’s a basic show of trust in my top and a testament to whether or not that trust is well-placed (it’s not always; I once had a play partner use a violet wand on me when I was blindfolded without asking first!).  It also lends itself to a much higher level of anticipatory arousal for me if I can’t see what’s going to happen next.

I have a few notable memories involving blindfolds: The first is when my manfriend (I call him this because he was 13 years older than me) grabbed a black silk scarf from his lamp one night, slid it across my breasts, and tied it around my eyes before grabbing my legs and wrapping them around his muscular hips.  The second is the first time I had PIV sex with The Texan (I’ll write about this in detail one day – it was really hot); as I lowered the blindfold over his eyes, I whispered, “I promise I won’t hurt you.”  I wrote about the third memory here.

The Engineer loves blindfolding me as part of our kinky play, and I just bought a brand-new delightfully fuzzy blindfold for us to use.  He’s a bit claustrophobic and has told me before that he doesn’t enjoy being bound or deprived of any senses, but when I told him I was writing this, he said, “I would let you blindfold me.  I trust you.”  I am VERY excited to close off one of his senses and kiss and touch him everywhere.  I think he just might like it more than he thinks he will.

Gateway

Remember back in the eighties when pot was described by Nancy Reagan and the D.A.R.E. program as a “gateway drug” – the idea being that once you smoke mary jane, there’s no turning back, and you will IMMEDIATELY AND IRREVOCABLY crave harder drugs?  I feel like spanking is the “gateway kink” of BDSM in that most people have tried it… and then have all gone on to have completely different / variant experiences with kink (‘cause the myth of a gateway drug is fucking ridiculous).  Some folks try spanking, find that they’re not into it, and go back to vanilla(ish) sex; some folks like it and stick with it, but don’t get into other stuff; and some of us now own a host of impact toys, lengths of rope, and butt plugs.

Hand spanking was my introduction to kink; my high school boyfriend and I role played and experimented as much as possible, using the online purity test as a guideline for New Things to Try.  I loved the stingy feeling of light pain that accompanied the heights of pleasure my sensitive body was experiencing – I wondered at how it intensified my joy.  I feel so lucky that my first exposure to spanking was in a loving relationship in which I completely trusted my partner; it allowed me to explore other aspects of BDSM which I now fully enjoy and incorporate into my sexual life (and sometimes non-sexual play).

I very much enjoy pain, but I’m not a masochist; I’m not submissive, per se, but when the right person gives me orders, it makes me quiver.  Having partners who not only ask if I want to be spanked, but how, is such a huge turn-on.  Here’s what I say:

I want you to bend me over your knee and pull my knickers down so that they’re just underneath my bottom.  With one hand around my waist holding me tight, I want you to start lightly and rhythmically slapping my ass – both cheeks – like you would a drum.  Keep a slightly curved hand so you don’t hurt yourself!*  Slowly build up speed and intensity, then give me one good, hard smack.  Before I can finish letting out that sigh of pleasure, hit the other cheek hard – it will take me by surprise.  Lightly graze both cheeks with your fingertips in whatever pattern you fancy.  Start again – only this time with a bit more intensity.  Do it again.  And again.  When my ass is a nice, bright red, I want you to slide a dildo into me – maybe a few times, right over my G-spot.  Maybe more than a few.  Maybe slide your fingers around the base of that dildo and circle them around my clit, pulsing the dildo with your other hand.  Just when I think the spanking is over and I get to come, take your hands off – leave the dildo in – and tell me to count to ten.  For each number, give me a good, hard, smack – each harder than the last.  Caress my bottom with a light touch… then when I think it’s all over, give me one last extra-hard bonus smack as you start pulsing the dildo again.  Tell me to touch myself while still over your knee… and that if I come for you, I might be lucky enough to get your dick (or fingers, or strap-on) inside of me instead of that dildo.

I’m waiting…

Maybe spanking was a gateway kink for me… a gate I feel grateful to have walked through.

 

*For real – I once got a hematoma from spanking someone too hard with a straight hand!