08 Sep At his feet
I am at his feet, sitting very still, almost like a statue. I can feel his hand stroking my hair, and I can hear the voices. Just for an hour ago or so, I was fucking in the couples room.
Earlier I have met up with G. The decision that night to go to Torture Garden was soley based upon us wanting to fuck in the couples-room. We did, and then, an hour later. I am at Js feet. A part of me thinks that I am going to sleep, but the rest of my body knows I’m certainly not. I am far away, but not in dreamland. I know that J is talking with G, and love the fact that two persons I love to fuck and play with get along so well. But there is not really that many thoughts going through my head other than that. Time disappears, and reappears. Js hand slowly stroking my hair, sounds of toys hitting people, sounds of laughter and high heels clicking. Slowmotion is the wrong word, but I am breathing deeply and do not care much about anything except his touch.
I went into this whole perverted world, thinking I might be somewhat of a bottom and somewhat of a top. And now, here I am, being Daddys boi and slut and being bad girls and nasty boys Sir. Submitting and dominating has never been so hot. Why? God knows. Or rather, my body does, my brain does. Some people mean that when you find what you’ve been looking for, then you keep on searching.
This is exactly that- I can be at home but still travel, or travel and still be at home.
His nails scratching my back for half a year ago is now a snakewhip, eating into my flesh and sending out all kind of gorgeous endorphins that leaves my relaxed and at peace. But often it can also be the nails scratching. I think and hope for dear life, that you, dear reader, don’t think there is s spiral downwards in the world of BDSM, a spiral from which you can never climb back.
There is these ideas about a certain kind of dominant I think most of us wish to avoid. Those who think it is there godgiven right to have women submitting and fucking with them… They do not think they need to make an effort, they go to parties in washed out t-shirts and illfitting leathertrousers. I do know and do agree with what’s said about the fixation on looks and age, but this is not about that. It’s about me and everyone else who’s making an effort, dressing up, feeling awesome and then…getting greeted by them. There is no innocent bystanders, and there is no such fucking thing as non-participants (or should not be) at fetishparties. Exhibitionism and voyeurism, not everyone wan’t to participate with getting their ass whipped, and not everyone wants to see full intercourse in nearly broad daylight (I know I sometimes don’t!) but exhibitionism and voyeurism don’t need to be all that. Just make a fucking effort.
This not saying that there is a time and a place for parties with no dresscode, but I would definitely prefer those to still have a very strict doorpolicy.
And to be really honest. I would probably not coming out on this kind of scene if I hadn’t moved to London. I would probably still be lingering in vanilla land where every touch is half of what it can be, where every soft kiss is a understated bite in the neck. I will freely admit that I do vanilla, that I am tactile and caring, cause some vanillas out there seem to think something else. Am only happy in that since everything else started to happen. I do not have to search for a language anymore cause the whole alphabet is in my hands and books who I thought would never be written get published by the minute.
We don’t have to be good, we don’t have to play by the rules.
Loads of people do this. Some call it BDSM, some call it’s a way of spicing things up, some hate the labels and others decide to rewrite them and turn them into something they want it to be.
I will never claim one is better than the other, but there are great things here to hold on to. Communicating you needs, approach them, explore and have fun!
And those are the patterns that I want to expose here, alongside with some pr0n and wonderful and wacky stories.