A few months ago I was in a discussion with a friend about a troubling situation, mostly acting as a sounding board, and offered some small amount of perspective. As we were saying good-bye, she ended the conversation with, "thank you for companioning me on this little journey" and it struck a chord.
It is often said that D/s (separate from BDSM, if they can be separated), is as much or more mental than physical. When thinking about my friends remark, this mental aspect was once again brought to mind. While I was unfamiliar with the term companioning, I immediately got the contextual sense of it - companion - A person who accompanies or associates with another; a comrade. In other words, someone who goes along with another, yes?
Derived from the practice of grief counseling, this notion of companioning focuses the attention of the counselor away from being the person who fixes something, toward being a comrade who is accompanying someone on a journey. A journey of discovery, finding a way from their current state to a condition or place where they understand, and have some mastery over the circumstances of their lives. It is not about thinking for them, putting your wisdom into their head, so they are smarter. It is guiding them, being a companion on their journey of self discovery, or self recognition.
What does that have to do with dominance and submission? Dominants are supposed to be leaders, providing guidance, show the way, give direction, be in control, active, forceful, managing, employing physical and mental control; all true enough. But also, a dominant can and should be quiet, thoughtful, observant, and reflective; more representative of the dominant as a mentor or guide or leader of another kind, a companion. There are times when each approach can be appropriate.
In discussing the application of companioning, she said:
The trick is learning to be dominant enough to accept the position of authority that a therapist must have in a therapeutic relationship in order to help the patient feel safe. Of course, it's not a kind of authority that you take by force-- the patient is always "in charge" in a way, but sometimes firmness is required.
Interesting isn't it? lets substitute a few words:
The trick is learning to be dominant enough to accept the position of authority that a master-mentor must have in a master-mentor relationship in order to help the submissive feel safe. Of course, it's not a kind of authority that you take by force-- the submissive is always "in charge" in a way, but sometimes firmness is required.
I remember a woman wrote about her interactions with a dominant, "I didn't know what to make of his interest. I mistrusted it. No one had ever wanted to know so much about me. But he didn't ask about details that might reveal my identity, not the color of my hair or what I did for work. Instead, he demonstrated a focused interest in precisely defining my feelings. He listened well. He asked clarifying questions - "Did you feel dislike, or discomfort?" He occasionally offered insight, but more often simply encouraged my own answers to emerge. And in every conversation, I found myself discovering more about who I am."
Someone commented, "Quite an experience for you. I fully identified with the experience of being cared for in that way . . . It's that intense interest that is really the key, not the restraints and paddles. He really wants to understand your psychology and make his decisions from that point of view."
pixiepie once said, "Sometimes we just need to be heard… we just need to know that we are valued for our emotions - good and bad…easy and hard…we just need to hear ‘tell me what happened’ or ‘how did that make you feel’ or even just ‘I understand’.
I don’t want or need to hear… ‘what do you need me to do’ or ‘what can I do from here’ or even ‘it will all be brighter in the morning’."
Sometimes what is needed is a comrade, a companion, someone "going into the forest with a lost person and being with them, supporting them, being with them in their fear and confusion, but not showing them the way out, because that is something they have to do for themselves, it is their task of self discovery."
It is very much a ‘guy’ thing to want to fix problems; I know I have heard it so many times: ‘I don’t want solutions, I want you to listen!’ Submissiveness does not need to be fixed, things do not need to be made right.
Quite often what is needed is simply someone who understands, who is willing to come along for the ride, a companion.
Tenets of Companioning
Companioning is more about curiosity; it is less about our expertise.
Those we support are the experts on their experience
Being too attached to our expertise may estrange us from those we wish to serve
Earn the right to offer advice, guidance or direction
Companioning is about walking alongside; Less about leading or being led.
Key is to “invite” others to take a step toward what might be important
No pushing or pulling to some prescribed outcome for the convenience of others
Companioning is about being still; Not always about urgent movement forward.
Finding a place of stillness inside ourselves
Stillness means heightened awareness, not dormancy
Holding the moment in anticipation that something important is developing
Far more important to be in relationship than to make something happen
Companioning is discovering the gifts of sacred silence; not filling up every moment with talk.
Show up without urgency or expectation
Practice silence in dialogue. Delay your responses on purpose.
Chatter may disrupt one from formulating important thoughts
Pay attention and be curious about your own personal discomfort with silence.
Watch others for signs of wanted response.
Companioning is about being present to another’s emotional and spiritual pain; not taking away or fixing it.
Challenge old definitions of “helping”
Emotional and spiritual pain must be allowed to flourish before it can subside
We stop people from grieving at our discomfort level
Spiritual and emotional pain is a necessary part of healing…albeit, in its most distressing guise
Companioning is about respecting disorder and confusion; not imposing order and logic.
Is life so orderly?
Companions can provide a point of grounding for others to tether themselves to
Know where to turn for help
Understand that some coping and healing has a chaotic look to it
Reality check with your support; restore your own energy
Companioning is about going into the wilderness of the soul with another; it is not about thinking you are responsible for finding a way out.
Willingness to walk into regions of mystery with no answers or even clear direction
Willingness to sift through ashes for meaning while possibly not offering your own opinion
Willingness to accept whatever state of reconciliation another is able to find with their loss
(731 days -175,000 hours - over 1 million minutes)
I said this last year and it is twice as true now - I have gotten to know many new and interesting people. Too many have come and gone, but are not forgotten. Some have retired, others have found other direction in their lives. They will be missed, but I am better for having known them, and shared a small slice of life. However, so many more are still here and I look forward each day to hearing what they, what you, have to say, it nurtures and sustains me, thank you all, so very very much.
A catalogue of visitors from quite literally all around the globe, and last year I was amazed by a counter of over 20,000 visits, and that number is now over 55,000 and it boggles my mind.
I have received wonderful and supportive feedback from so many people. I have written less this year than I did the first, considerably more fictionalized encounters, story lines continued beyond First Meeting, to the One Day Visit story line and the whole Consensual Stalker BS series. I had never tried that style of writing before, and frankly I continue to be humbled by the acceptance and response. I have particularly liked these stories because they have given me an opportunity to illustrate through words, rather than discussions of D/s concepts, how I view the connection between a Dominant and his submissive partner. I am also particularly pleased to have written other pieces including A New Master, Prolongation, What's In It For Me and Labels and Dogma.
I was speaking with a friend as I was writing this and she summed it up quite well, "And, what a lot of fun in those two years!"
Ownership is not a dogmatic principle, it has to be pervasive, it is all in the relationship. When she submits to you, totally and completely, then she is owned, she is owned because she gives herself to you. Her ownership is about her frame of mind, not yours, although you are the vessel into which she chooses to place her well-being, that which she gives away. There is no need for contracts or collars or all of the accouterments; there is just her, giving herself up to you, and you accepting that stewardship.
The outside view of these kinds of relationships almost seem upside-down, or inside-out, words nearly fail in their ability to convey the essence. Ownership is not something you take, it is something given, which the dominant accepts and holds. And just as ownership is a manifestation of what she gives, her submission is a manifestation of what you give to her.
She felt his hand on the inside of her thigh, and it startled her so much that her muscles tightened, and her leg jerked out straight. "Relax, it is okay." She felt his hand move up to the back of her knee, and he lifted her leg up and toward the car door so that her foot was flat on the floor, heel against the front of the seat and her leg was against the door arm rest. She got chills as his hand moved along the underside of her thigh until the side of his hand bumped up against her panties, and his fingers were struggling between the seat and her thigh. Then she felt his fingertip push up into the hamstring muscle, and felt him slowly run his hand back up toward her knee, applying a lifting pressure that dug into the hollow of the muscle. He repeated that movement again so that his fingertips worked into the muscle and the palm of his hand pressed along the abductor. She mused to herself, "what a strange and appropriately inappropriate name for a muscle in such an intimate part of the body," as his hand moved back toward her knee again, fingers digging into her hamstring even deeper. As his hand got to her knee, she felt it move away and then the back of his hand was pressing the inside of her other knee outward until her leg bumped up against the shifter. She felt a rush of embarrassment at the knowledge of how widely her knees were now spread, recalling how short her dress was, and how likely, or at least possible, it was that he was looking straight up her dress at her panties. She could feel his hand rubbing her knee, and then felt his hand and arm lying across her leg, and again heard the rustling of the packages on the passenger seat. Then there was quiet, although she could hear his deep heavy breathing, indicating his had was likely quite close in front of him. She found herself anticipating the likelihood of another kiss? Wishing? Hopefully? Hmmm. But still it was quiet, and she could not imagine what he was doing, so close right in front of him, but not touching her, but for his arm brushing across her leg. And then she felt his hand pushing the hem of her dress up the outside of her right leg, tucking the loose material under her leg so that the hem was stretched taut across her lap. And then she felt the same movement on the outside of her left leg. Then, nothing but complete quiet, just the sound of his breathing, no touch. As far up as he pushed her dress, and the way he had spread her knees, she was certain that he had a very clear view of her panties now, and she worried how wet they must appear. She could feel the coolness and was sure that the light colored baby blue material was now several shades darker with her dampness. . Then, disrupting the quiet, there was a whooshing sound, something moving through the air, and then silence again. Then the sound again, closer, then silence again. She felt something cool and rough moving across the top of her thigh, rubbing in a circular motion. Then there was a smacking sound as something slapped down onto her skin, just above her knee. That was followed by another, and a pause, and then another, a little harder, and she began to feel a slight sting in the spot where it had landed three times, or was it four? Then there was another, and she realized what she had heard, and was now feeling, was the flat smooth surface of one of the wooden paint stir sticks. As he began a steady rhythm of slaps with the flat surface of the stirrer, he moved the point of contact inch by inch further along the top of her thigh until it was nearly all the way up her thigh. There was a pause, and then he moved the point of contact down the outside of her thigh, and he started to slap her even harder, each slap bringing a sting of its own. She couldn't help herself, she started to protest, and he stopped. And it was silent again. She couldn't help but feel a little whimper in her breathing, which had quickened as well. She felt something pushing at her lips, and he said, "Open your mouth." She opened it a bit, and he said, "More." And she felt some kind of bulky cloth pushed into her mouth. "Bite down on this." As she did, she felt his fingers pulling back from the material and she bit down harder onto the cloth in her mouth. It has the warm, earthy taste and aroma of something like a wool scarf, and she realized it was the scarf she tossed on the seat along with a light jacket, just in case it was to get cooler in the evening. As she clenched her teeth on the scarf she saw his hand come up over her face, and she cringed, what large hands he had, she had never seen them before now. He reached up and pulled the blindfold back down over her eyes, and positioned it in place. Then it was quiet again, and she felt him rubbing the stir stick in that same circular motion against the inside of her upper thigh. An involuntary groan, accompanied by a "No." sound, choked up in her throat. . And then the slapping of the wooden stick against her inner thighs resumed. It was a steady and methodical pace, harder and harder each time as the target moved from the inside of her thigh down near her knee, upward to the more tender upper inner thigh and then over onto the top. As the intensity of the strokes increased, her breathing became shorter and shorter, until he would stop, and then there would just be the sound of her gasping at the air, accompanied by nothing but silence. Then he worked his way back down to the knee. Then he moved to the other leg and repeated the cycle; knee, up the inside of her thigh, as far as there was room to swat, then up onto the top of her thigh at the hem of her dress and then down the thigh again. Then back to the other leg. The pain was not overwhelming but was a constant stinging, and after each cycle he would stop and rub his hand back and forth up her inner thigh, bumping up against her at the far reaches of his stroking. Each time his fingers would bump up against her damp panties, he would mutter an appreciative, "Mm-hmmm," and then pause before starting again. She was alternating between the soothing feel of his hand, and then the sharp sting of the flat slaps of the paint stick, and then a few moments of nothing but a dull ache, before he repeated the treatment. Just as she was expecting him to start again, she felt his hand on her forehead, and realized he was removing the elastic band. He pulled it up and over the top of her head, untangled it from her hair. He put his hand at the back of her neck and lifted her head into an upright position. Her neck and shoulders were tense from that cramped position, how did he know to rub her shoulder, and the base of her neck? As she begins to settle down, her breathing becoming more steady and calm, she feels his hand curve around the back of her neck, pulling her head forward, until her lips meet his again. But this kiss is calm, soft, warm and deep, not hurried or urgent, tender but strong, almost like a thank you. And as she settled into and savored the kiss, she felt something cold and hard against the inside of her thigh. Still the kiss continued, distracting her from the presence against her thigh, but not completely. . She felt his hand, and something cold and hard in it, move further up between her thighs, and then there was something rubbing against the damp material of her panties, the dampness making resistance to the smooth movement of the object up and down. Then his fingers were slipping under the elastic of the leg band, pulling the material out, away, and over to one side. She gasped, now sure that what she had imagined impossible moments earlier was, in fact, true. She felt the hard plastic tip pressing against her, pushing the material of her panties to one side, while simultaneously slipping into her ever so slightly. She moaned and growled louder, sounds of both rejection and pleasure, confused by the feeling, but overwhelmed by the sensation. As it slipped ever so slightly deeper, she heard him say, "We are going to exercise some muscles, show me some resistance." And his hand pressed it forward, inch by slow inch, rotating and twisting it slightly. "Are your muscles are strong enough to prevent this? Clench and push." Still she felt the pressure and inward movement. "I am not sure I want to keep you out." she whispered. "Not me, this thing, this invasive foreign object. It is difficult, even without your resistance." She felt herself shudder and start to shake, her legs stiffen, deep in her throat she growled again. "Push against me!" And he was pushing in, twisting and twirling, and she could feel the lumpy ridges, she could not exert enough force to overcome his insistence.
"Stop please." And then she was having spasms again, and shaking, she was seeing red. She felt muscle contractions, and this time they did indeed succeed, she gasps, "Please, stop . . . rest." He relaxed the pressure, and let her breathing settle. She felt his hand on the side of her face, caressing her cheek, his thumb wiping the moisture from the corner of her eye. "Breathe slow, deep and steady breaths, relax," and he continued to rub the side of her face. Slowly she regained her balance, letting out slow, long, deep exhalations. "Are you okay?" he asked, and she nodded her head, and smiled. She was calm again, her breathing settled. She so much wanted to look into this man's eyes, but she just let her head fall back against the head rest, and sighed. As she settled back, she felt his gentle but firm push again, and she felt slight contractions, anticipating a renewed assault on her senses. Then he pushed her knees together and she felt something being wrapped around her thighs just above knees, holding her legs tightly together. And he pushed gently, deeper again, and her closed thighs held it in place. Again she felt shaky, she felt at the edge of more spasms, but then he relaxed the pressure, and removed his hand. She felt something cold, hard and metallic against the back of her wrist. "Be still," he said. Then the sound of snip . . . and, snip, at the other wrist. "Be still, don't move your hands yet," he repeated. She sat there in the quiet, flexing her fingers, stretching them out, twisting her wrists, getting circulation back into her hands. "Now? Can I move now?” she asked, but there was no answer, just quiet. Tentatively she pulled back her hands, nothing. Then she moved her hands to her face, and pushed the blindfold up onto her forehead, eyes squinting from the shock of long being deprived of light. She finally blinked, and slowly opened them, looked to her left, no one there. She heard a noise behind her, looked up and saw movement in her rear view mirror, it was the large black sedan backing away from behind her car. Over on the passenger’s seat, she hears her text message chiming once again. She picking it up and read the message, "Go home. Take a long hot shower. Lie down for a nap. I will call you later."
She sat there, quiet and still, breathing heavily with anticipation, head down and gripping the steering wheel, suddenly there was movement out of the corner of her eye. He was reaching in through the window and she felt something being pulled down over her head, and positioned. She realizing it was a sleeping mask style of blindfold. As he settled it into place, the darkness calmed her, and she was surprised how happy she felt to be back under this mans influence again. She instinctively trusted him. There was the sound of rustling packages, and she felt something wrapping around her right wrist, an odd feeling, until she heard the plastic zipping sound, realizing it was a zip tie, binding her wrist/hand to the steering wheel. A sense of vulnerability came over her as she realized she was being restrained in her car, in the parking lot of a building supply store by a stranger, in the middle of the afternoon. And as that thought was sinking in, a zip tie was wrapped around and clinched down onto her left hand as well. Not too tight, but close around her wrist and the steering wheel. She pulled her arms back to see if her hands could slip through, and they wouldn't.
"Yes," he said, "Test the bindings; assure yourself you are trapped here." She pulled and twisted her hands and wrists again, it was certain that she could not disengage her hands from the steering wheel. As she relaxed again, she felt his hand touching her cheek, gently holding her jaw and lifting her head up, and turning it toward him. She was now facing him but could see nothing through the blindfold. As he held her face in his hand, she felt his thumb lightly tracing her cheek, soothing her slightly, and calming her down. And then, unexpectedly, she felt his lips pressing against her. Even before she realized what she was doing, she tilted her head to mesh her lips to his. She was returning his kiss almost instinctively, not really intending to do so, more a reactive gesture, but some how it felt right to her. She was surprised how warm, and soft and comforting his kiss felt. . He moved his hand away from her, so he was no longer holding her to him, forcing his kiss on her, but she leaned forward, continuing the kiss, opening her mouth slightly to encourage and entice him in, closer, deeper, wanting him to kiss her more fully. He remained neither closer nor further away, his lips were still pressed lightly against her. Boldly she found herself gripping his lower lip with her teeth and pulling, hoping to draw him nearer, but he remained steady, still not moving closer, but not drawing back either. She bit down harder on his lip and pulled back even more; suddenly she felt a startling slap on her cheek, it jarred her head and she felt shock and puzzlement.
"No!" he said, in a stern and deep tone. He had pulled back away from her; she could no longer feel his breath on her lips or chin. There was a long and deepening silence, and she could not sense any movement. Finally, in a soft, slow, almost sad tone, he said, "I thought you would enjoy soft, sweet kisses, but evidently I was mistaken." She was scared, sorrowful, sad, and unsure what to do. She worried that he might just walk away.
In a very small voice, she said, "Please?"
From a distance, he asked, "What?"
Softly, she responded, "Please . . . please." But there was no response. "Oh, please." She turned her head and leaned forward, as if she could look out the window, as if to find him.
Finally she heard, from startlingly close, "Good girl, thank you baby."
She felt him take her head in both of his hands, "Good girl," and gently, his lips returned to hers. His fingers tangled into the hair on both sides of her head and pulled her to him, deepening the kiss, relaxing his lips, opening them slightly, invitingly. Calming herself, filled with relief, she relaxed and settled into returning the kiss, opening her lips to him, matching his motions, allowing his tongue to slip slowly into her mouth. She sighed. . She was amazed how long the kiss lasted, and then another, and another. He had never been this slow and passionate with her. Still with his hands tangled in her hair, gripping her curls tightly, she moved to reposition her mouth, wanting to feel the fullness of his lips, his nose against her right cheek. Then she shifted so it was against her left cheek, all the while, her tongue moved in and out between his lips, touching his tongue when they met, dancing hers around his. A couple times she started to use her teeth on his lips, but felt him start to pull away, just slightly, and she recalled the recent slap, and she reconsidered, satisfying herself with the tenderness of the kisses.
Faintly she heard a rustling noise to her right and realized his hand had left the side of her head. It sounded like he was rummaging through a shopping bag on the passenger seat, her bag? Or his? Not until this moment did she wonder where the blindfold and zip ties had come from. He must have had a bag also. Just then she felt him release his grip on her hair and pull back, ending the kiss. She sensed the rustling of movement around her, and then felt something on her forehead. She felt pressure pushing her head back and down, she was nearly facing straight up toward the roof of the car.
She felt a pulling back, pressuring her head back against the head rest and felt movement, pulling her head slightly this way or that, and felt hands and wrists and arms movement around her neck and shoulders. She could not figure out what on earth he was doing. Finally, everything was calm, but still she could not move her head up off of the headrest, she could barely move it from side to side, just the slightest bit. "Are you uncomfortable?" he asked? She answered. "I am okay."
There was a band across her forehead and she decided it was one of the wide, large elastic bands she had bought. It was pressed across her forehead and back, so her head was pushed against the headrest. She decided that the fumbling around the sides of her head, behind her neck, was him attaching it to the headrest somehow, so that she was fastened, leaning back, facing up, and unable to lift her head up or forward. It was not so tight as to be uncomfortable, but it held her immovable. Again, there was stillness, lack of motion but she could hear him breathing very nearby, a strange quiet, calm. But she realized again, just exactly where she was, and the "circumstances" she was in.
Then she felt his fingers brushing her face, she realized he was pushing the blindfold up onto her forehead. She was startled by how bright the sunlight was, but the way her head was restrained, all she could see was the headliner. She tried looking down her nose, to lean her head down, but could just slightly see the glass of the windshield. Try as she might, she could not see his face, although she caught glimpses of the top of his head, but no more. As she attempted to look at him she saw his movement as he reached over into the bags on the passenger seat, and heard the rustling, and wondered what he was getting out of the bag. Out of his bag? Out of her bag? She suddenly felt his hand sliding up the inside of her thigh . . .
She'd been chatting with her mysterious friend on Yahoo for about an hour when she decided that she really had tasks to get done before the end of the day. She excused herself, reluctantly, but full of purpose for the afternoon’s chores and the sense of accomplishment they would bring. Principal among them was completing the tiling around the edges of the "new" bathtub that had sat unfinished for far too long. As she was logging off, he had said, seemingly casually, "Good bye for now, I will be seeing you later sweetheart."
She stripped off her jeans, and socks, and then her t-shirt too; wanting to be sure she did not get any caulking or putty or other goop in her clothes. As she walked into the bathroom she saw herself in the mirror and realized she was wearing the pair of baby blue it-se-bit-se bikini panties the mysterious man had bought and sent to her. She had avoided wearing them, even avoiding the suggestion of it, until today. At his request/insistence, she had acquiesced and put them on when she dressed this morning, knowing she would be chatting with him; part of her ongoing "training" he called it, these chat sessions.
She gathered all of her tools and tubes and tiles, and quickly did a mental inventory of what she was going to need. She realized she didn't have everything she needed and was going to have to go to the building supply store and get some more bathtub sealant. It would just be a quick utilitarian trip, so she grabbed the lightweight blue sleeveless dress that was lying on the bed, just to have something on. She pulled it over her head, smoothed it down and slipped on a pair of light-weight black sandals. She grabbed her purse and cell phone, and headed out to her car. . After having talked with her mystery man she was feeling elated and a bit aroused. When she stopped at a light, she would trace her fingers up the inside of her thighs just slightly, thinking about the way he talked to her, encouraged her. As she drove on, the hem of her dress moved higher and higher, the loose material giving way to her pushing and moving. It was a cool fall day and she was surprised how warm she was feeling, with the windows down, even in such light clothing. In fact she was feeling a little flush and realized just how aroused she was becoming. At the light just before the turn in to the hardware center, she pressed her fingers up against her panties and was very surprised how damp she had made herself. She hoped that it would not be noticeable on the back of her dress once she got out of the car to walk into the store.
She turned into the parking lot and found herself a parking place; she was surprised that they were so busy, in the middle of the afternoon, on a week day. She had to park further away than she liked but given the lovely weather, the thought passed quickly and she strode off. Going into the store, she turned down the aisle with the plumbing supplies and began scanning the racks and shelves, looking for the bathtub sealant. She was feeling lighthearted and purposeful, and noticed herself humming an upbeat breezy tune as she moved along examining all of the different kinds of tubes of goop that she might use. After she selected the sealant, she went to the paint section, remembering she needed a couple of stir sticks for the paint she would be using after she had all the tile work done. She picked out a couple of the old fashioned flat wooden stirrers and grabbed a couple of the newfangled industrial style red plastic stir sticks also. Then, at the check-out counter she found some large, wide elastic rubber bands she had been looking for. She loved going to the building supply store, it always had so many cool utility items. She grabbed her bag of goodies and headed back out of the store, happy she would be able to move forward on her projects. . As she was walking across the parking lot toward her car, her cell phone chirped that "incoming text message" tone. She decided that rather than fumbling around in her packages and purse she would just wait until she got back to her car to check it. It was a beautiful bright sunny day and the heat on her back felt wonderful. She saw a young man walking toward her, and noticed he was looking right at her with a big grin. As she got closer she realized he was looking down at her dress, and then realized that she must be silhouetted through her sheer dress by the bright sun behind her. She imagined that he was focusing on the shape of her thighs shadowed through the light material. She was embarrassed by how obviously he was staring down at her but she was smiling also, at be appreciated, she loved being looked at, as he walked by she heard him make a sound, "mm-mmm". It was a strange mixture of feelings for her; it was not something she had thought about before but her "stalker" had mentioned, and emphasized her mixed feelings of embarrassment and excitement, and she was becoming more and more aware of the conflict in her mind.
Suddenly she snapped back from her reverie, sure she had walked past her car. But she realized she still had a ways to go, she did not think she had parked so far out in the parking lot. She glanced back over her shoulder and saw that the young man was still watching her walk away from him, and her embarrassment grew, she felt herself blushing. As she stood there looking at him, her phone chirped again. Aggravated by the seeming urgency of the messages, she turned and headed on toward her car. As she approached her car she noticed that there were fewer cars around than when she had arrived. She went around to the drivers side, opened the door, tossed her purchases onto the passengers seat, and dug into her purse for her phone, just as it chirped for a third time, she did not often get so many text messages in such a short period.
She unlocked the keypad and pressed the Messages button, and saw three new messages, all from Stalker, the capricious nick she had assigned to his number in her Contacts. She opened the first message, "Such a lovely blue shift dress, you look very sexy." How did he know what she was wearing? She instinctively looked around, obviously a fruitless thing to do, and saw no one, but realized she still did not know exactly what he looked like, never having even yet seen his face, just that he was a tall, of average build. She returned her gaze back to the phones message center and opened the second message, "The boy really is enjoying looking at you, what do you suppose he is thinking?" Again she looked around, now sure that he was nearby somewhere. She looked at the surrounding building, and looked into the other cars parked around her, but saw no one. She continued to look around, double checking to see if she could see him . . . nothing.
She opened the third and final message, "Perhaps you should walk back and introduce yourself to him?" Okay, obviously he was here somewhere, but certainly not within her sight. Equally obvious, the chance to even think about or explore that "suggestion" was past. She just sat there in her car, unsure what to do now. Stalker was clearly nearby. She had a feeling like things were swirling around her, dizzying, turning her head first this way, and then that, looking. Should she just drive off? Get out of the car and look for him in earnest? Just sit here and wait? She was feeling very conflicted and anxious; in fact she was feeling a bit scared, uncertain, not sure why exactly. . Just then . . .
. . . she saw movement in her rear view mirror, it was a large black sedan pulling up behind her car. Her text message chimed once again, and she read the message, "Put your hands on the steering wheel, and look down, and be still".
He really did enjoy his visits with her, but there were times, particularly late into the night, when she acted quite strange. For no apparent reason, she would get up and dance, much like a frenetic dervish . . . and he wondered . . .
She got up from the bus stop bench and boarded the bus. As they walked down the aisle he encouraged her to the row of seats just in front of the full width bench seat at the back. She slipped into the window seat on the sidewalk side of the bus, and he slipped into the seat immediately behind her. She could hear his breathing as he leaned forward, immediately behind her the back of her head. "Relax, and make yourself comfortable, settle yourself into the comfort and contour of the seat, and lean back." As she settled in her seat, she felt him put his face into her hair, and take deep breaths of her freshly washed hair, knowing he was appreciating the apricot fragrance of the shampoo he had instructed her to buy, and use this very morning.
She had always hated the seats on the city buses, the semi-contoured bare fiberglass, with no cushioning. It was not a comfortable seat at all, it was hard, and cold, and unforgiving. She moved and squirmed into the seat, "Now, adjust your skirt so it is out from under your legs, so that your bare skin is against the seat, and gather it up around your hips." It was such a short skirt it did not take much effort to hike it up out from under her bottom, and she felt the cold fiberglass pressed against the backs of her thighs, and through her little bikinis panties. The chill of it made her shiver.
As she sensed him right behind her; she recalled how he had reached around her in the produce market, and the way he had manhandled her at the book store. Her mind raced ahead, fearing some similar exposure, wondering if he would be so bold and touch her that way in this broad daylight, passing public, open aired venue. She shivered at the thought, and felt her embarrassment rising, she wondered if he would have the audacity to do that again. Even as she was imagining what he might do, she felt his hand in back of her neck, combing his fingers through her hair, like he was reacquainting himself, and reconditioning her. He gripped tighter, she winced and stiffened.
His hands pushed her hair up on her neck and moved her hair aside. He pushed on the back of her head and she was forced to tilt her head down, and forward, in response to the pressure. He held her head still like that and she heard rustling sounds, then a mechanical click, and felt something on the back of her neck, a pressure, a coldness, just below her hairline. It made her shiver, and she felt a rush of fear. Was it a knife, or blade of some kind? In a soft, shaky voice she asked, "What, what was that? What did you do to my neck?" His reply, "It is just a mark, nothing to be concerned about." He spread her hair aside further and rubbed his fingers around and over the spot. "See, it is fine, not to worry." She felt no pain or discomfort, it seemed she would just have to "trust" that this "mark" was really nothing serious, she hoped not.
He continued rubbing the back of her neck, down to her shoulder, with firm pressure, nearly like a massage. She felt that her muscles very tense. Then, in a deep, heavy voice, whispering into her ear, she felt his hot breath, "Relax, everything is fine. Let go of that tension; yes, good girl." She closed her eyes and felt the relaxing massage on the back and side of her neck. She did relax, some, but was still apprehensive about what lay ahead, surely this was not the end of it. And, what was this mark on the back of her neck about?
Then, his fingers spread through her hair again, moving to the right side of her head away from the view of other passengers. She felt him tracing all around the outer edges of her ear and then around the back of it, then tugging slightly at her ear lobe, seemingly just bothering at her ear. It felt good she decided, relaxing some, letting herself feel the attention, feeling the sensuality of it, no longer fearful. And then his finger was dancing around her ear, in slight brushing touches, and all over her ear, and then onto it, lightly probing the folds of her ear. Then he took hold of her whole outer ear in his hand and gently rubbed and caressed it. Her breathing was becoming shallower, no longer relaxed. He told her to let the tension out of her body, to cross her ankles and tuck her feet back under the seat, to relax her legs.
He let go of her ear, and moved his hand down to her jaw, and leaned forward so that his head was along side of hers, pressing his cheek against the side of her head, and murmured into her hair. As he pressed his face against the side of her head, his hand slide down her jaw, to her chin, and then down under her chin to her throat. His hand pushed up under her throat, lift her jaw, tilting her head back slightly, and he kissed the side of her cheek. His palm brushed across the side of her face, over her forehead, her nose, cheeks, and moved up and covered her eyes. She felt his lips and breath at her ear, "Remember how I touched you in the store? And in the book shelves at Borders?" He moved his hand down off of her eyes, slowly down over her nose, her lips, her chin, and suddenly he was unbuttoning the top button of her shirt. She stiffened and said, "No, please, don't do this." She heard him make a slight chuckle and snort, and his hand returned to her neck. "How are you feeling?"
She thought about it and realized how tense she was again, her legs were stiffened again but also she felt the dampness, and again cursed the bare fiberglass seats. She squirmed but there was no way to escape her growing wetness. He seemed to sense her reaction and said, almost under his breath, "Ahh, yes, very good sweetheart, very nice." His heavy dark whispering in her ear, and his warm breath, was forcing her recollection of the way he had made her climax during their previous encounters. He moved his hand up from her neck and was rubbing his fingers across her mouth, her tongue tried to moisten her lips but she just ended up licking his fingers and he spread them across her lips. And then he pressed his fingers in and forcing her to open her lips, slipping his fingers into the corner of her mouth, rubbing his fingertips along the inside of her cheek. She moved her tongue around and over his fingers, drawing them into her mouth even further, and then she was sucking on them.
And then he was saying, "Good girl, think about how you have touched yourself, laying in bed at night, on your side, curled up with your hands tucked between your thighs. Remember the suggestions I have given you, and how you have responded to them." She sucked on his fingers and recalled the way he had told her to lay curled up at night, how she would lightly touch herself and drift off. The recollections combined with his probing fingers were causing her chest to heave, her breathing to quicken and she struggled to calm herself. And then he asking her, "Are you ready?" Telling her, "Let go of your inhibitions." whispering, "Do you feel it building?" pushing her onward, "Are you ready now?" She was tense, starting to shake.
Then she felt his hand between her shoulders, pushing her forward, "Lean forward now, tuck your head down behind the seat in front of you, clench your thighs together, tightly, wrap your arms completely around under your thighs, squeeze hard together. Let yourself go . . . Now!"
He gestured to her to get up, and join him out on the dance floor. He offered her his right hand, palm up, open, in front of her and she placed her left hand, fingers, onto his open palm. He tilted his hand slightly so that her fingers were hooked over the edge of his hand. He looked over at her and saw some apprehension in her eyes, he stared into her eyes for a moment, smiled at her, and stepped forward, beginning to pull her along by her accepted hand. She walked forward with him, but about a half step back, almost reluctantly, but also excited by the prospect of something they had talked about off and on, for months. She was finally going to be danced, he was going to dance her.
She had danced with others, sure, many times, but she knew this was not about them dancing with each other, she was going to give herself over to this, she knew he was very clearly going to lead her, take her where he wanted, and she would follow. He had told her there would be no skills problem, he would lead, she would follow, it was not something she needed to know how to do, all she had to do was feel him against her, and follow. She feared she would make false steps, embarrass herself, and him, not show grace. He had told her it would be easy; even so, she was reluctant and apprehensive, but could not wait to be taken by him in this way.
As they reached the edge of the dance floor, he lead her around in front of him while he moved forward taking a partial step, turning to his right, positioned directly in front of her, further away than she had imagined he would be. The open space between their bodies was like an unanswered invitation. Then, he took her left hand and moved it to his side, holding it so that her fingers slipped through his belt loop and her thumb hooked over the waist band of his jeans. Once her hand was in place, he slowly slid his hand up her wrist, thumb on top, pressing down firmly, and fingers lightly tracing over her skin on the underside of her arm; up along her forearm to her elbow, around the bend of her elbow and up the back of her upper arm; and onto her shoulder. But his hand did not stop at her shoulder, it moved across her shoulder and around to the back of her neck, up under her shoulder length hair and rested there, with the heel of his palm on the side of her neck, fingers curled around to the nape of her neck. His thumb pressed gently on her jaw bone, tilting her head up slightly and looking into his eyes.
He held up his left hand, palm up, invitingly; just as he had with his right hand earlier; and looked down at her. She knew to place her other hand in his and he held it loosely, with their elbows bent slightly, his thumb pressed down and secured her fingers in place, holding her hand now. First with his left foot, he stepped forward as his body approached her, pressed up to hers, and then his right foot came forward, and she felt his knee pressing between her thighs. The open space gone, the invitation offered, accepted and taken. At the same time, his hand slipped down off the back of her neck, and pressed wide open between her shoulder blades, encouraging her forward up against him. As their feet moved toward each other, his right knee slipped deeper between her thighs and she felt herself pressed against his leg above his knee.
And then, the music started -
I'm Sittin' on Top of the World - Willie Nelson & Asleep at the Wheel
. . . and he began to sway with the music, taking small tentative steps, infusing the rhythmic movement to both of them. Slightly moving his upper body to and fro, side to side, pressed against hers, back and forth, and moving his leg, moving hers to the same rhythm, controlling the movement of both their bodies, close together, moving, becoming one . . .
You don't have to think, just follow me,
feel the feeling let your body be,
We'll just be moving, so don't worry,
We're dancing in our own little world.
We're just out here, on the dance floor,
step to the right, pause, then once more,
we'll just move slowly, so don't worry,
simply move slowly, follow my lead.
Just let me dance you, and romance you,
you don't have to think, nothing to do,
slow, sultry, swaying, soft persuading,
just let me dance you, give yourself over.
He had told her she might be "seeing" him today. Now, there she was, sitting at the bus stop, reading a magazine, seeming completely engrossed. He wondered if she was with the other woman sitting on the bench, obviously older, perhaps her mother, or aunt? He took the bus schedule out of his pocket, looked at his watch, and noted he had about five minutes until the bus arrived.
He stood behind her for a minute, just observing, looking like just another person waiting for the bus, but very busy observing his surroundings, the other people around, the traffic, pedestrians. Yes, this was as good a setting as any other for today's adventure. He leaned forward slightly and spoke her name, no response.
"Hello, how are you today?" Still no reaction. He leaned slightly to the right and noticed the wires running from her purse up to her head, ahhh, probably an iPod. A very busy girl, reading, listening, to music? No movement, no bench dancing, perhaps an audio book. Obviously it was loud enough that she was oblivious to noise around her. He leaned down behind her ear, put his hand on top of her head, and spoke firmly into her ear, "Be still, it is me." He felt her startled reaction, but she seemed to understand and raised her head from her attention to the magazine.
His large hand gripped her head and held her steady as he removed the right ear bud. "Better." he said. "It is good to see you, I have missed you." No reaction, stunned silence? He moved his hand on her head, stroking her hair, tangling his fingers in her curls.
"Are you ready for your next lesson?" He felt more than saw her nod her head, and also felt a slight tensing, and maybe a change in her breathing. "Good girl."
Her hair had grown since they were last together and was falling down over her shoulders, obscuring his view. He combed his fingers through her hair and tucked it back behind her ear, improving his view over her shoulder, down the front of her body. Now he could see her breasts heaving, long, deep, slow breaths. He could see her swollen and erect nipple pressing against her shirt, so large and responsive that even her bra could not restrain it.
He placed his mouth close to her ear, "I am surprised you are wearing a skirt today, but it is lovely. You have very nice legs. Knowing you would see me today, did you choose that skirt for me?"
She nodded her head, yes.
"It is quite short, and revealing. Cross your legs for me." She moved to cross them, but he said, "The other way, left over right." She shuffled and moved her legs as he instructed.
"I can nearly see your panties when your legs are crossed like that. You are wearing panties?"
She nodded her head again.
"I hope they are lace fringed bikinis like you wore in the book store?"
Yes, she nodded.
"The same pair, especially for me?" She nodded, and sighed a deep breath. He smiled to himself, recognizing how thoroughly she was responding to him, consciously dressing to appeal, charming.
"Clench your thighs, and rock your upper leg." and she did. he could hear her breathing change after a minute of this.
"Feels good doesn't it?"
He saw her head nod, but also heard a small squeak.
"Squeeze tighter." She gasped again. Her breath was now obviously deeper, quicker. "Snug your leg over even tighter." More indistinguishable noises.
"When the bus arrives, go ahead and get on, and walk to a seat near the back, but keep your gaze down. I am going to sit behind you, and we will continue. When you sit down, adjust your skirt up but do not cross your legs again."
The Thinking Dominant, offers up thought provoking questions from time to time. Their subtext says, "Journal prompts and writing tasks for the Top's mind...because Dominants need help formulating their thoughts sometimes too...." I say, Amen to that.
What are your thoughts regarding those who primarily are attracted to BDSM because of its “transgressive” nature?
Are dominants who embrace BDSM more as a fun, taboo way to explore sexuality any less authentic than those who have committed to the philosophy of BDSM/ base their relationships on power exchange regardless of the sexual elements?
Is an ethical Top less Authentic than an ethical Dominant? I don't think so. The notion seems to imply a kind of elitism, "my dominance is better because it fits into some predefined framework". After all, the definitions even tend to suggest that:
authenticity - the truthfulness of origins, attributions, commitments, sincerity, devotion, and intentions.
authentic - entitled to acceptance or belief because of agreement with known facts or experience.
There are any number of forums, particularly across the width and breadth of the Internet that seek to define peoples roles and kinks into finer and finer layers. I think that if people are truthful with themselves and their partners - then it doesn't really matter which side of the coin the Dominant falls on. At some point we get into too much parsing of roles and characteristics.
As in many other venues in life, people ought to celebrate their similarities, not their differences. Think of the differences as the flavorings, or toppings, or decorations on the lovely cakes that we all are.
It is certainly my personal opinion that developing a strong and deep and abiding relationship with someone I do such intimate things with is far more fulfilling and intense than just doing a scene on a stage for others to watch. However, I think that is true of nearly every connection with another human being, regardless of the activity.
She was looking through the racks of old novels when suddenly she felt someone pressed up behind her, leaning against her shoulders, and then, hands on her waist. "It's nice to see you again". When she heard his voice, she knew, and she stiffened. He had told her she would be "seeing him again soon", though she had never actually seen him. Her only contact with him had been on Yahoo chat, off and on for the past few months, and that first and only encounter at the vegetable market while shopping for Thanksgiving dinner last November. She had come to think that all they would ever do again was chat. She felt him lean forward and whisper into her ear, "It is so nice to see you, and feel you, and smell you." As he talked, she flashed back to their one other encounter.
She had been standing at the produce counter picking out Brussels sprouts, when she'd felt a man come up from behind and press himself against her. She heard, "Be still", from above her head. By the voice and angle, she knew it was that tall man she had been chatting with; he had said he would be around soon. She stirred and he said, "Stay, close your eyes."
He'd reached around and put his hand on her throat up under her chin, pushing her head back against his shoulder. He whispered into her ear, in that soft deep guttural voice, "When I let go of your throat, keep your eyes closed, stand up straight, and make no attempt to interfere."
While still holding her neck, he'd used his other hand and reached up under the waist of her sweater, and loosened the buckle of her belt. Then he had undone the button of her jeans, and lowered the zipper.
Then he'd released her neck and she stood passively in front of the bins, and her whole body tensed as she felt his hand slipping down the back of her jeans, sliding across her skin, down into the slack space he had created, his hand had slipped deeper into the back of her jeans. His finger tips were pressed into her cleft, further and further down as his fingers parted her cheeks.
Just then she felt him once again wrapping his arms around her, lifting her t-shirt and unbuckling her belt, deja vu. And then, he undid her jean's button and zipper. As he was ministering to her jeans, she had the strangest sense of, almost, comfort. She felt strangely at ease with the feel of him leaning against her back, being pulled back against him, feeling very short and fragile, seemingly surrounded by him, wrapped in his height and size, and long arms and big hands, impossibly close. She felt herself relaxing.
Then, as if reading her mind, he said, "This makes you feel very small and submissive, doesn't it? Being enveloped by a man, not a known lover, but a man who understands that he can do whatever he wants with you, and you will acquiesce." She knew he was right, but felt her head shaking, denying what he said, but remaining absolutely still as he had instructed.
While she realized he had undone her jeans, she had been so preoccupied with her conflicting thoughts, she was barely conscious of him slowly rubbing his hand up and down her stomach, gently caressing her from her navel to the fringe of her pubic area, realizing she had worn a very skimpy pair of bikini panties. She instinctively moved her hand and put it on top of his, wanting to stop him, but also wanting to press his hand more firmly against her skin. But just as she was taking hold of his hand, he removed it, and took hold of each of her wrists and moved her hands around behind her, stuffing them down between the slack of her leather belt and the denim of her jeans. Once her wrists were inside the belt, he leaned forward to trap her hands in place, reached around and fastened her belt again, very tight, pinning her wrists against her back with the tightening of the belt, binding her so tightly she could not pull her hands out. She suddenly felt very much trapped. And then she felt the scarf being placed over her eyes and tied at the back of her head.
She felt him leaning harder against her back again; felt his growing arousal pressed against her wrists and his jeans filling the palms and fingers of her trapped hands. She heard his rough, raspy breathing in her ear, his hot breath, his faint guttural whisper, "Holding you like this, my nose buried in your hair, smelling you, I can sense your surrender to my touch and control, you are so lovely. Holding you this way, drinking you in, feeling your breathing grow longer and deeper, your surrender and submission is intoxicating. I'm glad we met." She shivered, struggling to steady her breathing.
Then, his hand was back on her stomach, sliding up under her t-shirt, pushing her bra up, his hand surrounded her breast, squeezing, massaging, pulling, pinching, grasping. And just as she was about to speak, to ask him to stop (did she really want him to stop?) his other hand moved to cover her mouth, and she heard someone walk by a couple of aisles over. He held tightly, and they were both completely still, except for his slightest movement, steadily working her breast and nipple. After the person passed, she expected his hand over her mouth to move, but instead she felt him slowly, methodically, sensually tracing her lips with the faintest touch of his fingertips. And then, his hand was clamped over her mouth, firmly. He was holding her in such a way that she could not breathe and she feared a lack of oxygen. But his grip over her mouth loosened and she was able to take several long, deep gulps of air, catching her breath as he continued fondling and groping her breast, pinching and rolling her nipple so roughly, almost painfully.
Suddenly she felt his hand move away from her mouth, and almost feared what might come next, he was continuing to roll and pinch her nipple, making her arch her back and squirm. But she was worried; she remembered where he had moved his hand last time. Moments later, she was almost relieved when she felt his fingers on her neck; he was pulling her hair back, and brushing his fingers across the side of your neck and jaw, tilting her head to the side as he did. And then she felt his hot breath on the side of her neck, sensed his head moving down toward her, then a kiss at the base of her neck. In combination with her aching stiff nipple, the pressure of his mouth on her neck and shoulder made her shrink aside and try to move away, but he grasped her more tightly and held her in place. She began again to ask him to stop, but could not draw the breath to speak the words. Still she felt herself instinctively trying to shrink away from his grip, but her arousal was overpowering her resistance.
She felt his kiss open more and more, his teeth scrapping across her neck, and then the pressure of him slowly but deliberately biting down, and the movement of his tongue, working her skin between them. As he is moving his teeth up her neck, his tongue is moving rapidly. And then his teeth were clenching down on her neck, just below her ear. Hard, hot, tight, his mouth closed down on her neck, and still, his fingers were incessantly working her tender, aching hard nipple. Her back arched and again she reacted by shrinking down, moving away from his mouth. His hand grabbed her neck from the side and pushed her back up against his mouth, harder.
The quiet struggle was interrupted by the sound of heavy doors and hurried foot steps. She felt his grip loosen, his mouth relax and pull back, and his hand withdraw from under her shirt. Still the sound of footsteps somewhere on the floor and she is suddenly afraid of being discovered, like this, restrained and blindfolded, in the clutches of this stranger.
His hands moved, firmly gripping her biceps just above her elbows as he whispered to her to walk forward, after several steps he slowed her down, and she felt her shoulders bump up against something solid. He pushed her forward even more and she felt almost wedged in. He let go of her arms and she felt his hand on the back of her neck, fingers pushing up into her hair, and her head leaned forward until it felt something solid on both sides also. She guessed he had placed her facing into a corner, with her head leaned forward against the wall, his hand pushed firmly forward, fingers laced in her hair. Then suddenly his hand was gone, and she felt suddenly alone, still and quiet. Wondering if she should move, she started to straighten up, but immediately there was a finger pressing her head forward, so her forehead was pinned back into the corner, "Be still, stay right there", he said.
And then she could felt his arms around her sides as he reached around and unbuckled her belt, and she could feel the tension being relieved around her waist and her wrists at her back. Then again, his touch was gone, but she could hear his breathing behind her. "Count down from 10." She counted slowly down from 10, to 1, and then stood there, in the quiet. She stood up straight tentatively, and there was no reaction. She pulled her hands out from under her belt, no reprimand. She pulled the scarf down off her eyes, turned around slowly, and she was alone, in the corner, alone in the room.
It was a Father's Day, 13 or 14 years ago, and most of the family and friends had come by, with a barbecue planned for later in the day. I remember I was sitting on the couch, watching TV, some kind of auto race. Tracy's husband was sitting with me, he was an auto racing fan also. Krista, Tracy's daughter, and her cousin Leslie were running around and playing, like 5 or 6 year old kids would do. Krista was always rambunctious and energetic, often seen as hard to handle, willfulness was a term used often. However, she was always calm and attentive when she would hang out with me, always helpful and cooperative.
On that particular day, from time to time, Tracy would come out of the kitchen and tell Krista, "Be quiet." "Settle down." "Go play in the family room.", and other various attempts at trying to create calm and quiet. Finally, after too long, with little or no result, I called Krista over to me, and said, "Krista, you and Leslie go back and play in the family room unless you want to sit down here and be quiet." Her response was simply, "Okay. Leslie, let's go."
As she was walking out of the room, her mother stopped her and asked, "Why is it that when I ask you to do something, you argue, or ignore me, and go right back to doing what you were doing, as if I hadn't even said anything? But when Grandpa asks you to do something, you just go do it?" Krista looked at me, smiled, and then back at her mother, and answered, "Because when poo-paw says it, he means it." Then, she and Leslie took off down the hall toward the family room.
It had nothing to do with punishment or consequences; it was always about intention, and consistency, and purpose. Her connection to me was very different from others in the family.
What is it about being a dominant that satisfies and fulfills?
If it was a six word meme, my answers would be; closeness, affection, trust, respect, pride, appreciation
The relationship between a dominant and a submissive is first and foremost, simply, a relationship between two people. It has all of those feelings of affection, friendship, closeness, loving and caring, in both directions, as does any other relationship. Creating a safe space for a submissive girl to be herself, recognizing the depths of a girls feelings, you will likely bring out sadness, fear, embarrassment, humiliation, and shame, all of these feelings that are often hidden away and considered negative, you open up a huge vulnerability. But, when you acknowledge those feelings, make it okay to have those feelings, it is liberating. Creating a safe place to explore how they can fit in her life, to let her know that it really is absolutely OK to be needy and lonely and afraid, and to have the light of that realization and it's comfort shine back on you, how can you not get something out of that?
There is an affection that is returned that can have an overwhelming intensity and depth. I receive a great deal of satisfaction from being able to make a positive contribution in someones life. I relish the respect and appreciation that I am given in return for the guidance, direction and support. Here I am, a man who has recognized a girl's special needs/desires and not only do I not think she is crazy, I nurture and feed those new feelings, making her feel all the more special. This only magnifies her affection and passion for him.
I think it is that connection to the core of submissiveness within her and there is a greater appreciation and affection returned, there is a feeling of power at having unleashed those intense inner feelings within her, recognizing their acceptability, and having that glow directed back onto me. It is overwhelming in intensity at times; breathtaking, awe-inspiring and humbling all at the same time.
Providing the structure and control - routines that address positive changes, and routines that provide reinforcement and connection throughout her day, to know that I am there in her life, in her daily activities and that I am an ongoing influence, available, active, present and caring. An overwhelming gratitude spills back onto me for having unlocked and found, or notice and nurtured, those feelings she has never been allowed to expose and cultivate, and there is a joy to seeing the warm glow in her eyes, to hear it in her words and to feel it in her touch.
I recognize, sometimes just in flashes, the depth and wealth of what I have given to her, and what I get back from it are feelings of thankfulness, of affection, of joy and pleasure, of admiration, of loving and caring, that makes my heart float. Frankly, there are times that the glow back is overwhelming, frightening, and magnificent. Then, I stop and recognize that I have opened up something very special in her. And, I recognize that I am different, that I do evoke an emotional, psychological and even physical response in her that few ever have, and from her feedback, I am pleased, touched, and humbled.
For all of you out there, who day in and day out, offer the love, and care, and affection only a mother can to her children; please know, there are little boys in all of us, of all ages, that can never do or say enough to share back the love, and affection, and care you have, and do, provide to us.
Bless you all.
On this Mother's Day, I am reminded of a post that gave me a new insight on mothers. It is not specifically about Mother's Day, but it struck me in a profound way. I think it is a wonderful statement about what mothers mean to daughters, and their children in general.
Since I first read this, it has become increasingly meaningful to me.
She used to say, when she was quite little, that she and I were the same person. “I am you, mama,” she would say, tiny hands on my cheeks. When she was a little older she began to self-correct that statement: “well, I am – I am like you, mama.” Now she laughs a bit, “Remember when I used to think I was you?” and she shrugs, as if embarrassed. “Of course, I know we’re not the same person, mama.”
In my most recent story line post, Getting out of Town, I was challenged by a reader about the public nature of a scene or scenario I described. I was very happy to receive the challenge, the question:
I truly don't have a problem with the bondage in the car, but I draw the line at exposing myself in public, or any displays of a blatantly sexual nature such as inserting a bullet. Can you explain how you determine what's healthy for the sub, as well as what you deem is acceptable for public viewing, and in the presence of whom?
"I suspect I draw the line very near where you do. You can imagine that not a lot is exposed pulling a pair of panties up over her legs, lifting her bottom slightly off the seat, and sliding them up under her dress. She is sitting down in the seat and the man is knelt down beside her."
"The simple and slight action of slipping a small vibrator down inside her panties is completely obscured by the car, the tinted windows, her hands, her clothing and such. I did not conceive of it as a blatantly sexual act, but rather a clandestine, private moment."
"Do I think it has potential for embarrassment or humiliation? I most certainly do, and counted on it for the energy between them, for the embarrassed excitement she would feel from it, and for him."
This has stuck in my mind and I have been thinking about public play. Not the kind of public play you encounter at a dungeon or BDSM play party, but the kind of interaction between people, that takes place out there in the world. There is a subtle, or not so subtle, intimacy between two people that can be enhanced by the potential for exposure, or discovery, or observation. A kind of play or interaction that is not blatantly obvious to others, but places the submissive in a situation where they are being treated in a very private way in a very public venue.
I recall a story of a girl who was being so obstinate, and so unwilling to disconnect from her upset about an event, that she could not be in the moment with her owner. He was wanting her to let go of the matter, set it aside, and to enjoy a lovely evening out on the town. Even though she knew she was acting that way, she chose to continue. She eventually earned herself a spanking, and it was administered then and there, on the sidewalk, in a mixed residential/restaurant neighborhood, and was observed by, others. At least one person actually was standing on their front porch, watching her get a fairly sound spanking, and I recall distinctly her humiliation and embarrassment that this would be carried out in front of "ordinary people". (I tried to go back and find the exact details, but I think my memory serves well enough).
Many months ago I wrote about an actual event, Hand Controls, where a girl exposed her breasts in a casino, in front of many people, controlled by a man near by. One comment suggested that it was inappropriate. I confess I certainly enjoyed the sight of that beautiful young Asian girl, but I would not conduct myself in that manner in real life. I have a high regard for public decency, and am quite conservative regarding what I would allow to be viewed in public.
But, these examples raise the question, Where are the boundaries? Certainly, there is excitement, arousal, titillation, pleasure, fun, any number of feelings and emotions to be explored by adding an element of casual observation by uninvolved onlookers. There is embarrassment, humility, Humiliation, and excitement that grows from that public exposure. But there is also risk of ridicule, censure, perhaps even arrest for indecent behavior in public.
There is a great opportunity for enhancing the experience of dominance and submission by taking it outside, into the public arena, or on the edge of the public arena. There are any number of small, or large, but still a subtlety of control/action a dominant can require of a girl in a semi-public way, but somewhere there is a line that can be crossed where you go beyond public decency, but where is that line? Who decides?
Continued from the bar
Having settled the bar tab, he got down off his stool and offered her his hand. She climbed down, stepped into the aisle way and he gestured, indicating the way to the main doors. "Let's go," he said. As she started walking, he dropped in behind her, watching her walk, noticing how the back of her dress flipped up against her bottom with every step. "She is so lovely," he thought to himself, "and mine." He opened the door and guided her back out onto Fremont Street. They stood and waited for the light to change so they could cross over to the next section. While they waiting, he put his arm around her shoulder, then pull it back slightly so his hand was on the back of her neck, tangling in her hair.
As they crossed the street and headed down the lane, he used that grip on her hair to guide her around and through the pedestrians and other obstructions. Then a small vendor stand caught his eye and he guided her in that direction. As they stepped up he saw that it was a street artist drawing the likeness of a pretty young girl, sitting in a chair. He told the artist they would like to be next. She looked very surprised, started to protest, and he put his hand over her mouth, and said, "Shhhhh, it will be something special for you, to remember." Again, he stopped her as she started to protest again. "Stand here and wait, he should be done in a few minutes. I will be right back." While she stood and waited, he drifted over to another vendor stand, and was looking over bracelets, and necklaces and anklets. He made a quick purchase, and returned to find her just sitting down in the artist’s subject chair, as he was clearing his sketch pad to begin.
As she sat there still, he leaned over from behind her and told her to adjust her posture. He whispered into her ear, "Cross your ankles, and tuck your feet back under the chair, to one side." She moved as he instructed. "Cross your wrists, and rest them on your lap." She did as asked, and he could tell by the way she looked back at him and down at her wrists, that she fully expected he was going to bind them. When he did not do so, she let out a sigh that he interpreted as relief, thankful that he would not embarrass her so in public. He stood patiently behind her as the artist went about his work. From time to time, he would whisper things in her ear. "Do you think he knows you are naked under your dress?" "Think about what we are likely to be doing two hours from now." "Smile for him, I want him to capture that slutty look in your eyes." "Think about how wet you are now, do you think he has any idea what you are feeling?" "Do you think he finds you as sexy and appealing as I do?" "I think he wants you."
The artist said he had finished the portrait, and the man went around, looking at the results. She started to get up, but he gestured to her to remain still in her seat while he went and discussed it with the artist. While she remained seated he went and looked at the result. He was very pleased with the beautiful way he had captured the profile of her face, the way her hair fell onto her cheeks and her slightly sardonic grin. He told the artist he was very happy with it, and asked that he roll it up and put it in one of the mailing tube he had stacked under his little work table. The artist asked if she did not want to see it first, and the man said he would show it too her later, that it was intended to be a surprise of sorts, and paid and thanked him. With the tube under his arm, he put his hand out to her and helped her up out of the seat. She kept looking at the tube, but he said, "I will show it to you later; we need to get on with our day for now." He took hold of her wrist and they walked back to the parking garage to get the car.
When they got back to the Fitzgerald's parking garage, the same 20-something valet was there to take their ticket. He could see that the boy was very happy to see her again, and that she seemed embarrassed by the boy’s attention. The man handed the boy the valet ticket and some folded bills, and the boy went off to get the car. While they stood in the crowd, waiting for the car, the man reached into his shirt pocket, and pulled out a delicate gold chain anklet. He knelt down, rubbed his hand down the calf of her left leg so that she moved it slightly forward, resting her hand on his shoulder, and he fastened the bracelet around her ankle. He continued to hold onto her leg, and admired it. He looked around and was pleased to notice that several other men also appreciated the look of her leg, and perhaps the anklet also.
When the car arrived, the valet got out of the drivers seat, came around and opened the passenger door. He looked at the girl expectantly, extending his hand to help her into the seat. The man took her hand, led her up to the car and guided her into the seat. He placed the drawing tube onto the back seat. He turned, and took hold of the valet’s outstretched hand and shook it, "Thank you, very much." He turn back to the girl, noticed she was reaching for the seat belt, and put out his hand and stopped her. "Just a moment sweetheart", he reached under the passenger seat and pulled out the cotton bikini panties he had stuffed under the seat earlier. "Put these back on." She looked around at the crowd of people standing waiting for their cars and hesitated. "Put them on", he repeated. She sloughed off her shoes, reached down, put her feet through the leg holes and pulled the panties up her legs. "That's it, just lift your bottom up off the seat and pull them all the way up." She did as he instructed, and it left her skirt gathered up around her lap, with some of the panties plainly visible as she sat there. She started to straighten her dress, but he touched her arm to indicate she should just stay still, exactly as she was.
The man got up and turned, to find the valet boy still standing at the door, clearly intent on the show he was seeing. The man thanked him again, and took control of the car door and closed it. Leaving the boy standing there beside the car, he went around and got into the driver's seat, and closed the door. However, instead of starting the car, he reached into his pocket and took out the small satin bag. He opened the bag, took out the little bullet vibrator, plugged in the remote control wire and handed it to the girl. "Put this into your panties, like you did earlier this morning." She took it in her hand but did not move to place it as he instructed. He saw that she was glancing over to her right, and there stood the valet, still looking down into the car. "Don't be bashful now sweetheart. Put the vibrator in place." As she slowly complied, he reached under his seat and retrieved the rope he had tied her ankles with earlier in the day. When she had the vibrator in place he reached over, and wrapped the rope around her legs, just above her knees, and tied a knot to hold her thighs and knees together. He took hold of the remote control and set it in the center console. He leaned over and kissed her, and then looked out the window, and waved good bye to the valet boy, who was still standing beside the car, slack jawed, with a look of bewilderment on his face. He started the car and drove off.
As they turned out of the parking garage and pulled up to the first red light, he turned to the girl and saw an odd look on her face. It seemed a combination of arousal and confusion at the same time. He put his hand up to the side of her head, combed his fingers through her hair, and heard her make a little humming sound, and then a moan of satisfaction. She leaned her head against the palm of his hand as he rubbed her cheek, and he slipped his thumb into her mouth. He felt her tongue slowly swirl around his thumb, and heard her soft moaning sound. He looked up and saw that the light had turned green. He withdrew his hand from her face, put the car in gear, and fingered the remote control switch to Medium. He heard her squeal over the sound of the car’s motor, he smiled, and once again they headed off into the Las Vegas Boulevard tourist traffic.
He traveled south on Las Vegas Boulevard, looking for the road that led out of town, the road that would take them to quiet and solitude. As he blended into traffic he lowered the remote to Low. After a few short blocks he found the turn that headed out toward Red Rock Canyon.