I Give In To Sin, Because You Have To Make This Life Liveable
Do you ever just get to a point where your life seems so lackluster, so blase, that you just need something to jolt you back into reality?
When I was younger (we're talking teenage years, here), and way more fucked up than I am now (I hope), that "jolt" was usually some sort of self-abuse ... cutting, heavy drinking, promiscuous sex, anorexia/bulimia, etc. Whatever the cautionary tales of after-school specials warned me against, I did (except for drugs, curiously enough -- I was a product of the "Just Say No" generation).
It wasn't a form of punishment, per se. It was more like a wake up call. Like, I needed to feel pain, to feel sick, to feel some sort of adrenalin rush to prove that I was real. I guess some things haven't changed much.
For the past two months, I've felt like my life was spinning wildly out of control and now I have this overwhelming need for discipline. I've been at the gym practically every day this week (even Saturday) -- swimming, Pilates, body sculpting -- I even had a personal trainer customize a workout for me, which I've been sticking to. I like the pain of working out. I like pushing myself through the pain. And I like the sweet reward of lying in the steam room after a workout, completely naked, my body slick with sweat, my muscles taut and aching. It's all strangely sexual to me.
Along the lines of discipline, I've also re-established a relationship with the Mistress who so sweetly introduced me into the decadent world of BDSM a year ago. Although it is not really in my nature to be submissive, for her, I'd gladly lay down and take what she has to offer. And take it hard. (Even in vanilla sex, my preference is to take it hard -- fucking, sucking, biting, you name it, it has to hurt before it starts to feel good.) After all, in the Old Guard tradition, one cannot fully realize their potential as a dominant, until one has learned what it is like to be completely submissive.
The prospect of submission scares me. After all, I am such a control freak that I can't even seem to relinquish power during sex, regardless of who my partner is. For years, I believed that allowing myself to orgasm at the will of another was a form of relinquishing power and it has taken considerable effort and re-training for me to learn how to let myself go during sex.
Although submission frightens me, the pain doesn't. I am a masochist. When pain is being inflicted upon me, my body becomes so alive it is as if every last nerve ending is standing at attention and begging to be flogged, whipped, clamped, spanked. My body feels pain, but in my mind, that pain is transformed, eroticized and I've been told that I get this far away look in my eyes -- like I am looking through you, not at you.
I am also an exhibitionist. I like for others to watch when pain is being inflicted upon me. I like knowing that others find what I am doing to be brave, disgusting, erotic, whatever. I like it when people watch -- period.
When I got my clit hood pierced, I was with someone I had just met two hours prior (although we had been corresponding for months via the Internet). In the two seconds of almost unbearable pain as the needle pierced my skin, I looked up at her and I know I had that look in my eyes. That look that eventually led her to betray her girlfriend of four years by fucking me ... again and again.
It's almost like an addiction, this need for pain. I am hopeful that Mistress will show up at this week's play party and that She will punish me for losing touch over the past few months. Even as I type this, I can feel my clit throbbing in anticipation.
I met Her at a Kink party this time last year. It was on a Sunday evening and uniform-themed. I donned my best schoolgirl uniform (my specialty) -- red plaid skirt, crisp white butterfly-collared shirt, red bra and matching thong, black garter belt, thigh-highs and red and black saddle shoes. I did my hair in pigtails and wore my glasses for that studious -- but naughty -- look.
When I arrived at the party, which was held in the upper level of a gay dance club in Chelsea, there were only a handful of women sitting at the bar and I was surprised that they were much older than the women that came to the other NYC play parties. I started to wonder what I had gotten myself into and thought about leaving. As if reading my mind, D., the party's producer came over and introduced herself. She was a handsome butch dressed in a skintight leather cop uniform. I'm not usually one for butches, but I would've spread 'em and let her frisk me at the drop of a hat. She was extremely welcoming and did not seem to mind when I told her I was more or less new to the Scene and I was still learning. In fact, she was extremely encouraging.
She invited me over to the bar, where she introduced me to Her. I was awestruck. She looked like an elegant version of Diana Ross and Her beauty was positively glowing. She wore black latex pants and a military jacket which afforded a considerable view of Her ample cleavage.
We chatted and I soon learned She was a lifestyle professional dominant. I was immediately intrigued and asked Her what seemed like a million questions as more and more people started to filter in. She turned to me and lifted my skirt over my left thigh and teasingly asked, "What does the little schoolgirl have on under her uniform?" I blushed and lifted my skirt, affording Her a full view of all I had to offer. She nodded approvingly at my panties and garter belt and raising an eyebrow, She asked "Would the schoolgirl like a spanking?"
I wasn't sure how to respond. I thought I had made it clear in our conversation that I really saw myself as more of a dominant and I didn't understand why She was asking me to play a submissive role. But at the same time, I was intrigued and had felt a strange sense of duty to help get the party rolling.
"Sure, " I said quietly. She asked D. if she had brought any rope. That made me even more nervous. Sensing my hesistation, D. informed Her that this was my first time doing a scene at a play party. D. reassured me that Mistress was the best -- that even she had been trained by Her -- and that She would take good care of me.
D. brought out some lengths of rope and explained that she had put in some hooks under the bar for such purposes. Mistress was extremely concerned about my comfort on the cold bar top, and kindly laid down Her fur coat for me to lie on. She jokingly asked if I thought I needed puppy pads (disposable bed pads that are a staple for messy play scenes). I told her I thought I'd be fine without one.
She told me to remove my panties and get up on the bar. I did as I was told, already getting into the obedient schoolgirl role. She told me to lay down on my stomach and stretch my arms out over my head, in a prone position. She began by binding my wrists and lashed the rope around the hooks, binding my body to the bar, but leaving my ass fully exposed.
A small crowd started to gather around us as She put the finishing touches on Her ropework. She began by slowly stroking my ass cheeks; Her hands were warm and smooth to the touch. She began to spank my cheeks gently, alternating between the palm and back of Her hand. Her strokes increased in speed and strength, but the type of stroke varied. Even to a relative novice like myself, it was clear that She was an expert in administering spankings -- She knew to vary the type and intensity of stroke as to not do too much damage too quickly.
I lay quiet and motionless and as Her spankings started to sting more, I could feel myself floating outside my body. Her hand on my ass was very real, but the pain didn't connect in my mind. I remember looking out the windows at the front of the club from my vantage point on the bar and watching diners exit the restaurant across the street, take out packages in hand. I thought it bizarre that their lives were so normal compared to mine at the moment.
After an intense set of spankings, She would stroke my ass crack erotically, or reach under and stroke my cunt lips or massage the sides of my breasts. At one point, She climbed on top of me, rubbing her bosom along my back, down to my thighs, as She kissed her way from my neck, down my spine, to my burning ass cheeks. Just as the pain was beginning to subside, She'd start up with the spankings again, periodically checking in with me because I was so quiet.
After a time, her spankings became so hard, her hand so heavy, that my mind returned from that faraway place and I began to connect with the pain I was feeling. I began to vocalize my pain, moaning with each downstroke and when my moans became sufficiently loud, She knew I had had enough.
The whole experience was so dreamlike, that when I awoke for work the next morning, I couldn't understand why my ass cheeks hurt. When I went into the bathroom to take a shower, I caught the reflection of my backside in the mirror -- it was covered with bright red handprints. I was shocked and delighted at the same time. The entire day while I was at work, I would run into the bathroom periodically and check my bruises in the mirror. I felt strangely proud of them and was sad when they eventually faded away.
I am hopeful that She'll be at the party this Thursday and that She'll be interested in playing with me. I am even more hopeful that She'll leave me, once again, with reminders of Her visit to my body. Imagine what the ladies in the locker room will think!
XXX
Q.
Do you ever just get to a point where your life seems so lackluster, so blase, that you just need something to jolt you back into reality?
When I was younger (we're talking teenage years, here), and way more fucked up than I am now (I hope), that "jolt" was usually some sort of self-abuse ... cutting, heavy drinking, promiscuous sex, anorexia/bulimia, etc. Whatever the cautionary tales of after-school specials warned me against, I did (except for drugs, curiously enough -- I was a product of the "Just Say No" generation).
It wasn't a form of punishment, per se. It was more like a wake up call. Like, I needed to feel pain, to feel sick, to feel some sort of adrenalin rush to prove that I was real. I guess some things haven't changed much.
For the past two months, I've felt like my life was spinning wildly out of control and now I have this overwhelming need for discipline. I've been at the gym practically every day this week (even Saturday) -- swimming, Pilates, body sculpting -- I even had a personal trainer customize a workout for me, which I've been sticking to. I like the pain of working out. I like pushing myself through the pain. And I like the sweet reward of lying in the steam room after a workout, completely naked, my body slick with sweat, my muscles taut and aching. It's all strangely sexual to me.
Along the lines of discipline, I've also re-established a relationship with the Mistress who so sweetly introduced me into the decadent world of BDSM a year ago. Although it is not really in my nature to be submissive, for her, I'd gladly lay down and take what she has to offer. And take it hard. (Even in vanilla sex, my preference is to take it hard -- fucking, sucking, biting, you name it, it has to hurt before it starts to feel good.) After all, in the Old Guard tradition, one cannot fully realize their potential as a dominant, until one has learned what it is like to be completely submissive.
The prospect of submission scares me. After all, I am such a control freak that I can't even seem to relinquish power during sex, regardless of who my partner is. For years, I believed that allowing myself to orgasm at the will of another was a form of relinquishing power and it has taken considerable effort and re-training for me to learn how to let myself go during sex.
Although submission frightens me, the pain doesn't. I am a masochist. When pain is being inflicted upon me, my body becomes so alive it is as if every last nerve ending is standing at attention and begging to be flogged, whipped, clamped, spanked. My body feels pain, but in my mind, that pain is transformed, eroticized and I've been told that I get this far away look in my eyes -- like I am looking through you, not at you.
I am also an exhibitionist. I like for others to watch when pain is being inflicted upon me. I like knowing that others find what I am doing to be brave, disgusting, erotic, whatever. I like it when people watch -- period.
When I got my clit hood pierced, I was with someone I had just met two hours prior (although we had been corresponding for months via the Internet). In the two seconds of almost unbearable pain as the needle pierced my skin, I looked up at her and I know I had that look in my eyes. That look that eventually led her to betray her girlfriend of four years by fucking me ... again and again.
It's almost like an addiction, this need for pain. I am hopeful that Mistress will show up at this week's play party and that She will punish me for losing touch over the past few months. Even as I type this, I can feel my clit throbbing in anticipation.
I met Her at a Kink party this time last year. It was on a Sunday evening and uniform-themed. I donned my best schoolgirl uniform (my specialty) -- red plaid skirt, crisp white butterfly-collared shirt, red bra and matching thong, black garter belt, thigh-highs and red and black saddle shoes. I did my hair in pigtails and wore my glasses for that studious -- but naughty -- look.
When I arrived at the party, which was held in the upper level of a gay dance club in Chelsea, there were only a handful of women sitting at the bar and I was surprised that they were much older than the women that came to the other NYC play parties. I started to wonder what I had gotten myself into and thought about leaving. As if reading my mind, D., the party's producer came over and introduced herself. She was a handsome butch dressed in a skintight leather cop uniform. I'm not usually one for butches, but I would've spread 'em and let her frisk me at the drop of a hat. She was extremely welcoming and did not seem to mind when I told her I was more or less new to the Scene and I was still learning. In fact, she was extremely encouraging.
She invited me over to the bar, where she introduced me to Her. I was awestruck. She looked like an elegant version of Diana Ross and Her beauty was positively glowing. She wore black latex pants and a military jacket which afforded a considerable view of Her ample cleavage.
We chatted and I soon learned She was a lifestyle professional dominant. I was immediately intrigued and asked Her what seemed like a million questions as more and more people started to filter in. She turned to me and lifted my skirt over my left thigh and teasingly asked, "What does the little schoolgirl have on under her uniform?" I blushed and lifted my skirt, affording Her a full view of all I had to offer. She nodded approvingly at my panties and garter belt and raising an eyebrow, She asked "Would the schoolgirl like a spanking?"
I wasn't sure how to respond. I thought I had made it clear in our conversation that I really saw myself as more of a dominant and I didn't understand why She was asking me to play a submissive role. But at the same time, I was intrigued and had felt a strange sense of duty to help get the party rolling.
"Sure, " I said quietly. She asked D. if she had brought any rope. That made me even more nervous. Sensing my hesistation, D. informed Her that this was my first time doing a scene at a play party. D. reassured me that Mistress was the best -- that even she had been trained by Her -- and that She would take good care of me.
D. brought out some lengths of rope and explained that she had put in some hooks under the bar for such purposes. Mistress was extremely concerned about my comfort on the cold bar top, and kindly laid down Her fur coat for me to lie on. She jokingly asked if I thought I needed puppy pads (disposable bed pads that are a staple for messy play scenes). I told her I thought I'd be fine without one.
She told me to remove my panties and get up on the bar. I did as I was told, already getting into the obedient schoolgirl role. She told me to lay down on my stomach and stretch my arms out over my head, in a prone position. She began by binding my wrists and lashed the rope around the hooks, binding my body to the bar, but leaving my ass fully exposed.
A small crowd started to gather around us as She put the finishing touches on Her ropework. She began by slowly stroking my ass cheeks; Her hands were warm and smooth to the touch. She began to spank my cheeks gently, alternating between the palm and back of Her hand. Her strokes increased in speed and strength, but the type of stroke varied. Even to a relative novice like myself, it was clear that She was an expert in administering spankings -- She knew to vary the type and intensity of stroke as to not do too much damage too quickly.
I lay quiet and motionless and as Her spankings started to sting more, I could feel myself floating outside my body. Her hand on my ass was very real, but the pain didn't connect in my mind. I remember looking out the windows at the front of the club from my vantage point on the bar and watching diners exit the restaurant across the street, take out packages in hand. I thought it bizarre that their lives were so normal compared to mine at the moment.
After an intense set of spankings, She would stroke my ass crack erotically, or reach under and stroke my cunt lips or massage the sides of my breasts. At one point, She climbed on top of me, rubbing her bosom along my back, down to my thighs, as She kissed her way from my neck, down my spine, to my burning ass cheeks. Just as the pain was beginning to subside, She'd start up with the spankings again, periodically checking in with me because I was so quiet.
After a time, her spankings became so hard, her hand so heavy, that my mind returned from that faraway place and I began to connect with the pain I was feeling. I began to vocalize my pain, moaning with each downstroke and when my moans became sufficiently loud, She knew I had had enough.
The whole experience was so dreamlike, that when I awoke for work the next morning, I couldn't understand why my ass cheeks hurt. When I went into the bathroom to take a shower, I caught the reflection of my backside in the mirror -- it was covered with bright red handprints. I was shocked and delighted at the same time. The entire day while I was at work, I would run into the bathroom periodically and check my bruises in the mirror. I felt strangely proud of them and was sad when they eventually faded away.
I am hopeful that She'll be at the party this Thursday and that She'll be interested in playing with me. I am even more hopeful that She'll leave me, once again, with reminders of Her visit to my body. Imagine what the ladies in the locker room will think!
XXX
Q.
VIEW 14 of 14 COMMENTS
I find it odd because I was a very clean cut kid growing up. Never doing any of the things you mentioned. Maybe it was because I was an athlete or maybe because I never had any BSDM experiences until the past year. I guess it comes down to exploring your limits and pushing yourself till you actually experience them.