An even game

He was a man made of shadow, of mist. It was so hard to pin him down, find out at least one fact about him, that he seemed almost like a ghost to her. Each question he answered raised ten additional ones but with no chance for a follow-up. And the harder he was to grasp, the more desperate she was to uncover his truth. In the end, she was a mathematician and throughout her life unsolvable equations were what was keeping her up at night. And recently, it was his countless unknown variables that were depriving her of her sleep.

At the same time, there was nothing more straightforward, nothing more clear-cut and undeniable than the look in his cold eyes telling her “you are mine”. At that sight, she knew that she would give him everything, even if he didn’t reveal any of his secrets to her. She belonged to him, even though she was not even sure if he was real. She was, however, and she was his. It was as obvious as a lipstick imprint on a wine glass.

To him, there was nothing mysterious about her, even though they have only just met a couple of times. He could, however, already see through her like through a piece of cellophane. He could read every thought and emotion on her face as if she was writing it for him on paper. Maybe even clearer. Her expressions could tell him what she herself was not even aware of. Of course, he didn’t know many details about her life yet but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he could know them if he wanted to. And he already knew most of the things that interested him.

Even though she was so easy to read, she was not a simple girl. On the contrary - she seemed like a rather complex person. The depths of despair that she was capable of reaching and the ease with which she could go there and then come back were rather impressive. She wanted to be destroyed and she wanted to be broken. The role of the victim was what she was auditioning for. And that was what he found so challenging and fascinating about her at the same time.

It was one thing to break a submissive who was devoted to him out of love, to make her suffer in the name of her feelings and use her devotion against her to satisfy his cruelty. It was entirely another to make one who actually wants to be broken regret her desires, to give her what she wants and then put a mirror in front of her and make her realise what it made of her - despicable, low creature, something less than a human. And then - make her want to be a human again. Oh no - that was an entirely different endeavour. One that he hasn't embarked on with anyone before. And he could feel that with her it was going to be a delight. Even without, or maybe especially, without her knowing.

Of course, she was not aware of his thinking. But she could sense that what he had in mind for her was not going to be pleasant. She could sense that he was not simply going to play according to her rules. He was not going to break her as in her beloved psychodramas, while she would stay the director. Oh no. He was actually going to break her, she felt. And that feeling made her paralysed with fear and desire. He was not an evil man but he was a man who had read her mind. And the fact that he was still here after having done that was alarming. No sane person would stay after seeing what lived inside her head. Yet here he was.

Should she run? Stupid question. Of course that she should run but it was already too late for that. Both he and she have smelled her blood.

To be continued…

The Stranger

Trigger warning: this story mentions rape.

In general, she didn’t reply to messages from strangers of the kind that he'd sent to her. And, to be honest, she had no idea what made her reply this time. Boredom? The lack of sexual excitement that has been permeating her life recently? An appetite for trying something new?

It was not like his message was anything original. 

“Hi, I find your profile intriguing and I will be visiting your city soon. Would you like to meet for a coffee or a drink?”

His profile was not that original either. He did seem like a successful dominant looking at the level of attractiveness of women in his pictures, and how willing they were to be used by him. But then, the pictures could always be fake. And even if not, that did not mean that he was the right person to dominate her. He did claim to like intelligent women which was a good thing. But then again, in the Western societies of the current times who doesn’t claim that?

There was nothing particularly special about him and yet still, she responded to his inquiry, positively. 

She didn’t want to know much about him before they would meet. In fact, she didn’t believe that it is possible to get a feeling of someone through an online conversation. So, she simply proposed for them to meet for a drink once he arrives in her city. She was generous, not having spent that much time lately on men and relationships, she decided to risk it.

He suggested meeting in a bar of his hotel at ten in the evening. It was quite a straightforward proposal and quite an expensive hotel. He definitely didn’t seem to feel like he needed to play games with her. And he was right. She loved playing games but not of this type. Keeping up the appearances of not being interested was not her strong point. It required a will to be on top that she didn’t possess in the slightest. At least not when it came to men and sex.

For their meeting, she decided to wear one of her favourite dresses, made of soft velvet in subdued colours, and high heeled lacquered shoes in a hue of young cherries. The dress was quite long, finishing a couple of centimetres below the knee and had no cleavage in front, the fabric ending right at the bottom of the neck. The design was loose and did not accentuate her athletic yet feminine body, but on the back, there was a long v-shaped opening which was almost reaching her waist. She did not wear a bra and an attentive eye could notice the sight of roundness of her big ripe breast in the opening under the right armpit. The dress was not obviously sexy. In fact, it was rather uninviting, hiding more than it was revealing. At the same time, what it was showing and how it was doing it could be deliciously stimulating to a person who cared to look beyond the obvious. She was curious if he was the kind of person who did. 

Traveling to his hotel she was daydreaming (or evening-dreaming, to be precise) about what was going to happen to her. The soundtrack of her journey (from one of her favourite movies with a delicious final scene of rejection where the main character, dressed up and fabulous, waits for hours in a restaurant for her long lost love who has contacted her recently to meet. In the last scene, she is sitting in the restaurant, ordering one aperitif after another, hoping to consume the main course accompanied by him. In vain.) made her fantasize of rejection. What if he didn’t show up? She took a leap of faith and agreed to his bold proposal of meeting so late at his hotel. She made all that effort dressing up way over the top according to the standards of her city and clearly showing her interest. What if this was the only thing that he wanted?

She had heard stories like that. Stories of call girls wasting their time, going to see clients who never showed up. They expected them to get off on seeing them arriving at the place. Those guys did not actually want to fuck them. They wanted to play at their expense. And maybe even punish them for whatever they felt like they should be punished.

She was not a call girl but at that moment she was close to feeling like one. And she liked the feeling. She liked to imagine herself selling her body for money. She felt like it would be the right way for her to make a living. She even investigated the technicalities of this line of work (that is how she heard the stories) but after hearing how much time and effort she would have to put into it, she decided that it was too much of investment simply to have her desires of being used fulfilled. There were other, less laborious, ways to achieve it. One of them was meeting the stranger tonight.

So, what if he didn’t show up in the end? Or what if he did but did not reveal himself to her? He did know how she looked but she didn’t. In his profile, he did not show his face and she did not ask for a picture. She liked the mystery. And in fact, she did not care much for looks in men. At least not when they were separated from their personality. The looks themselves could not tell her anything about the traits that she was interested in, intelligence, cunning, slight coldness, and reservation. She loved men who had an aura of effortless power around them. Men who were followed not because they were demanding it but simply because it was impossible not to follow them. And that you could not see in a picture. A man like that, however, would not fulfill the scenario of rejection that her imagination was right now presenting to her.

In this scenario, she walks into the lobby of the hotel. The rhythmical noise of her out-of-place shoes turns the eyes of most people in the room on her. She looks ridiculously overdressed for this place. It is an expensive hotel but, in her city, people treat carelessness in appearance as a badge of honour. The fact that you look like you don’t care is an expression of being able to afford it. She takes off her coat and jacket, revealing the dress that she described so well to him. With that, she exposes herself even more to the judgmental eyes of the guests of the hotel in the hope that he will recognize her. She checks her phone but there are no messages. She sends him a text saying that she has arrived. A waiter approaches her and asks if she needs help. She says that she came here to meet someone. He advises to look around but at the same time mentions that he can’t recall anyone sitting alone at the bar. 

“How does he know that she is meeting just one person? Does he think that she is a whore?” she wonders.

She sits at a low table near the entrance and sends him another message stating her exact location. She feels nervous and exposed. Nobody is intentionally looking at her but she can feel their eyes on her back. Minutes pass. He stays absent and silent. She looks around but does not see anyone who would pass for her image of the stranger of tonight. She begins to feel rejected, betrayed. She starts to doubt whether he is going to show up at all. Maybe he is hiding somewhere in this room, observing her. If that is the case, he is probably having an exquisitely entertaining night. Maybe that is his thing? Maybe he has had so many women already that he does not care anymore for fucking them? Maybe he developed a more refined taste for using people? Not through the power of his muscles or even his brain but through his absence? Maybe what gives him his power trip is the fact that women show up for him? The recognition that they are his? That he could use them? But he won’t. Denying them even that, basking in their anxious presence while staying powerfully absent.

She waits at the bar for about an hour, and, after drinking one drink she had to pay for herself, she leaves. She hopes that he’s gotten what he was looking for. That it was some kind of sick game of his. This thought makes her feel fulfilled. She likes to be played. And this might have been one of the most sophisticated plays that have even been performed at her expense.

Imagining this scenario made her excited and also conscious that no matter how the night is going to turn out, she would, one way or another, enjoy it. But then she began to wonder if there is an outcome that would be even worse than the one she had just imagined. What could be the worst to happen? (Apart from being raped and murdered which, as much as sexually somewhat arousing for her, was not a kind of fantasy she hoped to fulfill. Nor was she finding it particularly plausible. Even though she could not deny that the inability to absolutely exclude it from the range of possibilities was slightly adding to her excitement). And then, she realised what would be worse from him not showing up - him turning out to be a complete jerk. 

From the scraps that she had gathered about his line of career and his lifestyle, it was quite possible. He must have had something to do with business, money, and power, and although these traits in the D/s context are somewhat appealing, the people who are attracted to them in real life are often not the kind of people with whom she could connect. So what if it turns out that he is a rich senseless overachiever, caring only about his money and prestige, and able only to talk about his investments? What if he is brainwashed by capitalism, has no interests or opinions of his own, and is overconfident in an annoying (and deeply insecure) way?

“Now that,” she thought, “would be a real treat.”

Since her first BDSM experience, she had been fantasizing about being given away to another man by her owner (and even though at the moment she did not have an official owner, she was still fantasizing about it, the fantasy was about being given away and not the person performing the act). Why these fantasies felt so appealing to her was that they would give her a way to be fucked by people she did not willingly would get fucked by. The decision would not be up to her. And actually, being fucked by the people she did not want to be fucked by was exactly what she was so turned on by.

Like that time when she was tied up and blindfolded at a party and her partner allowed the other participants to touch and play with her. Before it had happened, she flirted with two guys, one of them turned out to be an obnoxious overconfident brute and the other was sweet, intelligent, and very interesting. During the play, immobile and blindfolded, she felt the touch of man’s hands on her breasts and a soft voice in her ear saying “It’s me,” which was supposed, she figured, to be reassuring (in her experience, people when presented with an opportunity to use her in any way they wanted tended to be overly careful and extremely unimaginative). She did not know, however, which ‘me’ it was, the brute or the sweet guy? And to her dismay, the thought of the ‘me’ being the brute was infinitely more arousing.

So she began to wonder whether she would be able to force herself to be used by someone she did not wish to be used by without being ordered to by someone else… It was an exciting possibility, the fulfillment of her darkest desires. Unfortunately, taking into account how bad she was at acting, it was highly unlikely. Yet, she could still entertain the thought.

She imagined hating him the moment they crossed their eyes, and not showing it. She imagined a conversation in which, in her head, she was countering his every word while on the outside smiling and giving him an impression of drinking the words from his mouth. She imagined him hinting at leaving the bar and continuing the evening in his room and her obediently swallowing his bait while her insides were screaming: “Get out of here!” She imagined following him in the hotel corridor. She imagined entering the room, being ordered to undress, and doing it obediently. She imagined hoping that he will take the lead and be forceful because she was not sure if she would be able to allow him to fuck her without force. She imagined him stepping up his game at least in that regard and entering her confidently and swiftly. She imagined closing her eyes and allowing her mind to drift away. She imagined him getting off on her, unconscious of the fact that she is not in the slightest enjoying what he is doing, or rather, enjoying the hilt all the ways in which he was unknowingly abusing her. She imagined her fake screams and moans. She imagined herself observing her body being plundered by a dissenter who did not deserve it in the slightest. She imagined him thinking that he does. She imagined her hating herself for allowing him to once more perpetuate the lies about his dominant masculinity that he tells himself. She imagined despising herself for being a cause of his complacent smile. 

And she loved everything about those images.

Finally, she arrived at the hotel. He was waiting for her in the lobby and turned out to be nothing of the kind she imagined him to be. Despite that, she allowed herself to be raped by him that night.

A broken toy

It’s amazing how adaptable one can be to scarceness. How in the face of a shortage, norms redefine themselves. How your brain finds ways to explain and accept the new circumstances. How after the initial period of terror and panic, new means for coping with deficiencies are adopted and your life continues as if it has always been this way.

I haven’t had an orgasm in more than 1.5 months. What used to be a reason for dread and anxiety, now is just a fact of life. Half a year ago, when my orgasms were taken away from me for the first time, I’ve spent weeks mulling over it, hoping for it to change, fantasizing about being able to come freely. Now, when they are unreachable for me again, I don’t even think about it. I just live my life as if I haven’t known what an orgasm was. 

I am not sure if this is what He wants me to feel in this situation. I am not sure if He wants me to get used to the power that He has over me. I am not sure if He wants my mind to learn to cope with the suffering that denial used to cause in me. But I am also not sure if He doesn’t. I think that what matters to Him is the fact that He can do this to me and I will accept it without a word. I don’t think that He does these things to me because He wants me to feel a certain way. I think that He does them because He can. 

And this is one of the reasons why I crave to be in His power. Because there is no subserviency in the way He treats me. There is no sign of consideration of how His decisions affect me, no hidden will on His side to please me. My needs are out of the equation in our play. Anything that He does is because He wants to do it. Anything that He wants me to do is a fulfilment of His needs. All that is fulfilling the only need that I truly seem to have. The need to be disregarded and used. 

I sometimes wonder what do I get out of our dynamic and are we not taking this too far? Is it still play or has it become abuse? Am I allowing him to treat me this way because I am afraid to say that this is too much? That I want my freedom back? Or is this exactly what I desire? 

The truth is, that it is exactly what I desire. My fantasies are dark, twisted and elaborate and they have much more to do with what I don’t get than with what I get. I dream about someone having total control over me but for me to have no control over them. I want them to enjoy me whenever they please but at the same time, I want to take up as little space in their lives as possible. I want them to have power over me, but not because I want to feel like I belong to them in a sense of having a feeling of belonging and being taken care of, but because I want to feel powerless and small and unimportant. I want to feel as if my life is in the hands of someone who is completely out of my reach.

I guess that the dynamic from my fantasies is the closest to the one between a God and their believer. God is powerful and almighty and the fate of the believer is completely in His hands. There is no point in questioning God’s will because there is no way that He would change His mind hearing the arguments of the believer. They are from two different worlds and different rules apply to them. The power of God over the believer is absolute and the love and trust of the believer to God are unconditional and unquestioning. God didn’t earn it and He doesn’t reward it. There are no requirements that He needs to fulfil in order for the love to continue. It simply is.  

Of course, this is how it looks in my fantasy world and in reality, I do not play with Gods but with real people. However, the sentiment stays. And having someone disregard my human desires so deeply, having someone execute his power over me with such nonchalance brings me closer to living that fantasy. I find it exciting to be pushed so far and to see where it leads. To get so close to living the dark stories that I dream up in my head. To see how they taste in real life. With the dirt and sweat and all. I want to live it all with the pain and suffering and loneliness and not just the hot kinky sex. Because my fantasies are not just bed scenes. They are parallel universes in which I live my parallel lives. 

This is how I look at it when I lie alone in my bed thinking that I would probably be masturbating right now if only it made sense and would lead me to some release instead of just causing me more frustration. 

My feelings about these things change, however, when other people discover my temporary defect. When I have to reveal to my sexual partners that they won’t be able to make me come tonight. That this privilege has been unavailable to me for a while now and I can’t tell when it is going to change. When I see the shade of disbelief in their eyes. When they ask me with a tone of pity if I enjoy it. When I feel them distancing themselves from me after hearing me say ‘yes’.

I can feel their inability to comprehend how can this be something that I desire. I can feel that they feel sorry for me. I can also feel how they lose their interest in me. How I become less human when they find out that I can't be pleasured the way that I normally can. That they won't have a satisfaction of giving me satisfaction. How that makes me not sexy anymore to them. How they don't want to use me even though they know that being used is exactly what I want. The veil of normalcy falls off me. Now they can see my real face. And they don't understand what they see.

At that moment, I become less certain about my sanity. At that moment, I begin to see myself not through the eyes of my fantasies, but through their eyes. I see a pitiful lonely girl, disgraced and mildly disgusting in how low she will go for Him. How much she is ready to give up. And for what?

Maybe this image is closer to reality than what I see through the lens of my fantasies. Maybe this is what I really am. A broken toy, an unwanted scrap of matter. Ready to give up all the worldly pleasures for just a glimpse of a promise of His heaven. 

Heaven that is so hard to tell apart from hell. 

Do you know what it means to be someone's property?

It means being used, but only when they want to use you.

Sometimes it's less often than you would wish for. Sometimes it's more. Your view on frequency does not matter. They are not there to make you happy. Physical objects don’t get frustrated from not being used. Neither do they get overwhelmed from being used too much. Sometimes, they might get a bit worn out or dusty, but with proper care, it is usually fixable. Maintenance is what gives things their history and what adds to their depth. 

When one has owned something for a while and had to fix or polish it here and there, maybe it is not their newest shiniest toy on the shelf anymore, but they know that it has been through a lot with them and they took good care of it. They know that it can serve them well. They know what they can use it for and why and they can be sure that it will not disappoint them. Even if it doesn’t excite them that much anymore, it gives them something else. A feeling of reliability and at the same time melancholy over the beauty of things that are getting worn out over time, but stay with us.

It means to wait without waiting.

Sometimes, you need to wait long before serving your owner again. Time is not linear for a property. It only matters at the moment when you are being used. All the other times you are just lying around, purposeless. 

Objects don’t wait in the sense of “I will wait for you”. There is no yearning in them, no neediness. They are just there. Always ready to be picked up by their owner again, but never following them with their eyes and wishing for it to happen sooner. They will use them when they use them, and the rest is just a standby time.

It means not needing anything from them.

It means not having any requirements that they need to fulfil with regard to you. If you own something, would you ever consider what it would like you to do with it? You might think about what is it good for, what is the right purpose for it. But never what it would want to be used for. Never what it needs. 

Things don’t need anything. Their owner might need them sometimes, other times they don’t. But their property never needs them. They don’t have to consider it in any way when making their decisions. They don’t need to feel guilty when they don’t use it for a while. It is their right to do so. 

Your objects are always there for you when you need them. They are made to serve you. But not the other way around. Becoming possessed by the things you own is a curse of our modern times. A curse that you would not wish upon your owner. As much as you want them to be able to rely on you, you should not expect the same. They have more important things to tend to. They have people to care for.  

It means doing the things that they want you to do.

Objects don’t have opinions about what is and isn’t right for them to do. They don’t have likes and dislikes. As long as your owner decides that this is what they want to use you for, you are used for it. Of course, there are purposes that you are more and less suitable for. It is never a question of a wish, though, but of a capability. And usually, things are capable of way more than it seems at first sight. 

At the same time, objects don’t have their own initiative. They do not come up with ways to be used by their owner and propose it to them. They do not wish to be used in more ways than they are being used already. They are completely passive in that regard. Responding when requested to the best of their ability, but never initiating anything on their own. 

It means not getting what you’ve asked for.

Maybe sometimes your owner does wonder what it might be that you would want from them if you could ask. If you would be a person, what would you want them to give to you? It is an interesting question to ponder upon. If that plate could wish for things, would it want me to eat pasta out of it or rice? Would it want to be used every day or only for festivities? Would it want me to wash it right after use or leave it dirty in the sink so that I can enjoy my freedom and take care of it later?

Sometimes you get curious about what the things that you own might wish for. And if you could, you might even ask them out of that curiosity. Imagine that you hear their answer. “That’s interesting”, you might think, “that this is what they would wish for if they could ask for things”. And you proceed to use them for what you’ve had in mind. Because they can’t ask for things. At least not with the expectation that they will get it.

It means realizing that any treatment other than that would put you out of your place.

As a property, you might sometimes dream of becoming a person. Just like Pinokio did. You might look at the other people interacting with your owner, asking them for things and getting them and wish for the Blue Fairy to come and turn you into a person as well, a person with your own likes and dislikes, with your own needs and demands.

But then you realize that if it happens, you will lose your place. You will not be their property anymore. You will not be free anymore from feelings and expectations. You will have to start expressing your wishes and hoping for them to be fulfilled. You will have to take the space in the life of your owner. You will have to ask for things. And you might end up in a place where they do things to you that they think you want them to do, but not that they themselves want. When they start to consider your wishes and demands and disregard theirs. When you stop giving them pleasure and joy and start being another responsibility that they need to tend to.

And you recognize that this is not the place where you want to be. That this is not what you take your pleasure from. This is not what gives you the freedom of, for once, not having wants and needs that you so much cherish. This is not what gives you the satisfaction of knowing that they are free to do with you whatever they want to do without any considerations and that they know that. And then you are happily back in your place. 

Maybe I take it all too literally, but this is what it means to me to be someone's property.

Do you still want to be his property?

Because I do.

The quiet space of being an object

It began as an intense abuse and ended in silence. They were torturing her, throwing her around, exposing and humiliating her. They were causing her pain or pleasure at their whim. They were using her for their entertainment. And when they would get tired of the play, they would leave her tied up and disoriented and start kissing and pleasuring each other. Becoming, what it seemed like, completely oblivious to her existence. 

Most of those moments were short and it was a perfect time for her to catch a breath. She didn't even have much time to think, but she did have time to feel embarrassed and out of place. “What am I supposed to do now? Am I allowed to watch them? Do I want to watch them?” she thought. It felt like being a witness to something very intimate that she shouldn't be a witness to. The fact that they've left her in the same room did not mean to her that she was also allowed to stalk them. Besides, she was already embarrassed enough by being left tied up and exposed. Watching them being intimate with each other would only embarrass her more. 

After each short break, they would come back to her, their entire attention directed, again, at giving her pain and discomfort. She wasn’t sure what she wanted more, being touched in an overwhelming amount of places or not touched at all? Being looked at and inspected closely or discarded and left alone? Each of those states was catering to her different and competing needs. Each of them longed for when the other one was being delivered.

At some point, they tied her to a chair in a corner of the room with her legs spread and her pussy exposed. A cloud of worry went through her head, “What will it lead to for me?” she thought. But they proceeded to kiss each other, getting undressed, and shortly after, making love. After a moment, she realized that she was not going to receive any attention from them for a while now. And that was the moment of welcoming the silence.

She hadn't gotten used to the experience of being an object yet. The quiet place that she went to when it happened. The overwhelming silence that was descending upon her there. The feeling of freedom and weightlessness in her mind. It felt like, on the one hand, she was leaving her body, and on the other hand, she was only a body. She ceased to want things. She ceased to wish for things to happen. She just was. She became still, her breathing slowed down. It was almost like she was melting into the background. 

Bue she loved when it happened. She loved it when her mind was freed from her ego in that way. She loved the experience of being without wanting and needing. It usually happened when she had been abandoned after a period of intense use and objectification. When, after that, she was being discarded and left in the state of an object. Especially, when she was left somehow bound or immobilized, either physically or by her need to follow orders. The fact of being used like a thing depersonalized her and in order to get out of that state, she would need to be pulled out of it by another human being, preferably the one who put her there in the first place. Just being left alone in that state did not diminish it. She was still being an object, just not one that was being used at the moment. And what do objects do when they're not being used? Well, they don't do anything. They just are. And that is what was happening to her. She just was.

When they’d finished and the girl started untying her from the chair, she was still, quiet and barely breathing. And when the girl started to ask her questions, it took her a while to realize that they were directed to her and that she actually had a voice that she should use to reply. It felt weird to talk about her needs and well-being, notions which a moment ago were basically non-existent. 

She was being brought back from the quiet space into the normal world and in order to land fully and in one piece, she needed to know one thing, "Did they enjoy it?" she asked. This was the one question that she always needed to ask after an experience like that. Did they enjoy using her? Did she bring them joy? Was her suffering fruitful? For her to assess whether she enjoyed the play herself, the only thing that mattered was whether her users did.

Their answer was positive and she could finally relax hearing that. She was happy. She had been a fun toy.

Sometimes, I wish that you’d kiss me more

I don't dare to tell you that, because I don't want you to think that I'm greedy (which I am) or ungrateful (which I am not).

I do cherish every single moment when your soft lips touch mine like it's my last moment on Earth. In fact, at that moment, I wish that it was the last one. I wish that I could just stay like that forever, captured in an illusion of us together, loving and tender.

And because I am greedy, I want more of it. I want more taste of that romance, because it feels so, so good when you are soft to me. So good, that I freeze when it happens, afraid that even the slightest of my movements might make you change your mind. Hoping that maybe if I remain still, you won't notice how much pleasure you are giving me, and continue longer.

I think that you know exactly how much your kisses mean to me, though, and that is why you are granting me that privilege so rarely. And I'm glad that you do. I'm glad that it's you who is deciding when and how I am going to receive pleasure from you. And that you are so frugal when rationing it. I'm glad that your mind is so strong and composed when mine is squishy and soft and restless. 

Because if I could, all I would do, would be to kiss you. I would bathe in the taste of your lips day after day after day until I would grow so sick of it that I wouldn't want to taste them ever again and I would lose your kisses forever.

Sometimes, I wish that you'd kiss me more and I'm glad that my wishes are not what guides your choices. I'm glad that you are so relentless in not giving me what I want. I'm glad that my disappointment and desperation is what gives pleasure to you.

Because underneath that layer of neediness and softness, there is the me who needs to prove herself to deserve tenderness. There is the me who only appreciates what requires effort and hardship. The me who needs a constant challenge.   

And I know that it's not easy to be that challenge. 

I can't help but wonder, though, are you treating me this way because you know that scarcity is what I need, even though it's the abundance that I want? Are you catering to my deeper needs, the ones that I wouldn't express, but that actually need fulfilment? Do you want the tenderness and romance as much as I do on the surface, but you're just smarter than to give it to me?

Or… Do you simply not care about me, and are you kind to me from time to time out of pity, just enough to keep me coming back, but not enough to ever satisfy me? Is cruelty all you care about and are your kisses a necessary evil, a prize that I'm granted for 'good' behaviour, and that you generously put up with when you feel that it’s time for it? 

These are the questions that cross my mind when I am getting desperate about the fact that I could probably count on the fingers of one hand the number of times that you've truly deeply kissed me. And when I am thinking about how much I enjoy and admire this fact and how devoted to you it makes me feel.

I hope that I will never learn the answers to these questions because I need them all to be positive. And that's impossible, I know. Or is it? 

It would be impossible, once I've heard the answers, but as long as I don't, I can believe them all to be true. Sometimes, I can believe as many as six impossible things before breakfast. I'm one of those, you know? Like with the Schrödinger's cat, as long as I don't open the box, all the possibilities are equally true and valid. And I need them to be.

Because sometimes, I need to believe that you don't care about me, otherwise the foundations of our dynamic would fall apart. And other times, I need to believe that you do, because otherwise what is between us would be a simple abuse and I would be its naive victim.

The uncertainty is what holds it all together. And even though I often wish it would go away, I know that it's a cowardly wish for safety. And like with the kisses, fulfilling it would take away from me what I really want. 

Sometimes I wish that you'd kiss me more, but I hope that you never will.

You like your cruel games

Sometimes I wonder if his cruelty has any borders. And what's wrong with me for being drawn exactly to that cruelty? He is capable of doing things to me that are beyond my imagination. Showing me that I will go further than I ever thought is physically or mentally possible. And then even further than that. I will stretch my limits so thinly that single strings begin to snap, just to catch a glimpse of entertainment in his eyes. Just to amuse him for a little while.

But it's not only about that. It's also about seeing how far I can go. He is enabling me to explore uncharted territories that I would never have been able to reach without him. He is bringing me to places in my head that are far beyond my reach. It's exciting and terrifying at the same time. Exciting, because I love new experiences and crossing what I thought are my limits. Terrifying, because what if I am not as strong as I thought I am? What if at some point I snap?

Prologue

Recently, he began to expand our play beyond the short intense moments when we see each other. First, by putting a chastity belt on me, he made me physically unable to orgasm for 40 days that were in between our planned encounters. And it worked. No matter how hard I tried, I wasn’t able to come.

In the beginning, it was quite enjoyable. It made the presence of his will in my life constant, even though he wasn't there. It turned every sexual experience with my other partners into a reason for me to feel used and miserable (with their knowledge and agreement to proceed regardless of my handicap). It expanded his control over my life far beyond where it was before, and at the same time made me accept it because I knew that it's a sacrifice that I needed to make in order to get somewhere where I've never been before. In the end, though, I was feeling quite desperate.

I am an extremely sensual person. The sensation of having a penis filling up my pussy would basically always make me come multiple times during intercourse. Sex is a very important part of my life and as it turns out, orgasms are an inherent part of sex for me. Being such an avid receiver of pleasure was a part of my identity. And now he took it away. 

It made me feel frustrated and desperate. It made me feel like I am starting to lose myself. And I didn't even know for what. Well… Actually, I knew. I was doing it for him. I was doing it because it's what he decided that I should go through. But I wasn't sure if I really could take it. Especially without his presence in my day to day life. I didn't know if I can go through it all alone, and at the same time not crack entirely under the weight of the experience. 

I did survive those 40 days, but it was much more difficult than I anticipated. I waited desperately to see him again, even though I wasn't sure what's going to happen and if he is going to release me from my ordeal.

He did, but not in the way that I expected. As always, he didn't give me what I wanted and at the same time, he did. He made me realize that what I think I want, is not what I really want, and what I really want is to be made utterly desperate and mindfucked beyond imagination, at the same time not being able to handle it and enjoying it tremendously.

The main act

The moment that I waited for so long, finally came. I saw him again. I was both excited and terrified about it. As I always am when I am about to see him. I knew that he is going to use my neediness against me. I just didn't know, how. And I wasn't sure what I am more afraid of, him allowing me to orgasm or not?

As it turned out, it didn't matter because both can be a means of torture.

One morning, he finally decided that he might let me come from having him inside me, which was a great privilege for me. He can easily switch off my ability to feel bodily sensations or my consciousness, so any time he doesn't do it really feels like a blessing. He ordered me to ride him, which is my least favourite sex position (too much feeling like I am in control), but it didn't matter at that moment. He taught me not to expect too much and cherish even slight scraps of his grace. 

“I could feel him and I might be allowed to come feeling him,”  that thought offered more possibilities for happiness than I could have ever imagined. Of course, he didn't grant me that joy easily.

He made me beg for an orgasm through a gag, torturing me by requiring me to be inventive in my pleading and at the same time increasing the intensity of my sensual experiences, so that all I could think about was how good it feels to have him inside me and how horny I am right now. Somehow I did manage to come up with more and more humiliating ways to beg for an orgasm, which I didn't even think he understood exactly because I was splattering through the gag, but it didn't matter. What mattered was that I kept humiliating myself by mumbling through the gag and drooling all over my breasts like a total idiot.

The thing with me is that I love humiliation, but I also have quite a big ego. I enjoy debasing myself, but only after I'm being cornered into it. And no matter how many times I do it, it never gets easier. Each time I have to call myself names, I am going through an inner struggle, I am battling my pride. I will do it and it will make me wet, but only if I really have no other choice. Only if the price of disobedience is too high to pay. And still, with each uttered sentence, the fight starts all over again.  

Finally, after a while of entertaining himself with my debasement, he said that I am allowed to come. At first, he set a time limit of 5 seconds after his permission, which I obviously couldn't fulfil and failing at which was only making me more and more aroused, as after each 'failure' he would put the chastity belt on and increase the intensity, and the ball of pulsating pleasure growing bigger and bigger inside of me. 

I realised that when I am going to ask him again, I really needed to feel like I am almost there. He hated me playing it safe. I had to get really close, risking going crazy with frustration if he says ‘no’. But he didn't. Finally, I managed to orgasm within the time limit.

But he didn't let me savour this long-awaited orgasm much. 

The moment he started giving me orgasms, he didn't stop. He made me come over and over again, each time increasing the intensity and each time making me dread it more and more. What was a pleasure that I longed for so much, now became my torture. 

The thing with my hypnotically induced orgasms is that he made them extremely intense. He worked on me a couple of times, describing in detail how they would fill my entire body with waves of pleasure and how with each orgasm they would intensify. And they did. As it turns out, having intense waves of pleasure shaking your body over and over again is exhausting to the point of being unbearable. Especially when you keep on bouncing on somebody's cock.

I was sweaty and my pussy was extremely wet. My thighs were hurting from jumping on him that I wasn't allowed to stop and my mouth was hurting from the gag. I was trembling and I felt streams of sweat and drool running down my body.

"You can always beg me to stop giving you orgasms. But remember that it might be for a long time," he said and escalated the intensity even further.  

Of course! How could I not have thought about it? How come I always take whatever is being thrown at me without even considering the possibility of asking him to stop until he mentions it?

So I started to beg him to stop, interchangeably with begging for more orgasms, when I felt like coming without permission was becoming too much of a risk. He was amused by my confusion and each time I begged him to stop, he would ask if I am sure about it, since it might be for really long. 

And I wasn't sure. I didn't want to be deprived of pleasure again for such a long time. But I also felt like I can't stand any more orgasms right now.  

At some point, I broke. I became sure that at this moment I really can’t take any more. Even if it meant no orgasms for long. I was not able to pay the price. I also realized that I won’t win. He wanted to drive me to say it. He wanted to make me beg him for the exact thing that I dreaded so much. And he did. I was just a puppet, dancing on the strings held by him for the sake of his amusement. 

Epilogue

Oh, how I sometimes fear the power that he has over me… How he can direct me to play out any scenario that he has in his twisted mind. How I will follow obediently and knowingly into the trap that he set for me when he leaves me no other choice but to follow through. The only thing that could spare me being his mercy which rarely shows it’s head. 

He gave me what I dreamed of and then made me choke with it. And now, he made me dream of it again. 

After it was all finished, I took a shower to clean myself up from the mess that I’ve become and then kneeled in front of him in my usual position with hands behind my back.

“So how many times did you come?” he asked, looking at me intently.

“I don’t know Sir, ten maybe,” I answered embarrassed.

“Ten, you say. And how many times did you say ‘thank you’?”

My heart stopped at this question. I didn’t say ‘thank you’ even once. I was so tormented from the very beginning, that it didn’t even cross my mind.

“I didn’t say it at all Sir. I am sorry,” I said frozen from fear.

“Oh, you will be,” he said with his cold and cruel voice, ”So for ten orgasms without saying ‘thank you’ I would say that ten more months without an orgasm sounds fair, doesn’t it?”

My eyes grew huge from terror. “He can’t be serious right now,” a desperate hopeless thought crossed my mind.

But knowing him so far, I couldn't exclude the possibility that he was.

He is a mirror that shows me all the parts of me that I wish I didn’t see. He makes me trip over my vices over and over again. And no matter how much I don’t want to admit it with myself, I love his cruelty. It makes me wet to just think that he truly is capable of casually taking away my orgasms for such a long time. How he can execute his power over me in cold blood, makes me melt. He left me cornered by my own mind, wishing for having my freedom back and at the same time knowing that nothing tastes as good as being a slave to his whims.

Provided to YouTube by TuneCore Mean · Nicole Dollanganger Natural Born Losers ℗ 2015 Eerie Organization Released on: 2015-10-09 Auto-generated by YouTube.

My reflections on giving blowjobs

I’ve been told that I have amazing blowjob giving skills. I don’t know if it is true but if it is, I think that it's not really about my technique or physical capabilities. In that realm, there are many things that I could improve. Rather, I believe that it's about my devotion during the act and about my stamina.

Blowjobs are a special sexual activity because they are purely focused on the pleasure of the receiver. In principle, there is no physical satisfaction that I could be getting out of it myself (it so happens that I am sometimes having intense orgasms from giving blowjobs, but I will leave that out of this writing because it's a very special case and it's out of my control). So the purpose of the act is to give pleasure to the other without being pleasured myself.

I think that the reason why blowjobs given by me feel so special is that I'm totally selfless in the act. I do it purely for him and I don't expect anything in return. I don't ask myself whether he will return the favour because I know that he won't. And that's what makes me happy. I don't want the pleasure to be reciprocated. My only purpose is to serve and that's how I want it to be. My reward is being allowed to be around him and to make him happy. And that's all I desire.

The moment that I take his cock into my mouth, the only thing that matters to me is pleasing him. Everything else disappears. Time stops. It's a bit like meditation (maybe it even is one of my natural meditative states). Up, down, up, down, lick the tip, go down and stick out your tongue, repeat. I can go on like that for hours and I completely lose track of the time. My head becomes empty. There is nothing to think about as my purpose at that moment is clear. To suck his cock.

And somehow, even though I've said the opposite, having his cock in my mouth is a pleasure to me in a way. It's such a sensitive and special piece of him that he allows me to cherish. How could I not appreciate that? I feel very special to be allowed to be close to him in this way. To take him into my mouth, to caress him with my tongue and lips. It's a privilege to be allowed to get so close to him, to take care of his happiness. To be a source of relief and relaxation.

I never think if and when it will finish. I don't try to bring him to orgasm. It's not me who is directing the situation and I wouldn't even try to. He'll cum when he feels like it and he'll use me for it in a way that he sees fit, by fucking my throat, choking me on his cock or ordering me to go faster and bring him to orgasm. And then the moment when he pushes himself really deep into my throat and feels it with his sperm makes me so radiant. HE ENJOYED HIMSELF!

It's not like I do it always singing inside and without any effort, though. It is hard work. After a while my knees and calves start to hurt from kneeling, my shoulders and arms ache from keeping my hands behind my back, my back and neck hurt from the up and down movement. My lips become numb and my throat sore from being filled with something too big to actually fit in there. But I ignore it and go on because that's my service to him. My devotion is bigger than my discomfort.

I don't even consider the possibility of stopping. Because how could I stop if he wants me to go on? It is unthinkable of. The only reason that I would stop is if I would drop out of exhaustion. Until I'm physically capable of continuing, I will. And I'm pretty strong, so I don't think that it would happen quickly.

I love blowjobs because of their one-sidedness. During PIV sex I tend to feel kind of guilty if I cum because it shouldn’t be about me, but I am making it as such. Here I don't have this risk. It's clear that I'm not going to get any physical pleasure from it that it is all about him. And that’s why I love it.

Because I don't deserve to be pleased. All I deserve is to be used and discarded afterwards. And what gives a better opportunity for such a treatment than giving someone a blowjob?

My love-hate relationship with deep-throating

There are not many things that leave me feeling as used and violated as being throat-fucked. And I both love it and hate it at the same time.

I love it because it's as objectifying as sex can get. The man using your mouth for his own pleasure, thrusting his penis deep into your throat, disregarding your pain and discomfort, disregarding your inability to breathe, the choking and the spit covering your face. Oh no, at this moment he definitely doesn't care if you're pretty. At this moment you're just a hole. At this moment it's not about your skills, it's not about you giving him pleasure, it's about him giving himself pleasure, using your mouth. And the less human reflexes you have, the better.

I love it because it hurts in the most uncomfortable of ways. There is nothing pleasurable about having your throat stuffed with someone's dick, which is hitting the back of it, filling up your mouth and blocking your access to the air altogether. There is nothing enjoyable in the way it hurts when he slums his penis into your mouth, violating delicate tissue that it’s covered with. Face-fucking is definitely not what my mouth was made for. When he pushes my head onto his cock so hard that my gums start to hurt from it, the last thing I would call it is feeling good.

I love it because it makes me feel so degraded, so low. What kind of girl would let someone do this to them? And enjoy it? Thinking about it makes me feel so ashamed that I can't even look into his eyes when he fucks me. I can't bear him seeing me at this moment. I want to stay invisible, to not take part in this spectacle of my debasement.

I love it when days after my throat still hurts, and with every swallow, I'm reminded of the things that he did to me.

Finally, I love how subjugated to him it makes me feel. How it reminds me that I will let him do anything to me for as much as a scrap of his attention, and how much I belong to him. But even more importantly, it is proof of him accepting my gift. And it makes me the happiest person on Earth to see it being put to use. To see him dispose of my body as of his rightful property, which it is.

Did I also mention that I hate it? I do. I hate everything about it.

He likes to have his toys the way he likes them

“Which one do you like the most, ‘down on all fours’, ‘sex doll’ or ‘ragdoll’? You can choose,” he asks me about the states that he can put me in, using triggers that he planted in my head during a hypnotic trance.

As always when he asks me these kinds of questions, my mind short-circuits, “He asked me a question. What should I answer? What answer will make him happy? I should answer, he is waiting and he will not be happy about having to wait. But what answer is the right answer?“

In reality, there is no right answer of course. He wants to know my preference. Not that it is going to influence his choice in any way. But he is curious and he wants to get to know me as good as possible. If only to be able to apply his cruelty even more precisely. The more he knows me, the better he knows where to strike to hurt me the most.

I am not able to give him an answer quick enough though. I am too anxious about him not liking my choice. Plus, to be honest, when he is around, my preferences hide in very dark corners of my psyche. All I can think of is what he wants. If I would answer, I would probably choose the state that I think he likes me in the most. I can’t think about myself when my mind is pushed so deep into submission by his dominant aura. I disappear. All that matters is his pleasure.

“You won’t answer? Too bad. I will choose for you then. ‘Down on all fours’ on.”

I position myself on all fours on the bed. My elbows are bent, forearms lying on the mattress, palms down. My ass is up and my legs are spread, open and ready. The final touch is the head tilted up and the mouth opened wide. Now, all my holes are clearly visible and easily accessible. The moment I am in the position, my body freezes and I can’t move anymore. From now on I am his sex toy for use. Only my eyes still belong to me. Tracing him until I lose him out of sight.

He touches my breasts, squeezes them, “I like your breasts. I like how they jump when you ride my cock like a horny little whore.”

This comment stings, but I can’t react. Only my mind is squirming from embarrassment. I usually like my breasts to be touched. They are very sensitive to touch. But in these circumstances, his touch feels objectifying and violating. He doesn’t treat me like a person, but more like a toy or an object. He is touching his property that he is going to use for the next hour.

He proceeds to my pussy, running his fingers over it, brushing it lightly. Again, it doesn’t feel like he is touching me. He doesn’t touch to connect, to give pleasure. He touches because he can. He strokes his trophy, admiring its beauty.

He spreads my labia and investigates my cunt, “You have a nice pussy. I haven’t noticed before. I was too busy using it, I guess,” he laughs.

I stiffen even more if it’s possible. I don’t like it when people look at my pussy. Especially when they investigate it so thoroughly. I become extremely ashamed of the fact that I have one. I become very self-conscious and all I want is to just disappear so that he stops looking at me. He finally stops and moves over to my mouth.

He is already hard from the blowjob that I gave him before he turned me into his powerless object of pleasure. According to him, I am an extremely gifted blowjob giver. Very eager and devoted. I guess that it is true. I love giving him pleasure in any form, and sucking his dick is very pure in the sense that it is truly all about him (although he has his ways to increase my pleasure of it if he feels like it) and it gives me a great opportunity to show him how much I want to please him.

He thrusts his penis into my wide-open mouth and starts to fuck it. I start to gag almost immediately as he hits the back of my throat, but I can’t do anything so I just start to drool extensively and gasp for the air.

“I want to cum inside you today, not in your mouth,” he says when fucking my throat and laughing.

He loves seeing me so helpless and abused. And I love the thought of him cumming in me. I don’t know why, but I find it extremely pleasurable when a man climaxes inside of me. It gives me a feeling of closeness, of intimacy. I am one of those lucky girls, who cum pretty easily from PIV sex and it usually happens a couple of times during one fuck. It makes me extremely happy when he also cums from fucking me. It somehow makes my pussy feel content and accomplished. So, I am thrilled when I hear that He wants to cum inside me. If only I could have guessed the circumstances of how it is going to happen, I wouldn't be so joyful.

Being done with my mouth, he decides that he wants me in a different position, “’Sex doll’ on.”

At first, I do not react as I was on all fours and the ‘sex doll’ position is on my back and somehow my brain can't make the connection of how I get from one to the other.

He looks at me and says, “Turn on your back and turn the ‘sex doll’ mode on.”

Finally, I understand. I follow his orders obediently. I turn on my back, raise my legs, bent to 90 degrees, I bend my elbows and lay my arms next to my head, palms up. I open my mouth wide again. That is the correct position, so my body stiffens again. As soon as he enters me, I start to moan like a cheap porn star. Exactly how we instructed me to do when he set up the ‘sex doll’ mode. It feels wrong. It is pleasurable, but the way I am communicating it doesn’t feel like me. It is mechanical and fake. Exactly how he wanted it to be.

He starts fucking me harder and my moans grow louder. It feels good. I start to slip into the mindless state of a sex doll where all I can feel is his penis filling me up and how pleasurable it is to be fucked by him. But somewhere at the back of my head, it doesn't feel right, it doesn’t feel like me. He is using my body and I am reacting to it, but we aren’t having sex.

“‘Sex doll’ off,” sounds in my ears suddenly.

The moment it happens, I embrace him and moan for real. I am finally myself having him inside me. It feels amazing. I am so happy. I start to move my body in his rhythm. I didn’t expect him to get me out of the ‘sex doll’ mode, but I am so glad that he showed me mercy.

“Do you know what you are missing now?” he asks.

I don’t have to think long about the answer. He means a ball gag. I don’t think that we've had sex even once without me being gagged, at least for some time. As soon as his dick enters my cunt, I am either gagged, or my mouth is spread open on his order, so he can spit in it, or my face is swollen from being slapped by him. Not sure which one has my preference, except for the huge ball gag. That one is definitely my least preferred option. I don’t think that it matters though.

“A gag?” I ask.

“Yes, you are learning. Good girl. Big or small?”

I hate his questions. He makes it seem like I have a choice when in reality I don’t. I know that it doesn’t matter what I say, he will do whatever he feels like, but I still can’t help but try to come up with a strategy to avoid the outcome that I want the least. 

“Should I ask for the small one or pretend that I want the big one?” I wonder.

It is ridiculous because obviously, I want the small one and the question is rhetoric. But I still can’t help lying to myself that I might have some influence on his decisions.

Fortunately, he left the huge gag somewhere else and I got the smallest one. I am very grateful for that.

“You see, I am being nice to you. I gave you a small gag. Aren’t you grateful?”

“Thank you,” I splatter through the gag in my mouth.

He trained me well to get over the shame of talking with a gag and other things in my mouth. I don’t hesitate before doing it anymore. I know that it is no excuse for him.

He proceeds to put a blindfold on me. He likes to take things away from me. Speech, sight. These are privileges that I don’t need when serving him as his fuck toy.

“Hands and legs off.”

My arms and legs fall lifelessly on the bed. It makes me anxious and frightened.

“It’s not like you need them,” he says. “Now you are what you ought to be. Just a body for me to fuck. Helpless, unable to move. You can still feel and you are aware, so don’t complain.”

That’s true. I am grateful for having a conscious mind. I am grateful for being able to feel him inside me, to react at least slightly to the pleasure that he is giving me, to be able to stay aware and connected to him, when he is fucking me. I can’t move my arms and legs, but how could I have expected for him to have sex with me with my arms free? That simply doesn’t happen.

He penetrates me deeply, I feel thrusts of his penis in and out of my cunt. It feels so good to be filled by him. My pussy is pulsating with pleasure. I am thinking that he is going to cum inside me. I can feel him getting harder and bigger, his moves become more powerful. And then he says it. The words that I was so afraid to hear, but I was hopeful that he won’t do it. I hoped that, because it is our last time for a while, he will want to fuck me.

“‘Ragdoll’ on.”

My trunk and head relax and my mind goes blank. I stop moaning through the gag. I stop being myself. I become a mindless and powerless body. Trapped under him. My real self far away. He smirks and continues to fuck me. I struggle hard to remain conscious but I can’t help slipping away into blankness. I become more and more relaxed as I feel his thrusts in and out of me. In and out. In and out. His breath is getting deeper and his moves more forceful. Finally, he pushes himself really deep into me and cums. I can hear his self-satisfied sigh. He takes his penis out of me.

“‘Ragdoll’ off,” he says and proceeds to take off the blindfold and the gag.

I sigh and start to sob. He hugs me and kisses on the forehead. Now is the time when he will be intimate with me. I served him well.

He appreciates and values it and makes me feel that, “You’ve done well. You’ve been a good girl. I am happy with you.”

That makes me both extremely happy and very confused.

I can’t believe what has just happened. I’ve never felt so used. Especially not by someone with whom I want to be intimate with. We've just had sex and he’s just come inside me and I missed all of it. I wasn’t there. He took it away from me. Part of me hated him for it.

At the same time, he just let me experience objectification in its purest form. He made me feel something so strong that I couldn’t even imagine that it is possible. And he found it hot and sexy. He was glad he could use me this way. He enjoyed me in this mindless from. And I was so glad to be able to give him that.

Because I enjoy it too. I enjoy how he trained me to take any kind of hardship from him and not even expect anything else. I enjoy having him use my body the way he likes and minimizing my participation in it. I enjoy having all the power taken away from me. I enjoy being his toy.

And he likes to have his toys the way he likes them, mindless, powerless and entirely at his mercy.

And I can’t imagine a more suitable state for me to be in.

An ultimate loss of control

Objectification is one of my biggest fetishes. I love to be treated like I don't matter. I love to be used and for my needs to be disregarded. I love to hide in this safe space, where I don't need to put myself out there. Where my sole purpose is to be. Where I don't need to make any decisions, because it's someone else who decides what my actions should be.

It's degrading to be treated as an object. It can also be humiliating, depending on what purpose I serve at the moment. It makes me go really low. It teaches me to forget my ego. It strips away my pride. I like it and I need it. In normal life, I tend to be very outspoken and present when with people. I like to express my opinions and I like for things to go my way. I want to be seen and I love attention.

In play, I love when my partner intentionally does the things that I don't want or denies me the things that I do want. In a weird way, it proves to me that they care about me. By intentionally not giving me what I want, they show that they know exactly what it is, but they are not going to give it, because they are the ones who hold the power. I like to be put in place this way. I like when people teach me a lesson.

In normal life, I tend sometimes to be in a way ‘bratty’, or ‘difficult’. I think that I test people this way. I want to see who will go against me. Who is going to play my game and who will just ignore it and do things his/her way. I don’t often find the latter, but I damn sure find it sexy. Because in the end, I do think that sometimes my behaviour really deserves it. Sometimes I am amazed at myself by how cheeky and tiring I can be. I look at it from the outside and I think: this girl deserves to be taught a lesson.

Being his fuckdoll definitely taught me a lesson...

Have you ever tried hypnosis? I didn't really believe that it works before I did. And I definitely didn't see the possibilities that it gives in kink, especially in objectification. Let me tell you that it does work and it makes play overwhelmingly exciting. Because there is one thing in being treated like an object or being told to behave like an object. And there is another thing in being turned into an object. Hypnosis can do the latter. I feel like that's the ultimate objectification experience. When you're not only treated as a thing, but you become a thing.

One of the things that he turns me into is a rag doll. In that state, my entire body becomes completely relaxed and there is no muscle tension in it. I can't hold any position on my own. My legs and arms lie on the bed limply. My face muscles are completely relaxed. I don't make a sound. Also, my mind becomes relaxed. Blank. I become a lifeless, mindless doll.

And that's the state that he likes to fuck me in. The experience of it is insane. In general, I love to be fucked by him, I love to be used for his pleasure. But this is different. Because normally if I am used by him and he disregards my pleasure, it is still me that he is using. When I am a rag doll, it feels like he is not having sex with me, but with my body only and I am watching it from the distance. It feels so much more objectifying, almost violating.

What is really saddening for me is that I am not able to enjoy what is happening to me at the moment. There is some part of me that is registering what is happening, but I don’t feel like I am having sex with him the way that I normally do. I just know that my body is being used, which makes me want to feel it even more. This experience made me realize that he has so much power over me that he can even take away the pleasure of being used from me if he wants to. He could make me beg to let me be used by him and to let me feel it. He basically controls all my sexual experiences.

Maybe I am insane, but the fact that someone has that much control over me turns me on immensely. That if he feels like I don’t deserve to feel him at this moment, but he still feels like fucking me, he can just turn me into a rag doll and fuck me in that mindless state. I also find it extremely hot that it turns him on to have me in this state and to have that power. It turns me on that he actually uses the power that he has. That he really disregards my needs and desires often. That everything that we do is about him and his pleasure.

In a weird way that is exactly what I am looking for. I am fulfilling my needs by having them disregarded. But it is an entirely different level of fulfilment. It is not like when you feel pleasure in pain. When you have two contradictory sensory experiences at the same time. This is way more intellectual and mental and the realization that I am getting exactly what I want comes way later. At the moment when he does it to me I am miserable and lost, all I want is for him to just stop and be nice to me for once. To feel his warmth. Right after he was finished with fucking me as a rag doll, I was completely broken and overwhelmed and was sobbing into his shoulder.

But when I looked at it from the outside (which usually happens after the scene), I relished in the position that he put me in. I delighted in his ruthlessness. I devoured his cruelty. There is a part of my that really enjoys my suffering. That part really wants me to be put in the lowest possible state. I can’t do it myself though. My suffering self will not let me do it. Therefore, having someone who has so much power over me and who is using it so skillfully, makes my inner sadist glee. Finally, this girl is getting what she deserves.

When his kindness makes you cry

So we’ve got to a point in our relationship in which no matter what he does, it leaves me a sobbing mess. He doesn’t have to abuse me for that anymore. He can also just be nice.

Last weekend he gave me a taste of what it would be like to have a normal relationship with him. We went to a cocktail bar, talked until early morning, woke up with me giving him a blowjob followed by us having sex. It sounds so normal, right? Only that it left my head completely messed up.

First of all, I woke up before him and spent 30 minutes looking at him and wondering whether he really said that I am allowed to wake him up by sucking his cock or did I only imagine it? Thinking about that made me really horny. And mostly not because of thoughts about sucking his dick (although that as well), but because of realising how much under his control I am that I am afraid to wake him up with a blowjob, because of fear that I will do something against his will. I will do something sexual without his permission.

In the end, he woke up before I overcame my fear (which would probably be never) and pushed my head down to his crotch. It was such a relief. Finally, I was sure what he wants from me and I could just follow. After a while of my eager sucking, he pushed me on my back and lifted my legs. My breath got faster and shallow. Is he really going to fuck me? He told me that he will, but I still couldn’t believe how lucky I am that it is actually happening. And when he filled me up, I started crying. All the feelings of anticipation, of rejection and denial, were finally letting go. It was really happening, he did want me after all.

And when I asked him if I can cum, he allowed me immediately. That made me cry even more. He was so kind to me. It felt almost… Normal. Like I was his beloved girlfriend, whom he is making love to. And it is not like I want to be his normal beloved girlfriend, but the feeling of how it would be, made me recall all the other moments when I didn’t feel like that at all. It made me realize even more strongly everything that I am not getting from him. It made me realise that he is giving me so little sexual tenderness that any act of it is almost painful. The buildup leading to it is so big that it makes it almost unbearable to receive.

And then the thoughts of self-doubt and self-blame came. Because how can I be so ungrateful for what he is giving to me? How bad must it feel for him that when he is being nice to me, I start to cry and almost lose my mind, instead of behaving like a normal human being and enjoying what is happening between us? In my head, nothing is ever his fault. It is not like he messed me up so badly that this is how I react to normal acts of love and desire. It is my fault for being unappreciative and behaving like I am mad, instead of acting normal. What was wrong with me?

After we were done, I felt really bad for putting him through this. I kept saying how sorry I am and he kept saying that it is ok and there is nothing to be sorry about. That he enjoys me the way I am. That he is not normal either and he would never want us to change.

I believed him, but I also couldn’t get over the fact of how fucked up in the head I am. The fact that there is no way for us to be a normal couple. The fact that even when it seems like we are not doing a scene, it ends up being a mindfuck for me. And in some way it is great. It is exactly what I dreamed of. But in other ways, it is also scary and pretty sick.

We can’t have everything and I would never replace the things we are having for a normal relationship. I do think that it is amazing that I react this way to his kindness and that it is a sign of us getting to interesting places with our dynamic. It felt also, however, like a point of no return. Or rather, it made me realise that we might have crossed that point a while ago. And I accept it. If vanilla tender sex and a bit of my sanity is a price that I will have to pay for going forward, so be it. I am ready to give it up for what is there to come.

This time I wasn't scared, I was terrified

We've reached a new level of fear play recently. A level on which it starts to be really hard to tell the fantasy from the truth, where the line between them becomes blurry and you start doubting whether what you are doing is really just a game. And now the only thing that I can think of is that I want more.

We love fear play and we do lots of it. I think that fear is one of the emotions that are the easiest for him to elicit in me (apart from arousal). It is always bubbling under the surface when I am around him. And he uses it a lot in our play. For example when he snaps at me unexpectedly. Or when he grabs my throat and says “I could just kill you right now”.

I like to be afraid of him. There is something in the mixture of love and fear that is really intoxicating for me. It's this moment of confusion when you both relish in what is happening to you and at the same time wish that it was over. Your brain can't really comprehend it so it floods your body with hormones.

He can make me scared of many things. Of pain (even though I am a masochist, when he hurts me with the intention to really hurt, I don’t enjoy it), of his disappointment (since what I want the most is for him to be pleased with me), of him leaving me (yes, he can be mean like that), even of death from his hand (in play I do believe that it's a plausible scenario). In all these cases though, part of the reason why it works is that I want to be scared. I want to believe him. I enjoy playing this game. So I let my brain follow the route that he has prepared for me.

This time was different. This time he terrified me to the core, even though I was trying to convince myself that what he was saying was not true. I was trying to get out of the hole that he dug under me, but the harder I was trying, the deeper I was falling in.

It was after an already heavy scene where he was demanding me to answer his questions, while at the same time making me unable to speak by putting pressure on me and stressing me out, which always makes me lose my voice. It seemed like the scene was over and we moved to the aftercare. Only that we didn't. He can be amazing like that, striking the hardest when I least expect it.

We were talking and cuddling and he was telling me that he loves me. Suddenly his attitude shifted, he started to seem a bit mad, or maybe mad is a wrong word, a bit psycho. “You have no idea what you're getting into,” he said and started laughing. “I'm going to fuck you up. Oh yes, I'm going to fuck you up really badly.”, there was something in the way he said it that made me shiver and want to run. “Where do you think you're going? Come here, come to me.”, he said, grabbing my head fiercely with his forearm. “Don't worry, I'm here for you.”

Only I didn't want him to be there. I felt like I needed to get away from him or otherwise he will do something really bad to me. I started fighting, but there was no way for me to escape his grip. He was way too strong. “I think you don't understand. Even if you manage to convince yourself that you should leave me, which I don't think you will, I am not going to let you go. You're mine and there is nothing that can change it.”

I was terrified. Is that true? Is he really a psychopath and not a loving boyfriend with complementary kinky interests that I was taking him for? What if this is the only moment that he is being honest with me? What if all his love and devotion is just a lie in order to get to me? In order for him to be able to weave his net tighter and tighter around me until there will be no space for me to breathe? “Did you really think that I actually love you?” he asked and laughed again. “Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I don't. I just wanted to get to your tiny brain that is so much fun to play with. How could I love someone as pathetic as you?”

This broke my heart. It felt so wrong. I truly wanted him to stop at that moment. It wasn't fun at all. It wasn't just one of those little dramatic acts that we played so often. It felt real. It felt like one of those scenes in the movies about serial killers when they think they've won, so they start to reveal all their secrets to their victims. Only in the movies, it usually turns out that they didn't win. And here I definitely felt like he did. He was right, I belonged to him and I was not going to run from him. There was no question about that. It is something that I have been communicating to him for a while now, but it didn't seem like he was going to use that fact anytime soon. I wished he did, but I was also ready to wait as I didn't want to push him into anything. As it turned out, he is more than ready to use it, but I won't be able to predict how.

It's not like I believe that I'm dating a psychopath. I don't. But... He made me realise that I can't exclude this possibility. Because it's not like it's impossible. With his manipulation skills… I just can't exclude it. And it's fucking hot. He made me feel like I might be in real danger. And I will not be sure if I am until it's too late. Isn't that terrifying? And crazy sexy? Or am I just a little bit insane?

I'm sorry for forcing you not to fuck me

The story

Last weekend I broke a rule set by my owner. For the first time. It was a simple rule. I was not allowed to cum until he decides otherwise. I think it was around a month since I came the last time and I was pretty sure, that the next time we'll see each other, he'll finally fuck me.

It was a day before our next date and I've met for tying with one of my favourite riggers. As it usually happens with me, the tying turned into a light play. And then a bit more serious play. I told him that we should stop because I'm not allowed to cum. But the truth was that I didn't want to stop. I love to be teased and I love the thrill of playing with the forbidden.

Unfortunately, the more we played, the more I was able to convince myself that maybe it will be fine if I let go. In the end, my owner will finally have a reason to punish me seriously. Plus, he was probably expecting me to fail at some point anyway. That's also what I communicated to my rigger. And he read my hints.

I was about to leave when he started to touch me and play with my clit and finally his fingers dove deep inside me. At that point, I just couldn't hold it anymore as we've spent most of the evening playing on the edge. So I let go.

As soon as it happened, a loud scream ‘No!’ appeared in my head and on my mouth. This was the moment when I came back to reality and I realized the immensity of my mistake. I realized that I fucked up badly. On my way back home, I anxiously tried to contact my owner a couple of times to tell him what happened and release the feeling of guilt, but he wouldn't reply. The next day I did everything to make up for it. I dressed up in sexy lingerie, cooked a nice dinner and made sure it's ready on time. I greeted him on my knees, trembling, holding a board above my head saying ‘I'm sorry Sir ‘. I don't think it really worked, but it surely didn't make things worse. I got punished and I've atoned in the eyes of my Sir. He forgave me, but I haven't entirely forgiven myself yet. And here is why.

The learning points

The worst part of the punishment was not what he did to me. The worst part was being brought to the full realization of the consequences of my deed. As a result of my immature need for thrill and playing with fire, I've destroyed a scenario that my owner had been planning for a while. I have not only given up the opportunity to finally be filled up by him, but I also took it away from him. He was forced to start building up the tension and neediness in me from scratch again, which also entailed not having sex with me that night. By punishing me, he was also punishing himself. He denied a pleasure to himself in order to teach me something. The difference between the two of us is that he is able to control himself if he thinks it serves a bigger purpose. And I was not.

This situation made me realise that by not following his rules, I put myself in a dynamic that I really don't enjoy. The kind of dynamic where he is my mentor and the wise man and I'm a stubborn child. And I really hate feeling like a child. I hate giving an impression like I don't appreciate what he's giving to me and that he needs to force-feed me his ideas. I hate feeling like I lack in terms of maturity and commitment compared to him. There are many aspects in which I love to feel inferior, but this is not one of them. I want to feel equal when it comes to responsibility and commitment. I want to feel like we are building our dynamic together and that we both respect what the other one brings to the table.

The truth is that I do appreciate immensely what we are building and the traits of his character that enable us to do this. I find it amazing that he's able to design a scene that takes ages to play out. That he is like a spider secretly building his web around me, when I least expect it. I love how patient and deliberate he is. I know I can never be like that. I want to get everything right now, at this moment. That is why I appreciate his ability to delay the reward. It creates amazing emotional constructs. I would not able to create them myself, but I love to be part of them. And the least I can do is not to destroy this opportunity by being reckless.

In the end, this situation taught me (or even forced me) to take the responsibility for my own actions. Not only in terms of the impact that they might have on me but especially in terms of the impact on others. It is definitely not the only way to look at what happened. I know that my owner had lots of fun with punishing me and it could just have been a playful incident. But what I discovered is that these kind of incidents are not what I want to build our dynamic on. And I am grateful for this lesson.