One of these days I will stop trying to cram umpteen million things into every week and actually have time to be the faithful and diligent blogger I aspire to. I haven't finished writing about this week yet, let alone BoundCon; nor I have written the synopses or titles for the Roué films (sorry, Dave); nor written about seeing Waiting for Godot on Wednesday (it was excellent, but not terribly kinky, so perhaps there's not much to tell).
This is because since Caroline left on Wednesday and I landed back in reality with a harsh bump (which my sore arse did not appreciate one bit) I have been ludicrously busy. Things occupying my attention have included:
- going in to work like a good officemonkey;
- worrying about my financial future now that one - and possibly both - of my ongoing contracts are coming to an end;
- reassuring D. I still love him (this involved dressing up in a tartan miniskirt and white kneesocks, and allowing him to fuck me until I scream. No complaints here!);
- concocting outrageous plans to go into business with D. and take over the world;
- running around like a headless chicken frantically trying to organise the outdoor project I'm running next week.
Yep, it's that time of year again: this time tomorrow I'll be journeying out of the city and into Nature, which I love like a true masochist, despite its habit of mercilessly raping my face in showers of pollen bukkake on summer mornings. Once there I intend to camp and make Art and definitely not get stoned, of course not, what kind of layabout drug-addled hippy do you take me for.
(Sorry. All this running-around sourcing art supplies and herding my team of layabout drug-addled hippies may have left me slightly manic.)
Anyway, I very much doubt I'll have time to line up a neat series of BoundCon posts to publish in my absence, so all will be quiet from me until I'm back. In the meantime, I want to tell you about Tuesday night.
Haron invited me and Tom to the dinner party her and Abel were hosting when I saw her t'other week. Tom sent his apologies - he was working that night - but I decided screw it, I'd go anyway, I never go to these things and I wanted to see as much as possible of Graham and Caroline while they were in town.
I knew that by "dinner" they probably meant "kinky" and was looking forward to spending social time with likeminded friends, but I wasn't planning to play. For a start, my arse was a state, and even if I'd been up for taking yet more punishment on my beleagured butt I wasn't sure it was a good idea. Secondly, I wasn't sure how comfortable I'd feel at a group play party without my Dom.
See, I'm actually really inexperienced at this whole topping/bottoming thing. I do it on film, and that's brilliant and a very specific set of headspaces. I don't bottom to my Doms, I sub to them, which is different yet again. While I'm poly, I don't really have many other playmates. I don't have the energy: it all goes into working and creative projects and my existing relationships. When I've dated J I've subbed to him, but that's not happened for a while. No-one else is really close enough to count as a "Dom". My lovely toppy friends are tops, and actually, subbing is so amazing and intense and fulfilling, and my bottoming/roleplaying itch is usually satisfied by shooting, that it's hard to find space in my busy brain for casual play with toppy friends on top (as it were) of everything else. Besides, if I'm finding the time and energy to seduce any new lovers, they're much more likely to be female. And the story of My Attempts to Sub to Women is a whole other novella which I don't have time to write just now.
Which is fine, and my lovely toppy friends are lovely and therefore not the types to put any pressure on me. But still, I've very rarely played with non-Doms without one of my Doms being there, thereby providing a sort of Domly Umbrella which I can sort of generally sub to, which makes my headspace much easier. Just casually playing with toppy friends without my Dom there to look after my comfort zone, and without getting paid, was a fairly new experience. God, that makes me sound like such a whore. But you know what I mean.
I arrived at the party later than everyone else, thanks to working in the arse-end of London until 6pm, and everyone was already very bouncy and tipsy. I'm not going to do the full name-check but it was marvellous to see new and old friends alike. Haron got me a glass of wine and I started trying to catch up with the drinking.
While I was still relatively sober, I admit I found the flirty, pervy atmosphere a bit overwhelming. It was all very friendly and no-one was behaving inappropriately, but I felt surrounded by brats being mischievous and tops making lewd threats, and I found myself actively seeking out the non-kinky conversations where I could be a normal grownup lady rather than just a spankable bum. I'd sort of decided by this point that I wasn't going to play, not because I absolutely intended not to, but because I'm really bad at saying no, so it was easier to change my mind from No to Yes than the other way round, and this way I wasn't in danger of putting pressure on myself to do something I wasn't comfortable with.
The play started sporadically, the odd brat hauled over a knee for untying shoelaces and generally Asking For It. Abel's girlfriend was very sternly dealt with and made to face the wall, sobbing, which was simultaneously uncomfortable to watch and deeply hot. After dinner Caroline and Rebecca were hauled upstairs by Jessica for a double caning, and made to show their marks to Rev Jenkins. (I took a picture, but I'd rather not post it until I've checked if Rebecca's happy with me doing so.) I took on the role of Resident Lotion Applier, which wasn't just an excuse to fondle Caroline's spanked bottom, honestly. Things hotted up. Pretty soon I felt like the only person there who liked being spanked and hadn't been (although that wasn't true - a couple of the others were abstaining for their own reasons).
Once I'd decided that maybe I did want to be spanked after all, I suddenly remembered how marked I was. I didn't want to parade my bruises in front of the whole house (not out of shyness, but I used to be so attention-seeking I now get paranoid if I think I'm in danger of it) so I dragged Haron upstairs and demanded she give me her expert opinion.
Bending over the edge of their double bed, I raised my skirt and she knelt behind me. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news," she said, tracing the thickening scabs with her fingertip, "But I think you're too damaged."
"I suspected as much," I sighed. "How bad is it?"
"Well, unless the top only hit your thighs and certain areas of your left buttock, it's going to be messy."
So we went back downstairs, and because I was drunk I started whining loudly to anyone who would listen about how ironic it was that earlier I wasn't sure I wanted to play, and now really wanted to, I couldn't. Then I stopped whining because it was annoying. So I sat and fidgeted for a while, and watched HH spanking Kami with a frat paddle that was bigger than she was, and when she'd been well aftercared and there was a gap in the conversation I scooted in next to them and wailed "I want to play! But I don't think I can!"
"So play," grinned Kami with a shrug.
"But I asked Haron and she said I shouldn't!"
"Come on," said HH, "Let's have a look."
So it was, despite my earlier self-consciousness, that I knelt on the sofa and exposed my bruised and scabby bum to the whole room, while HH undertook a detailled "examination". ("For the power of SCIENCE!" I quipped, clearly not knowing what was good for me.)
"Hrm," said HH. "Yes. Yes, I think we can do something with that." I found myself being led upstairs, while HH explained that he was going to use the same tawse on me that he'd previously introduced to Graham, it being reasonably light and unlikely to add to the bruising.
I was kind of dazed as I followed his lead. Drunk, I guess; happy that I was finally playing; resolutely not feeling weird about any of this. We'd played well and deeply before on several occasions, and we'd shared some pretty deep conversations earlier that evening. I was nervous of being tawsed cold and gabbled something about how tawses had made me cry lots on shoots. But I wasn't really scared. I trusted him.
I stretched out on the bed. He was talking in that rich, soothing voice of his. I can't remember what he said but I felt very small. As soon as the first stroke fell I shrieked and suddenly remembered what Haron had said about thighs. None of the strokes were easy; there was no "warm up", although I'm pretty sure he got harder as I got used to it. After the first few I yelled and tossed my head, clinging to the bars of the bed for dear life. I kicked too, and he told me off for that. But it was strange: despite the sharpness of the cold strokes slicing into my vulnerable thighs, the lack of roleplay context to immerse myself in, I never panicked. I never wanted it to stop, I never worried I couldn't take it. I just responded, loudly and vocally and sincerely, with my whole self.
I think I started sobbing after the third or fourth stroke, but I can't really remember. Tears poured down my face. I choked and sniffled and felt bad about getting mascara stains on Haron's bedsheets. But I was totally relaxed. When he told me to stay still, I stayed still. Tears poured out of me, all the restraint of the previous night's play gone. I cried like a little girl. It was wonderful.
Just when I was settling into the rhythm of tears and voice and stinging flashes of pain, just when I was confident I could keep this up, and starting to worry that that meant it wouldn't end for hours, he stopped, apologetically. One of my cuts had reopened and was bleeding. So he went and got a tissue, while I sagged on the bed, wiping my eyes, and then he mopped me up and we mutually exclaimed over the lack of aloe in the house (honestly! what sort of kinky house is this?) before deciding that cocoa butter would do fine. My bottom was cossetted and pampered after its ordeal and so was I, and there was lots of cuddling and it was lovely.
The rest of the party was terribly, terribly drunken, and I won't embarrass myself or others by sharing its secrets.
But that tawsing on my thighs was wicked. I had stripes for two days!
Today my marks are at that itchy, peely stage where I can't scratch it without scabs flaking off. I love me a bruised, welted arse, but scabs are just annoying. This is my last night with D. before I disappear off into the wilds of nature, and I don't want a passionate parting fuck to be spoiled by the flaky scabs from my dalliances with other men. Oh well. I'll just have to distract him. It's amazing what you can do with white kneesocks and a tartan miniskirt.
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