Aw yeah, I started a tumblr: http://domme-chronicles.tumblr.com/.
“But why, Ferns?”
Well you might ask.
For the gaping void between ‘a proper blog post’ and ’140 chars on twitter’ in which I am left flailing on my own with no social media into which to throw every passing thought. And because sometimes I just want to go “Look, LOOK!!”. Also, porn.
So if you are a tumblrarian, tell me who you are: I will follow the fuck out of you!
Also, I wanted to put this ear worm out there because if it bugs me, it has to bug you also.
The slightly awkward hello of strangers. A few words to reiterate the rules. A blindfold slipped over his head. I held his hand in my lap while I took off my shoes. I kissed his fingers, his palms, gently stroking his bare skin, easing into this intimate contact.
He offered to be bound, told me there was ‘stuff’ in the drawer. There was: collar, cuffs, and a clip. No rope. I bound one of his wrists to the bed frame using both cuffs. He started giving me instructions on where to find rope. I stopped him.
“I’m sure if I told you to just keep your other hand there, you’d do it because I told you to.”
“How did you know?”
Soft, tender, barely there kisses, floated gently onto his cheeks, his eyes, his forehead, the corners of his mouth. He didn’t reach for me, he waited. Let me explore at my own pace. Accepting my attention.
Him lying below me in the dark while I crawled all over him like some feral cat. On this side of him, then that, crouching on him, sitting on him, my knees tight up against my chest curled over him, towering over him straight legged and bending right down to get to his mouth, my weight supported on my arms, moving, shifting, restless, relentless.
Violent snarling mouths smashing against each other, clashing teeth, biting his tongue, his lips. Using painful force against him. He winced and made sounds of surrender as I went harder and harder against him. I could feel his relief when I stopped, both of us breathing hard, looking at each other. Then he reached back into it for more over and over again.
The wonder at his lips, surprisingly full and amazingly soft. Perhaps a little swollen by the time I paid them close attention. So fucking soft. Slightly freckled, or maybe I imagined that.
My knees on either side of his head as I crouched on him, I felt like I was growling, waiting there to get the aggression under control. He turned his face and reached to land gentle kisses on each of my knees. The sweetness, oh.
I felt myself wanting all of it, everything at once, which is a feeling I love and miss madly. I tried to be gentle with him, but it felt like he invited me in, I felt it vibrating between us. I wondered if I was imagining it, if I was making it up, if I was wrong. I wasn’t wrong.
“Please hurt me more…”
I don’t know where it came from: Curiosity and a desire to give me what I wanted, something, I don’t even know.
“You’ll bruise,” I warned him quietly.
“Whatever you want,” he said.
I repeated myself.
“Anything you want, it’s up to you,” he reiterated before I went for his neck again.
His entire body jerking spasmodically from pain for long seconds after I stopped. I wanted to make it happen again, I was afraid I wanted it too much. That it was all too much. Guh. Hot.
Overwhelmed by his beauty in those moments when I felt that connection, when he gave me what I wanted, when he felt opened up to me.
“You are so beautiful,” I said.
A truth, plainly stated with wonder and awe.
I gripped him by the throat to move his head to where I wanted it, my fingers curled around his jugular, pressure on his jaw, his adams apple shifting under my palm.
“I like your hand around my throat,” he said when I released his mouth and let him breathe.
“I’m going to head off soon,” I whispered into his ear.
He pulled me against him into a strong tight hug and held me there for a few minutes. A different kind of connection.
I gave him goodbye kisses, soft, gentle, rather chaste. He accepted them patiently as I gave him a last one over and over. I kept thinking, “Just one more, just one…”
I saw him recognise my hunger rising again even before I grabbed the back of his neck to bring him to me more forcefully, his smile was already forming before I made the move.
He laughed. “Woah, steady on.”
I laughed also. “Shut up.”
He offered to show me his holy-fuck-beautiful-eyes properly, in the light, before I left.
He turned his face into the only light in the room, watching me.
“Don’t look at me, look into the light!”
He did, he smirked, and he waited.
Light and bright with enough colour to be piercing: stunning electric sky-blue.
Holy fuck, beautiful eyes.
My last vanilla ex was my longest term relationship. I talk about him quite a bit on twitter.
He is a wonderful man: attractive, smart, attentive, sweet. He is my closest friend.
Relationship-wise, he puts most self identified submissive men to shame with his behaviour. We had known each other via a common circle of friends for some time before we dated. On our second date, he brought me a gift of towels because I had been to his place and had commented on his amazingly soft and gorgeous bath towels. I never thought a thing of the comment I made: An observation in passing, idle chat. And yet there he was with this gift.
His habit of listening, paying attention, and acting on what he saw and heard because he thought it would make me happy was a fundamental cornerstone of our relationship. I would find books that I mentioned under my pillow a week after we talked about it, he would ask my mother for my favourite recipes so that he could make them for me, he would pay attention and deliver on things that he knew would make me happy. It was the stuff of romance, the actions of a man in love, and I was lucky to be on the receiving end of it. Even now, he brings me home made treats that he knows I will like, rings me up to tell me there is a television show on that I would enjoy, invites me over to eat amazing cooking experiments that he is trying out.
Today we went for lunch, and we breached a barrier that we never have: He told me he’d been on a date.
This might seem like a small thing, but it wasn’t. Since we split up, we haven’t talked at all about our personal lives, our relationships. It seemed like a thing that was off limits. For me it was because I ended it with him, and talk of seeing other men seemed a step too far into the hurt that I’d caused. For him, I suspect there was a hope that we might reconcile for some time, so if he dated, he didn’t want to mention it and destroy that possibility.
Today when he blurted it out over lunch, a little awkward and shy, along with a tentative happiness for him, I felt a kind of relief. It’s not about her or how it will go with them, it’s about the simple fact that he shared it with me at all. It feels like a step that we should have taken a long time ago, but didn’t, or couldn’t, or something. Having said that, I am a selfish person, so I also felt a pre-emptive sense of loss over the attention that I have enjoyed from him for so long.
So today we stepped over a line that we should have stepped over a long time ago. Then we had more wine. We wandered some shops. We sat on a balcony overlooking the street and people-watched. He cajoled me into trying on some brightly patterned skinny jeans that he tried to convince me to buy. We bought some frozen Japanese food from an Asian shop. He nodded approvingly over a new dress that I bought.
I am lucky to have him in my life.
And so, life goes on.
Edited to add: Today, a day after I wrote the above, he arrived on my doorstep to deliver the brightly patterned skinny jeans that I tried on and didn’t buy. He drove back down to the shop and back (45 minutes each way) to get them, and then offered them up as a gift. Just because he thought they were awesome on me, and I should have them. Seriously: Some woman should snap him up.
Oddly, I haven’t felt like writing about it. I feel a little like I’m hugging it to myself, quietly turning it over and petting it.
Let me say this, though: Three hours of kissing with a completely lovely vanilla man who called me ‘Ma’am’, who invited me to tie him up, who let me hurt him and asked for more, who was responsive and crazy-hot under the onslaught, who was beautiful prey for me.
Yes. Yes please.
Kissing date. A-1. Would do again.
Edited to add: Those eyes: holy fuck, beautiful! Truly stunning.
I didn’t want to talk about this until it was a SURE THING. Because, well, you know.
But since I’m posting this as I walk out the door to meet him, unless he’s a no show (he won’t be), fuck yeah, kissing date!
Holy-fuck-beautiful-eyes kept in casual touch after cancelling our kissing date (as he said pointedly to me, he DID offer dinner and a chat instead to which I replied that that’s like offering a nice salad with low fat dressing to someone who was expecting a roomful of chocolate).
We exchanged a few innocuous friendly emails that moved outside of OK Cupid after the bitter bitter disappointment. I gave him my ferns AT domme-chronicles DOT com address figuring it didn’t matter if he found my blog (he did) because the possibility of kissing had passed, so he wouldn’t be influenced by it either way.
Fast forward some 10 days, and his budding new relationship had fallen over. He put the kissing date back on the table (in a rather unappealing, knee-jerk-reaction-to-hurt kind of way, I have to say). I said no thanks to that, but since he had handled the situation previously so well and had kept in touch after the fact, I was happy to start talking about it again.
I told him he would have to work harder to re-ignite my interest after my disappointment. That once I am disappointed, I draw a line under it and close the door. That I rarely give people the opportunity to disappoint me twice.
He stepped up with his considerable charm, and I was drawn in and charmed by it. We click in a way that I don’t often feel. I enjoy him a lot.
I felt that same pull that I felt before from our correspondence. That… something. I can’t put my finger on what it is, I just feel some inexplicable visceral connection with him that makes me WANT, and that’s so very rare for me.
There was a ridiculously tiny window of opportunity for this kissing date. A bit sooner than I would have liked, but I didn’t want to miss the chance to explore it, and him.
So tonight: Kissing date mark II.
As I write this, I’m antsy and restless, cycling up a spiky aggressive energy for it.
I can hardly fucking wait.
My friend and I walked the sandy path to the beach. There in the shade, we passed a couple.
She was talking animatedly on the phone, leaning casually up against the walkway railing.
He was kneeling before her, undoing the shoelaces of her right sneaker, obviously taking her shoes off for her.
We exchanged friendly smiles.
My friend nodded at the man at her feet.
“That’s some fine service you’re getting there,” he said.
Her face brightened into a wide smile, she glanced down, she nodded.
I was going to write a post pontificating about this, as I tend to do, and then I thought I’d ask you all instead of blathering on about it from my own point of view.
For both submissives and dominants:
In your relationship, what happens when the submissive disobeys?
For the purposes of this question, I am using the word ‘disobey’ to mean ‘to refuse or fail to follow an order or rule.’ Not an accident, not a mistake, no unavoidable circumstances. Plain old disobedience.
If you haven’t got any experience to draw on because you are new, that’s fine, just talk about what your expectations are.
I’m particularly interested in hearing from submissives on this.
I look forward to hearing your thoughts!