Training To Be A Submissive

January 19, 2010 Daisy, Diary 1 Comment

Sir M is an elite Master in L.A.’s BDSM scene and is training me to be a submissive. After meeting with him and learning his rules of protocol — and imagining the consequences for disobeying them — I agreed to join him for a “play session” (yes, whips and chains and more) the following night at a familiar dungeon party.

I had prior plans to go to a birthday party first, so I wore a fashionably fetishy outfit that I hoped would cross over for the dungeon party. I slipped on a black leather overcoat over a sheer black top, waist cincher, tight silver pencil skirt, garters and opaque black stockings with a swath of fishnet weaving up the back. I then pulled on platform ankle boots that make my legs look impossibly long, and headed out.

My First Dungeon Party With Sir M

I tried deep breathing to fend off nerves. Sir M had warned, “no booze or pot tonight; I want to see how you react when you are sober,” so I had neither of my familiar crutches. He instructed me to meet him at the front of the club at 11:00PM.

When I saw him walk toward me I instinctively smiled and started to say hello, then remembered to look down and not speak. I’m not allowed to address him until I’m spoken to. He was dressed in the standard sadist fashion: black collared shirt, black leather pants, shiny black leather boots. He scanned my outfit. “Hmm… I like mini-skirts with no panties better. But we’ll work with this.”

We walked into large, dimly lit playroom to find a location for our “scene.” About eight other scenes were going on in the room; some people were chatting, others were watching. A foot fetishist lounged in a chair on the periphery getting a foot massage from a woman wearing only a slave chain around her waist. Loud whacks and occasional screams melded with The Crystal Method track blasting from speakers.

Sir M chose a spot-lit corner with a large wooden frame in front of a mirrored wall. He sat in a leather armchair in the dark facing the platform and instructed me to stand in front of him.

“First take off your jewelry, then take off every stitch of clothing. Slowly.”

I am somewhat self-conscious about being naked publicly and I pouted. He agreed to let me keep on my panties — this time — since I asked his permission correctly. I slowly peeled off each layer of clothing, folded it and handed it to him piece by piece. My undressing was not very sexy, in my opinion. But I looked down and he was gazing straight up at me and smiling. I also saw the outline of his hard cock in his leather pants. I could look at that and avoid looking him in the eye.

I am Here For His Pleasure

“Do you know why you’re here?” I didn’t know how to answer and nearly panicked. “You are here for my pleasure. And this is pleasing me very much.”

I was slightly relieved and embarrassed.

Next, he ordered me to stand on the platform facing out, feet shoulder-width apart. This is his favorite stance and it gives him easy access to inspect between my legs if he desires.

He buckled leather cuffs lined with soft red sheepskin around each wrist and chained my hands up to the frame, elbows parallel to shoulders like a bodybuilder’s pose. He grabbed my hair at the crown and then slipped a foam-padded blindfold on over my head. Standing behind me with one arm securely around my chest, he slipped his fingers under my panties and stroked the lips of my vagina. His middle finger darted inside me briefly, checking to see if I was wet.

For a while he left me there: silent, chained and blindfolded. Terror rose in my throat, my skin crawling with goosebumps. What would he do to me? What the hell had I gotten myself into?

Daisy TraLaLA (@DaisyTraLaLA) is a saucy Angelino kinkster who glides with ease between the worlds of tech, art, cuisine, electronica and dungeon parties. Check back every Tuesday for posts from her journey to the most divine surrender.

To Sir With Love

January 12, 2010 Daisy, Diary 2 Comments

My boyfriend/owner (S) and I recently separated and I found myself unowned and uncollared. An old lover showed up soon after for lots of sex, but I still missed S’s loving torture.

And then Sir M entered my life.

A self-described “hedonistic sadist,” Sir M is a highly regarded VIP in the local BDSM scene. He looks for “play partners” (for BDSM play) and has trained many people like me to be submissives or slaves. We traded several e-mails and a friend in the scene gave him a great referral so I felt more comfortable. We agreed to meet and discuss. I’m rather new to this so I had no idea what to expect.

I Met Sir at a family restaurant right off the 405

He sent me precise instructions of where and when to meet him. Finally–a man who can make decisions for me! I love that. I hopped on the 405 to rendezvous at a nondescript family restaurant.

He had instructed me to sit on the bench and wait. This positioned me facing the restaurant, with my back to the parking lot so I couldn’t see who was approaching me. I arrived first, terrified of what punishment I might suffer if I was late. Sir M was coming on the 405 from the opposite direction, and got caught in some traffic. I waited nervously, texting friends and family with double entendre greetings like “sorry I couldn’t call yesterday–I got tied up!” Suddenly I realized He was behind me, trying to read my texts over my shoulder.

We had a “getting to know you” discussion, and then he let me know what I’d be in for if I chose to train with him to be a submissive. The idea is that he would train me and help me look for a new “master,” at which time the new guy would take over. In the meantime I’d be under Sir M’s “protection” and any guy in the scene would have to approach me through him. Also since he pretty much knows everyone, if I see someone I’m interested in, I could ask him to approach the guy. It sounded like an old-fashioned and highly ritualized kinky method of courtship.

Sir M has three basic rules for me

Sir M explained his basic rules of protocol:

  1. When addressing him always begin or end each sentence with “Sir.”
  2. Always walk 1-2 steps behind him on his left side. I become his left hand, opening doors for him, holding things, etc.
  3. Then he looked me straight in the eye and told me his third rule:

  4. NEVER look him in the eye. Look down at his shoulder level.

I immediately snapped my gaze down from his. Talking to someone’s shoulder is a challenge when you’ve been making eye contact all your life. But in being forced to speak that way my character immediately changed–my voice got quieter, my speech less assertive. It did help put me in the submissive mindset.

The hardest thing was to keep from giggling when inserting “Sir” into every sentence. Jumping into this role-playing while at a family restaurant at lunchtime made me feel like a delusional gamer confusing World of Warcraft with real life.

“YOU THINK THAT’S FUNNY?,” he barked when I stifled my giggles into my hand and turned away.

He got up and grabbed my chin, smacked my cheek, and repeated, “YOU THINK THAT’S FUNNY?”

Stunned, I mumbled, “No Sir,” with my eyes fixed on the table. He walked off to the restroom.

My cheek stung and heart pounded. I got my first taste of how it would be in training with Sir M.

Daisy TraLaLA (@DaisyTraLaLA) is a saucy Angelino kinkster who glides with ease between the worlds of tech, art, cuisine, electronica and dungeon parties. Check back every Tuesday for posts from her journey to the most divine surrender.

I <3 Being Owned

January 5, 2010 Daisy, Diary 1 Comment

I love being owned. I submit any time and any place to my lover. In return, I’m disciplined and banged hard with his hand throttling my neck, the way I like it. I was in service to S as his owned and collared pet. Nothing made me happier than to kneel down in front of him, forehead pressed against his taught stomach as he padlocked my collar around my neck. My buttocks stung as they rested on my heels, making me smile, because it reminded me of the bruises left by his riding crop and the power he had over me.

The Collar

The collar signifies that one is property, a possession like a car or house. I had many with S and they looked damn sexy on me, like I was born to be collared. My every-day collar was black leather with a big O ring in the front for easy access so I could be locked up to a cage or torture device. I had a sleep collar made from a delicate but menacing-looking wire cable with a heart-shaped lock. I also had a fancy collar for show, black patent leather with gold trim, purchased at a big leather convention in Texas. I was pampered and well taken care of, as a good pet should be.

The electrifying appeal of completely submitting to a lover as his possession is something I can’t explain rationally but it allows me to worship and respect my lover for being able to conquer me. There’s a certain amount of objectification that goes along with it, where I become a walking fucktoy for him. As a feminist, I know in theory this is all politically incorrect and wrong on many levels, but that just makes it hotter. As S’s pet I was perpetually sexually charged and satisfied in a way I’ve rarely experienced in my many years.

Backtrack

By now you are doubtless wondering what kind of person I am and how I got to this point. You may know me and not realize it. In daily life I’m strong-willed and assertive; I bend to no one. I am a self-made business owner and former corporate executive, head of family, role model, trend-setter, mentor, good neighbor. I was respectably married once to a man we’ll call C. My ex-husband, a deeply brooding repressed intellectual, was controlling in some ways but acquiescent in others. I became increasingly sexually frustrated as his chronic melancholy snuffed his libido and we drifted apart. Eventually the power balance shifted to me and I came to resent him for it. He seemed less manly if I could call the shots.

It played out in this way: I got swept up into a madly passionate affair with H, a young, hot, sexually evolved man with a beautiful cock and many lovers. He reawakened my sluttiness and taught me the divine ecstasy of complete surrender. He owned my pussy and dictated who and when I could fuck or if I could even look at another guy, including my husband. I’d never been happier. H would greet me at his door showered, shaved, cock hard, ready to toss me over his shoulder and slam me on the bed and fuck me mercilessly. I always screamed loud and hard with orgasms that seemed to last for hours and nearly rattle the windows out of their frames. I’d return home giddy, cheeks flushed.

After about a half year of that the passion died down a bit and reality made it difficult to continue at that level. I went back to being the dutiful but sexually-repressed wife, living for the next tryst with H. Always wanting to be dominated, again–in that way.

I met S online

S came into my life nearly a decade later, long after my divorce. We met through a “vanilla” dating site, not a place for kinky people. He wrote me a very sweet note and I read his profile. Divorced, devoted dad. Scientist. Avid cyclist. Good cook. Tattooed. And a BDSM enthusiast. Wow! I hit the jackpot!

He romanced me slowly. I encouraged him to write me explicit emails detailing his plans for me and seducing me with his intimate knowledge of the BDSM lifestyle. On our third date, he wore leather pants and a tight shiny black t-shirt that made him look cruelly handsome. It was tight enough that I could make out the silhouette of his nipple piercings underneath. He chomped on my neck all night in such a way as to leave no mark but make biting sensations that lingered for days.

With those lingering bites, my pussy throbbed and I ached to have him throw me against a wall and penetrate me deeply. He fully owned me. I became his pet.

Being a Pet

My duties as a pet were to give him love, companionship, and serve him sexually in whatever ways he might want (all within the bounds of prior negotiation). I could be caged, chained up by the collar, lovingly tortured. The collar was my uniform signifying that I was “on duty” to him. Wearing it transformed me into what I believe was the embodiment of femininity–soft, sweet and surrendering with no hard edges. Once it was locked on, I shifted gears from being the one in charge to happily relinquishing all control.

I wore the collar at home with him at all times and also at kink events, where S liked to show me off on a leash (which made me feel humiliated, thrilled and turned on all at once). A few times I nearly wore it to a suburban supermarket or Target because he was gone for the day and I couldn’t find the key. Or I’d just forgotten I was wearing it. The collar signified our private world.

When S grabbed me by the ring on the collar and dragged me to the bedroom, I went limp with pleasure.

Erotic Torture

Our dynamic was one of bondage and discipline (B&D), not hard core sadomasochism. Some members of the BDSM community follow stringent rules in a master-slave relationship but we scoffed at such conformity. B&D is less about pain and more about the dominant/submissive relationship. It’s about restraining the submissive in some way, either physically or emotionally, and then ‘training’ them to behave in certain ways (to paraphrase Jay Wiseman in SM 101). There is some light S&M involved, but we consider it erotic torture.

I am not a masochist. I crave intense sensations. I love the rush of getting into a nearly scalding hot bath or biting into Thai food laced with super-hot chilies. S explored harnessing these intense sensations, as there are different kinds of pain to distinguish and much of it has to do with context. Our “torture sessions” were about pushing boundaries and embracing more creative forms of eroticism. S was calculated and thoughtful when giving me erotic pain.

Pampering Me

Like any good master, S took good care of his possessions, including me. He often surprised me with creative gifts like fancy collars and nipple clamps. He ordered an electrical stimulation device made by a medical supply company and adhered the stimulating pads to the outside lips of my vagina to give me some loving torture. He loved fiddling with those controls like a mad scientist. With every whipping, there were interludes of tender caresses and kisses.

If I arrived at his house wearing panties I was punished. Of course, I loved the punishment so sometimes I would taunt him by wearing panties. Ouch! Our role-play sessions were our kinky foreplay, always culminating with hot sex. A spanking and whipping session made me my juices gush more than any tongue-to-clit action. Crazy love, that’s what it was for me. Cuffs, gags, ropes, nipple clamps were all instruments of pleasure. The brushing of his nipple piercings against mine with a clank of stainless steel, the flash of his pierced tongue as he fucked me–it made my nipples pop up even more erect and propelled me into intense shivering waves of ecstasy. My body continued to quake long after he had finished.

His Hobby is Building Dungeon Furniture

S prided himself in his woodwork. Sometimes the spanking horse was set up for me in his office when I came over. With my collar, hands and feet locked to it he could efficiently whack my behind with a paddle, cane, crop or his bare hand. Another advantage of his spanking horse design was that it positioned me at the right height for him to have his way with me as he pleased. He could stuff his cock in my mouth or walk around me and spank some more.

He called another homemade torture device of his own design “the trap.” It incorporated a set of medieval stocks with an upright v-shaped construction for the legs. He had this and many more devices, which he kept disassembled and hidden far in the back of his suburban garage.

My Screams Turned Him On

In me, S found an open-minded and willing subject for his experiments. I am quite vocal and he would get incredibly turned on by all the noises I made–the little whimpers, gasps, screams and louder cries. Part of my enjoyment was the glorious release of being able to scream and let everything go like that, whether I am getting tortured or fucked.

In being owned I found liberation because I could at last completely be myself. When I am in a safe place with him I could shut off the conscious mind and reach a realm of nirvana akin to Tantric sex. The spanking might hurt the physical body but it propels me into a mind space where I just want more. I’d arch my buttocks up to receive the strike of the riding crop sooner and focus all my being on its reverberations. I’d writhe around, digging the ropes deeper into the flesh of my wrists but I didn’t care. The rope marks look nice afterward.

And so I’d find myself there again, cleaning up his entire kitchen just for fun, wearing nothing but my collar, a little sheer apron and high heels. The act of service showed my devotion to him even if he never acknowledged it. And it made me wet. I never bother to ponder the question, “why does an intelligent, desirable woman like me revel in being owned like a slave?”

Why, indeed! To serve is the purest form of love.

Daisy TraLaLA (@DaisyTraLaLA) is a saucy Angelino kinkster who glides with ease between the worlds of tech, art, cuisine, electronica and dungeon parties. She’s currently unowned and uncollared. The image used in this post is from Daisy TralaLA.

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Sex and the 405 is what your newspaper would look like if it had a sex section.

Here you’ll find news about the latest research being conducted to figure out what drives desire, passion, and other sex habits; reviews of sex toys, porn and other sexy things; coverage of the latest sex-related news that have our mainstream media's panties up in a bunch; human interest pieces about sex and desire; interviews with people who love sex, or hate sex, or work in sex, or work to enable you to have better sex; opinion pieces that relate to sex and society; and the sex-related side of celebrity gossip. More...