I’ve been Sir M’s only trainee for nearly the first six months. He’s rejected many training requests from other submissives — often because he doesn’t think they’re serious, or they are looking for a boyfriend Dom.

“I choose my trainees, they don’t choose me!”

When I was out of town a few months back he started playing with a new partner, a beautiful younger fetish model named G. He began formally training her three or four weeks ago.

He didn’t say a word about it to me — I found out by reading it on the social networking website we all belong to. That was painful — I felt left out, pushed out. But my training continued as usual.

Sir M has often said that when he makes decisions, it doesn’t matter what I think or feel.

“I am going to do what I please, WHEN I please, and how I please, and YOU have NOTHING to say about it.”

Attitude adjustment

It was distressing to suddenly be last week’s news and not the special one any more, but I also realized it was inevitable. So I made an attitude adjustment. The best way for me to serve Sir M and make the best of the situation would be to welcome her and form a friendship with her.

I liked G immediately. She’s smart and unpretentious. G is astonishingly beautiful but seems unaware of her effect on people. In general I’m pretty secure with myself and not a jealous person. It’s something that is a benefit of the maturity I’ve gained at my age. This girl would probably intimidate the hell of any other female sub in our social circles, but I’m used to having stunning female friends around me.

The beginning of a beautiful friendship

A careful alliance started between she and I. She was always friendly and respectful to me. We’d commiserate each week about how hard Sir M whipped us, or shared tips on where to buy good fishnet stockings.

After one particularly brutal session with Sir M, she lay in a heap on the floor with his PAIN jacket spread over her naked body. She’s very curvy, like a pin-up girl and I love that kind of old-fashioned figure. Her butt is the type you can’t help but grab — a perfect handful.

He told me to go cuddle her and help with aftercare. I stroked her thick hair, unruly from thrashing around when she was restrained and being flogged. We kissed softly and saw camaraderie in each other’s eyes.

She looked frightened and worn out.

It’s nothing personal

“Why is he being so mean tonight and beating us so hard?”

I remembered thinking the exact same thing many months ago after a hard beating from Sir M. It was the night I almost quit training.

“Because he’s a perverted sadist!”

We both cracked up and rolled around a little. I glanced over at Sir M, sitting in his leather armchair and watching us. I’m sure he wondered how the mood had gone from grim to hilarious so quickly.

“Don’t worry, baby,” I told her. “He’s just a heavy player and likes to go hard some times. It’s nothing personal.”

Her eyes widened. I wished I could download all the information I’ve leaned in the last six months into her brain.

Like a big sister with benefits

We smiled at each other and giggled. She was just lovely. I was happy to stay in this embrace at length. I sensed her emotional fragility and responded by wanting to nurture and take care of her. I thought perhaps I could be like a big sister, to help her navigate the intense emotional transformation and revelations she would be encountering on the road ahead.

I’d wished someone had been there for me like that as I have been going through the frightful journey of surrender with Sir M.

Sir M finally strolled over to see what he was missing.

“What’s so funny?”

I answered, “Sir, we were just talking about what a badass sadist you are!”

We giggled again. Sir M has a good sense of humor too and I thought I saw him stifle a laugh. He had to keep his intimidating sadist persona intact. He sat down with us and we all chatted comfortably. Judging by the bulge in his leather pants, he liked seeing us together.

The first kiss

“Kiss her,” Sir M ordered.

I obeyed. Kissing a girl like that is intoxicating. My heart expanded in my chest and beat forcefully.

We groped and explored each other, wrapping legs around each other. Sir M grinned in delight. Our fingers ended up inside each other and soon we were both writhing and moaning with pleasure.

After we had exhausted ourselves we sat by Sir M in his armchair and hugged him. That group hug was warm and comforting and magical. Energy swirled between the three of us counterclockwise. I was sure it emanated from Sir M because he is such a powerful fount of pleasure energy.

A beautiful dynamic was blooming between the three of us.

“This is wonderful!” Sir M exclaimed. We both nodded, soaking in the splendor of the moment.

I thought back to six months ago when I started training with Sir M and said I’d absolutely never consider a poly relationship. Now I was rethinking that idea.

Rather than focusing on the drawback as I had before, I could see all the benefits of a poly relationship. Being in an intimate relationship with more than one person means you get to experience more, and have more than one person caring for you, and whom you can care for, in a special way. Getting the right dynamic can be tricky, but when it’s there it can be amazingly positive for everyone involved.

We stayed up late, not wanting to part from each other. But eventually she and I hit a wall of extreme fatigue and it was time to go home.

When we walked her to her car, I commented, “Oh you still have his play collar on from your scene.”

They looked at each other in some complicit agreement I wasn’t privy to, and neither said a word. Then I realized he was already giving her his collar after only a short period of training. In my case it took over five months.

I felt my stomach constrict when I drove home and woke up to my first experience of sub-drop, a depression that comes on for many subs the day after BDSM play. I didn’t recognize it as that at the time, but knew it wasn’t a good place to be. The next week for me was rough and glorious at the same time.

(To be continued next Tuesday…)

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 week for posts from her journey to the most divine surrender.

I’ve been bad. I deserve to be punished. So I lie in a dog’s cage naked, on my side with legs curled up, pondering my transgression.

I’m wearing only the chain leash attached to my rhinestone-studded collar, and a thick blindfold. Sir M sits on the other side of the room in an office chair, listening to some music and ignoring me.

So this is how it’s going to be today.

I haven’t been put in a cage before. I’m a restless soul and dread the idea of being locked up for more than a few minutes. I have no idea how long I’ll be left here. Will I be allowed to use the restroom if I need to? What if I were claustrophobic?

Some time passes and not a peep out of Sir M, at least not after he initially dragged me by the leash into the cage and scolded me like a bad dog.

I have resigned myself to spending the day here in penance.

I fucked up

My goal in life is to serve Sir M. I try to serve him well and obey his orders. But this time I fucked up.

“Tell me what you did wrong Saturday night,” he bellowed in a steely cold voice.

I run through the events of last Saturday night in my head over and over.

“I failed to execute your orders properly in trying to locate Mistress E,” I whimpered.

“That’s right. That was a violation of service — tantamount to lying.”

His voice cut right through me. My joy in being with him turned to gloom.

“And what is the worst part?”

I thought carefully about how to answer this rhetorical question.

“That I didn’t complete the task I was given?”

He answered in a louder, angry voice.

“The worst thing you did was to disappoint me.”

Discipline

My heart sunk. I hated myself at that moment.

I tried not to cry and my left lip twitched. I get a slight facial tick when I am upset and can’t say what I want to say. But I knew there was no point in making any excuses.

He had called attention to my mistake on Saturday night but didn’t punish me. I thought I’d gotten off easy.

Some Doms delight in setting their subs up with impossible tasks, knowing that they will fail, so they can administer punishment. But Sir M doesn’t seem to be one of those Doms.

He says he doesn’t enjoy punishing me. It’s a lot of work for him, and I’m usually sullen and no fun to play with afterwards.

I don’t know if he has a master strategy in disciplining me, or if he just follows whims. Sometimes punishment is delayed. I never know if or when it will come. But his behavior modifications are effective.

No small mistakes

On Sunday Mistress E had pulled me aside at a party and explained why my mistake was so egregious.

“You didn’t search hard enough for me, and in saying that you didn’t see me, you gave Sir M potentially false information,” Mistress E explained. “Based on that, he could have assumed I’d already gone home, and then left without me. It could have been disastrous.”

It was a simple enough order he gave me, to find her at the dungeon party where she was most likely doing an SM scene in another room. The location has a number of rooms that connect in different ways.

Some doors were closed and I didn’t want to enter. There might be private (i.e., sex) scenes going on that shouldn’t be interrupted. I tried to peek in windows, and asked someone sitting in an outer patio. He had seen her take her toy bag and go somewhere to play. So I knew she was there. But I didn’t see her where I expected to.

I came to a back room and a submissive man was peering through the window in the door and completely blocking the doorway. His bare penis poked out from the tights he wore.

Male submissives like that make me extremely uncomfortable. It seems like such a waste of a man! But I had to interact with him to get in the room.

I stepped into the room, glanced around quickly, and saw three scenes going on. I darted back past the submissive man and couldn’t wait to get out of there.

Apparently I didn’t look carefully enough because later I learned that Mistress E was in that room, involved in one of the scenes. The female sub she was playing with had lost a lot of weight and so I didn’t recognize her naked body chained to the cross. Mistress E may have had her head down, searching through her toy bag.

Mistress E is Sir M’s partner, also a Dominant. She expects subs to be extremely service-oriented. That has not been my strong suit — I’m used to having people work for me. But I’m trying to learn how to be of service as a sub.

“When you carry out an order you need to think outside the box if there isn’t an easy solution,” Mistress E explained. “You will have to move heaven and earth if that’s what it takes to get it done. No excuses.”

I understood her point and wondered why I’d been in such a hurry to try and find her. I should have been more thorough. I felt badly.

“I’m sorry Ma’am. It won’t happen again,” I said. Then I tucked into a second plate of BBQ and enjoyed the party. I thought that was the end of that topic.

Release

I clutch the pillow that was graciously left for me in the cage. I am weeping and the blindfold is saturated with my tears.

Finally I hear the cage clank open and feel Sir M yank the leash and lead me roughly, on all fours, down a hallway. He pulls off my blindfold and I see the toilet.

I have a small freak out, imagining that he is going to dunk my head in the toilet. However, he tells me to sit on it.

He leaves the door open so I have no personal privacy.

I sit and pee, feeling humiliated. My head slumps down.

He drags me back to the other room and removes the leash.

“Alright, I have decided not to punish you any further. You are lucky!”

I quickly reply, “THANK YOU SIR!”

I expected that he would beat the hell out of me and leave me in the cage for two or three hours, but he didn’t… this time.

Public humiliation

“You are ordered to write about this for Sex and the 405! I want you to share what you did so everyone will know how badly you fucked up.”

That is an order I have to obey — I will make no mistakes after narrowly escaping heinous punishment.

As soon as I left there I started to draft this story.

Spending my day off in a cage for any length of time is not my idea of a good time. Admitting my stupid mistake publicly is humiliating and painful. But knowing that I disappointed Sir M is the worst punishment of all. I hope I will not fuck up again.

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 week for posts from her journey to the most divine surrender

I read it, and I wanted to cry. So I started drinking water quickly to push it down. It doesn’t really matter.

I know you loved me more than anything. You taught me that the only way to love is unconditionally. You explained so much. I argued even when I knew you were right because that is how I was. That is how I am. You told me your heart is on the left.

Too selfish, these tears. I’m thinking of Guadalajara and those classes. How much easier it was for me, how little I understood about everything. We drank everyday. We went to a club called Osiris on the last day of school and we danced, heavy with beer and tequila. I can’t remember the name of the guy we traveled with afterward but I have photos. Our bus climbed twisted and scary roads until we were at the top of a grassy hill and the air was crisp and dry. It didn’t feel like Mexico until we saw the parade and la virgen held high on a wooden platform painted light blue and gold.

We stayed cheaply, all in the same room. There was cracked green tile everywhere and roaches in the shower. I remember the smell of sweat, fried gorditas at a stand, masa being rolled into tortillas. And over and under and through everything this thick unrelenting passion fueled by alcohol, grief and that painful, sharp need scraping the inside of my stomach. There was hunger motivating everything I did. And I missed daddy so much. That was there, too.

You couldn’t replace that love but you tried. I tried. I wanted everything. I wanted to fuck the guy we were traveling with. I wanted you totally and unconditionally and forever and I didn’t want to have to do anything.

We went on a trip with the rest of our class, somewhere on the coast where the mosquitoes were thick and children sold us pepinos with lime and chile through the bus windows. Drunk, you stood on the bed and sliced your back on the blades of the fan but you said it didn’t hurt. The mosquitoes never bit me. Your arms and legs were spotted and scabbed and bleeding. We found relief in that warm ocean. I never wanted to get out.

I still never want to get out.

Later or earlier, in another coastal town, we met that old ruddy gringo who had moved there. He found a local named Soledad and a little house with peeling paint and sandy grass in front. He spent his days catching and cooking fish over coals on the beach and drinking and staying in love with Soledad. There were pigs running wild on that beach. I have those photos, too.

I miss you so much right now. It’s only been twenty years. Like I miss drinking, or my father. Like a limb, or a ventricle.

Nikki Thomas was born and raised in Los Angeles. She was a straight A student who couldn’t follow the rules and spent as much time in the principal’s office as in the library. At university she opted not to join a sorority and instead filled her free time cruising Hollywood bars and parties, hooking up and getting down. Nikki is a bad girl with a heart of gold. These are her stories — consider it our Monday treat for you.

Sir M laid down the floggers he’d just used on my back. I was blindfolded and chained up on the Saint Andrew’s cross. The sounds of chatter drifted in through the window but inside the purple room was fairly silent. I breathed deeply to prepare mentally and physically for the next round of beatings. The pause went on longer than usual and I detected some muffled conversation on the other side of the room.

I felt what seemed to be a satin ribbon gliding along my shoulder blades. The intensity increased very gradually but felt deceptively soft.

Baffled, I called out: “Sir?” a few times.

“No… It’s not Sir M,” a female voice behind me responded.

It was Mistress E, a highly skilled Domme and Sir M’s life partner.

Mistress E is petite but has a strong presence. She is a powerful force in a small package.

She doesn’t typically play with female subs and has only played with me briefly once before, together with Sir M. This was an unusual treat.

The intensity of her warm-up continued at the same gradual pace. The ribbon sensation heightened and felt like a soft patch of lambskin brushing my back. It became stronger and more focused with each stroke, yet still deliciously mysterious.

As the strokes intensified I felt more precise and sharp landing points. Each was placed with perfect symmetry.

Aha! She was using the singletail whip. Mistress E is considered an expert singletailer, having trained under a top practitioner.

I had only witnessed one or two scenes of a sub being whipped with the singletail up to that point, but was terrified of it anyway.

The singletail whip is an object of awe in the BDSM world. In the wrong hands it can slice a body in two. Few Doms use the singletail for it takes a great deal of practice and training to use it properly. When a Dom or Domme uses the singletail as well as Mistress E, crowds will gather to watch.

I was curious to know what she was doing and what it looked like. At the same time, being blindfolded helped me relax into it and not let terror get the best of me.

I sensed that her feet were planted firmly on the floor and upper body held taut and still, because I heard no movement. The only sound was of her breathing. That also meant she was fairly close to me so she had to be using a shorter whip.

The lashes became stronger and had a slight sting to them. Sir M had given me a long gradual warm up just prior to this so I was in an optimum state to process these sensations.

My breath deepened to help deflect the pain. At each point of contact I imagined the pain spreading out and dissipating, and quickly exiting my body through the crown of my head.

Instead of tensing up as I often do, I flowed with my breath. It calmed my body and mind. I felt floaty and detached from the sensations happening to me.

I got into sync with her rhythm and felt elated. I was vaguely aware of making ecstatic groans and mewing like a kitten.

“I think we have a convert!” Mistress E said. “She is loving this singletail! What happened to the screamer with no pain tolerance?”

I smiled and my eyes rolled back in my head. My body was languid and completely relaxed.

Then all extraneous sounds in the room melted away, except for the amplified tone of her steady deep breathing. Her breath sounded extremely feminine but full of determination.

I exited my body and felt at one with her. Pain bounced right off of me.

Once I broke through the wall of pain, I was flying!

The experience seemed like something I’ve watched in sci-fi movies: treading through a thick barrier of a dense gelatinous substance and arriving at an altered reality on the other side. I was in subspace.

Waves of sharp pleasure radiated molecule by molecule throughout my body from each kiss of the singletail.

The lashes intensified but it didn’t matter. I was riding her wave like an ecstatic surfer. I leaned back and smiled harder.

Eventually she cooled down and stopped.

My only thought was– stopping? Already?

That rapturous state brought about from all the endorphins released during this play stayed with me for several days. It was divine! I was proud of myself for learning to endure and enjoy the pain, proud that I’d overcome my fear of the whip.

I was seduced by the kiss of Mistress E’s singletail whip.

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 week for posts from her journey to the most divine surrender.

“I could lie here and hold you all weekend, listen to you moan over and over, and then just lie here and hold you until they send the dogs in to find us,” Lucas whispered as I nestled my face into his sweaty neck. Both of us inhaling each other and exhaling our history in perfect syncopation.

I clearly have a hard time staying away from this man, but I’m no longer fighting it.  When we merge, we merge.  When we part, we part.  The parting is never for too long.  All our circles and triangles keep us coming back for more.  We’re in an endless game of chess, Lucas and I.  I know when to let him win, and he knows when to let me lose.

“We’re not ever going to have any closure are we?” I asked him.

“Fuck closure,” he said.  ”Why are you always trying to end things before they happen?”

It’s funny he should ask that question because I’ve been wondering the same thing for the last 30 years.  Lucas and I can’t be together.  We tried once.  Well, I tried once while he pretended to try.  And now…now I just enjoy the time we spend together when we’re in the moment.  I used to view this time as a crutch, like it was holding me back from meeting my one true love (whatever the hell that means.) But now I see my time with Lucas as a sweet surrender to the two of us helping each other heal from old war wounds, the secret ones that are revealed when we try to hide them most.

But I do often end things before they happen.  Since the last time I wrote in this diary, I’ve met Randy (the teen flick) and Kelley (Mr. New).  Randy is undeniably beautiful, talented and conflicted.  I suppose most men who are about to have a baby with someone they’re not in love with are.  We’ve gone out twice, and we’ve shared a lot.  I want nothing more than to enjoy his company, as I’m not looking for anything serious.  I should stay away, but something compels me to continue the game.  It’s like I need to help him through his conflict, in order to help myself get over something I’m holding onto (or something.)  We’re like a couple of teenagers when we’re together.  He reminds me that I’m still innocent, even though there’s nothing innocent about our relationship.

I was already feeling brand new the night I met Kelley, Mr. New.  Elegant sparks danced in the fireplace of that dark sexy swanky downtown speakeasy, where we shared our first mojito.  Kelley’s an engineer like my dad and an artist like so many of my loves.  He’s vibrant and high octane like Christian, the Golden Boy. I haven’t found anything wrong with him yet, which always makes me suspicious.  We’re having dinner this week.  I’m going to try to not end something before it happens, which means I need to stop looking for “wrong” things about him.  Wish me luck.

But until then, I’m in Lucas’s arms.  While sitting underneath the stars on the beach last night, he stroked my collar bone and kissed my ear.  Our friends, who don’t approve of us being in such close proximity, were off  in the distance dancing under the moon to the music of an ethereal ghost.

“So what’s next?” he asked as the ghost crooned ‘oh la la.’  Are we gonna close this deal?”

“Nah. Fuck closure.”

As you might have guessed, my sexual fantasies involve some very dirty things, and phone sex never made that list. I mean, jerking off to a girl’s voice? Isn’t that for people who are addicted to 900 numbers? Those perverts.

It wasn’t until a few years into my exploration of BDSM when tele-eroticism suddenly became interesting, not as a goal but as an effective solution to a tricky set of challenges.

When I first started playing with Morgan, a tall 20-year-old athlete at UCSD, she had no experience as a submissive and no confidence in her ability to delay her orgasm for as long as I might require. Due to the distance and our busy schedules, I had to think of ways to keep her challenged between sessions, especially in the area of orgasm control.

Orgasm control and you

Unlike vanilla sex, where the goal is usually to climax quickly and often, a well-trained submissive is always focused on pleasing her Dom. The amount of pleasure or pain she receives is entirely up to him, and it usually depends on how well she fulfills her sole purpose of giving pleasure rather than receiving it. Since the orgasms she’s allowed to experience tend to be quite a bit more intense than the vanilla variety, they can be an extremely effective training tool — but only if they can be fully controlled.

I’ll never forget the time I watched a friend’s amazingly well-trained dog balance a chunk of red meat on its nose for several minutes, salivating and whimpering, until her master finally signaled her to flip it up and catch it in her mouth. I was awed by this demonstration of perfect obedience and discipline, and I aim for the human equivalent with every sub I play with. For me, this means teaching her to ask for permission, hold her orgasm until I decide she’s earned it, beg only when instructed, thank me while she cums, and thank me more formally when she’s finished.

Taking the reins

Morgan faced one major roadblock on her path to successful orgasm control: she was incredibly horny. As far as I could tell, her day basically consisted of class, homework, swimming practice, and flicking the bean. Since the goal of masturbation is to climax as soon as possible so you can get back to being productive — exactly the opposite of what I was trying to teach her — this posed a major problem. Even if I saw her once a week, how could the five or six orgasms I made her hold possibly compete with the other forty or fifty times she’d practice the wrong way?

To turn this ship around, my first step was to take full 24/7 control of her orgasm. She’d have to ask for permission to touch herself, ask for permission to cum, and thank me for allowing her to do both via phone, text, or e-mail. When she did have permission, she’d only be allowed to cum after she brought herself right up to the edge and backed off twice.

If she was feeling frisky when I was asleep, or in a meeting, or on a plane, well she’d just have to deal with being horny. After all, the whole point of this exercise was to teach her to place my pleasure and convenience before her own gratification.

Unenforceable yet self-enforcing

Rules like this are impossible to enforce, and a little cheating is inevitable. I was expecting Morgan to sneak one in when she wasn’t supposed to, and I wasn’t surprised when she fessed up only a couple days later. She told me the guilt was just eating away at her, but I suspected an even stronger motivation.

Both of us wanted this power dynamic — it wasn’t just me — and when she broke my rule and got away with it, she effectively dissolved the fantasy she’d been craving for years. Once I had the chance to hoist her up by her ankles with her legs spread and punish the greedy little pussy that got her into so much trouble, she was right back where we both wanted her: under my total control.

Phone time

With these ground rules in place, it was time to take my long-distance training plan to the next level. At exactly the time I specified, I told her I wanted her completely nude, lying on the floor with her knees up and legs spread, playing with her clit, Bluetooth headset charged and ready.

I’d call her 10 to 15 minutes later when I knew she’d be amply turned on and desperate for release. About a minute into the call, she’d ask, “Sir, would you like your slut to cum?” That’s when things got interesting.

I’d tell her to keep playing with her clit, not to even think about stopping or slowing down, and then I’d start making her earn that extra-special reward.

“How and why do you cum, slut?” I’d ask.

“With your permission and for your amusement, Sir.”

“Good girl. And where’s your place when you’re serving me?”

“Naked and on my knees, Sir.” And so the inquisition continued.

If she gave me an incorrect response, I’d have her work her clit even faster and wait even longer. If I thought I could push harder, I’d have her finger-fuck herself while she continued playing with her clit, sometimes while grinding her pussy into her hand, and I’d talk more about how I’d use her in person.

When I felt she was at the end of her rope, I’d tell her she could beg and that it better be convincing. Usually it was. When I sensed she had nothing left, I’d tell her to cum. Then I’d lay back and listen to one very intense and well-earned orgasm.

Finally, I’d hear a breathless and trembling voice say, “Thank you, Sir, for allowing your slut to cum.” I’d tell her what a good girl she was while she cleaned her fingers with her mouth and tongue, and then it was on to more pussy stimulation in one of the other positions we’d be using in person.

Practice makes perfect

Beyond the functional benefits of fucking a beautiful girl for as long as I want without her pleasure interfering with mine, this process has some important psychological impacts. First, it taught Morgan to think of her orgasm as I did: not as a means of selfish gratification but as a training aid to make her better able to please me. It also conditioned her to associate sexual pleasure with my permission and the sound of my voice, which reinforced my ownership of her sexuality and made unassisted orgasms more difficult, less enjoyable, and effectively pointless.

This brings me back to what I believe will always make BDSM more intense, intimate, and rewarding than vanilla sex: it’s bigger than any one act. It lives in our minds even when all we can do is call or text each other. I can take or leave the dirty phone conversation just as I can do without the casual and forgettable Saturday-night intercourse, but knowing a girl is denying herself for my pleasure is a fantasy I’m happy to relive anytime.

I do think my friend went a little far with that steak-on-the-nose trick though. I mean, torturing a poor little dog like that? That’s just plain cruel.

Drew Thomas (@DrewT323) is a dom living in Los Angeles.

Loren and I met in the summer of 2007 on Collarme. She looked like Sofia Loren, and had been an Elite model in her 20s. She was 32 and I was 38. She was looking for a Daddy, and I was looking for a little girl. After a few quick e-mails, we met at Du-par’s Restaurant at the Farmer’s Market.

She nervously ripped apart the paper from her straw and adverted her eyes as we talked. She had been working as a professional submissive at a dungeon in L.A., she was a pure player, a heavy player, and was having fun at work and making money. She was known as the “Most Famous Ass in L.A.”, and they used her ass in the ads in the LA Weekly. Her butt cheeks had been permanently darkened as a result of broken blood vessels in her skin from all the spanking.

I told her about the other Daddy-lovers I had been dating. When I mentioned the 19-year-old UCLA stripper who loved to be diapered, her eyes lit up. As we walked out of the restaurant, Loren actually skipped.

“And can I call you Daddy?”

“I want you to call me Daddy.”

“Will you call me tomorrow?”

I called Loren the next day and we started to spend time together everyday. She lived in the neighborhood, between Venice and Wilshire. I’d pick her up at her house after work, and we’d smoke, eat and just talk and play Scrabble. We were both monogamous, had few sexual partners, but I wanted both of us to get tested.

First stop was the Women’s Clinic & Family Counseling Center on Pico at Beverwil Dr. for a visit to the gyno. I was able to sit-in on the examination. We explained to the doctor that we were planning on having sex. She gave us some good advice, and invited me to look in Loren’s vagina with the speculum in.

Next was Out of the Closet in West Hollywood for free HIV test. Turns out, we went on National Get Tested Day. Not only did we get a free test, we also got a t-shirt! Then, the AIDS Healthcare Foundation Men’s Wellness Center in Hollywood for blood tests. Along the way, we learned a lot, got to know each other better, and everyone commended the loving effort we were making. We were clean, and ready to fuck.

Loren also brought me around to the different play places in LA. We watched single tail work at Dragon’s Gate, hung out with friends at Passive Arts, and she got “the best flogging ever” from a Dom at the Lair. At home, she got pussy inspections and more spanking. Everyday I would pick her up and we would smoke and fuck.

Once we finally started having sex, it was unprotected. Loren would say, “Tell me when you’re going to cum,” and then lock her legs around my waist, pulling me in even tighter.

“Cum in me, that’s what I’m into,” she would plead.

Finally, she was doing a reverse cow girl, I pulled out to cum, she grabbed my cock while I was ejaculating, and forced me back inside her. When it was over, as if to check, she fingered her vagina and tasted the cum.

Shortly after, she came over after work and told me she thought she was going insane, she was hearing voices in her head. She promptly got into bed with her laptop and listened to The Wall. I knew she was pregnant.

Over the next few weeks, I saw her fashion model breasts grow, and finally, she admitted she missed her period. I went to Walgreens and bought a pregnancy test. At first, I wondered why they give you two tests in the box. Then I found out. Loren tested positive. So, of course, the very next thing you do is conduct another test. Positive again, with 99% accuracy.

It was time for a trip to the Westside Women’s Health Center on Ocean Park Blvd., and time to meet Loren’s mother. I had the pleasure in the cramp waiting room with the Spanish language TV playing in the background. After a long wait, the three of us went into the examination room. As usual, Loren was told to disrobe and get on the examination table. Loren got naked in front of me and her mother, hoped on the examination table and spread her legs. When the doctor came in, and we told her the situation, she asked Loren what she did for work.

“I’m in the adult entertainment business,” she replied while I looked on sheepishly. The three of us must have made quite the picture of L.A. family life.

Loren was healthy, but could no longer get spanked at work, so she took the receptionist job instead. Instead of smoking and fucking, we gorged ourselves on food and then fucked. She gained a few pounds and I got a lot fatter. We went shopping at the mall for maternity clothes, and I called my parents to tell them the news. My mom declared, “My son’s getting railroaded!”

My friends, with their planned pregnancies and marriages, were in disbelief. I just went to work each day, and started looking for a higher paying job. I worked in an office building a few blocks from my apartment on Wilshire, and imagined the baby in my apartment building which I could see from my 16th floor office.

One night, Loren noticed she was spotting blood on her panties. We went to the emergency room at UCLA Medical Center. On the way, the concept that we might lose the pregnancy caught up to Loren and she looked at me with tears in her eyes.

“Can we pregnant again right away if there’s something wrong?”

“Of course.”

At the emergency room, it wasn’t good news. Loren was experiencing a miscarriage and it was going to take a few days. We shed some tears along with the doctor when she told us. For Loren’s sake, I’m glad it was a female doctor who delivered the sad news.

Loren was to spend the next few days in my apartment as Mother Nature changed her mind capriciously about the pregnancy. The next day, she called me frantic on the phone — blood was gushing out her vagina and she couldn’t get off the toilet. I ran from my office back to my apartment and called 911. Luckily, Loren likes firemen, so she was in good hands when LAFD took her back to UCLA. I followed in my car after packing her into the ambulance and calling her family.

At the emergency room, we learned that Loren’s cervix was open, and we would have to wait until it closed. While Loren’s mother and I watched, the doctor removed the remaining matter from her cervix, unceremoniously dropping it into a stainless steel container on the floor. It was the week of Halloween and I drew pictures of ghosts as we waited until we could leave.

After Loren recovered, our passion blossomed. We had barely known each other four months, yet we had lived a lifetime as a couple. The sex was bottomless, endless, only stopping for food, smoke, and sleep. But nothing was going to satisfy like impregnation and that couldn’t happen. More of real life started interfering, like family and money. Eventually we spent weekends together, then became friends, then realized we had to stop spending time together so we could move on.

We both resumed our L.A. lives — different jobs, different apartments, different partners. I would see her driving around the neighborhood in her boxy Scion — I’d be in my sporty Scion TC and we’d lock sun-glassed eyes. Our baby is somewhere, floating between us, only possible between us, suspended in energy.

Todd Mason is in his 40s. He moved to L.A. from Chicago six years ago. He’s single, still looking for a satisfying D/s relationship, and hoping to one day be a husband and father.

It’s official. I am under consideration by Sir M. I’m off the market (so to speak). I’ve been given more restrictions. I am under scrutiny. I will be held to a higher standard and Sir M will expect improvement. My interactions with other Doms will be particularly restricted. And I am thrilled!

The “under consideration” period in the BDSM world is something like a trial period or an engagement. It could take any length of time and Sir M does not have a formal procedure in place. The desired outcome of being under consideration is that he will grant my petition to become his personal submissive.

And with this new commitment of being under consideration I will be collared. This will signify to the community that I’m Sir M’s personal property, and will show my devotion to him. It is a profound honor for me to wear Sir M’s collar.

The collar is a powerful symbol in the BDSM world, something like a wedding ring in the vanilla world. It says “BACK OFF” to other Doms.

I will always wear a collar (except possibly in the shower) to constantly remind myself who I am. It will reinforce the submissive identity that Sir M has taught me to embrace.

I shop, therefore I am

I was delighted when Sir M tasked me to find collars for him so I could choose. He made it clear that the collars will belong to him, not me.

“They are mine, just as you hope to be.”

He told me to find one for when I’m out in the vanilla world, and one for wearing at home and any time I’m with him.

He had me give him the collars that my previous owner S had given to me. They were tucked away in the small drawer of a Japanese chest under my bed.

“Those came from another Dom so they don’t belong in your possession any more.”

And so I started my search. I didn’t want anything that looked like the collar I typically wore when I was with S, a rather standard black leather padded strap with a D ring in front.

I came of age during the punk rock era, when the Sex Pistols reigned supreme. I always liked the bondage style that was popular in England then, with lots of aggressive studs and spikes and rings.

I tend to dress in black with architectural angles and clean lines so a black leather collar seemed a natural choice.

As I first searched online for collars, I was attracted to those punky styles. Soon I noticed that they were mostly modeled by male subs and available in larger sizes. Hmmm — I was choosing men’s collars. I thought they looked cool, but it occurred to me that Sir M would prefer me in something more feminine.

Next I stumbled across eternity collars. They are elegant and sleek and stealthy. Usually made from stainless steel, the eternity collar is locked with a screw to stay on permanently. I assumed they are worn by slaves in 24/7 relationships. How do they go through airport security with that metal?

Though aesthetically pleasing, that type of collar isn’t appropriate for my situation.

I searched extensively and just couldn’t find a collar that felt right for me. There was always something wrong: too flashy, too thick, too flimsy, too Goth, too ordinary. Admittedly, I’m also very fussy about clothing and jewelry and tend to have expensive taste. If Hermes made a collar like their studded leather cuffs, that would be the one I’d want.

The final cut

I presented about four or five options to Sir M. None were ideal but it was a good start.

One collar had a brass lion’s head with an O-ring thru it at the center — a nifty detail. A little bit country, a little bit rock ‘n roll.

Sir M’s comments were enlightening.

“Don’t choose the lion’s head unless it has some significance to you/us.”

It didn’t have any significance. In fact, it reminded me of a door knocker.

I showed him a two-toned (red and black) leather collar with D rings on either side. The rings are handy to attach a leash, chains, or other items to.

“The colors are nice but I don’t like two D rings. Also it looks like this fastens with a lock and I don’t want to use a lock. A buckle would be better.”

The top choice was a custom-made leather collar from a website that lets you design your own. You “build” the design online and choose all the colors and features. I chose a red leather exterior with black lambskin interior, and black rhinestones.

He liked it but didn’t love it and I’d have to admit, nor did I. I don’t think those collars were meant to be lived in like I will be doing with mine, and it probably would have gotten worn down quickly.

I went back and searched more and found the perfect one. Black sleek leather, 1” thick, with crystal rhinestones along the sides and an O ring in front. The look is a cross between punk princess and rhinestone cowgirl.

Locked up

My next task was to find a vanilla collar. I was really fond of the delicate sterling silver necklace with padlock charm that S had given me as a vanilla collar. But I needed to find something different. I decided it would be best to choose something heavier so I’d always be aware of it around my neck.

Sir M agreed.

I showed him a chunky sterling chain necklace with larger padlock, a knock-off of a Tiffany’s design.

“I like the idea of a more substantial chain. You are on the right track.”

However, he didn’t like the fact that the padlock served to hold the chain together.

I couldn’t find anything else I liked nearly as much. Then I had a brainstorm — to get the necklace and have a clasp attached, and hang the padlock as a pendant. That was the solution Sir M chose.

Both collars are on their way.

And this is another blissful day in my journey of submission.

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 week for posts from her journey to the most divine surrender.

I walked in the dungeon party and saw him sauntering behind a wild-haired girl who was restrained by wrists and ankles to a wood frame. She was lovely, with a curvy figure and a retro pin-up girl look. He studied his target and snapped a leather strap at her back and thighs with well-placed strikes. She yelped, tossed her head around and squirmed around gracefully like a jazz dancer, trying to avoid his blows.

He wore a black jacket with the letters P A I N splashed across the front, and a slouchy leather cap pulled down over his brow.

Sir M was playing with a new play partner, W. Although W has a lower pain tolerance, Sir M seemed to be striking her with hard, stingy snaps. But she smiled as he released her from the restraints and she came down.

He ordered her to straddle a chair backward and had me rub arnica gel on all the red marks on her back. She marks easily and arnica helps heal bruises and welts faster.

Sir M is training me to assist in his scenes, and part of assisting him means providing after-care to the person he has just played with.

“Clean the toys!”

He pointed to the items on the floor by his suitcase — a few floggers, a blindfold, the leather strap.

As I was cleaning W walked over and kissed me with full soft lips to thank me for caring for her. Then the two of us sat at Sir M’s feet while he lounged in a leather and carved wood armchair.

After she was OK to drive, he dismissed her to go home. Then he turned to me.

Daisy strips

“OK! Time to take your clothes off and get over there!”

He pointed to the frame.

I must have slightly grimaced; I’d been at a memorial service for a dear friend’s mom that day and was feeling distracted and melancholy.

“Well don’t look so excited about it!”

I stripped and got into position, Sir M put my wrists into the restraints and then put on the blindfold. He started with a light spanking and then beat my back with his fists.

It hurt and I tried to breathe through it to manage the pain. As the intensity of his blows increased, I froze in terror and wasn’t able to breathe through the pain.

He flogged my back with strong whacks that felt like hard thuds. My body clenched up and that probably made the pain worse. I held my breath – another bad move because it concentrates the pain.

Tears for fears

I sobbed softly at first. I felt like a failure because I can’t take much pain. I reminded myself that in order to serve Sir M properly, I have to be able to withstand pain.

I felt despondent. I sobbed harder as he beat me.

Then my despondent thoughts turned to my father, who is in very poor health. I cried more intensely. Soon I was weeping so hard my ribs heaved and I was almost choked by the sobs that rose from my gut.

Sir M beat me harder and harder. He was relentless. Usually he will give me breaks to catch my breath, absorb the pain, but not this evening. I thought he was being particularly brutal, and I cried even harder.

He switched to hitting me with a heavy, thuddy toy that felt like a rubber baseball bat. I screamed and howled, feeling grief for my dad sweep through my body. I realized Sir M was hitting me much harder than usual but I was completely engulfed in anguish. I felt the pain sharply but the sadness was more overwhelming.

I’m not sure at what point, but he eventually stopped. I was bawling, feeling embarrassed at shedding tears publicly but unable to do anything about it. He shoved me into a chair and wrapped his PAIN jacket over my shoulders.

I shook and wept and fell limp.

Humiliated and exposed

I barely managed to spit out a few words to ask Sir M for permission to sit on the floor. He nodded. I plopped down like a little puddle, pulling the jacket over me.

I understood that in leaving me alone like that he was giving me some space. I knew Sir M was letting me finish my crying jag and would be keeping an eye on me.

I felt humiliated and exposed but was too upset to really focus on that. Eventually, the cries turned into quiet sobs. I’d exhausted myself.

I was still wearing the blindfold but became aware of Sir M’s presence next to me. His energy is so strong, it changes the way the air moves near him.

“Get dressed and clean the toys.”

I did so as he watched from the armchair.

He pointed at the floor front of him. I sat down on the floor where he wanted me.

“Hug me. You did good.”

I leaned forward and hugged him. My fatigue was stronger than my embarrassment about crying in public. But my heart was beating intently in my chest and I felt adrenaline pumping through my veins.

“I’m sorry, Sir, for all the crying.”

He paused.

“I knew when it started that you had some issue going on and I decided to make the session about getting you to cry.”

I didn’t answer. I squeezed him tighter.

Why not cry for me?

I was feeling unusually emotional and needy, like I just wanted to hug someone closely.

He went on to explain that he realized I must have some repressed grief and he wanted to work it out of my system through tears. He has said to me before, “Why wouldn’t you want to cry for me? Isn’t it cathartic? Don’t you feel better afterwards?”

Once I had calmed down a bit he brought me outside to sit around the firepit with some of his Dom friends. There were one or two other subs but they were nearly non-existent in the conversation. The men lit up cigars and it occurred to me he’d be there a good long while.

I asked permission to go back inside and hang out with a few other subs. Granted.

I went in and cuddled with them, rested my head on one girl’s shoulder. I felt happy to be part of such a loving and supportive community.

Sir M poked his head in from time to time to check on me. I gradually started to feel a bit more grounded and ready to drive home. He walked me to my car and gave me a tight hug and made sure I was okay.

The next morning I felt much lighter. The crying therapy had been successful.

Also, my ass was riddled with black and blue marks. I had a hard time sitting all day, but that was a small trade-off for Sir M’s excellent pain therapy.

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 week for posts from her journey to the most divine surrender.

A few years back I was reveling in debauchery. Divorced, 40-something, liberated and exploring my sluttiness. I was partying like a rock star with porn stars and beautiful people, but leading a successful double life as a mid-level executive in a conservative industry.

One night of debauchery started innocently, alone in my desert hideaway, scrubbing out a vintage 1970’s redwood Jacuzzi. Even at night it was a scorching 102 degrees outside so I was wearing tiny shorts and a bikini top when the porn posse arrived for a surprise visit. Strong winds whipped through the cacti and made the palms dance in the picture windows.

H was one of my all-time favorite lovers and I considered him my sexual soul mate. He provided a portal to the world of the depraved elite.

He and his friends were in town for the Coachella Festival. His entourage included that year’s AVN actress of the year, her top pornographer boyfriend and her best friend, an up-and-coming porn starlet. We played loud music and teased and laughed and drifted from room to room, leaving a trail of clothing. The starlet was hitting on me, spanking me playfully and coaxing me to pull my shorts off. We drank all sorts of alcohol, puffed coke up each other’s butts with a straw, and smoked pot.

[Note: I don’t recommend doing coke in that way but the novelty of being up close to the ass of a porn star known for her anal scenes was too good to refuse.]

The guys were game to start up an orgy, but porn star of the year was pouty and tired from the previous night’s orgy. She quashed the idea. She was kind of a drag.

The conversation got more outrageous and random.

“I did a double anal scene but I don’t like that short guy, he has bad breath.”

“I adore this Method dish soap because the bottle is shaped like a woman’s body.”

“Try this blue meanie – it’s a blue energy drink and Sapphire gin.”

“Kraftwerk was amazing.”

“I dressed H up in a mini-skirt and halter top and tied him up to a St. Andrews cross so he could explore his feminine side…”

Then H blurted the show-stopper:

“Daisy TraLaLA was the only person who’s ever managed to make me come from a blow job.”

Sudden silence. Both porn stars’ eyes went wide with amazement and all eyes were on me. The porn director glowed with a new-found respect for me. I could feel my cheeks burning, uncomfortable to suddenly be the center of attention of this flamboyant group.

Daisy is the only girl who’s made me cum from a blow job

Everyone knows H has had plenty of sex in his lifetime, much more than most mortals twice his age. And surely both porn girls had blown him repeatedly.

“What’s your secret?” asked porn star of the year. First time she’d shown a keen interest in me.

“Can you show me what you do?”

I stammered and flushed. What could I teach these luscious young girls who were seen on film doing double anal, gang bangs, etc.?

The truth is that I have no special technique at all. Sorry, girls, it’s not what you think. It’s just about following my inspiration and making a cosmic connection with the cock. In fact, if I try to think about technique it takes me out of that headspace and the sex becomes more mechanical, less inspired.

Cock worship

Lets call it cock worship. There are certain cocks that inspire me to suck, lick, kiss and squeeze until I take that cock to mutually ecstatic and mind-blowing places. It’s not a blow job, it’s a deeply spiritual experience. When I’m in my zone sucking cock I go into a trance. Time stands still and nothing else exists but the cock and the euphoric rush of energy running between it and me. Consciousness of my self disappears and I exist only to serve. I surrender to the cock and do what it tells me to do.

In the BDSM world many submissives describe similar sensations during the BDSM play as “subspace.” It has to do with losing oneself in the bigger picture of serving a master. Servicing your lover with only his pleasure in mind, you are rewarded by his cum.

In my case, going into subspace from sucking cock was my initial way of tapping in to my submissive self. Sucking cock takes me to complete surrender and allows me to turn my conscious brain off. I go to that happy place, another world. I sometimes turn into a wild animal and groan, growl, thrash around, quiver, scream and cum from channeling and receiving the male energy. The blow job isn’t a job at all. It’s a privilege for me to give myself to the cock.

Cock worship is best when the back and forth energies of two souls feed off of each other. When I’m in my zone I like to have it pushed down my throat until my eyes water and my flesh goes cold and breaks out in goosebumps. A pure white energy stream erupts through my heart and enables me to share the ecstatic energy stream with my partner. My cunt gets so wet my thighs become soaked. I vibrate with a palpable orgasmic energy.

With a lover who I’ve established a trusted and deep bond with, cock worship becomes a form of meditation for me. The experience is truly transformative. I can see the man’s facial features soften and change as he approaches orgasm. That look of complete bliss is infectious and makes me cum.

That is how I worship cock. How about you?

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 week for posts from her journey to the most divine surrender.