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My Trousers Rolled

It's from T.S. Eliot.

I'm from England.

PICTURES, WORDS, AND PERHAPS A LITTLE MUSIC. OFTEN D/S RELATED, SOMETIMES NOT.

MyTrousersRolled [at] Gmail [dot] com

OVER 18S ONLY.

Posts tagged submissive:

Threads
When you’re dealing with fantasies, it makes sense that you’re going to want a little proof. Marks, scratches, pinches and bruises, each one a testament that yes, that really happened, and no, you’re not losing yourself in some warped reality of whips and chains, masochism and cathartic release. 
It feels like a grounding, a way to keep your feet where they belong and not lose yourself too much to the heights of it all. More than that, it’s a way of threading kink throughout your vanilla, and visa-versa. It’s rife for metaphor, really.
Because the bruises heal when you’re away from me, the scratches fade, and the marks recede. Vanilla life replenishes you before I bring you back down again. Or maybe it’s the other way around, a way of topping you back up with blows and nails, all the little things that mar your skin in the prettiest ways. Vanilla life takes them away, and I put them back.
For me, they’re a reminder that you exist as a submissive beyond these four walls, that intermittent scenes aren’t the only place you occupy, and that you persist even as you adopt the vestments of your vanilla life. That just because you’re wearing that hoody and glasses, that there isn’t some grand disconnect between the two.
It’s not the same shift between sleeping and waking, even if both of them deal with the darker fantasies that flit around the edges of your conscious mind. This is more organic, less of a stark contrast, where one feeds into the other, and back again. The marks just provide a throughline, they’re the ball of yarn in the Minotaur’s maze, a way to find our way back, whichever way we’re going.

Threads

When you’re dealing with fantasies, it makes sense that you’re going to want a little proof. Marks, scratches, pinches and bruises, each one a testament that yes, that really happened, and no, you’re not losing yourself in some warped reality of whips and chains, masochism and cathartic release. 

It feels like a grounding, a way to keep your feet where they belong and not lose yourself too much to the heights of it all. More than that, it’s a way of threading kink throughout your vanilla, and visa-versa. It’s rife for metaphor, really.

Because the bruises heal when you’re away from me, the scratches fade, and the marks recede. Vanilla life replenishes you before I bring you back down again. Or maybe it’s the other way around, a way of topping you back up with blows and nails, all the little things that mar your skin in the prettiest ways. Vanilla life takes them away, and I put them back.

For me, they’re a reminder that you exist as a submissive beyond these four walls, that intermittent scenes aren’t the only place you occupy, and that you persist even as you adopt the vestments of your vanilla life. That just because you’re wearing that hoody and glasses, that there isn’t some grand disconnect between the two.

It’s not the same shift between sleeping and waking, even if both of them deal with the darker fantasies that flit around the edges of your conscious mind. This is more organic, less of a stark contrast, where one feeds into the other, and back again. The marks just provide a throughline, they’re the ball of yarn in the Minotaur’s maze, a way to find our way back, whichever way we’re going.

(Source: hebephile, via rosebound)

At some point, the uniform changed. The uniform, in fact, stopped being a uniform at all. It used to be all leather and chains, studs and buckles, with maybe a bit of latex thrown in there for good measure. It was about making a statement, and making it as loud as you bloody could.
I don’t know whether we’ve become more comfortable or more cowardly. No, cowardly is the wrong word. Private. We’re certainly less aggressively D/s than people were before. It isn’t necessarily something that defines you so much as something that you define. 
I’m throwing that ‘we’ around like it applies to everyone. I am not you, you are not me. But we might be the same, in a few things. I’ll eschew the Leather Daddy outfit for a suit, if it’s all the same. I’ll dress you up in polka dots and pearls, if you don’t mind all that much. There’ll be lace, but I’m not so sure about the leather. 
I don’t need to make a statement. At least, I don’t need to make one that everyone’s going to hear. I’m more than happy to speak in a whisper, against your neck, than a bang, fired into the air. Because this isn’t something that’s going to end any time soon. In fact, it’s just about got started. And the choices we make about what to wear and how to present ourselves are only testament to quite how many there are, and how broad the appeal has become. No longer is it merely the domain of the metal heads and the sadomasochists. It’s something for everyone. 
So dress however the fuck you want to dress. I couldn’t care less.

At some point, the uniform changed. The uniform, in fact, stopped being a uniform at all. It used to be all leather and chains, studs and buckles, with maybe a bit of latex thrown in there for good measure. It was about making a statement, and making it as loud as you bloody could.

I don’t know whether we’ve become more comfortable or more cowardly. No, cowardly is the wrong word. Private. We’re certainly less aggressively D/s than people were before. It isn’t necessarily something that defines you so much as something that you define. 

I’m throwing that ‘we’ around like it applies to everyone. I am not you, you are not me. But we might be the same, in a few things. I’ll eschew the Leather Daddy outfit for a suit, if it’s all the same. I’ll dress you up in polka dots and pearls, if you don’t mind all that much. There’ll be lace, but I’m not so sure about the leather. 

I don’t need to make a statement. At least, I don’t need to make one that everyone’s going to hear. I’m more than happy to speak in a whisper, against your neck, than a bang, fired into the air. Because this isn’t something that’s going to end any time soon. In fact, it’s just about got started. And the choices we make about what to wear and how to present ourselves are only testament to quite how many there are, and how broad the appeal has become. No longer is it merely the domain of the metal heads and the sadomasochists. It’s something for everyone. 

So dress however the fuck you want to dress. I couldn’t care less.

(Source: victoriasecretsbarbiedoll, via kitty-en-classe)

I fall hard for a will that doesn’t crumple in front of me. That, when tested, the foundations remain solid, and the chin remains up. When you can take abuse, and remain stoic, the strength of your emotions a turmoil that remains under the surface. When you can slip a mask over your face, and let nothing out.
Because I fall in love with a challenge. I step to that Gordian Knot and I take out my sword. I find the crack in you, the piece of yourself that you keep so well hidden, and that is the thread that I will use to unravel you. 
I fall so in love with you, so quickly, because you’re the one that wants it the most. You’re the one that can’t give up, because the moment you do everything will fall apart. This beautiful illusion that we’ve created, this web of denial and mutual oblivion, will come crashing down and be for naught. You resist because that’s the only way you’ll know if I’m worth it. 
I fall for your will because I want to earn your submission, more than anything. I want you to break, because if you merely bent than you wouldn’t be mine. You’d be able to return to how you were before, and I’m not something you ever recover from. If you don’t give yourself fully, then we’re both wasting our time.
But to do that, you’ve got to hold onto every last shred of yourself, and fight me for it. You’ve got to fight me for it, and you’ve got to lose.

I fall hard for a will that doesn’t crumple in front of me. That, when tested, the foundations remain solid, and the chin remains up. When you can take abuse, and remain stoic, the strength of your emotions a turmoil that remains under the surface. When you can slip a mask over your face, and let nothing out.

Because I fall in love with a challenge. I step to that Gordian Knot and I take out my sword. I find the crack in you, the piece of yourself that you keep so well hidden, and that is the thread that I will use to unravel you. 

I fall so in love with you, so quickly, because you’re the one that wants it the most. You’re the one that can’t give up, because the moment you do everything will fall apart. This beautiful illusion that we’ve created, this web of denial and mutual oblivion, will come crashing down and be for naught. You resist because that’s the only way you’ll know if I’m worth it. 

I fall for your will because I want to earn your submission, more than anything. I want you to break, because if you merely bent than you wouldn’t be mine. You’d be able to return to how you were before, and I’m not something you ever recover from. If you don’t give yourself fully, then we’re both wasting our time.

But to do that, you’ve got to hold onto every last shred of yourself, and fight me for it. You’ve got to fight me for it, and you’ve got to lose.

(via blackleatherbelt)

She’d been blindfolded when she’d stepped past the threshold, but it was one of those doorways where there’s a difference in air pressure. The building smothered her, an ominous hug that was just a little too clingy. It felt old, a few generations past the obsequious grandmother and into proper ancestor territory. The floor was uneven underneath her heels, warped wood that had decided to get lively once left to its own devices for a few decades. 
His hand on her arm was the only thing that gave her any comfort. That, she imagined, was the idea. It wasn’t like it mattered; she still clung to him like he was a buoy in the storm; understanding the process that went through his mind never seemed to diminish the power of it all. He was better than a magician, after all. His tricks stayed powerful, no matter how much you knew about them. 
They’d been walking for only a few minutes, but with the way her mind meandered, she felt almost wearing by the time he lead her to a chair, pressing down on her shoulder, silently ordering her to sit. So she did, exposed arse pressed to rough, worn plastic. The air felt cloying, angry that its slumber had been so rudely disturbed. She was quite sure it wasn’t acting the same way to him. 
She could hear his breath, getting louder and quieter as he moved closer and farther from her. Proportions were always emphasised and embellished when she was blindfolded, as if her ears needed her eyes to check their figures, otherwise they just wildly guessed. The room felt like a cavern, and he was a giant who’d stolen her away. 
And then he spoke. 
"Listen."
There was no sound. The barest of rustles against as his tie slid against his shirt each time he took a breath. The stillness unnerved her. 
"Take a deep breath, and then shout. As loud as you can." There was a few moment’s pause, that stillness creeping up on her like an assassin. "I’ll know." He added, a whisper of that humour that thrilled her slinking along with the stillness. She felt a smile curl across her lips. 
The ‘why’ wasn’t something she was concerned with. The ‘why’ wasn’t something she could know, not until it was through. The ‘why’ was what kept her up at nights, had driven her to insomnia, and put her at his feet. The ‘why’ was why she had him; to know the why, and feed her the bits and pieces she needed to know. He was the why. 
And so she took a breath. She felt her chest swell. 
She took another, on top of the last, the air layering in her lungs like uncomfortable bedfellows. She waited until it felt like it was going to burst out of her regardless of what she was going to do. 
And then she screamed. 
It was bigger than her. The kind of sound that makes birds fly. Camera cut to trees, still, scream, a flock in the air. Miles from the source. The kind of sound that wakes the dead, if you’re one for hyperbole. She could feel it bouncing off the walls, she could imagine peeling wallpaper giving up and tumbling to the ground. 
And she didn’t stop. The air in her lungs seemed to be rooting for her, letting her go far longer than she’d expect, the sound just yawning out, stretching just as the volume started to decrease. Then she shuddered, the scream falling into a sob, and then a desperate gulp of air sucked in. She visibly deflated, chest hung over the back of the chair, spent. 
His hand was in her hair. She hadn’t noticed it get there. The stillness was back, but she could hear his smile. He pressed it to her forehead, before that beautiful mouth moved down to her ear. His whisper was almost offensive in its quietness. 
"You, my beautiful, gorgeous, wonderful girl, needed that." She wanted to cry, but she didn’t know why. 
"You are always so perfect, the picture of discipline. Mypicture of discipline. That’s how I’ve painted you.” As rare as it was, she adored it when he spoke in these short epithets, leaving just enough gap between each for the words to sink in, to give her a moment to mull. 
"But you are not all that you allow out into the world. You’re fire, and brimstone, and lightning, flowing under the surface of the tranquillity that rests on the lake. You are a primal force, beautiful girl, and while I may have tamed you, it’s still there." His mouth got closer, each word kissing the sensitive flesh of her ear.
"You need to let it out, disturb the waters, and throw a fucking tornado into the air. Burn the ground so that new life can sprout forth. Scream away all my fucking metaphors so that you can be who you are, unbridled, if only for a moment.” 
She wanted to say it was too much. She wanted to say anything. But all that came out was an exhausted mewl that made him chuckle. Anyone else and she’d have hated them. He gave her comfort. The hand in her hair twisted, a thousand reassurances pulling against her scalp.
"Now." The whisper was gone, and with it, all the anxiety that had just flowed to her surface. 
"Let’s do that again."

She’d been blindfolded when she’d stepped past the threshold, but it was one of those doorways where there’s a difference in air pressure. The building smothered her, an ominous hug that was just a little too clingy. It felt old, a few generations past the obsequious grandmother and into proper ancestor territory. The floor was uneven underneath her heels, warped wood that had decided to get lively once left to its own devices for a few decades.

His hand on her arm was the only thing that gave her any comfort. That, she imagined, was the idea. It wasn’t like it mattered; she still clung to him like he was a buoy in the storm; understanding the process that went through his mind never seemed to diminish the power of it all. He was better than a magician, after all. His tricks stayed powerful, no matter how much you knew about them. 

They’d been walking for only a few minutes, but with the way her mind meandered, she felt almost wearing by the time he lead her to a chair, pressing down on her shoulder, silently ordering her to sit. So she did, exposed arse pressed to rough, worn plastic. The air felt cloying, angry that its slumber had been so rudely disturbed. She was quite sure it wasn’t acting the same way to him. 

She could hear his breath, getting louder and quieter as he moved closer and farther from her. Proportions were always emphasised and embellished when she was blindfolded, as if her ears needed her eyes to check their figures, otherwise they just wildly guessed. The room felt like a cavern, and he was a giant who’d stolen her away. 

And then he spoke. 

"Listen."

There was no sound. The barest of rustles against as his tie slid against his shirt each time he took a breath. The stillness unnerved her. 

"Take a deep breath, and then shout. As loud as you can." There was a few moment’s pause, that stillness creeping up on her like an assassin. "I’ll know." He added, a whisper of that humour that thrilled her slinking along with the stillness. She felt a smile curl across her lips. 

The ‘why’ wasn’t something she was concerned with. The ‘why’ wasn’t something she could know, not until it was through. The ‘why’ was what kept her up at nights, had driven her to insomnia, and put her at his feet. The ‘why’ was why she had him; to know the why, and feed her the bits and pieces she needed to know. He was the why. 

And so she took a breath. She felt her chest swell. 

She took another, on top of the last, the air layering in her lungs like uncomfortable bedfellows. She waited until it felt like it was going to burst out of her regardless of what she was going to do. 

And then she screamed. 

It was bigger than her. The kind of sound that makes birds fly. Camera cut to trees, still, scream, a flock in the air. Miles from the source. The kind of sound that wakes the dead, if you’re one for hyperbole. She could feel it bouncing off the walls, she could imagine peeling wallpaper giving up and tumbling to the ground. 

And she didn’t stop. The air in her lungs seemed to be rooting for her, letting her go far longer than she’d expect, the sound just yawning out, stretching just as the volume started to decrease. Then she shuddered, the scream falling into a sob, and then a desperate gulp of air sucked in. She visibly deflated, chest hung over the back of the chair, spent. 

His hand was in her hair. She hadn’t noticed it get there. The stillness was back, but she could hear his smile. He pressed it to her forehead, before that beautiful mouth moved down to her ear. His whisper was almost offensive in its quietness. 

"You, my beautiful, gorgeous, wonderful girl, needed that." She wanted to cry, but she didn’t know why. 

"You are always so perfect, the picture of discipline. Mypicture of discipline. That’s how I’ve painted you.” As rare as it was, she adored it when he spoke in these short epithets, leaving just enough gap between each for the words to sink in, to give her a moment to mull. 

"But you are not all that you allow out into the world. You’re fire, and brimstone, and lightning, flowing under the surface of the tranquillity that rests on the lake. You are a primal force, beautiful girl, and while I may have tamed you, it’s still there." His mouth got closer, each word kissing the sensitive flesh of her ear.

"You need to let it out, disturb the waters, and throw a fucking tornado into the air. Burn the ground so that new life can sprout forth. Scream away all my fucking metaphors so that you can be who you are, unbridled, if only for a moment.”

She wanted to say it was too much. She wanted to say anything. But all that came out was an exhausted mewl that made him chuckle. Anyone else and she’d have hated them. He gave her comfort. The hand in her hair twisted, a thousand reassurances pulling against her scalp.

"Now." The whisper was gone, and with it, all the anxiety that had just flowed to her surface. 

"Let’s do that again."

(Source: amphora37, via pull-my-strings)

Control doesn’t have a range. It dwells so very much in the cerebral that to insist on the physical element would be to entirely miss the point. The ties that bind you have infinite reserves of slack to call upon if you start to struggle and resist, if you try to pull away. I can reach across continents and stay your hand, calm your heart. 
But I’m not going to start throwing out platitudes about how distance makes the heart grow fonder, about how we don’t need the physical at all, how it’s just electrons brushing up against one another anyway, and that we never actually touch, just bump against physics. The rope may be long, and you may well be able to feel it around your neck, but it’s a poor substitute for my hand, my lips. 
I’ve tried long distance. I’ve made it work, once or twice, but as I find myself becoming more and more embroiled in the powerplay, the exchange of control between the dominant and the submissive, that distance has become more and more of a frustration, and almost a deterrent. I know how much effort it’s going to be, and how much work I’m going to have to put into it, and I have to seriously consider its worth.
My dilemma is such: D/s is a small proportion of the world’s population, a pinprick in a desert, twisting and turning with the dunes. On that pinprick is another, smaller pin, made up of the submissive women of the world, and upon that yet another, of those that I can actually be interested in. And that pinprick on a pinprick on a pinprick is scattered in a million different pieces, across the globe. And now I need to find one of those pieces. 
The internet is the best magnifying glass out there, a bloodhound with a killer nose, sniffing each one of you wonderful, exciting, interesting women and showing them to me. But it’s the grand tease, because you’re a world away, an ocean in between. 
So I’ve tried it. I’ve made it work. But it’s difficult, and while that leash can easily slip around your neck, fixed from a thousand miles away, keeping it tight, and enjoying the feel of the rope in my hand, is the tricky part. 
And that rope is not my hand. And it probably never will be. That’s the hardest part.

Control doesn’t have a range. It dwells so very much in the cerebral that to insist on the physical element would be to entirely miss the point. The ties that bind you have infinite reserves of slack to call upon if you start to struggle and resist, if you try to pull away. I can reach across continents and stay your hand, calm your heart. 

But I’m not going to start throwing out platitudes about how distance makes the heart grow fonder, about how we don’t need the physical at all, how it’s just electrons brushing up against one another anyway, and that we never actually touch, just bump against physics. The rope may be long, and you may well be able to feel it around your neck, but it’s a poor substitute for my hand, my lips. 

I’ve tried long distance. I’ve made it work, once or twice, but as I find myself becoming more and more embroiled in the powerplay, the exchange of control between the dominant and the submissive, that distance has become more and more of a frustration, and almost a deterrent. I know how much effort it’s going to be, and how much work I’m going to have to put into it, and I have to seriously consider its worth.

My dilemma is such: D/s is a small proportion of the world’s population, a pinprick in a desert, twisting and turning with the dunes. On that pinprick is another, smaller pin, made up of the submissive women of the world, and upon that yet another, of those that I can actually be interested in. And that pinprick on a pinprick on a pinprick is scattered in a million different pieces, across the globe. And now I need to find one of those pieces. 

The internet is the best magnifying glass out there, a bloodhound with a killer nose, sniffing each one of you wonderful, exciting, interesting women and showing them to me. But it’s the grand tease, because you’re a world away, an ocean in between. 

So I’ve tried it. I’ve made it work. But it’s difficult, and while that leash can easily slip around your neck, fixed from a thousand miles away, keeping it tight, and enjoying the feel of the rope in my hand, is the tricky part. 

And that rope is not my hand. And it probably never will be. That’s the hardest part.

(via seeksthenight)

The line between femininity and submissiveness is a blurry one, at best. The idea of receptive empathy, the softer side of things, all reconcile with the things that a submissive exhibits. Compassion, care, tolerance, deference; however negative these social connotations when it comes to the treatment of women throughout history, there is no denying quite how well they fit the mould of the submissive. 
Femininity isn’t gender specific, as counter intuitive as that idea might be. Women can be masculine, and men feminine, to varying degrees. It’s just bad luck and millennia of reinforcement that’s meant that we associate one with people with dangly genitals, and one with those of the neat and tidy variety. That and the etymology of the words, of course. 
Regardless, it’s the femininity that I want to exaggerate, draw out and emphasise. To push you into a world of ribbons and lace, find you in a getup that’s so unmistakeably feminine that you’ve got no choice but to defer. No one can get bossy in knee highs and a pair of mary janes. 
Well, no one can get bossy in knee highs and a pair of mary janes and be taken seriously. So it’s better just to simper and smile, and I’ll just laugh and tell you to get on your knees. Much better that way.

The line between femininity and submissiveness is a blurry one, at best. The idea of receptive empathy, the softer side of things, all reconcile with the things that a submissive exhibits. Compassion, care, tolerance, deference; however negative these social connotations when it comes to the treatment of women throughout history, there is no denying quite how well they fit the mould of the submissive. 

Femininity isn’t gender specific, as counter intuitive as that idea might be. Women can be masculine, and men feminine, to varying degrees. It’s just bad luck and millennia of reinforcement that’s meant that we associate one with people with dangly genitals, and one with those of the neat and tidy variety. That and the etymology of the words, of course. 

Regardless, it’s the femininity that I want to exaggerate, draw out and emphasise. To push you into a world of ribbons and lace, find you in a getup that’s so unmistakeably feminine that you’ve got no choice but to defer. No one can get bossy in knee highs and a pair of mary janes. 

Well, no one can get bossy in knee highs and a pair of mary janes and be taken seriously. So it’s better just to simper and smile, and I’ll just laugh and tell you to get on your knees. Much better that way.

(Source: undresslikeaprincess-x, via submissiveconfessions-deactivat)

It’s the cold floor against your cheek that really cements it in your mind. It’s the feeling of that hard wood floor, or that bare concrete, or even the slightly irritating scratch of carpet that resolutely reinforces your position, that brings you crashing down to earth.
And you want to be there, you want to be as low as you can go, because you find catharsis in that. And it is cathartic, for both of us. In many ways, I live vicariously through you, I enjoy your catharsis and in turn have my own. It’s about that shared experience, only I’m causing it and you’re receiving it. Cause and effect, on a brutally emotional level. 
And though my hand is firm, and my touch rough, on occasion, there’s always a tenderness there, the lingering fingertips that slide down the side of your face, that mix of lust and power, affection and arousal. That’s what separates this, what frames it in just the right frame that you can enjoy it, and I can enjoy doing it to you. We tread such a delicate line, right here, tight rope walkers every one, and somehow we manage to make it to the other side without slipping, most of the time.
It’s that mutual trust that does it, I think. That’s what balances, and grounds, and keeps us from falling. Knowing that the other isn’t going to do something stupid, or cruel, or careless. Knowing that they do what they do out of love, and that’s enough. 
That’s enough.

It’s the cold floor against your cheek that really cements it in your mind. It’s the feeling of that hard wood floor, or that bare concrete, or even the slightly irritating scratch of carpet that resolutely reinforces your position, that brings you crashing down to earth.

And you want to be there, you want to be as low as you can go, because you find catharsis in that. And it is cathartic, for both of us. In many ways, I live vicariously through you, I enjoy your catharsis and in turn have my own. It’s about that shared experience, only I’m causing it and you’re receiving it. Cause and effect, on a brutally emotional level. 

And though my hand is firm, and my touch rough, on occasion, there’s always a tenderness there, the lingering fingertips that slide down the side of your face, that mix of lust and power, affection and arousal. That’s what separates this, what frames it in just the right frame that you can enjoy it, and I can enjoy doing it to you. We tread such a delicate line, right here, tight rope walkers every one, and somehow we manage to make it to the other side without slipping, most of the time.

It’s that mutual trust that does it, I think. That’s what balances, and grounds, and keeps us from falling. Knowing that the other isn’t going to do something stupid, or cruel, or careless. Knowing that they do what they do out of love, and that’s enough. 

That’s enough.

(via blushingviolet)

How long do you think you could put up with shackles? How long before it starts to wear you down, starts to frustrate more than arouse, starts to become a nuisance rather than something new and exciting?
How long, I wonder, would you keep your mouth shut because you know I’m enjoying watching you hobble around, clanking and jingling with each little, curtailed step. I wonder whether it would be very long at all. I wonder, in fact, whether that little firecracker that lives in your mind might suddenly wake up, get a little bit angry and explode. 
And how long, I wonder, might it be before you realise that that was exactly what I intended, from the very beginning? That I wanted that spark of resistance, that little look on your face where you know that you need to bring out the big guns, those huge eyes and that stuck out lip, before you might get your way. 
I think that might be a while. A few days, at least, when you’re idly reminiscing, recalling the feel of those heavy steel rings, and pining for them just a little bit. And then it will strike you, how perfectly orchestrated the whole thing was, and that firecracker will wake up again. 
I think, though, that that time you might realise that that too was planned just a little bit quicker. You’re a smart girl, after all.

How long do you think you could put up with shackles? How long before it starts to wear you down, starts to frustrate more than arouse, starts to become a nuisance rather than something new and exciting?

How long, I wonder, would you keep your mouth shut because you know I’m enjoying watching you hobble around, clanking and jingling with each little, curtailed step. I wonder whether it would be very long at all. I wonder, in fact, whether that little firecracker that lives in your mind might suddenly wake up, get a little bit angry and explode. 

And how long, I wonder, might it be before you realise that that was exactly what I intended, from the very beginning? That I wanted that spark of resistance, that little look on your face where you know that you need to bring out the big guns, those huge eyes and that stuck out lip, before you might get your way. 

I think that might be a while. A few days, at least, when you’re idly reminiscing, recalling the feel of those heavy steel rings, and pining for them just a little bit. And then it will strike you, how perfectly orchestrated the whole thing was, and that firecracker will wake up again. 

I think, though, that that time you might realise that that too was planned just a little bit quicker. You’re a smart girl, after all.

(Source: ctboston, via daddyhitsme-deactivated20140106)

Funnily enough, words have power. 
Those words can blend together, occupy the same space in our minds, to the degree that two words that sound the same, but used in different contexts, can have their meanings grafted onto one another. So that we think of that concept in the same terms, because we’re a species that needs a name for everything. 
There’s a lot of power in a name.
So let me separate the terms for you, do a little rewiring. It’s ok, I’m a qualified professional, I know my nuts from my bolts. Just stay still and let me tinker for a moment, and I’ll have it all sorted out in a jiffy.
You’ve got submissives, and Submissives. I use the capital not out of any particular respect, but just because one is a proper noun and one is an adjective. When outside of the world of D/s, calling someone ‘submissive’ has the following connotations:
Shyness.
Introversion.
Weak willed.
Timid.
Lacking in confidence.
Which is rather wholly negative, I’m sure you would agree. A bit of a doormat, that submissive is. Not really all that much fun.
Within the world of D/s, however, the meaning is wholly different. It’s less about personality traits, instead focusing on their sexual proclivities, and how they like to be treated within a romantic relationship. The problem is, it’s a word that has been reclaimed from common use, and so the connotations get carried along with it. 
They’re redundant. Hell, they’re misleading. I’m not just unsurprised when a Submissive makes a bold move, I’ll outright expect it. It’s about having a confident, passionate woman who will willingly defer to me, rather than someone who is naturally weak and subservient. It’s about a decisive nature on the Submissive’s part, far more than it is on mine. While I might make a lot of decisions, the most powerful is in her hands. That’s quite the thing. 
So let’s separate one from the other, shall we? It might go a way to removing those feelings from submissive’s altogether, because I’m fairly sure that that perception isn’t doing anyone any good, and might actually be creating those tendencies where they have no right to exist.
You’re not automatically a submissive because you’re a Submissive. There may be some overlap, but that’s half the point of the Dominant. To make sure any commonalities get removed. So you can be a Submissive and a strong individual.

Funnily enough, words have power. 

Those words can blend together, occupy the same space in our minds, to the degree that two words that sound the same, but used in different contexts, can have their meanings grafted onto one another. So that we think of that concept in the same terms, because we’re a species that needs a name for everything. 

There’s a lot of power in a name.

So let me separate the terms for you, do a little rewiring. It’s ok, I’m a qualified professional, I know my nuts from my bolts. Just stay still and let me tinker for a moment, and I’ll have it all sorted out in a jiffy.

You’ve got submissives, and Submissives. I use the capital not out of any particular respect, but just because one is a proper noun and one is an adjective. When outside of the world of D/s, calling someone ‘submissive’ has the following connotations:

  • Shyness.
  • Introversion.
  • Weak willed.
  • Timid.
  • Lacking in confidence.

Which is rather wholly negative, I’m sure you would agree. A bit of a doormat, that submissive is. Not really all that much fun.

Within the world of D/s, however, the meaning is wholly different. It’s less about personality traits, instead focusing on their sexual proclivities, and how they like to be treated within a romantic relationship. The problem is, it’s a word that has been reclaimed from common use, and so the connotations get carried along with it. 

They’re redundant. Hell, they’re misleading. I’m not just unsurprised when a Submissive makes a bold move, I’ll outright expect it. It’s about having a confident, passionate woman who will willingly defer to me, rather than someone who is naturally weak and subservient. It’s about a decisive nature on the Submissive’s part, far more than it is on mine. While I might make a lot of decisions, the most powerful is in her hands. That’s quite the thing. 

So let’s separate one from the other, shall we? It might go a way to removing those feelings from submissive’s altogether, because I’m fairly sure that that perception isn’t doing anyone any good, and might actually be creating those tendencies where they have no right to exist.

You’re not automatically a submissive because you’re a Submissive. There may be some overlap, but that’s half the point of the Dominant. To make sure any commonalities get removed. So you can be a Submissive and a strong individual.

(Source: cristania, via slavesdiary)

Look, I know you can’t help it. I know that the body’s natural response to having its mouth forced open is to salivate. I know that drool is an unavoidable side effect. I can tell that that’s all you’re thinking, that it’s unfair for me to pick on it when it’s not something you can control. And you’re right, it is unfair.
But it’s also a major highway straight to having your cheeks flare up, have your whole body tingle and have those gorgeous hips wriggle as you involuntarily squirm at the embarrassment of it all. It’s so easy, you see, to pull away that gag after ten minute, half an hour, an hour, and then force that half cooled saliva back in your mouth, clean up your spittled chin, and coo some degrading phrase into your ear. 
"Sloppy girl."
"You silly thing, look at the mess you’ve made. Clean it up like a good girl now."
"You pathetic slut, you can’t even keep from drooling all over the place. You’re little better than a mutt."
See? It’s not that hard. Sometimes I enjoy being offhand with my movements, making my remarks off-the-cuff. Not everything has to be hard earned, hard fought. Sometimes the old favourites are the old favourites. 
And yes, it’s unfair. But what, dear girl, made you think that this was a balanced, fair relationship? I hold the cards, as is evident by the fact you’re the one cleaning my messy fingers with your silly little mouth. Now get to it.

Look, I know you can’t help it. I know that the body’s natural response to having its mouth forced open is to salivate. I know that drool is an unavoidable side effect. I can tell that that’s all you’re thinking, that it’s unfair for me to pick on it when it’s not something you can control. And you’re right, it is unfair.

But it’s also a major highway straight to having your cheeks flare up, have your whole body tingle and have those gorgeous hips wriggle as you involuntarily squirm at the embarrassment of it all. It’s so easy, you see, to pull away that gag after ten minute, half an hour, an hour, and then force that half cooled saliva back in your mouth, clean up your spittled chin, and coo some degrading phrase into your ear. 

"Sloppy girl."

"You silly thing, look at the mess you’ve made. Clean it up like a good girl now."

"You pathetic slut, you can’t even keep from drooling all over the place. You’re little better than a mutt."

See? It’s not that hard. Sometimes I enjoy being offhand with my movements, making my remarks off-the-cuff. Not everything has to be hard earned, hard fought. Sometimes the old favourites are the old favourites. 

And yes, it’s unfair. But what, dear girl, made you think that this was a balanced, fair relationship? I hold the cards, as is evident by the fact you’re the one cleaning my messy fingers with your silly little mouth. Now get to it.

(Source: soulflux, via mischievousmynx-deactivated2012)

I don’t think it would be so extreme a hyperbole to liken a submissive to a thirsty wanderer in a desert coming across an oasis. It’s not so extreme to say that the same is true of the other side. A mutal oasis, existing thanks to their coupled presence. 
The metaphor only travels so far, though. Often the thirsty don’t know what it is they’re thirsting for, why their throat is so raspy, why nothing seems to sate that desperate need inside of them. It’s only when that oasis is in sight that they even realise that they wanted that oasis in the first place. That that oasis is the thing that will finally fix them. 
But we’re not broken. We’re just unfinished. 
(Thank you to MM for submitting this one.)

I don’t think it would be so extreme a hyperbole to liken a submissive to a thirsty wanderer in a desert coming across an oasis. It’s not so extreme to say that the same is true of the other side. A mutal oasis, existing thanks to their coupled presence. 

The metaphor only travels so far, though. Often the thirsty don’t know what it is they’re thirsting for, why their throat is so raspy, why nothing seems to sate that desperate need inside of them. It’s only when that oasis is in sight that they even realise that they wanted that oasis in the first place. That that oasis is the thing that will finally fix them. 

But we’re not broken. We’re just unfinished. 

(Thank you to MM for submitting this one.)

Is that rapturous arousal on your face, or am I just squeezing a touch too hard?

Is that rapturous arousal on your face, or am I just squeezing a touch too hard?

(via blissfulmutiny)

The idea of a ‘pressure point’ always fascinated me when I was younger. Finally, a way to debilitate my fellow man with the minimum of effort! It wasn’t until I was older that I realised that this wasn’t just a physical thing. There are other ways of debilitating people with a mere touch, especially women. Where their neck meets their jaw. The soft flesh behind their ear. Between their legs. Teeth on their shoulder. 
I look forward to finding more. 

The idea of a ‘pressure point’ always fascinated me when I was younger. Finally, a way to debilitate my fellow man with the minimum of effort! It wasn’t until I was older that I realised that this wasn’t just a physical thing. There are other ways of debilitating people with a mere touch, especially women. Where their neck meets their jaw. The soft flesh behind their ear. Between their legs. Teeth on their shoulder. 

I look forward to finding more. 

(via mischievousmynx-deactivated2012)

Rules are Made to be Broken

In an ideal world, you think, as you gaze in the mirror, a distracted haze over your eyes as your mind wanders, a submissive would be perfect, and never make a mistake. In an ideal world, once rules are set out, there would be no need for punishment, no need for correction. Things would just settle into a healthy flow, and everything would be as it is. Because that’s the reason for the rules, is it not? To provide a structure and a framework to work from, guidelines to follow and carry out, so that both the lives of the submissive and the Dominant are the better?

Well, I say, as I playfully flick your ear to get your attention, because daydreaming really isn’t becoming of a grown woman such as yourself, that’s not entirely true. Because ‘ideal’ isn’t really a construct that interests me, and ‘perfect’ certainly doesn’t. It’s the blemishes that make the masterpiece, after all, and rules are no exception. Take a proper seat, not that vanity chair, and get comfortable. I shall explain to you how I perceive things. 

I’m saying all of this, because that is how I like to lay out my arguments. 

Rules aren’t meant to be followed. No, that’s wrong. Rules aren’t expected to be followed. Not entirely. There’s always the expectation, to the extent it’s almost a certainty, that the rules will be broken at one time or another. By their very merit, the reason they are rules is because they’re going against a natural impulse, or something that’s a temptation. There’d be no point in a rule if you would follow it regardless of whether it existed or not. Of course some rules shape society in such a way that they do become natural, but that’s a whole other conversation.

So, when I’m laying out a set of rules with a submissive, I’m doing so with two things in mind. One, that I’m making this list awfully long and intricate, and two, I’m doing this because I don’t want her to be able to follow them all. It sounds cruel, and I suppose, in a way, it is, but the thing is you need a baseline to work off. I need to show her what consequences there are to rule breaking, because while the carrot is a wonderful thing, and an excellent source of vitamin A, it’s not enough to be a sole motivator. You need a bit of the stick. Sometimes, girls want a bit of a stick. No, that’s wrong. Most of the time, a girl wants a bit of the stick. 

Perhaps this is not news to you. Perhaps you know that rules are going to be pushed and tested, momentarily forgotten about and properly reinforced. However, I think it’s worth highlighting, because there’s (rightfully so) a pressure on a submissive when those rules are set out. She chews her lips, squirms in her chair, because she knows, at some point, she’s going to fail.

The important thing to bear in mind, at that time, is that this is ok. You will be punished, of course, because that’s what you want, really. But mild infringements won’t cause disappointment, or anger, because they’re expected. It’s only wilful disobedience, continued failure to understand, that’s going to illicit those reactions. Of course there’s a learning process, and of course, you’re going to make some mistakes. Hell, the Dominant will probably make some mistakes, but you just have to look the other way, or laugh it off, when that happens. 

And so, boys and girls, the purpose of this little piece is to take off some of the pressure. Relieve it a little. Don’t think it’s an excuse, a doctor’s note to take into school and get out of a punishment when you do break the rules. “But Sir, some man on the internet said it was to be expected!”. But do know that when you do break them, it’s not such a bad thing. In fact, you might both enjoy it. I know they definitely will. 

C

P.S. I hope you’ll allow me that title, as mildly inaccurate it is. Of course rules aren’t meant to be broken, but I’ll often fall for the temptation of a pithy header, even if it’s only tangentially related to the content. Still, it fits the theme, and catches your attention, so don’t sweat it too much.

There’s a moment of no return inherent within the application of binds. Of course you might well have a safeword in place, some contingencies if things go the wrong way, but from the moment the first restrictions go into place, you’re at the other person’s mercy. 
Sometimes that moment seems to last forever, as if politely allowing you to savour it.

There’s a moment of no return inherent within the application of binds. Of course you might well have a safeword in place, some contingencies if things go the wrong way, but from the moment the first restrictions go into place, you’re at the other person’s mercy. 

Sometimes that moment seems to last forever, as if politely allowing you to savour it.

(Source: classykittenn, via amanwithamaidormore)

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