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Too Much

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It’s Christmas Eve.

When I was a child, this was my favorite day of the year. My Grammy would hold court at my Grammy and DadDad’s house and all the family would go up for Italian Christmas Eve. The cousins would receive gifts from the aunts, uncles and grandparents. We would eat the best food we would have all year, play with our new toys, and go home to quickly scamper into bed before Santa came.

As I’ve gotten older, it’s morphed into something else entirely, a grotesque mockery of the happy day it used to be. When my Grammy died, my aunt took over holding court. When she passed away… I stopped wanting to go. My cousins and I have no relationship. I don’t know my uncles at all. I went for my DadDad, because Christmas Eve was when he told the best stories. I would sit and drink coffee with Sambuca and Baileys with him and listen to him reflect. It made the Christmas Eves bearable.

The last month… the last week… has been hell for me. It started with my DadDad’s death… and then a couple weeks later I totaled my car in a stupid accident because I hadn’t been able to get my breaks done. I found myself without my income, and scrambling more than ever because that night I learned my rent was going up $200 the next month. I had nothing in savings, living day by day as I did… and I knew my parents would be no help. When I told them about the accident my dad called me stupid, and said he didn’t know what to tell me. My mom just cried. The car had been hers first, and was her first new car.. and me without income meant I couldn’t send them student loan money, which meant that they would have to cover my loans again this month because I “can’t get my life together and don’t have my priorities straight.”

I am blessed in other ways… my friends, my chosen family, and my partner have been incredibly supportive. One of my best friends, a firecracker named Annie, helped me get a gofundme together and told me over and over not to be ashamed to ask for help.. that big girl or not, life happens to the best of us. She’s kept me going, helped me with the car shopping process (my credit is shit, so I needed cheap and fast..which often means fixer uppers. She’s also a mechanic, and a lifesaver in so many ways). Another friend, Brian, came out and looked at my car after the accident and gave me options as to what to do next. The gofundme itself has raised over $1000, giving me a little bit to work with when I have no new income coming in. So many people have hugged me and told me it was going to be okay. Others have said if I’m still short when it gets closer to rent day to come to them. They will help. At home, I feel supported, and loved. Person after person has slowly been convincing me that it’s going to be okay.

My partner Chris has been incredible support, from little things like making sure I’ve been eating and that I wasn’t alone to bigger things like helping out with the gofundme. He’s kept me smiling, and I am grateful…

And then there is James… my Master, who is far too much in the same boat that I am in. He’s helped in ways that have honestly meant the most.. Giving me time he didn’t have to spare, arms to curl up in, kisses that make me feel adored and wanted. He’s held me when I needed the safety of being swallowed in his arms, and when I’ve started dropping caught me before I fell. He’s known when I needed pleasure and when I’ve needed play without me asking… without me even knowing. The man can read me like a fucking book, and I’ve been more grateful for that in the last week than I can properly express in words.

Tuesday was my last night in the Bay for two weeks. The trip to New Jersey for Christmas was pre-planned and pre-arranged by my parents. I couldn’t get out of it. I couldn’t say no when my mother was clinging to me being ‘home’ for Christmas. It was also my last day watching a child that I’ve been caring for for over a year and a half; an adorable two year old that has made a huge impact on my life. Knowing my emotional state leaving this little girl, my Master invited me along to a game night up in Napa. I love his friends, and have felt so accepted by all of them, so of course I said yes.

I’ve been using Getaround cars to..well… get around (yay smart phone apps. The Bay Area has certain advantages). I had a rental expiring that evening, and so made a plan with James to rent another car just for the time in Napa, drop the car back off in the city after the game night, and then James would drive me the rest of the way to my house. He would spend the night, we would get much-needed intimate time together before I disappeared for the holidays, and he would bring me to the airport in the morning before going into the city for BaGG that evening (which I was regrettably missing because of my flight time… The holiday flights were so expensive I didn’t have much choice in that matter).

We never made it into the city. The game night was fabulous, and brought me a lot closer to his friends. I gave each of them a tarot reading that I think did some good…and even gave one to my Master himself which revealed a few things.. I’m still not sure I’m ready to face or process. He was going to bring his best friend home and then follow me into the city.

Master’s car has needed to be serviced for a while. The poor thing has had its check engine light on for as long as I can remember.. he just hasn’t had the money to fix it. On the way into the city that night the poor car finally broke down… Smoke coming out of the engine and all. I got a call for him while I was driving ahead saying that I would need another ride to the airport tomorrow. I turned around to find him, scrambling as to how I was going to get back to my place all the way down the peninsula. Bart wasn’t running anymore and the rental had to be back by 6 a.m…

I found him finally, pulled over by the entrance to a bridge whose name I still can’t remember. He was distant… trying to think of all that needed to be done now. He had to get down to BaGG that evening. Had to figure out how to get his car up and running so that his life didn’t end up on hold. He’s a paraplegic, so it’s not so simple as it is for me of just find a cheap, running car and move on. Hand breaks are expensive. Life is expensive.

It was freezing… my cold is now back with a vengeance from waiting around for a tow truck for two hours. But it’s two more hours I got with him. There was a little cuddling… and a slightly devastating conversation with him where he told me there were similarities between his relationship with me and his relationship with his ex wife (someone I never want to be like, ever). There are ghosts I can’t shake from his past..and they are impacting my relationship in the present… Combine that with him just being so far away, me losing that night with him, trying to figure out how the hell I was going to get to the airport and get home and general and worrying about him getting home, about his car when I know he’s in a worse financial state than even I am in… I was, and am still, a mess. I was of no use to my Master, my boyfriend..and only proved to add to his plate, because on top of his worries he was worrying about what I could do to get where I need to go safely.

His friends came through.. two women who are slowly beginning to feel like sisters to me. They met me in the city (when they also live in Napa) and drove me all the way back home. Last I saw my Master, he was getting into a tow truck. We’ve texted briefly…but he’s been busy…

I got home at 6 a.m… finally fell asleep around 7, only to wake up at 11 to pack. I couldn’t bring my cat with me like I’d planned, and leaving Poe for two weeks, even in the hands of people I trust, is hard for me. I left the meager gifts I was able to get together for my roommates (I haven’t Christmas shopped at all and have scrambled and scrounged instead) on the kitchen table, took a Lyft to the airport that I couldn’t afford, and boarded a plane that stayed on the tar mat for two hours before finally taking off with at least six screaming children on board.

I have not Christmased. I have had neither the energy nor the heart to. With all that has happened my mind is three thousand miles away, with my family and my Master. I didn’t know we would be doing Christmas Eve at my DadDad’s house when my parents picked me up last night… my mother sprung it on me today. We are going up to a house that has already been picked clean by spiteful siblings, a last hurrah before its sold. A house my DadDad built with his two hands, that his children and grandchildren grew up in, is an empty shell, a mockery. I will be asked over and over to explain myself. Explain my life. How I’m doing. I will be judged and picked apart by strangers I share blood with.

My parents are trying to put on this charade that they’re all excited for Christmas… but none of the traditions have happened that have happened in years passed. For the first time in my life the gifts are under the tree before Christmas morning. There is no surprise this year because my mother just doesn’t have the time to wrap and arrange them tonight. Santa Clause and the mystery around him is dead. My father is exhausted, my mother has just been going on about how much she’s been working and how she has no time off while I’m here. And I have been crying.

There is no safe place to cry in this house. I broke down in the shower and my mother came in to ask me what was wrong. How do I say everything? How do I say this Christmas is hell and I just want to go home, when she expects the house I grew up in to still be my home? How do I tell them I feel like a stranger, intruding on rituals I don’t understand.

The cherry on top of all of this is that my parents have figured out that my lifestyle isn’t a phase. My dad noticed the slave ring on my left ring finger, a gift from Master. A day collar. Both of them have problems with it, and keep asking what I lacked in my childhood to want to walk this path. I can’t be who I am anymore around them. I can’t talk about what’s bothering me. I can’t be open and honest. I can’t even cry safely, because when I cry they expect an explanation for it.

Why am I crying? Because it’s all too much. Because I feel so very broken.. so lonely. So isolated from everything that I love. Because I desperately miss my Master even though it’s only been a day. Because I haven’t heard from  him today and worry that spam texting him will only make him go further away and not want to talk to me when I need his voice, his touch, his presence.

He dropped me off at the airport when I was going back for my DadDad’s funeral… That morning, he gave me a pendant of his. A geeky, Harry Potter pendant that I love. A part of him that I could have on me, so that even when he wasn’t here, he was. I have been clinging to it like my life depends on it… that and a tee shirt of his that I’ve had for so long it no longer smells like him (I was going to get another on Tuesday night..but…).

It’s too much. It’s all too much… I’m hurting so bad and I can’t cry because if I do I’ll get asked fifty thousand questions I can’t answer. I don’t want to hurt my parents more than they are already hurting. Better I be the one that hurts. At the end of all this I get to go home. They have to stay here.

I want to go home for Christmas. I want my Master and my friends… I want to feel safe, and wanted, and loved. Who gives a shit about gifts and charades.. I don’t know how much I can act tonight. How much I can pretend that I give a fuck, or don’t when they rip into me. Because they will. They always do. I said I was done with them at my DadDad’s funeral..and my mother is making me see them again. Making me pretend, for her sake, that we’re a happy fucking family.

I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to go home.

They say home is where the heart is. I can never tell my parents that my heart just isn’t here anymore. It’s with my Master and my family in California.

I am battered, I am bleeding, but I am still yours.

-Rene

 

 

 

 

 

 

Daddy’s Girl

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I am sitting on a plane back to San Francisco after one of the most painful visits to New Jersey I have ever had. We buried my DadDad on Saturday… Something my brain still hasn’t really processed. His failing health ended up eclipsing the kinky fuckery entries that I started, and then stopped and put off to the side until I could emotionally handle them.. For that I am sorry. I am going to try to start writing more frequently again. I miss the outlet of writing. It honestly helps when shit hits the fan to process it through these entries… And I admit my voyeuristic side greatly enjoys sharing my journey with all of you.

Today, two worlds met in a surprising way. I’ve mentioned before that I am very close to my dad. I still call him daddy (and no, I have never called a partner that, even when I go into little space..), and at 24 still consider him a super hero and partner in crime.

My dad is no angel. He went to art school in Soho in the 70’s… He’s told me stories from getting drunk in the darkroom of the photo lab to fucking one of his professors and still only getting a B in her class. These aren’t exactly normal dad stories.. But as I’ve grown we’ve become friends as well as father and daughter, and his stories have always been a way to illustrate that. They’ve also been an outlet for him, I think. My mom and him have had a rule since they got married. Their pasts don’t exist. They don’t talk about exes or past lovers. In nearly 30 years of marriage they never have. It works for them… And so I get to hear all the stories of my dad’s past so that he doesn’t blab them to my mom.

That being said, my parents are pretty vanilla. My dad has always been a one-woman man and my mom has only ever been with my dad. She lost her virginity to him. She doesn’t own a vibrator outside of a little bullet I bought for her (the big ones scared her…) that is still in the box. They don’t have toys. There’s no cross hidden in the closet. They, in the past couple years, haven’t quite known what to make of me, or what questions were safe to ask. They were curious.. But anything kinky often fell into the third category of knowledge (1:need to know. 2: don’t need to know. 3: DO NOT TELL ME UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE EVER).

So, imagine my surprise when on the way to the airport tonight my dad goes, “So… What exactly is the scene?”

Ho boy. How to explain.

“It’s a lot of things, daddy.. And different for different people. For me, the kink scene is BaGG nights and parties at the Citadel. It’s when a group of us with shared interests, usually influenced by BDSM, get together and do our thing.”

“And what is BDSM?”

I knew my dad was vanilla. I didn’t know he was THAT vanilla.

And so I broke it down for him. I explained my world to him, best I could, in a way that wouldn’t make him sick to his stomach while He was driving me to La Guardia.

There was no disgust. No, “I forbid it!” Just a series of questions I could tell he had been wanting to ask for a long time. Most I had the answer to. Why do I have to wear a collar. Why do I want to. What exactly is a play party. How does this scene relate to James and I.

Some questions were harder to answer. Like, “Do you get hurt? Or is it just play?”, and, “Will you continue to live this lifestyle when you get married? Do you still want to even get married?”

It’s hard for someone who has only known monogamy (with a VERY possessive wife) to imagine wanting more. I could see that when I explained poly play, my other partner Chris, and what happened at Surrender. He didn’t understand why I wanted to do what I did. Didn’t understand why it was a need. I saw him wanting to understand. Saw him struggling.

My dad is afraid of heights. He gets a tone in his voice when he gets scared while we drive over bridges. As we talked, his voice took on that tone. His responses got shorter. His breath came heavier.

“You get why this is hard for me to understand, right kid? You understand why this is all hard to hear?”

Of course I do. I’m daddy’s girl. I was the first one to sit on his lap. I was the one he would read stories to every night growing up. HELL I have the female version of his name. We both have the same initials, and both go by our middle names.

What father wants to imagine their daughter having sex with multiple partners, or asking someone to hit them or bruise them? I doubt there is any protective father out there who would enjoy watching their daughter accept the kiss of a whip. If anything I know a few that would throw themselves between the whip and their child.

Still, even with this struggle he listened. He asked questions. He tried to understand. He would rather hear about this side of myself that he doesn’t know, one that’s hard for him to know, than have me hide myself. Would rather squirm than create distance between us.

I have always talked about my boyfriends to my parents. I have gushed many a time about my men, and usually they respond. With James, however, it’s been different… And that has made me a little sad, I’ll be honest. My parents know how we met, how we know each other. It took them a little time to process the wheelchair, and after that it took them a lot longer to process the rest. Any time I would share something of what James and I were doing (always vanilla. Comforting me after DadDad died, excursions to the movies or Black Bear Diner) the retort was always the same. “That’s nice, honey.” They never asked questions outside of how he ended up in a wheelchair. They never wanted more information, when they always had before.. And they never trusted I was safe with him. My parents never out right said that last part, but when I was with previous boyfriends for the night they would leave me alone. When I spend nights with James they make me check in.

For the first time, once we had exhausted the uncomfortable part of our conversation, my dad asked questions about my parter. I told him about the geeky sides of James, about being wrapped up in a James burrito at night and Hamlet monologues, and 5 am conversations that turn into 8 am snuggles because we don’t want nights to end.

I also told him about James’s family.. And in doing so found myself grateful for my family. I haven’t gotten to know my boyfriend’s parents or siblings because they will dislike me without knowing me. His family wants to know nothing of the kink side of himself, nothing at all. That includes partners.

James constantly walks this line between respecting his parents and respecting me. Here is a man flourishing in the kink community, connected with some of the top names in the business, and he can’t share his success with his family. They don’t want to know. He takes beautiful photographs of fetish models, and even gets to be a staff photographer at an international BDSM convention. They don’t want to know.

He met someone. Someone he has feelings for. He’s in a good, healthy relationship for the first time in almost a decade and it’s going somewhere.

They don’t want to know.

My dad may have been uncomfortable. He may not understand. But he wanted to know. He wanted to try.. And while it’s not his thing he accepts me for who I am.

It’s possible to be daddy’s girl and a kinky, submissive slut.. If you dad will listen. I am lucky.. As much as I am hurting, I know I am blessed.

Yours, so ready to be home
-Rene

Goodbye

This entry is not kink related… This is life related… This is life and aging and loss…

A couple of years ago, my first grandfather died. He was my dad’s dad, a happy little elf of a man who was should have been canonized a saint for dealing with my she-bitch of a grandmother. He had dementia, among other health problems, and was the ripe ole age of 84. He had lived a full life, which is not something that could be said about a lot of my relatives.

Right after he passed my dad and I were in the back yard having a drink, something not uncommon for he and I when I’m home. On that balmy summer night he told me about the last real conversation he had with his father, and how they had said goodbye a couple of weeks before he died, when his father was still somewhat himself. They had had one of those very rare good talks that stick with you for the rest of your life. They talked about fatherhood, about what being a good dad really meant, and how much they loved each other and respected one another. Even though one is never quite ready for something like that, my dad said goodbye to his that night and mentally prepared himself for the actual physical goodbye to come.

I did that tonight, not with my father (thank the Gods) but my other grandfather, my DadDad.

I am the reason he’s called DadDad. He had wanted to be Grand Dad and I just couldn’t say it as a young child, and someone DadDad had stuck even though he was my mom’s dad. He always has been, and always will be, a superhero in my mind. He tried out for the New York Yankees back in the day, and would have played for the team if he hadn’t been drafted… He handled my Grammy, who is a force of nature. He tells the best stories about sneaking into his mother’s basement and drinking the house-made alcohol when he was much too young, and flipping a taxi over in Paris with his Navy buddies, and coming home with a baseball bruise so deep that you could see the individual stitches in his skin that led to my Gram SCREAMING at him.

His background is an interesting one..  Before he was even born his father was out of his life. The youngest of four kids, his father had managed to knock up his cousin’s wife and his wife at the same time and left my great-grandmother for the cousin’s wife the moment he figured it out. I’ve heard horror stories about this figment of a man, this great-grandfather that wasn’t so great that would chain his own daughter to a radiator in the basement for entire nights at a time because she gave her brother’s too much food, or would show up when it was convenient to him to see if the family was making money, and if he could get some when he didn’t know his own damn son.

My DadDad not only survived this, but thrived. He had four kids of his own, and then five grandchildren. He survived the loss of his wife and his eldest daughter, and until now has had minor health problems.

Now…

Now his confident, booming voice is soft. His blue eyes that normally sparkle with humor are dull. The man who used to lift grandchildren onto his shoulders with ease and run around the house can now barely walk. He used to love food, as any good Italian man does, and is now going days without eating and rapidly losing weight.

This is part of life. Humans age. They eventually die. My DadDad doesn’t have cancer. He has no deadly disease other than time, and he’s well aware of this on his good days.

Today was a good day. He was more coherent than he’s been in a couple years with me. Normally, he slips between past and present. He’ll call me by my aunt’s name, trailed off mid-story to stare into space, and repeat the same story time and time again. I never mind. I’ve always loved listening to his stories.

Today there were no stories. It was short. His girlfriend (yes, at 84 he has a girlfriend because my DadDad has always been a handsome devil) decided that he needed to spend the weekend with her, which resulted in a fight between her and my mother… While they fought I helped my grandfather into the car and took a knee next to the car door so that I could talk to him. I hadn’t seen him since June, a visit filled with stories about his mother and growing up.

He surprised me by locking his eyes with mine. They were clear, not foggy, and his voice was direct but soft. “Your grandfather’s getting old, kid. I’m not going to be around much longer. I’ve lived a good life though. 84 years… I never thought I would have lived this long.”

I put my head on his shoulder, trying not to cry. He kissed the top of my head and hugged me with shaky hands. “I know you’re being practical… Just try to take care of yourself while you are around, okay DadDad?”

He laughed. He hugged me. “I’ll try.”

We talked about me being in California. He remembered that I lived near San Francisco. That I had a boyfriend who was older but not too old. That I worked “too hard for someone my age”.

“Are you happy, kid?” I told him honestly, that I was. That I was tired, but I was happy.

He smiled, happy but tired in a different way. “Then that’s all that matters. You look good. I’m proud of you, of who you’ve become. I love you, you know that right?”

Of course I know that… I love my DadDad to the moon and back. I know he loves me too.. I’ve never had a fear about our relationship. Never. He’s been a superhero to me since I was a child. He protected me from the sea witch in the Little Mermaid when I was a child and from an abusive partner as an adult. He knew amazing things thanks to street smarts and protected his house and my parent’s house during Hurricane Sandy because of wiring work he had done thirty years before. He was, and in my mind always will be, invincible. Even with his body failing I see a quiet contentment in him that I hope to one day have. His spirit is invincible, untouched by age and decay, and the memory of his smile and that sparkle in his eye when he laughs will remain long after his body is gone.

I apologize for this entry being so long… This blog has become an outlet for honesty and emotion… and I can think of nothing else right now but this goodbye. Tonight I saw MY DadDad. I don’t think I’ll ever get to see that again.

Goodbyes are hard. They are part of growing up, of life and the passage of time…but that doesn’t mean letting go of a superhero is easy. They live on in legend though, always.

Yours with a heavy heart,

-Rene

(A Long Overdue) Day 30!

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30) Is your need to submit being met? If not, or if your situation changed, do you think that you could continue in your life and still be happy/content if you were never able to express your submission in the way that feels best to you again? What makes submission special to you?

This is being asked to me after a night that is still making me smile. James and I went on a date last night. A simple thing. A bite to eat and time together. But not something I ever take for granted..  Something I am very, very grateful for.

There was a time when I struggled with being ashamed of what I was… for a variety of reasons. There was a time when Kane was ashamed to be attracted to me, to want me..and that made me extremely ashamed of myself. What was wrong with me that he didn’t want to be attracted to me? What I so repulsive?

After that finally ended, after I removed myself from a relationship too emotionally masochistic for me, I came to terms with focusing on myself for a while. I wasn’t interested in dating. Didn’t want a relationship. Didn’t want to have to put in the work when I was already working on myself and had finally gotten used to being completely on my own.

And then I run into James, quite on accident. I’ve seen him a couple times before then, but not on his own. Always in the Citadel, always with our friend Squeeks in his lap. They kissed a lot, and she wore his collar from time to time. I assumed that they were together.

They weren’t, I found out. He was very single. I was working on it. And it was finally okay for me to feel attracted to him. It was April. I hadn’t been under his hand since November, at Surrender.. and I wanted to be. I ended up on my knees in front of him, exploring pain and pleasure in a way I hadn’t before.

Are my needs being met as a submissive?

I am a greedy sub. I always want time with Sir. I’m happy when I’m with him… The world shuts up for a little while, and even if we’re stressing about life, the universe, and everything we have the time to talk to each other.. We have a confidant that isn’t going to squeal about every last little thing about our conversations. There are head pets, snuggles, kisses…spankings and scratches and bites.. Sometimes screams. And I love it all. I love the play, and I love just going out to dinner and talking…

My submission is a part of me.. I’ve said that time and time again in these entries. It is as much a part of me as my brown eyes or my curvy figure. I can’t change it about myself. If it wasn’t able to come out in serve to a person, as I thought was going to be the case for a long while, it’s going to come out in service to the community. I show up to quite a few events as-is, because the kink community has become my family out here. Just because a relationship begins or ends doesn’t mean my submission does the same.. A Top, a Sir, a Dom, or a Master do not make me a submissive. I make myself submissive. I own that identity, and it took me a damn long time to do it.

Thus far on my journey, I have no regrets. Although I gotta say, I’m kind of glad this is the last of the 30 days.. It will be nice to get back to the regularly scheduled programming (and allll the backlogged entries that I have saved). Thank you for putting up with my tardiness on the entries, as well as for reading my words at all.

More to come, as always, and as always I am yours

-Rene

Day 28

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28) Has your submission ever let you down? Have you ever been criticized for your submission? Have you ever regretted being or feeling submissive in a moment or in a relationship? Have you ever looked back and realized you made a mistake and how did you handle your submission going forward from that.

We are human, submissives and Dominants. Sometimes we wish we weren’t. I know that there is a part of myself that always wants to be the BEST submissive possible, to please him more than anyone else has.

I am going to start this question off by answering the last part of it. I have never thought my decision to submit was a mistake. Never. It is as natural to me as breathing. It is a part of myself I shoved away for a very long time. I may make mistakes in that submission from time to time, but do I regret deciding to be who and what I am at any point in time? No. I am what I am. And to be honest, I love what I am. I have doubts about myself constantly…but not about my ability to submit or my skills as a submissive. It is the one place where I am completely sure of myself.

I had parts of my submission criticized, very early on. Very, VERY early on, back when Cal was still mentoring me. His girlfriend at the time decided that I was a threat to her, and my poor friend was so enthralled by the woman that he didn’t see for a long time just how much he was being manipulated. Every time I saw him, it was with her as well, so that we could never talk privately. At the time I was a little bit of a mess.. I was growing up, feeling those aches and pains of the first time you stand on your own two feet away from any outside help. I was scared, and just needed someone to tell me that it was going to be okay so that I could keep going. When we were alone, or when we talked privately, he reassured me that this was a normal part of growing up, and that this too shall pass and I would be okay. He would then list fifty thousand logical next steps that would short-circuit my panic button and make everything better. When I saw him with her, however… She noticed when I was upset and jumped at the chance to make it worse, telling me I wasn’t prepared to be in a relationship with someone of his age and experience, and that I should just move on.. She was right about the relationship, but I didn’t WANT a relationship, I wanted a teacher… She spent a good couple of months telling me I was a horrible submissive and would never learn to be one properly. Eventually I stopped talking to her and my friend, because I couldn’t fucking take it.

As for my submission letting me down.. The end with Kane. It wasn’t his fault, it wasn’t mine.. It was both of us stretching something out that should have been left behind and miscommunication all the while. He kept trying to tell me that he could no longer be what I needed… but he couldn’t find the words. He would try it gingerly, not fully wanting to let me go just as much as I didn’t want him to let me go.. And I misheard him time and time again. Every time he said “You deserve so much better.” I would go no no no. I don’t want better I want you… Subby mind was just too devoted to here Dominant. I loved being his. I loved wearing his collar… He gave me Disney. He gave me my first taste of feeling cherished, being someone’s princess… and I loved it. Letting go of that, even knowing that it was the right thing to do, was a heartbreaking process. Even then, it took me months to take off the collar. I felt at war with myself, pulling apart my day collar. I had to take it off myself because he didn’t have time to see me..but it felt horrible. It felt disloyal. I now understand why being properly released is so important. Because otherwise a submissive will eat themselves alive for doing something that they know is right but feels so wrong.

Phew.. Okay. That was a loaded one that brought up much emotional baggage… I’m going to go and pick out my dungeon outfit for this evening… Nothing like corsets and stilettos to make the night better.

As always, yours

-Rene

Day 26

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26) What are the qualities you seek in a dominant partner and why? Are some qualities deal-breakers as in “must” haves or “must not” have?

What do I seek… hmmm…

I seek someone who looks passed the surface level.

There is a difference between when I play and when I submit. When I play, I am performing. I am showing off. Showing how much I can take, how amazing I can be under another’s hand. When I am submitting Every second is real. I have completely given myself to that person… and wherever he wants to take me I will very willingly go.

So.. for the purpose of this question I’m going to focus on what I look for in a primary, the man I would call my Dominant, whose collar I would wear and who I would end up being most submissive to.

I look for someone who sees me.. If someone walks up to me and just wants to play fine, it will be fun. But can you see how to push me. Can you bring me out of my shell. Do you even want to? Do you want to know what makes me up, what makes me tick, what drives me to submission to start with? If you don’t want to know the mind, I’m not going to give you the body.

I look for someone who pushes..but knows when to stop. The two Dominants in my life that I have fully given myself too have pushed me. They’ve bruised me. They’ve hurt me without causing me harm. Right when I would have ‘yellowed’ they read something in my body language that told them they needed to back off..and they did. They knew how hard to push, and that I need to be pushed..but they also know there is no point in breaking their favorite toys. Then you can’t play with them again.

I look for strength.. And I don’t mean just physical. I know I have baggage, and I know there are times when I crumble. Hiding that side from my Dominant, when in all reality if he’s my Dominant he’s going to be my lover, my boyfriend, my friend as well, is almost impossible. I Nee someone strong who knows how to catch me when I fall, and who can accept that sometimes I do indeed fall. I’m human. And so is he. If he can catch me then I will be there to catch him.

I want someone who wants more. The “more” is always scary. When feels get involved suddenly everyone gets skittish and doesn’t want to talk about it. It takes me a long time to build up to wanting more…but when I’m sure, I’m sure, and I let myself fall. If someone moves emotionally at a different pace than me that is fine, and often welcome…but it’s when there’s no hope for that more, for that deeper level of emotion, that I pull the eject button.

He needs to know the power of aftercare, and that it is mandatory, not just after scenes but after life. After a fight there should be hugging, kissing, and check ins once the discussion is resolved. After a scene I want to come down in someone’s arms, knowing I am safe and secure and as long as they’re there nothing will touch me. After a horrible day I want to know that I can reach them, that they will ground me even if it’s just through text on a screen. That they’re accessible and want to talk.

This is my shallow one… He needs to be physically attracted to me.. If you don’t want me. If you want just my personality and ‘can live with the physical me’… why the fuck are you with me? I’m sorry… I will be attracted to the people I am with. I would like for them to also be attracted to me.

The last thing, and this one is extremely important to me.. They can’t be afraid of touch or affection. I am a tactile WHORE. I need you to touch me, hold me, embrace me, caress my face..and more than that I need you to want to do those things.. I was deprived of PDA for a damn long time…and dammit I want it now.

And no, none of these are negotiable. Because I’m spoiled 😛

Yours..apparently very demanding

-Rene

Day 25

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Are there items, objects or rituals that represent or help you express submission? If not, have you ever thought of adding or being gifted one? Is there a special significance to these objects or rituals?

The collar has always been a very important object to me.

I have been owned and collared once, and the feeling when I had that day collar around my neck 24/7 was… exquisite… Yes, I want that again someday. I loved the security of being able to reach down when I was away or a few days went by where I couldn’t see my Dom and have that confirmation of “Okay.. it’s here. I’m still his. I am his… yes…” I loved being able to CALL someone my Dominant. I love my Sir, but there is so much power behind that word… I also got so used to it that in the beginning with James and I, I had to bite back using the familiar term. He is my Sir right now. He dominates me, but he is not my Dominant.

What’s the difference? For him, it’s that he hasn’t completely collared me yet.

I do wear a play collar when we go to kink events. Most of the events that we go to are ones that he is at least partially working. I love watching him work, and love being at these events with him, but there have been times where he’s been in another room or in the back and a creeper has come up to me that just… doesn’t want to go away. The explanation of “I have a partner and he’s in the back doing his thing and I usually stay out here and watch and play and then he comes and takes pictures and everyone is happy.” sometimes takes too long.. I’ve out right run to find him a handful of times when I was very uncomfortable at the club and just needed my Sir.. No one is stupid enough to try anything when he’s near me. Chair or no chair, the man can be intimidating.

The collar does help though… And putting it on has become one of my favorite rituals. We started putting it on me for my comfort level in the clubs and parties he has to work.. but the intensity of our relationship changed when the collar became involved. I am owned by James, even though I’m not owned and collared 24/7, and having a physical reminder of that, something that he puts on me and takes off… Yes, it made things more intense between us.. In a good way.

On a typical Wednesday he and I get a little time to ourselves before BaGG. Sometimes we get food, sometimes it’s just snuggles in his car then snuggles in Wicked Grounds. Sometimes it’s snuggles and spanks and squeaks in Wicked Grounds.. (I love Wednesdays). Then his alarm goes off for when he has to go to the club and set up. While he gets ready to go I get the collar out of my bag, and usually hold it up rather shy and mew…

He motions for me to come closer, and I do.. on my knees. I lift my hair (usually down and pulled back, because the club gets hot but it’s fun to get hair pulled…) and he slips it around my neck and buckles it. I very quietly thank my Sir, knowing that when that collar is around my neck I won’t be able to call him “James”. Not because there’s a rule..but because that’s where my mind goes when that collar is around my neck. And after I thank him he kisses me…

I mean really kisses me.

I mean the world spins on its axis kisses me.

Taking off the collar has a similar ritual to it. I end up on my knees and I bend my head to give him access to the buckle.. and once it is off I say how sad I am, and he kisses me. And the world spins. And I am once again reminded of what a lucky little submissive I am.

We have other rituals that are less D/s related and more relationship related… One that he started early on that continues to make me smile even when I am feeling my worst is that we always end each night by wishing each other “sweet dreams”. Another that I began in order to make him smile is that each morning he gets a selfie… usually naughty, as the goal is to make the man smile, and I do aim to please.

James and I are still really new… It’s only been a few months, and rituals develop over time. But the rituals I have now, especially the collar..they make me happy.

Yours, smiling

-Rene

Day 23

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23) Is there anything about submission (yours or what you see in others) that you question, dislike or repels you? Was there a time you questioned or were resistant to your own submissive feelings?

I am a big fan of different strokes for different folks. However, there are limits to this. I believe in the safe, sane, consensual tenant of BDSM.. and while the sane part is up for debate, the safe and consensual are not.

The only time I have questioned another submissive is when they were going into truly unsafe situations… I had a friend at Bondage a Go Go when I started going early on who called herself a pain slut. In all reality she was a heavy bottom, but not a pain slut, and she pushed her body too hard to prove just how much she could take (because she wanted to be the best of all the subs… Subbies you know how this is…). To do this, she would eat AFTER bag and not have any food before, because she believed that it allowed her to take more pain. One night she did this and on top of this took several medications that left her not in her right mind, combined this with alcohol, and then went to go play… The partner she was playing with cut the scene short because they saw she wasn’t right, but it was one of the few times I have gone over and lectured another submissive, as well as her primary for letting her put herself in that situation.

I’ve also met many a young ‘sub’ that was “looking for her Christian Grey.” They are easy to spot in a dungeon setting. Usually younger, dressed to the nines in lingerie and brand new heels, walking around with a bit of a dear in the headlights look. These lost little ones me and a few other experienced submissives will sit down and talk to, and try to explain the difference between Christian Grey and real Doms. It’s why so many of us read the books, so we could know thy enemy and keep young, vulnerable subbies from getting hurt.

There is a difference between a submissive putting herself in danger because she is under some sort of influence (be it alcohol or some fictional character) and a submissive letting her Dominant push her. I have seen a couple scenes that have had me question whether or not an ambulance should be called. You sit, you watch, you wonder, but in those moments you know that an experienced submissive has not had alcohol or drugs before playing, because they want to be fully aware of their body and what is is going through. An experienced Dominant will be able to read their submissive’s body to pace the play out so that even if they’re pushing, it will be something they know that their submissive can take. And if something happens, if something gets pushed to far, everyone knows how to safeword, and will if they need to. You sometimes just have to trust that. And when you can’t, well, that’s what dungeon monitors are for.

You can’t always judge a book by its cover. James and I have made the dungeon monitors look up a few times, because he makes me howl. He will hit me hard enough that the sound of the crack will echo throughout the entire dungeon, and I in turn will scream like a banshee. He pushes me, and I let him push me. Everyone in that dungeon knows we’re experienced. The DMs have seen James for years in the scene, and while I haven’t been around for as long they know me as well. They trust that if I need to, I will red out. And I have in the past, with other partners.

As for my own submission… of course I’ve struggled with it. When my mother told me I could be anything I wanted to be I don’t think she pictured one of those things as someone who craved spankings, floggings and the phrase ‘good girl’. Strong, independent women are not supposed to want to kneel at their boyfriend’s feet.. I struggled most with something that has become one of my biggest kinks. The concept of being owned.

The collar. One of my biggest turn-ons is the thought that someone wants me enough, values me enough, that they want me to be one of their possessions. They want to own me. They will share, but I will be theirs to do with as they well. Coming to terms with wanting that, with craving that.. it took me some time. There is still a stigma to D/s, and to BDSM in general. It takes time to realize that the stigma is just something  you learn how to live with.. That it’s going to be part of your everyday life whether you want it to be or not.

It’s a matter of how you live with it that matters. I will never be ashamed of who and what I am. It has taken me a long time to get there, and I’ll be damned if I’m going back… But I’ve learned what to and not to share with people about who I am. Sometimes that makes me sad, that I can only be half of myself with people.

But then I rejoin my people… and I frolic in the dungeon. James makes me scream, and all is right with the world.

Yours, as always

-Rene

Day 22

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Day 22

Can you feel submissive without a dominant partner? If so, how does your submission express itself? If not, how do you handle your submission or submissive feelings?

My friend Cal is a Domly Dom. I’ve described him as being able to be spotted as Dominant from 100 feet away. This attribute may be heightened when his girl is kneeling at his feet or curled up in his lap, but standing on his own he reeds as Dominant. Those who aren’t in the scene may not know that he was a Dominant, but he would read as a domineering person in general, a take charge boss man that looks like he should be calling the shots.

The same can be said on the other end of the spectrum. My submissive tendencies don’t go away when I’m not with my Sir… and somethings this can be a really annoying thing…because I can’t control it.

When I am upset and around people I trust I become incredibly submissive. Most of my friends know that I like to sit on the floor when I cry, that I will apologize for every little thing (including apologizing so much) and that the easiest way to make my mood right is to order me to action. Tell me to do something so that I’m not focusing on my own melancholia.

My submissive side is strong enough and, ironically, dominant enough in me that it comes out, partner or not, and I am lucky enough to have people in my life that know how to handle me when this does happen. They are not necessarily Doms but toppy people that know what to do when I go subby.

I’m not necessarily one of those people that goes “Dom shopping” when I’m single, and I have been single in the scene before. I’ve mentioned before that I am a picky bitch when it comes to relationships. When I feel a need to formally submit but don’t have a Dominant in my life, I am lucky in that I have friends. Friendships in the scene…can be interesting. Some of my friends I go to dinner and drinks with… some of them beat my ass in a dungeon when I ask. It ends up not being in a sexual way, rather in a cathartic way. Their need to Dominate ends up as strong as my need to submit, and the play makes both of us feel better and more right in our own skin.

I’m one of those who is blessed and cursed with the fact that my submission never really goes away. I would like to think that has the ability to make me a damn good submissive to my Sir, and that he is proud to call me his, because it isn’t an act. It’s not a mask that I put on for an evening performance. It’s in me, same as my need to create. I love it, and sometimes I hate it.

Yours, subby as ever

-Rene

Day 21

Day 21

Is there a physical position that makes you feel most submissive?

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I’ve always had a thing for sitting on the floor. I’ve mentioned it before, that I liked sitting at an ex’s feet while he played video games.

I’ve never been ordered on the floor, though I have been ordered onto my knees once or twice. I just.. enjoy it. I like feeling grounded and stable, safe, and there’s something about being as low as you can possibly be that lends you to that.

With James there are two positions that I enjoy the most, that make me feel the most submissive to him in particular. One is kneeling on the floor and then laying my head against his wheel or his leg, depending on where I’m facing (and what mood I’m in honestly… This is usually the ‘I have no words but help please…’ position XD). This will either result in head pets and snuggles or a raised eyebrow and a few nails buried into my chest, depending on the mood. Both are happily received.

The other position I love is actually off the ground. There’s a little black chair in the photo room at the Citadel, often nicknamed the blow job chair. Usually instead of James sitting in it, I end up sitting in it. I love when he comes over and sits across from me, putting his legs on either side of me. He’s slightly higher than me when I’m sitting in that chair and he’s sitting in his.. and he is deceptively HUGE. Stretch the man out and he’s 6 ft 4 easily, with huge feet and…

No I’m not going to finish that sentence, you perverts ;P

But yes, back to the position. It’s a simple one. It’s not a proper D/s one..but it’s one that has me completely surrounded by him, where I know his focus is on me. I feel possessed.. and Godde is that a powerful feeling. Outside of being curled up in his arms it’s the position where I most feel like his.

With D/s in general I enjoy being on my knees. I can kneel for long periods of time.. My background is somewhat high protocol, with positions and postures, so being used as a drink holder or foot stool is somewhat my comfort zone..

I like crawling. I like being lower than my partner. I like being grounded…and I LOVE being possessed. I am my Sir’s favorite toy ;P

Yours, making progress.

-Rene