Not quite, Estelle

When I prepare myself mentally for an experience; when I create coping mechanisms for potential situations, the fear, anxiety and uncertainty that would have otherwise been provoked by the situation, is dulled. It’s a good strategy for coping with life, but it can make things too predictable, boring. I am starting to see that I like a little bit of fear, and uncertainness injected into play. I like when I don’t know what is coming. I want to be afraid, nervous, excited. I want to feel my skin prickle, and to startle at every sound. I want to feel like something terrible could happen…just because I have the safetynet at the back of my mind, knowing that Master would never really hurt me.

So here, I will explore the rape fantasies I have long suppressed.

The key to acting out such a fantasy would be the element of surprise. There would have to be a diversion. Maybe Master would leave me at home and tells me he’ll be back in a few hours and gives me a task to do; something to keep me occupied, something to keep me in an area where
I’m not watching the door, where I’m oblivious to my surroundings because I’m so engrossed in what I am doing.

Then, before I realize it, there’s a hand over my mouth, fingers underneath my thin, leather collar, twisting it, tightening the band around my neck. He is silent, doesn’t want to give himself away by speaking in that voice I know and trust. I want to be scared. I want it to be him, I’d want a sign that it was him and not some manic stranger…but I’d like the fear to rise a moment more, as I wait and see. He would blindfold me, and pin me down. I would writhe and squeal.
There would be a struggle. Then, my defeat.

He’d restrain me. It would be easy; I always have my wrist and ankle cuffs on, so he’d clip my wrists behind my back. Then he’d tie up so that I couldn’t struggle anymore. He’d strip off my clothes…angrily, roughly. He’d do something to disorient me…drag me around, maybe by my hair. I want to be confused, to not know where I am exactly.

Then he’d torture me somehow. He’ll use everything I hate; the nipple clamps…he’d torture my breasts. And when I protest, he’d slap me so hard. Maybe he’d speak to me profanely, in a way he never usually would…so that even though the voice would be familiar, I’d be transported to a different reality and the fear would continue to rise.

There would be no mercy in this fantasy. He would hurt me, and I would cry. He would make me kneel in front of him, and fuck my mouth so hard and quick, until I couldn’t breathe. He would bend me over, and fuck my ass while I begged for it to be over.

Then, when he is finished, he would discard me in a heap on the floor…as if I were a worthless, used toy. He'd leave. And I would wait in silence for a period of time more, writhing, trying to get free of my bonds. Fed up and wanting my Master back. Waiting, with anticipation for something warm and comforting to juxtapose the violence.

Logistically…can a ‘realistic’ rape fantasy be worked out? I don’t know. It would definitely require creativity and opportunity, it would have to eliminate the danger without eliminating the fear. I think if well executed, a rape fantasy would terrify me at the time…especially if there was a huge element of uncertainty about whether my attacker was really Master. However, I think this element of fear would be exhilarating.

Cream of the Ice

In the beginning, when I was shy and unsure and would slip-up a lot, Master wouldn’t hesitate to immediately slap or otherwise punish me. In retrospect, I can see how strictness is necessary in the initial stages of training, but at the time, I resented it. I was unsure about him. I didn’t like being corrected, especially when I didn’t think I was wrong. I remember that sometimes after hitting me, he would hold my hand afterwards and I would want to get away from him. We were solemn. I followed his commands, because this was in theory what I wanted. However, I was obeying orders detachedly. Maybe it was because I felt like he was giving them out detachedly.

One day, I was giggly around him for no apparent reason. It takes a lot for me to let down my guard, to show people I might be less serious than I seem. He told me to stop being silly. He made me massage his feet at the foot of his bed, told me not to speak and wouldn’t even look at me when I looked up at him. I can’t do this, I thought at the time, there is no joy here. He got mad at me later, “You are slipping up too much; you are forgetting your role. You aren’t taking me seriously,” he told me before and after he punished me. I remember being upset. I don’t want to always be serious, I thought, to be living in rituals and begrudging servitude, to continue being shy and unsure like I am now.

Everything has changed so much. So much, that it hurts me to think of the doubt at the beginning, to realize how scared I must have been that I couldn’t see the wonderful man I see right now.

I’m not scared of Master anymore. I’m scared that he’ll be upset with me, that he’ll get tired of me. I’m scared of negative reactions for things I do, or forget to do. I know he can punish me and hurt me, and I fear this. But I do not fear him as a person. Now, I obey him for completely different reasons than I did at the beginning--because I respect and care for him. In him, I am finding the companionship and laughter and friendship and balance that I lacked and badly needed.

Now, if he were to hurt me, out of correction or simply for his pleasure, I would want more than anything to crawl into his arms afterwards. I don't want to run away. I don't and can’t resent him, not now that I see that he so good for me. Ironically, these days, he is not so quick to slap me or really hurt me. Sometimes I wonder why. Perhaps it is because he recognizes my need to please him. Perhaps he realizes that my slip-ups come from moments of humanity and forgetfulness and not from disrespect or a desire to test him. Perhaps it is because he has come to care for me in the same way I have for him; past that superficial level of exploring something new and interesting. Perhaps he is just less frustrated and agressive now that we are having sex. Perhaps, he come to like me not just because I am submissive, but because of who I am in conjunction with the submission.

Whatever the reasons, I love how things have changed.

I can’t believe I once thought of my relationship with him as joyless, when these days, I am happier than I have ever been before.

Warm Fuzzies

My birthday weekend was filled with lovely surprises. I tried to keep it as low-key as possible but the important people in my life insisted on celebrating my existence. In the end, however, the festivities made me very happy. Since I feel like birthdays are a celebration of the previous year, I was ultimately glad for chance to acknowledge and commemorate that the epic age of twenty-one was coming to a close. Twenty-one was a year of lofty heights and maddening lows. It was a time of dramatic firsts, and quite possibly a few lasts; it felt like the entire adolescence that I didn’t get to experience crammed into a year.

I was staying with my parents for the weekend but was free on Thursday night, so Master invited me to stay over at his place. It fascinates that he often tells me to come on Thursday nights, just so I can spend another night in his bed. It fascinates me because while neither of us sleep on that first night and he is forced to go to work groggy and tired, he continues to extend the invitation. It's completely worth it for me, since I usually sleep in on the Friday...but it makes me feel warm and fuzzy that the lack of sleep is a worthwhile trade-off for him, to have his slave at arm's reach.

On Friday, I decided to go to have lunch with old colleagues and friends. Master has previously told me that when spending the day at his place, I can leave and return freely, but I cannot remove my collar and cuffs without permission. Before I went out, I texted him at work, but he didn’t respond. So I donned jeans and a cardigan and a scarf, so I could cover them up without having to break his rules. I had plans on Friday evening, so I actually didn’t see him when he came home from work, but I tidied his apartment for him before I went out.

On Saturday, he took me out for a nice dinner and gave me a beautiful bracelet. I, predictably, cried. I'm not materialistic; my affection cannot usually be bought with shiny, pretty things, but because Master has long won over my affections, it was a sweet gesture. The bracelet itself was very lovely but I cried because the rationale behind the object itself was that I could have something I could continuously wear to mark his ownership of me.

I don’t usually wear jewelry since I tend to fidget with it...but the bracelet's smooth, silver links encircle my wrist and sit so gently against the skin, that they feel natural. They aren't heavy or irritating but have enough weight and substance that they serve as a perfect, constant reminder of Master. I love how the silver glints against my honeyed skin, how I can wear it in public and be met with nice comments (a sharp contrast to flak spurred by wearing my collar around friends) and be reminded that I am always his, even when I am not with him.

At dinner, we got a little bit tipsy and he said something like “I like how you folded my underwear again, you always do such a good job of cleaning up”. The butterflies fluttered in my stomach. I love to please him. I don’t expect him to notice the little things, like my tidying up after him, but I love that he does. I love how he sometimes thanks me, even though he doesn’t have to. It really makes me feel appreciated, valued.

We went back to his place afterwards and just hung out for a little while. We were lying in bed, when he told me to suck his cock. Last weekend, I learned how to give him a proper blowjob. He was pleased that I had finally learned and told me that if I subsequently performed poorly and he had to instruct me, that I would be beaten. So on this Saturday night, I went down on him, thinking I had a good strategy in place. However, after twenty minutes of sucking and doing everything I had been taught to do, I still couldn’t make him come.

Finally, he instructed me to stop and lie down beside him. I was just feeling and looking, terribly upset. Without my telling him, he knew that I was disappointed in myself. I want to be able to please him and if I can’t, I feel just awful. I don’t like the idea of him being upset with me. But he explained to me that sometimes he just lasts a long time, and sometimes he just breathes deeply to control ejaculation to give me more practice. It fascinates me though, that I require consolation from him because my happiness has become intrinsically tied to his pleasure. It is crazy how I have come to feel good when I know that he is comfortable and pleased.

He told me, however, that I was a good girl because although I am occasionally forgetful, I never purposely disobey him . It’s true. I mean, I’ve been pretty good from the beginning but initially I was quite resistant to his ideas…to his methods. He was quite strict at the beginning, and I was scared because I didn’t think I could deal with such a regimented lifestyle. I kept going along with it because Master looked really good on paper, and he was, in theory, what I was looking for. However, I was terrified because I was seeing the rituals of the dom/sub dynamic that I thought I had always wanted, without really seeing the man, the personality under the dominant role. In an ideal world, in a fantasy world, I always saw myself submitting to someone I had already come to care for and really respect. In contrast, I was in a position where I was trying to convince myself that I cared for and respected him, even though I didn’t know him well enough to know for sure.

However, as time went on, and I started to legitimately see his personality I decided that I wanted to do more than just obey commands, I actually wanted to serve him. And since then, I have had no desire whatsoever to disobey. I’ve been forgetful sometimes, yes, but I feel awful for it. I really don’t want him to be mad at me and would never antagonize him purposely.

On Sunday evening, he met my parents. It went well and first impressions were positive all around. It’s a giant relief for me that now my parents have some idea of who I’m dating and think well of Master. I feel like they have been worrying about me, which I hate. Life is stressful enough; I don’t want to be a source of anxiety for anyone, especially when I am perfectly fine. I think my parents got to see that I am safe and happy in my relationship with Master; they thought he was generally a nice person, so I’m very pleased with how that turned out.

After dinner with my parents, I went back to Master’s place to wait for my friends to pick me up to take me out. Master and I were in such a goofy mood. We spent an hour just tickle-fighting, making funny faces and doing impressions, hiding and trying to scare each other and being completely ridiculous. It's amazing because even when we act like this, I always feel a sense of being owned. I know I am his. At the same time though, I need this. I need humanity. I need silliness. I need softness and tenderness too.

I actually started to really care for Master the day before I left for summer holiday. We went on a funny, haphazard walk in the forest, and had gelato and he threw me into his pool while I was wearing a dress. Since I can't really swim well, we played around and I kicked and squirmed, and he saved me drowning. It was the first time that I really got that sense of fun and mischief from him. It was the first time where I actually saw that this relationship is not just about commands and obedience, ritual and rules; it is about a dynamic. It is about my constant submission to him, his constant Mastery over me. And this dynamic exists in whatever we do. It doesn’t mean that I have to grovel at his feet twenty-four hours a day; that I am to be used an abused; to be reduced to solely a plaything at all times. It means that I just have to acknowledge his power over me, and while he can exert it in any way he wishes it does not necassarily have to be in a traditional on-my-knees-serving-him sort of way.

I realized then, that we could both have personalities, both have fun, both be ourselves, just complementing each other in our dominance and submission. Since then, more little gestures, and words, and events have just solidified this idea in my mind. I completely love our dynamic. I just can’t believe how lucky I am to get exactly what I was I looking for; to find someone so amazing, and just so good for me. To find someone who is so wonderful, that I actually really admire, and respect and thoroughly adore him.

Anyway, I am sick and pretty achy, tired and stressed out right now, but writing this entry has made me feel pretty happy, so I’m going to go to bed now, while my heart is light.

Mysterious Skin

Master took my ass on Friday.

He came home from work, bent me over the bed and ran his hand down my back. He paused at my ass, at the flared base of the butt plug, and made a surprised noise—as if he was expecting me to forget about wearing it. But I didn’t. I wore it all day: while I was sweeping and mopping his floors, while I washing his dishes, while I was grocery shopping and cooking his dinner, and even when I was doing “me-things” like sitting down to study.

He pulled my underwear down, pulled the plug out. Then, I felt a different hardness press into the newly freed hole; not cold silicone, but something organic and warm. He held my hips and pressed his cock into me slowly, until I could feel his pubic bone against the flesh of my bum. He was inside of me and it happened with warning, or build-up, or drama. Then he pulled my hair back and fucked me hard. He dragged me to the table and although he put his hands under my face, so that his palms cupped my cheek and caught my tears, he did not relent with the force of each thrust.

There was no pain, just nausea, a sensation of uncomfortable fullness and the accompanying need to have a bowel movement. But I was not crying because of the discomfort, I cried because I had now lost so much of my body to him. I wept because now all my holes—my mouth, my cunt, my ass—holes that had never before been used by a man, were now all his. I cried, not because I was upset, but out of disbelief that it had all happened this way. Out of joy that I belonged him.

After expelling a last heavy breath, after his last shudder of pleasure, he took me and my wet, cum-filled asshole to the bathroom. He filled the bathtub and climbed in, so that his back was nestled into the curve at the foot of the tub and his legs were open. I was still crying. He gestured for me to climb it too, and, feeling shy and ashamed, I knelt between his legs with my knees pressed together. I know I’m not supposed to present to him with my legs closed, but I was embarrassed about the tampon I was wearing, about being on my period, about having just been stripped of any semblance of dignity. He commented on my pose but allowed me to stay that way. I stared at his chest because I was too afraid to look up and see what expression he was wearing on his face.

He kept asking me questions in soft and tender tones—if I was okay, why I was crying—and I answered with head nods when I could, and silence when I could not find the words. I tend to talk a lot when I feel safe and comfortable, but in moments weakness I am mute. In moments of great vulnerability, I grow silent even in thought, because emotion floods all other reflection.

So, we sat in silence for a little while, before Master told me to wash him. I was glad to have something to do, so I massaged his stomach and chest with the soap and his scalp with shampoo.

At length I spoke, “I’m really okay, Master.”What I meant was I’m more than okay: I’m happy. I’m yours--all yours--and I’m so lucky to belong to you.

He put my head to his chest and hugged me.

Swallowed in the Rain

On Thursday afternoon, I got home as the temperature was dropping and a gray mist was permeating the sky. Affected by the gloomy pathos, I changed into pyjamas, put my hair up and curled up with my textbooks and a mug of steaming tea. I engrossed myself in the material, both out of necessity and as a distraction from my pining for Master, when my phone rang and I started. I stared at it for a few seconds before begrudgingly answering. I hate being disrupted when I’m in studying mode.

“Hey, I need to go to an earlier lab session, did you still want to trade labs for tomorrow? ”

My annoyance dissolved instantly, I slammed my book shut. “Yes!”

My Friday morning was suddenly free...but I wanted to trade that freedom with a different sort of captivity. Despite the warmth and comfort of my room, the idea of studying on my couch seemed ridiculous when I could be studying on a bus, moving a hundred kilometers in the direction of my dear Master. So when Master gave his permission to come over, I chucked my books into my bag, showered and groomed to make myself look presentable, and haphazardly threw some sweaters into my backpack before calling a cab.

Two weeks without seeing him is too long. When I stepped onto the bus, I sighed in relief. In a few hours, I would be back in his arms.

Unfortunately, my enthusiasm eroded as the bus crawled along the misty roads and my eyes grew tired from reading in the dim light. The nausea and malaise I had been experiencing earlier, unexpectedly turned into my period, and I grew fidgetty from the growing anxiety of seeing Master again. Despite going to bed every night with sighs in my chest from missing him, he still has the power to unnerve me. I was especially anxious because I was returning to him with transgressions against me. On my last visit, I had forgotten to bring my collar and forgotten to carry out Master’s parting instruction of bringing the butt plug back to school, so that I could prepare that hole for him. More than the punishments themselves, I was anxious that Master would be dissapointed in me.

So, when I got to Master’s place late on Thursday night, and he told me to put on my collar, I felt absolutely sick when I rummaged through my backpack and could not find the black leather band. I burst into tears when I told him.

When he reached out and took me by the shoulders, I tensed up and my stomach turned, but he only led me to the bathroom and told me to brush my teeth.

“It’s okay,” he said. I didn’t want to justify my failure, to make excuses for my carelessness. I didn’t have to. Master often speaks my thoughts before I can even gather the wits to verbalize them. “You were in a rush to see me. It’s okay.” He watched me as I brushed my teeth and forced the toothbrush into my throat to work on my gag reflex.

“I’m too soft with you sometimes,” he told me, before kissing the nape of my neck. Sometimes he is. But it’s sometimes exactly what he wants and sometimes exactly what I need.

As Master settled into bed, I put on my wrist and ankle cuffs and the black cotton dress that I’m allowed to wear in the house during the cold season. Then, he called me into bed and pulled me close to him so that we could kiss fervently, with our arms and legs intertwined. As he slowed down his deep kisses to pecks on my lips, he also wrapped his fingers around my naked throat-- filling the void where my collar should have been. “I’ll deal with you tomorrow.”

Then he turned away from me, and laid his head against the pillow. Assuming the position that we often take before sleeping, I curled my legs around his, and pressed my head into his back. The room was dark and silent. I closed my eyes and let my head grow heavy as it almost gave way to sleep.

Almost.

Suddenly, I felt fingers pressing into my neck again. Master was above me, his eyes glinting. “Go get the butt plug.”

I fought the weight of fatigue that sat on my chest, and stumbled to the toy box in the dark to find it. My fingers searched through the familiar shapes, burrowing past rope, a flogger, clothespegs, a tube of lubricant. I paused on the plastic tube, wondering whether to bring that too. As if reading my mind, Master called out through the distance and the darkness: “No lube for you”. I dropped it, as if scared that even touching the plastic surface would get me into trouble. When my fingers finally hooked the flared base and pointing silicone phallus of the butt plug, I pulled it out from the box and brought it to Master.

Master ordered me into bed and tried to insert the plug. The pain seared as he tried to force it into my anus. Unfazed, Master ordered me to stand and turn on the light. He marched me to the table, where he pushed me down and covered my eyes with my hair, as he slathered the plug in lubricant. When he tried to insert it again, the butt plug glided inside me with far more ease, but I still groaned when he pressed his hand against the base and drove it deeper. My vagina was plugged with a tampon, my stomach was cramping, and now, my rectum was being tormented.

“You don’t deserve the lubricant,” he told me, “I expect to be thanked for it.” I thanked him and meant it. I have no doubt that had he really wanted to, he could have pried my anus apart and rammed the silicone into my tender insides. He chose not to. He overwhelms me with his mercy sometimes and it only makes me want to please him more, to prove myself to be a good slave to match his Mastery.

He took me into bed with my holes full. I tried to stay quiet but couldn’t help but growl when he played with the plug; pulling it out and twisting it, before screwing it in, harder and faster, in the opposite direction. He climbed on top of me and put his hands under my ass; driving the plug deeper into me. I started sobbing. He grabbed my breasts, which had become so tender throughout the course of the evening, and pressed into the nipples until I squirmed. He flicked them and with a tight pinch, tugged my breasts from side to side. He thrust his pelvis into mine, knowing that every dip pushed the plug deeper into me. Then he moved his mouth to my right breast and bit down on one of the nipples, while kneading and squeezing the other.

After awhile though, the clamp of his teeth turned into a soft gentle sucking, and his movement on me eased, so that his hard cock was just gently rubbing against my clit through the cotton of our undergarments.

“I love how I can be so soft with you,” he said, and kissed me deeply and ran his hands through my hair, “and then so rough” and his hands became fists, and the jerk of his arm yanked my head back. His other hand assailed my breasts. The cycle repeated and the tears continued before they even had time to stop.

“You are my girl,” he said, “there can be no doubt about that any more.” I wept harder at these words. All of the strong emotions—passion, joy, fear, anxiety, desire—becoming mixed into a cathartic slosh of fluid pouring from my eyes.

“Who owns this?” he asked, as he ran his hands along my curves.

“You do, Master,” I whispered, before burying my head under his chin and into his chest. The tears burned my eyes but he held me, as I wept. When I quieted down, he rolled off me and lay on his back.

“Suck my cock, slave,” he ordered.

I crawled under the blankets, pulled down his underwear, and began to use my mouth. I’m not very good with blowjobs and tried to funnel the rush of emotion into productive energy. But I was too sloppy and couldn’t get into a steady rhythm.

“Stop slurping,” Master said in exasperation as my lips smacked against his cock. “Stop making noises.” More tongue. Deeper. Faster. I tried to follow the instructions, but I couldn’t make him come. Finally, he pushed the blankets away to expose my wet, swollen face. He pulled his underwear up to cover his equally wet and swollen cock, and hooking his hands under my armpits, he dragged me up his body so that our eyes met.

I felt ashamed for not being able to pleasure him and looked away.

“You need practice, doll,” he said matter-of-factly. “You are okay, but you need to get a lot better.” He’s tried to teach me many times, and I still don’t get it. Although there’s exasperation in his voice when he’s yelling out instructions, I know it’s fuelled by the surge of testosterone; fuelled by the frustration of being teased but not relieved. He could have easily and justifiably been angry with me, but he composed himself and exercised his patience. He petted me and reassured me, even though I was the one who had failed him. When he patted the bed, I moved quietly to his side.

“Time to sleep now, we’ll deal with you tomorrow,” he said.

"Yes, Master," I said and I found his hand under the blankets and kissed it.

My stomach was cramping terribly, my butt aching, my head hurting and my eyes itchy, but I was happy that he had told me I was his girl, and handled me so tenderly, that I tried to forget about the pain. I tried to replace the uncomfortable stretching in my bum, with pleasant sensations: Master’s body heat warming my limbs, the feel of his skin brushed against mine, the sound of his heart. But even still, my brain could not block out the visceral pain. I tried to sleep, but I just couldn’t.

Finally, after much shifting throughout the night, Master lifted his head and saw me lying on my stomach, trying to alleviate the pressure in my ass. He touched my shoulders and saw that I was sobbing again.

“Relax Princess,” he said, and placed his hand between my rigid shoulder blades. I felt awful for keeping him up. “Go take the plug out and wash it. You will wear it all day tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Master,” I whimpered. So much grace. So much kindness. So much of what I needed at the moment, without my even having to say it. Without my even having to wish for it.

When I came back to bed, he kept his arm around me for a little while, before he turned his back and I turned mine and we finally drifted to sleep.