Tag Archives: memories

Story of O and Me

1 Jul

Discerning Dom’s post on Story of O inspired this post.  http://discerningdom.blogspot.com/2010/06/story-of-o.html

Story of O was the first erotic literature I read.  I was – maybe 12 years old, maybe 13.   It fascinated me, from the beginning, when Rene and O are in the back seat of a cab and he has her lift her skirt and “sit naked on the seat.”   I no longer know if that’s an actual quote, but those are the words indelibly carved in my mind.  

Along with so many other lines.  In the same scene “she leans forward, thinking he wants to caress her,” but he cuts her bra straps and removes her bra instead, so she’s “naked under her clothing.”   O, my.   

I can almost remember my shock – and arousal – the first time I read the book.   If you haven’t, I recommend it.  It’s a classic.  I read and re-read it so many times, my copy was dog-eared, the spine broken, pages turned down.  

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

This is what the book I had looked like. I think the letters were embossed. Just picking the book up - just looking at it - made me wet.

I read it all the way through a few times, but I’d usually read it just long enough to get so aroused I had to seek relief.    Often, reading and touching myself at the same time, until I’d cum.  Then I’d stop and hide the book away again, feeling physically satisfied but emotionally uncomfortable. 

Soon, I had my favorite parts, and rather than reading straight through, I’d skip to the parts I liked best.  The scenes in the beginning, when she’s naked, blindfolded, and presented to the men. 

“They turned her around, and she could feel the fire at her back, so they could see the breasts and belly…  Then she fell backward, supported by she did not know whose arms, and they opened her legs so they could examine the cleft  between her thighs.  They parted the outer lips…”    Those may not be real quotes, but that’s how i remember it. 

And it makes me breathe faster remembering it, even now. 

It bothered me that I loved this book.   After all, O, the beautiful photographer, is violated in every way possible by many men, given to them by her lover.  She’s not allowed to cross her legs or press her knees together, as a reminder that she’s always open to any of the men who care to use her.  She’s whipped til she bleeds, her “tender nether lips” pierced, and finally she’s branded. 

She’s given to Sir Stephen, who uses her brutally, “only interested in what she has in common with men.”  Discerning Dom quotes this line too – it is a perfect example of a phrase with a mysterious power.  I don’t quite know why it fascinates me, but it still does.   “Only interested in what she has in common with men.”

It also makes me think of the scene in which she’s whipped for the first time, and they attach her to a pole at the waist.  “This forces her torso to one side, thereby causing her backside to protude in the opposite direction.   (one of the men) seduced by the sight of her behind, struggling to escape the blows, called for a brief intermission so he could take advantage of that entrance, remarking as he did so that she was too tight and would have to be widened.  They all agreed that could, and would, be done.” 

Omigod.  I totally DON’T want that to happen to me, and it totally makes me shiver, makes me wet.  What is it about that???

On the internet, I found a clip from the movie that shows her first meeting with Sir  Stephen. The scene is exactly like I remember reading it, and it’s odd to see scenes that have lived in my mind forever come to life. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sN9a0WqwxlE

In the early 1970’s, when I first discovered this book, there was no one to explain or help me understand why it turned me on.   So I was baffled.  I was pretty sure I didn’t want to be treated quite the way O was.  But there were some things…  And, if I didn’t want to be treated quite that way, why did reading it make me so incredibly hot????

In any case, as I got older, I would go for years without reading Story of O.  But the  fantasies were always part of my sexual life.  I must have told myself the story of my favorite scenes a zillion times.   And I often felt ashamed.  Ashamed that I needed those fantasies to orgasm.  Ashamed because I didn’t understand “what was wrong with me.” 

I didn’t think women were subservient to men  I didn’t think it was ok to rape women or beat them up.   Yet my fantasies were all about whips and being restrained, about being available to have sex at any time, about being owned.

I was relieved when women’s magazines started proclaiming that it was ok to have wild fantasies.   Then I could write it off as just some quirk, nothing important.

For sure, I didn’t want my husband, who was pretty vanilla, to do any of those things to me.  And he didn’t want to, at least not the things I wanted.  The few times we explored some of those possiblities, it quickly became clear that he wasn’t a safe person to share that kind of experience with.  

So I spent a lot of time feeling ashamed of my sexual urges.  And really, it’s not just the “Story of O” sexual urges that I’ve felt ashamed of. 

The deepest sexual urge for me is wanting to please.   Wanting to give myself.  If you’ve been reading my blog, you may already know that I’ll go a long way to hear “Good.  Good girl.”  You may already know that writing THAT makes me quiver and want to be touched.

And that triggers shame.  As if that, not my love for  Story of O, not my desire to be spanked, but wanting to please, is my real shameful secret.  

So here’s the thing.  I’m not going to be ashamed of it anymore.  Not any of it.   Not ashamed of the things that turn me on – whether it’s belts or cock worship, a word of praise, or being taken care of.   Not ashamed.  And if I feel it, that horrible, want-to-curl-up-and-disappear feeling, I’m going to push back.  I won’t accept the shame.   I just won’t.

And maybe I’ll get a new copy of Story of O.

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Lost and Found

21 Jun

i have almost no sense of direction, so i get lost, easily and often.  i have comfort zones, areas that i know and can travel confidently, but outside of them,  i actually have different ways of being lost.   These are:

1.  i don’t know where i am – i look around and don’t see anything familiar.  i don’t have a clue where i am or which way to go. 

2.  i don’t know where i’m going.  i have no clue where the address or business is, i’ve never been there, and i know i might get lost.  

3.   i know where i am, and i know where i’m going, but i don’t know how to get there. 

There are variations, but those are the three main ways. 

And i HATE getting lost.  i hate everything about it.  i feel scared and stupid.  i don’t want to ask for directions.  i don’t want anyone to know i’m lost, again.   i think i’ll be lost forever. 

i know i’m not stupid.  i know there’s nothing to be scared of.  It doesn’t matter.  Let me say it again.  When i get lost, i feel stupid and scared.  And i don’t want anyone to know.

But one day, Sir happened to call me right when i was so lost that i was sure i would never find the store i was looking for and there wasn’t even anywhere to stop and ask directions.  So when He called, i was so relieved that i just told Him i was lost, and he stayed on the phone with me and told me exactly where to turn until i got to where i was going. 

It was like a little miracle, and He didn’t laugh at me or act like it was ridiculous or bizarre that i could be lost.  In fact, He said i could call Him anytime i was lost – instead of mapquest, i’d have Sir-quest and He’d get me there. 

That kind of “being taken care of” touches me.  It pulls at my heart, and surprisingly, arouses me too.  Not as much or as immediately as the belt, for example, or cock worship, but there’s definitely a line running from my heart to between my legs. 

So it happened again a few weeks later – i was lost, and i shouldn’t have been, i should have known where i was going, but i didn’t.  So this time i called Him just before i got into panic mode.  And He did it again.  He didn’t act like i was imposing on Him or anything.  He just talked to me the whole way and told me exactly how to get where i was going.

So.  i had an early moring appointment this week and Sir invited me to breakfast afterwards at a restaurant He liked.  i knew exactly where the restaurant was.  i knew exactly where my appointment was.  i was sure i could get from point A to point B.  Even when He asked me about it, i said, “o, yes, i know how to get there.” 

Really.  It was only about 5 minutes away.

Only, you know.  When it came time, i had directions but they weren’t written down and i panicked and turned left too soon and had to go around the block and try to find the right place to turn – i mean the right place to turn left, and then i was supposed to turn right, but shouldn’t it be left if i’ve turned too soon?  And then the block curved instead of being square and i thought it was this way cause the street was familiar but then i’d gone a long way and didn’t see where i was supposed to turn right again so it was probably wrong and i turned around and – yeah, that’s how i end up lost.  That kind of thinking.  And while i’m driving around, He’s waiting for me at the restaurant. Which just makes it worse.

So i found my way back to where i’d started and i was going to try again but i kept running into one way streets that went the wrong way – so i called Him.  And by then i not only didn’t know how to get to the restaurant, i wasn’t quite sure where i was either. 

But we figured it out, what street i was on, and He started giving me directions, and He didn’t sound angry or impatient, so i was following the directions and feeling hopeful.  But then i knew i’d done something wrong because he was saying, now turn right, and i was back at this same stupid one way street where i could only turn left, and i was pretty sure i was in the Twilight Zone and would never get past that street and all the panic was there – – – – – –

And He says, really calmly, “Pull over and park somewhere.  I’m coming to get you.  Just pull over somewhere that you can tell me where you are.”  And He doesn’t sound pissed off or even annoyed – i mean, He might have been, but He didn’t sound like it.

So i pull over.  Just like that.  “I’m at First National Bank, in the parking lot,” i say.  Then i turn off my car and wait.  i think about all the times i’ve been lost.  i think about all the times my mother used to say, “If you get lost, just stay where you are and I’ll come find you.”  i used to tell my kids that too.  I think about how my mother would have  come and found me anywhere, and about how much i wanted my dad to want to find me instead.

i think about what it feels like to be sitting in my car waiting for Sir to come get me.  

It feels good.  Odd, but good.  This whole “being taken care of thing.”   Very seductive, and very dangerous.

Let me  be clear – I don’t need it.  I can take care of myself just fine.  I would have managed the panic and figured it out,  I always do. 

But to hand over the responsiblity and just wait…  feels like submission to me.  Some strange foreplay.  Like waiting bent over the arm of the couch, like waiting with my mouth hovering above His cock.   What is that about?  

i wonder, without worrying, how He feels about coming to rescue me.  Wonder if it feels the same as making sure the collar’s not too tight – just one more way He takes care of me.

And right when i see Him, just when He pulls into the parking lot, i have a moment of, “He’s going to be pissed, of course He will be, i told Him i could find it, He had to come all this way, …

And there He is, looking down at me from His van window – and His expression just says, “There you are.”  Like you would say if you just found the shirt you were looking for last week.   “There you are.”

           **************************************************

So is it a Dom thing, this ability to take care of me in a matter-of-fact way that makes me feel so good?   Or is it just my Sir?   When i read posts on Fetlife, it sounds like it’s part of  being a good Dom.   And of course Sir’s a good Dom, there’s never been any doubt about that. 

But allowing myself to be rescued taps into the same part of me that allows Him to have power over me, that allows Him to spank me and fuck me at His whim.

It is not a trade-off.  Not “He takes care of me so i let Him spank me,” at all.  Getting rescued, letting Him press a battery to my clit, or offering my ass for His belt all tap into the same part of me.

It’s NOT the part of me that won’t ask for help, or directions, not the me that is always competent, capable, and in control.  It’s that other part, the me i used to always hide.  

 “What are you?” Sir says.  “Say it.”

And i whisper, “Submissive, Sir.  I”m submissive.” 

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Memories and Munches

6 Jun

He reaches in his tool box.  “These are nipple clamps,” He says, holding them out like Exhibit A.  

Adjustable nipple clamps with spring action

“Here,” he hands them to me, “Look at them.  Take your time.  Really get to know them.”  The chain makes a little noise as it pools in my hand, and that sends shivers through me – shivers of – anticipation?  fear? delight? 

i’m looking at them but i’m distracted by the cloud of wondering what they’re going to feel like.  

“See,” He says, “They’re adjustable.  You can make them so loose they’ll barely stay on,” He takes one back, demonstrates turning the little screw, “Or…”  and i watch the opening in the clamp disappear, “excrutiatingly tight.”  His voice is calm, just describing.

i can barely breathe. 

He takes the clips back.  “Of course, you don’t even need real nipple clamps,” He says.  “A clothespin, a couple of clothespins will  work just as well.” 

“Oh,” I gasp, “That would hurt!”

“Your point?” He says. 

Then, “Where do you keep your clothespins?”

“i – i don’t think i have any,” i say, hoping that’s true.

“Ok,” He says.  “No problem.  A clothes hanger will work too.”  My eyes widen, and he nods, “You know, the kind you hang pants on.  Here, I bet you’ve got one in your closet.”

*******************************

I went to a munch this weekend.  A gentleman I’d been talking to on FetLife sort of talked me into it, and I’m glad i went.  It was nice to be around people with similar interests (sexually, anyhow) and I hope it’ll keep my kinky self from completely atrophying. 

Yes, I know it’s only been a week in real time since my last playtime with Sir, but in sub time it’s been ages, particularly since I’m pretty sure i’ll never again actually find a Dom i want to play with, much less have a relationhip with.  🙁   Not that I’m in any hurry. 

So, I don’t like new situations, meeting lots of new people, or stepping too far outside my comfort zone, and yet, there I was at the munch, in a room full of wonderfully kinky people, all new to me.  Whew.  Just as I was starting to maybe feel a little bit comfortable, chatting with some young people across the table from me, this other young guy says, “Hi, what’s your name?”

“Aisha,” I say, of course.

His eyes get big.  “Aisha?!” he says, “Isn’t that – it is, man – Aisha – she’s a power ranger!  Wow, man, you’re a transformer!!!”

Stunned, i shake my head, “no,” power ranger Aisha has nothing to do with Aisha, the favorite wife of the prophet Muhammad.  But maybe i had actually become a transformer, he certainly couldn’t hear me.  He began talking to the guy beside me about their favorite power rangers.   Power rangers.  I didn’t even know they had names.

I thought, “Good grief, what on earth am i doing here?  I’m at a munch and Young Guy here’s about 12 years old, and he what?  Thinks Aisha’s a power ranger?  OMG.”

But then I thought, “O for heavens sake, he’s like 12 years old.  So what.” 

So I looked her up.  Here’s the other Aisha. 

She may look a little perky for a Power Range, but hey, I guess she loses that perkiness when she transforms, right?

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Here she is ready to kick ass and take names. I guess...

So I ended up having a good time at the munch despite Young Guy, and  I guess if the issue comes up again, i’ll just go ahead and transform and kick somebody’s ass, right?  

You may be wondering what the connection is between the munch story and the nipple clamps.   Truth of the matter, there isn’t one.  Sorry.  I guess I’m just trying to make the transition from memories of pleasure and, yes, pain, to the more mundane reality of my not-so-kinky current life.  

Sigh. 

Sometimes, i miss Sir.

*****************************************

Getting back to that hanger He was talking about…  He had me bring Him one from the closet, just an ordinary skirt hanger with the spring clips, except He said it had to be one that He could move the clips back and forth on the little bar.   Cause, you know, He had to be able to adjust how far apart they were so they’d fit on my nipples. 

O, my. 

He didn’t even use them that night.  The next day, He called and told me that i had to spend 5 minutes looking at the hanger and touching it, and then write about what it was like.  Here’s what i wrote:

“Dear Sir,

As you instructed, I examined the hanger for 5 minutes.  Here are my thoughts: 

“I can’t believe I’m really doing this.  I can’t believe doing this can make me wet.  Do I just get wet no matter what he says?  It’s a nice enough hanger.  There’s the clips.”  I moved the clips up and down several times.  I played with the part that goes on the closet rod a little, spinning it round and round.  “I don’t think he could really put these on my nipples.  I think it might, like amputate them.  That would be sad.”  Then I just began to get pictures of memories – of the other night, in bed, the hangar, holding the clips near my nipples, thinking about you saying that you’d make me hold them open over my nipples, then other things from that night, your hands, the mark of your hands on my ass, and all the time, I’m looking at the hanger, so now when I look at the hanger it’s going to turn me on.  “OMG, he’s frigging eroticizing the hanger,” I say to myself.  My body tingles.  Especially my nipples.  I touch my nipples with the steel rod of the hanger (through my clothes.)  I feel myself getting wetter.  I think some of the same thoughts I had earlier over again.  
 
Finally, five minutes are up and I start writing this.  Writing this turns me on too.”
 
 
That was back in the early days, i wasn’t even using “i” instead of “I” in my writings yet.   Feels like a long time ago. 
 
 Nipple clamp hangers vs Power Ranger Aisha – it’s no contest what i’d rather be writing about, is it?  Sigh.  
 
 
He had me put the hanger in its own designated spot in my closet, it wasn’t supposed to mix with my other hangers.  Really.  So when i’d see it, i’d think about – well, you know. 
 
It’s still there too.   Oooh,  sort of makes my nipples tingle just thinking about it… 
 

 

 

 

 

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