Tag Archives: fetish

Ass slave

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I left the fetish/kink lifestyle behind 6 years years ago.  I returned back to the nilla world.  All I have are remnants from it.  Photos on a thumb drive tucked away in a wool pair of striped socks way at the back of my sock drawer.   And my “collar” I used to wear huh, collar.  It was a Tiffany choker with my ex-Narcs name engraved on it, “N’s girl”.   Because after all, I was his property, but back then I didn’t understand that. I thought it was like a legit relationship.  I mean, it felt real.

There are pro’s to the vanilla life.  Things are predictable.   Ho-hum.   Little to no fear.  No drama.  What you see is what you get.  You can expect lots of missionary sex, giving blow jobs, and watching Netflix and Sunday football.  Not so bad at all.

I read quite a few blogs here on WP with people who are still in the lifestyle.  Nostalgia I suppose.   Maybe I’ll have to ask Lee why I read them, maybe not.   Some days my mind wanders.  I re-visit things I did.   Sexual positions I was placed in.   The sheer education I underwent.  Scenes we did.  Anal sex, hot damn.  Double penetrations. The twisted porn we watched.  The amazing orgasms I had, one after the other.   I never knew multiple organs really existed until I met the Narcissist/Sociopath.   Once he learned I could have more than one, it became a numbers game for him to see how many he could get out of me.  How many were possible.  There were times thet I felt so much pleasure as I came, I actually cried because I couldn’t bear it.   Unless you’ve been there, this will make little sense.

When I was a child and I would get bored and restless, I’d think about running away and living in my Barbie camper in the Midwest growing marijuana crops and growing some for distribution and then just smoking by the campfire and eating s’mores.

Times have changed.  Now when things are boring I end up thinking about joining a nudist colony for the summer.  Or maybe becoming part of a leather family.   I imagine I could be Master (fill-in-Dom-sounding-name’s) ass slave.   Then again, I’ve have always had a hard time sharing.  I’d have to be a subordinate to the first slave, some bitch with some new-age name like Zena.  That wouldn’t work, she’d try to pull rank with me and with my temper and it would just be so on.

Ass slave, has a nice ring to it.

 


Drawn to Illicit Sex

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World English Dictionary
illicit (ɪˈlɪsɪt)

— adj
1. another word for illegal
2. not approved by common custom, rule, or standard: illicit sexual relations
For the purposes of this post I am using the latter definition.

The sexual abuse I had endured as a child left me so terrified of my own sexuality and of men that it left me completely disconnected with and at times dissociated from my body.  When I finally ended up dating it was nearly all abusive men, active substance using men, and narcissistic men. It seemed strange that over and over it was the wrong guys. Bad luck I thought.

Why couldn’t I have been the girl who got asked out by some nice fellow and progressed in a slow and steady fashion within a relationship?   I’ll tell you why because I was a victim of incest at the hands of my brother and it had been going on since I was 8 and it didn’t end until I was in the middle of high school. And by then I wanted to commit suicide.

So when I grew up, I had become THAT girl. You know the one that tells my date my entire life story over a few drinks in under ten minutes and then let’s him finger fuck me underneath the table at the restaurant, while telling him as he is doing this, that I want to take things slow.

Or I have a guy friend who says he’s hoping my recovery moves more quickly because he’d like to fuck me. After a tongue lashing from me, on how I value our friendship, and that we’ve been friends for so long and he can’t do this! I climb right up on his lap, straddle him, kiss him, gently bite his nipples, rhythmically move my hips over his pelvis while my body betrays me as I get wet under my skirt all over his jeans.

Oh wait, here comes the shame again, along with guilt. Why couldn’t I have just tongue lashed him and left it there? What’s wrong with me.

After restaurant guy finger fucked me, I hid in my apartment for weeks every time he rang my buzzer. So much shame. Eventually he didn’t come around anymore, Thank God. When you couple shame and guilt, this wedding along with a lack of ability to dialogue about your emotions… You spend your life either running or hiding. Building thicker walls to keep people out so you don’t get hurt again.

My shrink says lots of incest survivors  are at higher risk for developing sexual problems and problems with setting adequate boundaries overall.  When your body is not your own as a child, because your brother has access to you 24/7 you don’t ever have a “no,” to his sexual advances. You can never escape.

As an adult it was quite an easy transition for me to slide into the world of BDSM, fetish, and kink .

I was too busy figuring out how to stay alive amidst trauma in childhood and adolescence and I never learned the healthy boundaries needed to navigate adulthood. So the cycle repeated.

I’m a walking talking paradox. I really DO want to be the girl who goes slow and have healthy boundaries AND also, I don’t. I crave that which is taboo, and sometimes I recoil from that which is taboo.

I think back to Stanley Kubrick’s film, A Clockwork Orange. If I’m wired to respond sexually in a maladaptive and deviant way for so long, what are the odds I can re-wire now? There is a saying that once a cucumber has become a pickle, it can never go back to being a cucumber again.

What if I am that pickle?

What if there is hope for all of us for redemption?


“Normal” is a setting on a washing machine.

I don’t know exactly what normal is supposed to be.  But I know I’m not it.

Normal isn’t sitting at Thanksgiving dinner while everyone else is yapping about how they upgraded their living room with the latest and trendiest color themes, while you are recalling yourself being tied and blindfolded to a tree in the woods while your Daddy Dominant whips you with his flogger and cane til your tits have welts wearing nothing but a pair of stiletto heels.

“Ummm yes, pass the green beans Uncle Bill.”

Normal isn’t sitting in your apartment knowing your “Daddy” is probably out with some new submissive in a motel somewhere, because he hasn’t answered his phone in several hours and his AA meeting only lasts one hour.  And normal sure isn’t spending half the night casing the local motels when you drove by the AA clubhouse and proved your theory was correct, your sponsor and friends says he never showed.

Yes Mom, I’d like some gravy on the turkey.

Normal sure isn’t dumping said boyfriend after three years because that’s what normal people do, but you’re not normal, you seem to be addicted to him,  he’s like your “fix”. Every time you try to leave, it feels like your dying inside.  So you’d rather have lit cigarettes put out on your flesh than feel that pain…..and you’ve done that.  You’d rather drink until cognition ceases to function, and you’ve done that too….. than feel that pain.  You’d rather have Daddy take his cane to your flesh until you bleed, and not safeword out, to prove you’re not a wimp, than to risk him leaving.  You don’t want to risk him finding some new younger, version of you with a more pert ass and a new boob job; so you tolerate his sadism because you know that’s one thing “they” can’t do.  They, don’t have your history, and won’t be able to tolerate or allow him to do any of the things you can physically withstand because he is a sexual sadist.  Normal.  Yes, this is normal. THIS! staying in this feels safer to you, than to feel the pain of him leaving you behind.

“Yes Grandma, I think I will pass on the pecan pie, I’m trying to watch my waistline.”

“Normal, is a setting on a washing machine” someone once told me, “and that’s about it.”  They went on, “there is no such thing as normal.”  I took some comfort in that, I really did.  But deep down, I knew that I wanted to be. Somewhere deep inside me, the healthy seedling in me was germinating.  I started setting limits with him.  Taking small steps.

The truth was, I am not a masochist.  I hate pain.  I only endured it so he wouldn’t throw me away.  He always promised me that if I did these “things”, I would be his good girl.

The way it rolled off his tongue….it was as if the promise of coming home has been re-awakened right then.

Maybe this Thanksgiving, I’m a tiny bit closer to normal than last year~


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