Anticipation

I had a critique last night, for a piece of creative writing I've been working on. The work is relatively fresh and challenging for me -- I've essentially been using the energy from a recent incident in my life to fuel a story which is ostensibly about something else. And in struggling to talk about these things, a lot of unexpected twists emerged. My instructor last night pointed out a lot of the potentials of this work I hadn't quite seen yet.

The story explores what it means to have a fetish, whether it is possible to love someone as a result of pursuing that fetish, what it means to lose that love, how people manipulate their own memories and experiences in order to persuade other people, and it mixes in race and gender in ways I didn't anticipate when I started. I also flirt, very openly, with the fact that this story -- or some parts of it -- may be my own experiences. The instructor warned me about the ramifications of that, even as he suggested that it was intriguing. I learned the most from him about what was working in the story by what he warned me about -- the warnings were a sign to me that I was onto something potentially dangerous, which is what I want.

Afterwards, I went out with two of my favorite classmates and we had a long, interesting conversation. Both of them are gay men, and they got me talking about sadism. We got into the specifics of what I enjoy about inflicting pain. It was strange to describe it in such detail -- the tingle in your hand when it slaps skin, the eroticism of someone gasping in pain, the desperate, lost, dependent quality of a man who both longs for and fears you putting nipple clamps on him (or taking them off), the sight of him bent over for you, the knowledge that you could do it harder and he would take it happily, the freedom of being cruel when cruelty is so forbidden to women socially. In some ways, I can't even put words to the way I'm feeling when I'm being sadistic -- it is probably one of the moments in my life when I am the most wordless. I act, I don't speak very much.

I came home to find a sweet little note from my pet telling me that he missed me. Those small little gestures of longing and vulnerability are exciting -- knowing that he can't wait to serve me again adds a little spring to my step that I wouldn't otherwise have. Feeling that hunger to use him again soon, and knowing that I will see him in a few days. The anticipation is an important part of the fun.

Fantastic weekend

I had a surprisingly good weekend. I say 'surprisingly' because, at the start of it, I was not feeling very well. My menstrual cycle, about half of the time, is quite painful, and I woke up on Saturday in a good deal of pain. I spent a good chunk of the day wrapped around my heating pad, feeling sorry for myself.

However, Domme duty calls, so I rallied, packed up my stuff, and met my little pet for dinner before the ClubFem play party. One of the wonderful things about my pet is that he's very thoughtful, and he showed up with flowers for me, and a fantastic present: a pink riding crop he bought me, from an equestrian outfitter. If he's trying to stay in his favored position at the end of my leash, he's doing a very good job so far.

We had dinner and then went early to the party to help the Headmistress set up. I helped lace another Domme into her corset, ordered a few boys around, and got changed myself. Since I wasn't feeling that well, I didn't dress up as much as I wanted to, but the power surge of so many eager little submissive boys definitely improved my mood. By the time I got dressed, I was feeling a lot sassier. I wore a black bustier under a sheer top, a miniskirt with a slit up the side, and black suede platform boots. And I made my pet wear his special little ruffled panties, as well as my collar and pink leash. That was a particular honor for him -- one that he thanked me for profusely.

The party was a lot of fun -- especially towards the end, when the masochists started lining up for me. I haven't been able to let my inner sadist out that much in a good long while, and it felt incredible. The Headmistress loaned me one of her boys, who can really take a beating, and I used a new red-and-black flogger on him which is particularly nasty. I made him bellow quite nicely, and left him with some nice purple welts along his hips and ass. I also just let myself go -- I went into that floating, happy, sadistic headspace, and I can tell from the soreness in my biceps that I really used nearly my full strength.

At one point, after I'd beat the Headmistress's boy, I turned around and saw a number of eager, slightly terrified little boys' faces. Some of them are probably less interested in me than they were -- because now they know I can really pack a wallop. But a few of them are a little more interested -- for the very same reason!

And now my pet knows just what I'm capable of. He's not a masochist, so I would really never do that to him, but he does know he'll get punished if he doesn't obey. It isn't a bad thing for him to see just how much power and authority I can have when I want it.

On the train home, he gave me the other half of what I need -- cuddling and service. And then the next morning I woke up and got the pampering I deserve. We put his foot-worshiping skills to good use once again, among other things. He knows I'm quite pleased with him so far.

So yes, I'm a little smug and happy today. People ask me how my weekend was, and I can't answer them honestly -- I can't exactly say, "Well, I spanked four or five boys this weekend, and really beat the hell out of one of them, got my feet worshiped, used my little pet as much as I wanted, and generally feel quite rested, thank you." But when I say, "my weekend was quite nice, thanks for asking", all of that contentment is definitely in my voice.