Secret Confessions of a Smart Girl

I don’t usually start out naked.

It’s not because I’m shy, although I am.

I have a reasonably nice body. I just don’t usually feel comfortable showing it unless a beating is imminent, or I am happily glowing after some violent attention.

I’m fine being naked in public after I’ve been playing, or in private after I’ve been thoroughly fucked, but… there’s a utility to that. It feels justifiable. It feels wanted.

Starting out that way just feels deviant.

“You’ll spend the party naked, kneeling at my feet, doing whatever I ask of you, and nothing more.”

Both terror and turn on to think of being so exposed.

It makes me an object.

It’s difficult to be self possessed when I’m clad solely in my hair, and so my self belongs to her. Which, when it comes down to it, I suspect is rather the point.

It makes it hard to talk.

I can’t be naked in public like this and not in subspace. I can’t be in subspace and engaged in neutral conversation. Instead, voices buzz around me like bees. They drone, they spin, and they rarely do anything that requires a response.

It makes it impossible to say “no.”

That word that was stripped away from me hours earlier along with my clothing. Having agreed to provide service, my own choices become subservient to her own.

I serve.

As a vehicle: for food, drinks, and whims.

As a vessel: to be filled with fingers, needles, and desire.

As a target: for whips, canes, and words.

As an audience: for someone else’s destruction.

As a prize: in a somewhat unwholesome bet.

I am exposed.

As vulnerable

As willing.

As someone who takes pleasure in being told what to do.

Which is how I ended up here.

Even though I don’t usually start out naked.

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This was inspired by a conversation a few weeks ago, and then finally got off the ground when a friend said, this morning, “I don’t usually start out naked, but when I do it tends to be memorable.”

I’m not one of those people so comfortable in their skin that I can go to a play party, shuck off my clothes, and wander around happily nude. I, quite often, fail to have any desire to put my clothing back on after it has come off for a scene, but that’s different than having the balls to remove it up front.  But, because of that awkwardness, my lingering discomfort, and my excessively Western association of nudity with sex, it’s a really hot concept to me to be denied the safety of clothing in a circumstance where I don’t know if that physical vulnerability is going to be taken advantage of or not.

I wish I could remember whose blog I was reading the other day when she was  talking about how she couldn’t wait for spring so that it wouldn’t be stocking weather anymore and her partner could just put his hand under her skirt and reach inside her.

I have fantasies about that. Having a partner who assumes access to my body, and takes it because they want it.  The sort of relationship where they feel comfortable saying “don’t wear anything under your clothes tonight,” or pulling me into a dark alley to fuck my mouth. Where we feel so much heat for each other that occasionally we stop in the middle of a conversation to have violent, passionate, sex on the floor.

I just like the thought of being wanted by someone who feels free to, and wants to, take. I like it, particularly, because I enjoy feeling secure enough in someone’ s desire to express my own desire for them.  Asking for sexual things is hard for me. I’m happy to be made to beg, but it’s nice to know that sometimes they are going to say “yes.”