Secret Confessions of a Smart Girl

I’ve gotten lazy in my old age.

I almost never bother to actually negotiate my scenes, even with new partners.

It makes life so much more interesting.

It becomes all about saying yes.

A hand on my cheek, about to slap, “Yes.”

A cane poised over my ass, ready to fall, “Yes.”

A voice asking “May I?” “Yes.”

One learns to expect the unexpected.

I wouldn’t recommend this style of play to anyone new to the scene. It helps that I’m very clear about my ability to stop something I object to, even if I have to drag myself out of my happy place to do so. I find it odd that I can go completely non-verbal… until I have a need to communicate something that requires words, at which point I can get those words out and then lapse back into babbling incoherence.

I do like having partners who can reduce me to babbling incoherence.  Not only is it enjoyable for me, but people seem to take such pleasure in shutting me up.

Second Scene:

He took away my opposable thumbs.

He folded my hands into fists and then wrapped them with vet wrap until I had black paws at the ends of my arms instead of human hands and informed me that I had ceased to be a member of the primate kingdom.

It made me growl.

There is something to be said for being outclassed.

When in a scene, I don’t want to escape, don’t want to avoid, don’t want to hurt, and so I will not fight unless I cannot win.

My girlfriend disagrees. “What’s the point?” she says, “of fighting when there’s no chance that you’ll succeed.”

“I win,” I say, “by giving everything I have and losing. It’s not so often that I have to truly admit I’m powerless.”

Playing with him makes me aggressive. You wouldn’t think there would be space in my head to be both aggressive and submissive at the same time, but there is.

The first time we played, it was an accident. He wanted information that wasn’t mine to give. I told him he couldn’t have it. He said he could get it out of me. I dared him to try.

Exquisite pain. Wonderful violence. Agony at the very edge of control. Defiance was my motivation, and knowing that I was safe in his hands, that he would hurt me but not damage me… I won.

I had bruises in the shape of his hands for days, and he still doesn’t know what it was I refused to tell him. It was insanely hot.

Playing with him brought out the animal in me. It felt almost like being two great cats. He might be the apex predator, but I was a hunter in my own right. We both had teeth and claws.

So I proposed scene two, and ended up with no hands.

It was strange to see black pads at the ends of my hands instead of fingers. It put immediate distance between my mind and the normal world.

Then he told me to fight.

What ensued? Violence- teeth, claws, and impact. Struggle- pinned down and resisted with extraordinary strength. Pain- to which I refused to give up.

At the end of the scene, covered in sweat, bite marks, and bruises, exhausted and exhilarated from the workout, he went to get a pair of scissors to release my hands.

As he reached for them, he saw me start to remove my bonds myself, laughed, and told me I was welcome to try.

I had my thumbs back in under a minute, and smirked as I threw the wrappings down onto the floor.

“Next time,” he said, “I’ll have to wrap them tighter.”

Next time? I thought, I can’t wait.

I like threesomes. I like them when everyone in question wants to be there. I like them when you can wiggle your eyebrows at someone before doing something devious to someone else. I like them because you can borrow an extra hand when you need one, or loan someone one or your own. I like them, because I like to watch people I like being happy with the people they love. And I like the really ridiculous conversations that occur during some of the slower moments.

And here we have a problem…

I had a threesome and I’m not entirely certain how to blog about it, because although I remember that there were hysterically funny conversational moments… I don’t remember what was said. I had gotten so little sleep the night before, and stayed up so late afterward watching Close Encounters of the Third Kind (for the first time!), that all trenchant quotes fell out of my head. Curse my sleepy happy brain. I mean, I suppose I could talk about the sex, but without Funny Quotes (TM) is there really a point?

I think that, in my sexual lifetime, I’ve had more sex with multiple partners than I have with single partners. This is, largely, because my longest relationship was with a couple, not because I’ve been having wild orgies. I lost my virginity in a threesome, and continued having them, on and off, with the same people for more than 2 years. The thing about sex with more than one person is that, in the crazy universe of Rona’s Mind, it makes many of my insecurities better and very few of them worse. I’m still horribly neurotic about imposing and sometimes suffer from option paralysis, but it’s not any worse with two people than it is with one. Plus, I can LEARN things. Learning is FUNdamental. And so on and so forth. If I was in the mood to catalog my insecurities for the masses, I could go on for days. Most of the things people list as downsides to multiple partner sex, I actually see as benefits. I’m just weird that way.

Man, I had fun. I got to play with a ridiculously beautiful girl who totally knocked me out of my skull with her brain and her teeth and her knives and her hands. Oooh. And there were clothespins. I really like clothespins. Nice constant, intense pain is a really good thing for me. My breasts are all black and blue. She’s not just shiny, smart, sexy, and talented… the girl’s got mad skills. Plus, I was rewarded for all my good behavior with K. while S. was away with the gift of finally getting a chance to suck his cock (for all too brief a time. Yes. I have an oral fixation. This is not news) and getting to be fucked by him quite thoroughly. Completely worth waiting for. Also, there were scones and snuggling and stupid TV shows and smart TV shows and SILLINESS. All of which are awesome and start with S.

I really like S. and K., and I had a fabulous time with both of them. The only real awkward part of the day was that although I have chatted endlessly with S. online, I haven’t spent that much time with her in person and so I got all nervous and hesitant around her and worried about interrupting their moments. I actually need to send her an e-mail about that, but it will probably not be until tomorrow since it requires Actual Thought and I haven’t had time for that yet today. I slept for 5 hours, got up, started working, and haven’t stopped running around like a crazy person yet. Now that it’s midnight, I haven’t worked out, and I have to be up in 7 hours I should probably go to bed. I think I’m going to be bad and not work out. All that sex yesterday should count for something, right? If nothing else, I got some good exercise holding K. down and proving that weight lifting does, in fact, work. And I’ve just inspired myself to go work out. Sex is motivational in so many ways…

Hands on my wrists, weight working against mine, I like to be able to struggle and know there’s no way I’ll be able to move.

Bondage doesn’t always work for me, for various reasons . Among other things, it can get really uncomfortable, really suddenly, and then all that work is for nothing if I need to be out and need to be out now. Being held down, however, is nothing but good. First and foremost, it’s touch. Bare hand on bare skin is always something I crave. I like the connection, and the feeling that someone is there. Add that to the fact that I am being overpowered, something that is always quite hot for me, and being held down makes me very happy indeed. Plus, it’s just so personal.

This came up for me this weekend during the piercing scene, and, although I mentioned it in the original post, I wanted to discuss it in slightly more detail. I find that sometimes when I’m having trouble processing sensation that it helps to hold onto something. I want to do something with my hands - claw, grab, struggle, anything to physicalize the tension in a productive way (this isn’t just how I process pain, it happens during sex too or any other form of sensory overload. I want to grab and bite and struggle.) The issue during the piercing scene was that my flailing my arms indiscriminately was decidedly not safe when there was a woman sitting on my hips holding sharp pointy things, and since she is _not_ a masochist, and I didn’t want to muck up her aim, grabbing her thighs was not an acceptable plan either. I also kept inadvertently flailing in a “get your hands away from me” manner, which was not my goal, but I had rather lost control of my body at that point.

So I asked the beautiful woman standing next to the bed if she’d be willing to hold my arms down*. She agreed, and all of a sudden it was a lot easier to focus. Instead of fighting against the sensations, I could simply enjoy them and let all the fight and tension go out through my arms. I don’t really understand what process of sensory alchemy lets that happen, how being held down transforms the body’s desire to say “stop! stop! stop! too much!” into “oh yes, thank you, more,” but it works and it works well. I think it may be the neurochemical equivalent of “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”

I got held down again later that night by the man who was scratching me, and I found that quite enjoyable as well. Being held down is a big component of most of my sexual fantasy scenarios. I think that perhaps I’m just wired to find being pinned down with my wrists above my head and someone’s weight on top of me incredibly erotic. Especially when pain is being inflicted. Somehow I suspect this is Not Unusual. It’s nice, I think, to be given permission to struggle without any risk that you’re going to get free.

—
*I admit it. I like women. I like them A LOT. Getting pierced by a beautiful woman is a glorious thing. However, getting held down by a second beautiful woman while the first beautiful woman is piercing you… is nothing to complain about either. I could have asked the man who was also watching, and I actually knew him slightly better, but the woman in question was Shiny! And a girl! And had boobies! (Lest you think I am entirely superficial, I must say that she also turns out to be quite a fabulous person who is fun and interesting and likes monkeys, but at the time all I could tell was that she was nice, had lovely friendly energy, and was gorgeous )

I am a happy girl, for I am covered in bruises.

Somehow I managed to play twice in a 24 hour period. The first time with a strange man, and the second time with a stranger man… but one I have known for years. Apparently the secret to getting me to play with you, if you are a strange man, is the following:

1. Have a pretty woman attached to your hip. I am highly susceptible to women. They distract me very well from any doubts I might have about playing with someone I haven’t even really been introduced to.
2. Be polite. Mention your consent fetish. Demonstrate it repeatedly. Impress me with the fact that you are going to be utterly respectful of my limits in ways I hadn’t even considered. Having someone yellow just to make sure you can trust them to do so? That’s pretty cool.
3. Wear claws.

In the past, other tactics have worked equally well. They mostly require having either a deep store of geeky knowledge in either Math or Shakespeare or smelling really good. The secret of getting me to play with you if you’re a strange woman… well, just ask. I like strange women.

We had a nice scene. No toys, just claws and teeth and grabbing (I’m going to have a kick ass bruise on my inner thigh from him just sinking his fingers into the muscle and pulling. I feel it every time I cross my legs, but it hasn’t risen to the surface yet. Whee!) It was fun. Plus, I got to kiss the belly of the cute girl. She had a beautiful belly. I am so girl-a-sexual.

The second scene… was totally unfair. I realized when I started writing this blog that it would be possible for someone to use it to take shameless advantage of me by pushing every single button I mention… but I thought it was a distant possibility. I was wrong. His Royal Sillyness did a very good job of mining my writing for buttons and then pushing them over and over again. He also coined a name for this - Blog Topping. I, however, continue to call it simply unfair.

Which is not, by any means, to say that I had a bad time. I had a fabulous time. I got up this morning feeling pretty under the weather, but I didn’t want to cancel so I headed into the city feeling so zombie-like that I had told my carmates “I look so pathetic that he’s not going to want to do terrible things to me!” I was right… for about 15 minutes. Then we got past it.

This was an entirely different kind of scene from the night before. I was submitting (if, admittedly, rather snottily), rather than bottoming, which meant that the dynamic was… more intense. There was a lot of hitting. It was really good hitting. With canes. And fists. And singletails. My right bicep is a mass of bruises, as is my lower body pretty much from waist to knees (and some of those bruises are COOL looking). It hurts to walk, to stand, and to sit, and I love it. I love how the pain blossoms almost surprisingly when I shift my weight. I love the intensity of the sensation. I feel good.

This afternoon’s interlude had varying levels of intensity, and difficulty for me. With pain, sometimes it’s hard to process and then ask for more, but I want it. I want the fire under my skin, and the need to scream, and the feeling that it’s too much. I want to wonder whether any given stroke is going to hurt like the devil or feel like the gift of an incubus - incandescently arousing. I would think, occasionally, “why do I keep presenting for more?” and while part of it was “because he wants me to,” another part was just jonesing for the next ecstatic high.

The parts that I found the hardest would, for most of the population, not be even remotely difficult. But because I have often have Issues about things sexual, particularly when they are with men, my Danger Will Robinson moments are not the same as normal girls. (You’re caning my nose? You’re a freak. I trust you, and go for it, but you’re a freak.) I did some things I didn’t particularly want to do. During one of those things, the comment was made “I think you’re starting to enjoy that,” which was… not accurate. If I am going to do something, I want to do it well. If I am going to do something I don’t want to do…. I really want to do it well, because the thought of doing something I don’t want to do badly is just appalling. There is a certain turn on in doing something I don’t want to do for someone, just because they want it, but… it doesn’t make it something I want to do.

That having been said, the common thread between the two scenes was the fact that both men in question were remarkably respectful of my stated (and unstated) limits. The second man could have pushed me farther, if he had wanted to, in certain areas, and I probably would have let him, but the fact that he didn’t meant a lot.

So, to answer the question I was asked several times this afternoon… what about the scene will I masturbate to thoughts of? That’s easy. Thoughts of pain streaming across my skin, trying not to scream, writhing away, and then presenting for more.

It’s hard to giggle maniacally quietly.

Therefore, if you are going to have a Pinky and the Brain scene, you should really do it in a place where hysterical laughter and repeated ejaculations of “Narf!” will not be distracting to the people around you.

Otherwise, you will gasp yourself into hysteria trying to constrain the giggles, and bash your head on a wooden table while trying to laugh in silence.

I love being a bad influence. Even though being around cute girls is clearly a major risk factor for concussion (I had bashed my head in the same place the night before after smooching a different cute girl and not realizing their was a metal scaffold behind me right at skull height.)

I like pain.

I like pain when it hurts, and I like pain when it somehow transmutes into something else.

I had 2.5 impact scenes this weekend. The first, with J. and V. was a goofy indulgence. Canes, floggers, knives, teeth, and bad jokes. Things hurt, and it was fun. Later that night, I tried to have a second scene with P. that also involved impact. Things hurt, and it wasn’t fun at all. I could take it, but I wasn’t enjoying it at all. It’s amazing how much of a difference headspace makes.

Playing with J was a planned exercise in ridiculousness. We met for the first time 15 minutes before he started beating me, but we’d spent two weeks making terrible jokes at each other and mentioning buttons. V was a last minute inclusion, but one that was fine with me. We’ve known each other for 10 years and although playing had never come up before, a good time was had by all. The half scene with P. that followed was something else entirely. We had negotiated that we were going to play, but I had assumed that we were going to play in the same way we had before, which was one of the best impromptu scenes I have ever had. P, on the other hand, was more interested in either beating me or doing forced orgasm play. So, when we started playing I was a combination of disappointed and uncomfortable (I don’t generally do sexual play with people I’m not involved with), and I just couldn’t take the pain. It wasn’t any worse than it had been an hour earlier, it just wasn’t doable. In a way, I found it quite interesting. Context makes such an enormous difference in the processing of sensation.

The second full impact scene of the weekend happened the next day. It was a caning scene, and I very quickly reached the point where pain transmuted into an almost sexual pleasure. I don’t really understand the mechanics of that transition. I know the types of scenes in which it is most likely to happen (canes and singletails), but I don’t understand why sometimes a sensation hurts and other times the exact same stimulus is just arousing. It doesn’t, necessarily, have anything to do with the person I’m playing with. It doesn’t require a submissive headspace. It’s just there sometimes, and absent others. I wish I could call it. After the scene was over I spent several hours reveling in the fact that every time I shifted my weight waves of painful pleasure swept through my brain.

I wish I could figure out how it works. One thing that I find interesting, in my brain, is that when a D/s dynamic is present I’m far less likely to process pain as pleasure. Enjoying pain, in that context, is usually about taking it because my dominant partner wants me to. It seems like having the pain feel good (unless it was intended to) would be a kind of cheating, and so my brain is less likely to perform the sensational transmutation. On the other hand, in the context of sex, the infliction of pain is almost always going to turn me on more, whether or not it feels ‘good.’ So clearly, there is at least some relatively high-level control of how the process of pain perception works, I just don’t know if it’s possible to modify it intentionally.

I like thinking about the science of sex (or scene). I like watching how it works for other people. Which brings me to the other thing I wanted to talk about after this weekend… rediscovering my inner switch.

When I first entered the scene, 12 years or so ago, I identified as a switch. A switch who preferred to bottom, yes, but a switch. Over time, however, I began to identify more and more firmly as a submissive, smart ass masochist, and bottom. I stopped topping entirely. The exception being that I tended to occasionally be rather… forceful in bed. I like to bite. I like to pull hair. I like to take control in order to get a reaction. (I like when that reaction is to turn the tables and hold me down and hurt me, but that’s a separate issue). I finally learned a good word for that a few months ago, “reaction junkie.” That’s the switch for my switch. I like to get a good reaction. Switching, for me, also requires some level of sexual attraction. I can bottom to anyone, but if I’m going to put my hands or teeth (or knives) on someone, it’s going to be because I want to turn them on. I don’t think I would top anyone I didn’t want to kiss. In fact, I generally only get all toppish on people who I really want to fuck. And that “toppishness” generally takes the form of intimate pain. I want to put my mouth on them, my nails, or my knives. I want to play with arousal and denial. I want to make them writhe.

I don’t think I’m going to rewrite my internal labels or anything, but it’s nice to acknowledge publicly that that side of myself does occasionally like to come out and play. Or, more accurately, that that side of myself likes to konk attractive people over the head with a stick and drag them off to a private corner for some ravishment.

(and yes, that was sung to the tune of Rawhide)

I’m very excited, because I have a caning date for Sunday. This makes me happy for several reasons. The first is the caning itself. I really like being caned. The second is getting to see the caner, who is a Delightful Human Being. The third is that I get to consciously watch the progression of my marks over the period of a week to see what I have to worry about on filming day before I’m scheduled to have the awkward conversation with my director. So, and I’m sure this will greatly distress my caner, I need to end up with some really impressive marks. You know, for the sake of science. Then, maybe I won’t have to say to my director and A.D. “How exactly will the partially nude shots be set up, and will whip marks be a problem for you on the day of the shoot?” To quote He Who Shall Aid Me in My Experiment “You just managed to make our scene practical. I am amazed.” Yes. It’s true, world. When it comes to pointless justifications… I’m Just That Good.

Speaking of which, I now have two good reasons to make blondies with dark chocolate chips (wanting to eat them is a reason, but it isn’t good.) I shall keep some, bring some to the Wielder of Destructive Implements, and send the rest to The Boy Formerly Known as Crush. When people I care about are distressed I want to make them baked goods. I’m just that sort of a girl, and I have the Donna Reed dress to prove it.

“Today we’re going to practice counting.”

“Aw, crap.”

“Aw, crap?” he punched me casually on the shoulder while I was still struggling out of my boots. “What kind of response is ‘Aw, crap?’ ?”

“I was a math major. Math majors don’t count. We do partial differential equations in our heads, but counting? This is going to kick my ass.”

“I’d like to point out to you,” he continued, as he positioned me over the horse, “that you are the one who asked for a formal caning scene.”

I propped myself up on my elbows, “Clearly I was out of my head, what I meant to say was… HEY!”

He had knocked my arms back out from underneath me, and I flopped back over with a loud *huff* of air.

“Yes?”

“That counting sounds delightful.” I then went on, under my breath, “Would you prefer base ten, or is binary the choice of the evening?”

He fisted his hand in my hair and raised my face to look at him, “You are a very lucky girl, because I am an extremely nice man who is going to resist the temptation to make you count in binary while I cane you. Count yourself lucky.”

“One, ten, eleven, lucky”

“Brat,” he said, but he was smiling as smacked me on the ass and grabbed the first cane.

“Now, you know how this works, right?” he asked and swung the cane.

I yelped.

“Nope. That was a cute noise, but you’re supposed to say ‘Thank you sir, one.’ Lets try again”

I both felt and heard the cane strike against against my skin, and spoke up, “Thank you sir, two.”

“Two? You really can’t count. You don’t get credit unless you get the number right. You really need to work on your motivation.”

The cane swung again and I could feel it strike perfectly next to the two previous blows. I bit back the curse as the sensation rushed through me and said, “One, thank you sir.”

“You’re really not good at this, are you? That was supposed to be ‘Thank you sir, one.’”

“Oh, bloody hell,” I yelped again as the cane came swinging down.

“One for bad language. Shall we start again?”

“Once more with feeling!” smack, the came came down again and I gasped in a breath as the sensation flooded through me. My back arched. “Thank you sir, one.” I continued, “damn, but I’d forgotten how much I like this.”

“What was that? An addendum? I don’t believe we negotiated footnotes. One more try?”

*smack*

“And the number of thy counting shall be three!”

*smack*

“No Monty Python jokes. The number of thy counting shall be one.” He paused for a second to take aim and carefully laid the 8th stroke right on top of the seventh.

I inhaled the scream and he waited patiently for me to speak. Slowly I managed to get the words out. “Thank you sir, one.”

He paused and waited as my breathing slowly returned to normal. Then the cane came down once more, and instead of gasping I started to giggle.

The cane struck again and again, until my ass and thighs were covered with my own personal barcode of red, and I was laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe.

“Thank you sir, one!” I barely managed to get it out as I slid towards the floor trying to calm down enough to get some air.

He pulled me up by my hair and spun me to look at him. The look in his eyes was unreadable as I asked, plaintively, “But I thought we were going for a dozen?”

His hand fisted harder behind my neck, and for a moment I thought I had actually made him angry, but then his smile broke through and he started to laugh, “At this rate, that would take until next year. Why don’t we try for a more reasonable goal,” he chuckled as he put me back over the horse, “like two.”

I knew that if I could see him, one eyebrow would be raised, and I smiled as he laid down yet another stroke, “Oh ye of little faith,”

*strike”

“Thank you sir, one.”

Was the catchphrase for much of my weekend. It occurred to me mid-playd ate on Friday night and I still haven’t entirely figured out how to make it scan. (I’m trying, unsuccessfully, to play on “Long time listener, first time caller.” This is iteration three. Eventually I’ll work it out)

First things first. Once again this weekend I realized that much of how I like to play is due to the fact that I am an intensity junkie. I like single-tails. I like canes. I like nipple-clamps that make me scream when they come off, and big thuddy implements of destruction. I like things that by their very nature demand my undivided attention.

Which is why, in a way, it confused me that the types of contact that were causing the most intense physical reaction during my play date were those touches that barely grazed my skin. Not just the knives, although god knows I am crazy about knives , but also just a finger brushed lightly across my spine.

To an extent, it’s about the contrast, but I think it’s actually the other side of the same coin. Intense stimulation and almost imperceptible contact both require your nervous system to sit up and pay attention. My nervous system ended up rolled over on its back, all four paws in the air, squirming happily on the floor while waiting for a good action potential (or at least some potential action…). The most obvious symptom of this was my loss of coherent control over the English language. My play partner was a bit smirky about robbing me of my words. I don’t blame him, but I did bite him. Not too hard though. He deserved to be smirky. Besides, it’s hard to be motivated for revenge when you’re lying mostly naked, skin twitching and teeth buzzing, on someone else’s bed.

This was not a typical playdate for me, as it included orgasm and left no bruises, but it was definitely fun. (What an odd life I leave that bruises and no orgasms are enough of my default definition of “fun” that I have to clarify.) Plus, in the conversations that evolved during the play date we established a mutual interest in a little fantasy fulfillment from something that didn’t make it onto my to do list , but was definitely a desire of long standing. That, in fact, was the conversation that originated the title of the post, although it was a… repeating sentiment. Alas, we didn’t get to act on it, due to terrible traffic induced lateness, but we established a rain check for the future.

I look forward to the rain check. I also look forward to hopefully indulging the other side of my sensual nature sometime soon with some serious masochism. Possibly with my breakfast date of this morning, or with one of the people who came up in conversation during it, since my desire is for sadist levels of pain, and it’s not nice to ask for that from someone who isn’t one. Especially since, for me, a great proportion of the pleasure I get from playing with someone is from doing what they want. Right now, I’m in the mood to be caned by someone who wants to hurt me, hear me scream, and see bruises blossoming on my skin. Hurt by someone who takes a vicious satisfaction in causing pain, and for whom it’s only a convenient permission that I enjoy it.

I always forget that the downside of a good scene (or good sex), is that it doesn’t only scratch the itch, it intensifies it and makes you want more. If the silver lining has to come with a cloud; however, that’s one in which I don’t mind getting wet.