Well. As noted in my post earlier, we’re back from Twisted Tryst, all whole, healthy and happy. A wonderful good time was had by all, I do believe, and now I understand W’s assertion that camp events are just…special. I won’t say “better” than a hotel event, because there are things I like about hotel events too, but camp events do facilitate a different kind of closeness, of camaraderie, and an ease of getting to know people that just isn’t there in hotel events. Or at hotel events that I’ve been to, at any rate. And I didn’t even put myself out there as much as I could have at TT.
Besides, being able to be naked, to fuck and suck any place, any time, to be my kinky perverted self the entire weekend, with no hotel staff or outside world to worry about? Heaven.
We made some wonderful friends and had some awesome scenes, several of which I want to talk about in detail; W decked me out in some of his delightful contraptions, displaying and exhibiting me; I got fucked in public and flogged and caned mightily by a Dancing Demon; I got to assist at a special event that allowed me to feed my occasional (where-does-that-come-from?) need to be of service; and we got to spend hours and hours just hanging out being our kinky selves and connecting with each other.
I also have (no surprise here I am sure) some cogitating and processing to do, some of which will probably make its way here. In particular right now is something that I circled around a bit in discussions last night with W, as we sat enjoying a drink on his veranda. The funny thing is that it isn’t about sex, although the weekend most certainly was filled with raw, sexy fun. The thing that I keep coming back to has to do with D/s as opposed to kink, actually, with how my head/heart feels as opposed to how my body feels, in reference to my relationship with W, and how our dynamic plays out.
Part of what started all this thinking was a post that Kaya made after she returned from camp, in which she talked about why she does what she does, and how the motivations for that can sometimes be confusing. “Maybe,” she concludes, “it’s just another little slip down the rabbit hole.”
I found the lip of that rabbit hole myself last night, as I thought about a couple things that happened at camp, and one here, at home, recently. But no, it didn’t have to do with pain, or sex, or allowing him to hurt me, or withstanding some extreme torture (although, as in Kaya’s case, I have no doubt that it could.) It had to do with obedience. With submitting to him, to a decision he made–arbitrarily, perhaps–and feeling, as I acquiesced, that sense of ease in my chest, of rightness, of “yes, this is what it’s all about.” There’s a hell of a lot more to this than just being pushed to a concrete floor in front of a crowd and getting fucked. There’s more to this than allowing him to use and abuse me. There’s more to it than play, and sex, and being tied up, gagged, whipped and displayed. There’s more to this than him forcing me to do these things or subjugating me. All those things I can do, have done, will do. I love that–god yes it makes me wet and hot and want to fuck like an animal–but this other thing…this willingness to submit to his decisions, to obey…that is my rabbit hole.
And I feel myself falling into it, inch by inch, deeper and deeper.
But that is what scares me, too. Because I know that is not the rabbit hole that he would push me into. He doesn’t want a submissive. He wants a girl he can abuse, that he can subjugate and bend and force to his will. And yet…I am that girl. I love the feeling of being subjugated. Forced. Used and abused. But I also love the feeling of rightness, of completeness, that fills me when I simply–obey.
Is there a balance between the two?
I don’t know. I’m trying to figure that out in my head. I’m trying to find a way to communicate this to him so that he understands this need I have for both. How deeply it affects me, this submission part, without scaring him away, because that isn’t what either of us wanted in the beginning, and it certainly isn’t what he signed up for. Like Kaya, I know without a doubt that I would “stand there, naked and vulnerable, won’t run, won’t cover, won’t protest.” Because, yes, he is making me (at times forcing me with rope or bindings or physical force), but also because he wants me to. I would stand there if I wasn’t tied. He didn’t twist my arm that time in WI, and in fact gave me an out, but I obeyed him anyway. And it was in making the choice to obey him that I found my deepest pleasure. Not sexual pleasure, but the kind of contentment that fills a person’s heart, that makes one feel whole and right.
I was incredibly turned on by the scene in the dungeon that first night, and that’s wonderful stuff. Powerful, heady, all those yummy hot things that are the reasons I do this this thing that I do. But the thing that touched my heart and mind, and that has me pondering and musing, happened much later, and had nothing to do with sex–but everything to do with control. With authority. With dominance.
I’m a big girl, a grown woman. I make my own decisions, I run my life without needing or asking for (much) input. And I certainly don’t simply accept anyone else telling me “no” to something I want to do. I don’t have to, right? I’m my own girl, however much he owns my sex. I can make those choices for myself.
But I didn’t. I wanted to do something; he didn’t want me to. “No,” he said. “I’m not comfortable with that.” And so…I didn’t do it. Such a simple thing, and yet, so complex in all its nuances. I didn’t have to accept his authority. He has never exerted that kind of authority over me before, never wanted to, and indeed, there was nothing overt in the way that he did it. He simply said “no,” and I obeyed. I didn’t argue, I didn’t ask for explanations.
Last night we talked more about it, and I got more explanation. If it happens, it will happen in a way that it works for him, that is a turn-on for him (and, he hopes, better for me.) A way that he sets up, he controls. (I already know no matter what the set-up, or even if it never happens, it already is better for me.) He didn’t tell me that at the time, though, and I didn’t ask. It was enough that he knew he could tell me “no” and that I would do as he said. It was enough to me that he would see that, and would know where it came from. From my desire to accede to his authority. To submit to his decision, even when it had nothing to do with making me suck some random stranger off or allow another man to look at my pussy.
And it felt good. It felt right.
Last night he said, “I don’t like to tell you no. I know you’re disappointed with me–”
That couldn’t be farther from the truth. Sure, I am disappointed I didn’t get to do something I wanted to do. But disappointed with him? Never. I couldn’t be happier.
And that’s what scares me.