Soliloquy

Chronicles of a Switch
2012-09-22 17:56:51 (UTC)

the sub i want to be

Once again, I am waiting MUCH too long to put all this down, and the details have grown hazy. But my journals are becoming a little less technical as I go along, so that might not be entirely a bad thing. ^^

The morning that D and I decided to play, I took an extra long shower. Standing under the pounding spray, reveling in the hot water, hoping all the mental blocks that typically hinder my submission would get rinsed away. I was trying to reclaim that moment of zen from our last session, trying to let all the things that might interfere with that precious mentality get carried off in the small rivers coursing over my skin. Eyes closed, completely focused, I opened myself for that magic to happen.

There was a resounding lack of said magic. I stayed in the bathroom much longer than strictly necessary, desperately endeavoring to force that one piece of my mind that wouldn’t follow the rest into the place I wanted it to be. Completely letting myself go is a difficult thing, and, for some reason, getting harder. To make things worse, D does everything right. He’s followed every suggestion I’ve had, listened to my concerns, taken the good things and made them even better. I don’t know what’s putting that stopper up, but I don’t like it. I can feel the days that I’m not going to be able to make it through an entire scene, and I end up feeling both very depressed and a little disgusted with myself.

Perhaps sometimes I’m not ready to switch over from my dominant side (me, who used to be able to switch at the drop of a hat). Perhaps my need to be good and pleasing to him is making me too anxious to actually submit; that part of my mind is ever-churning, and rarely completely in the moment. Perhaps I worry too much that what I want and what I can take are two entirely different things, vary wildly from day to day, and that when the time comes for play, I’ll feel like I’ve failed. Perhaps the desire to fight and struggle and simply be put in my place wars with the idea that D wouldn’t like playing with me if I did. Perhaps the stress of life outside the bedroom lodges itself inside of me, and instead of being purged with play, winds up inhibiting it.

I can’t pinpoint it. Perhaps it’s all of those things. Perhaps none. I don’t like it, and I don’t like how it makes me feel. Frustrated. Fragile. Like my submission is finite, and I can’t give more than a set amount before I snap out of it.

While I felt far from prepared for our scene, I feared that if I delayed any longer, we would run out of time, and reluctantly stepped out of the tub. D was at the computer, and I slowly approached and wrapped my arms around him, letting the sight and smell and feel of my Sir envelop my senses. I love how it feels to hold him. I inquired if he was still interested in playing, and, while he had to wrap up what he was doing, his response was quite enthusiastic.

Still naked, I awaited D in the much the same manner as I had last time: cross-legged on the bed, gaze lowered, still trying to calm myself. When the first strains of music filled the room, my heart pounded with nervous anticipation. I still wasn’t quite where I wanted to be mentally, but I also doubt now that any more time would have aided me in my quest. When D approached with my collar and his wicked little smile, I pushed away that part of my mind that wasn’t quite right and delved into the rest that was. I refused to worry, and to enjoy what I could as long as I could. When I nuzzled against D’s chest, feeling that thin strip of leather cinch tight around my neck, I’d just about forgotten that I was concerned at all.

D commented after our play that I don’t seem to enjoy being tied up. I would like to debunk that rumor here and now. I LOVE being tied. I don’t necessarily get off on the feeling of the ropes tightening around my ankles, or the cold metal of the cuffs pulling at my wrists, but I like the feeling of being helpless. I like being able to fight against my restraints. I don’t, usually, because struggling so seems to go against what I expect of myself as a “good” sub. Even as a bottom, I can be full of piss and vinegar, but it doesn’t feel… right to let that out with D. I strive to do what he wants when he wants, and being snarky, bratty or anything else that requires him to shut me up has been catalogued in my mind as “bad.” Again, I can’t say why. I don’t think that of every bratty sub, or even MY bratty sub (*wink*). Only myself. It’s… odd. A little disconcerting. Like I need explicit permission to play like that.

I also tend to make relatively little noise with D. Or, so I’ve been told. What goes on in my head often drowns out what actually happens out loud, and I’m never sure what my volume actually is. As a Domme, I make a lot of sounds; part of my job is to be aware of my surroundings, and that includes my own approving growls and moans. As a sub, I’m so caught up in sensation, I can’t monitor that too. The more in the moment I am, the quieter I tend to be, as I’m trying to remember to do simple things. Like breathe. Occasionally unclench my hands. And my teeth. While I’ve tried to become more vocal, most of my bottom-y appreciative sounds come out in hisses and soft exhalations. It’s a work in progress. I know how exciting it is to play with someone who overtly responds to your skills, and that’s part of the kind of sub I want to be.

D successfully strapped me to the bed, making my heart race once again. He’d spoken of a blindfold, which we unfortunately never got to, so I was left with nothing but my own willpower keeping my eyes closed. I heard his fading footsteps, and couldn’t resist cracking an eye to see if he’d really gone. He had, and I didn’t know where, or why, and let my head sink back onto the bed, awash with erotic trepidation. Last time D had vanished on me, he’d returned with a blade. Blood roaring in my ears, I couldn’t hear what he might be doing, and tensed in my bonds, imagination on overdrive, all the way until his fingers brushed my skin. I practically shot to the ceiling before his hand wandered higher, gently caressing. Then cold, directly against my nipple.

Ice is a wonderful toy. He held the cube there for a moment, until the melted water trickled down my sides, sending the most delicious shivers through me. He moved the ice to my other nipple, slowly tracing the curve of my breast in a long, sensuous stroke. I don’t know how much ice he used, or how he managed to make it feel like one long, continuous sweep, but soon my entire chest was covered in freezing water, running over my ribs to soak the blanket underneath. It felt unbelievably good. The cold traveled lower, down my belly. I jumped a little as D playfully sipped the melt from my navel. I actually kind of liked it. *shy grin*

D passed the ice across the outside of my pussy, making me shudder. The liquid seeped through the space between my lips, flushing the area with cold. And it was amazing. Each time he drew the cubes across my mound, a fresh stream found its way to my warmest places, shocking them with an erotic chill. D pushed my legs further apart and placed the ice directly against my clit. I arched against it, nearly mindless with sensation. Until it burned.

Strangely, it wasn’t my clit that bore the brunt of the pain. The soft tissue all around it was on fire from the cold, but that sensitive little nub of flesh didn’t seem to be bothered. D pressed the ice harder against as I started to wriggle, tried to pull away. It just kept hurting. He chuckled and adjusted the block so it was more fully enveloped by my lips. I HATE burning sensations, especially in sensitive areas, and the sensation just kept escalating. It didn’t occur to me that I could make it stop. The word “yellow” had no place in my mind as I pulled against my bonds. I knew only that D was enjoying my pain, and that there was no end in sight. I have no idea what tipped him off that my struggling wasn’t in pleasure; I don’t remember whimpering “no” or “ow” or begging him not to make me endure more, but my voice could have easily been drowned out by the screaming in my head. All I know is that D was by my side again, asking if I was alright. I told him in fumbling sentences what had transpired. I was told to inform him next time, and I agreed, though I was still befuddled by the idea. Going from not feeling subby enough to so much so that I couldn’t remember there was a safeword in place was a little disorienting.

I did enjoy the ice, though. Perhaps flicking it along my clit in stretches of a second or two would be better than constant pressure. But, how were we to know if we didn’t try? D went back to teasing me with the icewater, and I was slightly disappointed to hear the last of the cubes clink into a bowl.

In the quiet that followed, I felt a heavy sense of expectation from the side of the bed. I squeezed my eyes shut, until the thread of anticipation became palpable. Usually, D likes me to do whatever necessary to keep from staring at him. In this instance, I could feel that he wanted me to look up. I did, slowly, seeing first his mischievous smirk, and then the blade in his hand. My heart jumped in my chest as his slender fingers flicked the knife open, that familiar -snickt- inducing my juices to flow while a sliver of fear shivered up my spine. In the back of my mind I knew D wouldn’t really hurt me (only a day or so earlier he’d admitted to not being ready to deal with purposefully cutting me in a scene), but the voice of reason was easy enough to push away. I WANTED to be afraid.

I know my eyes went round as the point of the blade dug into my flesh, circled my breasts in long strokes. It felt as if my skin was parting beneath the stiletto, and D left no meaty parts untouched. The tip of the blade resting below my eye, caressing my cheek as his fingers have done a thousand times before, and I tried not to shudder beneath the chill metal as it swept across my face. Lines spiderwebbed out from my sternum, scrawled across my chest with artistic savagery. I could feel the checkerboard pattern emerge as he slowly, deliberately drew one fiery line across three or four others, boxing my back into ever-smaller pieces for his pleasure. My inner thighs felt like a dozen razors were flaying my flesh instead of a single thin knife. I’m not sure I like the long, slow drag across my body (and I can say that I most definitely don’t like the knife at all on anything below the knee), but I definitely enjoy the aftermath. I can’t put into words how excited I get when fingers or nails are used on new welts and scratches. D was more than eager to oblige, running his freshly-sharpened claws over my reddened back, tracing the lines on my chest, fingers drifting upward until he held my throat in a hard grip. I melted against him, secure in the hands of my Sir. Then, when he suggested a flogging, I jumped to say yes.

I think it was then that I felt the warning twinge. That little mental flutter that told me my submissive mindset wouldn’t last much longer. It’s something that’s impossible to describe. It’s almost as if a wave of precognition opens a window, and through it, I can tell what is happening, and when. Not a pinpoint, no, but enough. I knew even as I rose from the bed that this flogging wouldn’t be anything like the last.

Once I was settled with D behind me, I thought that perhaps, this time, I mistaken. That I wouldn't just... snap out of it. As the tails fell, I melted into the sensation. Not as I had before, but more than I thought I would. The strikes came harder, faster, and I could feel the thud reverberating in my chest, up the bones of my neck, flaring in the front of my skull. I’m not sure the chair we used is the best for such an activity; the seat is drastically more comfortable than the other we’ve used, but I think my upper body doesn’t have the support it needs. I was enjoying myself immensely, the energy of my Sir twining with my own, the sensation of the flogger against the stinging lines that scored my back, the soft thud that I felt through my entire being.

And then it stopped. Like a switch being turned to the “off” position. The blows still rained down upon me, but it didn’t produce that pleasure that turns me to jelly. It wasn’t real pain, not quite yet, but the place I’d felt pressure blossomed almost immediately into a full-blown headache. I didn’t mention it for a long moment, wanting to make sure that this wasn’t one of those times my body just needed a small break before it accepted more punishment. Finally, upset and disappointed with myself, I had to call an end to it.

I suppose that I wouldn’t be bothered by the struggle to submit SO much if I just knew WHY it happened. And I know my pain tolerance fades out quite early during scenes, which also bothers me. The only thing I can think of is that I’m in pain so often that my body just refuses to produce enough endorphins to get me through, storing them up for the aches that hit harder and last longer. Or my adrenaline bottoms out, because my fear response doesn’t last long either. I know where I want to be mentally, and often get there, but I feel like I’m being chemically sabotaged when I want to STAY there. It’s infuriating, and not only am I cheating myself out of a good time, but D as well. Other than playing more often to get my tolerance back up, get used to the abuse again, I’m not sure what to do.

This turned out a little more negative than I wanted it to. I didn’t want to take away from how much I DID enjoy our playtime, but I also wanted to concentrate on the things that have been rolling about in my mind ever since. I love playing with D, and I am striving my hardest to make his efforts worth it. He is a good Dom. I want to be a better sub.




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