Things I never did before D/s…


I was reflecting recently about things I’ve done and experienced during the years of our D/s, things that I had never dreamed of doing or welcoming prior to this. Given we had nearly 24 solid years behind us before commiting to each other this way and developing our D/s in our marriage, I thought I’d make a list as a ‘note to self’ to recall how far I’ve come.

Whilst some of this is ‘just’ kinky fuckery fun stuff, our D/s created the precious space to encourage these parts of ourselves to come to the fore.

For me, however, the most meaningful ones are the ways we have grown together in intimacy, trust, connection and respect.

What things had you never done before embracing submission, D/s or BDSM?

In no particular order, my 100 things;

  1. welcome vulnerability
  2. share my deepest needs
  3. be bare hand spanked in public
  4. lead a D/s munch
  5. attend kink and fetish events
  6. wear latex
  7. allow myself to be physically hurt
  8. kneel for him
  9. beg for him
  10. post intimate photos of myself online
  11. squirt
  12. wear a collar
  13. nipplegasm
  14. call him Sir
  15. ask permission to come
  16. ask him to break me
  17. accept his final word
  18. talk about my therapy openly
  19. play in public
  20. write about our D/s
  21. join online communities
  22. accept my body as it is
  23. find peace in submission
  24. talk about my relationship
  25. crawl for him
  26. be marked by him
  27. go knickerless for him
  28. wear a buttplug in public
  29. be used by him
  30. be honest about how I am feeling
  31. allow him the opportunity to lead
  32. explored pain play
  33. discover my masochism
  34. experience orgasm control
  35. ask for help
  36. know myself deeply
  37. go to a munch
  38. make online friends
  39. tweet
  40. blog
  41. experience subspace…and subdrop
  42. wear a leash
  43. be restrained
  44. rope play
  45. deep throat
  46. ask for more
  47. let things go
  48. safeword
  49. live a dual life
  50. fear exposure
  51. compare myself to others
  52. get a manicure
  53. discover my hidden sexuality
  54. fisting
  55. really listen to him
  56. put him first
  57. kiss a girl…and like it
  58. wear bruises with pride
  59. look after myself for him
  60. experience wax play
  61. enjoy a double top scene
  62. anal play
  63. belt whipping
  64. learn new things about myself
  65. learn new things about him
  66. rediscover our passion
  67. know my triggers – good and bad
  68. relinquish control
  69. trust my body
  70. appreciate my strength
  71. Hollywood wax for him
  72. dress up for him
  73. orgasm in public
  74. feel so desperately needy
  75. learn to communicate better
  76. listen to my inner child
  77. see myself through his eyes
  78. not take things for granted
  79. allow him to headfuck me
  80. cry for him
  81. document gratitude
  82. pet play
  83. understand power exchange
  84. eye up utensils as pervertables
  85. take photos just for him
  86. take pride in housework for him
  87. feel owned
  88. seek acceptance
  89. learn new things together
  90. present myself to him
  91. accept being told ‘no’
  92. wear corsets
  93. appreciate my safe space in him
  94. slow down
  95. sex under the stars
  96. swallow
  97. try harder for him
  98. push my healing
  99. accept all that I am
  100. appreciate how blessed I am



This week I think I’ve failed in pretty much everything I’d planned not to do.

In Restacking me I wrote about how I was going to try and stay soft and open when facing the demands of returning to work. This didn’t happen. What did happen was, upon being thrown what felt like an insurmountable number of analysis, administration, planning and leadership tasks to complete in a very short space of time, with no actual time to do it, I subconsciously or otherwise threw some armour back on again. Already chasing my tail from day 1 is not a good place to find myself due to the mismanagement of time by those above me. It’s easy with hindsight to reflect and note how this was a defence mechanism to protect against feeling overwhelm but could I prevent doing this at the time? Nope.

Coming home worn out and feeling exhausted was further compounded by a disconnect with Cuiplash, as a result of said armour, that I couldn’t remove at home either. As he didn’t seem particularly aware, so on it stayed. Again, I can reflect that I must have been a challenge, shut down, stressed, a bit wobbly, impatient and trying desperately to get a handle on it all. And he sometimes defaults to leaving me to it, so that’s what I do, and did.

Unfortunately, mid week, he also forgot I was at group trauma therapy that day. I’m unsure how as I’ve been going every Wednesday for the past 13 weeks but I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt as I know he, too, has been swamped by returning to work. However, the hurt I felt at that caused me to don more armour. Quieter and more insular I went. Pushing down feelings and gagging myself.

I’ve missed my children, having spent nearly two months with them, who have also returned to school this week. I’m not there to walk with them to school on their first day. I’m home late from my work. And then my eldest choked on a sweet in front of me when I was home alone with them. As in, silent couldn’t breathe choking. The sheer panic that shot through my body makes me feel sick to recall. I jumped up, asking him if he could breathe as I saw his face turn purple. My mind is simultaneously screaming at me that he’s going to die, I’m aware our youngest is watching, and my fight/flight kicks in and I back blow him. Again. Again. A gargled breath. Again. Crying. Breathing. The whole thing must’ve only been seconds but the memory will last a lifetime. We were all in tears. Thankfully no lasting effects. But for me…that’s another story. 

When Cuiplash returned home and my eldest told him what happened I don’t think he realised the enormity of it. Or it felt that way to me anyway. So more armour went on to shove down that horror ‘what if’. To stop me fully breaking down in front of them all.

I’ve also been struggling with feeling hurt and confused by the behaviour of someone else I care about, my gut screaming one thing at me whilst my mind tries to rationalise. I withdraw further to try and manage how it’s making me feel about myself but it’s there in the background. More armour. Less hurt, but not really. I’m doing a really bad job by now!

On my day off I’m meant to catch up with the work I never had any time to do on the allocated days, despite staying late, but all I can do is go to bed and sleep. I need the quiet time alone. I need to rest, but only after a cry of course. All this armour is wearing me down and weighing me down, down, down. And I go and collect the children from school and laugh and joke with friends in the playground.

I fail to communicate my struggles, I fail to take off what I’ve put on to protect and conceal. I fail to not put it on in the first place. I fail to reach out. I fail to be open. I sit in the overwhelm, the hurt, the fear, the discomfort, the confusion, the disappointment, the disconnect, the pain. And then I beat myself up for it. 

Yet, what is seen? Same old me, maybe quieter. Functioning, getting stuff done, online, offline, in line. If you could see past it though, speak with me, you’d see. 

When the Mantas Come


There are only two places I feel absolute peace, the kind that is soul deep, nourishing and centering. Precious spaces where long held sighs can finally flow and be free. One is under the ocean, the other is under his hand.

My soul sings under the ocean, it calls to my adventurous spirit and submerging and descending allows the calming Diver Reflex to kick in, slowing my heart rate and prioritising blood flow to my core and my brain. I am suddenly overwhelmed by the sensory overload of the myriad beauty of this other world as the sunlight filters through the depths and reveals teeming life. Cradled and caressed by the pressure of the water I submit to the force of the currents, suspended in the alluring hypnotising blue that stretches in all directions.

My cumbersome dive gear that weighs me down on land moulds against my form as it becomes part of me. I glide over and through reefs, rocks, caves and caverns with the control in my breath and perfect neutral buoyancy powered by the strength in my legs. My eyes grasp onto every wonderous sight, desperate to commit it all to memory. The only sounds are my steady breathing, the wheeze of my regulator delivering air to my lungs on my inhale and the flow of my bubbles on my exhale.

Here I experience the absolute contrast of danger and security, of risk and sureness, of excitement and peace, of adrenaline and intense, all consuming calm.

When you dive you must dive alongside your dive ‘buddy’. They are your lifeline to an additional air supply and the surface if anything goes wrong and your life really is in their hands, as theirs is in yours. The level of trust is immense at depth. Cuiplash is my dive buddy and together we have dived the seas and oceans of the world. We’ve explored wrecks and reefs, coral gardens and sand flats, rock walls and drop offs. We’ve been surrounded by sharks, glided alongside rays, and been mesmerised by the minutiae of the tiniest life forms. Together, we discovered passion in shared adventure.

The other place is under his hand. There are many parallels between the two spaces and in the paradoxes that exist. Here there is immense pleasure and wonderful pain, giving and taking, vulnerability and strength, control and relinquishment, Dominance and submission, and in the depths of subspace, as in the depths of the ocean, I may be sensory overwhelmed but I am completely free and deeply at peace. 

As in water he protects me on land, ever my ‘buddy’, my lifeline to protection and love. Monitoring me, guiding me, pushing me, my wellbeing his focus as he expertly carries me through a controlled ascent to the heights of my subspace. 

This is where the mantas come.

I never expected to see them there, the place he leads me during play. They skirt in and out of my peripheral vision in the darkness, catching my attention. As I drift I seek them out behind closed eyes and every time, they come. I watch them for a while, as higher still I go, my looping, twirling gliding companions in tranquility.

I suppose it makes sense why they come to me there, the strong associations between the peace I find in the depths of the ocean and the peace he provides in the depths of my mind, and it’s blissful when they do. 

“And it’s peaceful in the deep

Cathedral where you cannot breathe

No need to pray, no need to speak

Now I am under

Oh, and it’s breaking over me

A thousand miles out to the sea bed

Found the place to rest my head

And the arms of the ocean are carrying me

And all this devotion rushing over me

And the questions I have for a sinner like me

But the arms of the ocean deliver me”

Florence & the Machine

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The Fabrics of my Life. Wicked Wednesday #324


We all wear uniforms, whether seen or unseen, we adopt our roles and responsibilities. Some are chosen by us, some for us. I wear many uniforms, and each are woven into the fabric of my life.

My work uniform is crafted from creativity, a rich palette of vibrant colour and texture. It is edged with leadership and trust and embellished in belief, encouragement and praise. This uniform is bold and strong with a soft lining, heavy enough to help carry the pressure of the workload of my charges yet comfortable enough to care and guide. It is decorated with ideas and inspiration, imagination and insight. It is well worn, frayed at the edges from loving and learning, marked with experimentation and fun and printed with achievement.

My mother uniform is soft and warm, it is big enough to wrap around my babies and protect them from harm. It sometimes feels ragged and in need of attention, yet over the years this uniform has moulded to my body and stitched itself into my heart. It has large pockets to carry memories and laughter, and is woven with hopes and dreams. This uniform is a garment in progress, and will never be completed as long as I can wear it. This uniform is wet from splashing in puddles, sandy from playing at the beach and is beaded with cuddles.

My daughter uniform is uncomfortable, it needs wearing in more but has not really been given the chance for a while. It can feel stiff and starched, too smooth and formal to crumple in the non existent catch ups and spa days. I do not feel at home in this uniform like I should, even though it is my oldest. I wish it fitted better and felt softer. Some parts are damaged, when care wasn’t taken in dressing me, some parts are heavy with richly textured layers that may never be seen, some hidden forever. It is still pierced with pins along its unfinished edges, it’s old lining no longer matches the outer layer and it is always at risk of ripping.

My friend uniform is changeable, it has concealed pockets and flaps full of sparkle and fun, if you know where to find them. I’ll let you stitch your name on it and keep it there forever if I can stitch mine on yours. Its sleeves are long for hugs and dancing, its pockets full of tea and Prosecco. This uniform takes careful handling, because it’s a delicate one built on trust. Sometimes the zips conceals me, other times I’ll rip it off and show you the lining, but only when I trust you. 

Only his hands are adept at peeling off all my uniforms, freeing me from their layers to reveal the one I wear just for him.

This one is gilded in trust and lust, embellished with the rich tapestry of our lives. It flows and wraps around me, protecting me. It feels as soft as a second skin yet is so light and sheer, revealing all to him as he embroiders his love all over it and me. This uniform is bejewelled with intimacy, authenticity and vulnerability, yet is as strong as armour. When the others have been hung up for the day, I slip into this one and feel free. We made this uniform together, the one he rips off in passion then carefully knits back together, strengthening the fibres. We treasure this garment, this creation of ours. In this uniform I am his.

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Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

When the Dom Drops. Food for Thought Friday #60


We’d been playing for a while that morning, indulging in the luxury of an empty house and a rare day alone together, the children at nursery and our holidays aligning. It was relatively early in our D/s, maybe a year or so in, and we both still felt the frenzy and hunger to do it all. Cuiplash had carefully planned an elaborate and full scene, and we were already an hour or so into mixed impact play. I only knew how long it had been afterwards. 

I lay naked and face down on our bed, my arms stretched above my head like a diver, shielding my face as the flogger falls whipped across my upper back. Up and down the length of my body from the soles of my feet to my shoulders they landed, hypnotic in their rhythm as he threw a repeated figure of eight across my form. I can no longer remember exactly what else he had used or in what order, or at what point he stopped talking to me. But I do still remember the sound of the flogger hitting the floor, then the bedroom door opening and then closing as he walked out.

I lay still for a few seconds, assuming he’d gone to fetch something he’d forgotten, my ears straining to hear him as I expected his footfall on the carpet any moment. Nothing. I became concerned so I rose to my knees and waited. Still nothing. I was worried now so I called on him. Silence. Now, he’s not in the habit of suddenly leaving me alone during a scene having never done it before, or since, or into head fucking me this way. I called on him again, my voice betraying my rising panic.

He immediately returned and sat down next to me. “I’m sorry” was all he said. It was like a different man had walked back into the room. He appeared to have the weight of the world on his shoulders when not less than an hour previously he’d been entirely in charge. He looked broken, sad and lost. I remember my mind, still somewhat compromised from the intensity of our play, increasingly whirring with confusion and concern. I didn’t understand what had happened and I remember wanting to cry. 

He’d dropped. Hard. Unexpectedly and right in the middle of whipping me. He felt devastated he’d left me, disappointed in himself for being overcome with doubt over what he had spent the best part of an hour doing to hurt my body. His wife, his lover, his best friend and the mother of his children. He explained he’d suddenly felt so overwhelmed he had to leave the room to try and get a breath, and he felt so sorry for letting me down because he’d needed to do that. He could barely get his words out.

Selfishly, I’m ashamed to admit, my immediate gut instinct was that it had been my fault, that I had caused him to drop by doing something wrong. Or not doing something I should’ve done. Placing expectations on him, expecting something unrealistic, wanting this too much? Guilt over being the potential cause of his distress flooded my consciousness and I was aware of balancing on the edge of a massive emotional trigger event when he pulled me back. He took my face in his hands, demanded I look at him and spelled out that I was not to blame. He did not let go until I accepted that. 

We curled up together in silence, then began to talk it out. He’d been tired and was not feeling entirely well, he’d placed too much weight on remembering his overly complex plan. He’d focused intensely and physically exerted himself for too long and had experienced a sudden overwhelming cognitive dissonance over what he was doing. He’d felt an emotional and physical overload and had tried to do the ‘good’ thing, the ‘strong’ thing to push past it. And he’d simply crashed. 

He badly needed aftercare and I wrapped myself around him, and massaged and stroked and kissed and snuggled him. I got him a drink and a biscuit and kept him cosy. I told him I’d enjoyed what he’d done greatly, that it was what I’d needed and wanted and I held him so tightly. Together we replaced doubt with belief, concern with assurance, insecurity with confidence. I soothed and calmed and surrounded him with my love. We laughed and it helped to lighten the load. We cared for each other that afternoon. Under the covers we slowed everything down, we just talked and touched. Gently, our needs were met by just looking after each other. And that is what is most important under all the kinky fuckery, what enables the kinky fuckery to happen in the first place. He knew he was still my Dom, and I his sub and it was all ok, despite how devastating it had felt to both of us at the time.

He’s never dropped to that extent again since, although has absolutely experienced many instances of post play drop, as have I. We put a number of things in place to prevent something similar happening to him again. Time and experience has since helped us both too in terms of confidence, understanding and having realistic expectations of ourselves and each other. We no longer feel we need to rush and do it all, all at once, that our basic day to day love and care is often more than enough.

Dom/top drop is just as physically and emotionally exhausting as sub/bottom drop, and it is really important to know about this and recognise it for what it is when it happens. Drop doesn’t just happen when there’s a problem either, we’ve both experienced it after our most exhilarating and fulfilling scenes. It’s easy to suddenly view the Dom as some strong infallible being that is in perfect control of themselves and everything else around them, as that conveniently feeds the fantasy, but at the end of the day they are just your partner, your husband, and your best friend and holding them to some standard you can’t even meet yourself is unfair at best and damaging at worst. It is not weak to experience a perfectly natural and understandable physical and emotional reaction to play.

What will affect and work best for each person will be very individual of course. It’s easy to feel like it’s the end of the world at the time, easily giving rise to major setbacks in your dynamic, but as with all of it, communication and a lot of caring goes a long way. Some people make good use of a drop kit, and include things like a soft blanket, sweet snacks and music. Sometimes you both just need to be patient and kind to each other and yourselves and wait it out. We now know what it feels like, how to recognise it and how important it is to alert each other, in doing so we’ve learned what works best for ourselves and each other when and if drop strikes. 

What was an ‘abrupt end’ to a kinky play session became the beginning of a deeper understanding and appreciation, strengthening our D/s foundation in the process.

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Public Play


I still remember the first time Cuiplash and I attended our local Torture Garden fetish event and I witnessed people playing in public. I felt excited and aroused, fascinated by their dynamics and scenes as floggers were thrown, spankings administered and bodies bound. I discovered then that not only did I experience a physical and emotional thrill in watching others, I felt a much deeper craving…and next time I wanted that to be us.

Later that year Cuiplash and I were able to return and agreed we would play in public for the first time. We headed to one of the dungeon spaces, toy bag in tow. I knew what was packed, but not what he had planned as not anticipating what is coming next during play both excites and quietens my head. We were both nervous, having never scened with an audience before, and also because this pushed our boundaries around exhibitionism and openly showing our D/s dynamic and our S&M to others. We had concerns about not ‘doing it right’ and being scrutinised by others and we were aware we were putting ourselves out there somewhat. I’m glad to say our concerns were not realised.

Stepping barefoot onto the St. Andrew’s Cross as Cuiplash secured my wrists with the heavy leather cuffs chained to the wood, my bare arse exposed to the gathered crowd, was a delicious cocktail of humiliation laced with glee. I remember shivering with anticipation of showing to a gathered crowd, for the first time, that I am his. That my submission belongs to him, and that I honour him as my Dominant. A push and pull of adrenaline and joy and pride. I was practically bouncing on my toes as Cuiplash led me through an intense and freeing impact scene. Experiencing a new level of trust and connection in our D/s combined with an awareness of ‘putting on a show’ fed our newly found appetite for public play and the seed was firmly sown.

We played a number of times that night, gaining confidence and enthusiasm as we used the different spanking benches and returned to the cross, exploring the potential of the wonderful BDSM furniture that allowed us more freedom in positioning and space than we are afforded at home. To stand bound and hold posture at a solid wooden cross felt very different to relaxing over a padded leather bench and his play exploited these nuances. We learned a lot by observing others, the toys and techniques used and it was interesting to watch how scenes and aftercare were conducted by others.

I would say that despite knowing we are being watched I find the space narrows to a focal point of just us, how he is touching me, what he is saying to me, how he is hurting and arousing me. Everything and everyone else expands outwards to the periphery of our awareness as we focus on the responses of each other. He has been tender and cruel, playful and serious, tolerant and uncompromising. I have had to admit out loud which implements of pain I want, admit I want more, count for him. This pushes pleasurable humiliation buttons for me, and he knows this. I’ve shown what my body can take, what gets me off and how he does it. I’ve been restrained to benches, crosses, pentangles, A-frames and, recently, a wonderfully hand crafted creation called the Scorpion.


We have found that I react quite differently to public play than private play. I am usually able to take more, I think this is because I push myself harder, as does he. I want to please him, and to show that I am a good submissive and masochist to him to make him proud of me in that situation. There’s also definetly something about being fully dressed up to play, and knowing others are looking at us as we do. I slip easily into a giggly high subspace as we are playing, which amuses Cuiplash no end and makes for some fun scenes. My masochism dances with and pokes his sadism in a wonderful bubble of us, surrounded by the hypnotic beat of the music, observers and the sights and sounds of fellow players. It is utterly immersive and incredibly freeing.

I am grateful we have had opportunities to play together in public a number of times, primarily but not only at Torture Garden events, and including their infamous Halloween Ball in London where Cuiplash was able to push our D/s boundaries even further as laws around sex at events are different there. We made additional use of the couple’s room and chill out area and Cuiplash made me come in public as we watched others play sexually rather than just with impact and bondage as in the dungeon spaces. It was certainly an exhilarating and affirming experience to be so intimate and vulnerable, yet incredibly hedonistic!

We are travelling to Kinkfest in a couple of weeks and are very much looking forward to meeting new people, seeing friends, learning new things during the workshops and talks and to indulge both our voyeuristic and exhibitionist sides by playing together in public once more. Bouncing on my toes at the thought…


Handing over the keys. Wicked Wednesday #323


They say in life and relationships you’re either a passenger, a co-pilot or a driver. In most cases we will naturally move between all three positions, depending on who we are relating to, how we feel or the situation we are in.

Healthy relationships will tend to have agreed mutual agendas and will openly and honestly meet the needs and honour the values of all involved. As individuals I also think we all overtly or covertly carry our own agendas, that serve to look after our confidence, self esteem, attachments, boundaries and values and we will place ourselves in the role of passenger, co-pilot or driver in order to observe these as much as possible.

I can recognise in my life where I sit regarding all of these roles. I am secure in the places where I am undoubtedly the driver, primarily within my professional career. I take responsibility, ownership and control of the wheel, leading and directing those in my charge and my peers who trust my experience and vision. I have come to realise how much this feeds my sense of self worth and it can compensate for other areas where I lack this. Being a driver, however, comes with its own price regarding the stress of accountability and the pressure to maintain performance amongst striving for the elusive work/life balance.

I can also reflect upon times when I fought to be the driver for many years in almost all things in my relationship with Cuiplash, in an exhausting attempt to hold onto control. I had my own protective agenda that I gripped tightly but wasn’t always mutual, or beneficial to us both. Having experienced lack of safety in many out of control situations when I was young galvanised the belief in me that in control lay safety, and in safety lay peace. Cuiplash recognised this need in me and would step back, and place himself as the passenger, to help me feel secure. Of course, it was futile really, and not what I actually needed, but I am grateful we learned new ways.

When I eventually handed over the metaphorical keys to him I found relief in listening to my actual needs. In trusting myself, and him, to lead us in a healthy shared agenda that did meet our needs individually, and as a couple, we grew in intimacy, vulnerability and strength. Our communication improved, and our physical, mental and emotional needs were recognised fully and held in high regard.

I would say that we still move between this and being co-pilots jointly steering our path, making the best use of our strengths and shared agenda for us and our family as that is what works best for us. I would not wish to be the passenger in my relationship with him at all times, nor he wish to be the driver at all times. We move to fill in and support the other in times where that is needed, and will co-pilot through parenthood, health and family life.

During sex and play, however, I am always the passenger and he the driver, as that is how we work. I do not wish to know where he leads me, how he will drive our physicality or the nature of that journey. I am his to take where and how he pleases, for as often and as long as he wishes. The route is his and I follow him gladly.

We have managed to work out a natural way to travel, for us, that honours our D/s, our agreed agenda and values, and the ups and downs of our day to day lives. I know that I eventually felt secure enough to hand over the keys to him, instead of grasping onto them tightly myself, because I listened to myself and thus learned about myself. I stopped pushing down my needs through misplaced fear or old destructive habits. I was able to express those needs to him and trust him to handle those needs with care. In turn, he accepted those precious keys from me and trusted me to trust him to drive us forward on our agreed path. In truth, I was only really keeping his seat warm for him. And so far, we are enjoying our journey together even more.

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Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Kis’s Kinks – Gentle Breath Control Play


Before I start this post, I want to make it very clear that I am not referring to asphyxiation play to induce hypoxia or blackout through tracheal choking or arterial pressure when I use the term gentle breath control play here. I’m not going to go into the details of these particular methods of asphyxiation play, nor the very real risks involved, however, I do feel a responsibility to at least include The Medical Realities of Breath Control Play by Jay Wiseman as further reading regarding these methods of edge play.

When Cuiplash and I play with breath the psychological factor far outweighs the physical. The simple act of gently placing his hand around my throat or over my mouth is enough to induce, in me, a ‘relax and submit’ instinct that is very powerful mentally. It is strangely focusing and deeply calming, despite the implied potential for harm. I know and trust implicitly, however, that he would never squeeze to actually cut off air or blood supply but I think the ‘head fuck’ of the implied threat is what causes a rush of adrenaline and, in turn, arousal in my body, feeding my responses to him.

Added to that, the humiliation of actually enjoying that perceived and symbolic threat as well as being made to admit it out loud to him, and myself, has been significant in pushing my boundaries and struggles around verbalising physical preferences and needs.

Prior to introducing this element into play we spent time researching and discussing limits around it and agreed on a clear non verbal signal to indicate stop, in addition to our already established verbal signal. As per my previous posts in this series, Kis’s Kinks – knife play and Kis’s kinks – flogging, safety and PRICK risk awareness are paramount and we also agreed that I would never have my hands restrained if he were to place a hold of this kind, no matter how gently, to allow me to double tap him wherever if necessary to indicate cessation of the hold.

Cuiplash may use a gentle throat hold as a physical trigger when we depart or reunite, and has also done this if I’m particularly stressed and flapping a bit at home over…whatever, and just like a hair hold it’ll immediately calm me down. He calls it my ‘bunny flip’ as there is a particular hold that can be used to position rabbits that will cause a calm to come over them (great for administering medication or nail clipping, not so great for them for fun but I digress). During play this will become a method of restraint, to physically gently yet psychologically strongly hold me in place, as well to increase submissive head space and arousal.

A mouth or mouth and nose hold will have a similar effect, with the added factor of silencing. To me, this increases sensation processing too as a method of sensory deprivation. He may cover my mouth so I can still breathe through my nose, or cover my mouth and nose in such a way I can still breathe through my mouth. There was one instance however where, at the exact moment I orgasmed for him, he pinched my nose as well as covering my mouth. Well. It was for no more than a few seconds and no longer really than I would breath hold myself naturally, but the effect was so incredibly explosive that the force of the orgasm that ripped through me wiped me out. I double tapped his hand and came for what felt like forever.

No contact breath control play is another thing we explore, and as I’ve always had a tendency to subconsciously breath hold during impact play and in the build up to orgasm, some kind of self induced hypoxia, Cuiplash will control this by redirecting me to breathe. His sadistic side will incorporate a more forceful swat, strike or throw during impact with a redirection to breathe, and he will use orgasm control to edge and deny unless I breathe through the sensation overload and not breath hold. I have to say both are pretty effective methods of non contact breath modification, as much as being directed to breath hold.

Non contact breath control play will also heighten mindfulness for me during play, as well as encouraging subspace, as my concentration on my breath, almost meditative in nature, will then merge with the sensations I’m experiencing, and I find that more oxygen in my blood flow will carry me through increased pain tolerance and stronger orgasms, and as a result I’ve certainly learned to breathe!



Spanking, squirting, sadness & school clothes


I won’t tell you about our scene last night, how long it had been since the last one, and how much we had both needed the level of play that I’d struggled to find the words to ask for that morning.

I won’t tell you how nervous I was, whilst on my knees waiting for him to come into our room, and how I could see his intentions laid out on our bed in canes, floggers, restraints and toys.

I won’t tell you how I doubted my body as my spanking started and I winced at how much it hurt, when it wasn’t much at all, and how I struggled to settle into it as it felt like the first spanking I’d ever had, because time had sensitised my body anew.

I won’t tell you he knew this and so switched between pain and pleasure until I forgot which was which as they merged into one, then I craved the pain again as my body remembered they were one and the same once more and I relaxed.

I won’t tell you how much I wriggled and rose up on my toes as I had to count down the strikes from 10, each incremental in force, when I’d already been told to stay down, and that he started again from 10 each time I did and it took six restarts to discipline myself to count and stay put.

I won’t tell you that he caned out the hurt and confusion and insecurity and concern I’d wrangled with all day, not his doing, but he saw it and knew it had to escape, that he expected me to break for him to set it free and so I sobbed it out into my pillow until my arse hurt more than my heart.

I won’t tell you how I begged to cum again and again, plugged and filled and edged and denied, that my blood didn’t bother us as I flooded the black towels he’d put down to catch it, because periods won’t stop us.

I won’t tell you how he kissed away my remaining tears as he reminded me of my worth and that I’m his, as I knelt before him once more, one hand wrapped in my hair holding me upright, as his other gripping himself as he came all over my chest, his wetness and mine sliding down my body.

I won’t tell you how he cleaned me, held me, fetched me juice and soothed my bottom with cream and then we lay curled together, limbs entangled,  and thanked each other as we recovered.

But I will tell you how, when we did, we tiptoed downstairs in the dead of the night and stood naked in our kitchen folding the ridiculous amount of new school uniforms I’d washed, straight out the drier, so I wouldn’t have to wash them all over again today.

Because sometimes, amongst it all, life interrupts and derails and affects and needs attending to. Because, that’s just life.

Shhh…Food for Thought Friday #59


How “real” is your online persona?

I don’t really feel I have an online ‘persona’ as such, as I try as openly as possible to express my thoughts and feelings authentically online, without pretending or putting on another ‘face’. I’d hope, and only those who’ve met me and know me could confirm, that how I am online is pretty much how I am in person.

Do you use a pseudonym, your real identity or both?

I use a pseudonym as I am in a position professionally where I have to conceal and protect my identity. It would be career limiting to me to be known as a submissive in a D/s relationship, as someone who enjoys all aspects of BDSM and who blogs about sex and relationships. It is very frustrating to me to have to do this but I also understand, to some extent, why.

I do envy those in the local and online community who do not have to carry an element of fear over exposure and can freely express themselves in all areas of their lives. I know I can often feel duplicitous regarding friends, family and colleagues when we have to conceal places or events we’ve attended, or that aspect of my marriage in general.

Where you use a pseudonym how open about your actual identity are you?

I think it can be somewhat inevitable to let some aspects of my actual identity leak out in posts, discussion and other correspondence with people as, to me, the real life details help shape a person and foster relationships. I think I would find it difficult to gain a picture (albeit not a fully fleshed out one) of a person online if there was nothing personal at all coming through about them, the devil is in the detail as they say, even if the details have to be limited for whatever reason.

I’m aware of revealing some things about my immediate and wider family, my marriage, my career and even my appearance. I think, and sometimes worry, that if you knew me in ‘real’ life and came across this blog it wouldn’t take too many leaps to realise it was me.

Is your anonymous/pseudonymous online self a secret or more a form of protective “camouflage”?

I would say it is a bit of both. No-one in my day to day life knows anything about our D/s or my blog, except my best friend, who knows some about our dynamic and we will freely discuss sex and toys and such like. I have a number of online friends from various platforms who I’ve been lucky to meet and got to know who are also in the ‘lifestyle’ and are invaluable as a source of friendship, support and understanding. The protective camouflage comes in regarding my career, as previously mentioned, and I need to remain very mindful regarding that.

I’d say that trust is a huge factor, however, and taking small steps to trust, support and encourage others in the blogging and wider BDSM community goes a long way to creating a safe place to be able to express ourselves as openly as we can, and to look out for each other. I hope, at some point, there is wider acceptance and less stigma and ignorance regarding D/s, and BDSM in general.