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I can’t help but notice that my two recent posts reflect a topic I’ve been wanting to address: The difference in my emotional state when I’m submissive, in contrast to when I’m dominant. I’ve been wanting to analyze this, and so I’ll tackle submission first.

Although I didn’t always know this, my work in therapy and my relationship with my Daddy have helped me uncover something important: My submission is tied to my trauma, pain, abuse and neglect. Submission always ends up bringing out the places where I hurt and feel unlovable. It tugs on the places where I feel abandoned for being imperfect, and where I’d do anything, anything, anything to be loved. It can be a very sad, very needy place.

It seems obvious now, but I used to wonder why submission almost always lead me to crying. Imagine how awful it was in my first D/s stumblings. I’d have these really intense experiences and feelings with my then-Dom, and want to deal with them. But he had been clear from the beginning that he didn’t want any emotional involvement. He had said he’d stop seeing me if I couldn’t handle it. So I’d smush all that hurt away, only to break apart when he walked out the door. It was horrible.

I had figured out that I needed to find a Dom who could handle a lot of big emotion right before I met my Daddy. I told him that if I were to let him top me, I’d need a lot of emotional aftercare. I warned him that submission brought up things I couldn’t handle on my own, pain I couldn’t bear, and lots and lots of tears. He promised that I could always, always tell him my feelings, and had me promise not to hide them. He told me he could handle all of it. And so far, he really has. In fact, he doesn’t just handle my emotions, he encourages them. He celebrates them. He sees close to everything I feel now: the pretty, the ugly, the sad. And he loves it. Truly. It’s been amazing to have someone love me like that for the first time in my life.

As it turns out, crying is also a major turn-on for both me and my Daddy. I had never had a sexual partner that enjoyed my crying. It’s always been something I had to hide. But now I get to lay my head against his chest, and have him hold me and let me cry. He never tells me to stop, and that’s really nice. Admittedly, lots of times things turn sexual at some point because we are both so turned on by crying. One of my favorite things that we share is the ability to embrace my hurting, and make it something pleasurable together. I love that he loves the broken little girl that my submission brings out. I love that she makes him crazy with love and lust and longing. It’s good for her to be loved like that. It’s wonderful to be able to feel and be seen.

But as my recent post suggests, bringing all that out isn’t just about pleasure. Bringing my submission out still causes tremendous, unmanageable pain. It doesn’t always end with me in a tailspin, but to avoid one, the timing has to be perfect. If Daddy gets me into that place, and can’t be with me, I break apart. That little girl is terrified of abandonment, and she doesn’t want to be left alone, not even for a second. Being left alone for days is unbearable. It’s like her world is ending. It feels like something is dying inside me.

The obvious solution is that we shouldn’t bring my submission out except when there’s time to make things alright. And mostly, we’ve learned to stay away when he’s too busy. Except life doesn’t always stick to our plans. When Daddy and I have been toying with my submission, and his time unexpectedly becomes limited? It’s the perfect storm for me to spiral into that awful dark place I wrote about.

Daddy has asked me lots of times if we should even continue to play with my submission. He’s worried that it’s bad for me, and that it’s doing more emotional harm than good.

I don’t know the answer. I know that I hurt like crazy sometimes in the aftermath. But, I know that it also turns me on, makes me float and feel beautiful and vulnerable. Submission is a part of my identity that I cannot imagine losing. But I also know that it stimulates the very places that I’m trying to heal. And I don’t know if accessing those places is helpful, or if it’s more like picking at a wound.

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I wrote a while back about my blossoming domme-ness. It’s continued to bloom since then, or at least, the thoughts and desires have. My realtime experiences have been…limited. Which is putting it generously.

I find this lack of experience disconcerting. Much more than I ever did as a submissive. There’s something about being in control of a man* that challenges me in a way that D/s has never challenged me before. I know I have a largely M/f audience, but I’d love some advice, feedback or suggestions from anyone who’s willing to share, either in the comments or by email.

The problem I encounter is this: Dominant fantasies have become a rather regular and accessible thing for me. I have no issue getting off thinking about being the dominant partner when I’m on my own. And most of the time, I am on my own. But when I’ve had the chance to actually *be* the dominant partner, in person? I find myself suffering what could only be described as a bit of stage fright.

This puzzles me for a couple of reasons. First, I never get stage fright. Not ever. I’ve spent about half my life performing, and my current job is consists primarily of talking in front of people for long periods of time. Nothing about people watching me bothers me in other settings. But there’s something about being in charge in private that makes me feel like I’m being watched, studied, criticized and judged. It makes me self-conscious, which isn’t a great place to start when you’re trying to feel like you’re confident and in charge.

Second, I have never ever had this stage fright problem as a submissive. Submission comes so so easily. If I were a little less thoughtful, I might decide that this proves I’m a “natural submissive” and write off this whole domme thing as a lark. But I’m me, and that means I’ve over-analyzed this to bits and pieces, and I’m sure I don’t think it’s because of any “natural” submissiveness. (Can you tell I’m not a huge fan of that terminology?) I think it’s cultural, learned submissiveness. And I think that it’s holding me back from experiencing the top side in the way I truly want to experience it. And that frustrates me. And it makes me mad.

I realized fairly recently that I have never been the initiator of sexual contact. Or contact at all in sexual relationships. It’s not that I don’t have desires in the bedroom. I obviously have very specific ones. It’s that thus far, I’ve figured out how to manipulate my male partners into giving me what I want, without me having to ask for it, or direct them.

This “skill,” if you could call it that, is also a very bad habit. I don’t want you to think I’m the type of lover that just lies there. Quite the contrary. But I tend to look to my male partner for direction, and I tend to let him direct the action. When I want something, I’m really comfortable in getting him to think it’s his idea and then “going along with it.”

Clearly, this all comes from cultural conditioning: Good girls aren’t supposed to want sex, and they’re certainly not supposed to direct it. Men don’t find aggressive women attactive. Blah, blah, blah. I don’t believe a word of that drivel, but I seem to have subconsciously absorbed a lot of it. And that frustrates me. And it makes me mad.

Finally, I note that submission is inherently somewhat passive. What I mean is that while submissives do a lot, it’s almost always at the behest of the dominant partner. That means the dominant has to have a gameplan and a sense of direction and be ready to make demands. The submissive, of course, responds to all of that, but isn’t expected to come in with anything but the desire to do as they’re told.

So I’d love some help or some direction here. It’s something I’d like to get over, and soon. Because there are a whole lot of things that I daydream about doing to boys, and it sure would be nice if I could actually, you know, do them sometime.

*Note that I’m specifically writing about my interactions with male partners. With females, I don’t seem to run into this problem.

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I know: I haven’t written here in months. Nearly 6 months to be precise. If you’ve followed my tumblr, you know I’m still very much in love with my Daddy. That I’m still kinky and doing things and learning about myself and my sexuality. I’ve received so many emails and notes and comments in my absence, and to those of you who’ve sent them: THANK YOU! I’m sorry my acknowledgement is so tardy.

Now, let me tell you why I’m here. I’m black and aching inside tonight. I keep tearing up and feeling like I have no place to put all these big big emotions. When I feel sad like this, I understand cutting (although I’ve never done it, and I’m not going to start). The pain that can well up inside a girl can feel insurmountable. And in some way, physical pain seems like it would be a relief. Not to worry, that’s not how I manage it.

Sitting here, crying and desolate, it occurred to me that this is what I originally started this blog for. Way way back when I was meeting up with John, I felt this kind of angst all the time, both on a bigger and a smaller scale. Submission seems to bring this out of me. And when I first started, my heart just hurt and throbbed and the pain inside wouldn’t leave me. So I started a blog to have a place to put all my angst and tears.

Obviously, my blog developed into something more. It became a place where I put things I’m proud of: developed writing, pretty stories, fantasies, real life accounts. And somehow the weight of that, the expectation that I would come here with something brilliant and polished to say, overbore this original purpose: to let my voice be heard, even if only by the anonymous interwebs. This is supposed to be where I can be messy and real and freaked out and rambly. So tonight, I reclaim it for that.

I’m aching tonight. Hurting on the inside. I had the most wonderful few days with my Daddy, but he’s busy again and I can’t help it: I hurt inside. It feels like abandonment, even though the big girl in me knows it isn’t. Still, it throbs and burns inside my throat, tight and hot and full of tears. And I hate this feeling so so so so much. It overwhelms and terrifies me and I don’t know how to make it stop.

Well, I do know that writing helps. So. I’m telling you I miss my Daddy so fucking much right now I’d stab myself in the heart if I thought it would make the aching go away. It’s the rawest, saddest, hardest, darkest place for me to be stuck. I seriously hate it here. I want someone to show me the exit. In here, it feels like no one loves me and no one ever will again. (And yes, to another part of me, that statement sounds ridiculous.)

And I know it’s not fair. Of course he has a life, and he’s not actually attached to me. He has to do things by himself, for himself sometimes. That’s healthy. I know. And I’m so madly, incredibly in love with this man that I’d eat glass to keep him. So I can absolutely manage to get through one rough, emotional night on my own. I have to.

Except there’s this little girl inside me that can’t.

That little girl doesn’t believe that anyone can love her, or even see her. She’s pretty sure that she’s worth less than nothing. She wants to disappear, or shrink small enough so that someone will want to keep her all the time. It burns to write that, but it’s true. That little whelp is not all that I am, but she’s there. A part of me. And sometimes she gets triggered, and all her hurty, awful, scary sadness comes back to me like it’s brand new. It’s like I carry this little Gremlin inside me, and certain situations unleash her. And she howls and she hurts and she’s so sad that it breaks me open. I know that I need to learn how to fix it. I’m supposed to be able to love that little girl because no one else did, and no one else will. But holy God, that’s hard. It feels impossible, even. And that tiny, broken, saddest little thing just keeps erupting out of me. And I feel like I’ve failed when she comes.

I hate her.

And that just makes me cry harder because I know that I don’t want her, either.

So this is me tonight: a tangled mess of the most horrible abandoned sadness. I don’t know why I’m posting this, but I also don’t see why I shouldn’t. This is my place. This is her place. There’s at least one place where neither one of us has to be abandoned.

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Warning: this post contains a graphic description of non-consensual sex.

Based on a true story.

The light coming in through the cracks around the windowshade told me it was late. Or rather, early. Very early morning, hours before the sun would start to think about climbing out of bed. Hours before I would normally be awake.

But I was, blearily, awake. My head was static-buzzy with the remnants of sleep. It took me longer than it should have to grasp why I was awake: Oh. He was awake.

He was not just awake, he was hungry. Behind me, sitting on my thighs. Pulling my panties to the side, and rubbing, pressing, pulling at the puffy outer lips of my cunt. He wanted in.

He moved, lifting his weight off of me and reaching toward the nightstand. I heard the plastic click of a cap, and had one lucid thought: lube. It felt cold, suddenly smeared against my hot skin. I wiggled my legs, trying to separate myself, to make it easier for him to get what he wanted. He pushed them back together, tightly. He left no space between the fleshy inner bits of my thigh and my tightly closed delta.

The unmistakable soft heat of his cock pushed against the steadily warming lube, against my now-slick puffy outer lips. He pushed harder, and beyond into the pink. Satisfied, he laid against my back, filling me while I writhed, my chubby, cotton-covered ass wiggling against his pubic bone. I lay there, feeling the weight of him, all his massive, manly, bigness pinning me between his hot, hungry body and the mattress.

His hand tangled in the short mop of my babyfine hair. His stubbled roughness scratched against the sweet skin of my neck. It was like striking a match. Friction. Heat. My skin stood up, every follicle on fire.

“Tell me it hurts,” he growled against my ear.

“Mmmmm, it hurts, Daddy,” I confessed. My voice was small, muffled by the bedding and the hour.

Hands grabbed at me. It felt like there were 10 of them, all at once claiming my hair, my ass, my panties, my cunt, my shoulders, pinning me down, pulling me up. He thrust himself into me, grinding against my flesh, while I chanted in a small, sleepy, soft voice that it hurt. Like a mantra.

“Oh, it hurts, oh, oh, Daddy. Please. It hurts. Oh. Oh. Oh. Ow. Ow. Ow. Owie”

My voice broke a little and I begged him to stop. That last word was so much like a child’s that it flicked at something tender inside me.

“Please don’t. Please, please stop, Daddy. Please.” I started gently crying, shaking with passion and emotion.

“You don’t like it?”

“No, Daddy. It’s bad, and it hurts. Oh, owie,” I shuddered as he fucked himself inside me again.

I begged, and shook my head “no” over and over. I imagined what I must look like from his angle: a fleshy little pillow to grind against in the middle of the night. I felt my head and my mouth saying “no, no, no.”

But he kept going. Taking. Using. Grinding against what I had given. I could tell when he was winding up towards his finish. He took more, fiercer. I cried harder, begged louder.

“No, don’t come, Daddy. Please. No. Don’t.”

I begged him not to do it, but he didn’t listen.

He came, growling.

Then he smoothed my panties back over my ass, and flopped next to me in the dark.

“I love you, piglet,” he promised sleepily. “You’re a good girl. Come sleep where I can hold you.”

I scooted up folding my body into his, and did exactly that. Throbbing, warm, wrapped in his body, and filled with his come.

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I don’t usually write update posts, but sometimes, it’s the only way to get through the stuff I need to get through. So here goes:

1. If you haven’t heard/read already, I came in at #19 on the Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2010. I was really excited just to be nominated, and I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to have made the cut. Some of my favorite bloggers are also listed, along with a whole host of bloggers that I’d never heard of, or don’t read. If you’re looking for new smut to add to your reader, I think this list is a great place to start.

2. Speaking of new smut, I want to update/redo/add to my links lists on the right hand sidebar. If you love my blog, link to it, and would like to be linked back, please either leave a comment or shoot me an email with your blog’s name and url. I promise to update my list soon. It would help me if you could give me a blurb or a description about your blog. Please at least indicate if it’s a personal journal, a more kink theory-style blog, or a picture blog/tumblr.

3. My dear friend Orlando is conducting a tumblr-based porn survey. He needs as many participants as possible! If you haven’t already done so, please go take the survey before the end of October. Don’t let me down, readers o’ mine. I am really looking forward to reading the results, and the more people take the survey, the more interesting (and statistically valuable) they will be.

I promise I have substantive posts forthcoming on topics such as attention whoring, the “spectrum of consent,” and the story of how my Daddy play-raped me in the middle of the night. Feel free to let me know what you want to hear about first

 

Oh yes.

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When I first started talking to my Daddy about undertaking the transformation project, and documenting it here on the blog, there was one thing that really held me back. It wasn’t my curves. It wasn’t my feminist ideals, or my fear of rejection. It was my writer’s pride.

I confess: I struggle with perfectionism in my blog. And being overly-critical about my writing, and the sorts of things I post. I have noticed many bloggers struggle with the opposite problem: they feel they don’t proofread or think things through enough.  I suppose the grass is always greener! More often, I’m sitting here, proofing and re-editing and re-thinking, and trying to make my post perfect (although I always find one more dratted typo after I publish). It has always been one of my stumbling blocks: that tension between writing more, and writing better.

I created the “transformation” pages specifically to relieve myself of the need to post perfect, polished pieces on my weight loss journey. I thought it would be easy to ramble on about boring things like calories and exercise if I didn’t feel like it was going to show up on my real blog. And for the most part, it was true. I managed to write a weekly summary for a few months. Although I still proofread the summaries, they weren’t nearly as detailed or perfect as my real writing. And it was all going along swimmingly until it wasn’t.

There’s a bunch of reasons why the writing part of the project has fallen off track, but let’s talk about the most obvious. First, my Daddy lost his hunger for the public documentation. He still wanted me to achieve results, he just didn’t care if I blogged about them or not. Without him leaning on me, I didn’t feel like I had to make the time to write.

Second, I moved, got a new job, and otherwise filled up my time. In the spring, when the project started, I had a lot of extra time on my hands to fill. These days, I’m lucky if I get a moment to curl up with Daddy on chat, let alone maintain my blog, tumblr, and entries about my transformation project.

Third, and perhaps most interestingly, my weight loss stopped feeling submissive, and started feeling…something else. It’s hard for me to define. When I first started watching what I ate, stepping on the scale every day, and working out, it felt like something I was doing in service to my Daddy. Some days it felt sweet, and like a gift. Some days it felt humiliating, or like a special kind of torture. But it always felt connected intimately to my desire to please other people (Daddy in particular). Somewhere in the months where I was moving and getting settled, my journey down the size rack started feeling like something I was doing for me. I ate better because I felt better when I did. I looked forward to watching my numbers on the scale tick downward. I was proud of me, and what I was accomplishing, and started doing these things consistently for the way it made me feel about myself. And one day I realized, I wasn’t doing it for Daddy, or for anyone else. I was doing it just because wanted to look good, feel good, and be healthy.

In the end, that last piece is really the transformation. I don’t know if I’ve internalized something or just changed my perspective. I don’t know how much domming had to do with me feeling comfortable owning my body in that way, but I suspect there’s a relationship there that I should continue to examine. The timing of it correlates, and something about that idea captures my analytical mind. I should revisit that, and I will.

So many have written to me, asking how the weight loss was going. I really wanted to give you all an update about me and my transformation. So here goes: I’m thrilled to report that since I first stepped on the scale for my Daddy back in March, I’ve lost over 25 pounds.  Initially, my body measured 43-38-47. I currently measure 39-32-43. I currently weigh 175. Our goal is to get me down to 150 by my 30th birthday (in April). At the rate I’m going (about 1 lb a week, steadily), I think I’ll get there.

My Daddy continues to celebrate my success, and praise my accomplishments. But he’s largely allowed me to monitor and discipline myself in the past few months. He’s much more like a partner in my journey than the driving force behind it. And sure, some part of me feels that loss. But a bigger part of me knows that me owning my body and taking responsibility for it, is a better, healthier, and more sustainable thing. He was the catalyst for me to change the way I was living my life. But ultimately, I’m the one that lives it. And I’m happy to be actively doing good things for me, not just because someone “made me do it.” I value me enough to make myself a priority.

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I’m a self-labeled intimacy junkie. Sex is a physical expression of intimacy to me. But at my core, I kink on getting close to people. I want to know what’s inside, what hurts, what the buttons are. Or, as I’m fond of saying to my Daddy, “I wanna know what does what to what.”

So it’s been interesting to start playing with muffintop, my recently-named girlpet. We don’t know each other very well. She’s new to subbing, I’m new to domming. I’m not only learning about a new person, I’m learning about a new part of me. About my buttons as a top, about what it feels like to control the scene, about what that arousal is, and how it’s different.

It is really different.

I never realized before how much I’ve conflated my feelings of sexual arousal with submission. “Floating” and “swelling” are the words I would use to describe what I feel in my body when I’m super aroused. My breath comes slow, wringing itself out of my mouth in heavy, puffy falls. It’s like being melted from a solid state to a creamy liquid. I start in my cunt, warming slowly outward like chocolate on a tongue. It’s a feeling of velvet and richness, honey and maple syrup. Slow-moving, relentless, rising.

Turns out? That’s what arousal feels like when I’m submissive and turned on. And I’m just beginning to learn what it feels like for me to be dominant and turned on. I didn’t recognize dominant arousal when I felt it in my first playdate as muffin’s Princess.

Daddy came along, via webcam, and I was very excited. My plan was to take pictures of her; to document her body for us the way I’ve documented my own. Muffintop was very good: I’d asked for a glass of water when I arrived, and she’d provided me with a lovely pitcher-full, and ice. And a goblet. I liked that she’d done as I asked, and even tried to make things nicer. It felt good, but different, to be catered to. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it felt like, but I knew it was a good feeling.

She stripped under my direction. Turned as I demanded. Displayed her various holes as she was told. Really, she was impressively obedient, and not shy at all. I think I’m pretty shameless, but muffintop puts me to shame: she is so unembarrassed about her body.

I had assumed that this would be intense enough for a first date. I hadn’t planned much more. There she was, stripped and spread before me. A girlpet, all my own to molest as I wanted. Thank goodness I had Daddy there to push me a little.

He told me to finger her. He asked me to describe her cunt in detail. How tight was she? How many cocks had been inside her? He sent me to find a toy to fuck her with, which I located in her nightstand. A rabbit-style vibrator with a shaft. I rubbed her clit, and commented how it felt so much like touching myself. It felt easy: I did to her cunt what I’d do to mine. The only thing missing was my body’s own feedback. I rubbed her in circles, and I pushed the rubber cock inside her, and she bucked up, gasping and grinding. And I smacked her, hard on the top of her mons.

“No coming!”

She shook her head in agreement.

We repeated that cycle a few times: I brought her close, made her grind and buck against the cock and my hand. Then I stopped, slapped her, and reminded her she wasn’t allowed to come.

So many things felt so different from this side: being the fucker, not the fuckee; being the top, not the bottom; being the dom, not the sub. I felt intrigued and amused. Not floaty, but calm. Centered. Like I could do fucking anything. (Not unlike a coke-high, for those of you that know what that feels like.) I filled with unabashed confidence and clarity. I felt like the most glittery thing in the room. It wasn’t heavy or slow. It wasn’t sticky, or like melting. It was something else. I didn’t even recognize it as sexual desire.

With plenty of time on my hands, I decided I wanted to hurt her. I wanted to know what it felt like to hurt someone for real. Daddy suggested I hit her cunt with my hand. And so I did, bringing my soft palm down over and over on her fleshy cunt. She turned red and warm underneath my hand. She wiggled around. She begged, and she fought to keep her legs apart. I had set the camera so that Daddy had a direct, close-up view of her cunt and my hand. Occasionally, I’d ask him what he thought, or he’d encourage me. But mostly, I just hit her over and over. Watching her face. Looking at her body. Feeling like a weapon.

She eventually cried.

I eventually stopped. And I took her to her bedroom, and tucked her in. We talked, and she came down. And, when she looked comfortable and I felt ready, I said goodbye, kissed her on the forehead, and let myself out.

And for the first time, walking toward my car, I realized that I was dripping wet. All that glittery fabulous confidence? That had been arousal. Different. Distinctively dominant. New.