Month: May 2007

The use of the term 'subspace' is part of BDSM vernacular. With a bit of research, you will find that a great deal has been written about what it feels like, the many ways it is achieved, and the role it plays in each submissive's lifestyle. On the other hand, there isn't a lot written on the state of mind of the dominant (though Daemon does an excellent job in describing the mindset of a sadist). 

This is understandable – subspace is almost tangible, a level of consciousness that is a noticeable change in perception and awareness. It has real affects (which vary from person to person), such as an increased tolerance to pain, the sensation of 'floating', a disconnection from the outside world, or even sublime peace.

A dominant's head space is harder to pin down. It is assumed they are thinking up evil plans or planning their next step of cruelty. With their mind filled with the details of running the scene, is there any room for anything else?

Yes. 

In broader terms, I use the metaphor of the caged wolf to describe how it feels when that dark desire lies coiled inside me, waiting.

Every so often, I let it out. 

This state is rare and most often brought on by a combination of natural hunger, an irresistible opportunity, and a need to test myself. I see the gap between what I want and what she is capable of giving to me at that moment, and distance between the two becomes irrelevant. 

I become capable of acts that would normally make me hesitate.

Need becomes a cold fire, and I act in a manner both calculated and instinctual. There are no moments of indecision, no questioning of motive. Those choices have already been made.

All that is left is the feast.

— 

And that – that's a small glimpse at how it feels from the other side.

It is my desk you feel against your back.

I push you into it, hands on hips to lift your over the edge and set you on top. With one hand, I press you down, pinning you firmly onto your back. Rope is wound tight around your wrists, my fingers follow the length of nylon upwards, loose ends captured in my grip.

I tug firmly, pulling your arms over your head, and then tie off the ends under the edge of the desk.

You are now bound.

I stand between your parted thighs, staring down upon you. You raise your head to watch me push your skirt up over your waist, your eyes riveted on the motion of my fingers as they hook on the last piece of clothing between you and the desk. Slowly, letting the fabric draw along your naked skin, revealing your secrets one inch at a time, I slip it off.

And now you are bared.

The smooth cool surface of the desk against your skin is a reminder of place, a distinguished contrast to the warmth of my palms as they press along the inside of your thighs. You know I relish this position over you, this place that allows me to do what I want to you. Where the gentle touch of my fingers and lips, the cruel bite of my nails and teeth, the quiet guidance of my words, can pull you close enough to the edge that you tremble and cry out.

I write my words on your naked skin, whisper my name against stomach. Your skin is soft to my touch, and smells of jasmine.

I want you.

I make you a willing participant to my desires. I place you atop a chasm and hold you there, knowing full well how far you have to fall. When my fingers draw along the slick heat between your thighs, you feel yourself slip, fighting to hold still. And this struggle, this desperate attempt to keep yourself from going over, only makes the pressure worse. It is a victory you don't want me to have, but each touch is agonizing, each word a taunt that threatens to make you lose control.

You are filled with fire, your nerves burning and your skin hot, yet you keep from falling. And for a moment, you think you have won.

But all it takes is a kiss.

Left along the side of your neck, an intimacy almost unconnected with the fingers buried inside of you. A single kiss, warm and light, and the words, "Give me what is mine."

And you are lost. 

On Friday I attended my first BDSM club, Bound.

I haven't had much exposure to the more public side of BDSM culture; my scenes have always been private and personal. But when a friend of mine received an invitation to attend Mistress Dolphy's birthday party celebrations, I couldn't turn down the chance to go along.

I'm glad I did.

We lucked into a parking space around the corner from the hotel (a small miracle for DC on a Friday night), where everyone was meeting for pre-celebration festivities. Up in the hotel room, the women had just finished dressing for the evening (it was medical fetish week, with nurse and doctor outfits strongly encouraged); the birthday girl, Mistress Dolphy, was dressed in a sleek custom-made black corset, garters, and knee-high boots – a deadly combination (I'm a large fan of all three).

After general introductions, we grabbed a cab and headed to the club. 

In the hallway leading into the main room was a small table selling custom BDSM toys (I wish I could remember its name – I somehow managed to lose the business card). They had creative wooden paddles in the shape of knives that felt deliciously comfortable in my hands. But I had my eye on something else and ended up purchasing a cherry wood stinger paddle.

The club itself was different from what I had expected – in a good way. The room was large enough to provide floor space for dancing, mingling, and play, but wasn't so large that it lost the sort of public intimacy that makes you feel like you're part of the group no matter where you're standing. The music was an excellent mix of techno, industrial, and goth; it was never too loud, and yet you couldn't stand in the room without feeling the beat of the music in a way that made you feel like you had to move. 

Along the right side of the room was a bar with two accommodating young women serving drinks.  In the back of the room there was a lighted stage that was constantly in use. At various times during the night, the stage hosted scenes of flogging and sensual torture; the colored lighting and practiced ease with which pain and pleasure were delivered made the entire process feel beautiful, surreal, and alive.

Over the course of the evening, I had the pleasure of watching extensive rope bondage (from a swing), saw first hand what a vacuum bed looks like, and learned that band-aids don't work so well as pasties when covering a woman's nipples. I also had some interesting conversations with several of the people there, and look forward to speaking to them again. I find it interesting that those involved in this lifestyle tend to have a greater appreciation for life.

My kind of people.

Of course, I ended up drinking too much and spent the next day trying to avoid loud noises and bright lights.

But it was worth it. If only for the garters, boots, and whips.

"…you remind me of what I was when I was younger.
You're this touchstone of the darker, wilder parts
of me – parts that it's easy to forget when I'm swept
up in a job, a house, a marriage, thoughts of children.

Everything about my life screams 'grow up… you
need to grow up' but then you're there to remind
me that I was younger once, and free, and innocent,
and looking at the world through unbiased and eager
eyes. Most of the time, I just feel so jaded. So
'mature.' Yes, I'm happy, but as we grow older, most
of us do yearn for our pasts… for lost youth.

The difficulty, I think, lies in keeping that part of your
soul alive, and always, in some respect, staying young
and wild. One of the things I'm afraid of with having
kids is that I'll lose my own identity. I'll become
someone's parent – the epitome of uncool. I'll forget
what I once was. It's melodramatic, but it feels
almost like willingly drowning myself. I want those
cool, sparkling depths… but it has this feeling that
I have to say goodbye to air forever."

How far would you go to keep a promise? A promise to awaken someone should they quietly acquiesce to a life of structured limits. 

—

When was the last time you were truly excited about something?

I'm not talking about the small joys found in awaiting the release date of a movie or looking forward to the late days of Spring when you can start wearing short sleeve shirts.

I'm speaking of those moments we await with almost giddy anticipation. Moments that leave us both nervous and excited at the same time. Moments that feel almost dangerous with all the potential the future holds. In many ways, these moments aren't real – they exist outside of our lives, they rise above our routines and daily grind.

But in one very important way, they are life. They are the moments that, when you are in them, make everything else feel less real, less important. What you experience in those moments can cut deep. They are not without cost. To act is to leave ourselves vulnerable and the dangers of success are often far greater than those of failure.

Finding these moments gets harder as you get older. They require a certain amount of innocence, a lack in awareness of life's expectations. As we grow, we become fettered, attached to the people and things in our lives. We strive for comfort and stability in our lives. And yet, there are knives sharp enough, ideas strong enough, words seductive enough, to tease us out, to draw us to the maelstorm's edge.

There are days where I imagine I've been honing my edges be sharp enough, strong enough, seductive enough, to cut us all free.

…again, I ask:

How far would you go to keep a promise? A promise to awaken someone should they forget what it feels like to be alive?