serijules
just seri
- Joined
- Sep 19, 2002
- Posts
- 1,941
Since many requested I continue to share these journal entries here, I'm obliging 
Fire and Blood
It's been too long for me to remember the order of things, but fortunately, my memory doesn't have an issue retaining the emotions of events
Ma'am loves to mark me. Tattoos, piercings, bites, scars, marks...I have them all and love them all. Probably the ones I love the most though, are her cuts .
One evening during my visit to her, she led me downstairs and put me once again on the rack. Floggers, quirts....various toys left subtle marks across my body, lulling me into that lovely mind frame where everything blurs together where I just take it the best I can, trying my best to please Ma'am and keep my body still for her. I was doing alright until I felt the chill of a blade on the flesh of my back. My back is an interesting zone for me...biting or cutting on my back, down my spine....just makes me crazy. Near orgasmic, screaming crazy, to the point I nearly can't contain myself. She dragged the blade all over me, carving a heart into my hip, pulling the blade up between my ass cheeks and leaving long, thin cuts there that stung for days. The cuts didn't bleed much, a little seeping at the most, but they felt wonderful. I shivered with each touch, squirming in delight, wanting more and more. I love the heart, it makes me feel like her own private My Little Pony, something I've collected since I was a kid.
I felt anything but ponyish though when she grabbed my hair and pulled my head back, an act that never fails to instantly melt me into a pool of mixed fear and utter submission. She trailed the tip of the knife along my jawline, leaving a long thin mark there. I expected to feel fear, to bolt, to pull away and panic. I felt nothing but longing, longing to feel my own blood dripping down my face, desiring her to leave her mark in a most conspicuous place. The feel of a blade pressed dangerously against my throat should have brought fear to me based on past issues with my face and neck, but those fears didn't even take the bait. Oh it was scary alright, not knowing what she intended or what she would do, but my trust is so solid now that I knew whatever choice she made would be one I could cope with.
She left it at that, much to my surprised jolt of disappointment when the knife moved on. Once again, I felt the longing for her to close her hands around my throat, to pull the knife across my neck and whisper sinister threats into my ear that I would not hear, but her body language would more than translate. I longed deeply for that raw display of power, a dance on the edge of sanity and consent and safety. Lately I grow tired of that concept, of the idea that Ma'am needs to consider such things when playing with her property.
I used to have so many limits, and in my time with her, they have slowly faded away or in fact became intense favourites. I often claim now to have no limits at all and am met with annoyed disbelief from others, who bring up things like scat and bestiality and ask me, aren't those limits? My answer is no. Distasteful? Hell yes. Limits? Well hell, if Ma'am develops a sudden liking in either, I'll survive it. I'm sure I'd hate it, but I'd survive it. But I digress, this is a topic for another post...
The fire came next, and we crept a bit closer to that edge I spoke of, where the concepts of safety and consent and sanity are not quite packed so solid . At first she played nice, applying only short lines of alcohol and swiping them out with the palm of her hand the instant it met the flame. Nice and safe and sane....well as much so as lighting fires on people's bodies can go. As time wore on, she abandoned some of her carefulness, the patterns of the alcohol becoming longer and dipping into the more dangerous curves and valleys of my body. She allowed the alcohol to burn longer before casually wiping the flames away. I moaned and squirmed and gasped almost violently as the flames teased my flesh with the threat of going too far and for one moment when those flames licked at that sensitive place between my asshole and my cunt lips, I felt my grip on my own sanity slide a bit, hit with the absurd desire for her to FUCK me with that fire. It was that intense, that erotic....I desperately wanted her to fuck me with a wand of burning cotton, to put out the flames deep inside my cunt and fuck me until I'm sobbing. Fire fucks with my mind more than anything else we do. The fantasies and insanities that enter my mind, the level of insatiable desire that consumes my body is frightening to me.
Satisfied with her play, she put the fire toys aside and motioned me to turn over, and the insane thoughts faded as I focused on her orders. My cunt was still throbbing and my thighs soaked with my desire, so I was more than ready for what came next. She took out the needle kit M had left for her and choose an area, slipping the needle through the area with an ease and confidence that betrayed her newness to it. She pierced my breasts a few more times, flicking the needles, tugging them and admiring them. A few bled when she removed the needles, thick droplets of blood lazily trailing down the curve of my breast. I watched Ma'am closely, aware of the hunger in her eyes and her fondness of blood, watching as that hunger reached her smile and she bent over, her tongue gathering up the escaping droplet of blood and her lips latching on to the area, suckling for more. I arched up to meet her lips, aching for her to feed on me, to bond in ways only a taking of blood can do justice to. I felt like weeping in that moment, my emotions raw at the level of trust flowing between us with such ease now. This isn't a day nor an age where a person takes the blood of another on their tongue with any sort of offhand ease, and the message of the act was both subtle and very much not so all at once
Fire and blood. Both life forces of a different nature. Both take us well past our grasp on safety and sanity, but I never feel so raw and in touch with what I am and who I belong to as when Ma'am plays with blood and fire.
* * *
We have a tradition now, usually towards the end of every visit. Ma'am reopens my marque, the kanji for "slave" that adorns my lower back. This is a well known painful place to get tattooed, and cutting is no different. She rarely discusses this with me or prepares me for it. I'm ordered on my stomach and gagged without a word of reassurance or even an order to be still. It chills me and thrills me. I always know what is coming and can prepare myself for it, but the no-nonsense, "I'm busy playing with my property, don't you dare disrupt me" demeanor is different than our usual dynamic, almost like we are disconnected, yet at the same time I feel more in tune with her than ever. There are few words exchanged, if any. I can't really explain clearly what changes, as I'm always her property, but the way she handles me is more pure slave, although in a less human way. Like I become an object. One she loves and cherishes, for sure...but still, an object to carve on and mark and possess.
Usually she uses a knife, but I had gifted her with a set of scalpels and blades in her stocking at Christmas and they had yet to be used. The previous day when she came across them in my tack box when grooming her pony, she pulled me to her before we went out for the evening, testing the sharpness of the blade first on her arm and then across the curve of my breast. My skin parted with unnerving ease, blood rushing eagerly to the surface. A look of surprised pleasure came to Ma'am's face at the sharpness of it and she patted my shirt back down, telling me to keep that blood there for her for later.
When that later came, she sent me downstairs to get a bundle of sage on top of the entertainment center. I don't care for the smell of burning sage, although I understand Ma'am's practice of cleansing the air of negative energy with it now. It makes me feel heavy and stuffed up, so I wasn't looking forward to her burning it, but I fetched it dutifully nonetheless.
On my stomach I went, waiting quietly as Ma'am did her preparations, including lighting the sage to smoke. The thick smell assaulted my nostrils and the familiar heavy, overpowered feeling I get when confronted with incense or strong scents engulfed me. I closed my eyes and just lay there waiting, preparing myself. The first time she marqued me, I didn't do so well, couldn't keep myself still and quiet. The second, I did much better, albeit with reminders from her...but I knew by now she expected me to take it well without reminders or chastisement and in order to please her, I would need to do just that. I took a deep breath as she fit the gag into my mouth and settled herself on the bed to get to work.
The first time around was amazing. The blade parting my flesh with a smooth ease was quite different from the pressure of a not-as-sharp knife. I knew how sharp that scalpel was and I felt intoxicated with fear and thrill as she re-traced the kanji on my lower back, opening it up once again and cutting deeper and smoother with her new toy. It felt wonderfully painful and scary and I just sank into the darkness behind my closed lids, my fists clenching the pillows as I held her canvas still for her, keeping my breathing as even as I could and allowing only an occasional moan or whimper to sneak its way out.
After she finished, I fully expected the burn of the alcohol cleaning me up and we would be done. Not this time. This time when she finished and put her scalpel aside, I smelled the intrusion of the sage once more as she tapped the ash across the fresh cut and rubbed it in. The ash and the feeling of it being rubbed in felt like sandpaper on my wounds and I struggled to keep still and hold on to my control, confused by this change and quite unsure of what she was doing at all. This wasn't something we'd ever discussed or she'd ever shared with me or asked me to research like is usually done before something new and unknown was tried. Unknown seemed to be the theme of this visit, what with my cunt lips being sewn shut and needles piercing my breasts. It's still amazing to remember the mix of fear and wonder and the relief of just giving over to it.
When she finished experimenting with the ash and cleaning me up again, the blade found my flesh for a second time, reopening the design yet again, pushing the ash deeper and mixing it with flesh blood. The second time hurt a hell of a lot more, the erotic aura of the sensation gone and uncomfortable, uncertain pain taking its place.
The second time was a breeze compared to the third.
By the third round, I'd slipped out of that comfortable darkness of erotic pain and pleasure and could only struggle to keep a grip on my desire to please her. My fists dug into the pillow, my teeth bit harshly into my well abused leather ballgag and my breath came out in hissed sobs. Ma'am finally finished up, cleaning me up and removing the gag. I lay there for a bit, feeling hazy, having a hard time reconnecting with reality. Sometimes the places Ma'am takes me shove me into such a deep sense of objectification that I have a very hard time returning to a sensible mind frame. I was so out of it, I didn't even thank her properly until she prompted me. I still flush thinking of that, knowing fully how well trained I am in gratitude and failing to express that after such a thing is deeply embarrassing to think about.
These experiences brought about a new feeling for me. I no longer covet or experience what I would describe as subspace; I feel that subspace implies a level of selfishness that I don't feel there is place for in my role as slave. When I used to fall deeply into subspace, I was thinking about myself...what I wanted, what felt good to me, etc. My focus was on myself, the sub, and the headspace I floated to. It's a wonderful thing and I have incredible memories of scenes involving subspace, rope and canes, but they didn't involve submission or service and I'm no longer in a role where that feels proper or is allowed. I used to need a lot of aftercare after these scenes, it would take my body and mind awhile to come back and communicate and function well. It was a very self-centered type of experience, even though I couldn't have gotten there without my partner.
The headspace I fell into this time was different, although there were some similarities. My thoughts were so intensely focused on Ma'am, on pleasing her, taking it well. The major difference though was the sense of disconnection I had from myself rather than the familiar feeling of deeply connecting only WITH myself that I associate with subspace. I FELT objectified. I felt like a canvas, an outlet for Ma'am's creativity and sadism. The lack of words exchanged and comforting touches would have in the past made me feel uncertain and scared, unable to take what she dished out without a failed struggle. Now it's like I've learned to channel that mood, that exchange, into something positive, into a way to SERVE by putting aside any doubts and worries and discomfort and becoming the object that will serve her best in the situation. In this case, a canvas.
I do need to work on snapping out of it and back into a more active service role when she is finished with me however. When the "scene" has ended there are drinks to be fetched, areas to be cleaned, things to be put away, wounds to be tended to. These things don't wait, nor should they.
I am pleased though, at this discovery and experience. I've grown weary in my time as Ma'am's at my doubts and insecurities and things that disrupt my quality of service. I can't just shut them off though, emotional issues like such don't come with handy dandy little switches or manuals for re-wiring I've found. However, there are opportunities to make those emotional issues serve a positive purpose, to enhance what would otherwise be a negative experience. As someone who is constantly looking for better ways to improve my service not just in quality but in depth and timeliness and sheer usefulness....gems like this one fill me with glee.
My marque healed as quickly and cleanly as expected. The ash didn't give Ma'am the darkened effect she hoped for, so research of other options is now on my list of things to do.
The other night she spoke of plans to do something that even scared HER, although that likely wouldn't stop her from doing it.
I didn't even bother to try and wonder what was going on in that sadistic brain of hers. I'm just honoured to be on the receiving end of it.
Fire and Blood
It's been too long for me to remember the order of things, but fortunately, my memory doesn't have an issue retaining the emotions of events
Ma'am loves to mark me. Tattoos, piercings, bites, scars, marks...I have them all and love them all. Probably the ones I love the most though, are her cuts .
One evening during my visit to her, she led me downstairs and put me once again on the rack. Floggers, quirts....various toys left subtle marks across my body, lulling me into that lovely mind frame where everything blurs together where I just take it the best I can, trying my best to please Ma'am and keep my body still for her. I was doing alright until I felt the chill of a blade on the flesh of my back. My back is an interesting zone for me...biting or cutting on my back, down my spine....just makes me crazy. Near orgasmic, screaming crazy, to the point I nearly can't contain myself. She dragged the blade all over me, carving a heart into my hip, pulling the blade up between my ass cheeks and leaving long, thin cuts there that stung for days. The cuts didn't bleed much, a little seeping at the most, but they felt wonderful. I shivered with each touch, squirming in delight, wanting more and more. I love the heart, it makes me feel like her own private My Little Pony, something I've collected since I was a kid.
I felt anything but ponyish though when she grabbed my hair and pulled my head back, an act that never fails to instantly melt me into a pool of mixed fear and utter submission. She trailed the tip of the knife along my jawline, leaving a long thin mark there. I expected to feel fear, to bolt, to pull away and panic. I felt nothing but longing, longing to feel my own blood dripping down my face, desiring her to leave her mark in a most conspicuous place. The feel of a blade pressed dangerously against my throat should have brought fear to me based on past issues with my face and neck, but those fears didn't even take the bait. Oh it was scary alright, not knowing what she intended or what she would do, but my trust is so solid now that I knew whatever choice she made would be one I could cope with.
She left it at that, much to my surprised jolt of disappointment when the knife moved on. Once again, I felt the longing for her to close her hands around my throat, to pull the knife across my neck and whisper sinister threats into my ear that I would not hear, but her body language would more than translate. I longed deeply for that raw display of power, a dance on the edge of sanity and consent and safety. Lately I grow tired of that concept, of the idea that Ma'am needs to consider such things when playing with her property.
I used to have so many limits, and in my time with her, they have slowly faded away or in fact became intense favourites. I often claim now to have no limits at all and am met with annoyed disbelief from others, who bring up things like scat and bestiality and ask me, aren't those limits? My answer is no. Distasteful? Hell yes. Limits? Well hell, if Ma'am develops a sudden liking in either, I'll survive it. I'm sure I'd hate it, but I'd survive it. But I digress, this is a topic for another post...
The fire came next, and we crept a bit closer to that edge I spoke of, where the concepts of safety and consent and sanity are not quite packed so solid . At first she played nice, applying only short lines of alcohol and swiping them out with the palm of her hand the instant it met the flame. Nice and safe and sane....well as much so as lighting fires on people's bodies can go. As time wore on, she abandoned some of her carefulness, the patterns of the alcohol becoming longer and dipping into the more dangerous curves and valleys of my body. She allowed the alcohol to burn longer before casually wiping the flames away. I moaned and squirmed and gasped almost violently as the flames teased my flesh with the threat of going too far and for one moment when those flames licked at that sensitive place between my asshole and my cunt lips, I felt my grip on my own sanity slide a bit, hit with the absurd desire for her to FUCK me with that fire. It was that intense, that erotic....I desperately wanted her to fuck me with a wand of burning cotton, to put out the flames deep inside my cunt and fuck me until I'm sobbing. Fire fucks with my mind more than anything else we do. The fantasies and insanities that enter my mind, the level of insatiable desire that consumes my body is frightening to me.
Satisfied with her play, she put the fire toys aside and motioned me to turn over, and the insane thoughts faded as I focused on her orders. My cunt was still throbbing and my thighs soaked with my desire, so I was more than ready for what came next. She took out the needle kit M had left for her and choose an area, slipping the needle through the area with an ease and confidence that betrayed her newness to it. She pierced my breasts a few more times, flicking the needles, tugging them and admiring them. A few bled when she removed the needles, thick droplets of blood lazily trailing down the curve of my breast. I watched Ma'am closely, aware of the hunger in her eyes and her fondness of blood, watching as that hunger reached her smile and she bent over, her tongue gathering up the escaping droplet of blood and her lips latching on to the area, suckling for more. I arched up to meet her lips, aching for her to feed on me, to bond in ways only a taking of blood can do justice to. I felt like weeping in that moment, my emotions raw at the level of trust flowing between us with such ease now. This isn't a day nor an age where a person takes the blood of another on their tongue with any sort of offhand ease, and the message of the act was both subtle and very much not so all at once
Fire and blood. Both life forces of a different nature. Both take us well past our grasp on safety and sanity, but I never feel so raw and in touch with what I am and who I belong to as when Ma'am plays with blood and fire.
* * *
We have a tradition now, usually towards the end of every visit. Ma'am reopens my marque, the kanji for "slave" that adorns my lower back. This is a well known painful place to get tattooed, and cutting is no different. She rarely discusses this with me or prepares me for it. I'm ordered on my stomach and gagged without a word of reassurance or even an order to be still. It chills me and thrills me. I always know what is coming and can prepare myself for it, but the no-nonsense, "I'm busy playing with my property, don't you dare disrupt me" demeanor is different than our usual dynamic, almost like we are disconnected, yet at the same time I feel more in tune with her than ever. There are few words exchanged, if any. I can't really explain clearly what changes, as I'm always her property, but the way she handles me is more pure slave, although in a less human way. Like I become an object. One she loves and cherishes, for sure...but still, an object to carve on and mark and possess.
Usually she uses a knife, but I had gifted her with a set of scalpels and blades in her stocking at Christmas and they had yet to be used. The previous day when she came across them in my tack box when grooming her pony, she pulled me to her before we went out for the evening, testing the sharpness of the blade first on her arm and then across the curve of my breast. My skin parted with unnerving ease, blood rushing eagerly to the surface. A look of surprised pleasure came to Ma'am's face at the sharpness of it and she patted my shirt back down, telling me to keep that blood there for her for later.
When that later came, she sent me downstairs to get a bundle of sage on top of the entertainment center. I don't care for the smell of burning sage, although I understand Ma'am's practice of cleansing the air of negative energy with it now. It makes me feel heavy and stuffed up, so I wasn't looking forward to her burning it, but I fetched it dutifully nonetheless.
On my stomach I went, waiting quietly as Ma'am did her preparations, including lighting the sage to smoke. The thick smell assaulted my nostrils and the familiar heavy, overpowered feeling I get when confronted with incense or strong scents engulfed me. I closed my eyes and just lay there waiting, preparing myself. The first time she marqued me, I didn't do so well, couldn't keep myself still and quiet. The second, I did much better, albeit with reminders from her...but I knew by now she expected me to take it well without reminders or chastisement and in order to please her, I would need to do just that. I took a deep breath as she fit the gag into my mouth and settled herself on the bed to get to work.
The first time around was amazing. The blade parting my flesh with a smooth ease was quite different from the pressure of a not-as-sharp knife. I knew how sharp that scalpel was and I felt intoxicated with fear and thrill as she re-traced the kanji on my lower back, opening it up once again and cutting deeper and smoother with her new toy. It felt wonderfully painful and scary and I just sank into the darkness behind my closed lids, my fists clenching the pillows as I held her canvas still for her, keeping my breathing as even as I could and allowing only an occasional moan or whimper to sneak its way out.
After she finished, I fully expected the burn of the alcohol cleaning me up and we would be done. Not this time. This time when she finished and put her scalpel aside, I smelled the intrusion of the sage once more as she tapped the ash across the fresh cut and rubbed it in. The ash and the feeling of it being rubbed in felt like sandpaper on my wounds and I struggled to keep still and hold on to my control, confused by this change and quite unsure of what she was doing at all. This wasn't something we'd ever discussed or she'd ever shared with me or asked me to research like is usually done before something new and unknown was tried. Unknown seemed to be the theme of this visit, what with my cunt lips being sewn shut and needles piercing my breasts. It's still amazing to remember the mix of fear and wonder and the relief of just giving over to it.
When she finished experimenting with the ash and cleaning me up again, the blade found my flesh for a second time, reopening the design yet again, pushing the ash deeper and mixing it with flesh blood. The second time hurt a hell of a lot more, the erotic aura of the sensation gone and uncomfortable, uncertain pain taking its place.
The second time was a breeze compared to the third.
By the third round, I'd slipped out of that comfortable darkness of erotic pain and pleasure and could only struggle to keep a grip on my desire to please her. My fists dug into the pillow, my teeth bit harshly into my well abused leather ballgag and my breath came out in hissed sobs. Ma'am finally finished up, cleaning me up and removing the gag. I lay there for a bit, feeling hazy, having a hard time reconnecting with reality. Sometimes the places Ma'am takes me shove me into such a deep sense of objectification that I have a very hard time returning to a sensible mind frame. I was so out of it, I didn't even thank her properly until she prompted me. I still flush thinking of that, knowing fully how well trained I am in gratitude and failing to express that after such a thing is deeply embarrassing to think about.
These experiences brought about a new feeling for me. I no longer covet or experience what I would describe as subspace; I feel that subspace implies a level of selfishness that I don't feel there is place for in my role as slave. When I used to fall deeply into subspace, I was thinking about myself...what I wanted, what felt good to me, etc. My focus was on myself, the sub, and the headspace I floated to. It's a wonderful thing and I have incredible memories of scenes involving subspace, rope and canes, but they didn't involve submission or service and I'm no longer in a role where that feels proper or is allowed. I used to need a lot of aftercare after these scenes, it would take my body and mind awhile to come back and communicate and function well. It was a very self-centered type of experience, even though I couldn't have gotten there without my partner.
The headspace I fell into this time was different, although there were some similarities. My thoughts were so intensely focused on Ma'am, on pleasing her, taking it well. The major difference though was the sense of disconnection I had from myself rather than the familiar feeling of deeply connecting only WITH myself that I associate with subspace. I FELT objectified. I felt like a canvas, an outlet for Ma'am's creativity and sadism. The lack of words exchanged and comforting touches would have in the past made me feel uncertain and scared, unable to take what she dished out without a failed struggle. Now it's like I've learned to channel that mood, that exchange, into something positive, into a way to SERVE by putting aside any doubts and worries and discomfort and becoming the object that will serve her best in the situation. In this case, a canvas.
I do need to work on snapping out of it and back into a more active service role when she is finished with me however. When the "scene" has ended there are drinks to be fetched, areas to be cleaned, things to be put away, wounds to be tended to. These things don't wait, nor should they.
I am pleased though, at this discovery and experience. I've grown weary in my time as Ma'am's at my doubts and insecurities and things that disrupt my quality of service. I can't just shut them off though, emotional issues like such don't come with handy dandy little switches or manuals for re-wiring I've found. However, there are opportunities to make those emotional issues serve a positive purpose, to enhance what would otherwise be a negative experience. As someone who is constantly looking for better ways to improve my service not just in quality but in depth and timeliness and sheer usefulness....gems like this one fill me with glee.
My marque healed as quickly and cleanly as expected. The ash didn't give Ma'am the darkened effect she hoped for, so research of other options is now on my list of things to do.
The other night she spoke of plans to do something that even scared HER, although that likely wouldn't stop her from doing it.
I didn't even bother to try and wonder what was going on in that sadistic brain of hers. I'm just honoured to be on the receiving end of it.
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