serijules
just seri
- Joined
- Sep 19, 2002
- Posts
- 1,941
I was asked to post this here since my journal is friends only now...please note the below "post" contains details on needles and other stuff that may be squicky to some.
* * *
There was a time when I couldn't imagine loving service. I know, I know...I say that all the time, but it's TRUE. Each and every time I'm with Ma'am since becoming her slave, I discover more and more what a joy it is to serve someone. I have come to get the same joy out of doing laundry, cooking meals and serving drinks as I do of kneeling at her feet and taking her pain or enjoying her orgasms. It felt so nice to be Home, to know what was expected of me and to do those things without being asked. I failed to do two of the chores on my list and it bothers me a lot, although I know it is completely my fault for not managing my free time better. I'm glad that I recognize these things though as it gives me a chance to correct them and improve, although I still feel disappointed in myself for not recognizing them and managing them better at a more appropriate time. I do wonder if there will be punishment for this slacking as I was given ample reminders. *sighs softly and moves on*
Embracing service has also meant becoming more comfortable in accepting things as they happen and not needing to know everything. This has long been the hardest for me to accept but as Ma'am continues to push me to deeper levels of acceptance and submission, I discover levels of my ability to accept that I never recognized before, as well as another edgier feeling...terror.
It's hard to explain this as terror generally seems like a negative, even harmful word...but it isn't. Not in this context. Having no limits, no safeword...requires an intense amount of trust and faith, both of which I feel in abundance regarding Ma'am. However, along with that trust comes the realization that she may not always make the choices that I want, like or even feel good about. I TRUST her, but she still scares me, her choices still have room to terrify me.
Biting is one of those times when I feel this. She sinks her teeth into my flesh and bites. As I said in a previous post...not the gentle love nibbles that feel good and arousing, but the deep hard bloodthirsty bites of possession. The kind of bites that intend to make you bleed and even if you don't, the marks last for weeks. You can run your fingers over the site hours later and feel the impression of her teeth, the swelling of the skin and hardness of the coming bruises, the puffy redness already taking on a deep purple hue. The kind of bites that leave me screaming and sobbing and clutching to her in terror because I know no matter how much pain I am in, no matter how intensely afraid of taking that pain or how terrified of how far she will go...she won't stop until she's ready and when she DOES stop, it is usually just to find a fresh spot and start all over again.
Those kinds of bites.
Ma'am is fond of them and often has a deep look of satisfaction in her eyes when she pulls away and licks her lips. Me...I just feel the terror and the pain mingled with a hidden sense of gratitude at being chosen to suffer so greatly for her pleasure. I once commented jokingly that if Ma'am never bit me again, I wouldn't exactly complain. She wisely noted that I was not being truthful; if she decided to never bite me again, I would surely feel upset and hurt, knowing me as she does.
She's right. As much as I absolutely feel like I can barely survive the pain of her biting me like that, it is one true pain she gives me, one pure form of suffering that tests just how deeply I belong to her. I no longer beg her to stop and while I still flinch away sometimes, I do so out of instinct, not out of desire to avoid fulfilling her whim or hope that she will change her mind. I know better by now. She never changes her mind or pardons me from suffering when this whim takes her. Instead I just sob and cry and try my damnest to contain my screams.
I rarely succeed.
One night she just bit me...over and over, across my shoulders and breasts and on my stomach. She pressed a hand to my throat before she began, looking deep into my eyes and cutting off my air slowly for a moment, seeing the fear in my gaze and smiling all the wider for it. I wonder now if she saw the desire behind it as well, the wish for her to push the edge on this particular limit of sorts. It isn't really a limit in the sense that she "can't" put hands around my neck or control my breathing, but it's something that has past trauma associated with is and she has thus far chosen to not push the matter. This night she did, just a bit, and I felt my cunt spring a leak and my heart skip a beat or two in an odd mixture of terror and desire. I moaned when she pulled her hand away, overwhelmed with the desire to beg for more and equally overwhelmed with the fact that I even desired such a thing at all.
I didn't have long to ponder on it as the biting began. Each one lasted minutes, her grip growing tighter and harder the more I squirmed and cried. My eyes were nearly swollen shut from crying so hard, my nose so plugged I had to pull the gag out to breath lest I drown in my own panic. She slammed her hand into my mouth at one point, gagging me with the palm of her hand and rather than fight it, I put my hand on top of hers and held her palm as tight to my mouth as I could, screaming into her palm and sobbing, my head dizzy with fear and such an intense longing to please I could barely stand myself for taking it so badly, but couldn't find it in me to do any better.
Perhaps it was the terror.
One night Ma'am led me downstairs and ordered me to stop at the bottom and wait for her. I was stripped and blindfolded, led across the cold basement to the wooden rack table that takes up one corner and nudged to lay down. After a moments confusion and insecurity as to how she wanted me positioned, I closed my eyes more so out of comfort than necessity as the blindfold blocked out all light. I sank my teeth into the gag and waited, willing my body to relax while my heart pounded a hole in my chest, my legs spread wide. My hearing aids were out, so I couldn't hear a thing. I had no idea what toys or implements or even people were present and no idea what was in store for me.
I felt my pussy lips being played with as my legs were forced further apart and smelled the sharp scent of alcohol as my cunt lips were swabbed and cleaned. I bit my lip and moaned, struggling to stay still, trying to slow the rush of panic and fear and wonder and excitement and TERROR going on in my brain. It worked somewhat, until I felt the first needle.
At first I wasn't sure what was going on. I felt like I was being pierced, the same sensation as when I had my labia lips pierced, but the timing was off, the path of the needle different, slower. I felt what seemed like thread being pulled through my lips but it didn't sink in just yet. The needle went through the opposite side and back again, each time with the bizarre feeling of being threaded together, laced up. I struggled to keep my hips still and not move what with needles so close to my most sensitive bits, but it was hard. I don't know how well I did.
I felt the jangle of what seemed to be rings as they were flicked up and down repeatedly. I was struck by the absence of pain...when I was pierced, the pain was rather steady for awhile afterwards and suddenly I realized I had not been pierced at all, at least not in the way I had imagined. Ma'am and I both shared a desire for my cunt to be laced up like a corset with 3 or 4 sets of rings. She had gone ahead with that desire...minus the rings. My lips were laced together and topped off with a slave bell.
I had no idea if she planned to leave it that way and for a moment I was lost in thought, trying to process this realization and again, terrified at the intensity of it. I've felt owned in so many ways over the years, but nothing thus far has compared to being blindfolded, led onto a rack, having my legs spread and my cunt laced shut. No consent, no information, no warning or reassurance.
Just as it should be. Although I wouldn't have minded with a bit of warning, mind you.
Oh who am I kidding, yes I would have. It was beyound thrilling and not being in the know was the kicker. You would think by now I would realize how wise my owner is, how deep my trust in her is and not feel that terror every time the unknown happens, but I'm also starting to realize that I love the feeling, it makes me feel alive and owned with such a purity. PROPERTY.
The purple slave bell hangs on my keychain now and every time I feel it jangle in my hands, I'm reminded of the feeling of it jingling between my legs and I feel my cunt slicken with desire. I felt like crying when she cut the string that laced me shut.
Did I mention how much I love belonging to this woman?
They covered me up and settled me down a bit, stroking my hair and running hands across my body. I thought we were finished, feeling heavy from all the emotions I had run through in the past hour but seems the fun was not over just yet. The needles came back out, and M gave Ma'am a lesson in needleplay with my breasts now being the center of attention. The fear bubbled up all over again, despite what I'd just experienced and having more than survived it, I still was unsure of the needles. Being subjected to something unknown and trying to process and understand it is a whole different experience than watching your flesh being prepped and pierced, seeing the blood flow and the needles played with. That's just what happened too....first M showing Ma'am how to choose, clean and insert the needles, then Ma'am doing it herself on the other breast. I was very surprised at the low intensity of the pain...if anything, it was erotic, not the uncomfortable, sickening stab I usually associate with needles.
And the blood...oh my the blood. It's amazing to watch a droplet of blood form, seeing Ma'am eye it lustfully and smile evilly, flicking the needles no doubt hoping to increase the teasing nearly nonexistent flow. It felt wonderfully erotic and oddly relaxing. A shiver as the alcohol swabbed the area once, then a second time, her breath chilling the area as it dried. A whimper as her fingers chose their target and pinched, testing the elasticity of my flesh. A deep breath in as the needle settled in place one one side and slipped out neatly on the other, my breath slipping out between my lips in time with it, nice mounds of flesh decorated with a sliver of needle and a droplet or two of blood at times. Floss laced the needles together, forming a crude corset decorated with jingling slave bells as Ma'am played with her newfound toys.
Fucking amazing.
And finally, there is a different kind of terror. The kind when you realize you've gone too far, said too much and can't take it back. The kind that forces a lesson into your head so hard and fast it makes you dizzy.
I was sitting at her feet during our last few moments together, complaining about my hair. My hair is long, about to my bra line...and while I like it long, it drives me nuts at times too. It gets in my face, it tangles up and I just generally have a bad habit of complaining about being required to keep it long, even though I know deep down if I were allowed to cut it, I wouldn't. I was casually complaining about this yet again for some reason I can't recall (it was probably in my face) and Ma'am gave me a long look and ordered me to get the scissors. It hit me like a brick as she looked at me, dead serious. She was going to cut my hair, her leash, her pony mane, her grip to pull my face into position before she slapped me. Despite my complaints, I loved being required to keep my hair long, and I had just walked myself into deep trouble.
I quietly stammered that I had given the shears to C the night before and she made a noise and shook her head in annoyance, digging around in her desk drawer for a pair of scissors before loosing interest in the prospect and moving on to another subject.
I know my Owner. If she had found a pair of shears while the idea to punish me still interested her, I have no doubt my hair would have been cut.
Close fucking call. I highly doubt you will ever hear me complain about my hair again.
* * *
There was a time when I couldn't imagine loving service. I know, I know...I say that all the time, but it's TRUE. Each and every time I'm with Ma'am since becoming her slave, I discover more and more what a joy it is to serve someone. I have come to get the same joy out of doing laundry, cooking meals and serving drinks as I do of kneeling at her feet and taking her pain or enjoying her orgasms. It felt so nice to be Home, to know what was expected of me and to do those things without being asked. I failed to do two of the chores on my list and it bothers me a lot, although I know it is completely my fault for not managing my free time better. I'm glad that I recognize these things though as it gives me a chance to correct them and improve, although I still feel disappointed in myself for not recognizing them and managing them better at a more appropriate time. I do wonder if there will be punishment for this slacking as I was given ample reminders. *sighs softly and moves on*
Embracing service has also meant becoming more comfortable in accepting things as they happen and not needing to know everything. This has long been the hardest for me to accept but as Ma'am continues to push me to deeper levels of acceptance and submission, I discover levels of my ability to accept that I never recognized before, as well as another edgier feeling...terror.
It's hard to explain this as terror generally seems like a negative, even harmful word...but it isn't. Not in this context. Having no limits, no safeword...requires an intense amount of trust and faith, both of which I feel in abundance regarding Ma'am. However, along with that trust comes the realization that she may not always make the choices that I want, like or even feel good about. I TRUST her, but she still scares me, her choices still have room to terrify me.
Biting is one of those times when I feel this. She sinks her teeth into my flesh and bites. As I said in a previous post...not the gentle love nibbles that feel good and arousing, but the deep hard bloodthirsty bites of possession. The kind of bites that intend to make you bleed and even if you don't, the marks last for weeks. You can run your fingers over the site hours later and feel the impression of her teeth, the swelling of the skin and hardness of the coming bruises, the puffy redness already taking on a deep purple hue. The kind of bites that leave me screaming and sobbing and clutching to her in terror because I know no matter how much pain I am in, no matter how intensely afraid of taking that pain or how terrified of how far she will go...she won't stop until she's ready and when she DOES stop, it is usually just to find a fresh spot and start all over again.
Those kinds of bites.
Ma'am is fond of them and often has a deep look of satisfaction in her eyes when she pulls away and licks her lips. Me...I just feel the terror and the pain mingled with a hidden sense of gratitude at being chosen to suffer so greatly for her pleasure. I once commented jokingly that if Ma'am never bit me again, I wouldn't exactly complain. She wisely noted that I was not being truthful; if she decided to never bite me again, I would surely feel upset and hurt, knowing me as she does.
She's right. As much as I absolutely feel like I can barely survive the pain of her biting me like that, it is one true pain she gives me, one pure form of suffering that tests just how deeply I belong to her. I no longer beg her to stop and while I still flinch away sometimes, I do so out of instinct, not out of desire to avoid fulfilling her whim or hope that she will change her mind. I know better by now. She never changes her mind or pardons me from suffering when this whim takes her. Instead I just sob and cry and try my damnest to contain my screams.
I rarely succeed.
One night she just bit me...over and over, across my shoulders and breasts and on my stomach. She pressed a hand to my throat before she began, looking deep into my eyes and cutting off my air slowly for a moment, seeing the fear in my gaze and smiling all the wider for it. I wonder now if she saw the desire behind it as well, the wish for her to push the edge on this particular limit of sorts. It isn't really a limit in the sense that she "can't" put hands around my neck or control my breathing, but it's something that has past trauma associated with is and she has thus far chosen to not push the matter. This night she did, just a bit, and I felt my cunt spring a leak and my heart skip a beat or two in an odd mixture of terror and desire. I moaned when she pulled her hand away, overwhelmed with the desire to beg for more and equally overwhelmed with the fact that I even desired such a thing at all.
I didn't have long to ponder on it as the biting began. Each one lasted minutes, her grip growing tighter and harder the more I squirmed and cried. My eyes were nearly swollen shut from crying so hard, my nose so plugged I had to pull the gag out to breath lest I drown in my own panic. She slammed her hand into my mouth at one point, gagging me with the palm of her hand and rather than fight it, I put my hand on top of hers and held her palm as tight to my mouth as I could, screaming into her palm and sobbing, my head dizzy with fear and such an intense longing to please I could barely stand myself for taking it so badly, but couldn't find it in me to do any better.
Perhaps it was the terror.
One night Ma'am led me downstairs and ordered me to stop at the bottom and wait for her. I was stripped and blindfolded, led across the cold basement to the wooden rack table that takes up one corner and nudged to lay down. After a moments confusion and insecurity as to how she wanted me positioned, I closed my eyes more so out of comfort than necessity as the blindfold blocked out all light. I sank my teeth into the gag and waited, willing my body to relax while my heart pounded a hole in my chest, my legs spread wide. My hearing aids were out, so I couldn't hear a thing. I had no idea what toys or implements or even people were present and no idea what was in store for me.
I felt my pussy lips being played with as my legs were forced further apart and smelled the sharp scent of alcohol as my cunt lips were swabbed and cleaned. I bit my lip and moaned, struggling to stay still, trying to slow the rush of panic and fear and wonder and excitement and TERROR going on in my brain. It worked somewhat, until I felt the first needle.
At first I wasn't sure what was going on. I felt like I was being pierced, the same sensation as when I had my labia lips pierced, but the timing was off, the path of the needle different, slower. I felt what seemed like thread being pulled through my lips but it didn't sink in just yet. The needle went through the opposite side and back again, each time with the bizarre feeling of being threaded together, laced up. I struggled to keep my hips still and not move what with needles so close to my most sensitive bits, but it was hard. I don't know how well I did.
I felt the jangle of what seemed to be rings as they were flicked up and down repeatedly. I was struck by the absence of pain...when I was pierced, the pain was rather steady for awhile afterwards and suddenly I realized I had not been pierced at all, at least not in the way I had imagined. Ma'am and I both shared a desire for my cunt to be laced up like a corset with 3 or 4 sets of rings. She had gone ahead with that desire...minus the rings. My lips were laced together and topped off with a slave bell.
I had no idea if she planned to leave it that way and for a moment I was lost in thought, trying to process this realization and again, terrified at the intensity of it. I've felt owned in so many ways over the years, but nothing thus far has compared to being blindfolded, led onto a rack, having my legs spread and my cunt laced shut. No consent, no information, no warning or reassurance.
Just as it should be. Although I wouldn't have minded with a bit of warning, mind you.
Oh who am I kidding, yes I would have. It was beyound thrilling and not being in the know was the kicker. You would think by now I would realize how wise my owner is, how deep my trust in her is and not feel that terror every time the unknown happens, but I'm also starting to realize that I love the feeling, it makes me feel alive and owned with such a purity. PROPERTY.
The purple slave bell hangs on my keychain now and every time I feel it jangle in my hands, I'm reminded of the feeling of it jingling between my legs and I feel my cunt slicken with desire. I felt like crying when she cut the string that laced me shut.
Did I mention how much I love belonging to this woman?
They covered me up and settled me down a bit, stroking my hair and running hands across my body. I thought we were finished, feeling heavy from all the emotions I had run through in the past hour but seems the fun was not over just yet. The needles came back out, and M gave Ma'am a lesson in needleplay with my breasts now being the center of attention. The fear bubbled up all over again, despite what I'd just experienced and having more than survived it, I still was unsure of the needles. Being subjected to something unknown and trying to process and understand it is a whole different experience than watching your flesh being prepped and pierced, seeing the blood flow and the needles played with. That's just what happened too....first M showing Ma'am how to choose, clean and insert the needles, then Ma'am doing it herself on the other breast. I was very surprised at the low intensity of the pain...if anything, it was erotic, not the uncomfortable, sickening stab I usually associate with needles.
And the blood...oh my the blood. It's amazing to watch a droplet of blood form, seeing Ma'am eye it lustfully and smile evilly, flicking the needles no doubt hoping to increase the teasing nearly nonexistent flow. It felt wonderfully erotic and oddly relaxing. A shiver as the alcohol swabbed the area once, then a second time, her breath chilling the area as it dried. A whimper as her fingers chose their target and pinched, testing the elasticity of my flesh. A deep breath in as the needle settled in place one one side and slipped out neatly on the other, my breath slipping out between my lips in time with it, nice mounds of flesh decorated with a sliver of needle and a droplet or two of blood at times. Floss laced the needles together, forming a crude corset decorated with jingling slave bells as Ma'am played with her newfound toys.
Fucking amazing.
And finally, there is a different kind of terror. The kind when you realize you've gone too far, said too much and can't take it back. The kind that forces a lesson into your head so hard and fast it makes you dizzy.
I was sitting at her feet during our last few moments together, complaining about my hair. My hair is long, about to my bra line...and while I like it long, it drives me nuts at times too. It gets in my face, it tangles up and I just generally have a bad habit of complaining about being required to keep it long, even though I know deep down if I were allowed to cut it, I wouldn't. I was casually complaining about this yet again for some reason I can't recall (it was probably in my face) and Ma'am gave me a long look and ordered me to get the scissors. It hit me like a brick as she looked at me, dead serious. She was going to cut my hair, her leash, her pony mane, her grip to pull my face into position before she slapped me. Despite my complaints, I loved being required to keep my hair long, and I had just walked myself into deep trouble.
I quietly stammered that I had given the shears to C the night before and she made a noise and shook her head in annoyance, digging around in her desk drawer for a pair of scissors before loosing interest in the prospect and moving on to another subject.
I know my Owner. If she had found a pair of shears while the idea to punish me still interested her, I have no doubt my hair would have been cut.
Close fucking call. I highly doubt you will ever hear me complain about my hair again.
