Scenes

I was having a conversation with a friend of mine at a party tonight. I made some comment about how I’ve gone completely vanilla. There is a distinct lack of kink in my life right now and while I’m not entirely okay with it, it is what it is and I’m making the best of it. I was at a kinky party with my kinky friends and I ended up getting to do a kinky scene. But the conversation revolved around what it was that I thought was kinky and what I thought was vanilla. I had to relate another conversation I’ve had in my past in order to help illuminate this.

Most of the time, if I’m going to have any kind of sex with someone, they’re going to be in a hood.

Most of the time, if I’m in bed with someone, they’re cuffed to the bed.

Most of the time, I’m fantasizing about fucking them in the ass with a strap-on.

These things became so commonplace in my sex life that I think of them as “vanilla”. I don’t think twice to using someone’s body however I desire it. Roll them over, climb on top, rub myself to orgasm. I don’t think anything of putting them in a hood and playing with their body. I don’t think anything of scenting them. I think nothing of using their face to get off. Even better if there’s some kind of power exchange. Locking someone’s cuffs on them, putting the leash running from their collar around the bedpost, that’s all akin to tucking a person in, pulling the covers up to their chin, and kissing their forehead.

I was reassured that if I picked up someone from a bar and took them home and tried any of these things on them, I would freak them the fuck out. I’m so kinky, I shouldn’t even be allowed to have the word “vanilla” in my vocabulary. I need to replace it with strawberry, was what I was told.

So if all of that stuff is normal to me, what is it that’s kinky to me?

I paused for a moment and then I realized that what makes something ‘kinky’ to me is scenes. Elaborate scenes. Scenes in which I have to work at putting something together, where I’m aiming to take someone from cold to hot, to vary things between, to push some limits and seek out reactions from them that maybe I haven’t seen before. The wrappings that I’ve done were kinky because they took plotting and time. The night I had someone in a cage was kinky to me. Usually, what I find kinky, are the things that don’t end in any kind of sex.

I haven’t done a lot of scening lately. I haven’t been able to really put anything together. I used to daydream about scenes all the time, when I knew I would be able to do them with someone, that they would enjoy them.

For one, it was a scene where he was dressed up in white lingerie, bent over the couch, small tea lights placed against his back, and I fucked him in the ass with a strap-on. The harder I fucked, the more white wax would splash against his skin.

Another scene involved the idea of locking someone in a crate, giving them a cup and a blanket and a stuffed animal, and having them watch children’s shows. It may or may not end in me pulling them out, luring them into safety, and then taking advantage of them sexually.

Yet another scene that I had dreamed of once upon a time was one in which a boy of mine would offer himself up as a martyr, someone that would suffer for me, someone that disliked pain but loved me so much that he would bear it for me. It would start with something sensual, warming him up, but by the end the pleasure was all mine. Floggers, cutting, canes. Sometimes he would bear it with a kind of stoicism. Sometimes he would cry out softly. Sometimes he would just fight his restraints. I would ask him, ‘Can you take more?’ and he would remind me that he was my property, that he would take all that I desired to give him. I would walk a fine line between care and protection and lust and carelessness. Keeping on the safe side of that line, controlling myself while making him think that I would push him all the way, is the edge that I sought out the most.

Sometimes, I find myself in a position where my partner has a certain fetish or kink or desire that they would really like to explore that I don’t necessarily enjoy. I had it happen once with hoods. While I thought I loved the idea of them, I didn’t much care for his hood. I detested it. I didn’t like the way it looked, I didn’t like the way it fit on him. I was pretty sure we were never going to play with it. But since I knew what it meant to him, I slipped it on one night and I watched him drop away and then I was in love with it. Now I’d have him in a hood every time I saw him if I could. Let him drop, swim around in that mindset, walk him on a leash, have him float.

Other times it’s harder. There’s an act they love that I’m unfamiliar with or that I can’t seem to find pleasure in. In those instance, I end up in bed. I have to masturbate to find what of it I’m going to find pleasurable. I think about the person I want to play with, the scene they’re seeking. I subtract some detail. I add some of my own. I run through scenarios. I look for my triggers: control, force, edge, suffering. I flip through images quickly while I have a vibrator pressed against me. When something begins to build, I explore it in my fantasy further. Eventually, I string enough ideas together to form an orgasm and I’m pretty sure that I can work something out.

In these cases, I write scenes with my vibrator.

There is a lot of pleasure that comes from scenes. I like having a very formal time frame. I like having a clear beginning and a clear end. I like exploring more than just sex. I like having that dash of psychological play. I like pushing someone in a scene. This time I’m going to hit you this hard for this long. Next time, same level of intensity but longer. The rest of life is just about enjoying one another, having fun around one another. The scene is when we do the hard work.

My truest passion is control though. I enjoy my scenes where I get to spank and paddle, where I get to flog and cane, where I get to demand and be served. Control is really what I seek though and I want to have to take it. I fantasize about driving him to his knees, begging, humiliation. I get off on the idea of him begging to be controlled, because it seems so out there. I dream of breaking him in a way that he needs it, as much as I do. In the end, it’s something we both want, and in the end, no matter if it’s freely given or if it’s stolen from him, we both understand that there is an intimacy to be shared there. The actual scene is elaborate and hot and detailed in my head, but for here this is enough.

I want to write more scenes, with my vibrator and with my pen. I want to act out some of my more elaborate scenes, do the planning and find someone willing to play it out with me. I want my conquest, my psychological play that no one else can replicate for me. But mostly, I never want to be so vanilla that vanilla is returned to my vocabulary as a way to describe me. Vanilla should only be used for ordering ice cream. Kinky is what I am.

Nice

I’ve been told that I’m too nice. Sometimes I am. Sometimes I wish I could just be outright mean. Sometimes I wish I could justify saying the things that are running through my mind. Sometimes I wish I could be the very demanding Mistress, the one that someone might be afraid of upsetting, someone that another would remember forever. I’m not one of those. I’m understanding. I try to see things from other people’s point of view. I justify why something I’ve asked for hasn’t occured. I consider it living in reality.

The longer I go without my needs being fulfilled, the more ‘nice’ seems to slip away. It’s a very gradual sort of thing though. For the last three weeks, I haven’t had a slave. I haven’t had a submissive. I haven’t even had a pet. At best I’ve had a friend and at worst I’ve just had someone that I exchange a few lines of text with every now and again. Things are looking up now so I almost feel bad writing this, but it’s nagging at my brain, this idea of nice.

I don’t know what it is that keeps me from simply demanding the things that I want. Am I afraid that I’ll push him too far and that he won’t want to play with me anymore? Am I afraid that somewhere along the line he’ll realize I’m not ____ (fill in the blank with whatever) and decide he needs someone that’ll actually challenge him? It’s all rubbish really. I’m not terribly afraid of any of that. I just can’t seem to bring myself to treat him the way he ought to be treated. He says he wants to be more than just a pet — that he wants to be a slave. I see all the potential in the world in him but then sometimes, just sometimes, I don’t see where he could consider himself a slave. Sometimes I wonder if he knows what it is to always live for someone else, to always put someone else’s wants and needs in front of his, to actually anticipate them and deliver them, and to do it with a smile.

I don’t know if service is what motivates him or not. That’s what I think of when I think of a slave though, even though I know for the most part slaves aren’t service-oriented.

Back to nice.

When I feel like these D/s feelings and needs aren’t being met, I can very slowly see the changes in me. They start with being aroused more often than not. This was something I lived with for years though, these desires without outlets, so it’s easy to ignore. After that, the need to masturbate arises. I haven’t had to rely on self-pleasure in months and months because I can abstain for a week at a time and then unleash it all on him when we’re together. After that though, I notice it mostly in my fantasies. Sometimes I snap at him, telling him that something is not okay when typically I’d be very understanding of it. Sometimes it’s in the form of doing a better job of upholding my own rules. For example, when he hasn’t shaved. Sometimes I just excuse it, or allow him to excuse it. In my fantasies though, I can blatantly tell him that if he can’t find the time to shave, to look just the way I want him to, that he can wear clothes, because then at least I’ll be looking at something presentable.

From there it’s a windy road down from snarky to humiliation to near degradation. From there, it’s fantasizing about what I want to do to him. Usually it starts with hitting him. It starts with marking his body. After that, it’s slapping his face. Telling him that he needs to live up to everything that I’ve ever wanted because I want him but I don’t want to settle for subpar service. After that, he’s hooded. That way I can’t see his expressions. I love him, so sometimes hurting him is difficult. Sometimes watching him in agony doesn’t push my buttons. Sometimes it’s just because I’m not hitting him as hard as I want to.

In my fantasies, I don’t worry about hurting him like I do in real life. I know what I’m doing in my fantasies. I don’t have him worrying about whether I know what I’m doing or not. I can hurt him and push him and make him cry. From behind his hood I can hear him crying. It’s soft and sweet at first. Sometimes he’s telling me that he’s sorry, but there’s no real reason for him to be sorry. I just like the way it sounds when I’m hurting him. Then as I’m hurting him more he’s sobbing. I can hear the snot and I can hear him gasping for air and choking on his sobs and just letting it all out. I’m scratching him. I’m kicking him. I’m telling him that he’s useless really. That the only thing he’ll ever amount to is a fuck toy. And then I use him. I slap him in the face and I climb on top of him and I use his cock until I’ve come. I tell him he can’t and he knows it. He doesn’t try. Maybe he gets close, I don’t know. I don’t think so though, because this is so far removed from what usually turns him on.

I take the hood off of him and I make him clean his face in the carpet. Then I have him clean me up. I don’t want him to enjoy it though. I just want to be clean and dry. I rub myself all over his face, getting my juices in his beard, and then I put the hood back on him and make him wear it until his face is dry. I send him over to the corner. I let him wallow in all of that. I don’t reassure him. I don’t tell him he’s good. I let him think he’s awful and that he’ll never be good enough and some part of me deep inside really relishes his agony. His tears. His pain. And part of me wants to hold him. I don’t want to coddle him though. I just want him to be closer as I keep pushing his buttons, keep tearing him apart. I want to break him down entirely.

Sometimes he’ll say that I’m the center of his universe, but in my dreams and fantasies I can break him down enough and build him back up around me so much that I truly feel I am.

None of this is realistic. None of this is psychologically sound. All of it is hot to me on some level or another.