Zille Defeu’s Fetish Fantasies

Archive for the ‘submissive thoughts’ Category

Apologies all, for coming back with a vengeance and then disappearing again. I was all set to put some real time and energy back into this blog … but then the novel I’ve been wanting to write finally started flowing, and I’ve been putting all my energy into that, because I would actually like to get the thing written and published in this lifetime. I can only do so much writing in a day (and so much non-immediately-paying-work, or things start to get a little uncomfortable in the wallet region), so for the next I don’t know how many months, I’m only going to be up here when I can steal a moment or two from the novel.

A funny thing I wanted to write about writing the novel is that I’ve been working on a sex scene these past two days, and it’s taking me way longer to write what is essentially a vanilla sex scene than it would to write a nice spanko piece of erotica. Not that I wouldn’t put a spanking scene in the novel, but it’s not the right place for it in that spot. Since it’s not a spanking scene, I’m trying to write a really good vanilla scene — one that authentically turns me on, but is not too filthy to sell to a normal publisher. (Although I have been noticing that novels now can have scenes as explicit as any porn — it’s just a matter of not having them be too kinky without at least a tenuous reason.)

So, it’s taking me waaaay longer to write this quite basic scene, then it would for me to write a much more intricate spanko one. Amusing.

Also amusing: Chross just recently posted a James Bond clip I’d forgotten all about, but which certainly turned me on when I was a teenage girl watching the all Bond flicks for the first time:

Of course, now I’m going to have, “Gold — fingah!” being sung in my head all day by Shirley Bassey. [sigh]

I see Chross one Bond film, and raise him a Star Trek spoof with equally delightful sexism:

The whole joy of being a post-feminist, I feel, is getting to eroticise being treated like a brainless “little lady,” a second-class citizen who is expected to stay at home and keep out of the men’s way, dear, we’ve got some real business to attend to. Why don’t you go make us some coffee, there’s a good girl!

There’s something so hot about that for me. That casual, “I can slap your bottom any time I like because I’m the superior man, and you are basically a pet who can do the cooking and wash up (if you don’t need someone with superior brains and/or strength to fix something first, that is, in which case I will shake my head and give you the help you need with noblesse oblige oozing out of my ever-so-superior pores).” I like that I can choose to live in (or visit!) that world. (Of course, it’s the fact that it’s a choice that makes it hot, so I thank my bra-burning fore-mothers for that.)

It reminds me that the other night Papa Otter and I were watching TV, and there was something on about a culture (or something — I’m blanking on it, now) where the women are inferior to the men. I turned to him and gave him a nudge and said, “Oh, like in Blushes or Janus! That’s your sort of world!”

“No,” he replied with the calm smile of someone about to smoothly deliver a punchline, “Not inferior … just different .. and subordinate!”

Phwoar! (A., What a sexy delivery — I’m so turned on by that sort of thing, and B., that relaxed and certain superiority is just what I was talking about above as being hot for me. Double whammy!) That sort of thing just makes me want to go off and have the kind of hot kinky sex where I am obviously there for his pleasure, because that’s what a wife is for, to serve and please her husband, right?!

Ooooh! I’m all hot and bothered, now. Maybe must go have a moment of, ahem, personal relief before I go back to writing my novel!

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It has been becoming more and more obvious to me that the man you know as “my Master” and I are really less Master-and-slave these days, and more two people in a discipline-based relationship.

When he and I started out, I was coming from the BDSM world, and those terms just made sense to me. Our working definition of Master-and-slave was rather different from the BDSM/leather community’s all-purpose norm, but we were fine with that – we made the roles our own.

However, it did impact how we related. Which is possibly a “Well, duh!” sort of thing, but we jumped into this relationship without extensive planning – he’d never had a slave before, I’d never had a truly dominant Master – and so we just named our desires and pursued them.

And it all worked very well for years.

But, change has crept up on us over that time (that wonderful time, in which we explored lots of fantasies, moved in together, travelled all over the globe, became photographic partners, shared books and films we loved, got married, etc.) and more and more those titles didn’t really fit us as well.
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The wonderful author Wilbur Smith often has references to spanking in his Egyptian Series — pretty much any time there is someone growing up in them they get threatened with a good thwacking as needed. Here are some examples:

“Get on with it, Taita. You are teasing me now. I order you to tell me this very minute or, or,” she groped for a threat to coerce me, “or I shall beat you again.”

“Answer me straight or I will whip your insolent backside, you little baggage.” I had done so before, so she relented and muttered sulkily…”

Tanus lifted the whip on high, and then brought it down in a full-armed stroke with all his weight behind it. He laid a purple welt as fat as my forefinger across Shufti’s back. So intense was the pain of it that the bandit’s entire body convulsed and the air hissed out of his lungs, so that he could not scream. Tanus lifted the lash and then meticulously laid another ridged welt exactly parallel to the first, almost but not quite touching it. This time Shufti filled his lungs and let out a hoarse bellow, like a buffalo bull caught in a pitfall. Tanus ignored his struggles and outraged roars and worked on assiduously, laying on the strokes as though he were weaving a carpet.
When at last he was done, his victims legs, buttocks and back were latticed with the fiery weals. Not one of the blows had overlaid another. The skin was intact and not a drop of blood had spilled out, but Shufti was not longer wriggling or screaming. He lay with his face in the dirt….

These are just a few from River God: A Novel of Ancient Egypt. There are lots more examples in this and the other books in his Egyptian Series.

I was wandering around Wilbur Smith’s website today, and I found the influence for some of those references:

My old man was a Victorian father and ran a tight ship. He would not hesitate to pull his belt out of the loops of his trousers and give me taste of the buckle end. That was perfectly all right with me. I usually deserved it, and a few shots across my skinny little buttocks was small price to pay for being close to him. To me he was God on earth, and I worshipped him.

For me, that paternal-focused adoration is beautiful — and hot! (Although I myself shudder at the thought of “the buckle end” of a belt – but then, I’m a wimpy American girl who didn’t grow up playing in the African bush, so perhaps more extreme measures were required for young Wilbur?)

This also again underscores a point I’ve brought up often in this blog: that it’s the parental figure/dominant who disciplines who gets the worshipful love of the girl/boy/submissive. As Wilbur says, “To me he was God on earth, and I worshipped him.” That’s how I feel about my Master, so I understand it completely. And notice that he brings up his adulation of his father in context of discipline? My point is so proved!

Amusingly, he brings up something else I recently discussed (albeit on The Punishment Book blog):

My father felt that my obsession with books was unnatural and unhealthy. I was forced to become a secret reader. I spent so much time in the outhouse long-drop latrine, where I kept a cache of my favourite books, that my father ordered my mother to administer regular and copious doses of castor oil.

More CP comes in when he was off at boarding school:

Then I received my first caning; three strokes across the backside with a light cane for the heinous crime of talking after ‘lights out’ in the dormitory. My father would never have been so unjust.

Later:

I moved on to senior school, Michaelhouse; AKA St Michael’s academy for young gentlemen. This was a manifest misnomer as there was not a single gentleman amongst us. Here it was very much the same thing all over again, except much worse. The food was awful and the beatings heavier and more frequent.

However, all you school uniform aficionados will be saddened that he wasn’t much impressed with girls in school uniforms:

After four years of durance and misery …. Paradise opened before me, for here there were girls who did not wear gym slips and walk to church in crocodile formation.

This post connects so many things for me. I am re-reading all of these books of course, because of the whole Crook and Flail thing. It also makes me think of the post I did on The Happy Valley caning scenes. But most importantly, this post from 2007, wherein I discuss the basis for our Master/slave relationship, and my growth as a submissive. Re-reading that post was really fascinating to me — in so many ways I’m disappointed that I’ve not grown more as a person since then, but I am quietly satisfied that I have continued learning how to trust and let go — how to be less immediate in needing to have things go my way, more able to accept things being out of my control — all the things that not only make a better submissive, but in general a happier, more contented person!

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I’ve been living in the Victorian era in books recently (not an unusual thing for me!) and today it led to a few musings.

It all started when I got this sudden urge to re-read The Secret Garden. (Which actually, was all because we’d watched The Chatterley Affair the other night, and I had an urge to read “a bit o’ th’ proper Yorkshire” dialect — I do so adore the Northern accents!)

My Master gave me a stack of books about Victorian times last Christmas, and they’ve been sitting in lovely heap ever since, waiting for “the right time.” Well, the right time seems to have come! I started out with What Jane Austen Ate and Charles Dickens Knew: From Fox Hunting to Whist-The Facts of Daily Life in Nineteenth-Century England, which I’d been looking forward to reading for a long time. As I go along in it, of course, I can’t help but find things which fire my (kinky) imagination.

‘Once a woman has accepted an offer of marriage,’ advised The What-Not, or Ladies Handbook in 1859, ‘all she has or expects to have become virtually the property of the man she has accepted as husband and no gift or deed executed by her is held to be valid…’

This is silly, but it makes me feel all gooey and romantic. I like to think that now that I’ve married my Master (and this is pretty obvious, considering that I call him Master), that I have become “virtually the property” of him. That, like a Victorian woman, I must answer to my husband in all things, and that in the eyes of the law I am pretty much just one of his possessions. That thought makes me feel so comfortable and happy. Continuing in that theme…

When the husband and wife exchanged vows, they became one person, and, in the words of jurist William Blackstone, ‘the husband was that person.’ The wife, as noted earlier, upon marriage lost virtually all powers over any property that she possessed. All her personal property automatically became her husband’s property to do with as he saw fit…. He could “correct” her if he wished, too, a right which was supposed to mean only verbal chastisement, but in practice often meant physical punishment.

Whee! All of the above for me, please!

And, from the section discussing men’s clothing,

And the cane, of course. No gentleman was ever without one

Absolutely! I’m sure you all agree with that. How can you properly chastise your wife without one?!

I’m going to wander off and daydream about living in a Victorian world….

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Well,
to continue with the caning … I was still quaking in my spandex after the last series of Six-O-The-Bests, but the final twelve were yet to come. This was back to the Senior cane, which would have seemed like a walk in the park after the last cane (the bamboo root one!), but there was not much real estate left on my bottom that wasn’t hot and weal-ed. So the cane strokes either came down on the already well-battered skin on my bottom, or on my thighs, which were not very marked, but which always hurt so much more!

By the end of that I was squealing and blindly trying to swim away through the air. It always amazes me that his fingers resting ever-so-lightly on my back keep me firmly in place no matter what the level of pain.

Then – my reward! Yes, if you’re thinking, “Alright, this is Zille, so she means ‘anal sex’,” you’d be right! I’ve been begging him for cruel anal sex: just using me for his own pleasure, whilst I whimper in pain (or at least varying levels of discomfort!) and I think it’s been hard for him to entirely be sanguine with it. When he fucks me, he wants me to go soaring into pleasure with him – and, mind you, I appreciate the sentiment! It is the irony of the universe that so many guys are careless lovers who “just take,” and I fantasize about that, while having a caring and involved lover, to whom my pleasure matters deeply.

Of course, if he wasn’t that person, I couldn’t trust him with the sort of play we do. How deeply ironical that it’s only because I know he is not truly like that, that I can long for him to be, and beg him to pretend to be!

But, because he does care about my satisfaction, he betook himself to use me roughly and get as much pleasure from it as possible. I know, some of you are thinking, “Oh, poor guy gets the world’s smallest violin from me!” but the fact of the matter is that when he’s fucking me and I’m screaming in pleasure, he can just let go and enjoy it 100%. When he is forcing his cock into my ass and I’m whimpering in pain, he has to pay attention to what he is doing, so he doesn’t injure me – and that is a distraction, he cannot let go 100%. (Of course, being me, I think a solution for this is that he practice a whole lot, and then it can become second nature and he won’t have to think about it anymore!)

Anyway, it was a period of wonderfulness. As he pushed into me, some inner masochist part of me sighed, “Oh, now this is pain I can really get into!” I revelled in the pain like a pig in mud, begging him sotto voce, “Please … use me … please … enjoy this fully … please … hurt me….”
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