Zille Defeu’s Fetish Fantasies

Life being what it is, the minute my Master and got back to the place where we could have full-on hot scenes, life got too busy to play, or even to do blog entries! (Which is my way of apologizing for being MIA all last week….)

However, I am now sitting (uncomfortably) in the warm (stinging) glow of a post-playtime afternoon, with lots of stuff to tell you all, and at least a bit of time to do it. (If I haven’t done an hour of yoga by the time my Master returns home, well, I really don’t want to contemplate what the Evil Paddle would feel like on my bottom at this juncture – I may be a masochist, but I’m not stupid!)

Today was all about the cane. Sadly, I was not in the headspace that I’d been in all week, when my every thought (when it wasn’t about work, which was sadly all too often) was about how lovely it would be to be bent over the bed with the cane whistling down repeatedly upon my bottom….

Today, of course, I just couldn’t be eager and rarin’ to go. No. I had to be very low-energy and somewhat depressed and really more in the, “How ‘bout a nice snuggle?” sort of place. And it didn’t help that, after the post-breakfast’s fiddling-around-on-the-computers time, we had one of those stupid couple miscommunications. I sat back, realized the day was progressing more rapidly than I realized, and asked him, “So, what does our time schedule for today look like?”

He seems to have heard that as, “Can we play now, huh huh?!” when what I meant was, “Should I go have a bath and shave now because you might want to play later, or is there no time for that today?” He responded to what he heard by gesturing at something on which he was working on the computer, and said, “We’ll talk about that later.” But since what thought I had communicated was, “Shall we plan things out so that we can setting up play at an optimal time for you?” I felt really brushed off and like he couldn’t even bother to plan out the day with me, so I stomped off to my room, pouting and hurting. (I hadn’t been being disingenuous, by the way, but was trying to bring the topic up in such a way that if he needed to say, “No play today, sorry,” it was simpler and less emotionally fraught for him.)

About an hour or so later, he called out to me, “Girl, come here.” (I think he knew he’d somehow hurt my feelings, if not exactly the whys and wherefores of it, and this was sort of a dual-purpose thing where he both let me know that those hurt feelings could be put aside, because play-time was upon us, and he was at the same time saying I’d better put the hurt feelings aside, because he was ready to dominate me. (As it is hard to hold onto your sullen emotional pouting and be submissive at the same time!)

I worked hard at just letting go of the remaining pain from the miscommunication, but, as it was, I still wasn’t in a great space. And he was being very sweet and tender with me, which was probably the right thing, the best way to express that he had understood my hurt feelings and was ready to move on from them with me … but it is also something I find very confusing and hard to process. In my fantasies, CP or other ouchie things are seldom preceded by loving gentleness. It’s much more the rough and violent or cold and distant sort of thing. I do have the occasional fantasy about a “Daddy is sad he has to punish his little girl, but he has to do it for her own good” OTK spanking, although even then that tends to lead to Daddy making his girl suffer the discomfort and humiliation of anal penetration, also “for her own good” (there is something quite sexy about quiet forcefulness and gentle but relentless domination, a feeling that despite – or even more because of – understanding and compassion, your fate is inexorable.)

However, that occasional fantasy didn’t help me much at the time. If it had been something he wanted to role-play, that would have helped set it up for me … but he didn’t want to play at being other people, in other circumstances: just him and me, with me accepting pain and discipline from him.

He ordered me to put on spandex shorts, and then left the choice in my hands (always a mixed blessing at best, because if I then get it wrong, he is disappointed and I am upset!) and after some thought, I went with white short-shorts and, since he hadn’t said anything about a top, I added a sheer white spandex top (which entirely shows my nipples, but keeps my breasts nicely held in place.) Happily, I chose rightly. (And if you don’t think that learning to know what your dominant partner wants has a good deal in common with Jedi training, well, you’d be quite wrong!)

So, there we are: he’s naked and being sweet, I’m dressed in white spandex and feeling this emotional roller-coaster as I try and haul my emotions into a place where they can handle a caning. (I would like to point out that a couple years ago this would have just been a failed scene, not the success I’m about to detail. Because we’ve learned so much about each other, and come to trust each other so much.)

I managed to ask him for help getting into headspace (for some reason, it’s never easy to ask for that) and he was wonderful: he started speaking in his low, calm yet powerful voice, saying that this was not a punishment (while nothing is written in the punishment book, I have a feeling there is a punishment on the way) but a reconnection; that the cane brings us together, put us in our rightful places, builds up the essential connection that is between us.

The he grabbed my hair and had me blow him. Because, you know, actions speak louder than words and all!

He told me to stand up and put my hands behind my head. He directed me to a wall, and had me hold my hands high up on it, and then took what would be the lightest cane of the afternoon to my bottom. In that position he was able to pinch my nipples as he caned me. I felt overwhelmed by the pain and started crying after six, but he later, as we cuddled, told me he felt my nipples getting hard as he caned me. Us masochists are strange, strange people, I tell you!

Then it was “bend over the side of the bed” time, and our special Senior cane came into play. Oh, was I not ready for that! And certainly not for twelve of the best!

Happily, at the end of that, when he leaned over me, pressing his erection into my burning bottom, he knew that my uncontrolled crying did not mean he should stop. I didn’t want him to stop – I would have been horribly disappointed if he did, but I was having a hell of a time A.) becoming coherent again, and B.) convincing my mouth that it did actually want to say, “Please don’t stop.” Thankfully, I didn’t have to do either!

It’s such a strange place you get to, in those moments. It hurts like hell, and every rational part of you is like, “Okay, well, that’s all, hells, that more than we needed, please stop now, ’k’thanks!” And yet deep inside you, there’s some part of you that knows what you need, and is desperately counting on the other person to understand that the part of you they need to pay attention to is the non-vocal (and not evenly entirely conscious!) part of yourself. The feeling of, “Oh, fuck, here comes more pain and I so don’t feel ready!” is so very much less upsetting than, “Oh, fuck, he misread my bawling as a need to stop, and I simply can’t manage to ask him for what I need!”

Well, he was entirely in tune with the inner voice today! Because then came a very heavy cane that had me screeching and kicking. Then, there was a blow-job intermission, where he had me lie across the bed on my tummy, blowing the cock which was right at the perfect height as he stood by the bed. This was a lovely new thing for both of us, because he could grab a fistful of hair and pump his cock in and out of my mouth, while I could hold my teeth out of the way, relax my throat as best as possible, and take him quite deeply. And it wasn’t just good for me; he could really get a good rhythm, and he could see down along my body, where the red weals showed up under my tight white shorts, and down the backs of my thighs….

After that, we got back to “our programme already in progress,” and he took out another terribly heavy cane that simply astounded me with the pain it could produce. There were one or two strokes, where after the cane rebounded off me I just said, “Oh, GOD!” in a stricken voice, and shook all over while my mind and body tried to deal with the pain. (And the funny thing is that the strokes where I screeched like a banshee and kicked up my heels were the less painful ones!)

Actually, another funny thing is that, where I am now in my sexuality/masochism, I’d rather have the “Oh god”s of incandescent pain than the “Oh god”s of luminescent pleasure. The latter seem so inferior, almost so unrefined, to me right now. I mean, hell, I can give myself a wonderful orgasm, no biggie. But only a very few people, whom I can trust to take me to that level, can give me that pain-based intensity.

Ooof! Goodness, I need to go do yoga, so I don’t get taken to a whole ‘nother level of “pain-based intensity!” Tomorrow is San Francisco Pride Sunday, so I’ll be out helping with the parade all day, and then on Monday Miss Maggie Mayhem and I are spending the day recovering at the baths together, but I promise Part Two (with pictures!) of this on Tuesday – write to my Master and complain if I don’t deliver!

Oh, and Happy Pride Everyone!

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