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Lock and Key

June 21st, 2014 by

This is not a post about chastity. (Sorry, chastity enthusiasts. Perhaps another time.)

Before I knew I was dominant, I still knew what I liked. I liked to be in control during sex. I liked collars. And I liked locks.

I make jewelry. I have been making it for very nearly my whole life; without a pair of pliers in them, my hands feel empty, and they itch for the tools with which they can create. And, of course, when I started dating, I would make jewelry for my my sweethearts–handmade chains that they would put on reverently, wear religiously, and rarely remove. (One of those things that, looking back on, makes you say fucking duh.)

In my early twenties, I was in a monogamous vanilla relationship. I became restless. Something was missing from my life. I wanted something, yearned for it, but wasn’t quite sure what. During that time, I developed a fascination with lock charms. I began to collect them. I could not get enough of them. Every time I bought one, I became dissatisfied with it, and would soon find another that I would have to have. And yet, I did not make anything with my lock charms, nor did I want to wear them myself. I just kept them.

Heart-shaped locks with filigree details, locks with the key attached, small locks, delicate locks, chunky locks. The prize of my collection was a sterling silver clasp that was cleverly shaped like a padlock. It didn’t actually lock, of course, but it worked like a padlock, and I thought, like one does when one is twenty, that it was the coolest thing I had ever seen, ever, oh my god, I have to have it. I attached it to a rubber cord and wore it around my neck, once. That felt odd–wrong, somehow. Uncomfortable. I took it off, put it in my jewelry box, and left it there for years.

And then I met Peroxide.

Peroxide and I both love the symbolic aspects of D/s, and from very soon after we started dating, I knew I wanted to make him something with that clasp.

Isn't he gorgeous?

My boy, my collar.

This collar is delicate–its lightness belies its impermanent nature. It was not meant to be a forever collar–training, consideration, what-have-you, I call it a preliminary collar. Still, it is, if I do say so myself, quite pretty. It still has the original rubber from when I first put it together, but now I’ve added onto it with a bit of silver chain, a ropelike weave of which I am particularly fond. I was worried it would be too feminine, but Peroxide, bless him, cherishes it and wears it almost constantly.

Peroxide and I recently discussed ownership. This means that it is time for a new project for my plier-itchy hands, a new collar, a symbol for “forever.”

Permanent collar

Gold and steel. Function and decoration. As strong as my love for him, as precious as he is to me.

We would like to use a real lock with which to close it. Unfortunately, as he discovered in his last relationship, he is sensitive to nickel, which makes most locks inutile. I have not yet figured out how to work around this problem, but I welcome suggestions. For now, the collar is one continuous chain, as unending and infinite as I hope our love will be.

As for my lock charms, they lay languishing in amongst my other beads. Their number remains steady, as my drive to collect them has vanished. I no longer feel as if something is missing; I’ve found someone who fits.

Image from http://www.sterlingsilvermall.com/

Image from http://www.sterlingsilvermall.com/

CCSS #2: Robin

April 8th, 2012 by

This is part of a series of Consent Culture Sex Stories: explicit posts describing real sex, including the communication around what happened, how we got what we wanted, things that didn’t go right and how we adapted. Their purpose is to make clear and enthusiastic consent more than an abstract idea discussed by sex nerds–to show how this actually works in real life, and that it’s hot. The first CCSS post is here.

 

I was at a play party with Robin, a casual partner, watching some friends of ours give another their first play piercing–more of a low-key demonstration than a serious scene. They were doing it in a small room, with only two places to sit: the medical chair that the bottom was using, and a low bench in the corner, built into a cage. Robin helped herself to the bench. I flicked my eyes from her, to the bars, to her again, and closed the cage door.

She looked at me with that head-down-eyes-up look that radiates submission. “If you’re going to close me in here,” she said, “you have to be the one to let me out. I don’t want to let myself out.”

My heart squeezed, as did other things. She wasn’t just telling me it was okay, she was showing me that it pushed her sub buttons in a way that fit my dom ones perfectly–hitting that delicious intersection of sweet and sexy. No one else in the room took any notice when I slid the latches on the cage door closed. I pulled a few binder rings out of my toybag and used them to fasten the door1; Robin watched, but said nothing. When I was done, I turned back to the demonstration. She followed suit, and for the duration of the needleplay scene I kept glancing over and seeing her there–my good girl–and smiling to myself. A few times I caught her glancing back, and she’d give me a shy smile before turning away.

When our friends were finished, some filtered out of the room while the rest started cleaning up. I leaned casually against the doorframe. Robin had stood when she saw the scene ending, but when I made no move to release her, she sat back down and waited patiently. When everyone else and finally left, I walked over to the cage door.

“Come here,” I said. She stood up again and took a small step forward, about all she had room for. I grabbed her by the belt, pulled her against the bars, and pressed my lips to hers. She melted into me and I held her there, kissing her with all the pent-up passion that had been waiting since I closed her in.

Unfortunately, the dungeon was about to close, so we didn’t have time to continue. I grudgingly opened the door, kissed her again, and led her upstairs. As we packed up to leave, I came across my collar in my bag and asked if she wanted to wear it.

“Now? But the party’s over.”

“Are you comfortable wearing it out to your car?” We had parked a few blocks away. The street was pretty quiet at this hour, and in San Francisco it was unlikely that anyone would bat an eyelash at someone in a leather collar and street clothes, but it was nevertheless her boundary to set.

She thought for a minute, and then nodded. I brushed her hair out of the way and fastened the collar around her neck. As we walked out, it was hard not to admire how good she looked in it–and when we got home, it was easy to pick up where we left off.

When she was naked but for the collar, I tied a bit of rope through it to make a quick leash. In tugging and playing with it, I experimentally wrapped the loose end a half-turn around the base of her cock and was immediately rewarded with a soft “Yesss.”

“Mm, I see,” I said, delighted, and pulled with a little more pressure. She moaned. I glanced around, confirmed that my EMT shears were handy, looped the rope around into an overhand knot, and very slowly tightened it.

“Tighter,” she encouraged, and I tightened it, keeping a finger on the tension and an eye on her skin under the rope, even while distracted by her happy moans and squirms. She kept asking for more, but because I wasn’t sure how far would be unsafe or how to tell, I stopped when she was only moderately constricted and doubled the knot so it would hold. I hope she wasn’t too disappointed when instead I gave the head of her cock one satisfied lick, put a condom on, and then climbed on top of her.

  1. The venue in question prohibits real locks on its equipment. “Not,” as it was explained to me, “because we don’t have bolt cutters here or are afraid to use them … but because we live in earthquake country.” If thinking that one through doesn’t make you shudder a little, you’re more callous than I am. []

Give Me the Lion

September 5th, 2011 by

What use have I for worms?
I am no gardener.
Where I could crush with the toe of my boot,
I’m reluctant to step.

For they are hard to see, down there,
competing to wriggle the lowest.
From the height of a human it’s hard to tell one from another.
So I wait,
and watch–kindly–so as not to interrupt
as they wriggle away in search of a thing that I’m not.

I do not need a worm.

Give me the lion.

Give me the lion with the orange mane,
the teeth, the sweeping tail,
quiet paws, and the unmistakable
curve of his spine.

No housecat he, declawed and docile,
content with long-dead food.
He tears his meat with me,
my lion.
‘Til I challenge him:
tossing scraps on the ground and watching his hackles rise.

We test one another.

If I do not stand over him–if I turn, and assume his obedience–
he may tear me to pieces
(and I will deserve it).
You must. Respect. The beast.

Therefore he tests
the still and wordless strength
in my gaze, and the tension I keep on the chain in my hand;
in return I test his will, and smile
when he finally lowers his head to obey me
and eats.

He wears my collar, but it doesn’t make him tame.
It just makes him mine.
Astride his ferocity I am ferocious:
marking his rippling hide,
or twisting a hand through the curls of his mane to hold him.
When I mount him, and ride,
I command the world.

So keep your worms, and give me the lion.
Give me the lion, a chair and whip,
and time,

and we shall roar.