Have I misunderstood degradation play?

I’m not normal. I tell you that right off the bat because it’s utterly true and I need to erase what you think is the typical response. I need explanations, not stereotypes.

Have I misunderstood degradation play?

Call me a worthless cunt. If I smile, it’s because I believe you don’t believe the words you say deep down. It’s become play for me. Call me all sorts of filthy things, a pig, a whore, a slut, a bitch in heat; get creative and call me something flirty and fun-flea shit, cunt cake, the list goes on. How many other vile words can you say that will make me hot?

As long as I am safe in believing that those words, those vile words are not how you deeply view me, I can happily play. I can see those vile words as terms of endearment. Those words will make me burn.

As long as those words are not used to beat me down, as long as those words don’t belong to the list of vile things I believe about myself, as long as those words are profoundly absurd, I can dive into the deep pool of depravity with you and smile as if you let loose enduring vowes of faithful love.

But I wonder, have I misunderstood degradation play?

I ‘need’ to feel.

When I was younger there were quite a few things I did that helped me calm down and helped me in those frustrating cycles of persistent arousal. I am once again in the middle of one of those cycles. Yet I don’t engage anymore in self-bondage as I scared myself quite badly. It isn’t safe behaviour and I like breathing for as long as I can. But I have picked back up something that helps during those moments.

In my younger days, I made my own ‘thingie’ out of rope and knots and used to beat it against my back. Sometimes rhythmically, sometimes painfully but a sense of calm always overtook me. Now, I’m using a cheap belt and it’s not going to last long. It’s already fraying and cracking. I don’t get the swing I used it get. The sensation isn’t the same either.

I’d love to lie to myself and say I don’t know why I’m doing it but that’s not true. I know I’m chasing ‘release’ and relief that I know it can give me if I swing it hard enough or long enough. I know I need a better belt. I suspect that it will do in a pinch but I think I might be seeking something else. Not sure what though.

I was one of those who got belted by their parents. Never on the back but buttocks and legs and those left raised welts that took a week to disappear. I was also one of those defiant enough that I learned how to ‘turn it off’ and ended up with no welts much to parental frustrations. I’ve never understood how this behaviour could produce a calm that now I’m seeking once again. I don’t get it.

For now, the ‘reward’ seams worth chasing. It’s causing me to reflect and redefine myself. I don’t see myself as a person who seeks out pain, at least not in a physical sort. Or maybe I’m returning to this because seeking out emotional pain has been too costly? I don’t know. I just want to feel something. Is that so bad?

The end of a Dream

All things come to an end, eventually. But for us, this dream we’ve had, I only say we ‘cause being a multiple-it’s really Isa’s dream, sense too young to know any better ends today. Today I put aside her dream of power exchange once and for all.

It’s my job to protect us. I take it serious enough that I don’t do this lightly. I no longer see any way to engage in any power exchange relationship of the kind Isa desires with any measure of safety. I don’t see any way for a part of us to stand as a slave to someone separate from the rest of us. For it is I who am held accountable to all the actions and promises any one of us makes and if I must use that veto power then I need to veto this ahead of time, for all time. As I am not willing to be a slave, as I am not willing to let go of limits, expectations of civility and respect, and the ability to say no, I am out.

I know it is possible for us as a system to be submissive, slave even. I have proof dating six years back of this but that man in all the ways that are important has moved on. Isa needed more than he was willing to give her and her choices were unfortunate. She broke trust and broke herself in the process. I am responsible for it all. The buck stops with me.

I don’t like the idea of cutting away this major part of Isa. But it is a dream deferred if not completely impossible. I don’t see how anyone will be able to scale the walls I’m building now.

Isa knew her Master would have to be extraordinary. That much hasn’t changed. Now the probability of that man existing has narrowed to a degree that makes this a fruitless prospect. You could consider this as me quiting. I think of it as re-pointing all of us to a different goal that we can single mindedly pursue. A Master is no longer our life goal.

Isa isn’t doing too good. I’m stuck out here without her. She’s quiet, too quiet. Right now it’s just a lot of self care, placing her back in places she’s always felt safe, turning tunes on that make her feel safe. This betrayal will take time to get over. It’s just not worth it.

All this upset, all this work and struggle and lessons gained just to face the final lesson, to learn to let go. So I’m forcing us to let go of a dream. I can’t let any of us hold on to the past. I need us to walk into the future happily and hopeful. The past is just gonna drag us down.

I have large dreams that don’t have a damn thing to do with sex or relationships. I will bury our noses into those. Hard work will keep the daemons of the past at bay, long enough for them to evaporate.

Odd thought to all of this, is that there is no way for anyone to master us until I master all of me. And when I do master me, what need I of a master then? For it has always been out of love that Isa knelt. She may love but never kneel until I can first. And that, sadly, my friends, will never happen.

Casting my eyes behind me

Old threads that pop back up tend to bring back a ton of memories. So, here I am perving on Fet and I run across an age-old question: can slaves have hard limits? What a cluster-fuck.

Basically, there are two camps; one says, of course, there are hard limits and the other goes well, I don’t impose any hard limits. Both sides go to verbal blows over this, cause frankly, one side is in denial or if they are telling the utter truth, they are super scary as fuck. If you can’t tell by now, I am in the camp of yes, I have hard fucking limits.

But I wasn’t always this way. Once upon a time, I was in that other camp. I didn’t want to impose limits on my Master. I had an inkling that there was something fairly tricky to all this slave business with limits and the removal of limits. And there is. There is a way, it is very possible to be that person who becomes a no limit slave. They do exist and yes, I find that scary as fuck.

I am a greedy person. I know this fact about myself. I want my cake and eat it too. Most of the time, I do. But in this, I don’t know. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to do that with this lifestyle. I thought it would be a piece of cake, pardon the pun, to find a Master who naturally had the same limits that I do. Yeah, um, I’m still striking out on this one.

And then I met Dreamwalker. I broke my head attempting to work my mind around being anything he wanted, that in being anything meant the elimination of all limits. It is far easier to love the whole world than to accept and take responsibility for being anything and everything. Oddly, both are deeply interconnected. You can only love what you understand and you can only understand that which you are….so yeah. Very mind tripy and extraordinarily painful.

I take words and promises very seriously now. I’ve learned how important that is, the hard way. Yet, I sit here chewing on obedience and what it means to a slave, to me. On one hand, there is a sense that a Master could or perhaps better said, should not order something they know cannot be obeyed. Yet, on the other hand, there is a daring that pushes against that, to hold obedience as the highest virtue, order and purpose. The only way for me to split the difference, so to speak, is to find the extraordinary.

I’m not even looking. I didn’t find it in the first place. But that’s a side tangent, back on track. Both camps are telling the truth from their own perspectives. It’s uncomfortable to look deep and explode this to its logical conclusions. It kinda ruins the magic when you look at how it’s all framed together. And I’m willing to bet, there are few slaves out there that were able to find their extraordinary. Or at the very least, their extraordinary hasn’t been put to the test, so the magic remains.

I want to say for me it’s impossible because of my issues with trust. But then why does impossible say I’m possible?

Yet, I know it is possible. I know all it takes is a fusing to two into one. That’s it. Fait accompli.

I just have no roadmap to this.

We don’t have words for the in-between.

The in-betweens is that place where you’re not quite in one state and not quite in another. It’s not the same as being on a journey from point A to point B. It’s more like being in a place where you can’t quite say you are at Point A or Point B but both are somewhere close by but where you are to them is still a bit unknown. That’s the in-betweens. It’s the place of the un-named things which renders them almost un-real as if there is a real power in the naming or the un-naming of things.

We just don’t have words for the not quite rape and not quite a violation. At least I don’t know of them. This is the world I’ve lived in for a very long time. I’ve been raped, a long time ago. And yet listening to all the talk about rape victims and rape apologetics and how rape occurs, I don’t relate. But then again, my situation is a little different and who I am is very different.

I was that groomed child, born to a Pedophile father and was raped as a child. I was raised in such a way I lacked the ability to say no. Yet everything I did was saying no in the most non-verbal way possible. I was planking before planking was a thing. Silent rivers flowed down the mountains of my cheeks. My gaze became focused on the dots of the ceiling to count them. This was not a one-time occurrence. This was my life.

I can point back to that and say yes I was raped. My trauma and my reaction are different. It’s not the same as a violent rape victim but it’s still trauma. For a long time, this was in the in-between because it wasn’t violent, that I wasn’t beaten black and blue, that I didn’t scream. My image of what rape is had to change for me to even admit, that yes, this was rape. But what about the other times I didn’t say no or more to the point, I didn’t say yes either? What about the other in-betweens?

I didn’t say yes to a threesome in my early 20’s. I know I was sober and I still don’t recall how I got undressed. I wasn’t interactive. I do remember being remarkably bored and merely waiting for him to finish. I wasn’t even aware that I might have been switching in and out back then. I do recall the feeling of being pressured but it wasn’t physical. Was it rape? Maybe, maybe not. I simply don’t know. This is that moment of in-between.

A different time, a different man, having sex with agreed up conditions, for him not to ejaculate inside me, and as predictable as it sounds to me now, he did exactly what he agreed not to do. For a long time, calling this failed expectations or a broken promise just didn’t fit. Now the newly coined term consent violation fits and explains the situation. For a long time, this was one of the in-betweens.

There was a moment where I was almost gang raped, non-consensual partner swapping that I hadn’t agreed upon and was sprung on me out of nowhere. This one is a bit of a tangle to talk about, so much packed into a few moments of time. I still leave it in the in-betweens because a gang rape didn’t happen. It almost happened but it didn’t.

I don’t know if I’m willing to go so far and say the in-betweens’ are traumas unspecified. Some are and some are not. Some have left deep scars and other’s just an eye roll. Maybe someone has better worlds out there, different ways to explain things. I don’t have a vocabulary for the downside of sex. There used to exist, only one term, rape. Now there are two, consent violation and rape. But there is still a whole lot of in-betweens out there, some traumatic and some not. I don’t have words for them.

Well, I never!

I have never faked an orgasm in my life. 

I get on Fetlife and read quite a bit and it turns out there are more than a few women who have routinely faked an orgasm. It never occurred to me to even fake one. Oh, I can tease like I’m having one but it’s not the same at all. It’s identical to porn star orgasms which makes me think those are all fakes. Because I sure as hell don’t sound like that!

I have never dressed up in a latex suit. 

I have to say the shiny is very attractive but I’d look like some sort of blobby sausage if I got up in a suit like that. I’ll stick to admiring the photos from afar.

I have never felt the bite of a whip on my skin.

Oh, I sound like a wimp! But I’m not counting all the snap fights I get into with my hubs at all. That sharp snap! Oww!! If he can land a good one, it makes a nice welt and makes me howl but, of course, I wiggle and run and snap back a few good ones of my own.

I have never sung karaoke.

Nope. Nope. And a whole bag full of nopes. Hard limit. I call RED. This is not happening. This is dig heels in territory. I’ve had more than a few friends try this on me with a few drinks in me and yeah, still not happening. Nothing sobers me up faster than saying “Let’s do karaoke!”

I have never gone to a local munch, now that I’ve moved to a different state. 

It’s taken me some time to settle into this place and I’m still feeling my way around here. It’s a bit of a different culture out here and it takes some getting used too. But I’m at a loss to dipping my toes into the local kink community. I’m not sure what I am anymore nor what I want out of kink anymore. A side-effect of too many questions and not enough time and I still have to set priorities. Who knows? Might go one day and say hello.

So, these are my five “Well, I never!” statements. All true and All odd and all just fun to have thought up. So what are your five statements?

I’m very, so very hungry…can you feed me? Pretty please?

Think back to all the plates of spaghetti you’ve eaten in your life. Remember the ones that were really filling and then the plates that were just ho-hum. Sex is just like eating spaghetti. It’s filling and tastes delicious and you want more of it.

Some chefs can only dish out the same for every person. Endless rounds of just pasta and sauce and leave you craving garlic and meatballs. Some chefs get fancy and sprinkle on the parmesan cheese and give a side of garlic bread. A few chefs will ask you how you like your spaghetti and sever up exactly what you asked for. And fewer still, will ask you to take a chance as they blindfold your eyes and feed you.

So, how do you like your spaghetti?