Wednesday, October 15, 2014
public approval and motivation
I've started posting photos on FetLife of rope designs that I'm self tying - things I've learned or copied from others. Because otherwise I'd be having sex, or sleeping, or watching TV with my love. Maybe even reading a book next to her. But she's not here, so instead of doing my homework I tie myself up and seek public approval. Every "love" on a photo is a little hit of dopamine, every friend request from a stranger an awkward seal of approval and value. I like the feeling of being recognized, the motivation to try and improve and continue to learn more about rope. But it also feels...awkward. Like I'm doing it just for the attention. I worry that it's actually kind of hurting my relationship, making my GF jealous because suddenly I'm receiving a lot of public approval and interest from folks in a domain that she also would like to be recognized in. She doesn't put up photos so people don't really get to see that side of her, but I still worry. And still put up the photos. Because dopamine.
surrender
She pulls out the chair for me a little, indicating with a small nod
that she wants me to sit. As though we’re in a fancy restaurant and
she’s being chivalrous, these little moments of acting out gender roles
that make us both giggle.
I sit.
She kneels in front of me, strong hands warm on my skin as she touches my calf, my knee, my thigh. Slowly spreading my legs apart so that she can enjoy a little peek up my skirt – not gratuitous, just enough. I close my eyes as I feel her hands reach for me, hold my breath as I feel the cold metal touch my skin, let it out when I hear the lock click into place. My breath returns with a purring sigh as I open my eyes and smile back at her, acknowledging, happy, aroused. She nudges my thighs back together, then lifts one high heeled foot onto her thigh. Takes her time massaging my skin. Slowly unbuckles the fiddly little strap around my ankle. Delicately removes the sparkly stiletto and leaves a last caress on my now-bare foot before returning it to the chilly cement floor.
After both shoes have been ceremoniously removed, she rocks back on her heels and stands. Hands cross her torso as she reaches for her sweater and pulls it off over her head. Her grin widens as she comes out from under the hem and sees the look on my face, appreciation mixed with frustration. She knows it’s killing me to not be the one to undress her. And that’s why she does it, and that’s why I’m still sitting in the chair, not saying anything, just smiling back with only a little pleading in my eyes. Unbuttoning her shirt becomes playful, even more erotic for this lapse in serious tension, my butch strip tease. I don’t realize that I’m holding my breath until she takes off her sports bra and I feel myself exhale.
She reaches her hand down to me and helps me to stand in front of her. Examining, gaze palpable even when I look down at the ground. I feel a blush rising to my cheeks.
Then she undresses me. With confident appreciation, zippers slide and layers are peeled away as I’m unwrapped like a gift. A shirt with eye and hook front is slowly undone inch by inch. A tight skirt is peeled up overhead. Bra unhooked with seductive precision, her breath warm on the back of my neck. Underwear shimmied down, the gentle tug on my lock making us both smile. She brushes my hair behind my ears and pulls out each dangling earring post, tips my head forward to undo the clasp of my necklace.
That’s the moment I actually feel naked, hearing the silver chain shimmering into a puddle in the palm of her hand, the last protection stripped away.
When she pulls me into her arms, I bury my nose in the crook of her neck. Her skin is warm against my chest, smells deep and familiar as I kiss her collarbone and wrap my arms around her. Her fingers stroke that sensitive spot on the back of my neck that sometimes makes me shiver. Comfort. Grounding. Yes. We both take a deep breath in, let it out.
She will lead me to the cross, tie my hands, cover my eyes. She will flog and smack, punch and paddle, cane and bite. I will moan and yelp, giggle and struggle, growl and cry. We enjoy our roles, going places that push us and excite us and make us bring our darkness a little further out for the other to see.
She is my top.
I am her bottom.
But in that moment of watching her kneel at my feet, I do not feel like I am bottoming. I do not feel like I am being serviced.
In that moment of both power and vulnerability, I feel surrender.
I sit.
She kneels in front of me, strong hands warm on my skin as she touches my calf, my knee, my thigh. Slowly spreading my legs apart so that she can enjoy a little peek up my skirt – not gratuitous, just enough. I close my eyes as I feel her hands reach for me, hold my breath as I feel the cold metal touch my skin, let it out when I hear the lock click into place. My breath returns with a purring sigh as I open my eyes and smile back at her, acknowledging, happy, aroused. She nudges my thighs back together, then lifts one high heeled foot onto her thigh. Takes her time massaging my skin. Slowly unbuckles the fiddly little strap around my ankle. Delicately removes the sparkly stiletto and leaves a last caress on my now-bare foot before returning it to the chilly cement floor.
After both shoes have been ceremoniously removed, she rocks back on her heels and stands. Hands cross her torso as she reaches for her sweater and pulls it off over her head. Her grin widens as she comes out from under the hem and sees the look on my face, appreciation mixed with frustration. She knows it’s killing me to not be the one to undress her. And that’s why she does it, and that’s why I’m still sitting in the chair, not saying anything, just smiling back with only a little pleading in my eyes. Unbuttoning her shirt becomes playful, even more erotic for this lapse in serious tension, my butch strip tease. I don’t realize that I’m holding my breath until she takes off her sports bra and I feel myself exhale.
She reaches her hand down to me and helps me to stand in front of her. Examining, gaze palpable even when I look down at the ground. I feel a blush rising to my cheeks.
Then she undresses me. With confident appreciation, zippers slide and layers are peeled away as I’m unwrapped like a gift. A shirt with eye and hook front is slowly undone inch by inch. A tight skirt is peeled up overhead. Bra unhooked with seductive precision, her breath warm on the back of my neck. Underwear shimmied down, the gentle tug on my lock making us both smile. She brushes my hair behind my ears and pulls out each dangling earring post, tips my head forward to undo the clasp of my necklace.
That’s the moment I actually feel naked, hearing the silver chain shimmering into a puddle in the palm of her hand, the last protection stripped away.
When she pulls me into her arms, I bury my nose in the crook of her neck. Her skin is warm against my chest, smells deep and familiar as I kiss her collarbone and wrap my arms around her. Her fingers stroke that sensitive spot on the back of my neck that sometimes makes me shiver. Comfort. Grounding. Yes. We both take a deep breath in, let it out.
She will lead me to the cross, tie my hands, cover my eyes. She will flog and smack, punch and paddle, cane and bite. I will moan and yelp, giggle and struggle, growl and cry. We enjoy our roles, going places that push us and excite us and make us bring our darkness a little further out for the other to see.
She is my top.
I am her bottom.
But in that moment of watching her kneel at my feet, I do not feel like I am bottoming. I do not feel like I am being serviced.
In that moment of both power and vulnerability, I feel surrender.
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