By Kinkabella
Archived Here With Her Kind Permission

Monday, July 18, 2005

(Original diary date - September 2004)

'Alea iacta est' (The die is cast) - Julius Caesar, crossing the Rubicon.

In the five or so years I've been involved in the BDSM scene, I've seen many submissives become the collared slaves of their partners. One of the very first scene social functions I attended was in fact a collaring ceremony. It was for all intents and purposes, a marriage, and that couple remain together to this day. Not that I'm surprised they're still together. My husband and I talked a lot about their relationship at the time and even briefly toyed with the idea of renewing our marriage vows in a collaring ceremony of our own. But it never amounted to anything more than another game for us. We played at being a D/s couple for a time, but nobody took us seriously -- least of all, me.

My husband is the dominant one in our relationship. There's no doubt about that. It's simply that his style of domination has always had a humorous edge to it. This is not to say he hasn't quietly, over the years, loosened my inhibitions and allowed me to discover who I really am.

When my husband and I met, those inhibitions were deeply ingrained in me. There are a few inhibitions I can't seem to shake, some of which many people would consider strange. Kissing, for example. It's difficult to explain to people who weren't brought up like me why I should have such an aversion to an activity which is so much taken for granted as something everybody does. A "natural" expression of love or passion for most, but "only something common people do" according to my strict parents who instilled in me this weird, snobbish concept.

This aversion to kissing has probably subconsciously been one of the factors in my eschewing lesbian intimacy. In fact, my kissing aversion is something that has even led to ridicule from men and women alike. What can I say? I don't feel it's my fault I am this way. It's simply a peculiar little facet of my nature no different, I guess, than somebody who doesn't like being spanked or who thinks the taste of cabbage is repugnant.

My kissing aversion has never been a real issue with the men I've known because they usually were only after sex anyway. My not wanting to get all wrapped up in the kissing thing meant they always got what they wanted more quickly. But I've always feared what would happen if I got intimate with another woman. The prospect of crossing that kissing bridge always filled me with fear. In fact, lesbian sex has for me been thought of as very oral and as such an activity that didn't hold any allure for me.

One of my first public BDSM play sessions was with a woman. I remember being terrified at the time. I also recall my fear wasn't simply about what sexual things she might do to me, but how I might react. What if I was to discover she could arouse me sexually? What then? Ultimately, I discovered it was my inner struggle to resist these emotions and the thoughts of possible humiliation as a consequence that aroused me the most. After that, it didn't matter who dominated me -- man or woman. My own sexual gratification came from within. If this was a dance of seven veils, the first veil had just been peeled away.

As mentioned in my previous journal entry, yesterday was my eighteenth wedding anniversary and, just as significantly, the crossing of my own personal Rubicon.

I have had many dreams and fantasies over the years about how I might come to be a real collared slave of a stranger. In my dreams, there was one scenario that recurred frequently. It begins at the BDSM club where my husband and I are members. Periodically, the club holds charity slave auctions and I have been in these a number of times. My husband invariably would bid the highest for me or, sometimes, organize a group of others to bid on his behalf. Those auctions were always a lot of fun and any play that ensued always remained within the club and the bounds of its rules. But in my dreams, I would imagine my husband being outbid by an anonymous stranger.

The dream always stirred me deep inside. It was always so clear and vivid that it filled me with a sense of dread. In these dreams I'd often see the image of my husband's face looking helplessly up at me standing in shackles on the stage -- my own expression a mirror of his panic and inability to change my fate. It would be the last thing I would see before being escorted from the club by my new owner. I've never been able to put a face to that stranger of my dreams, until now.

Ms. X's (not her real name) collaring of me yesterday reminded me of that dream. The only word I can think of to describe my collaring to her is happenstance, just as it was happenstance that my husband and I met and married. He saw me -- we married. Ms. X (not her real name) saw me -- she collared me. It's a lot like in my dream too -- that feeling of a sudden and unexpected change in direction of my destiny. However, unlike in my dream where that feeling of utter helplessness and desperation to see into the future has played like an endless loop in my mind, I now find myself in that future. Like Caesar now standing in Italy after having crossed the Rubicon. No turning back.

It wasn't a fanfare of trumpets that heralded my crossing. Instead it was the somewhat more subdued sounds of Eric Satie's Trois Gymnopaedie. It's the music that was playing on the stereo here when Ms. X (not her real name) gave me my first lesson in serving her. My favorite tune until now -- the tune that I associate with my fondest memories of sexual awakening -- used to be Maria Muldaur's Midnight At The Oasis. I feel Satie's piece has now displaced this.

Ms. X (not her real name) had told me some days prior that her preference would be for me to conduct all my affairs with her and in her online library in the nude. Family commitments and distractions mean that's not possible more often than not, however it was possible yesterday when I met Ms. X (not her real name) in chat.

I've always found it a singularly pleasurable experience to chat online in the nude, although in the past rare is the time that I would bother to undress for men I've chatted with. It never seemed worth it because their "cybering" never amounted to anything more than me having to listen to them tell me all the things I was apparently thinking. Clueless doesn't begin to describe some of them, but I digress.

It felt so right being nude for Ms. X (not her real name). The first thing she had me do was find a collar. I have many of these, ranging from velvet choker types that I can wear out without attracting any attention to a serious looking silver metal slave collar. [Aside: It should be noted that I would not have been able to choose this one even if it was what she wanted. It is secured with a small brass padlock that I don't know the combination for.] The collar chosen by Ms. X (not her real name) is an attractive black leather one with rounded silver metal studs.

Once collared, and after I completed my Slave-Register form, Ms. X (not her real name) had me fetch a butt plug, lube and Tiger Balm. Alas, there wasn't any Tiger Balm in the house and eventually it was decided sweet chili sauce would substitute. I'm not so naive I don't know the effect of Tiger Balm or chili sauce on sensitive areas of my anatomy, but I did as I was told and mixed up a small concoction of lube and sauce. It was more lube than sauce, but I wanted to obey despite my reservations about having my anus burned too severely.

I'm relatively new to the sensations of butt plugs and anal domination generally. But since discovering it, I find the ritual of preparing the plug and my anus with lube to be perversely arousing. It's the greasiness -- the feeling of being unclean right before the sensitive muscles of my anus are gently speared with the plug. The plug I used is not much bigger than a lipstick, but it's large enough for me to be acutely aware of its invasion between my cheeks, especially when sitting on it. It is at once a revolting feeling that irritates my anus while it teases every nerve ending in my body with sparks of dark, illicit pleasure. It is the one part of a person's body that society's moral conventions deem as inappropriate for the pursuit of pleasure -- the place only the most depraved person would use to find sexual gratification. And here was me, miss modesty and propriety herself, with her ass planted firmly on the butt plug and eagerly awaiting further instructions from Ms. X (not her real name).

The next thing Ms. X (not her real name) told me to find was a marker pen. If I'd been feeling at all freakish sitting on the plug, those feeling were amplified tenfold when I was forced to walk around the house searching for the pens. Every step taken caused my butt cheeks to wobble, and they in turn rubbed around the base of the plug to remind me it was there. I had no idea what Ms. X (not her real name) wanted me to do with the pen and I found two of them -- one red and the other black. Her order that I insert them in my pussy caught me by surprise.

Aside from tampons and vibrators, I've never put any objects in my pussy. Inserting one of the pens was very embarrassing, particularly because my pussy was by now slick with excitement. It was easy to push it in and might have even felt comfortable had Ms. X (not her real name) not told me to stick both pens in my pussy. Both pens were about four inches long, with half inch thick metal barrels. Together, they sort of clacked together and skewed inside me as each wrestled for position. When combined with the sensations of the butt plug in my ass, I now felt filled if not totally sated. Sitting on the pens forced them to press painfully against my cervix -- a fact I relayed to Ms. X (not her real name). I could remove them again, she said, but first I would have to orgasm for her. Not just once, but three, back-to-back using nothing more than my fingers for stimulation. [Aside: I actually am able to bring myself to orgasm using nothing more than my imagination and a gentle, rhythmic squeezing together of my thighs.]

It was also at this moment she told me to turn up the music. I don't know if you're familiar with Satie, but his music is sensuous and dreamy and was the perfect accompaniment to my self-pleasuring. The first orgasm came quickly, as I expected it would, with the second right on top of it. In hindsight I think it was all the one orgasm but regardless, it made me feel deep guilt and shame that I should be able to orgasm at all under the circumstances. The third orgasm remained illusive and my clit, super-sensitized after the first orgasms, couldn't tolerate any more pleasure. It became a torture actually to continue and Ms. X (not her real name) very graciously permitted me to stop.

After cleaning up, I returned to the computer and felt in a luxuriously wonderful state of bliss. My thoughts remained fuzzy and from time to time I fought back pangs of guilt -- guilt that I had not simply abandoned myself to Ms. X (not her real name) but that I had done this on the day of my wedding anniversary. I remained in this deliriously pleasant state of mind for the remainder of the day. By evening, after hubby and I had celebrated our anniversary with our customary champagne cocktails, we enjoyed a passionate hour or so of lovemaking. That third orgasm did finally make an appearance, but my thoughts had to focus on Ms. X (not her real name) to find it.