Glitter. Real Stories About Sexual Desire From Real Women (8 page)

Healing Through Safe BDSM

Maple Muffins

I started having relationships in the early ‘90s. I gave my first blow job in 1992 and had sex for the first time in 1994. I work in environmental education, am married and am a mother.

I'm a kinky submissive. It's taken me a long time to be able to acknowledge that: both that I need that in sex, and what the definition of that is to me.

I came to BDSM in my early teens (in the ‘90s), by way of an abusive relationship. I didn't know at that time, what BDSM was, that it existed, or the difference between consent and abuse. What I did find, was amid the horror and controlling behavior, was that there were things I really enjoyed.

I was fourteen. This was my first sexual relationship, beyond groping and making out. The control had already begun before we even had sex the first time. He had narrowed down who I could speak to, what I could wear, etc. 

He began to tell me however, what he'd read about control online (in those very early days of the internet). He was sixteen and in his youth definitely didn't know what was meant by safe, sane and consensual. What he did know was what he saw about control and humiliation excited him, and he was going to try it on me.
 

Little things started, like having me unbutton my shirt all the way while we drove around. He would knock down my appearance, point out my fat spots, and tell me what I could eat. I was dejected enough that I eventually did whatever he would say and even became anorexic.

Our first time having sex wasn't consensual; it also wasn't very interesting, to be honest. He got more creative after that however. He'd have me go down on him while we drove (being teens we drove around a lot), forcing my face down so I couldn't breathe. We would find as public of places as possible like access roads to airports, beaches under a blanket, or back hallways in malls. I remember once his cupping and flaunting my breast for an older man who drove by us, then backtracked to see more. I began to feel a mix of shame and excitement in the exhibitionism. I still enjoy being shown off.

I was strictly not allowed to speak to other boys (upon threat of death. Yes, death), and he would often choke me during sex, telling me that I belonged to him, and that he would silence my whore mouth.

He would control my orgasms, and found great excitement in training me to cum on command. I still remember the mortification and the flush of heat in my face as he'd whisper, "cum now" in my ear at say...dinner with his parents. They must've thought me very odd!! 

I eventually found the strength to leave him, as the death threats and physical attacks got worse. I found my way into a couple of boring vanilla relationships and realized…I really enjoyed being controlled.
 

I found myself sixteen and seeking another controlling relationship (still not quite knowing a name for BDSM), and found myself again in another abusive one. This one extended itself into beatings, beyond the verbal abuse and rape. I found I loved a good spanking, but ultimately my sense of self-preservation won and I left for greener grasses.

Confiding in a friend about my conflicting feelings I was, at eighteen, introduced to a series of erotica novels which… Blew. My. Mind. I realized yes, THIS is what I want. I began to learn more about the ‘right’ way for things to work, how to play safely. I experimented. I had a gropefest with my two best friends. I slept with women. I ultimately loved men who could take an upper hand and still respect me.

Fast forward many years to today, I have really come into my own. I know what I want, and how to achieve it safely. I became a feminist who found sexual empowerment by giving over control in the bedroom...while still holding control of myself. I think some women unfamiliar with the lifestyle see BDSM as abuse,
 but having experienced it both ways, it is truly not the same thing at all! That information should be out there. It is not abuse if you are consensual, if you trust your partner, and safety mechanisms are set in place. It took me over a decade to realize that difference. I can enjoy now, a good spanking, control, a little humiliation, and know that it can all stop at my word. I've been asked if I would make different choices if I could go back, and I wouldn't! Those experiences made me who I am, and I still find some of the thoughts tantalizing. There is healing in safe BDSM.

Fucked Up and Glorious

Hopper James

I am finally single at thirty-seven years old, twice divorced. I work in IT project management, but I moonlight as a fiction editor. I love writing, but career-wise my aspirations are in editing. Also, I’m kinky as hell and don’t plan on settling down again.

I packed twelve different panties for three days at a Leather conference.

The cutest and laciest pair I brought got ripped by something involving chains whilst in my suitcase, so they were totally out of the question for the Friday night play party and I didn’t like the rest of them as much, so I went entirely without. I thought nothing of this as I donned a shimmery black miniskirt, slit to my hip; garters and fishnets, and an oddly comfortable PVC corset, which I had lubed until it was glassy. In patent leather knee-high boots, I didn’t cut too poor a figure. My shoulders were square, my posture straight. I could probably pull off a bit of a strut: you know, throw a swing in my step. Something in between “boots made for walkin’” and “for a good time, call...”             

Swagger and all, I was beyond butterflies-excited for this party. We had met a few months before this convention, and she and I had engaged since in an echo of flirtation, exchanging messages slippery with innuendo. We understood each other, had excellent synchrony. Not hurting the process were those friends who nudged and encouraged. A mutual friend handed me a cup of coffee and named her “The Sadist’s Sadist.” This designation made my belly drop into my cunt with hope and heat and maybe some fear. I was well aware that my reputation for algolagnia preceded me. The competition for the mantle of “pain slut” especially one able to orgasm from the pain, was one where I was the only entrant. It’s sheer hedonism, fucked up and glorious. The downside to this kink were the times I stopped myself from saying to a lackluster top, “Yeah, thanks for playing with me! No, I didn’t come, you couldn’t hurt me well enough.”

Bu
t
sh
e
played hard. I played hard. And we were a promising match on complementary ends of the whip, or flogger, or whatever the hell she wanted to wield.

From a balcony in the hotel’s atrium, I spied her as she mingled below. Her amazing curve emphasized by a black leather cincher, she looked delicious. I had fuck all idea how much feasting would ensue.

I mentioned to her what I had heard: her expertise, she’s a natural, the appreciation people in the scene have for the way she fucks up girls. The word
‘
beamin
g
’ nearly does justice to her reaction.

We met up an hour or so later, she had doffed her pointy blue suede shoes, her bare feet were pedicured and pretty. She stood at the top of a flight of stairs and stared down at me, grinning. As I approached, she declared her hunger. She led me towards the women’s play space, which was a new thing to me. I love women and played only with women, but always in trans spaces. I sensed a difference. She warned me that the feel of the room wasn’t totally up to speed, it was early, but we’d change that. I followed her as she dragged a chair around: the right vibe was essential. When she found the place she liked the best, she directed someone to move a bench out of the way, pointing. The girl complied post-haste. We stood facing and she pulled me into her arms. We centered, together. We briefly spoke in safety terms, reviewed what was agreed-upon. She asked me about how it was to orgasm from pain.

“Is it, like, to release pain, to get past it, through it?”              

I replied plainly: “Not like that, no. Pain is what makes me come.”

She just nodded, and didn’t let on that I had scored a point. I didn’t realize that she had a desired answer until much later, when we were whispering following the violence and basking in the afterglow.

She takes my hands, flexes my wrists. Quickly, she turns me to face away and twists my arm up behind me, and then bends my wrist somewhichway enough to make me gasp.

It’s on. We’re doing this.

She unlaces my corset a bit, pausing to bite my shoulder blade so hard that her teeth were still on my back the next night. She pinched the inside of my left arm, where I have tattooed wings, assuring me it will mark. With the bites and pinches, I edge towards climax, and fuck fuck fuck, it hurts. Pinching is never easy for me to process. I’m unused to it. I try to tell myself it’s not because it’s out of my league, it’s just out of my ken. This isn’t canes, this isn’t tools. This is hands
.
He
r
hands.              

She motions. I take the chair, she kneels. 

The juxtaposition is not lost on me.

Her first strikes to my inner thighs are no cuddly preamble, no BDSM 101 warm-up. In near-panic I push her hands away. Wait, just..!

“Hold on to the chair.”

Ok. A job, a task; I can do that. I can. She hits my thighs again.

And then she stops.

“You’re not wearing underwear.”

I want to explain the reason. She gives me no time to speak.

“
Girl
s
wear underwear. Dirty. Little. Sluts. Don’t.” She slaps my thighs, right, left, right, right, punctuating each word. “Are you a dirty little slut?” She purrs, wanting my confession.

“Maybe?” I squeak.

“Maybe?” thudstingslap.
“
Mayb
e
?” Again.

“Yes?” I try again, giggling.

“Yes. Yes. You are.” I gasp with the pepper of blows.

I come with no warning, shivering.

Admittedly, there was some point in the progress of this scene where she directed I should only orgasm with permission. Admittedly, I can’t remember where in the storm that was. Admittedly, I didn’t ask every time. When I remember to ask again she doesn’t say yes.

“Not yet.” Her rhythm doesn’t stutter, she doesn’t even look up to deny me.

This is more than a little aggravating. I clench my jaw, trying to hold back the impending wave.

She has a tiny paddle that fits in her hand. It’s plastic or plexi or something. Whatever it is, it’
s
bitch
y
. She works my thighs for some time with it; it’s breathtaking. I am not sure how to get through it. When she offers me the choice between her continuing with the tiny paddle or her hands (open and clenched), I want her hands. Not because this is any easier to process, it’s probably not, but I want the connection. I want her touch, however sinister the delivery. When my eyes are open, I am looking at the hollow of her throat, her mouth, her eyes. I don’t look at her hands, but I know they move fast.

She says, as she slaps my chest, punches my chest, that she was going to hurt my thighs more, but I’m taunting her.

“It’s like your chest is calling to me,” She says, punching my thigh, then my chest. One-two. Left-right.

I am overwhelmed. The expanding wave of orgasm was fast becoming a tsunami. Some of this is decidedly catharsis, but overwhelmingly a wall of feelings from not only pain, but her continual mockery of me. 

This is her delight, she’
s
enjoyin
g
me.

I feel so good and pretty.

It’s big. I gasp.

“I need a moment.” I use words.

I want to collect the tsunami and tuck it behind my ear, deal with it later. She checks in with me, holds my face, makes sure I see her, see her. She says, “we’re here, it’s good. It is good. It’s so good.”

“But. Just. Can I have a minute?” I say again, somewhat woozy.

“That’s why we’re talking, you know. You’re getting a minute.” She smiles. She makes sense, but my own sense-making is slipping away like the tide right before that really big wave.

She continues her assault, having granted me the chance to catch my breath. My legs are marked, they are red and purple and black, the bite on my back bites back every time I lean into the chair. 

I don’t usually mark. It takes a certain something, and I don’t know the equation.

I am making noises, I know, and some is an unrelenting orgasm, some is how loud I ache. After a little longer, I’m unsure of holding back the wave that I have behind my ear and my breath hitches. The flood of tears is loosed and she stops and puts her arms around me, and I cry and babble into her hair and neck and hope I don’t get mascara all over her white shirt. She speaks soothing things, in soothing tones.

With our foreheads steepled, she says:

“You’re giving me your tears. What an amazing gift. And look, here are mine.” She is moved, this is for her, too. I blissfully smile, I am tired and wish I could be in her grip of pain for longer, for longer. I am past a cliff, near wordlessness. She gathers me up a bit, dispatching someone to bring me water. I sit, breathing, blinking. Smiling, sniffling.

We are exhausted and exhilarated. I wrap up in a blanket and drink, she gives me chocolate.

She has a special present, she does, in that I do not cry for anyone else, and never have from pain. She has a special presence, she does, in that I can’t deliver expression from nowhere, this was skillfully elicited, compelled, drawn from me. Her force in the destruction of my levees and dams and locks, the will she exerted in granting my ecstatic agony, driving me to a perfectly exquisite, blinding pain.

The kind that makes everything afterwards much easier to see.