Collars of leather and a 'collar' of metal

Earlier this month, on the fifth, we celebrated our two year anniversary of Sir having placed his metal 'collar' of sorts on me. I've worn his titanium band about my right wrist for all but one afternoon of the last two years.

I've written about the band and its significance to us before, but looking back over my earlier writings here, I realize I've never written about Sir collaring me in the first place.

For some people a 'collaring' becomes a ritual, almost akin to a wedding, complete with a ceremony, and members of their community as witnesses, etc. For us, it was a very private act.

Before we had gotten together Sir had done a work related trip to San Francisco. Over the course of his time there he made a trip to Mr. S. where he purchased some tools, including cuffs and a simple leather collar. As he describes it, on the feeling that he might be needing them eventually. On that same trip he also explored other parts of the CA coastline that years later he would bring me back to.

Going to those places together, years after his trip, showing me those places special to him was very important for us. They were places he enjoyed and thought of sharing with a partner long before we came together. To finally go there with him, and see them through his eyes, was a way of getting to know him and draw closer to him.

He did not put the collar upon me the night he first whipped me, nor did he place it around my neck soon thereafter when he came out to me and we first disappeared into a hotel suite together.

It was later, after I had come home with him and stayed at his apartment for almost an unexpected month long visit. I spent my days being his, lying across his black leather couch reading books and wearing his cuffs, waiting for him to return, or dressing and going out for walks around a nearby lake. In the evenings sometimes we would go out, other times, we spent quiet evenings home, realizing slowly how well we fit together how comfortable it was being together. How we could share a small space together yet not be in one another's way.

In love and in gratitude, I did small things, making the bed, tidying the apartment, washing dishes, and most of all, learning the small ways in which I found myself his. It was a time of massive changes in both our lives, yet somehow we had found one another.

Near the end of the month, not long before I was to return to my home, an otherwise ordinary evening changed everything for us. We had decided to eat in, Sir had cooked, which was not unusual for him. As we sat down to dinner we ended up having a discussion that amounted to (to vastly oversimplify) essentially a variation on 'eat your veggies.' Particular veggies I was certainly no fan of, and had an unfortunate 'history' with in childhood, but by the end of the meal he had convinced me to reluctantly nibble.

Ordinary as such may seem, after dinner, I found myself crying, not in that he had done something I didn't want him to, but in that I realized he was at times better for me, than I was to myself. Writing it, I suppose it sounds silly, but I had come to the realization that he was very good for me.

Being Queer, finding such in Sir, particularly so soon after the relationship with my wife ended, was in many ways very confusing. At times it all felt too soon, even as it felt so right. I was very guarded, afraid of throwing myself into someone new as some form of coping mechanism to deal with my sorrow and my loss.

Yet that month together showed me that this was more than merely a matter of grasping at someone, it somehow genuinely worked, and was growing into a relationship in its own right even as I at times hesitated, and perhaps most of all, I came to understand how much Sir genuinely cared about me and my own well being.

In that time together I had come to call him Sir, even as he felt odd about it. He had never envisioned himself as a "Sir" and did not know what to make of me calling him such. I, on the other hand, recognized almost from the beginning what he was, and what he was in relation to me. Nor did we say "I love you" back then. It took a long time before we came to that point.

But that particular evening, after I came to realize that yes, he cared deeply for me and my wellfare was when we came through to collaring me. I would be leaving soon, and no doubt the impending separation had some to do with it, but we had come to the strange realization that somehow we 'worked' together.

I laid across the bed in his bedroom and he asked me if the collar was what I wanted, if I would choose to be his? I thought for a long minute. We were less than 2 1/2 months into the relationship, it was less than a year since I had been in my previous relationship, in some ways it all felt so soon, and yet, it felt right.

I looked him in the eye and gave my assent. He placed the stiff new leather collar, a simple black band with two D rings, one at the front, and the other at the back that fit through a notch made for it around my neck. He unlocked a small padlock, slid it through the back back ring, locking the collar firmly around my throat. I slept beside him that night with his collar around my neck.

It was between the two of us, a private thing. There was no explicit detailing of what all being his would entail, to this day I think we're both still learning. But it was an absolute commitment for both of us, and I've always felt honoured to wear his collar.

The lack of 'spelling it all out' has at times been difficult, particularly for me. But whatever the hardships have been along the way, I'm still his.

After ten years together, we came to a point where it was rare for him to place the now well worn and cared for leather collar around my neck.

It can also be awkward at times. Being S/switch, it can be difficult for me to clearly signal my orientation while wearing a collar. There are times when wearing such is fully appropriate, but others when it can create confusion, not for us, but for those unfamiliar with our dynamic.

So to mark those ten years, and by way of putting a 'more permanent' collar or sorts on me, over the final Ohio Leather Fest Sir happened across the appropriate token, the locking band of titanium I now wear about my wrist. Rings on tapering fingers are removed easily by comparison. The hinged bracelet must be unlocked to be removed. I consider it a stronger commitment than a wedding ring.

Now I've worn the metal band for two years. Sir holds the key. I have an 'emergencies only' key for my own safety for when he is not present. In all, I've worn forms of his collar for close to 12 years now.

On our last trip through San Francisco, we stopped by Mr. S. and found a slightly more elaborate leather collar with a locking hasp that eventually we will have occasion for. As of yet, it waits, still unworn, for that day.

As some of you have no doubt noticed by now I often find myself writing about anniversaries and how long Sir and I have been together. I often mark the passing of time, be it the seasons, or the dates that matter only to Sir and I. Likely, it has much to do with how new all of this still is to me. I've never been in a relationship that lasted a decade before.

I sometimes see workshop presenters bios in which they remark upon having been 'in the scene' for five years or such. I can't help but feel not only the length of time I've been at this (I sometimes feel like such a dinosaur!) but also the time that Sir and I have been at this together.

Don't get me wrong, I still 'buck' plenty, and doubt, and question, and feel downright exasperated at times with some of the lack of focus or definition, but I can't imagine my life without him, and without being his. I never take that light band of metal around my wrist for granted.

Marking the anniversaries is but one way of saying I'm still aware of how special, how amazing, and how new this all is to me.

Thank you, Sir.

Full Moon Debachery; a Why of Leathersex

Today I'm sitting here typing in a serious afterglow. Still a bit flighty, and happily still sore, but with a sense of deep contentment; precisely the way I like feeling on 'mornings after.'

This entry, both long and perhaps a bit more explicit than what I've written here to date is such for good reason. It's going to take both some space and some detail to explain what it is I'm trying to express.

Our time together last night got initially pushed back a few hours due to other circumstances, but later on the evening we finally carved out some time to experiment with the new massage table (hmmmm, I think it needs a different name in relation to how we're mainly utilizing it, I'll have to work on that.)

It was the first time in a long time that we've had to just shut the world out and spend an evening working with the tools and being together, which is the important part for me, that connection. Sir listening for sounds, watching my breathing, gauging my reactions as together we go further and further.

All the while, as his counterpart, I am fully in the moment; sometimes looking up and seeing his reactions, or seeing THAT LOOK in his eyes, or when I'm blindfolded and can only hear him making preparations for what he will do to me, yet not knowing what will come next, being in that moment of anticipation.

Sex and even 'rough sex', sex about power and control and dominance and submission is one thing, working with the tools does something else. It's a physical ordeal that I have no choice but to give over to, it pulls me out of myself into a place where time becomes irrelevant. A place where I don't question or analyze, or pause in hesitation, or try to anticipate needs, I simply obey and am owned. I don't focus on being his, I simply AM his. In that clarity is a tremendous sense of freedom.

When I go through periods of not having those times together, no amount of sex can 'make up for it'. I crave being in those time suspended moments of clarity, anticipation, and inevitable sensation, yes even pain that only 'work' seems to give me.

But I also crave what such does for Sir, what those times do for him, his confidence, his control. Time spent together doing the 'work' is so important, that confidence and clarity spills over into other parts of our lives and our life together and provides a core where we both know what's what, and how it is between us. We both need that. We need to spend time there, as it gives everything else we do in relation to one another that foundation.

They are some of the times I feel closest to him. Without that connection, the so called 'play' can't work, no amount of pushing it, or trying to make it work can overcome it.

So late in the evening we came home, I showered and dressed and waited for him in our workspace. He came in to find me kneeling, dressed in the Catherine Coatney skirt and shirt (that he decided out at the beach that he loves on me.) I wore stockings and long gloves, my hair tucked away up in two small buns with a pair of Darklocks' Diva Falls in purple and black (called "Vertigo" for those of you interested in such details) cascading down over my shoulders.

These are new, fetishy fun goodies I picked up not long after the LF&P. They go well with all that wonderful black and shiny fetishware. As I eventually get to making the metallic purple latex dress I have in mind (and materials for) these should go a long way towards completing that look.

Naturally, Sir's response was more along the lines of a cross between being puzzled and thinking they were rather silly, but that's ok, they made him smile and I suppose that was part of what I had aimed for in the first place.

Soon enough he had me naked, lying face down on the massage table, blindfolded with the soft black leather blindfold I adore. He spent a few moments running ropes around under parts of the table, then attaching panic snaps so he would be able to change my position quickly. He pulled out the large padded black cuffs and buckled them onto my limbs, a process that always induces that 'sinking' feeling in me. I get quiet, and relax as best I can in light of what I know is coming soon thereafter.

In no time, he had me 'not going anywhere', firmly attached to the table, as if a canvas for him to 'paint' upon. First came the floggers, some soft and almost massage like, starting slowly, helping me breathe and relax, then ones with a bit more 'bite' reddening my skin, making me feel white hot searing pain up to the edge of seeing stars.

I find the whips loud in the otherwise quiet house. It seems to lead to a slight nervousness on my part, perhaps due to so many years of working in spaces with neighbors upstairs, etc. Despite the fact that Sir and I have a great deal of privacy, I sometimes find it difficult to fully relax, still being on edge that somehow someone will in some way will hear or interrupt. It's a relatively irrational fear, but one that at times makes it a little difficult for me to be fully present, fully relaxed. And that tightness in my muscles is always something I 'pay for' the next morning.

His aim was dead on. The table made a very comfortable height to work at, and allowed him to get in close to see the way I was reacting. He later told me that despite being blindfolded and face down, the sounds I was making and the slight movements of my body provided him lots of feedback. From time to time he would set the whip aside and run our 'empty rabbit' a rabbit skin across the deeply coloured areas he had just worked. The contrast between the two, the whips and the soft skin is immense. It's the slight variations that keep a flogging flowing, and keep me off balance.

At some point, he turned to the rattan canes, which so long as they're handled with timing and at times a gentle hand (alongside other times when they're NOT) I've come to love. His skilled hand uses them in many different ways; sometimes gently tapping, other times slowly increasing the intensity, and other times giving me strokes of pure fire that bloom and make me cry out.

I want to spend more time with the canes, slowly increasing my pain tolerance. In some ways I feel very out of practice at the moment.

Fortunately, as Sir was kind enough to point out, caning me gets him hard as well, so he released my hands, let me sit up slowly and he used my mouth a bit. By then I was well into that headspace that makes me both quiescent and obedient.

I've lost track of exactly how the evening unfolded, but at some point, perhaps prior to the canes he asked what I needed. I urged him towards doing some 'detail work', maybe some marks. Whenever it was, I was still blindfolded when I heard him working with something that made strange sounds I couldn't identify. The next thing I knew he was using the Chinese cupping set, with points on me. Having the cups on my just flogged back while being flogged on the ass is an acute awareness. My head couldn't get around it. It's just another of those sensations that can be used to bifurcate attention and set me out of my own control. Perplexing, but in a good way.

Afterwards he asked how I was doing and I told him I would need to change positions soon. Being the sadist he is, he had me lying on my freshly flogged backside. The result was a wonderful slowly burning anguish. So he worked over my front a bit, utilizing small clothespins, the snake bite 'suckers', and finally the vicious small round braided whip, everywhere on my breasts and thighs.

He held my head and slapped my face, first one side, then the other. He took me to that place where I get inarticulate, shuddering, and at that point where both 'stop' and 'don't stop' meld into one. It's a place where I prefer to simply be, and let him make decisions, anything else is just beyond my grasp.

So that was the point at which he decided to 'use' me. As he's getting ready, he turns to me and says "are you going to be blogging this?" and we both have a good hard laugh. (We later realized that for both of us, his comment related to Lolita's t-shirt we'd seen her in at events: "I'm blogging this." which is both brilliant, AND fits her and the writing she does at her site perfectly) At the time, though, blogging was about the furthest thing from my mind, it was something fully forgotten until he mentioned it.

Which is a good thing. I'm not experiencing these things with an 'eye towards' bragging about them online later, I'm experiencing them fully in the moment.

I come to write here after the fact, by way of recording our history, but also by way of journaling my own impressions and reasons and reactions to it. That may be of use to someone at some point, (it might even be of use for non-Leather people to gain some understanding of what Leathersex is about for me at least), but for me, the blogging is a very separate act from the living of it at the time. That is the action, this is the recording and analysis of the action, done after the fact, not in the moment of or at the time of the actions themselves.

Speculation about 'Slitherings' and how or even if what happened last night could end up here has become somewhat of an oddity for both of us. After all, sleeping with someone who sex-blogs is well, a bit different than not sleeping with a sex-blogger. Sir reads this, and we'll no doubt discuss what I've written here, which seems to lead on around the cycle to its own set of realizations, no doubt similar to how many Owners use journaling.

Sex-blogging aside, back to the sex;

He rearranged me down to the edge of the table, slid a strap around my ankles and then behind my neck, giving me something to push back against while keeping my legs up in the air, and he took me, roughly.

Blogging or not, I don't find words really work at this point.

It was just, well, that kind of sex I live for. My back and ass ached, both sore and pushed down against the table, giving me additional layer of pain that provided a backdrop to what was happening to me. Sir absolutely in that moment, both of us exactly where we wanted to be. That place where for him control and taking what he wants, that place where for me, it's both pain and simply having no other possibility other than giving him what he wants, and how much that gets me off, it's why we do this.

Afterwards, there's putting me to bed, leaving the cuffs on and putting the steel tool into me and him holding me, forcing me to orgasm, taking it from me. Leaving me completely incoherent and happy. So happy.

Lying in his arms, aftercare, exhaustion, and feeling so close to him, feeling so His.

That is what this is about for me.

It's what Leathersex is that even the roughest of ordinary sex isn't. It's about reaching that point where I have no choice other than to give myself over to him, while being fully aware he'll be there to catch me, to protect me, to do what's best for me when I don't have enough control of my faculties to even know what that might be. It ceases to be a giving, as that implies far too much control on my part, it simply is, I'm His, and he takes.

It's about trust and surrender and being fully both connected to and at times dependent upon the person I've chosen to entrust myself to.

***

This morning, I awoke to thunder; sore, aching, penetrated, marked, wrung out, used. Yet feeling so content, so languid, so where I want to be.

All of this, this is why I do these things. This is why I am with Sir.

Later, he examined and brushed his fingertips lightly across the lingering evidence of his work from the night before. Outside, rain pelted the windows. He held me, and kissed me.

I can't imagine being with a partner who is not Leather.

Caning

So last night.

Which actually began somewhat earlier on, as Sir slid His leather collar around my neck and locked it. This was followed by several hours of running about doing the things I ordinarily do in the course of any ordinary day.

Yes, we COULD have spent the evening decorating the Yule tree. Instead, we decided to fit in some "us" time, as the next few weeks are going to be very hectic, and we should steal away what little pockets of unhurried time we can when we can. If nothing else, "us" time is a very healthy way of mitigating holiday related stresses.

So early (for us, anyway) in the evening we headed upstairs. Not long thereafter he had me secured across the bed in a happy mesh of tools that amount to sort of human 'tinker toy' sprawl; long leather bondage 'mittens' that come up almost to my elbows locked on with shiny little chrome locks, ankle cuffs, leather tethers, spreader bars artfully placed, and a handful of caribineers and clips. Suffice it to say, by the end of his arranging, I wasn't going anywhere.

Once I was little more than a useful target, he selected a few of his favourite whips and 'had at' me. (Herein I'm afraid some of the details blur a bit, but happily so.) I do however, clearly remember the sharp cutting sting of the horsehair, and the jarring THUDs of the big black Moose flogger. Fortunately, there was little I could do other than 'take it', and enjoy it immensely.

Eventually, he set the floggers aside and I encouraged him to fetch a particular slapper/crop as marks were what he seemed intent upon, and that particular tool provides a great amount of precision and control. This led to its own fun (but regrettably, no marks the following day.)

But then, in a fit of being wildly unpredictable, his hand settled upon one of the bamboo canes. This was new. He's used artificial canes on me before, delrin, and lexan, but some of the pieces I've been picking up recently, rattan and bamboo, no, he hadn't used those on me before.

(Sure I've had bamboo and rattan close at hand for quite some time now, but recently I've been picking up some more, flexible rattan canes, and a lovely little whisk of birch, which I thank my lucky stars hadn't been soaked the half hour before, last night.)

So he let me see what I was in for, the bamboo, and I yelped, honestly, completely innocently

"But, ... those are for GIRLS!...

Oh, wait...!"

(The space between the two broken sentences was the time it took for me to come to my own frightening realization; 'I'M A GIRL! Eeeek!')

Honestly, I didn't see the connection- until of course, I did.

Ah, the many joys of being a S/switch and picking up toys for some later use, only to eep! find them used upon me when I expect it least.

Sir is nothing if not devious.

So this resulted in me being released, bent over the edge of the bed, and playing human target as Sir got the feel of new tools. (Lest anyone worry, Sir has damn good aim, and had certainly picked these up before using them upon me.) At the time, the pain was exactly the pain of a good 'first time out with a new tool' caning, the sensation so unique to caning; a sharpness, then the moments of feeling the blow moving deep under the skin, and then the pain 'blooming' slowly after each stroke.

None of the strokes were so hard as to actually leave a mark that lasted through 'til this morning, but I certainly had that tender/bruised feeling long after. Caning provides a certain sense of clarity, and being fully in the moment that few other tools give. Timing is everything, and giving each stroke the time it takes to develop and for me to process it creates a rhythm.

Eventually, we agreed to end with three solid strokes, which expanded quite happily into five.

Now for some people, these kinds of activities form a sort of foreplay, which leads into sex. For other people, doing such may be the point in and of itself, and therefore sex becomes irrelevant to such altogether.

Sometimes we find ourselves fitting under that latter category wherein the work is the work and sex just is extraneous to what we're doing. Usually, though, Sir and I do what we do, and extend that power and control and pain and ownership into our sex at some point in the course of what we're doing.

So while still very much in the state of mind I was in, Sir rubbed my (sadly more temporary than I would have liked) red marks and that lead into hard rough sex.

Later he tucked me into bed, got out some of the shall we say, more 'internal' tools (cold stainless steel to be specific), and spent a bit of time touching me before he finally left me to drift off to sleep.

I suppose this last bit is important to note in that there is a very real possibility that there will be some new piercings in the very near future, and obviously, fresh piercings require a certain gentleness that (happily) last night lacked.

This time of year for most ""visions of sugar plums dance(d) in their heads." For me? Well, I suppose you could say I'm dreaming of a pierced Yuletide.

My Raincheck

So, by way of 'making up for' not getting the whips out over the course of a recent event, Sir had more or less given me a 'raincheck'. Which is what we finally got around to the other morning.

Sir was up early in the morning, and after I came down he eventually headed upstairs to shower saying maybe we could get around to something thereafter. I waited downstairs and went about my morning, not sure whether to expect anything or not. Eventually he called down and told me I was to come up to him.

I came to the big bedroom (which is also sort of our 'Work' room) to find him standing inside dressed all in black with a wicked grin on his face. (Eventually, I may get to a post about the room we primarily use, but for now, it will suffice to say it's "His" room, our bedroom, and clearly his domain. I have rooms of my own as well, although they are such at his pleasure.)

I stood outside the door and undressed (as it's the room I don't wear clothing in without explicit permission, one of our few rules) then by his permission, entered.

At the foot of the bed, there's a soft black bench with low arms at each end and lots of pillows; soft golden chenille and others with a shadowed black ornate floral orchid pattern. On days such as this, it is pulled out from the end of the bed, the pillows set aside, and the bench is then covered with a soft black sheet. It's just long enough for me to lie across comfortably, my head resting on one of the arms. Four black leather straps encircled each of the bench's legs, then come up towards the left and right raised ends. Across each end, Sir had attached two of the highly polished chrome spreader bars, each the width of the bench. On the bed laid several of my favourite whips, and the four black padded leather cuffs. Without saying a word, I knew what laid in store.

He told me to come around to the bed. Then lovingly, he buckled each cuff onto my limbs, first my wrists then my ankles. He crossed the room to the toolbox compartment organizers and pulled out four of the small nickel plated padlocks, then returned to me and proceeded to lock the cuffs onto me. This little 'ritual' of sorts in and of itself is enough to get me into a mindset.

(Soft black leather and shiny polished steel is very much our aesthetic. Metal and leather. Although somewhat ironically, I have no interest in many of the metal cuffs or collars we so often see. I suppose you could say we're both rather selective about our tools.)

He kisses me, and leads me across the bench, face down. Limb by limb, he clips the cuffs onto the spreader bars leaving me unable to escape, and a ready target. He ensures I'm comfortable, then disappears over towards the rack where we keep our whips hung. I'm not blindfolded, but I'm not sure I want to know, just yet, either. So I turn my head and close my eyes, giving over to him, and what he wants.

Anyone who has ever been sensually whipped can readily identify the two primary different sensations, 'thud' and 'sting'. For me, when I'm under Sir's whips, these two have two completely different effects. 'Thuddy' makes me sink, deep into a place where I've very inarticulate, but very pliant, and welcoming suggestion. 'Stingy' on the other hand, tries to lift me off of whatever I'm securely attached to, and leaves me fighting myself, begging for it to stop, and sometimes crying. (This does NOT however mean I actually want it to stop.) Each of these are their own head (and body) trip. It takes someone with a particular sense of timing and ability to 'read' me to combine them both over the course of a brief period. Neither of these are things I entrust to people I don't know well, as both leave me very emotionally raw.

Sir is one of the few people I know who can make me change gears as it were, between the two, and still leave me in a state where I actually enjoy it. Unfortunately, it's not something I find I can do often, and it takes both of us being in a particular state of mind and comfort to actually pull it off.

In any case, without telling me that was what he was about to do, that was the state he worked me into. Working from whips that can, when used a particular way feel more akin to a good massage, on to whips that once I'm warmed up, yes I can take, even though it's a most peculiar kind of enjoyment.

Back at the Floating World, we had found a flogger made of the satin cord it seems every kinky person has worked with or made something out of at some point. Just ordinary fabric store cord carefully woven into a nicely formed handle that felt good in my hand with a bazillion purple satiny tresses. The reason it came home, though, was that each of the tips had been carefully dipped repeatedly in 'tool dip', the rubber coating for tool handles. The balance was nice, and I knew instantly that those tails would sting horribly.

Well, I was right. And THAT will teach me to pick up a tool, having it in mind for use with perhaps a pretty girl somewhere in my future. I should know better. And I should know that just as I was always taught, before you use a tool on someone else, you should have it used upon yourself, so you know, down in your bones what it's capable of. While ultimately, of course I'm fine with all of that, it being the way things are done, and it is simply to be expected, I did not however expect this particular tool this particular morning.

Which led to many cries of "I hate that whip!... Don't stop."

By the time my morning's ordeal was 'over', I was very 'floaty'. Sir released me from my bonds at the bench and let me lay across the bed. We spoke briefly, and then he very matter of factly went over to the small table in the corner and returned with several sets of adjustable clamps with which he heightened my neediness beyond excruciating.

Then he removed them, and left me unfulfilled. He allowed me the cuffs for the rest of the day (actually, I slept in them that night only taking them off the next morning.)

The lovely anguish that is being left afterwards is not something I would normally enjoy. But with him, after this in particular, it was wonderful, feeling that ache combined with the soreness from the whips earlier, it left me constantly aware of HIM as I drifted through the next day or so. It's that awareness, that feeling of being owned, posessed, taken somewhere I rarely go with anyone with trust at the core of it that I treasure above all else.