One year ago I joined a German slave register. A few weeks after I went to my first munch and maybe two months after my first kinky sex. Definately nothing I would call bdsm. If I remember correctly, the sex was just a bit rough and I had a cucumber shoved up my arse.
Several encounters like that followed. No more cucumbers, but plenty of pseudo-dominant male fantasies came true.
I discovered my kink for doctors and men in suits. Realised that an awful lot of men still have pictures of their ex - girlfriends around. Or that they are cheating. I don’t fuck men who say they are in a relationship, but girlfriends I don’t know about?! I guess there isn’t that much of a difference really.
I had men with cuddly toys in their bed and ones that didn’t want me to stand up while taking a shower. There were men I’m still seriously scared of because they confused pure violence with bdsm. Others I actually really liked, but casual sex is rarely a good start for something like a relationship. Not that this was something they were actually looking for. I was.
There’s only one person from that journey that I still truly care for. Because he cared for me. Helped me to take care of myself. Be rational and reflective, without losing faith and the love deep inside me.
I told myself for a while that I was simply looking for experiences, but I wasn’t. I was looking for someone to love and for someone that happened to satisfy my kinks. Very late I realised that this wasn’t how that was going to happen.
That’s when I started my book. And my conscious journey that (sort of) led me to understand who I am and what I want. Yes, I have a book that contains the names of the people I had some form of sex with. I’m still convinced that this is a fabulous idea that will spare me an awkward moment in the future. I won’t be introduced to a colleague and wonder if I slept with him or not because he looks so familiar. I’ll just have a look at my book. Not that I carry it around with me or anything… but still. It’s like a very organized diary. Dates. Names. Numbers. Rational. I find it fascinating to look at now.
I’m still amazed at how many experiences I managed to fit into this past year. It felt like a long journey and in the end I was tired of travelling.
That’s when I arrived. And I stayed.
May 26, 2010
May 23, 2010
His little girl
Sitting in the living room and trying to study I can hear him in the kitchen talking to her.
I’ve seen pictures, listened to her on the phone and looked at her toys. I know when her birthday is and when she wins a prize for the prettiest drawing in her class, I’ll probably hear about it. She prefers to take the scooter to school and she takes a sweetie to bed. She’s really cute when sleeping and has the longest eye-lashes ever. She has a pink little cell phone and sends the most adorable texts poking fun at her dad.
She’s a little phantom. She’s always around and at the same time never here. She completes him and needs him as much he needs her. I’m not part of it. However I feel like I am. I want to know all about her, meet her, smile at her, speak to her. Struggle with her accent and ask her what some word means. Explain others to her. Teach her some German and how to dance. When I cook lunch I wonder if she would help me if she’d be here. I can picture us walking along the river and being all girly and giggly and fun and childish and just us. She’s part of my thoughts a lot. Warm thoughts that often give me a very happy feeling. I like her.
It’s strange because actually I’ve never met her. Nevertheless I feel like she belongs to my life now. I’d have never known about her, but there’s something that connects us. Her dad who lives in two different worlds. I’m looking forward to the time when those two worlds fuse and become one. One complex but happy place that makes him feel perfect and complete. Because of us. Me and her.
I’ve seen pictures, listened to her on the phone and looked at her toys. I know when her birthday is and when she wins a prize for the prettiest drawing in her class, I’ll probably hear about it. She prefers to take the scooter to school and she takes a sweetie to bed. She’s really cute when sleeping and has the longest eye-lashes ever. She has a pink little cell phone and sends the most adorable texts poking fun at her dad.
She’s a little phantom. She’s always around and at the same time never here. She completes him and needs him as much he needs her. I’m not part of it. However I feel like I am. I want to know all about her, meet her, smile at her, speak to her. Struggle with her accent and ask her what some word means. Explain others to her. Teach her some German and how to dance. When I cook lunch I wonder if she would help me if she’d be here. I can picture us walking along the river and being all girly and giggly and fun and childish and just us. She’s part of my thoughts a lot. Warm thoughts that often give me a very happy feeling. I like her.
It’s strange because actually I’ve never met her. Nevertheless I feel like she belongs to my life now. I’d have never known about her, but there’s something that connects us. Her dad who lives in two different worlds. I’m looking forward to the time when those two worlds fuse and become one. One complex but happy place that makes him feel perfect and complete. Because of us. Me and her.
May 14, 2010
Anticipation
My emotions are living in a house. A mansion with hundreds of rooms, some smaller, some bigger, depending on how much space an emotion needs at any given time.
Tonight the ‚anticipation room‘ is one of the biggest, most colourful and creative rooms of the whole house. It has a huge walk-in closet with a little flared rubber dresses hanging in it, transparent, or maybe purple. I can see myself in the mirror wearing it and twentytwo smiling at my attempts to pull the dress further down. Does it matter how long a dress is, if it’s transparent? There’s also a little jewelry box with a collar in it that I can’t touch. But only the thought of it makes me smile…
One of the big windows is looking out over Shanghai by night. Maybe I will be there soon – or maybe not. In the corner a little fireplace. Little pieces of paper slowly turning to ash. ‘Deontology’, ‘strategy of war’, ‘ f’(x) = ? … I’m done.
There is also kinky corner with fantasies enclosed in shiny black air bubbles. One seems to be about to burst. I can see myself in it, silently crying all alone. Begging to be led free, offering my body to twentytwo. Wanting to please. Desperate to be fucked, but not prepared to give in – yet. Struggling, kicking, biting. Rope cutting into my skin, my voice being silenced. Considering to bite what silences me, but ultimately being too scared to land under the patio. Being hugged and loved and just being to be with him again.
Vorfreude
Tonight the ‚anticipation room‘ is one of the biggest, most colourful and creative rooms of the whole house. It has a huge walk-in closet with a little flared rubber dresses hanging in it, transparent, or maybe purple. I can see myself in the mirror wearing it and twentytwo smiling at my attempts to pull the dress further down. Does it matter how long a dress is, if it’s transparent? There’s also a little jewelry box with a collar in it that I can’t touch. But only the thought of it makes me smile…
One of the big windows is looking out over Shanghai by night. Maybe I will be there soon – or maybe not. In the corner a little fireplace. Little pieces of paper slowly turning to ash. ‘Deontology’, ‘strategy of war’, ‘ f’(x) = ? … I’m done.
There is also kinky corner with fantasies enclosed in shiny black air bubbles. One seems to be about to burst. I can see myself in it, silently crying all alone. Begging to be led free, offering my body to twentytwo. Wanting to please. Desperate to be fucked, but not prepared to give in – yet. Struggling, kicking, biting. Rope cutting into my skin, my voice being silenced. Considering to bite what silences me, but ultimately being too scared to land under the patio. Being hugged and loved and just being to be with him again.
Vorfreude
May 11, 2010
Numbers
Do you know [insert a 20-year-old song]?
No.
But you know [insert long forgotten and/or dead popstar, preferably from Britain]?
No.
Such a shame. You must know [insert British television program from the 80s] though.
No. Do you know Loriot?
Who?
He’s really famous in Germany.
And I would know him why?
Exactly, why would I know all those 20-year-old songs, dead singers or – from a German perspective – not so funny TV programmes?
They are classics?!
So is Loriot. Or have you never heard of Herrn Müller-Lüdenscheid before?!
That’s what twentytwo years can do to your conversations. Or to your relationship if you take it a step further. Twentytwo years and two different nationalities.
Sometimes I lose track of how many times I’ve said ‘No, I don’t know.’ in one night. Sometimes I want to scream ‘Think, before you ask. Think about how (un)likely it is that I know this particular song/person/film/TV show.’ Sometimes I wonder if it’s just me who hasn’t watched all those classics and hasn’t got a clue about music. Sometimes I forget about all those things I know and he doesn’t.
Loriot. Michael Mittermeier, Thomas Gottschalk, Silbermond, Nina Hagen, Stefan Raab, Löwenzahn.
But sometimes I love it. Watching the Clangers on youtube or Chitty, Chitty, Bang, Bang on a lazy sunday morning. Being told about something that happened when I was really small. Saying things like ‘I wonder what you did while I was born?’ and getting ‘I walked to my first job’ as an answer. Receiving answers for questions I haven’t even asked and insights into a world full of anecdotes and memories.
I love to be in a relationship with someone who is twice my age. Roughly. At the moment it’s actually a bit more. It’s hot. We don’t have to age-play. I can look up to him all the time. Admire his knowledge and experience. Be small. Looking at him with big blue eyes, sucking in every bit (of information) he gives me.
Until I put on my 14cm heels. Then I’m on the same level again. Speaking to him in German even though he doesn’t understand. Giggling about the two men in the bathtub, feeling somewhat equal again. Actually it’s the best of two worlds. At least until he asks ‘But you know Bono, don’t you?’
I do.
May 7, 2010
Cuts
Blood, needles, cuts and the likes have always been a hard limit for me. However my problem with limits is that sooner or later they seem to become a very desirable thing to try. Since I'm not the person for a huge amount of fantasising, I realise I would like to try something and then get on with it.
But I wanted to be cut and not cut myself. Therefore I obviously had to convince someone to cut me. I felt a little rejected by twentytwo when I mentioned it for the first time, but also understood that it wasn't really his thing and that cutting someone is in a whole different category than spanking and such. It's serious harm, it might be permanent, it's not like a bruise that might look scary at first but will vanish after a few days.
I kept mentioning my desire to be cut once in a while and - I don't know what brought about his change of mind - he agreed to look for 'something sharp' at LAM last weekend. I couldn't quite believe my luck. I really wanted to try this now.
To be honest I hadn't done a lot of reading up on the topic and I just envisioned 'something sharp and scary' to cut me. Preferably a big shiny knife. The only thing we could find at LAM were scalpels that reminded me much more of my very painful and non-successful wrist surgery than brought up images of a hot scene. But I still really wanted to try. I mean, I really wanted to try.
When he left to get the car I decided to sneak back and buy some of those scalpels. I very proudly showed them off to him in the car and again was very surprised when he agreed on using them. Later that night we decided that this whole things shouldn't be taken lightly and that some preparation and lots more information on the topic was needed. Some lovely people pointed us in the right direction, Boots provided some equipment and the thought slowly becoming reality left me with a very unusual feeling. Something inside tightened by the thought of twentytwo with a scalpel in his hand. Pictures of big wounds and lots of blood. I was getting seriously scared.
I sort of hoped that as soon as I arrived at his place we would sit down, talk about it and do it. Unfortunately he had decided to punish me for making him do something he really didn't want to be doing.
The moment he hit my breasts with the flogger I started crying. Every blow of the crop and cane made me jump and even though he had barely started I was already in tears, begging him to stop. Inside I was so scared I couldn't even take a spanking. Thanks to his good sense of judgement he soon untied me and led me into the play room. At first I just sat there with my eyes closed, feeling the pain and trying not to think of the cutting.
After a while I opened my eyes and found everything from bandages to antiseptic cream on the bed next to me. I smiled to myself and all of a sudden I was getting quite excited. Part of it was that I kept telling myself that it wouldn't be that bad. That it just couldn't be. It would be fine. Just fine.
However the tightening sensation came back as soon as we unwrapped one of the scalpels and both tried to cut lightly into a tangerine. I couldn't believe how easily the blade cut through the skin. A clean deap cut. Very deep.
'No pressure' I told him and we both laughed nervously. I still really wanted to try.
My hands tied together I lay down on the bed, watching him putting on his latex glove and sitting down next to me, with the scalpel in his hand. A very powerful sight I will never forget.
The first cut I could hardly feel. Or maybe I didn't feel it at all. It took some time for him to find the right pressure and for me to adjust to this new feeling. In the end he wrote a little S on my thigh. For Sirebel, submission or my name. It was over far too quickly, but I was still massively proud we had done it and very thankful for him being as careful and caring as he was.
It was intense, but it wasn't sexual. I wasn't aroused and therefore complained a lot when he started to spank me. I knew there wasn't even a slight possibiliy that he would hit the fresh cuts, but I felt too vulnerable to cope with more pain. When he started fucking me I didn't even want that. Sometimes he knows me better than myself. I did want to be fucked and I felt complete and truly happy being in his arms afterwards, smiling and admiring the S shape in its bright red colour.
But I wanted to be cut and not cut myself. Therefore I obviously had to convince someone to cut me. I felt a little rejected by twentytwo when I mentioned it for the first time, but also understood that it wasn't really his thing and that cutting someone is in a whole different category than spanking and such. It's serious harm, it might be permanent, it's not like a bruise that might look scary at first but will vanish after a few days.
I kept mentioning my desire to be cut once in a while and - I don't know what brought about his change of mind - he agreed to look for 'something sharp' at LAM last weekend. I couldn't quite believe my luck. I really wanted to try this now.
To be honest I hadn't done a lot of reading up on the topic and I just envisioned 'something sharp and scary' to cut me. Preferably a big shiny knife. The only thing we could find at LAM were scalpels that reminded me much more of my very painful and non-successful wrist surgery than brought up images of a hot scene. But I still really wanted to try. I mean, I really wanted to try.
When he left to get the car I decided to sneak back and buy some of those scalpels. I very proudly showed them off to him in the car and again was very surprised when he agreed on using them. Later that night we decided that this whole things shouldn't be taken lightly and that some preparation and lots more information on the topic was needed. Some lovely people pointed us in the right direction, Boots provided some equipment and the thought slowly becoming reality left me with a very unusual feeling. Something inside tightened by the thought of twentytwo with a scalpel in his hand. Pictures of big wounds and lots of blood. I was getting seriously scared.
I sort of hoped that as soon as I arrived at his place we would sit down, talk about it and do it. Unfortunately he had decided to punish me for making him do something he really didn't want to be doing.
The moment he hit my breasts with the flogger I started crying. Every blow of the crop and cane made me jump and even though he had barely started I was already in tears, begging him to stop. Inside I was so scared I couldn't even take a spanking. Thanks to his good sense of judgement he soon untied me and led me into the play room. At first I just sat there with my eyes closed, feeling the pain and trying not to think of the cutting.
After a while I opened my eyes and found everything from bandages to antiseptic cream on the bed next to me. I smiled to myself and all of a sudden I was getting quite excited. Part of it was that I kept telling myself that it wouldn't be that bad. That it just couldn't be. It would be fine. Just fine.
However the tightening sensation came back as soon as we unwrapped one of the scalpels and both tried to cut lightly into a tangerine. I couldn't believe how easily the blade cut through the skin. A clean deap cut. Very deep.
'No pressure' I told him and we both laughed nervously. I still really wanted to try.
My hands tied together I lay down on the bed, watching him putting on his latex glove and sitting down next to me, with the scalpel in his hand. A very powerful sight I will never forget.
The first cut I could hardly feel. Or maybe I didn't feel it at all. It took some time for him to find the right pressure and for me to adjust to this new feeling. In the end he wrote a little S on my thigh. For Sirebel, submission or my name. It was over far too quickly, but I was still massively proud we had done it and very thankful for him being as careful and caring as he was.
It was intense, but it wasn't sexual. I wasn't aroused and therefore complained a lot when he started to spank me. I knew there wasn't even a slight possibiliy that he would hit the fresh cuts, but I felt too vulnerable to cope with more pain. When he started fucking me I didn't even want that. Sometimes he knows me better than myself. I did want to be fucked and I felt complete and truly happy being in his arms afterwards, smiling and admiring the S shape in its bright red colour.
May 6, 2010
Women
I had been in touch with him only briefly in the morning, but we agreed to meet up the same night. One of the few opportunities to go to a fetish event in my hometown presented itself and I wasn't going to let anything distract me from attending. At first I was desperate for someone to accompany me, but in the end I realised that I could probably have more fun on my own than with an open-minded but non-kinky male friend who I would have dragged along for the lack of choice.
Nevertheless I was still happy that the random guy who seemed genuinely nice would be there. So would his partner.
The moment they walked into the bar I knew that it was going to be an interesting night. Being primarly focused on men I started flirting with him and something inside me wished that she would just disappear. Don't get me wrong. She was hot. Tiny. Energetic. A tad masculine. Dominant. I still wanted her to leave.
At some point I found myself over the random guy's knee, certainly enjoying myself. She was nowhere to be seen. When she appeared she seemed like a different person. Corset, petticoat, heels. Her masculinity traded in for fragile beauty. Little flames danced in her eyes. Flames of jealousy at the sight of me being spanked by him. They had told me they were only casual play partners, but what she saw didn't please her.
I was told to kiss her. I was told to kiss the girl with the little flames in her eyes. The girl who hated me in just that moment. And who liked me at the same time.
The moment my lips touched hers I loved her. For her beauty and grace. For her softness and strength. For her energy and intellect. For her white and perfect breasts, for her long brown hair. For her generosity to share despite the dancing flames in her eyes.
It was the moment I realized that I love women. Just for what they are.
Last night twentytwo asked me who I would have liked to fuck.
We had been to the U35 munch and I was confronted with a feeling I haven't quite experienced before. Yes, I knew I liked women. But I was convinced I would only be attracted to one in thousand, or maybe to one in a million. Sitting in the corner, looking from girl to girl, I realized that two in twenty was maybe a more accurate estimate. Or one in ten to make use of my maths skills.
Slim, short hair, pretty face, pale skin. Intellect, character, humour. There were at least two women who fit that discription. And I did want to fuck them. Be fucked. Probably hurt as well.
It was a strange feeling to be attracted to more women in the room than men. Powerful and liberating. It made me feel happy and alive. Because I'm going through life with open eyes. Seeing what I haven't seen before.
Nevertheless I was still happy that the random guy who seemed genuinely nice would be there. So would his partner.
The moment they walked into the bar I knew that it was going to be an interesting night. Being primarly focused on men I started flirting with him and something inside me wished that she would just disappear. Don't get me wrong. She was hot. Tiny. Energetic. A tad masculine. Dominant. I still wanted her to leave.
At some point I found myself over the random guy's knee, certainly enjoying myself. She was nowhere to be seen. When she appeared she seemed like a different person. Corset, petticoat, heels. Her masculinity traded in for fragile beauty. Little flames danced in her eyes. Flames of jealousy at the sight of me being spanked by him. They had told me they were only casual play partners, but what she saw didn't please her.
I was told to kiss her. I was told to kiss the girl with the little flames in her eyes. The girl who hated me in just that moment. And who liked me at the same time.
The moment my lips touched hers I loved her. For her beauty and grace. For her softness and strength. For her energy and intellect. For her white and perfect breasts, for her long brown hair. For her generosity to share despite the dancing flames in her eyes.
It was the moment I realized that I love women. Just for what they are.
Last night twentytwo asked me who I would have liked to fuck.
We had been to the U35 munch and I was confronted with a feeling I haven't quite experienced before. Yes, I knew I liked women. But I was convinced I would only be attracted to one in thousand, or maybe to one in a million. Sitting in the corner, looking from girl to girl, I realized that two in twenty was maybe a more accurate estimate. Or one in ten to make use of my maths skills.
Slim, short hair, pretty face, pale skin. Intellect, character, humour. There were at least two women who fit that discription. And I did want to fuck them. Be fucked. Probably hurt as well.
It was a strange feeling to be attracted to more women in the room than men. Powerful and liberating. It made me feel happy and alive. Because I'm going through life with open eyes. Seeing what I haven't seen before.
May 4, 2010
Target
I want to write about my thoughts. Things that make me smile and make me cry. About things that happened and will happen. About me. My relationship to Twentytwo. About love. And about BDSM.
I want you to be a part of me. To think what I think. To feel what I feel. Nur für einen Augenblick.
Puppengesicht
I want you to be a part of me. To think what I think. To feel what I feel. Nur für einen Augenblick.
Puppengesicht
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