More teeth, less lips.

Posted in Kink with tags , , , , , on January 19, 2014 by michella74

How to describe the sensation of teeth sinking into flesh?

For me, something completely animalistic surfaces out of the dark waters of my mind; no matter if it’s my teeth doing the biting or my flesh being bitten. I crave it. I want to be bitten. I want to bite. Deep down, in those dark places, I want to taste blood on my tongue and feel rivulets running down my skin.

I’ve had flesh between my teeth and had difficulty forcing my jaws to open again. The Biker once had the flesh between my throat and shoulder in his teeth and had to force himself to stop. My reaction was “MORE! FUCK YES! MORE!” Perhaps it has something to do with my blood fetish, or perhaps my vampire fetish, or maybe it has more to do with my masochism. I couldn’t tell you for sure. What I can say is that a bite from a partner immediately turns me on.

There is something about the pain that comes with a bite. The teeth are sharp and the sensation immediate, much like a cane. Then, even after the teeth have disappeared, there is still a dull ache, as if the teeth are still there applying pressure to my skin. I imagine people with phantom limbs experience something similar. I always find myself running my fingers over the spot, hoping to find it tender and deeply bruised. I want the marks. They remind me of the pain and pleasure. They remind me that my life was in someone else’s hands…or should I say mouth.

Biting someone else is different for me. The sadistic bitch that I try to keep reined in most of the time is let loose. I want to hear a scream, or a gasp of pain (and pleasure). I want my partner to fear me. If they beg for me to stop, it’s exciting. If they plead for more, it’s even better. However, care must be taken because I have, on more than one occassion, almost lost control and broken skin. After many years I was able to figure out that the chances of that happening increase, the longer I go without biting anyone.

I’ve often wondered how many people enjoy biting. I’m convinced that our fascination with vampires, werewolves, etc. has roots in our ancient past. We both crave and fear being the prey or the predator. It awakens those long-forgotten memories of stalking our dinner and being stalked as something else’s.



Spice is Nice

Posted in Polyamory with tags , , , on July 25, 2013 by michella74

It’s true; having Spice is so very nice.

For those of you that don’t know, I’m not talking about flavoring. In this particular context I’m using “spice” as the plural for spouse. Until recently, I had no idea of the second meaning, but it’s apparently become quite common for us polyamorous folks to use it this way.

So, why did I find this out?

Well you see, on July 8th The Biker and I exchanged rings in front of about twenty of our close friends. There was no pomp or ceremony. There was no officiant. We stood in front of our little chosen family and declared our love for each other as well as wish to remain in each other’s lives for a long time to come. It was beautiful. As you all know, we’re both legally married to other people so we’ve been through the “traditional” wedding experience. This time we were able to do whatever we wanted. We chose rings that had a special significance, we chose a setting that was beautiful, the people present were people we wanted there, the words said were meaningful and true. It was magical.

Many of the people we’ve told since then have asked us the same question: “What does that mean?” Each of them has the same look of concern and confusion cross their face, and if Panzer is present, their eyes inevitably glance at him. I can’t help but laugh when that happens. Being the smart-ass that I am, it’s difficult for me to not mess with them a little bit and announce that we’re leaving our respective spouses to live together on an island in the middle of the Pacific. So far, I’ve been able to contain myself and my standard answer has become that we married each other in our hearts since we can’t do so legally. The result of that question being asked of me so often for the past few weeks is that I’ve really spent some time thinking about what our ring exchange means for me. Obviously I’m not writing for The Biker, but I have NO doubt that he’ll share his opinion in the comments once this post is published.  *wink*

When we met nineteen months ago I had no idea what he would become to me. He was simply a sexy man wearing a kilt that happened to be at my favorite bar and happened to be a friend of one of my friends. Panzer and I were newly poly. I didn’t think this fun, flirty guy would become so important to me, but he did. He’s been there for me through ups and downs; he’s provided emotional support during some rough times; he’s made me feel loved and protected as well as caused me to feel protective towards him. I think of him when I wake in the morning and before I sleep each night. These are the EXACT same things and feelings that Panzer evokes in me. EXACTLY THE SAME. Therefore, it felt natural for me to want to make a commitment to him. No, we aren’t combining a household or making plans to retire in Mexico, but he holds a special place in my heart just as Panzer does.

For me, making a commitment to The Biker is more on an emotional level than anything else. In just the same way that I make sure to leave time in my schedule for Panzer, I now do the same thing with The Biker. I won’t cancel a date with either of them in order to spend time with someone else. I plan my week around the time I will spend with each of them. I take both their opinions into account when I’m thinking of doing something new (like the tattoo idea I’m currently tossing around). When either of them is upset or stressed about something, I’m there completely in whatever way they need me, and I can expect the same thing from either of them.

I have noticed a couple things since I married The Biker though. First, I actually feel like a newlywed. It seems strange since we’ve been together for so long already, but I know I’m letting him see more of my inner self and it feels like he’s doing the same thing. It’s like falling in love with him all over again and we’re both acting obnoxiously adorable. Second, I have had no desire to go out on any dates with anyone new. I’ve had the opportunity, but it just hasn’t appealed to me. My theory is that because we have finally reached a level of emotional intimacy that matches our physical one, I’m no longer seeking that connection with anyone – at least not right now. Who knows? Perhaps in the future one, or the both of us, will meet someone interesting, but right now, I’m completely content with my husbands.

The other thing that I’ve noticed is that Panzer seems to be reaching out to him more. I’m not sure if I just never noticed it before, or if it is a new occurrence, but it makes me smile. The Biker was so concerned about Panzer’s feelings when we began talking about the ring exchange. I think he was frightened that Panzer would feel slighted. I’ll admit that I wasn’t sure how the news would be accepted, but in true Panzer fashion, he was supportive and loving. He knows me better than anyone else and I think he saw that my love is sincere and not fleeting. He said to me recently (in somewhat different words) that he genuinely likes The Biker and is happy for my happiness. Yay for compersion!

I am somewhat sad about one thing though. (Yes, my poly life isn’t all sunshine and roses.) I still haven’t met The Biker’s wife. We’ve talked about it many times, and I understand the logistical reasons, but it still sometimes makes me uneasy. She knows how we feel about each other; she knows that he sleeps at my house at least once a week and we see each other at least three times a week; she knows that we exchanged rings, but I’ve never spoken to her. It’s strange for me. I’ve never been in a relationship like this. I know everyone Panzer has ever dated and have called quite a few of them friends. I’m sure I’ll meet her someday, but right now it still feels strange to me to NOT know her.

So my friends, what else was I wanting to tell you? Nothing really. I wanted to share my happy news with all of you. Perhaps one of you has been thinking about how to commit to a paramour. Perhaps one of you has a spouse that is going through this. Perhaps you’re just curious about my poly life. Whatever the reason you’re reading this, I hope you enjoyed it. 🙂

Please don’t spare the rod

Posted in Kink with tags , , on July 11, 2013 by michella74

Oh, oh my….so Jade, you’ve chosen canes as this week’s KOTW. Let’s do this.

What can I say about them?

Wielded properly, they cause the kind of pain that makes my cunt wet; that makes me suck in my breath and allow the pain to flow through me; that makes me cry out and then whimper softly. It matters not at all whether the cane is large or small, or the material it’s made of. What matters is how it’s used.

Canes require so little physical effort and yet the results are almost immediate. They can be used to poke and prod. The blows can be slow, so the bottom has time to absorb the shock and pain or rapid, so the bottom can’t escape into sub-space. They can create slim welts that can then be further manipulated with pinwheels or knives or pinching fingers. They can cause deep bruises that don’t appear for several hours and last for a week. I see them as an all-around “must have” in any sadist’s toy bag.

My first real cane scene was with Panzer. He was interrogating me (another favorite of mine) and his torture device of choice was our tiny carbon-fiber cane. The diameter is no more than 1/8″ and it’s coated in some sort of soft plastic. It’s completely evil and I lust after it.

He beat me with it for an hour. He used it to put his initials on my inner thighs. He would swing it as hard as he could and let me absorb the pain. He would hit me softly in rapid succession until I begged him to stop so I could process the sensation. If you’ve never been hit over and over again with such a small cane for an extended period of time, I cannot sufficiently describe the sensation to you. Allow me to say that it was good that we were in a concrete bunker-style room with an iron door because I couldn’t hold in my screams by the end.

The Rigger has a bamboo cane that looks like the one Charlie Chaplin always carried. I once asked him to make me cry and gave him carte blanche to achieve that goal. I had no idea what weapons he’d pull out of his arsenal. Well, that cane appeared and played heavily in the scene. The strikes were much less “stingy” than our little cane, but no less vicious. He didn’t have to use much force in order to get results, and the bruises created by that cane went deep and lasted for over a week. *sigh* I miss that cane.

A few months ago Panzer had a stroke of brilliance. He came home from a trip to the drugstore with a cheap kite. I had no idea why until I saw him removing the slim fiberglass rods. The soft whistle that they make as they’re being swung at your naked flesh is absolutely delicious. Sometimes he’ll just swing them through the air near me while I’m blindfolded. That “sssswwiiisssshhhh” sound terrifies and excites me, but the sound is nothing compared to the feeling of being hit with them. The welts form almost instantaneously and the pain radiates through my body like ripples created when a pebble is thrown into water.

Recently The Biker, Panzer and I played together. The Biker picked up one of Panzer’s newer toys. It’s a two foot long piece of 1″ PVC pipe. Yeah…   Just imagine what kind of damage it can do. After hitting me with it just once, he decided that he needed to put it down. You see, The Biker has had a varied career path and wielding that pipe reminded him of the night he put a man in the hospital. Bringing that cane down across my back reminded him too much of that night. He wasn’t fond of the memories that flashed through his mind as he hit me across the back.

I still recall that hit, over a month later. Had I not been partially suspended, I would have fallen to my knees. It saddens me that The Biker had that experience with it, but I’m glad he tried it out. I’m also pleased that I was able to experience that hit. That particular cane has scared me since Panzer made it; scared and fascinated. I can now say for certain that I’ll enjoy it more when it’s used as more of a “thuddy” toy.

I don’t love canes solely as a bottom either. When I Top, canes make quite a few appearances. I can’t resist. I love the look of fear that appears on my bottom’s face when I pull my collection of canes out of my toy bag. I know exactly what kind of pain I’m about to inflict, exactly what sensations will flow through their body, exactly what the end result will be. When I watch the red welts appear on their flesh, my breath quickens, I flush, and I get so wet that I can feel the moisture run down my thighs. I crave the begging, the screaming, the tears. I’ve been known to giggle while I cane someone. I’m not even aware of it and a few of my partners have confided that the giggling is the most frightening part of the scene. Heh heh heh….that almost makes me happier than causing pain. *wink*


Blades & Blood

Posted in Kink with tags , , , , , , on July 3, 2013 by michella74

My friend Jade chose the topic of knives as the Kink of the Week a few weeks ago. I wanted to link this post to her blog, but life intervened and I didn’t get it finished in time. After putting so much thought into it, I decided to post it anyway.

The click of a switchblade opening.
Cold steel warming against your skin.
A honed edge pressing against your throat.
The sting as your flesh is sliced open.
For some these words do nothing but cause panic; for me, they arouse. I’m a knife player. I love the fear. I love the blood. I love the scars.

To understand it, you have to know a little bit more of my history. At the age of eight I purposefully pressed a razor blade to my index finger and cut it open. I wanted to see what it felt like. The lack of pain was surprising, as was the effect the sight of the blood had on me. It was exciting; my heart raced, my breath quickened. Somehow I knew that I probably shouldn’t tell that detail to anyone. When I was sixteen I worked the switchboard at a museum on the weekend nights. It was a boring job, and gave me plenty of time and solitude to do what I liked. I would cut small geometric designs into my thighs with an X-acto knife. I loved being the only person that knew they were there. Between the ages of eighteen and nineteen, after a surprise pregnancy and subsequent abortion as well as a failed attempt at going away to college, I cut myself quite often out of misery. I’m not proud of that brief period of my life, but it’s a part of me. Eventually I realized that cutting wasn’t a healthy outlet for what I was feeling, but my fascination with blood and blades stayed with me even after I gave it up.

Almost three years ago Panzer and I went to a weekend-long kink event and I dragged him to a Bloodplay class. He was less than thrilled, but I couldn’t get enough. It was so exciting to know that there were many other people with the same fascination as myself. We watched a woman have an IV placed in her arm and then orgasm as her own blood was drizzled onto her naked body. It was one of the most erotic things I’ve ever witnessed. I couldn’t wait to try a bloodplay scene. Much to my dismay, Panzer wasn’t as aroused by the idea. He’s a little bit more squeamish than I am, and the thought of cutting me open did nothing for him. I was distraught. I thought I’d never get my scene.

Less than a year later, I got it. I found out that a friend of ours enjoyed playing with knives, blood, and fear, but didn’t have the opportunity very often. I worked up the courage and asked him if he’d like to scene with me at some point. He agreed, and a week later I was naked in a dungeon watching this man clean up a pool of my blood. He scared me, he hurt me, he gave me exactly what I wanted. For several hours I wasn’t 100% certain that I’d leave that room with all the skin I’d arrived in. I was completely terrified; so much so, that Panzer was worried for me as he listened to my screams. I still carry scars from that scene almost two years later and I consider them prized possessions.

Since then, I’ve made my love of knives and blood known to everyone I play with. Panzer is still a bit reticent to pull a knife on me, but he’s getting better. The Cop blindfolded me once and ran a straight razor all over my body. The Rigger once jumped out of a dark bathroom as I walked by, held a knife to my throat, and pulled me back into the room with him in order to molest me for a little while. The Biker carries a knife at all times and is quite fond of pulling it out at the bar and running the tip across my skin. He knows what happens go me when I hear the sound of a switchblade opening. He even has a special blade that he’s saving for our first knife scene together and I honestly cannot wait.

I’ve wondered many times what it is about honed steel that gets me wet. After much deliberation, I think it might be somewhat related to why I enjoy face slapping; having my caged submissive dragged out of me. When the edge of a knife is held to my throat, a wrong move could be fatal and at that point, I have no choice but to follow every instruction given to me by my Top. I’m forced to submit to their whims, lest I get seriously hurt. But there is still that eight year old girl inside of me that cut herself just to feel it, just to see the blood. She gets off on the thought that perhaps the blade will press a little too deeply and the blood will slowly flow. The sensation of it pooling in the wound, running down my skin, dripping to the ground; just thinking of it right now gives me goosebumps. Where this love of blood came from, I do not know. I’m sure that I never will. But I’m okay with that. I don’t always need to know the “why”. What matters is that I found a (somewhat) safer and healthier way to fulfill my desire for blood. What matters is that I know I can find people I trust that will hurt me, but not harm me.

The man that gave me my first knife and blood scene knows of my love for vintage lingerie. He cut seams into my legs from my ass to my ankles and two years later, I still have scars.

The man that gave me my first knife and blood scene knows of my love for vintage lingerie. He cut seams into my legs from my ass to my ankles and two years later, I still have scars.

Let me go

Posted in Kink with tags , , , on May 30, 2013 by michella74

There’s a private local play party coming up and I’m really excited about it. Panzer and I have been to this house several times previously, but we were always catering and after a day of prepping and cooking hors d’oeuvres, we never had the energy to actually play. This time will be different. This time we’ll be going as guests, and it’s possible that The Biker will be able to join us. The house itself is beautiful, and since it’s a private party, there aren’t as many rules as are usually present in public venues. That’s lovely, but not what is titillating me. So why am I excited?

Well, I haven’t had a good, hard scene in over a month. I’m not talking about just a bit of rope and some spanking. I’m talking about a challenge. I’m talking about something cathartic. I’ve been consumed with the memories of my last hard scene and I want more. This party gives me a chance to get it. Therefore, I’m giggling and doing a little happy dance.

You see, I want to feel the kiss of canes. I want fingernails leaving scarlet moons  in my skin. I want fingers and teeth digging into my flesh. I want to fight. I want to scream. I want to be slapped. I want hands around my throat until the edges of my vision go black. I want my cries of pain to be muffled by a cock being shoved into my mouth. I want to hear them call me a filthy whore because I asked for this – because I enjoy it. I want to make it to the end of the scene and have to be lowered onto the floor; nothing more than a bundle of raw nerve-endings and tears. I want to hate Panzer (and The Biker if he can join us) for a little while afterwards. I want to whisper at them to not touch me, to just let me curl up into a little ball. In short, I want to be deliciously broken by the end of it so I can rebuild myself.

I don’t crave scenes like this very often for two reasons. First, because of the amount of work it takes to get me to that point. Some people submit to the pain easily. For me though, it’s never that simple. My mind won’t let me give up control without a fight. I thrash, I curse, I threaten my Top with bodily harm. It’s not pretty, and yet, there’s something wild and wonderful about it. Secondly, and I hate admitting this, scenes like this actually frighten me…more than a little.

Prior to realizing the level of my masochism, I was always fascinated by watching the heavy players. Seeing a Top punching, kicking, choking their bottom; seeing the bottom begging for mercy while tears rolled down their face; witnessing the connection between the beater and the beaten; it enthralled me. I always thought it was similar to wanting to stare at the car accident as I drove by, but within the past eight months or so I’ve realized that I was fascinated because I wanted to be IN those scenes. That scares me. Realizing that I crave beatings and tears and pain that much sometimes makes me wonder why? Why do I need the pain so much?

Needing the pain is something that I’ve come to accept, but the pain itself still gives me pause. I know that Panzer and The Biker will read this post. I know what the result will be. They’ll do their best to give me what I’m asking for. And that scares the hell out of me. I don’t get frightened when I know that a “normal” scene is going to happen; one in which I’ll still be aware of myself and will remain unbroken. But this is different. The amount of pain and degradation that it will take to get me to the level I’m now desiring is substantial. The idea of it makes me tremble and yet, it still gets me wet. 

I had a discussion last night with a friend about scenes like this. As a Top, there is always the fear that you won’t be able to control the sadistic beast inside; that once unleashed, it won’t allow itself to be caged again; that the bottom will hate you long after the scene is over. These are valid fears, and in my opinion, good Tops always have them to some degree. But as a bottom, there is always the fear that you won’t be able to take it; that you’ll have to safeword early; or worse, that you won’t be able to let go of yourself and surrender to the pain. I’ve experienced all those fears as both a Top and a bottom and I’m experiencing the fears of a bottom now as well as something else.

I’m really fearing the pain itself. I know how odd that must sound since I’ve gone on and on about being a heavy masochist, but it’s true. Yes, I process pain differently than most people, but it still registers as pain. It still makes me whimper and cry. I still try to escape from it. I still scream when the cane leaves a welt, when fingertips grind into a nerve, when a blade draws blood. How could I not? The difference is that I know what my body will do with that pain within a few moments…it will turn it into pleasure and allow me to let go. That, my friends, is why I crave it even as I fear it. That is why I ask for it. That is what makes me who I am.

The Rigger cut our ropes

Posted in Friendship, Polyamory with tags , , on May 12, 2013 by michella74

When he said nothing but a return to monogamy, relocation, or death would break us up, I should have known he was lying.

I’m not The Rigger’s “type”. I’ve known that from the beginning, but I was willing to give “us” a chance. He told me that he didn’t want another submissive girl, he didn’t want to have to take care of someone, he wanted a woman that could take care of herself; someone that was his equal, someone that he could be himself with – his whole self. I fell for it; hook, line, and sinker. Sure, part of the problem is that I wanted it so badly to be true, but he’s also very good at making women fall in love with him. I’m not being petty either, he told me that one night as we drove around St. Louis, looking at old buildings that he loves.

I don’t think there was any malicious intent on his part, but keeping it from me wasn’t the kindest thing he could have done. For the past month there has been a distinct lack of intimate contact from him. There were hugs and soft kisses, but no passion from him at all. At first, I thought it had to do with the death of his friend, but yesterday something made me question it. Aside from sleeping naked beside him, our “date” was more like two friends hanging out. He put me in rope, but left me fully clothed (like any other play partner) and didn’t touch me afterwards. He woke before me to a phone call, but never came back to bed. Then he spent the entire morning texting with a new girl that needs a caretaker. When I left his place, it felt like he had to remind himself to tell me he loved me and because of that, I wept the entire way home.

It took me hours to decide whether or not to bring up my concerns, but I knew I couldn’t wait any longer. He obviously wasn’t going to say anything, so it was up to me. I texted him three words: Are we ok? I didn’t hear from him for five hours. After the first 30 minutes had passed, I knew the answer, but I waited anyway. (I’m a masochist, after all, and I wanted the pain.) When he answered, he confirmed everything I’d been sensing. He said he no longer felt passion for me. He said he still loved me, but wanted to feel like he couldn’t keep his hands off of his partner.

I’d like to say that these statements surprised me, but I can’t. He’s always commented on the beauty of babygirl, how he can’t keep his hands off of her, how much he wants her, etc. At one point in time he told me I was beautiful, but that stopped long ago. In a recent discussion he said that “an accident of genetics” was the reason that photographers didn’t ask me to model for them. That’s not really a statement you want to hear from a man that you love.

There are so many things he said and did that I’ve been replaying in my head for the past 24 hours. I think that’s the worst part about a breakup; the rewinding of time and the echoes of past words and deeds. It’s almost impossible to recall the good times right now, and when I allow myself to do that, the pain is almost unbearable. I can’t think about the happy times right now. I have to focus on all the hurtful things that he said and did. I have to focus on the unkept promises; and there are many. I’m focusing on the disappointments, the tears he caused, the bad pain. There is nothing I can do about the lack of passion he has for me now. I am nothing more than a failed experiment in his life, and he in mine. I hope that one day we’ll be able to be friends again, but not right now, not for a bit.

Thankfully, when you live a poly life, there is (usually) another partner there to help assuage the pain. I’m extremely lucky that I have two. Both Panzer and The Biker spent the evening consoling me, telling me how much they loved me; helping me to focus on the love I have in my life instead of the hurt. Without them I’d be a miserable wreck of a woman right now instead of simply morose. But I’ve still lost my friend – the one that helped me through prior breakups, the one who helped me see the good in those that caused me pain. That hurts me more than knowing he no longer desires me.

So, it’s time to rebuild my walls, strengthen my defenses, and hope that I don’t fall for the same tricks again. Every time I’m hurt I become more of a cynic, I become more withdrawn, I make it more difficult to see the real me. I worry that someday I won’t even know who I really am behind the public facade.

Do I scare you? Good.

Posted in Kink, Ruminations with tags , on May 10, 2013 by michella74

I can be physically intimidating. I admit it. I’m 5’9″. I have an abundance of curves in the right places. I have a relatively deep voice for a woman. I wear Rockabilly makeup and I’m often in 3″-5″ heels when I’m out on the town. My left arm has a 3/4 sleeve and my upper right arm is covered by a tattoo of a woman in bondage. I have facial piercings and half of my bangs have been bleached from a chestnut brown to blonde. Many people find me intimidating, but I really don’t think it has much to do with my appearance.

I consider myself somewhat of an introvert. Although I’m perfectly happy to sit at a bar all night with a group of friends, I’m usually the quiet one. I enjoy observing people. I listen to what they’re saying, watch how their bodies move, and how they interact with everyone else. Many times, people don’t realize that I’ve been observing them for hours. There’s something satisfying about being able to tell when someone is stretching the truth or if I’ll be able to silence them with a look or sometimes, just being able to tell who needs to be pulled aside and asked if they’re doing ok. I don’t claim to be all-knowing when it comes to judging character, but given the time to observe someone, I can get a good feel for them. I guess that can make me somewhat intimidating to some people, but I try to use my powers for good.

So why am I writing about this?
Well you see, Panzer and I were talking the other night about kink (shocking, eh) and we got on the subject of my Topping style. Yes, the word intimidating came up again. I believe it was right after I said something about not needing other people’s pain, but craving the sight of tears falling from beautiful eyes. Panzer just sort of looked at me, then he laughed and told me that I’m frightening. The best (worst) part about that statement is that I wasn’t really even thinking about what I was saying – it just popped out. I guess sometimes even I forget how scary the thoughts in my head can be. I decided to write about it and try to figure out why that particular word is used about me so often.

When The Cop and I were dating there was a night that I was in a bit of a frenzy. At that point in time, I didn’t have any partners that I Topped and I was feeling particularly sadistic that evening. We were standing in a parking lot next to my car and he was on duty. I remember commenting to him that I wanted nothing more than to feel flesh between my teeth and blood running down my chin. FSM bless him, he put his forearm in my mouth and told me to “go ahead”. I don’t really remember the bite, but I know he had to forcibly remove his arm from my teeth. What I do remember is the look of fear and awe in the eyes of the uniformed officer standing in front of me, and to this day, it makes me wet.

Gothboy told me more than once that I frightened him. He was relatively new to kink when we started dating. Well, that’s not completely true. He’d never had an experienced partner and was surprised by some of the things that I enjoy. The first night I told him to wrap his hand around my throat while he fucked me, he looked scared, but he did it. When I asked him to throw me around and be as rough as he could, again, there was fear there, but after a few moments, he was enjoying himself as much as I was. But after we ended our relationship and actually started talking, he told me that I was, yep, intimidating.

After The Rigger and I started dating and I was able to start regularly exploring the Top side of myself, I began to gain a greater understanding of what it is about me that scares people. My theory is this: I know and accept who I am. I’m a strong woman and I’m not afraid to be honest with people. I know what I enjoy and what I don’t. Commanding someone to hurt me, or commanding them to take the pain I give them doesn’t frighten me. And in both situations, the amount of pain is significantly higher than most people enjoy. If I think that someone is being treated unfairly, or treating someone else unfairly, I’ll say so. I think all that, more than how I look, is why so many people are intimidated. And to be honest, I’m completely fine with that.