♦ I have a couple of collars besides my shiny one and my masculine leather one. Exactly two more, in fact, both matte and black, which close with poppers rather than buckles. One says “SLUT” in metal letters on the front, the other “BAD KITTY”. I don’t get a chance to wear them all that often, but I wore the bad kitty one to Mardi Gras last weekend for a bit of added spice to my rainbow theme, knowing that gay-friendly quite often goes hand-in-hand with kink-friendly.
When we got back from Mardi Gras (having bought a lovely suede flogger), all my accessories came off in a too-hot heap, leaving the collar on the coffee table. I thought nothing of it until last night when, idly fidgety and mischievous, I picked up my collar and played with it briefly before eyeing Crush’s back. Hmm. The collar is basically a leather strap with metal studs, when you think of it that way…
The thwack onto Crush’s back took him by surprise and he yelped. Apparently, it had stung. I’d been talking with him since Mardi Gras about how I’d like to wear a collar more often but that, since he wasn’t overly into it from his side, it would be a little bit like submitting to myself if he wasn’t fussed, which would be a bit rubbish. Nonetheless, I didn’t realise how much he’d taken on board.
It became more apparent when he firmly took the collar-turned-strap from my hands and said to me: “You’ve been a bad kitty…”
Before I could do anything, though I wonder now whether that was because of his speed or because that unexpected phrase had already taken me by the hair and dangled me off the ledge over subspace, he had pushed my head forward and was wrapping the collar around my throat. I must have just frozen because with my hair getting too long now there was no real way he could have closed the snaps on that collar without my compliance or, at least, without my inaction.
My reaction as he fastened the collar around my neck was internal and visceral. An explosion fired within my cunt at the shame and submission of this simple act. It was indescribably powerful and direct. I’ve felt very little like it. His collaring me was ridiculously erotic and I loved it instantly.
I’ve had a collar put on me before, of course. Fractal and I used the shiny one relatively often. But the act of putting it on before had always been during foreplay, whilst the mood was already sexed-up, not out of the blue. Not to mention in private, not out like this in my living room, a mere foot from Alt, my housemate.
If that same housemate hadn’t been there I would have jumped Crush like a shot, that option denied to me and the housemate’s presence (kinky though he is) stopping me from flirting outrageously obviously with my lover, all I could think to do was make mopey noises and pull a joke-sad face. I pouted and complained when all I wanted to do was drown in the envelopingly erotic feelings being emitted from my clit and pussy. I had no words to express what I wanted to, no way of explaining just what that little thing had done to me, especially not in company.
The room continued to move around me as I struggled to stay above water, to remain calm and to present a not-wildly-turned-on-honest face to the world. The pouting was like an armour, a little trick I used to distance myself enough to come up slightly from the submissive arousal he’d thrown me into. It was hard work.
I loved that he had shamed me this way, that he had punished me for my mischief. Heck, I think I even loved that he had done it in ‘public’, even if the only audience was my kinky housemate and even if said housemate was the only thing stopping me from leaping on Crush and fucking his brains out right there and then. The feel of the collar was gorgeous, it was sexy as hell as a symbol of Crush taking a stance and telling me off. It was submission alright.
But what I loved most of all was that he’d done this to me. Crush is dominant in a way that he isn’t submissive (though he tries gamely for me), but he isn’t into as much D/s things as I am. There are plenty of dominant things that I would love to submit to that he doesn’t particularly care for. He’d listened when I talked briefly about collaring with him, but the fact that he’d taken it to heart for me was wonderful. He’d decided I was naughty and thought I would like to be chastised in this way. He’d taken control and shamed me for my behaviour. He’d not just done it to me, but for me. It was romantic.
The shame, the slight public nature, the snug feel of the collar, the fact that he, He, he, had done this to/for me, it was so much to take in. It was a litany of pure lust. I was surprised by just how good it made me feel. I knew I liked wearing a collar, but I hadn’t expected to react so strongly to it. The sub inside me sung with delight.
The night carried on, my collar still around my neck. A friend came over and played boardgames with us, our other housemates came back and we chatted and laughed at Bear’s attempts to get his new gadgetry to work. It was a normal and pleasant evening but I hid a secret that soaked it with unseen pleasure.
The collar was comfortable, though snug, but it nagged at me all evening. It whispered lewd nothings to my cunt. Throughout the evening I was reminded of Crush’s reprimand, of that submissiveness, of the lurch between my legs he had caused.
When I thought about what he had done to me, why I was wearing this collar, a wave of lust surged in my sex, curling and rolling over inside me like a breaker on the shore before eventually crashing down into a wash of desire that never truly dissipated. I couldn’t quite forget that I was his and that I was in punishment. The collar was a constant reminder and it keep my tension on the rise all evening.
The bad kitty collar would stay on until we went to bed and I, naked and humbled, sat before him and asked, please, if I had been good enough for him to take it off for me. He complied and we turned in for the night.
My punishment wouldn’t yet be over for the day. He would make me submit again.
But that is a story for another night… ♦
(Just so you know, the original second half of this post (after “especially not in company”) disappeared into nothing when I accidentally hit “X” instead of the tab I wanted. Whatever you think of the new second half, I can almost guarantee the original was better. It was finished and it was, to me, at least, beautiful. I’ve tried to Frankenstein it back to life but you can still see the stitches and it isn’t the same. I hope I’ve learned my lesson, because, weird as it may sound, I poured a bit of my heart into that lost section. It’s gone now.)