The Good Sub

the ultimate battle beween good and brat

The Collar

The air was ripe with anticipation. I had never been to The Big Easy before, or really anywhere as far as vacations were concerned.  “This is what happens to good girls,” Daddy said, as we made our way through the opulent hotel lobby. To say it was the nicest hotel I had ever been to would have been an understatement. Opulent chandeliers, ornate and intricate furniture, and a grand piano in the lobby all proudly stated that this place was dripping with grandeur. We checked in, and then consulted with the concierge about a package that was supposed to be arriving (my collar.) I was sad when it hadn’t arrived yet, but couldn’t wait to get out into the streets of New Orleans, and see what they had to offer.

The walk to Bourbon street was short, maybe a couple of blocks. In my naiveté, I had decided on heels, unaware of the torture this would cause me later in the evening, as most of the streets were made of brick, and far from being even. We set out, and were immediately drowned in the richness that could only be New Orleans night life. Drinking on the street is legal here, so solo cups were in abundance. You could tell the night was young, as the streets were not yet as crowded as a can of sardines. We hit Bourbon Street, and that’s when I knew what Daddy had said was true: Bourbon Street hits your senses when you happen upon it- literally; your nose is burned by a smell of what I can only is imagine is bile and broken dreams…the smell of nights not remembered and temptations fulfilled. The neon lights lit up my senses as we strolled the strip, deciding where to spend our evening before the big event. There were bars everywhere, and since this was back at the time when I still drank, I decided to indulge myself in a little something called a ‘hand grenade.’ This tall drink certainly earned its reputation as the night wore on. Ever the wonderful Master that He is, Daddy stayed sober, so He could be alert to any danger that may befall us in an admittedly sinful town. We trolled the strip for a few hours, doing the things you would imagine tourists to do- bars, strip clubs, lingerie stores, and the like.

Daddy asked if I was ready, and I said I was, although in reality I wasn’t sure. The anticipation of the night was causing my stomach to knot, and I was as anxious as a child on Christmas Eve. We began making our way back to the hotel to gather our things before we went out for the real reason we had journeyed to New Orleans in the first place, making a stop along the way to get some medicine to sooth my anxious tummy. By the time we arrived back at the hotel, my feet were killing me, but unfortunately for me, the heels were also a part of my costume change. I took off my street clothes, and put on a teddy. It was black, and had been purchased with our escapades in mind. It was made of a see-through gauzy material, with a halter neck, and a plunge that went right down past my navel, where it connected to the bottom, which really, was just a swath of material covering the front of me, as the back part of it was a thong. Connected to the teddy were garter straps, which I fastened to my fishnet thigh-highs…and of course, the shoes were my trusty six-inch black suede stilettos that had been with me all night. Over this titillating outfit, I wore a black and white trench coat…it was the only thing covering this outfit that screamed sex from a lobby full of well-to-do vacationers who flitted about the lobby of our hotel. We made our way out, our destination conveniently about a block from the hotel, which was wonderful for me, as my feet were really beginning to ache. All at once, we were there, or at least, we thought we were. The address was correct, but it was a very plain building, with seemingly no activity happening inside. Daddy pulled on the door, and it opened, beckoning us inside. This was the reason we had come: to go to The Jasmine Club.

Being very new to the BDSM scene, we weren’t aware of many places that we could (publicly) act out our kinks, but through loads of research, we had found this place…which had a dungeon! After paying our admission fees, we walked in, and felt the place out. We started on the main floor, which housed a dance floor, a bar, and a stripper pole. Then we made our way up to the second floor, which had a theatre room (for showing porn, of course,) a voyeur room, and a string of bedrooms for couples in the mood to express their affections. Going up the stairs to the third floor, there was an offer from not one, but two gentlemen, graciously affording to help and take care of my needs. Daddy, being the greedy and loving Master that He is, politely declined, and after briefly touring the third floor, which was mainly more beds in an open area, we finally managed to make it to the fourth floor- The Dungeon. There was a man there, who said his name was Trauma. He said that he was there to help us out with any of the equipment, or to answer any questions we may have. As we looked around the room there were paddles, and floggers, and wrist cuffs- oh my! So much for the senses to take in…my anticipation rose to heights I previously did not know existed. It was in this giddy state that it caught my eye- the suspension points. Being tied up and suspended had been extremely high on my fantasy priority list since I had read about it over ten-some years ago…however, this was the first time that the opportunity had presented itself.

I looked at Daddy longingly, leaned into Him, and whispered ‘can we?’ He seemed tentative, mainly because, since He was not Himself familiar with shibari, He would have to entrust this part of our scene to Trauma, a man He’d just met. Lucky for me, Trauma was able to convince Daddy of his credentials, explaining how dedicated he was to this art form, and how after two diligent years of practice, he still considered himself a novice among his mentors. Trauma asked for a few minutes to set things up, so Daddy and I wandered around for a few more minutes, our heads filling with images of where the night would take us. When we came back up, the scene was set. There was a padded area, on the floor, with miles of rope upon it, and behind it, a wall full of every implement imaginable with which to beat someone. On the opposite side of the room, was a rich red leather couch, and a blanket, meant for aftercare. On either side of the couch, there were black wooden benches, for onlookers who wished to enjoy the show…and in fact one or two had wandered up, adding to my already heightened nerves. Trauma suggested music to help me focus, and after a bit of back and forth, we decided on some traditional Japanese music, sans lyrics. He turned on the powerful speakers, and as they began to hum their sweet tune, I instantly melted into the moment. I heard commands being given to me: my safewords were green, yellow, and red; there would be check-ins every few minutes and I was to give a color as an indication of my current state. The process of tying me felt like a timeless eternity- I bent and swayed to the will of the rope, and grew wetter every time it tightened and bit my skin.

Before I knew it, I was suspended in midair. I felt marvelous and daring. I heard Trauma ask Daddy ‘Do you want to disorient her?’ and then a split second later, I was spinning through the air, as though I had just stepped on the tea cup ride at Disney Land. As I spun, I noticed more people had gathered, but by this point, I was in a dream-like state, giddily intoxicated with my current situation. I was still spinning when Trauma told me to stretch out within my binding, and as I did so, I began to slow down. He gave me another great push, and told me to fold my limbs in, which made me swirl incredibly fast- it was as if I was on some fantastic roller coaster. This pattern repeated for some time, and with every spin, I sank deeper into ecstasy.

Just when I thought I was at maximum capacity for physical stimulation- it happened. Daddy had picked up a paddle, and I was now receiving hard strikes against my bare bottom. There were ten of them, first a smack on the bottom, and then a spin…and the pattern repeated. After the first set of blows, Daddy slowed my spinning to check in with me and ask me what my color was: I was green. Then it happened again: SMACK, spin, SMACK, spin, SMACK, this time with a different paddle…and after ten more, I was slowed again, and asked if I was okay. I was in a total state of sub-space, a spinning, bound pile of goo, floating gently through ecstasy. I made it through a mind-boggling 90 blows until I finally called yellow. Daddy then repeated the process one more time, and we were done.

It took some time to take me down, and untie me, although I largely unaware of the process; I was still floating on the cloud that was of bliss that had been our scene. I counted the number of people that had gathered in the room as I wrapped a blanket around myself and sipped on the water that I had been handed- there were twelve. Twelve people that witnessed what was likely  one of the most intimate and bonding experiences I have ever had. There was one lady, with a blunt black bob and a thick French accent, that told me that it was the most beautiful thing she had ever witnessed. It was like art in motion, she told me. Her words captured my feelings, and my eyes teared at this beautiful and heartfelt comment.After I was mostly settled, Daddy took me back to the hotel. My collar still hadn’t arrived, so we cuddled close and simply spent the night together.

The next morning, we ventured out early, and indulged in what now is one of our ultimate pleasures: the hot tub. This particular hot tub was not unlike the rest of the hotel- spectacular. There was a rooftop pool, and the flooring was the soft foam material often used in kids’ modern playgrounds; it’s spongy, and doesn’t scrape, nor does it get painfully hot in the summer heat that New Orleans is known for producing. As we basked in the warm glow of the sunshine, and talked, we noticed one particular couple, not twenty feet from where we sat. They were laying side-by-side in the pool chairs, but they may as well have been on different continents. Both of them were totally engrossed in whatever petty thing had caught their attention on social media- both were wholly unaware of each other, as well as the picturesque setting they were enveloped it. All they saw were their phones- not each other, and certainly not the beautiful fountain opposite the pool, or the awe-inspiring cathedral across the street. Daddy looked at me and said “Let’s never be like them, okay?” I shook my head vigorously, and said “You took the words right out of my mouth.” Then He beckoned me closer, to straddle Him, so we could be closer. We kept talking, but His hand slipped under the water, and untied the bright yellow bow that held together my string bikini. My eyes widened, and I looked at Him in shock, my eyes searching for an answer. He returned my gaze and simply said “Shhhh” as His hands discreetly found my sweet spot. I was amazed by His boldness- it was broad daylight and we were outside, where people sat less than twenty feet away. I was also extremely turned on, the exhibitionist in me instantly dripping with longing. Before long, I was cumming,  biting my lip in an attempt to be quiet, and pressing my forehead into Daddy’s in order to stay steady. Still reeling from orgasm, Daddy looks at me and says “get on.” I am surprised but immediately obey. “What if someone sees?” I ask, but He quickly reassured me: “Don’t worry baby…I just wanted to feel you for a little while; we’ll be careful.” And we were. To my amazement I rode His cock in the middle of the rooftop hot tub without catching so much as a sideways glance from the other pool dwellers.

When we had finished ‘relaxing’ in the hot tub, we decided to go to the concierge desk one more time, to see if our package had arrived. To our delight it had: my collar was finally here! It was beautiful- baby pink and silver chain mail, with a silver locking heart clasp. This seemingly innocuous necklace was the culmination of everything that had led to this point and all that I wanted in a relationship: to be Owned. We took it upstairs, and Daddy asked me if this was what I really wanted. I assured Him again that it was…that I had an overwhelming desire to belong to Him. He instructed me to undress, and kneel in front of Him. When I had, He lovingly placed the collar around my neck. I will never forget when the lock snapped into place- the feeling that it gave me. It was as if I myself was a lock, and His hands fastening the collar were the key, and I literally felt the tumblers fall into place as He secured it around my neck. I felt transcendently happy…for I finally belonged…I was, truly and wholly, HIS.



Who’s That Chick?

Hello, blogosphere! However you happened to stumble across this blog, let me humbly thank you for taking the time to read my work. I am an owned and collared submissive, and have been in a BDSM relationship for almost four years. We attempt to be 24/7, however, there are small humans in the picture, so this alters things a bit. I identify as a slave, a submissive, a puppy,  a little, and definitely a brat, with a capital B.  There’s a long list of things I am into, and a short list of things I’m not. I refer to my Owner primarily as Daddy, but occasionally I will refer to Him as Master, especially if I am being formal. For both of us, this is our first BDSM relationship. We were amazingly lucky not only to be each other’s first, but also that our kinks have been so in line. This blog is about our journey in kink, and the ins and outs of being in a monogamous 24/7 Master/slave dynamic. Due to Daddy’s job, and the type of work I plan on going into, I’m blogging this under a pseudonym; but although the names have been changed to protect the guilty, the stories are 100% true unless otherwise indicated.  I hope you have as much fun reading about my life as I have living it!

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