hagiography

the autogeography of a no/body
Mar 28

kitten heels


kitten heels
Originally uploaded by the morrigan.

There are rules, most notably: Permission is explicit, by implication 'No' doesn't mean maybe and 'Yes' can mean everything.

A question frequently asked in BDSM circles is “When did you know /first realise/become aware that you were into being hurt/restrained/owned??? For years I never had a ready answer. How do you explain pain and submission – FUCKING FREAK? The most dangerous consideration is that you're being manipulated by an/other. Of course, we all want to satisfy those we love. I'm clipping my sentences in an attempt to prevent mutilation …

I cycle pretty much everywhere. Big, black bike, handmade frame, basket strapped to the front. I like the straps, brown leather, little chrome buckles. I use a flexible lock, tensile steel coated in thick, shiny plastic. I fetishise objects …

My bike has a low step over, and frequently I dismount while still in motion. The paving slabs by the supermarket are slightly uneven. I jumped to walk, pushing my bike to the entrance. Red bricks remind me of Birmingham, where I grew up, threw up, escaped from. There aren't any stands here, so I always lock her to some brushed steel architectural detail. As I was doing it my knuckles caught on the wall, scraping skin off. It didn't sting until I sucked it. The metallic taste of blood in my mouth. Flicking my tongue over ragged cuts. And then I remembered …

I fetishised him, Adam, the boy who barely noticed me. He was an angry young man. Yes. I was there. He was there. We were both there. And even though it seemed as if only a hair's breadth separated us …

Pubescent fantasies, I wrote them all down. My notebooks would get passed around the class. Red bricks. The side of a house. A dark alley way. The sweet stench of stale piss. I put him there, Adam, with me pressed against the wall. I was resistant, a good Catholic girl always is, so he pushed harder, gripping my hands in his and scraping them against the bricks, repeatedly, until my skin was torn and bleeding, and I was gasping and begging, wanting what I didn't want …

These days it's an organised reality. Contracts are drawn and signed. From the point I'm collared (literally, not metaphorically) I belong to him. He can do anything to me. I submit. But he's earned that trust. I've only ever met two men my whole life through who could be the master of me. I crave it. I don't want to be responsible, accountable or liable. I want someone else to take that entire weight from my shoulders. The sheer relief. It's like gravity doesn't exist …

But, I'm not a 24/7 sub. I don't do slavery. I'm a costumed whore. I like the corsets and expensive fripperies. We went to a cocktail party the other week and I got dressed up. I knew I looked stunning. Men couldn't approach me. No-one would've dared touch me. Sirens scare the shit out of people …

And there's the paradox, submission is domination, a highly complex art form, one I'm still learning. The shoes, those kitten heels, they're part of the process. It's difficult to attempt a transformation from fury to furry. I'm such a goddamn hellcat most of the time. But they're my Audrey Hepburn shoes, my tie me up tie me down shoes, my tamed defiance, my comfortable silence. They represent a refuge, where my no means no and my yes means yes. Does that make sense?

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23 Responses to “kitten heels”


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