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GlupaKuja
| Pan Female, 27, London, United Kingdom
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Yes.
Yes: James Joyce said it was the feminine word: that it denoted "acquiescence, self-abandon, relaxation, the end of all resistance."
Maybe not the feminine word then, certainly not for everyone - but most definitely a word to indicate submission.
I've come a long way, baby. I was born in the old heart of the Balkans, and when that heart broke I came to London and grew up in care homes and orphanages. I honestly can remember perhaps half the names of my foster parents. I learnt to speak English properly. Then like most street kids, I learned to speak English less than properly.
So yes, I was a little shit. (The construction here shouldn't imply I'm not any more; the past may be tense but it's never that simple.) And yes, I probably deserved to be kicked out of school. No matter. I got myself a fake ID and went to the seedier gentlemen's clubs in London's outer zones - and yes, I took my clothes off for money.
(And though it ruins the theme I've got going here - no, I didn't do anything more than that, in case you were wondering. I know you were.)
Eventually I got bored of that and I went to the end of the world, volunteering in Japan for months and watching the sun rise on early mornings, completely alone in the mist and half-light, not feeling bad about anything. And yes, now I'm at the other end of the world, watching the sun in the evenings, wondering what's next.
(Yes: I'm full of shit when I get going.)
Yes, I'm a submissive. Yes, I'm looking, but only potentially - I only want to talk for now, then perhaps meet up, then perhaps - I must stress the perhaps - play. But I'll do it in my own time. The point of all that guff up there was to stress that submissive doesn't mean helpless. It doesn't mean weak. I can look after myself perfectly well until the moment I choose not to.
I used to think I was a nihilist: I thought I wanted oblivion. But I learned eventually that what I really wanted was oblivion's daughter: she's beautiful, she's forever, she wants nothing more than to cradle people like me in her arms and keep us safe and warm. Her name is Yes.
So go on... ask me a question.
❤
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2/25/2018 1:39:20 PM: Just a few things to keep in mind in case you were thinking of messaging me: one, I don't have any children; and two, if I did I would not let you fucking rape them no matter how politely you ask.It speaks very ill of this site, and humanity in general, that I have to explicitly state that.
1/1/2018 3:37:48 PM: As a quick appendix to my previous journal entry - for the avoidance of doubt I'd like to stress that I'm not actually making any porn films. I'm a pun star, not a porn star. Wahey.
12/8/2017 1:18:10 PM: All of my great ideas revolve around puns. (Example: when I was in LA I briefly looked into how feasible it would be for me to open a Trump-themed craft beer pub called Fake Brews.) I'm currently casting for two sexy exotic European pornos. One is a highbrow little thing, set in the snowy patriarchal wastes of Oslo, called Hedda Gobbler. The other will star a girl who visits Berlin, only to find that all those magnificent, mulleted, kebab-loving German men like to finish on her boobs. If you'd like to be a part of Herrs on Your Chest please contact me via the usual outlets. Thanks.
12/3/2017 10:53:10 AM: Collarspace may just have bottomed out for me this morning... I had an email from a charming gent who offered to pay me if he could 'fuck [my] youngest daughter.'I'm 26. (Childless, too, and I think I felt my ovaries shriveling up as I read his message. Ugh.) Nope, didn't faze him.Normally when I get a creep messaging I like to fuck them about a little bit for the lols (YES MY LIFE IS VERY FULFILLING THANKS FOR ASKING) but I couldn't bring myself to do it with this fucker. I'm pleased to say that CS seem to have removed him fairly quickly, which I appreciate... but yeah. The internet being a Twat Machine strikes again.
11/11/2017 10:42:30 AM: With apologies to W. Somerset Maugham, here are some thoughts of mine on/of human bondage...I've had a pretty tough life. Not to go all X-factor-tragic-backstory on you, but I feel like that's a pretty fair statement. As a kid I was never wanted: I was a problem to be solved, to be contained. When I got a bit older (only a bit) I fell into some bad situations (#metoo, sigh) because I thought that wanting something from me was an acceptable surrogate for actually wanting me. Spoiler alert: it's not. Is it fuck.Don't get me wrong, it's... character building, at least if you have a fairly narrow view of what character is. It's made me self-reliant and pretty resilient. I carry myself a little bit like a boxer must, I suppose, all tight and tense, eternally vigilant, ready to defend myself and counter-attack if need be. It's not always a terrible thing, but it is fucking exhausting.So I crave bondage, and the right person to keep me in it, because it lets me relax, let go of all that tension in mind and body and spirit, let myself surrender to someone.It's funny, to me at least, how nobody really talks about bondage as a romantic pursuit. At it's best I can't think of anything more intimate than handing myself over to another person, or, looking at it from a dom(me)'s point of view, taking control of a person who's made herself exposed and vulnerable for you. If something is precious to you, you don't want to let it go.One of my favourite experiences, pretty much ever, was a lazy Saturday wearing nothing but a bolero straitjacket, a happy captive in a lover's bed. I'd surrendered, allowed him to use me however he liked, and boy he'd done that. But afterwards he kept me bound and held me close to him, so I could feel the warmth in his hands and his body. We spoke for what felt like hours - stupid shit, crap in-jokes, nothing very profound, but he seemed to enjoy getting a glimpse inside my head. He had my tits pressed again him, and my cunt still quivering and hungry for him, but he was happy stroking my hair and my belly.Later on he hooded me - a thick, lockable, scary hood - and now everything was blackness and silence. But I wasn't scared, and wasn't alone: he was still there, expressing his love and affection non-verbally, but still with his mouth: warm, soft, tender, starting at my chest and moving down slowly. If I tried to move my arms, the leather of my jacket kept them firmly in place. I felt safe, secure, protected, cared-for. My hot breath hit thick leather and spread across my face. Everything in me loosened a little bit, and relief hit me like a wave. I couldn't resist. There was no way to fight it. It felt wonderful.When he de-hooded me, he sat me up so I could see myself in a mirror. Through my damp, sweat-tousled hair, and my smeared mascara, I saw myself looking guilelessly, gloriously happy. The boxer's stony inscrutability was nowhere. I begged him to let me return the favour, have him in my mouth, and he obliged right there in front of the mirror, so I could see myself pleasing him. I felt warm in the pit of my belly. He tasted like strawberries.
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