Guest blog: Snapshots from subspace

Image is cover of Playing to Lose, by Ariel Anderssen

I’m so excited to welcome the fabulous Ariel Anderssen to the guest blog slot this week, with a piece so breathtaking that it got me right in the heart as well as the knickers. She’s here to give you a dreamy, horny tour of a kinky scene, via snapshots from subspace: one of those play sessions/fucks that ebbs and flows throughout so many different activities that your memories of it are more like a scrapbook than a chronological record. I love this post so much, and I know lots of you will too. If you want to read more of Ariel’s fabulous work, her new book – Playing to Lose – How a Jehovah’s Witness became a submissive BDSM model – is out now with Unbound (and also available from all good bookshops!). You can also follow her on Twitter and YouTube once you’ve had your breath taken away by this guest blog: it’s such a fucking treat.

Snapshots from subspace

There’s a picture in my mind. I’m kneeling on the carpeted floor of an airy white hotel suite, wearing high heels and a school uniform. It’s not a good girl’s uniform; the skirt is so short that it doesn’t brush the carpet, and under it I’m wearing black stockings and a garter belt.

I’m looking up at you. Your white shirt is unbuttoned, and you are looking down at me, with an expression that is temporarily not that of my kind, mild-mannered friend. Now, you look as though you’re going to hurt me, and I want you to. Between us, your cock partially obscures my view of your face. It is thick, straight, beautifully hard. Greedily, I hope you’re going to let me suck it again before you cane me. In this moment, the clarity of my desire for you is breathtaking. I have never wanted you more.

What came before, and immediately after, I do not know. Even the very next day, I’m unable to write a chronological version of the hours we spent together, surrounded by cool white walls and wide sash windows, on a four-poster bed. I have only snapshots, but each is infinitely precious. I examine them from every angle in my mind, searching for the narrative which must have joined them.

You, unexpectedly in a service station carpark near the hotel, instantly recognisable from a distance, and so beautiful. Me, unprepared and dazzled, and only partially articulate. Happiness welling up in me; the brush of your lips over mine, the promise of more, shortly, to come.

The familiar number on the suite door. Remembering how I stood outside it long ago, scared to knock, in case what followed was a disaster. This time, using my own key to access the room, and unpacking hurriedly, knowing that when you knock on the door, what follows will be perfect, irrespective of what you choose for us to do. It is always perfect; how can it not be after so many weeks of longing?

Suddenly, being right in the middle of kissing you, when seconds before we’d been talking about something adult, and logistical, and possibly even important. The surge of giddy desire, the ridiculous realisation that somehow a sofa has found its way between us. Your laugh; my suspicion that my face is telling its own eloquent story of my impatience to be yours again. One day, perhaps, I’ll be cool and seductive, but not today.

You, guiding me back into your favourite position on the four-poster bed, my ass up, my head down. Behind me, you’re undressing, and I can’t see you because you’ve ordered me to stay still. This is close to unbearable; I’ve not seen you for almost two months and I am hungry for every detail of your body. But from this position I see nothing, and despite this disadvantage, it being your favourite makes it mine too. Not because I’m generous, but because I’m greedy to respond to your dominance. I want what you want, but it’s not an agreeable feeling. I must have what you want. My desire to be dominated, by you, feels vital. Then your hands on me, and no more memories.

Facing the wall in the bedroom. Corner-time would normally mean being left alone, but you don’t leave me, and you don’t take your hands off me for even a moment. This version of corner-time is unique to you, your own special brand of domination. Your hands, your voice, the warmth of your body. My hands on the wall, desperate to reach back for you, but equally, eager to obey. I don’t know which instinct won, but I hope whichever did, that it pleased you.

You, lying back on the bed, surrounded by scattered pillows. I must have been sucking your cock for some time, because suddenly, you are coming in my mouth, and as always, your orgasm gives me a rush of happiness far beyond that of my own. I like having orgasms, but having been part of yours, after yearning for so long to give you this particular pleasure, is beyond anything else we do together. Then as always, you are apologising for laughing as you come, but I never, never want you to stop responding in this way, because it is one of the things that makes this real, and ours.

Me, on my back in a puddle of discarded cerise cashmere, flattened beneath you as you fuck me hard, kiss me deeply, grip my hair, flood my senses with the perfection of having your weight pinning me unnecessarily to the bed, as though there’s somewhere else I might prefer to be. My legs reflexively wrap around your body, wanting more of you, even in this moment of having everything. No amount of you is enough; I want you here, inside me, for hours more.

Bent over the arm of a velvet sofa, meticulously positioned by you with my legs together, my knees slightly bent so my toes barely graze the carpet. I want every cane stroke, but my body rebels against the third scalding flare of pain across my ass. Without making a conscious choice to move, I’m suddenly on the floor. Hazily, I’m aware of your hand curling around the back of my collar, and my throat briefly constricts as you pull me back to my feet and over the sofa arm for the next stroke. I want to stay there, want to please you by being perfectly compliant, but the pain of the previous stroke hasn’t faded yet when I feel you repositioning the cane for the next. I try again to stay still. I want to show you that you’re in charge, though I know you have no doubt of it.

Over your knee, in the dim glow of a table lamp. It is late, and a confusion of hours have passed. Your fingers are inside me and you are alternating between fucking me by hand, and spanking me. This is new; I’ve never been over your knee for so long before, and I luxuriate in the warmth of it, the casual intimacy of such physical closeness. The hardness of your cock beneath me, the promise of more carnality to come, the absolute lack of urgency. I could stay here forever, barely conscious, but aware that this feels like the best, and safest, place.

Awake, in full darkness. It is far too early for you to come back to me. I shower and brush my teeth, turn on a lamp in the sitting room to help you find your way if you return before it’s light. Briefly, I wonder about restyling my hair, perhaps organising some makeup. But it is cold in this big white room, and I curl up under the covers again, wanting sleep, wanting you. Barely a minute seems to pass, and here you are by the bed, undressing in the faint dawn’s light. Your shirt is already unbuttoned and I can see the lines of your body emerge as you remove it, a backlit sculpture . Desire screams through me and I am awake. The familiar scent of you as you climb into bed beside me. The simple pleasure of being able to share my warmth with you, welcoming you in. The joyful realisation that you are already hard. Sliding under the covers, down the bed, to meet your cock with my mouth.


Three days later at home in my own apartment, packing for a business trip. Missing you; your marks still vivid on my body, reassuring me that it was real. Trying to be content, but seven weeks feels too long to wait, and your touch feels too distant to bring comfort. Plucking my cerise robe from the back of my chair for warmth, and suddenly, the scent of you is with me. Holding the fabric up to my face, inhaling hard, summoning my snapshots. And I am back, kneeling on the carpeted floor of an airy white hotel suite, looking up at you.


Get your copy of Ariel’s new book – Playing to Lose – from Unbound. 


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.