strawbabyprincess

eleanasound:

The Last Japanese Mermaids 

For nearly two thousand years, Japanese women living in coastal fishing villages made a remarkable livelihood hunting the ocean for oysters and abalone, a sea snail that produces pearls. They are known as Ama. The few women left still make their living by filling their lungs with air and diving for long periods of time deep into the Pacific ocean, with nothing more than a mask and flippers.

In the mid 20th century, Iwase Yoshiyuki returned to the fishing village where he grew up and photographed these women when the unusual profession was still very much alive. After graduating from law school, Yoshiyuki had been given an early Kodak camera and found himself drawn to the ancient tradition of the ama divers in his hometown. His photographs are thought to be the only comprehensive documentation of the near-extinct tradition in existence

submissivefeminist
submissivefeminist:

yourkissyourfist:

So, this was my back about 10 minutes after being whipped on Saturday night. 
For once, I am quiet. For once, I’m not berating myself for ‘whimping out’. For once, I’m not annoyed at myself. For once, I don’t feel weak. I won’t lie and say that I don’t wish we’d gone on longer, that I don’t wish more blood had been drawn. I do. I think I probably always will, it’s in my nature to keep pushing and keep striving for more. But for once, I am quiet. 
We played a month ago, after a long break. He whipped me and I bled, and even though my back was bruised and weeping I felt like we were missing something. It took me days to be at peace with how ‘little’ I felt I had taken. Those marks started to scar, and I told myself to feel content. Looking back, they were some of the deepest and most lasting marks I had ever received (if not the most numerous).
Until now. 
A week ago, I was browsing photos on FetLife and saw a photo that made something click. I showed The Boss, and said “there you go, this is why I feel inadequate, this is what I am aiming for”. It was a photo of a savage whipping, all black welts and blood. The kind of photo that would turn the stomach of many seasoned players, let alone ‘vanillas’. It was like something out of a horror show and I wanted it. The Boss eyed the photo and mused that I could probably take it. I laughed in my sort of smug “oh really?” way. 
Oh really. 
Saturday night saw me stood naked before his whip, cursing at him, crying at him, pleading with him and then goading him and then pleading with him. Pleading with myself. Goading myself. Fighting myself. The familiar anger was crashing in my chest, flooding down into my fists. I was itching to attack him, to bite him, to punch him. I think that shocks people, sometimes. I don’t bend over and flash my stockings, asking “please Sir” and presenting a delightful package of submissive seduction. I howl, I cry, I shout, I swear. All wild eyes and just a shadow’s breath away from turning feral. Sometimes I think the bigger achievement is not to take the pain, but to keep the red mist at bay. 
"6 more"
And I’m surprised, and suddenly I’m asking “is that all?” but the words jump from me like a challenge and he raises his eyebrow. 
"12 more"
And for the first time, unasked, I start to count out loud. 
1. 2. 3… 4. 5. -gasp- 6! Ssssev..en. eight… NINE. TEN. E L E V E N. 12. 
And I’m all snot and remorse. Howcouldibesoweakwhatthefuckiswrongwithme. There is something dripping down my back and it’s warm. I can’t tell if it’s sweat or blood. He rubs me down with anti-septic and tells me that I should see my back but I’m still howling. Whydoikeepdoingthistomyself. Ican’ttakeit. I’msoFUCKINGweak. He strokes me and tells me to STOP IT and leads me outside so I can sit in the fresh air.
I catch a glimpse of my back, reflected in a window. 
My head shuts up. The tears stop. 
Gently, I probe over my shoulder with trembling fingers. Hot, swollen, solid. Bloody. 
For once, I am quiet. 



This is powerful. I’m proud of you.

submissivefeminist:

yourkissyourfist:

So, this was my back about 10 minutes after being whipped on Saturday night. 

For once, I am quiet. For once, I’m not berating myself for ‘whimping out’. For once, I’m not annoyed at myself. For once, I don’t feel weak. I won’t lie and say that I don’t wish we’d gone on longer, that I don’t wish more blood had been drawn. I do. I think I probably always will, it’s in my nature to keep pushing and keep striving for more. But for once, I am quiet. 

We played a month ago, after a long break. He whipped me and I bled, and even though my back was bruised and weeping I felt like we were missing something. It took me days to be at peace with how ‘little’ I felt I had taken. Those marks started to scar, and I told myself to feel content. Looking back, they were some of the deepest and most lasting marks I had ever received (if not the most numerous).

Until now. 

A week ago, I was browsing photos on FetLife and saw a photo that made something click. I showed The Boss, and said “there you go, this is why I feel inadequate, this is what I am aiming for”. It was a photo of a savage whipping, all black welts and blood. The kind of photo that would turn the stomach of many seasoned players, let alone ‘vanillas’. It was like something out of a horror show and I wanted it. The Boss eyed the photo and mused that I could probably take it. I laughed in my sort of smug “oh really?” way. 

Oh really. 

Saturday night saw me stood naked before his whip, cursing at him, crying at him, pleading with him and then goading him and then pleading with him. Pleading with myself. Goading myself. Fighting myself. The familiar anger was crashing in my chest, flooding down into my fists. I was itching to attack him, to bite him, to punch him. I think that shocks people, sometimes. I don’t bend over and flash my stockings, asking “please Sir” and presenting a delightful package of submissive seduction. I howl, I cry, I shout, I swear. All wild eyes and just a shadow’s breath away from turning feral. Sometimes I think the bigger achievement is not to take the pain, but to keep the red mist at bay. 

"6 more"

And I’m surprised, and suddenly I’m asking “is that all?” but the words jump from me like a challenge and he raises his eyebrow. 

"12 more"

And for the first time, unasked, I start to count out loud. 

1. 2. 3… 4. 5. -gasp- 6! Ssssev..en. eight… NINE. TEN. E L E V E N. 12. 

And I’m all snot and remorse. Howcouldibesoweakwhatthefuckiswrongwithme. There is something dripping down my back and it’s warm. I can’t tell if it’s sweat or blood. He rubs me down with anti-septic and tells me that I should see my back but I’m still howling. Whydoikeepdoingthistomyself. Ican’ttakeit. I’msoFUCKINGweak. He strokes me and tells me to STOP IT and leads me outside so I can sit in the fresh air.

I catch a glimpse of my back, reflected in a window. 

My head shuts up. The tears stop. 

Gently, I probe over my shoulder with trembling fingers. Hot, swollen, solid. Bloody. 

For once, I am quiet. 

This is powerful. I’m proud of you.