Vanilla Breaks

by David Wade

Genres: Erotic & Steamy Romance

Synopsis

Vanilla Breaks is the autobiographical story of one man's journey into the BDSM lifestyle, written as a means to cope with the stress of having been thrust into BDSM at the deep end. In addition, it is intended to help other people who may find themselves or their partners in a similar situation, and to let them know that they are not alone. While this work details the author's emotional turmoil as a teenager, which later reignited when he discovered his wife was exploring kink with another man (and how he dealt with that revelation), it is also very explicit in describing BDSM play scenes and sexual encounters.

Release date: September 16, 2016

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 170

Sample

Prejudice has, since the dawn of time, been rooted in ignorance. I’ve fallen victim to it myself on a number of occasions. And I have certainly been guilty of casting it against others. Sometimes we just need to open our minds to what’s out there, and the best way to do that is to stop blindly staggering behind tradition and misinformation, and to truly look and listen and try to understand the world around us.

After some pretty extensive research, I’ve discovered that numerous individuals are, even in these so-called “enlightened” times, still falling victim to sexual discrimination. And, commonly, in one particular aspect of it: kink. Many people have, over the years, been placed under investigation by their employers after having declared themselves (or having been “outed” by those they trusted to confide in) practitioners of BDSM. This doesn’t include those who have been fired outright from their jobs. I am horrified and disappointed that this is the case, particularly in a society where people are supposedly free to do as they please in private; aside from breaking the law, of course. As with anything that is vastly misunderstood due to preconceptions and lies, people in the D/s scene seem often to be persecuted based purely on ignorance.

For the benefit of anyone who is unsure of any of the above terminology – as I was when I began writing this – BDSM is a widely used abbreviation within the kink and fetish community. It is an amalgamation of three pairs of initials: BD stands for bondage and domination; DS (or D/s) represents domination and submission; and SM is sadism and masochism.

The names of places and characters in this book have been changed. I’ve done this not to protect myself (I don’t rightly give ten flying fucks what the world thinks of me), but to protect those for whom I care. Revealing what I get up to in private, in all its glorious detail, could see my wife “Catherine” lose a career that she has worked incredibly hard to build and at which she excels. Perhaps if she were a housewife instead of an education professional, a bit of D/s activity would be considered a somewhat irreverent dalliance. But she works with children, so she’s a target, simply by association with a writer whose story contains material potentially offensive to small-minded bigots.

I’m 43 years old. Not long ago I was a happily married man with a well-paying job, two bright and happy young children, and a nice house in a quiet village in suburban Buckinghamshire, England. And then, out of the blue, my world turned upside down. It has yet to be righted. In February of 2009 I was retrenched. Our savings – meagre to begin with – evaporated. Our mortgage was in danger of slipping with each passing month. Catherine started working even more ridiculous hours than she already had been in order to keep us afloat. But, bizarrely, following a lengthy discussion, it was decided that I would not actively seek a new job, but would instead become a househusband for a year or so to enable Catherine to further her chosen career. This decision resulted in me gradually sliding into a rut; stuck at home looking after two small children who seemed to my tired and fragile mind to be constantly bickering. I was wading through an existence that was slowly threatening to drive me insane. The dark thoughts and contempt for my fellow humans I had cultivated throughout my teenage years, but which had since – through mental discipline and sheer bloody mindedness – been reduced to a slightly annoying presence buried at the back of my consciousness, threatened to escape. And if that happened, nothing would turn out well.

Less than three years ago, I had virtually no idea what BDSM was. I have never in my life held any desire to inflict pain on another person in order to grant them sexual pleasure. Like most other people, I had a vague notion that this was essentially what the sordid and shadowy world of BDSM entailed. I was happy with my lot; happy to be an average man living an average life. And yet I became a Dominant, a damn good one by all accounts, with a suitcase full of tools and implements under my bed that I use to inflict pain and bestow pleasure on women who have willingly given me control over their bodies, minds, and emotions, at least for a short while. This journey from my old life to the new has, at times, threatened to break me; it is not something I ever would have expected, or wanted to go through if I’d been given the choice. Ironically, as my submissive sits here typing this for me, I find myself completely immersed in and utterly enraptured by the world of BDSM. Having discovered this particularly wonderful nectar, I could never again go back to a life without kink, or try to behave as society would have me do, following ridiculous rules of etiquette in a restrictive, prejudiced “vanilla” world. I have seen the light. But instead of running from it as many others in a similar position may have done, I chose to embrace it. In doing so I have unearthed a person who I thought had long since ceased to be; I have rediscovered myself.

This is my diary.

Winter in England is one hell of a bad time to start experimenting with kink.

Catherine lay on the bed, flat on her stomach, her wrists bound with rope above her head. She wore a blindfold and nothing else. She was shaking, but I had no idea if that was due to the cold or her anticipation of what I was about to inflict upon her. She was breathing fast, so I figured it was the latter. I stood at the side of the bed, studying Catherine’s face. Her expression appeared calm, which was a good thing given our situation.

I had been given the thick leather belt a few years previously – by Catherine, ironically (or perhaps intentionally, who knows?) – as a Christmas present. I’d never worn it. This gift was now wrapped around my right arm. I held the belt firmly in my right hand as my arm rested at my side. I felt nervous, anxious to make a start, yet petrified, because I was about to beat the hell out of the only woman I have ever loved. What were we doing? What had happened to the normal life we’d led only a few weeks ago? She wanted this, which made it OK ... didn’t it? I lifted the belt slowly, quietly, until it was poised just behind my head. Was I really going to go through with this? How was this in any way going to be a pleasant experience for either of us?

Catherine had started to shake, a lot, and I realised with something close to panic that it wasn’t actually very warm in the bedroom any more. Whatever I decided to do, it needed to be done quickly. I raised the belt slightly higher, inhaling in preparation for what was to come. Catherine stiffened – she must have been listening to my breathing in the silence of the room: the room where we had conceived both of our children; where we had held each other while discussing our lives, our dreams, our bright futures. I couldn’t believe what was happening. It was all so surreal.

I brought the belt down with all my might, and the noise it made was deafening. Catherine’s backside clenched as the blow struck. But instead of a cry of pain, she let out a moan of ecstasy. This reaction was as foreign to me as finding an elephant in my cornflakes. The feeling it stirred within me was indescribable. Exhilaration, perhaps, caused by an endorphin rush; a burst of adrenaline shooting through me in an instant. The emotional turbulence of that moment was overwhelming. It’s strange, isn’t it? Just when you start to think you know yourself, you discover you know nothing at all.

14 July 1984

Today Marco suggested I should start writing a diary. Marco and I have known each other for over a decade, been in the same classes for more than half that time. He’s my bro, my best mate, my main man. So here I am, writing a diary. Marco told me that doing this would help me sort out my head. Apparently it worked for his sister who’s had all sorts of issues, the fat cow. Stopping eating would have helped her sort that shit out a lot sooner. And possibly a lot more successfully, too.

So. A diary. Here we are then. So far I’ve done five pages of superhero drawings and now I’m writing this bullshit. Sixteen years old, and writing in a little black book like some emotionally unstable little girl who needs to tell the world how much she loves Billy but Billy doesn’t know she exists and now she wants to kill herself. Boo hoo.

Fuck it. I don’t have time for this.

3 February 1996

God, did I really write that? Wow. OK. Twelve years ago I wrote that. I even vaguely remember Marco’s sister. She wasn’t actually fat at all, but I just didn’t like her. Or maybe I liked her more than I led myself to believe. I was such a hormonal little bastard at school.

Weird that I didn’t throw away this diary. Just found it way down at the bottom of a box that Mom sent to me because she’s finally moving out of that shitty old house. I love the superhero drawings – they’re bloody hilarious. I remember I wanted to be an artist, back then. But instead, having sold my soul for money, I’m happily employed as a mediocre web developer at a mediocre IT company. I guess that’s why I’m writing in here again – it helps me to get away from the monotony of my life for a while. Tracey (my current girlfriend) is away for a week and I’m bored. So do I go out for a burger with Juan and Emilio, or do I look through my old shit? Well, here I am. I’m such a loser.

So, what else has happened in 12 years? Well, for one I’ve moved on from being an emo kid. OK, maybe not entirely. But life is much nicer now that I have a steady job and a hot girlfriend. I was in the army for a while – two years that I’ll never get back and fuck you kindly to the Brazilian government for conscripting me to that. As if I wasn’t already mentally unstable enough, they decided I needed a bit of brainwashing and indoctrination on how to kill people with guns. Thanks. No really, thanks. But fuck you very much. Prime years of my life gone; plenty of time and effort wasted for no good reason at all. Anyway, it’s over. No need to spend more time thinking about that utterly shitty period of my life.

7 February 1996

Hm. I was just getting stuck into a good bit of ranting there, but then Juan phoned and invited me over and that was the end of my diary entry and my nostalgic bitching session. Hell, I actually enjoy writing. Who knew? Maybe Marco wasn’t full of shit all those years ago, after all. I wonder what happened to him. We lost touch after school. I should look him up, some time. Or maybe not. Some things are best left alone.

So yeah; army, college, girlfriend, job. I guess this is where my life as a “responsible adult” starts. I do so love being shoved into this little box that society has created for me. “Society”. Hah! As if there’s anything socially acceptable about any of us. The human race has outlived its usefulness. And what purpose did we serve in the first place? We’re the only species that kills or exploits those weaker than us for financial gain. We’re “self-aware”, or so we proclaim in our immense arrogance. And that’s our excuse to do what we like to a planet that has struggled through billions of years of evolution until it reached a point where it could support life, only for that life to then turn on it and systematically erode the poor spinning bastard into uselessness.

I’ve lost track again. But then what’s the point of a diary, if not to reveal our innermost thoughts and feelings? It’s a damn sight cheaper than a therapist.

13 March 1996

OK, here’s something worth writing about: a first for me. A few days ago – it was last Saturday – Trace and I were eating lunch on the patio. We’d finished a bottle of white wine between us. It was hot, one of those days when the humidity makes you stick to yourself. We had fans going. Tracey was wearing a thin ankle-length sun dress. All of a sudden she stretched one leg out and rested it on me, and then bent her other leg, so that her foot was on her chair. Which was nice, in itself. But then the fan blew her dress up a bit, and as it did so, Tracey yanked the rest of it all the way up to reveal that she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Thank God we’re walled off from any neighbours, or they would have had something other than our loud music to complain about. I was shocked, but seriously aroused. Trace has never been promiscuous, or especially interested in sex – at least, not after the initial few months together. I must have uttered some kind of surprised comment, because Tracey asked me if what she was doing bothered me. I replied no, of course not. So then, then, she leaned across and whispered that she wanted me to fuck her in the arse! I mean ... What? Where did that come from? Here’s my lovely, sweet, gentle girl, suggesting that we do something I’ve only ever seen in porn magazines. Maybe it was the wine, or the heat, or both, but I had never seen her this horny before. But I was definitely interested. I grinned like an idiot, and then told her to turn around and lean over her chair. She looked surprised and told me that she hadn’t meant, like, right here and now. She was concerned that the neighbours would see us. That couldn’t happen, unless they were on a ladder looking over the eight-foot-high concrete walls. Tracey still looked sceptical, but I grabbed her waist and spun her around. I could tell that she was still hesitant, but she stood there, bent over, with her hands on the chair’s armrest and her dress hitched up over her back. I was incredibly hard at that moment. I’d never had anal sex before (not given or received it, for the record), but the whole idea of doing this – specifically the thought that it’s a bit dirty and illicit – was such a turn-on. I fumbled around for a bit, trying to penetrate her, but she was tight. I thought about going inside the house to get some lube, but then I noticed that she was absolutely dripping between her legs. I shoved my thumb into her pussy, and then into her backside. She gasped. For good measure I started fucking her vagina to lubricate myself. And then I removed my thumb and thrust my cock firmly into her arse. She squealed, in what I hoped was a good way. The rush of adrenaline, the excitement; the thrill of forbidden fruits ... It was all unbelievably sexy. I came within seconds, and stood there, listening to myself huff and snort like some wild animal. Tracey asked me if I had come, and I told her yes, and it had been amazing. She pushed away from me and went inside, and didn’t speak to me again for the rest of that day. I’m guessing it was because she’d expected me to last a bit longer, but there was no way I could control that. Or, maybe, she had wanted some foreplay. But the situation had snowballed, and all I could think about at the time was being inside her. I don’t really know what I’d done wrong, and I will probably never have any idea. Women are a strange breed. If I could get inside their heads, to have even an inkling of how they think, I’d be a very happy man.

26 May 1996

Tracey’s left me. Well, technically I left her – she can have the apartment and every fucking thing in it. None of that shit means anything to me anymore. Maybe I’ll go back and collect a few CDs and clothes at some stage. Or maybe I won’t even bother with that, and I can avoid seeing her cheating, slutty face ever again. God, she’s a cunt. If anybody ever deserved being called that, she does. How many times did she reassure me that she hated hugely muscled men? Or perhaps that was just a dig at my skinny-arsed self, and I was too dumb to catch the hints. She also told me she’d stopped smoking about three years ago.

Last week I got off work early and went to visit her, at the restaurant where she works as a waitress, and I found her standing outside, smoking. Not only that, but she had her arm around some fuck who must spend his entire useless existence working out at a gym. He doesn’t even have a neck, the greasy twat. They were having such a good time they didn’t see me, so I turned around and left again. Good to know my life has been built on lies and deception. Brilliant, in fact. She can just fuck off. Seriously. Why do people have to be so absolutely fucking rubbish? I feel. . .