You know, I think I'm beginning to use this Kink Meme as a crutch. No need to think of a pithy post title: it's written in the meme!...Oh no! What will happen when the meme is over and I have think up blog post ideas for myself? Badness, surely!
Can you tell I'm feeling somewhat Snarly? Sarcastic? Snippy? Even a tad bit bitchy?
"Do your non-kink interests ever find their way into your kinky activities? If so, how?"
They don't. The end!
Can't really leave it at that, can I?
I guess my writing, even though it's erotica and BDSM and kinky writing, could also be considered a non-kinky activity. The actual writing part, I mean. Sometimes I'll think up a scene, but I need to figure out the logistics of arms and legs and limbs, and then I'll ask Husband to help me out. Act it out, if you will. So in that way, I guess my major non-kink activity does find its way into the bedroom. But then, my kinks find their way into my writing, so it works both ways.
I knit, so you'd think I'd be better with rope and shibari, but I'm not. I guess I could knit Husband to the bed, but that would be ridiculous. Can you imagine? "Just wait...I've got three more stitches...don't move...."
Okay, this post has run its course. I leave with more Swedish Chef: Miss Piggy looking for her Foo Foo.
Showing posts with label Getting Personal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Getting Personal. Show all posts
Friday, January 31, 2014
Training a Reflex
I'll be the first to admit that in my marriage, I'm the one who has been "trained." Common thinking among many wives used to be a woman could change her husband after they were married; the wife could mold him, polish him up, and buff down all the bad habits she didn't like.
Then that way of thinking fell into bad view as others began to point out that men are men, they are who they are, and they cannot be changed by their wives simply because their wives wish it to be so. Women should marry the men they can live with, the men they can accept for who they are, not the men they want to change. Which, of course, makes sense.
I'm not going to condone marrying a person you think needs changing. Obviously, the old cliche is true: you should marry someone you love. Love means, for the most part, acceptance. Husband accepts me for who I am, and I accept who he is, too.
But do I agree it's impossible to train a person to change their behavior? Oh hell no. That is one of the fundamental principals of a Domestic Discipline lifestyle. And in a D/s relationship, it's the sub who gets trained.
Boy, have I been well trained. In a thousand different things, in a thousand different ways.
One of the ways Husband has trained me is to get wet when I'm afraid.
Yes, you read that right. When I get afraid, for whatever reason, I get wet.
Now, I know all the sadists reading this (hi, Steve!) are probably thinking 'wow, that is AWESOME.'
When I mentioned this unique reaction of mine at a munch the other week, all the sadists within earshot rounded on me with big eyes and took two steps into my circle, like I was suddenly the most interesting thing they had seen all day. I wasn't prepared for that kind of feedback, but after thinking about it, I guess I should have been.
The thing is, this reaction of mine, what has become my body's natural response to fear, is completely out of my control. It's become reflexive. And my body cannot tell the difference between sexual fear, fear that stems from my masochism, and any other kind of fear that is a result of entirely different circumstances.
Going to an amusement park is a nightmare. If I know I'm going to be dragged onto scary rides and roller coasters, I have to wear a panty-liner, or I risk getting off the ride looking like I just peed my pants. People, it's embarrassing.
Getting scared in a movie theater is slightly easier to handle. Those seats are well ventilated, and by the time the movie is over, I'm usually dry enough to feel safe standing up. But I also make sure to wear good, thick cotton panties, and you'll never see me checking out the latest slasher movie while it's still in theaters!
Now, as for Husband...Husband likes to scare me. Some days, he likes to keep me on a constant ebb of simmering fear. He enjoys my reaction. He especially loves it when he can scare me, and then rub his fingers over the crotch of my panties and feel how wet they are. He gets a good laugh when I have to change my underwear, over and over again.
But I think he loves it the most when it becomes a game, and I don't know when he's going to strike next or from where he's going to attack. He might be lurking around the corner, waiting for me to walk past so he can pinch my ass. Or he might be waiting in the bedroom behind the door, ready to shut it closed as I walk through so he can push me over the bed, yank down my pants, and belt me. I don't know when he'll pounce, and my rising anxiety of looming pain will make me soak through my clothes.
Of course, the added bonus of all this is that he knows I hate this reflex of mine, because it's completely beyond my control. I end up always worrying about what I'm wearing, where I'll be if fear strikes, and will I be able to control the adrenaline coursing through my blood. I end up fearful of being afraid.
I am afraid of fear itself.
And you know what that makes me? Wet.
Then that way of thinking fell into bad view as others began to point out that men are men, they are who they are, and they cannot be changed by their wives simply because their wives wish it to be so. Women should marry the men they can live with, the men they can accept for who they are, not the men they want to change. Which, of course, makes sense.
I'm not going to condone marrying a person you think needs changing. Obviously, the old cliche is true: you should marry someone you love. Love means, for the most part, acceptance. Husband accepts me for who I am, and I accept who he is, too.
But do I agree it's impossible to train a person to change their behavior? Oh hell no. That is one of the fundamental principals of a Domestic Discipline lifestyle. And in a D/s relationship, it's the sub who gets trained.
Boy, have I been well trained. In a thousand different things, in a thousand different ways.
One of the ways Husband has trained me is to get wet when I'm afraid.
Yes, you read that right. When I get afraid, for whatever reason, I get wet.
Now, I know all the sadists reading this (hi, Steve!) are probably thinking 'wow, that is AWESOME.'
When I mentioned this unique reaction of mine at a munch the other week, all the sadists within earshot rounded on me with big eyes and took two steps into my circle, like I was suddenly the most interesting thing they had seen all day. I wasn't prepared for that kind of feedback, but after thinking about it, I guess I should have been.
The thing is, this reaction of mine, what has become my body's natural response to fear, is completely out of my control. It's become reflexive. And my body cannot tell the difference between sexual fear, fear that stems from my masochism, and any other kind of fear that is a result of entirely different circumstances.
Going to an amusement park is a nightmare. If I know I'm going to be dragged onto scary rides and roller coasters, I have to wear a panty-liner, or I risk getting off the ride looking like I just peed my pants. People, it's embarrassing.
Getting scared in a movie theater is slightly easier to handle. Those seats are well ventilated, and by the time the movie is over, I'm usually dry enough to feel safe standing up. But I also make sure to wear good, thick cotton panties, and you'll never see me checking out the latest slasher movie while it's still in theaters!
Now, as for Husband...Husband likes to scare me. Some days, he likes to keep me on a constant ebb of simmering fear. He enjoys my reaction. He especially loves it when he can scare me, and then rub his fingers over the crotch of my panties and feel how wet they are. He gets a good laugh when I have to change my underwear, over and over again.
But I think he loves it the most when it becomes a game, and I don't know when he's going to strike next or from where he's going to attack. He might be lurking around the corner, waiting for me to walk past so he can pinch my ass. Or he might be waiting in the bedroom behind the door, ready to shut it closed as I walk through so he can push me over the bed, yank down my pants, and belt me. I don't know when he'll pounce, and my rising anxiety of looming pain will make me soak through my clothes.
Of course, the added bonus of all this is that he knows I hate this reflex of mine, because it's completely beyond my control. I end up always worrying about what I'm wearing, where I'll be if fear strikes, and will I be able to control the adrenaline coursing through my blood. I end up fearful of being afraid.
I am afraid of fear itself.
And you know what that makes me? Wet.
Euphemisms
When you're kinky, sex and play become this kind of huge metaphorical amusement park, filled with mind-bending rides, laugh-soaked shows, and breath-catching thrills. Some of the rides are short, quick, and heart-pounding; some are long, slow, and relaxing; some you go on once or twice, and decide you'll never do again; and some are so amazing, you want to go on over and over and over. Each ride is different. Each one is unique in its own small way.
When you're kinky and have children, you still want to visit the amusement park pretty often. But you don't want your kids to know you're looking forward to a trip to the amusement park, and you certainly don't want them knowing which ride you're looking forward to the most.
So, if you're like us, you start making up names for the rides. Names that sound innocuous, but hold a much deeper meaning between the two of you. Names that can be placed into an innocent statement, but signify something else entirely, something much more kinky.
Like, let's say, oh, Doctor Who. If you're a long-time reader (or a twitter follower), you know I LOVE Doctor Who. You might also know Husband does not love Doctor Who (he once called my obsession with the show "retardis"). So when Husband says he wants some "Doctor Who," he is not talking about the TV show. He is talking about a specific sex position, a mode of play we enjoy. (How the position got this name is a story in and of itself.)
Now, Husband also likes beer. He doesn't indulge all that often, but when he does, he does not ask me to get him a beer. He gets up and pours it himself, mainly because he has a specific set of glasses he uses, and a specific way of pouring the beer into the glass, one that I can never seem to get right.
So when Husband says he wants me to "get him a bottle of beer," I know he's not talking about drinking a beer...well, he's not only talking about drinking a beer. He's talking about another sex position, another mode of play. (Again, how this position got this moniker is a story unto itself--although, if you think about it long enough, you could probably figure out what he's doing with the beer bottle.)
We have all sorts of names for all sorts of kinky ways of play. Besides "Doctor Who" and "Drink a Beer," we have "La Jolla," "Get the Butter" (which does NOT involve butter, thank god, butter does NOT a good lubricant make, no matter what Marlon Brando would have you believe) (just FYI), "You Won't Be Able to Reach Your Phone," "I'll Mess Up Your Hair," "You'll Be Typing Standing Up," "Go Food Shopping in the Vegetable Aisle," and others.
In this way, Husband and I can have all sorts of conversations in front of the kids that sound completely reasonable and chaste, because only he and I understand the deeper context. Conversations like the one we had last night in the car, which went kinda like this:
Husband: So you have anything going on tonight?
Me: No...why?
Husband (smirking): I'm thinking I should have a beer.
Me (refusing to play along): Go ahead. Have a beer. Just don't drive anywhere afterwards.
Husband (frowning): You know what I meant.
Me (trying not to grin): Yeah, I know.
Child Sitting in the Back: What did you mean, dad? You're gonna get blitzed?
Husband: No, I am not going to get blitzed. And what kind of word is that?
There is a pause now, as Husband is a tad annoyed.
Husband: Maybe while I'm drinking my beer, you should watch some Doctor Who.
Child Sitting in the Back: Oh! There's a new Doctor Who?
Me, turning to Child Sitting in the Back: No, no new Doctor Whos until Thanksgiving.
Child Sitting in the Back: But then you've already seen them all.
Me: Yup, I've seen them all. But I don't mind watching some of the episodes twice. You want to watch with me, kiddo?
Child Sitting in the Back: Naw, I have better things to watch. But thanks for asking.
Me (doing some of my own smirking): Sure.
Husband is now gnashing his teeth together.
Husband: When's our next trip to La Jolla?
Child Sitting in the Back: End of summer, dad.
Husband (murmuring under his breath): Not for your mother.
Child Sitting in Back: What?
Husband: Nothing. Nothing. (Turning to me): Wife, do we have enough vegetables at home?
Me (afraid now): I...think so?
Husband: Are you sure? Cause it's never a bad thing to have a well-stocked vegetable drawer. Maybe you should go to the supermarket later, and buy some.
Me: But...but we have vegetables.
Child Sitting in Back: We're out of the cucumbers, mom.
Husband (triumphant): There you go, Wife. You need to buy cucumbers. So why don't you go to the supermarket later, and get some cucumbers? And while you're at it, get some other vegetables, too.
Me: Fine. Fine! I get it.
Child Sitting in the Back: What do you get, mom?
Me: Nothing, kiddo.
Husband: You're mom's just a little afraid I'm going to mess up her hair before she goes to the supermarket.
Child Sitting in the Back: Why would you do that, dad?
Husband: Cause I can't help it. (He reaches his hand around my head to pull me closer, giving me an innocent head-hug.) You're mom's hair is so beautiful, I need to touch it all the time.
Child Sitting in the Back: Well, you can just fix your hair, can't you mom?
Me: Yes, kiddo. I can just fix my hair. But I would rather your father KEEP HIS HANDS OUT OF IT.
Husband: Are you sure, wife? Are you sure? Cause I don't think so. I don't think so at all.
Me: I think so!
Him: How's that chair doing in your office? Still good? It's nice to sit in, isn't it?
Me (panicking): Uh, I meant, I TOTALLY THINK SO. Yes.
Him (thoroughly satisfied now, in the most irritating way): That's what I thought.
Do the kids get some idea we're talking about things over their heads? I'm sure they do. But they won't know exactly what we're talking about. They'll wonder, but they'll never know. And this way, Husband can convey his information to me and get his point across without having to wait until we're alone. He can make me wait and worry and freak the fuck out even longer.
He doesn't have to wait to implement a good mindfuck.
When you're kinky and have children, you still want to visit the amusement park pretty often. But you don't want your kids to know you're looking forward to a trip to the amusement park, and you certainly don't want them knowing which ride you're looking forward to the most.
So, if you're like us, you start making up names for the rides. Names that sound innocuous, but hold a much deeper meaning between the two of you. Names that can be placed into an innocent statement, but signify something else entirely, something much more kinky.
Like, let's say, oh, Doctor Who. If you're a long-time reader (or a twitter follower), you know I LOVE Doctor Who. You might also know Husband does not love Doctor Who (he once called my obsession with the show "retardis"). So when Husband says he wants some "Doctor Who," he is not talking about the TV show. He is talking about a specific sex position, a mode of play we enjoy. (How the position got this name is a story in and of itself.)
Now, Husband also likes beer. He doesn't indulge all that often, but when he does, he does not ask me to get him a beer. He gets up and pours it himself, mainly because he has a specific set of glasses he uses, and a specific way of pouring the beer into the glass, one that I can never seem to get right.
So when Husband says he wants me to "get him a bottle of beer," I know he's not talking about drinking a beer...well, he's not only talking about drinking a beer. He's talking about another sex position, another mode of play. (Again, how this position got this moniker is a story unto itself--although, if you think about it long enough, you could probably figure out what he's doing with the beer bottle.)
We have all sorts of names for all sorts of kinky ways of play. Besides "Doctor Who" and "Drink a Beer," we have "La Jolla," "Get the Butter" (which does NOT involve butter, thank god, butter does NOT a good lubricant make, no matter what Marlon Brando would have you believe) (just FYI), "You Won't Be Able to Reach Your Phone," "I'll Mess Up Your Hair," "You'll Be Typing Standing Up," "Go Food Shopping in the Vegetable Aisle," and others.
In this way, Husband and I can have all sorts of conversations in front of the kids that sound completely reasonable and chaste, because only he and I understand the deeper context. Conversations like the one we had last night in the car, which went kinda like this:
Husband: So you have anything going on tonight?
Me: No...why?
Husband (smirking): I'm thinking I should have a beer.
Me (refusing to play along): Go ahead. Have a beer. Just don't drive anywhere afterwards.
Husband (frowning): You know what I meant.
Me (trying not to grin): Yeah, I know.
Child Sitting in the Back: What did you mean, dad? You're gonna get blitzed?
Husband: No, I am not going to get blitzed. And what kind of word is that?
There is a pause now, as Husband is a tad annoyed.
Husband: Maybe while I'm drinking my beer, you should watch some Doctor Who.
Child Sitting in the Back: Oh! There's a new Doctor Who?
Me, turning to Child Sitting in the Back: No, no new Doctor Whos until Thanksgiving.
Child Sitting in the Back: But then you've already seen them all.
Me: Yup, I've seen them all. But I don't mind watching some of the episodes twice. You want to watch with me, kiddo?
Child Sitting in the Back: Naw, I have better things to watch. But thanks for asking.
Me (doing some of my own smirking): Sure.
Husband is now gnashing his teeth together.
Husband: When's our next trip to La Jolla?
Child Sitting in the Back: End of summer, dad.
Husband (murmuring under his breath): Not for your mother.
Child Sitting in Back: What?
Husband: Nothing. Nothing. (Turning to me): Wife, do we have enough vegetables at home?
Me (afraid now): I...think so?
Husband: Are you sure? Cause it's never a bad thing to have a well-stocked vegetable drawer. Maybe you should go to the supermarket later, and buy some.
Me: But...but we have vegetables.
Child Sitting in Back: We're out of the cucumbers, mom.
Husband (triumphant): There you go, Wife. You need to buy cucumbers. So why don't you go to the supermarket later, and get some cucumbers? And while you're at it, get some other vegetables, too.
Me: Fine. Fine! I get it.
Child Sitting in the Back: What do you get, mom?
Me: Nothing, kiddo.
Husband: You're mom's just a little afraid I'm going to mess up her hair before she goes to the supermarket.
Child Sitting in the Back: Why would you do that, dad?
Husband: Cause I can't help it. (He reaches his hand around my head to pull me closer, giving me an innocent head-hug.) You're mom's hair is so beautiful, I need to touch it all the time.
Child Sitting in the Back: Well, you can just fix your hair, can't you mom?
Me: Yes, kiddo. I can just fix my hair. But I would rather your father KEEP HIS HANDS OUT OF IT.
Husband: Are you sure, wife? Are you sure? Cause I don't think so. I don't think so at all.
Me: I think so!
Him: How's that chair doing in your office? Still good? It's nice to sit in, isn't it?
Me (panicking): Uh, I meant, I TOTALLY THINK SO. Yes.
Him (thoroughly satisfied now, in the most irritating way): That's what I thought.
Do the kids get some idea we're talking about things over their heads? I'm sure they do. But they won't know exactly what we're talking about. They'll wonder, but they'll never know. And this way, Husband can convey his information to me and get his point across without having to wait until we're alone. He can make me wait and worry and freak the fuck out even longer.
He doesn't have to wait to implement a good mindfuck.
Fishing In the Bathtub
This time when Husband found me, I was already on the bed, spread on my stomach, watching T.V. He plopped himself next to me, and we talked for a while, about mundane things: how our days went, what was going on in the world, funny things we'd seen online. After a while, the conversation died down, and I realized we were both in a holding pattern, waiting.
I was waiting for him to give me some kind of sign it was time to give him a blowjob...I had no idea what he was waiting for.
Finally, after a long pause, he said: "Why don't we go downstairs?"
"Why?" I asked, confused.
"So I can drag you back up here by your underpants," he said.
My eyebrows went up a good two inches. "But I'm already here. You don't need to drag me."
"I know," he sighed, "but I like to drag you. This...this is like fishing in a bathtub. There's no hunt."
People tell me regularly Husband and I have a weird D/s dynamic. I don't act submissive all the time; I don't check my behaviors in public. And he hardly seems the stereotypical "Domly" type. I think what makes our relationship seem quirky are our heightened "Predator/Prey" drives. Husband wants me to listen, he wants me to submit....
But not quite as much as he wants me to refuse, so he can make me do what he wants.
Of course, after he said that, it was ON. I clenched my teeth, said "the hunt's not over--the prey hasn't been caught yet," and rolled off the bed. He dove right after me, and we struggled for a while. It ended when he dug his fingers into my temple and pulled my head toward his cock; I locked my jaws, but he pried them open (painfully) and lunged his prick in my mouth. And that, as they say, was that.
Ladies, you want to try to make things interesting? Don't be the fish in the bathtub.
I was waiting for him to give me some kind of sign it was time to give him a blowjob...I had no idea what he was waiting for.
Finally, after a long pause, he said: "Why don't we go downstairs?"
"Why?" I asked, confused.
"So I can drag you back up here by your underpants," he said.
My eyebrows went up a good two inches. "But I'm already here. You don't need to drag me."
"I know," he sighed, "but I like to drag you. This...this is like fishing in a bathtub. There's no hunt."
People tell me regularly Husband and I have a weird D/s dynamic. I don't act submissive all the time; I don't check my behaviors in public. And he hardly seems the stereotypical "Domly" type. I think what makes our relationship seem quirky are our heightened "Predator/Prey" drives. Husband wants me to listen, he wants me to submit....
But not quite as much as he wants me to refuse, so he can make me do what he wants.
Of course, after he said that, it was ON. I clenched my teeth, said "the hunt's not over--the prey hasn't been caught yet," and rolled off the bed. He dove right after me, and we struggled for a while. It ended when he dug his fingers into my temple and pulled my head toward his cock; I locked my jaws, but he pried them open (painfully) and lunged his prick in my mouth. And that, as they say, was that.
Ladies, you want to try to make things interesting? Don't be the fish in the bathtub.
Thursday, January 30, 2014
Spread
 |
| Yes, this is my hand, and that is my plug. |
Rarely do I do this. On many nights, at least nights like this one, when I'm expecting him to wrestle me, pin me down, fight for his claim over my flesh, I make him forcibly strip me. But tonight, I didn't want him to have to bother. That would have been as entertaining as an opening act, and I wanted to get to the main attraction.
I also didn't want him to rip my shirt off me. I happened to like this one.
As soon as we were both naked, he came after me.
Almost never are there words spoken between us at this stage of the game
(hunt)
because there is no point. If he tried to order me to do something, then what? I would simply refuse. I had not been cowered yet. I had not been made to submit.
I had not been caught.
He didn't try to grab me by the arm as he sometimes does. He twisted his leg around my knee instead, buckling it so I stumbled; and at the same time, he pushed down on the bed, covering me with his own harder body. I sucked in my breath. Before I could let it out, he had my arms pinned above my head.
He chuckled.
"That was too easy," he said, mocking me in his triumph. "You're losing it."
I bucked him with my leg, got one hand free, and dug my nails under his knee. He rolled to escape.
"Not yet," I hissed. "You haven't got me yet."
We wrestled, rolled, fell together, and ripped each other apart. We grunted and howled as we took turns advancing, only to be coyly outmaneuvered and have to try again. We laughed as we played, the hysterical laughter of jackals, fighting for top position.
When he pinned me face down, legs caught and hanging off the edge of the bed, I knew I was beaten.
His hand came down on my derriere with a resounding smack. I shrieked and squirmed.
"That one's going to leave my hand print mark," he said, his voice now casual. He knew he had won, and more importantly, he knew that I knew it, too. "Let's see if I can leave the same print on the other cheek."
His hand came down again, this time on the other side of my bottom, and I shrieked just as loudly. But I didn't squirm. I was like the deer dragged to the cougar's lair, waiting to be eaten: I was frozen, knowing my fate, waiting for the pain, and the end.
I longed for mine.
He grabbed the cane off the drawer chest and made fun use of it. We were both sweating by then, but all I could smell was his adrenaline and testosterone, mingled with his unique, Husband smell. It pulled me down into subspace, and I went complaisantly enough as the pain pushed me down even further from the other side.
The cane became his magic wand, and he wielded it with grandeur, like a dark wizard of old: weaving tight glowing ribbons of blazing agony around my shuddering body.
"Stay," he said. I did not move.
I felt his presence leave me, then return. The mattress sank under his weight: he was kneeling by my head.
My wrists were gripped by cool, gentle hands, and buckled into cuffs. Then they were pulled behind my back, and the cuffs were snapped together.
He got up, walked around to stand by my head, and pulled my body forward until my head was hanging down the edge, right next to his swollen cock.
"Suck it."
I did, without protest, and he sighed in pleasure. But he only let me show him my newly rediscovered submission for a few moments. Then he went back around the bed.
I felt him put cuffs on my ankles, first one, then the other. And when I tried to close my legs, I found I could not: he had put a spreader bar between them.
"Bend your knees all the way up," he ordered. I did, and he unsnapped my wrists from each other so he could snap them instead to my ankle cuffs. My back arched a bit by the excursion: the position made me feel like a trussed up pig.
Which was probably the point.
"Now we have some real fun," he said. "Time for some lube."
I squeaked at this point. I had a feeling I knew what was coming, but fear kept me from saying anything, as if stopping myself from voicing the suspicion out loud would prevent it from happening.
I knew how futile my superstitious logic was when I felt the cold, smooth blunted glass press against my asshole.
"Better relax," he said, pulling apart my butt cheeks to get a better view of the show about to start.
"It's too big," I whined, moaning as I felt the rock-hard buttplug gain another millimeter inside my sphincter.
"I'm not going to push," he said. "We have time. I'll let your body do the work. But you'll take the whole thing in."
He spread my ass cheeks apart further, and I willed myself to relax, knowing there was no escape from what was going to happen. Even as I gasped, and groaned, and struggled, I could feel the buttplug naturally sliding into my rear channel as my body sucked it in between each spasm of my muscles.
"It's going," he said. "It's almost in."
As the widest part of the massive buttplug slipped past my sphincter, I yelled, the agony becoming a ring of fire that throbbed and burned. But it only lasted a minute. Then I was stuffed, my asshole constricting around the hard glass. I could feel the handle pressing into my butt cheeks.
"Good girl," he said, lifting his hands and letting my ass snap shut around the buttplug. "You look amazing right now."
"Thank you" I said, a bit too sarcastically. He laughed.
"You know, I could really go for a nice cold drink right now." His point didn't register until I realized he was putting his pants back on. Then I turned my head to look at him in bafflement. He was already by the door, his hand on the knob. "Don't go anywhere," he said with a taunt, and left the room.
I was stuck, spread, plugged, and alone.
My shock quickly gave way to amazement, and then to awe. He had left me there like his wrapped up, packaged plaything. Which is exactly what I was.
The realization made me so horny and wet, my whole body tightened up, which only served to make the buttplug feel even harder and bigger. I rocked my body as much as I could, trying to get some friction against the buttplug. It was no use. All my effort did was make me even more aroused and frustrated.
So I relaxed my body, focused on my breathing, and hoped he would return quickly.
As my cheek rested against the sheet, I listened for his movements downstairs: the creak of the kitchen cabinet opening, the hum of the refrigerator as its door opened, the churn of the ice machine going...then slow, careful sipping. I could envision him in my mind's eye, calmly standing next to the fridge, sipping his drink, knowing I was upstairs, waiting.
And then the TV turned on.
My head came up off the bed with the realization he had no intent to return any time soon. He might make me wait a few minutes; he might make me wait for hours.
He might make me wait all fucking night.
I breathed. I willed myself to be still, to not struggle...and not rock against the plug. Calling for him was out of the question, as well he knew. Too big a risk of rousing one of the kids. All I could do was focus on my breathing...and wait.
I could feel the leather of the cuffs rubbing against my skin, the stretch of my sinews holding my restrained position, the air hitting my most private, intimate parts...and the plug, lodged deep inside my bottom.
After a while, the sound of the TV abruptly stopped, and my ears picked up, waiting for any sound that would give me some indication what the man was up to. I heard the blessed sounds of his feet coming up the stairs.
I didn't know if I should cry in relief, or shriek in frustration.
But in the end, I didn't do either of those things. My face remained passive, but my eyes told him all.
Our eyes met, and he smiled.
"You're ready," he said.
He uncuffed my wrists first, and I spread my arms out across the bed, stretching them gratefully. Then he dragged me to the edge of the bed, and uncuffed my ankles from the spreader bar, letting my legs fall until my feet touched the floor.
As I relaxed my limbs, relieved to be free, Husband remained behind me, grabbing my ass.
"Relax."
Slowly, he pulled out the buttplug, as I whimpered and quaked. Once it was free, I sighed and went limp.
My relief was not to last long.
Husband squeezed another dollop of lube on my still-throbbing asshole, aimed his cock, and pushed right in. All I could do was cringe and hang on.
And then he was fucking my ass, hard, and I was fucking him right back, with all the wanting (and waiting) that had been growing inside me since he'd left the room.
I spread my legs on the floor, stood on my tiptoes, and slammed my body back against his. I reached between my legs and rubbed my clit, working frantically to make myself come. There was no desire to wait and enjoy the process. I had already been waiting far longer than I would have liked. All I wanted to do at that point was gain heavenly release.
I came, and as my body spasmed and convulsed, so did he. He kept slamming me until he was through, and then he collapsed over my body, our breath slowly harmonizing into one waving rhythm. When he stood, I could feel his skin sticking to my mine the second before it pulled away. The cold air hit my flesh where his body had kept me warm a moment ago, and I shivered.
He recovered first, as is usually the case, and stepped back to take a good look at me.
"Who do you belong to?"
"You."
"Who will you always belong to?"
"You."
"And what can I do with you?"
"Whatever you want."
"Good girl."
He knelt down to give me a quick kiss on the cheek, then padded into the bathroom to shower.
I have been beaten, again. I have been cowered, corralled, seized, fettered, and subdued, again.
I have been won. Again.
Until next time.
Kink Meme Day 26
"What's your opinion on online BDSM play?'
It's completely voluntary and self-discretionary, so what's not to like? How anonymous you are is up to you. What you reveal about your kinks and yourself is up to you. Which people you befriend is up to you. Generally, everything is up to you. You just always have to keep in mind that once you put something out there about yourself, it's out there forever, so you have to be careful.
If by BDSM play you mean, like, acting out a virtual scene or something, then I don't really get that. But I never really "got" phone sex, either, and clearly there are LOTS of people who enjoy that. I think phone sex sounds ridiculous.
It's completely voluntary and self-discretionary, so what's not to like? How anonymous you are is up to you. What you reveal about your kinks and yourself is up to you. Which people you befriend is up to you. Generally, everything is up to you. You just always have to keep in mind that once you put something out there about yourself, it's out there forever, so you have to be careful.
If by BDSM play you mean, like, acting out a virtual scene or something, then I don't really get that. But I never really "got" phone sex, either, and clearly there are LOTS of people who enjoy that. I think phone sex sounds ridiculous.
The D/s Relationships Nobody's Talking About
This post is (partially) in response to Sylvanus's Post, How D/s Relationships Work, and Sub Girl's post on the subject.
While I've been married for a long time, I still have single girlfriends, and a single sister, who sometime enjoy telling me their "matchmaker date" horror stories. They'll be set up with a guy through a mutual friend, and go on a blind date with him, only to find that not only did the two of them not have anything in common, but the mutual friend should have been able to realize immediately the match would never have worked.
And then they go back to the friend who set them up in the first place, and ask what the hell made them think it would be a good match. Inevitably, they get a stupid answer like this one:
"He's short, and you're short, so I thought it would be a good match."
"You're both a bit...plump? So I thought you'd go well together."
"You're both red heads, I thought you'd make such cute kids."
"You both seem so smart to me. I thought two smart people would have a lot in common."
"You're both vegetarian."
Hopefully, you're reading these answers and also rolling your eyes. After all, it's silly to think two people would be a good match simply because they have the same dietary restrictions, or look relatively the same, or have the same IQ.
But too many times, people don't recognize they're using the same over-simplistic approach when it comes to BDSM and kink. They assume if two people share the most general of fetishes (anal sex, foot fetish, etc), or have a couple basic needs that complement each other (Dom/sub, masochist/sadist), then a relationship will automatically fall into place.
This is bullshit.
BDSM is only one aspect of a relationship. Granted, how big an aspect it is depends on the couple. When Husband and I first started "getting serious," we had some pretty honest discussions about our views on religion, politics, family life, and the like. With some of those things, there was no room for negotiation: we either agreed, or we did not. Had we not, the relationship would have ended.
Even so, through time, our views have changed and adapted. That's life. But there are some things that a couple must stand united on, or the foundation of the relationship is built on sand. In the end, it will crumble.
For some people, aspects of their kinks are "non-negotiable." They are looking for someone who can fill their kinky needs. Which is fine, if they are being honest and forthcoming about what their needs are.
But that doesn't mean anyone who can fill those desires, complement their kinks, is automatically the person who can have a long-term, meaningful relationship with them. It just means there's a possibility there for a good, strong, foundation. Building a relationship takes time, and effort, and not just in the bedroom (or whatever room you use for play).
On the other hand...
Thinking that D/s relationships are somehow more doomed to fail because they are D/s relationships is silly and narrow-sighted.
BDSM is about power exchange, granted. Many D/s relationships are TPE, total power exchanges, although I don't know how anyone could fathom a guess how many BDSM relationships are also TPEs; it's not like there have been studies or statistics done on the matter.
What I can tell you is that many, MANY people out there have D/s TPE relationships and don't belong to any "scene," have never even heard of "BDSM," and frankly, don't give a righteous fuck. How do I know? Because I associate with these people every day.
Wives who give complete control to their husbands. Husbands who expect their wives to obey and submit, naturally, no questions asked. Women who are punished, one way or the other, when they refuse, argue, or talk back to their Dominant males. These are D/s relationships, whether they know it or not.
But they don't think of this as TPE, and they certainly don't define their relationships in terms of Domination, submission, power exchange, or any other words those in the BDSM world use on a regular basis. To them, this kind of relationship is completely natural, as it should be between man and wife. They don't put it in terms of kink; it just is the way it is. And if you suggested to them that maybe what they have can be put into kinky BDSM terms, they would not just be surprised, they would be affronted.
I get the feeling many people in the BDSM world think kinky people have some kind of monopoly on TPE relationships. That's hogwash. Just because others don't show themselves and advertise their lifestyles in clubs, on Fetlife, or what have you, that doesn't mean they're not out there.
And guess what? Their relationships are doing fine. Better than fine, I would argue. These are people who get married young and stay married forever. I guess one could argue that being married and staying married does not signify a healthy relationship. But then, I could argue that a divorce does not signify a failed one, either.
For instance, my grandparents got legally divorced when my grandfather had to go into a nursing home, so my grandmother wouldn't be left destitute. But they remained religiously married, and she visited him every single day in his nursing home. I would not call that a failed relationship. How many other marriages end on paper for one reason or another, while the relationship itself continues? Does anyone know for sure? Has anyone done any research? I think not.
D/s relationships are difficult, yes, but I would argue, no more or less difficult than any other type of relationship. It takes trust, and honesty, and open communication. It takes time, and work, and let's face it, it takes luck. There needs to be that certain chemistry there that no one can define, even though we all know what it is, because we've all felt it at one point or another.
For those who know that BDSM and kink will need to be an integral part of any relationship they have, looking for someone who shares their beliefs from the get-go is a good idea. But it will not automatically save a relationship doomed to fail, nor will it doom an otherwise healthy relationship. It will just be another aspect of day-to-day living the couple will have negotiate and decide for themselves.
While I've been married for a long time, I still have single girlfriends, and a single sister, who sometime enjoy telling me their "matchmaker date" horror stories. They'll be set up with a guy through a mutual friend, and go on a blind date with him, only to find that not only did the two of them not have anything in common, but the mutual friend should have been able to realize immediately the match would never have worked.
And then they go back to the friend who set them up in the first place, and ask what the hell made them think it would be a good match. Inevitably, they get a stupid answer like this one:
"He's short, and you're short, so I thought it would be a good match."
"You're both a bit...plump? So I thought you'd go well together."
"You're both red heads, I thought you'd make such cute kids."
"You both seem so smart to me. I thought two smart people would have a lot in common."
"You're both vegetarian."
Hopefully, you're reading these answers and also rolling your eyes. After all, it's silly to think two people would be a good match simply because they have the same dietary restrictions, or look relatively the same, or have the same IQ.
But too many times, people don't recognize they're using the same over-simplistic approach when it comes to BDSM and kink. They assume if two people share the most general of fetishes (anal sex, foot fetish, etc), or have a couple basic needs that complement each other (Dom/sub, masochist/sadist), then a relationship will automatically fall into place.
This is bullshit.
BDSM is only one aspect of a relationship. Granted, how big an aspect it is depends on the couple. When Husband and I first started "getting serious," we had some pretty honest discussions about our views on religion, politics, family life, and the like. With some of those things, there was no room for negotiation: we either agreed, or we did not. Had we not, the relationship would have ended.
Even so, through time, our views have changed and adapted. That's life. But there are some things that a couple must stand united on, or the foundation of the relationship is built on sand. In the end, it will crumble.
For some people, aspects of their kinks are "non-negotiable." They are looking for someone who can fill their kinky needs. Which is fine, if they are being honest and forthcoming about what their needs are.
But that doesn't mean anyone who can fill those desires, complement their kinks, is automatically the person who can have a long-term, meaningful relationship with them. It just means there's a possibility there for a good, strong, foundation. Building a relationship takes time, and effort, and not just in the bedroom (or whatever room you use for play).
On the other hand...
Thinking that D/s relationships are somehow more doomed to fail because they are D/s relationships is silly and narrow-sighted.
BDSM is about power exchange, granted. Many D/s relationships are TPE, total power exchanges, although I don't know how anyone could fathom a guess how many BDSM relationships are also TPEs; it's not like there have been studies or statistics done on the matter.
What I can tell you is that many, MANY people out there have D/s TPE relationships and don't belong to any "scene," have never even heard of "BDSM," and frankly, don't give a righteous fuck. How do I know? Because I associate with these people every day.
Wives who give complete control to their husbands. Husbands who expect their wives to obey and submit, naturally, no questions asked. Women who are punished, one way or the other, when they refuse, argue, or talk back to their Dominant males. These are D/s relationships, whether they know it or not.
But they don't think of this as TPE, and they certainly don't define their relationships in terms of Domination, submission, power exchange, or any other words those in the BDSM world use on a regular basis. To them, this kind of relationship is completely natural, as it should be between man and wife. They don't put it in terms of kink; it just is the way it is. And if you suggested to them that maybe what they have can be put into kinky BDSM terms, they would not just be surprised, they would be affronted.
I get the feeling many people in the BDSM world think kinky people have some kind of monopoly on TPE relationships. That's hogwash. Just because others don't show themselves and advertise their lifestyles in clubs, on Fetlife, or what have you, that doesn't mean they're not out there.
And guess what? Their relationships are doing fine. Better than fine, I would argue. These are people who get married young and stay married forever. I guess one could argue that being married and staying married does not signify a healthy relationship. But then, I could argue that a divorce does not signify a failed one, either.
For instance, my grandparents got legally divorced when my grandfather had to go into a nursing home, so my grandmother wouldn't be left destitute. But they remained religiously married, and she visited him every single day in his nursing home. I would not call that a failed relationship. How many other marriages end on paper for one reason or another, while the relationship itself continues? Does anyone know for sure? Has anyone done any research? I think not.
D/s relationships are difficult, yes, but I would argue, no more or less difficult than any other type of relationship. It takes trust, and honesty, and open communication. It takes time, and work, and let's face it, it takes luck. There needs to be that certain chemistry there that no one can define, even though we all know what it is, because we've all felt it at one point or another.
For those who know that BDSM and kink will need to be an integral part of any relationship they have, looking for someone who shares their beliefs from the get-go is a good idea. But it will not automatically save a relationship doomed to fail, nor will it doom an otherwise healthy relationship. It will just be another aspect of day-to-day living the couple will have negotiate and decide for themselves.
How We Negotiate
A while back, Husband and I made a deal to get me motivated to exercise more.
I wrote about it here.
The deal was, I would get on the treadmill for half an hour, five times a week, and for every minute I skipped, he would get to beat my butt.
Since then, I have stuck to the deal, with some adjustments. I've been getting on the treadmill five times a week; sometimes I have to skip a weeknight, due to some prior obligation, but I make up for it on the weekends, and that's okay. He also lets me accrue time, so that if I do two nights of 45 minutes, I'm able to skip the next when I'm too tired.
We've altered the deal through negotiation, but I've not broken it. Not once.
Not until now.
Like I wrote in the last post, Husband is away on business travel until the end of this week. He travels fairly often, and I'm used to it. I don't enjoy it (I miss him terribly), but I know the routine and how to handle things. I thought it would be fine.
Until right before he left. His last hour at home. We were sitting at the kitchen table, and he casually let me know he expects me to still get on the treadmill every day while he's gone.
I was not allowed to skip days. I was not allowed to accrue time. I had to do at least half an hour, every day.
Last week was fine. The kids were off for Thanksgiving break, so we didn't have to rush to be anywhere, and most places were closed, anyway. I put on a movie in the family room, gave each one of them their own bowl of popcorn, and that was it. Half an hour later, they were still exactly where I left them, munching away.
Monday was more difficult. I had errands to run, chores to do. The kids came home from school, and they needed my attention. It was already a fight who would get to talk to me first. Disappearing for half an hour and making myself completely unavailable was out of the question.
I skipped the treadmill.
Tuesday I wasn't too worried about it. "If I do 45 minutes today and 45 minutes tomorrow, he'll probably let it slide," I thought.
Then the day got away from me. I had a PTA emergency, a friend who needed a shoulder to cry on for over an hour...and then the kids came home, and all hell broke loose. By the time 8:00 rolled around, I knew the treadmill and I would not be making our date.
And then Husband called.
I don't know how that man always knows what's going on with me, but he does. It's like he has ESP powers over me. His secret Husband senses were telling him there was a disturbance in our D/s force.
We talked about mundane things for a few minutes, how the kids were doing, how much we missed each other, that kind of thing...and then he asked the question.
"So. Have you been going on the treadmill?"
"Um. Um."
"I take that as a no." The smug satisfaction was thick in his voice, like I as just confirming something he already knew.
"I did! Kinda! I did over the weekend! Just not yesterday. Or today."
"I see." There was a heavy pause. "You'll be getting the horseradish on Saturday."
That was it. No words of disappointment, no reprimand. Just a proclamation of punishment.
I suddenly wanted to cry.
"Shall I get it for you?" I thought maybe my offer would appease him somewhat. Also, it would give me the chance to pick the root myself.
"No. I'll go and get it when I get back. That's my job."
Now the censure was clear. I will do my job, you should have taken care to do yours was the message.
The conversation moved on, the kids took turns talking to him, and we all hung up.
About half an hour later, he calls again.
"I've been thinking. You said you missed yesterday, and today?"
"Yes...."
"That's two days. You should get the horseradish for two nights."
"Now hold on here," I said. "The task was to get on the treadmill. I failed in my task, so that's one punishment."
"But the task was to get on each day," he replied. "You missed two days, so that's two punishments."
"No, no. No no no. The job was divided up between days, but still one job. It counts as one."
He thought about it.
"I'll let you get away with one punishment...but I'll use two roots. One in your ass and one in your pussy."
"What!"
"Unless you want me to try to fit two roots in your ass? That might be too much, even for you."
"WHAT!"
"I think this is fair. One punishment, two roots. We'll see where they fit on Saturday."
And while I sat there with the phone to my ear, struck speechless, breath frozen in my chest, he said his goodbyes and hung up.
I wrote about it here.
The deal was, I would get on the treadmill for half an hour, five times a week, and for every minute I skipped, he would get to beat my butt.
 |
| When I said "motivated," I meant "tormented." (No this is not me) |
We've altered the deal through negotiation, but I've not broken it. Not once.
Not until now.
Like I wrote in the last post, Husband is away on business travel until the end of this week. He travels fairly often, and I'm used to it. I don't enjoy it (I miss him terribly), but I know the routine and how to handle things. I thought it would be fine.
Until right before he left. His last hour at home. We were sitting at the kitchen table, and he casually let me know he expects me to still get on the treadmill every day while he's gone.
I was not allowed to skip days. I was not allowed to accrue time. I had to do at least half an hour, every day.
Last week was fine. The kids were off for Thanksgiving break, so we didn't have to rush to be anywhere, and most places were closed, anyway. I put on a movie in the family room, gave each one of them their own bowl of popcorn, and that was it. Half an hour later, they were still exactly where I left them, munching away.
Monday was more difficult. I had errands to run, chores to do. The kids came home from school, and they needed my attention. It was already a fight who would get to talk to me first. Disappearing for half an hour and making myself completely unavailable was out of the question.
I skipped the treadmill.
Tuesday I wasn't too worried about it. "If I do 45 minutes today and 45 minutes tomorrow, he'll probably let it slide," I thought.
Then the day got away from me. I had a PTA emergency, a friend who needed a shoulder to cry on for over an hour...and then the kids came home, and all hell broke loose. By the time 8:00 rolled around, I knew the treadmill and I would not be making our date.
And then Husband called.
 |
| Caught with my pants down! (No this is not me either) |
 |
| Not me. |
"So. Have you been going on the treadmill?"
"Um. Um."
"I take that as a no." The smug satisfaction was thick in his voice, like I as just confirming something he already knew.
"I did! Kinda! I did over the weekend! Just not yesterday. Or today."
"I see." There was a heavy pause. "You'll be getting the horseradish on Saturday."
That was it. No words of disappointment, no reprimand. Just a proclamation of punishment.
I suddenly wanted to cry.
"Shall I get it for you?" I thought maybe my offer would appease him somewhat. Also, it would give me the chance to pick the root myself.
"No. I'll go and get it when I get back. That's my job."
Now the censure was clear. I will do my job, you should have taken care to do yours was the message.
The conversation moved on, the kids took turns talking to him, and we all hung up.
About half an hour later, he calls again.
"I've been thinking. You said you missed yesterday, and today?"
"Yes...."
"That's two days. You should get the horseradish for two nights."
"Now hold on here," I said. "The task was to get on the treadmill. I failed in my task, so that's one punishment."
"But the task was to get on each day," he replied. "You missed two days, so that's two punishments."
"No, no. No no no. The job was divided up between days, but still one job. It counts as one."
He thought about it.
"I'll let you get away with one punishment...but I'll use two roots. One in your ass and one in your pussy."
"What!"
"Unless you want me to try to fit two roots in your ass? That might be too much, even for you."
"WHAT!"
"I think this is fair. One punishment, two roots. We'll see where they fit on Saturday."
And while I sat there with the phone to my ear, struck speechless, breath frozen in my chest, he said his goodbyes and hung up.
This is how we negotiate.
Saturday is going to be an interesting day.
Please Force Me
Let me start with this:
I love giving Husband blowjobs.
His cock tastes divine, and while I wouldn't say it's a perfect fit for my mouth (oh God no way), I would say it's an unperfect fit in all the right ways. It's smooth. It's warm. It glides down my throat just so. It's great for sucking. It's great for just just about anything I'm in the mood for...but blowjobs are particularly nice.
I'm good at giving blowjobs. At least, Husband says so--and he's the only one who has to judge. I can deep throat him without problem; I can hold him down in my throat for long lengths of time with no problem. I can suck, lick, and pump my jaws, all at the same time. I am talented.
(One of those many talents I will never be able to openly market...but I digress.)
What it boils down to is I enjoy giving blowjobs, I'm good at it, and they make me happy.
Now here's the second thing:
I sabotage my own happiness; like, all the fucking time.
I have a feeling a lot of women do this; we just don't really open up about it. If there's something I know I should be doing, something that's good for me, something that will make me happy in the short or long term...I still try to convince myself not to do it. I don't know why. It's like a little voice inside my head says "O! This will end well! Best not do it!" And then I go on with doing something else.
So there are often times when I want to give Husband a blowjob, I know I'll enjoy it and obviously (oh how obviously) he will enjoy it, but for some reason, I won't offer to give him one, and I won't ask him if he wants one. The latter statement is more rhetorical (obviously he wants one, he wants one all the time) but it's polite to ask first before yanking a guy's pants down and start sucking on his cock. I think this falls under the heading of "common courtesy"; or maybe, in a D/s relationship, under "asking permission."
The other day I could tell these conflicting emotions were getting the better of me, so to nip it in the bud, I called Husband on his way home.
"Make me give you a blowjob tonight," I said.
"No problem!" He replied.
After all the kids had gone to bed (can I just say here, thank God for school-night bedtimes?), he came looking for me, and found me on the couch, watching television.
"Give me my blowjob," he said, staring down at me.
"Gah, I'm too tired," I said without looking away from the T.V.
"I don't care," he replied. "Give me my blowjob."
"I don't feel like it."
Giving me a penetrating look that would have pierced through lead, he turned off the television, grabbed my hand, and pulled. "Give me a blowjob," he said.
"No," I replied.
For a moment, we stared at each other. Then Husband reached into my lap, slipped his hand into the front of my pants, got a good grip on my panties...and pulled.
I jacked up off the couch, howling. My panties were now stretched taut inside my pussy, and pulling on my most sensitive parts.
It was the evil frontal wedgie.
Husband began to walk me upstairs, pulling on my panties like a leash. I could only keep up with his steps, walking on my tiptoes the whole while and whining as we went.
"When I say give me a blowjob," he growled as we walked, "I mean get up, stop whatever you're doing, get upstairs, and give me a fucking blowjob." We reached the bedroom, and he half flung me against the couch. Before I could regain my balance, he pushed me down by the shoulders and shoved me to the floor.
In one swift moment, he had his pants down and his hand behind my head, digging into my hair. He pulled my head into his crotch, and I had no choice but to take his cock in my mouth.
"There you go," he said. "Now get to work."
Of course, now that I was well positioned on the floor, his cock in my mouth, I automatically got down to work. Like I said, I take pride in my blowjobs. Once he got my over the initial struggle of fighting my own inclination, my own wants, I was fine. I gave that man a mighty fine blowjob to thank him for his troubles, and by the time he came, he had to collapse onto the nearby chair just to catch his breath.
And then it was time for one of those weird conversations you probably only hear in D/s households.
"Thank you for making me give you a blowjob, Husband," I said.
"No problem. You feel better?"
"Oh, yes."
"I didn't pull your hair too hard, did I?"
"No, I'm okay. Thanks for asking."
"I just want to make sure it wasn't too hard...you know, for next time."
"Next time?"
"Next time I think you need to feel better again. You were down before, but now you're smiling. You always seem to smile more after I do this. I'll probably force you to give me a blowjob every night for the rest of the week. How does that sound?"
"You're so good to me."
I have no idea what kind of pillow talk goes on in vanilla households. I imagine, though, it's very different from ours.
I love giving Husband blowjobs.
His cock tastes divine, and while I wouldn't say it's a perfect fit for my mouth (oh God no way), I would say it's an unperfect fit in all the right ways. It's smooth. It's warm. It glides down my throat just so. It's great for sucking. It's great for just just about anything I'm in the mood for...but blowjobs are particularly nice.
I'm good at giving blowjobs. At least, Husband says so--and he's the only one who has to judge. I can deep throat him without problem; I can hold him down in my throat for long lengths of time with no problem. I can suck, lick, and pump my jaws, all at the same time. I am talented.
(One of those many talents I will never be able to openly market...but I digress.)
What it boils down to is I enjoy giving blowjobs, I'm good at it, and they make me happy.
Now here's the second thing:
I sabotage my own happiness; like, all the fucking time.
I have a feeling a lot of women do this; we just don't really open up about it. If there's something I know I should be doing, something that's good for me, something that will make me happy in the short or long term...I still try to convince myself not to do it. I don't know why. It's like a little voice inside my head says "O! This will end well! Best not do it!" And then I go on with doing something else.
So there are often times when I want to give Husband a blowjob, I know I'll enjoy it and obviously (oh how obviously) he will enjoy it, but for some reason, I won't offer to give him one, and I won't ask him if he wants one. The latter statement is more rhetorical (obviously he wants one, he wants one all the time) but it's polite to ask first before yanking a guy's pants down and start sucking on his cock. I think this falls under the heading of "common courtesy"; or maybe, in a D/s relationship, under "asking permission."
The other day I could tell these conflicting emotions were getting the better of me, so to nip it in the bud, I called Husband on his way home.
"Make me give you a blowjob tonight," I said.
"No problem!" He replied.
After all the kids had gone to bed (can I just say here, thank God for school-night bedtimes?), he came looking for me, and found me on the couch, watching television.
"Give me my blowjob," he said, staring down at me.
"Gah, I'm too tired," I said without looking away from the T.V.
"I don't care," he replied. "Give me my blowjob."
"I don't feel like it."
Giving me a penetrating look that would have pierced through lead, he turned off the television, grabbed my hand, and pulled. "Give me a blowjob," he said.
"No," I replied.
For a moment, we stared at each other. Then Husband reached into my lap, slipped his hand into the front of my pants, got a good grip on my panties...and pulled.
I jacked up off the couch, howling. My panties were now stretched taut inside my pussy, and pulling on my most sensitive parts.
It was the evil frontal wedgie.
Husband began to walk me upstairs, pulling on my panties like a leash. I could only keep up with his steps, walking on my tiptoes the whole while and whining as we went.
"When I say give me a blowjob," he growled as we walked, "I mean get up, stop whatever you're doing, get upstairs, and give me a fucking blowjob." We reached the bedroom, and he half flung me against the couch. Before I could regain my balance, he pushed me down by the shoulders and shoved me to the floor.
In one swift moment, he had his pants down and his hand behind my head, digging into my hair. He pulled my head into his crotch, and I had no choice but to take his cock in my mouth.
"There you go," he said. "Now get to work."
Of course, now that I was well positioned on the floor, his cock in my mouth, I automatically got down to work. Like I said, I take pride in my blowjobs. Once he got my over the initial struggle of fighting my own inclination, my own wants, I was fine. I gave that man a mighty fine blowjob to thank him for his troubles, and by the time he came, he had to collapse onto the nearby chair just to catch his breath.
And then it was time for one of those weird conversations you probably only hear in D/s households.
"Thank you for making me give you a blowjob, Husband," I said.
"No problem. You feel better?"
"Oh, yes."
"I didn't pull your hair too hard, did I?"
"No, I'm okay. Thanks for asking."
"I just want to make sure it wasn't too hard...you know, for next time."
"Next time?"
"Next time I think you need to feel better again. You were down before, but now you're smiling. You always seem to smile more after I do this. I'll probably force you to give me a blowjob every night for the rest of the week. How does that sound?"
"You're so good to me."
I have no idea what kind of pillow talk goes on in vanilla households. I imagine, though, it's very different from ours.
Results of the Anal Sex Poll
The question posed was thus:
Before anal sex, does the dick get lubed, or the asshole?
A whopping 75% of you voted "both".
Of those who picked one, the asshole got double the number of votes as the dick.
A handful of you voted "neither." To which I say…OW.
The reason why I asked is because Husband never lubes up his dick. I don't know why. Periodically over the years, I've asked him to, and he never does it. I think it has something to do with him not wanting to go to the trouble of rubbing his own dick when an available hole is right there, warm and inviting. But I might be wrong.
It definitely has something to do with the fact that lubing my ass can be a hit-or-miss thing, and in Husband's mind, this adds to the sadistic fun. Oftentimes, Husband's not too careful about it. He'll tip the bottle over my ass crack, let some lube slide out…and if it lands on my cringing sphincter, great! If not, I'm out of luck. He might be kind enough rub the lube around if he missed his target completely, but if the slippery stuff manages to get on one side of my ass, but not the other, Husband's mentality is usually something to the effect of Oh, well. This is gonna pinch her a little.
Tee hee.
If he's feeling magnanimous, he'll spread the lube around the sphincter area…with his dick. This is also a hit-or-miss thing. Sometimes it feels like he's spreading the goop all over my butt cheeks, everywhere but on the asshole itself. Sometimes he'll tease me with it, rubbing his dick along my crack until it feels like the lube is starting to dry, and I'm filling up with fear.
More often times he's just assuming his pumping will managed to smear the lube everywhere it needs to go—eventually, anyway—and there's no reason to hold back.
Yes, the lube gets everywhere it needs to go…eventually…usually around the time I'm trying to crawl away from him to escape the agony and he's pinning me down and ramming into me and the tears are pooling in my eyes and I'm crying and he's pulling the hair away from my face so he can see my expression of torment as he laughs in my ear.
But he knows I enjoy the pain. More importantly, he enjoys my pain—and my subjugation.
That is why he does it.
And yes, sometimes he'll use his fingers in me, sometimes he'll use a butt plug first, sometimes the anal vibrator comes out…and in those cases, I get lubed up nice and deep before his dick comes anywhere near me. But I never know when that's going to happen. I never know what kind of foreplay he has planned in his head unless he tells me, which is not very often.
And the thing is, he's not using his fingers or plug or toy to help get me lubed and relaxed. He's using them because it's fun and he feels like it.
If he doesn't feel like it? Oh well. This is gonna pinch a little. Suck it up, anal slut.
I think I might bring this poll to his attention. Look! I'll say. Most people lube both! Not just the asshole! You can lube your dick you know!
Then again, he may just choose to become one of those people who uses no lube at all.
OW. And OH. And…I'm totally getting turned on right now.
Before anal sex, does the dick get lubed, or the asshole?
A whopping 75% of you voted "both".
Of those who picked one, the asshole got double the number of votes as the dick.
A handful of you voted "neither." To which I say…OW.
The reason why I asked is because Husband never lubes up his dick. I don't know why. Periodically over the years, I've asked him to, and he never does it. I think it has something to do with him not wanting to go to the trouble of rubbing his own dick when an available hole is right there, warm and inviting. But I might be wrong.
It definitely has something to do with the fact that lubing my ass can be a hit-or-miss thing, and in Husband's mind, this adds to the sadistic fun. Oftentimes, Husband's not too careful about it. He'll tip the bottle over my ass crack, let some lube slide out…and if it lands on my cringing sphincter, great! If not, I'm out of luck. He might be kind enough rub the lube around if he missed his target completely, but if the slippery stuff manages to get on one side of my ass, but not the other, Husband's mentality is usually something to the effect of Oh, well. This is gonna pinch her a little.
Tee hee.
If he's feeling magnanimous, he'll spread the lube around the sphincter area…with his dick. This is also a hit-or-miss thing. Sometimes it feels like he's spreading the goop all over my butt cheeks, everywhere but on the asshole itself. Sometimes he'll tease me with it, rubbing his dick along my crack until it feels like the lube is starting to dry, and I'm filling up with fear.
More often times he's just assuming his pumping will managed to smear the lube everywhere it needs to go—eventually, anyway—and there's no reason to hold back.
Yes, the lube gets everywhere it needs to go…eventually…usually around the time I'm trying to crawl away from him to escape the agony and he's pinning me down and ramming into me and the tears are pooling in my eyes and I'm crying and he's pulling the hair away from my face so he can see my expression of torment as he laughs in my ear.
But he knows I enjoy the pain. More importantly, he enjoys my pain—and my subjugation.
That is why he does it.
And yes, sometimes he'll use his fingers in me, sometimes he'll use a butt plug first, sometimes the anal vibrator comes out…and in those cases, I get lubed up nice and deep before his dick comes anywhere near me. But I never know when that's going to happen. I never know what kind of foreplay he has planned in his head unless he tells me, which is not very often.
And the thing is, he's not using his fingers or plug or toy to help get me lubed and relaxed. He's using them because it's fun and he feels like it.
If he doesn't feel like it? Oh well. This is gonna pinch a little. Suck it up, anal slut.
I think I might bring this poll to his attention. Look! I'll say. Most people lube both! Not just the asshole! You can lube your dick you know!
Then again, he may just choose to become one of those people who uses no lube at all.
OW. And OH. And…I'm totally getting turned on right now.
Plans Gone Awry
Last night was supposed to be epic.
Husband I were going to try out a new toy. But it wasn't just any toy: it was a pain toy. Pain toys are a big deal because you can never be sure exactly how it's going to work out, no matter what you've read about them or how much research you've done. This is because 1. everyone's pain tolerance is different, and 2. some people have attitudes towards specific pain implements that affects their levels of pain and panic in a purely psychological way.
For instance, I love the belt. I crave the belt. Husband knows one of the easiest ways to turn me on is to look me in the eyes as he slowly pulls his belt out from the loops of his pants. So I can take a lot of pain with the belt, because on some fundamental level, I associate belt-pain with happy-pain, even though the welts going across my bottom say otherwise. When Husband punishes me with the belt, he knows he's got to really work to break through that happy-pain barrier into punishment-pain.
The power cord, on the other hand...I am terrified of the power cord. Husband loves it, loves using it for punishments, because it is quiet, sharp, and I'm usually a crying whimpering mess before he even gets it out. But by the time he's done, most of the time my ass looks just as sore and abused as when he uses the belt. The difference is, when I see my sore bottom after a session with the belt, I feel happy and satisfied. When I see my bottom after a session with the power cord, I just cringe.
New toys have to broken in slowly, because you never know what the reaction is going to be until you try it out. And the initial reaction is not always the one you stick with; it's more like a first impression. You have to really get to know the toy before you can judge its strengths and flaws. That's why Husband will never try a new pain toy during a punishment. When he is punishing me, he needs to keep control over everything that's going on and everything he's doing to me, and he just can't do that if he's not familiar enough with the implement. (Again, this is a sign of a good Dom: even when the goal is to reprimand you through pain, he will always maintain control of the measure of pain he inflicts.)
So, back to last night...we were supposed to try a new pain toy. The schedule was laid out: he would come home, and I would shower. I would not eat dinner, but drink a fruit-smoothie to keep my strength up (eating right before trying out a new pain toy is not always the best idea). After the kids went to bed, we would head up to the bedroom, where I would be under his complete control and follow orders implicitly, while he had fun experimenting with the new toy on every inch of my skin he wished and in every position he chose.
Then shit blew up. Literally.
"Mom, why does the bathroom smell so bad?" My eldest son asked. I thought maybe youngest son had used the toilet and forgot to flush, but nope.
Long story short: we were the proud owners of a broken sewer pipe.
I called the city. They said it could take two hours for a guy to show up. About an hour and a half later, someone comes, checks things out, and declares nothing can be done for the night. It would have to wait till morning.
"You can use the toilets," he says, "but don't flush."
Um, excuse me?
"And don't run the water," he continues. "And for God's sake, don't shower."
Husband and I looked at each other. We could deal with brushing our teeth in the backyard and using sanitizer wipes for our hands, but no flushing the toilet?
"Mom, I have to go the bathroom," eldest son declares.
"Me too," middle son decides.
"Can you just go in the yard, next to the tree?" Husband asks.
"Uh, no," eldest son shakes his head. "It's not that kind of bathroom trip."
"For me either," middle son says.
So I load them up in the car, drive down to a local fast-food joint, and order us some food while they go use the bathroom. It is, as my eldest son says, "a stupid situation."
I order a salad for myself, too, cause there's no way Husband and I are going to get kinky tonight. Not without running water, not without me taking a shower first, not if I can't wash off the sweat and stink and sticky stuff later.
We eat and start the drive home.
"Mom, I'm not feeling well," middle son says.
"What, you need to throw up?"
"Yeah."
"Can you wait until we're home?" And then I realize: we have no working toilets at home for him to throw up into.
"No." His face is turning pale; he looks at me in fear.
"QUICK, LOOK FOR A BAG," I yell behind me to eldest son. He looks around.
"I have a shoe box," he declares, handing it up to middle son. As soon as middle son has it, he's throwing up his entire fast-food dinner.
We get home, throw out the shoe box, bring a bowl of water outside to the backyard, and middle son washes his face and brushes his teeth as best he can. Then I get everyone ready for bed (grumbling because it's an hour before their bedtime but I don't CARE), have them go pee against the tree one last time, and send them to sleep.
Husband is waiting for me in the bedroom, looking very put-out.
"It's not happening tonight," he says.
"No," I say.
"This is pretty shitty," he says.
"Yes," I agree. Then we both start laughing.
Being in a BDSM relationship, living a kinky lifestyle, does not mean it's kink and sex and fun every night. It doesn't mean we're humping like bunnies all time. Kink and BDSM is a huge, integral part of our lives, but it is not what our family revolves around.
Sometimes life gets in the way, shit happens (literally), and you just got to deal with it as it comes and put the kink aside until the timing is right.
But if you're in a good, solid, BDSM relationship, these hiccups that life throws at you won't be a big deal. It'll be disappointing, yes, but it won't be the end of the world. You'll know there will be other nights, hopefully hundreds and hundreds of them, to give into your kinky cravings and satisfy your Dom's (or sub's) needs.
Sometimes being in a BDSM relationship means enduring the pain...and sometimes it means enduring everything that's keeping you from it.
Husband I were going to try out a new toy. But it wasn't just any toy: it was a pain toy. Pain toys are a big deal because you can never be sure exactly how it's going to work out, no matter what you've read about them or how much research you've done. This is because 1. everyone's pain tolerance is different, and 2. some people have attitudes towards specific pain implements that affects their levels of pain and panic in a purely psychological way.
For instance, I love the belt. I crave the belt. Husband knows one of the easiest ways to turn me on is to look me in the eyes as he slowly pulls his belt out from the loops of his pants. So I can take a lot of pain with the belt, because on some fundamental level, I associate belt-pain with happy-pain, even though the welts going across my bottom say otherwise. When Husband punishes me with the belt, he knows he's got to really work to break through that happy-pain barrier into punishment-pain.
The power cord, on the other hand...I am terrified of the power cord. Husband loves it, loves using it for punishments, because it is quiet, sharp, and I'm usually a crying whimpering mess before he even gets it out. But by the time he's done, most of the time my ass looks just as sore and abused as when he uses the belt. The difference is, when I see my sore bottom after a session with the belt, I feel happy and satisfied. When I see my bottom after a session with the power cord, I just cringe.
New toys have to broken in slowly, because you never know what the reaction is going to be until you try it out. And the initial reaction is not always the one you stick with; it's more like a first impression. You have to really get to know the toy before you can judge its strengths and flaws. That's why Husband will never try a new pain toy during a punishment. When he is punishing me, he needs to keep control over everything that's going on and everything he's doing to me, and he just can't do that if he's not familiar enough with the implement. (Again, this is a sign of a good Dom: even when the goal is to reprimand you through pain, he will always maintain control of the measure of pain he inflicts.)
So, back to last night...we were supposed to try a new pain toy. The schedule was laid out: he would come home, and I would shower. I would not eat dinner, but drink a fruit-smoothie to keep my strength up (eating right before trying out a new pain toy is not always the best idea). After the kids went to bed, we would head up to the bedroom, where I would be under his complete control and follow orders implicitly, while he had fun experimenting with the new toy on every inch of my skin he wished and in every position he chose.
Then shit blew up. Literally.
"Mom, why does the bathroom smell so bad?" My eldest son asked. I thought maybe youngest son had used the toilet and forgot to flush, but nope.
Long story short: we were the proud owners of a broken sewer pipe.
I called the city. They said it could take two hours for a guy to show up. About an hour and a half later, someone comes, checks things out, and declares nothing can be done for the night. It would have to wait till morning.
"You can use the toilets," he says, "but don't flush."
Um, excuse me?
"And don't run the water," he continues. "And for God's sake, don't shower."
Husband and I looked at each other. We could deal with brushing our teeth in the backyard and using sanitizer wipes for our hands, but no flushing the toilet?
"Mom, I have to go the bathroom," eldest son declares.
"Me too," middle son decides.
"Can you just go in the yard, next to the tree?" Husband asks.
"Uh, no," eldest son shakes his head. "It's not that kind of bathroom trip."
"For me either," middle son says.
So I load them up in the car, drive down to a local fast-food joint, and order us some food while they go use the bathroom. It is, as my eldest son says, "a stupid situation."
I order a salad for myself, too, cause there's no way Husband and I are going to get kinky tonight. Not without running water, not without me taking a shower first, not if I can't wash off the sweat and stink and sticky stuff later.
We eat and start the drive home.
"Mom, I'm not feeling well," middle son says.
"What, you need to throw up?"
"Yeah."
"Can you wait until we're home?" And then I realize: we have no working toilets at home for him to throw up into.
"No." His face is turning pale; he looks at me in fear.
"QUICK, LOOK FOR A BAG," I yell behind me to eldest son. He looks around.
"I have a shoe box," he declares, handing it up to middle son. As soon as middle son has it, he's throwing up his entire fast-food dinner.
We get home, throw out the shoe box, bring a bowl of water outside to the backyard, and middle son washes his face and brushes his teeth as best he can. Then I get everyone ready for bed (grumbling because it's an hour before their bedtime but I don't CARE), have them go pee against the tree one last time, and send them to sleep.
Husband is waiting for me in the bedroom, looking very put-out.
"It's not happening tonight," he says.
"No," I say.
"This is pretty shitty," he says.
"Yes," I agree. Then we both start laughing.
Being in a BDSM relationship, living a kinky lifestyle, does not mean it's kink and sex and fun every night. It doesn't mean we're humping like bunnies all time. Kink and BDSM is a huge, integral part of our lives, but it is not what our family revolves around.
Sometimes life gets in the way, shit happens (literally), and you just got to deal with it as it comes and put the kink aside until the timing is right.
But if you're in a good, solid, BDSM relationship, these hiccups that life throws at you won't be a big deal. It'll be disappointing, yes, but it won't be the end of the world. You'll know there will be other nights, hopefully hundreds and hundreds of them, to give into your kinky cravings and satisfy your Dom's (or sub's) needs.
Sometimes being in a BDSM relationship means enduring the pain...and sometimes it means enduring everything that's keeping you from it.
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
What I Don't Want to Hear
Husband is away, and I'm feeling kind of snarky.
So I made up a list of things I hate, and I mean hate, to hear during our "play."
A few things to keep in mind:
1. These are only my pet peeves. I'm not making generalities here. Other women might have no problem with hearing these things. Hell, they might need to hear 'em to have a satisfied ending.
2. When I say "during play," I mean when I'm already cuffed, trusted up or tied down, and Husband is getting biblical on my ass. I'm talking about when we're already deep into it. I'm in total submissive masochist mode, and he's (I hope) letting the full Dom in him take over. I'm not talking about before or after, when we might be just starting play or just ending it, but things feel light, almost jovial, and we're taking it easy.
3. I'm also not talking about when things are said sarcastically, or with a more cynical attitude to get a reaction out of me. Husband does that on an ongoing basis. He loves to get a rise out of me. Then I do something bad, and he gets to punish me all over again.
This means that something has gone wrong, not-according-to-plan. It means play might have to pause, or worse yet, maybe halted all together. It means that things were probably not well thought out beforehand, at least enough to foresee such a problem arise, and a way to handle it seamlessly. It can mean that control is lost.
As my Dom, I expect you to retain complete control. I don't want to have to worry about it. That's your job.
Alternative: Say nothing. Don't even let on there's a problem if you can get away with it. Fix the issue before there's time to notice something's off. Or act like it's all part of the plan.
"I'm sorry."
For what? Hurting me? Isn't that kind of the point?
Don't do anything during play you're sorry for. And if you do, and can't fight the need to tell me about it, then tell me you're sorry later, after the scene (and the sex) is over. I don't want to be assuaging your guilt right now. What's even more likely is that you have little, if anything, to feel guilty about. Whatever move you made you thought went too far was probably fine with me. It might even have been better than fine: It might have been exactly what I wanted.
Alternative: Use body language to determine my resistance/pain levels, and if you think you went too far, switch gears. If you think that swipe with the cane was harder than you thought it was going to be, give me a massaging rub on the butt for a quick minute before giving me the next. If you bent one of my limbs too far, bring it back and hold it for support until I look more comfortable. Don't apologize for what's already happened. Just keep going.
"Does this feel good?"
This has got to be one of my biggest pet peeves. If I've got clamps on my nipples and my ass has just been flogged and now I've got three fingers stretching my ass, what am I supposed to say, 'yes, I feel great'?
What if I say no? Does that mean the play has to stop? But I don't want it to stop! Yes, it hurts, but it's the kind of hurt I want. Feeling good means different things when you're talking about BDSM. Am I supposed to stop play and go into a long discussions about my feelings?
Alternative: Ask, instead, 'how does this feel?'
That way, I can use words like 'amazing,' 'delicious,' 'stingy,' 'burny,' etc. If the cane is stinging my butt, it hurts, but that doesn't mean I'm not enjoying it. After all, if I didn't like it, I wouldn't want it. You should absolutely know what's going on in my head, how I'm feeling. But it's up to you to decide if that's the reaction you're looking for, or if you have to change things around. Worse comes to worst, we can always rely on a "green, yellow, red" system. And remember: I've always got my safeword if I really want things to stop.
"I don't deserve you/ You're so good to me/ I'm so lucky"
Listen: If you don't think you deserve me, why should I think you deserve me?
Yes, absolutely, I want to hear those things, I love hearing those things, but later, after the play is over. While we're "in scene," I want you to be the Dom, the guy in control, requiring my complete submission. I want you full of self-assurance, pride, and conviction. (Not to be confused with disrespect, arrogance, or presumption. A good Dom will know the difference.)
Alternative: Say things like 'I'm so proud of you' or 'your submission pleases me' or 'you're working really hard, I can tell.' Things that let me know you recognize the effort I'm putting into my actions, and my hard work makes you happy.
Those are the things I can think of right now. I'm interested to know if any other subs out there have their own pet peeves to add!
So I made up a list of things I hate, and I mean hate, to hear during our "play."
A few things to keep in mind:
1. These are only my pet peeves. I'm not making generalities here. Other women might have no problem with hearing these things. Hell, they might need to hear 'em to have a satisfied ending.
2. When I say "during play," I mean when I'm already cuffed, trusted up or tied down, and Husband is getting biblical on my ass. I'm talking about when we're already deep into it. I'm in total submissive masochist mode, and he's (I hope) letting the full Dom in him take over. I'm not talking about before or after, when we might be just starting play or just ending it, but things feel light, almost jovial, and we're taking it easy.
3. I'm also not talking about when things are said sarcastically, or with a more cynical attitude to get a reaction out of me. Husband does that on an ongoing basis. He loves to get a rise out of me. Then I do something bad, and he gets to punish me all over again.
Without further ado, here is the:
List of Things I Do NOT Want to Hear During Play
"Uh-Oh."This means that something has gone wrong, not-according-to-plan. It means play might have to pause, or worse yet, maybe halted all together. It means that things were probably not well thought out beforehand, at least enough to foresee such a problem arise, and a way to handle it seamlessly. It can mean that control is lost.
As my Dom, I expect you to retain complete control. I don't want to have to worry about it. That's your job.
Alternative: Say nothing. Don't even let on there's a problem if you can get away with it. Fix the issue before there's time to notice something's off. Or act like it's all part of the plan.
"I'm sorry."
For what? Hurting me? Isn't that kind of the point?
Don't do anything during play you're sorry for. And if you do, and can't fight the need to tell me about it, then tell me you're sorry later, after the scene (and the sex) is over. I don't want to be assuaging your guilt right now. What's even more likely is that you have little, if anything, to feel guilty about. Whatever move you made you thought went too far was probably fine with me. It might even have been better than fine: It might have been exactly what I wanted.
Alternative: Use body language to determine my resistance/pain levels, and if you think you went too far, switch gears. If you think that swipe with the cane was harder than you thought it was going to be, give me a massaging rub on the butt for a quick minute before giving me the next. If you bent one of my limbs too far, bring it back and hold it for support until I look more comfortable. Don't apologize for what's already happened. Just keep going.
"Does this feel good?"
This has got to be one of my biggest pet peeves. If I've got clamps on my nipples and my ass has just been flogged and now I've got three fingers stretching my ass, what am I supposed to say, 'yes, I feel great'?
What if I say no? Does that mean the play has to stop? But I don't want it to stop! Yes, it hurts, but it's the kind of hurt I want. Feeling good means different things when you're talking about BDSM. Am I supposed to stop play and go into a long discussions about my feelings?
Alternative: Ask, instead, 'how does this feel?'
That way, I can use words like 'amazing,' 'delicious,' 'stingy,' 'burny,' etc. If the cane is stinging my butt, it hurts, but that doesn't mean I'm not enjoying it. After all, if I didn't like it, I wouldn't want it. You should absolutely know what's going on in my head, how I'm feeling. But it's up to you to decide if that's the reaction you're looking for, or if you have to change things around. Worse comes to worst, we can always rely on a "green, yellow, red" system. And remember: I've always got my safeword if I really want things to stop.
"I don't deserve you/ You're so good to me/ I'm so lucky"
Listen: If you don't think you deserve me, why should I think you deserve me?
Yes, absolutely, I want to hear those things, I love hearing those things, but later, after the play is over. While we're "in scene," I want you to be the Dom, the guy in control, requiring my complete submission. I want you full of self-assurance, pride, and conviction. (Not to be confused with disrespect, arrogance, or presumption. A good Dom will know the difference.)
Alternative: Say things like 'I'm so proud of you' or 'your submission pleases me' or 'you're working really hard, I can tell.' Things that let me know you recognize the effort I'm putting into my actions, and my hard work makes you happy.
Those are the things I can think of right now. I'm interested to know if any other subs out there have their own pet peeves to add!
Kink Meme, Day 10
"What are your hard limits?"
This one is easy: needle play. I cannot stand looking at needles, being around needles, or thinking about needles. Just writing out that sentence about needles made me start to feel like I have to throw up.
And I would never allow a third person into our sex life, neither man nor woman. Going to shows, watching scenes, being a spectator--that's one thing. Allowing someone else to touch me, or my husband, sexually for the purpose of intercourse, that would not be okay. Not that this has ever been an issue. My husband cannot stand the idea of another man even touching me, unless it's a polite kiss on the cheek.
Everything else, at least everything else I can think of, I'd be willing to try at least once. We've never tried anything like cosplay or pony play, because we have absolutely no desire to. But if my husband suddenly decided he wanted to dress up like Han Solo and put me in a Princess Leia slave dress, I wouldn't mind. We're both pretty open minded about trying out new scenes and new toys.
What usually holds us back is not apprehension or some kind of 'hard limit,' but cost. Like the bed I want so badly: it costs close to $4,000. There's no way we would spend that kind of money on a kinky piece of furniture. A flogger can cost upwards of $400.00; even good suspension cuffs can cost over a hundred bucks. We have three kids; we don't spend that sort of money on ourselves.
Although, our wedding anniversary is coming up. I might ask for a kinky new toy....
This one is easy: needle play. I cannot stand looking at needles, being around needles, or thinking about needles. Just writing out that sentence about needles made me start to feel like I have to throw up.
And I would never allow a third person into our sex life, neither man nor woman. Going to shows, watching scenes, being a spectator--that's one thing. Allowing someone else to touch me, or my husband, sexually for the purpose of intercourse, that would not be okay. Not that this has ever been an issue. My husband cannot stand the idea of another man even touching me, unless it's a polite kiss on the cheek.
Everything else, at least everything else I can think of, I'd be willing to try at least once. We've never tried anything like cosplay or pony play, because we have absolutely no desire to. But if my husband suddenly decided he wanted to dress up like Han Solo and put me in a Princess Leia slave dress, I wouldn't mind. We're both pretty open minded about trying out new scenes and new toys.
What usually holds us back is not apprehension or some kind of 'hard limit,' but cost. Like the bed I want so badly: it costs close to $4,000. There's no way we would spend that kind of money on a kinky piece of furniture. A flogger can cost upwards of $400.00; even good suspension cuffs can cost over a hundred bucks. We have three kids; we don't spend that sort of money on ourselves.
Although, our wedding anniversary is coming up. I might ask for a kinky new toy....
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Release
"I made a mistake yesterday, not using restraints on you," he says. "I had to worry too much about your hands getting in the way. I won't be making that mistake again."
He attaches the leather strap binding my two cuffs to the hook on the door. My arms are not stretched painfully, but my hands can no longer offer me any protection.
"Do I still have to apologize for that email?" I ask, wondering what he is waiting to hear, what signal I need to offer to make him stop. What I can give him that will save me.
"We've gone beyond that," he says. My heart skips. I breathe hard.
My first reaction of fear.
He goes to the bed, retrieves the cane. I can look over my shoulder and see him striding back torwards me, clenching the cane in his fist. The gleam in his eyes fills me with icy trepidation.
"What do you want from me?" I ask.
"Nothing," he whispers. "Nothing but to hear you scream. Later, you can say your sorry. Later, you can say 'yes, Sir' when I ask you to talk, and maybe that'll be enough for me. But right now, there's nothing you can say."
Then he puts the gag in my mouth, pushing it between my teeth and pulling it tight around my head. I close my eyes, and brace myself against the door. The adrenaline is rushing my blood hard now; soon, the endorphins will come, too. I am already sinking into subspace.
The first strike of the cane is vicious. I arch my body into the door.
"Your ass is purple in some places from yesterday," he says. "I'll try to aim for other spots. For now."
He swipes across my ass cheeks, working methodically up and down. Then he works my thighs, stepping around my body to cut new lines into my flesh.
I kick up my heels and hop from foot to foot, knowing it will not help, but unable to stop myself. My hands yank at the leather strap binding me to the door. They want instinctively to rub the sting away, and cover my flaming bottom. They cannot.
"You see?" He asks in a tone of triumph. "Things are much easier when I don't have to worry about your hands."
I hear him going to the bed, retrieving his next toy.
Something fierce and dreadful smacks against the curve of my hip. My head snaps up in agony.
"I got a new brush," he explains merrily. "It's wood, and has a flat handle. See?"
For a brief second, he holds it up in front of my eyes. Then he is peppering my ass with it.
I twist against the door, jerking my body around, trying to get away from his reach. It is pointless. But he grows tired at my feeble wriggling and grabs me around the hips, holding me still.
The brush burns into my skin like an iron. Tears cascade down my cheeks. My cries are muffled, but plaintive against the gag.
He laughs, hearing my cries. Then he takes off the gag.
"Now then," he says. "Are you sorry?"
"Yes, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
"Yes, what?"
I know what he wants, I know what he expects to hear. I am about to say the words, they are in my throat... and then the monster of stubborn defiance possesses me once more. With both hands, I give him the finger.
"Fingers," he says. "You want fingers?"
He pushes me against the door and grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking brutally. With his other hand, he takes aim of my asshole. He forces one finger in, then another. I cry out from the burning, ripping pain.
"Shall I fuck your ass like this?" He hisses in my ear. His fingers stretch. I howl. "Shall I fuck you dry? Do you think you would like it?"
"No Sir. No Sir," I cry through my sobs. I try to twist away. He bends my knees in with his foot, forcing me down harder on his probing fingers. I scream.
"This is much better," he says. He wiggles his fingers.
And then...and then I sigh and quiet down, because he is still rubbing his fingers deep inside my body, and it is beginning to feel good. His fingers become a welcome fullness, arousing all the right nerve endings. If he would get his fingers just a little bit wet....
He hears my sigh, sees my slackening face, and recognizes the change within me. He yanks out his fingers, fast. I yelp.
"None of that now," he says. "We're not there yet."
He goes back to the bed, and gets his next weapon. He holds it up proudly. I quake with fear.
"It's a cricket paddle," he says, circling it in his hand. "I had to go to two shops to find it. Apparently it's very popular in India. Who knew?"
Holding it in both hands, he raises it high--and swings. The impact jars me against the door. I suck air into my lungs, hold it for a second against the pain, and let out a high-pitched screech.
"This will do nicely," he says. He switches from one hand to the other, slapping the paddle against my buttocks and thighs with resounding smacks. My whole ass grows warm, then hot, until I feel like I am sitting on flaming coals. He never waivers in his rhythm or force.
"Please," I beg. "Please."
"Please what?"
"Please, Sir. Please, Sir."
"You think you've learned your lesson?"
"Yes, Sir. Yes, please, Sir..." I am shaking with the braying force of my sobs.
"Okay." He unbuckles the cuffs around my wrists.
I want to crumple to the floor. I want to take a few moments to breathe.
He grabs me by the hair again and pushes me across the room.
"On your knees," he growls. I fall to my knees. He spreads my legs open with his knee and enters me from behind, quick and hard. His entrance is an easy one. I am already wet and slick, both from sweat, and from aching need.
"You'd better come if you can, cause I'm not waiting for you," he says, pumping hard enough to jerk my body forward. I brace myself on my hands, lock in, and let my senses take over as he fills me over and over again, in and out, grinding, caressing....
He digs his nails into the abused flesh of my ass, clawing in. I shriek. He releases his grip, only to move to another section of my hot, blushing bottom. As he squeezes his fingers in, I squeeze my muscles tight around his hard length buried deep inside me. He pumps harder as he forms dark little half-moons all over my butt. A couple of them break the flesh; blood rises up, forming droplets on the surface. I feel the wetness, but don't understand what it is. Not yet.
But I don't care, I'm not really thinking about it anyway. All my focus is on the stabbing, stinging pain, and the tight, thrilling fullness. The feelings swarm and swell until I can't tell the difference.
We come together, both of us crying out in ecstasy.
He recovers first. He stands up, and looks down at my broken, bloody body.
"You need to wash," he says. "You stink. I can smell the fear on you."
I raise my eyes to look at him. In that moment, he is a god, an Adonis, my Lord and ruler...or maybe the devil arisen from hell itself.
I rub my face against his leg and kiss his foot.
"Yes, Sir," I say. A prayer to my god.
"But not yet," he says. "I'm going to wash first. You don't fucking move. You understand me? Don't fucking move."
I lower my head to the floor and stay still. "Yes, Sir." My voice cracks. He seems happy to hear this.
I watch him go around the door, hear the water turn on, hear his movements as he washes his body. Then he returns.
"Go," he says. "Wash up. But first...kiss me."
He pulls me up, circles me with his arms, and lowers his mouth to mine. It is a searing, forceful kiss, full of love and devotion.
"Feel better?" He asks me, looking deep into my eyes. He is not a god anymore, but my Lord and ruler all the same. My savior. My love. "All that pent-up stress gone now?"
"Yes. Oh, yes. Yes Sir," I say, hugging him tight. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." He rubs his nose against mine. We both smile. "Now go wash. You really do smell like sweat and fear."
"Okay...but, before I go, um..."
"What?"
"Can you do one thing for me?"
"What?"
"Can you take a picture of my ass?"
Kink Meme, Day 9
"Post a kink related song or music video you enjoy."
Sorry, don't have one.
But! (And you'll understand the pun in a minute) here's a funny video of an absolutely ridiculous song.
And here's the South Park version, which is how I know about it in the first place.
And speaking of South Park: last night's episode was absolutely DISGUSTING.
And of course, after I watched it, I had to look up the trailer for "The Human Centipede" on youtube, and oh my God, it was EVEN MORE DISGUSTING. I couldn't fall asleep until after three o'clock in the morning! THANKS A LOT, SOUTH PARK! >(
Sorry, don't have one.
But! (And you'll understand the pun in a minute) here's a funny video of an absolutely ridiculous song.
And here's the South Park version, which is how I know about it in the first place.
And speaking of South Park: last night's episode was absolutely DISGUSTING.
And of course, after I watched it, I had to look up the trailer for "The Human Centipede" on youtube, and oh my God, it was EVEN MORE DISGUSTING. I couldn't fall asleep until after three o'clock in the morning! THANKS A LOT, SOUTH PARK! >(
Monday, January 27, 2014
Discipline vs Punishment
As I was leaning over the bathroom counter today, receiving a harsh spanking for another lapse in judgement, I had an epiphany. It had to do with the way Husband and I approach discipline and punishment, and how we view the difference between the two.
I'm going to try to articulate it, because I think there might be others out there who subscribe to the same way of thinking, or maybe realize they do after reading this, even if they've never given it much thought before.
(I certainly didn't for a long time. After you've been in a relationship for a long enough, behaviors evolve, and it's hard to pick apart and reason out all the subtle nuances of why you do what you do.)
I make no claim to being an expert on this subject. But this is how it works for us.
Discipline
Discipline is what Husband treats me to when he's either
1. Trying to change my natural behavior
or
2. Trying to teach me to do an otherwise unnatural behavior until it becomes natural.
Let's use what happened this morning as an example. I left our bathroom a mess. Now, he has laid down a strict rule that I am NOT allowed to "take over" our bathroom. I cannot hang up my hosiery all over the shower and door hook, I cannot leave my makeup, hair supplies, and eye-care supplies all over the counter, etc. etc. You get the idea. The bathroom is shared, and I must share it.
However, this goes AGAINST my natural behavior. My natural inclination is to spread out my shit. I can't help it. I don't know if it's because I'm a woman, or what. It's just the way I am.
So every once in a while, Husband will come into the bathroom and realize every inch of counter space is again taken up with my makeup, hair dryer, perfume, lotions, etc. And he will have to discipline me as a reminder that I am supposed to control that.
Another example: I have impulse control issues. This is something I am constantly working on. Sometimes I say or do something without thinking, not because I'm trying to be bad, but because I can't help it. It's just my nature.
Husband disciplines me to help me learn how to control myself. But again, it's an ongoing lesson. I'm not "misbehaving," I'm just giving into my natural tendencies.
Punishment
Punishment, on the other hand, is reserved for times when I've strayed from my natural behavior and purposely gone out of my way to do something I know will make him angry. Punishment is for the times I've actively ( and perhaps maliciously) disobeyed.
There are probably dozens of examples for this. Refusing to do a task out of spite, yelling at him in front of the kids, "forgetting" to do his laundry when I've done everyone else's, or just basically doing anything that shows a lack of courtesy and respect, would earn a punishment. My natural inclination is to avoid hurting him. If I insult or offend him, most likely it's because I wanted to, which is bad. (Very very bad.)
Of course, sometimes it's hard for us to tell the difference between discipline and punishment, and after all these years, we don't even bother giving it thought. But I think, deep down, there's a difference in both approach, and closure.
Husband approaches discipline with more forgiveness and understanding. He knows it's hard for me to go against my character. It's a constant struggle.
With that in mind, there's no real closure, either. We both know, eventually, I'm going to screw up again. It might be a while, but it's only a matter of time.
Punishment, on the other hand, is brought forth with very little, if any, forgiveness and understanding. It's usually served with heavy doses of disappointment, frustration, and dismay.
But once the punishment is over, there is total closure, because there is no expectation I'll do the same thing again. There shouldn't have to be, if the punishment was effective.
Overlap between discipline and punishment happens when I've done something that would normally be indicative of my nature (being the smart-assed masochist that I am), but Husband thinks I should've learned better by now. Like, oh, sewing flowers on his pants, or turning the sprinkler system on when he's outside, or painting his nails while he's sleeping. After all these years, he thinks I should know better.
I'm a work in progress.
(The word he uses is "entertaining.")
(Also "crazy," but I prefer entertaining.)
I hope you've found this useful.
I'm going to try to articulate it, because I think there might be others out there who subscribe to the same way of thinking, or maybe realize they do after reading this, even if they've never given it much thought before.
(I certainly didn't for a long time. After you've been in a relationship for a long enough, behaviors evolve, and it's hard to pick apart and reason out all the subtle nuances of why you do what you do.)
I make no claim to being an expert on this subject. But this is how it works for us.
Discipline
Discipline is what Husband treats me to when he's either
1. Trying to change my natural behavior
or
2. Trying to teach me to do an otherwise unnatural behavior until it becomes natural.
Let's use what happened this morning as an example. I left our bathroom a mess. Now, he has laid down a strict rule that I am NOT allowed to "take over" our bathroom. I cannot hang up my hosiery all over the shower and door hook, I cannot leave my makeup, hair supplies, and eye-care supplies all over the counter, etc. etc. You get the idea. The bathroom is shared, and I must share it.
However, this goes AGAINST my natural behavior. My natural inclination is to spread out my shit. I can't help it. I don't know if it's because I'm a woman, or what. It's just the way I am.
So every once in a while, Husband will come into the bathroom and realize every inch of counter space is again taken up with my makeup, hair dryer, perfume, lotions, etc. And he will have to discipline me as a reminder that I am supposed to control that.
Another example: I have impulse control issues. This is something I am constantly working on. Sometimes I say or do something without thinking, not because I'm trying to be bad, but because I can't help it. It's just my nature.
Husband disciplines me to help me learn how to control myself. But again, it's an ongoing lesson. I'm not "misbehaving," I'm just giving into my natural tendencies.
Punishment
Punishment, on the other hand, is reserved for times when I've strayed from my natural behavior and purposely gone out of my way to do something I know will make him angry. Punishment is for the times I've actively ( and perhaps maliciously) disobeyed.
There are probably dozens of examples for this. Refusing to do a task out of spite, yelling at him in front of the kids, "forgetting" to do his laundry when I've done everyone else's, or just basically doing anything that shows a lack of courtesy and respect, would earn a punishment. My natural inclination is to avoid hurting him. If I insult or offend him, most likely it's because I wanted to, which is bad. (Very very bad.)
Of course, sometimes it's hard for us to tell the difference between discipline and punishment, and after all these years, we don't even bother giving it thought. But I think, deep down, there's a difference in both approach, and closure.
Husband approaches discipline with more forgiveness and understanding. He knows it's hard for me to go against my character. It's a constant struggle.
With that in mind, there's no real closure, either. We both know, eventually, I'm going to screw up again. It might be a while, but it's only a matter of time.
Punishment, on the other hand, is brought forth with very little, if any, forgiveness and understanding. It's usually served with heavy doses of disappointment, frustration, and dismay.
But once the punishment is over, there is total closure, because there is no expectation I'll do the same thing again. There shouldn't have to be, if the punishment was effective.
Overlap between discipline and punishment happens when I've done something that would normally be indicative of my nature (being the smart-assed masochist that I am), but Husband thinks I should've learned better by now. Like, oh, sewing flowers on his pants, or turning the sprinkler system on when he's outside, or painting his nails while he's sleeping. After all these years, he thinks I should know better.
I'm a work in progress.
(The word he uses is "entertaining.")
(Also "crazy," but I prefer entertaining.)
I hope you've found this useful.
Kink Meme Day 25
"How open are you about your kinks?"
Not at all. I have two worlds, the world where my identity is that of parent/community member/"normal" wife/volunteer/hobby-writer/worker, and the world where I am known as sub/SAM wife/kinky woman/writer of erotica specifically. The worlds do not, and cannot, collide.
In my everyday life I am actually thought of as a naive woman. People assume I know nothing about kinks, or anything beyond what you'd see on Leave it to Beaver. They think I'm really like a 1950's wife, ignorant and innocent. If they only knew.
But they never will.
Not at all. I have two worlds, the world where my identity is that of parent/community member/"normal" wife/volunteer/hobby-writer/worker, and the world where I am known as sub/SAM wife/kinky woman/writer of erotica specifically. The worlds do not, and cannot, collide.
In my everyday life I am actually thought of as a naive woman. People assume I know nothing about kinks, or anything beyond what you'd see on Leave it to Beaver. They think I'm really like a 1950's wife, ignorant and innocent. If they only knew.
But they never will.
Take Two Nipple Clamps and Call Me in the Morning
It occurred to me the other day that while I feel like my life is full of stress and uncertainty, from an outsider's point of view, I lead a pretty kinky life. I attend a regular munch and sporadically show up at others, I go to parties, I get invited to kinky people's homes and invite them to my home.
I do have fun.
Last week my chest was used as a message billboard between three sadists, one of whom was my husband. The week before that, I came home from the munch with my poor breast looking like it had been clawed by an angry cat, thanks to all the clothing pins that had been systematically pinched on and then ripped off (by someone's teeth, no less). Yesterday two friends came over
(hi Monkey Ninja and Winsome Gypsy!)
and we made cupcakes. Then we all went to my local munch together, where we celebrated another friend's birthday, and I got to spank his sub with my SLUT impression paddle.
(I was almost choked to death by a possessed rubber ducky, but that's another story.)
I turn down more events than I attend. With my schedule and family life, I have to. But I'm grateful to live in the community I do, full of warm, generous, fun, and welcoming people, who understand my life is less than easy right now, but don't let me live in self-pity, either. Life goes on. Nipples must be clamped. Limbs must be cuffed. Asses must be welted, and necks must be collared. We cannot spend our lives worrying and feeling sorry for ourselves.
I don't think you'll ever hear a psychiatrist touting BDSM and kink as anti-depression methods, but goddamn, they can work.
Kink Meme, Day 8
First of all, you know how I got this whole meme idea from The Spanking Resource? Well now Amylyn is doing it too. Go check out her answers!
On to the next one: "Post a kinky image you find erotic."
So many erotic images available, so many styles and scenes, and I'm supposed to pick just one?
No.
But I can't just give you a scroll-down of hundreds of images, either. So I'll give you a handful.
I like this picture because it's a reminder that things you find around the house can be also be used for kink. Jewelry can turn into great bondage material; even a hairbrush can become a lethal weapon against a soft, sensitive ass in the right person's hand. I look at this picture, and I can create a whole story behind that necklace. Maybe she was told not to buy it, that it was too expensive, and she bought it anyway against her Dom's wishes? And now it's going to take part in her punishment.
This picture was actually in the running for the cover of a story I'm writing, part of the next Bentmoore collection. I think the image is beautiful, and powerful, and to me, more than a little haunting. You can't help but wonder how long it took to tie her up in such an intricate way, and how she must have felt, lying there while it was done. Or how she must feel now, when she's bound and stuck and can't even see the camera taking her picture. And yet, there is love in the knots, too: she's not bound particularly tightly or painfully.
I love the intensity in this man's eyes. When a Dom is coming towards you with a length of chain wrapped around his hands, that's how he should look. You know he has something in store for you, something you can't fully contemplate, at least not yet, not until he wants you to. There's nothing you can do about it, nowhere to go, no where he can't reach you. He will get that chain around you, and then he'll have his hands free to do whatever he wants to you.
This one doesn't tell a story or anything. I just like a picture of a beautiful ass.
There are lots of pictures on sites like istockphoto and deviantart. Not to mention on private sites, blogs, etc etc. Island of Pain has a whole category of BDSM art, and it's some really amazing stuff, like this:
So go check them out!
And on that note, I'm done.
On to the next one: "Post a kinky image you find erotic."
So many erotic images available, so many styles and scenes, and I'm supposed to pick just one?
No.
But I can't just give you a scroll-down of hundreds of images, either. So I'll give you a handful.
There are lots of pictures on sites like istockphoto and deviantart. Not to mention on private sites, blogs, etc etc. Island of Pain has a whole category of BDSM art, and it's some really amazing stuff, like this:
And on that note, I'm done.
Sunday, January 26, 2014
Kink Meme Day 24
Kink Meme still going! Day 24! I don't know about you, but I had shit no idea there could be so many questions about kinks! Counting down to the end here!
"What qualities do you look for in a partner?"
I'm not looking for a partner. I have a partner. A life partner. :)
Husband is task-oriented (meaning: not so good at multi-tasking), meticulous (about everything but the housework), thorough, clever, smart, very funny (that man makes me laugh until I'm crying quite often), very ethical, and just very, very sensible. Common sense is not as common as you would think, and I met a man who has enough for both of us.
He likes to get things his way, but often enough, his way is allowing me my way. He supports me, understands me, listens to me, and pulls me into line when I need him to. He loves me in every way I want and need to be loved. He shows me his love with every kiss on the cheek and every spank on the ass.
He's my Husband, and he's my Dom, and I can't imagine anyone else filling the role the way he does.
"What qualities do you look for in a partner?"
I'm not looking for a partner. I have a partner. A life partner. :)
Husband is task-oriented (meaning: not so good at multi-tasking), meticulous (about everything but the housework), thorough, clever, smart, very funny (that man makes me laugh until I'm crying quite often), very ethical, and just very, very sensible. Common sense is not as common as you would think, and I met a man who has enough for both of us.
He likes to get things his way, but often enough, his way is allowing me my way. He supports me, understands me, listens to me, and pulls me into line when I need him to. He loves me in every way I want and need to be loved. He shows me his love with every kiss on the cheek and every spank on the ass.
He's my Husband, and he's my Dom, and I can't imagine anyone else filling the role the way he does.
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