Digging my heart out of the soil in which it lies

I’m a little torn on how to write this post. Do I talk about the snarl of feelings that popped up and had to be talked through? Do I just jump forward to the hot sex and write something more fun to read? If the latter, does that make me one of those people who are clearly editing their actual lives out of the erotica?

It’s not that we have a serious talk every time we have sex, we have had some excellently fun romps that have lacked both a need to communicate feelings or blog post about a post-gym cowgirl session that was 5 minutes of bliss followed by 25 minutes of “oh god, my legs are telling me that was such a bad idea, but you know nothing legs!”

On the other hand, it’s not like the talk was about anything deep or world changing. It was more the realization that we both have weak points at being engaged with certain things and/or at certain times, and I have to get over my fear of being the Ruiner of Fun and letting it keep me from saying no. The Ruiner of Fun isn’t about being mean. I love mean. I love giggling while he whines. What I hate is feeling like I’m putting the brakes on things and punishing him for enthusiasm; I love his enthusiasm when properly applied. I need to get over my feeling that because I said “I want to play with X toy” that I’m somehow locked into it as a Serious Pinky-Swear Promise and can’t be like “whoa, hold the fuck up, Simon didn’t say” when he’s like “SO CAN I GET X TOY OUT NOW” and looking at me all shiny-eyed and shivering with excitement. We also need to work on that transition from things like sitting around eating dinner to play when we agreed on play earlier but one of us is just not in the headspace. And by we, I mean me mostly.

So, ok, that happened, and I guess I just talked about it. Ugh. Why is real life so real?

That aside, the rest of the evening was lovely. We’ve had our plans to break out the harness and bend him over the bed interrupted by biology, exhaustion and worst of all… housework. As my ass enthusiasm in general remains unabated, we agreed to try again.

It did not initially go well, as outlined above.

I’m not a big fan of a lot of femdom tropes. Sometimes the problem is the not the basic idea but the way they’re commonly played out in public and one of the worst in the performance thereof is the use of “worship”. Usually, it seems to break down to a guy wanting to eat pussy or suck toes. There’s not a damn thing wrong with those things inherently, but the word in question seems to be trotted out by doofuses who wouldn’t know reverence if it came down from the heavens and brained them with a holy scroll. Sometimes, though, I can almost feel it when KB touches me. It’s one of those things I don’t know how to ask for. How do you express something that is literally a mystical concept? And that’s even assuming I didn’t feel like a complete horse’s ass asking for it to begin with, without an internal eye roll at the airs I’m putting on. I have a hard time, even four years into this relationship, allowing myself those airs. All the same, from time to time I’ve brushed the edges of something I desperately want, the specific type of electricity between us I yearn for.

Last night it was a breath away as he touched me, trying to get me into the headspace for sex and hopefully more. It’s when I can feel that, the way one can feel in the air a storm coming, that I feel like I’m drawing power. Last night, it was the difference between pegging because we both enjoy it, and me feeling that the most important thing in the moment is what I wanted to do with the toy I own. While different people get different things out of pegging, for me it’s an act that’s more carnal than I ever would have expected. Yes, I love the sounds of his moans, the feeling of control, the back and forth verbal exchange that underscores the give-and-take of the energy. But I also love the feel of his hips in my hands, the way he pushes back against me, pushing the toy against me. I can feel the physical intensity of it to the point that my cunt clenches and I feel a buzzing in the clitoral area, strong enough that it builds and builds, and I find myself pausing to ward off my own orgasm. Sweeter than getting off is the feeling of leaning over his back, putting my weight to him to pound him at another angle, and just going and going and going and getting lost in it.

I usually finish with him riding me, and last night was no different. However, when I stepped away from him, I instead told him to get on his back. I wanted those beautiful wide eyes looking up at me. I don’t think I can go as hard in that angle, but having his legs wrapped around me, being able to see his face are worthy in their own ways. I could feel my legs giving out after some time, but I was getting drunk on his gasps and pleas and couldn’t stop.

The feeling was infectious. When I finally gave out and had him mount me, I felt like I never wanted to tell him to stop. He told me he could just keep going forever if not for the frailties of the flesh.

This is what a good scene feels like for me, not contingent on actions, but on a completed circuit.


When You’re on My Outside, Baby, and You Can’t Get in

It’s really hard to write about the bad times. Does revealing a crack in my armor mean that I expose myself as someone who ultimately shouldn’t be listened to ever? Is it a betrayal to talk about my husband’s flaws? Where does exploring where things go wrong cease to be useful, and simply become about airing one’s dirty laundry for petty reasons?

KillBoy and I are humans, with all the physical and emotional frailties common to most of us and a piquant seasoning of our own individual ones. We have problems, misunderstandings and outright arguments at times. Those things are perfectly normal, but I find myself sometimes shying away from revealing that behind our closed doors it’s not always all spankings and cuddles.

It would be nice if our d/s was always a source of strength, but sometimes it’s just immaterial. I’m a hard person to make a life with. I’m mule-stubborn and sometimes that’s about things that are ultimately detrimental to myself. I know it was many of those frustrations that led to KB saying something that was hurtful to me, but I can understand something, and even be able to dig out the underlying problem and agree with it, but words can’t be unsaid.

I don’t mean to imply that anyone should go through a relationship never expressing anything negative to anyone. The underlying problem was in fact, very problematic for us. Just because I don’t enjoy facing my faults doesn’t make them any less real, and just because they can’t be fixed immediately doesn’t mean they can’t be worked on.

However, certain traits of mine that are not necessarily flaws, I have had multiple people in the past attack until it’s the equivalent of a boss’ weak spot in a video game.  And much like a defeated monster made of pixels, I felt like I had just shattered into pieces. I stayed calm enough to talk about it, and KB admitted to weak reasoning and that said traits were not the (non d/s) problem and apologized. We talked about the actual problems, and he talked himself through to a point where he was able to offer me something towards us working on the difficulties that were holding us back. It was a really good, A+ recovery of the conversation that was probably far past many people’s ability to communicate within a relationship. A real win for the home team.

With that rough conversation behind us, made up and with a plan in place, I looked over at him, told him I was going to shower and then went and cried while I washed my hair. Just because I wasn’t angry with him and forgave him for the verbal misstep doesn’t make the hurt immediately vanish.

There are also aspects of our relationship that mean that we argue differently than any relationship I’ve ever had. Because even when I’m hurting, I know that my words have power, not just as someone that he loves, but as someone who is supposed to have some measure of control over our total relationship. I’m uncomfortable calling it simply an aspect of being in a d/s relationship, but I do see him as my boy, as my pet who I must consciously care for. Not only do I need to take responsibility for those things which are my fault, but I have to make sure that our relationship isn’t harmed even when that means taking a deep breath and not letting my emotions control my tongue. This is something I believe to be true regardless of whether or not the power balance is tipped towards me, but I do think that somehow it seems more important because of it.

I’m still learning to have that power, and I’m still learning to exercise it. I know it’s frequently frustrating to KB when I don’t use it to lead, but I do feel it quite strongly when it comes to caretaking for my partner, even when that means I’m more conscious of the need to acknowledge my feelings but let my actions come from another place.

I Order One Drink, Then I Drink the Flood

Sometimes I write fictional smut. 

The red bottom heels are so very high, 4 inches. She’s clearly teetering on them, held up mostly by the fact that she’s leaning on the load bearing post between the kitchen and the living room. The shoes are the only thing she’s wearing, depending on whether or not you count a ball gag as an article of clothing. Twenty minutes ago, she was standing up straight, hair neatly in place, chest rising and falling with the deep breaths she was trying to take through her nose.

Now she’s a fucking mess. Hair a fluffy cloud around her face, trying desperately to pant with her mouth blocked, mascara streaked down her cheeks. I know she buys shitty mascara just for this purpose, to play up the image of ruined plaything. I like it. I don’t start taking pictures until that point, save the one I took at the beginning. It shows that I started with a prim little doll and fucked her up.

When I started, after locking her wrist cuffs together behind her around the post, I told her she was so very pretty. So doll-like. Such nice shoes.

“You’d almost think you were the real article, instead of a cheap knock-off.” I laughed. “But I know you can’t afford real Louboutins. Did you order them from overseas? Hoping they’d be good enough to fool anyone who didn’t look closely?”

She gasped a little then, letting me know I’d scored. I’d played with her a little, teasing her cunt as well as pinching and slapping her breasts, before proclaiming myself bored, and walking over to the couch to flop down on it.

“You look so uncomfortable. I guess you have to work really hard just to prove you’re a cute little doll.” I commented while rubbing a hand over my cozy flannel pajama pants. “I don’t think it’s enough though. I’m going to need more than that.”

I beckoned to my sweetheart, who has been sitting in an armchair, quietly watching. He rose and walked over to me, to take the Hitachi I had in my hands by the time he crossed the floor. It’s not exactly a great mystery of the ages what I meant for him to do after I gestured towards her.

God, I love the way he kicks her feet to indicate she should spread them, not bothering to speak to her. He places one hand on her neck, pressing her back against the post as he clicks on the Hitachi and presses it to her cunt. Watching him move her around as if she were only an unwieldy object, hearing her moan and try not to lose her balance as the vibrations rumble through her, I had difficulty keeping my hands out of my pants. The moment was so overwhelmingly erotic that I didn’t think I could keep from coming for very long, and I wanted to hang on to the lightheaded fever pitch for as long as I could, to savor it like a rich cigar.

One, two, three… I eventually lose count of her orgasms as I rocked against the couch, clenching my cunt and enjoying the heightened awareness of the muscles and my throbbing clit.

Eventually, I called out for him to stop. He clicks off the Hitachi and looks over at me with a smirk.

And here we are, with a toy that hasn’t been played with nicely. She looks so relieved. I suspect she’s thinking that maybe I’ll let her off her feet now.

“Do you think you’ve had enough, dolly?” She catches herself before nodding, the motion started just enough for me to see it. Can she still feel the memory of the welts I left on her ass the last time she told me she’d had enough when I asked? I respect a safeword, but when we’re not at that point, I decide if my toys are done being played with. “No answer? Well, I’ll be kind. Just one more.”

There’s something intimate about the way my sweetheart presses his body against hers when she sags, holding her up as he tears one more machine-assisted orgasm out of her. She’s choking on sobs now, as her endorphin depleted body processes it as pain, as it has been for the last few.

“Bring her.” I say to him, and he unbuckles her hands, walks her to me, and dumps her somewhat unceremoniously into my lap. I stroke her hair, brushing it out of her face, and gently kiss her forehead. As I unbuckle the ballgag, I say “Look at you, pretty dolly. You haven’t even mussed up your lipstick in all that fuss. Well, we’ll have to fix that. Don’t you think you should thank my boy for helping you get off?”

Sniffling, she nods. Smiling, I turn to him where he is still standing next to me awaiting my whim. He takes off his boxers after I give the waistband a quick tug. “Why don’t you work on making that lipstick match?”

The sight of my toys interlocked, his hands in her hair, her using her hands and tongue to do the best job possible, is too much for me. I slide my hand down to my clit and rock forward to press against my fingers. I’m matching his rhythm briefly, and then going faster. The sounds the two of them are making as I pull her body close to me are pushing me closer and closer as much as the feel of my own touch. I see the tale-tell signs of my darling trying not to orgasm without my permission and I look up into his eyes. “Go ahead and come.”

I come before he does, feeling my head full of electric pops and snaps as my body floods with warmth. I hear him moan, and slowly open my eyes to see her cleaning him up with her tongue, careful to be sure I won’t find her thank you wanting.

Looking at them, I know I’m going to be playing variations on this little game for a long while.

Beautiful and Terrible as the Morning and the Night

There are a few webcomics I read for reasons other than pure enjoyment, one of them being Girl Genius. I’m sticking with that one for the reason that it’s confounded me with its refusal to ever actually tie up a plotline in the main story and I’m waiting for the day that it does. It’s not that the authors can’t tell a story, a recent short arc outside of the main story, about a private eye, had an actual end to it as well as a coherent plot throughout. However, they do still occasionally hit a high note with a bit of humor, some action, or even a twist in the tale that doesn’t feel like a deus ex literal machina.  A recent update was not only reasonably well-written, it also has a last line that struck me in a way I don’t think they were intending. One character asks another how angry is the newly minted mad genius Colette Voltaire, a woman who is literally hooked to and controlling all automation in this comic’s iteration of Paris. The other character, responding to the idea that she’ll eventually calm down over it, says “Not too much, I hope! She was magnificent.” How wonderful is that line?

One of the things about the dynamic between me and my darling husband that I still have trouble with is the idea that he likes me mad. More specifically, he sometimes tries to prickle me by bratting at me, claiming that when he succeeds in it, I hit harder and just seem more generally intense. Being told this is an experience somewhat akin to someone claiming that water would be better if it were just a little drier. It’s not that I don’t understand the idea of the hitting harder and being a bit more firey, it’s just that I have trouble identifying as that person he’s talking about. I can feel angry, but I always assume that to other people, it’s a bit like being ferociously barked at by a Pomeranian puppy; one isn’t even sure that the wee puffball could even break skin with a bite. There’s a part of me, honestly most of me, that presumes that for him this is really good roleplaying.

I love the idea of being magnificently terrifying. I don’t personally want to live there, it’s not a dynamic I desire to inhabit all of the time. It’s more like a desire to go on vacation to a land that has closed its borders. Perhaps the very genesis of my love of scary goddesses and warrior queens is the fact that I cannot see myself in them. Perhaps my drawing parallels with my relationship’s dynamic is also is a response to my feelings that I am playing dress-up in mummy’s clothes, only mummy has nice boots and a whip. There was no indication when I was younger, up into adulthood, that I ever wanted to be dominant or a top. I’m a quiet, non-confrontational sort and frequently feel that a real dominant would be better prepared and certainly wouldn’t ever fall over their own feet in the middle of a scene. I’ve read enough other women who are in female led relationships or just plain love making their partner scream with things other than delight, to know that these factors aren’t what makes the relationships or interactions “real”, but convincing my heart that my brain is telling the truth can be a wrenching process that seems to have no end in sight. I know I don’t have to have my life together to dress up my beloved and bend him over the bed, I know I don’t have to be authoritative to tell KB to make coffee that he himself will not end up drinking any of, and I don’t have to pass an exhaustive personality test to buckle a collar around his neck. Still, even as I laugh at the commonest depictions of female dominants, oh to be magnificently terrifying. Perhaps my dreams are of having power to the point of it being manifested in my personality to the point where I am considered with fright and or awe, even the idea of being thought of as a formidable battle-axe. Perhaps I would even rather be Galadriel having taken the ring, rather than the Galadriel who retains her righteousness of rule by refusing it. I adore my husband and lavish him with love because this is what makes me happy with him, even when trying to feed the side of me that wants to leave him with red stripes sometimes feels like an odd, bumpy transition. Ah, but in my fantasies… love me and despair.

Just to Watch the Smile Fade Away

I’m constantly amused by the ideas put forth by terrible erotica, particularly when I end up shouting “That’s not how bodies work!” at a particularly erroneous piece. It’s actually interesting that recent reading brought me to a heroine mentioning that sometimes she and her partner have average, workaday maintenance sex. In context of the fact that it was in a novel and not a short story, I would have liked to see someone actually write the “main characters have sex that is just ok but nothing that they’ll remember in a few days” scene, but I can understand why that would not have made it into a work of smut.

Happily, I can claim that the sex I’ve been having over the last week or so has been at least slightly better than “just ok”; however, it’s also been markedly affected by how the last two months have gone. I caught a bad cold right before the end of November and was just recovering when I caught another cold. As I wasn’t entirely recovered from the first, the second one laid me out flat and ended up giving me a minor secondary bacterial respiratory infection. Combine that with the grey winter blahs and the fact that KillBoy caught my second cold and was miserable for the better part of a week, we simply haven’t been having sex. For the most part, if someone had offered me oral or a hot cup of tea with honey, I’d have asked for a very large mug of tea.

I don’t know that I’ve ever heard it said that extended sickness with the abstinence that may enforce can have lasting effects. In our case, it ended up that KB has had two unintentionally ruined orgasms. I don’t really do ruined orgasms for a variety of reasons, but it turns out that with his usual control having taken a serious hit, we’ve gotten to see that KB is so dedicated to my rule that he not come without my permission that his brain cuts off the pleasure of it, and I end up trying to stifle giggles at how deeply annoyed he looks. It may not be what I wanted, but I find it sweet that my control extends that far without us intentionally trying to make it happen. For me, I’m still not feeling physically back to normal, and it’s making a difference in how difficult I’m finding it to have an orgasm that really feels up to standard. The amazing thing is that the feelings of intimacy and of control are what elevates the sex to “pretty good, actually.”

On the other hand, we really need to get back into practice. I’d really like to dust off the toys now that my sex drive hasn’t been locked in a closet by a sore throat. It’s time to get back to the kind of sex that actually makes it into erotica.

As Natural as Rain, He Dances Again

I see so many people who have an all-consuming fantasy about how they want their life to be, especially those who want 24/7 d/s, who are clearly throwing themselves against the electric fence of failure again and again and again because they can’t admit that their fantasy doesn’t actually work for them. I worry a lot about being one of those people.

One of the things that makes being the owner and operator of my own brain difficult is knowing that many times, I will automatically process things in a negative light, as an act of maladaptive self-protection. I also will frequently refuse to see or believe that there is proof of my own competency.

It’s easy to ignore things like KB standing after a shower, shivering, waiting for the now-wet towel that I’ll pass over to him when I’m done with it. The stack of clean towels is within reach, but I don’t offer and he doesn’t ask. It’s not quite about the shivering or the having to use the wet towel. It’s because I can. It’s such a natural interaction that has happened a few times, without even any thought, that my brain struggles to get a foothold in using some aspect of it to undermine me. I can’t say it would mean anything at all in someone else’s relationship, but in mine? Well, hell, maybe he’s not asking because he’s trying to stave off doing the laundry, but that’s not why I’m not offering.

Instead of Air, You Are Breathing Melody

While still not a morning person by any means, KillBoy has been developing a morning routine that seems to suit him fairly well. This morning, since he wasn’t rushing around trying to get out the door in a hurry, when he finally started getting his clothes together, I suggested it would be a good day for him to wear panties for me, especially because we’d made erotic plans yesterday that had been axed by him coming home to find me stiff and cranky from hours of physical work in the heat.

One of the pleasures of the new routine is that there was time for him to show me how hard he’d gotten just putting on the panties and presumably being filled with expectation for his arrival home. Time for me to kiss him while he edged for me, standing over him with his work clothes pulled aside so he could quickly dance to that cliff for me. After I flopped back into bed, time enough for him to lean over me, wiggling his butt to invite quick swats before kissing me goodbye.

Now, of course, he’s at work and I don’t know how much thought he’s sparing towards this evening, but I do know he will be when he gets to read this. I adore it when I know he’s worked up and anxious to get home for whatever plans I may have for him. For me, it’s another way of getting to play with my favorite toy, another method of control. He may be a Real Boy, but I’ve got these strings, to tie him down. Come into my web, love.