I Just Say the Word

I have deleted so much utter garbage writing over the last few months. Strangely, wondering if financial disaster will hit and end up with us getting evicted hasn’t made me feel very creative, or given the general focus of this blog, like fucking.

Things have sorted themselves out for the better, shockingly so. We’ve actually had some good fortune, which is rather suspicious to a pair of people who aren’t used to it and tend to wait for the other shoe to drop. It’s funny, but being in crisis mode over our whole life possibly being upended left me just numb and trying to focus, but having other non-life destroying stresses coming up over the last few weeks is making up for lost time and KillBoy has spent plenty of time talking me down from unreasonable anxiety attacks.

In the meantime, one might hope that in such a situation of new relief and hope, our sex life has sprung right back into place. Mmmm, not so much. Because of who I am and how I roll, I eventually told him that things seemed a little too strained to expect much from our sex life right now, therefore he wasn’t allowed to get himself off until after the first major stressor had passed. He really would have hated it if it had indeed been put off a month like we almost had to! In the past, I’ve declared periods of complete denial before, usually right before a visit while we were still doing the long distance thing. Otherwise, he was allowed to masturbate whenever. When the subject had come up early in our relationship I knew he was skittish about it for reasons more than just “don’t wanna” and also didn’t want to take on that responsibility. It’s something I can’t quite explain easily, but for me, taking on that would have been running before I could walk. 

Anyway, we had a hilarious misunderstanding where I almost called the denial period off because it clearly wasn’t working as intended, and he informed me that it was working very very well. And by hilarious, I mean annoying that he was making assumptions that kept him from using his words and talking to me about how things were going. He gets a pass this time, because good intentions etc, but next time he gets a longer denial or IDK, tied down and made to listen to Phil Collins. I could have brought it up myself earlier, but I’m the one in charge of an at least partially unfair dynamic, so you know, su-su-sussudio oh oh.

Anyway, we actually talked it out like adults because that’s what we do. And then there was some delightful fucking, intense to the point that I did something I normally wouldn’t – I brought up a rule change while we were still having sex. I’ve been thinking about revisiting total control over his orgasms for a while, and it spilled out while I was teasing him about how long it’s been since I told him he was being denied. In the past, there’s been a certain hesitancy to his demeanor when we’ve discussed it, but this time he agreed to it with a sort of “oh no this bus I am throwing myself under is going to hit me at full speed and it will be amaz… terrible, just awful.” that I’ve seen in more than a few submissives of an emotional and/or physical masochistic bent.

Don’t worry, I fully intend to use this power for good. My own personal amusement is very, very good.

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A New Recreation to Channel All This Energy

The blog posts about “The Mind of a Domme” always make me cackle, partially self-deprecatingly.

Sometimes when KillBoy asks me what my plans for a scene are, you can practically hear the gears grinding to a halt. It’s just that “Um, hit you with things and uh, stuff. Maybe butt plugs. IDK.” isn’t all that sexy? I like to keep it loose and go with whatever I’m feeling like at that exact time.

Of course, when I do think about the next scene it runs a little more like this: “He’s gotten really sassy with the terrible puns lately, so I think I’ll pull out the paddles soon. Especially those light little ones he really hates… man the opening to this remix of “World in My Eyes” really makes me think I’m about to hear “Touch Me (All Night Long)”. That would make a really great mashup if someone did it well! Wow, it’s been a long time since that song was on the radio, hasn’t it? I wonder what Cathy Dennis is doing these days? I’ll have to google her when I get home.”

As it turns out, she’s doing just fine. I had no idea she co-wrote the Britney Spears song “Toxic.” Also, I have firm plans to hit KillBoy with things, and use butt plugs.

You see, see what can’t be seen

I wouldn’t let him kiss me. He tried, after lacing my corset, and I turned my head so that he gently laid his lips on my cheek.

I’d just put on my makeup and didn’t want him to kiss off my lipstick before we’d even left the room, and I was already in the headspace where reapplying wasn’t in my timetable. He quickly got the message, though I don’t know if he realized it was about the lipstick; he merely confined his kisses to the rest of my face.

In the play room of the con we were at, I only used three toys. He had been plugged beforehand, and I pulled it out to slide a new plug into him as he crouched on the spanking bench. It was one we’d never used before, and he commented that it was very comfortable and wiggled his butt at me. Smiling, I stripped off the lube covered glove and retrieved my metal claws.

When I’d been planning this scene, I had seen it as something a little more active. I had thought to dig in with the claws and bite and bring out the heaviest of our paddles. However, looking down on him patiently waiting for what was next, I knew I would take a different course. He looked so amazingly hot that I couldn’t resist standing there and just taking in the sight of him. With that in mind, knowing I’d find myself just appreciating him at other times, I pulled the blindfold out of the bag so that he wouldn’t know when I was moving around him and when I was just standing there. It was loud, but the music didn’t drown out sounds he’d previously mentioned while we were setting up. Without sight it was likely that at first he’d be either nervously focusing on noises, trying to locate me, or being poked at by noises made by other dungeon inhabitants.

He was wearing a favorite piece of mine, something that leaves a swath of his back, and only a tiny bit of his neck and shoulders bare. I caressed these areas with the claws, making swooping marks on his skin, only occasionally digging in slightly. I reached around him to squeeze his butt, skirt already hiked up from when I changed out the plug.

“Are you ready for me to turn it on?”

He nodded assent, though his words sounded a little more uncertain. We’d never used vibrating toys on him before. I clicked on the bullet in the plug and his body stiffened.

“That’s… intense” he choked out when I checked in with him.

Watching him struggle to stay still enough while suddenly wiggling and bouncing was amusing and arousing. I had a perfect view of his ass that made me glad we had negotiated public sex out of bounds already and left the harness in the room, because I was suddenly dying to have his hips in my hands while I thrust into him. As I had thought to ask about, and received his consent to have his genitals groped in front of everyone, I instead reached down and rubbed him through the silky thong.

Riding crop came out of the bag. I’m oft amused at the reputation of the crop, since it’s actually a much kinder toy than my paddles, though I put some wrist action into popping him with the leather end and gently drumming the length of it across his ass,  to keep the sensation going in between little pops. More groping, with him just barely audible over the din as he bucked slightly against my hand, groaning in frustration as I stroked him firmly before suddenly withdrawing. Slaps and scratches and caresses, on a mix and match loop as I enjoyed the feel of his skin, of his little responses to my every action.

When I amused myself by brushing the end of the crop against his balls and he only moaned and rubbed against it, I knew he was in the place I wanted him to be. Admittedly, I had been half hoping for an apprehensive inquiry as to what I was planning but that’s never quite as good when I can’t see his eyes at any rate.

Fortunately, when I informed him that he’d be walking back to the room with the plug still going, I got my fix of that fearful look. As our room was on an upper floor, he looked especially anxious as we boarded an elevator full of fellow kinksters, flashing me worried looks. I couldn’t hear the vibration still running, but I’m sure it was a roar to him. I giggled internally, knowing that if anyone were paying attention to anyone else it was the charming extrovert with the loud laugh who was going with a play partner to a room party. He didn’t cease to look terrified until he was able to collapse on the bed.

Here I have only bits of memory. I recall him shakingly assisting me with the straps of the cheap harness we travel with, flashes of taking him as he made the loveliest of noises, of folding him into a slut pretzel, and of getting my face out of the way just in time as he came. He was more emotionally, mentally, and physically drained than I have ever seen him after play, and the extended aftercare included a long hot shower and lots of petting.

When we made it to bed at 3 AM, with him laying in my arms, I kissed him passionately.

 

 

Full disclosure: this has been posted before, but was taken down some time back so I could edit. 

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.