Friday, December 30, 2011


Yes, this is my hand,
and that is my plug.
I took off my clothes without being told to first. 
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
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.
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?"
"Who will you always belong to?"
"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.

Saturday, December 24, 2011

My Take on Predator/Prey

I use a lot of labels to describe myself. Masochist, (specifically of the smart-assed variety,) anal slut, 1950's housewife, etc. But the label I use the most to describe myself is sub.
Unfortunately, many people have differing ideas what a "good" sub should act like. I've been told in certain circumstances I've been a bad sub, undisciplined and naughty, for things I've said and done. Ironically, I've never been told this by Husband. It's always been by others.
And I try to explain to these people that while obviously the relationship I have with Husband wouldn't work for them, it works for us. Husband isn't just "putting up with" my behavior, he loves it. He gets off on the power plays, and so do I.
But I've never really been able to explain our dynamic before, or my feelings on the issue...until I read this post. Written by a woman named Emma, it's titled "Predator and Prey Dynamics." It is an awesome post, and summarizes most of what I've always thought of my relationship with Husband, but never really knew how to articulate.
I am not just Husband's sub. I am his prey. And I need him to hunt me down, push me into the corner of his lair, make me cower, and make me understand (always and again) that I am nothing but his chewy playtoy. Like Emma says:
"I need to feel like less than him to submit. That I was the weaker one on the food chain, that he was the alpha, and I wouldn't win in a battle of the wills, the challenge of authority." 

This doesn't mean, however, that I am weak and powerless. Quite the contrary: I see myself as a powerful adversary, worthy of the chase. In everyday "vanilla" life, I am a force to be reckoned with, and I have a reputation for my big-mouth and fearless ways. I've tamed my ways some, (I've had to,) but that doesn't mean I've lost my courage and become this meek and docile creature.
The fact is, Husband wouldn't want me to change. I have my needs as the prey; he has his needs as hunter. He needs the prey to be an animal worthy of his time and effort; someone whose head he will be proud to show on his mantle. Hunters don't show off the heads of mice and squirrels, do they? No, they display the heads of the big animals, the bears and the lions, the animals that could have killed them just as quickly as ended up as their trophy.

I need Husband to reaffirm his place as Hunter, the top carnivore, the head of the food chain, and often. And when he does, he feels pride (and a sense of glee) after he's won the chase and enjoying the fun he's having with his food. Like Emma says,
"He loves the challenge, the thrill of the chase as much as I do, and I think this is particularly why we are such a good match for each other."

I will never be his slave, at least not in my own mind. Others will decide to themselves I fit their own label of slave, since I have many of the same rights and responsibilities. But it's wrong. It doesn't fit our dynamic.
In the vanilla world, I am a force of nature: loud, impulsive, stubborn, fearless...I am a lady, but I'm the lady who will surprise you with her strength and fortitude. I can be very generous and kind. I can also be a bitch.

I am prey.
But I am prey for only one man: Husband.
The only man who has ever battled wills, wits, and blows with me...and won.

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Safeword: Black and White

This is going to be one of those posts where I argue an issue as if it were controversial, but I hope it's not. I hope people agree with me. I hope when you come to the end of this post, you'll be nodding your head and thinking, 'yep, that is true.' If not...if not, you and I have some talking to do.

Sadists and masochists face so much judgement for who we are.
To "normal" society, a little kink is okay. Too much, and you start to get attention; people start to look at you. Which is fine if you're a celebrity, using the costume of kink to further your platform and sales. It's not so good if you're the average joe or joanne, trying to live life on your own terms.

Because we face this judgement, we, on the other side of what's deemed "acceptable," start having this 'us vs them' mentality. We label everyone and everything on the other side of the fence as vanilla, and use the term sneeringly. We're the cool people, we're the ones who have the awesome sex lives, we're the ones who take risks and have fun and do things vanilla people only dream about.
There's nothing wrong with us. You're just jealous.
Sounds very high-school, no?
But because we face so much judgement from the outside, we're loathe to judge our own. We don't want to risk looking like we're defecting to the enemy camp by formally and publicly calling other kinksters out on their behavior. Because that's not us, that's what vanilla people do.
This kind of mentally is not only fucking stupid, it's dangerous.
We're a community of grownups, are we not? And grownups know that sometimes, shades of grey are the illusions of philosophers and dreamers. Sometimes, the lines between black and white are very, very clear. There are behaviors that are wrong, period, and there is no way to look at it from a different perspective or twist it around in your head or tie it up in bows and ribbons to make it look pretty. It is just wrong, from every angle. Period.

So I'm going to throw this out there for every Top, Dom, and Sadist out there, and hope to God you agree:
If you set up a scene with a woman who has the use of a safeword, and you have promised to honor that safeword, then for God's sake, HONOR IT. 
Don't take away her ability to say it by stuffing her mouth or holding it closed. Don't ignore it when she says it. Treat it with respect.
I don't give a shit about you "losing control" or getting "caught up in the moment" or any of that bullcrap. You know what? If you knew for a fact that if she made any attempt to say that safeword and you ignored it, the powers that be would pull an axe out of the fucking sky and chop off your head off, you'd make damn sure to honor that safeword. And if that's what you have to imagine to give it the importance it deserves, then do it. Imagine that every time a woman tries to say her safeword and you don't let her, she will fucking kill you for it.
Then maybe you'll get it.
Cause if she won't, she just might have some friends who will.

Ed to add: I just got an email from Amazon that they've blocked my latest title, Evie (Babygirl)  from their general search list, because of its mature adult content. I've immensely pleased by this. It somehow confirms that I've "arrived" as an erotica writer.
They hate me! They really hate me!

Friday, December 16, 2011

I am Bothered Because I am Bothered

Wesley: Does it sting you, my betrayal?
Illyria: Betrayal was a neutral word in my day, as unjudged a word as water or breeze. No. Or perhaps...I am only bothered because I am bothered.
Wesley: That sounds very close to human.

I realize I left you on a hanging thread there, and I'm sorry. I'm also sorry I will not be cutting you down from the thread today. Perhaps I do in fact have some sadist in me.
I'm writing this post fast, and will put it up without polishing, because I simply don't have time to make it look all pretty and shiny. Time is running away from me faster than my five year old runs away from his underwear, and right now, I look just as silly trying to run after it.

But there is something that has been on my mind lately, a lot: how much judgement we put on concepts in the BDSM lifestyle. Words like sub, Dom, predator, and prey. I suppose that's normal, these words act like labels that suggest behavior and reaction. But the one word that doesn't fit any label and yet intrudes on every nuance of a D/s lifestyle is this one:
And I don't know how to explain it, and I don't know how to describe it, because the word is so general and simplified and injected with so much judgement, we don't have the words in the English language to pick it apart.
And if you don't know what I'm talking about, let me ask you this: What is the opposite of pain? Pleasure? That is not right, because pain itself can be the catalyst for pleasure. For some, pain is the pleasure. They are not opposites. If you are not in pain, are you "fine?" But then, can't you be fine if you are in pain? Not just in spite of it, but because of it? Being "fine" is not the opposite of being "in pain."

There is no word to describe the opposite of pain, because it is a noun, not an adjective; just like there is no word that acts as opposite to chair, or water, or breeze. Pain is its own thing. Pain is neutral.

And yet we treat it so negatively. When one is in pain, that is BAD. One has to qualify if the pain is good. One has to explain oneself. Because it is not natural, it is not normal, and it is not what general society accepts.

We have rejected the idea there can be a noun that means "the feeling of not being in pain." That all the words we use to describe this absence are unsuitable, because they suggest the absence of pain is a good thing, when sometimes, for some of us, it is not.

Pain can fill a person's heart like heady emotion, or take root in the mind like thought. The void of pain can bring a feeling of emptiness and longing, like something is missing from the person's soul. It is far from positive.

Judgement stems from emotion, and we are all too quick to attach emotion to labels we don't think through. Why does pain have to be judged as something negative? Or for that matter, why do other BDSM labels have to be treated the same way?

Sub, Dom, predator, prey. Can they not be muttered as fact without feelings spilling out, too?