Have a Jolly Kinky Christmas

Have a jolly kinky Christmas

It's the best time of the year

Your blood will flow

His dick you'll blow

And your pain will be severe

Have a jolly kinky Christmas

And when you're bruised and beat

With a quiet purr

Thank your Sir

For giving you such a treat

Oh, ho

Another blow

A welt where you can see

A flogger waits for you

Fling it once for me

Have a jolly kinky Christmas

And in case you didn't hear

Oh by golly 

Have a jolly kinky Christmas

This year!

A few days ago, I promised my followers on Twitter if anyone sent me their kinky Christmas photos, I would post them on my blog. I only got three, but I know Molly over at Molly's Daily Kiss got more; you should go check 'em out. 

Merry Christmas, everyone!

courtesy twistedsheets

courtesy Jenn

courtesy Hubman

When Roles Change

This post has been on my mind for a while. I've been putting it off, and you will soon understand why; but now that the situation has passed, it's a little bit easier to write about it.

A short while ago, Husband got laid off. It was sudden, yet expected; shocking, but by no means a surprise. We had been preparing ourselves for the moment, anticipating it as best we could, but there was no real way we could have been ready when it arrived.

A few days after he was laid off, we were lying in bed together, clinging to one another as if we were in the midst of a wailing wind storm, desperately trying to hold on. He turned to me in the dark, his cheek touching mine. As his lips grazed my cheek, he asked me, "Are we going to be okay?"
"Yeah, we'll be okay," I said.
But this failed to mollify him. "If I don't get another job soon," he asked, his voice high and full of buried fear, "are you going to take the kids and leave me?"
The question flummoxed me. "Why would even think that?"
"Because it's my job to make money for the family. If I'm not...." He couldn't finish the sentence.

Dear readers, that moment was one of the lowest points of our marriage. It's hard to write about it. It's hard to think about it.
I reassured him as best I could, shocked he would even entertain such an idea...but maybe I shouldn't have been.

In a 1950's D/s household, roles are clearly defined. I am the homemaker; I take care of the house and children. Husband is the breadwinner.
His layoff turned our world on its axis. For the first time since I've known him, Husband was no longer earning a salary. In his mind, his role had been not just been damaged, it had been corrupted. I was fulfilling my role, but he was not doing his part, not anymore.


Many people mistakenly believe in a D/s relationship, the sub does most of the "work." She must complete any menial tasks her Dom puts forth. She must follow orders, and obey the rules. She must conform to his wishes. She must do as told.
The Dom barks orders, and the sub tows the line.
But this is so far beyond the truth, it's ridiculous. Being the head of a 1950's household is like being the captain of a ship: yes, you give orders...but the responsibility of the entire craft and crew is on your shoulders. The onus is on you to make sure everything goes right, because if you shirk, or if you blunder, the entire ship may sink.
It's a heavy burden to carry. Not many can do it.
Husband does it, and does it well--but for the first time ever, I got a glimpse into how closely he identifies himself with his role.
If he wasn't acting as captain of the ship, if his authority was compromised...what good was he?

I'm happy to report Husband has already landed another job. A better job, in fact; he's excited about his work again, and he's optimistic about the future. I am so, so glad.
But I have some work to do now, too. I need my husband to understand my love for him transcends any role he may fulfill or title he holds. Someday, if we're lucky, we will grow old together, and he may not be able to maintain his duties as my Dom and Master. It does not mean I will love him any less.

Having him as my Dom is amazing. It enriches my life in ways I can't describe. But he will always be my Husband, no matter what happens, and that has nothing to do with any kind of kink or BDSM dynamic. I love him, pure and simple. Nothing will ever change that.

Playboy Ads Post

It's been a long fucking time since I did one of these Playboy Ads post, so let me bring you up to speed:
When Husband and I were first married, we were on a tight budget, so we bought most of our furniture and housewares used. Every weekend, we would scour the neighborhood, looking for yard sales that seemed promising. Even after we didn't need anything in particular anymore, we still would often stop at the larger and busier yard sales, just for the fun of it. I don't know how many of you have ever stopped at a yard sale, but it can be really fun. You find amazing shit that other people have been storing in their attics or garages for years and don't want anymore.

One day I just happened to be walking down the street, and passes a small yard sale. There were only a few items out, some books, some kitchen supplies...and this big tupperware container. I looked inside, and lo and behold, it was full of PLAYBOY MAGAZINES.

The guy was a little surprised by my interest, but I, the good wife, knew Husband would be forever grateful if I bought these magazines for him. They were being sold by the issue.
"How much for the whole collection?" I asked.
The guy's eyes grew round, as he was clearly thrown off by the question, coming from a young woman. "Ten bucks," he said.
To this day, I wonder if he's still kicking himself for selling the whole collection for a measly ten.
I still look at these Playboy magazines now and then, but not for the pictures. (Or should I say, not just for the pictures.) I pull them out and admire the ads.
Because the ads, people...the ads.

This post is brought to you by March, 1991:

Oh Stephanie Seymour, your beauty is timeless.

The first thing you'll notice is that the magazine is (still) full of ads like this

and this

When did those ads stop running, anyway? Mmm, I'll have to go through a 1995 mag, and see if the ads are still in there. Certainly, by the time mp3s came along, the ads were doomed. But I don't know exactly when that was.
This ad cracks me up

But makes me feel old at the same time. I remember when Star Trek TNG was new. Now it's...quaint. That ship has sailed so far around the world, we're right back where we started, and now a new movie of the old crew is coming out soon, and Will Wheaton's big claim to fame is collating paper for The Bloggess.
Moving on.

Joe Montana was selling shoes. I'm sorry, but I really don't see the difference between March, 1991 shoes and shoes sold today. I know those people waiting in line for four hours for a chance to buy the new Air Jordans would disagree with me, but I personally don't get it.

If any of my readers still own this car, please send me a photo. I think the only word to describe it is "nifty."

"A diamond is forever. Thank God these haircuts are not. Look! Even our sweaters are the same! We are so compatible."

It's not just the old technology here I could mock, it's the language. "Pronounced" Advantage? As in, not really pronounced...just kinda pronounced. Pseudo-pronounced.
I wish I could go back in time and send this to the 1991 version of Unnecessary Quotation Marks...if there was one. Probably not.
Sigh.

All Playboy Mags are full of ads for other Playboy products, but this one caught my eye because the video was also made by The Sharper Image. Do you guys remember The Sharper Image? That was my favorite store. It was so cool.
It's not cool to say cool anymore, is it? Well I don't give a fuck. That store was wicked cool, full of wicked awesome things, and all of them were 100% pervertable.

This ad is for a DAT, or "digital audio tape," Walkman. Apparently it's big claim to fame was the ability to record CDs to cassettes. After you get over the shock of the old technology, take a look at the prices: The Walkman is $850 dollars. The car stereo system under it is $1800. The Digital Audio Recording System under that is $5000, and the remote is another $1000.
A remote. For $1000 bucks. Now you can just program your phone.

This is the first ad I've ever seen in Playboy that's showcasing a picture for sale. It's a Milton Glaser print, and according to the ad, this edition was limited to 375 copies, each one numbered and signed. On eBay, Milton Glaser prints sell anywhere from $100 to $350, certainly not the $500 dollars this ad was asking for. On the other hand, this one is signed, so who knows. Maybe by now, the buyers are feeling like they got their money's worth. Hopefully.
And now...the ad for the product I wish they were still selling today (or maybe they are, and I just don't know it. I'm frankly too lazy to check at this point)...drum roll please...

Is this sword not totally fucking cool? It's totally fucking cool. Get in my toy bag, sword!

So there you have it. Another Playboy Ad Post come and gone. (Am I the only one who wants to giggle every time I have to use the word "come" in a sentence?) Hopefully I won't wait so long to do another one. Then again, I do have a limited supply. It was only one container, after all.

Accepting You are Good

I'm going to tell you a little secret that you'll probably think is ridiculously simplistic and obvious when you read it, except for the fact that it's not:

People want to feel good about themselves.

The people in the advertising industry know this. That's why they are constantly trying to convince us their products will make us happy, will give us what we want--because that is one way we can feel good about ourselves.
People in the entertainment industry know this. That's why they're constantly showing us things that make us feel smarter, richer, luckier, better than the next person--because being better off than someone else makes us feel good about ourselves.
We all want to be happy, and being happy means being content with who we are.

People who are content with who they are don't care so much about what other people are saying about them, because it doesn't matter. This doesn't mean they don't listen when someone tells them they've done something wrong; the exact opposite. They listen intently, and don't react defensively, because they can admit to themselves it's possible they fucked up. They are okay with this possibility because, deep down, they know the difference between doing something wrong and being something wrong.

Doing something wrong, making mistakes, is part of life. You can learn and grow from your mistakes. You can move on from your mistakes.
Being something wrong is a whole other bowl of fruit. It is hard, if not impossible, to change who you are. If you're an inherently selfish person, a greedy person, a manipulative person--if you've got some kind of negative trait that really needs to be dealt with--then you've got some hard questions to ask yourself.

But I don't think the vast majority of us are bad people. I think most of us, kinky and vanilla, are basically good folk. We just want to be secure in that knowledge.

That's one reason why people tend to look for others who share in their philosophies and core beliefs: because if so many others think like you do, how can what you think be wrong?

This kind of mentality is even more affirmed in the kinky world. If you go on Fetlife, you'll find people looking for something, or more often than not, someone: a person who shares their fetish; a person who complements their desires; a mentor, a lover, a play partner. A friend.
But underneath it all, people join the kink community to find others like them, because in their world, who they are is not okay, and that knowledge fucking hurts.

People who've been in the scene for a while know what I'm saying is true, even if they don't break it down in such simplistic terms. But they'll agree I'm right, and I'll tell you something else, dear readers: it's easy to recognize people who've been in the scene for a long time, even in a crowd. Not because they know so many people, and not because they're wearing the right clothes.
Because of the wealth of confidence in their eyes.
They know who they are, and they know the person they are is okay. Maybe not perfect, no, but  fundamentally good. Not evil, and not crazy. Different, oh holy shit, yes--but different can be good, too.

I'm not saying there aren't evil people in the scene. I'm sorry to say there are. What's worse is that these evil predators use this knowledge to manipulate others. A predator's biggest piece of arsenal is his (or her's) ability to convince others that in order to be okay with who they are, they need to be willing to do x, y, and z for him. He can convince them they are good, there is nothing wrong with them--as long as they listen to him and give him what he wants. If they are susceptible, they will go along with this. If they are not, he will find someone else who is.
(I take it back. Maybe the biggest piece of a predator's arsenal is his ability to smell susceptibility. But that is a subject for another post.)

But real predators are rare. Like I said, most people just want to meet others who share in their kinks, their little idiosyncrasies--or at least forgive them, so they can feel good about themselves.

At the end of the day, all of us, no matter what the age, gender, what have you--all of us just want to be accepted for who we are.
The second step is accepting others who are different from us, but the first step is accepting yourself.

We are kinky.
And that is okay.

My heart is with those in Newtown, Connecticut. 

If there ever was a definition of senseless violence, this is it.

Senseless. Violence.

I will hug my kids a little bit tighter tonight as I choke back my tears.

A Letter to My Son

My Dear Child,

I have a confession to make to you.

Your father and I have been lying to you.

I know it's hard to hear that; we've always done our best to be honest and forthright with you. But the fact is, we've been feeding you little white lies for years, and it's time to come clean.

1. That sword we keep in the bedroom, next to the mirror? It's not in case of zombie apocalypse. The truth is, it makes an awesome sex prop during a play scene. You do have to be careful with it; it's a bit unwieldy. But it's also totally fun.

2. That container in our bathroom cabinet, the one you're not allowed to touch? It's not full of poisonous and dangerous cleaning supplies. It holds all of mom's sex toys--the insertable ones, anyway. Taking a look inside that container may just burn your eyes as much as an accidental spray of bleach to your face, though.

3. That big black bag in our closet? It's not full of mom's "thin" clothes she hopes to fit into again someday. Believe me, your mom is more clever than that; she knows that's never going to happen. No, that bag is filled with whips, floggers, spreader bars, cuffs, collars, straps and hooks, everything your mom and dad need to have a good fucking time, literally. Sorry, that might have been TMI.

4. That rocking sound you hear in the middle of the night sometimes? It's not mom sitting in the rocking chair at odd hours. Please understand, we try our best to muffle the sounds we make, sometimes with mixed results. We've tried padding pillows between the wall and the headboard and trying to keep our wild gyrations down to a minimum, but sometimes, all efforts fail, and well...what can I say. Rhythm is gonna getcha.

5. Those screams you hear from me on a regular basis? It's not your father "tickling" me. Well, sometimes it is, when he's applying tickle torture. But most of the time, it's just good old fashion pain. And believe me, it is good. Oops, TMI again.

6. That bottle of KY jelly you found in the glove compartment of my car? Yeah, I got nothin'.

The truth is, son, I have a feeling you already know what's going on, and what the score is between your father and me. Your father and I have a unique kind of relationship--well, not that unique, plenty of other people have it, too, but you'll have to wait until you're older to find out about that, and only if you want to--and we love it. It's one of the main reasons why we found each other, why we've been together for as long as we have, and why we have every plan on growing old together and dying together. The dynamic we have wouldn't work for everyone, but it works for us, and I hope someday, you can accept that.

But for now, we can all just play along and keep saying that your mom likes to rock in the rocking chair at one o'clock in the morning, that she has every intention of fitting into those skirts again someday, that she is only trying to keep your precious eyes safe by keeping you away from those nasty cleaning supplies, and the sword in the bedroom really is just in case of zombie apocalypse.

We won't mention the KY Jelly in the car. Ever. Please and thank you.

Super Quick Post, and You'll Figure Out Why

Background: Husband is downstairs, writing up something on his computer. I can hear the taptaptap of his keyboard going from where I am upstairs. Unfortunately, my keyboard is not going so fast--I'm having a hard time focusing.

Me: Husband! I need help!

Him, from downstairs: With what?

Me: Motivation. I can't focus on my writing. I need you to give me a good kick in the ass.

Him: What?

Me: I need a good kick in the ass!

The sounds of his footsteps come stomping up the stairs. He rushes into my room. 

Him: You need a good fuck in the ass? No problem. Get in the bed.

Me (shocked): I didn't say fuck, I said kick. I need a kick in the ass to get some work done...wait a minute. You did hear me right! You're just faking! 

(Husband smiles wickedly at this point)

Goddamnit, that is not called getting work done! That is the opposite of getting work done.

Him: You're still getting me done.

Me (spluttering): But I need to get some writing done.

Him (relenting): Okay. Hold on.

He disappears for a few minutes. When he comes back, he's holding five clothing pins in his hands, all connected with string. 

Him: If you don't get some writing done, tonight, I'm going to put these clothing pins on you; two for each nipple, and one for your clit.

Me: NO!

Him: Yes. Every page you write, you get to take one pin away. That's four pages. 

Me (breathing hard): Okay. Okay. Four pages is no big deal. I can do that.

Him: But I'm going to come in here once in a while for a blowjob.

Me: WAIT A MINUTE. If I'm blowing you, I'm not writing. You're taking my time away. That's not fair!

Husband: Deal with it.

He walked away at this point, leaving me spluttering, again.

So this is how he motivates me. Notice, I'm not writing right now--not on my next book, anyway. I'm writing you fine people. 

Husband knows how to scare me...but he inspires me, too.

And hey, it's only right I share the inspiration. 

When My Mom Told Me to "Share My Toys," She Wasn't Thinking This. But It Still Holds True.

I've had this piece of jewelry in my collection for a long time. It's a bendable necklace, made out of some kind of twisty metal material. It's malleable like a pipe-cleaner, but smooth and light. It's adaptable, and pretty.

In the past, we have 

(Husband has) 

used it as a kinky piece of jewelry by twisting it up and using a small padlock in the back to fasten it around my neck. It becomes an elegant, classy collar, one that cannot be removed without a key. The padlock adds some bulk and weight, but if you're into padlocks, it's a welcome addition (and distraction).

The other night, Husband and I were getting raunchy in the bedroom, and I, of course, was being naughty. We were both still fully clothed; the scene was just getting started. I was on the bed, refusing to turn over. 

The necklace was sitting on my jewelry box, twisted but pulled out in a straight line.

Husband grabbed it up, and with a quick snap of his wrist, smacked my ass with it.

I was writhing and rolling across the bed for a good thirty seconds; it hurt that bad. When the pain began to lessen somewhat, I went to the mirror and pulled down my pants: the necklace had left a pretty, and well-defined, outline on my butt. Through the pants.

Of course, we began to play with it more after that, but with a new sense of respect. I have a feeling this is going to be Husband's favorite toy for a while.

Last night, I brought the necklace with me to the munch I was attending. I wanted to show it off to my friends, show them what this strange necklace can do, demonstrate it's hidden power. People began to test it on themselves, test it on each other...people began to have fun with it. 

One couple had a whole little scene with it in the corner of the room. 

It was an awesome feeling for me to know I had introduced my friends to this new kinky toy, and they were already benefiting from my newfound knowledge. It was an even greater feeling to know other people were giving and recieving pleasure from my toy. 

It was as if, somehow, I was taking part in their pleasure. I was in no way part of their scene, but the power of the toy, my toy, was radiating out, hitting me like a beacon. It filled me with pride, gratitude, joy...

and of course, lust.

This is the power of sharing toys. You get to feel good about doing something nice for someone else, letting them in on your secret pleasures, and in turn, you get to share in their pleasure, too.

Of course, some toys are not meant to be shared, and some become to sacred. I have 

(Husband has)

plenty of floggers it would be fine to loan out, but one particular flogger, the first one Husband ever made by hand, I would never let anyone else use. That one is sacred to me, meant for my skin alone.

But if you ever feel the joy of borrowing someone else's toy, even if it's only for a little while, even if it's only to try out, be grateful for the people in our community who are willing to be so open, and share their things.

And then pay it forward when you get your own toys.

Share if you care. 

Shameless Wanton Request

Inside the Hotel Bentmoore: Training Ella is out.

Click here for Amazon.

Click here for Barnes and Noble. 

I have a request: if you read the book, and you like it, can you please write me a review? Reviews help other readers find books they might like. It doesn't take that much time or that much writing (I think Amazon has a minimum of like 20 words, that's it) (this paragraph is now more than 50 words, just to show you what I mean).

As a little gesture of appreciation, here are some hot tumblr pics:

Other than pics, I don't know what you guys might want. If you have any suggestions, feel free to offer 'em in the comments. 

News (and Ramble to the Blue Shirt Guy) (Not that one...THAT one)

Okay, so first off, one big big piece of news:

My latest book, Inside the Hotel Bentmoore: Training Ella, will be available soon in digital format. (Print format is going apace, but it is slower. Those little letters of ink on paper take time to magically formulate, you know.) You'll be able to find it on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and other foine sites in the next day or two.

Kudos now!

If you like the image on the cover, you should go check out LibertineEraPhotographic, who supplied the photo. Seriously amazing models and artists over there. Their banner is on the right.

And, as always, a big shout-out to my cover designer and formatter, Streetlightgraphics. If you're thinking of publishing your own book, you should really check 'em out. Their banner is on the right, too.

Final kudos go to you, dear readers...all of you who participated in my online poll. The results were insightful, and frankly, rather surprising. 

An equal number of you (who voted--I know from my stats a ton of you did not so WHAT THE HELL WOULD CLICKING ON A BUTTON HAVE BEEN SO FUCKING HARD IT'S NOT LIKE I CAN FIND YOUR IP ADDRESS YOU KNOW EVEN IF YOU ARE A BUNCH OF INDUSTRIAL SPIES THERE'S NO WAY FOR ME TO REPORT YOU OR ANY SHIT LIKE THAT AND EVEN IF THERE WAS I WOULDN'T BECAUSE I LOOOVE YOUUU AND TOTALLY NOT IN A CREEPY WAY NO AND EVEN IF IT WAS MAYBE A LEETLE BIT CREEPY LIKE I SAID I CAN'T TRACK YOU SO YOU'RE SAFE EVEN YOU THERE THE HOTTIE IN THE BLUE SHIRT OH EM GEE KISS KISS) want historical romance and contemporary romance. Barely any of you were interested in straight-up hardcore erotica. I found this surprising, since I am always looking for a quick pure grade-A erotica story to read. 

But I shall listen to my readers! The votes were equal here, but my twitter followers were leaning heavily toward historical. So King Alfred it shall be. 

Poll and Toys

First of all: I've added a little poll on the right. This is your chance to let me know what you want to see in my next book! So please take a moment to give it some thought and vote.

I know I haven't written for a while. Things have been difficult. Issues of the past few months have not gone away, they've just been simmering, so I've not brought them up. But they are there, and they are snowballing...and the uncertainty is killing me. I'm stressed, guys. I hate uncertainty. HATE it. 

But uncertainty is often a part of life, and life goes on.

Let's talk about toys for a minute, shall we? Husband and I have a fair collection of toys. Of course, what you consider a "good" collection depends on what you like. I have a friend who feels she needs nothing but a hitachi as a toy, but she has five of them in her collection. She thinks I'm nuts for not having even one. But she has no bondage equipment, no pain implements, not even a paddle, because she just doesn't feel like she needs any. Of course, all her partners have their own collections of toys and gear, so in a way, I guess she's right.

She just makes sure to take one of her hitachis wherever she goes. 

Husband and I have an array of equipment including cuffs, spreader bars, rope, floggers, crops, paddles, clamps, whips, speculums, hooks...you get the idea. We also have a collection of dildos, vibrators, and butt plugs. What we have works for us, but of course, it's always fun to try new things. 

This is not to say we need these things to have the sex life we do, or the D/s relationship we have. D/s has nothing to do with toys and gear. D/s is all about what is going on inside your head, the mental place you're in with your partner(s) at the time. Husband does not need rope to tie me up; he can restrain me quite well with a piercing look or the tightening of his lips. He doesn't need a flogger to spank me, either; his bare hand works very well.

But no one can argue sex toys are fun. The point of their existence is to play with them, and when you're adding them to something as already fun as sex, infusing toys to the scene can take it to the next level, and turn it incredibly decadent and raunchy.

To put it simply, toys make life more interesting. They make sex more fun. They won't turn your partner into more of a submissive (or Dom), but they will probably put a smile on their face...eventually. 

Once the pain fades a little.