The thing you have to remember is, kink is not an absolute. Kink is sometimes relative. Kink has nuance to it; kink has subtlety and variation. Kink depends on the person enjoying it.
Or not enjoying it, as the case may be.
What is kinky to one may not be kinky to another at all.
There are kinks we feel are safe to admit, because they happen to be popular at the moment, and fit some kind of ideal. But then there are the kinks that aren't so common, aren't so normal; but to some, they are the ultimate turn on.
Sometimes, our biggest kinks are the ones we don't want to admit to.
So this is one of my biggest kinks, and you'll probably find it absurd, you may even find it laughable, but here it is: I have a thing about my face. People touching my face, especially my cheeks and forehead, is a very intimate experience. You can pinch my nipples, you can spank my ass, but if I let you touch my face, you should count yourself a member of a very small circle.
If you are gentle with my face, if you caress it, press your palm against it, maybe run a finger lightly down my nose...I will smile and close my eyes as a deep sense of closeness unfurls inside my heart. If you hurt my face—well, let's back up. Nobody gets to really hurt my face except Husband. But if you make me think you might do something painful to it—poke it, bite it, maybe even slap it...my hackles will rise, and I will try to fight you.
You are pulling on some wild savage strings right there.
The only person who can get a different reaction out of me is Husband. When he touches my face, I immediately melt. And when he hurts my face...there's no resistance, no anxiety, no fight. Just me, giving up all control over one of the most sensitive parts of my body, offering it up to him wholly and without reservation, baring this part of me as a token of my love.
When he hurts my face, I sink into subspace.
Which is why hurting my face is something he loves to do.
One of Husband's favorite things to do
(This is one of those cases where it's one of his favorites, because it's one of my favorites, and he loves watching my physical responses)
(What can I say? I'm very responsive)
is to get out the tweezers...tell me to lie down on the bed, face up...and, um, tweeze my face. He goes after all those tiny little hairs every woman has on her cheeks and chin.
Some women have them worse than others. The hairs on my upper body are blonde, so they are harder to see, but Husband catches them, each and every one.
The other day, we were in bed, about to have fun. He held up the tweezers in his hand, and told me to lie down on the bed. "Hands at your sides," he said. "Not a word. Don't move your mouth."
He began to use those tweezers to hunt down and pull out every single hair on my chinny-chin-chin. It hurt, but he took his time, ignoring my tight-lipped whines and moans. Sometimes, he would just play with a stubborn hair for a while, yanking at it, teasing it with his fingers...but not quite pulling it out all the way, not until he was ready. Then he would ease it out slowly, bit by bit, and I would feel that hair leave my body with prickling sting. I closed my eyes, relaxed into the feel of it, and basked in his control.
It
Was
Amazing.
Then he moved the tweezers to my nipples.
My eyes flew open. That had hurt.
"Move over," he said. "Head back."
I knew what he wanted: I moved over to the end of the bed so that my head hung down the side. Quickly, he shimmied out of his boxers, and pressed his cock against my mouth. When I didn't open fast enough, he squeezed my nipple with the tweezers.
Before I could finish my shriek, he had filled my mouth.
"Hands at your sides," he repeated. "Keep them there."
I flattened my hands back down. He pumped his hips, jamming my mouth with his cock. And as he moved against me, fucking my face, he continued to squeeze my nipples with the tweezers.
Back and forth. Back and forth. Squeezing one nipple, then the other.
I moaned and whined, but my cries were muffled around his cock...just the way he likes them.
"Use one hand to play with yourself," he ordered. "Open yourself up. I want to watch."
It was beyond me at that point to resist. I was mindless, steeped in my own fog of subspace. I spread my legs wide, opened myself up to his view, and began to do as ordered.
"There you go," he said. "Don't stop. That's a good girl."
His thrusts came harder now, and his cock took over my throat. Spit dripped down the sides of my face, but I was too spaced out to care. My fingers moved faster, making tiny circles against my clit.
"Keep going," he said. He pinched my nipple, hard; I moved my fingers faster. He pinched the other nipple, and I dug deeper into my folds. "That's it. C'mon."
I groaned against his cock, feeling my orgasm building as he used the tweezers to play with my nipples like a fine-tuned instrument. A jolt of agony would go from one nipple straight to my clit and back to the other nipple, mixing my pain with insatiable pleasure, until the feeling was almost unbearable.
He knew the instant I came: he could see the spasms taking over my body, feel my mouth close around his cock, hear my cries of pain-filled ecstasy around his prick. In the last second, he used the tweezers to squeeze one nipple and his fingers to squeeze the other, pinching both hard enough to make me scream. As my agonized cry tried to escape my throat, he rammed himself down my gullet, impaling my face on his cock.
His come dribbled down the sides of my face, mixing with my spit and tears.
I know he's going to want to recreate this scene again. It was so very fucking hot.
But first all the hairs on my chin have to grow back.
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
Friday, April 25, 2014
Don't Move Part II
I love to be fisted. Which is a good thing, because Husband loves to fist me; and while he appreciates how much I enjoy it, there are plenty of other things he does I do not enjoy, where my feelings are irrelevant on the matter.
In other words, I have no doubt if I did not enjoy being fisted...he'd do it to me anyway. We share that kind of dynamic.
After he was done beating me with the switch, Husband maneuvered me over across the bed. He got out the lube. I knew what was coming—I knew there was more pain and suffering to be had. But for a while, I'd be able to relax and enjoy, and I intended to milk my respite for all it was worth.
He took his time, and I relaxed some more. When the orgasm came, it was intense, but manageable, and left me with a soothing sense of release.
Then he kept moving his hand, and I came again.
And again.
And again.
The suffering started all over again, just of a different sort.
I am not the kind of woman who can come over and over again, with each orgasm being as wonderful and satisfying as the last. I can come three, maybe four times, tops....
Then those orgasms start getting fucking painful.
Not in the physical sense—at least, not to the point where I'm crying out in agony. It's a physiological kind of torture: I have absolutely no control over my brain synapses at that point. I'm just enduring my body's responses to the whims of another.
I'm a puppet on a string, and my strings are being stretched.
This is the flip side of orgasm control, you see. It is one thing to deny a person orgasms until they have permission to come. It is another to force them to keep coming, despite their desperate desire not to, until they have permission to stop.
I lost count how many times I came. It was too much; it was just one orgasm rolling into another. I was grimacing at that point, I'm sure, tightening up my whole body, trying to stop the maelstrom spreading and looping across my nervous system.
Of course, it was no use.
I begged for him to stop. He laughed.
Finally—when he felt damn good and ready—he positioned himself on top of me, and started pounding me into the mattress.
I caterwauled like a wounded kitten...and came again.
By the time he was done with me, I was a rung-out dishrag.
But he? He bounded off the bed completely fine and dandy, the villain.
As he walked toward the bathroom, he looked down at his polished, sparkly toes.
"You're so funny," he said. "I love being married to you." Then he blew me a kiss, and walked away.
It case it needs saying...I love being married to him, too.
In other words, I have no doubt if I did not enjoy being fisted...he'd do it to me anyway. We share that kind of dynamic.
After he was done beating me with the switch, Husband maneuvered me over across the bed. He got out the lube. I knew what was coming—I knew there was more pain and suffering to be had. But for a while, I'd be able to relax and enjoy, and I intended to milk my respite for all it was worth.
He took his time, and I relaxed some more. When the orgasm came, it was intense, but manageable, and left me with a soothing sense of release.
Then he kept moving his hand, and I came again.
And again.
And again.
The suffering started all over again, just of a different sort.
I am not the kind of woman who can come over and over again, with each orgasm being as wonderful and satisfying as the last. I can come three, maybe four times, tops....
Then those orgasms start getting fucking painful.
Not in the physical sense—at least, not to the point where I'm crying out in agony. It's a physiological kind of torture: I have absolutely no control over my brain synapses at that point. I'm just enduring my body's responses to the whims of another.
I'm a puppet on a string, and my strings are being stretched.
This is the flip side of orgasm control, you see. It is one thing to deny a person orgasms until they have permission to come. It is another to force them to keep coming, despite their desperate desire not to, until they have permission to stop.
I lost count how many times I came. It was too much; it was just one orgasm rolling into another. I was grimacing at that point, I'm sure, tightening up my whole body, trying to stop the maelstrom spreading and looping across my nervous system.
Of course, it was no use.
I begged for him to stop. He laughed.
Finally—when he felt damn good and ready—he positioned himself on top of me, and started pounding me into the mattress.
I caterwauled like a wounded kitten...and came again.
By the time he was done with me, I was a rung-out dishrag.
But he? He bounded off the bed completely fine and dandy, the villain.
As he walked toward the bathroom, he looked down at his polished, sparkly toes.
"You're so funny," he said. "I love being married to you." Then he blew me a kiss, and walked away.
It case it needs saying...I love being married to him, too.
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
Don't Move
So.
The other day I got myself into trouble.
I know, what else is new?
What happened was, Husband fell asleep on the guest bed for a late afternoon nap...and I kinda painted his toenails with nail polish.
I gotta tell you, it was a nice color—and sparkly! Very very pretty, if I do say so myself.
Husband did not agree.
Oh, he laughed when he woke up and saw it. He kept shaking his head and muttering "I can't believe you did that." But when I pressed him on it—Oh? You really can't believe I did that? You do know me, right?—he would just chuckle and shake his head some more.
He told me I'd be punished. But...you know...I didn't really worry too much about it.
See, that's the thing about the Brat Brain: it doesn't really let you worry about the consequences of your actions. It keeps fooling you into thinking you'll get away with whatever mischief you want, every time.
Thank God, Husband loves me and my Brat Brain. Sometimes he does let me get away with my shit.
Sometimes, he doesn't.
The punishment didn't come until a few nights later (GOD that man loves to make me wait). He ordered me to get naked and lie face down on the bed, spread eagled.
I thought he was going to take my ass, brutal-like. Which, you know, is painful, but also makes me come.
But then he got the cane out.
"Now hold on," I started to stammer. "You didn't mind the nail polish that much. You laughed, remember?"
"Don't move." Without a blink of an eye, he raised the cane high in the air and swatted it against my butt.
I shrieked. I yelled. He swatted my ass again. I took a sharp hiss of breath, and shifted my butt away.
"Do not move," he growled. He met my look of indignation with his own expression of ruthlessness, paused...and swatted my ass again. "Better bite the pillow."
"No!" I was full of resentment at this point; I thought he was being grossly unfair. Okay, maybe not grossly unfair, but—damn it, it hurt! I tried to scoot away again, and he dragged me back, pinning my legs down.
"Every time you move, I'm gonna add five more." He pressed his hands against my legs, as if pushing his point across. But then, he let go of my legs to smack the cane against my thighs.
I shrieked again, wiggled my hips, remembered his threat, and turned my head to give him a look of cold fury. "You could cuff me down, you know!"
"No," he said, his tone just as cold. "I'm not going to get the cuffs out. You'll keep yourself still."
And that's when I got really scared.
I identify as prey. That means I do not take it like a champ. I do not lie there and submit so easily.
I struggle. I fight. I move.
It's one of the ways I like to play.
So it makes sense I get cuffed, pinned, or chained down a lot. And I love that. I love being manhandled, thrown down, and forced to stay still.
But the cuffs sometimes turn into a crutch. Of course I'm going to struggle and flail against my bonds, because duh, the bonds will keep me from moving too much to disrupt the scene. I get to try as much as I want to fight as badly as I can; it's not like I'm going anywhere.
In that sense, bondage offers me a unique sense of freedom: freedom to fight within whatever confines he's restricted me. My perimeters are finite and firm.
What he was doing to me now was taking away that freedom to struggle, at least in the physical sense. Now, I had a purely mental struggle to deal with: fight against my own urges to move.
That, for me? That is real torture.
"Hold onto the bars," he said, directing me to the cold iron headboard.
"I don't want to." I couldn't keep the whine out of my voice.
"Up to you," he said. "But you move, and things will go worse for you."
I wrapped my hands around the bars.
The caning went on from there, with neither of us saying much; at least, not directed torward each other. I would shriek and yell; he would laugh. He would mutter to himself about where the next strike should hit; I would release a litany of "no"s.
But every time I lifted my legs, or scooted my butt too far away, or tried to shield my burning ass with my hands, he would add another five swats to the tally. And I would wail.
When he was done with the cane, he got out the hairbrush.
Then he got out the switch.
"Don't move," he kept telling me. "Don't move."
I couldn't sink into subspace; I couldn't let my brain fly away. I had to keep my focus on not moving. Breathe, I told myself, breathe, relax, don't move, breathe—
Every swat felt like another shot of adrenaline right into my blood stream. All I wanted to do was turn over and fight, or roll over and run away—
But instincts can be overcome. Impulses can be controlled, with the right incentive....
Or the right detriment.
When the beating was over, he fisted me and forced me to come over and over again; cause he has that power over me, too.
But that is the topic of the next post.
The other day I got myself into trouble.
I know, what else is new?
What happened was, Husband fell asleep on the guest bed for a late afternoon nap...and I kinda painted his toenails with nail polish.
I gotta tell you, it was a nice color—and sparkly! Very very pretty, if I do say so myself.
Husband did not agree.
Oh, he laughed when he woke up and saw it. He kept shaking his head and muttering "I can't believe you did that." But when I pressed him on it—Oh? You really can't believe I did that? You do know me, right?—he would just chuckle and shake his head some more.
He told me I'd be punished. But...you know...I didn't really worry too much about it.
See, that's the thing about the Brat Brain: it doesn't really let you worry about the consequences of your actions. It keeps fooling you into thinking you'll get away with whatever mischief you want, every time.
Thank God, Husband loves me and my Brat Brain. Sometimes he does let me get away with my shit.
Sometimes, he doesn't.
The punishment didn't come until a few nights later (GOD that man loves to make me wait). He ordered me to get naked and lie face down on the bed, spread eagled.
I thought he was going to take my ass, brutal-like. Which, you know, is painful, but also makes me come.
But then he got the cane out.
"Now hold on," I started to stammer. "You didn't mind the nail polish that much. You laughed, remember?"
"Don't move." Without a blink of an eye, he raised the cane high in the air and swatted it against my butt.
I shrieked. I yelled. He swatted my ass again. I took a sharp hiss of breath, and shifted my butt away.
"Do not move," he growled. He met my look of indignation with his own expression of ruthlessness, paused...and swatted my ass again. "Better bite the pillow."
"No!" I was full of resentment at this point; I thought he was being grossly unfair. Okay, maybe not grossly unfair, but—damn it, it hurt! I tried to scoot away again, and he dragged me back, pinning my legs down.
"Every time you move, I'm gonna add five more." He pressed his hands against my legs, as if pushing his point across. But then, he let go of my legs to smack the cane against my thighs.
I shrieked again, wiggled my hips, remembered his threat, and turned my head to give him a look of cold fury. "You could cuff me down, you know!"
"No," he said, his tone just as cold. "I'm not going to get the cuffs out. You'll keep yourself still."
And that's when I got really scared.
I identify as prey. That means I do not take it like a champ. I do not lie there and submit so easily.
I struggle. I fight. I move.
It's one of the ways I like to play.
So it makes sense I get cuffed, pinned, or chained down a lot. And I love that. I love being manhandled, thrown down, and forced to stay still.
But the cuffs sometimes turn into a crutch. Of course I'm going to struggle and flail against my bonds, because duh, the bonds will keep me from moving too much to disrupt the scene. I get to try as much as I want to fight as badly as I can; it's not like I'm going anywhere.
In that sense, bondage offers me a unique sense of freedom: freedom to fight within whatever confines he's restricted me. My perimeters are finite and firm.
What he was doing to me now was taking away that freedom to struggle, at least in the physical sense. Now, I had a purely mental struggle to deal with: fight against my own urges to move.
That, for me? That is real torture.
"Hold onto the bars," he said, directing me to the cold iron headboard.
"I don't want to." I couldn't keep the whine out of my voice.
"Up to you," he said. "But you move, and things will go worse for you."
I wrapped my hands around the bars.
The caning went on from there, with neither of us saying much; at least, not directed torward each other. I would shriek and yell; he would laugh. He would mutter to himself about where the next strike should hit; I would release a litany of "no"s.
But every time I lifted my legs, or scooted my butt too far away, or tried to shield my burning ass with my hands, he would add another five swats to the tally. And I would wail.
When he was done with the cane, he got out the hairbrush.
Then he got out the switch.
"Don't move," he kept telling me. "Don't move."
I couldn't sink into subspace; I couldn't let my brain fly away. I had to keep my focus on not moving. Breathe, I told myself, breathe, relax, don't move, breathe—
Every swat felt like another shot of adrenaline right into my blood stream. All I wanted to do was turn over and fight, or roll over and run away—
But instincts can be overcome. Impulses can be controlled, with the right incentive....
Or the right detriment.
When the beating was over, he fisted me and forced me to come over and over again; cause he has that power over me, too.
But that is the topic of the next post.
Monday, April 21, 2014
My Writing Process: A Blog Tour
My friends Jack and Jill from Frisky in the 916 asked me to participate in this blog tour, started by Amanda Nicole over at Peaches in Missouri. Since it's been a while since I blogged about my writing, I thought, sure, why not.
1. What am I working on?
HAHAHAHA Aaaand right there is our first problem. I am supposed to be working on a BDSM erotica take on The Lady of Shallot story.
Before that, I was trying to work on a BDSM erotica take on the story of King Thrushbeard, but I kept getting snagged up in the writing process. The Lady of Shallot is a much easier flow for me; I know what the steps are, where the story is going.
But—BUT—it feels like lately I'm suffering from a severe lack of time to actually write. I cannot write BDSM erotica while my kids are home, and for some reason, it feels like lately, they are home all the fucking time.
Spring Break has not been my friend, people.
2. How does my work differ from others of its genre?
Well, I think the big thing is that I don't go for this non-consensual non-consent business. I go for consensual non-consent, most definitely; but if I write in a scene where a woman says "no," she has no other way of stopping the scene, and no other safeword has been negotiated? My Top stops, period. I don't enjoy reading scenes in which the Top hears a woman say "no" and continues anyway, with this misplaced belief that her "no" wasn't genuine somehow. I hate that.
I see this all too often in vanilla romance novels. More so, in fact, than in BDSM erotica novels. I think authors who write scenes full of "she-said-no-but-she-really-meant-yes" are perpetuating rape culture.
3. Why do I write what I do?
Because it's hot. Because it makes me wet. And because I want my readers to get hot and wet, too.
I want to give people another way of looking at BDSM from what they probably read in that "Fifty Shades" book.
4. How does your writing process work?
It starts with the characters: Who are they? What do they want? What will happen if they don't get what they want? What'll happen if they do? I find that if I start with the characters first, and what the stakes are, then the plot takes over from there.
If I can't figure out why my characters are doing what they're doing, what their motivations are, then chances are, my readers won't be able to figure that out, either. Then I have to stop and reassess.
Thank you, Jack and Jill, for inviting me into this blog tour. And thank you Amanda for starting it!
Want to answer the questions yourself? Go for it! Just link back to Amanda's blog—and Jack&Jill's. And mine, please. :)
1. What am I working on?
HAHAHAHA Aaaand right there is our first problem. I am supposed to be working on a BDSM erotica take on The Lady of Shallot story.
Before that, I was trying to work on a BDSM erotica take on the story of King Thrushbeard, but I kept getting snagged up in the writing process. The Lady of Shallot is a much easier flow for me; I know what the steps are, where the story is going.
But—BUT—it feels like lately I'm suffering from a severe lack of time to actually write. I cannot write BDSM erotica while my kids are home, and for some reason, it feels like lately, they are home all the fucking time.
Spring Break has not been my friend, people.
2. How does my work differ from others of its genre?
Well, I think the big thing is that I don't go for this non-consensual non-consent business. I go for consensual non-consent, most definitely; but if I write in a scene where a woman says "no," she has no other way of stopping the scene, and no other safeword has been negotiated? My Top stops, period. I don't enjoy reading scenes in which the Top hears a woman say "no" and continues anyway, with this misplaced belief that her "no" wasn't genuine somehow. I hate that.
I see this all too often in vanilla romance novels. More so, in fact, than in BDSM erotica novels. I think authors who write scenes full of "she-said-no-but-she-really-meant-yes" are perpetuating rape culture.
3. Why do I write what I do?
Because it's hot. Because it makes me wet. And because I want my readers to get hot and wet, too.
I want to give people another way of looking at BDSM from what they probably read in that "Fifty Shades" book.
4. How does your writing process work?
It starts with the characters: Who are they? What do they want? What will happen if they don't get what they want? What'll happen if they do? I find that if I start with the characters first, and what the stakes are, then the plot takes over from there.
If I can't figure out why my characters are doing what they're doing, what their motivations are, then chances are, my readers won't be able to figure that out, either. Then I have to stop and reassess.
Thank you, Jack and Jill, for inviting me into this blog tour. And thank you Amanda for starting it!
Want to answer the questions yourself? Go for it! Just link back to Amanda's blog—and Jack&Jill's. And mine, please. :)
Friday, April 18, 2014
The Dear Shelby Answer
I read different variations of this question in advice columns all the time, and invariably, I disagree with the answer. So today, I'm going to play advice columnist, and give a D/s version of what I think the appropriate response should be.
Keep in mind, given my own personal dynamic, the Husband here is the Dom, and the wife is the sub.
Dear Shelby,
I just found out my best friend has been putting the moves on my wife. While she has not gone out of her way to welcome these advances, she has not shot them down, either. What's worse, she never told me about them; she didn't want to ruin our relationships.
I found out about my so-called best friend's advances on my wife through looking through her cell phone texts. I know I was snooping; I know that was wrong of me. But now I don't know what to do. Should I confront my wife? Confront my (ex) friend?
Sincerely,
Confused Husband
(Typical advice columnist answer: You were totally wrong for snooping through your wife's texts, now you have to come clean and apologize, tell her you know about the texts, go to a therapist, blah blah blah)
My answer:
Dear Confused Husband,
First of all, you did nothing wrong by checking your wife's phone. That is YOUR RIGHT as her husband. In your house, you are the top of the chain of command, and as such, it is your job to make sure everything and everyone under you is running smoothly. Spot checks like this should be expected.
In other words, you do NOT owe your wife an apology for looking through her phone.
Second of all: your wife should have come to you as soon as the first advancement was made by your friend. Again, you are the top of the chain of command, and you cannot do your job unless you have all the information available.
However—and this may be hard to hear—if your wife was, for some reason, too afraid or hesitant to come to you with this, this is something for which you must take responsibility. You must find out why your wife's first, instinctive reaction was not to come to you. Did she fear you would lose control? Did she fear she would lose you?
Are her fears justified?
Did she want to keep the possibility of a more intimate relationship possible with your friend?
The only way you're going to get answers to your questions is to talk to your wife. Make it clear you offer no apology for going through her phone, but do express regret for not making it clear, from the beginning, you expect her to come to you with these matters posthaste. Stay calm and in control of your emotions and the situation. Listen to what she has to say, but make it obvious in your demeanor and attitude that while you take her wants into consideration, whatever happens now will ultimately be up to you.
Make a contract between the two of you outlining what you expect of her in the future, with clear guidelines—and exemptions, if any. Perhaps you don't mind if your wife has some fun on the side with your friend...or perhaps you do. Either way, she should always feel safe to come to you with whatever is on her mind.
The last thing is to punish your wife soundly to assuage any guilt she may still be harboring for disappointing you.
The punishment will hurt in the short term, but in the long run, it will help both of you move on, and learn from this experience.
Keep in mind, given my own personal dynamic, the Husband here is the Dom, and the wife is the sub.
Dear Shelby,
I just found out my best friend has been putting the moves on my wife. While she has not gone out of her way to welcome these advances, she has not shot them down, either. What's worse, she never told me about them; she didn't want to ruin our relationships.
I found out about my so-called best friend's advances on my wife through looking through her cell phone texts. I know I was snooping; I know that was wrong of me. But now I don't know what to do. Should I confront my wife? Confront my (ex) friend?
Sincerely,
Confused Husband
(Typical advice columnist answer: You were totally wrong for snooping through your wife's texts, now you have to come clean and apologize, tell her you know about the texts, go to a therapist, blah blah blah)
My answer:
Dear Confused Husband,
First of all, you did nothing wrong by checking your wife's phone. That is YOUR RIGHT as her husband. In your house, you are the top of the chain of command, and as such, it is your job to make sure everything and everyone under you is running smoothly. Spot checks like this should be expected.
In other words, you do NOT owe your wife an apology for looking through her phone.
Second of all: your wife should have come to you as soon as the first advancement was made by your friend. Again, you are the top of the chain of command, and you cannot do your job unless you have all the information available.
However—and this may be hard to hear—if your wife was, for some reason, too afraid or hesitant to come to you with this, this is something for which you must take responsibility. You must find out why your wife's first, instinctive reaction was not to come to you. Did she fear you would lose control? Did she fear she would lose you?
Are her fears justified?
Did she want to keep the possibility of a more intimate relationship possible with your friend?
The only way you're going to get answers to your questions is to talk to your wife. Make it clear you offer no apology for going through her phone, but do express regret for not making it clear, from the beginning, you expect her to come to you with these matters posthaste. Stay calm and in control of your emotions and the situation. Listen to what she has to say, but make it obvious in your demeanor and attitude that while you take her wants into consideration, whatever happens now will ultimately be up to you.
Make a contract between the two of you outlining what you expect of her in the future, with clear guidelines—and exemptions, if any. Perhaps you don't mind if your wife has some fun on the side with your friend...or perhaps you do. Either way, she should always feel safe to come to you with whatever is on her mind.
The last thing is to punish your wife soundly to assuage any guilt she may still be harboring for disappointing you.
The punishment will hurt in the short term, but in the long run, it will help both of you move on, and learn from this experience.
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
How I Vet for Others
I've not been in the Scene for that long, relatively speaking; but I've been around long enough that I've been sought out more than once when it came time to "vetting" another potential play partner.
Inspired by a certain Fetlife thread, I thought I'd shed some light on how I, personally, share information with others when "vetting."
Obviously, if I've heard nothing about the person in question, I'll admit that; but I might also know someone who can answer your questions, and steer you to them.
If I've heard only glowing things about the person, I'll say so. The protocols below would still apply for positive feedback as well as negative.
If I've heard negative things about the person you're asking me about, I'll divide up the information I give you into three categories, and be very specific under which category the information I'm about to share falls.
The information will be specified thusly:
1. What I can backup with proof. "Proof" includes receipts, legal documents, screenshots of writings, etc.; in other words, concrete ways I can back up what I'm telling you the person did. If I say, "this person said this, and I have proof," it means I can show you something to prove what I'm saying.
Of course, documents don't always tell the entire story, and screenshots can be doctored. It's your choice whether you believe me or not.
2. What I've seen the person do with my own eyes and heard the person say with my own ears. These things are not hearsay for me; these are things I saw, heard, and experienced for myself.
However, I have no proof to back up my claim of what I saw or heard. It's your choice whether you believe me or not.
3. What I've heard about this person. This is obviously the weakest information to gather. It's all hearsay. I wasn't there, I don't know what happened; I am going by what other people have told me. Obviously, if I hear the same thing over and over again, the information begins to bear more weight.
But it's up to you to make up your own mind.
And that's the point, really: in the end, it's always up to you to make up your own mind. It's not so much the information you gather, it's what you do with it that matters.
If you listen and decide it's all a bunch of hooey, that's your choice. If you listen and decide it's worth being cautious around that person until you verify more information about them, that's your choice. And if you decide it's just not worth taking the risk to play with that person, that's your choice, too.
And if you think people shouldn't be talking at all, because that's not free speech that's libel and slander and Oh Em Gee what are they saying about me,
HAHAHAHAHA
and fuck you. Seriously, fuck you. Some of us are trying to keep people safe. Consent cannot come without all information given. If you're so afraid of what people are saying about you, try living your life as an honest, decent individual. Eventually, people will realize who and what kind of person you are.
They always do.
If you've made mistakes, own up to them. If you've hurt people, learn from that. Cause you know what I love being able to tell people? Seriously, I'm not kidding, I love being able to say this:
"This person made mistakes, yes...but that was a long time ago. They've learned. They're a different person now."
I think that's probably true for most of us.
Inspired by a certain Fetlife thread, I thought I'd shed some light on how I, personally, share information with others when "vetting."
Obviously, if I've heard nothing about the person in question, I'll admit that; but I might also know someone who can answer your questions, and steer you to them.
If I've heard only glowing things about the person, I'll say so. The protocols below would still apply for positive feedback as well as negative.
If I've heard negative things about the person you're asking me about, I'll divide up the information I give you into three categories, and be very specific under which category the information I'm about to share falls.
The information will be specified thusly:
1. What I can backup with proof. "Proof" includes receipts, legal documents, screenshots of writings, etc.; in other words, concrete ways I can back up what I'm telling you the person did. If I say, "this person said this, and I have proof," it means I can show you something to prove what I'm saying.
Of course, documents don't always tell the entire story, and screenshots can be doctored. It's your choice whether you believe me or not.
2. What I've seen the person do with my own eyes and heard the person say with my own ears. These things are not hearsay for me; these are things I saw, heard, and experienced for myself.
However, I have no proof to back up my claim of what I saw or heard. It's your choice whether you believe me or not.
3. What I've heard about this person. This is obviously the weakest information to gather. It's all hearsay. I wasn't there, I don't know what happened; I am going by what other people have told me. Obviously, if I hear the same thing over and over again, the information begins to bear more weight.
But it's up to you to make up your own mind.
And that's the point, really: in the end, it's always up to you to make up your own mind. It's not so much the information you gather, it's what you do with it that matters.
If you listen and decide it's all a bunch of hooey, that's your choice. If you listen and decide it's worth being cautious around that person until you verify more information about them, that's your choice. And if you decide it's just not worth taking the risk to play with that person, that's your choice, too.
And if you think people shouldn't be talking at all, because that's not free speech that's libel and slander and Oh Em Gee what are they saying about me,
HAHAHAHAHA
and fuck you. Seriously, fuck you. Some of us are trying to keep people safe. Consent cannot come without all information given. If you're so afraid of what people are saying about you, try living your life as an honest, decent individual. Eventually, people will realize who and what kind of person you are.
They always do.
If you've made mistakes, own up to them. If you've hurt people, learn from that. Cause you know what I love being able to tell people? Seriously, I'm not kidding, I love being able to say this:
"This person made mistakes, yes...but that was a long time ago. They've learned. They're a different person now."
I think that's probably true for most of us.
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