Spread

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
(hunt)
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.
"Relax." 
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?"
"You."
"Who will you always belong to?"
"You."
"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.

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.

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!

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:

PAIN

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?

How We Negotiate

A while back, Husband and I made a deal to get me motivated to exercise more.
I wrote about it here. 
The deal was, I would get on the treadmill for half an hour, five times a week, and for every minute I skipped, he would get to beat my butt.

When I said "motivated," I meant "tormented."
(No this is not me)

Since then, I have stuck to the deal, with some adjustments. I've been getting on the treadmill five times a week; sometimes I have to skip a weeknight, due to some prior obligation, but I make up for it on the weekends, and that's okay. He also lets me accrue time, so that if I do two nights of 45 minutes, I'm able to skip the next when I'm too tired.
We've altered the deal through negotiation, but I've not broken it. Not once.
Not until now.
Like I wrote in the last post, Husband is away on business travel until the end of this week. He travels fairly often, and I'm used to it. I don't enjoy it (I miss him terribly), but I know the routine and how to handle things. I thought it would be fine.
Until right before he left. His last hour at home. We were sitting at the kitchen table, and he casually let me know he expects me to still get on the treadmill every day while he's gone.
I was not allowed to skip days. I was not allowed to accrue time. I had to do at least half an hour, every day.

Last week was fine. The kids were off for Thanksgiving break, so we didn't have to rush to be anywhere, and most places were closed, anyway. I put on a movie in the family room, gave each one of them their own bowl of popcorn, and that was it. Half an hour later, they were still exactly where I left them, munching away.
Monday was more difficult. I had errands to run, chores to do. The kids came home from school, and they needed my attention. It was already a fight who would get to talk to me first. Disappearing for half an hour and making myself completely unavailable was out of the question.
I skipped the treadmill.
Tuesday I wasn't too worried about it. "If I do 45 minutes today and 45 minutes tomorrow, he'll probably let it slide," I thought.
Then the day got away from me. I had a PTA emergency, a friend who needed a shoulder to cry on for over an hour...and then the kids came home, and all hell broke loose. By the time 8:00 rolled around, I knew the treadmill and I would not be making our date.
And then Husband called.

Caught with my pants down!
(No this is not me either)

I don't know how that man always knows what's going on with me, but he does. It's like he has ESP powers over me. His secret Husband senses were telling him there was a disturbance in our D/s force.

Not me.

We talked about mundane things for a few minutes, how the kids were doing, how much we missed each other, that kind of thing...and then he asked the question.
"So. Have you been going on the treadmill?"
"Um. Um."
"I take that as a no." The smug satisfaction was thick in his voice, like I as just confirming something he already knew.
"I did! Kinda! I did over the weekend! Just not yesterday. Or today."
"I see." There was a heavy pause. "You'll be getting the horseradish on Saturday."
That was it. No words of disappointment, no reprimand. Just a proclamation of punishment.
I suddenly wanted to cry.
"Shall I get it for you?" I thought maybe my offer would appease him somewhat. Also, it would give me the chance to pick the root myself.
"No. I'll go and get it when I get back. That's my job."
Now the censure was clear. I will do my job, you should have taken care to do yours was the message.
The conversation moved on, the kids took turns talking to him, and we all hung up.

About half an hour later, he calls again.
"I've been thinking. You said you missed yesterday, and today?"
"Yes...."
"That's two days. You should get the horseradish for two nights."
"Now hold on here," I said. "The task was to get on the treadmill. I failed in my task, so that's one punishment."
"But the task was to get on each day," he replied. "You missed two days, so that's two punishments."
"No, no. No no no. The job was divided up between days, but still one job. It counts as one."
He thought about it.
"I'll let you get away with one punishment...but I'll use two roots. One in your ass and one in your pussy."
"What!"
"Unless you want me to try to fit two roots in your ass? That might be too much, even for you."
"WHAT!"
"I think this is fair. One punishment, two roots. We'll see where they fit on Saturday."
And while I sat there with the phone to my ear, struck speechless, breath frozen in my chest, he said his goodbyes and hung up.

This is how we negotiate.

Saturday is going to be an interesting day.

What I Don't Want to Hear

Husband is away, and I'm feeling kind of snarky.
So I made up a list of things I hate, and I mean hate, to hear during our "play."
A few things to keep in mind:
1. These are only my pet peeves. I'm not making generalities here. Other women might have no problem with hearing these things. Hell, they might need to hear 'em to have a satisfied ending.
2. When I say "during play," I mean when I'm already cuffed, trusted up or tied down, and Husband is getting biblical on my ass. I'm talking about when we're already deep into it. I'm in total submissive masochist mode, and he's (I hope) letting the full Dom in him take over. I'm not talking about before or after, when we might be just starting play or just ending it, but things feel light, almost jovial, and we're taking it easy.
3. I'm also not talking about when things are said sarcastically, or with a more cynical attitude to get a reaction out of me. Husband does that on an ongoing basis. He loves to get a rise out of me. Then I do something bad, and he gets to punish me all over again.

Without further ado, here is the:

List of Things I Do NOT Want to Hear During Play

"Uh-Oh."
This means that something has gone wrong, not-according-to-plan. It means play might have to pause, or worse yet, maybe halted all together. It means that things were probably not well thought out beforehand, at least enough to foresee such a problem arise, and a way to handle it seamlessly. It can mean that control is lost.
As my Dom, I expect you to retain complete control. I don't want to have to worry about it. That's your job.
Alternative: Say nothing. Don't even let on there's a problem if you can get away with it. Fix the issue before there's time to notice something's off. Or act like it's all part of the plan.

"I'm sorry."
For what? Hurting me? Isn't that kind of the point?
Don't do anything during play you're sorry for. And if you do, and can't fight the need to tell me about it, then  tell me you're sorry later, after the scene (and the sex) is over. I don't want to be assuaging your guilt right now. What's even more likely is that you have little, if anything, to feel guilty about. Whatever move you made you thought went too far was probably fine with me. It might even have been better than fine: It might have been exactly what I wanted.
Alternative: Use body language to determine my resistance/pain levels, and if you think you went too far, switch gears. If you think that swipe with the cane was harder than you thought it was going to be, give me a massaging rub on the butt for a quick minute before giving me the next. If you bent one of my limbs too far, bring it back and hold it for support until I look more comfortable. Don't apologize for what's already happened. Just keep going.

"Does this feel good?"
This has got to be one of my biggest pet peeves. If I've got clamps on my nipples and my ass has just been flogged and now I've got three fingers stretching my ass, what am I supposed to say, 'yes, I feel great'?
What if I say no? Does that mean the play has to stop? But I don't want it to stop! Yes, it hurts, but it's the kind of hurt I want. Feeling good means different things when you're talking about BDSM. Am I supposed to stop play and go into a long discussions about my feelings?
Alternative: Ask, instead, 'how does this feel?'
That way, I can use words like 'amazing,' 'delicious,' 'stingy,' 'burny,' etc. If the cane is stinging my butt, it hurts, but that doesn't mean I'm not enjoying it. After all, if I didn't like it, I wouldn't want it. You should absolutely know what's going on in my head, how I'm feeling. But it's up to you to decide if that's the reaction you're looking for, or if you have to change things around. Worse comes to worst, we can always rely on a "green, yellow, red" system. And remember: I've always got my safeword if I really want things to stop.

"I don't deserve you/ You're so good to me/ I'm so lucky"
Listen: If you don't think you deserve me, why should I think you deserve me?
Yes, absolutely, I want to hear those things, I love hearing those things, but later, after the play is over. While we're "in scene," I want you to be the Dom, the guy in control, requiring my complete submission. I want you full of self-assurance, pride, and conviction. (Not to be confused with disrespect, arrogance, or presumption. A good Dom will know the difference.)
Alternative: Say things like 'I'm so proud of you' or 'your submission pleases me' or 'you're working really hard, I can tell.' Things that let me know you recognize the effort I'm putting into my actions, and my hard work makes you happy.

Those are the things I can think of right now. I'm interested to know if any other subs out there have their own pet peeves to add!

The Playground

The toys lay across the bed, crisp and new. They seemed to radiate excitement and expectation, evoking eagerness and playfulness. But there was a sense of seriousness to the matter, too. We wanted to do this right. 
We looked at each other and grinned.
Was there really a way to do it wrong?
He picked up the slapper first, testing its sting in the palm of his hand.
"I want to try this first," he said. "Then the other." He glanced at the fiberglass cane on the bed, then smiled down at the slapper still in his grip.
"We need to talk about the cane," I said, staring apprehensively at it. "From what I hear, its got a lot of power. You're going to have to really see what you're--"
"Get down," he hissed, "on your knees."
Without hesitating, I obeyed, my movements dictated by years of training. I was wearing no clothes but a bra and sheer pink panties. He grabbed the back of my panties and pulled, wedging the thin material deep into the crack of my ass, making me gasp.
"Let's try this baby out," I heard. A second later, I felt the crisp smack of the slapper against my ass. It stung, but not too badly. I wondered how much weight he had put behind the blow.
"Can we talk about--"
Slap
"First can we--"
Slap
"I get it, you're having fun--"
Slap
"CAN YOU WAIT A MINUTE!" The slaps were beginning to really hurt. Maybe I had underestimated the power of the new slapper, I thought to my dismay.
He stopped his arm midair. I looked up at him: a frown masked his face. 
"Why?"
"The cane," I said. "It's got a lot of bite to it. You need to test it carefully."
Now his eyes showed spreading interest. 
"Really?" He dropped the slapper on the bed and grabbed up the cane instead. It was longer and thinner than the ones we were accustomed to. It looked vicious in his hand. 
"Let me see," he whispered. "Get undressed, all the way. Stand up against the bed, ass out."
I complied, moving quickly...but not as quickly as the drumming pounding away in my chest. The sight of him standing over me, the cane in his hand, the cold glee in his eyes, filled me with fear. It was the kind of fear that makes you catch your breath, focus your entire being on the moment, and makes you remember what it means to be alive.
I had no time to close my eyes before the first blow hit.
SWAT
My back arched off the bed as I sucked in my breath in agony.
"Wow, that's a nice red line," he said. 
SWAT
I howled and gripped the sheet.
"The lines are nice and clean. You know what? I bet, maybe...I bet I could write my name on your ass with this thing. See, make this line, then this line across, and this line down...." He began to plan out his hits against my flesh, outlining his art, moving this way and that with the cane as I held my breath and shook with fear.
"Yes, this might work," he said. The blows rained down, quick and precise, each one carefully orchestrated and planned.
The pain was incredible. I kicked up my heels, trying to shake off some of the sting, and when that didn't work, I started to pull myself up the bed. He pulled me back and held me still, tsking as I cried.
"I've just got the last letter," he said. With a final few swats, he was done. "There." He was quiet, and I could tell he was studying his work. "Go look in the mirror."
I stood up from the bed and walked to the mirror, turning to look over my shoulder at my welted, striped buttocks. Next to me, I saw him tilt his head in thought.
"It's not exactly what I wanted," he said. "But we need to work on it." He saw my look of horror. "Not tonight, though. No. Back on your knees. You have something else to do."
I lowered myself down, knowing what was coming. He traded the cane for the slapper, undressed, and then stepped up before me, stopping when my head was aimed between his legs.
He grabbed my chin and pulled it down, opening my mouth wide.
"Take it." He aimed his cock and lunged it straight into my mouth, down my throat. I gagged and pulled back; he held me still. When I struggled, he swatted my backside with the slapper. I shrieked around his cock.
"I love it when you scream when I'm in your mouth," he sighed, wiggling his hips. "You make the nicest vibrations." He slapped again, and I shrieked again. And again. And again. And again. The slaps were nothing like the swats with the cane, but they still hurt, especially where he had tried to carve his name into my ass. Soon I was crying again.
"Your ass is such a beautiful red, but I can't see my name anymore. Too bad. Next time I'll have to go harder. Now get on the bed. On your back, legs in the air."
I sighed with relief. Now he would fuck me; now there would be no new pain, just the throbbing ache coming from my blushing ass...and the pleasure of being used as his plaything. 
He entered me with one smooth slide. I was wet, slick with the need of my arousal.
He grabbed my legs behind my knees and pushed them wide, digging his fingers into my flesh. I was already lost in my own pleasure at that point, feeling nothing but the growing pressure of release, but the pain of his fingers biting into my legs broke through my thoughts.
"Watch your thumbs," I said. 
"What?" He stopped.
"Watch your thumbs," I repeated, thinking foolishly he hadn't heard me. "They're squeezing me."
"Oh, really?" 
He let go of one of my legs with his hand. As the force of gravity pulled my leg down, he moved his hand over to my pussy, sliding it inside. He hooked his thumb in deep. I grimaced and moaned.
"You want me to watch my thumb?"
He slid his thumb out from deep inside my cunt, moved it down, and began to bury it into the tight ring of my ass. Making a plaintive cry, I began to twist across the bed, but he held me still by the ankle and continued to push his thumb in through the clenching ring of muscle, wiggling it as he went. 
"I'm watching my thumb. See? I'm watching it right now. I'm watching it disappear inside you. Oh yes, do that." I had raised my butt off the bed, trying to escape his brazen finger. My attempt had only made it easier for him to push deeper inside. "Nope, can't watch my thumb anymore. Sorry. I bet you can feel it, though. Can you feel it?"
He twisted it inside my asshole, stretching sensitive skin, and my voice came out a high-pitched "eeee."
He entered my pussy once more, shoving in with his cock, wiggling his thumb as he went. This time, my cries were ones of rising pleasure. 
"Shall I still watch my thumb? What do you think?" He pumped his thumb in and out of my ass in rhythm to his cock, thrusting hard, claiming both brutally.
The pressure built, and spread, until his cock and finger broke through like battering-rams and my pleasure gushed forth in release. A moment later, he was experiencing his own release. He pulled away his finger from my squeezing ass as he shuddered and collapsed on top of my own sweaty body.
As my breathing slowed to normal, I opened my eyes, and saw him looking down at me.
"What hurts the most?" He asked. 
"Right now, my asshole," I said, pouting. 
He furrowed his brows. "Next time you'll think about that before you go telling me to 'watch my thumbs.'" He shook his head, then smiled. "How's your butt?"
I got off the bed, slowly, moving like one who had just gotten the bull ride of her life, and walked over to the mirror.
"It doesn't hurt at all," I said, looking for some evidence of our play. There was barely any, just some minor redness that would soon fade. My lips curved down in disappointment. There would be no marks to admire, no lasting parting gift. 
"We'll play with these again," he said, kissing my temple. "Maybe not both toys together, but one at a time. There'll be lots of other nights to play."
Endless nights, years to come, hours of pleasure to spend with, and play with, the love of my life. The rest of our lives together. 
We weren't looking for our own playground. We weren't building it, either. We were the playground, and new equipment was always to be had.
"I know," I said, kissing him on the mouth. He hugged me, a reassuring, loving embrace, and I hugged him back. "I know."


A quick heads-up:
The next Hotel Bentmoore story, Masters of the Hotel Bentmoore: Evie (Babygirl), is coming out in the next couple days. So look for it soon!
Ed. to add: It is out, and available on Amazon and B&N.

Versatile Blogger Awards

First off, I would like to thank Molly for putting me on her own "Versatile Blogger" list! This blog has been through some big changes in the (relatively) short time it's been here, and many of those positive changes are thanks to Molly.

It means a lot to me to hear how others enjoy my posts. It surprises me sometimes, too, which posts people find the most inspiring, the most entertaining...or the most kinky.

The VBA is unique, because it can be passed on from blogger to blogger. Here's how:
1. The receiver of the award thanks the award-giver for bestowing it upon them, with a link back to their post.
2. The receiver then shares fifteen things about him/herself (hopefully, kinky things?).
3. They pass the award on to another fifteen blogs, and lets the bloggers know they have been chosen.

Fifteen Things about Me
1. I have been coloring my hair blonde for over ten years, when I started noticing grey hairs coming through (in my twenties!). I don't even know what my natural shade would be anymore. My eyebrows are still naturally blonde, though.
2. I love guys with an Irish accent.
3. I do not find guys with major muscles hot. I like a leaner physique.
4. I suck at math. Horribly. People think I'm faking being stupid, cause they can't believe I'm that bad. But I am.
5. I don't like cats. I think they're sneaky motherfuckers.
6. If I didn't think I'm too old for it, I would wear nothing but converse sneakers every day.
7. If I didn't think I'm too old for it, I'd streak my hair pink.
8. I'm sick and tired of people asking me, in front of my three boys, if I'm sad I don't have a girl.
9. I am proud of the things I did in my younger days, even if others find them wrong and stupid.
10. Teenage girls drive me crazy. But then, they drove me crazy when I was one, too.
11. I have very strange toes.
12.  I have broken each one of my toes at least once.
13. I lost one of my closest friends to a brain tumor, and I've never really gotten over that.
14. My nipples are really pink.
15. I have pale skin, to the point of translucency in some places, and I love it.

The Fifteen Blogs I've Chosen. In no particular order.

1. _sub_girl: lost Blog of a married kinky sub, trying to figure out who she is and where she's going in life.
2. A Master's Viewpoint of the BDSM World Well written blog by a knowledgeable Dom, it is chock-full of wisdom and useful information.
3. thewinsomegypsy Blog written by my friend, Winsome Gypsy. She's raw, honest, kind, and full of great surprises.
4. Remittance Girl She writes hot fiction, and posts straight from the heart.
5. Sir Stompsalot Blog from the long-time Dom point of view. Always a good read.
6. My Life as a Cum Slut Blog from a slave's point of view (namely, Stompsalot's slave). I especially enjoy her photos of the day.
7. The Adventures of a Pangdon Blog written by a long-time married man who's on the road to becoming a great Dom to his wife, even if he sometimes seems to doubt that.
8. PaperMirai Blog of Pangdon's wife, who's probably been a sub longer than she realized. She just didn't know it yet.
9. Saynine Predator. Sadist. Owner. A Dom full of (dare I say it) grace.
10. My Bottom Smarts Blog written by the amazing Bonnie. Nothing but links, kinks, and spanks.
11. Housewife Raven Blog written by a "normal" housewife. Not.
12. Lady Laid Bare Blog of JillyBoyd, fellow kinky erotic writer.
13. Being Bedlam Writings of a kinky woman and sub figuring out her life and relationship. She doesn't post often, but when she does, it's straight from the heart.
14. The Curvaceous Dee Blog written by a beautiful, curvy lady who's not afraid to show herself to the world.
15. The Quadrant Blog written by S.J. Reisner, also known as Anne O'Connell, famous best-selling author. Her BDSM posts are straightforward, and usually spot-on. Her posts about writing and being a self-published author are great, too.

So thanks again, Molly, for choosing me. Now I have to go tell the other fifteen bloggers I've chosen them!

A Lesson in Power

He enters the room with long strides of his legs. His fists are clenched at his sides. His eyes are dark. 
I look up, and immediately react: my mind empties of all thoughts, save instinct. My purpose now is only to please him. The brain-switch has been flipped: Whereas a second ago I busy being a writer, a friend, maybe even trying to be a bit of a comedian, now I am nothing but his sub. His. 
"On the floor," he says. "Kneel."
Quickly, I go to the floor, meeting it like a trusted confidant. I kneel on my knees, my thighs kissing my heels, and look up at him for further instructions.
With one hand, he lowers his pants. With the other, he grabs the back of my head, squeezing a fistful of my hair.
"Open," he says. He pulls my face toward his aiming cock. My lips graze the smooth skin of his helmeted tip.
I move my tongue around my mouth, trying to coat it with spit and make the oncoming barrage more smooth. The second it takes to do this makes him angry: I did not obey immediately. He is impatient.
He grabs hold of my chin and pulls it down, gaping my mouth. In one swift lunge of his hips, he is deep down my throat.
"Ah," he breaths. 
I struggle around his cock. My jaw has found itself at a strange angle, and quickly begins to ache in protest. My hand rises to grab his prick, re-aim it to a point my muscles and sinews can tolerate better.
He allows me this one interference, but then continues to ram my face. Each thrust hits the back of my throat, cutting off my breath. I snuffle and whine.
"Too hard? Too bad."
He does not stop, but looks down at me in pleasure. He knows I can take this, I can accept his show of strength and give him pleasure, besides. I circle his cock in my mouth, hollow out my cheeks and pull until he cries out in ecstasy. I am a good cocksucker. My snuffles subside. 
Soon, I think that I am the one in control, dictating his movements with my lips and tongue and cheeks, and yes, the occasional caress of my hands. His head is tilted up, his eyes closed. He is lost in his world of pleasure. I hum around his cock, a sound of certain pride.
He looks down, sees the assurance on my face, the pride in my eyes, laced with arrogance. He scowls.
"Move," he says, pushing me back. "Up against the bed."
He forces me back until my shoulders hit the bed. I am sitting on the floor now, my legs splayed out, and he comes to stand between them. Then, in one swift movement, he pumps into my mouth again.
My face tilts up by the force of it. The back of my head hits the bed. My nostrils are blocked, closed by the skin of his stomach. He does not move. I cannot breath. I struggle to move myself back. My legs kick.
He pulls away, just an inch, just enough for me to catch my breath. I put my hands on his hips and try to push him back farther.
"Oh, no," he says. "No hands."
He grabs my hands and holds them above my head. I whimper, looking up at him with pleading eyes as he resumes his deep throat thrusts. 
"You don't get to control how I do this," he says. "Not this time. You're just a mouth--my mouth. And I'll use it how I see fit."
His pumps grow stronger, harder, faster, giving me almost no time to breath between thrusts. His cock is a battering ram down my throat, stretching it wide and rubbing it raw. My jaws are screaming in agony. 
He leans further into my face, holding himself steady on the bed. My cries are muffled around his cock, but plaintive. Tears run down my cheeks.
He widens his stance, and in so doing, forces my legs wider apart. He releases one of my hands. Immediately, I bring it to his hip to try to push him away.
"No," he says. "Use it to rub your pussy."
I groan in shame.
"Do it," he says.
Slowly, I trail my hand down under my pants, and bury it in my wet, sticky pussy lips. I begin to rub.
"That's it," he says. "Keep going." His eyes are hooded and glassy: He is deep in his own bliss. Yet he keeps his eyes focused on my playful hand, moving with increasing speed in the crotch of my pants. 
"That's enough," he says. "Bring it back."
Slowly, I raise my hand back up. He grabs it as soon as it is in reach, holding it prisoner like my other. He pulls both high in the air, making me stretch. I struggle to keep my mouth steady around his cock. 
He continues to pump into my face, fucking it like a gaping cunt. 
I struggle against his hold, sliding my heels against the floor, trying to gain some traction to pull back. There is no use. I am stuck, trapped between the bed and his demanding cock. 
I can do nothing to direct him. I can do nothing to control what is being done to me. I am a vessel to be used, a hole to be fucked.
And I am incredibly horny. My pussy feels slick and wet, sticking to my damp panties. There is nothing I can do about it. My hands are as trapped as my face.
I can only moan, and suck, and lick, and look up at him with pleading eyes.
He sees my imploring expression and smiles in approval.
Soon, he is grunting with excursion, focusing on nothing but breaking open the dams of his pleasure. I close my eyes...and suck.
A second later, he is holding still against my lips as his cum shoots down my throat. I have no choice but to swallow the steady spray. My head jerks this way and that as I try to take it all in without gagging. He holds my head still, squeezing my cheeks between his steady palms. I swallow it all.
He pulls his rapidly depleting cock out of my mouth. Finally, he releases my hands. They slump down to the floor, weak and boneless. I turn my head to the side, breathing hard.
He kneels down next to me and looks into my eyes. Mine are full of craving submission. His are full of dominant pride.
He kisses me on the mouth.
"Don't try to take control without permission," he says.
"Yes, Sir," I answer weakly. 
"Good girl." 
He leaves the room.


This all happened yesterday, after I made an innocent (yet stupid) remark to Husband about how I sometimes feel like when I am sucking his cock, I am the one in control. He decided I needed a reminder who is really in charge, all of the time.
I have only the control he grants me. Any mistaken notions of power I presume to take are mere delusions of grandeur, childish beliefs that he can expel whenever the mood strikes him.
The power is his. The pleasure is his. He is often benevolent enough to share it. That is all.

It's Not Kink

It is his gentle kiss on the cheek

The graze of his lips against my skin

or a gentle caress.

He stands with confidence, unaware how his very presence affects me

but even when he's not near me, he can still arouse me with the barest whisper.

I know many times I can be a brat

And the things that come out of my mouth can cut him to the core

But when he pulls me close, shuts me up with his lips, I know my strength will never equal his.

No matter what I see in the mirror, the ugliness I face, he forces me to look beyond

and see something beautiful

To be the best woman he knows I can be.

He protects me as I face my demons

and holds me close against the world.

When I feel lost, and alone, in the deepest darkest corners of my mind, 

I can still feel him there with me.

He breaks me when I need to be broken

And forces my head up high when I am in despair.

He banishes all my guilt, insecurities, and fear

so I feel strong in his chains.

He satisfies my deepest cravings

and finds me worthy to satisfy his.

Some call it kinky

Some call it sadistic

Some call it wrong

We call it love.