Wednesday, November 30, 2011

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?"
"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."
"Unless you want me to try to fit two roots in your ass? That might be too much, even for you."
"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.

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

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
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!

Thursday, November 24, 2011

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--"
"First can we--"
"I get it, you're having fun--"
"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. 
"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.
My back arched off the bed as I sucked in my breath in agony.
"Wow, that's a nice red line," he said. 
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.

Saturday, November 19, 2011

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!

Sunday, November 13, 2011

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.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

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.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Help I'm Trapped in this Fortune Cookie

My five year old son is sick. I'm stuck on the couch with him as he moans and thrashes and tries valiantly to keep down his lunch, and...I'm not kidding, you guys, I could seriously kill Spongebob Squarepants right now.

Do you (those of you with no children, anyway) know how many times a day Spongebob Squarepants is on? Seriously? I've got no fucking clue, it's so many I don't even think the TV studios know, it's like "well we have this show and that show and sometimes we show this other show, but Spongebob? That shit is constant." It's on different channels, but at the same time. Like, you could be flipping channels, but still be flipping through different episodes. Of Spongebob.

I was supposed to go to a munch today, but I can't. Well, I guess technically I could, just load the kid up with benadryl and let him zonk out on the resteraunt bench while I smile and shmooze, but I don't think the other munch-goers would find that particularly pleasant. Or normal.

I have discovered, however, how easy it is to turn a laptop screen away from the eyes of a five year old who is deep into the social drama of Spongebob so that I can do my best to focus on something much more meaningful. Like Twitter. Or tumblr (read: porn).

Oh my God, my autocorrect (which has been going batshit crazy lately) just tried to change "porn" to "prom," "batshit" to "bats hit" TWICE and "tried" to "died." I am at a loss why it thinks "died" is a better option than "tried." Maybe it's giving me a hint about where this blog is headed.

Or maybe it has its own death wish against Spongebob Squarepants? One can assume?

I think you've all gotten a pretty good idea by now how muddled my head has become. Husband tried (shut UP autocorrect, that's not even remotely funny anymore) this morning to cheer me up, but it didn't go well, and by the end of the conversation he was swearing at me in Spanish. It seriously annoys me sometimes how many languages that man speaks. I mean, I get it, you are brilliant, but what's the point of swearing at someone in a language they don't even know? Doesn't that somehow defeat the purpose? Maybe? Isn't that like having a private joke--with yourself? Kind of creepy, even?

You know what else I realized today? Every time I write LMFAO, I can be taken literally. I really do have a fucking ass! Husband fucks it all the time! And it fucks him back! I crack myself up.

Cause I'm creepy like that.

Sunday, November 6, 2011

The Citadel

It's my birthday today!
And you know what Husband gave me for my birthday gift?
A visit to SF Citadel.

The SF Citadel is a renowned dungeon. It's also, as far as I'm aware, the only open dungeon in the SF Bay Area and Silicon Valley.
I'd been talking with Husband about going, mentioning it in conversation here and there, but the timing never seemed right. Also, Husband is about as social as a Christmas Tree, and the idea of being thrust into a large room full of unknown people and having to "mingle" didn't exactly make him giddy with joy.
But with my birthday coming up, he decided to take the plunge, and planned the evening on his own. He spoke to the babysitter, looked all the information up online, where to park, how much it costs, etc. Then he told me this was it.

It was pouring as we drove to San Francisco. The traffic was terrible. I was so worried about him getting us into an accident, I forgot to be nervous about what he would do to me once we got there.
But as we pulled off the 101 and circled onto Mission street, my nervousness came back full force. I had no idea how the evening would go, but I knew what was packed in our bag: the wrist cuffs and leather straps; my new collar; the light flogger, which Husband had made himself; the paddle; and one of Husband's favorite hair brushes. He was wearing his belt, so that also remained at his disposal.
I was wearing a knee-length, hip hugging black skirt, and underneath that, a pair of thigh-high stockings that were fastened to a garter belt, leaving the tops of my thighs and much of my bottom bare. I had on a pair of black panties, but they were thin and barely covered anything. Husband had told me to wear something that would give him "easy access," and I hoped what I was wearing fit the bill.

We had scheduled to be at the Citadel by 8:00 exactly, but with the rain, we were about twenty minutes late. The place was pretty crowded as we walked in. They told us afterwards it was "new people" night, and many of the people around us were new timers, too. Husband tied my collar around my neck, attached the leather strap that would serve as a leash, and we meandered around, taking in the sights.

It was obvious many of the people there already knew each other. They were clustered in little groups, talking animatedly. But that was okay. Husband and I sat together, drinking it all in: women dressed in corsets and nighties, men covered in layers of leather, and some people wearing next to nothing.
"Are you okay?" I asked Husband.
"Yeah. You?"
"What do you want to do now?"
"I don't know."
"Well, why did you want to come here?"
"So you could spank me and make me scream."
"So why aren't we doing that?"
"I didn't want to ask you, you know, if you feel too uncomfortable."
He sighed. "Where do we go to do that?"
He stood up and pulled me up by the leash. "Get the bag. Let's go."

Downstairs was not as crowded as upstairs. The St. Andrew's Crosses were in use, as were some of the tables. A woman was being flogged in one of the cages, standing up. Somehow, we both were drawn to that scene.
"I want that," I said.
"Yes," Husband answered.
We got lucky: a minute later, the couple vacated the cage, and Husband and I took temporary ownership.
Picture taken off Citadel website. See that cage against the wall, by the table? That was "our" cage.
He put the cuffs on my wrists, took the leather strap off my collar, and used it to bind my wrists around the bars of the cage so I could not pull away. I was breathing heavily at this point. All around us, we could hear the screams and hollers of the tortured, the cries of ecstasy, the begs for release. There was a constant undercurrent of whispers and laughter: couples maintaining open communication as they worked to make their own scene pleasurable. There were spectators, too, but they were respectful, keeping themselves at a safe distance and not interfering in any scenes. 
Husband lifted my skirt, revealing my bare thighs and barely covered butt, and the rest of the world melted away. 
He pushed a hand into my back.
"Step back," he said, "and bend over."
I complied, resting my forehead against one of the bars. I closed my eyes and sighed. The moment was here. He was about to begin.
"I was going to start with the paddle," he said. "But you know what? I'll start with my bare hand first."
The first smack was loud, a thunderclap in the room. I wondered if any of the spectators were now looking at us. But the thought was fleeting. As he continued to spank me, all thoughts drifted away. All I could do was hang on to the bars of the cage.
My ass was already warm and smarting...and then Husband decided to have some wicked fun.
"Why are we here?" He asked between spanks.
"Because it's my birthday."
"Yes. And how old are you going to be tomorrow?"
"So that's thirty-seven spanks you have coming now."
"Better count, or I'll have to start all over again."
He raised his hand and let loose with an especially vicious spank, and I gasped.
He spanked the other cheek, and I pressed my forehead into the bar.
"You didn't say 'Sir.' I'll have to start again."
"No please! Two Sir! Two Sir!"
"That's one. What do you say?"
"One Sir!" I howled. 
"Two Sir!"
He kept going until we were somewhere in the twenties, and I was hopping from foot to foot. 
And then...then he really started getting wicked.
"Twenty six, Sir!"
"How many do we have to go?"
"Um... um..."
"Twenty seven Sir! Ten Sir!"
"What's today's date?"
"Oh God...uh...the fifth Sir!"
"Twenty five Sir! Now wait! Twenty eight! Fuck...."
"How old was I when we met?"
"Shit! Uh, uh..."
"Oh fuck, please, uh that was twenty nine, and you were, uh, twenty four! You were twenty four!"

He kept playing his little mind-fuck game on me, and I was crying, but I was laughing, too. 
When we got to thirty-seven, I leaned against the cage and took a deep breath of relief.
"You're done with my hand," Husband said. "Now it's thirty-seven with the paddle."
"WHAT? No, no please, shit, please...."
"And this time, every time you give me a wrong answer, I'm starting again from one. Better remember your numbers, lady."
"One Sir...."
The questions got harder this time, and true to his word, every time I got one wrong, he started again. 
"Twelve Sir!"
"How many are left?"
"Oh fuck, I don't know, I don't know...." The tears were running down my cheeks, and I moved to wipe them. Husband pulled me back and held me bent.
"How many?"
"Uh, uh, that was thirteen Sir, so there are, uh, twenty-five left?"
"Wrong." Smack! "That's one."
"That's two. Better count, or I start again."
"Two Sir, two Sir," I sobbed. And it went on.
Towards the end, the questions got truly ridiculous, and despite my ass being on fire, I had to laugh, too.
"What's your favorite radio station?"
"I don't have one!"
"Better think of one you listen to."
"Uh, that was thirty-two and thirty-three, Sir, and, uh, 94.5!"
"AM or FM?"
"Thirty four, Sir! FM, Sir!"
When he got to thirty six, he paused.
"Shall I do a double spank on both cheeks, and get it over with?"
I didn't know what to say, so I just cried and blubbered.
"Yes," he decided, and smacked me on both cheeks, one with the paddle and one with his hand. I shrieked.
But it was over, and I got a few minutes to catch my breath.
"Do you need a break before I get out the brush?" He asked.
My breath froze in my chest. The idea of getting thirty seven with the hairbrush was horrifying.
"Yes, please," I begged. 
He released me from the cage and helped to straighten out my clothes.
"Let's go upstairs and sit down for a while," he said. "We can come back later when you're ready for the brush."
So we packed up, and went upstairs to relax.

The problem we hadn't anticipated was that while we had been busy in our own little private scene, the Citadel had filled up. All the couches and chairs were taken; just walking through the crowd became harder. We found an empty ottoman, sat down, and laughed when we were almost bounced back up. The ottoman was an inflatable, so every time one of us moved, the other moved in tandem. 
We sat for a good half hour, watching the crowd. People left us alone. A woman was getting flogged at the St. Andrew's Cross by the wall, and we watched that for a while. Then he rubbed my leg.
"Ready to go back downstairs?" He asked.
"Yes," I said. "This time, I want you to make me scream."
He chuckled. "I don't think that'll be so hard with the hairbrush."
But when we got downstairs, there was no place open. It had become just as packed as it was above; every "station" was taken. The cage I had occupied before was being used by another couple.
We watched, and waited, and while it was all fascinating, no one looked anywhere near done. 
Husband looked at his watch.
"Honey, I'm sorry, but we have to go in fifteen minutes to make it back for the babysitter," Husband said.
"But I didn't get to scream my head off."
"I know. There'll be next time."
"There will?"
He took me by the hand and led me back upstairs. "Yes. We'll come back, and next time, I'll bring the cricket paddle, and I'll make you scream."
"Yes, really." He took off my cuffs, and untied my collar. I felt bare, naked without them. He stuffed everything back in the bag. Then, like a gentleman, he grabbed his jacket, held it up so I could put it on (it was freezing outside), and held my hand as we walked out the door.

All in all, it was an amazing night. I didn't get to scream the way I wanted to, but I had a ton of fun. Some people make me laugh, and some people can make me cry, but Husband is the only one who can make me do both at the same time with his little mind-fuck games on me. He can be evil, and mean, and sadistic, but he can be fun, too. At least, it's our kind of fun.

I can't wait to go back.

Thursday, November 3, 2011

Too Fucking Far

Tiptoeing through the internets the other day, I came across a blog post from a blog written by a sub in a D/s, DD household. This household included, from what I understood, her, her Master, and a couple house slaves that (if I understood correctly) somehow had a lower status than her in the hierarchy of the house, but were obviously treated better than she was.

In this particular post, this sub went on to describe something her Master did to her that was so extreme, so shocking, I don't even want to link to the post. I don't want to give her that added traffic to her blog (however minor it is). It was dangerous, life threatening, and in my opinion, stupid beyond belief. It was something that I thought to myself, if this Dom cared one iota for this girl, he would NEVER, EVER do this to her. He would never let this be done to her under any circumstances. He should have known, on his own, that this was on the other side of the line that should NEVER GET CROSSED.

And yet, it was clear from the blog post that the sub was not engaging in this task because she had been requested to by anyone. Her Master was not the one prompting and nudging her to put her life at risk. She was the one initiating this: she had begged him to do this to her. She was ecstatic he had finally agreed.

People who enjoy BDSM always dance with risk. There's even a word for it, RACK, that stands for "risk aware (or accepted) consensual kink." People understand that engaging in these kinds of activities always includes the chance that someone might get hurt worse than they wanted or expected, and that no matter how carefully you plan and try to maintain control over the situation, accidents happen. By consenting to the activity anyway, you are agreeing to handle the unforeseen consequences of what may happen. You are taking responsibility over your own decisions.

It's easy to think the risk you consent to is completely reasonable and acceptable. Seeing the kinds of risks other people agree to is more tricky.
Many times, when I hear/read about the kinds of "play" other people engage in, I think to myself, "that sounds more extreme than what I'm used to, and so hot. I'd love to try that..." Then there are the times I think, "I'm not aroused by this, but I can understand why someone else would be. It is hot--just not for me."
And then there are the times I think, "that is kinky, but dangerous. I'm sure those people find it totally titillating, but for me, I think it goes too far. It doesn't turn me on, it just fills me with fear."

But see, even in those circumstances, I can understand that if everyone engaging in the "play" has the right training, the right experience--if they know what to do if things get out of hand, and they accept all the risk involved--I can see how it totally turns them on. For some, the greater the risk, the greater the pleasure. And who am I to say, "this is not okay"?

But when does this line of thinking go too far?

When does risk become too much risk, not just for me or you, but for anyone? When is it okay to step in and say, "I don't think you should be doing this"? When is it acceptable to go from "this is not for me" to "this should not be for anyone"? When is it okay to judge? And when does it become an obligation?

We are weary of placing our own judgments on others, because we don't want others judging us. But doesn't this lead to the mentality that anything goes? Isn't there anything we can feel safe saying not just to ourselves, but out loud, "this goes too fucking far," and not having a bunch of people jump down our throats for being narrow-minded and judgemental?

I don't have any answers here. I can't wrap up this post with a pretty ending. I don't know if it's acceptable, or even safe, to draw a proverbial line in the sand, and if it is, I don't think the person doing it should be me. But if you've ever wrestled with this, the uncomfortable notion that something is going too fucking far and you're just too afraid to say so, I'd love to hear from you.