Friday, February 17, 2012

Stop/Don't Stop

Husband and I have been married for almost 16 years. We've been a couple for even longer. I think that's a long time in anyone's book.
And yet I still don't always understand how his mind works.

Sometimes he wants me to beg for more. My cries of ecstasy clearly drive him on, especially when he's doing something sexually charging, like rubbing my clit or spreading me wide open to wiggle his fingers inside. He also wants to hear my pleas for more when he's flogging me, or spanking me, or just abusing my flesh in some other way. He wants to hear the resonance of pleasure in my voice from his meted pain.

Other times, he wants me to beg him to stop. I have my safeword, (which I have used on occasion,) and he knows unless I use my safeword, he is free to continue to play with
me. He uses this knowledge to his advantage. Often he brings me to tears of pain. When he can, when opportunity arises (i.e. when we don't have to worry about the kids), he loves to hear me scream. Which is good, because I am a screamer. I love to scream; I love giving in to that fear. But that's the subject of another post.
He'll keep walloping me until I'm screaming in agony, begging him for mercy. Of course, he offers none.

I don't know why sometimes he wants to hear me beg him to continue, and other times he wants to hear me beg him to stop. And I don't know what it is that makes him switch between the two extremes, often many times in the same night. One minute, he might be flogging me steadily, rhythmically, using an even strength, lulling me into subspace and listening to me moan in contentment. The next minute, he'll be picking up the brush and beating me with it so hard, I want to leap out of my skin.

Are all Sadists like this? Do they all have their own unique cues that make them switch from one whim to the other? I'm sure having that kind of control, being able to command those kind of reactions out of another human being, must be a huge factor. But is there something more to it?

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

How Husband and I Met

This is a very personal story, the story of how Husband and I met...and how I caught his interest. I'm going out on a limb by sharing it publicly, but it's a funny story, and I thought my readers might enjoy it.

Once upon a time there was a young girl who, on a whim, joined her friends on a visit to a new club one night. As soon as she walked into the club, she saw a young man, all the way in the back, surrounded by a close crowd of males who were obviously his friends. He was holding a beer in his hand, his head was tipped back, and he was laughing at some joke one of his friends had just made. 
The girl was captivated by this man. She stared at him in open wonder.
"Oh, that's L.," one of her friends whispered in her hear. "Don't get too close to him. He plays with women."
What the girl's friend didn't know was that was precisely the wrong thing to say, because this girl liked to play with men. She liked a challenge. She liked to bring them to their knees.
So she made a beeline for this self-assured, cocky man, ready to play.
She introduced herself, and the man introduced himself right back. His friends also introduced themselves, looking quite eager to get her attention. But the girl didn't want their attention, she wanted this man's attention. And he wasn't giving it to her. He was paying more attention to his drink than to her. 
This intrigued the girl as much as it frustrated her. She had a feeling maybe he was doing it on purpose. Or maybe he just didn't know what she had to offer. Regardless, she was set on making him her own by the end of the night.
She dragged him to a private corner, where they could "talk" and she could run her hands over his body and make it look innocent. They flirted for a while, the man finally beginning to realize what the girl wanted, and the girl playing coy. Then she asked him sweetly to buy her a drink. When he complied, she thought he was hers.
They spent the rest of the evening together at the club, talking and drinking until the wee hours. But the man never asked for any of the girl's contact information: a bad sign. He offered to drive her home, though, and the girl accepted gladly.

They got into his car, and the man put aside his watch and wallet before beginning the drive back to the girl's dorm. They talked a bit more, but nothing serious. And the man still did not ask the girl for any contact information.

So while he wasn't looking, the girl stole his watch. 

The next day, she got a phone call. 
"Is this Shelby?" the girl heard, and her heart leapt into her chest.
"Yes, who is this?"
"This is L., we met last night?"
"Oh, hi, how did you get my number?"
"I saw you talking to D. I got it from her."
"Oh wow. That's very clever. So, um, why are you calling?"
"Because you stole my watch?"

He met her the next day to get his watch back, spanked her soundly for taking it in the first place, decided she was his type after all...and they've lived happily ever after.

I still have the watch. I'll keep it forever. 

Monday, February 13, 2012

Warning: Do Not Abandon While Still Turned On

You guys, my life last night could have been the scene of a bad BDSM movie. Or maybe a section in a "Things that Can Go Wrong" guide, titled How Children Can Kill Your Kink.
Most of you probably know my five-year-old son had surgery last week. The doctor warned us his recovery time would be slow, and things would get worse before they got better. We were told the worst would probably hit day three, post-surgery, after which, his condition (and mood) would improve.

Friday and Saturday were hard, for him as well as us, but we handled it. By yesterday, we thought the worst had passed. The storm was over, and the clouds would clear.

The relief affected Husband by triggering his Dom/Sadist side. It was as if, now that the stress of surgery on his child was gone, and everything was fine, he could celebrate...on me.
He didn't want to hear cries of joy. He wanted howls of agony.
Sometimes, when he gets like this, he gets playful.
This time, he didn't even bother trying to set me up in a trap, or wrap up what he wanted to do to me in pretty words like "punishment" and "discipline."
He put it very simply: "You have your nature...and I have mine."

It was obvious he had some plans already formed in his head how he wanted the night to go, but he didn't want to share them. There was only one thing he would divulge: I'd be getting plugged with horseradish. He told me this in a very calm, matter-of-fact tone, that made all the hairs rise on the back of my neck.
Again, he wasn't doing this because I'd done something to deserve it, and he wasn't trying to teach me any sort of lesson. He was doing it because he wanted to. That was it.

Evening came, the kids went to bed, and Husband started in on his fun. Since we got the spreader bar a few months ago, Husband's favorite thing to do has been to attach the bar between my ankle cuffs, then snap my wrist cuffs to it, too, so I end up on my back, somewhat folded, with my arms and legs up. The position gives him better access to, well, everything.
That's the way he positioned me last night. Then he put a blindfold over my eyes.
Then he put in the horseradish.
It took a minute for the burn to kick in, like it usually does. I could feel his hands on my ass as he waited, caressing, fondling, and spreading. He could tell from my moans the pain was getting worse.
And then we both heard:

Five-year-old Son, who had been cutting back on his pain medication and had seemed to show every sign of recovering, was wailing in agony.
Husband's reaction was instinctive and swift: he pulled on his boxers and ran to his son. Leaving me spread, cuffed, blindfolded and plugged.
I didn't even realize what had just happened until I heard our bedroom door open. But a second later, when I heard his voice in our son's bedroom, I knew. I was dumbstruck. I wanted to run to help our son, too, but couldn't, for obvious reasons.
He didn't answer, of course. He was too busy consoling our son, as was right. I should have been in there with him, too, but I had to get myself out of my restrains first...and get the horseradish out of my ass.
Getting cuffs off yourself is hard, but not impossible, not even when they're attached to a spreader bar. I worked as fast as I could, with fumbling, shaking fingers, pulled the root of my ass, and went to help Husband with our son.

We gave him pain meds, sat with him until the meds started to work, and put him back to bed. By that time, the mood had dissipated.
"We can't really pick up where we left off, can we," he murmured once we were back in our own bedroom.
"No," I said. "But we can still have some fun."
So we got undressed, and this time, he had me kneel on all fours and blow him while he stood in front of me, slapper in hand, ready to wallop me every time I didn't suck him in deep enough. We went on for quite a while, letting things move along naturally. Eventually, he started bucking his hips against my face, and I knew I was about to get the full dose of his climax deep in my throat.
And then:

This time, we both did some swearing as we quickly got decent and went in to him. He was sweaty, and thirsty, and needed to pee again. He also needed some comfort, as all little kids do when they're awake at a time of night they're usually asleep. So we chaperoned him to the bathroom, got him a drink, snuggled up with him in bed, and this time, didn't leave until his breathing was even and deep.

Any thought of play at that point was totally gone. We were done. Husband fucked me, but it was more a simple release of pressure than anything else. I didn't come at all.

We're both exhausted this morning. Son, of course, is not: he's bright and happy. He's sitting not too far from me right now, watching Spongebob, content.
I'm glad one of us is!

The thing about living a D/s lifestyle is that sometimes, life gets in the way, and when you throw kids into the picture, the number of ways things can go wrong increases a thousand fold. You just gotta go with it, do the best you can, and laugh when the mood strikes.
But I swear to God, that is the last time I let Husband plug me with horseradish when there's a sick kid in the house.

Friday, February 10, 2012

With Respect to Harry Potter

Some submit for power.

Some submit out of love.

And some embrace submission like an old friend.

*My son just had surgery, so posts will be light until he's recovered. Thank you for your understanding.

Saturday, February 4, 2012

The Gift

When people are talking about BDSM and kink, a lot of labels start flying around. Slave. Master. Sub. Dom. Bondage. Switch. Even Unicorn.
Everybody's got their own definitions of these labels, their own way of thinking about what these words mean, or at least, should mean. And a lot of times, people get pissed off when they think someone else is using a word or label wrong, to the point that they will "correct," or even ridicule, that person for doing so.
One of the big red-button words I see come up now and then is using the word "gift" to describe a bottom's submission. What's ironic is that I see a lot more Doms than subs take umbrage at the word. Many say submission is not a gift, it is an exchange of power, with a list of expectations put in place (or at least, should have been put in place before play began) that both people must meet if the relationship and play is to continue. Since there is something expected in return for the bottom's submission, namely, controlled dominance by the top, it's not really a "gift." A gift is something given freely, without the presumption of reciprocation.

The thing is, I disagree with that definition of "gift."
Very rarely, if ever, do gifts get handed out without some kinds of expectations attached.
A grandmother might give a child a family heirloom as a gift, with the expectation that the heirloom will be protected and cherished until it can be passed on to the next generation. Parents might give their older child money as a gift, with the expectation he or she will put the money towards food, rent, or student loans. A teenager might give his time as a gift to a charity group, with the understanding that his time will be put to good use, helping others.
Defy the expectations of the gift, and the recipients risk their chance of ever getting another gift from giver. That's how these things work.
Yes, ideally a true gift shouldn't come with expectations, and the giver should bestow the gift with no strings attached. But how often does that really happen? The fact is, gifts usually come with debts. Nothing in this life is free. You get something, you're expected to give something in return.

I think that's why many subs call their submission a gift. It's something they give to a respected (and perhaps loved) Dom, with all their heart--but they expect their submission to be respected and held dear. They expect it to be treated with the same reverence it was given.
On the other hand, at first sign of abuse, the giver will often take their "gift" back, and bestow it upon someone else. I can see how a Dom who thought he had a sub's complete submission, and could treat it however shabbily he wanted, would feel cheated and angry to find his "gift" could be pulled away from his tight-fisted grasp.

I don't know if I would call my submission to Husband a gift. He has certainly earned the right to hold my submission, and continues to earn that right every day. But I, also, have to earn my right to my title, Wife, and with that title comes my responsibilities, one of which is my submission. So there is a definite complete power exchange going on, even if it is obviously not even or fair.

Thursday, February 2, 2012


I get jealous of my friends. I know, jealousy is an ugly thing, and a bad habit, and can lead to misunderstandings and hurt feelings and all that. But I'm human, and jealousy hits me now and then. Hard.
Don't get me wrong, I don't mean to imply I'm not happy for my friends and what they have. I'm always SO excited to hear their great bit of news and what's going on with them: something they're doing, or buying, or planning, that sounds so fun, so amazing, I know it'll be awesome.
I just also wish it was me.
Sometimes it's a matter of age. They're younger, still in their early to mid twenties, and let's face it, the skin looks a lot tighter at that age than from the point where I'm looking at it. Some things droop, some sag, some thicken--and some thin out. It's all a part of growing up and (sob) growing old.
I get jealous of their sleek and firm young bodies.

Sometimes it's a matter of finances. They are, simply put, better off than we are. They can afford certain luxuries that we cannot. I get jealous of the toys and equipment they can afford.
Sometimes it's just where they are in life. If they aren't married, or don't have kids, their schedules tend to be a lot more open and flexible than mine. They can go on trips, visit people and places I might only ever dream about.
Sometimes, my jealousy gets me down, because I start focusing on the things I don't have, all the ways I'm missing out, and I get melancholy for how easy life used to be.
And then I have to step back and refocus, so I can remind myself life was never as easy I romanticize it to have been.
I never thought myself as thin or good looking, even in my early twenties, the age I am in the pictures I tend to look at now and think god, I was hot back then.  I have a feeling when I'm in my fifties, I'll look at pictures of me today, and I'll think the exact same thing.
We were never rich. There was a time back in the early days of our marriage when chairs were a luxury. Compared to where we were when we started? We are rich.
And while it's true my time is no longer my own, and my needs are usually at the bottom of the priority list in this family, that doesn't make it a bad thing. I am who I am today because of the choices I made, and I stand by those choices, because they were right for me.
You know what? It's true, I'm not a size 6. Hell, I was never a size 6. But I'm sexy.
So we don't have the money to travel that much, so what? We can still have fun at home.
And just because I've gotten older doesn't mean I'm not as playful and creative as I used to be. In fact, I think I might just be even better, because now I've got all this experience to work with. I can turn the most mundane object into something lewd and sadistic. 
And I'm just I ever was. I don't think that will ever change. God, I hope not. 
I don't need to be romanced, wined and dined for Husband to turn me on. All I need to see is him coming toward me belt in hand, and I turn into a puddle at his feet. 
In other words? I wouldn't trade my life. My life is awesome. 
So yeah, I get jealous. But at the end of the day, I count my blessings, thankful for what I have. 
Because I know I have a lot.