Magic

Once upon a time, far off in a remote kingdom, there lived a young princess whose only wish was to feel true happiness. She searched far and wide, looking for happiness, but after traveling to the far corners of her kingdom, she still had not found it. So she called upon scholars, artisans, minstrels, and jesters from around the kingdom, and welcomed them into her castle, hoping one among them could make her happy; but none could.
Feeling desperate, she invited the three most renown and exalted wizards in the world to her castle, and promised them whoever could make her feel true happiness would win her hand in marriage and share her throne.
The first wizard was an arrogant man who was used to thinking himself right about all things. After contemplating the princess's tale of woe for all of two minutes, he decided that the lady was suffering from acute loneliness. So he pulled out his magic wand--a thick, heavy tool--waved it in the air, and immediately, all the men standing around the princess became infatuated with her. They began to sing her praises and cry out their love; they tripped over themselves in their attempts to kiss her toes.
This was not what the princess wanted. She kicked the men away, and when that didn't work to subdue them, she ordered her guards to carry them out. She ordered the first wizard out with them, too. And so went the first wizard.
The second wizard was a scornful, chauvinistic man. Thinking the princess's unhappiness stemmed from her natural stupidity born from being a woman, he pulled out his magic wand--not as heavy as the first wizard's, but twice as long--and waved it in the air. Immediately, the princess gained new insight into the hearts and minds of all her subjects. She knew all their dirty little secret indulgences and fears.
This was not what the princess wanted. She ordered all her subjects away, including her guard. She also had them kill the wretched wizard outside the castle walls in order to break his terrible spell. And so went the second wizard.
All that was left within the castle was the princess and the third wizard. Now it just so happened that this wizard knew the princess very well. He had, in fact, been in love with her his entire life. He loved her for her elegance, her wit, her charm, and her determination. He also knew this was his only chance to claim the princess as his own, and was not about to let the opportunity, or the princess, escape him.
"My lady, I can help you find true happiness," he said. "But you must do exactly what I say. Kneel down on all fours."
With no one else there to witness her degradation, the princess did as told, and knelt on the cold stone floor like an obedient dog. A second later, she felt her skirt being ripped away; and before she could stand to protest, she felt her wrists being tied smartly behind her back with the material of her skirt.
The wizard pulled out his wand--a thin, wippy rod, not as heavy as the first wizard's nor as long as the second's, but sturdy nonetheless--and began to whip it across the sloping haunches of the princess's very smooth, and very delicate, ass. She hollered and she cursed, but he held her still, and with each snap of his wrist, a new red line appeared across her satiny flesh.
Once she was done with her yells and shrieks and lay inert upon the floor, ass up but face resting on cool stone tile, a dreamy smile playing across her face, he ordered her up, doffed his clothes, and ordered her to straddle him. She did so without protest, sitting atop his pelvis right there on the floor of the royal hall, and when he lifted her hips and planted her right on his unyielding cock, breaching her vaginal cunt in one single penetration, she barely whimpered.
He rocked her hips and ground her slippery cunt against his groin until she got the hang of it, found her natural rhythm, and took over. As the grimace that had masked her pretty features disappeared, becoming a look of stern concentration, the wizard sat up, grabbed his wand, wet it with his mouth and tongue, and then unceremoniously poked it into the princess's tight-ringed ass. The princess let out a high-pierced shriek as he did, and lifted up nearly off his prick, but the wizard pushed her back, and she bounded up and down his glistening cock with growing desperation.
The wizard twisted and gored his wand up her rear channel with grim determination as the princess fucked his cock, milking him with her virgin cunt, until they both came in thunderous explosion, bucking their hips and grinding against each other in quivering, shuddering need. As the princess collapsed over the wizard's body, breathing like a filly after a spirited race, a tranquil smile spread across her lips. She was completely, and perfectly, happy.
After cleaning themselves off and making their attire once more presentable, the princess called in all her subjects and declared the third wizard to be the winner of her hand in marriage. And they lived happily ever after.

Moral of the story is this: it's not the size or shape of the wand that counts. It's not even always the magic it can do. It's the strength, and control, of the hand that wields it.
:P
And here, for your enjoyment, is the Alligator King song from Sesame Street, in case you feel like a trip down memory lane.

SLUT

You guys know I'm something of a feminist. I'm all for women's rights, I'm pro-choice, hell, in some instances I'm pro-abortion (yeah I said it). I don't believe the mentality of being a sub comes from somehow being less than, like God made women weaker or dumber than men. I believe women are equal to men, and should be treated as such, unless and until a woman chooses to be treated differently.

Society, of course, does not agree with me. Women are held to different standards. Women face more difficult choices, and harder-to-meet expectations. Women are judged, labeled, and more often than not, punished for who they are, especially if they are not behaving the way they are "supposed" to.

This still holds true for sexual behavior, especially in the vanilla world. Women are supposed to have one partner at a time. They're supposed to get to know their partners well before deigning to sleep with them. And if the relationship ends, they're expected to mourn the loss of their partner for a certain amount of time before starting the search for a new one.
If a woman doesn't follow these edicts, she's in trouble. Her reputation crumbles. She's labeled a whore, a tramp, a slut. She's "dirty." She's "cheap." She's less than.
This might be less true in the kink world. But you know what? To a certain extent, it is still true. It's just also somehow seen as okay.

Recently I got into a discussion on Twitter about the SLUT label. See, I know most people's definition of SLUT is a woman who sleeps around with a lot of men. But my argument was that the term SLUT should be about mindset and attitude, not about number of partners. If a woman enjoys having lots of sex, if she's honest about her desires and isn't ashamed to ask for what she wants, then can't she assume the mantle of the SLUT label, regardless of how many people she's fucking at the time?

Let me put it a different way: if a woman labels herself a sub, she's trying to encapsulate her feelings on what kind of person she is: submissive. And it doesn't matter if she has a Dom at the time, or just a top who plays with her now and then for fun. She sees herself as a sub, so she calls herself a sub.
If a woman sees herself as a SLUT, does it really matter how many men she's fucking? Can't she still be a SLUT?

Then I got to thinking some more. And I started to feel ashamed for what I'd thought in the first place.

See, the label SLUT is a negative: it's used to degrade and humiliate women. It paints them as something repugnant, sleazy, and easily discarded. And kinksters like me can try to "claim back" the label, try to put a new spin on it all we want, but the fact is, there is no equal label out there for men, and there's a reason for that: men who fuck a lot of partners are not judged negatively. Women are. That's a fact. And we can rant and rail about it all we want, it's not going to make much of a difference. I'm sorry for sounding pessimistic, but it's true.

You know what a woman who likes sex and wants it all the time should be called? A WOMAN. A healthy, normal, human, WOMAN. Not a slut, whether you want to think being called a slut is good or bad. Not a tramp, not a floozy, and not any other word.
A WOMAN.
Women like sex. Sometimes it's making love, and sometimes it's animalistic fucking. Most of the time, it's somewhere between the two. It's sticky, and messy, and exciting, and fun, and sensual...it can be painful. It can be dangerous. It makes us feel good.
Why should we be labeled for liking sex? Why should we have to face that kind of judgement at all?

I am a woman. I fuck only one man. I fuck him a lot. I like fucking him, and he likes fucking me. I feel no shame in admitting it.
What that makes me is up for interpretation. I haven't decided in my own head yet what to call it. What I have decided is that the label is unimportant.
Maybe that's the best conclusion I can draw right now.

Another Post About Husband

Sometimes I worry about the image I create in people's minds about my Husband. It matters to me, because I think the world of him, and would hate to think I've painted this picture of him being overly sadistic or cruel.

And I know for some of you, your first reaction to that statement is going to be "there is no such thing as overly sadistic." But you know there is. Everyone has their boundaries, I don't care who you are, and if you've ever had a guy (or a girl) violate those boundaries, you know what I'm talking about.
I'm not talking about a guy hurting you in a way you want to be hurt,  making you wail in delicious agony or beg in thrilling fear. I'm talking about a guy hurting you in a way you didn't, and don't, consent to, demeaning you, belittling you, making you question your own power in the relationship, and as an individual.
A D/s relationship is an exchange of power. If the Dominant tries to relegate the power of the sub, crush her spirit to make her more susceptible to his manipulations, the relationship is corrupt. You cannot give something you do not have; on the same vein, you cannot claim you accepted something that you stole away.

Husband can be a sadistic man. How sadistic you think he is depends on your point of view, since like most things, sadism is relative. I happen to think finding a good Dom for yourself (really, finding a good life partner) is a lot like playing Goldilocks: some Doms will be too hot, and some Doms will be too cold; the trick is finding the one Dom who is just right.
I know Husband would not be a good Dom for everyone. Which is an irrelevant thing, I guess, since he is mine. But recently I got worried that maybe I was showing only one side of him, his sadistic side, and not playing up his other, more sensitive and selfless attributes.

Yes, I can tell you about the man who belted me last night, first with my pants on, then with my pants off, making me lean over the bed on my tiptoes and not move, belting me even harder when I so much as shifted my weight, making me bite the blanket between my teeth so I wouldn't scream.
I could tell you how he pinned me down on the bed, his full weight sinking me into the mattress on my stomach. How he laughed as I tried to buck him off. How he twisted my arms behind my back so painfully, tears pooled in my eyes.
I could tell you how he spread my legs open with his own and threatened to take my ass, sans lube, unless I yielded. How I became frantic after hearing that, and tried to get away, and how he mocked my efforts with hoarsely-whispered taunts.
Where do you think you're going? You think you're getting away? Oh, no. I'm not done with you yet. 
I bucked and twisted and thrashed, and he laughed...and pushed into my dry, clenching asshole.
Please what? Please stop? Do you yield? I don't hear you saying it.
I screamed after that, feeling him breach me, feeling the terror and pain that he would take me in such a way. I begged him, over and over again, please don't, please don't, and he just held me down and ignored my cries and kept going, until I finally broke, and surrendered with a wailing sob. I yielded.

You might hear these things, and think Husband is a cruel man, a sick man, maybe even an abusive man. But the thing is this: the memory of last night is still playing out in my mind, making me wet every time I think of it. It's so hot, so arousing to me...and yet I have so many other memories, just as kinky, just as raunchy. For this, I consider myself truly blessed.

I could tell you about the man who plagues me with his sharp teasing wit. I know what "negging"is, and can understand how it's considered obnoxious in American culture, but the thing is, by Israeli standards (which is where I met him), talking that way is usually considered quite normal. What others call negging, Israelis would call speaking the truth. And they don't mean to be cruel or ridiculing; in fact, they think they're being nice by being honest.
So when Husband tells me I'm pudgy or wrinkly or my hair looks flat, when he calmly suggests I shut my mouth because I'm beginning to sound stupid, he isn't trying to demean me in any way. He's just telling it like it is. Sometimes, he's actually trying to do me a favor, and tell me something I might want to know.


Him: "Did you have chocolate yesterday?"
Me: "Yes, why?"
Him: "I could tell. You have pimples on your cheeks."
Me: "What are you talking about? My face is fine."
Him: "Not those cheeks."
Me (in equal parts horror and humiliation): "Are you telling me I have a pimply ass?"
Him: "Yeah. But it's a sexy pimply ass." (Spanks it.) "Don't worry, I'm still gonna fuck it later."


I could tell you about the man who took care of me when I was sick, who ordered me to bed without a second hesitation, and called his co-workers to tell them he wouldn't be in to work because he had to take care of his wife. The man who checked up on me every half hour to make sure I wasn't too hot, or too cold, or too thirsty.
The man who woke up with me at two o'clock in the morning when I was delirious with fever, who rubbed me down with a cold washcloth, who opened the windows so I could get some fresh air, even though it meant he would be freezing. How he held a bowl to my face when I was throwing up in bed, too weak to walk to the bathroom. How he held me and soothed me when I cried, and stayed awake long after I'd finally fallen asleep, watching to make sure I was breathing comfortably.

I could tell you about the man who has always supported me in all my endeavors, mentally, emotionally, and yes, financially, no matter how crazy he thought my ideas were. How he constantly tells me how beautiful I am, how insightful, how smart, how talented...how much he loves me, and how much my love means to him. I could tell you how he looks at me like I am his entire world. He tells me that, too.

I could tell you all these things, and you would still not know all there is to know about the man. He is all these things, and he is so much more. He is a man, a Dom, a Sadist, a lover, a father...he is also a comedian, a therapist, a confidante, a nurse, a mastermind, a play partner, an arch nemesis, a hunter, a detective, a savior, and a best friend. He is a husband.

My Husband.

I know him better than anyone else in world. I still don't know him completely. I don't think I ever will.
But I hope I get to spend the rest of my life trying.

Tumblr Photoshop Disasters

First of all, some writing news: Tales from the Hotel Bentmoore: The Complete Collection, freshly edited and sporting a brand new cover, is now available in print. The easiest way to buy it is to get it off of Amazon; just click on the yonder link on the right if you're interested. Masters of the Hotel Bentmoore: The Complete Collection should be available soon, both digitally and in print. And, of course, I'm working on The Taming of Red Riding and The Edge of Jasmine apace. In other words, I am busy.

But I thought I'd keep things humorous today. I don't know about you, but when I have a couple free minutes when I need to unwind but I don't want to physically walk away from the computer, I turn to Tumblr. It's an easy way to get your mind distracted, and focused on more titillating things. Like tits. Titillating tits. Yes, I can think like a pubescent boy sometimes.

Tumblr pics are awesome--most of the time. But sometimes, let's face it, they can look pretty fuckin' fake. And sometimes the photoshop jobs can be downright scary.
So today I bring you some of my favorite Tumblr photoshop disasters, so you can revel in the horror right along with me. Ready? Go!

This pic right here caught my eye because I can't tell if this is the image and form of a woman or a doll. Seriously, the waist is too narrow, the boobs too stiff, there isn't a line on her...and take a look at the hand. There's no way that's real. I think this is a wax model. Also, why does it look like the skirt fits perfectly around her thigh?

This picture makes me cringe every time I see it. Look at how unnatural the hands are. They look like prosthetics, and bad ones at that. The legs look bad, too. Almost like they're backwards. Or maybe the whole body is backwards! Ack!

She looks sexy, no? Mysterious. Intriguing. So who cares if her waist looks a leetle too sunken in? It's okay. I mean, she might technically be a freak of nature, right? Am I right?
Which would totally explain why her arm is coming out from her chest. And why a leg seems to be stretching up next to her, even when both feet are flat on the floor!
Wait, what is she doing with her legs?? There's one bent that way...and one bent that way...no that way...what the hell is going on here! Too much mystery!

I gotta tell you, this one cracks me the fuck up. It's very obvious what happened: in the original pic, she was supposed to be holding on to his well-sized cock. Only There was probably an argument on the floor about how big it should be, or at what angle it should stick, and...well, they cut the damn thing out (or off) (tee hee) and, um, gee...forgot to put it back. So now she's got her fingers around...nothing.
Like we wouldn't notice?

Again, this image is suffering from doll-disease. There is no WAY this was ever an actual, live woman. Unless they dislocated her hips and broke her back, in which case...I hope she had herself some really great health insurance benefits.








And now, the image that leaves them all in the dirt, I give you:

I know, I know, woman draped over man's knee, sexy as all hell, blah blah blah. Now cast your eyes away from the blushing butt and take a look at the guy, and...OH MY GOD WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON BACK THERE??
Is that a hip? Is there a NIPPLE on his HIP? But if it's not a hip, if it's his chest, then for the love of God, WHERE IS THE REST OF HIM? It hurts to look at this pic now, doesn't it? It hurts. Make it go away.

So that's it for today. Hope I didn't shock your eyes too much. Just remember: Tumblr is great, but it's only for entertainment! Real women have bumps, and lines, and curves, and slopes. We are real. We don't look like dolls, but then again, we don't fuck like dolls, either. We fuck a whole lot better!

Domspeak

This post inspired by Sarah Elizabeth, who got me thinking about "Domspeak." What is Domspeak, you ask? Why, it's the language of Doms.
The following are phrases you hear Doms using over and over again (at least I do). They are tried and true, and they get results. Especially when they are said in the right tone. In Domspeak, tone is everything.


Get Over Here: I'm about to do naughty things to you, and you now know it. But you will still come of your own volition. Because I told you to. (You are about to get fucked.)

Get Undressed: Leave no barrier between me and your body. (You are about to get fucked.)

What Did You Do?: What excuse can I use to punish you, and make you cry and scream and beg for mercy? (You are about to get fucked.)

You Did It Wrong: I am going to make you do this again, and again, and again, because I can, and because I like watching you squirm. I like to torment you. It makes me happy. (You are about to get fucked.)

Don't Move: I love to control your every action. I love to look at you. I love to turn you into my plaything, my doll, my fucktoy. I love to see how far I can turn your mind off and your body on. (You are about to get fucked.)

Open: Make your body go against its natural, instinctive reactions. You can, you can do it, do it for me. Or else. (You are about to get fucked.)

Breathe: I control your most natural bodily functions right now. I tell you when you can take air...and I'll make damn sure you know when you can't: when I have your throat closed, one way or another. Better do what I say and breathe now, cause you won't get another chance.

You wanna play? Let's play: I am about to dominate you completely. It's not going to be gentle, and it's not going to be nice, and it's not going to be romantic. It'll be hard, rough, nasty, and you are going to be absolutely overwhelmed. Don't like it? Too bad. (You are about to get fucked.)

I Am Going To Fuck You: You are about to get fucked. In case there was any question.

I'll add to the list when I get more phrases in. This should be fun.

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
(hurt)
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?

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. 

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:
MOOOOMMMMMMYYYYYYY!

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.
"DON'T JUST LEAVE ME HERE!"
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:
MOOOOOMMMMMYYYYY

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.

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.

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.