His Therapy Problem

Remember a while ago, how upset I was when I realized the kids could hear Husband and I having sex? Yeah, well, I'm over it.
For the past few weeks, a pattern has established itself at Casa Cross; a ritual, if you will:
Son3 goes to sleep. Husband and I spend some time on the couch, watching t.v., talking, and catching up. While we are in the family room spending time together—in a completely innocent and vanilla setting—Son1 and Son2 are invariably in their own rooms, doing their own stuff.
Husband and I then go upstairs for some good-time-biblical-sexy-sex fun.

At some point after we are both naked, and usually, after we have started to get serious with the sexy sex
(it's never before we've taken off our clothes, it's never before we've started the scene and can just calmly interrupt the action and open the door, oh no, that would be too easy)
one of the older kids, either Son1 or Son2, comes upstairs for some stupid ass reason.
Sometimes it's to use the bathroom that's right next to our bedroom door (they have a bathroom next to their own bedrooms, but for some reason, at that time of night, they have to walk upstairs and use this one); sometimes it's to check something on the calendar on my desk (because they can't use their own fucking calendars); sometimes it's to ask Husband a question (does he want to check out this thing on Reddit right now this minute? No, he does not).

The other night, sure as shit, Husband and I got down to some yummy sexy sex...and just as he was entering me, we heard footsteps on the stairs.
The bathroom door opened, shut. The toilet flushed. The door opened and shut again.

While this was happening, Husband was not moving. I was not moving, either. (Although for different reasons: my wrists were cuffed to my ankles, and with him splayed between my legs, I couldn't really move anyway.) We waited for the footsteps to recede back downstairs and disappear.
They did not.

Husband started thrusting into me.
"What are you doing?" I hissed. "Whoever came upstairs is right outside our door. He can hear us."
"So?" Husband grunted.
"So this is not okay!" I said. "My son is listening to his parents having sex!"
Husband did not skip a beat. "Wife," he said, "this is a big fucking house. He can go somewhere else. If he chooses to be right outside our door while we're having sex, that is his therapy problem."
I was about to protest, and rather emphatically, when I realized...Husband was right.

Our kids are not children anymore, at least not our older two. Hell, they might know more about sex than I do. They've taught me about Clop Clop...but that's a topic for another post.
My point is, this was no longer something I should have to shield my kids from. This is something that goes on between their parents they should have the kindness to treat with dignity and grace.
In other words? They should give us some fucking privacy. 

So I shut my mouth...except for the moaning, of course. Husband kept going and I kept coming, and then, the sexy-sex was over.
As soon as we started walking around and making other sounds—non sexy-sex sounds—there was a knock on the door.
"Go away," I said loudly. "We're still getting dressed."
My son had the decency to give us another few minutes, I'll grant him that.

Introducing: Esmeralda

Scene: Husband and I are in the car, on the way home from a date night. He has been talking a little too much about his coworkers, and I am growing annoyed.

Me: Can we talk about something else? Something more relevant to us?

Husband: Sure. Let's talk about your ass, and how lonely it is. 

(He was bringing this up because I had just texted him that morning "my ass is lonely," which, in our code, means "I want you to fuck my ass, please.")

Me: We can't talk about that now.
Husband: Why not?
Me: We're almost home. 

Husband: You know...we really need to think up a name for your asshole. That way we can talk about it without worrying so much who's in earshot.

Me: A name? Okay...it should be something cute and delicate. 

Husband: Cute and delicate?

Me: Yes. How about...teacup?

Husband: No.
Me: How about a flower? Like Daisy?
Husband: No. How about Candy?

Me: Candy is a stripper name. How about—

Husband: Esmeralda. 

Me: Esmeralda? 

Husband: Yes. It's perfect.

Me: ...Esmeralda? Like from the Hunchback of Notre Dame?

Husband: Yes! Like that Disney princess! It fits! She's pretty, and naughty, exotic, but kind of dark—

Me: Hey!

Husband: Well you haven't exactly been bleaching lately.
Me (grumbling): She's a gypsy, not a princess.
Husband: Your asshole's not a princess, either.

Me: If my asshole is Esmeralda, then your dick is Quasimodo.

Husband: What, the hunchback? Mmm...it does lean to the left a little....

Me: And it's all cross-eyed, like this— 

I try to do a pantomime of Quasimodo, tilting my head to one side, sticking out my tongue to the other, and crossing my eyes

—like this!

Husband (laughing uproariously): I see. It's only got one eye, you know.

Me: Yeah, well, it's crossed. 

Husband: Okay then.

We get home. The house is quiet; the kids are in their rooms, occupied with their own stuff. I go upstairs to change my clothes. A few minutes later, I hear from downstairs...

Husband: Esmeralda! ESMERALDA!

Me (running over): WHAT!

Husband: Are you feeling lonely tonight?

Me: NO!

Husband: We can do it like that scene in the Disney movie, you know! You'll be tied up at the stake and afraid, and I'll swoop in...only I'll leave you tied up, and light the fire under you!

Me (laughing): Stop it!

Husband (singing as he walks towards me): And it burns, burns, burns, the ring of fire, the ring of fire....

Me: I AM GOING NOW.

So here I sit, dear kinky readers: at my computer, contemplating the strange, strange conversations Husband and I have with each other. I swear, I cannot make this shit up. I don't know if other married couples talk to each other this way and just aren't so public about it, or if Husband and I are just really, really weird....
You know what, scratch that. I know Husband and I are really, really weird. 

But we are also really, really fun. 

The Line I Cannot Cross, Even In My Writing

I don't usually do posts on my writing, but once in a  while, I make an exception. 

Since finishing up Blood and Desire, Seduction and Murder, I've been working on (what's supposed to be, anyway) my next book, King Thrushbeard: An Erotic Fairy Tale. 

I actually started this book before B&D,S&M. I got about 20,000 words into it...and then I had to stop. There were too many holes in the sequence of actions, too many questions of motives I couldn't answer; and if I can't explain the motives of my characters, if I can't make sense of the plot in my own head, there's no fucking way I can expect my readers to. 

While I was writing B&D, S&M, I let King Thrushbeard stew in my head for a while. If you're a writer, you know what that's like: letting the characters breathe a little bit so they can reveal, one scene at a time, what they want, and what they're willing to do to get it.

Once B&D, S&M was done, I started in on King Thrushbeard once again.

And again.

And again.

I have never had to do so many plot revisions and re-writes with a manuscript before. Never. This book is driving me fucking nuts. 

But I think I've finally figured out my basic problem.

In many of my books and stories, I push the envelope a little bit, and dance around the issue of consent. I force my submissives into situations that make them struggle to resist the urge to flee; sometimes, I don't even give them the option to flee. I dive into portrayals of dubious consent, consensual non-consent, and the like.

In all my Hotel Bentmoore stories, all the characters are there at the hotel because they want to be there. It might not be for the kinky sex, it might be for different reasons entirely, like making their Master happy, or saving their marriage; they may even have been blackmailed into it. But for whatever the reason, the characters always have the choice to be there. Nobody put a gun to their heads and forced them to step one foot into the hotel. They always have their safeword, and they always have the option to leave. 

In my other book, The Taming of Red Riding, the heroine is kind of seduced into a D/s relationship. But again, she enters into it on her own volition, and gives her full consent. In fact, the Dom refuses to enter into their dynamic until he has her complete, and vocal, agreement. 

So as a writer, I am willing to play around with dubious consent and consensual non-consent. 

What I'm not willing to do is cross the line into true non-consent. I'm not willing to give the Dom complete allowance to "have his way" with a sub unless he is completely sure it is what she wants.

Because even if the submissive ends up loving what he does to her, even if she ends up having twenty thousand orgasms and can't imagine sex being anything else every again...do you know what it's called when a man forces himself on a woman who isn't consenting?

ASSAULT

RAPE

And I will not go there. Not even if, "in the end," the submissive loves it, and it fulfills all her heretofore unknown fantasies. 

A guy who engages in BDSM with a woman without knowing he has prior consent is not a Dom, he's just an asshole. 

I will not write my heroes to be assholes. 

So. I will need to re-write, yet again; and this time, I will have to find a way for my hero to seduce—or force, if necessary—prior consent from my heroine to engage in some heavy BDSM before any action happens. 

She may be his prisoner, and he may have full rights to her body, but that's not good enough. She may discover that she loves the way he treats her, but that's still not good enough. 

She has to give prior consent, in some way, for him to begin to go down this path with her. No matter what her reasoning is, no matter why she agrees, on some level, he must know she wants it, too, before he lays a finger on her.

Once that happens? I think the scenes will fly.

A Post on Gags

Last Saturday night was supposed to be an epic scene night for Husband and me. The older two kids usually go out that night, and the youngest, well, he's such a deep sleeper, we'd have to worry about waking the neighbors before we'd have to worry about waking him.
Husband had the whole scene mapped out in his head, he had been taunting me about for two days...and then, Saturday morning, Son2 came upstairs and dropped the bombshell.
"Guess what!" He said. "We're not going out tonight! So you guys can go out to dinner together if you want! Have a date night!"
NOOOoooooo I thought. "Thank you telling us!" I said.
I turned to Husband, and saw he was now giving me a frightful look. It was a look that said, figure this out, Wife, because my plans for you tonight will be altered for nothing and no one.

Husband's and my number #1 problem is our noise. Well, okay, my noise. Husband likes to make me scream, and the truth is, I love it, too. Screaming is a release. If I have to worry about how much noise I'm making, if I constantly have to remind myself to shush, the scene is just not going to be as much fun for me.

A plan was put into action.
"I'm going to Leather Masters," I whispered to Husband, "to get a new gag."
"Have fun," he whispered back. "You don't have to just get a new gag, you know. Look around, see if there's anything else you want."

When I got to the car, I decided to call my Mistress, and see if she wanted to come along. She did; I picked her up, and away we went.

Now, for those who don't know, there are many different types of gags.

The most common type of gag, I think, is the ball gag. They come in various shapes and sizes—there are even some made with huge jawbreakers—but they are designed to fit into the woman's ( or man's) mouth, and prevent her from speaking. She will try, of course; the words will, however, be garbled.
The problem with this gag is that, while it prevents the wearer from speaking, it does not prevent the wearer from screaming, and the volume of the screams is unaffected.

Bit gags are another type of gag that are supposed to keep a person's lips shut. But these are more of a fetish wear, in my opinion, designed for a specific kind of play, to degrade and humiliate the wearer. The person has to "bite down" on the gag, but if they can't...they can't. It does not prevent the wearer from talking, and it certainly does not muffle any screaming.

Spider gags are a different breed entirely. They are designed to keep the mouth open, not closed. While they are fun and useful in the right circumstances, they were obviously not what I was looking for.

No, I was looking for something more like a muzzle. Something that would go all the way around my mouth, and keep my jaw closed completely. Something that would really muffle my screams. 

The problem? Muzzles are fucking expensive.

When Mistress and I got to Leather Masters, a quick perusal around the store told me all their gags were going to be either too inadequate, or too extravagant for our budget.
I left with nothing.

In the car on the way home, Mistress tried to teach me how to make a do-it-yourself gag.
"You take a sock," she said, "and stuff it into the leg of a pantyhose. That goes in the mouth. Then you wrap the whole head around the mouth with an ace bandage."
"I'll ask Husband if he wants to go to Walgreens with me later, and pick out supplies," I replied. I was despondent at that point; I had really been looking forward to a new gag. But I decided having my mouth stuffed up and wrapped up by Husband's knowing hands would probably work, too.

Husband didn't think so.
"If you couldn't find a gag," he said, "then I guess we're not using a gag."
"We'll have to keep the noise down then," I answered sadly.
"You can keep the noise down," he said. "I don't care. I'm still gonna do what I had planned."
"No, Husband, please," I begged. "You'll make too much noise. I'll make too much noise. The kids will hear us."
"Then you'd better keep it down."
"No, seriously—"
"The only negotiations you're allowed right now," he said, "is whether or not I use lube. And since you don't want to scream, I think you want me to use lube."
"YES!"
"Good. Then negotiations are over."

Like I said, there are many different types of gags.
But, perhaps, the best type of gag might be the threat. Specifically, the "don't scream or I'll ream your ass with no lube" threat.
Turns out, that works pretty well.

A comletely gratuitous picture. You're welcome.

I'm Lucky: I Don't Get Flowers on Valentine's Day

Background information: Husband has not given me flowers in over sixteen years. This is because the last time he bought me flowers (sixfuckingteen years ago), they were roses, and I don't like roses. I told him I don't like roses, and he took this to mean "Wife doesn't like flowers." The idea got stuck in his head, and I've never managed to correct him of it…the stubborn man.
Which leads us to this morning…

Me: Happy Valentine's Day!
Husband: Happy Valentine's Day. (Kisses me on the forehead.) Do you want anything special?
Me: Yes?
Husband: I promise I won't buy you chocolate.
Me: Thank you.
Husband: And I won't buy you flowers.
Me: (spluttering) What? What? Why not? Why don't you ever buy me flowers?
Husband: Because you don't like flowers?
Me: Oh my God! Just—oh my God! That is so not true! We've gone over this! I don't like roses! Just! Roses! Every time you say I don't like flowers, and every time I say it's not true! I like orchids, I like lilies, I like jasmine, I like baby's breath, I like—I like a lot of other flowers! Just not roses!
Husband: (looking at me like I've gone nuts) You've never told me you like flowers.
Me: I HAVE ALWAYS TOLD YOU I LIKE FLOWERS. JUST NOT ROSES. GOD!
Husband: Well, it doesn't matter, because I just decided what I'm getting you, and it's not flowers.
Me: (stupidly hopeful) Oh? What?
Husband: I already planned a scene for us on Saturday night when the kids go out…
Me: (less hopeful) Oh?
Husband: And I think you need a new enema kit.
Me: …An enema kit. You're getting me a new enema kit for Valentine's Day.
Husband: Yup.
Me: (mockingly) "Here, honey, I didn't get you flowers, but I got you an enema kit instead. Happy Valentine's Day."
Husband: What can I say? I'm a romantic.
Me: (laughing, cause I couldn't help it) I love you.
Husband: I love you too. See, I knew you'd love it. A new enema kit is better than flowers any day.

What can I say? He's right.

No Impatience Here, Folks

After I wrote my last post, I cross-posted it to Fetlife. I got a lot of tweets and private messages, all asking me basically the same thing: What happened? What did Husband do?

Well, the first thing he did was…laugh. Hard. That's one of the reasons why Husband and I get along the way we do: he laughs at most of the shit I pull on him. He finds me entertaining.
When he was done laughing, he made some vague threats about me sleeping on the floor, which prompted me to fix the bed immediately. I do not like sleeping on the floor.

After that? We ate dinner, he spent some time with the kids, we watched TV, spent more time with the kids…basically, we spent the evening like any other evening.
After that? We went to bed.
After that? Yeah, the sex was extra rough. No horrendous torture, though; no screaming and tears. No begging for The End. No "great closure" to this episode, as some people assumed there would be.

The punishment, the scene, is coming, I'm sure. But the timing has to be right. The setting has to be perfect. The feeling has to be there for both us, now, right now, this is it, NOW we're going to handle this.

D/s dynamics run a lot on cause and effect. He orders; I do. He calls; I jump. I misbehave; he punishes.
But it dawned on me the other day that many people assume reaction must always come immediately after action; and maybe in other relationships, that's true, but that's not true in our relationship. Yes, sometimes Husband's reaction will come swift and hard. But other times…I just gotta wait.

He might make me wait because he wants it to sink in just how angry he is. He might make me wait because he is too angry to trust his own reaction. He might make me wait so he can extend the punishment.
But sometimes, he makes me wait because we have to wait, because the timing is just not right. And that is okay.
It is okay, because we have time. We are not going anywhere (dear God I hope not). There is no sense of urgency. There is family, kids, us…there is life, and life is there, needing to be lived.

As I write, he might be planning something in that sick, twisted, devious head of his. He might have ordered a new toy or tool or device to punish me with, and just be waiting for it to come in before he lays in on me.
He is probably scheming against me. He is always scheming against me. That's one of the reasons why Husband and I get along the way we do: I live in constant fear and awe of him.
It may be tomorrow, it may be next week, it may be next month…but eventually, Husband will come around to punishing me for my list of transgressions, and I will regret it.

Until then, I wait. Waiting is okay. Waiting is not a crime.
I will keep telling myself this.

GODAMN IT HUSBAND WHAT ARE YOU PLANNING JUST DO IT ALREADY

After You Fuck Her Ass, Make the Fucking Bed!

Husband came home late from work yesterday, after having an awful, stressful day. It was clear he needed an outlet for his stress, and while I don't own a t-shirt that says OUTLET FOR HUSBAND'S STRESS, such a shirt would be quite unnecessary anyway, because we both know my role
(hole)
in these situations.

The ass was grabbed; the lube was not.
I got a complimentary spit were it might have done some good. A small benefaction, I suppose, to show me he cares.
Yes, it hurt. Love hurts sometimes. C'est la vie.

The anal sex sans lube was not what got me pissed off. No, what got me pissed off was that he didn't help me make the bed after.
Because here's the thing: there is a time and place for laying down the "Dom Law." When we're wrestling on the bed and it becomes painfully
(OH SO PAINFULLY)
obvious things are about to be done to my person I will not enjoy, that's…well I won't say that's okay with me, because it's irrelevant at that point whether it's okay with me or not. But it's okay that's it's irrelevant whether it's okay with me or not—and if that statement confuses you, let it sit for a while, it might make more sense later.
(If you're a submissive/slave, you'll get it.) (If you're a Dom/Master, you'll get it, too; and if you're a Dom/Master who's also a Sadist, you'll totally get it, and you'll probably be smiling at the thought.)

He's a high-handed, overbearing, overweighing, insufferable
(and oh GOD DO I SUFFER)
jerk sometimes, and I take it, I take it all, because that is our dynamic and that is how we work together.
But once the scene is over
(yet I can hear Husband's voice in my head now, THE SCENE IS NEVER OVER, WIFE, THAT IS WHERE YOU FOOL YOURSELF)
I want some…chivalry? No, that's not the right word. Courtesy? Yes, I want some courtesy, some understanding that he realizes I am a submissive but not a weak person, and he is my Master but not an asshole.

Our bed is his bed too. He has his side, I have mine. We do not share blankets; he has his, and I have mine. It was his blanket that got slid off the bed into a heap on the floor. It would have taken him two seconds—literally, two seconds—to grab up his blanket and drape it back across his side of the bed.

But did he do it? NO.
"Just put the blanket on the bed!" He said when I told him his blanket was still on the floor. "It will take you two seconds!"
Yes, it would take me two seconds, the same two seconds it would take him. But that's not the point. The point is, I just got fucked in the ass with no lube, I got reamed, my asshole was in pain, and now I had to put his blanket on his side of the bed, too?

I did it, of course. I put his blanket back up on his side of the bed. He gave me an order, and I did it.
Then, this morning, when I made our bed, I made his side look extra nice and neat. I smoothed out his blanket just so. 
Then I sewed his blanket duvet to the bottom sheet. I might go back now and sew his pillow to the blanket, too.
TRY MESSING UP YOUR BLANKET NOW, HUSBAND. JUST TRY IT.

My Journey So Far

Experiencing my local kink community as I have been for the last few years has been a venture. I've learned so many new things: about my friends, about my surroundings…about myself.
The adventure isn't over. If life is a journey, the Scene is a corn maze straight out of a Harry Potter book, full of twists and turns, jaw-dropping horrors, and wonderful surprises. You learn very quickly that the size of the cane has little to do with the magic it can wield over your flesh, different wizards and witches are experts at casting different spells…and not everyone out there is fighting on the side of good.

Some things you learn through epiphany, and some lessons take a long, slow process. It took me a while to understand I am not, in fact, a masochist. What I like is the fact that I do not like pain. I enjoy the suffering, the struggle, the fight to break through. I enjoy the sounds of my own screams inside my head.
Most of all, I enjoy suffering for the people I care about.

When I look back at my first foray into the Scene, yes, I went through my own period of sub-frenzy. But I still wouldn't let just anyone touch me; I watched the Sadists at work, I learned their technique, and I made careful choices whom I allowed to mark up my skin.
All those people I met at the beginning of my journey are still my friends. Some of them are incredibly close friends, but they are all near and dear to my heart.

I've become pickier in recent months whom I play with. This, I think, is a healthy change for me. I get to know my partners first; I make sure they are the kind of people I need them to be to trust them with my body.
And no, I'm not so naive as to think you can always know everything about your partner before you play. It's an unfortunate fact that some people can hide their demons and sociopathic propensities really, really well.
And, like everyone, I have things I can forgive, and things I can't.

But I'm better able to recognize when the right chemistry is there. Because when it comes right down to it, the chemistry has to be there. I need to want to engage a person in play—not just any play, but my kind of play.
Recently I read a piece of writing somewhere on Fetlife that compared a BDSM dynamic to a dance. You have a lead, you have a follow, you have the music they both move to…and you have the dance. It was a great piece of writing.
An important point to remember is, we are not all in a dance class. We get to choose our partners. For me, personally, I've learned that it's not enough for the chemistry to be there for the dance to be good; the chemistry has to be there for the dance to happen at all. 

The great news is that I've learned how to "spot the chemistry" fairly quickly. The bad news is that it hits me hard sometimes, from people I wouldn't normally expect, and in surprising situations.
Some Doms and Masters have the great physique, the chiseled face with the wicked smile and furrowed brows, they know what they're doing, they've been doing it for years…but when I look into their eyes, I feel nothing. No desire to push their buttons, "see what they've got," ask them to play…no desire to ask them to dance. Nothing.
And then there are the guys who don't have the "Dom look," who have the gentle smile and the warm handshake, who aren't really experts at any technique or tool…but when they look at me, look into my eyes, I see it there, glimmering behind the light, that need, that hunger of the beast, the intoxicating beauty and brilliance of the animal within.
I see the challenge…and if I'm lucky, the invitation.

Even if I do sense the invitation, I don't always respond. Chemistry is a good starting point, but it isn't enough; like I said, I need to get to know the person first.
And sometimes, circumstances just aren't right. I was at a conference a while ago where I met a Master and his slave. Our meeting was brief, unplanned, and unexpected. (These kinky conferences are full of unexpected encounters; that's a significant part of the fun—meeting new people.) We both already had plans for the night. We really didn't have time for anything other than a short conversation.
But the pull I got from him, the adrenaline rush he got out of me, the hum and throb of the chemical release he injected into my blood stream with just a brief look, a crooked smile pointed in my direction…it was amazing.
I think about him now and then.
I don't know if I'll ever see him again.

Sometimes you slip by, and the beast doesn't see you. Sometimes the beast drifts away, without you noticing it. 
But maybe I was wrong: maybe The Scene isn't a corn maze. Maybe it's a forest, full of dark, scary, and wonderful creatures…and sometimes, by the light of the moon and the scent on the wind, we find each other.
We find each other, and we play.

Cures Acne, Headaches, Bad Back, Shortness of Breath, Hair Loss, PMS, and Dry Skin, Too

I was complaining to Husband yesterday about my acne.
(Yes, I am 39 years old, and I still suffer from acne; it is a bane. I have tried different techniques to make it go away, but nothing works for very long. One of the many things about my body I hate. sigh)
Husband doesn't really understand how much the pimples bother me…but then, he has no problem offering me solutions to deal with it.

Husband: I know one way to get rid of your pimples.
Me: You do? How?
Husband: Spankings. Spankings get rid of pimples.
Me: They do not.
Husband: They do. If your skin is breaking out, it means you need a spanking.
Me: I do not, now stop it.
Husband: You know what else cures pimples? Come.
Me: If I come more, my pimples will go away?
Husband: No, I have to come—on your face. Come is very good for your skin.
Me: Oh, really….
Husband: Yes! It's got protein and antioxidants and other shit that's very good for your skin. You can rub it in. (He starts to rub my cheeks with his fingers)
Me: You know what I think? (I smack his hands away) I think you constantly touching my face is giving me pimples. I think you need to stop doing that.
Husband: No.
Me: I also think it's possible not getting spanked will cure my acne, and I think we should test my theory.
Husband: No. Also, come really is good for your skin, you know. It's been scientifically proven.
Me: Oh, really? Show me a source.
Husband: I will…after I spank you and come on your face.

Turns out? Semen really might be good for your skin.
The spanking theory still needs more research, though.

Rubio's Effect

You guys, for the first time EVAR, Husband has ordered me to write a post. So my apologies in advance.
Truthfully, I would not have chosen this particular story to write about on my blog. But it seems fate has a mind of its own, and fate's voice sounds strangely similar to Husband's; so I am forced to draft this out.

(As an aside: Do you have any idea how many kinky bedroom stories I do not write about on this blog? My friends tell me my life is like a fucking sitcom—as in literally, a sitcom on fucking, which when you think about it, why has no one ever made a show like that before? Because oh, yeah, decency laws and all that, we must THINK of the CHILDREN—but I swear to Christ, the best stories I have are always the ones I cannot put on this here site, because they are either a.) too private, b.) too likely to out me, or c.) so insane, nobody would believe it without photographic proof.)

So first, some background info: I have no idea how long it takes other men for their diet to affect the taste of their semen.
(PSA of the Day: Did you know it takes six weeks for sperm to mature? That means the semen coming out of a guy's load today, started forming six weeks ago. But semen is not made only out of sperm, it's got seminal fluid in there, too…which becomes pertinent to this story.)
It takes about four to six hours for Husband's last meal to affect the taste of his semen. Which means if he had Thai food for lunch? By nighttime, I'm gonna know it. If he had a nice bland chicken sandwich for lunch, I'm gonna end up appreciating that fact.
And apparently, if he eats at Rubio's, my face is going to want to melt away.

Husband went to Rubio's for the first time a few days ago. He got this fish taco thing with spicy sauce. I marveled that he could eat something so spicy without even breaking a sweat—I hate spicy food, and have a really low tolerance for it—but Husband thought it was great.
I didn't think anything of it.
Until that night.

I wanted to give him a blowjob, I really did, I swear it.
He lay down, and I got to work. But as my lips did their happy dance around his shaft, some drops of pre-come came out the tip. The tiny pearly drops hit my lip…and that's when the horror started.
At first, I didn't understand the strange sensation blooming across my delicate lips. Then realization began to grip hold.
"Oh my god…your come…it's hot!"
"Hot? What do you mean, hot?"
"It's spicy! Oh! My! God!" I tried to swallow him back down my throat, but more pre-come hit my sensitive tonsils, and I yanked away my mouth. "Whoa, Jesus!" I took a couple deep breaths. "This is awful!"
"Too bad." He grabbed the back of my head to take hold of a fistful of hair, and gave it a solid twist to make me yelp. As soon as my mouth was open, he lunged his dick in my mouth, all the way in, and began to pump rapidly.
"Omnichlgngr!" I cried, beating my hands against his thighs. "Aimahngrnigle!"
"What?" He asked, and pulled my head away from his cock.
"I can't do this!" I yelled. "It's too spicy! My lips are on fire!"
Husband peered into my eyes. A look of understanding passed between us. Then he gave me a big, wide grin. "This is funny," he said, and shoved my face back down his dick.

He began to fuck my face in earnest now, with brutal thrusts of his hips; he held my head still with both hands to keep me from getting away as I struggled to escape his grip, only now and then allowing me a desperate gulp of air.
The heat was incredible. The aching, fiery heat.
After a few minutes—after my whines had escalated to desperate muffled howls and the tears were dripping down my cheeks—he let me go. It wasn't to give me a merciful respite, though. It was because he couldn't stop laughing, and he wanted a good look at my face.
"I'm going to come in your mouth, you know," he said, still chuckling.
I swear, I could feel my eyeballs almost pop out of my sockets. "NO," I said. "I can't take it! My gums! My lips! I feel like a just ate a bowl of popcorn with NOTHING TO DRINK!"
He bent down until his face was an inch away from my own and said, very calmly and reasonably, "I'm coming in your mouth, or I'm coming in your ass, and I just might not use lube." He laughed again, a rich, sadistic laugh, and a part of me recoiled…even as another part of me marveled in awe and love.
"Please, no," I begged. The tears started again. "Please, no, please no…."
"What's it going to be?"
"I can't decide, I can't, oh god—"
"Then I'll decide."
He grabbed me by the back of the head, pulled it down, and once more, began to pump my face.
I wailed. I howled.
He laughed and laughed.
When he came in my mouth, it felt like a volcano had erupted in my throat, shooting molting hot lava down my tongue. I squeezed my eyes shut and beat my fists against his legs, my cries of anguish loud and acute. But Husband just held himself still inside me, shoving my burning lips against the base of his dick…laughing.
As soon as he let me go, I ran to the bathroom to stick my face under the faucet and flood my mouth with cool, soothing water.
"You are terrible," I said between gargles and gulps. "You are TERRIBLE."
"I know," he said, watching from the doorway. From the corner of my eye, I could see him cross his arms and lean against the doorway, that long, satisfied smile never leaving his mouth.

Later, he told me he wanted me to write about what happened.
"Put it on your blog," he said.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because your readers might be interested," he said.
There was a moment of silence, of calm recollection of what had recently happened between us. He reflected with amusement, while I…I reflected with amazement…and dread.
"Please don't eat at Rubio's again," I pleaded with a whisper.
"Oh, I am definitely eating at Rubio's again," he said. "That was awesome."
I wanted to beg some more, but my mouth hurt too much to talk. And really, when it comes right down to it, it doesn't matter how much I plead or beg; that man will do whatever strikes his fancy.

I'm not sure why this specific story is what finally caused Husband to order me to write on my blog. Maybe he thinks he's making his own public service announcement about Rubio's: their fish tacos and spicy sauce will make a guy's come hot! Try it for yourself! Results may vary.
Or maybe he just decided the story is too funny not to share.
Or maybe he knew that by ordering me to write this out, I'd be forced to remember again what happened.
He wants me to remember what happened…and what he said.
Because next time, he won't be offering me a choice anymore. Next time, my ass had better be ready.