Perhaps it’s because I know my hair is in cute pigtails hanging down, but I saw this shadow of a suspension and thought of the playful Peter Pan shadow, always up to mischief. I am often up to mischief making myself.
Some people are not going to agree to this, and that’s okay. I wouldn’t be with you. I believe that sex is mandatory, that my sexual expectation is that I’m going to have intimacy with consistency, so much so that I demanded it (before agreeing to marriage) twice a day, every day, except once a week he calls a day if he wants it (because we all have bad days).
A bit extreme? Perhaps. But I know my sex drive, I know that it is high, and I’ve apologized and worked around it far too much in my life. I know what keeps me happy, what keeps me connected to my partner. Twice a day is already a compromise most days.
And it isn’t as extreme as I first demanded. Most days, it’s just once a day. But let me tell you what that once a day has meant: it meant surviving the worst three years of both of our lives, when he was falling asleep at the wheel constantly due to lack of sleep and never home but for a hours. (Sadly, this is not an exaggeration, he worked 18 hour days for six days a week, and occasionally had off Sunday – where he was a grumpy zombie we all avoided. We both would have rather him been deployed.) Those hours were all we could connect in, and because I made a demand in our relationship, he would wake me at whatever odd hours he came in at, and while it was certainly a quickie so he could get precious sleep, it was still a time where he woke me up, where we had a brief conversation, where we connected. The other people that did that horrific job? The majority of them lived apart or divorced. We stayed connected, and he certainly wouldn’t have woke me to talk – he woke me because he knew I needed that intimacy with him to stay connected in our relationship. And so we did have brief moments where we connected/had sex/talked briefly/expressed our love to each other.
Even now that the job is done (thank goodness), we are certainly at once a day most days. It’s not because my sex drive is any lower, it’s because I love this man and trust that he loves me without a constant intimate connection, and because I will compromise all I can to stay happy with him.
It’s that compromise, commitment, and love that has him meeting his quota (as he calls it), even if he isn’t always in the mood. I’ve heard it described as “maintenance sex” before, and I think that’s a beautiful term. It helps us maintain a level of intimacy, it reaffirms our relationship. We aren’t just parents, friends, or roommates – we are lovers. I don’t always want to talk, but if we need to, we do. It’s the same concept. It’s a hug – you wouldn’t tell your lover no to a hug, would you? It’s a give and take, and it’s important for the maintenance of our marriage – by tending to the special lovers aspect with consistency.
I don’t guilt or force him to have sex, I just let my drive set the pace, and was upfront about my expectation. Hell, most of the time I don’t initiate anymore (a point he’s complained about, so I’ll get over my feelings of pushing for sex). He doesn’t have to even give me amazing sex, we just have to connect on an intimate level for the sake of enjoying each other’s bodies and giving pleasure. Does it often turn into amazing sex? Hell yes it does! And that’s another point: it’s not long before both of us are normally in the mood once we start, and by giving into our exhaustion, foul moods, arguments, stress or anything else that prevents us from feeling “in the mood” we would miss out on a lot of opportunities for great sex or even just intimacy.
I am aware that I place a lot of value on sexual intimacy with him, and so is he, which is why we both came to the terms before we agreed to marry each other. I realize that many people would in theory desire this much sex, but in reality life happens and the demand for sex does take it toll.
I’ve written about this quota on Reddit, on comments to other people’s blogs, and on TMI Tuesdays memes.
And very early on I even blogged about it – Key to Happiness. I just don’t think I’ve put it out there to quite the same extreme.
We had just finished, but I ached for her again. Longed. It always starts within moments after we finish. She was laying in satin, body soft putty, eyes half mast. Just looking at her made me grow more than half mast. She stretches and I can bear it no more, I hold her down, I entwine myself into an embrace. I spend hours envisioning her like this, I invest time in learning about her sensuality and reading her body language.
Her knowledge fills me with pain and pleasure and sex and possibility.
I know when I grab her hips, if she arches, I need to pound into her – I have no fear of hurting her – just of not fucking her hard enough, push her down until her face is smothered in the fabric.
If she whips her hair around, that is my cue to grip it and yank as I mount her, hard impale and make her bend her body to where she’s comfortably uncomfortable. I can feel the tell tale signs of her quivering sex, her erratic movements against my groin, cum and sweat dripping down our thighs, coating my cock, and I hold on for all I am worth and let her grind at a slower tempo until she climaxes. Often, she takes me with her.
Her screams make me readjust, reassure her that she will survive this tempest. She has never felt so alive as in these moments.
We ride together.
Just like we both did that fateful day and did not survive an actual ride. I have an eternity to make up for a careless mistake, and she continues to take me to heaven.
I like Neil Gaiman’s book The Graveyard and I like the idea of ghosts being their normal selves – going about making friends and raising a family. Why not two lovers having all the time in the world to enjoy and explore each other?
I had a whole group of photos to share from my graveyard excursions (of which there are many), that I was going to insert some thoughts into. But sadly, while working on this, my computer crashed, broke, and refuses to turn back on. It died.
I love graveyards because of the history and the art. I love learning a gated grave off in the corner may have been a prostitute or criminal, and fenced-in so that their spirit cannot escape, or so that they can be further separated from the “proper people”. We still struggle with appropriate society norms – but fortunately don’t go to the extremes that you can learn about in historical graveyards. There is a graveyard in Old Town, San Diego, where researchers write an entire life story once they learn it and post it next to the tombstone – I love that especially. Sadly, they paved a road over part of the graveyard, and some of the markers are in the road to indicate a person’s plot – my husband refuses to drive down that street, and will cross and take another direction to avoid it. When we first met, he refused to walk in graveyards, but has since compromised that stance when we travel together – it still makes him slightly uncomfortable. He used to view my fascination as morbid, and now realizes that I learn -and enjoy learning-so much from exploring, that it uses a more visual representation to a family – or battleground. Graveyards, and the stories they tell, fascinate me, but they do not turn me on. I would never want to have sex in one, and my husband would certainly never be willing to.
Despite my love of exploring these places, my family doesn’t have a burial ground area, nor even a common location to visit our dead – for example, my mother’s ashes were spread at her favorite place. I hope to have my ashes spread at her location as well, as it is still my favorite place despite all the traveling and exploring I’ve done as an adult.
Photo courtesy of CurvaceousDee
Welcome to Elust #66 -
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Christmas Drinks At The Y
Nothing But Mouth
The things he does
The First Submission
Canadian Mist, Eggnog, Ginger Ale and You.
A Peachy Night
Skeletons In My Closet
Humiliation of an ex-Nazi submissive 28
a most pleasant fuck
Sex on Meth
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Alice tried to remember who had given her the key…surely it could not have been her lover, Thomas, though the man’s words perfectly mimicked his voice. Whoever that man was gave her a choice to make, and Thomas never afforded her that luxury.
She pondered his statement of the key. “You are always free to not love me, and if ever you decide that you no longer love me, set yourself truly free and be gone. But if you love me, you will commit to me and hand me this key back, considering all your other freedoms mine. You will be present at all times for my desires, always within acquiescence access of whatever I decide to do to you.”
She felt herself shaking at the words, and forced herself to inhale – held for a feeling of control, exhaled and released her tension…well, most of it. She knew Thomas as a demanding lover, a commanding presence both in his professional and private life. She also knew he was perceptive and not unduly harsh – the latter a fact his household staff appreciated, the first they groaned at when everything was noticed when not done correctly. His praise was sparse, but when it came, it was so gloriously felt.
Alice did not want to think; she wanted to have this momentous decision taken from her. She did not relish the responsibility for her own possible demise. And she certainly didn’t want to admit that she was willing to sacrifice so much to another’s will.
Yet, she did love him, and she felt like she fully came alive under Thomas’ love. She knew he loved her, though those words were as rare as his praise. She fancied a quick daydream where he was pacing in his bedroom, awaiting her decision. Smiling, she shook her head a little at how preposterous that idea was, and found her feet moving of their own accord towards his room.
Nervously, her hands once again shaking, she knocked. She gripped the key so tightly in her fist she felt that she would cut herself on the metal, felt like the imprint would forever be there to be viewed whenever she uncurled her fingers and exposed her palm. When he granted permission to enter, she opened the door a little too vigorously and stood stumped in the threshold.
In the immense room, he was sitting on the couch by the window, reading a book, the sun cascading over his fabulous form, beaming on half of him, casting shadows on the other. Such a complicated man, she thought.
“Yes?” he asked, one eyebrow raised in askance.
His voice was soft and collected, as it always was, but she flinched as if he yelled at her. She spun around and shut the door, took another long breath and stared at the wood, realized she still had no idea what she would decide to his proposal, had half hoped she would simply enter and he would sweep her up and make the resolution for her.
Her back felt warm, and she hoped he wasn’t staring at it as she stared stupidly at a door for far too long. She turned around again.
The key hurt in her hand.
The walk was incredibly long to span the room.
His gaze was steadily following her, the book placed beside his solid thigh. She stared at the floor as she moved, hoped she looked like she confidently floated, felt like was in danger of falling at every move. She saw his feet and glanced up at the man. Why was he not talking, not moving? It was unnerving.
It was her move to make.
Knowing he waited on her, she sunk down the floor, grateful to not be relying on unstable legs to hold her up any longer, grateful for the fullness of her skirts shielding what felt like tangled limbs underneath. She couldn’t take his piercing look any more and looked to his hands, those beautiful hands that played her body as if she was a instrument capable of heavenly music, now rested on his lap.
“I-,” she closed her mouth quickly, knowing she wouldn’t be able to get words out of her mouth fully formed, capable of the depth of her thoughts right now. She raised her hand and offered the key, offered her will and her love to him. One of his hands moved- she imagined it hesitated in enjoyable surprise- and gently, softly, as if he was afraid she would close her palm and didn’t want to alert her with touch, took possession of the key. It disappeared into a pocket.
Alice had a conflicted instinct to smile at his almost childlike insistence and a desire to run away from the firmness of the man before her.
“Yours.” She was proud she didn’t squeak that word, that she sounded collected and assured.
Suddenly she was seized at her throat and her hair, her head forced up and her eyes directed at Thomas. He seemed to be searching her expression for clues, she tracked the movement of his eyes calmly.
She was His.
He pulled her up from that position and dragged her across the couch, the forgotten book barely noticeable under her thighs, kissed her on the mouth for a profound length of time, till she ached and was breathless. He uncovered his body from hers, kneeled beside her gasping body, raised her skirts to her knees, the fingers warm and teasing against her skin. Relaxed, at peace, she rested her gaze comfortably on his face and watched him. He removed her boots and stockings and she felt something cold encompassing her ankle before hearing a click. She leaned up on elbows and curiously looked at the thin shackle on her ankle, surprised that she felt no panic, surprised at the gesture and felt pleased with the gift. She imagined him running rope through it to hold her down, and felt herself grow wet with the thought.
When he completed the other ankle, he moved to her head. His hands again took position of her head by means of throat and hair so she couldn’t look away. “What are you committing to?”
She gulped, hated that he asked her for words. She felt herself grow hot and wished she could turn her gaze away from him. She felt the unfamiliar weight on her ankles. “I belong to you. I am yours. I am whatever you want me to be, whenever you will have me.”
He smiled and she felt so proud of his approval. He leaned down and kissed her again, this time more tenderly but with no less passion.
She loved this man who had given her the key.
“What are you doing?” she asked as she slid in between the sheets to lay beside him in bed.
With one hand he put his phone face down on his chest, the other hand conspicuously absent.
She smiled at him knowingly. “What’s your masturbation photo? What turns you on?” she inquired, curious. New to the budding relationship, she was intensely curious about everything about him.
Seeing as how she seemed so at ease with the question, he tentatively decided to share.
“Well,” he cleared his throat, “right now I was looking at this cute girl,” she wrinkled her nose at the word cute, which didn’t strike her as sexy, and knew she wouldn’t attempt to be cute just for a fantasy of his. Already a strike against her. He saw her look and was concerned at what it meant, unsure to continue.
“…and?” she prompted, leaned down and took a nipple gently in between her teeth, the phone almost bumping her forehead on his hard chest.
“And she’s gazing up at me with these sexy eyes. She has this curvy figure that I am looking down on.”
“Is she going down on you?” she asked, felt turned on by him sharing this fantasy, felt herself tighten and grow wet at the thought of her own mouth wrapped around his cock. Her hand slipped under the covers, stroked the inside of his thigh softly, teased its way up slowly.
“No, she’s just looking up,” he gulped, his eyes mesmerized by her expression – a look he was recognizing as lust and mischief, his body fixated on her hand which strayed up and softly pulled on his hardened shaft. His thighs jerked at the gentle touch, his cock jerked against her palm.
She chuckled,”that’s a pretty realistic fantasy. You’re so tall everyone looks up.”
“She’s not a fantasy, she’s a reality.” The hand stopped stroking and she looked concerned at him. Before he lost his nerve, he gripped his phone and showed her the photo on his background, the one he took of her last week in her pajamas she never intended him to see – because they weren’t sexy. He thought they were incredibly sexy…and cute.
She smiled, “good save. And I can’t believe you took that photo of me.”
“I can’t believe you weren’t going to wear it around me ever. You look so…” she glared, so he amended what he was going to say, “sexy.”
She laughed, knowing the correction he made, and went back to stroking him.
“Speaking of the inspiration from that outfit,” he put down his phone, “there is something trapped inside me and needs to get out. Will you rescue me?”
She laughed again. She loved corny lines; it was how he first picked her up. “Hmm,” she rolled on top of him, “with my hand, my mouth or my body? I am a woman of extraordinary talents.”
She smiled down at him and he couldn’t help but grin right back. “I’ll leave the rescue mission up to you.”
**502 words. Honestly, I think the redhead in the prompt for this week is so hot, and I definitely send photos like that to my lover. However, when I read the prompt, I thought of a real life moment. No matter what, the sweet memory wouldn’t be vanquished, so I surrendered and brought it to light.
I never wear this outfit for him, it’s been more what I wear with yoga or cleaning, I would not view it as lingerie or sexy. And I hate the word cute, a word so frequently used to describe me (damn my short stature). He’s been working for a long time to sway me that when he thinks I look cute, he can also view me as sexy. I’m not buying it. It was years before he saw me in it. But once he did, he had this photo in his phone for quite some time.
Key Words: Rescue
Forbidden Words: Hero
Word Limit: 432 words
Extra Credit: Make everyone come
Bonus Words: +123 words if the superhero gets the last laugh
There was no rope. There were no floggers or paddles, restraints or hot wax. There was no slapping or biting, degradation or orders.
There was only me, in your arms. Caressing, exploring, in adoration of each other. There were lips and soft kisses, fingertips and sighs. A sensitive spot, an in drawn breath. A rhythm, naturally obtained, drawn together in harmony. There was bliss and contentment, soft whispers and fulfillment.
The sacred comes in many ways, be it kink or vanilla, the point of everything is the bond between two bodies coming together and reaching a place of ecstasy.
As this is a time of reflection, a personal glimpse into the past year:
Joining Fetlife: what is great about this site is that you don’t feel alone in having a particular kink, as you discover there are so many people who also share that desire. It is also great to go out and meet local people, to learn how to be safe when trying a new kink, to watch others. My husband and I try to get out as much as we can, together and even separately (due to having children more than scheduling).
Learning rope suspensions: We’ve been doing bedroom bondage for quite awhile, but with the capacity to learn from others through Fetlife, we have now moved into suspensions. We are still learning and experimenting.
Making rope: this came with suspensions, as the classes we’ve been attending rope is a huge discussion. My husband, in his very typical way, claimed he could make rope, and we both discovered we preferred hemp rope. So off he went, and he’s made such beautiful rope, and can do all sorts of crazy colors now. This is a hobby that he is passionate about, and we’ve been lucky people in the kink community buy his rope so that he can financially afford to continue this hobby.
Buying a new flogger: yay for craftsmanship. I don’t know that I am ever going to buy a flogger from a commercial sex store, as the quality you can find from individuals is just astounding. Mine was custom made from Sovran. And it’s exactly the feeling I wanted (I hate sting, but can zone out with thump). We haven’t had many opportunities to use it, as a flogger isn’t a quiet toy to use while the kids are sleeping, but I’m definitely adding this to a new kink explored.
Slave Hunt: A well orchestrated event that the first thing to greet our view was large posts in the ground with rings at the top for bondage. People set up shade, spread blankets and chairs in front of these “whipping posts”. People signed up prior to the event if they wanted to be hunted or hunter, the hunted offered up bounties so the hunters could decide who they wanted to find. There were several rounds. My husband signed up to be prey twice, hunter once.
The rules were the prey were released into the forest ten to fifteen minutes before the hunters were released. If found, prey was offered the chance to surrender or if they ran when spotted, then the hunter had paint balls set on low. There were many more rules that made this safe for both parties.
Once the prey was caught, the hunter escorted them to the post and the preys’ wrists were tied. At the top of their post was a card with the already written hard limits. The spectators then came up with toys or just themselves and played with the prey until the round was over. The sooner the prey was caught, the longer they were played with by the spectators. My husband has a scar from this event, though had a blast with the adrenaline rush that comes from hiding being hunted. Everyone says that it is far more exciting to be hunted than the hunter, and my husband agrees after experiencing both. I was just a spectator.
Everyone was incredibly respectful during every aspect of the rounds, and then pitched in and helped each other in the clean up after the event. It was well thought out and organized. I can’t even begin to fathom how hard the group that runs this event works, nor all the planning that is involved.
Polyamory: With him being gone and so stressed out, adding this new stress factor wasn’t kind. Who knows if we gave it an honest attempt, but the timing was off. And now we are dealing with the emotional repercussions that will take quite a bit of time to heal.
Separate sex: With the polyamory thing, husband didn’t want to have a threesome at the last minute, so decided that I would have sex with our friend and then shower and have sex with him. Friend was fantastic at spanking me, but what I failed to think about is what the noise of that would do to husband – until I heard the wall being punched. This is when we knew that polyamory wouldn’t work with husband so stressed and angry all the time.
Pegging: We’re at least giving this a break, as he doesn’t enjoy it as much as he thought and I am not competent in this despite my many tries. I wrote a post on it here.
Acccomplishing my Christmas Wish:
*You can find the list here from both of us sisters. I specifically wanted to accomplish four things on a list over a couple of weeks since I was childless.
- Wax Art: I loved this. We had no idea what we were doing (though I researched some tips),and didn’t quite have a big enough wax foundation. Still, it was what I was hoping for. I’m grateful my husband is so good with a knife, as that was his carving and decorating tool of choice. We also used some paintbrushes. My sister made the colored candles, making this first experience all the more memorable.
- Rope around my nipples: we need thinner rope for this with his idea, the thicker rope I prefer to be suspended with just isn’t the same. And of course, my husband wants to go far more complicated than I imagined, because any rope around nipples would suffice for my expectation.
- Tied with Lights: far exceeded my expectations (I was just thinking a Christmas strand of lights strung around wrists or legs), though it took the help of a friend. It was a far more complicated and creative suspension. Best part? It was a dual suspension as well, our first time and another one of my bucket list items crossed off.
- Longer play sessions: yes, and even experimented with some new things! I’m writing them up, but they’re very rough drafts and need a lot of smoothing in editing, as composing them I was still dazed and wobbly.