Oct 292015

“I didn’t like the choking.” He told me on the way home from a BDSM social. “It’s dangerous. How do you know that you can trust him?”

Trust is part of the negotiation process. I wouldn’t play with someone that I didn’t trust. And the scene took place publicly.

My husband and I do breath play and choking far more dangerously than what my scene was with someone else.

Of course it’s dangerous – it’s risky. I walked into a situation and negotiated that risk, just as my husband and I have discussed our limits with it.

There is far more trust in my husband, hence why we really engage in rough play at times. He knows my limits.

My new play partner and I have played twice now. We are learning each other. He doesn’t truly choke me, he places his fingers, hand, or arm around my throat so that I am vulnerable, so that I feel his presence. He doesn’t obstruct my airway or blood flow in any way.  It may appear that way, and I explained that.

It’s effective without the pressure for my head space. All I need is to be shown I am vulnerable, the threat of force is enough to subdue me and make me quiet. It’s perfect for any scene and something I wholeheartedly love.

“It’s so intimate,” he continued, the crux of the problem that I have little to debate against. Emotions are tricky things.

It is intimate to me as well. Reaching into my mind, quieting it, is an intimate act. Making me feel powerless, giving me an adrenaline and endorphin spike, pain, is an intimate act. It requires trust.

“We didn’t discuss choking.” And I was stumped, because I am unsure how to negotiate a scene beforehand with my husband and a play partner. Not to mention that I simply don’t want to know everything – the surprise (mind game?) gets me as much as the action. I know it’s simply possible – but my husband and I do not have the power dynamic that I must obtain his permission for everything. I discussed playing with others, we defined some boundaries (all sexual), and choking wasn’t one of them.  Two times I’ve played with this other man, and choking has happened both times.

My initial gut reaction is that I just need to not scene with another (his preference, I’m sure) or my husband should not watch.

I yearn to play with others. I choose my husband for life, to grow old with, but I don’t wish him to be my only. It’s as simple and as complicated as that. A scene with another gives me that connection that I crave with another, it broadens my own experiences by providing me with something that I am not getting in my relationship (not an insult to my husband – no one can be/do everything). It also enhances my own appreciation for what I have with my husband.

In many discussions, my husband acknowledges that no one person can fulfill every single role in another’s life. Yet he cannot handle the intimacy that he sees when I scene with another; I sometimes feel that it stems from selfishness, that because he hasn’t found someone I shouldn’t be able to participate. I know that this isn’t completely fair or even true of him.

I know that he is truly concerned for my safety; that he is protective of me. I know that it is a challenge for him to see me connecting to another person; I know that possessiveness concepts have been bred into his mind from society since his birth, that he does not seek to educate himself on the fallacies of such concepts to help combat them. I know that there is envy.

I know that there is a risk that he may truly not be able to share me in any fashion.

I know that I seek an intimate connection with people that I feel close to. I can compromise on what that entails.

So just the statement, “I didn’t like the choking,” has opened up a lot to think about and discuss for us, and it’s not just about the choking.

*To read about our previous challenge on doing a scene with another, click here.

*Some people who follow on twitter may be aware that currently we are long distance, the scene and this discussion occurred before separation.

 Posted by at 8:03 am
Oct 262015

I picked him up at the airport, a bundle of nerves standing in the very center of a walkway where the passengers flowed out of terminals. I didn’t want him to miss seeing me, and to know that I was waiting for him.

He is so tall even amid crowd, it is almost ridiculous how I always worry that I won’t find him – until I see him standing above the others.

I took a step, shaky, and then another. I saw his eyes scan the area, his sexy crooked smile when he saw me closing the distance between us. His arm lifted, and I tucked myself against his side, wrapped up in him.

We had mere days together to last us months. He took the car keys from me in the parking lot, gripped my hair and disheveled me within seconds of us buckling our seat belts, kissed me possessively before even starting the engine.

I never question that I am his.

On the drive home he unzipped his pants for my welcoming mouth. I memorized his taste and shape against my tongue, thanked him for not making me wait until we arrived at a bed. He shifted my strategically worn skirt and crotchless panties, brought me to the first of many orgasms halfway through the drive as I reclined in the passenger seat beside him.

At home, it was an early bedtime for kid and adult. Domestic duties being met, we locked the door and reminded each other of why we merged and created a family.

Patient at first, he watched me strip down but requested I keep the underwear on. His fingers kept caressing the eagerly exposed part of me.

My fingers, hands, lips, could not touch enough of his skin. Such a broad expanse of man to travel and taste, I felt like it would take me all night just to know every inch of him again.

He wasn’t patient for long. He wasn’t gentle, didn’t give me time or slow down to reacquaint my body to his, pushed me into the mattress, penetrated with fingers, then tongue, then cock. My body would be sore, would remember his entry as it stretched to accommodate him. He laid claim to me in tender areas, in the bruises from vigorous meeting of bodies and hearts, in the biting marks that would be evident for weeks.

A honeymoon atmosphere where suddenly it was just us focusing on our commitment to each other, we explored each other in varying degrees of intensity half the night – an occurrence unusual in recent years. And the next day, stolen moments until another early bedtime that had nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with love and lust.

Days committed to each other to speak for the months ahead, to savor in memories, a frenzied meeting of need.

The approaching time of separation a shadow that wasn’t looked at too closely, the present moment stubbornly gripped tightly between us.

I would slide out of bed in the early morning hours before dawn approached just so I allowed him to sleep, only able to bear the separation for a couple of hours, crawled back between the sheets where his arms instinctively opened to welcome me even in his sleep.

He never questions he is mine.

That I belong in his strong arms that wrap around me, his heart beating for me kept safely in his comforting chest so I can be reminded as I press my ear to it, his cock stirring and rising for my pleasure at just the suggestion of my desire.

I marked him just as possessively, nails and teeth and soreness. I worried in the downtime of the timing and the unknown once separated as it approached closer.

I was a bundle of nerves as he left.

Wicked Wednesday*I’m not sure I was ready to write this. Some things are just emotional falling of words rather than cohesive thoughts, but the prompt for Wicked Wednesday of a chance meeting made me think of this.

I suppose I also need to celebrate the fact that we were able to meet for the brief span of time that we did, to give us a chance to physically express our love until the next time. Hopefully next coming together will be the end of these wearisome separations.

 Posted by at 6:56 am
Oct 232015

“What would you say if I pulled over and kissed you?” I asked as I was driving down the freeway. I didn’t look over to see the reaction, shyness can overwhelm me and I worked up enough nerve getting the question out – though my voice was perfectly calm.

“I would say hell yeah,” enthusiastically stated, so beautiful to hear.

I tightened in excitement and began to look for a place to turn off the road safely.

We had joked, for a long time, about making out. Joked. We were friends, though our busy schedules didn’t allow for much interaction. We had cuddled. I had dreamed, such strange, different dreams. I would normally tease and talk, but the thought had never seriously crossed my mind to make out with someone like…her.

I don’t consider myself even bi-curious, and while I’ve always appreciated a beautiful female form, I have had no real sexual attraction towards one. She knew this about me, but there I was seriously asking a question, after driving down the road for far too long fantasizing about kissing and touching her.

I pulled off, put the vehicle in park, took off my seat belt, and leaned across the center console to kiss her. Her mouth opened willingly, her tongue not hesitant, but mine was aggressive – as if I was afraid that I wouldn’t lay claim enough. She gripped my hair – in a messy braid and no easy feat, so my hand sought out her hair pin and pulled her tresses free, gripped at the base- as I like my own hair- to pull.

Her hand reached up and cupped a breast through my clothes. My hand reached down her shirt, from my advantage of kneeling up to get around the center console, fingers dipped into her bra, found a nipple and tugged. My mouth moved to the side of her neck and she sighed into it, her hand continuing to cup and mold my breast. I tugged a bit hard, gripped her curvy globe in my hand, felt and marveled at the softness, the texture different from my own and certainly very different from that of a man’s.

In my haste to make comparisons, to consider what my lover liked and what I was used to, I softly bit her neck – after all, that’s what I was used to doing and it went over well. It was only later that I remembered our conversation just hours prior to her stating she didn’t like biting.

Did I bite too hard? Did a nibble count? Did I nibble or feast? I would ponder these questions for a long time, days after the fact, kicking myself for making that lousy move at all.

It felt like I feasted. It felt like I was clumsy, all tongue and teeth and pinching fingers. It felt like I was an awkward youth never making out with another human being before.

And in some ways- I tried to comfort myself later- I was new to this all.

When we parted, breathless but not ravaged, we both calmly looked forward towards the road. I buckled my seat belt unhurriedly, thanked her, and turned back onto the road. Shy, awkward, a bit embarrassed though not knowing why, I stared straight ahead. We talked of everyday things, as if the moment didn’t happen. It was a bit surreal.

But when we arrived where her car was, before we parted, she pulled me into her arms and kissed me again, her hands cupping my butt and pressing our bodies firmly together. Near the same height, the coming together of hips, breasts, mouths, was an amazing contrast that I’ve not experienced.

She later texted me and asked when she could bury her head between my legs, when we could play again.

I was a mixture of: relieved that I didn’t bumble too much that she still wanted something to do with me, grateful that we were still friends at least, curious where this would lead, still confused on if I wanted it to, and excited at the prospect of her head between my legs – though I can see that being a contested matter as I also had a few visions of tasting her and not being patient to do so.



 Posted by at 4:35 am
Oct 212015

Sitting in front of him, exhausted and sweaty from the pain of our scene, I thought that he was going to untie the chest harness. He had already unbound my legs, ran his graceful hands over heated skin in the wake of the rope, so next up was my chest untied. Right?


My brain is often a chaotic swirling of thoughts, speeding by so quickly that sometimes it’s hard to find clarity. Even coming down from the spacey high of the scene, my unconscious background noise was beginning all over again, a realization made evident only when my wrong assumption was brought to light. Proven wrong, the wisps of vague notions of what I should be doing and how I’m doing stilled.

A strand of rope touched my upper arm, instantly I knew it was coconut rope. Coconut rope is scratchy and prickly immediately, no matter the pressure applied. I don’t like coconut rope, but my thighs had been treated with it twice by this man, both times around my thighs when I’m partially suspended and already on a high from the pain. I was okay with coconut rope at the peak of the scene, I discovered, but now – now when my brain was gearing to fire up again?

Now apparently I was okay with it as well as he slowly slid it across my chest, where the rise of my breasts begin. His breath sounded in my ear, heart beat pressed into my back, his clean scent – all of him assailed my senses as I sighed. Hands moved from shoulder to shoulder, the scratchy rope trailing across my soft skin. He tied it around me, pressed me down, my thoughts pressed into nothingness, away from him and yet the whole of my being centered around his will, and towards the rough textured sensation of the rope and peace.

It would mark me; fade to little pink abrasive markings against pale white skin for days to come. It would humble and calm me when viewed.


When I was fully untied, he positioned me to lie on my side and removed the blindfold. I stretched my shoulders and rested my head on one arm, keeping the other also up by my face. I kept my eyes shut, my body welcoming the soft blanket on the floor. I felt him navigate himself against my back, spooning position. His hand softly ran along the side of my body – inch by inch unhurriedly, glided across the back and fingertips swept hair off of my neck. His fingers stroked my scalp, ran through my hair, and I felt so sleepy and cherished. I welcomed the softer, sensual sensations after our scene. He gathered my hair up, clenched it suddenly in his fist, and yanked my head up. My breath caught at the absolute control, his arm slid between my own on the floor and my head, and wound its way around my throat. He pressed my head down a bit into his arm, my throat felt the heat from his strong arm. Vulnerable. At his mercy and whim.

I sighed, the only sound I heard in the silent room. He bent his arm slightly, the pressure more prominent against my throat, and then released my hair. I snuggled into his arm, tried to slow my excited breath, listened to his as a guide…as if I had forgotten what breathing normally was like.

His fingers again went soft and slow across my skin, they reached around my body and picked up a corner of the soft blanket to rub into my skin. My skin loved that blanket, so soothing against rope roughed nerves. His fingers again went to the base of my skull, soothed at a slow pace, yet I still found myself tensing, waiting…hoping.

Sure enough, he gripped again and pulled up. I groaned into the pain and arched a bit to relieve some of the pressure. The arm that I snuggled into tightened around my throat, not choking, but so dominant to my body. He twisted a bit, the pressure against my throat and the tugging at my hair hurt.

One of my hands went to his forearm, the fingers curled around his muscle, and before I dug in my nails I realized that he isn’t mine to scratch and mark – to claw into as I am sometimes wont to do when I am in pain. If we play again, I thought fleetingly, I should ask about that. It’s almost instinctual to press my fingertips into something when I am overwhelmed with sensations. I don’t draw blood, maybe he wouldn’t object.

It was the glorious-overwhelming-pleasure inducing pain that makes me so still I find myself holding my breath at the pinnacle – when my brain quits it seems to forget the simplest of tasks until I cross an unknown threshold and resume. When he let go, I collapsed into his arm again, felt the heat of his body alongside me, relaxed into the floor. He brushed his fingers through my hair, softly caressed my back. His heartbeat thudded against my overstimulated skin and I felt drowsy in the lullaby of his breaths.

I rolled over, threw a leg over his hips; the subtle scent of soap/deodorant/cologne on his skin wafted and added to the overall closeness, and snuggled more firmly against his side. My forehead rested in the center of his chest, my arm wrapped around and lazily circled his back. His hand kept a steady pace up and down my own back as I unhurriedly drifted back into reality.

*To read about the scene, click here.

 Posted by at 5:14 am
Oct 202015

Sometimes, it’s worse knowing what to expect. Our second time doing a scene together, the bruises on my thighs already healed a few weeks from the last time, and now I knew that in this scene they would bruise and tender to the touch again.

I was laying on my stomach, my arms had long been tied tightly behind my back, useless. Kneeling, he rested my knees on the tops of his strong thighs. My legs were bent and raised off the floor from this action, hips and chest pressed more firmly into the floor. He crossed my ankles, bound them together, and pulled them towards my thighs, wrapped rope around the upper thighs once, pulled the ankles even closer into the thighs. My legs didn’t want to compress that close, he folded me anyhow. Another wrap around the thighs, even tighter so my my physically limitations hardly mattered, and then each subsequent wrap dug even further into the skin and muscle, the constriction sustainable but painful.

I knew how unfolding would feel now, a mix of relief and strained muscles. I already ached.

He tied into the wraps, then into the hard point above him, and lifted. My body wasn’t mine to control, and even less so as my back arched, my legs lifted, my hips no longer grounded, my chest and now face pressed more firmly into the floor. I turned my cheek and felt the rough fabric of carpet underneath. Each small movement up that he created caused a moan of pain to escape my lips. I wasn’t lifted high but my own weight pressed fiercely against the tight ropes of my thighs.

Last time, he had stood on me in this position, in my then hazy mind I still reeled from that fact, but as his foot pressed into one of my thighs, I tried to now focus on how I was able to handle the weight. I tensed in anticipation, my body fighting rather than surrendering to the sensations of his body weight pressing intentionally from behind the already rope-gripped top of my thighs. My back arched a bit more; I would have clung to the ground or clawed it if my hands weren’t tied behind my back. Previously, how had I dealt with this so easily to the point where I was barely aware? Shifting even a little didn’t help a bit. My thigh felt as if the rope was steadily sawing into skin and muscle.

I had asked for this pain when I asked for the scene, I reminded myself silently. At the moment, I couldn’t remember the why.

He slowly decreased his weight off of my thigh…and then went to the other. The prospect of pain had me tensing in expectancy. This thigh hurt more. My own weight was painful; his standing form on top of one thigh was nearly unbearable. Nearly.

The suspense of the pain, the motions that he continued to do – as I expected him to do, ceased to matter.  I hit a threshold of pain, found myself holding my breath, and slowly released it. My body relaxed into the ropes instead of resisting them. My mind stopped anticipating his next action, instead yielded and accepted.

I would have bruises again, I would remember him every time I looked down, every time my skin unintentionally grazed against something…

and remember fondly.

*To read about the first part of the scene, and my mortification and excitement during negotiations, click here.

* To read about end of the scene (my favorite part this night), click here.

Wicked Wednesday is all about the number two, and this was my second time doing a scene with someone other than my husband, and two-thirds of the write up from it. 
Wicked Wednesday

 Posted by at 5:22 am
Oct 192015

“I saw on your bucket list that you were curious about the Wartenberg Wheel.”

I smiled. He read my list?

Oh my gosh, he read my list?! I felt shy and embarrassed. “Yes. Yes I am.” I hoped to sound nonchalant, as if it were common place that everyone’s desires, fantasies, curiosities were available to read. Nothing unusual there – just my most innermost, darker desires vulnerable to rejection or judgment. Yeah, right.

“Well, I have one, if you were interested to try tonight with our scene.” Our second scene together and he was fantastic enough to help me cross something off of my bucket list. “I looked at the other things, and no-”

Oh gosh, please Earth, just open up and swallow me. Maybe I should take down the bucket list? It was hard enough admitting I was curious about these things to myself, then my husband, and then to write them on an anonymous blog…but now I wasn’t anonymous – at least to this man who read the list and probably thought I was all sorts of crazy. Maybe adding the website to Fetlife wasn’t the way to go. Why did I let my sister talked me into that?!

“-but I would happy to show you the wheel.”

But here I was being offered something off of the list, and that rocked!

“Yay. Thank you.” Yep, I was excited despite my embarrassed horror, and my tone clearly conveyed that excitement. I just don’t have the poker face to play it cool; I am the very definition of an uncool person.

“What parts should I avoid?”

My mind went blank. I didn’t know how it felt, I’m not sure what parts. I turned and asked my husband, sitting next to us.

“What parts don’t you like biting,” husband advised.

Oh, that was an excellent start. “No ribs.”

“And inside the thighs, and belly,” my husband added. Gosh he was brilliant, why couldn’t I remember such things. A sure sign that I’m brand new and idiotic at this negotiation stuff. I also liked that he was involved with the negotiation of this, I didn’t want him to feel completely out of the loop, and valued his input.

Later, when I was tied up in rope and curled forward in a ball, when the steel touched my shoulder, I tried not to flinch at the new sensation. It poked, rolled, sharp pins radiated into my skin, nerves sensitive in the wake of the tiny teeth tickling across. My back relished the sensations, almost a massage; my arms felt the prickling far more, bound in rope with fewer exposed places; my thighs were indecisive, parts welcomed the tines skating across, already sensitive parts felt a bit overwhelmed at further exposing nerve endings.     

*To read about our first time together, click here.

*To read about the scene that was in the middle of the wheel being used, click here.

 Posted by at 5:18 am
Oct 182015

I was ovulating, so we were already in for a long night (for the record, I was extremely horny; we are not having any more kids). Normally on nights like this, it is about my pleasure, to an extreme at times that if he becomes too tired he will still finger me until I’m sated – until I’m horny again; I don’t pretend to be equal during these times.

And yet, this week every time we’ve had sex I’ve wanted to slow it down, to be fully present and focused on him. However, when he grasped my neck and kissed me softly, telling me I wasn’t to touch him, I surrendered into being fully present into what he was doing to me. He shifted and began a pattern that I recognized as his go-to moves to get quick orgasms, and suddenly I wasn’t having it – despite the fact that I ovulating and am normally about orgasms.

I rotated my weight on top of him so suddenly he didn’t think to stop me, my elbow into the side of the neck to keep his head to the side, and I gently bit the side of his neck. When his arms wrapped around me, that was the physical cue that he wasn’t going to stop me, and I softened up my mouth along the side of his neck with nibbles and kisses; I also removed my elbow from the side of his neck. Goosebumps appeared along his skin and my fingertips grazed across the prickly skin. He gasped, rolled his body for better access to the side of his neck, murmured a few thoughts of how he wanted me to…? I honestly couldn’t hear him, his voice so soft and my head buried between his neck and his shoulder, tucked tightly at times because of how he shivered into my mouth. I did understand, however, that he wanted me to do to him; so I was to be the instigator, the pacer, the aggressor.

My hand went around to the back of his neck and my nails dug into the back of him as I bit again. I alternated between soft and hard sensations on the same side, trailed kisses to the front of his throat, moved up to his soft lips, grabbed the plump bottom lip gently with my teeth and sucked, briefly kissed him, and traveled to the other side of his neck for the same attention. My hand roamed down his body to his cock and stroked in a pattern that matched my mouth on his neck – hard, long strokes interspersed with soft teasing more towards the head.

He couldn’t stay still, his hands roamed softly over my curves, grasped or stroked my hair, and occasionally his fingers would part my lips and discover I was wet – only for me to shift out of his reach. He would gasp or moan with the slower, sensual kisses, suck in his breath with the harder pressure and teeth. At one point he asked for sex, and I denied his request.

My hand cupped his balls and my fingers stroked him below as my mouth also moved lower to his chest. Such a broad expanse of delicious skin, and I relish how he tasted, how he smelled. His fingers sought me out and I rolled farther away from him, coming back at an angle that he couldn’t touch me at, my hand still upon him. Softly, I trailed kisses up one arm, down to his chest again, my tongue swirling around a nipple before I nipped the tip. He arched up, I sucked harder, he started rotating away, my nails dug into the inside of his thigh and he reversed firmly on his back.

Once I was done kissing his arms and chest, I moved between his thighs, now my body firmly out his reach. I laid my tongue flat against his base and lick slowly up to the tip and removed my mouth. He gasped at the tease. I did it again, a few more times, before finally wrapping my lips around his head and gently sucking; just the tip. My hands stroked up and down his inner thighs and I felt his muscles bunch, experimented with where he seemed most sensitive on his thighs as I began sucking him. Once I thought I located a zone, I moved my mouth to the inner part of his thigh and bit down. He jerked and my tongue swirled against the small indents in his skin, he groaned and I kissed and sucked the tender area.

As my mouth began the same pattern of soft and hard on his thighs, my hand again stroked him in the same way. He squirmed more on his thighs and my elbows would often have to regulate how much he moved, or my nails would dig into the thigh he moved too much as a warning that I was between them and required him to stay still.

This close to his cock, however, had me alternating sucking him – it was a good excuse to transition to the next thigh and back again. He was so hard, so turned on as his body shivered with the different sensations and his noises encouraged me.

I savored every moment, every kissing taste, every reflex under my tongue or fingertips, the groans and sighs. I loved how I could create this reaction in my lover so much that I pushed him over and continued on his back side, unhurriedly trailed my way up to eventually settling on the back of his neck, adjusted my arm around his neck to gently apply pressure to keep him where I wanted him, my fingertips grazing along his goose bumped skin.

 Posted by at 7:54 am