Sep 052017

*Continued from here

Punching is far more effective and safer when I am pressed against something soft from the recoil of force, so after the orgasm Mr. Texas guided me away from the hard and unforgiving bathroom counters. It was blindly, as a leather blindfold now soaked with my tears unusual smell was my primary overriding sense. Trust led us back into the bedroom where he bent me over the bed and punched a few more times at the softest fleshiest parts of my bottom and thighs before throwing me onto the bed on my stomach. It was unsettling to not be able to see, for my body to snap from one place to another by force, something that created a different type of awareness within me.

His fists came down faster and harder in the familiar position but I yellowed rather quickly on both cheeks.

“You normally take a lot more,” he commented, rolled me over and fingered me to yet another orgasm, completely took my mind off of the pain. He kissed me passionately as the head of his cock pushed past my entrance and parted the way into my depths; my body welcomed his intrusion, clenched with pleasure rippling along his length.

After an orgasm from me he slid out, one hand glided across my throat as his fingers and thumb found my pulse on both sides of the neck and softly pressed. It didn’t cut off air nor blood, just a gentle reminder that he was in charge and immediately made my mind quiet down again, an unvoiced complaint of him stopping sex silent on my lips. The other hand roughly fingered me to several more orgasms, my fluids coated his fingers and sounded out into the otherwise quiet room – I am often non verbal with a hand around my throat.

Again, in between orgasms, the smell of wet leather wafted into my awareness.

He slid into me again and we had sex for so long, in so many positions that I screamed in overwhelming pleasure until my throat felt raw and my stomach hurt from the tension.

Eventually he growled sexily in his own release. At the time I was bent over the bed standing so he scooped me up and laid me gently in the middle of the bed, cuddled against me despite how sweaty my overworked body was. The blindfold came off but the pleasant smell of wet leather lingered.

Mr. Texas praised how well I did as he stroked the side of me, his hand ran across a hip.

Smack! And he was back to patting a cheek, positioned his lower body a bit away to get the space to reach my bottom while the arm underneath my head went around front to hold steady firm pressure against my throat. Several soft strokes from his hand and then a hard one, the anxiousness of an occasional promise of a hard one that never landed to watch me tense and gasp, which made him chuckle.

Eventually he positioned me onto my stomach to again punch against my cheeks and the tops of my thighs, though I was fast complaining.

I was also in that floaty space where pain and pleasure collided and blurred and nothing else existed beyond the sensations.

…That is, until he reached to the nightstand and rubbed menthol into my cheeks. “Red,” I stated, concerned at how cold my cheeks became, how they intensified the sting that my skin had already been feeling.

“Okay,” he said soothingly, rolled me over and held me. “No more.”

Perhaps it would seem strange that menthol made me red so quickly, but earlier we had played with a few chemicals and menthol had made its way to my clit and I hated how that felt.

The smell of it finally penetrated the wet leather smell.

I asked him to wash it off so he pulled me into the bathroom and bent me over the counter, this time was only to graze my overly sensitive bottom with a warm washcloth.

He commented on how out of it I looked after our play session and steered me back into the bedroom, tucked us both into the covers and snuggled up against my back. I dozed but woke quickly once the gel penetrated my muscles and made my cheeks feel on fire – a different sort from the hot throbbing after impact, more like pins radiating heat from deep under the skin.

He was already fast asleep but it woke me and kept me awake until the sensations much later finally subsided, effectively taking me out of my quiet mind.

Lesson learned: I don’t like chemicals.

Feb 272017

Half laying on my side and stomach, I woke up when fingers roughly pushed their way into my body, pounded in and out to where the hand and remaining fingers felt like a fist against my lips.

I was already wet, as it seems I always am. I clenched around the fingers and dream and reality splintered with the rough and quick orgasm.

I was pushed fully on my stomach, my legs spread by Mr. Texas’ knees as he popped the head of his cock between my lips and past the initial resistance of my entrance. My wet body allowed the rest of him to slide effortlessly to my wall, which he hit surprisingly fast and painfully. A few more thrusts that hit and hurt, and my body stretched more fully to accommodate him, adjusting to where it was less pain and more pleasure.

Even in the pain, I tightened in the pleasure and raised my hips to welcome him hitting the depths that caused the discomfort. I love the uncaring taking, the forcing in. It turns me on far more than words can express. Even now, as I type this, I grow wet with the memory.

I groaned a bit too loudly. He yanked back my head with a fist in my hair; I moaned even more, arched back and took him deeper, and he pushed my face into the bed.

Perhaps he did so because of the sleeping kids in the house, he is after all quite considerate.

I struggled to breathe for a minute, my nose squished uncomfortably. I came; I screamed. The uncaring nature of such an act, the pounding of him inside of me, the slight objectification of being used in such a manner, all of it so unbelievably hot to me that orgasms simply didn’t cease, pleasure after pleasure crashed and didn’t ebb. It allowed me to not think, to go from dream to orgasm after orgasm, to not even have to be conscious of my own noises or own reactions, just to be repeatedly rammed by his cock. I felt every ridge, every throb, especially the tip of his head and the curve underneath – felt like a hook scratching an incessant itch against my walls.

The fist demanded my head up so quickly I had to use elbows to brace myself, a hand went around my throat and his fingers felt and dug where I showed him I liked on either side. Normally, he allows my own weight to dig into his fingers, this time they squeezed as he lowered my head upon the fingertips, my elbows no longer needed to brace myself up. His cock continued it’s relentless pleasure thrumming in my body. His fingers around my throat competed with attention. Dizzying, I felt my legs lower and my body become heavy. My eyes were already shut or otherwise I would have noticed the world go dark; I only noticed the gasping of breath as he rolled me over, the heaviness of my body, the haziness of my brain.

“I think you passed out for a moment, your whole body went limp,” he thrusted himself between my thighs as he stated that, and though it didn’t sound like it – I still sensed the concern even as he fucked me senseless.

I knew amid foggy brain and orgasms he still needed reassurance. I also knew that if I passed out, it was done correctly, safely, and was far shorter than my ex husband and I would do.

“Probably, and that’s hot. I’m fine,” I managed to breathe out in between cries of pleasure. I bit down on his shoulder as my arms wrapped around him, my heels digging in to his hips to pull him in even deeper.

He leaned back, grabbed my wrists, forced them over my head, pressed upon them with his body weight as just that action alone caused another orgasm. I was so tense under him and in that tension tightened even more as his own grunts and groans signaled his release.

I fucking love rough sex, feeling forced, being taken, pinned.

And I fucking love the softness of being held, of reassuring that what occurred was amazing, of praising each other and communicating how deeply we care for each other.

Wicked Wednesday*Wicked Wednesday is about one man, and in these moments no one and nothing exists except this one man.

**February Photo Fest photo continues the story of David, unrelated to the above story but this picture is so beautiful at visually being taken. Febraury Photofest
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Feb 232017

Febraury Photofest

A picture from this moment

After I gave The Wanderer head and he gave me multiples, we leisurely laid on the bed. I was fully naked whereas he was dressed – such a common occurrence between the two of us it almost doesn’t need to be stated.

He was laying on his stomach and I was curled up against his side. I couldn’t help myself, my fingers craved to travel over him, so softly traced the arm closest to me, then up and around to explore the width of his shoulders, lazily circled my way to the lower back.

He laid there, his breathing even and calm, and it occurred to me that I’m rarely just allowed to have my way yet his silence granted permission. I decided, as is often the case, to push my advantage and sat up to continue traveling his body. First, my hands ran over his bottom through his jeans, down his thick thighs, pressed a bit more and felt his ever constant tension. Though, his calves were the tensest by far and I spent some time pressing my fingers and palms up and down them, a pitiful resemblance to a massage that I managed through jeans and my far too small hands.

Back up, this time with the same pressure, firm and sure against his skin since he hadn’t stopped me, into his muscles. My hands lifted up the bottom of his shirt and slid between fabric and warm skin. Surprisingly, he offered to take off his shirt and I was ecstatic about the idea – it is not common that he has is shirtless. Once he laid back down, I curled up alongside his body and began my traversing again, this time following the path of my fingertips made with a few kisses and nibbles – innocent in nature, simply appreciated his taste as well as the feel of him; almost gossamer in sensation and didn’t linger –  still a bit tentative and surprised he allowed me such liberties with his body.

I reached down to his legs again and when I moved back up, kissed small trails across to the other side of him as my thighs straddled his hips, rolled on top of his body. My hands slid sensually across his skin, watched his breathing, leaned over the length of him and made sure that nipples grazed across his skin. I heard the catch in his breath before my own washed over the side of his neck, my lips simply caressed the sensitive places against his neck before my mouth became a bit more aggressive in kissing. As greedy mouth alternated up and down his neck, I made sure to keep my body poised where my nipples fondled his back.

I offered lotion so that I could apply more sliding pressure against his back and his agreement was a voice lulled at peace. I hopped up but was back on him before my body even missed his warmth, joked about being a sadist myself and threatened to smear his hot back in cold lotion. I didn’t of course, I liked his relaxed nature and wanted to take care of him rather than torment him (or perhaps I only view cold as torment?).

Fully armed and smeared with lotion, my arms glided across his skin, felt the tension and knots under the surface. As I stretched the pressure up, I allowed myself to just lay upon his back. Up and down, perceiving him to relax under my touch, kissing him every time my smaller frame laid across his larger one.

Eventually we were getting close to our check out time and still needed to pack, toys strewn out across the room from the night before. I could have rubbed him for hours more if not for a time constraint. I was unsure how to transition and remembered I asked him at one point if I was squishing him with my weight upon his back, to which he replied that he didn’t think I could, a challenge that I set aside but felt like it was the perfect time to accept. I belly flopped for all I was worth onto his back, his surprised exhalation of breath from the impact caused me to giggle. “Now am I squishing you?” I joked playfully.

“A bit,” he admitted, though whether I truly was or he was just being nice to me is undecided. Sometimes I wonder if he knows how to perceive my playful moods, or whether the moods are even appropriate – after all, I had just switched relaxing sensual rubbing with belly flopping squishing.

I can be pretty dense, or random, at times. Not all play has to be sexual, or consist of the pain/pleasure aspect, and I am far too dynamic (my friends might call me flighty) to be any one thing with even The Wanderer for as long as we’ve been playing, not to mention he was far more than a play partner.

I was grateful that he allowed me this level of intimacy, and that the day continued with the friendship aspect that also makes us so wonderful.

*And of course, since my Wanderer is also a blogger, you can read his perspective here.

Dec 012016

I wasn’t even going to write this post, but after:

  • I viewed my sister’s body and can no longer deny that she is dead;
  • I cried hysterically as I laid my head next to hers;
  • I stroked her glorious hair (she had amazing hair);
  • I say a tentative goodbye (I know there’s many more);
  • I comforted my father – a man that rarely even expresses emotions;
  • I bemoaned why there would even be a viewing – how morbid!
  • I get drunk at lunch as my father keeps ordering more and more drinks.
  • I go back to the bed that she used to sleep in and take a long nap.
  • My friends hear about my day and graciously kidnapped me,
  • We head towards a kink event which was at a swinger’s club,
  • I am distracted by the wonderful performances of my skilled friends,
  • I am kissed and cuddled by David,
  • I have incredibly public sex with David,
  • I ride the sybian,
  • He rides the sybian.
  • And then I said goodbye to friends and he took me back to my sister’s house,
  • where during the ride home I tell him for the first time I just lost my sister and he reacted very compassionately:

At first it seemed we just intended to cuddle once we stripped naked. It was the early morning and we were both exhausted. Plus, we had had multiple orgasms already at the club. His hand grazed my nipple and that was all it took for me to request sex. I was tired, he was tired, so I told him to grab a condom before he thought I was asking for foreplay. He fucked at a fast pace, one that I couldn’t believe he could keep up as long as he went. We moved positions quite a bit, but a favorite of his was me on my side with one leg split up between our bodies. The position allowed him to bottom out and I welcomed the pain.

He yanked back on my head a lot, my scalp complaining at the pain, my body thrumming at the pain and pleasure contrast. He also wrapped his hand around my throat and gently squeezed every so often. David is excellent at creating a helpless feeling and letting me know that he is in control. I surrendered that control to him, my mind more fully escaped into the sensations he was creating.

He also talked dirty to me, something that is always slightly shocking (though why, considering how many men recently have done that?) and takes me away from my orgasms a bit. He called me a “fucking whore” quite a bit, verbalized how he was going to fuck me next, how good I felt, how good he felt – all using crude language that I’m sure would have me blushing, except the shock factor of the words was just enough to penetrate through my orgasms AND also the emotional numbness that was beginning to creep in from the past several days.

Would I like the talk otherwise? Probably not. It’s just not my thing, at least how he was doing it. But in that moment it was appropriate because I needed something to take me out of my comfort zone to help me escape the numbing despair, even if just for moments.

I was being fucked into existence with his hammering inside of me; and I was alive. 

He pulled out of me after far too long, my body sore, and tore off the condom, straddling my chest and stroking himself. “I’m going to feed you,” he stated, and then guided my mouth to wrap around his cock, impaling my head on his shaft until his hot cum spilled down my throat. He roughly fucked my throat through his climax and then we cleaned up.

When I came back to bed, he pulled me into his arms and held me tightly, smoothing down my hair. Soon he was asleep, but he woke up every time I stirred and pulled me in close.

It was nice to doze in and out always surrounded by the arms of a friend. It was comforting to not be alone, to be cared for.

It was the only night I allowed myself the luxury of seeking comfort with sex and a man, and it was with a friend.dsc_7466

Aug 142016

So with my husband and I reconciling, one of the first things on his list was anal play for him. He hadn’t experienced it in months and I think that he was even made to feel that it was viewed negatively in some regard.

He missed it.

He had thrown out all the toys that he was in possession of that we had split, so we no longer had the very cool dildo that went beautifully with our harness (and also fit inside of me with vibrations); I was still in possession of the harness. So, off we went to a sex store where we found just a standard dildo that the harness would hold in. It was more malleable than the other dildo, which actually helped cut down on me accidentally hurting him; the downside is when I really got going it would slip out a little easier. It was also lighter, so while nothing was inserted into me, at least it stayed put in the harness a bit better.

Armed and ready, we were going to try pegging again.

Actually, it was a scene that I was giving him with pegging so he laid down tied in the center of the bed with a pillow under his bottom. I started with softer sensations (he dislikes pain of any kind). My hands would roam and my mouth was active the whole time:

tongues danced together with gentle caresses reaquainting fingertips with his body, soft sighs and a building of passion and love and trust;

blindfolding him with a soft leather strip so he could focus more on the physical sensations and less visually, my mouth hovering above his own as my tongue darting out to trace his lips as he tried to catch a kiss;

brushing his skin with feathers as my mouth would roam and suck at delectable areas that incited moans;

using stinging flicks of a toy as my teeth would nibble and occasionally bite, causing goosebumps and pinkened marks to appear across his body;

taking the tines of the wheel and traversing across his body as teeth would sink into muscles, causing him to jump or take sharp intakes of breath as he worked through the brief flashes of pain;
an ice cube melted in my mouth as my tongue swept across his reddened areas, cooling down the heated flesh right before I would drip hot wax from a candle, reheating the area and giving a contrast.

When I increased the sensations in roughness, I also took less care of tenderness – kissing him less, manhandling him more. When he would try to move away from a sensation, my hand was around his neck or my elbows were digging into a pressure point to keep him still, with a warning that he soon heeded to stay still and work through accepting the sensations. A black hood (a new toy of mine) with just an opening for the mouth was pulled over his face, effectively turning him more of an object that I was toying with and a mouth to fuck, as I immediately told him to stick out his tongue so I could straddle and fuck his face. I made sure to press my hips down every so often to make his breathing a little more labored as he brought me pleasure.
It wasn’t long before I placed on a glove, a lot of lube on one finger, positioned myself between his legs, and then my mouth teased the tip of his erection as I slowly circled his anus before inserting the finger. As my finger moved deeper into his body, my mouth moved lower down his shaft. Two fingers increased my sucking, which moved at the same time of my fingers – down and in, up and out. Three fingers – a bit trickier as my pinky always seems to be in the way, my tongue swirled around the ridges of his head as I inserted before attempting to deep throat him as my fingers tried to fill his body.

He sighed and moaned and groaned, his hips occasionally tried to thrust up and welcome the sensations even further. He was so hard in my mouth, occasionally pulsing at a delicious part, hitting the back of my throat at times, his muscle clenching around my fingers as they curled slightly, explored, slid in and out.
I decreased the sensations before stopping, taking off my glove and moving up his body, briefing sliding my own body to where he was inside of me and grinding on top of him while I took off his hood and kissed back his humanness. I kissed the sides of his neck as I took off his blindfold, slowing rotating my hips rather than fucking him roughly, leaned down to passionately kiss him before I slowly unraveled him to freedom, wanting him to have full use of his hands and legs. His hands immediately went to my hips to fuck us to pleasure, but I removed myself off him and told him to put me in the harness.
Less than a minute later I was again between his legs, liberally applying lubrication on my dildo, positioning it at his entrance. He seemed surprised that rather than enter him, I leaned forward and kissed him, pressing my body down on his own and telling him how much I loved him. Then I leaned up and carefully entered him, watching his face closely in between the toy disappearing into his depths. He gave me verbal feedback the whole way in, positive that it felt good, that it wasn’t hurting, that he could take more. When I was all the way in, I praised him as I leaned forward for a kiss again before straightening up and slowly easing out and then in. One hand stroked his cock and the other caressed his balls. Masturbation Monday Week 102

Soon I was fucking him, both hands gripping his hips like he so often did to me to have more leverage and go as deep as I could, and his own hand was stroking himself. I slipped out a couple of times, but eventually his body tensed and his hips lifted as his hand slowed while white spurts shot across his chest with his orgasm. It was a magnificent sight; it was verbally decadent to hear his sounds; it was incredible to create and be a part of.

I finished the scene for him with a warm wash cloth, cleaned the beautiful white streaks and hardened candle wax off his skin, had him sit up for a drink of water before rolling over so I could wipe off the excess of lube between his cheeks. I had a candle going of massage wax the whole time and poured enough over his broad expanse of back, rubbing his muscles and feeling any residue tension leave his body, before using another warm wash cloth to remove any oil that didn’t soak into his skin. I covered him with a blanket as he laid so peacefully and heard him snore before I even left the room to clean up our toys. Masturbation Monday badge - small



Jul 182016

*Continued from here

“I don’t care if she’s ready, I only care if you are,” he told the woman who was co topping me. He had discussed his plan to hit my thighs with a flexible bamboo stick and she would slap at my lips to a rhythm. I felt the ready question he asked previously was directed at me and I offered no protest, so when she agreed she was, they began.

It was a bit of humor in the scene, but I found myself intensely aware of the rhythms across one thigh, the slap in between my legs, and then the accompanying stings across the other thigh. He beat once, she slapped once, he echoed in with once again. He beat twice, she slapped twice, twice on the other thigh. This pattern was maddeningly to me, it was also very centering at I was not aware of my noises, any potential audience, my breathing, the impact – no, only the rhythm. It was becoming very aware of my present in such an odd way.

Eventually, he questioned the use of a Hitachi and I consented; I so badly wanted an orgasm after being denied one already.

When he placed the wand against my thin lace fabric, I squirmed- rather it was into or away from the sensation I can’t say.

The woman held my wrists and her soft lips grazed my nipple, her mouth gently sucked. Again, I felt grateful to be playing with both of these individuals and thought it was so fucking sexy.

I became very loud in volume when orgasm after orgasm was forced on me, with some impact occasionally thrown in – giving me a break to breathe but not cutting down any of my moans.

At one point he ordered me to look at her and thank her for my next orgasm, and even she offered a protest that she didn’t think I could do it. She stood behind my head and gripped my now sweaty hands in both of hers, I arched back a bit to look up into her face as she looked down, her hair cascading down either side. A further awareness that I was playing with a female – a rarity, and also that I would try to look at her while I was orgasming.

He placed the wand against my wet fabric and the buzzing so quickly overwhelmed my body. I shut my eyes, snapped them open, looked into her lovely eyes, shut, open, tried to keep them open, shut them, shuddered against the wand as I groaned through the build up and looked at her right when it finished, thanking her at the same time.

She praised me for trying so hard, stroked my sweaty hair as he stopped the wand and put it to the side. She offered to go get me water and he moved alongside where I laid, caressed my reddened thighs softly. He expressed that I wasn’t the wimp that I think I am.

They talked about everyday things as I sat comfortably listening and drinking my water, unhurried to get dressed or move. They welcomed anything that I had to say and listened respectful – I didn’t feel like an outsider even though I didn’t know them and they were already good friends.

Overall, it was an incredible experience and one that I would eagerly do again.

**There are five more concepts to this scene overall, as this was just a focus on the orgasm portion of it, although the next one is 12 hours of orgasms, maybe I should have had that be Masturbation Monday material.
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May 012016

Masturbation Monday badge - smallI love the after moments, after my lips fairly drip with the evidence of our orgasms. When you are soft and relaxed, lazy in letting me stroke  you.

I love how your fingers will sometimes drift and graze across a nipple, my sharp intake of breath a clear indication of what those orgasms have done to create a sensitive nerve-centered body.

You might pull me over and on top of you, a hand around my neck to keep me there – not threatening my air flow but an evident display of your control over me. My head rests back on your shoulder, trusting and further exposing my vulnerable neck. I am only in this moment, with you and a body that cries out for more pleasure despite how overwhelming it may already be.

You reach down and your fingers dip into my wet center, drag the the slickness up and down my slit, circle and press lightly on my button, dip and finger fuck me roughly.

My hand reaches behind and continues to stroke you, harder now than moments before, your ridges becoming more evident against my palm and fingers.

You whisper in my ear how wanton I am, how I never get enough of you, how wet and needy my body is. You whisper of your next moves and your fingers echo of the pleasure you paint in words; a tension in my body’s core is created and I roll my hips against your fingers, turn my face closer to your words.

Prompt for Masturbation Monday Week 87

Mar 292016

I did a 4 transition suspension that ended in a single leg futomomo. It was at practice, but it felt like a scene. The first part is the more technical aspect – not terribly interested in rope? Perhaps go down to the next star where he is tied, or the third star when I try it again.


There were two riggers and two bottoms. At first it started with my husband tying me. The other couple: a female rigger and tall man. We had all practiced rope together for a long time, but never with doing a suspension transition series together. Our bodies were tied differently: my husband forgot to tie into the hip harness and the male had a bit different chest harness.

Up for the first, and a face down just always hurts, but it’s bearable. Suddenly I am through the ropes and sitting with one leg straight and the other tied tightly in a futomomo (ankle to thigh and rope all around the thigh/calf keeping it there). As soon as I sat up, the pressure moved to my wrists, an odd thing and one that I cannot sustained. Down and sideways, and once my torso was sideways in the air I felt much better, had relief from most of the areas that pained me. My husband went over to the other couple and helped where he could – but the male needed to come down.

I understood that – it was strenuous. Once he was down, I came down.

He gets tied by husband and I watch with the female rigger (I also joke with some other people in the room and get all sorts of involved in their practice – because friends).

The female suggested we try it again, only swapping partners since I handled it better – perhaps it was the way that she was tying. So my husband begins to tie the male bottom. It would allow us bottoms to verbalize on the differences (we verbalize at practice on everything, it’s how the riggers learn so much I believe and have faith that they can try something new, though we’re both a bit bratty in our boredom of practicing, so there’s a joke always about needing gags for us).

The male’s body is already rubbed raw in some places from the rope, and the rope will be laid along those same reddened trails. I wince with him at parts.

He has a great sense of humor and comments that it’s unusual to have someone put rope over his shoulder, how he doesn’t need to bend down to assist a shorter partner. They are both above average in height.

As soon as he was up, it was obvious it was barely tolerable. They tried the three transitions, working quickly, getting feedback from him, discussing solutions from the rigger perspective, and he was down. They both took the rope off of him, discussed a few more things, and she took care of her bottom.

* It’s my turn back up.

I have a slight advantage of not having my body handle the first attempt as badly as the male’s did, the rope marks pink but not glaring red against my skin; I am not as in as much pain and I have also rested while they tried it again on him. I had the utmost respect for my male friend, his tolerance, stamina, and motivation far exceeds what I believe my own to be.

She ties me in jute, a rope I really don’t like but consent to because it’s what she is most comfortable with. She jokes how wonderful it is to tie someone that’s a normal height, reaches around and touches my breasts, cracking jokes about how rare that is, comments that I have hair and people in front of us playfully warn me she has that gleam in her eyes that bodes sadistic plans in the future. She asks my husband for a few pieces of advice.

I ask my husband afterwards to tie up a female who showed up and hasn’t been tied up yet. I know she wants to, and I wanted her to feel included in this practice. He offers and they move close to us just in case we need a spotter.

I am now off the ground and face down, my chest remembering this position and believing it was a bit soon. I breathe in and out.

“You got quiet all the sudden. Are you okay?” she asked. I had stopped joking pretty abruptly.

“Yes, I would tell you otherwise.”

“She gets quiet when the pain starts,” the male bottom added. We have been tied so many times now together in the room, and I believe that I understand his most of body language in ropes as well.

“She’ll tell you when something is not right,” my husband confirmed.

I felt proud that these people had faith that I would verbalize when needed, it is wanted in rope bottoms while practicing to verbalize what’s wrong. Even the female rigger knew this about me, but I think the sudden switch in my personality caused a quick concern.

She transitioned me to sitting with one leg bent (ankle to thigh) and one leg out straight. The stress on my wrists weren’t quite as bad, but I was shifting to one side, and that began to hurt my arm. She adjusted me a few times to no avail. Then she hurriedly worked towards the next transition.

As she strung rope between rope and upper arm, it pinched. She apologized as she could see the pinching and worked to correct it. My entire upper arm radiated such heat and pain – I began to sweat from the exertion and closed my eyes and breathed steadily, focusing my thoughts on my breath. “I’m fine,” I’d reassure her in-between groans of discomfort.

Then I was sideways and my arm slowly cooled down to a normal, if somewhat achy, feeling.

“Much better,” I told her gratefully. She spun me around a few times, asking some questions, and then asked how long I could go for still. “I’m okay, I can stay. I’ll give you a couple minute warning,” I told her. “But it depends on what you do on, how long you have.”

So she told me I was about to hate her and raised my legs. I cried out as the rope cut into one thigh that was tied so tight. “Don’t worry, you’ll be down in thirty seconds,” she comforted as all the support rope let go and all that was left was the single futomomo/painful thigh.

here is a futomomo, though at the time I was upside down dangling on leg from this position

Here is a futomomo (not taken the day that this written but for picture reference), though at the time I was upside down dangling from one leg from this position

“It’s the fourth transition,” the male said almost at the same time and I recalled that so far we had only done three.

Breathe. Breathe. Oh holy hell, breathe : My inward chant. My eyes were shut, I channeled my entire being into just breathing.

My husband’s voice somewhere in the background, “she’s fine. She will absolutely tell you if she can’t do it, trust me.”

He was right. I could handle it, even though it was excruciating. It was pushing my boundaries of being in pain in rope in ways that I am seldom tested in, and I was pretty proud of how I was handling it.

I began to be lowered, and ended up on the floor with my back against the woman’s chest. She held me as I trembled from the pain spikes, tipped my water bottle into my mouth for a drink.

Aftercare isn’t that common for practicing rope, but my body went through something pretty strenuous and reacted as such. I was grateful that I wasn’t placed on the ground, untied, and left to my own devices. I needed to come back to reality gently and with support, needed the patience to unravel both my body and mind’s reactions at the slow place that she unraveled the rope. I also had faith that she would take care of me as she felt needed; she was an experienced top. As she untied my legs, she used her partner’s legs as my pillow. She smoothed her hands over the reddened areas, softly soothing, and when I was sitting in front of her and fully untied, she gently scratched my back.

Yay for nails, they felt so good!

I was grateful, as I often am, for these people in the rope community. At times it feels like a close-knit family that is supportive, offers advice, pushes each other to go further, and takes care of each other.

 Posted by at 8:08 am
Feb 052016

February Photofest Badge 2016



What’s the magic number?  This week we turn our thoughts to how much we need to share about our pasts with current partners

Do you need or expect to know how many previous sexual encounters your current sexual partner has had? Is it any of your business?

To an extent. 

My husband looks(ed?) down at people “like me” who have had a larger number of partners. He wanted firsts; however, he loves the benefits of my knowledge and skill.

I worried when I first met him that he would want to sleep around when it was least appropriate in our life together because he didn’t have a lot of experience – that he would be curious what was out there, that he would want to discover that despite risks to us, that he wouldn’t realize how grand we were because of his lack of experience. He told me he just wasn’t like that, and despite me pushing him to sleep around before something went horribly wrong later in life, he convinced me to have faith that he would love and appreciate what we had. 

In these respects, I believe knowing about your partner’s past is important, though the knowledge obviously didn’t sway my husband or myself in the slightest. 

after a scene

Us after a scene. Look at how many toys this person has! Envious!

Jan 182016

“I love you, I just want you to know that,” he told me, a lopsided grin on his face.

My first clue I probably wouldn’t like him soon. Just so he was aware beforehand, in case I changed my mind, I responded, “I love you too.”

And then commenced the rope tying. My legs were tied tightly, with the ankle to the thigh on each leg. He spread my legs as far apart as he could, and strung rope from the right spread knee around the bottom post, up to my stomach, rested it freely and shifted back down the left post and left knee. The rope in the middle puzzled me. Then my wrists were bound together above my head. Reaching out of my sight, he came back with the nipple clamps. He rested the cold chain between my legs for just a second, moved it up to one nipple, slowly to increase the anticipation of the bite, and then strung the chain through the rope on my stomach before attaching the other nipple. The chain between the rope at my stomach kept the tension on the clamps pulled at my nipples (as if the bite of them wasn’t enough sensation).

“Put your legs together,” he commanded.

I did, cautiously, tentatively, and as my knees swiveled up to be together, the rope down the center of my stomach tightened. I only stirred about halfway up, realized how badly the clamps were now pulling at my nipples.

“Clever,” I whispered, parted my legs.

He chuckled. “Now to get some movement from you,” he said, and slapped between my lips. My legs instinctively went up to shield my stinging sex, but didn’t quite make it all the way, as the aching pull on my nipples overrode before they could fully shut. But the sudden movement of my legs sent a sharp bite into my nipples that then felt like it traveled like electricity to my throbbing sex. He chuckled again, and then slapped more lightly, gradually worked me up to the sting and pain that again had me instinctively attempting to close my legs. About halfway up my knees would jerk, and then slam down as quickly as I could to relieve the nipple torment that I inflicted on myself.

He fingered me, appeased me with words and pleasure. And then chuckled again as he pulled out the wand. I groaned and tried to mentally brace myself to keep my legs spread. He at least started it on low, and gradually worked his way to the highest setting, but still, my legs would tense and rotate up about halfway, and then tentatively lower.

It was a mental will versus a physical one. As a battle, it was pretty damned equal on both sides.

I couldn’t arch to relieve the nipple wrenching, my bound wrists wouldn’t allow that.

“All done,” he soothed after he deemed I had enough. He untied the rope around the posts, tugged at it every so often and pulled the clamps before removing them. My nipples suddenly seared with tenderness when released, and while the bite of them was painful at times, now they felt like tiny pinpricks of torment that I fixated on. His mouth and tongue flicked across one, and then other, gossamer touches that soothed and pooled pleasure between my legs.

When I stopped whimpering, he positioned himself up and pushed his stiff cock in my mouth. I opened as much as I could, and he slowly eased himself to the back of my throat. I relaxed and he was able to push further than he normally does without me making noise.

“Oh really?” he sounded pleasantly surprised above me, and his hand caressed the side of my face. “So proud.” If I had more room, I would have smiled around his shaft. He pumped himself in and out of my mouth for a while, and then withdrew. “That deserves a reward. What do you want?”

I beamed. “I don’t know,” my brain felt a bit foggy, and I’m sure I wanted something. “You.”

“You’ll get me,” he promised, “but what do you want?” I thought, unsuccessfully. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you time to think,” and he was back in my mouth, hitting my throat.

After a few more minutes, when he withdrew, I asked for oral sex. He lifted up my hips and placed a pillow under them, and I felt his tongue dive between my soaked folds, his mouth sucked at my lips. It was but a brief moment before I climaxed against his mouth.

He positioned himself on his knees and entered me, slid deeply in with no resistance. “I love these ropes,” he said as he gripped the rope still wrapped around my legs, keeping them tightly bound. He used them to pull me against his hips as he thrusted in, and I couldn’t arch or use them to moderate how deeply he went. And he went deep, hitting the wall inside my body from time to time.

He leaned forward after I orgasmed a few times, and whispered, “I don’t think I’m going to cum in this hole. I think I want a different hole,” he tapped my mouth.

I nodded. This was new. He untied my legs and I stretched them in the brief moment before he straddled my head, wove his fingers into my hair and situated himself at my mouth. He pushed against my throat roughly, and began the pace of fucking my mouth. He wasn’t kidding around, he moved at a tempo that gets him off. He moved to the side of my head and tried a different position, eased even further and I choked.

“Stop,” he demanded, a hand going lightly to my neck. “I don’t care, deal with it, I’m cumming this way.” He kept at the pace, didn’t stop or slow down even when I choked once, then two more times. My mouth was simply a hole he was fucking. I heard him groan, felt his shaft swell and harden even further, and felt so humbled, so grateful, so proud that I didn’t have to stop him so he could please himself in this way.

After he came, he stroked the side of my face, brushed back tears, told me how beautiful I was as he untied my wrists. He fingered me to a slow orgasm. Before he could cuddle me into his chest, I requested a washcloth as I felt the drool puddled on one cheek and hair. He brought me back a warm washcloth and helped clean my face. He held me tightly against his body and we checked in with how the other was feeling.

When my body relaxed to the point of semi-consciousness, he carried me into the shower and we washed my hair, where he also brought me to another couple of gentle orgasms.

It was amazing; sometimes there are no words to express it any more eloquently than that.

 Posted by at 6:38 am