Jun 142016

Mr. Texas took leave, a whole four days. I had every intention of corrupting my sweet darling vanilla. Just a little, just some baby steps.

So on the way to a rope social, with an hour drive ahead of us, I asked about limits. I like having meaningful conversations and getting to know my partners on car rides.

“Tell me if you’ve done these, are curious about it, soft limit – which maybe with some time and knowledge you may be willing, or hard limit – which is a hell no you wouldn’t consider it.”

He gave me that serious look, the one that I see on a daily visit. It’s the look I get when I warn him away, when I tell him we’re moving too fast, when he’s explaining why we should just go with the flow, or when I’ve had a bad day and he’s listening. That look, with his gorgeous hazel/green eyes and long eyelashes (seriously, why do more men have them?),  said to tread carefully right now.

“Blindfold.” I tried to think of a very non threatening thing to mention that most people have tried – of course my darling didn’t even do oral sex before me and thought that was kinky.

“Maybe I’ve done it. If I did, it was forever ago. Curious.”

“Great,” I flashed him a smile when he turned to look at me. “Then that’s up this weekend.” I had already brought a blindfold, and a few other things, to his house in preparation of his corruption. “Bondage.”

“Be specific.”

“Really?” we had already discussed my velcro cuffs, we were headed to a rope event. He turned and gave me a look. “Okay, rope bondage or velcro cuffs, tied ankles and wrists.”


“Great, another for this weekend.” I paused, thinking of my intentions so I received all the consent I needed. “Hot wax.” I really didn’t think we would do this, but I brought a candle, just in case.

“On who?”

“Well, either of us. Me, if you’d like. You, if you’ll let me.”

“If you liked it, then I’d be willing on you. Soft on me.”

“Okay, fair enough. And maybe if you like doing it to me, I can convince you to try it with your body as well.”

Another look. Whatever, I’m used to them. It’s an overused look with me. Might as well push on. “I already tried the pinwheel on you. Up for it again?”


“Great, that’s a yes to me.” Look. Flashed smile in return. Rinse and repeat. “Nipple clamps.”

“Well I know you like them,” I’m not sure how he got that impression, but they are excellent for predicament bondage so I may have mentioned them a time or two or dozen.


“Tell me the appeal for you.” So I did: I discussed how it was control and power play, how it was a more quiet mind and further surrender into just feeling. “Maybe. I could see that.”

Hmm, I didn’t pack a gag. Oh well, I can makeshift one. “Face sitting.”

“What? Why?” He didn’t sound enthusiastic about this one, yet the man loved going down on me. I was a bit surprised.

“What if you’re tied up and I want to have sex with you, but I’m not wet. Your mouth would help that issue so that I could have sex with you.”

“Okay, that would be fine.” I was a bit taken aback that it almost wasn’t.

“Vibrators. Clearly on me, as we’ve already discussed no penetration for you.”

“Hard limit. I just don’t see the point. I just…no.” He didn’t even hesitate.

What the heck?! I did bring a vibrator, as I wanted to give him the experience of both tying and being tied up, and I figured it would be a fun thing to bring. It was just a vibrator. His claiming hard limit took me aback on something that I viewed as so simplistic – but I needed to be understanding and respectful of his limits. Still, in a way that I simply can’t help, I was already thinking how to slowly introduce a vibrator into our sex life.

“Knife play?”

“Curious. You’ve talked about it so much. And here’s the thing – I don’t see the appeal but after hearing you discuss it or you approaching me with the idea so often, it’ll seem more normal, more something I’m willing to try.”

“Fantastic, then we’ll get along great, as long as you keep an open mind. I’ll expose you to a lot of different things.” I remembered my own journey into kink with my old fashioned husband – wondered briefly why I was trying this again with someone so lacking experience, but remembered that the more I was exposed to things, the more I wanted to try them and the experience was easier with someone beside me. I looked over at him and thought some people are just worth the patience.

I don’t believe that he’ll be my forever – I’m not even sure he’ll be my next month, but for this month he was mine and he was eager to experience new things with me.

And for now, that was enough…even if vibrators were a hard limit.


Jun 052016

2My husband wrapped the rope around my legs, practiced a few times to make sure the tension was good and not too tight. He fingered me to a few orgasms, those rough pummeling fingertips knowing exactly how to curl and almost making me squirt.

He used the wartenburg wheel around the exposed skin between the ropes as he positioned himself between my thighs, and then he slowly cut one sliver with Ka-bar knife closest to the knee on the left side, and as my sound began to change to concern and distress, he entered me. He slowly cut another sliver along the middle of the same thigh, slid deeper, cut another sliver of exposed skin on my thigh closest to my hip, all on the left side. He placed the knife down, smacked on the cuts, pulled them apart a bit with a hand that seemed to engulf my stinging thigh as his cock moved in and out of me.

He moved his fingers, further parting the skin to reveal the cut deeper, watched closely, and then moved to the other side.

My right thigh was cut between the ropes, in a space above the knee, then another even deeper, even slower. He positioned me to the side and roughly fucked me, brought me to an orgasm, whispering “one more” as he rotated me again onto my back and slowly sliced through my skin even deeper than before, parting the cut with his two hands. It felt as though his hands were tearing the cut further apart.

He gripped my bloody thighs tightly as he fucked me, the bloody palms occasionally touching and smearing red on other parts of me.

How did I feel about all of this? Nervous about cutting, and anxious. But he knew a pace that I could handle to go from one to the next activity. Still, the minute the knife was brought to skin to cut, I became oddly detached. It stung, it hurt, I winced, I wanted to cry to stop – but I did nothing. I allowed one carving after another against my porcelain skin bound tight in his rope. I only felt pleasure once he began cutting as he roughly fucked me on my side, but the knife was down for that.

I looked at the marks and hoped they weren’t permanent – after all, he had already left me.

He used the knife that was symbolic to us both of our beginnings into kink – it was the one I used on our second date where I straddled him in the car and put it against his throat. It was the one that had caressed and scratched at our fevered flesh through our years of sex.

It was the one that he had sharpened for another, for the woman he left me for, the first woman he cut intentionally, the steel smeared with her blood first on our knife, my bloody seconds.

When we were done, I commented how the rope was bloodied. “I know, I should’ve taken it off of you,” he said in a casual manner.

“Don’t forget separate the bloody rope. I’m definitely fluid bonded to it,” I asserted as he grabbed for it.

He placed it all in a bag, mixing it with his other rope. “I don’t even know which rope is which. I’m just going to stick this in a closet and forget about it for six months. Besides, I have others,” nonchalantly.

I knew him, I knew his lazy nature, and that the rope would be touching her – now she would get bloodied seconds, and possibly other women. There was no way he would hang that much rope for six months – no way he would get out his other rope he hoped to sell and condition and do up the ends to use it. No, that rope would touch others.

What was my responsibility to her? Did I warn her? But he told me that I wasn’t to say a word to her, that I was the other woman in this until he decided if he wanted to continue our marriage, and I wanted our marriage, I wanted him, and she may not believe me anyhow. Why would she trust his wife over him?

“Besides which,” he continued with the same careless tone,”it’s your blood. I know where you’ve been. It’s not some stranger’s.”

He wanted me to wait, hidden away and waiting to be used, like that rope that soaked in my blood without a tell-tale sign unless closely inspected, while he had a woman he claimed wouldn’t know or think any better.

She would possibly be wrapped around that rope, around a horrible deceit.

…and I felt so guilty I was a part of it.

*Written three weeks after he left me for his girlfriend. 

**This was written months ago. I still bear the scars of the knife, you can see it when I wear shorts, skirts, or a bathing suit. It reminds me of my desperation, of how pathetic I was, how I was the other woman. I cannot view these scars positively and they are so prominent so I can’t ignore them either. 

May 122016

Questions found from Insatiable Desire:

Day 5: What was your first kinky sexual experience?  If you haven’t had one yet, talk about what you hope to have happen.

This is so close to Day 4’s question. I can’t remember my first kinky sexual experience, besides it was probably the moment that I brought a knife into the bedroom – but that didn’t seem odd. It seemed comparatively tame considering my then-boyfriend and I were just as likely to bring in swords as we both taught and did sword fighting pretty much daily at the time. Swords seemed a bit cumbersome, but knives seemed just right for the moment.

With him I also experienced bondage, being dominated, primal sex, and a vibrator. Now that I’m thinking about it, I guess while I can’t recall a moment, I can at least point the finger towards a person. He was an amazing lover, and the first person that I (somewhat) opened up to on what I desired.

We’re still really good friends and see each other every couple of years, as distance and time allows. I’m planning a trip to see him this summer, as a matter of fact.

 Posted by at 7:53 am
May 012016

img_1618I hate seeing my reflection right now. 

Have I mentioned that my husband left me for someone over ten years younger and thinner?

It doesn’t help, either, that her looks are one of the only positive things about her he speaks of. So, he left me for superficial reasons? (I realize just how stupidly I simplified his reason for divorce, but sometimes the mind drifts to such ridiculousness.)

I’ve never felt the need to compare until just recently, and I don’t know if it’s because he constantly does or if I’m truly insecure all the sudden.

When he asked to FaceTime recently, and I stupidly agreed, the first thing he mentioned are how “looks aren’t everything”…an obvious backhanded compliment – he doesn’t like how I look but he still loves me.

And now I’m dating, where I feel that I am judged by appearances first, everything that matters second.

It doesn’t help that I stress eat and have been putting on weight for months, or that I was so busy moving that I haven’t exercised in months.

I’ve never been concerned about looks much – still don’t do my hair and make up most days, and the mirror and I have never been close. But recently, I’m shocked when I do actually see my reflection. I see the exhaustion under my eyes, the scars from where I let him cut me and forever mark me as the other woman, the dried and veiny hands from living life, the stretch marks from babies. the gray hair that I’ve had since I was twenty that is now dominating my head.

I should embrace hands that have held life being born and life passing through its final moments, marks that claim that I have given carried and given birth, hair that will grow so that a lover can pull it and curls naturally in humid climate, eyes that have seen such beauty…the knife marks, no, that I am horribly saddened and ashamed by, I can’t even put a positive spin on that.

I know I should view myself more kindly, but I’m not. I am an enemy to my reflection instead of a best friend to my person. I used to not care about stripping naked, now I care very much.

I would love to blame my ex husband for giving yet another thing to feel self-conscious about, but the truth is that I am responsible for this and only I can change what I view in the mirror.


Sinful Sunday
Apr 092016

Sinful Sunday

For the letter H, for the #AtoZChallenge, I am using some lines and a picture that taken during some hot moments.

Some thoughts I shared with a rope partner on what I found hot:


I like how you always grip my hair, how your hand is often around my neck. I like how it centers me, reminds me that I am not in control and just need to surrender.

When I was on hands and knees and asked: “can I?”. I almost winced at how I asked “can” rather than “may” but at that moment I wasn’t sure if I could, your permission gives me the actual ability by this point.

“Get in lingerie,” you tell me, and I throw on the silky slip of fabric. You acknowledge that being naked felt natural by this point in the scene and now shyness overcomes me as I get dressed in the silk.


The utter possessiveness at times – you arm wrapped around my body; I dug into your arm with fingers and you increased the pressure of my back tight against your chest, your face pressed to the side of my own, breath in ear, hand against throat.

The smell of my own desire after you pleased me standing, or of the condom after our bodies separated.

*The fantasy when the knife runs across his skin and I straddle him, grinding, my hair draped like a curtain, my control and his body at my whim, his noises instead of my own.

**This is a fantasy as this rope partner didn’t allow any control at any point, but I shared my fantasy with him anyhow.  

 Posted by at 9:51 am
Feb 072016

“How do you want me?” I asked Mimir, as I always do before I undress and position myself to his instructions.

“Kneeling in front of me with underwear on.”

Underwear on? I thought we had moved into sexual play, and I was disappointed that panties were to remain on. No orgasms? I chided myself that it was silly to think I would get an orgasm every time, but dammit, I really liked orgasms.

It wasn’t long before I was on my stomach hogtied and blindfolded. His hands were gently caressing up and down my body when suddenly they yanked my underwear down. I gasped in surprise.

Well, that was unexpectedly sexy.

The flimsy fabric being forcibly removed from me made me feel all the more naked and unguarded. The small bit of lace was felt slowly stroking around my knees, up my calves, and hanging from my tied ankles, like a flag of surrender at the highest point of me.

Next, a wand on low and slow pressed between my legs. Mimir straddled my back and pulled my hair, forcing my head off of the ground. A cold metal knife sheath pressed against my throat, the intricately raised decorations on it scratched against the soft vulnerable skin. He let go of my hair and gravity tried to force my throat further upon the sheath, I held my head up, a bit of a strain. He grabbed the knife and yanked it out of the sheath, metal grating against metal not only felt against my throat but heard ringing in the quiet room, so much louder due to the close proximity of my ears. He pulled the sheath away and I collapsed my head onto the floor.

Can I even begin to describe how hot that was?

The knife traveled my body, exploring almost every inch of me throughout the scene. Cold steel would press flat against hot skin, the blade and tip delicately scratched and skimmed the areas that rope did not protect. Knife play is sensual to me, a pleasurable sensation versus a pain. Though, I know firsthand how much a cut can hurt, how much power a knife can wield, and the powerlessness of the knife against my bound form all the more served to create a head space that allowed for surrender.

Mimir rested the knife in the center of my back, the cold weight nestled between my spine and the ropes. He turned the wand on high, spread my knees as much as the rope would allow with ankles tied and pushed a frigid glass dildo slowly between my wet lips, easing it in, allowing me to adjust to the temperature and uncompromising hardness further and further into my depths. Just a small amount of movement and I was orgasming.

Pleasure time was apparently over as he set the wand on low, untied and readjusted my legs into futomomos – (ankle to thigh with rope wound around and around). This tie does not have to incorporate pain, but Mimir (and my husband) tie it very tightly, where the fibers of the rope bite into flesh and muscle that will leave dark deep marks and even bruising on the skin, muscles will feel where the strands dug into them. It is a constant hurt that, while in it, my body will always feel even as it accepts after a time.

The knife scratched into the bulges of exposed muscle and skin between the rope ridges on my legs – all the more sensitive amid the painful bite of the rope.

He turned the wand on high, straddled my back again, his weight forced my hips into the ground where it pressed my sex against the wand. His knees tightly hugged the sides of my ribs, his hand went to the back of my neck, the unforgiving handle end pressed into the center of my head and pushed my face into the ground. I don’t believe I have ever felt as bound or helpless as that. Every part of me was forced into the floor, bound or pressed so tightly. The wand continued to torment on a high level and I screamed my orgasm into the floor.

I would remember how helpless I felt,

how hard the handle felt against the back center of my head,

how forced the orgasm felt with his body, knife, and rope pressing me down,

and get excited all over again for days to come.

After my orgasm, he again rested the weighted knife on me as he untied wrists and tightly bound legs. He kept the ankles trussed still but stretched the legs straight and gently placed them on the floor. The muscles both protested and welcomed the contrast in position.To further stress the stretch, Mimir laid on top of me, his legs pressing mine straight, his body once again pressing mine into the floor where he moved the wand harder against me, my own clenched legs keeping it place. His fingers wrapped around my throat and his gutteral breath sounded in my ear. His other hand reached around to the front of my hip and gripped up, his own hips pressed down and it felt like sex.

The hand explored between my legs and pressed the wand even further against my desire, small circular patterns that my own hips mirrored, pressed down into the wand and firmly against his body, around and around small seductive patterns of my orgasm.

finger bruises fading

He rolled me onto my back, stretched out alongside me and pulled a soft fuzzy blanket up to keep me warm. I reached up and pulled off the blindfold, smiled drowsily at him. He tucked the ends of the blanket in around my chest, and then softly rubbed the cushiony fabric around my breasts. My nipples immediately perked up and welcomed the sensations, my cunt clenching from the recent sensitivity awakening all over again. Rubbing, so much tension, until I finally begged “please”.

He bent my knees and spread them, my ankles staying together due to the rope. He inserted the glass dildo and fucked me, his other hand reaching and clenching a breast through the blanket so tightly that it would leave finger bruises all around. My body needed little prodding and I arched up into his grip and down onto dildo. Shuddering and shaking as I came down, he moved alongside me to hold me.

*I believe that this picture was taken during the scene, though I may be wrong.

February Photofest Badge 2016

 Posted by at 7:51 am
Dec 112015

Mimir began the night with wrists behind my back, elbows pulled back and close together, a quick chest binding to hold it together. He crossed my ankles and wound them back to my thighs, pulled the rope into the chest harness to curl me into a sitting ball. My body rested against his chest, my hands could caress his body tied back as they were.

How much was he comfortable with?

Fingertips made small movements, more welcoming his own movements than taking assertive contact, finger spread and palms felt the heat from his body rather than curled into themselves as I had done in the past.

With one hand at the back of my neck, he pushed me slightly away from his chest and used a knife against exposed skin. He skimmed back, arms, chest, legs – I found my quiet mind when he held me close and pressed the knife up my back ribs.

He uncurled my body, rotated me on my stomach and arched me back, rested my knees on his kneeled thighs and wrapped my legs tight together – again ankles to thighs. Out came the scratchy coconut rope and wound its way around, only this time the majority of the scratchy fabric looped under my hips, gripped under the curve of my bottom. My body felt alive at the intimacy of this touch, a new sensation. He twisted, pinched, forced the rope to bite painfully into the cushiony flesh. He smacked the sides of my hips where the rope sunk in and forcefully dragged his hands towards his body, my own hips rising up as much as possible and back towards him. It reminded me a lover who grabs at hips from behind to pull themselves in deeper. He suspended my legs with chest still pressed into the ground, warmed and hit my tied thighs. The pinwheel came out and pricked at back and thighs. He took it to my feet, which I hate being touched but could do nothing as helplessly tied as I was.

Next, untied, he instructed me to lay on my back. I put my arms over my head, my legs stretched out luxuriously after being so compressed. He passed rope under the small of my back where there’s a natural curve that doesn’t touch the ground, tied tightly around my waist, and attached it to the hard point (ring in the center) in a tripod above me.

mimir 1

Photo taken during a later scene but demonstrates the center rope that I am referring to

There was something about that center rope, the small tension that didn’t force me to arch or move in any way and yet was felt holding me there, that centered my thoughts. It felt like a magical moment. It felt safe, right. I wanted to be nowhere else but in the center, and even though my mind was already quiet and present, somehow the world became even smaller and existed in just that space under the tripod.

He tied my wrists above my head and at a higher point than the floor. Initially, both my wrists gripped in one of his hands while the rope quickly bound them, being pulled back as much as my body would allow, being tied in a position that kept all too aware that I was tied tightly at his mercy, really excited me. Eventually, that position exhausted my shoulders since they didn’t touch the ground, made my arms shake, though it wasn’t anything that distressed me.

The pinwheel spun all around the curves of my breasts, bit into the skin. At moments I was aware I would hold my breath, wondering if it would sink into the plump centers, prick at my nipples. Mimir traced it down to my legs and feet again.

He bound ankles to thighs once again, so tightly, spread my legs and tied them off to different poles of the tripod. I felt vulnerable, exposed, and in those emotions that crashed on me, it was somehow right and freeing. With wrists and legs bound to the three points, it only served to create a true definition of being centered in this space that consisted of just us.

The wheel’s tines once again danced across my skin, only this time they focused on my thighs. He dug in painful to the curved soft underside, swept across tautly stretched apart inner thigh, rolled around towards the front of my hip. And then again, softer perhaps, now teasing the sensitive zones, slowly, so damn slowly dancing the line at times of where just a thin bit of silk fabric covered. Again, I found myself holding my breath at moments, as if my own breathing would drown out of the sensation of if he actually touched my inner lips.

He didn’t – the perfect tease.

Before he untied me again, he released the bindings to the poles but kept my thighs still tightly tied. He pressed at the knees and forced my hips to open up and spread, again creating an even more exposed and vulnerable feeling. He held me me open for some moments, then intermittently caressed and smacked me. Untied, he coiled some of the rope and dragged it up my body, beginning at my legs, going to upper thighs, going to that zone that almost cried to be touched, the rope slid slowly against the silk that did nothing to shield the sensations, until the top part of the coil rested on my breasts – also welcoming that sensation. With the rope resting between my legs and across my breasts – so sensual, he let it go to untie my wrists and draped my hands down across my chest, almost hugging the rope to me like a blanket. It was incredibly comforting – despite the teasing weight on sensitive bits, a great bringing down to a scene.


 Posted by at 6:06 am
Nov 132015

On my back…isn’t that a great start to any story?…sorry, I digress already but I fell in love with the start…

Mimir’s flat hand laid prominently in the dip created by hip bone, slid across my bare skin as he sat alongside of me, traversed the stomach, slowly, as he does, with purpose and intention, and ended with fingers nestled between my breasts – palm center of chest, as if the pause was to synchronize my breath with his. I heard his deep inhalation and exhalation as my own chest rose and fell under his hand.

Sitting, he nestled between my thighs, one of my legs stretched and warmed by his hip, the other knee he forcibly bent to place ankle to thigh with rope then wrapped and bound tightly. The room was silent which made the rustle of the rope’s fibers pulling against each other emphatic; and my notable intake of breath each and every time the entire length of rope was pulled slowly across the juncture of inner thigh – every journey around – so unhurriedly, such a pinpoint of my focus on sensitive flesh, the ridges bobbing at the juncture at a maddeningly slow pace each time a wrap of rope was being placed.

With both legs tied in such manner, the whole routine was again repeated with coconut rope, the scratchy abrasive fibers created even more havoc at the receptive juncture…and even more pain against the exposed parts of thighs and shins. He would pinch, tighten, press down, and pull at the spiky strands, created a strange song of various cries to spring from my lips, my dance of back slightly arched or tensed thighs to lessen the onslaught of cacophonous sensations.

By this point, I was already fully absorbed in the present moment, in a quiet space that consisted of only him and me.

He shifted and a ringing sound was heard before the knife grazed my throat. I stopped breathing, surprised, the only movement my pulse rapid under the fragile skin that the blade traveled. From my throat, the tip scratched across from shoulder to shoulder, down and across again just under soft breasts, the descent crisscrossed waist before the knife focused and pressed harder into the bits of susceptible bare skin intertwined between the ropes.

With ankles tied to thighs still, he pressed down on the thighs and parted the knees until they almost touched the floor, my hips spread to accommodate. Shifted, the ropes tightened in some areas; the knife tip skillfully traversed the inner thighs. Softly, he caressed with fingertips up the side of my body, started at the hip, then the curve of my waist, up ribs to just under my breast.

Then, he laid on top of me, kept my legs spread, pulled wrists in each of his hands up as far as they would go on the floor above me and pinned them in one hand, the other hand went around my neck and gently controlled my breath – allowed or stopped it in a rhythm unknown to me, his own jagged breath almost growled against my face.

In that brief moment of his body pressing mine into the floor…

…my legs bound and spread,

….his hands pining my wrists and throat,

….in shallow inhalations tasting and swallowing his breath as it washed against my face,

…he became more lover than play partner – he felt as if he was a part of me, inside of me, not only quieting my mind but deeply penetrating inside.

He moved off of me and my body missed his heat immediately, felt bereft. Rope wound around my wrists and pulled until the shoulders protested, my ears detected a far away table was being used as a post to hold them above in such a manner.

He again positioned himself sitting between my legs, strung more rope between the wraps on inner thighs and pulled until my legs closed together, knees up and tiptoes grazed the floor. As he pulled on this inner rope my body stretched between the table and his hands, the unforgiving fibers dug into wrists and thighs, and he continued to pull and lengthen the space until my body screamed though only a groan escaped from my lips.

More sounds issued from me when he began unraveling roughened skin, took his time to pull the rope tight before he released it, gripped aching muscle and reddened flesh at each turn of the discharged wrap with his commanding hand. As each leg was unbound, his palms firmly touched the uppermost back of a thigh, the whole hand stroked the backside of the leg, gradually uncurled it. My thoughts fleetingly noticed the unusualness of areas not often touched. Fingertips soothed down the upper part of thigh and leg once straightened, fingers kneaded into the foot and gently massaged.

He traveled along my body, briefly cuddled against my side, his fingertips caressed the side of my face and stroked into my hair, the merest of touches so soothing, before he continued up to my wrists and released the bindings. My small hands disappeared into larger ones as he held them for a moment, rested one on each of his thighs, palms to the sky, as his fingertips caressed from fingertips to palm, gently grazed the rope imprinted wrists, brushed against the length of my arm and back up again to tenderly rub the palms and fingers.

*We ended as we always do: cuddled together, silent and close before quiet reflections.


cammies on the fllor 1
mutual phone mastibation 1
don wand reviewa 1
tied lover 1

I went further down the list for Sexy Searching this time, as I have already written about the top search terms.

Tied lover seemed appropriate as being tied enough times by this man, with this type of scene, switched something in my brain for a moment.Sexy Searching 

 Posted by at 5:30 am
Oct 152015

The 30 Days of Kink Questions sometimes don’t require a long response from me. Day 3 and 4 are so brief that I decided to combine them.

Questions found from Insatiable Desire:

Day 3: How did you discover you were kinky?

This is going to seem odd, but I discovered I was kinky by reading other people identifying what they were doing as kinky; I realized that I liked some of those same things and that must make me kinky too. So it’s only been a couple of years. Before that, I thought I was normal but adventurous.

Day 4: Any early experiences that, in retrospect, hint at your kinks?

Twenty years ago I began including a knife in my sexual experiences. About the same time, bondage was added. I wish I could remember the moment, or tell a story about it, but to me it just seemed cool but natural, so didn’t imprint in my memory in any way.

I can recall the exact moment I knew my husband would be okay with (at least some) of my kinks:

It was our second date, and he kept a huge ka-bar knife between the driver and passenger seat of his car. We were hanging out in the car, not wanting to part yet, just talking. I straddled his lap while unsheathing the knife and I put the knife (flat side) to the side of his neck. He just calmly looked at me and asked, “whatcha doing, babe?”.

It was love/lust from that point forward. I figured if he could handle having a knife put to his throat with no warning (he didn’t even know I was kinky), then he could handle some other things I may throw his way.

Perhaps the conversation should’ve have come first (now I would consider this a consent violation), but the knife began a great conversation about kinks and desires.

 Posted by at 5:15 am