Aug 152017
 

Kink of the Week’s prompt sparked my interest on names and titles. Actually, that’s like saying I read the prompts and just this one caught my eye – truth is I rarely even know what the prompt is. But I discovered this one, and it’s awesome and thought provoking.

I tackled titles in 30 Days on Kink where I tried to define my kinky self. Then, on the way to a GRUE, Mr. Texas and I were discussing how we define (well, a lot of things), and names and titles are handy for that, though no one model always fits. I stated that I’m going through a kink midlife crisis – I no longer know to define my kinky self, nor necessarily how to define my relationship with others.

In the 30 Day writing prompt: I defined myself as wife – I am no longer, nor do I have any desire to take on that role.

ADD Brat: yeah, I’m really not that either. I don’t brat often with Mr. Texas – it began as more of trying to show that his role of top would be respected and now is just a nature role with us. I also don’t brat with The Wanderer.

Rope bottom: this has led to the most crisis type feeling with my kink identity as that used to be a primary role I would tell people and now it just doesn’t feel true. I’m sure that rope is still my most responsive kink, but I no longer actively look for it nor do I initiate any rope play. Therefore, can I even really claim this role?

Lightweight bottom: still am this, but I’ve learned I can take far more than I thought possible.

Primal: still am this, though it’s rare I’ll engage, and not with the same intensity (mostly because I’m not physically cool enough).

Switch: I’ve taken on this role far more than I would’ve thought possible.

Submissive: I’ve taken this role far less than I used to.

New to me roles:

Top: A role I find myself enjoying more and more.

Mistress: I’ve been called this in the past on a rare occasion, likewise with the present. It makes me feel slightly like a fraud – I simply don’t feel cool enough for this title, nor does it seem to fit anything I am seeking.

Impact bottom: Surprisingly, I like impact far more than I could’ve thought possible, given my wimpy nature.

Girlfriend: I use this term with vanillas.

Speaking of vanillas…

A few weeks ago Mr. Texas asked what I refer to him as. I asked him in what context.He mentioned that I introduced him as my partner at a rope event. I told him to vanillas, he’s my boyfriend (a term I rarely use), my guy (most frequent), my spouse, or my husband (it’s easier, I found). (No, we’re not legally married.) To kinky people, I refer to him most often as my partner. To people really seeking what type of partner, I would use the term primary, though nesting would work. We’re committed, as much as our relationship defines, and living together and raising little folks. I haven’t quite put a title on it, nor do I feel the urge to (though I know it’s peace of mind to give some sort of shape to dynamics).

The Wanderer and I also recently had a discussion on roles and titles. He has a few he uses for me, though to be honest none of them stick in my head where I could even state them now. I wouldn’t even know how to define our relationship – and I expressed the vague sort of titles I would use for him, though admitted that none felt accurate.

I really dislike titles and roles, though again I know people use whatever vocabulary they have at hand to try to describe just how important a person is to them, and what they consider themselves to be. I am not picking my titles, I’m okay with people defining how they will, and I’m trying to give the same respect when asked how I would describe them (though I’m not assigning titles or roles even in my head either).

The problem…

At the GRUE, there were great conversations on defining what the term relationship even meant to an individual, and what sort of poly they were (if they were poly). Defining things, people, ourselves seem to matter, regardless of how much I dislike doing so – it does increase effective communication with others, something I dearly want.

And the hard limits:

I have a serious dislike of the term “girl” in reference to myself, it just takes me out of my head space in unpleasant ways. Likewise, daddy or mommy (or other parental names) wouldn’t work for me either. I am indifferent on names like slut, I’m learning – it simply does nothing for me.

Jul 112017
 

The night prior The Wanderer and I did wax play but it brought up our need to have a knife. I love feeling a cold, sharp knife slide between hardened hot wax and my sensitive skin.

So the next morning, with a free day ahead of us (an unheard thing), we went a store and I selected a knife that I wanted. He was kind enough to buy it for me. Next time, we’re ready;considering my love of knives, it was really quite strange that I do not own any.

We decided to head towards a boardwalk on a nearby beach, where our first order of business was food. Splitting two meals so we could sample a variety of what the menu offered: shrimp and lobster. Sitting in a shady place on the boardwalk, with the ocean breeze drifting, and after he allowed me to caress him for an hour, the day promised peace that I don’t often feel. Conversation flowed as beautifully as the weather around us – I regretted not wearing a dress again and felt warm as the sun shown upon my jeans. Our friendship is easy enough for the silences not to be awkward amid a constant flow of any topic to happen back and forth.

Lunch was delivered and the lobster arrived wholly intact. I could barely even look at it and before I could request that they de-shell it, the waiter left. Fortunately, it seems The Wanderer is handy with cracking seafood and didn’t mind that I would not be helping in the slightest. He also was incredibly generous with gifting me with some of the best pieces. It was endearing, caring, sweet.

After we finished lunch, he asked me to hold his phones for a moment. It was a first and when he put a hand out, I smiled and cradled them closer, turning away and demanding a kiss. I was secretly worried that he would freak out without not immediately being handed the phones back, but he hesitated, reached around to grab them but briefly kissed me as he did so. A token price, but a huge step in the right direction of relaxation and playful interaction for us.

We walked to the end of the boardwalk after lunch where he had to take a phone call. A slight breeze cooled an otherwise far too warm day and I had to the urge to frolic among the much cooler waves. After he was done with his call, we decided to walk along the shoreline. I took off my sandals and rolled up my jeans above my calves; he did similar though was far more dressed so the casual rolled pants and finger hooked around the heels of dress shoes made a startling contrast. It was simply another reminder that I didn’t observe him relaxing much.

As we walked, we had discussions of vacations that were sadly more of dreams far more than plans – as more time goes on I realize this is unlikely to happen as a marriage and children take the spare down days; still, how nice to dream at times. It was truly our first date, and as dates go this one had visions of a future between two hopeful people establishing a connection; I believe one of us even mentioned that it was an actual date rather than our kink sessions mixed in between his business meetings, even the morning had no real BDSM elements (though the night prior was filled with such explorations).

Eventually we reached my vehicle, and after brushing the sand off of our feet and legs, unrolling our pants, and a brief hug and kiss, I’d drive him to the airport and watch the methodical way he grabbed his bag and made his way in the hurried no-nonsense manner I see every businessman do.

Jul 072017
 

To strip out of lingerie, slowly touching. To fuck myself with the wand, to make myself squirt. The bed had a puddle. To orgasm over and over again. To take my toy and fuck myself, to edge myself, to finger myself. To watch him play. To play while he does. To orgasm with him.

I was a sweaty, drenched mess resentful of squirting, of so many orgasms. Overwhelmed.

These were the notes to finish the punishment post – which I never did finish as we (of course) broke up shortly thereafter. It was our longest reconciliation, and our final break up, before we finally reconciled the fact that we were no longer meant to be together.

We jumped right into the power dynamics almost every time we reconciled, but this was different, this punishment – as it was truly a punishment. I dislike so many aspects of this scene:

To perform on command

To masturbate in front of another

To push past one orgasm towards another

To squirt

Edging myself

Sweating

To dress sexy

To be told what to wear

To watch me over the phone live

I won’t finish this post either, as this is a purging, but it was incredibly fucking hot. And horrible. A great punishment for failing at a task.

But this isn’t just a purging, it’s a reflection also. My ex husband knew me so well that sometimes that’s what I ache for. He knew what was pushing my limits, how to control me, how to give me a look that could silence me, the tone of his voice that I simply could not argue with, what my limit was, and when I was hitting peaks.

As I explore power dynamics: both with Mr. Texas and The Wanderer, I miss this awareness that my ex husband had. I miss the absolute knowledge to control me. The Wanderer I heed to simply because it’s our dynamic, because I sense when he holds back for my sake and I am grateful, but also slightly intimidated that he does hold back a bit at times (yay for not always now though, I survived one time he didn’t). Mr. Texas is learning, but it is slow, as it will be with another, as my body and words and my actions are often at odds in pleasure and pain. I do not always feel the need to obey him, sometimes truly debate if I should (because I want him to grow confident in dominanting me and that’s what we negotiated so how horrible if I didn’t) or I should not (because he’s pushing me far more than he realizes, or doesn’t know my exact limits, or can’t read me so beautifully). He’ll get there – this is all new to him.

Mimir got it very quickly, but Mimir has a true gift in the BDSM realm of being able to observe, to withhold, to read people, to push people, to listen, to know them. He is incredibly intelligent and has such a background in kink that his bag of tricks never ceased to amaze me. Even with a bag of tricks, and a breadth of knowledge on things, I have nowhere near the patience nor the skill to read people the way that Mimir did.

The way that my ex husband could read me.

Mr. Texas has no advantage to him other than me as a bottom – who knows that he is capable and the love to be patient.

But how I crave, how I ache, for what my ex and I had. If I have to debate power dynamics, they don’t feel very powerful to me. It’s a choice I am making, a request I am granting; though I know that it is and has always been a choice – it felt more instinctive, allowed me to get out of my whirlwind thoughts and simply obey.

Neither of my current partners are capable of this dynamic – The Wanderer does not even have the time nor the inclination to pursue it at this point in our relationship, and my darling Mr. Texas and I are exploring it – not always with success, but more with persistence. We at least have physically forcing going for us – that’s hot.

Though I sometimes ache, sometimes crave, the power dynamics that force me with just a presence.

 

Apr 072017
 

*Switch: A person who vacillates between dominant (I’ll also use topping) and submissive (bottoming) roles within relations.

So at the GRUE (conference/event), one of the most engaging things to me was a conversation about switching. It was looked down a lot, kind of the way bisexuality is at times: being too flighty to pick a side or not really knowing which side to choose rather than a valid choice and natural instinct.

In my new state, a lot of people identify as switch, by far the majority from what I’ve observed. Once in room full of people, the presenter asked how many identify as a switch and everyone but the presenter raised their hand. It’s a bit odd, but at the GRUE it made for an excellent conversation. Such topics were:

 How do you switch with another switch? My ex husband and I were both switches (to an extent, he was always a service top if he topped). Our dynamics were always very clear to us – there was no mistaking our role for whatever the occasion – a very strange and special knowledge of knowing each other so intimately. He would voice if he needed me to top him, otherwise the dynamic was he would top me. At times we would go for more of a primal, fight to be on top, role but that was even clearly telegraphed in an unspoken manner between us.

In speaking and listening to others at this conference, I realized just how rare and special that dynamic was as there was little conflict in just knowing what the other wanted and being so attuned as to grant it.

Mr. Texas and I are switches, and while we haven’t been together nearly as long and are no where near as attuned to each other, the agreement is for the most part he tops. We do have a few of these complications that others discussed of two switches being together; for example, sometimes it’s unclear who wants to bottom – I top far more than I ever did with my ex. We will also sometimes switch mid scene. The rule that is keeping us the most satisfied in this dynamic is regardless of who is on bottom at first, I cannot go from bottoming to topping. I just cannot get my head space right to submit and then dominate, whereas he can because he can only take so much pain, which brings me to my next topic that was discussed…

Many of them had triggers that would flip the switch. This shocked me to hear, as many of them discussed how mid-scene they would grab the implement they were being hit with and hit the person topping them. I have never felt this urge, it would not even occur to me. To me, that’s a consent violation unless it was agreed upon. I addressed perhaps a need to disclaim that in part of the negotiations to my fellow switches, as a collective group we were trying to come up to some solutions to some of the issues of being a switch.

Mr. Texas and I, prior to the GRUE, did not switch mid-scene. He would ask me to mid-scene after he topped me for awhile, but I always declined (again, can’t do the head space) until we came the agreement that the order could be reversed (I could go from top to bottom). What began as a negotiation and honest communication with what made us tick has worked to our benefit, as Mr. Texas doesn’t necessarily have a trigger that makes him flip roles – it’s more of a pain threshold that he can no longer tolerate but doesn’t want to call an end to. I am really having fun exploring my more sadistic side with Mr. Texas in a way that was unforeseen, but Mr. Texas is not a masochist (we both love each other’s reactions in this dynamic) so once he’s done but too stubborn to color, he simply grabs me and flips me under him, often with a hand around my throat – a simple and consistent action that always gets me in a submitting headspace.

What I have also discovered since the GRUE is that Mr. Texas does have a sensual trigger that makes me want to top me: when I am not obviously topping but being more playful, I will sometimes straddle him, tease him with my body, have the tip of his head right at my entrance and deny him, press my breasts against his chest, and nip at his neck. It’s really the nipping at his neck that triggers him, his moans turn into growls and he begins to grip and grab at me to position certain ways. This tends to turn into a fight for top but only briefly (nowhere near the savage intensity my ex and I played at, which I am fine with).

What’s the difference between switching and bratty. 

*Brat: Within the BDSM lifestyle, the term brat is usually applied to a person of a submissive nature who acts up or causes trouble in order to attract attention. This is generally frowned upon as it is classed as topping from the bottom and trying to control the situation.

I am not sure if the group ever could clearly define this question posed. Bratty also tends to have a negative connotation in the BDSM scene. I know that I am not bratty with Mr. Texas (except once when he asked for a picture while he was at work), but that I was occasionally bratty with my ex husband. Bratty is almost a challenge in my mind and Mr. Texas is new to this role so I try not to challenge him as he needs to gain confidence in it. I was a brat with my ex whenever I wanted his attention, most often when he would tie me and was more focused on the rope than me – a common occurrence. I have not been bratty to The Wanderer – again our dynamic has always been firm in roles, though I am playful at times to get him away from his serious nature, but never in a challenging way or to gain attention. I don’t know if I will be clearly defining the difference but switching is a role and bratty is a mood to me.

The need to address the things done incorrectly. How we know both sides of the coin and will invariably meet up with people that we’re more knowledgeable but will bottom for. It’s somewhat inevitable that the longer someone is in the lifestyle and educates themselves, that they will know more than the person topping them. It’s the case with Mr. Texas, as he knew nothing so I topped from the bottom as I taught him (which wasn’t the case with everything, some things he just instinctively knew), and I teach him what I do know. Sometimes it’s with demonstrating on him, sometimes it’s talking him through something, and sometimes it’s going to educational events with him. Regardless, it revolves around honest and authentic communication – something anyone with any amount of knowledge should do with the person they are engaging with.
*Terms defined by Urban Dictionary

Mar 262017
 

The Wanderer and I spent a night together in which he immediately, with no warm up, beat my ass with a thick leather belt and created welts that marked for a week. We did so many things in the short amount of time we spent in the hotel. Here’s three:

Throat. Something I know he doesn’t do much of but something I enjoy is a hand around my throat. After a belt spanking, playing around a bit, dinner, orgasms, and a spanking, he laid me on the bed and fingered me to an orgasm. Nothing out of the usual, until his hand went around my throat. I’m pretty sure it was for my benefit far more than his, but instantly his large hand held my every thought. That physical reminder that I was vulnerable was all I needed to surrender any shred of control to him. He didn’t apply a lot of pressure along my pulse on either side of my neck, but I didn’t need it to feel powerless. I shut my eyes, focused on his other fingers deep inside of me and curling slightly, rubbing at place that had me crying out and shuddering in ecstasy.

Hot wax. The sad fact is that we were planning on playing with wax six months prior – he even bought the candles. But then I reconciled with my husband, so that didn’t work out at all. I had actually used one candle he bought on my friend – to show her how sensual and intimate wax and knife feels.

With The Wanderer, it was what I thought it would be – sensual and intimate. I was fuzzy brained from pain, tired from orgasms, yet for some reason I was a bit squirmy every time the drops hit my body. It hurt and stung in a way that I was surprised with, but perhaps my head space was all over the place by that point. He measured the drops, his eyes never leaving my body – I was the sole focus of his attention, something that I adore with any type of scene – the sole focus and connection found. After awhile, the pattering of the drops calmed me and I was able to breathe a bit into the rhythm he set, to watch his gaze, drops sizzling and then cooling to hardened little reminders of his travel. He teased around my nipple, not quite touching it but circled around. My skin was pinpoints along the trails, flushed from his attention as much as the heat.

Hand job. Prior to the wax, he had requested a hand job. If anyone were to ask me my deficiency in the bedroom, I would tell them that it was a hand job. I rarely even attempt to give them, and here he was asking for one. “You’ll have to teach me,” I warned. So he promised me he would, and he was an excellent teacher, able to verbalize exactly what it was he wanted from me. My hand wrapped around his shaft and he directed to where exactly to hold on the length. Unsure, I squeezed a bit and he directed me to clench harder. Up and down, my fingers felt the muscles and veins and ridges, my palm felt how deliciously hard he was. His encouragement with the timber of his voice, the erotic words directing me, and I found myself growing wet, imagining what I felt in my hand sliding up and down inside my cunt.

As he hardened even more, his thigh muscles tightened and his hips thrusted a bit into my hand, and I felt powerful. I was creating these sensations that he was enjoying, producing pleasure that had nothing to do with me and every bit directed just for him. There is something selfless about a hand job: it allowed me to be more of an observer of his pleasure, gifted me an intimate view of how he reacts and what he liked, such an intimate glimpse.

I felt him pulse and throb against my fingers and palm, watched as his milky orgasm reached its climax and shot out of his cock, heard his groan of satisfaction. It was so hot.

I can’t wait to see him and learn some new techniques to pleasure him with my hand(s).

Masturbation Monday Week 134To read his thoughts on hand jobs, click here. To see a picture of the wax, click here.

Masturbation Monday badge - small

Mar 052017
 

It had been months, and I was emotional. Yet, to see The Wanderer’s smile, I was smiling and felt myself relaxing (later irony considering how tense he made me that night).

He was on a conference call, his standing figure silhouetted against the backdrop of the city lights in the large window (what is up with him and large windows in his hotel rooms?). Airplane shadows in the sky, colorful cars nonstop – my eyes were only on him, though I did appreciate how the background represented him so perfectly – always a traveler.

On my stomach, I stretched out on the bed, muscles appreciative after the drive to meet him. He came over to perch on the edge, my dress allowed me to feel the light tracing of his fingers from toes to calves to thighs, up over the curve of my bottom, lingered there with soft circles, followed the sensitive hollow of my lower back, up my spine, across my shoulders, brushed my hair back to smile down at me. I smiled back at him.

He muted the call for a minute. “It’s good to see you smile.” The concern was in his voice and I appreciated it – him caring.

I rubbed his thigh through his denim, had the urge to undo his pants and take him into my mouth. Resisted and listened instead to the timber of his voice as he talked. He threw down his phone, having the device in his ear, and began massaging my feet, took a moment to look at the design I had painted on from the last pedicure and commented it was cute. His hands rubbed and massaged up calves and thighs, became a bit rougher at my rounded cheeks.

His spanking kink is obvious, though this trip he was almost as enamored with my breasts.

I had the urge to take him into my mouth again, whispered I was going down to the bar so that I didn’t distract from his call. He gestured five more minutes, handed me a room key, and we parted ways.

Once he joined me at the bar, mere minutes later as promised, conversation between us was casual, though it would have been odd for me if it didn’t contain some flirtation – so of course there were a few remarks. I spoke softly of my urges in the room and he mentioned that the call would have been a lot more pleasant if I had given in to the urge. A man sitting near us would occasionally give a sidelong glance, a smile, and perhaps he heard a few things I shared.

We had a drink, a meal, then opted for nothing else but the rest of the evening in the room. Our time is few and far between for too many practicals and not enough fun.

The Wanderer allowed me to push him down  sitting on the bed as we kissed; I straddled his lap while tasting his lips, used my body to press his further down into the mattress, my hips ground down in promise as my lips and tongue tasted from his mouth, moved onto skin.

Having excellent control and never getting too far carried away, he stopped me, though the regret was still evident in his body language. Still, with a devilish smile, he told me to get up and unpack the items I brought. I moved over to the large suitcase, complaining that toys took up a lot of space. In part, I was a bit defensive – he’s an expert traveler and will be away from home far longer periods and dressed spotlessly yet I always use larger luggage.

Days before, he had instructed that I bring a few items:

  • 3 impact implements (I only had two, he reassured me he brought 3 belts just in case, well isn’t that considerate?)
  • 3 insertables (which really brought up the fact that I need a dildo)
  • My violet wand kit (a huge amount of space needed just for this)
  • Rope

As I took out the gorgeous paddle, he swatted me with it, told me to be grateful he kept on the clothes after I whined. It wasn’t much of a warm up with the force – a sign of what was to come. Next, the crop kissed me through far too thin fabric and my noise signaled complaint…and apparently a please-hurt-me-more if his reaction was any indication.

Grabbed, spun around, and pulled over his lap on the nearby bed before I could catch my balance, his large hands caressed my dress up, he seemed delighted and slightly distracted at my polka-dot panties just briefly before slapping until I’m sure my cheeks were a pinkened hue.

Got it…don’t complain or he’ll give me something to complain; on the other hand I also stored the message to complain so I no longer have to anxiously unpack torturous devices: I’m a flexible learner that way.

He pulled me up and undressed me slowly from behind, sensually his hands caressed,  his mouth kissed up and down, his body pressed against my back and ground his desire against my cheeks. My own hands reached back to fondle his growing erection and in my impatience I undid the buckle of his belt. He must’ve felt it as his hands gripped my wrists between our hot bodies.

“Oh you want my belt, do you?” He whispered menacingly against my ear, or perhaps I heard the menace in the meaning.

“No.” I certainly didn’t want his belt but I tightened in anticipation anyhow.

Regardless, he threw me down on the bed and his belt licked painfully at my rear. It stung and felt like it sliced, my skin not warmed up enough for the force.

Yep, I was totally justified in hearing a threat with the belt.

He stood me back up and told me to put back on his belt. I took my time – partly because I had never put on a man’s belt, usually just the opposite, but also to take advantage of slowly touching him even though I had just been punished for trying to take advantage.

I may be a flexible learner, but I also apparently don’t learn the lesson the first go round.

Next, I was ordered to roll up his sleeves and I joked of how boding. Apparently I’m dense as a rock because while I joked, I didn’t foresee the threat that was to come.

He moved a chair into the center of the floor and had me bend over, grabbed a larger, thicker belt and went to work on my ass, not gentle but harsh and painful. I cried out my dismay and pain, trying to escape. Normally at this much distress signs, he would have slowed or gone softer, however this time he simply wrapped an arm around my waist to hold me down and continued his onslaught.*

As if the belt wasn’t enough, he spanked over the belt marks’ welts. Perhaps he wanted to lower the racket I was making with crying out in pain, or perhaps he wanted the racket to be one of pleasure, but he promised me an orgasm as he picked me up to lay me down in the center of the bed. I laid on reddened fire as his fingers delved into my wetness, his words speaking of how I clearly didn’t dislike the belt as much as noises indicated. My body betrayed me.

*This was after my sister died and the weeks in between I had told him that I needed a rough beating to penetrate through the haze and just feel something. He gave me what I asked for – and to date this is probably the hardest I’ve had an implement strike me. 

***To see a picture, click here

***To read his account of this scene, click here

Wicked Wednesday

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.

Feb 212017
 

Febraury PhotofestHave I ever shared that The Wanderer knows me intimately? Perhaps it is because we have been friends for so long, but he knows how uncomfortable some words make me. And sadist that he is, he uses them and smiles about them (even from distance, I’m sure).

For example, he wrote to me that I was a good cocksucker. Okay, even writing the words makes me squirm a bit.

But he told me that as my mouth was wrapped around him last time as well. In the act, he uttered words that turn me shy. It was a contrast – a mind fuck that I always find delicious – as my body and mouth were wanton and bold, but words suddenly make me feel like a sheltered and shy unsure youth.

*This picture is not with The Wanderer. It’s a shadow that I love from the photo story of David and I.

Jan 262017
 

https://www.flickr.com/photos/martekristineo/5502801613

I agree with those that feel that a safe word is not needed, that no and stop should be exactly that.

I also agree with those that feel that a safe word is needed, that they don’t want their no and stop to always mean that.

I also realized that I need to be clear where I stand. I used to be the second option – I wanted the struggle, my instinct when something hurts is to say no and stop, but I can continue and I want my partner to push me.

I learned a very hard lesson in the complications of this negotiated use of safe words when I felt like I was forced anally, but he expected me to use my safe word.

“First and foremost, while my safeword did not occur to me, I did have one. My ex truly expected me to use it… I believe that he expected me to safeword if I felt that strongly about “no” after talking to him months later. And I truly did not even think about using a safeword, felt like my “no” and “stop” were enough; after all – just the day prior we discussed needing the safeword before a scene. I didn’t use a safeword with him just having sex with him – never felt that was needed.

Perhaps this is a horrible complication with using safewords, when stop and no don’t always mean stop and no.” – Consent with Anal

My ex and I did discuss safe words before every scene that we felt it was needed – and only the scenes that included impact (or our one time doing consensual non consent). Even in rope I didn’t use a safe word but gave a time that I needed out (even if it was immediately). So I understand why I did not think to safe word, we were just having sex, after all. I also understand why he felt that I would safe word – I do have and use my safe word and he trusted me in that.

So now I’m on the fence with safe words. I still use them, and I’ve been trying to get Mr. Texas to use them. I really like the “yellow” for change up or no further, and the “red” for can’t take anymore. I also, especially when I top him, realize that I am dealing with a man not used to coloring at all, so I listen to his body language,  his words, his noises, and his actions and proceed cautiously, stopping far before he colors. If I force him to color, I warn him ahead of time that is my intent and do only one action (like bite down) until he remembers to use it.

Again, though, I don’t believe that I should only stop when he uses his safe word. If I am playing to the edge it is with someone I trust and who trusts me, someone that I have played with many times before, someone that will know my tells and listen to my body language the same way that I do theirs.

My ex husband should have known mine, should have listened. But we are equally to blame for that scenario.

I still want my no and stop to not mean no and stop when I feel like struggling or fighting back, it is so hot to me that I will be held down or my cries will be ignored. It is also reassuring to me that my safe word will be respected, that I have a safe word.

But I need to start being more consistent with using my safe word, even if I am just having sex, because just having sex is very easily turned into something else once we’re naked and having fun. I need to not view sex as an activity isolated from BDSM, because it is not, and it rarely ever is just sex with me.

I can easily view how I am inconsistent: The Wanderer would never have to worry about me not coloring and using my safe word – we have a clear boundary of no intercourse and a partnership that’s foundation is BDSM. Neither would anyone that I played with in a dungeon or other kink event. Mr. Texas, however, may have to worry if he pushed for something I didn’t want to do – and that’s incredibly unfair to him; but I view us as having a sexual relationship first, exploring each other in BDSM second – and BDSM being new to him especially he needs to read other cues and listen to words (to an extent – he already has figured out my no rarely means no but I like the protest).

I am confusing as hell about using my own safe word and that isn’t fair to my sexual partner. I have learned that I cannot rely, either, on my partner and I consistently using a safe word only in certain scenes (like impact or consensual non consent).

It is up to me to clearly define and use my safe word to my partners, and to be consistent.