Mar 272017
 

“Aren’t you afraid it will happen all over again?” Mr. Texas asked me as we drove back from a BDSM speed dating event. I thought it would be good for him to get out and talk to other people, perhaps find a play partner or two besides me. “Your husband got into another relationship and then left you.”

I winced, though I hoped it wasn’t obvious in the darkness of the car. “No,” I stated, though that was only slightly true. I was concerned Mr. Texas might leave me, but not because he found someone else. He might leave me because I want an open relationship and he doesn’t, or because we’re incompatible, or because I can’t be who I was when he met me, or because I tell him to get the fuck out of my life.  He may find someone else and leave me because she is more perfect for him than I am; that could happen even if we were monogamous. It could happen, and she’d be lucky to have him.

I could tie him to the bed when I’m gone and release him when I’m at home to keep an eye on him, could have sex all day long every day, could be the most fantastic lover, provide the most stimulating conversations and entertainment, drop weight or gain weight to be his ideal body, dye my hair blonde (his favorite), and still he could leave me.

But it wouldn’t happen because he met someone else more… it would happen because we aren’t that compatible in the long term scheme of things.

…Unless he goes through a midlife crisis, like my ex husband did. He’s also transitioning out of the military, like my ex husband did before he left me.

But still, it wouldn’t happen because he met someone.

So yes, I’m concerned it could happen all over again.
Wicked Wednesday

Mar 222017
 

Don’t come empty handed, I’m a handful.

I am not an autopilot woman. You cannot let do my thing without some involvement. If you leave me, if you neglect me, if you do not provide the things that I need to run a course that we have set together, I will run in a different direction – it is just who I am.

I don’t require a lot, depending on the level of intimacy you want with me.

A one night stand: be attractive to me physically, and show some skill and a little consideration in the bedroom, brings condoms – you know what fits you best and what you prefer.

Play Partners: show aftercare – even if it’s just checking in the day after; show you know my interests and levels and try to meet me halfway towards your own, respect my boundaries.

Long Term Play Partner: show thoughtfulness and communication that is somewhat consistent (not daily, but perhaps weekly?), share the desires and fantasies so that I maintain a clue about wants. Create a safe space to share without judgment. Do all the things that a play partner would do.

A lover: show skill in the bedroom, be generous with orgasms, know what makes me hot, allow me to please you, talk to me on intimate matters, stay in contact a bit more than weekly, share desires. Do all the things that a one night stand would do.

A relationship: know what makes me tick, believe me when I tell you what I need (I don’t expect anyone to mind read), respect my need for independence is just as strong as my need to be supported, listen, daily communication, share dreams, goals, desires, fantasies, get along with my kids, introduce me to your family, understand that I won’t always be around and I will also respect your need to get away with friends and space and hobbies. Do all the things that every single one of these roles would do (perhaps minus the condoms if we’re fluid bonded).
Wicked Wednesday

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 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 192017
 

Febraury Photofest

Wicked WednesdaySometimes when I think that a mark blemishes my looks or skin, I need to remind myself that the marks that fill me are stamps that shaped who I am. I am by no means covered in them, most scars are barely visible or tiny.

Ankle scar: knife fighting. Once upon a time I had little man syndrome (little dog preferable?). I wanted to be tough. I learned how to throw knives at a very young age, but I didn’t stop there. Why not try to fight someone with them in close quarters? What was I thinking? Luckily for me, only my ankle and tiny little scar on my wrist show the evidence of this stupidity.

Thigh scars:  I’ve talked quite a bit about the idiotic time I let my ex husband cut me within weeks of leaving me, and how they are now undeniably scars. Hopefully they’ll fade, if nothing else to the barely detectable and far more numerous slivers created from sword fighting. I graduated from knife fighting into a more civilized sparring. I loved this, and taught for three years. A boyfriend taught me, and renaissance competitions furthered my love and skill. This wasn’t fencing, and we very often didn’t wear armor of any kind. And yes, a few of us went to the hospital for that poor decision, but it never altered my love for it, nor did I want to be encumbered by material that wouldn’t allow me to move the way I needed to. My sword of choice was a saber in close combat as the sword was cut down and balanced to be short (though I could fight against a sword of any size). My advantage: being one of the few females at these events, and wearing a tiny tank top, I’d bow to my opponent, and as they gazed at my breasts, I’d go in for their neck (never to slice, but to win). Thankfully, my thighs were only ever scratched, the sword wounds were never ragged, and the faint scars have gradually diminished to practically nothing.

 

Stretch marks: kids. Really the plight of most stretch marks for many women. I evaded them completely with my eldest daughter, my son decided to take my hips and made them even wider, my ass to become art of skin scribbles, small but visible ones on my breasts from his consistent nursing, and one deep mark going up my stomach (which thankfully can be hidden by jeans and just barely peeking out of a bikini bottom). Yeah, he created havoc, but even if the first child did, I would still have them; they are the greatest joy and worth leaving a lasting impression upon my skin – it simply echoes how they imprinted on my heart.

 

Ring finger: saving sister. Now, details are fuzzy on who is at fault, but one of my sisters got stuck on top of the monkey bars in our backyard. Being the eldest, and quick thinking intellect that I was, I searched for some way to save her. A wooden table was stashed in the corner, and I dragged it over to the jungle gym, putting it directly under the monkey bars and coached my sister down. Proud of my accomplishment in saving her life, I went to tell our parents. I reached for the back door and screamed when I saw nothing but blood pouring down my hand. Details after that are fuzzy, until a nurse bandaged me up. I had split the skin from tip to bottom of the inside of my finger somehow on the wood. Still have the scar that reminds me that I am a life saver to a sister.

 

Then there’s the less permanent marks…

Bruises days after The Wanderer took a belt to my bottom

Marks on my ass and thighs: a recent love of mine with spanking. I will now have red hand marks on my ass from time to time, and occasionally he will break the skin. Or a cane’s stripes will raise up in angry red and feel so soothed from a caress. Less common but far more of a long term reminder I can feel is the crop or a belt – I hate the sting, the way the stiff material lashes out at my skin, but the pain creates an instant head space that focuses me on the present, that makes my body attune to everything that touches it from that point forward, that makes pleasure all the more heightened afterwards. The most lasting impression I’ve experiences so far still comes from fists, however, as after so many orgasms I adore the thud against my bottom and thighs, the impact sinking deep into muscles that for days after remind me of our time together every time I sit, lay down, sometimes even walk.

Finger bruises bring back memories of sexier times: I tend to get them from sex. Perhaps his fingers grip my body to maneuver it, to yank, push, or pull to where he wants me next- so hot when he takes control. Perhaps he is clutching at my thighs as they are spread and holding me down as his tongue delves between my lips, or his cock slides deep into my body; perhaps he is pounding into me so hard he is fastening me to the mattress so that we don’t end up on the floor. Perhaps he is slowly teasing me and I am squirming and arching and trying to end the pleasurable torture.

Rope marks: if anyone has been reading the blog for any amount of time, are a certain love of mine. I love to trace my fingers along the paths that rope can leave, feel the deep tracks from spun threads where I was bound.

Feb 122017
 

Happy Valentine's DaySo I looked up on my own blog “Valentine” to see how I’ve reflected on this over the years. It’s been a mix: happy with photo prompts (pictured here) but my writing shows how I overall view the holiday. In one piece of fiction, I write about how the character breaks up with their partners the day before – which is something I used to do in my youth. In another piece of fiction I wrote about how a character was done being second when they should have been first – sadly something that echoed why I didn’t write anything related to Valentine’s Day last year.

Last year, my husband turned me (and family) away hours before we were to be reunited after months of choosing separation to help with transitions and failed attempts at polyamory. I just recently tweeted about how I haven’t felt the same since, and it’s very true. But even when we were married, I didn’t see him much for Valentine’s Day – the all-too demanding price of being a military spouse.

This year, I was given an idea by a coworker of how to celebrate Valentine’s Day. Mr. Texas would rather have the romantic couple’s night, but he’s on board and supporting me as he does best.

My table is set and beautiful and Texas is going to make a nice dinner. We are raising some teenagers, and two of them are special needs and may not have a relationship for some time. I don’t want anyone to feel alone when there are people around who do love them – and I would not have survived last year if I didn’t have the support of friends and family. So, we embracing Valentine’s Day message of love but directing it at people who matter most – family and those that support you best. I even invited some single relatives.

I’ve already warned the kids that we are going to go around the table and say nice things about each other so they better be prepared (a challenge for one or two, it seems). It’s a day to show appreciation, a day to sit down with each other (though family dinners are rather important to me) and express the positives.Wicked Wednesday
Febraury Photofest

Feb 052017
 

Febraury Photofest

Wicked Wednesday

 

 

 

 

“I should just quit the scene now,” I told my friends at a dungeon as we were sitting around socializing. I was on a couch with a couple that I’m quite close to, the man was in the middle and the woman on the other side of him. She was laying across his chest so I could rub her arm, and my legs were draped across his lap so she could rub my legs. We aren’t sexual, just close.

A man had approached and began a conversation towards negotiating a scene with me. I mentioned that I’m a wimp with impact and pain. He had stated that he had seen me scene several times prior to approaching me.

It brought up the topic of scenes and what each of the four of us had experienced – mine far tamer in so many respects.

I mentioned how I see so many bottoms able to be thoroughly beat, displaying marks that I am quite envious of. “But I’m a wimp. I should just quit the scene now,” I halfheartedly joked.

Anyone who has played with me, with the exception of Mr. Texas because he was new to any kink, has heard something similar from me.

I’ve heard from tops pretty equally now on their views of lightweight versus heavy hitter views of bottoms, which leaves me feeling just as insecure that I will be seen as a lesser than bottom. Though I’ve also had two separate tops (The Wanderer, and the man who co-topped me) articulately discuss with me how that isn’t the case, especially from their perspective of the what’s-in-it-for-them. These men discuss how comparative doesn’t even come into play, that they play because of the individual, and stress beautifully that the reactions of the bottom (me) are what do it for them as a top. I’m very reactionary, and they love to play with me because of my reactions. If they are getting a reaction playing softer, then it’s less work for them even, and they are perfectly content.

My ex husband, after his girlfriend and while we were reconciling, told me while we were at a GRUE together that he missed playing with his ex girlfriend because he wanted to play harder and couldn’t – because I couldn’t handle it. He had watched a scene of two people playing roughly on the floor. He knew this was an insecurity of mine and approached it as almost a reason to not be with me (at least that’s how I felt). He especially liked how he could draw back and backhand her in the face without holding back.

Her kink is not my kink, and that’s okay.

Even wanting him back as much as I did, that was not an activity I was going to engage in. I could go into the whys like just not interested and I can’t bruise on my face due to my career; but it truly is as simple as that is not something that I am even remotely curious about experiencing. I’m not at all close, with the exception of that one horrible weekend, to giving into something just to be/play with someone else.

In conversing with the couple and how hard they play, the top stated that it was nice having different bottoms to get what he wants, because he loves to the play with the individual, but every so often he feels the urge to go hard and it’s nice to have someone who can provide that.

That was not going to be the case with my ex husband, as playing with others was a hard limit during our reconciliation.

Truly, though, I am okay with a multitude of play partners because each individual will bring a new experience and wealth of knowledge or reactions.

So, no, I’m not really going to quit the scene, though I feel anxious when being approached by someone new, and sometimes even playing with a prior partner the insecurities will creep up. But I find that I will always state in advance that I am a wimp and can’t handle much.

I can only hope that the person engaging in play with me gets something out of it as well.

Jan 302017
 

Wicked Wednesday

A post about the last three months choosing my favorite or most revealing photos and posts and giving some background information; also listing accomplishments. I’m also going to be showcasing a blogger that I absolute adore each month with some favorite postings of theirs (hopefully I can showcase at least six bloggers this year as last year that’s at least what I got to).

November:

“After seeing the body of my sister, I was desperate to be held, to be fucked, to forget for at least moments the day’s events. I texted a friend, David… I was passed around and cuddled with a few friends as we watched the shows – have I mentioned enough how much I miss these people? There’s something that I found in this area that I’m just not finding in my new state.” – Supportive Friends

At the end of October, my vibrant and brilliant sis, A, died unexpectedly. I traveled back to where I just moved away from to deal with her death and was reminded just how fortunate I was to have such great friends. When dealing with soul crushing loss, it’s important to have a support system, and for the days that I was there and face to face with my grief, I was lucky to be surrounded by friends. I also showed growth in that I reached out to have sex in a more comfortable setting than a one night stand by contacting a friend.

Photo: This month I sorted through so many of my sister’s photos and tried to show case just how beautiful and creative she was as a celebration to what she had already done and never shown.

Accomplishment: Memories, a writing found in drafts that my sister wrote, and honored in Wicked Wednesday’s roundup.

An Often Read Blogger: Girl on the Net.  She’s capable of turning me on, of ranting about some things that should be tackled, of making my laugh, of inspiring my own writing.  Don’t Tell Me Sucking Dick is Easy and it’s brilliantly angry. I am insulted that someone would ever claim that fellatio is easy or simple. She writes A Story About Hard Fucking due to confidence. There is nothing hotter than the attitude my partner has that she describes in such sexy detail. Where are all the pervy women,  about not only where they are (everywhere), and not as fantasy-like as the question may insinuate, but why they may be hard to find. Girl on the Net takes on a position on something debated about in a way only she can: Faking Orgasms isn’t as Bad as You Think.  Sometimes in faking an orgasm, I have pushed myself to have a real one. And I love when he cums. A hot read is why she likes Butt Plugs. Then there’s such a fascinating story of worthless tokens which have a wealth of meaning; an excellent way to handle conflicts.

December:

  • “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” – David Holds Me

David and I had a busy night following an incredibly stressful day. I know that sometimes I turn to sex the way others turn to a drug, but I am learning my own limitations with doing so. I still get out of comfort zones and do things I normally wouldn’t when truly stress as a form of escape, but am seeking more supportive environments to do so. And let me mention again that I am so lucky to have such amazing friends.

:Photo: I’ve been learning to play with a violet wand.

Accomplishment: Writing About It All, honored in Wicked Wednesday’s roundup

An Often Read Blogger: A Slave to MasterI’m going to do this blogger a huge disservice in not really quoting any of her more spectacular posts. I also don’t comment all that often (of course, recently I don’t comment much at all on anyone). But she writes regularly, honestly, and often in such a hot manner. I can’t always envision myself in her situations, she has a different mindset than I do, but that is what makes her spectacular.

January: 

“It’s a scary step.

I still fight the feeling that I need to stand on my own, that I need to find myself amid all this chaotic life changing loss, that I am relying on another so heavily.

I have always been the reliable one, the one that my family and even my ex husband relied on, the stead fast one, always known who I was, what I wanted, and how to get there.

I’ve no clue anymore. My heart is shattered in so many pieces I am shocked that anyone wants to hold the slivers and be in my broken company.

Maybe, even if I’m doing this wrong or for the wrong reasons, it’s what is right for right now.

And maybe it’s time I set aside my worry and allow Mr. Texas to soothe my vulnerability with love (and yes, even opening myself up to another potential loss).” – Crash

January saw me acknowledging how important Mr. Texas is in my life and opening myself up to be vulnerable again. It also was a final acceptance that I have no clue about my own life right now and I feel utterly lost. I hope I find myself again – I’m not all bad.

:Photo

Accomplishment: Kayla Lords mentioned my post Pavlov’s Music in her weekly newsletter. 

An Often Read Blogger: Graydancer.Naiia BoundThis is also the first person to ever tie me, so I may slightly prejudice. Ever have a passion or dream and follow it as a career? Graydancer has. He has many different blogs, a podcast, travels extensively to present an unusual concept: an unconference at both Ropenspace with Murphy Blue, and GRUE, not to mention all the other classes/events/communities he participates or teaches at. I especially like to read him at  Love. Life. Practice…  A guest presenter, Naiia Bound,  that you can find at his blog discusses some hard topics like Kink and Depression, and growing older in kink and dealing with some of the complications that brings.

 

Jan 222017
 

I am like Pavlov’s dog with music selections.

Pavlov came across classical conditioning unintentionally…Whilst measuring the salivation rates of dogs, he found that they would produce saliva when they heard or smelt food in anticipation of feeding. This is a normal reflex response which we would expect to happen…

However, the dogs also began to salivate when events occurred which would otherwise be unrelated to feeding. By playing sounds to the dogs prior to feeding them, Pavlov showed that they could be conditioned to unconsciously associate neutral, unrelated events with being fed. – Psychologistworld.com

Certain songs will often remind people of a memory or a person. I find myself reacting to certain songs with physical reactions as well. It’s not that I’ve necessarily played with all these people often (though all but one I have), it’s just that music seemed to be prominent with us or in association with them.

Give me R&B or sexy pop beats, and I think of sex with my ex husbandOccasionally, my nipples will perk up or I will begin to tighten in anticipation. It’s strange to still have this reaction considering that it’s been so long, but it has been far longer still that this music trained me to respond with thoughts and aching for sex. With masturbation, I will still often play our radio station, so strong is my reaction that it helps my own self orgasm.

“I panted, by this time hours of pleasure not allowing me any sense of realism, and unable to help himself from toying with my quivering self, his fingers grazed my clit. I sucked in my breath, already feeling dizzy from the slight contact, my legs parting without thought. Suddenly two of his fingers danced upon my pearl, and I was so taken with pleasure I had no idea how I ended up laying with my back on his chest, one solid arm across my shoulder and neck so fingers could tugged at a nipple, the other hand quickly alternating between slipping into my sex and rubbing up into my clit.” – Incapable of Thinking

Always and Forever – Luther Vandross[jwplayer mediaid=”6952″]

Ride It – Jay Sean[jwplayer mediaid=”6954″]

Signs of Love Makin’ – Tyrese[jwplayer mediaid=”6955″]

Making Love (Into the Night) – Usher[jwplayer mediaid=”6956″]

Alternative music and I think of Mimir’s beautifully crafted scenes. Mimir had so much going on in his scenes that truly it’s a bit hard to pin down what specifically gets me physically reacting. It’s more like a whispered memory across my skin of sensations, an intake of breath of wondering what would have occurred, and a slight feeling of homesickness for rope and scenes crafted in a space that always felt safe and uniquely tailored to me. It’s an utter feeling of longing but incredibly sexy to me as well.

“He moved between my legs, and so softly – the merest gossamer of touches, slid a finger against the delicate lace of my underwear. If I had not been so fixated on his every move, if I had breathed too deeply, I might have missed the touch. It was a sharp contrast to the earlier dominance, this soft caress at my lips.

My body cried out for his touch. My mouth remained silent, not wanting to break the spell with demands that would go unheeded simply because they were uttered. He is not a man to be rushed.” – Take Down

Beautiful – 10 Years[jwplayer mediaid=”6957″]

Evil Angel – Breaking Benjamin[jwplayer mediaid=”6959″]

Bloody Creature Poster Girl – In This Moment[jwplayer mediaid=”6960″]

Industrial German and I think of painful rope with Master MondayRope with him was not unheard of, but we didn’t do it very often. Though I did see his look of planning often to this music, and occasionally was treated to some of his expertise. The music makes me me miss rope in general, but very specifically how badly it can cut into muscles, or the tension creating little doubt of being bound together, or the excitement of something new or creative. It’s a slight adrenaline rush.

“Did I mention the music was awesome? It’s amazing how music can create a scene, and in this case I feel it did. Next thing I knew I was being strung up and fully suspended with legs adjusted from time to time to a more painful position than the last. I was blindfolded and it was then used to pull my head back, in which he arched my back to tie the blindfold into an ankle. That was a tight tie, it didn’t allow any forgiveness or releasing of tension. It was very uncomfortable but sustainable, and I wished that I had been in it longer. He spun me around in that position, his hand brushing over my blindfold, my upturned chin, my tensely pulled back neck, my chest.” – Hurty Rope

Blutengel – Sing[jwplayer mediaid=”6961″]

Centhron – Lichtsucher[jwplayer mediaid=”6962″]

French pop songs and I think of being beat by Mr. Texas. – it’s a reaction I unconsciously created as country music just wasn’t doing it for me and he doesn’t care for most modern songs – so I picked Stromae and have tailored the songs specifically for our scenes. It is hearing these songs that inspired me to write some of my physical reactions to hearing certain music. Especially Love Story, and I think of having a cane taken to me, of the ebbs and flows to create a great scene where he is able to keep my pain threshold with a stinging strike just right and then use another song to build me up to perhaps punching on the back of my bottom or thighs, perhaps flogging (our newest exploration), or some other type of pain that while I handle it better, it certainly brings up the level of pain. Or he just may grip my hair and pull my head back forcefully as he slams his body deep inside of me, a hand around my throat and his deep throaty “mine” that imprints me as thoroughly as the marks. My body gets tense in anticipation of either an orgasm or bracing for impact when hearing this music now.

Love Story – Indila[jwplayer mediaid=”6963″]

Mes Aures – Frero Delavega[jwplayer mediaid=”6964″]

House’llelujah – Stromae[jwplayer mediaid=”6965″]

*I’m not including a post selection for Mr. Texas – for one I haven’t written much about our moments yet, for another, he is my future and we are beginning to strengthen my reactions to him and the music even further – I can’t wait!

**I had twelve songs picked out already as this sat in drafts, and when I saw the prompt for Wicked Wednesday, I thought it was perfect.

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Wicked Wednesday

Jan 152017
 

I find myself now fighting hard to not be a recluse after this last year – I no longer have motivation to go to most things. Yet, kink is near and dear to my heart, so is socializing. I need to pursue my passions again. An event I couldn’t see myself missing was a GRUE (Graydancer’s Ropetastic Unconference Extraganza).

Mr Texas almost went, for at least half the day (kid commitment), but I told him it was going to my agenda and I didn’t him following me along the whole time like a lost puppy. He stated he wanted to learn what my kinks and interests were, therefore justifying in advance that he would be with me the whole time. He ended up not going for other reasons. I truly think if he would have went, he would have learned a whole lot…regardless of whether he was there or not – that’s the wonder of being in a GRUE.

So there I was alone. The GRUE is almost perfect for being alone, for pursuing an individual’s agenda/interest/curiosity/seeing-something-offered-you-never-even-thought-of. Everyone is so welcoming and friendly if approached that I was confident if I needed a partner, I would be able to find one – though I wasn’t really planning on needing one. One thing I’ve noticed is that I don’t enjoy rope as much as I used to – perhaps deserving of its own post.

The night before, I was exhausted from travel and holiday time, from moving furniture for three days straight to Mr. Texas house, so I decided to sleep rather than make the meet and greet dinner.

Fighting lovely Los Angeles traffic and rain on top of that, I located the event and stepped inside.

I didn’t really know anyone, not that that fact surprised me, and I sat in the first row. A man struck up a conversation, respectfully questioning my experiences with GRUEs, and we discussed the kink communities in our more local areas. I saw the blank agenda board, listened to Graydancer (a person I at least somewhat know), and then watched the board fill up with classes.

I love the structure of GRUEs. How people write their passions regardless of experience and then pursue curiosities and other passions throughout the day. I love that these things will never be alike for that reason, that I can get up and go wander from one class to another without fear of offending.

I did give a big hug to Graydancer to start my day off right. Then took off for a class on orgasm control – one of my favorite kinks. Everyone was sharing in the dialogue of the discussion – not an uncommon thing at all for these events, and I realized that I was incredibly lucky to orgasm as frequently and easily as I do. I also felt torn about being there, as there was another class happening at the same time that I wanted to do as well.

So off I wandered after a bit to the Morning Wake Up and Energize class and did some mediation and stretches outside where fortunately the rain had cleared up. This is how I should always start my day though I rarely do.

Then I attended a class where they were discussing and teaching about body manipulation. These classes are more directed rather than direct instruction, and so many people came together and collaborated on so many different ways to move a person. I had some good ideas, though many required one partner to be stronger than another.

Lunch was served, tacos and a pleasant conversation with a gorgeous Asian woman who was into fire play – both as performance and kink.

I wandered from class to class and found myself really engaged in a large discussion identifying as a switch. It left many questions that deserve its own post (notice a trend? There’s so much to talk about!).

I watched about cutting off clothes – he even had two women try different types of clothes (like bras vs no bras) and I have a few ideas. It was very hot, and he was so enthusiastic and passionate about it. Sadistic rope was presented by someone I was vastly entertained by at Ropecraft, and I had been tied in many of the things that were shared, cringing in remembrance and laughing at other’s reactions. Pole dancing techniques were being shared and I am always in awe of the strength and conditioning, not to mention the bruises and challenges that go into maneuvering around the pole (I took a few classes, and it really hurt the skin).

The fire class was the last class and one that I had been looking forward to since lunch conversation. The woman I spoke to was co-presenting, and she began by discussing fire safety and put out the fire a few times with her mouth. The man presented different ways to share fire with a partner, another woman being the demonstration bottom. She was bare, but still I cringed at the one point when he took a fire wand right to her pubic bone.

There was still a bit of time and no class afterwards from the fire, so after the presentation by the two, he asked if anyone wanted to try either the top or the bottom side. I asked if I could experience it as a bottom.

Negotiations were no pubic area as I had hair there. He asked if I was fully comfortable getting naked on stage, which I was. As I laid on my stomach, he took the fire wand and blew the heat and flame across my body; during the demonstration I thought that this looks so sensual and sexy, and it felt amazing – a slight fanning of heat. Then he took a paint brush with alcohol and painted patterns on my skin before setting it on fire, brushing his hand to put it out; I liked the sensations of the heat followed by the caress of a hand. Next, he sprayed his hand and spanked my skin with his fire hand; honestly I couldn’t feel much of a difference from a regular spanking, though I definitely did when he reversed it and sprayed my skin to set it on fire and spanked it out. My most sensitive places with fire play were the back of my thighs and my lower back – the same with wax play from candles.

At his instruction, I rolled over and he painted in the valley between my breasts to set that on fire. He suggested that seeing it was far different than just feeling it, so my head was raised to view my own skin being set to flame, the blue and slightly yellow tinge flame being swallowed by his large hand. He followed the curves along the bottom of my breasts and then those heated up.

He asked about nipple sensitivity and permission to show me, then lit those on fire. It felt hotter – painful like my lower back though also sparked pleasurable sensations – my nipples do appreciate a bit of pain.

When we were done and as I was getting dressed, closing circle was called. This is the “aftercare of the the GRUE” where people expressed their thoughts of the day, a way to decompress before being sent out into the world in search of dinner.

An excellent experience, and one that has at least inspired me to pursue new kinks and write about some old favorites.
Wicked Wednesday