String

There’s a whole ball of string that came unraveled over the past couple of weeks. As it was happening, I wanted an outlet. I needed to talk about it. Luckily, I had several close friends who decided to weigh in on the situation. Most of them were not impressed. Most were not happy about the decisions that were made. In the end, the choice was mine and mine alone and I did what my heart told me to do and that was the best I could do and is the best that I can do and at this moment I feel as though I’ve made the right choice and am following that particular path and hope to continue to walk that path for some time.

The issue at hand stemmed from a lie. That’s been discussed to death though, at least between the two people that matter. We talked about why it happened, how it made us feel, how we can prevent it from happening in the future, what we expect to get out of the apology, what forgiveness is and is not, what expectations lie ahead of us now that we’ve moved on, and it’s pretty much a done deal. No, it wasn’t a good thing to do. No, it should never be repeated. Yes, he needs to trust me more. Yes, he needs to give me a chance to give my own individual response. No, it wouldn’t have been fair for him to just walk away. Yes, I would have forgiven him regardless. No, forgiveness doesn’t equal the continuation of a relationship. Yes, I can stand to see him again.

For days and a week after the incident I had more and more questions. Once the initial shock was over, I had more specific questions. The why and the how and the psychology behind it. What else had happened? I was ready to know. But the point was that it was done and over. After the apology was issued, then there were more problems. I didn’t handle it ‘correctly’. There was an outburst over the public nature of his apology. It didn’t seem ‘sincere’. Although to me it was sincere, because he’d been apologizing for days. He knew what he’d done. He knew what risks he’d taken. He knew he wanted to do whatever he could to set things right with me again. Not for the sake of being with me, but for the sake of just not hurting me again.

So we continued with our original plans. A lunch. A date. Time spent together. The more time we spend together, the easier it gets. The jabs are fewer and further between. We both understand that to forgive is not the same as to forget. Trust has to be rebuilt. We spend the time together to know each other, so we don’t make the same assumptions over and over again.

Somewhere in there, something shifted. Something changed. The work he’d been doing internally started to show. It didn’t shine so bright that one weekend, but the next it was better and after that was best. I’d invited him to a party. He’d been to one with me before. We were supposed to play but he backed out at the last moment. Mostly, he just attended. He could play with me in the hotel room but not where other people could see us. He was ashamed to submit to me.

Hours into this party, as the demo was taking place, he told me he wasn’t sure he could go through with it. As soon as he said it, I shut down. I closed him out. The affectionate touches that we’d been sharing all night, all week, they were done. I was working on building the walls again. There was only so much I could take. I couldn’t handle being around someone that was ashamed to be with me, to be seen with me, someone that couldn’t handle others knowing that he was choosing to surrender to me. I walked away. I spoke with others. Eventually the demo ended and it was time to play, only my play partner wasn’t game. Or so I thought.

We took a moment to exchange words; I needed to know what he was going to do with himself while I continued with the other scenes I had hoped to have that evening. He said he didn’t want to go back on his word and he’d given his word that he was going to play with me tonight. I asked him if he was certain he wanted to do that and started to explain the scene so that he knew what to expect. We pulled out his toys, walked to the room, and his scene began.

I got him laced and strapped into his hood. The four locks went on. The Rook tied him up and we turned him around to face the wall. The violet wand was plugged in and the chastity device was where everyone could see it. There were onlookers in the hallway, surely scoping out this different kind of scene. This is how we played. There was no impact play. There was rope, which is often prevalent in our parties, but it wasn’t the primary focus of the event. But then the energy of the scene behind us got to him and he wasn’t going to be able to drop like he normally did. We cut the scene short, got him out. He apologized once, twice, for not being able to do exactly what I wanted him to do, but it didn’t matter. I was proud anyhow.

After a little time out of the hood, we walked around the party. There were medical restraints, something we were both interested in. I got him in a straight jacket, a leather muzzle, and ankle restraints. We weren’t sure about the muzzle until it was tight enough that he couldn’t talk. He wasn’t sure about being able to see, but when he realized the potential to be mobile, follow me around like that, he seemed to like it more. We had a clash of desires for a moment. I wanted to see what the Rook was up to and was going to leave him behind but he said he wanted to see too. So I told him he could come with me and he protested, not like that! So I removed all of his restraints. Later, he told me he wished I’d made him. I told him we were too new into this for me to assume that kind of control. I wished I could have, wished I didn’t feel I had to ask permission, but I’d rather go it slow and do it right than to fuck it all up again.

I took him home and put him in his hood. We spent time naked together, cuddling, fucking. We woke up to one another. We spent more time together naked. More time fucking. Some time talking while we cuddled. The morning drew on into the afternoon and we needed lunch. We spent a lot of time talking about the connection between us, how we were always drawn back to one another. He talked about how he felt that he was owned, even when he wasn’t with me. How the only thing he could think to call me, the only thing that felt right, was ‘Master’. I spoke of how I hated turning him loose, but how I knew he had to learn for himself that this was where he belonged. I hated that I couldn’t protect his heart for him but that it had to be broken in order for it to heal, in order for it to be given away. And then I showed him how easily I could hold his heart in my hands and he agreed in silence that I did, in fact, possess his heart.

Each night that we spend together we spend touching. We spend talking. We make plans for days ahead of where we live now. We make plans for the near future and I don’t question if we’ll make it that far. We don’t talk about what we are to one another, other than important. Right now it doesn’t matter if he’s my sub, my bottom, or my slave. Right now it doesn’t matter if we want  just a bit of this lifestyle to spice things up or if we’d like to go all the way. He’s afraid he could go to extremes and I’m hopeful that he can, but wouldn’t let us go too far. I’d keep things realistic. Sometimes it seems so ordinary, to just be wrapped up in him, to just want to touch another person, to show them exactly who I am. Each day we spend together, I feel what was once a single golden thread keeping us connected strengthening, encircling another, until eventually it will be a cable that cannot be cut. It’s frightening and exhilarating.

The damage between us has been repaired. We’re working on building a solid foundation. Eventually, sometime in the future, I hope he can rebuild with our friends again as well. I hope that he can get on level ground with the Rook, with Junk. I hope that we can all be together, care about one another. I suspect it will take some time though. Not everyone can forgive as easily as another. Not everyone has the capacity to put such things behind them as quickly as I can. Not everyone can see the magic that’s working inside of him right now and that’s fine. I don’t expect that everyone can see the sparkle in his eye or the way that he carries himself differently. They can’t feel the change in his touch. They don’t understand the look in his eye. They could never know the significance between grey and green and sapphire and crystalline blue in his eyes. Those are things I know, things that I study, things that I see. As long as I see them, believe in him, I like to think he can continue to grow.

That is the gift that I share readily with those closest to me in my life. With devin, with Junk, with the Rook — I want to see them grow and develop and take on challenges and succeed. I want to see them love and be loved. I want to see them struggle and triumph. I want to see them recognize their strengths and weaknesses and find partners that complement them. I want to build a life and a future and hope with each of them. I want to harbor happiness within us all. I want for every person to know the peace, the joy, that I’ve felt over the past while, all because I’ve found the right people for me.

Inside

The morning was drawing on. Already the sun had settled into the sky and was peeking through the curtains to see if we were awake. The covers had been folded back and snuggled under again, cast aside for a quick romp and reintroduced for casual comfort. We were close together, words were exchanged less often than kisses, touching was more prevalent than either. There came an urge from within, slow and faint at first, take it or leave it kind of deal. Eventually it was all I could think of though.

One hand against his chest, my body pushed against his side, I wanted him rolled over. I had to wait. I couldn’t just flip him. There was steel between his legs now, just a small piece, just enough to pinch and to pull, to inflict a pain I wasn’t looking for at the moment. I gave him a moment, let him touch my cock, let him adjust, and then he shifted his position so that I could press up against his ass. There were layers of clothes between us. I needed no nudity to do what I wanted to do. He’d been cold. It’d take too long to get him undressed. After I pushed him over, after he turned onto his stomach and slid his arms up over his head, I crawled on top. Slithered right over his back, settled down so that I could press against his ass. I wish I had a toy attached, a strap-on. I wanted to thrust it inside of him, watch him reel, hear him protest and cry, and then fuck him. It was a good thing I didn’t have a toy on.

Despite being covered, I knew what he looked like. I knew his shoulders were uneven. They were probably tense too. I knew the tone of his skin, the freckles on his back. I knew the outline of his biceps, from where he may have been much more muscled when he was younger. I knew how smooth his skin was from touching him all the time. I couldn’t see the scars I adored but I knew they were there. Terrain. The Scarway Express. A hole for me to violate while we were in public — I could jam a finger deep in there and wriggle it around and he could feel it but it didn’t hurt. The right side of his body was always favored because of this. I didn’t need his shirt to be off to know this was all there. This was something I’d missed about him, his tore up body.

At first I was slow, unsure of how I wanted to play. Sometimes it’s quick. I just need to rub against him, get the juices flowing, get it over with, and get off. Sometimes I just want to be on top. I want him to feel my weight on top of him. I want him to know that now he’s a bottom. My bottom. I want him to understand his position with me, and thus his position in life. I need him to discard the ideas of what he’d been, eliminate the options of what he could be. I want him to understand that this is where we should both be and that this will work. I slide my arms underneath his, under his biceps. He’d made a remark to me about how he was stronger and more flexible than I gave him credit for and I scoffed. I don’t underestimate him at all.

I stretched my legs down inside of his own, pushing his legs away from his body. I hook my ankles over his calves, press my toes down by his ankles. I’m comfortable now. My hands snake over the covers to his wrists were my fingers curl around them and rest. He presses his ass up against me. In my head, I know he’s a slut. It had been uttered in the early hours of the morning when in his sleep he’d pressed back against me, the usual position for starting just this. I was too tired then; I’m not any longer.

At first I just graze against his ass. I’m not wet yet. I’m looking to get there though. I enjoy being on top. I enjoy feeling him beneath me. I like hearing the grunts that come from him. He turns his hands around, starts to move his arms. He’s testing me. He wants to see how easily he can break free, if I’ll let him go. The more he struggles, the tighter I hold. As he’s doing this, his body is moving beneath me. He’s rubbing against me. I’m rubbing against him. The struggle fuels something inside of me and I press down against him, let his body press up against me, feel my clit grow hard, feel my panties get wet. This was what I was looking for.

Now his arms try to move forward, back, any way they can. I have a good hold of him though. Instead, he tries moving his legs. I’ve got them locked inside of mine as well. That causes more bucking. I thrust against him. As he squirms around, he presses against me. He doesn’t let up. It’s going to get rough. Not like the time that I pinned him by the back of the neck and had to work from bottom to orgasm with little motivation. It’s going to get rough in that my whole body is going to have to keep him pinned, in that he’s going to keep struggling, that I have to make sure to keep a good hold on his wrists as well as get myself off.

It’s warm in the bedroom. The clothing may have been a mistake, but it may have also been a saving grace. If our skin had been touching, everything would have been much too slippery, the way his wrists were growing damp in my palms. I was turned on. I wanted to claw at him, pin him harder. I wanted to slide inside of him. Be inside of him. I wanted to feel his ass give way to my flesh and blood cock. I wanted to feel the pressure of the muscles trying to keep me out, to feel them relent, to push inside, to force myself deep inside of him. I wanted to hear the sounds he’d made then as he knew that I was going to take what I wanted no matter what. I wanted to feel him buck against that, drive me deeper inside of his body, inside a forbidden entrance. For now, I had to settle with the curve of his ass fitting perfectly against my body, with my clit brushing against the fabric of my panties. I could smell my arousal and his sweat and it was divine and I wanted to breathe nothing more than that for the rest of the day.

Writhing around beneath me, I thrust against him hard. I was still imagining being inside of him where he couldn’t deny me. He could deny his feelings for me, pretend like I hadn’t gotten inside of his head, pretend like I hadn’t made some impact on his life, but in this one act he wouldn’t be able to deny that I had finally gotten inside of him. The more he struggled the more it turned me on the more I had to fight against him. I wanted to create something where he could see that he was safe to rebel, safe to question, safe to fight, but I wouldn’t let him go. My love for him isn’t enough. Caring for him isn’t enough. Ensuring that I am a part of his life always, even when he doesn’t need me around, that wasn’t enough to show him that this is a safe place for him. I wanted to slide inside of him and show him that this was how it was going to be and that if he could just let go, he’d enjoy it. He knew he enjoyed it. He’d done it before. Getting there is always the struggle for him.

Finally, as my palms were sweating, as his body was bucking, I came. I came hard and long and I couldn’t keep it quiet. I wanted him. I wanted him with all of his flaws and his anguish and his love and his hopes and his dreams. I wanted him with all of the personality traits that people loved and all the personality traits that people hated. I wanted everything everyone saw and everything no one else got to see. I wanted all that was right with him and all that was wrong with him and all that is good and all that is bad and I wanted to make sure he knew it. I wanted him to know that he could fight and rebel and struggle and I wasn’t going to go anywhere. I was strong enough to handle everything that he is and everything that he will be and I am strong enough to lead us to where we need to go.

I want to be inside of him the way that he is inside of me. Inside my head, inside my heart, inside my soul. I just need to be inside.

 

Impact

Since I met her, I’ve been trying to get to know her. There have been less questions, less interrogating, less prying of information just because she’s younger, there’s not quite as much history to obtain as there was with the last person I went through this with. For a while it seemed as though I wasn’t doing enough, like I wasn’t as involved as I had been before. Once I dropped the comparisons and realized the situations were completely different, things took off a little better. One comparison that I just couldn’t seem to drop though was pain tolerance.

Since I became active in my local community, I’ve had a few play partners. I’ve played with a couple of people at parties. Before that, I had a few pets of my own. Not a single one of them identified as masochists. In my longest D/s relationship, impact play wasn’t even a part of our usual routine. There were over the knee spankings because we found them enjoyable but even those had to be worked up to over a lengthy period of time. I’ve never had anyone that I could go all out with. So when I found out that she identified as a masochist, I wanted to push that as far as I could and see if she was truthful or if it was only wishful thinking that she could take all I wanted to give her. The first couple of times we played together, I did still end up holding back, but I easily surpassed anything I’d done with any previous play partner. There was no real warm-up though, there were no real emotions behind it. I was just swinging a flogger, gauging her reactions. I was whacking with a cane, gauging her reactions. I was spanking with the paddle, gauging her reactions. I was scraping nails down her body, gauging her reactions. She took it all well and never had to ‘yellow’ but I’m certain we got close at times. Her level of tolerance was higher than I’d played with before and that opened up a whole lot of possibility to me.

Over the following days and weeks, I spent time getting to know her mentally and emotionally, learning more of her history, and scaling back the pain. I took it all the way down to just pinching her. I pinched her a great deal though. She’s quick and caught on that if she’s getting pinched in public, it has less to do with what she’s doing and more to do with the fact that I’m bored. She went so far as to announce it once at game night. As she was squirming around, crawling over my lap as though getting closer would help her to escape the vulcan grip I had on her side, she scolded a friend: “Take your move faster — Aki’s bored!” Pain was replaced with affection and pure service. Things were going well and I had no complaints.

It wasn’t until I was lying in bed one night, flipping through mental images and thoughts that would help me to reach orgasm faster as I pressed my vibrator to my clit that I realized that I missed inflicting pain. That thought alone pushed me further along than anything else. I toyed with a few scene ideas, imagined the sounds that she might make if I really hit her, and before I knew it I’d reached my climax and I was ready to sleep. The little clues are often what give us the big picture anyhow. So the next time she came over, I made sure to have my stuff prepared.

There’s a shelf about waist high in my living room. It’s pulled from the wall and a blanket is draped over it. Tonight, two floggers, two canes, and a paddle are resting, waiting. When she shows up, she slips in as I finish up what I was working on. Upon seeing what I have laid out, she asks in jest, “Should I get naked?”. It was hardly a question though and I bluntly tell her yes. Without any hesitation, she undresses. I position her at the edge of the table and she leans down over it, exposing her back and ass to me. I start with my flogger. This time, instead of smacking her hard and working her from there, I go soft and slow. I go over the contours of her shoulder blades and beneath them. I angle my falls against her sides, but without wrapping. I hit up at the tops of her shoulders without letting them go too far. I do a figure eight between her shoulders. Then, I start to hit the same spot over and over and over and over and over again. She’s on her tippy toes, dancing around, ankles crossed, fingers grasping the blanket, and then I move spots. A quick flick across the ass, a light dusting of flogger down the backs of her thighs and calves. Then back up where I can hit hard against her shoulders, hard against her back, hard against her sides. The falls of the flogger are dangled over her, trickled down her back and ass. The nice flogger is retired.

Thick falls of suede replace the thin strips of leather from the last flogger. The weight of this one is immediately noticeable, as is the particular bite of it, coming from the plastic barbed wire tied in with the suede. There’s not been a single person that’s been able to take this flogger as long or as hard as I’ve wanted to use it. She dances for me, squirms about, makes her sounds of protests, gasps in so sweetly every time it hits, and turns a delicious shade of red beneath the falls, but never does she utter ‘yellow’. From what I know of her actions, her reactions, her sounds, her body language, I’m certain I’m riding close, and so I switch it out. I’m still high from getting to actually use it though and it’s simply draped over my shoulder rather than retired for good.

My thick cane is taken then and I do a few test thumps against her ass, against the backs of her thighs. I can hit her hard with this but it doesn’t give the desired effect. There is sensation. There is impact. There is some squirming. There is nothing quite like what I’m about to get to though when I switch it out for the bamboo cane I received at my first ever demo, which happened to be for caning. This one is so small, so whippy, such a nice fit in my hands. A friend explained the proper motion as being ‘what you do for fly fishing’ and that really helped me to line up my strikes. Once across the top of her ass, once firmly on the most rounded part of her cheeks, skipping the sensitive sweet spot and right across the backs of her thighs. I start out soft, knowing that this is the hardest kind of pain for her to tolerate. There is just barely a visible streak of red across her flesh but I’m only warming up. Placing my hand on her back, I can feel her starting to sweat. I smile to myself before I line up my next swing. This one makes a redder mark. The next one lands atop it. The next one gets closer to the cusp of her ass and thighs. The next one is lower on the thighs and the types of marks that I’m after are finally appearing. When I strike with my cane next, it smushes the flesh beneath it away from the point of impact, like her body’s melted beneath my cane. In its place is a tinge of purple with red around it. Fascinated, I do it again. And again. And again. I don’t want to be restricted to just her ass. To just her thighs. I’m running out of room to stripe her. Slipping my fingers between her collar and neck, grabbing her ass with my other free hand, I shove her further along that table. I know it can handle her weight. Like a good girl, she keeps her legs straight out behind her. The cane taps over her calves, dances down the soles of her feet, and back up her legs. Back up her thighs. Two good strokes against her ass where the flesh melts away and purple rushes to the surface. Then the cane is retired.

At long last, my trusty paddle is removed from its innocent looking sleeve and set upon her ass so she can feel what’s coming next. She’s floating though, somewhere between here and there, and she has no idea. I spank her hard. I spank her right over the cane stripes. I spank her often and fast and slow and hard and on the top of her ass and down the backs of her thighs and finally in that sweet spot that makes her squirm so bad. I pull her hair. I scratch her body. I kiss her. When I’m all done, when I don’t think we should go any further, I push my fingers between her collar and neck and ease her back off the table, back into my arms, and I take her to the couch where she can rest against me and return to the world.

The next day we see each other again. We have plans to go out, to go play games. I want to see my friends, play the games, eat the food that’s being made, but I also want to stay home. I want to be on the couch, touching her, using a movie as a guise for playing with her. I’m torn but we’ve already committed. I sit through the games and watch everyone drink and I just want to touch her. She’s in pain — pain not from me. I hate to see her like that (says the Sadist) but not so much that I won’t wiggle her arm or pull her back with it despite her shoulder hurting. It doesn’t keep her from being affectionate with me, or sitting next to me. It doesn’t affect how often we kiss. Towards the end of the night I’m calculating out the minutes I’ll have before she has to be home. We’re breaking curfew tonight for sure.

Once we get home, I pull her onto the couch. I pull her into a kiss. My hands are all over her body. I’ve found they’re my favorite toys of all. I just want to grab and pinch and slap and scratch and tug and pull and smack. I pull her hair, expose her neck, kiss her. I find her mouth and smile to myself when she kisses me the way I like to kiss now, forgetting how it started out. I can taste her. I can feel her. I lean back against the arm of the couch, I pull my legs up and spread them, and pull her into me. She fits so perfectly between my legs. She once asked why I like her to be on top when I’m the Top and I answered by grabbing her breasts. I like the weight. I like having my hands free. I like that she gets so distracted by her hair being in her face that she can’t do a whole lot more. She positions her hip against my clit, presses herself down into me, so I can rub against her and get off. Her touch is light and her fingers are trailing down my sides as our tongues are touching, as my fingers are pulling her hair. I could get off right now, take my orgasm, but it’s not quite right.

Moving her out of the way, I switch our positions. I push her face down into the couch and I get on top of her. Her ass is perfect. I want to rub against that instead. I slip a hand beneath her, grabbing a tit and squeezing, pulling, dragging my fingers over her nipples. We’re trying to get aligned and she pushes up against me, teasing me, and I can’t find the right position. I’m glad we’re not trying to use a toy right now too because then I’d just be frustrated. I pull her hair, force her head back, look down at her, and then I get up. She turns just enough to watch me. I grab her by her collar, by the back of her shirt. She’s light, easy to move around. I pull her across the room, turn us around, and throw her to the ground. Before she can change positions, I’m down on top of her. I’ve got one hand under her body, one tight in her hair, and I can press all of my weight down on her. I have her ass pressed right against me, right where I want to rub. It’s hard and fast and now I wish we were using a toy. I want to hear the sounds she makes when I impale her with my cock. I want to see the way she struggles and squirms and fights to take an orgasm before I get mine. But for now the twisting and the sounds she makes are divine. I’m watching her jawline, the way that my collar looks against her neck. I love the feel of her breast in my hand, the way she jerks when I pull it. I love the way that despite my hurting her, pulling her hair, her focus is still on getting me off and she shoves her ass up against me. I love that I can lose myself with her, make my sounds, and take my orgasm.

When I’m done, I take her to the couch. We kiss. Her body is still turned on. I flick her nipples, I suck on them. I tease her. I tickle her. At one point I’ve got her turned away from me, her legs around my waist, and I’m rubbing between her thighs. I barely touch her and she reacts. She bites her lower lip when I’m teasing her and I think she’s adorable. I continue to touch her, to try to arouse her, but when she gets too excited, too into what I’m doing, I pull away. I pull her in to kiss. I pull her in to hug. And then I send her home, so I can finally, finally sleep.

Sadist

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a Sadist. When I was younger and didn’t realize what it was I was doing, I had no guilt. Lately, I’ve been discussing my first sexual experiences with new people. According to the lot I speak to, it turns out I’m rather inexperienced for my age and the kind of life I lead. Jaws drop often when they hear the number of people I’ve been intimate with and they think I’m lying when they find out how many people I’ve had intercourse with. Worse than that though, and it may just be the crowd I’m currently entertaining, when they ask me about my very first sexual encounters (and I define these not as the exploring another person’s body to find out what makes them aroused but acts that are specifically meant to lead to intercourse) I can vividly recall pushing my boyfriend to the ground, straddling him, and slipping him inside of me while I poured candle wax (of the wrong variety) down his chest. The pain that he was in is what got me off. Try admitting that during a run-of-the-mill drinking game, eh?

 

At the time, I was fairly certain everyone had sex the way I did. My boyfriend seemed to think it was the most amazing thing in the world (once the burn marks on his chest disappeared that is). He would often gloat in his own private sort of way when someone asked about our sex life. I was open and he was closed. I was loud and domineering and he was quiet and submissive. How this relationship did not work out in the end I will never know. That was just the tip of the iceberg though. After the candle wax to the chest came the mental bondage. Keep your hands here or I’ll stop moving. After that came the pinching and the scratching. Anything to make him uncomfortable. The only game that I play now that never made it into that repertoire was tease and denial. Years later I found out he would have never indulged me anyhow, not unless there was a guaranteed orgasm at the end and if I have to guarantee it, what kind of fun is that? When I first read about chastity, I demanded he play with me. He looked at me as though I’d lost my damn mind. That look never left. I steered clear of it for the longest time, just exploring it with a device for the first time just recently. It was as amazing as I thought it would be.

 

As time went on, I invested in floggers, paddles, canes, and crops. My boyfriend-turned-husband looked at me like I was crazy and informed me that while I may like those kinds of things, he most certainly did not. That was where my first pet came in. He wasn’t much for pain or for service, but he was submissive, pretty, and cross dressed like a pro. That was all I needed for the first time around. The weekend that we spent together revolved around bondage and some spanking, which I was really into back then. I’m sure the people I play with now wish I would regress to being satisfied by just that. My second pet, jhusdhui, was much better about letting me hit him, but he certainly wasn’t any better at taking it. There was squirming and crying and fits and everything. But if I pulled out a toy, he never complained. He assumed the position and even thanked me when I was done. It really was all about pleasing me and that is a quality I so desperately seek in my next pet as well.

 

Those that I talk to now, they’re not interested in the pain. Only one has figured out that it really is the suffering that I’m after, has realized that it builds intimacy for me. I do so love smart, observant boys. Not all of my current partners are kinky. (Gasp! I know, right?! I wonder the same thing.) When we got around to negotiating the terms of our relationship, he questioned if I was even capable of having sex without hurting him. I had to think long and hard about it. I had to think about all the times I’ve had sex in the past, what made the good times good and the bad times bad. Which experiences did I like the most? Which aroused me the most? Why did they arouse me the way they did? It wasn’t about the pain, I concluded. It was about the control. While I might not have to inflict pain upon someone to reach orgasm, I do have to be in control of the encounter. My partner does not have to be my submissive, but he has to be submissive to my wants and needs. In turn, I will take care of him as I see fit, and how I see fit and how he sees fit gets to be negotiated before hand.

 

But that’s just sex. That’s what I’ve concluded. I can have vanilla sex. It won’t mean as much to me as when I get to tie someone up or tease them. It won’t get me off quite like I get off when I can hit them first. I’ll still enjoy myself (I think) but it won’t have the intimacy that I crave from having sex with a pet. That’s not a huge concern for me where I am though. So having separated all of that in my mind, I stepped back to try to figure out what this emptiness inside of me seems to be. It’s not persistent. It’s not eating at me. All I know is that a few weeks ago I was on top of the world and now I’m feeling as though I’m wandering aimlessly again. The loss of control might be some of it. I don’t actually have anyone in a position to be submissive to me for any real duration of time. There are none that I’m so interested in that are begging me to take hold of their leash that I can feel as though I could have the control if I wanted to. That tends to create a void every now and again. This is different.

 

Finally I realized that the problem is that I was introduced to another side of myself that I haven’t been in touch with in nearly a decade. I’m a Sadist, through and through. I get off on watching someone suffer. I like inflicting pain upon those who do not like pain (but consent to it within the predetermined parameters of our relationship) and watching them take it for me, struggle through it, squirm, and fight it. Their acceptance of it is not always relevant. I want them to walk away from the experience feeling good though — if not because they reconciled the pain into pleasure in their mind, because they brought me pleasure through the pain they took. The suffering that I had taken for me most recently was different though. I didn’t get to see him in person. I didn’t get to have all of my words and actions reaffirmed through the look of loss and pain in his colorless eyes. I could only go off of what he told me, what he wrote about, the conversations we had. Every day I seemed to delve deeper and deeper into his mind. I was always at the forefront of his mind. I scared him. I made him panic. I took him to a very dark place and then watched him wallow in his misery. I loved it. His pain was my pleasure and he knew it. There was only that to find solace in, that if he was suffering, I was pleased. It backfired on us though. When I tried to bring him back out of it, show him all the things he could have, tried to resurface him and reconcile fantasy with reality, he couldn’t break free, not on his own. This was the trouble with not being able to look him in the eye, to touch him, to reassure him that I would take care of him. This was where the pleasure of emotional sadism became even more than I could handle. The same way that I don’t get off on seeing a car accident victim writhing on the ground pleading for his life, I don’t get off on someone talking as though I’d ruined their entire life. Eventually it had to end.

 

I got to experience something new though, which is saying a lot for me. I’ve known for almost all of my life that the types of relationships that I enjoy most are mainly mental. I know that I enjoy D/s relationships because they push thought and behavior in directions traditional vanilla relationships don’t go. I’ve known since I was 15 that I had the capacity to get inside certain people’s heads and toy with their emotions. I know to be careful, I know to seek consent in my way, I know how to create scenes in which we can go deep and explore and study those dark, intimate feelings and when to pull back. Rarely does it misfire the way that it did this time, but when it does it does. That’s the trouble with mental domination. In a physical scene, I could have just cut him down, wrapped him up in a blanket, and held him close until he recovered. Here, I have to go through all the steps of building trust all over again. I have to suffer everything I say being questioned, dissected, analyzed. I have to make sure every action and every word match up precisely. I have to ensure that nothing I say can be misconstrued. I have to define everything we talk about so we communicate effectively. It’s worse than being at square one, where there’s good faith trust for someone new you’ve met; I’m at step -1, where I have to tend to hurt feelings, confusion, and clearing my name before I can even go back to step one. Is it really worth it? Can a relationship survive this sort of thing?

 

I know the mistakes that I (and we) made. I know how to handle them in the future. Would I do it again? Absolutely. Would I do it differently? Probably. Is it something I would be interested in pursuing again? I’m positive. I don’t know that I’ll be able to do it again with the same person; I sure am hoping so, because I haven’t had as much fun playing with someone as I did him in quite some time, but only time (and trust) will tell. What I’ve learned though is that I enjoy the physical and emotional side of Sadism. I am a Sadist, through and through. It’s an exhilarating, lonely existence some days.

Finally

Waking up early enough to look at cars didn’t happen. The extra sleep was nice. For a moment, he felt guilty. He took care of the puppy, a refreshing experience, while I showered. Together we headed out for breakfast. Shopping for new clothes came next. I tried on a million things and the last one stole my heart. His card slid across the counter instead of mine. I used to balk; I thanked him today.

Mother’s Day. Flowers and alcohol for mine; a card, cash, and dinner for his. We had a wonderful meal and lots of laughs. I feel like I fit into his family. I feel like I get along with his friends. People seem to know about me. People seem to know about my husband. Everyone seems cool with it all. I worried about his friends being concerned over him. They might be still. I’ll take good care of my kitten.

The house is empty. It would have been vacant but he came to keep me company. My husband ran off for a long weekend. I miss my pup but I have my kitty. We don’t worry about stepping on toes. Nudity is the only dress code for him. Collars and cuffs and he asks permission to put on pants to let the dog out. I couldn’t be happier. For once, things feel on track. We’re headed the way I want to go.

In the dark, curled under covers, he tells me his secrets. They’re not real secrets. They’re things he’d tell me anyway. In the dark of the night they feel like secrets. He whispers to me. He talks softly. He croons. I touch and listen. He lies still and talks. I’ve hurt him this weekend. I have a new toy that stings awful. He loves it. He has a hood to keep me from seeing his expressions. I can hurt him harder then. I don’t worry quite as much. He can safeword. He won’t.

He tells me how much he loves me. I tell him how sad I was at dinner, watching the other family. I wonder if the dad was a bad dad. I wonder if his daughters have reason to hate him. I wonder if his wife resents him. I see how much he loves his grandbabies. I hate that no one said thank you to him. I hate that no one spoke to him. I wonder if he could be that bad. I wonder if he’s lonely. I think he is. He tells me that he likes that I notice those sorts of things and curls up with me.

By now, I remember he’s not so sick. I remember he can be used. His mouth latches onto one of my hard nipples and it almost hurts I’m so aroused. I turn him over and climb on top and kiss his neck. He groans. He makes beautiful sounds. As I’m reaching my climax he tells me I’m the best boyfriend ever and there are no words. I take what I want from him, roll off, and pull him close.

I tell him sometimes that I don’t know how he was ever in a regular relationship. He says he could never be in another one. He says he never wants to be in another relationship. I tell him time and again he won’t have to be. He’s here. He’s where he belongs. He says he wants to be good for me. He is. Always has been. We’re learning together. I’m teaching slowly and he’s learning quickly and things will be great soon. Everything will be as it should be.

Nice

I’ve been told that I’m too nice. Sometimes I am. Sometimes I wish I could just be outright mean. Sometimes I wish I could justify saying the things that are running through my mind. Sometimes I wish I could be the very demanding Mistress, the one that someone might be afraid of upsetting, someone that another would remember forever. I’m not one of those. I’m understanding. I try to see things from other people’s point of view. I justify why something I’ve asked for hasn’t occured. I consider it living in reality.

The longer I go without my needs being fulfilled, the more ‘nice’ seems to slip away. It’s a very gradual sort of thing though. For the last three weeks, I haven’t had a slave. I haven’t had a submissive. I haven’t even had a pet. At best I’ve had a friend and at worst I’ve just had someone that I exchange a few lines of text with every now and again. Things are looking up now so I almost feel bad writing this, but it’s nagging at my brain, this idea of nice.

I don’t know what it is that keeps me from simply demanding the things that I want. Am I afraid that I’ll push him too far and that he won’t want to play with me anymore? Am I afraid that somewhere along the line he’ll realize I’m not ____ (fill in the blank with whatever) and decide he needs someone that’ll actually challenge him? It’s all rubbish really. I’m not terribly afraid of any of that. I just can’t seem to bring myself to treat him the way he ought to be treated. He says he wants to be more than just a pet — that he wants to be a slave. I see all the potential in the world in him but then sometimes, just sometimes, I don’t see where he could consider himself a slave. Sometimes I wonder if he knows what it is to always live for someone else, to always put someone else’s wants and needs in front of his, to actually anticipate them and deliver them, and to do it with a smile.

I don’t know if service is what motivates him or not. That’s what I think of when I think of a slave though, even though I know for the most part slaves aren’t service-oriented.

Back to nice.

When I feel like these D/s feelings and needs aren’t being met, I can very slowly see the changes in me. They start with being aroused more often than not. This was something I lived with for years though, these desires without outlets, so it’s easy to ignore. After that, the need to masturbate arises. I haven’t had to rely on self-pleasure in months and months because I can abstain for a week at a time and then unleash it all on him when we’re together. After that though, I notice it mostly in my fantasies. Sometimes I snap at him, telling him that something is not okay when typically I’d be very understanding of it. Sometimes it’s in the form of doing a better job of upholding my own rules. For example, when he hasn’t shaved. Sometimes I just excuse it, or allow him to excuse it. In my fantasies though, I can blatantly tell him that if he can’t find the time to shave, to look just the way I want him to, that he can wear clothes, because then at least I’ll be looking at something presentable.

From there it’s a windy road down from snarky to humiliation to near degradation. From there, it’s fantasizing about what I want to do to him. Usually it starts with hitting him. It starts with marking his body. After that, it’s slapping his face. Telling him that he needs to live up to everything that I’ve ever wanted because I want him but I don’t want to settle for subpar service. After that, he’s hooded. That way I can’t see his expressions. I love him, so sometimes hurting him is difficult. Sometimes watching him in agony doesn’t push my buttons. Sometimes it’s just because I’m not hitting him as hard as I want to.

In my fantasies, I don’t worry about hurting him like I do in real life. I know what I’m doing in my fantasies. I don’t have him worrying about whether I know what I’m doing or not. I can hurt him and push him and make him cry. From behind his hood I can hear him crying. It’s soft and sweet at first. Sometimes he’s telling me that he’s sorry, but there’s no real reason for him to be sorry. I just like the way it sounds when I’m hurting him. Then as I’m hurting him more he’s sobbing. I can hear the snot and I can hear him gasping for air and choking on his sobs and just letting it all out. I’m scratching him. I’m kicking him. I’m telling him that he’s useless really. That the only thing he’ll ever amount to is a fuck toy. And then I use him. I slap him in the face and I climb on top of him and I use his cock until I’ve come. I tell him he can’t and he knows it. He doesn’t try. Maybe he gets close, I don’t know. I don’t think so though, because this is so far removed from what usually turns him on.

I take the hood off of him and I make him clean his face in the carpet. Then I have him clean me up. I don’t want him to enjoy it though. I just want to be clean and dry. I rub myself all over his face, getting my juices in his beard, and then I put the hood back on him and make him wear it until his face is dry. I send him over to the corner. I let him wallow in all of that. I don’t reassure him. I don’t tell him he’s good. I let him think he’s awful and that he’ll never be good enough and some part of me deep inside really relishes his agony. His tears. His pain. And part of me wants to hold him. I don’t want to coddle him though. I just want him to be closer as I keep pushing his buttons, keep tearing him apart. I want to break him down entirely.

Sometimes he’ll say that I’m the center of his universe, but in my dreams and fantasies I can break him down enough and build him back up around me so much that I truly feel I am.

None of this is realistic. None of this is psychologically sound. All of it is hot to me on some level or another.

Wrapping Things Up

 

After our last talk about wanting to include higher protocols and how to proceed with these dreams of ours, I felt a very subtle shift occur. It didn’t happen instantaneously but rather throughout the week. We were unable to get together much because he was on call and during those weeks it’s rare that we can actually go out and do anything without imposing on anyone else, so we kept in touch via instant messenger, our first form of communication besides the emails we were exchanging when we were still just two people using CollarMe in attempt to make a connection.

Thursday night his tone was coming across much better, as much as can be told via an instant messenger. Luckily he usually comes across true to himself there. Perhaps a little more adorable and a touch more silly, but all in all it’s the same things I’d expect for him to say if he were right in front of me. Yes Miss and No Miss and May I please Miss peppered the conversation just as they should have been weeks before. Somewhere along the lines they got lost and because I was afraid of putting more stress on my boy, I let them slide. We’ve both realized our mistakes in that.

My biggest fear is that I’ll ask too much of him, he’ll balk, and he’ll run away. This is very reminiscent of my prior relationship, the one with all the D/s overtones in it. I knew in the back of my mind that coddling him was not the answer, but I didn’t want to become a problem. So many times I’ve heard about how a submissive man wants their Domme to be ‘that woman’, the sort of woman that other men wonder why they’re with them, or why they love them, because they seem to be overbearing and controlling. However, in this case, he dated that woman for many years prior to meeting me. He’d already been through that and since he’s now with me, I’m sure it’s easy to see that it didn’t last.

Of course I’m intelligent enough to realize that it was not the same. He didn’t feel loved. He didn’t feel desired. Maybe he didn’t feel as though his efforts were being recognized. Some of this is speculation and a lot of this really doesn’t have much of an effect on the relationship at this point. In the beginning moreso, but now it’s ancient history in my world. I think less and less of the pasts we had without one another and more and more of the future we’re creating together. I know that I’m not the same and at the very base of our relationship is a mutual affection, mutual trust, and mutual respect. We built on top of that, and we communicate regularly. I’m certain that if any of those things change, we’ll let the other know.

So I knew I had to get over that and no one but me could do it. I’ve been working on it. I’d been trying, then stopped trying for a little bit, and then I missed the training. I missed feeling free to ask him to do whatever and expecting to actually have it done. I was tired of allowing things that wouldn’t have slid by if I’d actually enforced my own rules. This was my own mistake. It wasn’t as though he was completely out of line either. It’s not as though every rule we ever made was broken time and time again and I just allowed it. It was just the more subtle parts of our relationship that really fuel the whole thing. Saying ‘Miss’ all the time. Making sure that I eat before he does. Anticipating what I need. Attending to me first, him second. Those sorts of things.

By Friday when he came to my doorstep, I was actually holding my breath. I was wondering if we could actually pull it all together in just a matter of days or if we were going to end up with another night similar to Monday, which is a night I’d rather not ever relive, for various reasons. When I opened the door and saw him smiling, I figured we were in for a good weekend, and I wasn’t disappointed.

Dinner came first. A new rule was being tested. I’ve always wanted to have more control of him, but I want it in limited doses first. The first step in this direction was making sure that he never ate before anyone else, with the exception being if he got a salad and no one else at the table was going to have one. In that case, it was best just to lean over and ask me very quietly if it was alright that he ate. Something else that I’ve wanted to do was to choose his food for him. However, he has particular likes and dislikes and while I know them, I don’t trust myself to always remember them. I don’t mind making him eat something he doesn’t like every now and again, but if we’re going to go out for dinner, I’d rather him actually eat than not. To sort of transition myself, he’s now made to choose three meals he’d enjoy eating and I pick which of the three he’ll have. Sometimes for amusement I feed him from my plate, which typically has plenty of things he doesn’t like on it. There’s something about the way he looks at me, as if to ask if he really has to before he takes a bite that gets me. I love it.

After that it was to Target! I needed some household things. Saran Wrap and duct tape to be exact. I pranced through the store saying those two things over and over, watching him blush. We found some fascinating containers that I think are supposed to go under the bed that looked to be about his size, so I pulled one off the shelf and waited for him to climb in. He got really shy for a moment and then stepped into it, only to find that it wasn’t going to be deep enough. Oh well. We already know he’ll have a cage someday. We just figure we ought to get one for the animal that really needs one first, then for the boy that only dreams of them.

We also picked up pillowcases, just for fun.

When we got home, I decided that I wanted to try this mummification idea that I’d had for a while. It was mostly for play, not really for anything hot or wonderful. I had him strip down and stand in front of me while I saran wrapped his entire body, except his cock, so that I could play with it. From his neck down to his ankles, with his leather restraints on and blue (teal?) duct tape holding it all in place. I let him stand next to the couch. He made a fine sculpture. I especially liked when he got very warm and I could see the slick skin beneath the taut wrap. Additionally, watching his cock leak was very appealing.

After a while of that, I cut a little hole on each side of him and told him that if he could get it off, he could be done. So I watched him squirm and struggle and plead with me playfully to help. I didn’t for a while, but eventually made a few more cuts (including the slightest graze against his leg, which I laughed about a little later on). All in all he did really well and he seemed to enjoy himself.

That night we spent some time in bed, both talking and playing. The bedroom stuff is always fun because while it’s not all that kinky or BDSM’y, I do get to use him for whatever purpose I want. Typically I have him go down on me and I thoroughly enjoy that. Sometimes he’s on top so I can feel him rub against me. We very rarely have sex, which is just the way I like it. Tonight I wanted something a little different for my second, third, whatever number orgasm it was and told him to put on his pink and black skirt. I don’t know what it is about this particular skirt of his, but it gets my blood flowing. It’s so very tight that I can see his cock outlined in the front of it. It’s also very sweet looking though, and is made to be worn with stockings which we will eventually get for him.

Once he climbed back into bed with me, I beckoned him on top of me. Like the sweet little girl he can be though, he positioned himself over one of my legs so he could rub himself against me, or so that I couldn’t feel his cock. He sprinkled very light kisses on my neck and was just so feminine that I couldn’t help myself and stroked up his thigh and over his ass and pulled him onto me so I could rub myself silly.

Saturday morning was a fine morning to sleep in. When we eventually got up, we went to get a very nice lunch and then we watched some television together before he had to go to work, leaving me home to watch my shows and play World of Warcraft by myself. He crawled into bed with me somewhere in the early hours of the morning and we slept right through until lunchtime Sunday.

Finally, it was off to see a puppy agility class! The three of us have decided to get a puppy! Or rather, I decided, j didn’t have a choice, and the two of us convinced my husband that this was a good idea. My husband will never let on that he thinks the puppy is adorable and is surely as excited as we are about his arrival. Surely.

Sunday night brought another burst of quick fun before I headed home for another week of work. We were watching baseball and because we had the absolute worst commentators ever, I decided to spice things up a bit. I opened up the pillowcases we bought, put one over his head, and then used his collar to fasten it on. Then I draped him over ‘the cube’ (which is a footstool) and swatted his ass quite happily with a paddle. For quite some time. With quite a bit of force. We’re finally getting closer and closer to where I want to be in terms of hurting him. We do less warm-ups now, which is something I really like, and I can hit him harder without worrying about breaking him. By the time his ass was nice and red, the game was almost over, so I had him flip over and play with himself for a bit. We removed his ‘hood’ and then he played for a little bit longer and asked me ever so sweetly if we might put a lock on his collar someday.

Someday.

Someday I intend to put some form of permanent collar around his neck and then he won’t have to worry about simple padlocks.

Once home, I smiled a bit as I saw a ton of our furniture stacked up in front of the front door. My husband and I are wrapping up this chapter in our lives, getting out of our house, and moving somewhere that’s more afforadable and in a nicer neighborhood. We’re growing up a bit you see. Instead of taking the traditional route, we’ve opted for slaves and pets and little furchildren. I can’t wait to see what comes next.

 

 

All Wrapped Up

 

 

 

Dripping Cum

Femme Friday

Thursday night we were supposed to get together. In the middle of the afternoon it turned out he was unable to get out of a conference call that would start at 7pm that evening and could go on for whoever knows how long. Dinner was canceled and subsequently all the rest of the plans I’d had for that night. Each of us had a little while to pout about it, because that seems to be how we each handle it, but after an hour or so we seemed to be doing a little better. In fact, we got to talk on messenger all night long while he took that phone call and another one an hour later. Our conversation was going all over the place, with me admitting a few things that I normally wouldn’t (for fear of looking crazy).

Friday morning and Friday afternoon I’d had just about enough with the world. What I wanted more than anything was to hit my boy and call it a night. I was reluctant to see him at all, because my husband and I celebrated our 10 year anniversary over the weekend (but today is the offical day) and I didn’t know how he’d feel about sharing any part of the weekend with j. He had planned on running some errands that morning though, so after a bit of situating, we decided I ought to spend the night with j and that he’d just come and pick me up the next day and we’d go on our date.

When I got dropped off at j’s door (with little notice that I was coming over at all, really) he answered it while hiding behind it, so I knew he was dressed ‘appropriately’, which to us means that he’s nude and wearing just cuffs around his ankles and wrists. This is entirely plausible for most of the year because of where we live, and the pretty consistent and warm temperature. Once I got inside though, I saw that he’d taken ‘appropriate’ a step further and was actually wearing all of the pretty stuff we bought for him a couple of weeks ago and did nothing with. So my boy was looking pretty fantastic in his pink silk robe and his dark stockings.

He knelt for me for a bit and we caught up on what’d happened during the week. I told him that I wanted to hurt him but to be honest, right this second, I don’t even think that happened. What I remember happening was taking him to bed straight away so I could have some fun with him. I remember holding him and pressing him into the bed and chaining him to the headboard so that I could use his body and so he couldn’t move. I remember slowly undressing him and using him. I also remember the fun of gender reversal.

Typically when I’m fantasizing, I’m fantasizing about taking him. In bed in the morning I usually roll him over and press myself up against his ass and I can rub myself to orgasm and he usually gets into it just as much as I do. So I decided that since we were already in this place and in this frame of mind, I might as well put to good use the FeelDoe and harness that I have stashed at his house for occasions just like this.

I totally understand why guys might balk at the idea of sex if they’re new to it. Really. I don’t think I did any part of that right. For a while, I wasn’t even certain I was poking him in the right way. We tried several different positions, pillows under the hips, me kneeling behind him, me standing behind him, I may as well have climbed up on something and then jumped on top of him at the rate we were going. Eventually we finally found a position that was going to work, which involved him being slung over the bed sideways and me standing between his legs behind him. We were positioned well and I was pretty certain I was going to get this right and that’s when he looked back over his shoulder and told me that my cock was just too big.

Sigh.

But it sure didn’t ruin anything. We just decided to have a good old time using our own genetalia in the way they’re typically used. Afterwards, he curled up against me. We ended up roaming all over the bed really. One of the best positions was when he had his head resting against my hip, looking up at me, so I could run my hands down his stocking-clad legs. Eventually he was rid of the stockings too, so I could just touch his skin. I rubbed his feet and he told me he’d never had that done before. Now though, now he can see why I like having it done so much.

It was another night where he told me that he thought I was the best boyfriend ever. I always feel a little shy when he says it, but happy, and a little bit proud. So it was only natural that when we went out together last night, I reassure him that I’d already planned Valentine’s Day for us and that he didn’t need to. I think he knew already though, because he told me he liked how I did it, that if it was left up to him, he’d stress out about making the perfect plans. I much prefer it this way. After all, if I’m going to be his boyfriend, he’s going to have to be my girlfriend, and I like to spoil my girls with romantic dates and pretty things. That’s just how I am.

Romance

This topic springs to minde simply because Valentine’s Day is right around the corner. Now typically I don’t celebrate this holiday because it’s a Hallmark holiday. Or rather, my family hasn’t celebrated it, not since we were wee little kids. My mom would buy each of us kids a little box of chocolates and I’d do my best to make it stretch all the way to my birthday. My husband and I, we’ve never celebrated it because our anniversary is just four days prior to the holiday and we’d rather celebrate the day we made our relationship official than this holiday. The only exception to the rule, ever, was our very first Valentine’s Day and the only reason that was made an exception was because he saw his ex-girlfriend walking around campus with a bunch of flowers and realized I had nothing. So even though we’d agreed not to celebrate it, I got balloons and a stuffed kitty that’s still in a stuffed animal box somewhere. Ever since then, though, we’ve just had a wonderful anniversary and a fantastic time ignoring Valetine’s Day.

I still like any reason to give presents (and most of the time I don’t need a reason at all) and so I buy my mother-in-law roses and a bottle of vanilla liqueur every year, because they’re her two favorite things. Last year she complained that I was celebrating a stupid holiday, but I wrote in her card that I didn’t think it was stupid that we had a day to show people close to us that we love them. Also, it’s the one day you can be forgiven to telling someone you love them, especially if they’re weird about it, which some of my friends are.

As I was just talking to my pup about it, he suggested that my husband and I do something to celebrate it this year. His suggestion was sex (god love him). I told him that sex is sex and romance and love is something completely different. So he told me that if I was doing it right, it’d be love. Rose petals, wine, candles, and backrubs. I told him that those weren’t my ideas of romance, not unless I got to pour the candlewax over my lover when we were done, and even still, that alone is not enough. I’ve been joking with j that I was going to carve hearts all over his body this year. He’s never really celebrated either. He also doesn’t like blood. The fact that he jumped on board with the idea of my scratching hearts into his skin deep enough to make him bleed (to make them red of course!) is my idea of romance. With my husband, slow dancing to Chicago is romance. Eating sushi and then going to see strippers and seeing him flirt with someone is romance to me. Admittedly, the days he’s surprised me at work with a candy bar and a Rockstar because he knew I was having a bad day, that’s romance.

The words exactly were: Wouldn’t you like to be treated like a queen for a day?

My pup, he lives far away. He doesn’t get to see that I do live like a queen every day of my life. I have a wonderful, loving husband. I have a slave that will let me test the very boundaries of my sexuality with him. He lets me control him and possess him and own him. My husband, again, he lets me have all of this, and he loves the happiness that it brings me. I am treated like a queen every single day.

But it got me thinking about my idea of romance. Romance itself is hard to define. Is it the warm fuzzy feeling I get when I think of love or is it the precursor to sex? Is it both? Can it be both? Things that give me the warm fuzzies is a good spot to begin, I think. It’s the easiest way to being anyhow. And so my idea of romance is as follows:

Being asked about my day as soon as someone sees me.

Knowing and remembering details about things I like or things that interest me.

Being thoughtful in general.

Sacrifices made for me.

Suffering for me.

Hugs.

Kisses.

Hugs and kisses on my terms, of course.

Getting to pet my pup.

Getting to snuggle up to my husband at night.

Listening to my boy plead and beg for something, and knowing that he’ll be fine when I tell him no.

Riding in a car and having a good conversation with them.

Dinners with great conversation and laughter!

Being silly just about anywhere.

My pup making a pile of leaves for me to jump in, since I hadn’t done it in nearly a decade. That was very romantic to me.

Getting to hurt my boy. That is romance.

Slow dancing in the rain with my husband. That is romance!

Nowhere in there does sex matter. Sex is not romance to me. Romance is about being thoughtful, showing how much someone cares. Also, if the end goal is to get laid, it is no longer romance, it is then just foreplay. While sex can come with love and love can come without sex, sex, to me, is not love.

So this year, I’m just hoping that a little romance can be passed around, I’m hoping that everyone will see how much I love them. I hope I do a good enough job of showing them every day of the year, not just Valentine’s Day, but this year, I want to celebrate it. This year, for once, I want to embrace what the holiday is supposed to mean.

Sex and Intimacy

The sun had set hours ago. We were well into the evening, spending time together silently as we often do. I was sitting on the couch watching the television more than I was watching him. He was sitting on his pillow, in his place, watching me more than he was watching the television. Often times we’ll watch dog shows, watch and listen to the training that occurs in preparation for the puppy I want to get in the upcoming year. We both smile when we hear about the consistency needed, the way a dog needs to be led, and how much better they function when they have a job.

I think that’s what’s made the biggest impact for me, personally. With my first pet years ago, he didn’t have a job. His job was to be cute and pleasing, but he just wasn’t generally useful. If I asked him to do something for me, I’d get excuses. When I shared a fantasy with him that involved him cleaning something, he was rooting to get out of it. Eventually I abandoned the idea that he could ever serve me the way I truly wanted and thought that I’d be fine with that. Today, jhusdhui has some of the same expectations: he’s expected to be pleasing in his attitude, tone, and words; he’s expected to be pleasing in the way that he dresses, the way that he does his hair, and in his hygiene; he’s expected to follow the rules that we’ve agreed upon; and he’s expected to serve me in any way needed, which yesterday meant picking something up at the store for me before coming over and today meant that he mailed off the packages for my other pet and his family. While he serves in the bedroom, he also serves out of the bedroom, and it’s an element to our relationship that we both need.

When my show was over, I touched the top of his head and moved from the couch back to the bedroom. He stayed put like a good pet. When I called his name, he came crawling to me. I climbed into bed and he kneeled beside it, giving me kitten eyes, those eyes of absolute adoration. He asked if he could join me in bed. This question always amuses me on one level simply because he bought the bed. He bought the bedding. I asked him if he would. We picked it out together. He paid for it all and went along so agreeingly, despite it only being the second weekend I’d ever really known him. Paying for it doesn’t mean he owns it though. It took me longer to get there than it took him. I own him; I own his things. The bed is mine. Everything is mine. I allow him to join me in bed, because he serves me well there.

He curls up against me, facing me, and I hold him. He’s my sweet little girl in bed. I rarely curl up against him and when I do, it’s usually only when his wrists are bound or when he’s been told to hold the headboard. It’s when he can’t touch me, when he can’t reciprocate. I don’t like to be held by him. I don’t think I ever have been, actually. What I get out of curling up next to him is his scent. I know his scent inside and out. I can tell when he’s aroused simply by how he smells. I can smell the faint perspiration that comes when we’ve been very close. Often times I can smell myself on him. That’s the only reason I’ll curl up against him. Otherwise the boy is in my arms where he belongs.

Tonight I’m tired. I’m exhausted. I’m hardly functioning. I’m listening to him talk. He has such a sweet voice. I wasn’t sure about it when I first met him, but he has great control over it. He can change the tone and he can change the volume so easily. I know who he’s talking to by how he talks to them. I figured out on my own that he had speech problems when he was younger, just because of the way he speaks when he’s feeling very soft, very safe. He doesn’t enunciate quite as well. His words slip together. He almost sounds childish, only that’s not really how he sounds. Mostly he just sounds sweet and pleasing. It’s a voice that I only hear in the bedroom or in whispers. I don’t think anyone else ever gets to hear it.

When I’m in this state of mind, I like to hurt. I don’t worry about whether it’s too much or if it’s too far or if he can handle it or if he wants it or if he’ll resent me in the end or anything. I’m too tired to let my mind take over like that. The first couple of years that I was in this lifestyle, I worried enough about those things to cover me and at least three other new Dominants. I worried about everything. I never did get to reach to the insides of myself because I was the one holding me back. In retrospect, I can see where my first pet and I would have got on a lot better if I’d just stopped worrying and did the things I wanted to do. Maturity kicks in and explains I never could have anyhow, because there was no trust. I’m thinking this as I rake my nails over his back. He presses up against me.

I read in another blog once where she was scratching her boy. She was scratching him over and over and over and he said he felt like he couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t picture it, so I played with it for a long time myself. My pet doesn’t have that problem. I press my nails in at the small of his back and rake them up to his shoulder as I hold him. He sucks in his air and whimpers a little. Not much though. His whimper right now means he likes it. I can tell the difference. I follow those tracks back down by never lifting my nails from his flesh and I do it again, same tracks, greater intensity. He sucks in his air harder and squirms a bit. The first time I spanked him, I was gentle. He threw a fit. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to hurt him. He does much better now. I go for a third time. Sometimes I’m worried I’ll draw blood. A lot of the time I’m hoping I’ll draw blood. Sometimes because I love the savagry of it. Sometimes because I know he hates blood. I do it again and now I can hear him.

The first night we were together, he refused to make sound. I could hear he wanted to but he wouldn’t. I told him to keep his mouth open. He nodded. I told him to keep his mouth open and let the sound come flooding out. Eventually it did. He’s not afraid to make sound anymore. I’ve actually gotten quieter. Typically I just make sound because I get off to my own sounds, egotistically enough.

I rake over his back even harder. I move to another spot. I repeat and repeat and repeat until he’s working up a sweat. I can’t get to his other side and I like to be symmetrical. It’s not terribly relevant; my boy’s not symmetrical at all. He still looks beautiful to me. But I like my marks to match. The best way to solve this, as I’m exhausted, is to have him climb on top of me. We’ve almost worked out the touches and gestures enough that he knows when to climb on top of me and when to climb down between my legs. Every now and again he’ll get them mixed up. He gets on top and I can feel his hard cock pressing between my legs. He hasn’t orgasmed in three weeks.

Memories of my past insecurity wash over me. A real Domme wouldn’t let her pet on top of her. A real Domme wouldn’t even entertain the idea of sex. A real Domme always takes charge and she would never put j in a position of any kind of power. With his penis pressing against me, guess who’s in charge? Surprise, it’s still me. That took me the longest to get over. Sure, I could get on top of him, but that’s plenty of work. I don’t want to seduce him right now — he doesn’t get to orgasm anyhow. What I want is to feel the thick head of his cock rubbing against my clit so I can get off. That’s what matters. That’s what he’s giving me too. For about a second. I raked my nails over his back, felt his cock get even harder, and decided I wanted to feel that inside of me.

I don’t like sex. Never really have. No, I take that back. Way back before I was on any kind of birth control that messed me up, I loved sex. Now it either hurts or I can’t really feel it so it does me no good. But, cliche as it is, I like the intimacy that comes with it. I tell him to put on a condom and get back on top of me. I guide him inside of me and I hurt him. I scratch him and hit him, scratch him and hit him. I’m doing a number on him. He marks easily and holds it, so I know these marks are going to be there for a while. He’s clinging to me. His cock is buried inside of me, his arms are around me the best they can be, and he’s making a sound somewhere between a pant and a whimper and a cry. It’s the idea of him crying that’s really working for me. Every time he makes that sound, I can feel myself become wetter. It’s that very sound that eventually gets me off. I push him off of me. I don’t need him anymore.

He can’t breathe. I’d typically be worried, but I’m so tired and I know it’s just his asthma kicking in. I know it’s not as bad as it could be. I know because I trust him to tell me if it is. I tell him for a second that I don’t like the situation and he tells me if it was bad, he’d tell me, he promises he’d tell me. I trust him. He’s on the other side of the bed catching his breath. He can’t curl up with me like he normally would. He tries, but then he can’t breathe. I love breath play the same as the next, but neither of us get off on this kind. He talks. He knows how sometimes I feel bad for wanting to hurt him. Not really, but enough guilt that I’ve brought it up before. He tells me I’ve done nothing wrong. He tells me he wants to be right beside me. He tells me he will be when his lungs cooperate. I know. I know and I smile and I can drift off to sleep. When I wake, I wake to him curled up against me.

That was the night that changed everything. I’d never pushed him so far in pain. He’d never been so close to crying with me. The pain went so far away from pleasurable that he truly was suffering for me. It changed his mindset completely, permanently. He’s closer to me now. More dependent in a way, in a way that we both love. It’s what pushed him into slavehood, I think. It put him right where we both want him to be, and I don’t see him coming out of it ever. I’m happier than I can ever remember being.