Wanton Wednesday – Blue

Now for something lighthearted…

Cowgirl in a Blue "Dress"

We were fooling around, trying to work out ideas for a blue “dress” made of rope. I had originally planned to wear something like this on the cruise on “blue night” but ended up wearing this red dress…

The Boys and I in red and blue

…that Ad had bought me for Christmas for the cruise, and that I hadn’t gotten the opportunity to wear yet, instead.  It actually ended up being a really nice contrast to their gorgeous blue shirts. (Damn my guys clean up well, don’t they?)

(Okay, okay, it wouldn’t be a Jaded Wanton Wednesday if I left it completely vanilla, would it? There might be a click-thru somewhere…)

Check out all the Wantonness by clicking below!

TMI

So we all know that occasionally I like to get smashed just-slightly inebriated and let the boys take advantage of me, right? And they like to do it too, and take full advantage of my insensible state, using and abusing and ass-fucking and pounding at me and into me until I pass out. Or maybe even after I am passed out. They could–and do–do anything to me, and I’ll do anything when I’m in that state.  And the next day all I have are these flashes of the things they did to me, these vague memories…hazy and confusing and embarrassing…

I love being reduced to that state, that boneless piece of mindless meat that they just fuck and fuck and fuck.  It is painfully, exquisitely humiliating.  And so fucking hot I can generate orgasm after orgasm from just the memories of it for days after.

I love it.

But occasionally the next day I am reminded of, or told about, something that has happened, and I go, “Oh good lord nooooo! Tell me I didn’t–”

Sunday morning, after a night carousing at a bar (at which I got quite aggressively Toppy with a woman with whom I’ve been flirting with a bit) we went home and had wild, drunken, sloppy sex.  Ass-sex by Ad (that’s when he likes to fuck my ass the most) and a relentless, punishing fucking by W, at least until we stopped so I could go lay on the bathroom floor trying not to be sick for awhile.

Wherein he turned into a sweet, thoughtful man, staying there curled up on the bathroom floor with me until I was able to stagger back into the bedroom  At which point he promptly attacked me again. I only vaguely remember that part, actually, and I don’t remember passing out falling asleep again at all.

What I do remember is waking up the next morning, sore between my legs, with a pounding headache and no memory of having gotten undressed, or where my clothes had come off.

Or whether I had taken care of a rather different issue.

Okay–here’s your TMI alert.  Read no further if you get squicked easy by “female” stuff.

Standing at the foot of W’s bed, I suddenly realized that I had put in a tampon that evening before going out–but I had no recollection of having removed it.

“Oh my God,” I said, looking from one to the other. Had they fucked me with it in??  “You–I–” I couldn’t even articulate the thought.  I just ran into the bathroom to fish it out, if I could, hoping to deal with it without them ever knowing (having no idea how they couldn’t know last night, but hoping they would leave me at least a shred of pride and not say anything when I came back.)

Yes, after all that he/they have done to me, I can still barely talk to them about my menstrual cycle. And if I hadn’t been drunken out of my head, I probably would have made some excuse to get out of sex in case it was messy, which I hate, rather than abandoning all dignity and respectability and letting them fuck me like an animal.

So, I ran in the bathroom and…fished.  And fished.  And…found nothing.

Whereupon I had to go back into the bedroom and ask about it.

Apparently it came out in the toilet before they ever started.  Ad swears he saw it and flushed it.  So I guess I have to believe him.

But gah–I don’t have to like it.

Wanton Wednesday – Two-Fisted

I’m bad.  And no, not as in that “oh no I am such a bad girl!” way, you pervs, but as in I promised myself I was going to keep notes, and maybe even post, daily about my cruise adventures, and…I completely dropped the ball. Didn’t write a SINGLE WORD while I was gone. Didn’t even OPEN MY LAPTOP except to charge my phone and look at pics on the way home.

Yeah, I’m lame.

So basically, nothing happened.

Oh wait, there are some pictures of a couple things we did.  And I do have some vague memories…

Maybe I can pull a few together.  Enough to give you a couple of mental snapshots of the fun we had. Because fun was had.

And okay, I am bad in that other way too.  Here’s one cruise pic that proves it.

Say hello to The Boys...

Be a part of the Wantonness!

Balance & “Wank Wednesday”

On Twitter today I ran across a cool new, weekly writing prompt called Wank Wednesday (#wankwednesday on Twitter.) This week’s prompt was “Balance.”  Unfortunately, while the prompt definitely inspired a whole slew of writing, it doesn’t actually seem to fit in with the style of most of the writing there.  I may still come up with something for it, but for now, what you get is lots more headstuff than sexstuff.  So I won’t submit this to the blog, but I do want to share it here, nonetheless.

Maybe next week for some sexy Wank Wednesday material!

So, it’s funny that my first try at an entry into the “Wank  Wednesday” writing prompt should be something less than true “wank” material, since, really, so much of my writing is just that.  C’mon, it’s okay to admit.  I know it, you know it. Ya’ll don’t come over here to read about the intricacies of three-way relationships, or what I think about D/s dynamics or how W’s and my relationship is evolving.  You come over here to read about sex.  At least I hope you do. Cuz that’s what I like most to write about.

It’s okay if you like the other stuff, too.

But seriously, what came to mind when I saw the word “balance” as the writing prompt, while about sex in one respect (because that is a place where balance matters as well) was also about relationship, and the balance between my relationships; how that balance shifts back and forth, and the stressors that sometimes threaten to unbalance them.

I’m good at keeping a balance, for the most part. I try to portion out my time fairly, if not evenly (because I have obligations that keep me home with Ad more than at W’s.) (At least I think it is fair, and I think W and Ad thinks it is as well.  I will have to ask them both, now that I have brought the question up.) I believe I maintain an emotional balance, and we all three keep an eye out for each other, making sure that we’re all satisfied and happy.  In any case, it was while I was laying in bed with Ad last night that the question of balance first came up in my mind. It was actually earlier that morning that I first started thinking about it, though it wasn’t in those terms, but last night, laying cuddled against him after he’d made love to me, that I really started to think about it.

Actually what I thought, precisely, was this: I wish I could insert and remove my labia rings at will.

And what, you may ask, does this have to do with balance? Hang on, I’m gonna tell you.

It’s simple, really.  Ad is not as…enamored…of them as W and I are. I wish that when I have sex with Ad, I could take them out to make him happy.

As I may have mentioned a time or two, sex is different with Ad than it is with W. Sex with W doesn’t always involve pain, but it almost always involves some form of control. But even if we are really “just having sex,” those rings remind me the entire time of our dynamic, of what I’ve done for him, of who is in control. And even if he doesn’t deliberately pinch and press on them, it happens sporadically while we’re doing it, a constant, delicious reminder.

Sex with Ad, on the other hand, while it can have some kink to it, very seldom has pain in it, and the control is not D/s so much as just kinky play. Grabbing my hair, covering my mouth, holding my legs spread.  Like that.  It’s one of the things I like about sex with Ad.  Most times it’s actually pretty vanilla, but he knows my body so well that it’s good vanilla.  There are times when I just want a nice, pleasant orgasm, or I want to tell him to fuck me with his fingers, or doggie style, or…whatever. I never tell W what to do.  Beg, whine, whimper, plead on occasion…

But that’s a whole nother story. ;-)

Ad is well aware of my proclivities. He knows I like it rough, he knows I am pretty driven by kink, but he knows that I also enjoy sex, the “regular” kind, with him. It’s not “gentler,” just different.  And he enjoys that, being able to give me that side of love and sex too.

The thing is though…since the advent of the last set of rings…he has been…a bit hands-off.  He used to finger me a LOT. One of my favorite ways to get off was for me to rub my clit while he was finger-fucking me, deeply, probing down in this one spot or stroking my g-spot, or using a toy to fuck me.  That’s one thing I don’t get too often with W: he makes me fuck myself, but seldom with toys, either used by him or me.  I love what W does, don’t get me wrong, but even with him sometimes I am want to beg him (tho I can’t seem to get the words out of my mouth) to shove his fingers inside me, to spread me open with his fingers or fuck me with a toy.  I love that feeling and image and it is often an image that I use to drive me orgasm: being fucked by some object, something inert and inanimate in his hands (mrow!)  But I could never bring myself to ask for it with W.

With Ad, I can ask for it.

Him finger-fucking me has long been one of my favorite things he does, by the way. He used to wake me up like that, stroking the outside of my pussy and thighs and, as I came awake, gently, slowly, beginning to stroke the inner lips as they swelled and got slick with juices.  Sometimes this gentle teasing would last a half hour or more, with me trying to block him out so I could go back to sleep and my body betraying me, opening to him, until finally I would give in and turn to him and he would roll over on top of me; into me.

Since the rings, he doesn’t do that anymore. In fact, since the rings, he doesn’t touch my labia much at all.  I think he truly is disconcerted by them.  Not turned off, but…they don’t hold the same erotic charge that they do for W and I, and he has some definite and clear reluctance about touching them.  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said last time I asked.

Yesterday morning we had sex.  It was good sex, sweet half-awake morning sex, but I noticed a…holding back in him.  And, once again, he didn’t wake me as he usually does, or use his hands and fingers the way he usually does.  So last night, when I climbed into bed, I turned to him.  “Will you touch me while I use my vibrator?” I asked. (He’s usually too tired for sex at night, but will frequently “assist” while I use my vibe.)

He smiled. “Of course.”

But his hands wandered everywhere but where I wanted them. He has a thing he used to do where he would stroke my pussy lips ever so lightly with just the tips of his fingers while I used Baldy (my Hitachi.) It absolutely drove me wild with pleasure.  After a few minutes I said, “You can touch my rings, you know. You can touch me there…it’s okay.”  And, “Please.”  I haven’t had a good finger-fucking in sooo long.

Finally, he did.  And then, with my encouragement, he slowly pushed his fingers inside and began the tickling, the stroking, the finger-fucking that I had wanted so badly.  And it was heavenly.  Then, after I had come, he pushed his cock into me from behind and fucked me (twice in one day!) I was thrilled.

But I had to hide the occasional wince as the rings pinched or pulled. It’s not a bad feeling to me, that little bite of pain, but…I knew that we had made significant progress, and I didn’t want to spoil it by letting him see that pain.

But honestly…it makes me sad that I have taken something from him this way. Some pleasure that he used to derive from my body.  Yes, I am sad because I don’t get it the way I used to, but I am not being entirely selfish. I know that he feels…different about what he does, feels some discomfort with it, now. And I hate that. I don’t think it is actual displeasure or dislike–if I did I’d take them out in a heartbeat. W’s and my jollies aren’t a good enough reason to make Ad unhappy, ever. I just think he doesn’t want to hurt me, regardless of if I am okay (or even like) it.

I love my rings.  They bring so much physical, mental and emotional pleasure.  And I love that W loves them.  And I know that Ad gets off on them at times, and that he would never ask me to take them out.  So where’s the balance here?  How do I balance this?  Or do I even need to try?  I just don’t know.

Two-Timing

I’ve been working on this picture post about a scene that W and I and Ad had…hours long it was, and they took a couple hundred pics between them.  It was an amazing scene, and those pictures show so much of what it is that I love about being the property–and lover, and toy, and play partner–of two men.  So I’ve been weeding through pictures and trying to capture and illuminate the essence of each photo and of the scene itself, which has been a long process.  In the process of doing that, though, I started kind of musing on how we got here, to this place where we all play together.  And so goddamned well.

One thing that I really like about having both guys play with me is the multi-layered, multi-part dimension to the play. Each session tends to have two or more distinct “scenes” within it, each with its own intensity all by itself, but combined, what I end up with is a feeling of perpetual play, of concerted and focused intensity, sometimes for hours at a time.  We move and flow from one activity to another, from one style of play to another, my body and my sex and my self being handed off from one to the other of them, back and forth, until finally, at some point in time discernible only to them, they deem me “finis,” and I collapse in a heap at their feet, or on the floor, or in bed, or in their outstretched arms (outstretched specifically to keep me from falling, usually.)

From what they’ve said afterward, these scenes are seldom actively choreographed.  They don’t actually plan to go from A to B to C, but from within it, from where I sit, it all happens so seamlessly that it might as well be.  And in the end I get these lovely, long, drawn-out scenes in which I have peaks and valleys and more peaks, another valley, another peak…until I am an exhausted (happy) mess on the floor.

This is one of the things that I was first attracted to in playing with W, as a matter of fact: right from that first time we played at his house he moved me through a succession of mini-scenes within the larger session, something I had never experienced in quite that way before.  He was as tirelessly enthusiastic for placing me in one bondage predicament after another, for going from one painful–or bone-shudderingly orgasmic–activity after another, for pushing me until I was clearly and glaringly “done,” unable to handle one thing more, as I was to have him do so.  And while it is true that we have fewer of those long, drawn out, mutli-part sessions than we did in the beginning, it is probably a consequence of having the opportunity to play more often, though in shorter duration, than we used to, as opposed to less of a desire to do so.  This isn’t in and of itself a bad thing–we just have the opportunity to do many shorter scenes over several days, nights or weeks, as opposed to all in one or two nights in a row.

Still, I miss those kind of sessions at times, and look forward, with hope and a certain avarice, to having them again.  Yes, it is all about greed in this case.  And, in fact, I keep trying to engineer a time frame where I can stay at W’s and we can explore this kind of scenario again, but it hasn’t worked out recently, for various reasons.  I’m ever hopeful, though. ;-)

I can see that it is a lot easier on W when he has someone he can pass me off to so he can take a break, though. Kind of like that sex thing, yanno?  Apparently, according to the guys, it takes a lot of energy to keep up with me. (I know, whodda thunk?)  I’m easy to please, in that I like just about everything, but I like a lot of it!  So I can see where having a teammate could be a relief.  LOL  (I say that as though it’s a hardship, a chore, having to play with me.  Like the guys are all “Oh, noooooes we have to go beat that girl again! ZOMG, she wants us to fuck her again!”  I think they might have a bit more fun at it than that.)

I think it’s interesting how this all came about, the way they play with me, and their incredible adeptness at it.  It really grew fairly organically, after some initial “getting to know each other” time. I do think that I had to set it in motion the first time, but after that it developed on its own.

Ad had been familiar with double-topping me, as he had done it on more than one occasion with my Ex and with the occasional play partner. He’s always enjoyed being the foil, the “assist,” but wasn’t as comfortable taking a front-and-center role. W’s original, hands-off approach to double-topping was actually perfect for this situation in the beginning, almost forcing Ad into a primary role (in the beginning either W or Ad would play camera man, while the other did naughty, nasty, depraved things to me, but not take an active role in the play) while still giving him the sense that W was there to assist if anything went wrong.  As Ad became more confident in what he was doing, as well as his own style–and became more cognizant of the differences in his style as compared to W’s–he even began enjoying being in the spotlight and showing off the way he plays.  I think this time period gave W some time to observe Ad’s playstyle as well, but it wasn’t until I told him that I wanted them to play with me together–not with one as an observer all the time–that he tried it at last.  And oh what a successful experiment that was!

And now, here we are.  A place where they each act as photographer occasionally, or sometimes double-up on me, as they did at a recent play party.  Joy both ways.

As usual, I seem to have lucked in to the best of both worlds. ;-)

Now, on to that picture post.  Keep an eye out for it soon.

Foreplay and Afterplay

Playing makes me horny.  Getting tied up, getting beat, getting slapped and kicked and thrown around and hit with whips and called names and pissed on and humiliated and pinched and hurt–it all makes me want to get fucked. Preferably several times.

Having sex makes me horny. The more sex I have, the more I want.

Subdrop makes me horny.  So does being drunk.  And being hung over, for that matter.

Damn, no wonder I’ve been a big ole ball of wet, wanton need all weekend.

And that’s why having two guys is so very, very good for me.

I was saying to Ad, after nearly a month of W’s absence and various impediments to a good, hard fucking by Ad, that I really had no thoughts of sex by month’s end. (Which is my argument against orgasm denial…maybe it works for some woman, but for me? Nah.  I’d just stop caring anymore. The less sex I have, the less I want.)  Anyway. Within one weekend of W being back, I am back to my usual horny slutty self. Beatings and exhibitionism and getting tied up and clothespin zippers and both guys fucking me silly may have had something to do with it…

But again, that’s the beauty of having two guys.  You know, they can do that “tag, you’re it” thing.  One after the other after playing at Flog, then one handing me off to the other the next morning, and again later that afternoon.  And then the other one, still later that night…

Course that begs the question of why I am going to bed unfucked tonight.  What, did I wear the boys out?  Do I need to get me another guy?!?

Seriously, we had a weekend of incredible play. Hot, hard, sexy, fun. It sucks that afterplay almost always has to include dropping so hard, but if that is the price to do what I do, to feel what I feel, to experience all that I do, then I’ll pay it.  Willingly; gladly.  And of course, Ad knows that sweet, tender sex (along with a warm salt bath and snuggles) usually helps alleviate the sub-droppy ache.

Or conversely, another good beating. Hair of the dog, right?

I was reading an article or post on someone’s blog (sorry, wish I could link to it, but I’ve forgotten whose it was on) where they were talking about a Cosmo or other women’s magazine article on foreplay, and how women never get enough of it, and how to do it (soft tender caresses, long, deep kisses, touches, love words, etc etc.) Now don’t get me wrong, I love to feel my men’s hands on me, I love to be kissed, but honestly? Getting smacked, getting grabbed and thrown around, feeling rope biting into my wrists or an arm across my throat or getting taken down hard to the floor or feeling the kiss or thud or sting of a whip or a cane or a flogger is, truly, my foreplay.  It doesn’t always make me hot in the moment–sometimes I am hurting and not feeling like sex right that second, but I can guarantee a couple of things: even if I am hurting, if they start to touch me right, I’m there, hot and wet, all the hurt forgot.  And after it’s all over, almost every time, as I curl into them and begin to wake up, I am lit up like a Christmas tree, wanting nothing more than to have them push me back, spread my legs and stick something inside of me.  Preferably a cock, but a nice solid toy or fingers will do just as well.

Beat me and then fuck me.

Please.

Foreplay and afterplay.

Changing Dynamics

As any of you who follow me on Twitter, my poly blog (A Poly Life), or Fetlife know, W’s been out of town since the beginning of November, and won’t return until the beginning of December. As you may also know, I have a hard time with separation from either of my partners, but due to the nature of W’s and my relationship , I tend to feel his absence more acutely than I do Ad’s.  I need reinforcement, and confirmation of, our dynamic if he is gone for very long, otherwise I start to feel disconnected; unmoored. Or, as another blogger commented in a post I ran across just now (linked from the last issue of e_lust), as I was contemplating this one:

“Lacking a clear focus, lacking direction and lacking specific dominance, what do submissives have to hold onto? We’re only half of a dynamic. We can’t create dominance to suit ourselves, anymore than a dom can create a submissive when there isn’t one already lurking.” (from Naked Confusion.)

One of the things that makes this somewhat problematical is that while I view (and respond to) W as my Dominant–I am submissive to him, emotionally, not just in those times when he is physically dominating me–he has, in the past, only enjoyed exerting his dominance in tangible ways. He doesn’t want or need to control me outside of telling me who to fuck or play with, or to play with me physically (ie tie me up, beat me and fuck me, or other physical displays of subjugation and/or dominance.) When he’s home, I get my submission fix by placing myself in that situation with him, by being in his presence, and usually do not need many more reminders of our dynamic than that. But when he’s gone, I don’t get that need met at all, and I quickly start to

LOSE MY FUCKING MIND

Okay, maybe I don’t lose my mind, but…it gets squirrelly. I get squirrelly, and needy, and discontent.

In the past, I have prided myself on my communication skills–and gee, we all know what they say: pride goeth before the fall. Actually, I haven’t been all that prideful, I am well aware that I stumble and take missteps and bumble along just like everyone else.  But seriously? This was Communication 101, and I ignored the first rule. You know, the one that says, “He (or she) can’t read your mind”? Yeah, that one.

The thing is, sometimes, submissives have difficulty communicating their needs, wants and desires.  Even those of us that know better, that know that just because we are submissive doesn’t mean we’re doormats, that we are strong and capable and can speak up for ourselves and yadda yadda yadda…even we have difficulty speaking up sometimes. It’s common in the vanilla world, too, for women (in particular) to have difficulty asking for things, especially when those things are intangibles such as needing comfort or affirmations of love or worth.

So is it any wonder that in a D/s dynamic, we might find it even more of a struggle to reconcile the necessity of asking for what we want or need with our need to be submissive; to be compliant, to give in, to subvert our own needs, wants and desires to the big-D type person in our life? Speaking up, especially if it is about an issue with the potential to cause confrontation or disappointment,  about something that the D-type might not want to hear, or if it could be perceived as criticism, can be very difficult.

Throughout my young adulthood I fought to retrain myself to behave and communicate in healthier ways than my own family did. I saw the other women in my family fall into the habit of passive/aggression, and I abhorred it. I don’t necessarily blame them for these tactics–they were only conforming to their own upbringing, following in their own mother’s, sister’s, aunt’s and grandmother’s shoes.  Women were taught to be quiet, to be good, not to make waves. The only way to get those needs heard was a sideways attack: you weren’t allowed to confront the issue directly.

And if that didn’t work, well, you could always fall back on martyrdom.

But while I don’t blame them, I certainly don’t want to be them.  And so I have really tried to learn to communicate directly and openly about my feelings.  About my expectations. About everything. It’s not easy, though, and when I began exploring submission, I realized that interacting in a D/s dynamic was going to make it even harder. But I persevered.  And still do, working to find ways to communicate effectively even within the dynamic.

And (hopefully) learning when I make mistakes.

I knew that I was going to need more in the way of reinforcement while W was gone. I have known that about myself since he left last time.  And, I’ve thought about it since then. I blamed myself for being too needy, I blamed him for not being Dominant enough.  I tried to force myself to believe that part of my “submission” is to accept what (I believed) he is capable of giving, and to believe that what I want or need isn’t important–my submission is.  And, in some cases, I believe that this is part of the dynamic.  That is part of submission, and a part that many submissives revel in, a part that feeds that need in us.

I did hint at my needs, but I was afraid of rocking the boat, of making him feel inadequate, of making him think I was unhappy with him by being more direct. I wasn’t unhappy with him–I just need “specific dominance” to respond to. The thing is, that is (perhaps) hard for someone to relate to that doesn’t need, er, “specific submission.” He doesn’t need me to kneel at his feet, or call him Sir.  He knows I am submissive to him, all the time.  He knows it is a part of me, a part of our dynamic.  But guess what?  He may not realize it, but the reason he knows it’s there is because I tell him so, all the time. I show him, all the time.  I think he thinks I don’t need to “show” it to him; that he just knows it’s there.

I think, though, that perhaps he also gets it fed without even realizing it’s being fed, because regardless of any “specific dominance” on his part, I respond to him as his submissive. That is always there, given to him by me, freely, because it is how I relate to him.  The fact that he doesn’t choose to exhibit his dominance, that he doesn’t, say, tell me “no” about something, or tell me how to do something, or make demands about my behavior…doesn’t mean that the undercurrent isn’t there.  And I know he is intuitive enough to feel it, even when he hasn’t asked for it.

The other day I was…poking…at him, trying to get him to say he missed me. “Of course I do,” he said. “But that goes without saying.”

Um, actually, no.  It doesn’t. Well, it does.  I do know that he misses me.  But–

“Let me ask you this,” I said. “You know I love you and miss you, right? But yet I still tell you.  And how does that make you feel, when I say it to you? Good, happy, loved, appreciated?” He had to admit that it did.

Same thing with D/s. I feel my submission to him all the time.  I know he is my dominant.  But I need to feel it.  I need something tangible to respond to.

But this is where my big ole Communication 101 Error occurred.  I had…sort of…expected him to read my mind, to know that I needed more, based on hints I had given him.  I didn’t say any of that to him before he left. I knew it was going to be an issue, but I just couldn’t get to that place where I could say, “I need you to…dom me.  From afar. Give me assignments, tell me what to do, give me tasks.” He has never expressed his dominance this way. Long distance Topping has never been his thing.

At least it wasn’t.

Even when I finally did screw up the nerve to say it, when I had about

LOST MY FUCKING MIND

I struggled with the words.  With communicating.

It took a rather long, tense, not-very-happy conversation between us to get to the heart of the matter.  I wish it hadn’t taken me getting all squirelly for us to get there, but…sometimes, that’s the only way it can happen. I’m not perfect.  I stumble, I bumble, I make mistakes. But I’m learning.

And W?  Let’s just say that he has “risen to the challenge.” Once he understood how important it was to me, and why, and once we discussed the ramifications of it (and his own concerns about it), he started shifting the dynamic, in subtle and not-so-subtle ways.  And I find myself responding to him in ways that I have only dreamed about doing with him.  I like a D/s dynamic.  Honestly? I crave it. I don’t want to be micromanaged any more than he wants to micromanage me.  But…we are discovering a middle ground.

And I find myself reacting in ways that are new and delicious. So for instance, instead of saying “I’m thinking about doing such-and-such, what do you think?” I find myself saying, “May I do such-and-such?” A subtle, but huge, difference in how I perceive things between us. And he’s said “no” more than once.  And when he did…yeah, I felt sad about not getting to do what I wanted…but I also felt…wonderfully, deliciously, reminded of our dynamic.  Submissive to him.  I like that feeling, of obeying, even when I don’t want to.  And of knowing that he expects that obedience.

So…this shift has been interesting.  For both of us. He’s actually found that he derives a lot of pleasure (and amusement) this way. And…as I knew he would be…he’s good at it.  He makes me shiver, he makes me wet, he makes me happy.  He makes me all subby and happy and swoony in my subbiness. ;-)

And, in another interesting twist…Ad has stepped in as “enforcer.” But more about that in another post, perhaps.

So…dynamics they are a’changing.  And I love it.

Oh, and PS.  He told me he misses me. ;-)

(A word here about “topping from the bottom,” because I can hear some people saying that to describe how this change in dynamic came about.  First of all, W and I communicate as two adults in a relationship, first.  Secondly, he expects me to communicate my needs to him.  And lastly, topping from the bottom doesn’t work unless the Top allows it to–or doesn’t realize he’s being manipulated.  And seriously? If a Top doesn’t see when he’s being manipulated–and stop it if that’s what he wants–then maybe he should rethink what he’s doing.  As W says, I can ask for anything. It’s up to him to grant it or not.  I can even attempt to manipulate him (which I don’t, except in certain “playing bratty” situations.)  Sometimes, it amuses him to “allow” me to manipulate him (in which case, um, yeah, he’s not being manipulated.) But simply asking your Top for something is not “topping from the bottom.” It’s communicating.  Nuff said about that.)

 

Tears

I don’t cry often during scenes. In fact, it has happened so few times (except for the occasional, choked-back tears at the end, or a sniffle here and there, maybe a gasping sob as I lay on the floor, trying to remember who and where I am) that I can recall each time clearly, each one a moment like crystallized ginger (sweet and still a little sharp) in my mind.

It’s funny, the phrase that is used most often regarding crying is being “reduced” to tears.  And I guess, in a way, you really do have to be reduced–beaten down, made small, broken–in order to get there. (Or at least I do.)  But the end result, what I feel after, is not a “reduction.”  My tears are usually tears of emotional release, not pain.  And in that emotional release, I am lifted up–raised–not reduced. The physical pain somehow opens me up and intensifies the emotional maelstrom, perhaps creating an opening that allows the emotional breakthrough needed to get there, but is not the sole cause of the tears.

I’ve thought, at times…I might like to cry from physical pain someday. To be driven there, broken physically to the point of tears.  But honestly? I don’t know if I really would. I get deep satisfaction from emotional tears. From the feeling of being shattered emotionally.   Of knowing that the person I am playing with can touch me that deeply, affect me that profoundly.  Would I get that from simply crying out of  physical pain?  It doesn’t seem that I would.  But there is part of me that sometimes wants to experience it.  Being pushed that far physically.  But that is perhaps a topic for a different post.

The last time I cried was at Kinky Kollege in October. (Funny, I cried last year there, too, during the piercing for the energy hook pull.  But that was a very different sort of crying.  I hadn’t even included it in my list of “crying scenes,” because it was so outside of sceneing.)

The first time I cried was with The Ex.

It was very late on the last night of dungeon play at our first big event. We had not yet played there, inhibited by so many strangers, and my ex’s (probable) fear of looking inexperienced, of being watched.  Suddenly he stopped in front of a spanking bench and ordered me to kneel. Always, in our play, we had specific mechanisms for moving from our balanced, vanilla relationship into D/s play.  Before play, I knelt at his feet and he placed my cuffs on my wrists and ankles, my collar around my neck.  In this case, I was already cuffed and collared. I had been waiting–and waiting!–for his signal that he was ready to do this.

He let me kneel there while he got out the toys. I glanced covertly around the dungeon: not many people there.  But enough. I’d already gotten a taste of the fear/excitement that public play elicits in me, and liked it. I was anxious, my breath coming in quick little bursts, and already feeling the edges of that spacey acquiescence that comes over me when I play.

That, and I was already wet.

He tied me face down over the spanking bench, arms and legs spread wide and tied securely down, and then a rope from the d-ring on my collar to the base of the bench, holding my head down over the edge so that I couldn’t look up or around to see what he, or anyone else, was doing, or even if anyone else was there.  He put a gag in my mouth to top it off.

I was in a happy, anticipatory headspace. I’d worn a sexy little slip of lingerie and black thong panties, and of course high heels. I was feeling sexy, not too exposed, and ready for what was to come.

Or so I thought.  What I wasn’t prepared for was what he did next.

In front of everyone (or the everyone I imagined there to be), he reached down and pushed my thong aside.   Impersonally, he used his fingers to “inspect” me, spreading my cunt lips and looking at me closely, pushing a finger just inside my pussy, my asshole, murmuring that I’d missed shaving a spot here, but that I looked clean enough.  This was part of the ritual too, this inspection, but he’d never done it in public before.  There is no nudity at the monthly play parties we had attended, so I had never been completely exposed in front of strangers before, nor had I felt…depersonalized…as thoroughly as I did now.  I was (I know it’s hard to believe) very shy, and very self-conscious, then.

And then, he took it a step further.  “Look what a filthy slut she is,” he said to someone walking by, as he spread my cunt lips open with his fingers. “Can you see how wet she is? What a whore, getting all wet and excited out here in public like that.”

A sob caught in my throat.  We hadn’t talked about this.  He knew I was very self-conscious, and I had just assumed that he didn’t want me to be naked in front of people, in front of our friends (he’d always been conservative and a little nonplussed, I’d thought, with the casual nudity in the lifestyle.) So this blindsided me, as did his casual, humiliating words.

I don’t know now if he marked my reaction or not.  He stepped away to pick up his first implement, leaving me there to reel, my head in a fog.  He came back a moment later and started in with floggers, a crop, his hands, warming me up.  All the things I was used to and enjoyed, but I hardly felt them, I was so deep in that space that my exposure had put me in.  And the tears I’d fought to hold back from the moment he’d pushed aside my panties started flowing.  The fact that I couldn’t move a muscle, not even to lift my head, that I couldn’t protest, all heightened it.  Tears and snot flowed, silently, down my cheeks and over my chin. And then, when he attached clothespins to my labia and spread them open, and invited people, our friends, to come over to look at me, at my exposed cunt, well, I was gone. By the time he undid my restraints, I was sobbing helplessly.

My friends looked at us in alarm. Even he was taken aback, and I had to keep reassuring him that it was okay, it was just a release. And it was. The humiliation, the embarrassment, was very deep and real, but the tears, when they finally broke through, were cleansing, and somehow, oddly, joyful.  That is what they feel like, when it happens: joy too large to be contained; it bursts out of me in tears.  And to be held in someone’s arms while I cry myself out, to feel myself held and loved and soothed, is pure bliss.  It is the cool salve over a hot, blistering burn, the loving touch when one is ill, the kind word in your darkest hour. I didn’t know it then, but that was my first step on the road to my fascination–and love for–emotional masochism.  It tapped some deeply-seated, and heretofore unknown, need for that kind of release.

I have very deliberately built a drama-free bubble around my life. I don’t like the highs and lows that drama-seekers crave; I prefer calm.  But with that sometimes comes a…dearth…of deeply felt emotion. Of the intensity of extreme highs and lows.  This kind of play allows me to feel those depths–and the subsequent heights.

I have mentioned in passing a scene I had some time ago with a friend of W’s. It affected me profoundly, on all kinds of unexpected levels.  Because of the set-up, it was a colder scene, emotionally, than any I’ve ever experienced. It was harsher and more remote, because the person that W allowed to play with me was a complete stranger to me, and W kept himself apart from me, withheld himself, during the entire thing, never reaching out a hand to me, never extending a kind touch, or look, or word of comfort.  I had never felt as alone–as betrayed–as I did during it. I felt he had cut himself off from me deliberately (which he had, that was part of the dynamic of the scene) but I wasn’t ready for that.  And to top it off it was a pain scene, and more painful than I’ve ever experienced. But the true pain was emotional, not physical, culminating in a perhaps ten minute period when I was made to stand alone against a wall, in the dark, silent and unmoving, while the two of them simply watched me.  My sense of loneliness, of unworthiness, of having failed W somehow (I had reached a point where I thought that he was not comforting me because I had failed him), of being unwanted and unlovely and…unlovable…was so deep and traumatic I don’t think I was even in that room with them at that moment. I was reliving all those times when I had been…invisible.  A piece of the furniture. Unnoticed, disregarded. It was devastating.

I’ve put a lot of thought into that scene; still, after all this time, processing it.  What I think about, when I think of that scene, is usually the physical pain I endured.  That’s easier to analyze, to poke at, then the emotional space I went to.  But I believe the reason the physical pain was so hard to take was because I was in an emotionally vulnerable place.  I didn’t have the comfort of W’s care, of knowing he cared, to get me through it.  Because usually, even when he is at his cruelest, I know he cares.  And that is why I can take it, why I do, why I want to.  Sometimes, that is the only thing that does get me through it. And that just wasn’t there.  Because of that, I felt betrayed somehow, like there was some trust that had been broken.  I know, in my logical brain, and in processing, that this of course wasn’t true. But at that time, that was what I was feeling. And it all coalesced into that one moment, when the other Top had me stand naked against the wall in the dark, with my fingers laced behind my head and a clothespin on my tongue, while they sat across the room and watched me. In silence.

W’s broken me before. I have lain in a heap on the floor at his feet, everything in me shattered into pieces–and felt joy.  Felt comfort. Comfort in his presence, whether or not he was touching me. Knowing without a doubt that he loved me, cared for me, cared about me.

I didn’t know these things about that Top. I didn’t know if he even liked me. He had been somewhat harsh in our dealings, with a more punishing edge than W has, and frankly, I didn’t feel like I pleased him. I didn’t think he liked me much, or that what I was doing was pleasing to him. That hits lots of triggers. And then to have W there, watching, whom I so desperately wanted to please…to have him see me that way…and yet not reach out to me…

I felt more alone, more broken, than I ever had before. The tears came, hot and bitter in the back of my throat, stinging my eyes, making me gasp and swallow.

But swallow them I did. I choked them back at the last moment, because, from somewhere inside came the resolution that okay, they may not care. Maybe I was nothing to either of them. But I was something to myself. And I would not let them see me break.  They would not see me cry.  Inside, the tears flowed; outside, I bit them back with everything I had in me. Standing there, naked, alone and vulnerable, I was empowered. It was a shining moment.

I learned other things from those two days, about myself, about my own limits, about my relationship with W. Good things. I am stronger for it. I’ve learned some things about my own submission, and who I am in it, what I want out of it, what I will take and what I won’t. So that is all good. I didn’t have the release that I have in other scenes, but…I think I got just as much out of it.

This last time I cried I did get that release.

It was after several days of sceneing with W, and then W and Ad at Kinky Kollege. We had done some fun things, and some edgy things, and just the night before had had a long, involved scene in which the guys had cut and stripped away my clothes and then transformed me from a normal girl to a ponygirl, right there in the dungeon, and I had fallen deep into ponyspace. This night, Saturday, there was no such orchestrated scene.  They simply took me over to one of the frames and tied me to it, then W caned me.

The guys have learned to play together, and to play me, so well. W usually defaults to the “bad cop” role, and Ad to the “good cop,” although, like a finely tuned machine, they seem to morph in and out of those roles, flowing from one to the other seamlessly. I’m not sure exactly what had gotten into me those two nights of dungeon play, but I was feisty, and rather than submit to them as I generally do, allowing myself to be tied or bound or tortured however they chose, I had fought them at times, making them use force to hold me in place while W tied me, and even slipping from the ropes if I could manage it. There was a…savage…light in W’s eyes as he recaptured me, as he held me, none too gently, and lashed my arms and legs back to the poles.  And Ad is just…big…and crushed me to him so that I could hardly breathe, much less move.

I was exultant, wild with excitement one moment as I fought them, and then panting, exhausted, the next, but not beaten, not yet.

Until W started in with the cane.

Funny thing about that weekend, now that I think of it.  That was the first pain play that we’d done.  Everything we’d done had been things that put me in a certain headspace, but not through pain play.  Even the cage time at the Leather Rose had been less about pain than mental and physical stimulation.

We had attended a seminar earlier that day on caning, and we’d learned different ways to cane. The guys each have their own style (surprise surprise) but I was kind of hoping that they’d learn a way to use it that could give me a long, extended, ultimately painful but not unbearable caning.  Ad tends to be short and sharp, very quick whacks one on top of the other that quickly build to an intolerable level if he’s using anything but the lightest cane, and W is heavy, slow and deep, with a brutality that sometimes puts me on the edge of my tolerance almost immediately.  I love both ways, and fight to endure them as long as I can, and even when I can’t anymore, I am always disappointed (even as I am relieved) when it stops. I truly love caning.  I love being pushed to the edge of my endurance, I love that moment when I am screaming inside (and sometimes out) that I can’t take anymore, not one more strike, all the while hoping I will have to. Praying both for release and for it to continue in a confused mixture that fucks with head in the best way possible.

My head was fucked with that night. W used his cane(s?) on me slowly, methodically, brutally.  He was the epitome of the bad guy, my Mean Guy that I love and fear, hurting me and hurting me, again and again, making me pay for fighting them, making me gasp and cry out and moan and writhe. Ad soothed and caressed and touched and was the good guy, but how fucked up is it to be kind to someone that you are allowing to be hurt? The dichotomy pulled me one way and then the other, so that I both leaned into Ad to escape W and snapped at him, pushing away from him when I felt that betrayal, that he was only soothing me to prepare me for more pain.  W, at least, was consistent.

Until he came up behind me, pulled my face around to his, and kissed me.  He kissed me deeply, and yet so, so gently, so sweetly, I thought my heart would break.  And that was all it took. That one unprecedented, unexpected moment of tenderness from him to make me come undone.

Fuck.

My heart did break open, and the tears fell.  Beautiful sweet tears that poured from me in gasps and gulps, clearing away everything inside of me, cleansing my poor, beleaguered psyche.  “Thank you,” I said, over and over. “Thank you.”

They lowered me to the ground shortly thereafter.  I saw someone walk by and give the guys a thumbs-up gesture. I gave them a thumbs-up gesture in my mind. What a fucking perfect way to end the weekend.

(Edit: Okay, okay, there was a little more to it.  After taking me down, they held me between them while W chased away the tears by fucking me with his fingers and his hands, making me scream in orgasm on the floor of the dungeon, turning me back into the filthy, craven slut that I am, and always will be, for him. THAT was the perfect way to end the weekend.)

Wanton Wednesday – The Games We Play

I thought a little change-up was in order, that I needed to post something a little more…suggestive.  A little more wanton, if you will.

I love having two men that play well together and that both delight in playing with me.
What wickedly wanton games they devise!

Do you feel like sometimes you want to be a little more than just half naked? A bit more than just slightly suggestive? For the weeks you want to play with the wicked & wanton crowd, feel free to join us on Wednesdays.

Birthday Spankings

Yup, I got me some birthday spankings last week. And a lovely, romantic, birthday dinner, and a bit of rope on me, and a day spent in cuffs and collar, chained to my desk, playing secretary to the “Boss.”  This is me readying myself for my primary job responsibility:

Boss: Do you have your work materials ready? Secretary: Yes, Sir. Mouth, open wide...

I’ll post a picture of me “at work” for Wanton Wednesday. (grin)

So anyway. I was talking with a friend the other day, and she told me that, because she has not had any BDSM play in over a month, she is craving pain. I thought about that: do I crave pain?  I have always considered that I crave what comes after pain, and sometimes during: the connection.  But Thursday afternoon, when I realized I was probably not going to get a spanking for my birthday unless I asked for it, I realized that maybe I was craving the sensation.  It wasn’t the headspace I wanted so much, but the feel of his hand on my flesh, the sting and thump and heat and endorphin rush. In that case, where it is not so much about them wanting to do things to me, it is all about the physical sensation.

I won’t lie. I don’t like having to ask for it.  Especially on my birthday!  I mean, shit, I am a KINKY girl–how could I not get a spanking on my birthday?!? But I knew I wouldn’t unless I asked for it.  W wasn’t physically able, and Ad…well, Ad would have had to make special arrangements, because we couldn’t do it at our house since the pseudo-father-in-law is in residence again.  Yeah…it bugs me that he wouldn’t have made those plans ahead of time (call W, arrange to go over and give me birthday spankings there after our dinner.  That’s what I would have done.)  But…sigh…planning is not either one of my men’s fortes, so…it was up to me.

I guess this is when my “bottom” conflicts with my “submissive,” because yanno what? I do have needs and wants and desires that I want to get met, and sometimes…you gotta get them met on your own steam.

So I did. I texted Ad and asked him if he would bring me back to W’s after dinner and give me a proper birthday spanking. And when he said yes, I turned to W and asked him if he would put some rope on me in my pretty dress for my spanking. And he said yes.

And so they did.

Pretty party dress!
Prettier rope.

And I got a lovely spanking.

Ad's red handprint.
And even a bit of (unexpected) caning!

It was all good.  All yummy. And physically very satisfying.

And that is good…but has me thinking about the emotional part of it. Oh, not the emotional part between me and my guys. That was perfect…and is perfect and lovely.  But my own emotional headspace.  Why is just “a spanking” so…dissatisfying emotionally?  What is it about the act of asking for a thing, of it being at my initiative, that reduces the emotional impact for me?  Because that is certainly part of my emotional (and sexual) triggers.  I wasn’t lusting during the spanking, that’s for sure.  I was enjoying the physical sensation–a lot! And having loads of fun.  But that…tightening of sexual desire that is an instant reaction to the feeling of being forced…subjugated…controlled…and yes, violated…certainly wasn’t present, and usually isn’t in these instances.

And yet, still there is some need that is fulfilled during it.  I still want it, even knowing that that other element won’t be there.

So, maybe, it is a craving of physical sensation…of pain. I don’t know.

Over the weekend I experienced something similar.  And during play at Twisted Tryst, actually. I had been in “pony” mode both nights, and after the bridle came off, both times, I asked, without hesitation, for a heavy beating. I need to be brought out of pony headspace, which is so very different from physical play, subjugation or from submission, into a place in which I was firmly in the physical again–into being human again, a girl that can be beat and used and fucked.  I craved the physicality of it.  I think also I want to somehow know that W sees me again as his girl, as the one he can beat up, as human, because ponyspace is…something very far away from that for me.

I wonder what it will be like the first time he fucks me as a pony?  Or has me fucked by someone as a pony?  Somehow, I think that might yet another layer…

Layers upon layers.  Like a birthday cake. :-)