Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Today, I grew a penis.

Sort of.

He tore the heart off one of the harnesses so only the o ring was left, cleaned one of the smaller dildos and told me to wear it all day.

I keep forgetting it's on. It's warm against my thigh and now I understand so many little things about having a package nestled there. It feels good to rotate my hips into it against the floor or the bed, and I kept playing with it earlier. We went out today and I wasn't as self conscious about it as I thought I would be. It just wasn't...an issue. There's this black jelly dong in my pants and life was normal.


It was so hot when he stroked it, could feel the movements against sensitive bits. I can't imagine what it's like with materials better than jelly. He keeps talking about how it'll feel when it's being used, or discussing the use of it like he's teaching me, preparing me, giving me advice on how it's done.

 It's as though maybe the unthinkable might...

All these fantasies contained in this little black jelly dildo against my thigh. Oh, my.

Apparently there is a present in the mail on its way with four things for me inside. I can only wonder and hope it arrives tomorrow.

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Gnashing of Teeth

I told him one of my fantasies. One of the ones I'd been afraid to tell him.

Then he showed me one of his own secrets, and it nearly matched mine.

Said I'd earned it.


I've never touched myself anywhere but a private place before, have I mentioned? But while we were writing those scenes in private, handful of days at a time, I broke down once in the public bathroom at work. Couldn't help it, couldn't handle it, couldn't focus on my mindless fucking job at the register.

I wanted you. I fantasized about having you there in that narrow stall, stainless steel fogged with your breath as we failed to be quiet, hinges creaking, the slap of a palm sliding down the wall.

The packer came in the mail the other day. I've never seen a living, breathing penis before. That was the closest I'd ever come to one, and I can't believe they're so squishy and stretchy and beautiful. Gorgeous curves, symmetry, utility defining the elegance of an efficient form. Felt like a kid watching somebody eat a bigger slice of chocolate cake than me, jealous, hungry, hey man, I want one of those. Me, too. I want an organ designed for pleasure big enough to fill my fist. I want more options than to be penetrated. I want more sensation than simply being breached.

I want to feel something more than an echo when I buck my hips into yours. I want your gasp sharper, harsher, broken by an intensity you can't describe, only react to. I want to pin you in place when you're lifted flush against me, I want to write my name on your insides. I want to make you mine and in taking give everything to you, forfeit thought, reason, response, control for the raw, overwhelming instinct.

I want to write like that with you again because there I can be that, I can do that, I am able and I can learn to bring it out of only text. It's like old times. That old dance, that old ignition. That old sun burning brightly between the lines and I can feel you in there grinning back at me. Love that feeling.

The reality of it keeps me alive.

Thursday, July 7, 2011


The perspective of us is shocking when truly appreciated. Everything we've been through together, everything we've lived together-- and apart-- is the stuff of fairytales.

This time last year we created our first home out of a dingy studio apartment, happy just to have someplace of our own to be.

This time two years ago we were sleeping on the streets of downtown making art to make a buck, dependent on the sympathy of strangers to keep our heads above water.

This time three years ago, we hadn't even met.

So much can change in so little time and yes, those little cogs grow wings before anybody can do anything about it. It's going by so fast. When I try to swallow the enormity of the distance traveled, I find that I can only squint and choke. It's too much at once, too hard to believe unless lived. If you told me then where I'd be now I know I wouldn't believe it.

We''ve come so far, haven't we. And it's only just beginning.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Hiatus, too long, too soon

Been awhile since I've had anything relevant to post and of a mind to post it. Too much has happened to interrupt that good momentum and now I'm worried if it'll ever start back up again. Bad luck, you could say. Things dying and loved ones getting sicker and the everpresent pressure of not enough.

But I'm not the only one sick of it.

Anyways, back on track. I never mentioned how startlingly sexy it was of him to tell me he wanted special at-home only outfits for me to wear for only him to see. Uniforms, he called it, and I melted a little. A lot. Alright. Been fantasizing like hell, there, I said it. The main issue is, as always, money. We lack the funds to play out some of these fantasies properly, as seems common for those of this, erm, lifestyle. It's frankly depressing and I'm willing to bet I've been letting it get to me far too much than I should, but there it is. There's so much we want to do-- regarding this and other things, personal needs to be met that can't because of stupid things like how much money comes in-- and it's difficult to put all that aside sometimes. And it's not the frustration of delayed gratification so much as it's legitimate health requirements that simply cannot be met at this point in time because the world puts too high a price on it. It's not, hey, I want that sparkly pink dildo NOW, dammit-- it's hey, that would make me feel whole, damn, I wish we could afford that.

I'm sad, I suppose. Sad for him, sad for others, sad for various people. Nostalgic and sad and feeling guilty about how I'm handling it, I suppose. At least now I've got those pills for when the dreaded monthly comes about-- last time, it hurt too much to be touched and lasted twice as long as it should have, which was both maddening and worried me a bit. I hate the thing as it is, but then it goes and interrupts our playtime? Fuck that shit, where's the OFF button for this thing, I'm not using it anyways.

Also, I really do want a fancy pretty formal outfit thing. Even more so now, somehow, vests and white gloves and stiff collars and well tailored everything. I'd like to be part of the decimation of it even as it struggles to be put back together, fighting to recompose even as the will to do so weakens under every heavy-handed caress.

Mmmn, yes.

Monday, June 13, 2011


Huge turn-on:

Molesting him in his sleep. He wakes with fly gaping and skin somewhat clammy and I can't help but wonder if he was awake enough to remember my fingers caressing his every rise and dip and contour. 


I try to explore BDSM and erotic portrayals of butlerishness and what do I get? A bunch of yaoi fangirls cosplaying that damn Kuroshitsuji bullshit.

I. Can't. Escape it.

So, resigned, I return here to properly bitch and also confide an interest that's been smoldering ever since my lover's commentary not long ago helped me put two and two together. We were dressed up and headed to the movies when he mentioned this adorable manga we've been reading about a kid who's roped into being this little girl's Super Deluxe Combat Butler Extreme, and it's hilarious. Somehow, this connected to us and he quipped something about dressing me in a butler outfit just so he could pin me to a wall and rip it off...then, even more hilariously, he stopped short, blinked, and paled with the realization of, "Oh, am I really into that? I suppose I am, oh well!"

Needless to say, he wasn't the only one who suffered a revelation that moment. Ever since, images of shackles tight over white gloves, collars hidden under ties and well-starched layers passionately disheveled from their proper alignment have been haunting my fantasies. What's worse, my taste in "pretties" includes nice slacks, nice shoes, nice shirts and the especially nice vest he bought me for my birthday a few years ago, not to mention the dual purpose of a tie as both professional and a leash has never been lost on me-- or him.

Frankly, the whole idea was hot then and it's still hot now and goddammit the only others who seem inclined even remotely in such a direction are those fucking yaoi fangirls. Ugh.

Oh, well. Fantasies are impulses and I'm not about to pretend I can control mine. Not when it's so tasty.


Even when he's feeling like shit, he takes care of me.
He makes everything better. 

Friday, June 10, 2011

Vibrators Feel Like Cellphones

Unless he's set the atmosphere. I've heard some chicks can strap a vibrator to their shit and get off just like that, nothing to it, but I'm not one of them. I need the mood, I need the scene, I need him there touching me in order for the vibrations to register as arousing.

It was actually pretty funny, though, walking around with this bright green bug vibrating on me like crazy. It felt good, don't get me wrong, but it wasn't stimulating. Just felt like a massage. It needs better context in order to be a true 'sex toy'.

The bullet, however. That was a rather different story. It still didn't matter sexually until he involved himself, but it felt amazing when he did. Frankly, it was difficult to determine just what he was doing because the sensations were so intense, but I felt him stroke me between his fingers while the bullet explored inner, lower regions, everything slick and hot and though blindfolded I swear to god I felt him smile.

When he said he liked it because he could pay more attention to my reactions I was ready all over again. To know he's watching so intently while I'm enthralled by his minstrations-- mmn. Speechlessness.

More toys were delivered today, some to review, some to play with, and I'm particularly excited by these dual pink bullets made of hard, silken material, with vibrations considerably more refined than the others. There's also a large silver bullet, and between all this ammunition I have the sneaking suspicion that something is going to find its way up my ass.

I'm still surprised it managed this long without definitive violation.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011


From dreams to waking, guided by his cruelly perfect touch. No, I don't remember waking this morning. I just remember my hips bucking into his hand, fingers slick and sliding and the pleasure rising steadily until it was too much to bear.

An actual orgasm. With pulsing, clenching tightness. It was amazing. It tasted like staring into the noonday sun.

And he was pressing so hotly against my ass, pulling me against him like he knew it drove me crazy. 

After that, I was permitted the luxury of learning how to operate morning activities with wrists and ankles tied. He then demonstrated a particularly delicious application while shoving me against our bedroom wall. Somehow, even as I picked at the knots with my teeth afterward, he knew that I didn't really want to take them off.

Waking Bound

With white ribbon recognized as an ingredient in adorable Victorian crafts, understood blearily as the reason why I couldn't rub the sleep from my eyes properly. Both wrists bound and ankles in kind, thick satin strapped cleverly under the bed and such an amused expression hovering over me, candlelit and handsome. He looked delighted to see me as I was, half-dreaming only to awaken and, perhaps, continue the fantasy I'd been having. He's been quite good at that, really. I swear he knows.

I was too startled to give much protest as the restraints were perfected. Thighs were tied to wrists and nothing remained hidden, no matter how stubbornly I contorted. Monstrously strong, that ribbon. The more I pulled, the tighter it became. He liked to remind me of the fact.

Then the blindfold. It was earthy velvet, but colors didn't matter after he'd secured it. He told me I was pretty lying there blind and bound and stripped and I couldn't stand how good it felt. His breath hot along my cheeks, neck, collarbone, teasing at my lips with that cold spike, I could tell he was smiling, I could picture it, I could hear his movements as he retrieved something or other and tormented myself wondering what it was. Few things are sexier than being kissed blind.

The feather surprised me. Instead of pain, sensitivities subtly heightened under deft, downy touches. Along the seam of my chest clean down the center to my hips, along the soft inner thigh and around rapidly swelling, heating moisture, tracing invisible lines of flesh only he could appreciate.

I don't think my nails ever stopped biting into those sheets.

The ice was cruel. Just a hard, wet cube of it sliding along the contours the feather had prescribed, afterimages of sensation tremulous in my nerves, too hot to numb but too intense to take silently, like fire along my stomach, thighs and over my heart. I can feel it even now, remembering the concentration of warmth like the center of a gaslit flame, steady, purpled with cold yet somehow bright, metallic, spread from the center all the way down to my toes. Fingertips twitched tantalized in tangled sheets. I don't know what I sounded like, but he sounded pleased.

Had I known what the candles were burning for I might've suspected what would happen next. Hot wax bit in dripples into skin hypersensitized, fire following ice's imitation of it. I wondered if that was what it felt like to be stabbed with a small, sharp knife, just that instant of penetration savored in a flash of pain as the wax struck only to cool just as quick. It wasn't until he touched me that I realized how slick I'd become, surprised that the pain did not distract from the arousal, but merely heightened it. Waxy trails hardened along my abdomen and thighs so dangerously close to his teasing, managing somehow to hold steady though I flinched and jerked against satin shackles.

I could taste his appreciation, I could smell it. His gasps so often followed my own and it maddened to know why, to be at the mercy of what it created in me, how it slickened and flared the fire under my ribs. Anticipation, arousal, utterly subject to the reaction of tormented nerves as he teased every sense. He liked what he was doing and fuck, how I got off on the fact.

Then he was all around me. I cannot describe how inexorably comfort combines with fear to cement two together, but I knew it would hurt and I knew it would be sweet and I wanted him so badly to do it.

We made love and it was gorgeous. My body literally could not contain the sensation of it, could not withstand the rawness of the passion. He kept me there at the edge so long it was no longer a threshold, but the state of being, the is and nothing else. It was beautifully exhausting and I could tell he wanted more, but he mercifully relented. He let me rest and I didn't push for more-- he has plans. We have toys arriving today and my body is ill-prepared for extended play. He's saving me for something. Something involving remote controls and bullets.

He does so love that remote control.

Sunday, June 5, 2011

On a semi-related sidenote:

It would be incredibly sexy if he told me to pleasure him. It's intensely arousing when I can take action and please him-- I love it when he explodes in my mouth-- or when he hisses these long strings of inarticulate German because he can't think straight, when he writhes and thrashes  head against the pillow and curls his fingers into his hair, when his spine arches and his hips buck into my hands, I love it.

I love to feel him enjoy me.


Last night he said something to me that he's said before, but this time, I haven't been able to stop thinking about it.

He said that what he gives me is a gift, that what pleasure I receive is not expected to be reciprocated and that, indeed, if attempts are made to reciprocate immediately it can feel contrived and detract from the experience as a whole. He's quite experienced and I trust he can read me even if I can't read myself, and he said it all smiling, without judgment and with this look of adoration I just couldn't stand to meet for very long.

A gift, though. I'd never thought of it that way when receiving. I'd always wanted him to know it was felt, appreciated, enjoyed, but in simply thinking that much I'd interrupted what was meant to invite pure reaction.

So it  becomes now the challenge to release the burden of thought and the impulse to act upon it, to be of the moment and made only of the reactions to what gifts he gives me. It'll be very difficult. I'm going to need help. Reminded again of a line in someone's post on that Fetlife website to the effect of being beaten hard enough that one forget's one's own name. Can't help but feel it must be something like that, an intensity so strong it whites out the basics of identity, those lines which define the awful edges where you end and I begin.

Ridiculous, that I should feel guilty being asked only to react to his gifts, that if it meant I would only lie there silently and swoon then I should do so.

Pleasing him is erotic in it's own right; it pleasures me to pleasure him, and so it seems that feeling is mutual. Shouldn't be so hard to accept the fact and simply be of the moment when gifts are given, but for some monstrous reason, it is. Walled contrivances and inapplicable obligations begging to be beaten down, ruts directing flows of thought though the logic within them is sound. Shatter them, spill everything until it's no more than skin thinned along the surface of the now.

Pretty thoughts and pretty images and the simplicity of naivety painting with too many colors, there must be names for these desires beyond the glossary of a new lifestyle. Getting lost in conversations had years ago on some obscure fetish forum because I found a reflection of my own feeling in the line of a stranger's paragraph, why didn't I look here before, do this before, be this with you together before now?

But it doesn't really matter, does it. We're here. This is now. And I want to stay here in this moment and savor what I've been so long without. You've been here, I've been there, we've crossed sometimes but we've never been this. Feels like the fairytale we are, insatiable.

Feels like falling in love all over again.


I missed the smell of his cigarettes. He catches me watching his lips around the filter, tensely plush upon inhalation, parted to twitch sometimes in a grin as the smoke drifts out his mouth.

It's so incredibly sexy when he blows smoke in my face.

Today I was making spring rolls and he pulled down my pants, slid off my underwear and teased me. He told me to keep doing what I was doing. Told me not to move, not to twitch, not to writhe. Just keep on slicing that tofu, good. Fingers quickly slicked to the feeling of him pressed against me, firm and heated against the rise of my shoulderblades and ass, the imprint of his jeans rough on cold, too-sensitive skin suddenly so roughly spread apart.

But I kept slicing that tofu, dammit.

Saturday, June 4, 2011


I'm very attracted to the idea of having a permanent or lockable collar, and I'm not sure what to make of that desire other than to voice it here. Judgment suspended, I want one to wear 24/7 for reasons which most closely mirror those for wearing an engagement ring, except there's something much more raw and primal and mine about a collar which suits the feeling far better than a pretty piece of jewelry.

Not that I don't adore my rings to death. I wear them constantly and take every opportunity to show them off. Yet a collar seems to suit this new...chapter, I suppose...in ways rings don't specify well enough. There's a passion in the possession and a pride in that allegiance worn so blatantly, like a flag in the wind or a brand on one's arm.

I want one.

Something about remote control...

...really turns him on.

And he's not the only one. We just ordered our first toy from EdenFantasies and it's adorable. Seems he's also got a thing for cute shit, too, which I didn't realize was so tantalizing until, well...it happened. So this bug is bright green, made of jelly, fitted with black straps and it's supposed to vibrate over my crotch. It's supposed to feel amazing, but most of all, he's clearly going to get off on it.

Which is really what sells it for me.


I've never had a vibrator before. I've never had anybody strap one to me and brandish the remote to turn it on and off. I've never had fantasies about strapping it on under jeans and going out to the movies only to anticipate the grin on his face when he flicks it on, trying too hard to look innocent. But I do now. On the subject of secret vibrators, his inspiration has also got me coveting this pair of pretty panties:

The Astrea 2

Sounds like a video game sequel, doesn't it? The Astrea 2: Exhibitionistic Tendencies. Not only will the black lace match everything else in my closet, but they conceal an especially well-reputed vibrator which is also, of course, remote-controlled for our pleasure. They're also ninety bucks. I know.

The longer I spend on that site, the more money I need and the faster I need it. There's a small mental basement in the back of my mind where these things I can't yet afford are put to tentative use, since only half of what I'm scrolling through is actually recognizable and the purpose readily apparent. A lot of this stuff I have absolutely no idea what to do with. An oblong plastic bullet shaped like modern art sculpture? And I stick that where? Oh, up my ass. Why didn't I think of that, sure.

But let's save the ass talk for another post. It'll get lengthy, especially since it's a longtime fascination ever since he said he wanted me.

Oh, dear, don't I feel dirty now.

Friday, June 3, 2011


Who knew an online sex shop could be so engrossing.

At the request of my lover-- and my own less-than-repentant whim-- I've decided to create a blog detailing accounts of our exploits from the perspective of a fresh, young, relatively uninitiated submissive. Yes, I suppose that's the correct term, though I'm quickly learning (and have been comforted by the fact) that the BDSM community's terminology is far from superficial. Ignorantly, I'd assumed only one dynamic of the sub/dom relation and considered myself nobody's bitch, thus confounding my understanding of the BDSM community as a whole and making a tangle of things in the process. However, I now stand happily corrected-- and perhaps, kneeling as well.

Leather rose floggers and stretcher bars and canes and whips and chains and buckled restraints and matching collars and pinwheels to fool nerves into believing they've been sliced, lacy pretty things and remote controlled vibrations, exhibitionism in subtle secrecy and the look on his face when he finds something new. Mmmn.

Can you tell I'm excited about these plans he keeps talking about? A calendar of dark delights. And to think, I'm trying to get a job with American Girl to make more money to fuel these rampant fantasies. Styling doll's hair for little girls in order to buy sex toys, can you imagine?

This is just the tip of the iceberg. Peeking into this rich community I wonder why it feels more right than wrong and whether it means what I hope it means-- that it fits and it's us and it's home, perhaps, this lifestyle which is so much more than just another way to fuck.

Suppose we'll find out, won't we?