Valentine’s Roses From My Property

The rose stems bite into my palm as I hold and snap them off short enough to fit into the large water glass I have retrieved for that purpose.

Silver fumbles with plastic packages of sausages, cheese, olives and crackers, not because he is inherently clumsy, but because he’s distracted by the fact that I am here and keep teasing him. At one point he’s on all fours, and I hear a noise of head clearing whoozy breath, as he tries to focus on the task at hand. His cock is desperately and intensely thick with his arousal.

He leaks a pretty steady clear, clean trickle of precum when I get him worked up enough, curiously without much taste. At one point I note he’s dripping, he apologises and I laugh. I like it. Why shouldn’t I?

Me, I’m wet, easy and constant. How can I not be, looking at his lithe body, feeling him held easy under my hands, hearing is words, again and again, “I belong to Miss.”?

Over the two days I will drain him four times to see if I can. This is time four for us to “play” in person. Multiple times, seeing him hard, I consider mounting him then and there and depriving him of his formal virginity, but I continue to wait. It is not the right time.

I want him to tell me when he is ready.

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New Year, New Me, New Rules

My break up is not something I will particularly touch on, other than to say we wanted different things, and I wish Brick the best in future. Me, I have been processing it as a series of feelings, largely as an immense amount of vulnerability, a bit of cumulative damage to my self esteem, and a few conclusions.

Whether or not I actually make use of these lessons is an experiment in free will versus disaster planning, but whatever.

One of these is that I absa-posa-lutely should not do any more rushing in anything, regardless of whatever my heart decides for me. Several choices over the course of my life have been made on the hinge of the closing door of my last relationship. These choices seemed temporary and laced with hedonism, only to morph very quickly into responsibility. That is a kind of love, but one where you end up singing Joanie Mitchell songs about Clouds.

Here is the gut truth, over several relationships: I seem to like high strung men, and the nurturing is a part of my attachment. I do not think I can change my type there. It does, however, cause certain trends that repeat over the last decade.

I am going to make a slightly more selfish and self contained path in the next six months. No relationships, lots of exploration. That isn’t to say I table the idea of settling down forever, but I want to experience being single.

Even if my heart attaches itself, as it is wont to do, nothing worth it requires me to cast off all balance to claim it. Dates, dance classes, flirting, fun. Busy, but aware.

And more writing please. I miss doing that.

Life Updates Again

I am thinking about the particulars of self-care. Not fairy lights and lush bath bars, but the immense amount of effort it takes to keep one overly ambitious adult woman ambulatory.

Since I started a lovely, bland, immensely important straight job, which, cards played right, I will do until I exit clutching a pension, life has stopped being an uncertain jumble of hope and turned into a semi obscured singular path, I have time to look at other stuff.

One of them is the knowledge that I will always need to focus on a certain amount of time to keep my shit together.

I feel odd talking about my health, in the least because I am aware that non-normative perversion includes a certain pressure to show it gets better, and that we aren’t all mad. Unfortunately having a health problem is a hobby on its own and I am rather unfortunately derailed into an activity I would much rather not be doing but must do to keep certain baseline function.

But writing this blog, properly, has been an act of self care because it is a big raw candid dump of erotic and neurotic, and I have to admit, a demand that I am worthy of love as I am.

Paraphilias, on the scheme of afflictions, particularly something as pedestrian as BDSM, are not a heavy cross to carry compared to say, being racialized or having a chronic illness, but they do a number on your self-esteem when your options are freakish, objectified or ignored.

My sexuality isn’t going away, it demands at least personal fulfilment, and this blog remains my message-in-a-bottle launching point: here I am, are you there?

Lately I have been feeling particularly unlovely. Not physically, but like my sexuality is a nuisance. It blew up things with Wildcard (although we had other incompatibility issues) and it complicates dating anyone else.

I end up frazzled “here is 7 years of writing, about my fantasies and vulnerability, can you please work with this?” so far has been a bit more fitful and spotty in practice.

Brick, for example, has no idea what to make of 3/4 of it. I think I have a knack for helping other people find themselves in my writing because I have spent my whole life aggressively trying to make myself comprehensible.

But, as I find my feet in a new city, stabilized into sensible bland work, at least I find that once again I can write. So there is that.

Anti-erotic Life Updates

Pleasant lashings of Vancouver rain beat down on the new city I call home, while I ineptly put together homemade pancakes (got the texture wrong because I eyeballed it and experimented with cake flour) and my long suffering roomie wrestles with their cold on sick day number two.

My body is a disgusting PMS mess, dry and oily and swollen, over sensitive and blotchy. Although, in theory, I see Brick this weekend I feel as erotic as a mud filled pinata. My mood, due to stuff not related to sex, is ok, but mostly I am just looking in the mirror and seeing one breast a D and the other a perky E, and feeling more prickle than warmth in my cunt.

Of course, dear reader, that was more honesty than titillation, and were this a viable commercial endeavor rather than a collection of curated truths and writing exercises, my supervisor would be having a talk right now.

Luckily for me, I am allowed to be honest, so you get bloated and itchy femdom eating flaccid (but surprisingly tastey) pancakes. That is probably someone’s fetish?

Life has been, largely, not about sex. It involves career chasing, and learning my new home and worrying about sickly family and adjusting to a climate where the air is mountain dry and ocean wet at the same time. Most of the commentary I have is how much I like the misty temperate parts, despite everyone warning me how challenging the endless rains of the North West are.

Assuming I don’t plunge into a cold, I will go to the US to spend time with my boyfriend, and we will probably not have especially good sex, because my body is being more concerned with a tantrum over my lack of pregnancy than getting more dick up in my cavities.

Not So Good Sex

We have not so good, hurried sex on Sunday night and neither one of us comes, although I get close.

He’s so pretty, but I think part of what went wrong is I think he just wanted to cuddle and my head’s in a bad place. Lesson learned.

Sometimes it just doesn’t come together. The weekend started with mixed promise: I was a bucket of grawr and he was at least just a little off  in his own mood. Friday night, he wasn’t feeling it, but his pheremones, weight and heat got me going.

I’ve been having a reoccurring fantasy of completely breaking him down. That plus his presence gave me a solid orgasm. I had another one on the washroom, almost as soon as I started to touch myself, the next morning while we got ready for a busy day.

I don’t think he noticed, brushing his teeth while my clit and fingers found me something as furtive as it was delicious.

Saturday, zipped into knee high black leather boots, knit lace and wrapped velvet, I teased him and teased myself. It showed such promise, feeling pretty and sexy, but by the time we got home from goth clubbing, my daydreams of shoving the length of his cock down my throat were derailed for sleep.

Sunday I got clotheslined by a morning headache, and then when that cleared, my stomach was off. I blame stress and restless nights where my body doesn’t want to sleep. We had sex after some home medical care of me on his part, but the sex still didn’t click.

I was the wrong kind of sensitive. I couldn’t get wet enough. My brain was scattered. I wanted cock, but like a child with a toothache in a candy store, I just wasn’t in a position to enjoy it.

It didn’t have the bad kind of ouch, but I know what it is like to be so wet and swollen feeling the least little chance to devour him is pleasure in itself. This was not it.

To Brick’s credit, even really not into it, he puts on an admirable performance. As disappointed as I am that we both ended up unsatiated, I’m more hopeful of next weekend’s possibilities.

Kinky Sex On My Friend’s Couch

Kinky sex on my friend's couch happened.He’s not a novice to kinky sex, but I am the experienced one. He’s fucked piles, but here on the couch I’ve borrowed for this, I am more comfortable in this realm than he is. We’re not even doing anything particularly intense, nothing with hoops to leap through or collars and protocols, but I like what we are doing.

My control is mental.

I talk a stream of consciousness line of filth. Magicians have a patter, I spin out linked bits of carnal ideas, like I am giving a massage with my words. Each sentence slides out of my mouth, luring and inspiring him, until he is fucking me. His cock fits just right, nothing feeling pushed or rushed the wrong way, feeling like I am feeding a yearning.

He comes, back sprawled on the arm of the couch, body splayed, while I tell him dirty things. He asks for it, precise about the hows as he hands over the keys to his head. It’s not enough to be succinct, he wants a flow of words to drown him, a riff on a theme, not a closed statement.

“Fuck me, yeah, you want to? Fill me. Your cock belongs in me, belongs to me.  There isn’t a single thing I’m going to skip with you. Keep fucking me. That’s your job. You know how many women its been, you little slut. Use me. Make it hurt. Go on, I want it hard, I need more than that.”

I’d taught him a little bit about how his ass responds too, that afternoon. He is so shy, meticulous in the shower, but there’s nothing I find personally taboo about flicking my tongue. It’s the taste of soap on skin. He’s just a little bit mortified, as I trim my nails and let him try the tip of a finger in a glove, well slicked with pharmacy brand lube.

He wanted me to explore his ass.

Itself, taut, muscular. Spread, he has no pigmentation to speak of, just pink, the way the head of his cock or his nipples or lips are the same blush shade. We did it very modern, sharing lists of things we would like to try. He told me anecdotes of other men who confessed being penetrated, there. We both have a little bit of coy reverence for anal, but while he thinks he doesn’t want up in a woman, he wants me inside him.

He’s a paradox, modern and conservative, American South. I like that bashful boy next door. This weekend he’s stressed and grumpy about stuff well outside the confines and control of my reach, so it’s nice to make him vulnerable. I like his lean, long body.  I like making him nervous.

So far he’s learned a lot, including that a magic wand pressed beneath his balls makes the orgasm harder, one solid spurt of semen onto his belly.

And I push him into playing pain games.

Of course there’s this, too. I don’t have any pretense that I dislike pain, and I am enjoying breaking in his shyness. It makes me feel powerful. He doesn’t feel completely comfortable with that part of himself, with me. But he wants it, too.

It takes my affirmative consent to let him express that with me, uttering:

“I want you to hit me”

This way I make him stretch plays with his desires, sadistic but also protective and it fucks with his head. He needs to hear me demand it. I call it Madonna whore, he who has fucked any number of women to whatever kinky thing they want, more shy about this with me, the woman he loves and requests.

But I won’t tolerate hesitance, demand he overcomes cognitive dissonance to please me. He can respect me and give me what I want. Kinky sex isn’t just for friends with benefits and event hook ups. Just because his pretty face and outgoing manner leaves his bed post notched into toothpicks does not mean I expect him to be different with me. I am going to take everything.

My thighs burn from his hand slapping on the soft flesh of them, creamy insides as I worked my clit into coming. I finished with red sting mark-splotches on either side, as vivid as lipstick prints. Good. I’ll have more, later.

I am making him do it.

He’s not a masochist either, but he wants to please me so very badly.

When we fucked the other night, I whopped his back with my belt. If you think penetration is submissive, try slapping him like he’s a horse you are goading.

Hetero femdom needs metaphors like that. Horse. Bull. Big, muscular creatures. Even small past partner packed a punch. Healthy boys, particularly Brick, it can’t be about control through physical slam-downs. Not when the average man is 20% stronger than the average woman. Submission knows know gender, doesn’t care about your flesh. The small and frail can be dominant. But, to work, you need any sub to crave you in control.

I tease Brick about being slutty and innocent by turns. Poor man, he doesn’t sit well with either. After a liftime of being game to try, eager to say yes, I show him a Hitachi put against his perenium, my tongue and my fingers up his ass. First time.

I know what I am doing.

That’s the power, in kinky sex, not about holding the other party down, but about them wanting to be held.

Some of this is old ground for him: I take off his belt and loop it to hold his wrists. Safe bondage, other women have tied him up tighter.

He needs to deal with myself being a monster of sorts, as least as far as desire. I like to put the dear into him, make him suffer. He likes to please, but oh is he proud.

 

 

 

 

First Month In Vancouver

Meanwhile in Vancouver. The weather is perfect, days of clear sun or misting rain while the east coast gets hammered in snow. I fight off either a tail of a head cold or pollen allergies and try to be good about job hunting on a borrowed couch. I research about wrestling holds for a story commission, chasing my muse to corner it. This is important. I can barely write lately, stringing words together is a chore, but I’m making myself sit still and type this as a warm up.

Weekends I steal away to screw myself silly, passport in hand, jumping on the dick of an American. He looks at me wistfully and checks if all he is to me is sex.  No, but it sure helps, as I have a cunt-hunger that I try to respect. Fuck me. I told him that, fuck me properly and the rest would work itself out.

He’s cute and funny and handsome, and I like playing pretend with him. I also want him between my legs, slim hips driving piston style. I want what I want, and Brick does it.  Trophy boyfriend, handsome enough random girls ask to snap a picture of him with them.

The condo where I am staying has a little gym in the basement (it also has a sauna) and as my breathing lets me (damn cold/pollen) I’ve started awakening myself from the uncomfortable slumber of my limbs.  My body is less than thrilled to be roused, like all living things it prefers to conserve calories.  That’s my goal for 2018, to take opportunities when they are offered- as long as there’s a free treadmill in the basement there’s no excuse not to go.

My limbs are now unhappy at the joints, but my brain is clearer. Up here the air tastes clean and sweet and when I crest a hill, suddenly radiant grey-glow mountains, luminous and white capped. It feels silly, like someone put a matter painting up on a set. Eventually I will need to get closer ot one of those and prove it is real.

I have a reasonable level of stress for a person who has upended their life, but not so much that I feel rash. A little overwhelmed and concerned I could push myself harder, as well as grumpy at losing days to sleepiness (yesterday demanded and extra 2 hour nap out of nowhere) but also immensely happy to be having an adventure.

On fetlife I poke at the kink scene, but I haven’t yet had the free time to make it worth looking into.

Fantasies On The Weekend

I wonder about how he’d look helpless. We haven’t had that opportunity to restrain him completely, although I know he’s game (no leashes though, no! Noooo! It’s kinda cute how resistive he is, even if I’m going to respect that hard limit). Coy man will hide what he wants behind what I want, but occasionally can be pushed to state a preference.

My cunt’s a cleft of wet, panties carrying the stamp of my thoughts in white on black, fingers smelling of the apple scented hand soap after I carefully remove my own scent from my fingers after another orgasm. I come easily and frequently, sometimes with the width of a thick toy eased inside me, sometimes just plain old fingers like since I was a teenager.

It’s a mixture between the ostensibly vanilla and the overtly kinky. I have a want to engulf his cock down my throat and the poor man keeps telling me that he’s hard to get off that way and blah, blah… Maybe I just want what I want. It’s not about getting him off, it’s the taste and the sensation of fullness. My mouth is all nerves, more complex than my cunt, which is either pleasure, touch or ouch but cannot, for example, enjoy texture because I cannot feel fine details, only pressure.

I think about straddling his lap and having him hilt in me. He likes all sorts of positions, but me on top is his go to, says he likes giving the girl control over the depth. While he is not monstrous he is on the larger side of normal, surprisingly hard for me to cram into my mouth.

Maybe I need to tie him to a chair and interrogate him about fantasies.  Poor man doesn’t want to take a little torture, but even if my clips and clamps and bits of leather and wood and the sharp bite of the claws on the ends of my fingers are all exempt, I will leave his soft, pale skin unmarked. It follows then to see just how he will react to a little teasing instead. Do you think he’s break after an hour or just be left grinning and daring me to continue?

Really only one way to find out, practice until I can learn his body as well as my own and edge him, practice until his mind’s my playground.

I like a challenge sometimes.

Leash Fantasies for Him

My arousal is a suffusion from the nape of my neck to my knees, a warmth and skin hunger that buzzes away in my breasts and the softness of the inside of my thighs. I think about a thing he doesn’t want to do and it is erotic.

At the party, I took his necktie, parading him about with the enjoyment of my casual ability to inspire obedience.

Blame a friend joking, oh no now that we’re dating “[Brick] wrangling is your job” and that I got the leash now. I sent back that nobody told me there was a leash in full enthusiasm, kink hiding in the plain sight place we use humor to fig leaf.  Hahaha, you want your boyfriend in a symbolic costume of  servitude, a base state where you can pull a band and make him comply.

I think, naked. It’s my fantasy, though there’s a pile of edge play that in real life would be negotiated and blocked out safely, here I can have my audience to his helplessness.  Here I tell him to put the collar on and clip the leash in place and there’s no self conscious echo in my own head… but only if you want to, right?

Hey, it’s a fantasy, it doesn’t have to be real. I can put all sorts of scenarios. Porn likes losing bets to create this sort of thing, but I could have mind control powers I’m using to break him down if I want, make him helplessly watch as he does the thing he doesn’t want to do and fastens collar about his own neck. Kneel. Surrender.

Brick doesn’t like it. Doesn’t come easy to him, doesn’t know how a lot of the time, good natured about it, but not necessarily comprehending the depths of the metaphoric rabbit hole.

So he finds it distasteful? Tough. My fantasy, he has to.  Has to be naked on command because seeing even a shirtless picture makes me catch my breath a bit. Mine. Strip, slut.

I like the idea of leaving him with an in his head defiance, an awareness he is being forced into it. I like puppet play, where the victim knows what you are doing is wrong but can’t help it. I want it. Actually that real resistance becomes another toy in the toy box.

Trawl through my fiction from a young age and surprise, lots of tall, skinny redheads.  But the real? Fantasy screams to break him, tie him, chain him, find out what takes to make him beg.

Lust is a heady, heavy body grabbing sensation, a hunger I can self slake temporarily, but that wants to devour someone else.  I want to treat Brick like a sex object,  and while he’s used to being found an object of desire, I don’t think full on sex slave is part of the repertoire he’s tackled before.

No, no gimp suits, none of this boys are icky never gonna come while the bull fucks me. No, Brick’s the man other people see as their Bull. And you know what? I’m the girl who sees that and thinks about how to put a metaphoric ring through his nose.

I’ll lead you to market.


The image in this post was borrowed from here, where you can buy a leather english bulldog leash and collar.

Puzzles and Problems

It’s there, but goodness only knows where it is. No amount of standard levers will shift this particular boulder, slap him, push him, sit on him and none of these things push him there.

It’s day 3 of his visit and he’s finishing off the crunchy bakery bread toasts and fluffed up scrambled eggs I made for him. We’ve been having sex in a cycle of squirming, fucking and recovery for the last two days and I am giving my cunt a break after a combination of size and first time tension has left it a little beat up. He’s giving his cock a break, every so often checking it for bruises with the care of a man tending to horse after a hard ride.

Sex Ed does not prepare you for being slick wet with arousal and then the muscles of your cunt not wanting to yield. It doesn’t cover fucking so hard you have to take into account his equipment damage. It also doesn’t cover god damned former LEO using completely non-damaging restraint holds on you so you are forced to return to the mental drawing board.

I think he was a bit concerned that my sadism was going under but I managed to communicate it’s not about pain, it is about control. And a very specific reaction. The sexual chemistry is off the charts, nuzzling, skin and scent hungry. He watches how the lightest brush flushes my face and notes he can smell the shift in me as I crave more of him. I can feel a few little wriggles to get cozier and his cock has started to stiffen.

He goes to cutesy kiss is fingers and then put the kiss onto my lips and finds the wetness as I suck his finger into my mouth. I don’t think he realizes how sexual I am.

Lying next to him, twined up, he sees the mental calculations. He’s enjoying the novelty of a girlfriend after seven years a bachelor. Picky prince, he’s still feeling out the realness, same as me. So much you can’t say over the phone or in text. Can’t show him I can cook. Can’t show him the way his breath on my neck causes me to go into lordosis.

Can’t quantify a feeling of needing power. Brick’s been about a bit, enjoying plenty of creative nerd sex with plenty of willing women, but I don’t think he’s really dealt with my desire to have him.

Also he has no idea how to give up control. He acknowledges my dominance and finds it inherently arousing, and enjoys my cheerful willingness to expand to the limits of what strives to contain me until I stretch it into a skin in the mould of my self.

But outside that minute immediately around his orgasm he has literally no idea how to let go. I don’t think he knows how.

 

Goingto be interesting watching him figure this out.