Friday, April 20, 2012

Please, Sir, Part Six: Censorship and OMG I Heart His Penis



***Note: Sometimes the most liberating characters can also be the most repressive. I have one hard limit, at least one that would be relevant on the first date: Don’t try to take my voice away. This applies physically, to things like gags and breath play, but also to other ways of limiting expression. Ever since our date, Fireguy has been harassing me about this blog. The day after, while I was fragile and trying to piece things together, he told me I couldn’t post about it until the following week. That was a trigger that sent me into a panic. After almost a week of feeling anxious and threatened (but still posting) I explained to him again about the limit, and he apologized. Yesterday he called, expressing all kinds of worry about my writing and cruelly triggering me again. He was specifically worried about Varga Girl reading it. Fuck those two. Seriously. I don’t know how I got in the middle of their mess, but I wish I had run away screaming when I first had the chance.

What had been a freeing, complex, and loving experience has turned into a nightmare. I feel angry and betrayed, but I refuse to be ashamed. I refuse to compromise my point of view so that his and hers can be more validated. Fuck that. And fuck him.***

Back to the fun! So there!

I wish I could spell the moans out well enough so you could hear them. I watched inside myself closely, waiting for when it was time to ask Sir if I could come. They’re hard to predict, I learned. I’d feel pulse start inside me and start to ascend, but it was hard to tell when the peak would come. I felt self-conscious and tried really hard to predict them. I tried to do a good job and ask permission, but my orgasms on the inside are just an ebb and flow, a tide. For a pronounced peak, you’ve got to get me on the outside. Which he would do, soon enough. It’s tempting to draw a parallel between getting permission to come and him trying to control my writing.

“It seems like there should be more hair pulling…please? Sir?”

He obliged and what happened next was my favorite part. Did I already call something my favorite part? Oh well. Lots of favorite parts.

He gathered me to him and just sort of went to town on me, pulling my hair just insistently enough, biting my neck and shoulders, growling-I felt deliciously ravished, still all tied up, maybe blindfolded, I don’t remember. I love feeling like things are all wildly out of control but safe, attacked and protected at once. I felt as adored as a favorite toy, a favorite friend, a favorite girl. Of course my egalitarian poly self wants to qualify that, but it’s how I felt while I was being so nicely mauled.

We settled back into being gentle and my not-favorite part happened—he kept narrating the things he wouldn’t/couldn’t do, and it made me acutely aware of the Relationship Agreement and my own STI status. He said things like “I want to put my face between your legs so much, I’m saying that even though I can’t, I don’t want you to feel like I’m teasing you.”

It wasn’t so much the safety measures as the fact that he kept MENTIONING them—every time he did, it took me out of them moment and back to the email that made me cry, the one denying me “Special” Level 2 status.

But also! I trusted him to TIE ME UP IN HIS BASEMENT! I trusted him to SET ME ON FIRE! And he couldn’t believe that I didn’t have anything that could be transmitted that way? That seems a little unbalanced.

And! Oral sex seems pretty far to go on a first date anyway—if nothing else, I think I’m going back to a one base per date policy. And restraint with a romantic partner? That’s like EIGHTH base.

At some point I did something bratty and had to be turned on my side and spanked again. I felt so cute, still all roped up, giggling, adored.

Then it was time to take off the ropes—he needed my hands, he said. I felt a little sore from my arms being smushed behind my back for so long-there was a pinch in my shoulder.

He said, “Oh, I won’t make you lay like that next time.”

“Nono! I liked it! It’s okay!”

Then I met one of my favorite penises of all time. He told me to take it out and I was so happy to do so—pulled down his underwear and was delighted to take it in my hand. It’s hard to say what I liked about it so much—it just fit. It was friendly, likable, charming. He apologized that it was a little shy at first, but I loved making friends with it, teasing it to life.

Next: Okay, So I’m a Rebound Redhead

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