Thursday, October 31, 2013

A Strange and Lovely Day, Part Four: A Slutty Level-Up

Correction: I’ve been informed that the paddle with the Greek letters on it actually belongs to PS, so I guess I’ve fucked a sorority girl, not a frat boy. Doesn’t seem as transgressive, somehow.

And some metablogging: I woke up in a really dreadful mood this morning because of a bad day (actually a bad 10 minutes) at work yesterday, but when I sat down before work to write this in my notebook, my mood lifted exponentially. This means that:

a. I’ll have to keep being really slutty if I’m ever gonna be awesome at the other parts of my life.

b. Life would really suck without the stars of this story, so thanks pals. You are sunshines from heaven. Dirty little sunshines.

There was one guy at the party whom I’d known for a while but who, for some reason, was giving me a go-put-my-clothes-on vibe that night. So I got into my cute PJs and played strip poker without really playing—it was the most I’ve ever learned about poker, and it wasn’t much. PS and CM’s other girl was there, and I wasn’t sure what that meant, etiquette-wise. I went with my default setting, which was to step aside, and went upstairs to lie down in their bed. I listened as the game got less and less about poker (not that it ever really was) and became more like a game of truth or dare. And I ended up being the stakes:

“If I lose,” I heard Cute Master say “Then I have to go upstairs and fuck (me).”

Sure enough, he did lose, and up the stairs he came.

“Wait, are you sure this is okay with (PS)?”

He responded by standing over me, pulling out his dick, and pulling my head toward it. I happily gagged myself, worrying a little bit if I was doing it badly since I was tipsy and at a weird angle. It felt so the-good-kind-of-humiliating with everybody downstairs listening and felt extra-naughty with PS not in the room. He climbed on top of me, grabbed my hair, kissed me hard, and then turned around and went back downstairs.

Soon, their game completely devolved into sexytimes, and I really, really liked hearing them all down there, even with the guy who had been giving me the creeps in the mix. I thought about sitting on the stairs and watching but I was all cozy so I just listened and got handsy with myself. Apparently this is just a thing I do sometimes on the weekends, fuck myself in their bed.

Just as I was starting to get ready to come, they came up to join me.

“Did you come up to go to sleep?”
“Um, no. Turn over.”

“He’s not gonna fuck you in the ass,” she said helpfully, since he’d been threatening to do so all night while they were making fun of me for waiting for SG.

I was glad to be flat on my belly for them. I remembered from class that a pillow would have made a helpful angle, but I was too comfy to suggest it. Though it’s my favorite position it didn’t quite work for whatever reason, so he turned me over, pushed my legs all the way up, and shoved inside. I pulled his head toward me and kissed him, kissed her, hollered my head off in my showoffy way. A girl could get used to this! Maybe I am.

When it was her turn to be fucked, his fingers played gently around my asshole (I’d put away the pretty butt plug when I put my pajamas on) and I turned over to give him better access. I wanted his fingers deeper, but he was deferential to toward the area despite his swaggersome claims that he’d be better for it than SG. I suppose before long I’ll be able to compare, though I wouldn’t.

PS got worried anyway that I was upset that he’d touched me there, and kept checking in. I was fine and sleepy. PS went downstairs to attend to the one remaining awake party guest, and that’s how I ended up falling asleep with a guy for the first time in almost two years. It was fun. His hand rested on my hip and he pulled my ass in close. Every once in a while he’d get half-awake and bury himself in the back of my hair, kiss my neck, squeeze my boobs. I didn’t know if he was even aware that I wasn’t PS and I really didn’t care. I fell asleep that way, aroused and pleased and enjoying the smell of him.

Around 7 AM, he woke me up, urgent and rubbing myself against me, pulling my hair, feeling for my clit. When he got to the (bigger) boobs, I think he realized I wasn’t PS, and he got up and went to find her.

This is a very proud moment, a fantastic benchmark of a new level of sluttiness. It seems like I should’ve been upset or insulted somehow, but all I was was turned on again. I listened to him in the guest room, waking her up, creaking the bed, bringing out first happy murmurs and then her wonderful, musical moans, and soon my own little personal-time moans joined in. They came in and caught me, and I didn’t even feel the slightest bit sheepish.

He lay back on the bed and she went down on him wholeheartedly. He took my hand and put it on the back of her head, and I grabbed her hair and moved her up and down forcefully like the guys do. It. Was. Awesome.

“When she’s done doing that, could you please fuck me? Since I asked so nicely?”

“(PS), get a condom.”

She rolled one onto him and he held me down and fucked me, hard and deep this time. He reminded me of the sleeping guests and she put her hand over my mouth. When she wasn’t doing that, I shoved my face into a pillow.

“I want to hear it, I don’t care,” she said and he admonished her but I heaved out some lusty wails before shoving my face back into the pillow. Oh, penises. You’ve really got to get in there more often. You’re just the best.

He ran out of steam before I did, but I still fell asleep happily, on the outside this time, snuggled up to Pretty Slave.

I was the last one to leave in the morning. PS made me coffee and I sat on the couch between them watching Ted—it’s a testament to how much I like them that I’d watch anything Seth MacFarlane made. It was funny but gave me the creeps when I thought about it later.

The rest of the day was melancholy. Sundays are mostly workdays for me and loneliness often sets in in the evening. It’s wonderful to be a single slutty girl almost every other time of the week, but I get the blues thinking of everyone else having snuggly family time while I’m printing out lesson plans and being divorced-girl.


1. I got pretty drunk without getting mournful!


2. I now can say that I know how to get myself laid when I need it.

I felt a little bit ashamed as I worked through the hangover, but writing about it now, I feel nothing but proud. No-strings sex (Well, okay. Very few strings sex.) get ready for me, because here I come.

Wednesday, October 30, 2013

A Strange and Lovely Day, Part Three: Whatever You Like

All week long last week, I’d been having a conversation with myself. It went like this:

1. I really want to get laid.
2. But I can’t have anything serious with Cute Master and Pretty Slave.
3. But I’m not looking for anything serious anyway.
4. So maybe we can fuck even though I wrote them a breakup letter.

I kept wanting to text them and find me a loophole, but I hadn’t. When I walked in, though, and saw Pretty Slave in what was only a little bit of a cat costume—fishnet bodysuit, long black skirt, cat ears—I asked her before she’d even finished making me an apple pie shot.

“(Cute Master) told me you’d say that as soon as you saw me. He said we have to resist!”

I changed into my angel costume again, this time with naked boobs. I left my undies on because I felt a little self-conscious about the butt plug, pretty as it was. As soon as Cute Master saw me, his eyes lit up in an amused/hungry way and I knew there was a chance that I’d get what I wanted.

It was a small party and it started, as these things often do, with a Beatles sing-along. Pretty Slave came over and sat with me on a chair (they have these circular chairs that are almost as big as loveseats) and snuggled with me—there’s really nothing I could do to resist her.  During “Eight Days a Week,” she smacked my ass in time to the clapping parts. Draped over the back of the chair in my angel wings, holding a glass of wine and getting spanked, I felt like a painting from one of my Art History textbooks, but naughty. Angels gone wild.

Sidenote: It was at this moment that I noticed a paddle hanging on the wall—not the regular fun kind, but the kind with Greek letters on it—I realized, everybody, that I’d fucked a frat boy, and I liked it. (The lesser-known Katy Perry song…) Pause to feel the judgment of the younger, more punk-rock me, and move on.

We sang, we danced, we snuggled some more. Cute Master was standoffish at first, but then he got all cuddly again. He was sitting next to me while we were both leaned up against the bottom of one of the chairs, smushing me in a nice warm proprietary way when he said:

“(Pretty Slave), I’m gonna kiss her. Is that okay? Apparently she’s been dying for me to kiss her.”

She approved, and then he kissed me hard, pressing me back into the chair. He kisses just the way I like, emphatically like a teenager, but commanding like a man. OH beard-burn, I’ve missed you.

In front of the other party guests (At least one of whom seemed a little freaked out, sorry to her!) he took my nipple in his mouth and Pretty Slave took the other, and I collapsed in ecstasy under them, exhaling an OH! of pleasure, rapturous.

Then I pushed PS onto her back and kissed her, running my hand over the front of her shirt and finding her clit, rubbing it first a little too hard and then finding the right pressure, then stopping to whisper to her that they’d better check on their guests.

Once she’d gotten everybody situated, she lay back down on the floor with me and cuddled. The mix that was playing was hers, and pop songs kept coming on. One of the best parts of the night was lying on the floor with her and giggling/rapping my way through T.I.’s “Whatever You Like,” which was fitting, and (unsurprisingly) one of my favorite songs.

Next: I fuck myself in their bed, then them, then myself, then them again.

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

A Strange and Lovely Day Part Two: Some Literal Fireworks

Steampunk Guy texted that I should wear a butt plug to the class, but I confessed that I still didn’t have a wearable one. I forgot to mention that it wasn’t a hands-on class, but I don’t think he would’ve cared. The class was at a toy shop, I did start to think that if I found the right one, it might be fun to wear it to the party.

I learned a lot in ass-class. My favorite fun fact was that it’s easier to relax your ass if you relax your jaw. That’s a handy one since I know I need more day-today relaxation if this project is going to turn out as well as I want it to.

I think I’m proud that, when the teacher asked if she could skip one section of her lesson, I was the lady who piped up and said “I would like to hear about enemas.”

Take that, shame! I want to make everything nice.

All in all, I was really glad I’d signed up—it helped me to feel much more oriented and also gave me an excuse to buy some more pillows.

Lots of people stayed after to ask more questions, but I went downstairs to shop. “Do you have a butt plug I can walk around with?” is another thing I’m proud to have said, especially when I consider that two years ago when I started this project, I had a pretty strong fear of sex toys.

I ended up going with a little metal one because I’d heard women recommend them so often and because it looked just like a piece of jewelry. A text came through from SG suggesting that I get a glass one and warning me that the ones in the case are superexpensive, and I gleefully texted back:

“My ass deserves the ones in the case! :D”

It was a little expensive, but the very least I could do for a body part that I spent nearly four decades ignoring—it deserves everything. SG is kind of the-ones-in-the-case himself, come to think of it.

Since my life is odd, I got picked up from this happy errand by my ex-wife, who’d brought me supper. She listened as I chattered excitedly on about the class and the toy. Getting to spend that quality time with her made a fantastic day even better, even if I did feel guilty for not having driven myself. I guess I’ll have to soon enough.

I stopped home to change and texted Pretty Slave to ask if there was any reason not to wear my new toy to the party. She said she didn’t think so, so in it went, chilly for a second but not in a bad way.

As has been documented here, my driving is not necessarily awesome enough to support an altered state, but I did just fine. The hum of the car and the gentle pressure of the Little Metal Thing gave me warm spots all over my body—my knees, my shoulder blades, my blushing face. It was an all-over mood lifter, kinda like one little hit of really good pot.

In front of me on the highway, there was a fireworks display going on in a nearby town. Each burst made me feel lucky and loved by the universe. Just as I got to their exit, the grand finale came, bright and insistent. (I’m still talking about literal fireworks.) I wondered if the folks at the party were gathered outside watching (probably not) but it kinda felt like the fireworks were just for me.

Next: I go ahead and tell them to find a sex loophole.

Monday, October 28, 2013

A Strange and Lovely Day, Part One: State of My Ass

In the month or so since I chose Steampunk Guy to be my first ass-guy, I’ve been gradually getting myself ready. He doesn’t have very much time, so I’m doing the gentle parts on my own. This appeals to my sense of independence but also makes me feel (like the Steampunks almost always make me feel) like he’s rooting for me and there are many treats to look forward to.

So, every Saturday afternoon, Sweetie makes herself scarce and I climb into bed naked with a library book until the stress of the week leaves my body enough and I settle all the way back into my own skin. Once my mind starts to wander, I put the book away, feel the warms sheets on me and let myself daydream—about whatever I’m hoping will happen at the night’s party, about past adventures, about the end goal of being covered and filled up by him, crying grateful tears.

Then I’ll start to feel myself up for a while, pulling the blankets down for the feeling of showing off my breasts, loving them wholeheartedly just as I’ve done since they first began to grow. If only all the parts had been so consistently and emphatically celebrated.

Then I’ll let my fingers wander to my ass. For a while I was shy and only touched it with toys, but I’m getting less so. There’s still the psychological barrier of the ick factor—probably more handwashing than the average self-adventure. Should get around to ordering some pretty pink gloves. Also there are some other steps I need to learn, but mostly I just want to teach myself away from the shame.

Anyway, I don’t appreciate that the stress of my Friday is directly expressed inside my asshole. The harder my week has been, the trickier it is to enter, and the more pain there is once inside. I try to massage it away, but still. I must be getting my life slightly more in order though, because on this particular Saturday, everything was open and easy.

Once I’m all soft and ready, it’s time for toys. As you may know, the only butt plug I had up until then is far too big for its intended purpose (I learned that this is a common mistake. And, I think, an optimistic one.) but excellent for wiggling around on. By now, my hoo-ha was opened up and emphatically wet, like a library book that’s been left out in a rainstorm. Every fold was swollen, alert, and perfectly slick.

I usually have the Big Purple Thing out, for sucking or for using in front, but this time, I tried an experiment: I lubed it up and crouched down onto it. Whereas the butt plug, which is about the same width, kept refusing to go all the way in, the BPT went all the way in on the second try, easy and natural as if I’d been doing it my whole life. (I’m realizing it’s not the best tool for this purpose, since it doesn’t have a base, so I guess it’s back to the toy store I go.)

Nonetheless, vibrating and filled up with the BPT, I felt washed with a sense of perspective and realized that absolutely NONE of this, really, is a very big deal. I can do it just like anybody.

I went as long as I could without touching my clit—I didn’t want all of the sensations to culminate just yet. I lay back and thrust against the BPT, squeezing my nipples and moaning my head off.

As soon as I got off and washed up, I texted Steampunk Guy (still on the other side of the country) a high five and told him I’d be ready for him when he gets home. He asked some follow up questions and told me I probably wasn’t ready just yet, gave me some more tasks which I happily agreed to. It was one of my favorite conversations with him. I chose him partly for his roughness, for the catharsis, but these texts felt gentle, insightful and humane, like we really are in this particular project together. Some of my pals make fun of me for waiting for him, but it turns out I knew what I was doing. We may not have known each other long, but we’ve been through a lot of paragraphs:

“It helps not to push yourself too hard or try to prove something.”

Who, me? It surprised me that my I-have-to-catch-up-to-the-other-girls urgency was gone and had been replaced, at least in that afterglow moment, with something like faith.

I had a snack and read some more, daydreamed and texted, almost forgot that it was time to get ready to go to Intro to Anal class and then to Cute Master and Pretty Slave’s clothing optional party. I was running so late that I’d missed the window for taking the bus and parking is from the devil, so I had to ask Sweetie for a ride. My life is just a little strange right now.

Next: A pretty new toy and some literal fireworks.

Saturday, October 26, 2013

Divorce Times: The Holidays Are Bearing Down

Full disclosure: This post was partly precipitated by a touching scene in the new Bridget Jones novel. That’s how girly I am.

Things are happy and friendly between me and Sweetie. I still call her at the end of most days as she’s leaving work. I still high-five her over smutty achievements. But it’s over soon, and I’ll be alone.

She’s supposed to be moved out by the end of November and I have no idea how we are going to get to there. Free and self-actualized as I’ve been in the past few months, I suddenly don’t want it to be over; I don’t want to let it go. She’s been my best friend and my love for all these years. She’s been my family.

And I don’t know how to make it on my own. I was hired this year to cover a maternity leave and though I’ve been told I’m keeping the same position when that teacher returns in December, I don’t feel like I’ve been earning it, so I really don’t know WHAT is going to happen. Even as I’ve grown more confident and person-like, everything in my life feels more fragile and more precarious. I wish I knew what to do to get through it.

I’m trying to bring dungeon-confidence into the rest of my life, to plant my feet and smile big and know I’m worthy, to ask for what I need and scroll past rejection with grace. But after a lifetime of being apologetic about existing at ALL, none of this comes naturally, and the stakes are much higher at work than at play. Learning to fight the reflex to apologize and make myself small is rewarding but taxing. Mostly I just have to go to bed early a lot to give myself time to grow.

In a few weeks, the holidays will start. I’ll do my yearly Black Friday shopping with my sister and come back to the house with my holiday-themed Real Simple and one eggnog latte, not two. When I made my goals for this year, this is not where I saw it all going.

I’ll probably still ask Sweetie to set up my Christmas tree, and I’ll help her with hers as well. It’s tempting to skip Christmas altogether, but after all the years of assuming we didn’t deserve one because we didn’t have children, I am never going to unperson myself like that again.

We split up the decorations months ago, but how could we really? For years, our hobby was birdwatching and so people bought us bird ornaments. None of those birds could be just mine or just hers. It will take so much more work than I’ve yet admitted to take it all apart.

I need to both find some serious inner resources and also just give myself a break. I feel the way my special-needs students must feel sometimes—I’m trying to give life what it’s asking me for, but I don’t have all of the tools I need yet. I’m getting all kinds of accommodations and modifications (My therapist makes housecalls, for crying out loud!) but everything’s just hard and slow. I think this is why I over-identify with my students.

For all I love the future I’m doing an awesome job of building, I’m slowly mourning the family I made with Sweetie, the household rituals that have left us one by one. In a few weeks, friends will start disappearing into their own families and I am afraid of how alone I will feel. It’s all part of learning to love myself, but I don’t know how to face it.

Wednesday, October 23, 2013

Being a Switch Is Awesome Part Three: First Time I Beat Up a Boy

After Old-Timey Guy was finished with me, I stripped off my wings and the rest of my costume and got as naked as I could while having to leave on nipple tape and panties. I just wanted to be comfy. I started to look around for someone to give me more snuggles. The Puncher is a really good cuddler, but for whatever reason he was seeming unapproachable.

Then a new guy walked in a military-ish costume and looked so much like The Man that I had to do a double-take. On second-look, he was much more fresh-faced, but the resemblance was still uncanny. Regardless/because of who he resembled, I thought he was cute so I said hello.

“I’m usually here in heels,” he said, “But tonight, I’m all Domly.”

“You SURE are!” I giggled and asked him what he likes. Just like me, he likes to be restrained and smacked around. After we chatted for a few more minutes, I went ahead and asked, “So, do you want me to beat you up?” Suddenly these things just seem so easy!

He smiled and said sure and I remembered that I DID have something to tie him up with—my pretty satin handcuffs! He happily held his hands out and I tied them on all snug. It was poetic to be putting soft, shiny handcuffs on a guy who looks like The Man, but this guy was such a sweetheart that all I was thinking about was making him happy. Okay, and maybe convincing him to snuggle me later.

(Sidenote: It occurs to me that I’d better be super-extra-careful to take care and honor bottoms’ wishes. I’m entering the world of topping with some not-awesome karma behind me, if one believes in that sort of thing. Better look for chances to heal those old scars—maybe this is one of those chances.)

(Another sidenote: Not superappropriate little note to CBATP—Not to take away from any of the wonderfuls I do play with, but I’m thinking of you in these paragraphs for a couple of reasons, wishing we could be in touch, wishing I could fire up the ol’ sexTARDIS to a time when scenes might be possible with you. )

ANYWAY, so the First Boy. I led him to a kneeling bench and tried awkwardly to get his pants down, but it turned out they were all one piece with the top of his costume. Little spoiler alert, he vowed to make himself more accessible to me the next time. I took off his cap and glasses and placed him on the stand next to us. I petted his sweet blond head and asked if he liked his hair pulled, and yes, he did. He has short hair, but I got a good grip, yanked, and enjoyed his beatific expression.

My spankin’ hand was hurty, everybody, so I wouldn’t have been able to do much, but he pointed out that his costume included a training nightstick. So helpful, except it was a little hard not to hit myself with the handle-end while I was hitting him—that must’ve looked funny. I sank into the rhythm and hit harder and harder, expressing all the rest of the aggression I had left, going actually a little sadistic as I scrolled through all of the feelings.

As I laid into the lower part of his left ass cheek, I noticed him flinch a little more than I meant him to, and he told me I was at a yellow. I felt proud and also horrified—ohno, I’m a little scary! Like, on purpose! (Actually this was the second time of the night I came off scary—the Fireman’s Girl wanted some nice spanks from me but got afraid when she saw how hard I hit TPG. I’m sure I could still do sensual spanks, though. Hope she gives me a chance to try.)

I backed off a little, even switch-hitting a bit, but eventually both arms got tired. I asked if he wanted some snuggles, and hooray! He did. The only snuggle-spot available at this late hour happened to be in the same place where I had lovely, smoochy aftercare with The Man back all those months ago when he still had a nice nickname. As much as I’ve stayed angry with TM, I’ve never forgotten the romance and potential of that first scene.

Sorry the paragraphs keep getting swept out of the First Boy moment—that certainly wasn’t the case that night. Apparently I’m into one guy doing aftercare on behalf of a whole bunch of people—can that be a fetish? Not according to FetLife, but nonetheless, it was incredible! Even though I was ostensibly supposed to be taking care of him, I got all wrapped up in his arms and felt sweet and beautiful, sinking into the woozy sensation of trust and safety. It’s a miracle that it’s so easy to fall into coziness with a stranger. One of the things I love best about single life is slipping in and out of intimacy without possession or obligation—just letting myself rest with another human animal and then letting it go.

Not letting go too much, though. He let me know that he plans to be around more often and that he hoped we’d play again. I sure do have some ideas for him.

Monday, October 21, 2013

Being a Switch Is Awesome, Part Two: Fire Tickles and Old-Timey Guy

As I was finishing up with The Puncher’s Girl, the Fireman’s Girl (Who, it should be said, is less a girl than a grown-ass woman a more than a decade older than me and light-years hotter. We should all be so lucky!) came over to tell me that it was my turn for fireplay. I went over to the area where the massage tables were set up, handed a nice guy my wings and halo (left on the pretty shoes) and was told to lay down on my belly. Another fire-helper showed me a case full of paintbrushes as the fire Dom asked if I was ticklish.

“Um…a little bit,” I said a warily, but decided to let it happen.

It felt good to be back under the flames, warm hands running over my back and legs. There was none of the romance and Daddy-ness of my Fireguy; this was more like a really excellent massage. With gentle hands on me and the comfort of knowing people were watching, I very nearly fell asleep.

Then he told me to turn over and I got to watch the fire. He dabbed the rubbing alcohol along my legs and belly and then lit the brief flames. There was sometimes a quick burny sting, but mostly just all the warmth. He found a ticklish spot on the right side of my waist (Hey! I even sort of HAVE a waist these days!)  and made the most of it. I held back the laughs at first but he goaded and encouraged me until big shrieky guffaws came out. The Fireman’s Girl was watching from another table and smiled with me every time I got the giggles. So did the spectators watching behind my head. This was a particularly smiley dungeon night.

After I thanked the Fire Tickler for his care, I felt all relaxed and sleepy but also reallyreally ready to get spanked. I asked Cute Master, but he was utterly uninterested—I guess that’s just the end of that. Super frowny face, but also, next!

Old –Timey Guy was all tired out from a day at the Renaissance Fair so I didn’t think he’d do it, but when I mentioned what I needed to Punk Rock Girl, she asked him and he said of course. This is why they’re the awesomest. I may have graduated from having them as protectors, but they still take such good care of me.

He tied my wrists together with my pretty-but-not-super-effectual satin cuffs, and I knelt down on the bench where I’d just spanked TPG. Old-Timey Guy said to leave on my wings and halo, they wouldn’t get in the way. A spectator who’d been avidly watching my girl-spankings raised his eyebrows, smiled big, and said “OH, now it’s YOUR turn.”

Hence the title of these posts. The endorphins of topping and fireplay, combined with the above-mentioned awesomeness of my Dom-of-the-moment made this session utterly, triumphantly delicious. He started with his hands, spanking and eliciting moans of happiness and relief right away. It felt so good that I was making sex-noises, groaning and sobbing and wiggling my ass for more.

Once he’s warmed me up with spanks, he moved on to my favorite strap: sure, thuddy whaps interspersed with little stings. He pulled me close to his front to hold me still and I lost myself in the sensation, intimate and animal, pressed against his junk and wriggling to get closer still. I truly felt like I was going to come—some day before long, it’s gonna happen like that, and it might make a MESS. That’s how much I felt his impact, all the way in somehow.

By the time I moved up to the flogger, I was pulsating with joy, getting ready to float right up off the earth. When he was finished, I told him he’s a nicenice man and asked for a few extra hugs.

I told him I think he’s one of my most successful playpal situations. At no point have I ever felt a bit of fuss or about him, and every single time he hits the spot better and better. I really appreciate the place he has in my life. (Mostly, behind me.)

Next: How to get more snuggles: beat up a boy.

Being a Switch is Awesome Part One: Being an Excellent Spanky Winggirl

I had a very hard week last week—my job is seeming impossible at times and my body spent the whole work week fighting the urge to run away, leading to depressed exhaustion. I’m going to try and advocate for some changes, but over the weekend the only way to make it better was to spend time feeling competent, safe, and happy. So off to the dungeon I went.

I’m not usually one for costumes, but while I was out running some sex-toy errands I saw the above angel wings and satin cuffs and got inspired. I didn’t have any good-girl white underpants though, so I just went with my lucky ones. Actually, I think all of the underpants are my lucky ones lately.

It was Winggirl One’s birthday and she’d asked me if I knew any Doms I could introduce her to. I didn’t, but it occurred to me that if I invited my Asker-Outer guy from last week, I could test out his spanking skills and then pass him on to her if he did well. He had other plans but liked the idea of me coaching him into the local kink scene. Of course I’m almost as new at it, but I know what I like and I think I can show him—I got a warm feeling in my belly from that plan and assured Winggirl One that she would at least get spanks from me.

Anyway, so when I got there, I was happy/sad to see Cute Master and Pretty Slave at the bar. Even though I know it was the right thing to break things off with them, I felt terrible about not having that connection. She buried her face in my glitter-covered cleavage and I just wished I could whisk them away. She’s so pretty, you guys, I can hardly stand it.

Apparently, she felt the same, since she said: “You’re too pretty, go home.”

“You’re too pretty too! Let’s all go home.”

And we all wished we could but agreed that I oughtn’t fall for them. Supersigh.

The Fireman’s Girl (you may remember her draped pinup-style across the Huge Handed Fireman at that Labor Day party I loved so much…) was there too, and was, somewhat appropriately, waiting in line for fireplay. She convinced me to join the line, too. I’d run across a street fair with fire-juggling earlier in the day (as one does) and had been hankering to be set lovingly on fire. There were four fireguys working that night, none of them the Fireguy from this story. I love that the Fireman’s Girl was egging me on so encouragingly, what a good influence!

Winggirl One came over to watch and wait with me. A cute guy was watching next to her so she said hello, and I saw my chance to instigate some fun. “It’s her birthday!” I said helpfully, and from there they took it right to spanking. It was agreed that I would warm her ass up and then he would take it from there. Huzzah! Winggirl mischief managed. I asked one of the fireguys if I could be next and when his response was (ha) lukewarm, I decided I was bored of waiting.
Winggirl One’s new friend and I led her over to a kneeling bench and had her strip down to her (my) Hello Kitty nipple tape and sheer teal panties. I promised to remember this time that she doesn’t like wedgies the way I do. The DJ was having such a good ear for spanking rhythms, and after I asked her to give me a hand signal if it got too stingy, I got right into the rhythm of it.

Everyone should have the experience of spanking somebody while wearing lingerie, pretty shoes, angel wings, and a halo. I’ve never felt hotter. The more I got into the beat, the bigger my grin got. Joy was just shining up through me like a beam of sparkling light. It was a charge not just of power, but of I-can-do-this. I loved that my friend was smiling big and everyone who was watching was smiling too. I figured she was warmed up and handed her over to the guy, high-fiving him with my not-sore-yet left hand.

But I wasn’t done. The Puncher’s Girl had told me she’d take all the aggression I had, so I aimed to sneak up behind her, grab her by the hair, and pull her over to another free kneeling bench. She caught me, though, and I led her over in a more civil manner. She told me to hit her as hard ad I could and wiggled her ass with joy.

She looked beautiful, everybody. She was in a blue lace leotard and had matching bright blue eyeshadow. Her long, dark, wavy hair was streaming over the bench like a princess. When I wasn’t yanking on it, I was smoothing and arranging it to look even more princessy.

“You look so pretty and you’re being so good. You’re such a very nice young lady.”

She smiled and cooed and wiggled some more and I pressed her against my front to hold her still. I hit her harder and harder until my hand started to hurt and she offered to go get me a paddle.

“Are you sure? I’ve never used one before. Will you tell me if I mess up?”

She assured me that she would and went to their toy bag to get a smallish paddle.

“It’s just like a hand, but wood,” she said.

I tested it a little and found a good spot.

“Right there,” she said “If you have any rage you want to get out, that’s the place to do it.”

It’s hard to be mean to someone so sweet but I went ahead and let it out, let myself lose control a little bit, even if I couldn’t help checking every so often if she was okay. I love hitting her. She feels so lovely underneath me, my right hand pressing down on her back between her perfect shoulder blades, my left hand wielding the paddle. Sweat dripped down. I felt like a goddess. I pulled her up, hugged her and thanked her. She said that if I wanted to, I could use her ass to learn all the tools.

Next: Fire tickles!

Thursday, October 17, 2013

Roadblock # 10: Calendar Fuss

Sometimes friends who are also readers express worry about having to change plans or other logistical stuff they think might not be up to my exacting specifications. I always feel so sheepish when that happens, nobody should have to feel self-conscious like that, and I and I don’t ever want anyone to think their OWN logistics don’t matter to me. Besides, purely platonic situations are never what triggers schedule-related panics, at least not lately.

Okay, so I really, really love to plan. I don’t just make my schedule, I curate it, and I do cling to it for comfort. Part of that’s just being poly and being a busy teacher lady, but also, I just spent a lot of years not doing what I want to do with my time, so I want to make sure I’m using it to get what I really want. Because, like most grownup people, I have such limited time for social stuff, any item I’ve written on the calendar is special and there for very specific reasons. I’m starting to understand that it’s not that deep for most folks, and that’s probably okay.

Part of calendar fuss is just good old-fashioned existential angst. Since I was about seven, I’ve been preoccupied with the finiteness of life. Nonetheless, I managed to, even after I remembered I was bi and realized I was poly, put off dating for about five years. I threw myself into work and poetry and art and expected those things to fill the holes left by missing relationships, by ALL OF THE VERY MANY missing penises. I avoided myself for so long, afraid to risk humiliation (at least that’s decidedly behind me), afraid of losing Sweetie, holding on to her for the safety when really we were the most unsafe thing.

It is my fault that I left the best parts of myself off the calendar for so long. I think that’s why I have the ongoing fear of the people I’m attracted to forgetting me—there’s such a bigbig part of me that I forgot, that I willfully ignored for so long.

Like all of the roadblocks, this one is about grief and being angry with myself. When I got explodey with Mr. Sweetheart over the summer for forgetting it was Wednesday, when I was overly vehement with Mr. Shiny Eyes for even flirting with the idea of switching to another Friday, it was partly from knowing those relationships couldn’t give me what I need, but I think I was also giving voice to the parts of me that are angry at being pushed aside by me and Sweetie for so many years.

Also there’s the more literal fact that I forget to give myself enough time alone. I’m half-introvert and I’m surrounded by people almost every minute, and it’s nobody’s fault but mine when I don’t make time to read magazines, hike, or just go to bed early.

But mostly, there’s this: I really do think that people might forget me, that I’m so unremarkable that I might just slip through the cracks of everyone’s full lives. With platonic friends, there’s an easy fix, I just pursue plans tenaciously and I’m as flexible as I can be. Noreally! Just ask Angel Face—he’s been in NREtown for a while and it sometimes takes several false starts until we have plans—this doesn’t stress me out at all.

But with sexytimes or romantic interests, it’s harder to fight the conviction that there’s always somewhere better to be than with me, the idea that they don’t think of me at all unless I’m present. This is why god invented pressing “like” and why I enjoyed the Cutest Boy so much—his texts were so constant that I barely had a chance to worry that he’d forgotten about me—and he was happy to tell me I was unforgettable any time I needed. A recipe for addiction, but still.

If I really like someone, a day on the calendar makes me feel more anchored to them. It somehow means that they are less likely to find something better and drift away. Writing a name on the calendar is like tying one end of a string to the balloon of them and tying the other end to my wrist.

For the years when I forgot/tried to squelch my guy-liking side (and all the kinky stuff that emerged along with it!) when I tried my heart out to be gay and monogamous, when I left entire body parts unexplored and neglected, I think I owe myself an apology. How’s this:

Dear Self,

I’m sorry that I took so much away from you and that you’re only beginning to find out how much you’ve been missing. I’m sorry I shamed you and let you be shamed, treated you so narrowly, harshly, and judgmentally. I’m sorry that I marched you through so much unhappiness when you could have been yourself and free. I’m sorry I defined you by tragedy, by defensiveness, by the things your stupid mother told you. I’m sorry I deprived you of all the penises for so many years, and I promise you they’re not suddenly all going to disappear again. I will try to never take away another thing because of meanness or fear or overprotection.

I’m going to do my best to try and get you everything, so I need you to just forgive me, chill out, and have a little more faith.


As for the part where I think people will forget me, I’m trying to note all of the evidence that the best ones haven’t and won’t so that I don’t freak out when a cutie misses a call or doesn’t agree with me on the definition of “a couple of weeks.” Though it sometimes weeds out things I feel lukewarm about, I’m not going to let calendar fuss take away the stuff I really want. Lately I’m forced to admit that some of the best stuff can happen without planning, provided that I’m wearing cute underwear and/or am willing to grab someone’s hand and pull her into a parade.

But I’ll always be impressed as all getout by an asker-outer, by anyone who’s willing to be written in ink. Like reading me or “good girl,” it’s just another way to my heart.

Best of a Happy Fat Girl

Thanks, #FatShamingWeek, for inspiring me to a. Leave the gym early and b. Spend 15 minutes ogling myself and making a "Best Of" collection from the past two years. Wish I could show you the smiles that come with all these pictures.

Song of the Week: Love of An Orchestra

One of my favorite constellations is going through hard times this week, so I wanted to send them a love song. This one tends to remind me who we are. <3 <3 <3

Wednesday, October 16, 2013

Awesome Calendar Item: Reading Smut Out Loud

Of course the naked times get most of the credit on here, but I just wanted to stop and celebrate the thing that's been doing me such a consistent amount of good: our monthly local erotic reading. Of course getting to read posts in public appeals to my showoffy nature and lets me re-experience awesome stuff, but listening to other sex writers is what fortifies me the most.

Yesterday I came home from work completely zapped in body and spirit, but I nudged myself along, put on lipstick and went. For some reason a lot of the women last night were on the theme of reclaiming and celebrating sexuality after trauma, and I had to high-five them all. My body filled up with chi and love and pride and I felt all of the worries of the day and the years float away. I'm so proud to be in it with those girls, with all the girls, with all the people, kicking the crappy stuff's ass by being as authentically and gorgeously slutty as we can manage. Am I allowed to say "go us" to posts in a row?

Proud of a Good Break-Off

Some of my poly pals tend to give me a hard time about breaking things off maybe too often so I just wanted to say that Cute Master and Pretty Slave wrote very sweet notes back saying they still want to hang out with me as friends.

Pretty Slave told me to "Never forget what I deserve" and I'm going to try to honor that.

Cute Master agreed with me that if I was getting emotionally involved that it was probably for the best--so guess what? Go me! And go them.

And I hope I can still convince them to top me out in the world sometimes. Will miss the snuggles, though.

Monday, October 14, 2013

Screening News: Don't Worry and Keep Kissing

Gold star to me for being such an excellent sex-friend that I spent part of my vacation day getting my hoo-ha up to date. Some tests you have to wait for of course but my good news is that HPV hasn't come back still (it's been almost two years) so it's probably time to stop fussing about that.

I also had a concern that I'd been exposed to HSV 1 (that's the mouth kind) indirectly. (Describing how felt superbraggy!) The nurse practitioner told me not to worry about it, to go ahead and kiss all I want unless I see symptoms. I kind of knew that was the case, but I needed a medical professional to say it to me before proceeding.

Going to celebrate by kicking Sweetie out for the afternoon and having a bunch of personal time--it's been a little while since I really went to town on myself.

Roadblock #9: Not The Pretty Sister

I’ve known I had to write this one for a while, but I’ve put it off because I’ve had more fun things to write about and also because it’s one of the worst things about me and I am so ashamed. It’s so annoying to me that something from childhood could still be such a motivation at 39. But here we are, fresh off a sleepless night of wondering why the hell I can’t catch up to my friend’s accomplishments and why I never made the cut with her boyfriend.

We’ve already been over the fact that I wrecked my mom’s life simply by being born, and that I was blamed for all of the family’s problems simply because my birth instigated the family’s existence. My brother had his own set of issues and traumas, but not my sister. She had an entirely different childhood than we did. Where we ran the gamut from tolerated to berated, she was the one who was always praised. She was cute as a button and never did any of her chores, but she didn’t complain about it either, so she was held up as an example: “Just be easygoing like your sister and you won’t keep getting into trouble.” My sister has walked through the world her whole life knowing she is loved and lovable, and I’m still pissed that I never learned to feel that.

My sister knew from almost the time she WAS a baby what she wanted to do with her life—she wanted to be a mother. She went very quickly from carrying around her baby dolls to carrying around whatever small children happened to be near. There was never any 1990’s style Douglas Couplandy angst for her, she just always knew what to do. She met her husband in college and was pregnant before they got married. Now she has five children, two of them autistic, and I have never seen her express any moment of self-doubt or any emotion more negative than mild exasperation. She sure is making up for those years of not doing her chores- she hosts every holiday and her husband has never washed a dish.

I never regretted any part of my adult life until this year when I found myself 39 and freaking the fuck out about the fact that I somehow need to find a husband. I’ve been so angry with myself lately about how I’ve mismanaged my life. When I graduated from high school, I felt (even after a life of mostly straight A-s) like I was too stupid to go to college or do any demanding job, so (aside from a very brief trip to photography school) most of my early 20s were spent waitressing and working retail, doing neither thing well. I made art, I hung out in coffeeshops, it was the Nineties. Slacking was okay. Art school and graduating from college seem like they should be accomplishments, as should 10 years as mostly a full-time poet, but it all just seems like such a waste, especially since Sweetie paid for it all and it’s part of why we’re now so trapped.

Just like I feel ashamed of being so behind my friends sexually, I feel awful about not having known what to do with my life sooner. I wish, like my sister, I’d just known.

Having not-the-pretty-sister syndrome has never been helpful in friendships or dating, and especially not in poly. My response to feeling competed-with my whole life has  always just been to take myself out of the equation—there’s no way I could deserve it as much as the other girl does (or girls do), so if she wanted it, it was hers. I think I was trying to teach myself out of that reflex by struggling to stay on Steampunk Guy’s radar, and in that light, interrupting him while he was chatting up that girl at the party that time seems like kind of a victory. Still bad form, though.

When jealousy comes, it never feels like the urge to take something from the other girl. It’s always the wish that I not have to walk through the world as myself anymore, unlovable and ugly. Since I can’t be her, I want to be nothing. It’s a deep-seated urge to erase myself because I “know” that nothing was made for me here, there’s no place for me in this world, certainly no family. The more I’ve managed to prove that idea wrong, the harder the fear is to fight, the more I feel like I should let go of everything I love, like, or might want, because the person it really belongs to will be along shortly to claim it.

No wonder the big deal guy of this story is someone whose body is often angled away like he’s just about to leave. The thing-that-happens-sometimes. The unpredictability, the rare praise that shines on you sometimes like All Summer in a Day, the this-could-never-be-mine-ness is the only thing that felt real sometimes, the only thing, paradoxically, that really felt mine. Not-having. Yearning. Starving until I am ready to accept way less than I deserve. These are my worst habits and addictions, and I want to quit.

I can’t actually imagine a guy who’s mine, much as I want him. I believe, all the way deep in my bones, that it’s a thing I’m not capable of. I don’t know what’ll change that, except paragraphs and therapy, but I’m ready to stop being convinced that I’m less than other women, because I deserve every good thing for myself.

Thursday, October 10, 2013

Saturday Night at the Dungeon: Oh, The Boss of Me

So, after I got home in all that unicorn afterglow last Saturday, I spent the day in bed reading (and being alternately horrified and inspired by) The Game, snoozing, and getting handsy with myself to dreamy mental images of Cute Master and Pretty Slave. That night, there was a choice between two parties—the one PS had invited me to, (where I’d been promised dancing and maybe a setup with a cute boy) and the Regular Dungeon (where I was hoping to run into the Boss of Me and Her Boy again). Dancing won since I had a hankering for it, and also for more time with PS.

The munch with the dancing was in the suburbs, in the kind of festive, wholesome venue where one’s family might throw an anniversary party.  The cute boy was a nonstarter, but I had the best time jumping around on the dance floor with PS and belting out “Call Me Maybe”—that really is exactly how I feel about her.

I didn’t feel like I was quite fitting there, and I wanted to give them some space to schmooze other girls if they wanted to, so I decided to say my goodbyes and drive over to the Regular Dungeon. The drive over was dreamy, just listening to whatever shuffled on and scrolling through all of the lovely new sensations that the last 48 hours had brought.

Since I hadn’t been planning on going to the dungeon, I didn’t have my suitcase or even cute underpants on! I guess that’s a lesson—I should stop pretending I want to be anywhere else on those particular Saturdays.

When I got there, I saw who I’d been looking for right away. The Boss of Me and Her Boy were standing around being adorable and watching several entranced couples who were in the midst of doing rope on blankets spread out on the floor. I’d sent her a note (with my phone number) explaining that I might not make it, but she hadn’t gotten the note and said they’d been looking for me. That gave me a little *squee* in my heart. He was in an adorable pastel rope collar and I said I wanted one too.

We went to the seating area at the back of the room, where we found Old-Timey Guy, Punk Rock Girl, and The Puncher. I was superhappy to see them and apologized for being such a ninny at their party a few weeks before.

The Boss instructed me to sit down and proceeded to make me a pretty pink rope collar. Boy, pink ropes really didn’t take too long to find their way back into my life! She petted me and hugged me, felt so soothing and her hair smelled so good. She said mine did too: “Good job taking a shower,” she said.


She shoved the leash part down my cleavage and suggested to The Puncher that he root around in there and get it out. He didn’t take her up on it, but he did sit down and chat and agree to flog me once The Boss was done with me. The four of us kind of sat there in a sleepy heap, taking in the sights and shrieks of the scenes going on around us. The Boss was so warm and snuggly that I would have fallen asleep on her, had Old-Timey Guy, who was demoing all of his toys for a new friend, not brandished the star-cane at me. I jumped up at the sight of it; I love/hate that thing so much. I pulled my pants down a little bit and grinned at the folks who were watching, suddenly as awake as can be. When he whacked me it did hurt, but I noted that it wasn’t as bad as it used to be.

“Well, you’re much more resilient than you were before!” he said.

Indeed! Go me.

After he was done showing off the star I was delivered back into The Boss’s arms—she really is such a good kisser and she’s so nicely rough with my boobs. Her Boy sat by, rosy-cheeked and smiling, and whenever I did something bratty (which was often) she told him he’d pay for it later. Don’t quite understand the math on that one, but it works for me.

I wanted a good, hard slap across the face, but she was a little hesitant and told me she’d only do it if I really pissed her off. She was in the process of binding me up but I still had my hands fee enough to grab the end of her long blond hair and pull hard. That made her mad enough, and she cuffed me hard across the left side of my face, grabbed my chin, squished up my face and told me I’d been a very bad girl, then slapped again.

“You’re laughing too hard, I don’t think you learned your lesson.”

She went behind me to finish binding my arms, and since my hands were right there I grabbed her crotch.

Just as I was saying “Who wears Spanx to the dungeon?” she was getting livid and forcing me to kneel and put my face against the wall.

“Why would you DO that? Did anyone TELL you you could?”

“Um, no?”

She pulled down my pants exposing my not-cute undies to the room and started to spank hard.

“You’re just going to have to tell me you’re sorry!”

I laughed and wiggled my ass until she forced me to lie on my belly on the flat bench. Her spanks were quick and stingy and I screamed and hollered and fussed.

When it was done, we snuggled for a moment but it was getting close to the end of the evening so I ran right over to The Puncher next—he is as handy with his flogger as he is with his fists, applying the pressure in such a way that it goes straight through to my hoo-ha. He’s an excellent cuddler too—I must’ve given him fifty hugs after.

I walked The Boss of Me and Her Boy to her car and they drove me back to mine, telling me their real names in the process. I’m excited that she’s in my phone now and is a fan of this emoticon: <3 Can never get too many of those!

Tuesday, October 8, 2013

Song of the Week: Delirious

Prince songs are impossible to find on You Tube, but I wanted to make sure you know that last night I was dancing around my kitchen in shorty pajamas listening to "Delirious." Because sometimes I'm a character in a romantic comedy.

Monday, October 7, 2013

Slept (Not That Much) in the Middle, Part Four: Sneaky Personal Time, More Him, and S'mores for Breakfast

They fell asleep soon after that, Cute Master on my left and Pretty Slave on my right, but I was awake and my whole body was humming. I honestly could have fucked them for ten more hours, I was so turned on. I lay there basking in them but also boiling hot—PS had warned me that it’s pretty uncomfortable in the middle, but the togetherness was definitely worth the sweat. I was happy and fulfilled, all cozy in bed with two friends and their cat, but I was so horny that there was no way I was ever gonna get to sleep unless I did something about it.

I experimented a little to see what I could reach without disturbing either of them. I could reach my left nipple so I started playing with it lightly. I was kinda hoping I’d get caught, but they were both snoring very softly. His hand tumbled onto my arm and I thought I’d woken him up. I was still for a moment, but then went back to what I was doing, the warmth of his sleepy hand making it hotter.

Is this creepy, playing with myself next to them while they were asleep? I told PS about it later and she didn’t think so, but I did wonder about the ethics of it. Not enough to stop, but still.

The snuggles and the pot had made my already sensitive parts hyper-aware of every touch, I felt like I could play with myself for hours. I slid my fingers between my legs without jostling Cute Master, played with my clit and wondered if I could come without shaking them awake. After a good, long, silent time, I did, and settled into a sleepy haze. I put my arm around Pretty Slave and their usually standoffish cat came and slept there, right on my forearm. There was that feeling of having won something, of having won everything.

Not too much later, Cute Master started to stir. He ran his hand over my ass and I sighed and moved closer, let him know I was awake and ready. Pulling me closer, his hand felt so cool and sweet, so playful. I turned over and gave him a hug (still with my weird no-kissing) then backed away a little. He petted my breasts and then curled down to put one in his mouth. He sucked with just the right amount of pressure, firm but kind.

I knew what I wanted but it took me a few minutes to go for it, stroking his back and neck instead, tentative and shy, unsure if I should be doing this with Pretty Slave asleep, worried I was being disloyal and hoping he’d tell me if I was breaking a rule.

I got up the courage to move my hand down his stomach and to his dick, which I’d never had in my hand up to that point. I love that friendly feeling of a penis just starting to respond and then getting all nice and big. I really, really, REALLY liked his cock in my hand, but I could think of a better place for it. I pushed him onto his back and knelt over him, put him all the way into my mouth. No offense to my rough sex pals, but it was so nice to really have the space to get friendly with it, to decide to myself when I licked and played and when it was shoved all the way down my throat. Except for the few times when he grabbed my hair and shoved it in my mouth hard, that was awesome too. I would have kept going forever except that I felt another hand on there and I figured it was time to tag out.

And then some awkward happened, some sleepy confusion about who goes where that made the newly awake PS feel off balance and turned her off. She tried to power through but a switch had been flipped and we all just kind of knew it was time to stop. Figuring the two of them could use a moment, I slunk off to the guest bedroom where it was lonely but also blessedly cool. I worried a little that I’d messed up somehow (You know I like to do a good job!) but I was too high on pheromones to be too upset. I hugged tight to the teddy bear that I’d found on the pillow and finally fell asleep.

When I woke up in the morning, I wanted to crawl back in with them but they were already up. She was clipping coupons and they were watching Bill Maher. They seemed happy to see me so I said “So we’re not in a fight?” and we all laughed away the awkward part, had coffee, and talked about the Affordable Care Act and the government shutdown. Somewhere in there, CM and I worked out the kissing thing. I told them I wanted to play a bunch more and they seemed pleased that I’d already asked them out again.

He kissed us both goodbye and went off to work. There was a s’mores kit left over from their labor day party and that’s what she made me for breakfast, warming up two marshmallows in the convection oven.

She drove me home and we talked and talked some more. I told her my worries about the surprise roadblocks I run into playing with other coupled folks. She promised that we would tell each other things and that it was their job to worry about their boundaries, not mine. I told her that whenever I like someone, I worry that I’m not giving them enough space, but that didn’t seem like an issue since she was already trying to convince me to join them at that night’s party. As we neared my block, Modest Mouse came on the radio singing “Float On,” and I knew that everything was indeed gonna be alright.

I like them, everybody. I got home happy in a whole new way, bubbling over with pride and paragraphs. This, my friends, is a very good thing.

Slept (Not That Much) in the Middle, Part Three: Oh, THANK YOU!

I was delighted to be in their bed, but I didn’t know quite where to start. He was in the middle and I feel more sure of myself with her. I lay there in a sleepy haze while they started to kiss and cuddle. I was unsure of a way in, but not unpleasantly so. Somehow I’d gotten the idea that he and I weren’t supposed to be kissing, but I nuzzled up against him and wrapped my legs around, my hand reaching out for PS’s hair.

Soon she and I were kneeling above him, kissing. I latched onto her perfect pink boob with my mouth and didn’t stop sucking it for a long time. His hands were on both of us but I think he was mostly just enjoying the show. I reached between her legs and found her clit, the first non-Sweetie one I’d touched since the late Nineties. I still had her nipple in my mouth like my life depended on it. I lost myself in her, pushed my fingers inside and felt a little bad for not having trimmed my nails. Still the worst lesbian ever!

Pretty Slave was much more responsive than Sweetie, no layers of repression to fight through. She was moaning and crying out as I pushed and pulled inside her. CM’s hands wandered inside my pink lace panties, just grazing my asshole lightly, giving me the occasional spank. He was different than he was in the dungeon, so sweet and careful. It was touching. I think part of the reason I like swaggery guys so much is that it’s so special when their vulnerabilities show.

At this point it should be said that I’d been thinking I couldn’t have sex because I was right on the cusp of that time of the month, just starting. Frustratingly, I’d kinda signed up for everything-but-intercourse (Which sometimes feels like it could be the title of the story of my life.) again.

So that’s why he said, as he was climbing onto her, “C’mon, let’s make (my name) really jealous.”

Jealous isn’t quite the right word. I already knew I liked helping them fuck, kissing and petting her through it, his hand down the front of my panties, her crying out. After they were done and we were all back to kissing and cuddling together, I could not contain myself anymore.

“You know,” I said, “The that-time-of-the-monthness is really VERY minimal…”

“I’llgetyouatowell.” He said, but I didn’t really think I needed one. My body was giving me a little break and for that I am grateful.

It’s really weird in retrospect that he and I didn’t kiss that night—I found out the next day that while I thought he wasn’t kissing me, he thought I wasn’t kissing him. Kind of an adorable misunderstanding, I think. Everything worked just fine without it, but I hope I do get to make out with him before too long.

Anyway, so it was PS’s turn to hold me and I was as ready as ready can be when he slid into me. I hollered out in joy and relief but then worried for a sec and asked “How loud can I be?”

“You be just as loud as you WANT.” she said and so I was. He felt so good, and it had been all the way since July and Jesus Christ I needed his dick in me. It was a gift, a reprieve, a revelation. I felt so grateful to her for sharing him with me.

“Oh, THANK YOU!” I cried out and they both laughed at me and I laughed too, but I couldn’t help it, couldn’t help feeling grateful for all of the everything. He thrust harder and my moans started to sound like sobs.

“Oh, that is so fucking hot,” she said. Every sensation was ratcheted up as high as it could possibly go. He put his hand around my throat and I pushed it away but got inspired. I found PS’s hand and put it over my mouth. She pressed down and I got even more riled up. After a little bit, he pushed her hand away and said “I got this.” and there was another fantasy fulfilled, his big strong hand over my mouth, his thrusts getting more urgent and I just felt flattened, melted by how good it felt. Carefully, deliberately, he grabbed the back of my hair and held me down, fucked me hard until we were both in a frenzy, until I came and came (and felt those nice squirty sensations, though it didn’t happen for real) and he came too.

I lay flutterhearted and tingly between them, patted him on the shoulder and said “Thanks, pal.”

He laughed and said “That’s all you can say after all that?”

I guess it was kind of a funny thing to say.

Next: Sneaky personal time and more him.

Sunday, October 6, 2013

Slept (Not That Much) in the Middle, Part Two: Dinner, a Movie, and Car-Singing

We sat around the living room chatting until it was time to go. I almost snoozed because I was so relaxed. Outside their big picture window, the trees were full of changing leaves. We were listening to a George Harrison tribute album and Cute Master was grumbling about how Ringo hadn’t chosen to do George songs. (All the Beatles references might make you think they’re Baby Boomers, but they’re about the same age as me.) I sat at Pretty Slave’s feet while she explained us some science and then we talked about physics and god and how they probably have nothing to do with each other. Seriously, how hot is this woman?

We were going to a movie theater where they serve you dinner right at your seat! Cute Master drove and Pretty Slave let me have the passenger seat because I’m the tallest. We sang along with the radio intermittently and I tried to convince him I’d recently ended my sex embargo:

“In fact, I wrote “Have Sex (With Someone Else) Four Times” on my October checklist! You could be one of the times!”

Which is how we ended up listening to Morris Day and the Time singing “Jungle Love” and declaring it our song. While I was dancing it out Jay and Silent Bob style in the passenger’s seat, I realized that I like him. Cute Master, not Morris Day. I remembered how much of a priority music used to be and I loved being the girl who got all his references. As we made the logical progression from Morris Day to Purple Rain and harmonized on “When Doves Cry,” I stopped considering him and started liking him. It’s the cozy feeling I can only get from liking songs with someone.

We had 6-8 songs by the end of the evening, and the next night I’d realize that “Call Me Maybe” is my song with Pretty Slave. I like them because they let me be completely and totally cheesy, the way I am born to be.

I couldn’t get over how happy I was to be getting taken on an actual date!

“You deserve it!” said PS, “You should demand dates from everyone!”

Maybe not everyone, but she does have a point. I just felt so special that they gave me their Friday night just because they like me, not for any expectations. And he was just such a man picking up that check. *swoon* There’s so much to be said for feeling valued and taken care of. I don’t think I could demand it, but I think that I’ll look for ways to let it happen to me a little more often.

We saw Don Jon, which was the perfect thing to see because it’s all about letting go of the fantasies and expectations about what sex and relationships should be like and seeing (and fucking) the person in front of you for what he or she really is. Plus, (spoiler alert!) I like that the tearful redhead of a certain age gets the guy in the end. (PS insists that I’m not “of a certain age” yet—probably not.)

On the way back to their house, he put on the alternative station and the songs got even better. I reached back and held PS’s hand, dreamy and happy and ready to jump right into their snuggly bed.

What happened instead was that I stripped down to panties and bra, PS changed into a pretty red satin nightgown, and CM packed us a nice bowl. Control-freak me had just one hit of it, but that was plenty, it was really good stuff. We sat on the couch with PS in the middle and watched Yellow Submarine, trying to figure out what the heck is going on in that movie and singing our hearts out to the songs. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was, how lucky I was to be snuggled up singing with my cute pals.

But I’d woken up at 5:30 AM that day and did NOT want to fall asleep without jumping on them, so as much as I was enjoying the singing and the psychedelic ridiculousness of the movie, I got up the courage to say:

“Um, why are we not in a bed?”

Next: I thank them profusely and a “curious about” becomes and “into.”