My First Sexting

I may have mentioned this once of twice, but I’m enjoying Mr. Sweetheart so much. Last Tuesday when I was walking home from work, he texted to ask how I feel about sexting. I told him that it was on my goal list for June. (I do monthly goals with check-boxes. Some of the goals are all virtuous and gym-related, and some are…not.)

So he sent a picture of his lovely junk (First time I’d received such a text—he’s so many firsts!) and I was so happy to see it. I wrote back “For me? What shall I do with it?” but since I’m the sex-blogger he insisted that I be the one to tell most of the story.  (“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be the dominant one?” “I’m instructing you to amuse me with your creativity.”)

Clearly he is a full-service muse.

I got home and started dinner as I started to spin the story. I think I did a pretty good job. I was making tortellini. As I put the water on to boil, I told him about some fictitious Hello Kitty underpants already complete with a wet spot. As I grated the cheese, I tried to convince him to tell me what to do, but he insisted that I tell him what he was telling me to do. As the water started to boil, he sent me an evil grin, and I texted back a bratty eye roll and let that sit while I ate supper. He was excellent dinner company.

After I was done eating, I sent him a picture of my nicely-made bed and got in. Just like he did in the story I was telling him, I pulled up my shirt and down my bra. My nipples were sticking straight up, ready and bright, bright pink. After a few tries, I got a good picture of them and sent it over. I played with my boobs while I waited for the next text to come.

He sent back a try at dirty talk and I rewrote it so it was nastier.

I was conscious of trying not to borrow from scenes I’d already had and written—it was fun to try fiction, to write a fantasy just for him.

It occurred to me that it would be awkward for Sweetie to come home in the middle of this so I called to get her ETA and give her a heads-up. Also I accidentally dialed Mr. Shiny Eyes in the process. #togetherness

Sweetie was a half hour away and I was soaking wet. My fingers slipped around inside my plain flowered undies and inside myself—I was ready for him. There was plenty of time for me to come but I kept losing track of time—texting, playing, texting, playing. It’s kind of magical that I could be that turned on by him even though he’s such a long way away.

Sweetie came in before I was finished but was unfazed—she just closed the bedroom door and went to make herself supper. Mr. Sweetheart asked me where I wanted his cum.

“Well, I tried to swallow for you but you pushed me away and it went all over…”

He texted: “As your reward, I lean in, lick your cum covered tits, then offer you a creamy kiss. :) <3 <3 xoxo”

It was a good reward. I was unsure of the etiquette for ending such an exchange, other than to let him know that I’d come. I told him that next time we’ll have to think of a way to metaphorically snuggle afterwards. I’m excited to write him some more stories.

The Sparkly Festival of Awesomeness, Part One: First, Some Backtracking

Before I get to the hot magic that happened yesterday, it’s necessary to go back to a party in a conference hotel room (earlier this year, back during the time when I wasn’t blogging) to properly introduce some characters.

Sweetie and I do a thing sometimes where we’ll get a room at a conference she isn’t interested in. That way, she gets a mini-vacation and she’s right there to come home to after I’m done social-butterflying. This particular time, she was nice enough to turn around when she was almost there to go back home and get the ropes. Because, as you know, she’s the best.

While the year before I’d been shy and barely sure I belonged, this year I spent most of the conference with a favorite co-adventurer, the Lady of the House (of Nude Year’s Eve and Cuddle Party fame) and found out which room the yearly clothing optional party was in.

When Sweetie and I got to the party, the ladies whose room it was were still setting up. People were still doing subdued, beginning-of-the-night chitchat when I stripped down and asked Sweetie to get started with the ropes. I LOVE getting ropes on in mostly-vanilla rooms, but this time it was especially wonderful because once she got the ropes on me, she started talking me through putting them on other people. It gave me a surge of bratty power even more than I normally get. I gave the hostess a nice harness and put a lovely lavender rope corset on the Lady of the House. People oohed and ahhed, probably because my friend is stunning. I put a dragonfly sleeve on the belle-of-the-ball guy with the fullest dance card, and his wife proceeded to torment his restrained self with ice cubes.

My pal Mr. Sweetheart (okay, he didn’t have that nickname until yesterday) was there giving the hostess a sound flogging. I had to wait a while for my turn, but after he’d rested his arm and while the party was still quiet enough that I could be center of attention, he told me in no uncertain terms to bend myself over the posh hotel chair in the middle of the room. It was the best feeling getting flogged while all the nice poly people chatted and looked on. One lady pointed out how my fists balled up when things got harsh. He pummeled my back, my ass, even my boobs, which I don’t usually like getting hurt. The future Mr. Sweetheart was worn out before I was, but I rejoined the party with a sunburny glow and a deep sense of relief. The next ass was in the air for him before he even got a chance to rest.

Jeez, I love a friendly flogging. I’d really like more of those in my day-to-day life.

People kept pouring into the hotel room, and sexytimes started happening in the bedroom. It was my first party where actual sex-acts were taking place, and I liked it, but Sweetie started getting claustrophobic. She also got annoyed that I’d put my special pink ropes on the dragonfly sleeve guy, so I bravely interrupted him mid-blowjob to get them back. He was glad to regain the use of his hands.

Assuring me that she was okay, Sweetie helped me unwind the ropes from the ladies and left me at the party while she went downstairs to lie down. I was all nakedly flirty with a former fireman who’d gotten my attention when he lifted my friend over his head. (This is a recurring theme, I notice…)  All drunk with rope-power and also wine, I told him that by next year, he’d better be ready to pick me up. “Start working on it,” I said, pointing at him imperiously.

Soon enough, the party got to be too crowded for me. I put my pjs on over my ropes and headed for the door.

The trouble was, the room was so crowded that I got stuck behind a lengthy multiperson hug and in front of a nice man with very shiny eyes. Mr. Shiny Eyes didn’t seem to mind that I was wedged against him. He gave me a hug which deftly turned into him grabbing the sides of my harness under my clothes. “”May I?” he asked and “Ohyes” I said. There, all smushed in the crowd, he pulled the roes toward him, back and forth, up and down. As he yanked up hard so that the crotch rope knots hit all the right targets, I let out a squeal, caught fireman guy watching, and felt very successful at being alive. I turned my head to avoid kissing Mr. Shiny Eyes, a mistake I don’t intend to repeat.

The actual festival story makes me a little nervous to write, but I am soooo going to enjoy spending some more quality paragraph time with some of these folks. Stay tuned!

“You know you’re chained to my house, right?” Part Two

It may not have been wonderland, but the evening did have sort of a down-the-rabbit-hole feeling to it.

Of course I had to try out those living room shackles—there was no use even trying to be cool about it. The first time, it was clothes-on, just goofing around. Old-Timey Guy made ticklish threats without touching me, and I squirmed and giggled. I’m still really surprised that this tickling business appeals to me at all! At that point I got the most (Well, maybe not the MOST) disagreeable nickname—“Twitch.” Sweetie was the one who said it, but OTG saw that it bothered me and decided to go with it. I’d have to earn my way out of it, he said, by being less squirmy. I didn’t see a lot of not-twitching in the near future, and I was correct.

OTG is always trying to goad me into admitting I am not entirely adultlike:

“Are you a good girl?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Are you a good little girl?”

“Uh, no Sir, I am TOTALLY an adult.” The pigtails and the fact that I punctuated this statement with a little foot-stamp may have hurt my argument. Also the fact that I spent most of the night giggling.

He continued with the diminutives the rest of the night, and I was careful to disagree every time. “My three little girls, “he said, as he was setting up his electroplay toys to demo them.

“Two.” I said. “TWO little girls.”

(It occurs to me that this is an odd stand to take, considering that my first dirty-talk pet name was “brat.”)

One of those little girls, Squeak, took my place in the shackles, now naked except for a teeny-tiny black thong. She’s an electro-slut, they explained, it’s her favorite. I’ve always thought violet wands are pretty, but I hadn’t yet had occasion to try one.

How it works is, the “wand” is plugged in, and various glass implements are screwed into it. It is a very mad scientist-type situation. Nothing happens if you press someone’s skin firmly to the glass, but if you hold it near them and graze lightly, little tiny sparks leap out. He held the wand and its flat-headed bulb against Squeak’s nipples and she wiggled, sighed, and yes, squeaked. Then he held out the wand for Sweetie and me to try.

I don’t like the feeling. The sparks are tiny and don’t hurt, they’re more like a tiny, prickly irritation—it’s weird how something as strong as electricity could give me the soft-touch heebie jeebies.

It was really fun sitting with Sweetie watching Squeak enjoy her torture. Usually in these sorts of situations I feel protective/defensive of Sweetie, or just impatient with her, but she really seemed at ease, and not just because Punk Rock Girl was serving her some really fancy whiskey.

As Squeak was getting taken down from the shackles and warming her hands up in OTG’s kilt, I said that I’d like to go in the shackles again please.

“It’s (Punk Rock Girl’s) turn next,” said OTG, but bless her, PRG said that she’d go third because I was the guest. I was really flattered that she seemed to want to see me play!

Next: I may have been tickled with an Otter Pop.

Sweetie’s Knack for Ropes Part Two: Nice Safe Room

Getting ready to go out to the rope class and play party last Saturday night, I wonder if Sweetie and I were nuts for going to a play party together. Though we’ve been expanding our repertoire lately, we’ve always treated each other pretty gently in bed. Even a good marriage accumulates its share of sadness and anger, and until recently we’ve been over-careful of keeping hurty or aggressive aspects out of the bedroom. We were both worried that doing a public scene might make us cry.

Also, I was superscared of running into Fireguy and Varga Girl, Varga Girl especially—I know there’s absolutely nothing I can do about her hating me. Sweetie said she would protect me, but I knew there was really nothing she could do, nothing they could do either, for that matter. I wanted to get back out to a party before the fear built up too much, see if I still had a place there.

Packing up my suitcase gave me a little boost of confidence, a little swagger. Especially since I’d packed my favorite fluffy blanket and a pack of fresh socks. Back when he and I had possibilities, Fireguy balked at the idea of me bringing my own blanket, but I think I always will. Only having to depend on Sweetie and myself was comforting and empowering. As I was curling my hair, I declared:

“Know who I’m collared to? This girl.” And pointed to myself. I’m not sure if it’ll be that way forever, but it will for at least a little while.

My fears were dispelled as soon as we walked up the stairs to the banquet room where the party was being held. Sometimes when I walk into a play party, I feel the stress just whoosh out of me, and this was one of those times. There were various pieces of furniture for spanking, tying up, and suspending people arranged all around the room, but to me it just felt peaceful. I walked in and knew Fireguy wouldn’t be there that night, and he wasn’t.

The rope class leader was at the welcome table doing the release-signings. There was a thing on the release saying I couldn’t write about the things that happened there, but he said I’m okay because I don’t use party or person names. Otherwise, I guess Sweetie and I would’ve had to go home and play. Another release, another membership card. I put my mom down as an emergency contact, and so did Sweetie. People looked at us funny for that, but really, if I’m hurt, what’s my mom gonna care where I am. she’d probably just be glad I was there with Sweetie. But also maybe ask me what she used to ask me during my high school mosh pit days—“Why do you like hurting yourself?” Still a good question!

Anyway, The party/class leader is an ex-Marine, but an easygoing, down-to-earth guy’s guy. His energy kind of reminded me of my brother-n-law’s. His partner/bottom, (one of them) a gorgeous brunette about my age, promptly stripped down to her body stocking to help him demo.

There’d been homework that Sweetie hadn’t gotten to work on, the Somerville Bowline knot, but she picked it up quick enough. Most people were suing their own leg to practice on, but I stuck out mine for her. Next to us, not on the same knot, there was a Domme with a very subdued guy for her bottom. She kept tying and re-tying him in different configurations. I heard two words out of him the whole night: “It pinches.” and she responded harshly “I’ll get to it in a minute.”

There was a cute switchy couple practicing their knots on their own legs. Some couples weren’t practicing at all, just snuggling. As I’d seen at other parties, there was a range of ages and sizes—what most people had in common was the fact that they were making lovey-eyes at each other.

When there wasn’t a task at hand, Sweetie looped the ropes around me, practicing. I held out my wrists together and she wove them together looping and pulling through over and over to make a loose and very pretty cuff.

One part of the lesson that I liked was when the teacher said “One thing I always tell you is “Don’t break your toys.” Well, you know one thing that won’t break? Her mouth. You fuck up, she’s telling everybody.”

I don’t know why, but I found that comforting. It made my bratty heart sing.

Next: Our Pretty Pink Scene

Letter to The Song Sender

Last week, I thought about going back and talking to The Song Sender about what happened between us. I was/am feeling stuck and I thought maybe his point of view would jostle something loose. This morning, my stuckness/curiosity got the best of me and I emailed him my number. As soon as I did that, all the bad feelings came rushing back, I remembered what it really felt like to be with him. So I reblocked everything and sent him this letter:

"But sending you my phone number made me remember how it really felt back then. It brought back all of the fear and anxiety and worry and desperation and shame. Being with you opened up such a chasm of greif, not all of it from you, but still.

Whether you literally wanted me to be a doll or not, wanting to do all that big meaningful stuff (it was big and meaningful to me) without any pesky emotions was treating me like an object. I deserved better. I gave you so much trust, all those first times, all that love.

 

I wanted to know if you did it on purpose or maybe it was just a bad match, but it doesn't matter. I wanted to know why you didn't want to go out in the world with me, but the fact is, you didn't. I wanted to know why you didn't treat me like a friend, but it doesn't matter now, it just sucked, it was a horrible way to treat somebody.

 

I'm pissed off at the damage you did. I'm doing my best to repair it.

 

Forward is a good way to go."

I'm giving myself a gold star for finally talking back to him, even though it was so long after the fact. I hope it makes a difference. Hope it makes me feel free again sometime soon.

What I'm looking for seems really, really far away, but I do know that backwards isn't the direction it's in.

A Little Email Adventure: Bill's Here to Help

I’ll write about beginning rope class (FTW) soon enough, but first I just wanted to give away a little secret: I emailed Bill last week. The heading said “Way, Way After Aftercare,” and I just asked him to do sort of a postmortem on our shenanigans, especially since I couldn’t get over the fear that doms would always want me to be a doll the way he did.

 I couldn’t believe he wrote back, but he did, and said he’d be happy to help. He also said he never wanted me to be a doll, which kind of revolutionized my idea of what happened.

 Of course I couldn’t go through with the call; it would’ve been a one-way ticket back to smittentown. But the fact that he’d have been willing to help was kind of comforting—maybe my taste in men isn’t as completely fucked as I thought it was?

 Anyway, I told him I still wish I could have seen him as just a playpal, because jeez, we could have come up with some stuff. I think I’ve been nostalgic for him this week because I’ve been reminded that “brat” > “good girl”—I always want to remember to fight back a little. I took “Yes, Sir” off my list of fetishes today.

 Also, that situation may have been screwy, but it was perfect in its own way and really belonged to me, as opposed to being borrowed from another redhead. Here’s hoping smittentown will come along again before too long, with someone emotionally available.

Please, Sir, Part Five: Pretty Blue Ropes and Nice Fat Fingers

Next it was time for the ropes and I realized I’d better go pee first. Fireguy cupped his hands suggestively in response to this request and I laughed and said “Too advanced!” I looked around for something to wrap up in to go upstairs and saw nothing.

“Just go up,” he said, “If you run into (Wonder Woman) maybe she’ll return the favor and flash you.”

And then, while applying some hand sanitizer himself he said: “Definitely don’t forget to wash up after.” (Really? Really Sir? I’m submissive, I’m not five.)

I still had a little worry about not being good enough for WW to see, but up the stairs I went, naked except his collar. I could hear her in the living room on the phone. I went into the bathroom and checked myself out in the mirror—I couldn’t believe this woman was me. Everything was flushed and pink, my hair was all bedhead-fluffy and my two little rhinestone barrettes were all askew. My body looked so much more like a pinup than I could have ever imagined. It took a while to pee because I was so turned on.

When I got back down stairs, he positioned me in the middle of the room and said to close my eyes and if I didn’t keep them closed, he would have to get the blindfold. Nothing he ever said came out barking or scary, more like amused/nurturing. That’s part of what made me feel so adorable (aside from little flashes of feeling diseased) when I played with him. It filled such a deep need.

“You’re doing a very good job of seducing me.” He said, and I snuggled into him. He smelled so good, just pure, fresh guy smell. Perfect.

He wrapped the rope around and around me, letting it graze my nipples, framing my boobs, pulling it tight around my shoulders. I found myself looking at him and he caught me with my eyes open. He laughed about me not having done what I was told and I laughed and said “Good, luck to you, Sir.”

He laughed and hugged me and said, “Is this the little brat I’ve been reading about? Maybe you are a little brat.”

We hugged and kissed and laughed and then I had to have the blindfold on.

He pulled my hand behind my back and gently but firmly secured them there. It was the first time a man had really restrained me. I wish I could have seen myself, I felt so beautiful. I felt like art.

There was a futon mattress set up on the floor like a cozy nest, with a light blue comforter and pillows. He guided me over to it and told me to lie down. He propped my head up on the pillows so that I could sit up a little.

“Kiss.” I found his face.

Then (I think then) he tied the ropes around my ankles-just looped them around two or three more times and left rope hanging, like a handle for each foot. He climbed on top of me and held those handles. His stomach grazed me, I was splayed open and gushing wet.

“You’re getting me wet. How come you’re doing that?”

“Um, because I’m having fun?”

So much fun. I felt like a princess, blindfolded and tied up in his basement, with his weight on me. It was a dream come true.

“You little brat—wait, should I be calling you a brat? Is that a bad memory?”

“Well, you could make it a good memory…”

“Nah. How about if you’re my good girl?”

Driving there that night, I’d almost stopped to take a picture of the sky. The sun was low and bright, clear yellow and peaking out behind these wonderful, fluffy, monumental clouds. Shafts of light were busting though the clouds like a revelation. That’s how it felt to be called his good girl.

He climbed off and lay to the side of me. Before he parted my lips to get to my clit, he asked if it was okay.

“Uh-huh.”

“God, you’re so wet. It’s so hot.”

“Well, I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Well, you said take it slow.”

“No, I mean I’ve been waiting for you for two months.”

“Two months!”

That’s how long it had been (almost) since I first came down here, all the back-and-forth, should-I-or-shouldn’t-I, all the fantasies that came from that innocent  little spanking that seemed a million miles away now. (Also, remember me fighting Bill of from second base on our first date? That seems a long way away now, too.)

Anyway, I finally got what I’d fantasized about so much, his perfect fingers pushing into me. It felt so good, so much. I let out a screaming moan and wondered again how much Wonder Woman could hear. I was on my side, writhing, my arms pinned back, screaming into the mattress.

“Good girl. You’re such a fucking good girl.”

Next time: OMG I really like his penis.

How I Found out I’m Kinky Part Five: I Am a Greedy Little Brat

Sweetie was really upset about the grabbing-for-second-base aspect of The Song Sender. It was the first of many consent-themed fights with her. The Song Sender caused more fights in our household than any other guy before or since. I do want to write about the problematic aspects of the relationship, but for a few posts, I’d just like to focus on the hotness.

I’ve already written about the importance of date two, and I’m rarin’ to go when it comes to what happened on our third date.

Since he didn’t have a place he could bring me home to, all but our first date happened in my apartment. We got a routine going: he’d come over around 10 am, kiss me emphatically, and we’d make stilted conversation while I cooked him breakfast. I have a little bit of a Mad Men thing, so I didn’t mind a little housewifery at all. I especially liked it when he’d pull me into his lap after breakfast and spank me. Once, while doing this, he dangled me upside down and said “Do you trust me?

“…Somewhat?”

I’d had a few dates with the MKT, but I was still quite inexperienced-I was hoping that in the process of pushing me around, The Song Sender could teach me a thing or two.

That day, he pushed me onto the couch like I’d always wanted, angrily shoving me down and holding me by the wrists. He unbuttoned my pants and ripped them off in one angry motion. The he grabbed my lucky underwear and yanked them off in an equally swift and ruthless way. Violent. He pulled my legs apart and then sat back and played, suddenly cheery and peaceful humming to himself, fully clothed while I was naked. Then he pulled me up and lay down on the couch, pulling me on top of him. He held my shoulders and looked at me, playing with my nipples. Occasionally he’d give my boob a little smack, and I’d yell at him for using move that clearly quoted mainstream porn.

“I don’t want to think about porn, I want to think about you.”

That made him kiss me harder and give me a few good bites to my arm. He put his hand across my throat and I pulled it off.  To get his hand between my legs, he had to push my belly out of the way. He gave a little sneering laugh about this, but I just leaned back so he could get at me. With his other hand, he grabbed my hair and pulled me into a vicious kiss.

“You’re a little brat, aren’t you?”

(cue fireworks)

“Mmmmmm hmmmmm”

“You’re my little brat. You’re only sweet to get what you want. You just have to have everything because you’re such a greedy little brat.”

(Okay, fucking swoon. Also, “Greedy Little Brat in ‘012” was my New Year’s Resolution)

He pushed his fingers inside me. He had these deliciously fat fingers that I just adored.

“Are you my little brat?”

“Uh huh.”

“You’d better be, or I’ll leave.”

“Okay.”

My head got smushed down into the couch pillow. He kept calling me names and pulling my hair and biting me and fucking the shit out of me with his hand until I was yowling/screaming/crying.

“Come on. Come on, you can do it. Ah, come for me, ya little brat.”

I kept yowling until I was done. It was like nothing I’d ever felt before. He shoved his fingers into my mouth and I happily sucked.

When it was his turn, I felt suddenly shy. He was hard underneath me and I wanted to go down on him but I hadn’t done that in a long, long time. I said, “Seriously, there was a World Trade Center the last time I did this.”

He unzipped his pants, grabbed me by the hair, and showed me what to do. I gagged as much as I could. I had a teenage fear of putting my teeth in the wrong place, but I was just happy to have his/a dick in my mouth. He was not a patient teacher. He ripped my head up and down and gave me notes on how to do better. You know I always want to be an A student. After a while he pulled me up next to him and took matters into his own hands.

I love to watch guys jerk off. When I look at porn (not often these days) I look at bukkake, not so much for the messy parts but for the sight of so many men playing with themselves at once. When he asked me to tell him what I wanted, I said,

“Well, I like to idea of being come on. Like, a lot.”

I talked a little, but he talked a lot.

“I’m just gonna take you, just throw you down and fuck you, like a little rag doll.”

“I like to feel like I can’t get away.”

“What makes you think you could?

“Let’s say for the sake of argument that it just feels that way.”

“You wanna be my little cum rag?”

By now I’d joined him in getting handsy with myself.

“When I fuck you, and I will fuck you, I’m just gonna…pull the condom off and come all over you, is that what you want?”

That’s when he came. It was the first time anybody ever talked dirty to me. I wanted so much more.

Coming up: Christmas and the long goodbye.