Knotty Thursday: YAY PROGRESS on This Four Braid Harness!

 

I've been away from the Knotty Thursdays a couple weeks due to a rogue period and trying to avert the fall of democracy (Phew for now?) but I'm glad to be back in the rope routine! I tried this one a while back and lost the plot midway through, but this time I made it to four! The Shy One assigned this one to me and I assigned it back, I'll let you know how he does! 

Kinky Karaoke Part Two: Silly Nineties Music and a Dream Come True

Every since my first munch when Fireguy put the idea into my head, I’ve wanted to be tied to another girl, so when I found out that Mr. and Mrs. Sweetface had a rope scene in the works, I didn’t hold back a single little ounce of my eagerness to join them. (Hard to believe I recently spent a couple of days crying about being called pushy…it seems to serve me okay.) They were getting ready to play in the tiny living room on the red plush recliners and when he came to invite me over, I said “Yesyesyesyes ohyes!” and had my bra off before I crossed the room. (Surprised it had stayed on as long as it did!)

I couldn’t believe my luck. She’s so cute and bubbly and has a goofy sense of humor just like I do and I! Was going! To be! Tied to her! She left on her shiny dark-silver bra and panties, and I was down to my peach and purple polka dot undies. While he started her harness, she scrolled through the radio stations on the TV, landing on “Hits of the Nineties” And by “Hits of the Nineties,” they did not mean dignified alt-hits like “Cut Your Hair,” or “Cannonball,” we’re talking full on “Oops, I Did It Again.”  I don’t know why, but this made things more awesome.

I loved dancing around and singing with her while occasionally being admonished to be still by our top and watching the comings and goings of the party guests. Cacophony kept coming up from the karaoke-ing basement, lending to the overall atmosphere of joy and mirth.

Once he finished weaving her into her shiny purple harness, it was my turn. The ropes he used on me were peacock blue. I was soready. My nipples were alert in that ultrasensitive way they only get for ropes, sending tingles all through me ever time the rope or his hand even lightly brushed against them. I didn’t get all surrender-y the way that I sometimes do for ropes, but sometimes he’d tug at them in just such a way that peace would radiate through me from that spot, and aah, sigh, a reunion, oh ropes, I always miss you.

Much was made of the fact that I like to have an ass-knot in addition to the clit knot, thank you very much!

I wasn’t subby-dreamy-drowsy, I was exultant, and when he looped another length of rope underneath both of our crotches and started tying us together, I got intoxicated by the smell of her—there are never adequate adjectives to describe the smell of a girl’s hair, and besides that sweetness there was sweat, and alcohol, and some girly soap, the smells of happy aliveness. I put my arms around her and we danced around like slumber party girls, to the tune of “Roller Coaster of Love,” which I don’t think I ever properly appreciated before.

We sat together on one of the two big red recliners, the two of us girls in Mr. Sweetface’s lap. I was the boldest and most handsy character in that chair. As we settled into cuddling and petting, many hands were many places, but my fingers went right for her panties, found her clit beneath them, toyed with it alternately with hand and rope. She moaned and rocked, and I worked my way inside her bra, first with my hand and then my face, licking and nuzzling, finding what I was looking for. I reached around and unhooked her bra, and even though I couldn’t get it all the way off, I made her just as naked as I possibly could. It was a good long time until I finally kissed her on the mouth, soft and perfect, and then kissed him too. They kissed alike, searching and cautious, friendly and sensual. She told me later that I’d been her first girl kiss, and I was honored. I should stop going around assuming everybody’s always kissing everybody, I guess.

She grabbed the ropes at my hips so that the crotch rope, with its lovely knots, did just what it was meant to, which was turn me into a moany writhey animal-thing. They both looked a little taken aback.

“Ohyeah, I’m really loud.” I explained, super-unnecessarily, and I didn’t get any quieter when they went for my boobs, a mouth on each one, my favorite, favorite thing. Well, one of the favorites.

Next: Spanks, more songs, and goodbyes.

Birthday Spanks and Unicorn Snuggles, Part Three: Aftercare and the Beatles Sing Along

After Cute Master was done beating on me to SexyBack, I decided it was time for hugs. I found a nice fuzzy blanket and asked the Cutest Boy at the Party if he would do the job. He was happy to, sat down on the couch and opened up his arms. I was still naked and I felt completely safe wrapped up with a near-stranger. Because life is awesome.

I curled up in his arms, put my head on his shoulder, and breathed him in.

“I’m just gonna stay here and sniff you,” I said.

“I don’t mind that at all.”

He ran his hands over my back and shoulders, gently through my hair. (Oops, I forgot to get it pulled! Oh well, maybe next time.) I wouldn’t have minded if he’d gotten more handsy, but this was really sweet. People kept joking about what a giver he was for being on aftercare duty with a naked girl.

He has a lovely soothing voice and whispered in my ear “You did such a good job.”

I said “Mmmmmm” and snuggled up closer to him, feeling the always-long-anticipated bliss that comes from praise.

“You’re a good girl, you know. A very good girl.”

“I just feel really lucky…”

“Well, you deserve for good things to happen to you. You’re a good person.”

Awwww. I held him long past the time when the subby feelings had gone away, but eventually it was time for him to rejoin the party. I sat on the sofa with the blanket some more, until Huge Handed Fireman, who was sitting on the couch with his gorgeous submissive draped all over him, yanked the blanket off me, all “What’s with the blanket?”

During a conversation about the enormity of his hand-size, I suggested he see if he could fit an entire one of my boobs in his hand. He could. He tweaked my nipple and informed passersby that I liked it. One stranger who’d been a particularly avid watcher of the spankings came over and asked if he could try. It was a delightfully creepy feeling holding my shoulders back and letting him touch, letting him look at me so leeringly. (After I’d made a big speech about how they’re NOT FOR HURTING, of course.

Once I’d had enough with the stranger and pushed him away gently, HHF grabbed one more time, applying a kind of pressure I’d never felt before. A pulse of desire went through me, but he went back to fondling his girl, who has particularly amazing boobs and a pinup body to go with them. I enjoyed that show for a while and then decided to put on my PJs (with people will watching it was like kind of a reverse strip tease.) and wander around the house. What I found was, would you believe it, a Beatles sing-along.

There’s a guy on the scene who I often just think of as Creepy Guy because he tends to wander into scenes, declare them a Kodak moment, then take a picture with an imaginary camera. That just seems kind of goofily hapless now that he’s taken my “Hide Your Love Away” request. One less creep in the world is a good thing.

“Eight Days a Week” was my favorite and I belted it out with the whole force of my soul. As we sang, I sat down behind Pretty Slave, braided her hair and petted her shoulders. CBATP wandered in and ran his hand up the back of my neck, stoked the underneath of my hair until I was all tingly and he totally could have been the boss of me.

Next: Unicorn Shenanigans and the Inconvenient Epiphany*

*Would be a good name for a band.

First Single-Girl Dungeon Night Part Two: Some Backtracking, Some Good Bad Influences, and Some Plastic Wrap

Though he doesn’t do much in this story besides be pleasantly in the room, I think now’s a good time to backtrack to when I reconciled with Fireguy. The first time we spent together was when he took my author photo, so when the book came out last summer I mailed him a copy, along with a looooong love letter. In the letter, I apologized for my part in our fight and let him know the feelings I’d gotten for him. (How many versions of this letter will I write in my lifetime? At least maybe I’ve gotten past the breakup fight aspect?) Even though I had him blocked in nearly every possible way, he still found a way to get through to thank me for the letter and tell me he was proud of me for the book. Of course I got a little thrill from him being proud.

We didn’t run into each other in person for another six months or so. When I saw we were both in the RSVPs for a Regular Dungeon night back in January, I decided it was time to go ahead and unblock him. I emailed him to touch base and ask if he might be able to bring the cupcake taker I’d left at his house the previous April. (Man, that was an awesome cupcake taker. I really miss it.) When we saw each other at that January party, Sweetie said he and I both turned into Muppets upon seeing each other. While I stood around post-scene with Sweetie’s ropes on, Fireguy and I got the chance to apologize to each other in person. We both expressed regret that we couldn’t jump in the sexTARDIS and do things differently.

Anyway, I say all that just to say he was one of the people I was glad to see last Saturday night. Even though our playing-together time is over, I still really like playing where he can see me and watching him set other nice ladies on fire.

I also had the unexpected pleasure of running into V,a one-date guy from last year, and his superpretty (queer!) girlfriend. Even though they aren’t a match for me playwise, I was so happy to add them both to my collection of good bad influences. They egged me on and watched me play the whole night and I loved showing off for them. Maybe I’m just collecting pals to show off to right now, that’s a good project!

While I was mulling over what to do for Naughty Thing #2,  I stood in my favorite spot, a raised area at the back of the room, watched all the wonders going on around me and did a good job of reaching my chatting goal. It was hot in there so I ditched the nightie and stripped down to my bra and undies, white with pink polka dots and hot pink lace, respectively.

Probably I should branch out from just playing with people I already know, but when Old-Timey Guy brandished a giant roll of plastic wrap, I shrugged and said “Why not?” Though I’m usually averse to plastic, the restraint aspect seemed right. Plus, this is a time for trying new things.

“If you do a good jo—ob you’ll get a flog—ging!” He said in his silly singsongy voice as he made me spin around and around to wind the plastic. Eventually I got dizzy and made him do the winding. My arms were behind my back, hands to elbows. His other playpal for the night (Besides Punk Rock Girl, of course) was an adorably affable Asian girl (I’ll call her Other Ribbons, since she loves them as much as I do.) and she very kindly held my glasses for me.

I was bound from my shoulders to my ankles, so that I could only move my feet a teensy bit. I was trapped and sweating, a little scared but going with the fear. An onlooker helpfully suggested that Old-Timey guy move me away from the stairs, lest I should fall. One new guy was for some reason walking around with a spatula, and I let him give me a few whacks. He had to hit me really hard in order for me to feel it through the plastic. The spatula gave me a heart-pang since that was Sweetie’s implement of choice at home.

Next Time: Punk Rock Girl and the device.

Unicorn Practice Is Easy Part Two: My Lucky Underwear Down His Pants

 

I wish I could give you identifying characteristics of the party from last Friday night, because it was a doozie. It hit the spot in a wide variety of ways. A pretty friend of mine even let me take off her dress—I didn’t even know I wanted to DO that! But that’s not what this story’s about.

I’m taking a break from romance until my home situation is ironed out, but that doesn’t mean I can’t keep having adventures. It’s impossible to turn off the flirt anyway. I went to the party with very little agenda other than to catch up with friends, but of course one always hopes that spanks might happen. I wore my short black and white dress that Steampunk Guy inspired me to buy a few months back, with leggings and a shiny red bra that matched my red satin heels. I couldn’t stay long because I had to drive to the beach in the morning, but I accomplished a lot of fun in two drinks’ worth of time.

Let’s call them Cute Master and Pretty Slave. I noticed them as soon as they came in the door. She’s a tall dark-haired knockout and he has that confident, cheery glow that well-sexed men tend to have—very appealing. Once they were settled into the party, I struck up a conversation with him and then she came and sat at his feet. She was wearing a fitted lacy black dress and a collar. I asked them all about their adventures and liked hearing about them fucking in all kinds of nice show-offy situations.

I asked them what advice they might have for a new unicorn.

“The unicorn can do no wrong. You’re what everyone’s looking for.”

When he said that, I had the sensation of sitting in a throne like a princess, the world at my feet. Knowing the realities of secondary-ness in general, I suspected that that might not be the whole story, and a friend standing behind me confirmed it:

“They don’t know what they’re looking for. And they don’t know what to do when they get it.”

Huh.

(I just want to stop and note that wanting to practice playing as a supporting character doesn’t mean that I’ve forgotten that I want my own guy. Just I’m not ready for him yet and I still want to have fun. Plus! People are hot and I am alive.)

Cute Master is a goofball and an instigator. You know I love making friends with good bad influences. When I expressed (uncharacteristic!) hesitation about being the first one naked, he insisted that Pretty Slave take her dress off as encouragement. She stripped down to her corset (Oh such lovely little boobs peeking out the top. Picturing them I wish I’d gotten a little more handsy.) and panties, and I stripped down to nothing. Cute Master stuffed my underwear down the front of his pants, a cheeseball move that I found hilarious.

“Suck her nipple,” he said to Pretty Slave. I was sitting in a chair and she was on the floor. She looked up at me kinda wide-eyed and asked if she could, and I nodded, nervous-but-emphatically. It was the first time I’d been touched that way by a woman who isn’t Sweetie since the year 2000. Her mouth on me felt strange and new and I felt tentative at first but gave in to it, burying my head in her nice-smelling hair as she licked and sucked, gently running my hands over her back. He took the other nipple and sucked too hard (They’re my favorite part of me but sosensitive!) until I had to smack him in the back of the head and the spell was momentarily broken.

First Date With Steampunk Guy, Part Two: Spanked Before Kissed

“Music or back episodes of Arrested Development?” I asked when we got upstairs, and he chose music.

I sat down near him on the couch and we sat apart for just a moment. He smiled big. He is almost always smiling big, or laughing for some sometimes-indiscernible reason. Charming. Adorable. I smiled back and giggled nervously and he put his arm out for me to snuggle under.

He just radiated warmth. I’m sure I did too. From my perspective, the energy between us was instant and joyful. How awesome is it that someone completely new can just be such a fit sometimes. I heard his heartbeat and felt his beard against my neck. It’s possible that he kissed the top of my head or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. I know he was squeezing my boobs, hard enough to hurt until I told him those aren’t for hurting. (Even after that I still ended up with bruises—should negotiate for unscathed bosoms next time.)

I got up for some reason (Probably to hit skip on the music. He suggested rightly that I might want to make a playlist, but I haven’t been able to really work iTunes since about two updates ago…) and when I came back to the couch, I told him to scooch himself over towards the middle.

“Okaaaay…” he said and then I showed him why—of COURSE so that I could drape myself across his lap for a spanking.

And now it is time to stop and rhapsodize about Steampunk Guy’s hands. Ohman I am smitten with them. They’re big and muscled, with thick, long fingers that don’t always know their own strength. I would go through a whole lot to get to those hands again, to see what other places I can convince him to put them. I miss him already, but he has, like, eight other partners and who knows when/if I’ll see him again.

Anyway, back to me across his lap, girly shoes in the air. At first, he pulled up the back of my dress and left my undies and leggings on. His hand landed on my left ass check with such a perfect and resounding THWACK. Ohboy I missed typing the word THWACK.

He pushed his hand up into my hair and pulled, then pushed my head back towards him so I could reach for a kiss. Please recognize that it is a compliment when I say that he kisses like a teenager—as if some girl had never come along and told him to tone it down with the tongue. Feel free to not tone it down, pal. I liked him in my mouth. I liked his beard soft against my check.

And oh, I get it, I like him. This post is coming out dreamier than I expected.

His spanks alternated between thuddy (another word I’m glad to be back to typing) and stingy, and when I started to wiggle and writhe too much, he tone it down for a sec, let me pause for a sip of my excellent Manhattan, then go harder. He pulled down my leggings but left my underwear (purple with a little white ruffle) pulled down around the bottom of my ass. I wanted his fingers in there, in everywhere.

He pulled me up by the hair to straddle him, and I could feel him hard beneath his jeans. He and his partner has already told me about the excellence of his penis, (Steampunk Guy is braggy and wouldn’t mind me saying so.) and it was living up to the hype. I pushed my wet self against him as he pulled my hair, kissed me emphatically, and ravished my boobs.

I lay back across his lap, facing the ceiling in a breathless haze. He unbuttoned the top of my dress gently and deliberately and pulled each boob out of its bra cup. He sucked my nipples too hard and I had to tell him again, “Those aren’t for hurting. Hurt other things.”

Next Time: We fold down the fold-down couch.

“You Know You’re Chained to My House, Right?” Part Three

So Punk Rock Girl convinced Old-Timey Guy that I should be second. As I stood in the doorway getting ready to be shacked up, I said “Wait, why am I wearing all these clothes?”

OTG instructed PRG to start getting me naked. “What do you want off?” she asked me.

“Everything but undies and socks! Can (Sweetie) help too?”

It took a little cajoling, but finally Sweetie left her looky-loo perch on the stairs to come over and help. She reached around me to unbutton my jeans and as the two women gently took my pants off, OTG unshackled me and pulled my shirt off over my head. It was a perfect wish come true of a moment. I was so happy.

“You have choice whether you want your bra…” began OTG.

“OFF!” I interrupted.

I think Sweetie unclasped it and OTG took it off. That’s not a collaboration I’d’ve imagined a year ago, or even a few months ago, but look at us! Yay, me and Sweetie, we’ve come so far!

OTG looked at me appraisingly ran his hands lightly over my nipples, alternating between gently grazing them and pinching. I love that feeling of being examined and approved-of. The up went my arms back into the shackles and out came the blindfold. I was ready.

He leaned up against me in the front and whisper-growled “What do you want me to do?”

“Um, hitting?”

“What kind of hitting?”

“Around the ass area?”

“What do you say?”

“Please Sir.”

“Please what?

“Please may I have the strappy thing?”

OhmanIlove the strappy thing. Thwack, thwack, thwack, nice thuddy, insistent impact. I wigged my ass for more.

It felt so good but it was hard to fully relax sometimes. I felt nervous that I couldn’t check Sweetie’s expression. I had to resist the urge to keep on calling to her to see if she was okay. Occasionally she’d laugh or chime in with a sassy comment and I’d know she was doing allright.

Next: Barehanded spanking, a saw horse, a Hitachi, and possibly an Otter Pop.

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

Sweetie and I were sleepy and at loss for something to do Saturday night, and I was feeling the way I usually do on the weekend, which is buried in homework. We’d just been to the library so the temptation to spend our extra Daylight-Savings hour in bed pretty compelling. But! Old-timey Guy and Punk Rock Girl turned out to be having a last-minute party because one of their events got cancelled—and they live right near our neighborhood!

So Sweetie and I did something that we hadn’t done in a shameful while—we bought a bottle of wine and headed over to our friends’ house to pal around. It felt great.

It ended up being a teensy party, which appealed to both my introverted half and my love for hogging attention. Punk Rock Girl answered the door in a gypsy skirt and corset, with nothing covering her pretty boobs. We’ve seen each other nearly naked lots of times, but this would be our first chance to play together sans nipple tape—hooray! Hooray for boobs! Is how I felt walking into their house.

As I hugged Old-Timey Guy hello, his other slave came bounding down the stairs. She’s a green-haired Muppet-adorable girl I’ll call Squeak. She had on a collar and a little black satin nightie. She had kind of an undergrad way about her, but not unpleasantly so. OTG is the same age as me but his slaves are in their early 20s, which feels a little annoying to me, but who am I to judge. (Answer: the inner judgey part of me that spent many parts of that evening with arms folded, pondering the ethics of nearly consenting to being called a little girl, but I’ll get to that in a bit.)

“Welcome to Wonderland,” he said, “If my shtick gets too much for you, let me know. I generally rein it in at (the public dungeon.)” It didn’t look too wonderland-ish, except maybe for the rather large number of hats. It was a stonerish house like I went to a million times in my college-townie twenties. They had beanbag couches, the TV tuned to Bugs Bunny, and shackles up in the wide doorway between the living room and the dining room. OTG’s spanking implements were neatly arranged on a rack next to the stairs. Cozy.

As often happens when you visit a BDSM person’s house, we were given a tour of the basement. No Scooby-Doo style trick bookcase, but these was a “Naughty Room”—a chilly stone room furnished only with a dropcloth, an ominously tiny chair, and of course loops in the ceiling. Perfect for some Buffy and Spike actions, but we went upstairs.

Next: “I’m nooooot touuuuuching you….”

Unsurprisingly, I Love the Clothing-Optional Beach, Part Two

As we set off down the path to the beach, “hugging the dunes,” as the directions had instructed us, I noticed kids heading down to their beach with their families. I was weirded out for a second.

“Wait, what, there’s kids? At the nude beach?”

Sweetie, bless her heart, said “So?”

“So…they’ll never learn to be ashamed of their bodies? They won’t end up having to learn to love themselves at 37? I hate them.”

We laughed and that was the end of being weirded out.

I found Sweetie a perfect peach-colored shell as soon as our feet hit the sand. The dunes were roped off to protect piping plover nests as well as a few other endangered species. As we got to the end of the path, We saw a sign that said “Attention: Beyond this point you may encounter nude sunbathers.” We looked around for the spot where the poly meetup was happening, but no one had set up yet. Plus we were in wifie mode, so we made our own space down closer to the water.

It had rained on the way in, we weren’t sure if the clouds would lift, but as we settled into our blanket, the sun started to peek through and the air warmed up. As we were slathering on sunscreen, I felt momentarily hesitant to take my top off, but then I figured it made no sense having to sunscreen twice. I wiggled out of my pink flowery bathing suit top and there I was. Unfortunately, it was that time of the month and I didn’t feel right about showing off a string-tail, so my bottoms would have to stay on this time. (Except, because I wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation, in the water…)

Sweetie is not a showoff like me, but she likes showing me off. She seemed very happy to be looking up at naked sunny me and spraying SPF 70 on my nipples every so often. As we sat reading our books, I saw some members of the poly contingency stroll past us to the water. They were beautiful, but I wasn’t ready to say hi just yet. This was a day that I felt every inch of my half-introversion. I watched them walk into the water and get such big smiles on their faces. As with all lovey-dovey people who are comfortable with themselves, I admired them and wasn’t sure I could aspire to belong with them. A guy I’d snuggled with at my first snuggle party was there, as was the Lady of the House from the Cuddle Party back in June. Later, I’d get up the courage to go over and say hello, but just seeing them was a joy for now.

Sweetie and I got into the water a little ways down the beach from them. The waves were little more than swells, but the current pulled strongly to the (I think) north. The water was cool and smoothly, clearly green. As we eased our way in, a friendly man came to encourage us: “You’ve just got to take the plunge, just dive in, after that you’ll feel fabulous.”

He was so nice but as he stood there encouraging us, I was inching away. I knew that my nipples would get really hard from the chilly water and I wasn’t quite ready for a stranger to see that up close, first thing in the morning. He was in his fifties, bald, with a big cheery grin, and his penis was cute and shrunken from the water, bigger than an outie belly button, but just as pink and charming. Oh penises, how I’ve missed you, my new friends.

Once the man swam off, I propelled myself into Sweetie’s arms. This feeling was a complete revelation, something I didn’t know I was longing for. Ever since I was a kid, I’d watch couples in the surf and hope that I could someday find a love to hold me in the waves. It was such a gift, to hold her and be held in the water and not worry that we might be disturbing someone, that we might be disturbed by some homophobic comment. It was deeply gratifying.

I slipped away from her (not too far, though the current pulled me) and pulled off my bathing suit bottoms. The cool water moving up between the lips of my vagina was difficult to describe to her—she couldn’t understand how it was any different from being in the water with a bathing suit on. It was a cool, fresh, opening up, like the other day with the thigh ropes but more refreshing. As the water filled up that little space, I felt delighted and loved, elemental, at home. I picked up my feet, put my arms out, and floated on the swells, eyes closed, boobs and hoo-ha to the sky. I felt reborn, perfect, like every real worry was just a silly memory. I felt the way that I was born to be.

Next: Happy to be around so many penises.

Another Pretty Pink Scene With Sweetie

I’d been half-planning to stay at the party by myself after the discussion, to try and meet people without the safety-net of Sweetie, to see if I might try a little bit of playing with men if I could, but I felt lazy about that and just wanted to play with Sweetie, because I already trust her and she’s so dreamy with the knots. She was tired but glad enough to give it a whirl.

They have these nice red padded kneeler benches there. Like this, but red:

I spread out my fluffy silver blanket on one of those and drank a glass of wine, chatting with Sweetie and passersby. Except for one couple getting all roped up, people weren’t quite getting started yet, so we waited. I felt like a princess on my throne sitting there sipping my wine.

Once we’d waited long enough, I told her what I wanted. She’d learned plenty of knots you can safely use for a collar, so I asked her to do one. She’s averse to putting a leash on me, but I guess it feels okay for her with adorable pink ropes. She got the idea of tying the collar to the decorative cuff around my wrists and I thought that would be awesome. While I was presenting my neck to her so she could work on the collar, I tried to unbutton her shirt, and she smacked my hand away in a very reprimand-y way—and I burst into a huge giggly grin. I told her I’d never been happier in my entire life, and it was true.

Once she got the collar done, she took down the top of my dress and took off my bra. Besides the idea that I might be seen, my favorite part of being topless is the way I notice the softness of my hair on my back and shoulders, soft and warm and friendly. She guided me to kneel on the kneeler, my elbows on the upper part, so that she could tie my ankles. I was wearing fishnets and I opted for leaving my heels on.

Once I was all nicely bound, she pulled up the back of my skirt and started spanking. At this point, Chumbawumba came on the sound system, “I Get Knocked Down, But I Get Up Again,” and we both laughed so hard. As I’ve said before, Sweetie’s spanking style is subtle and sweet. she says her hands get sore, though, so it’s time to start warming up to the idea of getting implements—I’ve since invested in a cute pink flogger, we’ll see how that works.

This is the time when I just totally relax. My face gets all relaxed and wide-eyed, like a little angel or a damsel-not-quite-in-distress. This is the part where I feel like a pin-up, all simper and flouncy hair, and always hope people are watching. She pulled my hair and I felt even prettier. Someday I hope to convince her not to stop or ease up when I say “ow.”

I turned over (no small feat with hands and ankles bound) and asked for my glasses back so the front of me could be exposed and I could watch what was going on around me: a girl in cute red sneakers looking dubious as she got smacked in the ass with a metal ruler. A queer-looking punk chick getting very loudly flogged by a dapper guy with a feather in his hat. In time to “Pour Some Sugar on Me.” You have to wonder who the heck made this playlist. Drinking my wine with tied wrists was pleasantly awkward. I wiggled my feet in the ankle cuff, which was now wrong side up. I sat there until I started to feel too exposed, and then we curled up under my blanket.

That was the first time that Sweetie seemed curious about what was going on in the room. We stayed for a bit and watched—I liked the couple with the big knife, she got us interested on the cute boy/sadist dripping wax onto a man’s chest hair and then peeling it off.

A guy who was in the discussion with me said the dumbest thing: “If you ever need a sadist, he’s your guy. and he won’t cross any of your limits, because he’s gay.” I couldn’t even begin to take apart all the things that are wrong with that statement, but I left that to meditate on for later.

All in all, it was a good adventure, and it was time to go home and go to sleep.

Next: Ropes and tears, not Sweetie’s favorite.

Intermediate Rope Class With Sweetie

Since I got the tricky discussion group part of Saturday night out of the way, I can write about the fun parts. We weren’t sure which rope class section to go to, but Party Mistress had seen pictures of Sweetie’s rope work and thought we were ready to move up to the intermediate class. Spousal high-five!

The class was run by an adorable middle aged D/S couple. (If kink has taught me anything, it’s how to be awesome at being middle aged. I need to know!) I’m especially grateful to the slave/wife, because she offered to swap her Hello Kitty nipple tape for the purple plaid that I’d brought.

I stayed clothed, though, for the first part of the class. When the teacher asked me if I could put my arms behind my back, hands to elbows, I was so glad to. the teacher was impressed by how easily I did it—I love finding out that things I didn’t know were skills are skills!

I’d only been in a restraint harness once before, and that’s with Fireguy. When we learned how to find the radial nerve to avoid causing hand damage, I said “Oh! That’s why my thumb was twitching that time!” It’s scary to realize how much can go wrong with just a little carelessness—I know that’s so much pressure on tops, too.

The teacher said that Sweetie learns faster than most people do—his wife thanked her for learning so quickly so that she didn’t have to stand there demo-ing forever. Once or twice, the teacher put his arm around me to show Sweetie how to situate the rope. I smelled him and I was like ooooh, yeah, men. Thank goodness I didn’t say that out loud! Even though it was just being done in a demo mode, it felt good to have them both working on me at once. That isn’t something Sweetie would do in a scene, but I hope she will someday. I have a lot of dreams.

Despite the fact that the teacher kept reminding sweetie to pull tighter, we ran out of rope before she finished the entire harness, but she got enough done for me to feel the effect-tension, restraint, beautiful knots and a princess feeling. I wanted to strip down and let her practice more. I went into the bathroom to put tape in my nipples, the first time I’d tried such a thing. It felt much better going on than it did coming off, that’s for sure. I loved the way it looked, the way went with my blushy cheeks and flushed chest. I think I’m obsessed with pink because it’s the color of vitality in me, assurance that my blood’s flowing. Also, cute.

When I got back out on the floor I pulled down my dress and took off my bra, sort of bearing my breasts for all to see. Everyone was very busy with their own rope lessons, so I felt normal and not as noticed as I like to be. As Sweetie wound the ropes around me again, the teacher encouraged her to touch more. She was still a little stiff and self-conscious, but she did take her time to run her hands under and over my boobs, shoulders, hair. At times like this, I feel like we are a miracle of a nine-year marriage. After class, we took ourselves next door to Rita’s for some ice cream.

Next: another pretty pink scene.

May Is National Masturbation Month and I Am Celebrating!

**First, some meta-blogging—last night I read one of my smuttier blog posts in public for the first time. It felt great, especially the parts where they laughed. I’d been lagging a bit, but the combination of a few glasses of wine and a warm audience was very restorative. I woke up feeling like today was a holiday, a nice spark/sunbeam feeling for my upcoming adventures—gonna try my best to keep them going. Thanks a jillion to the wonderful hostess and audience—I think I know what the next steps are.**

So May is National Masturbation Month, and it coincides with the fact that I have been dawdling through the self-love exercises in Jaclyn Friedman’s What You Really Really Want. One of the things she recommends is to try masturbating every day for seven days. I would have done that anyway, but she says to try and make it special, to really try and push your boundaries. I recommend trying this—even a handsy-from-way-back girl like me can always learn some new tricks. I’m shy to share some of the experiments here, but here’s a favorite recent self-adventure:

On Sunday when Sweetie and I were driving back from a trip, I was feeling antsy because we’d been away from our bed and missed out weekend sex-reading-napping routine. Also I’d been reading Wicked before we left, which I’m surprised to note is pretty hot in places. So I asked Sweetie if she would mind if I took some personal time on the road. She suggested that I wait until after we stopped for gas, but thought it was a fine idea.

As I laid the seat back, Sweetie offered to switch over to music from her usual podcasts, but I didn’t think that listening to the Extra Hot Great crowd talk about The Avengers would have a bad effect. It seemed oddly fitting.

I borrowed her big green zip-up hoodie to put over me like a blanket. I wanted to show off but didn’t want to be too much of a highway pervert. I pulled my white lacy tank top up and pulled my books out of the cups of my shiny pink bra. I flashed them a little bit, letting the sweatshirt/blanket sit just beneath them. I imagined that truckers were driving by and looking down at me.

I was slow and shy, just brushing my nipples with my fingertips at first, closing my eyes and feeling the sun on my face, looking up at the sky or Sweetie. I felt a little guilty for not asking her to join in. I played with my boobs for miles and miles. I loved letting them poke out from my shirt, seeing them stick up like perfect pink peaks in the sun. I love them so much.

Once I reached down into my pants, it didn’t take long at all to finish. I was very quiet, almost like I had to be stealthy so that the traffic wouldn’t notice. I couldn’t find a napkin, so I wiped my hand off on my jeans. Pretty soon, it was my turn to drive, and time to switch the podcast over to Judge John Hodgman.

A Month After Fireguy: On Coming and Writing

A month ago, I had a basement-date with Fireguy that went (consensually) a lot further than it should’ve. It wouldn’t have occurred to me that I could end up restrained and at third base by the end of a first date. It was a LOT of fun buy it was also certainly too much for me.

The next day, I was feeling good but overwhelmed, a little shaky and unsure. I figured I’d give it a few days to let it sink in, then write it through and consider what I wanted to do about that budding relationship or acquaintanceship or playpal arrangement or whatever it was supposed to be. Fireguy, however, went into damage-control mode, quite unbidden and unnecessarily. He texted and said that if I wrote about it that day, it wouldn’t be the “one handed read” that he wanted it to be, but if I wrote about it the next week, then “that would be fine.”

It isn’t that I dislike being jerked off to, either in person or in written form—in fact, until that moment, turning people on had been one of the big joys of writing this. When Fireguy sent those texts, I felt the bottom drop out from under me, both because he was taking ownership of something that’s creatively mine and because he’d reduced this complex personal journey or whatever to something that existed just for his enjoyment. I wanted to handle it properly, so I called him up to talk about it, but I was so panicked that I ended up blubbering and unable to finish my sentences. He seemed irritated: “You just don’t understand what’s going on with me.”

What was going on with him was that he and Varga Girl broke up but were trying to continue as sub and dom, that’s a big deal, admittedly. But what he’d mentioned in the texts was, this guy had embarrassed him on FetLife, and he was very concerned about his reputation. It still makes me so disgusted that he was:

A. A grown man that concerned about his online reputation.

B. Willing to compromise my well-being about it.

C. A dominant man trying to squelch a submissive woman’s point of view.

What I kept asking him, and what I still keep wondering, is what about what’s going on with me? All of that stuff that happened was a big deal to me, and I still wish I could’ve gotten anybody to acknowledge it. I was completely unable to convince either Fireguy or Varga Girl that I was a person in the story, that, for better or worse, something had happened to me, and I had a right to write about it, I had a right to a point of view. I’ll never get them to acknowledge me as a human being, and that is really scary.

I eventually managed to get it through to him that trying to control me creatively was crossing a limit. He apologized for that and for breaking my trust. We had a pretty good conversation (even if he did try to rewrite the meaning of the phrase “one-handed read”) and I was relieved that I didn’t have to stay mad at him.

AND THEN HE DID IT AGAIN.

Paranoid and still trying to Smeagol his precious ex, he tried to convince me again to stop writing about our date, trying at first to shame me about the sex parts, but eventually admitting that he was afraid of his sub reading it. He tried to convince me to take out the sex scenes or “make it more anonymous” even though I already don’t use names or locations. He even suggested switching the entire blog to private. “Everyone knows it’s me,” he said, he said he didn’t want his family to read it.

I was beyond livid, I still am. First of all, I had made a clear limit about trying to control me creatively. Breaking a limit once can be seen as an accident, breaking it again is torture. He knew that what he was doing would have a triggering effect, and he kept doing it anyway. When I got upset and panicked, he told me I was too angry to be in his family.

What I heard in all those attempts to control my writing: “My point of view is more important than yours. Nobody in the scene knows who you are, so you don’t matter.”

So right now, I’m still scared. I’m having trouble getting back to the feeling I had before that night-the feeling of being free and loved and starting to accept myself. I really worry that I will never be able to trust a man again, that I can only find men who embody a secret inner wish to be erased.

Part of me want to jump up and down and say “Why don’t you see, what happened was important,” both the experience and the paragraphs he squelched. After all, he did succeed in fucking up the writing process—I was too disgusted and humiliated to finish telling the sex part of the story.

One part I didn’t get to was, toward the end of the scene that night, I did get to try the “Please, Sir, may I come” thing—he was playing with my boobs and I was finishing myself off down below, and I started to feel the wave crest, so I found just the right moment and asked: “Please sir, may I come.”

“Sure, go ahead,” he said, and I did.

Sometimes you don’t know that you don’t like something until it’s too late. There’s some connection there between his wanting a say in the deeply intimate rhythms of my own body and wanting a say in the way I write about the experience—to me, those things are not separate. If you’re keeping score, that’s “”Come for me, you greedy little brat,” yes and “Please Sir may I come?” no. It’s complicated.

As much as I enjoy the feeling of submitting, it seems very difficult to find a guy whose dominance does not spill over into everyday life. Both Bill and Fireguy refused to let me belong to myself after I left the couch or scene. Both experiences were about losing my point of view, and I am very scared of letting that happen again.

Ohno, Second Date Tears

Sunday was my date with the Gentleman, and it was a fail. Sigh. I felt off before I even walked out the door. Sweetie and I hadn’t had much time together during the week, so we were feeling each-other-deficient. My chemicals were a little off from having to leave her, but the Gentleman was driving over from out of town and I’d been looking forward to him and the art museum all week.  Sweetie and I straightened the house in case he wanted to stop in and I got myself all dolled up.

As soon as I was in the car with him I felt like I was fucking up the date. I couldn’t keep myself off of dark topics. He mentioned having had a steak the say before and I didn’t stop myself before I veered into Food Inc, territory. I mostly gave up red meat a while ago, but it’s been a looooong time since I was the kind of insufferable person who'd begrudge anybody a steak. On a topic slightly more relevant between potential playpals or whatever, I also didn’t stop myself from mentioning the slew of scary rape discussions going on on the local FetLife boards and the ethical dilemmas I’d been having about BDSM. I was not being fun.

The conversation lightened once we were in the museum, but when we got to the point of discussing out current dance cards, I ended up telling him why I’d broken things off with the Mayor of Kittentown. I told him that I do worry about only being liked for my boobs. I said that if we had a scene together again it would be helpful to compliment additional things about me.

“That’s nice nail polish you’re wearing,” he said sarcastically.

“See how easy that is?’ I really didn’t mean to make such a big deal about it—it was only a minor quibble with his brand-new topping skills.

“In my defense, you were kind of leading with them.”

….

“What?”

“When you walked into the diner and I saw you, I was like, whoa. I mean there’s nothing wrong with that, but…”

I started to cry.

“Um, I was just trying to look cute. I think I want to go home.”

He suggested that going to see the exhibit we’d come to see would make me feel better, and I agreed, but I didn’t stop talking about it.

“That was so unfair of you to say. It’s just what I look like and you made all kinds of assumptions about me based on it. It’s not fair.”

He seemed defensive, who wouldn’t be, I guess, but “leading with them”? Ugh. I guess they are technically in front of me, but still.

My picture of myself showing up for that date was totally different from what he saw. I blowdried my hair, chose pretty pink makeup, put on a cute purple dress, which, yes, had cleavage, and new stripy platform shoes. I felt pretty and confident because of my happiness at the idea of getting to make new friends and learn new things, of being at lunch with my wife and a date and his wife, it felt like such a happy occasion.

But here’s what he saw: boobs.

He said he was sorry and I acknowledged that I am in kind of a bad place.

We waited in line for the exhibit, for which he’d paid a lot of money, but I just wanted to get away from him and cry. Eventually that’s what I did. He apologized, offered to drive me home, but I said I wanted to be alone, that he should stay and look at the art. I really hope he stayed and looked at the art.

I sat on the museum steps and sobbed in front of the Sunday crowd. I called Sweetie, even though I felt bad for interrupting her creative alone time. She said to start walking towards home and she would come to get me. I hung up the phone and sobbed some more.

A pair of ladies, sisters carrying lots of baby gear, came over to ask if I was okay, and I said, yes, sure, it’s just a bad date, and they said “Oh, that explains it. Everything is men’s fault.”

I laughed and sniffed and said I really don’t want to see it that way. They gave me some baby wipes and I started to walk towards home.

Once Sweetie picked me up, I could really unleash the tears. “I feel like a kid.” I kept saying. “I feel like a kid.”

I don’t know why that was the feeling, except that the day had wiped away some naïveté that I really didn’t want to lose. I didn’t feel like an adult woman with all kinds of worth and accomplishments. I felt like a little girl whose body (which she absolutely loves) somehow makes people not see her. Which somehow makes me seem less respectable.

We spent a quite evening at home, went for a little walk. We watched lots of sitcoms. There were these terrifying ads for a Family Guy episode wherein Meg (the teenage daughter) gets kidnapped and tortured, dragged all around in her underwear, and her dad offers 2$ for her safe return. On a comedy! It’s a network show I’m sure many of my elementary-age students watched. How could I NOT feel like the world is a fucking terrifying place?

I don’t want to feel all dark and threatened, helpless. A month ago, I felt strong and beautiful, like something wonderful was emerging from me. But where in the world is safe for that version of me, if even the nicest guys reduce me to a floating set of bosoms?

Because this is not a bad guy, none of these guys are evil and maybe not even intentionally mean. They just seem so conditioned by stereotypes and expectations that they can’t see me, and sometimes I can’t see myself. I know that lots of men are not like that, I hate the way my fears lead me to confirm them over and over. Because I may not be leading with my boobs, but at this point, I am leading with my fears. I’m not sure what the solution is to that.

Goodbye (Again), Mayor of Kittentown

“She wasn’t just cleaning out her locker, she was cleaning out her life.” (Kevin Arnold on The Wonder Years as Winnie Cooper got ready to leave town.)

This week, I broke things off with the Mayor of Kittentown. For the third time. I’ve never been quite able to figure out what doesn’t work between us, only that something doesn’t. I’ve known almost the whole time that he wasn’t a romantic match, and maybe I’m just not an FWB kind of girl.

Remember last week when I was feeling fretful about guys only liking me for my boobs? Here’s part of why: I was texting with MKT, just catching up because we hadn’t seen each other in a while. When I asked how things were going with the other woman he’s dating, he said she wasn’t really exciting him too much and

“Besides, she needs bigger boobs. ;)”

I sent him back an “Eeeeeeew” for talking about a woman’s body that way, it really got under my skin. Yes, I’ve heard and enjoyed guys saying much filthier things, but in dirty-talk context and therefore consensual—how would she feel if she knew he was saying that about her? He isn’t poly so I can’t expect him to know he shouldn’t compare us, but the fact that that’s the first way he could think of to say he liked me better, not my heart, my face, my general enthusiasm for B-movies and pancakes, just my boobs, of course.

The trouble with being new to sex with guys is that I don’t always notice when I don’t like something until it is kind of way too late to do anything about it. Like I’ve said before, I like for my boobs to get lots of attention, but the way he fixated on them was kind of childish. “Boobies!” He would say often, even on days where I was feeling objecty from other jackasses. And the fact that I was feeling objecty from other jackasses always made me want to give MKT a pass.

Is worrying about being an object old-fashioned or prude? It certainly does seem to be getting in the way of my fun.

He said insensitive things in other ways, too. On out first date he said something demeaning about a homeless person, he made jokes about them regularly. I think that’s a mainstream thing to do, but I thought it showed a lack of empathy—a lot of my dealbreakers just seem like guidelines for being a decent human being, but I still feel obligated to compromise them sometimes. I am a perfectionist and I don’t want to be, but I guess limits are limits. Close to the end of our relationship, he told me he’d once tweeted that the woman being loud on the bus behind him “Should choke on a bucket of cocks.” That’s hard for a girl like me to get past, even though, again, comments like that are part of everyday culture. I’m sure plenty of decent guys say things like that every day nowadays, it sucks.

Anyway, those seemed like small things compared to the fact that he was being so sweet to me almost always. I wanted to like him because he liked me. He has the prettiest green eyes and (when it isn’t leering) an angelic smile. He called me beautiful and held me when I was sad. Sex was always fun between us, even if we both wanted to be on the bottom. He’d usually take the top and make me a very loud, happy girl. His neighbors probably got woken up more than once.

But I can’t quite get away from the idea that being together when we aren’t/won’t be in love is a kind of using each other. It feels objectifying to both of us. I wish that I didn’t feel that way—I am very, very frustrated that sex is such a big deal to me, it’s really gunking up my experiments. Maybe it isn’t a matter of rejecting the whole idea of FWBs, maybe just this particular situation didn’t work?

All in all, I’m grateful to him. He was such a good first-in-a-long-time—I appreciate that so much. It’s hard to let him go and scary to have an almost-empty dance card, guywise. Aside from my date with the Gentleman this weekend, I’m turning my attention back to my friends for a while. I’d love to be a little more healed before the next guy comes along.

I wish the Mayor of Kittentown all the luck. I think the lessons here are: treat people like whole people as much as I can. Get better at saying (kindly and directly) what bothers me. Get better at listening to my body and heart, and don’t cling to things that don’t work. Those are good lessons.

I’ll miss him, his cats, his episodes of Mystery Science Theater 3000. Thank you, pal.

Beginning Rope Class FTW Part Three: Aftercare Is the Scary Part, Maybe

Once he had the harness on, the Gentleman said he wanted to tie my arms back. “To accentuate that gorgeous chest of yours.” While he worked back there, my hands were against his crotch, I could feel him big under my jeans. Friendly. I felt so warm under his hands as he rubbed them up the ropes on my arms, my shoulders, my neck. It didn’t seem like a place for spanking, but he said “Now I really do want to spank you.”  I said

“A little hair-pulling wouldn’t be out of line.” and so he did, gathered up my hair so gently and pulled it slooooowly to the side. Then he brushed it aside gently and kissed the back of my neck, making me all tingly. He ran his hands up to my belly and pressed, pulling me back against him. It was hot in that conference room. A drop of sweat landed on my ear.

“I just want to enjoy you for a few more minutes.”

“Take your time! I’m not in a rush!”

I really enjoyed being enjoyed, except when he said things like “Your tits look amazing.” I even enjoyed that, with a little twist of shame and worry. I don’t want to fall prey to anyone else, don’t want to be anyone else’s vacation-fantasy-doll. This guy isn’t that, I told myself, but sometimes I feel hopeless, like they’re all like that. It’s terrible.

He unwound the ropes from me and I admired the pattern of red marks they made on my chest and wrists, a little pinch-mark on my right arm, where the rope got stuck and stung…

He played some more, in the front this time, making thick rows of loops up my arm. He put his hand on my neck and I felt a swoony falling sensation, but when I opened my eyes he said “I’m practicing completing a circuit.” Apparently you are supposed to touch in two places to make a circuit—it worked, oh boy.

When it got so there was only a half hour left, I suggested we get in some hugging. We sat down and he wiped his brow, got to work winding up the rope, but I said I thought he should attend to his girl first. He agreed, tossed them down and gathered me up. Even though my head had a few worries, my body was totally relaxed, and I completely relaxed into him. I snuggled under his big arm, into his chest and just breathed with him. He ran his hands over me, gently but firmly. It’s amazing to me how things can feel this intimate, this safe, with someone who was so recently a stranger. It’s such a beautiful exercise in trust. It’s a miracle. It’s irresistible to me.

And it’s dangerous. Whenever I’m in that vulnerable position, I wonder if he’ll ever come back. I always try to make plans during that time. Bill resisted it like crazy, said mean things during aftercare either because he was an oaf or to deliberately set me off balance—it drove me nuts and made me feel desperate.

But this wasn’t that. This was just sweet hugging. I invited him to an upcoming play party but he said he was busy and encouraged me to go with Sweetie. (I am! Yay!) He said I shouldn’t let fears and heartbreak stand in the way. I like that he was rooting for me and Sweetie to get some good experimenting in, too.

Saying goodbye was hard, even though he’s brand new. I wanted him to kiss me, and said so, but he said he was feeling shy. I’m not sure what that means, if he likes me that way or not. I’m always a little afraid that a guy will forget me, but he didn’t.  He asked me out again and we are making plans that don’t involve ropes or fetishy things, just getting to know each other. That seems like progress.

I’m trying to get out of the habit of seeing each character as a solution to the last. Instead, I’d like to experience him as a nice new friend. A very snuggly one. 

Beginning Rope Class FTW Part Two: I Feel Conflicted About My Boobs

When Sweetie saw the above photo, (it’s a crop, the original does show my very smiley face) she said “If you want them to stop fixating on your boobs, maybe you shouldn’t…” I’ll get to unpacking that statement in a few paragraphs.

As we settled in for the presentation, the Gentleman left the rope on my wrist and did that thing where he looped it into itself, to make a kind of a handle. (To give it some “flair” he said.) He kept the handle in his lap. There’s no other way to say it, the guy has good energy. Sitting next to him he definitely felt like someone you’d meet at a snuggle party; warm, safe, open.

The first part of the presentation was about different ways to use sex toys with ropes—ah, my old nemesis, the Baggie full of vibrators. They didn’t seem so scary in the light of day; though I’m not sure I’ll ever warm up to big bouquets of machinery. It’s an awkward talk to sit through on a first date, but once she got to the ropes part, the Gentleman and I settled into each other. Our legs touched. He put his hand on my leg.

The woman who was getting demo-ed on left her clothes on. She had the prettiest smile, and it was fun to watch her settle in under the presenter’s hemp ropes. She built her a harness and then showed everyone how awesome it in to yank someone around by a rope in the middle of her chest. The presenter crab-tied the demo-lady and said “Wouldn’t you like to fuck someone like this?” Then she climbed on and pantomimed it.

The impressive thing about this lady is that she does a lot of self-bondage and even self-suspension. “I do this a lot at home,” she kept saying, but she stressed the need to keep your hands free, for safety and for other reasons. “I’m not Houdini,” she said. I’d always thought of ropes as being so dependant on finding the right top, but I like thinking of it as something I might be able to play with on my own.

When the demo was over, it was time for us to play. “What’s gonna happen now?” I asked the Gentleman, and he said he wanted to put a harness on me. Okay!

I put my arms up and smiled, relaxed, let him loop the rope around me. He has a soft, slow touch, and soon enough the ropes started to feel like they were hugging me, and I started to simmer down into subspace. What I love about a harness is the ways it feels on my back—like support, like someone’s holding me up so that I don’t have to for a while. It’s such a concrete way of feeling cared for.

He commented on how amazing my boobs are, how could he not? Remind me to tell him to try and compliment other things as well—sometimes I feel like a floating set of breasts, the way guys fixate on them. But the tricky thing about that is, I fixate on them too. I WANT them to have lots of attention, to be seen, showcased, enjoyed, played with, adored. I physically love the way that feels.

But the problem is, I don’t like worrying that they were the only reason I was invited. That is a Catch-22 about fetishes in general: How can I know that I am a person and not a thing, that he likes me as me and not just as a collection of fetishes? My nice pal Bo Blaze said a few weeks ago to look within and ask myself, but clearly my instincts are warped.

This gets back to my deepest fear, one of the convictions I have that’s hardest to fight: That there is no reason a man will ever want me for anything other than sex, and that the only thing sexy about me is my breasts. That idea has been in my head at least since I was 14, maybe longer. I am not sure where it comes from, but I know it’s really damaging. I think it leads me into situations that don’t just objectify me; they objectify my partners as well. I know that that fear keeps me from being able to feel the closeness I so desperately want to be able to feel.

Anyway, back in the rope class, I wasn’t thinking of any of that. When other folks stopped what they were doing to gape and exclaim, I just felt playful and seen. I did feel like a person. It’s weird how a positive situation can still unearth negative emotions. Today I’m just feeling conflicted about boobs.

Next Time: Even More Swoony

Nearly-Naked and Fire-Kissed: Part Two

***Being in the middle of this story is making me antsy for my next adventure, and I’m not sure what to do next… suggestions?***

There was someone else ahead of me in line for fire, a meek and adorable African American gentleman wearing nothing but tightie whities. I arranged myself on the other side of the room and watched the couples I’d noticed before—they were deeply involved in some spankings and floggings. Each of the two pretty subs was bent over a kneeler like the priests have at the front of Catholic church. The one who was closest to me had on ripped stockings under her pulled-up skirt. My favorite part is when the doms would lean over and whisper something in their partner’s ear—what’s he saying? I really want to know and I really want for someone to whisper to me that way. Like really soon.

Fireguy came over to get me when he was done and I told him I need him to teach me how to hit on couples. He assured me that he’d be glad to, and I followed him over to the corner where his stuff was set up. He had us kind of stop for a minute, look at each other, hold hands, like, oh, yeah, we’re friends.

Fireguy is popular (I always seem to gravitate towards belle-of-the-ball types) so while I was doing my momentous-to-me undressing, people kept coming over and chatting to him. Getting naked in front of people was definitely one of my goals, and it was a lot easier than I thought. Being around Fireguy makes me feel safe and shameless, a good combination. This particular party has a leave-your-underwear-on rule, but I slipped out of my shoes, then skirt, then stockings, handed him my cardigan and paused for a moment before taking a deep breath and then taking off my bra. Everyone was still chatting, I don’t know if they even noticed. A radiant, loving warmth spread all throughout my body, like from my soul or something. I really can’t overstate the joy of that moment.

I lay on the table on my belly, handed him my glasses (I really like handing him my glasses, I don’t know why. I kind of know why.) and put my head down on my arms, relaxed and content. It was kind of like snoozing on the beach, but with ambient screams of pleasure instead of waves. As he rubbed his warm hands over my back, people kept on coming over to talk to him, talking over me like I wasn’t there. Philosophically I have a problem with this, but I really didn’t care at that moment—it was as close as I’m gonna get to feeling self-contained. I was warm and cheery and as smug as the most gorgeous thing in the world and I just ignored them back. The girl who was next checked a little too often if it was her turn yet, but other than that I didn’t care who was around. Fireguy told me that other parties have more protocol, so people wouldn’t interrupt like that.

Here’s what a fire massage is: He covers his palm with rubbing alcohol and then lights it. Then he passes his other hand over and puts the flame out before it burns him. This gives him the most amazingly warm hands. Sometimes he’d paint the alcohol onto me and light it, testing my pain tolerance by seeing how long he could leave it before I flinched. I learned that I’m a three. He wrote his initial on my back and lit it, and that made me laugh.

When it was time to turn over and have my boobs showing to the world, I joked that people couldn’t see me because I didn’t have my glasses on. He cheerily agreed. “Well, that’s just science!” I wish I could have noticed if anyone was noticing me. I guess they probably did—who wouldn’t watch fire and boobs?

The order of things just kind of drops away a little bit here, the rest is just kind of a blissful haze. He held my hand to his chest, painted my arm with alcohol, and let me watch the blue flame as it climbed up to my wrist. He put a little circle of cotton on each nipple- this made a bright flash as the flame climbed up. Most of this didn’t hurt at all. He looked very sweetly down at me, amused and quizzical and just sort of like I was being a good kid. I loved it. Standing over me behind my head, he asked if he could give me an upside-down kiss, and I said sure.

Next time! What a fire kiss is!

Photoplay Part Four: Ropes! Fire! Sweetie!

After the nice post-spanking cuddle, it was time for ropes. Q asked if I would mind being topless. I said I wouldn’t mind and he asked if he could undress me. I stuck my hands up so that he could take off my pajama top, and he took off my bra, too. I felt exposed but nice. He showed me a pretty, glossy, thick red rope, kind of like the kind you would see holding back a curtain, but long. He told me to put my hands up and close my eyes. As he wove the rope around me, I realized that my armpits kinda smelled and I apologized.

When I opened my eyes and looked down, I had kind of a nice halter thing. The rope made a pretty square between my boobs, and they we held up in a very pretty way. The haler felt snug around me. At some point he asked, “Can I enjoy you?” and I said yes. It felt different than it would in a romantic context, a little uncomfortable, but it’s the moment I’ve referred back to the most. He asked “You like it light?” then tested my nipple, seeing how hard I liked to be pinched. “About like this?” So nice of him to ask.

“Boy, somebody’s gonna have fun with you,” he said while he was getting me into the next set of ropes—blue-green and more delicate. He arranged them in an intricate design over my whole body. He told me that it’s for decoration, not for restraint, but I just loved the tightness of them, like a hug that was attached to me.

Sweetie was waiting outside the door on the basement stairs. She’d barged in during the ropes, and I’d had the bizarre reaction to try and hide from her. From my own wife. I guess I had the idea that she’d be bothered to see me nakedish with somebody else, but she seemed unphased.

Anyway, she was there to help with the fire, so I went and called her in. I was so excited to show her the secret passage, and she found the right book a lot faster than I had.

The way a fire portrait works is, the camera is on a long exposure and Q moves a pretty flame around you so that it makes a glowy shape in the picture. The fire felt nice and warm and not scary. I was worried about being topless in front of both Q and Sweetie and kept asking if she was okay. As Q posed and adjusted me, Sweetie started chiming in, too. “Sit up straight,” she said, and I could not have been happier, being adjusted by two people, all that attention right on me. I could get used to it.

Q wanted Sweetie and me to pose together for a Valentine portrait—looking couple-y with a fire heart in the foreground. Now, Sweetie has many excellent qualities, but she is definitely not a take-your-shirt-off-in-front-of-a-dude-for-a-fire-portrait kind of woman. I watched him talk her into it and felt a little protective towards her, but she is a grown-ass woman after all. and I was very glad to have her topless with me.

I LOVED posing with her. She has fantastic boobs and I couldn’t resist getting grabby, just once. Our fire portrait looks so romantic, and I hope to see it blown up in a gallery some day. I’m glad he talked her into it. The experience of being in that room with both of them made me realize that maybe I’ve put too many limits on her, and on myself. It opened up an even-more-sociable aspect of myself that I didn’t expect to find.

Once the photo shoot was over, my boobs were tired. I put my bra back on and got into different, more flannel-y pajamas for the ride home. I thanked Q so much for all the fun, and he thanked us, too. I was exactly right that this was the best way to heal and move forward, and I went home with a glow. I can’t wait to see how the pictures turn out.