Knotty Thursdays: Mr. Adorkable Hits Me with Things, YAY!

 

Is it cheating that I sometimes hand in a nice boy's design as my rope homework? I guess bottoming is rope practice too?

What I should have taken a picture of was Mr. Adorkable's TOY BAG. I'd told him I needed all the spanks after my (mostly self-inflicted) stressful weekend, so he brought everything. Oh MAN I've missed being hit with all the thuddy things. I've missed typing the word thuddy! We were making out and I smelled another nice smell besides us and I was like, "Oh, that's all the things you're gonna hit me with."

I missed the smell of leather, which I've never even really thought about at all!

Before that, though, the ropes. 

I love the way he worked his design around the bra, I felt like it was too pretty to take off. (It flipped right down so nicely when the time came! I should probably get this outfit in all the colors.) My favorite part was the way that little tail at the back tickled--when he was working on that part, I just giggled and squirmed with pure joy. Profound joy! I kinda transcended a little.

It's maybe not advisable to tell someone they feel like a puzzle piece on the second date, huh? But he just does. I like the way we just easily fit together. And I like the way songs come on just at the right moment. This time, a little on the nose, it was "Closer" by Nine Inch Nails. 

Kinky Karaoke Part Three: More Dancing Around in Ropes

After the chair snuggles, he untied us from each other and we went downstairs to sing and cuddle everybody some more. Dancing around in my ropes and singing with The Lady of the House reminded me of her awesome Nude Years party—I hope she has one this year!

Pretty Slave was singing some hard rock hits and being extremely hot, so I had to climb all over her a little bit. CM and PS seemed a little reserved with me that night, so I was as unslutty as a naked lady who’s kissing somebody can manage.

Before too long, I ended up back upstairs with the Sweetfaces, each of us girls bent over a red reclining chair. Probably the worst 90s hit of all, “I Saw the Sign” came on and now I sort of have to like it a little because it’ll remind me of her, naked and bent over, shaking her hair and singing it out. “No one’s gonna drag you up, to get into the light where you belong.”—It’s weird where one finds poetry.

Mr. Sweetface got out his flogger and I got happy. He went back and forth between us, hitting us sparingly and specifically, each move aimed and considered. I felt waves of joy and relief with each smack, wiggled myself to giddiness.

And he had these special gloves. They had teensy little spiky things on them, kind of like those special gloves they use to brush horses. He ran his gloved hand over my hips, my waist, my boobs, giving me shivers.

When he was done, he pulled my face up into a kiss, sweet and deliberate, soft. Then we all went back down to the party for more songs and goodbyes.

The weekend before last, triggered and heartsick, I lost faith, and I’ve lost count of how many times that’s happened, to the point where losing faith is kind of meaningless. Amidst all of those tears over SG, I realized that for every player with whom things are hard, there are, like, tens of players with whom it’s easy, where things just fit and flow and I don’t have to try at all. There have been so many nights of feeling perfect in my skin and not compelled to change anything about my thoughts or feelings. It’s the sensation of play that’s actually just that, play. Baby animals play in order to learn how to thrive in the wild, and that’s exactly my plan, play and thrive. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks!”

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

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

Indeed! Go me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Um, no?”

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

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

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

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

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

First Single-Girl Dungeon Night, Part Three: A Vibrator Fit For Judy Jetson

It might seem strange to readers that I didn’t mind that people kind of milled in and out of this scene. I guess it comes down to being with a Master that I trust, in a place where I feel like my well-being matters. Also, it’s very easy to feel at ease with Punk Rock Girl checking in on me, looking me in the eye and making sure I approved of each new development. I’m reassured by her care because I know exactly how tough she is.

Old-Timey Guy was fumbling around in his stuff and plugging something in.

Punk Rock Girl said “Uh-oh, I know what’s coming…”

What was coming was the most enormous vibrator I’ve ever seen. It was the width of a fist, like 15 inches long, and looked like it was from the 1960s version of the space age. The business end was in the shape of the top of an enormous egg, and shiny blue. It’s hard to believe that a girl who was once afraid of a bag of dildos would be okay with this, but I was.

I was still cocooned in plastic wrap, and Punk Rock Girl set to work cutting a hole in the front so they could put the contraption where it goes.

“It’s gonna make you look like you have a penis…” she warned.

“I’m totally fine with that.” Obviously.

I’m not a girl who gets superexcited about devices, but I had fun with this one. I liked the humiliation of being made to hold the cord between my teeth while Old-Timey Guy hit me with his heart-shaped crop. (It still hurts like fuck even through the plastic, but there was a sad lack of bruising.) He leaned over my shoulder and pushed the device in so that I purred and smiled.

“Oh, I didn’t hear you say you like it, I’ll have to take it away…”

“NOOOO!”

After that, Punk Rock Girl took hold of the device and ran it all over me—my neck, my ears, my face, my belly. It was tickly and nice. Then she got a really mischievous look on her face and ran it over my nipples—I shrieked and laughed and it felt amazing.

She put it back in my crotch and got out of the way while Old-Timey Guy flogged the part of my back that was exposed from the plastic. I leaned forward and relaxed into complete bliss.

“Yespleasemoremoremore!” I said, being careful not to turn around. He flogged me for a little bit longer and then (OMG cute) he planted a little kiss at the base of my neck, right in the hollow of my collarbone. Tenderness I loved and which made me nervous, but not nervous enough to stop him.

He came around to the front and held me, moving against the vibrator to press it into my clit. Since all the breakups I’ve just been taking these little rests in men’s affection, little teensy moments of letting go. When he put his hand on my head and said “Good girl.” it was one of those rests. I’d been waiting to hear those words for months, from any number of guys—I heard it and it hit home.

The feeling of being cut out of the plastic was so blessedly freeing (even if I did somehow end up with a hole in my underpants) that I am tempted to indulge in a marriage/cocoon metaphor.

I sat my sweaty ass down to rest. Other Ribbons offered me a massage, and I gratefully took her up on it. It wasn’t a Naughty Thing, but it was certainly welcome and lovely. She worked hard on my shoulders, rubbing out the tension from the restraint and from life in general.

It depends on how you count, I guess, but in spite of V and V’s Hot Girlfriend’s enthusiastic encouragement, I never did make it to my third naughty thing. HempRopes apologized for running out of time, and I felt superproud about having waited with such grace. (The weirdest things are feeling like accomplishments lately, I know.) It helps that I was so busy being thoroughly entertained and also that I was kinda lukewarm about playing with him anyway.

“That’s the problem with having high standards—I tend to like the really popular guys.”

Huh. I guess that’s true. It’ll be a comfort until I find the guy I want to have and claim as my own. Meanwhile, I kicked that party’s ass, and I think that speaks of good things to come.

A Gold Star in Getting-My-Ass-Beaten

It’s time to sing the praises of Friends Who’ll Hit Me With Stuff, and also to get more of them. Yes, I want romance, I want to be adored and rabidly pursued, I want to have a Dom who’s at the party for the sole purpose of yanking my hair around, but until Boyfriend Guy comes along and/or I’m in a playspace with Mr. Sweetheart, it’s helpful to just get on with my life and appreciate a good walloping for its own sake.

Saturday night was everything I’d hoped it would be: I played with Sweetie, hugged friends, I stood around in Wonder Woman posture with my ropes on feeling invincible. But something was missing. My scenes with Sweetie are always wonderful, but they are about feeling quiet, all princessy and soft and snoozy with my ass in the air and my hair draped over the edge of the kneeler. I enjoyed it but when we were finished I needed something louder, meaner, dirtier. I don’t think I’ve ever come out and said this before, but I needed a sadist.

The only guy there who I knew and trusted enough to play with was Old Timey Guy and I wasn’t sure if he would have time to fit me in. As always, I loved watching him play with Punk Rock Girl, and when they were done, he was in social butterfly mode, which I always feel reluctant to interrupt. I didn’t want to pester him but Sweetie was all “Just ask him! Tell him specifically that you need to be flogged.”

He was talking a couple through what looked to be their first flogging scene—his face was all lit up from the joy of being teacherly and he was covered in sweat from his own scene. When I got a chance to ask him, I asked him:

“Can I be the next thing that you do?”

He laughed and gave me some little spanks and then flitted off to do some more stuff.

“You weren’t specific enough.” said Sweetie. (Sweetie’s never met Steampunk Guy, but they seem to be in a conspiracy to make me a braver asker. Begrudgingly I’m grateful.)

After assisting him with giving a new girl a shrink wrap corset (I love that he sees a shrink-wrap gun and thinks “Let’s do this to people!”) I was sad to see that he went over to clear his stuff off the cross he’d been using earlier. At that point I indulged in some fairly unnecessary pouting until he said:

“Just because I don’t have a cross doesn’t mean I can’t flog you. Ohlook! Here’s a chair! straddle it!”

The few other times I’ve played with Old-Timey Guy, Punk Rock Girl was a big part of the pleasure of it—she’d egg him on and help me get into my shackles—so I was sad that she’d gone home early but was still so excited to play.

Sweetie was sitting only a few feet away and I wondered if I should send her to the bar or something so she wouldn’t get jealous or worry, but she seemed excited to watch me be all ridiculous so I kept her near.

Anyway, back to me, in ropes, little purple lace pajama bottoms, and of course my Hello Kitty nipple tape, straddling and red and black banquet chair. He lewdly pressed himself against my back, growling just a little. He ran his hand gently through my hair and as soon as I was all purry-relaxed YANKED UP on the crotch rope with its knots in the right places so that I let out an “Eeek!” and a tumble of laughter. Though we’ve only known each other about a year, it was like hanging out with an old pal. A really nicely filthy old pal.

I put my head down on the back of the chair and he took out a really scary-looking switch—long, skinny, hard with a tiny little tab on the end. I got scared because I usually go for thuddy rather than stingy, and I knew this would sting like a motherfucker. He ran it over my back, across my neck, back and forth on my wet crotch, right where it counts. He yanked me up by my ropes and thwacked, making me wiggly, hot, and screamy. I yowled and he said

“I told you of it hurt too much you had to give me jazz hands!”

“And I didn’t give you jazz hands!”

There’s one toy in his kit that I kind of think of as mine, even though it isn’t. He bought it (and hit me with it) the day I met him and it’s appeared in this story before-a pretty little cane with a blue ceramic star on the end.

“You’re the only one who gets happy when I take this out.”

“Ican’thelpitIjustloveit!”

As before, he tried to leave a star-shaped mark, hitting lightly and counting down to the hard smack, then trying to surprise me on the other cheek. It equally fucking hurt both ways. The cuteness of the star sure doesn’t stop it from stinging the bejeezus out of me, it hurts so badly and I just love yelling about it. I should probably stop trying to say that I’m not a masochist.

He flogged me like I’d asked. It felt good on my back but he wasn’t quite getting the right angle on my bum—I switched to kneeling on the chair with my hands on the back of it. He spanked me so hard that I started to scream-laugh, loving the heck out of the sound of my own voice. There’s such a happy release in those screams, letting them out to be themselves in front of everyone. It’s not exaggerating to say it makes my heart leap.

“That’s what you get!” said Sweetie.

Yes! Yay! It’s what I get.

Next came a paddle. By then a friend of mine had come over near us to get her aftercare, and I apologized for hollering so close to her face, but she seemed perfectly happy and joined in the handful of onlookers cheering us on.

He asked what else I wanted and I asked for the big strap, my very favorite. First he put it around me and pulled me against him, wiggling against my back in such a nice lascivious way. He tried to put it around my neck, which, forget it. Other than getting smacked with the strap, the best was when he wrapped it around my wrists, held my hands in the air in front of me, and tickled my underpins so I’d shriek and squirm and laugh. Don’t know why he’s the only one I like tickles from, probably because he brings out the little bit of little in me.

After the strap came the soft little flogger that he has just because it won’t leave marks on boobs. It was actually kinda fun. I’d tell Steampunk Guy to make note of this, but he only reads the posts that he stars in.

Speaking of Steampunk Guy, I had to mentally high-five him for the amount of fun I was having. He tends to (vexingly) make me ask a whole bunch of times for stuff—I’ve almost learned to stop seeing shame in pursuing what I want, even if I have to ask more than once. This seems like a good step, so thanks pal-who’s-not-reading-this…

Once the scene was done, I pulled Old-Timey Guy into a sweaty hug, thanked him profusely, put my aftercare pajamas on over my ropes, and walked out of there feeling like Wonder Woman. Remember, this was a place I was afraid I could never go back to! There’s just nothing like going home knowing that I’ve gotten myself what I wanted.

Gold Star for Mr. Shiny Eyes—and Me!

Last Wednesday, something really horrible happened to one of my students. It happened outside school, but it was very upsetting and shook me all the way down to my bone marrow. She’s okay now, but it’s hard knowing that it happened to anyone, let alone to a student I love.

When Sweetie and I got back from trying to visit her in the hospital Wednesday evening, we were sitting on the porch discussing whether or not I should call into work the next day to process. Just as that conversation was winding down to a yes, my phone rang, and it was Mr. Shiny Eyes, asking what I was doing the next day—he’d found himself an opportunity to drive in from out of town and visit.

Glad to hear joy in my voice, Sweetie said of course a visit was fine with her.

For most of last Thursday, I couldn’t move. I felt broken and guilty and devastated for all that I have that my students don’t have—a safe home, a loving group of friends and family, the ability to change my circumstances. I called Sweetie and apologized for needing to schedule some couch time, an apology she found ridiculous. I felt weepy and not-good-enough, hardly a way to go into a second date with someone I’m excited about.

Cleaning the apartment to get ready for him and making dinner for both Mr. Shiny Eyes and Sweetie (yay!) lifted my spirits a little but I felt really fragile and off when he arrived. Just like Sweetie had the night before, Mr. Shiny Eyes listened and listened as I kept on looping back to sad subjects.

After Sweetie had left us alone for snuggle time, I apologized profusely and repeatedly for being such a bad date when he’d come all this way, but he seemed shocked and dismayed with every sorry.

“I came here because I like you, the real you, and this is the real you right now. I didn’t just come here to have sex. But I’m still pretty sure we’ll have sex.

And we did. In fact, he asked if it would be okay to just forget all the kinks and “make gentle love” to me and it’s a little sad how seldom I’ve had that with guys. (But okay, I get other good stuff.) I relaxed into him and it was sweet and hot and satisfying.

Plus, once the lovemaking was accomplished, he was nice enough to end the night with a pretty thorough flogging that buoyed up my spirits even more.

And yet, I didn’t stop apologizing. There’s an annoying almost geishalike part of me that wants to be nothing but cheerful and pleasant and uncomplicated for men. I try to keep a cheery guard up lest they should think I’m difficult or high-maintenance or (that dirtiest of dirty words) needy. I have no problem sharing vulnerability with friends or with Sweetie, but when it comes to men I’m attracted to, there’s this irritating compulsion to behave. It’s insulting to them and stifling to me.

I’m grateful that life kicked my ass enough that I had no choice but to show Mr. Shiny Eyes my sometimes-a-wreck of a self. (I’m also grateful to anyone who reads the full wreck of it here, for that matter!) No choice even, than to at one point put my clothes on and just cry for a bit. He took such nice care of me, and even though second date tears aren’t my favorite thing, I’m so glad for the depth and difficulty that I shared during my second evening with Mr. Shiny Eyes. It’s a step towards learning to actually trust men, and it made my hoo-ha happy too.

Scene Failure and the Scary Party, Part One

I really wish I’d been telling this story while it was still happy-it would’ve been so much more fun to write. I liked him so much that I was even calling him Emotionally Available Guy in my fb updates. Our first scene together was so close to being my dream come true that it was hard to be myself afterwards—I felt like he could finally be the guy to give me what I needed. Except.

Remember the episode of Doctor Who where the little boy keeps everything he’s afraid of locked in a cabinet in his room? That’s what one of the local play parties has felt like to me for a while—there are no boundaries anywhere, anyone feels free to waltz into any scene they see fit, so I’ve left there on more than one occasion feeling exploited and trampled. On the other hand, it’s also the place where I had my amazing first public scene with Fireguy, so it can’t be all bad.

The Man (as in the Man who brings one down) is the head of security at this venue. I was thinking that being with him would make me safe, rather than realizing that he is part of what makes it so chaotic. I was excited when he invited me, thinking it could help me to heal my creepy feelings about the place. Still, I hemmed and hawed about going, especially when he sprung it on me that his wife (who I didn’t know very well yet) would be going too. She didn’t end up going, and after much coaxing and reassurance, I decided to go, even though I worried that it might be the end for us. I really wanted to spend time with him and I wondered if the badness of the Bad Party was all in my head.

When I first got there, there was already an emergency—a woman had been getting her boobs whipped and she started to bleed, needing stitches. She was all woozy and no one could find the first aid kit. We ran into her in the aftercare room later, asked if she was okay, and for some reason her “I’m happy!” rang hollow, like, really, do we have to put ourselves through this?

As I was signing my waiver, The Man introduced me to Sadist Girl, a member of his security staff, who referred to me annoyingly as “Ribbons,” part of my Fet handle, instead of my real name, which I’d given her. “She knows you from FetLife,” he explained, “and she knows why you’re here.” Cue the foreboding I’m-in-trouble music.

At this point (actually at many points before this night) the horror movie audience would be yelling at the screen: “Get out of the house! Run DOWN the stairs, not up!” But I trusted him and you know what? He smelled really, really good. It’s amazing the lengths I’ll go to for a good man smell, let me tell you. I wanted to please him so that he’d notice me, so he’d really make me someone important in his life, so I’d know that he would stick around.

He led me into a harshly lit red room where people were kind of crowded in, but there was a free spanking bench. I didn’t really care for it because it wasn’t very showoffy/safe and it was away from the really good DJ that usually makes the place bearable. The beginning of the scene wasn’t like the first one or the nice time that we’d had in my living room earlier in the week. He didn’t stop and look into my eyes or ask me what I wanted. He didn’t brush my hair with the brush he’d requested the previous time. He didn’t stop and connect with me at all—it was like I was a chore he had to get through before he could get back to the real fun of working security. I should have stopped the scene or at least moved to another room.

He was complaining about the people talking around us, so I asked if he wanted to move and he said no. He told me to keep my mouth shut even though I’d told him several times that it was a hard limit. I don’t know why, but I kept my mouth shut—I am ashamed of how desperate I was and how much I compromised. I wish I could get in the Sex Tardis and save myself, but it is always too late.

It was an okay scene, if uninspired. Flogging, handcuffs, hairpulling. I had on my shorty pajamas that I always wear and my shirt was pulled up, exposing my nipples. “You’re my sweet girl,” he kept saying, “My good, sweet girl.” I melted. I was so happy in that moment—I’d dreamed of being his and he was saying that I was.

Right about then I heard him talking to Sadist Girl and handing her his soft leather paddle. I don’t know why I said it as okay. It certainly hadn’t been negotiated beforehand or even mentioned as a possibility. I would have said no if I’d been asked outside subspace. I don’t know why I did any of this. He held me tight from the front as she hit me all stingy, not the thuddy the way I like. She slapped around the edges of places so that it was hurtier, the sides of my thighs, the back of my knees. I don’t remember her hitting me in the crotch but it was bleeding after. I liked being tight in The Man’s arms, sobbing and screaming, and I liked feeling like I was giving him what he wanted. Sadist Girl tried hitting me on the bottom of my feet and at least I remembered the word “red” for that. She kept calling me “Ribbons” and it was making me mad. “Why do you say you’re not a masochist, RIBBONS?” “Huh, RIBBONS?

I started to really really not like it so I whispered to him that I wanted to be with just him now. She stopped hitting me but wouldn’t leave. They stood around talking as if I wasn’t there. She was listing off the people she had grudges against, talking about how they’d have to ban them.

I started to feel exposed and violated. I tried to work my shirt down over my breasts even though I was still cuffed. I told him again to get rid of her. He looked annoyed and she looked pissed off but finally went away. I told him to get me out of the handcuffs and I got dressed. I should have left as soon as I could drive, but I didn’t. Even though he’d broken our agreements and ignored my safety, I still wanted to be with him.

A Whole Bunch of First Times Part One: Flogging

Just when I was getting to the point where I thought I’d have no more paragraphs, a whole bunch of stuff happened all at once.

I went to our usual dungeon last night, and it was the first time I went by myself. It felt strange—there’s a whole new level of slutty to standing around in shorty pajamas, no bra, and heels when nobody in particular is looking after you. I was a little worried that I was humiliating myself, but I knew I’d just have to stand there and talk to people if I was ever going to have hope of finding guys to play with.

I sort of had somebody in mind. He was the first guy to spank me in front of Sweetie—his ceramic-star cane is now my nemesis—and also part of the couple who helped Sweetie rescue me when I fainted the time before last. They are both a little younger than me and vaguely steampunk—I’ll call them Punk Rock Girl and Old-Timey Guy. I knew ITG was enough of an expert to make my first flogging experience meaningful—and it was!

I think I may have been a little overeager last night—next time, I think I’ll let people settle in a little more before I ask them to do stuff to me. Old-Timey Guy made fun of me for being impatient (okay, so I may have jumped up and down a little) but agreed, making it clear that it was a strictly demo situation. He gave me the nickname he likes to give subs—“Little One”—which in my case is adorable/hilarious because I am a big giant Amazon.

He started hooking up carabiners to the St. Andrew’s cross. There was already a couple playing on the other side of the cross, an adorable switchy couple I’m quite used to playing next to. (It made for some cute “I know how you feel” moments while chained face-to-face to the girl) Old-Timey Guy instructed Punk Rock Girl to put shackles on my ankles and wrists and get me attached to the cross.  She took a lot of care to make sure that my wrists were comfortable—“I can fix them now, but once he starts, it’s too late.” She got me all snug and settled in and then moved away so that OTG could take over.

He leaned against me and asked “Do you think I’m a bad man?”

I laughed but nodded empathically. The truth is, his face is fundamentally good natured—all beardy and trustworthy. He makes me feel all silly and innocent, plus he is often wearing a hat with a feather in it, but I was overjoyed to play along:

“Oh yes, very bad man.”

“Do you want me to do bad things to you?” More smiling and supercheery nodding.

The first implement he brought out was a pretty silver filigreed thing, shaped like a little tiny garden rake, but dainty and fancy. He said, “Now I’m just gonna warm you up.” He raked the little filigree thing over my back, my shoulders, my neck, my hair, the backs of my knees. It felt firm sometimes and tickly other times. He tickled me with his fingers, too. I never thought that I would like that, but I did. I loved all of the squealing and wiggling. The dungeon owner says ticklers are the hardest on his furniture, and I can see why. Very squirmy!

All the while, PRG was watching and assisting. She was the one who took my glasses off when I needed her to, and the one who told me to keep my head forward so that it’d be a little more safe.

OTG started flogging my back—he’d asked if I liked thing more thud-y or sting-y and this was as thud-y as I had requested. I relaxed against the cross in a semi-subby state until the thuds got a little harder and I had to brace against the pain a little. I gritted my teeth and balled up my fists, but I didn’t cry out or make the stop signal.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No, but you could go a little, um, lower,” I said, wiggling my ass in his general direction.

“This looks like it can take some pain,” he said, and got started, first with the flogger, then with a strap thing that I really, really, REALLY loved. Rhythmically, one cheek, the other, I never wanted it to ever stop. But too soon, he leaned into me and said “My dear, you have now been flogged. Did you like it?”

“Ohmygoodnessyes.”

As a finale, he pulled down my undies and left a heart shaped marked on one side and a star-shaped mark on the other. It hurt like a sonofabitch.

I was sad that it was over, that there wasn’t an aftercare factor, but I hugged and thanked him and helped get PRG into her shackles for their real play. (Really, she helped me help her into her shackles.) It was melancholy feeling, but centered and very warm about the back and ass.

Next: Hello, suspension!