Second First Date with the Song Sender, Part Two

I bought this last summer as good luck for my Candyman date with The Coach. It felt like the perfect metaphor for all the lovely changes The Song Sender initiated me into eleven years ago.

We did catch up over dinner, but it pretty quickly shifted to a friendly negotiation. Did it have to be mean? No. Could he praise? Yes—he said he thought I might like it if he patted my head and called me a good girl and I nearly offered him my head across the dinner table. Did he need to do breath play? No. (Breathing! It’s great!) He talked about spanking and hair-pulling and my smile was as big as the sun.

I took his hand across the table and he let me. Those gorgeous, powerful hands could be so gentle out here in the world, I’d never known. He paid the check and I was glad I’d driven instead of taking a train and a bus.

I’d never driven him anywhere. I was still sharing a car with Sweetie-Now-BFF the first time around, and the car was always away on her long commute. I was very pleased to have The Song Sender in my car. I put on my CD of The National’s High Violet, the perfect sexy/gloomy summer album.

About halfway home, just before we got to the most winding part of the drive, I said:

“I kind of want to take your hand and put it into my hair, but I’m, you know, driving.”

He went ahead and put his hand on the back of my neck, tugging at the hair just hand enough to elicit a gasp/sigh. It didn’t distract me at all, quite the opposite—a clean whoosh though my brain making me all the way centered and calm.

“Oh actually I think this makes me an AMAZING driver,” I said, silly with happiness.

Because I hadn’t been sure if it was a date, I hadn’t tidied the apartment or shaved any kinds of hairs, but he didn’t show signs of caring about either. I was standing next to the cluttered dining room table, chattering away and offering fizzy water, when he pulled me into a kiss.

It was decisive and forceful, hungry and sweet. It felt so easy and natural to be bent over the couch, dress pulled up, ready for spanks. His caress-to-spank was tender and sure. I felt right at home.

From Good Second Date to Ghost, Part Three

 

He's her lobster.

“This hair isn’t gonna pull itself,” I said with my trademark subtlety, grabbing myself by the scruff.

Again, a look of startlement, like whoa, but then Nearby Guy wholeheartedly complied. He hugged his left arm up under my torse, both an embrace and a hold-down. He played roughly with my nipples while with his other hand he pulled my hair, just hard enough that I felt like I was surrendering, not quite hard enough for it to hurt. He smushed our faces together into a hard-to-breathe-but-not-unpleasantly-so kiss. It took strength to leave the kiss enough to tell him to go easier on my nipples, and once he complied, the kiss/pull/restrain went on for a good while.

As the energy ebbed back to tender and I regained the use of my arms, I held the sides of his face and kissed him like I was in a movie, or like I was Rachel Karen Green on Friends. (Ross is garbage, I know, but I feel like I grew up with them, and their romance is part of my overall template for love.) (It would be completely fair if someone is out there writing about me as Toxic Rom-Com Lady.) I didn’t mean it as a quote-kiss, it felt very real. So sweet. So close to that thing I’m always looking for, then feeling stupid for looking for.

“I might get feelings,” I said. “Is that okay?”

I didn’t really need to ask this question. He’d already framed our connection as romantic on the first (retroactively-upgraded) date. Asking was self-protective and maybe defensive, but also fair in that cloud of subbiness, vulnerability, and man-smell.

“Well, we would have to talk about it…”

So we did. He wanted reassurance in the poly department, which I was happy to give. Feelings got a tentative green light, but the situation still felt too fragile to me (or maybe like I needed to smash it and run) so I said:

“Okay, but if you’re looking for something casual, that’s not me.”

In my mind, so much of dating is/has to be about showing that I’m ready to graciously say goodbye. This is maybe not the best strategy, but I haven’t found a better one yet.

 

Gilmore Guy Part Four: Your Arms Make Me Wish I Was Still a Poet

I'm not saying this night was about love, oh wait, maybe I am. Not about couple-love, that still feels a million miles away, but the love of bodies, of luck, of my neighborhood, of the rhythm of Amy Sherman-Palladino's writing. It was a night about the love of LIFE, and I'm so glad I indulged in it. Gold stars all around.

            As we kissed on Gilmore Guy’s couch, the magic of desire took me over like a fluffy pink cloud. The comfort and pleasure of him was making me feel woozily submissive. (In my favorite book-I-didn’t-finish-because-it’s-too-triggering, The Body Keeps the Score, I learned that the impulse that makes us freeze when we’re scared is the same as the one that holds us still so we can bond with someone. This is my favorite romantic-but-horrifying brain fact!)

           

            Rather than totally succumb to the blissful frozenness, I remembered that he’d said he’d like to try a little submissiveness himself. I took a deep breath, grabbed him by the shoulders, and shoved him away from me, back against the couch. I straddled him (aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh like a horny homecoming) and immediately felt a Wonder Woman jolt of confidence. He tried to put his arms around me, but I pressed them back, held his wrists as tightly as I reasonably could with someone I JUST met.

            “How does that feel?” I gently growled into his ear.

            “Good.” He gasped, “It feels good.”

I reached to the nape of his neck and pulled his hair. I was worried it might be too much, and it was.

            “Don’t pull my hair,” he said a little reticently, and I let go.

            “Okay, thanks for telling me. Do you feel okay?”

            “I’m okay. Just…don’t pull my hair.”

            “Okay. Meanwhile, you are freeeee to pull mine!” I said, placing his hand in the right spot.

            Oh my GOODNESS I needed my hair pulled! It’s always such a relief. I arched my back, squirmed in his lap, and moaned, semi-realizing that I was giving the revelers downstairs on the sidewalk and earful. I hoped nobody I worked for was down there. Downside to geographic desirability, I guess. Totes worth it.

            He helpfully noted that the futon perpendicular to the couch was easy to fold out, and I was all “Yes please!”

            I was in such a happy haze (I feel like I should assure you that I only had half a drink, this haze was pure hormones) that I don’t really remember how my pajamas and sort-of-pretty underthings got strewn about the floor and coffee table. He took a moment to catch up with me in the nakedness department. Is there anything happier than meeting a new penis? This was a GOOD one, big and ready and delicious-looking.

            But no time for that yet, because his eager talented face was already between my thighs. I came easily and repeatedly, in giggling jolts until I pushed him away by the forehead.

            When it was my turn, though, I felt stunned with self-consciousness. It had been almost a year since I’d had a dick in my mouth (Season Two of Stranger Things with The Socialist—ah, fall.) and I suddenly felt like I’d written exactly NO paragraphs about blow jobs. It felt too big to manage, I was paranoid about teeth, I couldn’t get my head at the right angle

            No matter about my precarious blow-jobbing, he pulled me into a kiss, and our bodies wrapped back up into a snuggle. He ran his hand over my ass and I said “You know you want to smack it!” So he did, hooray!

            The intercourse part just…sigh…fit. It was as natural and as easy as the kissing. In concert with his strength, I found my own lovely rhythm, pausing to realize how transcendent this moment was—a near-stranger and me, making something lovely together. A glow as lovely and golden as the fall sun.

            There was this little dip between his shoulder blades that I could have spent weeks caressing. His body was glowing perfection to me, and so, in that happy haze, was my own.

            “Your arms make me wish I was still a poet,” I said. He’s yoga-strong, like a huggable sculpture.

            “Well, you could always put pen to paper…” he said.

            It’s helpful to have permission to wax poetic about the deep, glittery waves of release and joy I felt as we cuddled, then fucked, then cuddled some more. He spent a long lovely time with my left nipple that I will use (and have used many times already) during personal time. When I come from the inside, there’s rarely any big finale, just waves and waves and waves til we both get tired. I yelped and giggled. “Welcome!” I wanted to say. “THANK you!” I probably did say.

            Afterwards, until we eventually put back on the Gilmore Girls, we lay listening to a mix of silence and street noise, breathing and heartbeats. He put his hand on my heart, I lay my head on his chest. There’s just as much romance in short-lived flings as in more serious stuff, I think. Maybe that’s why I keep revisiting the casual—these brief sparkles of connection are no small thing. They’re important to me, and they give me hope.

            There was talk of sleeping over, but I wanted to go home. Not just because they have a no-other-partners-in-the-bed rule. (Though it did bring to mind a piece of Cunning Minx’s advice from years ago that still chimes like an old friend in my head: “You got all these rules? You don’t get me.”) (Also, in fairness, Sweetie and I had that rule as well. I was soooooooo happy when I got my own bed.) It was more that I wanted to go home and be with myself, to honor and process what had just happened.

            He put on his shoes to walk me out (It was around then that we finally exchanged last names. I wonder how/if he ever spelled my last name in his phone) and I thought he was walking me chivalrously to my car.  Instead, he gave me a quick peck at the door, looking around exactly like somebody who’d done something wrong. While I later wondered if he was being secretive or ashamed of me, I also do enough thinking about weaponized white womanhood to wonder if he just felt unsafe being seen with me at night.

            Whatever the reason, his furtiveness didn’t register until later. I went home well-fucked and starving, ate some night cereal, and slept the best I had in a long time. There are more Gilmore Guy paragraphs to come, and I’m so glad I gave us a chance.

Dating in the Upside-Down: A Like Story (Part Three)

            Thinking about the rest of this story, I had a saaaaaaad realization: I’ve lost a word since the last time I wrote about sex! Let’s have a moment of silence for the word “pussy,” which will never not remind me of the rapist-in-chief. I used to like using it sometimes, and now I’m kinda lost about what can replace it. It sounds a little clinical, I know, but I think for now I’ll just call body parts by their names and hope for the best.

Okay friends. If you’ve been keeping score, you’ll know that I haven’t had sex in a couple of years, not since blue-canary-nightlight guy, so I might not have the most perspective on what it was like with The Socialist, but it was good. Easy. Friendly. PIV sex has always been the big mystery to me, the hardest thing to settle into, even though it’s often what I want the most. This was a night where bodies just knew what to do, where everything just sort of took care of itself.

Soon after we got into bed, he got out of it. He knelt on the floor and pulled me to the side of the bed, put my legs over his shoulders, and BURIED his face in my vagina, like I was the most delicious thing in the universe. As assured as if this had been happening since the beginning of time, like he owned the place. Urgent and expert, he sucked my clit and thrust his tongue in as far as it could possibly go, and it felt so ridiculously good that I laughed between cries, apologized for laughing, then descended into giggles again.

All those years on lesbian island had made me sort of indifferent to receiving oral sex, but I guess that’s over now. I felt beautiful and silly and so, so happy. I kissed his slippery face gratefully, then set out to learn his lovely penis. It was friendly in my hand, sure of itself the way he is, and as affectionate. I felt self-conscious about my skills since it had been so long, but he assured me that there would be plenty of time to practice.

I was soooo grateful to have a box of condoms in my nightstand like a boss. They’ve mostly been used to make toy clean up easy, but what a joy for them to find a person.

There was something different about the sex this time, and as much as I want to collapse into giggles at the chemistry between us, I think what was different was me. In all my adventures, though so much good, dirty fun was had by all, I could never be fully present in my body. I struggled so hard to reduce sex with men to a transaction so that I wouldn’t be swept up in an inevitable wave of abandonment and hurt. But this? I was here for it, in every sense of the phrase.

He just fit so perfectly, bent me in all the right ways, filled me up in such a joyful, kind, friendly way. When I looked up into his face, he was with me, and when he held me down by my hair and insistently bent to kiss me, I felt the weight of the world lift. This is my bed. This is my body. This is my home, thanks for visiting. I felt grounded and pink, floaty and rooted, and the feeling hasn’t really left since.

Between snuggles, we chatted about music and fascism and other 2017 things. I looked into his deep green eyes a lot, felt silly, and did it some more.

            Since I started writing these posts, I’ve ruled him out and ruled him back in again. I haven’t lost my post-election fear of white men, the fear that somehow I’ll be swept away from The Struggle by the appeal of testosterone and playlists. I haven’t forgotten that he listens to Howard Stern, but I have to admit that The Socialist treated me 100% like a person. He treated my body with respect and admiration, and I can’t dismiss that.

So for now, I’m cautiously optimistic, thinking of an outfit for our next date, and Googling “Stranger Things Valentines.” I can’t ever really be anyone but myself, and I have faith that that will appeal to someone, even if it’s not this time. For now I’m willing to say, who knows?

A Conference with Myself, Part Three: Hugging Heartbreak, Embracing Joy

“Even if you feel overcome with nihilistic thoughts, your body is still alive with an optimism of its own.  Join the thoughts of your body.” –Yoko Ono

            When I first started adventuring way back when, I decided to use cuddle parties as a benchmark for how far I’ve come in inhabiting my body and letting go of grief. The first one, way back in 2012, I spent crying over my struggling marriage and unexpressed bisexuality. The second one, I spent mostly on my own despite the puddle of people, enjoying all of the lovey vibes in a very surprising new self-contained way. This time, I dove all the way in, tapped into my body’s optimism as Yoko suggests, and was blessedly immersed in the easy, soft connections with and among my fellow lovey-dovey souls.

            Still, sadness did need to have its moment. As I lay curled up and relaxed in the afterglow of The Kind Ma’am’s sweet/hurty attention, the loss I’d been trying to deny for months crept in and I just ached for Mr. Makeout Music, for all of the November grief. Since one of my New Year’s resolutions is to ask for help when I need it, I asked the Cuddle Facilitator to disentangle herself from a beautiful-looking embrace so we could talk for a minute. (I’m not a monster, it’s part of her role. But I still feel bad for interrupting snuggles!)

            I told her the story, the story my friends and I are all sick of, and she had an idea: “Let’s try this. I’m going to hold you, and you’re going to just feel it all. Feel it as deeply as you can, and then we’ll see if you’re ready to go back to playing.”

            So she put her arms around me, and as she held me, her heart against mine felt like MM’s heart, from those twice-a-day hugs that I missed so much. The connection I still felt to him was keen and wrenching and real, and I loved it so much. (I still do, though thankfully it feels much less claustrophobic/painful now.)

            I almost cried, but didn’t. I thanked her mistily and went back to the party, joining a cuddle pile with a few nice strangers who’d seemed fun during consent practice.

            I was blissed out and petting the hip of a nice woman from Colorado when (Hooray!) The Professor appeared above me and asked if he could join us. I was spooned in behind the nice woman, and he spooned in behind me, a friendly wall of warmth. I asked if he would pull my hair (or he asked me, I don’t remember) and he was such the perfect balance of gentle and forceful that I whooshed down into subspace, for the first real time in years. The weightless, beatific feeling of being relieved from control, turns out I’d missed it so much. I feel like I’m using the word “blessed” too many times in this story, but it keeps being necessary.

            I asked if I could turn over to face him, and the resulting embrace was one of the most comforting places I’ve ever been. I’m trying superhard not to get carried away here, of course he’s maybe just really good at hugging, but the way he fit with me had a teensy bit of destiny to it.

            At cuddle parties, you’re supposed to look for specific permission every step of the way, and for every request he made, I gave an emphatic “Yes!” especially the “May I kiss you?’ part—the Professor is really, really good at kissing. Just like with the hair pulling, soft and urgent, emphatic and sweet. There’s nothing like being really just thoroughly kissed.

            “Will you put your leg between mine?” He asked and oh yes, I just wanted to find a cuddle party loophole and just give him permission to do every. Single. Thing.

            “May I put my hand of your chest?” He asked, and that meant heart, not boob, and yesyes, it’s time to go ahead and believe in Energy, because this guy has ALL OF IT.

While I was lying there in The Professor’s arms, Mr. Shiny Eyes crawled over and asked for a kiss and I was happy to give it. The three of us chatted until it was time for The Professor to go have a late supper with The Kind Ma’am. I kissed him goodbye and settled into a new cuddle configuration with Mr. Shiny Eyes and the interesting strangers.

Next: More cuddles, more kisses, and saying goodbye lying down.

A Conference with Myself, Part Two: Mr. Shiny Eyes! Cuddle Practice! Hair Pulling!

Before I float back into all the awesomeness, I should backtrack a little bit to say that Mr. Shiny Eyes was one of the guy pals I reached out to after my New Years resolution to remember how to have guy friends. In the thick of divorce grief a couple of years ago, I’d broken things off with him for no good reason, and I was superworried that I’d hurt him—and I had. I’m sad to say that I haven’t always been fully conscious of the fact that I can affect men’s feelings, and I was glad I asked him about it. We had a really nice call a few weeks before the conference, so it only took us a few minutes of being in the same building to get in kiss/cuddle/flirt mode that day. A day where I kiss three worthy men is a good one.

Also, I can’t overstate how much of a difference my extra introvert time made. It had been such a long time since I’d felt like I was on a magical adventure with my cute, slutty self—this was a reunion within a reunion.

Anyway, back to being excited/nervous/fluttery to meet up with The Professor at the Cuddle Party. I got into my PJs and nice warm socks and brought pillows and blankets downstairs to the party room. I was one of the first to arrive, so I made a little nest within the bigger nest of pillows and blankets and I stretched and breathed. The Cuddle Facilitator stamped my hand with a red heart that meant I could come and go as needed.

When The Professor showed up with The Kind Ma’am, I felt surprisingly shy for someone who’d spent the day raising my hand emphatically like a smutty Hermione in the workshops and smooching old and new pals. It was both like a first date and not a like first date at all. If all first dates involved wearing soft pants, (and like an hour of consent practice) the world would truly be a magical place.

Once The Professor was in his plaid flannel pajama pants, he sat down between me and The Kind Ma’am, his arms around both of us. They talked and I snuggled up against his shoulder, feeling the warmth that radiated from him all over. And who should sit down next to me on the other side but Mr. Shiny Eyes! Without much preamble, we started making out gleefully, and I got to feel the glow of being between two beautiful men, of being in a chain, no, a net of soft, snuggly vibes and comfy touch. The perfect mix of kissing and friendship, safety and adventure.

For technical stuff about Cuddle Parties this is a good post:  but basically the first loooooong time of the party was consent practice, practicing asking specifically for what we wanted and saying and getting nos and yesses. (Not doing the things yet, just the asking and answering.) We even had to say no to things that we really, really wanted and yes to things we hated—that way you can really feel what a no or a yes feels like in the body, the Cuddle Facilitator said, and I think it was true. I LOVE consent practice and often wish the world were more Cuddle Party-esque.

When the cuddles finally started in earnest, The Professor was occupied in a sort of two-person-seeming snuggle so I sat down on one of the chairs at the side of the room, breathed and waited to see what would happen next. I felt hesitant, but warm and hopeful. I was so pleased when The Kind Ma’am sat down next to me and asked “Can I put my arm around you?” Yes! I felt protected and friended, taken under her wing. I wondered aloud if she might be willing to pull my hair and guess what! She said yes!

Having been spinstering it for a couple of years, I hadn’t been too sure where I stood with my kinks, though I suspected they were still there. With her, it was as if no time had passed since my last adventures, like I always have been and always will be getting my hair pulled, forever and ever, amen. When she grabbed the hair near the nape of my neck, I let out a fairly un-Cuddle-Party-like groan/purr/wail. I tried really hard (and fairly unsuccessfully) not to disrupt the proceedings with my caterwauling, but no one seemed to mind.

I wound up sitting at her feet, feeling little and adored and silly. She arranged my hair into pigtails, played, pulled, and (after I asked very nicely) called me “Good girl.” Swoon. The Kind Ma’am was perfect and careful and sweet, but I got a little overwhelmed from the burgeoning energy of the room and the new/old/hurty/lovely sensations, so I thanked her and said I needed a little time. I curled up on my own for a bit, letting the relief and happiness and complicated homecoming emotions swirl around me and within me.

Next: Cuddling heartbreak a little, cuddling joy A LOT.

Supersweet Election Love Story: Part Four

It should be known that I’m typing this to Frank Ocean’s Pink + White. I need to pause this chaste and adorable love story to talk about the soaking wet underpants factor. Since Mr. Makeout Music and I first started talking, I’ve been more and more ready for him. I daydreamed a million ways to kiss him, to lock him in my office at the library and have my way with him. I wanted to push him, shove him, pull his hair till he whimpered. I used to be so annoyed by doms’ fondness for young women, but honestly I sort of get it. I want to protect him, coddle him, and make him bow down for me. That all of this squishiness and glimmer and push could have been happening in my heart and pants at a time when pussy grabbing child rapist Donald Trump was in my face all the time feels like a minor miracle and a clear sign of health and resilience.

Anyway, after our lovely and soothing Wednesday, I took Thursday off from the library to go to a #gophandsoffme demonstration—yelling and chanting with enraged ladies made me feel stronger and more centered. The next time I saw Mr. Makeout Music, he was at my other job. I was overjoyed to see him—we were finally alone! Even if I was still at work! The easiness of our library rapport eluded us and we were both nervous as heck. I joked that I was sitting at the register to avoid jumping on him in the bookstore office and he honestly looked like he wanted to hide. I could see how much he was afraid of disappointing me, and I could see all of his youth in his frightened-deer eyes.

When my relief came in at the bookstore, I told her that I was taking a LONG lunch, and she said “Take your time, he’s cute.” She knew I was bananas about him because she’d been witness to all of my semi-fretful putting on of lipstick between jobs.

 I’d made us a nice picnic—I figured we should be spoiled since America had just completely screwed us over. I liked getting a little Donna Reed Night for him.

My plan was to take him to my favorite spot on campus, a fountain with this carving: “Pause always to appreciate goodness and beauty.” On the way there, I told him how special he is, how many men I’ve known who wouldn’t have been willing to spend this much clothes-on time, wouldn’t be willing to tell me all the things and listen to all of my things. While he usually basks in praise, this time it made him flustered.

Still, I took his hand as we walked. I’d wanted to hold his hand for so long (settling instead for lingering high-fives) but it didn’t go as I’d hoped. He called me by my library name (Ms. plus my first name, not unappealing in the dom sense…) and said I was making him nervous.

“Should I stop being so…me?”

“No, I would never want you to not be you. I’m just shy.”

I joked that I could walk on the other side of the sidewalk if that helped, but he let go of my hand and started talking. He said that even though he’s not with his son’s mom, they still live together and he isn’t ready for something new. He said he’d never experienced something like this before, that he didn’t want to lose the friendship, etc. I’ve written the same story a million times, but I’d call this my favorite.

It had been such a very long week. It was time to be brave and wise and let him take care of himself, but I didn’t want him to leave. He didn’t want to leave either.

In Which I Realize I Am Really Lucky to Have Had My Adventure Years, Part Two

The more we walked through the fountains and gardens and woods lit in hypnotizing and artful ways, the more playful we became. He dared me to push him up against a tree and I giggled at first and then shoved him with all my strength. He exhaled sharply, pulled my arms up so they were around his shoulders, and gave me a kiss that made me feel as if I was flying and falling at once.

We made out on many benches in that garden, but the last and best was on an unlit path behind the trees where a lightshow of birds taking flight was being projected. (I have to be awesome at life to have lived that sentence.)

He kept trying to feel me up, even though I pushed his hands away over and over—we may have been in a secluded spot, but it was still a family park. I may have been ridiculously, dizzily turned on, but I still wanted respect. I told him about wanting to be valued for my whole self, and he said, don’t you notice me enjoying every inch of you? Charming and clueless at once.

We wrestled a little, and he caught my wrists behind my back with one hand, bent me forward by the hair with the other hand, and had his rough way with my nipples though my pretty satin floral dress. I let out a groan and a “Huh!”—it was spot-on and not-okay at once. After just a moment, a deep “Stop.” came up from my belly and he let me gather myself. “Good boy,” I said, and patted him on the head.

As we walked out of the woods, chemistry-drunk and holding hands, the lights, the music, the flowers, it all became too much. I couldn’t take any more sensations. I was hungry and in need of coffee, so we got directions to a nearby diner and I agreed to follow him.

I put on The National’s High Violet and was prepared for more dreaminess, but also was headachey and having trouble concentrating. We got lost on the way to the diner and I ended up following him down dark country roads. The sky was full of stars and it was the week of the Perseid Meteor Shower, and I hoped to see one, but didn’t. We did see some leaping deer. We were lost for a long while, a good forty-five minutes. My headache got worse and I had the sensation that I was following someone who did not know where he was going. I found out later it was a while before he even checked his GPS—why didn’t I check mine?

When we made it to the main road, the only thing we could find open was a Hooters. I had the thought that if we ever became a thing, this would be a funny part of the story of how we got together. I am utterly amazed by my brain’s ability to hope, to let romance bloom, and I hope that doesn’t change.

I ordered cake as an appetizer and he had Key Lime pie. We fed each other and I drank weak coffee and we both felt sad that the waitress felt compelled to address us in a baby voice.

He asked me out for a fortnight from then (He has the kids every other weekend and had apparently not yet discovered the existence of babysitters…) and I agreed that that should be when I come to his house and jump in his pool. And then, alas, we got onto the subject of our exes. His divorce was fresher than mine and he talked about her in such a demeaning way. He told me she was depressed and I immediately suspected that he had made her that way. He even called her “dense.” I said, “I don’t like this. You can’t talk about her this way.” I kind of accused him of gaslighting her, and I’m pretty sure I wasn’t wrong.

We left the restaurant and sat in my car to talk. “I really like you, but you’re scaring me.” I said, and he kept talking, about money and housework and the ins and outs of insurance. I’m not a small talk person so I do tend to learn all kinds of things about people, but I laid down the law and said this was by no means second-date talk. I said that I could just see her, trying so hard to please him and never getting it right, I said I could see the same thing happening to me and I never wanted to be in that position again. We kissed gently and hugged for a long time. I was horrified and put off but I also didn’t want to let go. He was very hard to let go of.

He got in his car and we headed toward our respective homes. There was no reason for me to follow him anymore. I turned Mumford and Sons’ “I Will Wait” the way up, sped up in as tough a way as a Yaris can manage, and passed him. I was pretty sure that was it.

Next time: And yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Veto and a Happy Accident, Part Three: All the Closure

What I felt when I saw Steampunk Guy come up the stairs was what I always suspected I would: pure joy and the hope that he was as happy to see me. He looked at me like I was up to no good and then we both smiled big. I kinda flung myself into his arms and oh sweet halleluiah, he hugged me ass-first, one check in each big strong hand, squeezing hard. He was, in the traditional sense, happy to see me, huge and hard against my front. My arms around him tight, I buried my face in his neck and breathed him in, felt a kiss on the back of my head, on my neck, hands in my hair and ohpalthisisdefinitelyhappening looked into his face, grabbed the back of his hair and kissed him hard, two months worth of kiss, all the things we didn’t get to do yet in a moment of forgetting my friends were there, that the party was there and we were in fact blocking the only way in.

I pulled away laughing and said “That’s not how I thought that would go…”

I got his rope out of my purse and explained that I’d sort of seen it as a gesture of closure. He ran his hand over my bra, pressing my nipple and squeezing hard like he owned the place. I closed my eyes and felt happy and dizzy and wet and then we made out some more.

“So much closure…” he said in a faux-wistful voice.

“Oh, I know, I’m totally moving on,” I said, while basically devouring his face.

“Should we do some stuff?” I asked.

“…Maybe…” He has this romance-novel-character way of being charmingly noncommittal, even when he’s clearly excited.

There’s a half-walled area near the bar where the fireplay usually takes place- spectators can lean on the wall and look in. He went over there, found an empty spot behind a suspension rig, and casually watched the fire while I made my way over.

“Just hanging out, mingling…”

I looked around and said “Eh, I know enough of these people,” and turned to face him, stepping up onto the base of the rig so that I was taller than him in my heels (The pretty shoes are the real heroes of this story, I think. I just love them so.) and kissed him some more. I felt like a sex goddess movie star, all gorgeous and happy (I keep saying happy) and climbing all over this beautiful friend who was for some reason letting me have my way with him. I felt like I’d won the play-party lottery.

We joked (Well, I was joking) about the possibility of fucking:

“I do have a car, I’m just sayin…’”

“You suuuure do!”

“And we never got to that whole anal thing…”

“I know! That is the part that needs the most closure!”

But this isn’t that kind of story.

He said some incorrigible thing and I smacked him across the face, inspiring him to grab one of my pigtails hard and yank my head all the way to the side, then grab hold of the other one and kiss me while my head couldn’t move. Did I already use the word happy too many times? It just felt so good. He yanked me toward the floor until I was crouched at his feet. His hand went up my neck and over my mouth and he left it there, soft and warm and where I’d wanted it to be since July.

There’s never been a lot of subspace going on when I play with him—it’s always been more of a sex-friendship than a power exchange—but there at his feet with his hand over my mouth I felt a deep calm, a quiet descended over me. It was an oasis, a break from every single thing. I felt safe and adored and adorable and childlike, at peace. I kissed his hand and rested there, content.

He yanked me back up, losing a button from his jeans in the process—“Must be all the closure!” I said.

I turned around and stuck my ass out for him, leaned my hands against the rig. He smacked and squeezed, smacked and squeezed, and of course I wished his fingers could go all the way in everywhere. So little of this was about pain, it was the opposite of my last awesome trip to the dungeon. He plays more like a lover than like a Dom, it’s about pleasure much more than sadism (except for always wanting to be rough on the boobs, grrr) so I was cooing rather than screaming, and there would be absolutely no emotional hangover the next day.

Next: Ropes! And the girl with the “Awesome” tattoo.

Kissed, Punched, and a Little Sadistic, Part Three: Yes, I’m a Cuddle Slut

Pretty Slave was now the one kneeling next to me on the (regular) bench. Her skirt was pulled all the way up and her black lace panties were glorious. She really has the most amazing ass, you should see it. Cute Master spanked her and I loved the sound of her voice as she cried out.

Between me, Pretty Slave, and Winggirl One, the turned-on smell was incredible. It was a cloud of girl, and it made me feel so close to my friends.

You might remember that I spanked a young lady at the Regular Dungeon night before this one, and afterwards she led me over to show me how big her boyfriend’s hands are? Said boyfriend (to be gleefully named The Puncher in the next post…) came over to chat and I asked if he might have time to flog me later. He said he didn’t have any tools with him, but we agreed that he probably didn’t need them, with hands like those. (The poor guys on this blog, so often reduced to a pair of hands…) As we kept chatting, his age came up and I realized I was hitting on a 20-year-old. And then I realized I didn’t care. His girlfriend was finishing up a scene and looking like she might need some attention, so I told him I’d come and find him later.

Cute Master told me it was my turn to kneel down in front of him, so I happily did. My face was smushed against the wall and he made me stick out my ass as much as I could. He was slower with me this time, more deliberate. He ran his hands over me affectionately between smacks and I realized he does have nice soft hands. I reminded him about the hair-pulling and he did it, pushing and pulling ecstatic adrenaline out of me.

My favorite part was the after time—I snuggled up to Pretty Slave, Cute Master put his arm around both of us, and we snuggled like a family of kittens. Sometimes a hand would feel me up and I’d be unsure of whose it was—that was the best feeling. They loosened up the top of her corset and with an “Is this okay?’ I reached in and played with her lovely soft bosoms, wanting to put them in my mouth but unsure if that was crossing a party rule line.

It was so comforting and peaceful laying there in their arms, a little oasis in the middle of a crazy world.

I like them, everybody. I really value them as friends and play-partners. Spending the evening at the dungeon with them made me feel connected and cared for in a new way. It made me feel more aligned with myself and made all of my friendships seem easier and deeper somehow. Maybe it was just the (as yet) rare feeling of getting to fully express being bi, to really start actively loving my orientation. Sheesh, it’s about time.

“You really are a cuddle slut,” she said.

“No! I wouldn’t cuddle with just anybody!”

“But you’d do this all night, wouldn’t you?”

I shrugged and nodded and went back to nuzzling and smooching her.

Life is tricky for me lately, ecstatic at times but also tiring and messy. I’m so grateful to my friends for being such a nice place to rest.

Next: I hold a girl down, run away, and get bent over the bar.

Kissed, Punched, and a Little Sadistic, Part Two: A Rope Daydream and My Winggirl Has to Go Buy Panties

Friends, the day might come before too long when I might learn the knots and start tying up good, sweet boys. As I sat around with Pretty Slave and Cute Master snuggling and watching the crowd, such a cute scene unfolded on the bench across from us.  They were a youngish couple, clearly smitten with each other, and the girl had the boy all done up in fairly tight but mostly decorative ropes. To add to the heartstring-tugging, their ropes were pink.

She pinched and prodded him some, but mostly she kissed and caressed him. The rope bottom guy reminded me a little bit of CBATP—same scruffy-but-sweet face, similar deer-eyes. Something about this bottom’s docile, adoring expression just woke something up in me, and I started to understand what was behind the expressions I’d sometimes enjoyed seeing on Doms’ faces: proprietary and protective, sweet and whole. Because ropes stir up such deep emotions, I feel like that kind of play might be a ways off, but it’s so cool to have felt those things.

I think it’s important right now not to over-identify with these feelings, but just try and slow down and experience them. I’m such an unformed cloud of energies and urges, I just need to sort of go with them without attaching or trying to pin myself down to any one identity or role. Not-attaching is so not my strong suit, but still!

Winggirl One pulled me out of my rope-inspired reverie when she came over with her CVS bag. She doesn’t wear undies and you need them to play at the Regular Dungeon. The resourcefulness of the moment cracked me up. Plus, she gave me the rest of the pack.

I stayed in my seat and she bent over in front of me, pulling down her pants. I reached up and pulled her shirt up most of the way, just for the sense of power pulling her out of her clothes gave me. I spanked her for a while, finding it easy to get a good rhythm going with so many spanks going on around me.

She wanted to kneel down so we switched spots. Kneeling on the bench, her face was kind of smushed into the wall. (I’d enjoy the same feeling shortly thereafter…) Cute Master showed me the best way to pull her hair, and then he and I high-fived. I think this is my record for most high-fives in a dungeon night!

When we finished, I gave her a big hug and told her she’d done an excellent job. She returned the compliment.

While being the spanker is still not the thing I go bonkers for, I like that I can give my subby friends a little extra fun in their evening. I also like the feeling of strength that comes out in me when I do it—I think the power-surge that came from topping served me very well throughout the rest of the evening. Also! Sexy arms are one of my goals and it was quite the workout!

Next: I watch, I get hit, I hold a girl down, and so on, and so on…

First Date With Steampunk Guy, Part Four: His Huge Life Force

In the course of writing this, I’ve realized that I’ve had an awful lot of first-date sex for someone who keeps saying she’s not casual. I guess the two things aren’t mutually exclusive, but it’s time to acknowledge that some of the things I want fall outside of my lovely-dovey dreams. Some of my favorite adventures have been off to the side of romance and some have been nowhere near it. I’m pretty much in crushtown about Steampunk Guy, but not in the same way that I am for my more romance-oriented partners. Maybe I just want to climb all over him a whole bunch more.

Anyway, back to the couch. As we snuggled, I told him that I was really enjoying the enormous amount of Chi thrumming through him—he thought “You have a huge life force.” was hilarious and worthy of a Fet status, but to his credit he did not stop and update. Anyway, the man has a lot of oomph, and I think it’s contagious.While we were cuddling and chatting, I felt this amazing warmth come over me; heat, well-being, life just simmered through me—he must’ve felt something like it too, because on went the condom. 

He took me by the hair and pushed my head toward his dick, pressing and thrusting--I believe one would call this getting fucked in the face. I pushed him down my throat as far as I could, taking as much gagging as I could stand. I squeezed, licked, sucked. It turns out that the taste of a regular comdom’s okay, but I did miss the taste of the thing itself—it’s a little harder to know what to do with a blow job without the taste to make me all ravenous for it. But I was ravenous for it in other ways.

He put me on my hands and knees and pushed in from behind, hitting new spots inside me and bringing forth more yowling. I got pushed down over the edge of the couch so that my face was almost on the floor. I tried to stifle the screams with a couch cushion.

Then he turned me over, put my legs over his shoulders, and went in so deep that it hurt again, but I decided to take the pain—I really didn’t want him to ever stop. His expression was angry/gleeful, especially when my screams turned into something like sobs—no tears came but it was close enough to crying to put him over the edge. (I know I got mad at Bill way back when for getting turned on by tears. I’m not sure why this is different.)  Again, he came and just kept fucking me until I absolutely couldn’t take it anymore.

During afterglow/aftercare The National started to seem too moody to I put the songs back on shuffle. I was going to skip “You Get What You Give” (given to me by a dear friend whose road mixes have no rhyme or reason except that they are in alphabetical order) based on its general not-hotness, but he liked it so much that I left it on. He went on so ebulliently about the movie-montage moments in life that I have no choice but to love the song now. If we were a thing, it’d be our song.

Some of the things he said made me think that night was a one-off, and ever since Mr. Popular I’ve assumed that overbooked guys might see it as a one night thing. I guess since he texted the next day to see if I’m interested in his partner as well there’s a possibility that more things might happen.

We kissed some more, had pie, and then all of a sudden he was ready to go. He did have a pretty long drive back but I felt a little sad about how quickly he had his shoes on. If there’s a next time, I think I’ll ask for praise and more snuggles. I felt a lonely ache between the time he left and the time Sweetie got home.

However, over the next few days the lonely ache gave ways to such a wonderful feeling of confidence and centeredness—my favorite side-effect of submission. There’s something good there. I don’t know what the heck to do with it, if anything, but it’s good.

The Sparkly Festival of Awesomeness, Part 6: Hot Sex, Hot Hand-Holding

As I’ve been writing my way through this story, I’m conscious of being the least experienced person in the tent, at least when it comes to this kind of sex, and trying to keep things in perspective. I’m thinking about oxytocin and other bonding chemicals and how they might be the source of these lovely deep feelings of connection. When I write about it, I’m agnostic about energies and such, but in the moment, none of those thoughts or doubts were relevant at all. I was, for those few hours, a true believer in magic, men, myself, and everything else, like a horny mystic on ecstasy.

So back to where I was, snuggled between two radiantly warm guys, one-in-each-hand, hands in my hair, on my back, everywhere. Legs intertwined. Kissing, kissing, kissing. I was enveloped in the smell of them—one smelled fresh, the other, more dark and musky. Both smells made me ravenous for them.

We paused for a moment to go over our testing situations, of course. The guys geeked out for a while about STI science facts, and then it was back to the snuggles.

Mr. Shiny Eyes put on a condom and a glove. He slid his hand in and I was as wet as I’ve ever been. His fingers jolted my inside awake and alert and every nerve ending lit up like Christmas. I wanted so badly for him to fuck me. There was a little fuss about positions (remember, we’re on an air mattress, and one that could use some inflating at that) and he ended up deciding to lay back and have me climb on.

“But I’m a bottom…” I complained only a tiny bit.

“Okay, then I’m making you be on top.”

Friends, it had been since last August. I’ve had plenty of adventures, as you know, but for whatever reason it’s been much easier to get a guy to spank me, flog me, tie me up, set me on fire, drag a knife over my (pajamaed) clit, etc—for some reason this part of things has been elusive.

I was so, so happy to have Mr. Shiny Eyes inside me. All of him is so smooth and assured—his arms, his kisses, his penis. As soon as I straddled him and pushed him in, waves of delight sparked up inside me and I started making ridiculous sounds. As the Mayor of Kittentown’s neighbors would attest, I can never contain my joy when a man is inside me. I am super, super loud, and since I’m a showoff, I was glad to feel like the whole festival could hear me.

Since up until this point, I’d only Googled two-(or ten, or a hundred) guys-one-girl, and so even though everybody knows life isn’t like porn I feel compelled to talk about the contrast. In videos, the men always talk around the girl, either egging on the other men or talking about practical things like which way to bend her. Sometimes they might as well be moving a couch, for all the interaction they have with the lady. Of course, that objectification is fun to watch, but would never be fun to do.

This was the complete opposite of that in every way. Even as I was being bent into ways I didn’t know I could bend, (thank goodness for yoga) I felt like they were both so there for me, like they were being so generous, that we were all working as a team to get what we needed.

As Mr. Shiny Eyes fucked me, Mr. Sweetheart was kindly there to help, kissing me, pulling my hair, giving my ass the occasional helpful smack. But my favorite, the part of the day that I revisit the most, is when I reached out and he just took my hand. That hand-holding was so tender that it might have been a friendship oath. That support is a magic thing to walk through my days with.

But back to Mr. Shiny Eyes. After I first met him, back at that conference, I asked around and folks told me his dance card is really full—and no wonder! He moved in me like an expert. I kept saying/panting “Oh, you’re so perfect, no wonder you’re so popular.” He kept going until I exploded into fireworks, and we all piled up again for snuggles.

Next time: Pillow talk and being held down a lot.

The Sparkly Festival of Awesomeness, Part Five: I May Have Been Born for This

“I’m starting to wonder if I should rethink my workshop plans,” said Mr. Shiny Eyes. “Should I?”

“Um, yes.”

I called Sweetie and asked her to pick me up a little later than we’d planned. She’d gotten us a hotel room nearby and I was excited to end the day snuggling her, but for now I really wanted to see what would happen. (As I write this, it happens to be a week where I haven’t seen her enough and I miss her, so this paragraph gives me a little wistful feeling…)

We decided to go back to Mr. Sweetheart’s tent. There was some talk of him putting ropes on me (Yay!) but Mr. Shiny Eyes negotiated for my arms to be free. “There are some things I want to do where she’ll need to have her arms free.”

At the point, it occurred to me that things were probably going all the way to PIV sex, (Sex festival! I know! Keep forgetting!) which is an everyday thing to most people and which I sorely needed. It’s still such a big deal to me because I haven’t had that much experience with it in the past decade, so I had to stop and check in with myself to see if it would be okay. And hooray! It was!

So there I was, walking up a grassy hill on the most gorgeous sunny day, past all kinds of smiling pagan folk in various states of undress, with a cute guy on either side of me. Not sure why such a moment would bring out more imperiousness, but I said:

“Wait, why am I walking with two dudes and still carrying this heavy backpack?”

True to his pseudonym, Mr. Sweetheart took the bag.

Then I said “Now what would happen if I tried to run away?” and took off up the hill. What happened was, they chased me and spanked me as I ran, and we all laughed, and then they had to tell me I was running in the wrong direction and steer me towards the cabin and tents.

Mr. Shiny Eyes went off to wash his stuff, since he’d already had sex once that afternoon. So thoughtful.

Mr. Sweetheart and I went into someone’s communal cabin to use the restroom. Too-turned-on-to-pee is a good feeling, but is also annoying when there’s a whole bunch of stuff I’m in a hurry to start doing/having done to me. After I washed my hands I saw that there were no paper towels so I wiped them on the back of his shirt—that got me in some very nice trouble and I got pushed up against the sink. Jeez I wish I could feel his (your) hands in my hair right now.

Mr. Shiny eyes returned all fresh and clean and we all made out for a while on the railing of the cabin porch. I felt like a prize when people saw us. Then it was time to go in the tent.

The tent that Ms. and Mr. Sweetheart were sharing with some others was a store that sold..dresses, maybe? and had a big sleeping quarters in the back. There were three big air mattresses all nicely made up and lots of clothes and gear all around. They led me to the mattress on the far right of the tent and I lay down first—it was exactly the kind of happy that I get sunbathing at the nude beach, only sexier.

Is it possible to undress soulfully? I watched Mr. Sweetheart strip off his shirt, his kilt, his undies. He looked so vulnerable and sincere.

I know I talked about whatever-the-straight-version-of-bears-is as being my type, but these two aren’t that, and they’ve kind of given me a taste for fit-and-strong.

They lay down beside me, Mr. Sweetheart on the left and Mr. Shiny Eyes on the right. We held each other, kissed, and then they did something I’ve fantasized about my whole life—each of them took a nipple in his mouth, sucked and played. Complete, deep warmth flooded through me, and I felt cared-for and at peace in a way that I’ve never felt before. My moans of pleasure were insufficient to express the bliss I was feeling, so I guess that’s why God made blog posts.

The Sparkly Festival of Awesomeness, Part Four: The Hair-Pulling Contest

Friends, in my everyday life, when I’m not running off to sexy festivals and writing about it, I’m a teacher in my very first year. As any teacher will tell you, the first year is kind of a nightmare. Yes, there are many happy and fulfilling moments, but also bucketloads of trial and error that comes down mostly on the “error” side, mistakes that make my soul hurt, and mountains of self-doubt and shame.

I’m telling you this so you’ll understand what the sheer rightness of this story is doing for me. I may be stumbling and sniffling determinedly through my professional life, but the way I got myself exactly what I needed that day in the woods gives me hope that I will someday float myself through it into confidence and grace. Plus, it gives me something nice to daydream about when I should be grading papers.

So back to the kissing. I’m not sure how Mr. Sweetheart and I got from that sweet cake flower kiss to him yanking the bejeezus out of my hair, but I’m thinking I probably instigated it. Sincere and soulful as he is, Mr. Sweetheart has a delicious mean streak when it comes to happy pain. As we kept on kissing, he reached his hand up into the back of my hair and pulled insistently, making me feel helpless/giddy/elated. The adrenaline pushed up through me, I groaned and laughed.

Snarling a little, he dragged me across the pavilion and the “She” half of Sheandhim got adorably concerned: “Why are you dragging my friend around?”

By way of answering, he angled my face so that she could see my expression. “And...she loves it. Okay.”

So on top of the fact that I was lucky enough to have this happen to me, I also won the friend lottery by having her check on me.

And ohboy, I DID love it.

It should be said that as I write this I’m not sure of the order of things—the timeline slips away a little as happens in regards to magical days. But I do know that while we were milling around sampling obscure liquors, I had maybe the best idea I’ve ever had. I told my two kissing-pals that they should have a hair-pulling contest, and they obliged. Ms. Sweetheart held my glasses for me and Mr. Sweetheart went first--was very unsweetheartlike. He pulled my hair down so hard that I was forced to my knees. I loved making a spectacle of us, doing something so nicely violent in such safe, lovey-dovey surroundings. I think I have him an eight.

When Mr. Shiny Eyes had his turn, it was more like dancing. Holding the hair at the nape of my neck, he steered my body this way and that, eventually into a precipitous dip. It was a very princessy feeling.

“Well, (Mr. Shiny Eyes) has finesse, but (Mr. Sweetheart) is not afraid to really hurt me. They went back and forth, getting stronger and snarlier. I forget which one of them I called “Sir” first, but they sure both deserved the title. They realized after a while that I wasn’t giving them tens because then the game would be over, but eventually it was and things got much more makey-outy. Mr. Shiny Eyes helped me try a delicious elderberry something by drinking it first and kissing it into my mouth. It was dreamy and soft and tasted like all the spring goodness. He kept kissing me and kissing me until I asked for some spanks.

He told me to lean against a post on the side of the pavilion, so I did. It had some nails in it so I had to be careful. The spanking soon went back to kissing, and as he held me there against the railing, his hands started to wander, as did mine. He played with my nipples, which felt like they’d been waiting for him all along. Likewise my hand had been waiting for his fantastically hard cock.

I noticed Mr. Sweetheart hovering off to the side, so I said “What are you doing over there?” He came close so that I could put my arm around him and I said “Can I?’ and when I got the okay (More like the “Can you what?” but still…) I ran my hands over the front of his kilt while still playing with Mr. Shiny Eyes and kissing the heck out of both of them.

And one-in-each-hand is of course so very very much better in real life than it is in search terms, dears. I felt like a millionaire. Like a goddess. Like a millionaire goddess with the wettest hoo-ha in the entire known universe.

Next: It’s possible I was born for this.