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.

First Single-Girl Dungeon Night, Part One: I Spanked a Girl (And it Was Kind of Okay)

One of the reasons that I put off divorce is that I felt like Sweetie was my armor—I thought walking around the scene without her would make me too vulnerable, that I’d be too needy to make any more connections, but it had the complete opposite effect—I ended up feeling like a nearly-naked superhero, invincible even without her ropes to hold me together.

I had three goals for the night:

1. Talk to people and get to know them better.

2. Practice confidence.

3. Get some catharsis if it feels healthy.

I still felt a bit skittish about the car, so I took the bus over. I put on a respectable dress because I almost always run into my students around the neighborhood. In my suitcase I carried my purple velvet-and-fleece blanket (in case I needed to give myself aftercare) a little black and white nightgown, and the shoes I bought for my first scene with The Man. Among my many small accomplishments was the fact that the shoes were redeemed.

Back in June when I decided to reenter the scene, I’d asked Old-Timey Guy and Punk Rock Girl to be my protectors, so I had the extra security of knowing they’d be looking out for me. That’s a nice feeling. I always wanted protectors and they are good ones.

I’d gotten myself added to the end of HempRopes’s dance card. I figured that was a longshot and probably just an opportunity to practice the useful skill of waiting confidently, but if it did happen I thought suspension would be a good way to give myself a rest. I stopped playing with HempRopes last year because it felt too casual, but it didn’t feel like that would be a problem now.

When I walked in, the party was in full swing (or full spank, I guess.) I immediately wanted about eleven things to happen to me. Before I even put my stuff down, I got a bunch of hugs and knew that I was completely at home. I changed into my nightgown and heels, and Isweartogod this happened:

A very pretty young lady that I was kind of acquainted with stopped mid-chat and said:

 “Just so you know, this? Right here?” (Gesturing to her corseted self) “You have full access. You can do whatever you want.”

I hadn’t even gotten a drink yet. I promised to come find her. At the bar, I ran into Old-Timey Guy, who pulled up the back of my nightie and spanked me while I ordered my glass of wine. (Actually not so much a glass as a plastic cup, but still.) I asked him if he had any advice for my newly single self.

“Just let it all go.” he said. Okay Sir, if by letting it go you mean writing seven million paragraphs and also maybe some lists, then sure. But I didn’t say that, because in the moment I actually felt like I might be someone who could let things go.

“Tonight you have to do three naughty things,” he said, “And this doesn’t count.” He proceeded to tickle me until I asked again why he’s the only one who’s allowed to do that.

Unfortunately for the purposes of writing about Naughty Thing #1, I didn’t remember to ask the girl if I could write about her and I couldn’t find her online to ask, so I won’t go into detail. It felt hot and pretty and fun and definitely cathartic (And sweaty, jeez! Tops work hard!) and I loved that I was making her happy, but in the end (ha) it just wasn’t my cup of tea. But! Definitely something to be proud of trying.

She went back to her boyfriend and I stood back and watched, seeking inspiration for Naughty Thing #2.

Next: Some reunions, plastic wrap, and a vibrator fit for Judy Jetson.

Dungeon Love and a Happy Anniversary

This place where you are right now, God circled

on a map for you.

Wherever your eyes and arms and heart can move

against the earth and sky, the Beloved has bowed

there,

the Beloved has bowed there knowing you were

coming.

-Hafiz

This week was the 11-year anniversary of Sweetie and me getting together, of the night she told me, okay, she’d give it a try, and that I would be her first partner of any kind—it’s a lot of responsibility, and I took it, and I am so glad. She and I have had rocky times this past year, and in some ways our relationship is still in limbo, but we have a lot to celebrate, too.

Last Saturday was the holiday party at our regular dungeon—just the phrase “our regular dungeon” just fills me with pride. We missed the dinner part of the festivities because some dear friends were having a going-away potluck, but we got there early enough that the crew was still setting up the furniture.

Everyone looked so pretty and festive—lots of fancy red dresses, formal kilts, shiny studded gauntlets. There were cute little glowy candle lamps everywhere, and a Christmas tree. When we arrived, Old-Timey Guy was shrink wrapping a girl in a red and white plastic corset.

HempRopes was there with his beautiful wife, and meeting her made me wish that I hadn’t sworn off him—she’s strong, vivacious, and smiley, just the kind of lady I wouldn’t mind being tied to—oh well, maybe someday.

I think my decision to swear off casual play was a good one, though. Instead of resenting HempRopes for having a long line of ladies, I felt happy love for the good time that they were all about to have.

Old-Timey guy asked if I would like another star mark from him and looked taken aback when I said “I’ll think about it.” He’s still calling me his “little girl” but I felt distinctly like a woman, and I’m excited that I’m reserving my right to play as one.

Sweetie and I set up our scene in a triangle with the people we love to play next to: Old-Timey Guy and Punk Rock Girl were on the St. Andrew’s cross to our right, and Hot Switch Couple were getting their bag of tricks ready the next kneeling bench over. We all hugged and smiled about the prospect of being near each other.

It was one of the happiest nights of my life. Sweetie made me feel like a rope-covered princess. She ties me to a kneeling bench and figured out how to spank nice and firmly without hurting. I don’t always go all the way to a subby place with her, but this time I did—I felt like I was getting spanked inside a glowy pink cloud of well-being. As I was spacing out to the comfy rhythms, I noticed that Punk Rock Girl was getting flogged to the exact same beat—it was such a lovely feeling of oneness.

I knelt there giggling with joy, mostly naked in from of my friends, just like I love to be. I am so proud of the life that Sweetie and I have created in the last year, the way we have made a space for ourselves in the world where we can be in love and hot and safe and in front of everybody. Even though I’m often distracted by what’s missing from my life, I have to admit that this new life is like a miracle.

I’m Not Angry, I’m Just Disappointed: Age, Déjà vu, and a Little Metablogging

A few weeks ago, two events conspired to make it really hard to have any faith in this process. I wrote a little bit about it here but I find myself needing to return to the topic. Part of what inspired the sadness of this post was HempRopes, the talented top who suspended me last month.

After we played together, he sent me the picture and let me know that I’d been a vey good bottom and that he’d play again any time, so I asked if we could make some plans. He responded enthusiastically, telling me it was time to meet his wife so that I could be vetted to come over and play at their house. I let him know that I was a ways away from private play but that it was a possibility for the future. The exchange was punctuated with more than a few smiley emoticons on my part.

He said that his November schedule was up in the air but that he’d let me know. I saw his RSVP on a mid-month event but hadn’t heard from him so I planned to go and play with Sweetie.

I should have had a blindfold on. We were at a very sociable venue and I was distracted from our scene. People kept coming over to say hi and for the most part I didn’t mind it until my friend Bubbly Sub came over and gave me a happy naked rope hug, glowing and bragging about how much fun she’d just had with HempRopes. She was all buzzy and glittery with happiness, and it should have just made me happy, but it didn’t. I don’t know why their having played bothered me so much, except that I couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d chosen her first because she is 24, more pliable, more agreeable than I am. There was no way I could ever get chosen if those were the desired traits.

The hurt brought me completely out of my scene with Sweetie—I was struck by the sheer empty futility of standing there naked trying to attract the attention of men, and most of the time failing, at least in the long term. I know much more happy and healthy uses for my nakedness, but in that moment of despair there were none to be had. I felt guilty for interrupting our fun, but I had to get some care and go home.

There was no offer from HempRopes to really decline, since he’d clearly forgotten that I’d asked for plans, but simply to hold myself to my decision, I sent him a note with the heading “Not Cut Out for Bunnying.” He responded that he certainly had had no intention to hurt me, but that he’d put out a call (on FL) and she’d responded. He said “I tend to get myself a queue when I put the call out, so I go in a “first come, first served” order.”

So BS was chosen not for her youth or cheer, but simply for her ability to sit on FetLife and wait for someone to offer to play. So in a way I guess it was her youth—no adult, professional woman would have time for that nonsense. She was, in the truest sense of the word, easy—a thing I will never be.

I didn’t say any of that, of course, I just sent a polite note that a queue wouldn’t feel right to me. He wished me luck and I crossed off another possibility, stunned by the callousness involved in thinking that he saw both me and BS as nothing but a take-a-number bodies waiting to entertain him.

The second blow to my sense of hope came a few days later, after I’d already posted about my general worries and emptiness. I’d had a good playnight with the Man About Town, and in my post-scene glow, I’d accidentally sent a tweet about it to him instead of Twitter. It was a silly mistake and since it had a hashtag in it, he took it as an invitation to look up this blog, even though I’d made it clear that that was considered 29^th base—I wanted us to get to know each other better before I trusted him to read it without trying to control it.

After ONE scene, either he thought we’d achieved that level of intimacy or he didn’t care.

I felt trapped. I found myself workshopping emotions I hadn’t had enough time to even think about yet, things it would seem INSANE to share with someone new, especially someone I was casually playing with. He apologized for “leaving marks that scared (Sweetie)” and it felt like this awful, creepy, invasion into my married life. I would have expressed concerns eventually, on my own terms, but having those insights taken from me felt awful.

Still, it was a mistake from a silly mistweet and the whole sex-blogger thing IS a tricky situation. If he would have apologized, I still wouldn’t have played with him again, but I wouldn’t have been quite so bitter. Instead, he was self-righteous, saying “I’m not going to apologize for reading something that is basically public property, that anyone could just stumble upon.”

Which would be a fair point if I hadn’t ASKED HIM NOT TO. I keep coming back to that:

I asked him not to and he did it anyway.

After one scene, he felt entitled to renegotiate our terms without me, to take what he thought he was entitled to, whether I agreed or not.

It is supremely disheartening, that even the most new-agey, married-to-a-high-priestess, referring-to-the-moon-as-She guy would still feel entitled to my inner life after such a tiny amount of time.

It’s enough to make me rethink my attraction to D/s situations. While I do of course physically enjoy being dominated, I think I’ve emotionally used dominance as a place-holder for things I’m not sure I can find or deserve, traits I believed in a year ago—ideals of masculinity that I see in friends and the husbands of friends but not in the men who are interested in me—courage, chivalry, integrity, emotional honesty and strength.

So far, my experience of dominant men has been one of cold cowardice—from Bill wishing simply for a chokeable fuck doll, to Fireguy thinking that my expressing a point of view about my own experience was going to wreck his entire existence, to HempRopes and his “First come, first served.” I started with a fear that that I could never be what men want, that a man could never be interested in my whole self, and I have found character after character to confirm those fears.

I worry a lot about being perceived as a man-hating harpy, and I’m sure that M.A.T. can commiserate with Fireguy to that effect, but I am really, really trying to be flexible and kind. I don’t want to have such a stunted view of men. I want to let someone real into my life; I’m just totally at a loss about how to get there.

A Whole Bunch of Firsts Part Two: Suspension!!

After my flogging fun with Old-Timey Guy, I put my PJs back on and found a spot to stand and watch everybody play. I hovered near a rope-acquaintance of mine, who happens to share a name with the most vexing character on this blog, so I’ll just refer to him as HempRopes. I’d watched him before in rope class and admired his style, and earlier last Saturday night he’d offered to tie me up if he got time.

HempRopes was spotting a young man who was doing self-suspension. People who do ropes on themselves are my heroes; I’d really like to learn that for myself someday.

I was hoping I might be next after HR’s spotting task, and I was!

He gave me the option of clothes or not clothes, guess which I chose? I left my little pajama shorts on but of course opted for toplessness.

HR is kind of my type, stocky and vaguely nerdish. He had very warm hands as he basket-wove the ropes around my thighs. My favorite part of getting the harness on was when he said “Put your arms around my neck” and picked me up by the thigh ropes to make sure they were adjusted properly—I squealed.

I kept getting distracted watching Old-Timey Guy and Punk Rock Girl playing, so I asked for a blindfold. I was surprised to want one after the fainting time. He had a nice leather one that he bucked on loosely and I started to feel all soft and safe.

For weeks and weeks, my brain has been in a state of constant chatter; lesson plans, homework, discipline problems, all of the cerebral, not-sexy stuff that’s really important but can take me out of my body too much. As HR worked the ropes onto me, as his warm hands wove hemp gently around my chest, I heard something strange and wonderful in my brain: silence. Ahhhhhhh, relief.

He was apologetic whenever he had to adjust the ropes between my legs, but I told him he didn’t have to be quite so polite. When he was finished putting the harness on me, he put me in a chair and got to work doing the rigging on the suspension frame. It took quite a while. People strolled by oohing and ahhing about his work, and I felt like I wasn’t there, in a good way. Once the rigging was done on the frame, he came back over to the frame and tied on some comfy ankle supports—it felt like a one-column tie. then he picked up the ankle supports and led me over to the suspension frame.

In order to get situated on the frame, he had to tie me at my heart first—I liked the feeling of that first support rope pulling up from my heart, it stretched me out in a new way. When he was getting my back supported, I had to lean back a couple of times to get the rope into position. Then it was time to lean back all the way and I was suspended, just a few feet off the floor. It felt wonderful, like a cradle. He tied giving me a head-support, but that felt too choky, so my head just hung down, not-unpleasantly.

He rocked me. I felt warm and contained and cared-for. I’d heard other bottoms talk about feeling like they’re in a safe little bubble and I felt what they meant. The bulge in his pants was now friendly against my shoulder every time he rocked me back. I liked the way that it felt sexy but undemanding—kind of matter-of-fact.

Next time: I heart the knife.