Birthday Spanks and Unicorn Snuggles Part Two: Welcome Me Back to Subspace!

Earlier in the party (admittedly right around the time I got a little bit high) I’d told Cute Master I was going to try and get 39 birthday spanks from each person at the party—one of my better ideas I have to say, right up there with that hair-pulling contest back in May. Somehow chatting with the Cutest Boy at the Party evolved into him helping me recruit the first spankers.

I started out bent over the arm of one of the two leather couches while spectators sat on the other one and on the other side of the room, egging the spankers on and, at first, counting to 39.

Spanker: “How many was that?”

Onlooker: 28?

Me: “Two!”

I made that joke a lot of times.

The young lady who’d made the “dumbasses” comment earlier volunteered and I can’t really explain why I let her except that it felt okay to do so. Physical trust is a strange thing sometimes, but by I know by now how to listen to my body about people. I’m glad I did because it was over her knee that I felt a sort of inner dimmer switch. A calm came over me and a happy haze descended. Aaaahhhhhh.

At this point, my skirt was pulled up and my underpants pulled down. I still had my shirt and bra on and my hair was draped all over. I sighed into the arm of the couch, feeling like a sleepy movie star and said “I’m getting all well-behaved.”

“Are you?” She sounded surprised and proceeded to take her hurty turn.

When the young lady was finished, it was the Huge Handed Fireman’s turn, and I was thrilled when he asked if I wanted to go over his knee. Ohmygoodness those hands—they’re strong but soft and sort of magically cool to the touch. He didn’t hurt as much as the other spankers did; it was more like he struck a good note. He was just right at holding me down, too—he has such a long reach, I felt like a deftly handled piano. The Cutest Boy at the Party came over and sat at my feet, took off my shoes, held my legs down, and tickled the back of my knees. I wiggled and shrieked and HHF held me down harder.

I have to stop and high five myself for being held down by two of the most desirable characters at the party. Go me!

When HHF was done spanking, he ran his hands soothingly over my back. I took off my shirt to make it easier for him and to add to the nice humiliation I was feeling. I told him I was leaving my bra on for the time being and he used that as an excuse to cop a feel. Ohthosehands. I want them all over me some more.

I didn’t want him to go away and he blessedly didn’t. He acted as a human spanking bench, holding me down for the other takers. I would have stayed in his big warm lap all night if I could’ve. Sometimes he held my head down and I couldn’t see who was doing the hitting—I’d just notice a pair of shoes and try to remember whose they were later on.

Cute Master came in with a nasty crop, stingy as fuck and I screamed my head off. The screaming is so much of the fun, though I suppose I could’ve asked one of these nice big hands over my mouth. I tried to reach back and grab the crop away but I didn’t say red.

“Oh, I see now, so you’re a pain freak,” said HHF, and though I’ve always argued that I’m not, this time I sighed and said “Um, yeah. I can tell by how calm I feel in the days after.”

One thing I loved about being spanked by so many people was that submissives joined in too—one of the best sets of spanks came from the lady I’d bonded with on the couch during my blanket time. When I texted her a “Good job!” the next day, she could not have been prouder.

Once everyone in the room had had a turn, the Cutest Boy at the Party went through the house to see if there were any more takers. These guys really know how to make a birthday bottom feel special. I thought it was probably time to be all the way naked. HHF reached in my bra and started pulling my boobs out, but I asked him to unhook my bra for me. Can bra hooking and unhooking be a fetish? I just love that part so much.

Cute Master came back in and made me get up from my nice spot on the sofa. He pulled an ottoman into the middle of the room and then directed me to kneel over it, arch my back, and stick my ass out in such a way that everything was exposed—all the way submissive. Fully clothed, he draped himself all the way over my body and rubbed his cock against my ass. Pretty Slave had told me he was huge, and she was not wrong. Someone apologized for the fact that all this was happening to the tune of “SexyBack,” but I couldn’t have been happier with the song choice.

Speaking of Pretty Slave, she came and sat in a chair in front of me, stroked my hair, held my hands, and made soothing noises. I let out a gasp and a groan and lay all the way flat, getting exactly what I wanted, the humiliation of everyone watching, the heat and smell of him, the loveliness of her. He started hitting my hard on my now-tender behind, to the point where I was now scream/crying but still not telling him to stop. He was ruthless, growling and snarling and whaling on me until he stepped on my foot wrong and it sort of broke the mood.

It sort of boggles my mind how this all felt perfectly safe. I felt a deep assurance in my ability to say no, I guess, and a basic trust of the hosts, but it still feels like an enormous leap of faith to offer my ass to that many people, many of them strangers. Putting my faith in my instincts and in the basic good of the crowd seems a little crazy, but it worked.

Next: The Cutest Boy at the Party Gets Aftercare Duty (Because He’s a Giver!)

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

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

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

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

“Are you a good girl?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Are you a good little girl?”

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

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

“Two.” I said. “TWO little girls.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cuddle Party Part Five: Puppy Pile and My Excellent “No!”

Some days, I am so ready to be finished being a project. I’m frustrated with all things involving protocols, yesses and nos, contracts, everything that’s between me and just running into someone’s arms with abandon. I am impatient for whatever/whomever comes next, for just muddling through intimacy on a case-by-case basis. The tools I’m learning are useful, but everything feels like it is at such a remove lately. Cuddle Parties, BDSM, even the relentless communication-perfectionism of poly culture, they all seem like ways to guard one’s heart, to keep anyone from getting in there and fucking shit up, to keep anything genuinely serendipitous and messy and personal and awesome from happening.

What I’m really impatient with, of course, is the way that I keep MYSELF guarded, but as antsy as I am I’m still too scared to open up the way I want to. I guess it’ll happen when it happens.

That being said, if I’m getting to be ready for something real, the cuddle party helped to get me there. Though it didn’t feel sexy to be there, it did feel wonderful. The best part was when I stretched out on a pillow and pay back by myself, near the crowd but apart from them—a warm, happy, floating sensation of self-sufficiency, of self-love. It’s the same feeling I get sometimes when I’ve been swimming for a while and I let myself just float on my back in the ocean and look up at the blue sky and clouds. From above, a tall, grey haired man asked me to cuddle with him, and I blissfully said “No, I’m being by myself right now.”

From behind me, I heard Sheandhim, who hadn’t moved from her four-person cuddle pile for hours, clarify helpfully and protectively: “That was a no.”

From my floaty spot, I could see that some pretty dancing had started. The Lady of the Hose, the Hosts, and Massage Therapist Man were dancing above the cuddle, moving their hands in front of them in pretty shapes not unlike the shapes I used to make with glow sticks in my raver days. It looked fun, and after a while, I joined in. I danced or sat meditatively (the Lady of the House always seemed to be nearby, but also very happily contained—it was comforting) for most of the rest of the party, until it was time for the “puppy pile.”

I surprised myself by agreeing to be at the bottom of the puppy pile. It came close to the “smushed” idea, I guess. Those of us on the bottom of the pile lay down in a row and the top layer folks lay down over us, perpendicularly. Host One was one of the people right on top of me, that was fine. One of the not-careful-with-space guys was down toward my feet. I was a little scared, but I like trust games, so this felt okay.

I was pinned down for a few minutes and it felt fine, giggly. Then someone decided to TICKLE MY FEET! Without having asked! “No! No to tickling!” I yelled. I was conscious of the fact that I had disturbed the mellow loveyness, but for once I didn’t worry that I had been a bad girl. It wasn’t a timid or apologetic or halfhearted no, it was big, powerful, and blustery. It was a beautiful “no” and it makes me think I’m ready to graduate from something. Here, at least, is a gold star.

Is there any worse way to non-consensually touch someone who is pinned down than tickling?! What kind of a creepwad would do that? It seems like it would particularly loaded for anyone, but I know it is for me. I guess I’ll have to get around to writing the not-hot post entitled “The Land of the Questionable Babysitters” sometime soon.

Having said my no, I calmed back down again, until I felt, close to my ankle, a little twitch. A change of shape. I recognized this as the feeling of the perfectly innocent erection of somebody I didn’t know. I was done. I had to get up right then. I calmly but urgently asked to be let out and the puppy pile disbanded.

At the end of the party, I said a few goodbyes and called Sweetie to see if she was on the way. She was. I changed into my blue polka-dot summer dress—most of my dresses are so soft that they could double as pajamas. I packed up my PJs and slippers in my suitcase and went to wait for Sweetie outside. It was dark out, but I wasn’t scared. I noticed that the people who lived in the development across the street had really big TVs. It was so dark that I couldn’t even see the color of my car as it pulled up. I’m always so happy to see Sweetie after adventures. We stopped at the Wawa for snacks and then drove home listening to our pop-culture podcasts. We were on the way home, and I felt proud and satisfied.