A Difficult Scene

The other night he hurt me. Not in the yummy, “oh this hurts so good, hit me again, baby” kind of way, not in the way I “like”—the kind of pain that sends power surging though me even as he wields power over me—but real pain, real torment, pain that battered me until I finally gave in and begged him to release me from it. Pain that finally broke me, that shattered me, emotionally and physically. It was different than anything he and I have done before, that I have ever experienced. And the whole time he barely touched me, other than the impersonal touch you give an animal to be sure it hasn’t broken itself, other than to reposition a rope or to add another clamp. That was the part that made it different, I think, that made it so, so hard. That broke me, in the end.

It’s taken me awhile to write about this, although I did speak with A about it, several days after W and I scened. That’s one of the wonderful things about being poly in the way that we are—A allows me to talk these things through with him, he doesn’t hold anything against me, doesn’t make me feel that I have to censor what I say (although I have shielded him in the past from some things, I am learning I have to do this less and less.) But just being able to talk about it, especially when I couldn’t with W, due to time constraints, was enormously helpful. It’s not that it was so awful, in fact it was an amazing scene, powerful and holding its own strange beauty, but it was so different for me on so many levels, that processing was slow and deliberate on my part. I know W enjoyed it immensely, and maybe that is part of why I have hesitated to examine it too closely. And yet…and yet it is precisely because he enjoyed it that I do it, that made it all alright—and all right—in the end.

I was caged in this scaffolding thing. He had ropes tied to my arms and legs, a rope between my legs and clamps from my breasts and cunt lips stretched to the four corners. The rope between my legs was taut enough that I was forced to balance on one foot or the other to minimize the discomfort, although there was no true way to alleviate it. It was constant, unremitting, and when I moved to adjust myself to some new torment, it would flare up again to remind me it was there. My arms were tied up and back, so that I had to keep them raised above and just behind my shoulders or else roll my shoulders out so that my arms would be stretched tautly behind me, like an angel’s wings. That’s how I thought of myself in those moments, as an angel, taking flight, as I rested the weight of my body, balancing against the ropes that held me momentarily. It was a constant struggle to balance between the fire of the rope between my legs and the fire in my shoulders, the pull of the clothespins on my nipples and the clamps on my pussy and later, the simple embarrassment of the nose hook. There was no relief, no way to find relief, just a gradual build-up in agony and misery until I was screaming through the gag, whining and moaning and begging him to please, please release me.

And all the time he had the camera, all the time there was that impassive eye on me, recording my torment, recording my misery, impassively, coldly, like watching some poor dumb animal twist in a trap, unable to free itself.

I crave his touch when he hurts me. I live for the moments in between the pain, when he strokes me, quiets me, breathes into me—literally, covers my mouth with his, even with a gag in, kissing and breathing into me. He is touching me more than physically, he is calling me back to him, bringing back my humanity, pulling me back into myself, and, more importantly perhaps, reconnecting us. Reasserting our bond. I think in those moments he is reasserting his own humanity as well. He touches me and lets me feel him as a man, as a lover, and not just someone that wants to hurt me, not just the hand holding the whip or the clamps, but all of him. It is that connection that I crave so deeply, it is for that that I do what I do. That, to me, is the essence of power exchange, it is in those moments that we are truly each other’s, when we own one another. He takes, I give, I take, he gives. A beautiful, intimate exchange.

It was that intimacy, his touch and his taste and the feel of his humanity, that was absent from what we did that night, and the lack of it made it so hard, made me truly suffer. I felt so alone, a thing apart from him. He was remote, he was the camera, he was impassive and disembodied and removed from me in a way he had never been before when we played. I wanted him so badly to touch me. If I had known the words for what I wanted (I didn’t, I only knew pain, and flashes of a bright, hot anger, as when you approach a wounded animal to help and it snarls at you, snapping at you blindly), if I had known what I needed, to feel him close, to know we were still connected, I would have begged for that even more than release. But I didn’t know. It is only in writing this that I have come to that realization.

And thinking on it now, I don’t know if I would have asked for it anyway. Release from pain, yes. But to be loved? To be touched, to be held? No, maybe not. There is a fierce core of pride in me that would not have allowed that last humiliation, I think. Even when he finally took me down, his hands gentle, I remember feeling shame that I had begged him to do so, and I remember turning my face away from him, both in anger at him (not knowing what I was angry at) and in myself, in the shame I felt. If I had begged for more and he had not given it to me…no, my pride could not have withstood that. So I know I wouldn’t have asked for it.

“I’m glad we don’t play with a safeword,” he said after. We were on the couch downstairs, me lying curled against him, a blanket covering me, my breathing finally slowing, with only the occasional hiccup of left-over endorphin and shock washing over me. I remember his hand in my hair, his fingers light against my cheek, his touch a silken thread connecting me to him, as light as gossamer, as delicate and tenuous as the connection I felt to him. I still felt disembodied, remote, deeply shaken. And yet, even at that moment, even when my world felt tilted and still hadn’t been put right—he still hadn’t put it right—even then, I was glad I hadn’t had a safeword too.

Does that sound strange, to be glad I hadn’t had a way to say “stop, no more, I can’t take anymore for real,” when I had felt I was at the end of my endurance, when I truly felt he couldn’t possibly know how badly I was hurting, that he must not understand the agony I was in? It’s funny, he said in an email that he is surprised at times that I feel fear, because he knows he isn’t scary, he knows he is in control. But he doesn’t live in my head, he doesn’t know what I don’t know. That is part of it for me, the not knowing, and then, being shown that my fears are baseless. If there is therapy in this for me, there it is. And that is all about the beforetime for me, which I won’t go into here and now. But that is where that comes from, where that lives in me. And that is why not being able to say no, not being able to “safeword” is perfectly logical to me. Why it works for me, in its twisted fashion. Why I am glad (after) that I can’t.

Let’s face it, even if I’d had a safeword, would I have used it? I don’t know. I can’t say, now. I know I was begging him, in gasps and grunts and screams through the gag, to please please take down my arms. But even then, even in the midst of that, I didn’t want him to stop completely—what I wanted was for him to touch me. I wanted him to love me, to let me know he loved me even though he was hurting me—because he was hurting me. A safeword would have ended things completely, and I didn’t want that, even when I broke, even when I was shaking and almost sick, when I couldn’t walk or talk or think. And secondly—I wanted to know what he would do. I want to know. That is part of it for me, to experience what he would do, what he will do, what he wants as much as what I want. I want to see where he will go, how far he will take things, if he truly knows me well enough to stop when I have reached my limit—and what his limits are. I want to be assured that he does know me that well. I want to give that trust to him, and to know that that trust is well-placed. It’s a constant test, of him and me. A test of our bond, our connection. And that is part of the danger and beauty of it, of this thing we do. It is an integral part of it, the need to explore it fully, without artificial constraints, without giving me the chance to stop when I want to. Safe and sane perhaps it’s not, but there it is, as real as it gets. I understand that. I accept that.

We talked for a long time afterward. He held me and we talked and shared and looked at photos…and I hardly remember any of it. We had an entire conversation that is a dim echo of sound without meaning in my head. I know I walked and talked, that there were moments of lucidity and I must have sounded normal, even to myself, but I also recognize (in looking back) that dumbness, that numbness that rendered me so submissive, so passive, he could have done anything to me, asked anything of me and I would have responded without thought, without resistance.

There is one small humiliation I remember, something I don’t think he visited upon me intentionally, but even know brings the sharp bite of embarrassment to me. He was looking at me, at my cunt, for future piercings, and as he did I could smell urine on me, and I realized that I must have wet myself a bit in my fear and pain. And yet even that embarrassment, even that knowledge, was not enough to wake me from the haze I was in. I spread my legs, I gave him access without a moment’s hesitation, when surely I would have resisted otherwise. And did not remember it until maybe two days later, when I touched myself after urinating, and I was reminded of it.

And that night, I slept in shackles. I wanted them, I needed them, I needed the sense of connection to him I would have even as I slept, because in such a state your sleeping body is aware, all the time, of the weight of the metal, of the chains. I cannot describe the sweet beauty of feeling those links of chain against my skin, of waking throughout the night to feel his hands on the chains or on me, of his warmth, his body near mine, the way he wraps me inside his body, as though to own me even in sleep. It filled me with contentment, with quiet and peace. I think it was then, as I drifted into sleep, connected to him though the chains at my ankles and wrists and throat, that my world tilted right once more.

Avoiding what I should be doing…

This was my morning:

Get up at 10am…

No wait, it starts earlier than that.

Wake up at 6:30am with A. Tell myself I will get up and do “all the things I wanted to get done” during my break. Promptly go back to sleep.

Get up at 10am. Wander out to the computer, look for email from W. Respond to a comment in my LJ, fart around reading blogs and write in my LJ, think a bit about what I am “supposed” to be doing. Write email to W. Think about play, think about sex, think about cocks and pussies with their lips spread open. Go to bedroom to masturbate.

Don’t come.

Goddammit! Even using Baldy, I can’t get there. Of course, my fingers have been working better lately anyway. Or maybe it’s not my fingers, maybe it’s being with one of the guys, because I haven’t masturbated alone in awhile. A says, when I call him and tell him (quite pitifully, I might add) that I can’t get off, “Maybe it’s Pavlovian. Maybe you gotta have a finger or a hand or a cock inside you to come now.  Hey, that’s fun, maybe we should ring a bell every time you orgasm, train you like a dog to come to the bell!” Ain’t he just too fucking funny. “So I think you should come home now, make me come, then go back to work,” I say, all serious-like. Guess he didn’t agree, since he didn’t show up at my door ten minutes later and I still haven’t had an orgasm. Fuckin’ hell.

So I start cleaning up a bit, fold clothes, straighten books. Post to this space. You know, little things to keep me from having to actually CLEAN or something.

I wander over to read another blog I follow and found a post on using her safeword, which of course we don’t use. But then I get to the part about safewording because she farted…okay yeah, maybe I do need a safeword. If I am farting, STOP THE FUCKING SCENE. I’m done, no more, it’s all over. Not into THAT kind of humiliation. Speaking of which, I had planned to go get an enema kit, give myself a nice thorough cleansing, hadn’t I? Hmmm…wonder if that would give me the orgasm I am in such dire need of. Because it IS a need you know. I need to goddamn come.

Not like I didn’t have a rocking orgasm last night. One of those kinds that roll one into the other, so that even as I lay there “after,” I could kinda squeeze my thighs, tighten my vagina and have myself a tiny new one all over again. Yuummmm. I’m just a horny girl, I guess. Insatiable, right? No, not really. Must be thoughts of sugarplums dancing in my head…or crops and ropes and floggers and W’s fingers digging into me…

Pffft~~ I really do have to do other stuff now. Like figure out if I can use my old bathtub masturbation technique–will the water run hot enough/hard enough to make me come? I’m desperate here, truly.

Christmas Eve fun

Santa didn’t come to my house for Christmas Eve. Oh no, something much better than that happened…A and I started a new Christmas Eve tradition: I got tied up and spanked! My old tradition was to go with the ex & the kids over to his parents’ house–visiting the ex-Dragon-in-Law is a joy I am glad to be rid of forever.

So I was in the bedroom, getting out the gifts that we still had to wrap, when A came in and said he was going to throw a wrench into my plans for the evening. I’m a chronic scheduler. It’s an incurable, deep-seated need to plan things. No really, it’s a sickness. So our evening was all planned out…drop kids at their Dad’s, go to the grocer for appetizer makings for the next day, get home, throw dinner in and wrap gifts til midnight, snuggle a bit, sleep. Apparently A had other plans.

“How’s that?” I asked.

“Well, Dad’s going over to so-and-so’s house,” he says. “That gives me about an hour to beat your ass while we wait for dinner to cook.”

I get all squishy when he starts sweet-talking me that way.

It didn’t start out great though.

I wanted…well, I wanted that fissure of excitement, that kind of knot I get in my belly when W moves towards me, when he gets that purposeful look in his face, when I know things are going through his mind…things about what he wants to do to me, how he is going to touch me, or tie me, or hurt me or use me or fuck me. It’s like a stillness just settles over me, over my mind, like I fall into this waiting place, a place where anxiety lives, but just under the surface, almost too deep to acknowledge. I feel like my breath can’t quite be caught, where my mind, just under the stillness, kind of skitters on the edge of “what if? what if?” But with Ad, it’s not like that. He’s not confident in himself enough yet to approach me in that way. But…he’s getting there. Just as massage therapy has been amazing for his self-esteem, for how he feels about himself, carries himself, holds himself, this does too. Having me respond to him, knowing how much I enjoy what he’s doing, knowing that he can do that to me, make me feel that way by doing that to me…it all adds up. I see the changes.

In any case, eventually he had me undressed–except for my socks. No really, look, he let me keep my socks onSnowflakes, socks and a red butt–and then wanted to take a picture of me in them, once I’d convinced him to take a picture. So he’s pretty cute, I mean even when he’s “beating me” he is cute–it’s hard to feel that gasp of shock or “oh no!”…but what I do feel is happiness and heat and wetness and joy that he is loving me this way, in a way that I love.

And he wasn’t all niceness. He got down to business with a leather flogger that he hadn’t used before and then with this sort of hard rubber bat and a little cane-like thing. But my favorite part was when I asked him to take a couple pictures, “please? For W…” So he helped me in something that I knew would please my D/s lover…THAT’s what poly is all about. “Gotta make your butt a nice red,” he said, and proceeded to whack me a lot more to get it just right. Then, best part of all, I asked him to take a picture of himself fucking me…a shot of his cock inside me…and he DID. Heck I don’t know if W will find that hot, but he always talks about seeing me get fucked, so…I thought I’d send him a picture. And A did, and I did! “You don’t have to ask me twice to get naked and fuck a sexy, naked girl tied over a couch,” he said. And then slapped my ass a few more times just for good measure.

Next year, I want bondage with the tinsely ribbon.

"It all works…"

It isn’t always easy to believe that it will all work out when you first embark on something new. You hope, you dream, you try to set everything into place in a way that will give it the highest chance of success, but there’s always the chance that things will go wrong, that they might not work they way you had in your head; that the unthinkable could happen.

I think I know my men. I know why I am with each of them, and what they bring to me and my life; I think I know what I bring to theirs. But life is changeable, what we want/desire changes too, people change.

A has always been my stability, my place to come home to, the one that loves me in spite of my faults (and sometimes because of them), who lets me be me, who comforts me and supports me and, simply, loves me. W is the “mean guy”, the one that brings me pleasure in the sweet danger of living on the edge, of exploring those dark parts of myself that I sometimes don’t even want to acknowledge exist. He pushes me to find those places and then to allow myself to accept them. In that way, strangely enough, he, too, is a nurturer, because he makes me feel safe enough to go to those places, knowing that he will be there to bring me back; that he will love me and hold me in spite of the fact that–or perhaps because–I have gone there, with him, for him.

This is one of the beautiful things about my life– the pieces all fit together. We all fit together, even though we don’t all fit together, I mean our relationships aren’t entwined so much as complementary. Our relationships, each of the four that there are (W and I, A and I, A and W, all three of us) have elements that are enhanced and reinforced by the others. When I say I want and need them both, and the specific things that each brings to me, I mean exactly that.  Being poly means not expecting one person to fulfill every part, every need, and I am sure it must be a relief to the two of them not to have to try and be everything to me.

But there are times when what one is collides with what the other is, when roles bump up against each other, and then I have a moment of unease, a moment of worry, a moment of “And how’s this going to work?” because one of the things I do is think too much, worry too much, overanalyze. No really, I do. It’s just one my adorable quirks.

And then, to my delight, “It all works out.”

That’s a reference to a comment made on one of the discussion threads on FetLife, my kinky online home. That particular thread talked about where we, as submissives/masochists/bottoms “like” to be flogged: our asses, our thighs, our shoulders? What’s our favorite? (Click here for thread.) My comment was to the effect of, “Does it matter what I like? I say, ‘I really like being flogged on the butt,’ and he says, ‘I know, that’s why I didn’t do it there.’ Umm, yeah. lol The other’s comment was similar, “it doesn’t matter what I like,” but put much more succinctly: “It all works out. He likes it when I fuss and I like to be broken.”

That’s so perfect, and the way it should be. We find the puzzle piece that fits, that mysterious “other” (or “others”) whose needs, desires, values & expectations fit with our own, and the world is a happy place. Everyone fulfilled, everyone’s needs met, life is good. Cuts back on a whole lotta heartache and drama. Course, judging by the number of people embroiled in drama & heartbreak, that’s obviously a lot easier said than done, but that’s another topic.

“It all works out…” and all that that implies in finding those mysterious other(s) that fit, applies to my relationships. And all that was wonderfully apparent the other night, regardless of my useless worrying.

What happened was that A and I went over to W’s and played. W took pictures (lots, I’ll post a couple here and if you’re really interested, they’ll be up eventually at Bondage Demons, along with a more detailed accounting of the session) while A tied me and spanked me. It wasn’t our—mine and W’s—usual kind of scene. W tends to be intense, focused, serious, intent on torment and torture, on pushing boundaries and playing on the edge. Our whole relationship isn’t like that, there’s a lot of love and laughter and play and discussion and just being lovers and friends too (we actually date, lol), but our BDSM play is different than A’s and mine. And frankly, I wasn’t sure a) how I would feel about playing with A in front of W; b) how A would feel about playing in front of W; and c) what W would think of it. I want my guys to like each other, to respect each other, to enjoy playing together with me (yeah, again, it’s all about ME)…would this damage/change that? What would W think of how silly Ad is at times, of how we tease and I push and it’s I playful? Would he enjoy our dynamic? Would Ad feel the need to act differently, to perform for W? Because that is something I don’t want, at all costs, for any of us. Although public play is “performance” to some degree, I don’t want our interactions, the inside of what goes on, in public or private play, to ever be. That is what I love about what it is we do, and who I do it with–the authenticity, the reality, of the emotion and the energy. And additionally, A has had issues about playing in front of people before, of being “on stage” so-to-speak, and I didn’t want that to be an issue either. So yeah, I worried about those things.

Turns out I didn’t need to worry at all. Ad “rose to the challenge”, and enjoyed every minute of it. He was shocked at how many pictures there were when I showed him the series because, as he said, he “didn’t even realize W was there at times,” he was so involved in what we were doing. At others he played off that interaction, and thoroughly enjoyed have W there, as part of it. He liked teasing me in front of W, he liked making me squeal, he liked W’s reactions. It became part of the excitement of the scene for him, although I don’t think he knew that it would be, going in. I had experienced this aspect to Ad once before, when I was with my ex, and the three of us had played, so I had wondered if it might hold true in this instance as well. I was intensely gratified to find that it did. And as for W…well, he loved it, too, loved the way we play, appreciated our dynamic, and enjoyed being a part of it. I think he enjoyed playing photographer/voyeur as well and found the whole experience as hot and stimulating as I did, and his presence of course added to my own enjoyment & excitement. And then later, after Ad had given me a pretty good spanking, they took me to the couch downstairs and, with Ad on one end of me and W on the other, pinched, pulled, fingered, bit and mauled me to a quaking, shaking orgasm. Oh yeah, my boys play well together. What the hell was I worried about??

The part of this that I haven’t really touched on, the part of it that had me worried but that I didn’t really know I was worrying over, was this: would I feel differently about playing with Ad, after having played pretty heavily with W these past weeks? Would I feel strange, or that Ad was somehow “less than” because play with W has been so mind-blowing, so all-consuming, so much of what I have needed so much, what I had dreamed about doing all those years ago when I started all this crazy shit? Ad has only ever spanked me and fucked me lately…that’s one of the things I love about him, he’ll give me a good spank and fuck if I ask for it, making it all about MY pleasure…what would playing with him in a more “traditional” (HA! I love using that word in this context) setting be like? Would it even work?

There was real danger in this for me, emotional danger, possible danger to our relationship. It could have damaged how I felt about him, how I felt about allowing him to be part of this side of me, and how would I deal with it, if that was the case? What if he liked it and I didn’t? I love him, I could not have hurt him by saying, “you know, you really don’t do it right,” or “it just doesn’t work for me,” if he really enjoyed it. Especially as I am the one that is bringing him to it.

None of that worry was warranted either, though. Instead what I discovered is that I loved playing with him, I love this new dimension to him, and I love our dynamic. What I discovered is that I need this dynamic as much as I need W’s and mine, and that the two complement each other, both when we are all together and when I am with each separately. And that (whoa, how cool is this?) each bleeds into the other just a bit, in bits and pieces, and…it’s all okay. What I discovered is that all the pieces fit. “ It all works.”

I am one lucky bitch.

“It all works…”

It isn’t always easy to believe that it will all work out when you first embark on something new. You hope, you dream, you try to set everything into place in a way that will give it the highest chance of success, but there’s always the chance that things will go wrong, that they might not work they way you had in your head; that the unthinkable could happen.

I think I know my men. I know why I am with each of them, and what they bring to me and my life; I think I know what I bring to theirs. But life is changeable, what we want/desire changes too, people change.

A has always been my stability, my place to come home to, the one that loves me in spite of my faults (and sometimes because of them), who lets me be me, who comforts me and supports me and, simply, loves me. W is the “mean guy”, the one that brings me pleasure in the sweet danger of living on the edge, of exploring those dark parts of myself that I sometimes don’t even want to acknowledge exist. He pushes me to find those places and then to allow myself to accept them. In that way, strangely enough, he, too, is a nurturer, because he makes me feel safe enough to go to those places, knowing that he will be there to bring me back; that he will love me and hold me in spite of the fact that–or perhaps because–I have gone there, with him, for him.

This is one of the beautiful things about my life– the pieces all fit together. We all fit together, even though we don’t all fit together, I mean our relationships aren’t entwined so much as complementary. Our relationships, each of the four that there are (W and I, A and I, A and W, all three of us) have elements that are enhanced and reinforced by the others. When I say I want and need them both, and the specific things that each brings to me, I mean exactly that.  Being poly means not expecting one person to fulfill every part, every need, and I am sure it must be a relief to the two of them not to have to try and be everything to me.

But there are times when what one is collides with what the other is, when roles bump up against each other, and then I have a moment of unease, a moment of worry, a moment of “And how’s this going to work?” because one of the things I do is think too much, worry too much, overanalyze. No really, I do. It’s just one my adorable quirks.

And then, to my delight, “It all works out.”

That’s a reference to a comment made on one of the discussion threads on FetLife, my kinky online home. That particular thread talked about where we, as submissives/masochists/bottoms “like” to be flogged: our asses, our thighs, our shoulders? What’s our favorite? (Click here for thread.) My comment was to the effect of, “Does it matter what I like? I say, ‘I really like being flogged on the butt,’ and he says, ‘I know, that’s why I didn’t do it there.’ Umm, yeah. lol The other’s comment was similar, “it doesn’t matter what I like,” but put much more succinctly: “It all works out. He likes it when I fuss and I like to be broken.”

That’s so perfect, and the way it should be. We find the puzzle piece that fits, that mysterious “other” (or “others”) whose needs, desires, values & expectations fit with our own, and the world is a happy place. Everyone fulfilled, everyone’s needs met, life is good. Cuts back on a whole lotta heartache and drama. Course, judging by the number of people embroiled in drama & heartbreak, that’s obviously a lot easier said than done, but that’s another topic.

“It all works out…” and all that that implies in finding those mysterious other(s) that fit, applies to my relationships. And all that was wonderfully apparent the other night, regardless of my useless worrying.

What happened was that A and I went over to W’s and played. W took pictures (lots, I’ll post a couple here and if you’re really interested, they’ll be up eventually at Bondage Demons, along with a more detailed accounting of the session) while A tied me and spanked me. It wasn’t our—mine and W’s—usual kind of scene. W tends to be intense, focused, serious, intent on torment and torture, on pushing boundaries and playing on the edge. Our whole relationship isn’t like that, there’s a lot of love and laughter and play and discussion and just being lovers and friends too (we actually date, lol), but our BDSM play is different than A’s and mine. And frankly, I wasn’t sure a) how I would feel about playing with A in front of W; b) how A would feel about playing in front of W; and c) what W would think of it. I want my guys to like each other, to respect each other, to enjoy playing together with me (yeah, again, it’s all about ME)…would this damage/change that? What would W think of how silly Ad is at times, of how we tease and I push and it’s I playful? Would he enjoy our dynamic? Would Ad feel the need to act differently, to perform for W? Because that is something I don’t want, at all costs, for any of us. Although public play is “performance” to some degree, I don’t want our interactions, the inside of what goes on, in public or private play, to ever be. That is what I love about what it is we do, and who I do it with–the authenticity, the reality, of the emotion and the energy. And additionally, A has had issues about playing in front of people before, of being “on stage” so-to-speak, and I didn’t want that to be an issue either. So yeah, I worried about those things.

Turns out I didn’t need to worry at all. Ad “rose to the challenge”, and enjoyed every minute of it. He was shocked at how many pictures there were when I showed him the series because, as he said, he “didn’t even realize W was there at times,” he was so involved in what we were doing. At others he played off that interaction, and thoroughly enjoyed have W there, as part of it. He liked teasing me in front of W, he liked making me squeal, he liked W’s reactions. It became part of the excitement of the scene for him, although I don’t think he knew that it would be, going in. I had experienced this aspect to Ad once before, when I was with my ex, and the three of us had played, so I had wondered if it might hold true in this instance as well. I was intensely gratified to find that it did. And as for W…well, he loved it, too, loved the way we play, appreciated our dynamic, and enjoyed being a part of it. I think he enjoyed playing photographer/voyeur as well and found the whole experience as hot and stimulating as I did, and his presence of course added to my own enjoyment & excitement. And then later, after Ad had given me a pretty good spanking, they took me to the couch downstairs and, with Ad on one end of me and W on the other, pinched, pulled, fingered, bit and mauled me to a quaking, shaking orgasm. Oh yeah, my boys play well together. What the hell was I worried about??

The part of this that I haven’t really touched on, the part of it that had me worried but that I didn’t really know I was worrying over, was this: would I feel differently about playing with Ad, after having played pretty heavily with W these past weeks? Would I feel strange, or that Ad was somehow “less than” because play with W has been so mind-blowing, so all-consuming, so much of what I have needed so much, what I had dreamed about doing all those years ago when I started all this crazy shit? Ad has only ever spanked me and fucked me lately…that’s one of the things I love about him, he’ll give me a good spank and fuck if I ask for it, making it all about MY pleasure…what would playing with him in a more “traditional” (HA! I love using that word in this context) setting be like? Would it even work?

There was real danger in this for me, emotional danger, possible danger to our relationship. It could have damaged how I felt about him, how I felt about allowing him to be part of this side of me, and how would I deal with it, if that was the case? What if he liked it and I didn’t? I love him, I could not have hurt him by saying, “you know, you really don’t do it right,” or “it just doesn’t work for me,” if he really enjoyed it. Especially as I am the one that is bringing him to it.

None of that worry was warranted either, though. Instead what I discovered is that I loved playing with him, I love this new dimension to him, and I love our dynamic. What I discovered is that I need this dynamic as much as I need W’s and mine, and that the two complement each other, both when we are all together and when I am with each separately. And that (whoa, how cool is this?) each bleeds into the other just a bit, in bits and pieces, and…it’s all okay. What I discovered is that all the pieces fit. “ It all works.”

I am one lucky bitch.

First Post

First posts are hard.  So much to say, but no idea where to start.

I’ve been here before.  I’ve journalled in one place and another for years, I’ve kept handwritten journals since I was young, but still, it’s always hard to start.  And, in this instance, my journal is about something specific, it’s not random daily thoughts and life, but about my life as a sexual being.  I have another space to talk about my kids, my viewpoint on that news story, my work life, my hobbies and plans and all the other minutia that goes with being a human being.  Here I want to talk about sex.  Sex and love and relationships and BDSM and kink.  And okay, the occasional post about the daily stuff might get in there too.  Otherwise you might start to think I’m making all this other stuff up.

So I’m a pretty kinky girl.  That’s what most of this will be about.  My adventures as a bi/poly/kinky woman involved with two exceptional men…one with whom I live (aka A or the SO), the other with whom I play (aka W, or the Mean Guy.)  Although play is perhaps too casual a term for what Mr. Mean Guy and I do, and I oftentimes play with the the SO as well.  Yeah, a lot of overlap, a lot of boundaries that aren’t really boundaries after all, continually evolving as our relationships do.  In fact in a conversation I just had with the SO today, he talked about spending more time hanging with W, learning to do some of those things that I associate with the Mean Guy’s realm.  Hmm.  Stuff to talk about when W gets back from vacation.  Turning the nice one into an evil one.  Can I deal with two mean ones?

I don’t think A would be a mean one anyway.  He’s still all about play, even when he’s playing hard.  It could be a lot of fun, having them play off each other, as long as I still got the specific things from each that I need and want.

Sounds like it’s all about me, doesn’t it?  It’s not, but here it’s okay to talk about what I want, what I need.  I want them both.  I need them both.