Sinful Sunday – Elevator

Since a recent post was a Scavenger Hunt and Alphabet Challenge from the Big Easy, it seems only right that I should wrap up that trip with one last tittie flash (I apparently did a lot of flashing there in N’awlins, imagine that!) This also qualifies for a Scavenger Hunt (and not a newly created one, but one from the original, official list – go me!): Elevator.  And, since I am me, and you know, I can’t do anything by halves, I’m gonna give you double the tittie joy, since apparently flashing just once in an elevator wasn’t enough.

From the night before, adorned to go out on the town…
And from the next morning. Me looking a little less perky, but the nips still having a good time!

So there you have it, my 11th entry in the Scavenger Hunt!

(By the way, as of my last SH, I was a GOLD participant!)

Death by Orgasm

“So what are you thinking about for the weekend schedule?” he asked in an email.

Hmm…

This is what my perfect weekend would look like:

  • I come in and my collar is locked around my neck. I’m told to put high heels and slutwear on, and then allowed to work on the computer while he finishes his dinner.
  • After dinner he makes me do my yoga poses for him, naked, by candlelight, on his newly finished, beautifully glowing wood floor. After which he ties me into an “assisted” yoga pose that is NOT an assistance at all. But it’s by candlelight, so how bad can it be?
  • Then he flogs and singletails me until I fall (melt?) literally into a puddle on the floor. I wind up in bed with my collar still on and the ropes on my wrists, and sleep the sleep of the dead (or deeply subspaced) all night.
  • I wake to him holding me by the ropes on my wrists as he fucks me. I have a vague memory of him taking the collar off in the night but am absurdly pleased that he left the ropes on, and as I come awake I realize that I have been smelling the hemp all night, and taking pleasure and comfort in it even in my sleep.
  • We walk to the newly-opened coffee/waffle/ice cream shop  down the street and have lattes and waffles and bask in the pleasure of being able to spend two whole days/nights together.
  • On the walk back we decide to do a Rope on the Run “Y” shot, go back to the house to get our stuff and then head back out. The weather is perfect, for a walk and the set-up and shot is perfect. Neither one of us is ready to go back inside when we’re done though, so we walk home by way of a little hole-in-the-wall bar that none-the-less has a tiny, delightful patio with a huge oak tree in it, get a couple beers, and have a sit in the warm shade.
  • That night we have been invited to a party, but decide to stay on our own. Neither one of us wants to dilute the weekend with other people.
  • W decides I need to experience the GirlBox, and it turns into a game that neither of us expected, and both thoroughly enjoy. I discover the surprising desire to find a girl to put in the Girlbox myself and this idea becomes an on-again off-again topic of conversation over the weekend.
  • We go out to a favorite Mexican restaurant for dinner – the long way around, and with me in my metal bra – and come home to give each other long, sensual massages before crawling blissfully into bed.
  • We have vanilla(!) sex in the AM. And love it!
  • After a shared bubble bath and coffee, we spend the late morning/afternoon working companionably on our own projects – me surfing for a place for the Missy’s and my upcoming retreat in November, him updating Bondage Demons.
  • He takes me into the basement and proceeds to tie me into a predicament involving the wooden pony, a lot of rope, two evil spiky balls, clothespins and a spreader bar. After Phase 1 of this, he asks, “Are you done?” “No!” I say. He is amused. “And you say I’m the messed up one,” he replies.
  • He proceeds to make me done.
  • We take a dinner-and-Jade-recuperation break, after which he says, “Okay, what kind of scene would you like?” “One with lots of orgasms!” I say (famous last words.) Back down into the basement we go, where he proceeds to fuck me with a water heater.
  • And a Hitachi.
  • Until I think I might die by orgasm. It turns out that the predicament bondage didn’t do me in, orgasms did.
  • I come home to Ad and relay the weekend’s events. At the end he says, “So W finally discovered that Baldy can be a torture device, huh?” “Yeah,” I say, “I think my cunt is broke.”
  • He shows me that it’s not.

And that would be my perfect weekend. You know, if I could have scripted it.  Too bad I didn’t see W’s email until I got home and checked my email.

Wicked Wednesday – A Scavenger Hunt from the Big Easy

We actually managed several Scavenger Hunts while out and about in New Orleans.

This is the first of them: Balcony.

Flashing may be the order of the day on Bourbon Street, but I have never really been comfortable with it before, nor ever done it! This made me feel especially wicked, as well, because I had to ask one of several young men sitting at a table across from us on the balcony if they would take the snap.

“Sure!” he readily agreed.

I could see his eyes go wide when he saw my “accoutrements,” but he never asked about them. Later, as we were leaving, though, I heard him whisper to his friend. “Did you see those things she was wearing?” I like to imagine that curiosity about them will have him thinking and wondering about them long after the other run-of-the-mill tittie flashers have faded from his memory…

Check out the rest of the Wicked Wednesday crowd at the link below!

Bonus! Tit Tuesday: Lunchtime Fun, with Rubberbands

I got a bonus, so so do you.

Occasionally W has me do things during my regular activities which might not be appropriate for that particular activity, but which only he and I know about – unless you either know what to look for, or are looking really closely.

We call Tuesdays “Tit Tuesdays” because he usually focuses that day’s activity, if he requires one, to revolve around — you guessed it — my tits. Tit collars, pinchy nipply things, my new Nipple Charms, like that.  He had plans for a rope bra, the metal bra and other similar devices, but winter petered out early and those are hard to do with summer clothes on.  But still some fun can be had, with a little imagination and some foresight.

Today my missive was, “Wear rubber bands on your nipples (for a couple minutes at most – they can be hard to get off and painful.)”

So I wore them to get my sandwich at lunch.

I don’t often get out of my office lately, and even less often go out for lunch, but today I’d forgotten to bring anything to eat, so although I could only afford enough time to run across the street for a sandwich to bring back, I knew that would be the perfect situation to wear them in.

I actually wore a very, light, silky shirt and a thin bra today, thinking he might ask me to do something. When I got the rubber bands on, I considered removing the bra, and if I hadn’t had to walk across my office to get to the door I might have anyway, but the rubber bands I had to use were fairly large, and REALLY made my nipples stand out, even in the bra.  So I kept it on. But if you were looking at my tits, you could see, besides pokie titties, odd lumps and bulges around my nipples. It made me giggle.

In the bathroom at the Subway. VERY standee-upee nipples!
And...out of the blouse. I like!

Of course the door got knocked on three times in the short amount of time it took me to take this picture, startling me half to death every time!

And then, when I got back to my office, sandwich in hand, my phone rang. I was on a call for a half hour. W’s admonition to wear them for only a few minutes went out the window. And yep, he was right – they WERE hard to get off, and woo-wee were my nips tender!

But they made my nipples such a pretty shade of purple!

Reset

Here’s what you couldn’t see in my less-than-clear cellphone pic.  This is at the top of a curving staircase at the inn we stayed at.

At the top of the stairs. And yes, chains.

Saturday night we went to this amazing inn in a little town about 90 minutes from St. Louis, had dinner in a charming restaurant, lit candles in the totally sumptuous room…

And reset ourselves.

This is how our night started out. Ain't that bed grand?

He let me dress in a sweet, pretty dress (no hooker-wear) to dinner. But of course he had to attach a secret underneath.

The gentle sound of clinking chains was music to my ears during dinner, making me both acutely self-conscious, and acutely conscious of being his, and of doing something that turned him on and pleased him.

Peeing while chained is…an adventure.

We needed ice, so had to go wandering to find it.

The house was incredible, and all ours (well, except for the two other couples. But they were in their rooms, right?)

There was a piano to enjoy.

And a chaise lounge to…lounge upon.

And later…there was that lovely bed – and each other – to enjoy.

Reset, indeed.

I believe this may also count for another Scavenger Hunt entry, in the Hotel/Motel category (though this was technically an Inn/B & B.)

Wanton Wednesday – Traveling Alone

W recently decreed that Wednesday is “Wedge Wednesday,” and on Wednesdays I am going to start wearing some little reminder of him for the day, such as the cunning little strap he made me, or thong panties, or some other type of device. Unfortunately this week, when it would have been especially nice to have that little memento of him between my legs, I misplaced the strap and didn’t pack any thong panties.

I know, what the hell am I doing in DC without thong panties?!?

Which brings me to the subject of Washington DC, and what I am doing here, and actually the original point of my post.

I originally started this post off with the thought, “I hate to travel alone.”  Which is a true statement, on the surface. All of the goofy things that I think, all the pleasures I embrace, all the little things I find joy in when I travel are muted when I have no one to share them with.

Also, given the choice, I will be a hermit rather than venture out all alone in a strange place. Which is completely counter to how I am when I travel with someone. And even counter to how I feel about traveling, even when I travel alone. But…I get that anxiety/introverted thing going, and the world seems a daunting place to little ole me. Without someone to force me out, I’d hide away in my hotel room.

Sometimes the person that has to force me out is me.  (Discomfort Zone, anyone?) And…most times…I do.  And I am very happy when I do.  Every time I have traveled alone for my job, I have taken the opportunity to go do something I wouldn’t have if I hadn’t gotten to travel to wherever-it-is that I have been sent.  But it ain’t easy. It’s a challenge to myself every time. And a triumph every time I meet that challenge. And I get to email the Guys or tell them all about it when I get back, and it’s great fun.

Still, it’s just not the same as sharing it with them. Seriously, you have to travel with me sometime to get the full “Jade Effect,” as I think Ad called it once. Everything is exciting and new and thrilling and cause for celebration. I have a) no patience for and b) no understanding of people that visit a place and then bitch and moan and complain the whole time. Seriously? That’s the best you can do when given the gift and opportunity to experience something new?

I mean, this was my trip out here (you have to read everything in a tone of utmost excitement, with many exclamation points, and visualize me bouncing from bulletpoint to bulletpoint with hardly a pause for breath – well except maybe to get a coffee.)

Jade’s Travelogue, or “Things I Saw / Wonderful Things That Happened On My Trip to DC”

  • Things I love about airports:
    • Moving sidewalks. I just love those. They should have those everywhere. Well, except then people would be even more out of shape… Huh. Dilemma. They are a (relatively) safe way for people to text and “walk” tho.
    • A train INSIDE the Detroit airport. And it was candy-apple red!  (How cool is that?! But no, I didn’t ride on it, I was having to much fun texting Ad while I was on the moving sidewalk.)
    • Unexpected bookshops. Turned the corner and there, tucked into a triangle space, was a bookstore. Love that!
  • The airline changed my seat assignment from a middle seat to a window. For no other reason than it was available. I didn’t even ask. They just called out my name on the loudspeaker, I went up to the counter, and they said I could have a window seat if I liked. I love the window seat! Made me very happy.
  • My first sight in DC:
Look! A post office! In Washington DC!
  • My totally awesome hotel room:
Living room, with a bedroom through a set of french doors!
And an adorable little bedroom!
  • Driving by a Subway (sandwich franchise) and seeing that they call it “Subway Cafe.” Kind of made me giggle. Maybe they are called that elsewhere, but it’s the first time I’ve seen it.
  • Driving by a place called the “Buddha Bar.” Looks like exactly the kind of place I’d love to have a drink, if only to find out why it’s called that.
  • All these amazing wonderful buildings!!!!
  • A big hairy-bearded guy on a computer at Starbucks this morning that turned to me, after a friend had stopped by his table, and said, “Jerry’s back!” As though I should know who that is.
  • Hailed my very first taxi cab!
  • Got invited to dine with a friendly bar patron and his two female colleagues. Turned him down, but gladly accepted his printed-out map and business card, and enjoyed talking about running and not-for-profit work with him.
  • As soon as he vacated the bar, got chatted up by some young guy from Texas. Enjoyed that for a short while, til he started acting like he wanted to do more than chat me up, and while I am not adverse to doing “more,” didn’t feel comfortable with the prospect of doing that with him.
  • Made my escape, and decided to walk around Logan Circle at dusk, looking for a restaurant that the bartender recommended. I never found it, got lost, got cold, got found and came back to have room service.
  • Walked to Starubuckies in the rain with a borrowed umbrella this morning. Spent time remembering getting caught in the rain without an umbrella with W, in Ocean City. Wished I was walking in the rain with him again.
  • Compared DC to NYC and Baltimore, as Cities-I’d-Potentially-Like-to-Live-In. Again, totally need W around for that convo, but realized halfway through the discussion in my brain that perhaps I should have been a city girl. How’d I end up a country mouse?
  • Realizing how much I need the Guys here (W in particular, who would both get what I’m talking about and enjoy it) to do a debrief on my day of work meetings. I know he’d love to hear all about the things I found fascinating, that fired me up and inspired me, that piqued my curiosity or made me say, “This is why I’m here!” And discovering (in the initial icebreaker) that I do have something to contribute to this meeting, when I had thought I was just a fill-in for my boss, who sent me here because she couldn’t make it.
  • And lastly, choosing to walk the 15 or so blocks from the conference center back to my hotel after our meeting was over, just because.

So yeah, those are all the reasons I hate to travel alone. I want to share all that! Writing about it just doesn’t have the same punch that living it together does.

And…I do have a hard time being alone, period. Being cut off and disconnected from the Guys, W in particular.  I have the ability to text Ad, so we keep in touch all throughout the day in small ways, sharing tidbits of information, a joke, a picture, an update on what we’re doing. But I’m primarily cut off from W, because I can’t sit and check my email or write emails all day. So that’s why I loved the idea of getting to do Wedge Wednesday while I was here. These small things really do make me feel connected to him. He is in my mind, and (I like to think) I am in his.

So…since I blew that…I decided to do something on my own. Just because.

Ready for meetings!
REALLY ready for meetings!

And that is my little bit of wantonness for today. :-)

 For more Wednesday Wantonness, click the link below!

 Wanton Wednesday

Data Point: The Number is Two

Per W’s instructions for this timeframe while he’s gone to Florida and before we go to NYC after Christmas, I decided to wear chimeballs to my coochie waxing appointment.

“Wear” is a bit of a misnomer. W’s chimeballs are weighted balls, like Ben Wa balls but larger, heavier, and made of steel.  I call them “chimeballs” because they do exactly that–make a chiming sound when they are shaken.  They are pretty, and shiny, and make a lovely tinkly sound.

Yeah, I like them.

Also, whereas Ben Wa balls come in twos, W has a bunch of the steel ones. I (think) six of the large size ones, which are about an inch and a half across, and eight or more of the small, half-or-three-quarter-inch size (W can correct me on sizes if I’m wrong.)  W has used them on me with varying degrees of pleasure and pain. (I know, a surprise, right?) Pleasure when he uses just two or three or even four of the large ones, pushing them deep inside me and then either using his hand or cock to fuck me into bliss. Pain when he shoves as many as he possibly can up there–and then does the same thing.

I played a new game though, seeing as I was only playing with myself, and didn’t have W to use the chimeballs on me, to torture me or pleasure me with them.

So I tortured myself.

Oh, not physically (or not really) but more emotionally. I “wore” three of the balls to my wax appointment–stuffed right up my pussy, right where she was going to be working.

I’ve never worn them out anywhere (that I can recall) but I have worn them around the house at W’s, until gravity helped expel them from my body. (There are several ways to retrieve them once inserted: gravity–one can jump up and down to assist this method; the “bearing down” method, which is exactly what it sounds like; or W’s favorite method: reaching up and digging them out with his fingers. The last method is queerly pleasurable, even in its extreme discomfort.  Sometimes, all three methods, employed simultaneously, are necessary.)  But I had never worn them out in public for an extended period of time.

I wanted practice. You know, “data points,” as W calls them.

But laying there on the wax-girl’s treatment bed, my legs spread as she hovered over that most intimate part of my body, wasn’t really part of that. That was just…humiliation play. Visited upon myself. Would the balls be detectable? Would they slip out? Would they make a sound discernible to her as I shifted position?

The answer to all those questions is, thankfully, “no.”

However, she may have noticed the extra swelling of my cunt lips, caused by the weight of the balls pressing against the walls of my vagina, by gravity pushing them down against them, and by my own, helpless arousal caused by these physical sensations–and the anxiety and embarrassment I felt.

Or not. Who can say?

I am fairly certain, however, that anyone outside the door when I (stupidly) decided to use the restroom after my appointment probably heard the sound of a chimeball clanging–loudly–against the porcelain of the inside of the toilet bowl, as gravity ejected it from my body.  Only one, though. Two of them were still lodged in there, waiting to be removed, several hours later when Ad got home.

Data point: apparently, the number of chimeballs I can wear “out and about” comfortably (and without spontaneous ejection) is two.

Safely ejected. And no, that isn't lube on them and my hands. Did I mention that I like them? A *lot*?

Sinful Sunday – Packing a Surprise at the Park

Sinful Sunday is all about the image!

I was packing a surprise for my trip the the sculpture park with Ad today… Can you guess what it is?

Here’s just one image from the several that Ad and I took today on a trip to our local sculpture park.  I’ll leave you to guess as to what it’s all about–but don’t worry, I’ll fill ya’ll in in another blog post soon.

A surprise in my pants! :-D

Be sure to check out all the other Sinful Sunday posts at Molly’s Daily Kiss!

Sinful Sunday

Barren

I just don’t have much to give today.

I’m trying though.

garters
Garters at work, as requested.

It’s been a rough couple of days and I don’t know how to get myself back into “that” frame of mind, or if I even can.

Though I admit (almost unwillingly) that the little things do help. I almost don’t want them to (nose, meet spite.) I went back and forth with replying, “Sorry. Just not feeling it.” Then got up this morning and did it anyway.  I just couldn’t help myself.  The tiniest possibility that it’ll make his day better, that he will get something out of it, that it will make him feel good, even when my logical brain (or is it my illogical brain, at the moment I don’t know which is on Top) anyway, whichever one, says, “Why bother?”, even as it’s saying that, I’m looking through my outfits to find something that will work with garters, that will comply with his request.

Sometimes being submissive sucks.

But then every time I get up to cross the room I feel them against my body, against my skin, and I am constantly aware of them, and it feels a little tiny bit like rope–

And I think about him.

So there’s that.  I guess that will have to be enough.

Monday in Baltimore

(Continued from this post on W’s and my trip to Baltimore and the Shore.)

Monday came, and I had to be a professional woman again.  I’d brought a variety of Working Woman clothes (the professional type, not the streetwalker type)…

…and W had brought some Wearables to make my working days at the conference fun.


We both loved the old hotel that we stayed at. The conference hotel was too rich for my organization (we’re a cash-strapped charity) and so I had gone online and found us a deal. It was a lovely turn-of-the-century hotel in the Mt. Vernon historical district, and although at first I was sad not be in the Inner Harbor area, where I had stayed last year and where the conference hotel is, I am really glad we did now. I had decided to walk and take public transportation as much as was feasible, and we ended up walking back and forth to the Inner Harbor and all over the neighborhood where the hotel was, which was a delight.

And that afternoon, when I got back from the conference, W made fine use of the big bed in our room.

First he mauled me…

Then he pinned me.

I have to chuckle now about a Twitter conversation I recently had with someone. He is…a bit pedantic and dogmatic in his pronouncements at times, and occasionally makes “One True Way” type statements.  Recently one of those was, “Everyone interprets pain the same.” (Vis-a-vis his implication that a Top isn’t a Good Top™ unless he has tried anything he would do to a submissive on himself first, in order to understand what it feels like to him/her.)  Hrm. Okay, while I accept that one might want to know what an implement feels like, using it on yourself does not equate to knowing what that implement feels like to anyone else.  We each interpret pain–and pleasure–differently.

Case in point: clothespins.

I do not interpret clothespins–at least on certain areas of my body–as pain. They feel pleasurable to me. And no, I’m not talking pain-as-pleasure (although there are times when they are that, as well) but as pleasure alone.  And even sometimes in the places they do normally hurt, given the right stimulus, even that no longer registers as pain to me, but as pleasure. They do not hurt during those times.  In fact, when highly aroused, I can have an orgasm from the removal of them, as my body interprets that pain as pleasure as well. I’m just wired that way.

I am damn certain that what some other people feel when clothespins are applied is not pleasure at all, and in fact I have a good friend that is that way.  To her, the pain is intense, an excruciating, sharp, jabbing sensation that she can’t tolerate.

Not how they feel to me, at all.

So if this Top was one of that type, and used a clothespin on himself, and found it to be excruciating, but the person he played with was like me…well, you can see how the way he played with him or her might not be a good experience for that person. Likewise if, say, he interprets the feeling of a heavy flogger as a pleasant back massage, and his bottom feels it as deep, heavy pain, there could be some misapplication of that implement as well.  We each interpret sensation differently, and no one can know what it feels like for anyone else. Don’t ever try to tell me that you know what I feel, because it ain’t true. And don’t base your decision of how to play with me based on how a thing feels to you. Much better to pay attention to me and my reactions and what you see and hear from me, than to try to base your understanding on your own experience of a thing.

Just my two cents.

Anyway, all this by way of the funny story that goes along with the clothespins.

So W mauled me, and rubbed all over me, and then he clothespinned me, and then he zippered the clothespins off me, and the whole time he’d left my cunt alone. I was pushing it into the bed as much as I could, trying to get at that sweet spot so desperately, but he wasn’t letting me have any of that. Finally, after he yanked the zipper off and turned me over, I lay there, panting, horny as fuck, wanting to come so bad I was whimpering.

And wanting to come the way I knew I could, the way I had with my Ex, who had discovered Jade’s Joy of Clothespinned Orgasm®.

Finally, I got up the nerve to ask him. “Please,” I said, in a breathy little pant, “will you put the zipper on my tits while I touch myself, and yank the clothespins off, over and over, and not stop until I come?”

His eyes widened. “Seriously?” I don’t think he believed I really wanted it.  And honestly, the minute it was out of my mouth, I wondered too.  Did I really just ask for that?  Sure, my Ex used to put them on, one by one, and take them off as I came, but…well, I knew it would different than the Ex doing it.  Of that I could be certain.  This was W, after all…

And, <ahem> this was a clothespin zipper.  With like 40 bazillion clothespins.  The Ex had never done anything like that.  (A detail I may have glossed over when I insisted to W that I loved it when my Ex did it, by the way.)

But…that was the point, wasn’t it?

“Yes,” I said. “Seriously.”

So he did.

I took three applications and rips of the zipper before I came.

The interesting part to me is that what finally tipped me over was not actually the sensation of the pins themselves.  That felt great, and each rip left me gasping and moaning with that peculiar mixture of pleasure & pain, but my head wasn’t quite in the right place to reach an orgasm.  It was that whole “asking for it” thing rearing it’s ugly little head again.  So although I was getting there, I still wasn’t quite at the tipping point–

Until he slapped my hand away when I tried to stop him as he was applying them for the third time.

See, the ripping off actually is a pain-as-pleasure sensation, with the intensity being on the pain side of the thing in the way that he was doing it.  He wasn’t being gentle.  He applied and ripped and applied and ripped almost before I could catch my breath, mercilessly, and gleeful in that mercilessness.  I would just start to float with the pleasure of their application, then explode into the pain of them being ripped off almost before I’d had a chance to breathe, before being suffused by the nearly-orgasmic pleasure that quickly followed.  But it was almost too much, too intense.  I was actually a little on sensory overload by the time he started putting them on for the third time, and started to struggle against him a bit.

He was having none of that.  I could almost hear the words in the air as he held me down and put them on, one by one: “You asked for it–now take it!”

And that was all it took. To know that he was in control, that he was calling the shots.

And as he grabbed my wrist and pinned it down, then reached over and ripped the pins away for the third time, I writhed and bucked and came, screaming with a pleasure so intense I about had an aneurysm.

As we both lay panting afterward, he turned me and shook his head. “I never would have done that to you if you hadn’t asked for it. Women are so much kinkier than men.”

Huh.  When I think of all the things I have in my head, of all the things I’ve wanted him to do to me, of all the sick, twisted, fucked-up kinky fantasies I’ve never told him–or at least never asked him to do for real–I have to agree.  I’m one kinky bitch.

But it takes him to do all those things, and to make me take it when I want to back out, when I think I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, and to take pleasure in the doing of it.

Knowing how a clothespin feels on himself has nothing to do with knowing how to do that.