Puerto Vallarta 2.0

It’s hard to believe I’m sitting here enjoying the sun rise and the sound of the ocean for the first time since we arrived five days ago.

Dawn over Puerto Vallarta.

There are so many things I love about being by the ocean. I didn’t really get to experience them fully in our trip before yesterday. But we were only here Saturday through today – Saturday and today being travel days.

I came to Vallarta with my daughter, Ana, to celebrate her 30th birthday. We had come here 12 years before, for her 18th birthday, and we thought it would be fun to do it again. And it was.

The first day we took a horseback ride up into the mountains east of Puerto Vallarta. We were supposed to have gone up to a waterfall and pool to swim, but a tropical storm meant too much rain for it to be safe. Still, it was a lovely day. And a wonderful way to start our vacation.

Our horses at Rancho Capomo.

After the ride we made pico de gallo with our hosts and had tequila and beer and ate grilled steak on homemade tortillas before returning to our condo to take an afternoon swim and then play a mean game of cribbage in our Tournament of the Waves. (She won.)

We had the same hands!

The next day were more adventures, the first of which was obtaining breakfast. Ana found a likely looking place on Yelp. We decided to walk, since it was only about a mile away. Supposedly. When we finally arrived at our destination, dying of thirst and near starvation, we had walked 2.5 miles down the beach and up into the Zona Romantica and then beyond into an area that was a bit run down, before we realized the restaurant had moved to a new location. But when we got there? It was sooo worth the walk.

Later that day was another adventure that we had not done when we were here last: we did a “Tacos and Tequila” tour. It turned out to be a 4 hour walk through the Zona Romantica area again, learning about the culture built up around the agave plant, how to drink mescal, raicilla and tequila, and all about the components of each. I love it there, and if I come again will definitely stay there rather than where we are now. Don’t get me wrong, this place is wonderful, but my heart belongs in old PV. Or up along the coast, tucked into the jungle. But more on that later. First, take a look at some of the delectable dishes we tried on our food tour.

One of the more amusing stops was at a place where they made the “honey water” of the agave plant and then lightly fermented it into a kimchi-like beverage called “Pulque.” This is then further fermented and then mixed with juice. The place was called “Chinga Quedito,” which, lightly translated, means Fucks Me Fast – the beverage then becomes Pulque Fucks Me Fast. Our guide says in Spanish slang it doesn’t quite have the raw connotations that it does when translated to English, but still. I want a store called Fuck Me Fast.

Another amusement was the crunchy addition to our Palomas and shots of mescal at yet another place. Yum, chapulines (crickets)!

I also learned that I need yet another addition to my repertoire of “correct” glassware – Palomas must be served in clay mugs, which, I assure you, are now on my shopping list, along with copper mugs for Moscow Mules.

On the way home we wandered by and through the sculptures in the malecon, just as we had years before.

And that night, I went out to see the first sunset of our trip (the night before had been stormy) by myself – Ana had decided she had had more than enough of the world for one day.

More to come…

A Mexican Upskirt

I’m in Puerto Vallarta for five days with my daughter. We came here 12 years ago when she was 18 and we are reprising the trip now for her 30th, even going on the same hike from Boca de Tomatlan to Las Animas beach on Tuesday.

I have been tasked by Sir while I am away to document my changes of outfits for him. A very vanilla task as he was not sure how much privacy I would have. Of course when I had the opportunity I had to make it a little less vanilla…

The Writing Task

I have been tasked with writing/posting here three times a week. It is not an onerous task (in fact it is one I am quite grateful for and delighted to be tasked with) but it does challenge me. I’m trying to remember how I used to write so much when I was with W. It seemed there were hours and hours a day to compose, edit and polish my posts.

I don’t see K quite as much as I did W – as he and Ad used to joke, they each had 50% custody of me – but the times that we do spend together are intensely focused. Oh, we go shopping, or do yardwork, or go bowling or play board games and go out to eat and spend time with Ad – all time that is punctuated by hours of play and sex and kink and just generally loving and touching on each other – but we haven’t yet built in the kind of side-by-side downtime that I used to have with W, time that used to be for writing (me) or working on his now-defunct website, Bondage Demons (him.) Also, to be fair, my 9-5 job was a LOT less demanding, so much of the pre-writing that typically happens before I actually polish and publish a blog post happened during work hours, and, generally, that’s just not possible in my current position.

BUT – I am loving having things I want to write about again! I am loving feeling free to write, to express myself, and not feeling afraid of censure, of garnering someone’s displeasure, of not having yet more holes punched in the boat of a relationship that was always on the verge of sinking. I lived so much of my life in that space in that relationship. How did I survive six years that way? Feeling my light dimmed, my self diminished every day; living on eggshells; desperately trying to please and knowing it was never enough. I am not talking about V or my relationship with him in particular. There was a lot of good in that (if frenetic at times.) It was the relationship structure that was so damaging.

Perhaps this is just me, finally healing from W’s loss. Perhaps those 6 years were so…so raw, so tormented…at times because I was still so broken. I was a gaping wound of exposed nerves and suffering that no amount of love, sex, alcohol, kink or pills could assuage. There were times in those years when I could feel myself beginning to open up again, beginning to struggle out of the chrysalis I had been bound in, but I was weakened by all that had come before, both in the aftermath of W’s death and within the relationship that came after, that my struggles to emerge were feeble, and soon abandoned.

And then there was the rage. So much rage.

I hadn’t known I had the capacity for that much anger, that much bitterness. I didn’t (don’t) know where it came from, or where it had been before. Yes, circumstances were, of course. But, looking back, I am still bewildered by the depth and breadth of it. So much pain, so much anger. I drowned in it and it consumed me: perhaps that relationship never stood a chance. In any case, my writing suffered, right along with my heart. I couldn’t find the words, and even when things were exciting and I wanted to share them, I was usually too traumatized and fearful of reprisal to do so.

And yet, now, here I am. It helps to have an appreciative audience. When I started writing my first blog, when Pieces of Jade was born – this space, ironically – I quite literally wrote for an audience of one: W. Or maybe two: the both of us. Blogging was as much a kink for me as photography was for him. He remembered with pictures, I remembered with words, and then when we got to combine the two: boom! We got to live and share the experiences several times over. Of course there was (and is) so much more to it than just remembering things. I used (and use) this space to memorialize, but also to understand my world, both the internal one and external one I inhabit. (I recently read a wonderful article in the Paris Review, “Why Write?” that spoke to a lot of that. Go on, read it, it’s worth the time.) I used it to communicate with W, and I use it now, if not to communicate with, at least to share, my thoughts with K. He seems interested in the thoughts in my head, and that makes me want to share them. He’s also shown an interest in helping me to create content, in the form of the Tree Hugger (and other) posts recently, and possibly in other ways in the future. Our blossoming relationship has certainly been fodder for a lot of my musings – both salacious and philisophical.

And now here we are, me sitting in front of a blank screen, wondering how I will find the time to write all the words that my life generates. Well, at least three days a week’s worth.

Somehow I think I might just figure it out.

Titties & Biting

Today is Friday, so it’s Boobday, but it’s also “Biting” for the Kink of the Week, so you’re going to get some boobs, but you’re also going to get some bites, because boobs happen to be a favorite place for my friend Toy to bite me:

But she also likes under the arms and on the sides, and I love how much of a perfect bite mark these are:

In spite of what it sounds like as I admire the marks, I am not a huge fan of biting as BDSM play. Now sex play, with the kind of not-actually-painful nips – love bites, especially along my neck, throat, shoulders and inner thighs – those I enjoy. But the kind of bites that engender the marks above, not so much. I tolerate them, I consent to them, I submit to them, because that is how BDSM works for me, but they are not a pain that I ever really enjoy – at least not to that degree. They don’t ever melt into the kind of masochistic pleasure that other kinds of pain does.

Having said that, they aren’t a limit for me. Given a choice between being bitten and just about any other torment, I would probably choose the not-biting one, but the fact that I wouldn’t choose it, that it is very obviously something the D-type is doing because they choose it (knowing I hate it) is deeply satisfying. In those moments, they aren’t being a service top. It’s all about them, and that makes my little subbie heart sing. I’ve known that about my feelings about biting for awhile.

But there is something else I discovered recently. I would not call myself a marks-slut. I mean, I love my marks, but I don’t get off on them. I enjoy the reminder of the play that we had, and I like showing them off, but there is nothing inherently sexual in them for me. (Now the pain from having my bruises pressed, days later, that gives an instant jolt-to-the-cunt.) But I got a lot of pleasure from looking at these. And bite marks – especially heavy ones like those above – they spread and last. Those marks lasted at least three weeks, and the bruises that developed were much larger than the actual bites had been. And I liked that. I liked looking at my body and seeing them there for days after. And the thing I discovered? Later, when I was naked with K, I imagined him biting me that way. I wanted his teeth marks on my body. I wanted him to mark me as his.

I remember being in high school and the boy I was in love with – my first love, the one whose virginity I took and who took mine – giving me a hickey, one of those sucked-on bruises to the neck. I remember not being wildly turned on by it, as my friends seemed to be – but I loved knowing that when others saw it, they knew I was his. That it was his mouth on my skin that had caused it. Of course, things being what they were, they also thought I was “easy,” that I was a slut or promiscuous or whatever people thought about girls and women that (gasp!) had unmarried sex, and worse yet, that enjoyed it. (I grew up in a very small, conservative town.) But still, I wore that hickey like a badge of honor, and refused to show the shame and embarrassment I was “supposed” to feel (even as I did feel it, even as I internalized it.)

I wonder if that was my first taste of transgression, and if perhaps that helped to shape my sexuality ever after? And I also wonder if that feeds into my desire to wear a bite mark as a symbol of ownership? It is such an intimate, visceral experience, being bitten. And those marks – they are obviously not caused by anything else but someone’s mouth on a person’s skin, almost-but-not-quite penetrative.

Hmm…maybe there is something sexual in there for me. I may just be talking myself into a thing for biting as a kink. ;-)

The Casual Panty-Check

He opens the passenger side door for me. I slide in and get myself situated while he shuts the door and gets into the driver side.

(An aside: this door-opening thing: it’s not just gentlemanly, though it is certainly that. And it’s not a “rule” – he says it’s a “preference,” though when I forget and open my door myself, I always feel a little frisson of having done something wrong, even though he doesn’t say that. But there is a subtle power dynamic in it. It makes me feel cared for in what would certainly be the way that an old-school feminist would hate – being treated as something to be taken care of, as something delicate and treasured. Something that places my wellbeing in his large, capable hands, as exhibited by something as mundane as opening the car door for me.)

Once he has settled himself in the driver’s seat, and I in the passenger’s, he reaches over and casually lifts the hem of my skirt, until he can see my panties. Then drops it and continues putting the car in reverse or drive, checking the mirrors, etc. in preparation for driving. “You were saying?” he asks, slanting an amused look my way. But I don’t know what I was saying because my breath has caught and all thinking has been halted by this action. It wasn’t overtly sexual (tho of course it was.) It wasn’t overtly dominating (tho of course it was.) It was – exquisitely, deliciously – a violation of my bodily autonomy.

I am his to look at, when and where he pleases. It doesn’t have to be a scene.  He doesn’t have to say anything. It’s not part of a rule structure. He doesn’t even draw attention to it. It is just him deciding that this is what he is going to do, and by the time I have registered that he is doing it, he has already turned his attention elsewhere.

I am not sure why this affects me as viscerally as it does. It’s hot, of course. And it has the mark of dominance and control, of course. But it is more than that. It is reminder that my body – my self – is his – distilled into this one, small, deliberate, action.

Today’s Randomness

Anybody else leave their browser tabs open on their phone for weeks at a time and then amuse themselves by going back and seeing what caught your interest weeks ago? No? Only me? Well okay. That’s cool.

This is what I’ve been looking at the last few days…
















What randomness have you been up to lately?

One Hot Weekend

Oh that could be taken so many ways. This past weekend, it can be taken in all the ways.

  1. Hot House. The A/C went out at our house Thursday and we couldn’t get it serviced until Tuesday, after what were forecasted to be 95+ degree temps over the 4th. We (K and I) went down to my friend’s lake house Friday night instead of staying at the Hot House. Originally we were all supposed to go down together, Ad, K and I, on Saturday, but Adam had to stay to work his Saturday shift, so K and I went down early so we could avoid some of the heat. It wasn’t that big a departure from we would have been doing anyway, since Friday night was a date night with K – we just spent our date night grocery shopping, then driving to the lake, and then introducing him to my friends.
  2. Hot Weather. As mentioned, the temps were in the high 90’s all weekend. One of the days it was even 100 degrees I think. We solved this problem by spending as much time in the water as possible. We boated and swam and I jumped off a really high platform and the side of the boat and lounged around on a froggy pad. I showed K how to kayak, one of my favorite water sports, and we rode wave runners – my girlfriend V (not my ex V, lol) terrifying me as always (I’m always the passenger) before handing me off to K (“Here, do you want to take the giggle-puss?” He did want to.) He did not terrify me as much as she had, and in fact warned me when he was going to spin us around or go stupid fast (which I greatly appreciated.) And throughout it all I managed not to sunburn, though I am sure my skin cancer doc will not be happy about the amount of freckles I am sporting. I, however, adore them.
  3. Hot Spankings. Did I mention that this was supposed to be a vanilla weekend? No kink, and K was supposed to be a friend of ours, not my lover, not my Dom. But because K and I had gone down a night early, we didn’t have to pretend (it was only for our hosts’ family, who were coming down late Saturday.) It was a birthday weekend for M, V’s husband. The past two years I have offered my ass up to him for his bday spankings, but due to pandemic and all, I never got to take them. So, you know, me being me, I offered to take them all at once before the rest of the guests arrived. Because of course! K had fun watching me do the math, and then we were off…paddles and hands and spoons and giggles and whacks and me counting…somewhat coherently. Well, for awhile. At some point I lost count, or maybe I lost how to count, and started in by 10’s (it made sense in my head.) And then, I don’t know what happened, I just started spewing randomish numbers. I mean, they were in the vacinity of the right numbers…like 150 or something. I know this because I have been told the story by K, who gets a devilish amusement from it. I assume it made sense in my head at the time. Maths are hard, okay?! But then, finally, it was K’s turn. Because, see, up to this point M & V had been giving me the bday spankings. But K had decided to use his belt for his turn, and they got to the end before he took a turn. “But I want his belt!!” I may have wailed. Or whined, or begged. Because I love it when he hurts me. I love all the things about it. I may have to talk about that more. (I hope I have lots more opportunity to talk about it lots more!) Anyway…yeah. Um, I got his belt. And it hurt. And I yelped and danced and whined and loved it, every minute. And that was the “hot” part of the hot spankings.
  4. Hot Sex. You knew I was going to get to it, didn’t you? Here’s some highlights:
    • Getting fingered under the stars on the back deck overlooking the lake, then reciprocating by giving him head right there too, the sweet taste of his cum on my tongue. (I might be a cock whore. I want to be his cock whore.)
    • Mornings spent rolling around with each other in the bed until the bedsheets were completely turned around and half off the bed (all his fault), his mouth between my legs or his fingers in my cunt, me writhing and panting and moaning and pleading to be allowed to come. And his cock in my mouth again, my greedy mouth, sucking and swallowing and feeling him tense and listening to his breath catch and then “fuck yes,” and then on a gasp: “I’m coming,” and then he does, holding my head down, pushing up into my mouth, my greedy mouth.
    • Or later, in the shower, his body soapy, my hands all over him, not intending to start anything but wanting to tease and touch and feel him. But then … I am not sure how we got to this exact place … but I had his cock between my legs, rubbing its soapy slippery length on my clit and my labia, and he must have made the suggestion that what I would feel was his cock inside me, because suddenly, oh yeah, he was fucking me or maybe I was fucking him, and I could feel him pushing inside me, and I was sliding down on him, my cuntlips opening, gulping him in that other greedy mouth, my cunt-mouth, sliding him in and out, and I was wet with my own juice, my own need, and then with his cum as he exploded inside me and I came all over his cock as he whispered in my ear, or in my mind, “That’s it, that’s it, cum on my cock…” (And Jesus fuck but I am getting wet remembering it.) And here’s the thing: it was all in my head, it was all mindplay, but it was so real and so fucking hot. And as we dried off he told me I’d keep feeling his cum inside me for awhile, and for the next hour or more, every time I dipped my fingers into my cunt – which I found myself doing far more than was probably considered polite (haha, how often is it “polite” to put your fingers into your pussy?) I could feel it and taste him.
    • And then there is his hand touching my knee while he drove and my legs falling open without hesitation, without volition even, waiting for him to touch me, whether it was with his voice or his fingers.
    • And the feeling of him being in my mind, just there at the edge, and my own mind opening up to him, waiting for his instruction. “Cum for me – now,” and I do. Whether or not he’s been touching me. My body just…reacts. Convulses, as the orgasm washes over me.
    • Later, after Adam finally makes it to the lake, and we are in the bed, all three of us. We have just co-slept for the first time, and it was natural and comfortable and I couldn’t believe we were doing it – I was there in the bed with both my men. And they are both teasing me, and then Ad is slapping my pussy, not hard, just enough to arouse me, so that when he stops I say no, keep doing it, and he does. And K is on my other side and he starts pinching my nipple. And I am riding between pleasure and pain, my brain and my body trying to process both at once, but it can’t, and finally I beg them to stop, because I can’t, I just can’t.
    • And oh – when did this happen? in the bed or in the car – K pushes back the hood to my clitoris to expose its sensitive nub and then he rolls and squeezes it between his thumb and finger, pulsing, gently and maybe not so gently. And it is painful and pleasureable and somehow makes me feel vulnerable and so very exposed and he makes me cum again.
    • Or another time, his hand around my throat, squeezing, and I am gasping, gulping for air, and I fight, staring into eyes, until I don’t fight anymore, I just … surrender. And it is okay, because surrender is what I want. Every time. And the way that he gets it, the way that he gets me there is such a bewildering, delightful mixture of mind and body and sex and kink and desire and submission, and…damn it…falling in love. But that’s for another post, isn’t it?
This was the vanilla portion of the weekend.

Kinky Bucket List Revisited

Someone on Twitter recently made a comment about my Kinky Bucket List. Honestly, it’s been a minute since I originally wrote that – I posted it in 2012! Ten years? Whew! There’s still a lot of things I haven’t done, and a lot of things that still resonate with me, but others…maybe not so much. I’ll probably need to go over it again at some point and update it; maybe revise it a bit. But if you’re interested in what kinds of kinky fuckery I get up to in my head, feel free to take a gander over there.

What I am interested in now though, what surprised (and delighted) me, was finding this on my list:

Experiencing erotic hypnosis – the ultimate scene would involve being hypnotized to believe that I have been drugged and have no control over my body, then to be used by several men, unable to move or help myself.

I had told K in one of our early hikes that I was interested in it. I’d seen it on his Fet profile after I’d met him in our kinky hiking group and I had wandered over to Fet to find out more about him. Just about every nerve ending stood bolt upright when I read that he was into it. But it still felt…transgressive…to talk to him about it. I had to steel up the nerves to do so. Erotic hypnosis – hypnokink – has been a hot button for me since the very beginning (as evidenced by my Kinky Bucket List!) But none of my other partners had been interested in it. (Now I am wondering where that book I bought V on the topic is…) To actually be talking to someone that was actually interested in the topic? Maybe not just interested, but practicing it??

God I wanted him to fuck my mind. (Just typing that makes me throb, makes me ache, makes me catch my breath.)

And now…now he is. Now he does. Fuck my mind. Now I am in a relationship in which hypnosis plays a large – a very large – part. K incorporates erotic hypnosis into our relationship, for play and deeper aspects of (consensual) conditioning and control. No, we haven’t played out the fantasy above (if that would even be possible) but we’ve played on some every hot edges and he’s trained(?) conditioned(?) me to orgasm on command, without any stimulation (except him in my head – which is really freaking stimulating, lol.)

I’ve spoken before about how keyed I get to my Dominant when in a D/s relationship. His desires become mine, his fantasies become mine. I am not subsumed by him, but I get so deeply tied to him that even when I don’t want to get turned on by the shit that turns him on, I do. It wasn’t until I started talking to K about hypnosis that I began to see a connection between allowing – maybe even wanting – myself to be conditioned by my D/s partner in this way and the things I find incredibly compelling about hypnosis. I’ve realized that I probably have a “very serious” kink for it. (Surprising to no one I’ve ever talked to about it, and K least of all, lol.)

So, here we are. Me, in my dining room writing to you, hot and bothered just thinking about him in my head, fucking my mind…controlling me; conditioning me this way. You, out there, probably wondering, is it real?

I can’t speak for anyone else’s experience. Sometimes I can barely find the words for my own. I could turn this into an argument about the nature of reality… What is “real”? We perceive everything through the filter of our minds… everything. So if he is between my legs, but not touching me with his hands, or cock, or anything else…and my mind is open to him, my subconscious, below the level of my thinking mind…and he is telling me that I am feeling him fucking me, feeling his cock press against my opening, feeling him pushing inside me… And I do, I feel him rocking against me, the weight of him, the pressure of him inside me…and my mind is telling me that these things are real… How is that any less real than my mind telling me that the sky is blue or water is wet?

Or if we are walking down a busy pathway to the river, and he tells me that I can feel the Lush inside me, feel it buzzing, as we walk, and my mind tells me that I can

There is a part of me now that is always open, always receptive, waiting to listen to him. To what he says to me, to what he doesn’t say, to what he wants, to what he tells me my body is doing, even if it is not something I am aware of actually doing until I am already there. I think, during our extended times together, that I am falling in and out of trance the whole time. I find myself focusing on the tracing of his fingers on my skin, or the sound of his voice, or his eyes, and suddenly I am there…tho it doesn’t feel sudden. It feels like a slow, dreamy slide into a place of waiting. Waiting to be commanded, to be controlled.

And I love it there.