When Work & Play Meet

Today is the first day of NaNoWri (National Novel Writing Month.) As some of you already know, I have participated in the event, in a sometimes-perfunctory, sometimes-engaged fashion, for the past several years with my daughter. This year I wasn’t going to participate, but she has been insisting we do so since August, so here I am again, attempting 50,000 words in one month.

I’m actually more enthusiastic than the previous paragraph implies.  Mostly I am enthusiastic about the fact that the Missy wants me to participate in it with her so much. I love that she loves to write, and connects that wonderful activity, that has given me so much joy my entire life, with me. I hope, when I am gone, that this will be one of those things that will remind her of us, and bring her happy memories.

In any case…here I am.  New novel, new dedication.  We’ll see how it goes. ;-)

At the moment, though, I am in my office, thinking about last night (a first date); W (he’s gone for two weeks, back for a week, I’m gone for a week, then he’s gone for two more); a meeting/play date he wants me to set up for us when he gets back; and the heavy, beaten-metal collar I have around my neck.

First, last night.

I had a first date with a Top that wants a play partner once a month when he comes to St. Louis. He has a long-term partner in his home town, but due to his heavy travel schedule, neither she nor he get as much play as they’d like, so he has been looking for someone for her to play with a few times a month when he isn’t there and for someone for him to enjoy on a long-term, but extremely part-time basis when he travels. It could be an ideal situation for us all: I get a monthly play date with someone new, who enjoys some of the things that W doesn’t (D/s ritual/interaction being the main one of interest to me), without the attendant “relationship” type stuff that I just don’t have the time, energy or interest in.

I got to meet him in my “Bad Sandy/Rizzo” get-up that I donned for our Halloween party here at work, which looked pretty hot:

And no, I DON'T smoke - that's not even an actual cigarette. LOL
Ad made the lettering on the back of my jacket. :-D

But of course I wasn’t actually “bad.” In fact I was very good, following W’s instruction on meeting with him to the letter. Which was an unusual situation in the first place (W giving me such precise restrictions on what I could and couldn’t do on the date.) But which I liked. A lot.

More on that at another time, perhaps.

Prior to going out though, (and speaking to the second subject of my musings this morning – W being out of town), I found myself at W’s, freshening up after work. It’s both sad and comforting to me to be in his house when he goes away.  I wander around and look at his (and my) things, and miss him, even yesterday, when he’d only been gone a day. And like a dog pining for its master, I curled up on his bed, an old shirt that smelled like him under my cheek, and took a quick, restorative nap. Well, after I masturbated until I came (twice) thinking about having sex with him only the day before, right in that same spot.

As we have done the last two times that he’s gone away, we discussed ways to help me (and him) deal with our separation. I think it’s easier in some ways for him to deal with. I know he misses me, but I don’t think he misses the D/s part that is so integral to my experience of our relationship. It’s more than missing him, it’s feeling unmoored in a way, set adrift. And so most of what we do is geared towards incorporating a small bit of that into my life daily, either in a way that just has me thinking about him and our connection, or in games that we play or tasks that he sets for me. This has become sort of a ritual in and of itself for us, the preparation on his part prior to leaving, the discussion of what he may require of me, the anticipation on my part of it, and then, of course the execution of said tasks, etc. and the recording of them here.  Oddly, I have come to enjoy this aspect of his absence, and even, while not looking forward to his absence, looking forward to this part of it. It’s a little bit of ritual in a largely ritual-free relationship.

That symbolism today is this metal collar I have around my neck.

The theme of this month’s trip is “Wearables.” I think there may also be some Tasks assigned, and the week that the Missy and I are on our writing retreat will have it’s own particular games to be played, but for the most part I believe that part of my daily, or almost-daily, routine will be to wear some sort of “reminder” beneath my clothes, such as this collar, as directed by W.

I don’t know if W really gets the mind of someone that gets off on this sort of thing, to be honest. This morning, knowing I had to wear something that would hide the collar, I looked at the weather report.  Hoping for, you know, a snowstorm or something to justify wearing a heavy turtleneck sweater.  No such luck. While it was only 43 degrees this AM, it’s supposed to get up to the low 70’s by mid-afternoon. I couldn’t justify a heavy sweater. I really can’t justify a turtleneck, even a light knit one like the one I’m wearing.

But that’s the fun of it.  Making me have to think about it this morning as I dressed, having to choose to obey his instruction, and go through a bit of discomfort and gyrations to make it happen, because he said so, because I want to please him. Making me a little uncomfortable. Making me aware of doing something that might draw a little bit of attention–not enough to have people really wondering, but just enough to make me self-conscious when my coworkers look at me. Self-conscious and very aware of this band of metal laying so heavily around my neck.  The clasp sticks out just a bit, pushing the fabric of my turtleneck out, and I wonder every time they look at me if they can see that. Getting out of my car this morning to come into the office, I felt a tremor of anxiety and excitement, knowing I was wearing it. Excitement that translated to a throbbing between my legs even as my brain told me how stupid it was to get wet about wearing a collar.

The things is, I know that I could have used any excuse to get out of it.  W truly doesn’t want me to be discommoded in any way , and if I ask him to allow me to get out of something he has told me to do, he generally will.  But…I don’t want him to let me off.  W doesn’t necessarily get the mindset that accompanies this whole scenario–I don’t want him to give in, to be “thoughtful” when I whine that it’s “too hard” or I just didn’t have time, or it’s uncomfortable or I don’t like it or “the weather is too warm for a turtleneck,”–but I think he’s figured out that it’s very much a part of my mental-makeup and has started to play with that concept.  It’s that I have to do this thing, and find a way to do it in spite of my own reservations/resistance, that makes it hot.

To a reasonable degree, of course.  Right now, my head hurts a little because of the weight of the damn thing. This is no delicate, “just-for-looks” collar.  It’s heavy, and industrial, and merciless in its weight. Not something that I could wear every day, and in fact may not be able to tolerate for a full eight hours (and get my work done.) But that, too, is part of it. Every so often I have to hold it up off my neck, discretely, so nobody sees, to alleviate the pressure.  And later I may ask if I can remove it, and if he allows me to, even the removal, in the bathroom stall here at work, will become part of it all.  (That he is reasonable in these matters, in spite of the “not wanting him to give in” rhetoric, is also why I am with him, by the way. He does know how to balance “not giving in” and knowing when I am just whining, with reality and the need to be sensible.) And meanwhile, the weight of it, every minute, has me thinking about him, about how I am his Industrial Girl, his Industrial Fuck, even here at work.

As for the other thing I’ve been thinking about, the task of setting up a play date for his return, well, that tale will have to wait until another time.  This Industrial Girl has to go be Worker Girl for awhile.

Picture Request Challenge – An Enema, a Buttplug & Some Rope

So Monday (in a fit of possible insanity), I posted a Challenge here

…and on Fetlife:


…and on Twitter.

Ya’ll came through with flying colors–well, several of you did!–and I (and W) thank you!! Some of the suggestions were less…practical…than others (I still had to work all day, and one in particular involved an innocent bystander, something we don’t engage in.)  But even those two W thinks he can use elements of for future Picture Requests. So if yours wasn’t the one he chose, don’t worry, you may get a chance to see it, or some permutation of it yet. :-)

As you may have guessed from the title of this post, the Challenge he chose involved an enema, a buttplug & rope. (The rope may have been his addition.  This is W, after all.)

Oddly enough, he and I have never played with enemas before.  The Ex played with me with them, and I have played with Ad and another Top with them, but for some reason W and I never have.

Enema play is loaded with some heavy-duty humiliation triggers for me.  I love how small and vulnerable they make me feel, how exposed, how utterly controlled by the one administering it–and by my own body. There is the humiliation of bodily functions, of course, a theme that I have explored here in my writings, and that W and I have explored many times with piss and blood play. I love those themes, love the raw emotional spaces that that kind of play takes me to.

Because this involves my anus, the humiliation is even more heightened.  There is the embarrassment of having him…look at me there…and touch me there, so impersonally, almost clinically…  It’s hard to describe the depth of feeling it evokes in me.  To have him see me in that position, to have to submit to what he’s doing, willingly, and know that he knows I am just that: willing.

But it’s more than that.

It’s the idea of being penetrated anally in such an impersonal fashion, with a tool, of having that instrument slid up inside of that most secret part of me–and then to have him deliberately push a liquid into my body…the feel of it, of his hands, adjusting, administering…and of the liquid itself, filling me.

It’s more than that though, too. It’s the idea that he is causing a reaction in my body that once begun, I will have absolutely no control over, that he is forcing my body to do something completely involuntary, like making my heart beat, or my blood flow.  That he is causing that, doing that to me…

And, ultimately, there is the humiliation of feeling myself get excited when it’s happening.  And of knowing that he knows it excites me.

Because it was a Work from Home Day, and because I actually had work to get done, we didn’t get to explore this in its entirety.  But I hope (and dread!) that now that we’ve gone there once, we’ll get to play this way again.

When the Challenge started, he just put rope on me and told me to work. "Well hell," I thought, "this is gonna be easy!" I think it was a deliberate deception on his part. ;-)

Then he took me by the rope and led me into the bathroom. I literally set my feet in a balk when I saw the enema bag hanging from the shower rod and he had to drag me over the threshold.  He was only too happy to do so, and soon had me secured by the tub.

"This is bad. This is NOT GOOD. You should not do this to me!"
Needless to say, he did it anyway.

Picture Request - Enema

Picture Request - Enema, Rope
I'm not very good at submitting gracefully.
Picture Request - Enema
I squirm.
I fight.
I whine.

But ultimately, I accept.

And accept the pleasure, too.

Of course it couldn’t be that easy.  Because what goes in must come out.

But not before W says so.

He sent me back to my desk.

"I have to hold it HOW long?"
"I have to hold it HOW long?"
Holding it in.
Until I begged to go.
At least he let me close the door.

(Check back Wednesday for a peek behind that closed door!)

Go Cardinals!

Holy shit.  Just walked back into my office after “lunch.” Or rather, I stumbled back into my office, head still buzzing, ass still smarting, pussy still throbbing. Looked down at myself as I did so and saw that the center button on my sweater had come unbuttoned.

And that there was:

  • Dirt on my jeans from my knees to my feet
  • Grime and rope marks on my wrists
  • Strap-marks at the corners of my mouth
  • Sawdust in my hair
  • A glazed look in my eyes

And underneath it all, a pair of panties so obscenely wet it’s like I danced in the rain in them.

Go, Cards, indeed!

Twisted Tryst Pics & Write-Up

I’m never very good at doing a comprehensive write-up when we go to events. While I’m there I’m either too busy, to tired from being so busy, or there isn’t WIFI, or my brain isn’t thinking about writing about what’s happening, I’m just experiencing it.  By the time I get home I’m either recovering or catching up, and then we’re doing new stuff, and life moves on, and pretty soon it’s three weeks later and I can’t remember everything we did!  So I never seem to get anything worthwhile down on paper (or in computer, as it were.)

Twisted Tryst was no exception.

We did get a few more pictures this time, however, so I’ll be able to walk down memory lane a little bit with you via the pics…

Tryst was held in a new place this year, for both the early (June) camp and the later camp, which was in September this year (coincidentally over my birthday.) We had considered going to the earlier one, since it was closer geographically, and the campground was reputed to be nicer than the original spot, but there was some conflict in scheduling and, at the time, we thought the later camp was also going to be at this new campground.  That didn’t end up being the case, so we ended up at a campground in Northern WI in the middle of September. It could have been nice weather…we were hoping for warmer temperatures…but it was cold. Too fucking cold to be running around half-naked. Or all the way naked, as I had at the previous Tryst.  Trying to stay in fet-mode without my usual slutwear and high heels is…a challenge. We did manage, but…not nearly as well as we would have if the weather had been just a little nicer.  That said, we both agreed that next year we’ll try to attend the earlier camp at the more southern location. I’m no wuss when it comes to camping, but actual camping isn’t what I go to Camp for, if you get my meaning.  Regardless, we did manage to have some fun. ;-)

Day 1 – Up North We Go

The first day wasn’t actually a Tryst day.  On Wednesday before the event, we drove up to W’s aunt’s house, which was about 3 hours away from Tryst. What an odd juxtaposition! I had to be the regular–not poly, not kinky (of course)–girlfriend, meeting his aunt, cousin, brother, and mom for the first time.  I think I passed as a normal girl okay.

A couple “road pics,” playing with my webcam.

First morning.
I discover that I can use the webcam as a mirror, and apply makeup in it.

And meeting his family for the first time was nice.  He’s a very…reserved…person about his family, and doesn’t even share much of himself with them, so it was a real honor that he actually introduced me to them.

It couldn’t be totally vanilla though.  That night, sleeping on the air mattress in his aunt’s basement, his brother sleeping only a few feet away, he finger fucked me and made me keep him hard, all the while growling in my ear, “Don’t make a sound.”

Sooo hot.

The REAL Day 1 – At Camp

Our little house (the yellow mansion on the right.)

It wasn’t as lonely as it looks, especially when our friend Bruce arrived with his real mansion-on-wheels, a giant RV. (God love him. Fresh coffee! Warmth! A bathroom!)  We were on the far end of the campgrounds, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, as I always need to be able to get away from people for short periods to recharge.

I actually love camping. I love setting up our “little house” as I call it.  W gave me a funny look at one point as I was rhapsodizing about our little tent-home. “You really are a nester, aren’t you?” Yup. But, as mentioned before, I don’t actually come to Camp to camp. So I was a little bit shell-shocked when the temps got down to the low 30’s that night (and never rose above the mid 40’s that first day.) I wanted to be naked, dammit! Not wearing 12 layers of clothes and huddling around a campfire.

Sigh.

Okay, enough complaining. Our tent was cozy, and we had an electric blanket, which was a god-send. And we did go up to the main tent-cum-dungeon to get warm thaw out play. This actually turned out to be a nice scene, though we didn’t get any pics of the meat of it (me trussed up and sucking W’s cock in the middle of the dungeon.)

Day 2 – Birthday!

The highlight of Camp (for me) was having orchestrated a group spanking scene for my birthday. To my delight, the whole Tryst team seemed to want to help make this scene happen, and helped spread the word in so many ways. One of those ways was to have W tie me up on the back of the golf cart and drive me around, announcing my birthday spanking time and place and inviting all and sundry to participate.

Tied to the cart. “Safety first,” Ad said when he saw the pic.
A birthday ass waiting to be spanked!

My only disappointment was that although we got some good pictures of the golfcart ride, not one was taken of the actual event by any of the three photogs there.

It was an amazing scene.  I was tied outside the dungeon over a purple spanking bench that matched my purple corset. There were pink helium balloons (a genuine surprise!) tied to the frame that stood over me.  And, when I looked up from my perch over the bench, there were at least 30 – 40 people waiting in line to give me my birthday 46. With W calling out, “Next!” every time the previous one stepped away.  I could not believe it.  It was the best birthday ever.

And oh! did my ass get whacked!

Just after that was the “Prison” group scene that the folks at Tryst had set up. I had sent in my “prisoner” application, but I was pretty wiped out, and it was getting chilly again, so I hid out in my tent instead of letting myself get captured. Naptime was a necessity!

Bruce showed up that afternoon with the RV, and we got to spend some time with him and his companion, which was nice.  And after I had gotten rested from my spanking and warmed up in the RV, I was ready for another round! So back to the dungeon-tent we went…

That night he poked and prodded my new birthday spanking bruises with hard, unrelenting fingers, delighting in the squeals of pain he invoked.  And then he fucked me raw.

Day 2 – Finally, Sun & Warmth!

Saturday it finally warmed up for about two hours. But prior to that we  got Onyx out for a drive on the wooded trails.  Again, disappointed that there was only ONE picture, and in that I had my eyes closed! But, such is life, we had a lovely morning prance around in the woods, even if we did have to dress Onyx for arctic weather (which meant the super-cool new harness W made went unused. Sad face.) W is getting to be quite the ponygirl handler.

A warmly dressed Onyx.

It finally warmed up for real, though, and we headed out to a lovely, sun-dappled spot between two trees.

So he would could whip me with singletails.

I feel like there should be a judge behind us with a sign giving him points for form. He looks so very zen here. LOVE the way that man throws a whip. 10 pts for style!

What you don’t see is in the next moment, before the burn of the slash of the whip had even cooled, he was pressed against my back, his cock hard against my ass, his hand on my cunt, and I was panting and squirming back against him. And moments after that, if we hadn’t had to take a break due to an unexpected interruption, he’d have been fucking me, right there, standing up between those trees in the sunshine.  Alas, the moment was lost, but we resumed with the whipping twenty minutes later.  And it was good.  I’d forgotten how painful and lovely and searing and terror-invoking and just plain intense a singletail can be.

The sunshine was nice too.

That afternoon, while dinner cooked, I asked W to tie me again.

See how good I am getting at asking for what I want?

We almost didn’t go up to the dungeon space Saturday night. I was a little “peopled out” and felt kinda like hiding away. W convinced me to go up just to hang out, and once there, after observing for quite a while, we ended up next to a frame, with him in a chair and me at his feet, watching a friend’s scene and the general dungeon goings-on.  He tied my neck to the leg of the frame…and then…we just sat there.  Me kneeling next to him, as he alternately raped me with a rope between my legs, had me suck his cock until I gave myself ropeburn on my neck, grabbed a handful of my hair and twisted me this way and that, fucked me with his hand as I presented myself to him, on my knees, ass up, and then probed my mouth with his fingers.

His fingers in my mouth almost turned me inside out.

Those two quiet hours may have been the most intense of the entire weekend.

And back at our tent, for hours on end during the weekend, he fucked me. With his hands, with his cock. Probing, pushing, pressing, poking. Until I was so raw and tender and swollen I knew I’d never feel “vanilla” again.

It’s been a week now, and I am back to “normal,” whatever that is. I don’t want to be back in the cold again.  But back in that space, where we can and are our full, unhidden, kinky selves?  Yeah, I’d like to be there.

Weekend Snapshot – Waiting

A real snapshot from this past weekend.

Waiting for a stranger to arrive.

This is how I spent Friday afternoon.

Well, until he actually did arrive.

And after? After W shoved me back in my car and sent me home to Ad and the kids and a birthday party for Ad’s niece with his whole family, with a fat lip (from being bit) and a scraped cheekbone (from being ground into the floor) and a throbbing, bruised cunt (from you can guess what.)

Oh, and a plastic bag of urine-soaked clothes, from W pissing on me and leaving to lay there in it, after the stranger used me and left there.

And that was just the start of the weekend.

Snapshots from the Weekend

  • Bound and gagged on the floor, waiting for a stranger to arrive: fuckmeat.
  • Tied in a storage room, leaning against a wall with a bag over my head: parcel post.
  • Head shoved out the window in the rain & wind, sash closed on my neck, arms tied behind my back while he fucks me from behind: weather girl.
  • Short skirt and high heels with a surprise dangling from my rings at dinner: penalty paid.
  • Hands taped behind my back, pushed against the wall, sliding down to suck a “trainee’s” cock: demo girl.
  • Tightly bound on the floor, arms and shoulders straining in the tie, rope cutting into my mouth as I struggle to breathe: rope slut.
  • Head back, struggling not to gag, as he pins me on the couch and fucks my mouth mercilessly: fuck hole.
  • Writing lists, making plans, checking email: planner girl.

What a weekend.  Good thing I take notes, I’d never remember it all.

Edit: See? Even when I take notes I forget stuff! W just reminded me:

  • Ropes stretching from wall hooks to ankles & wrists in pretty vertical lines like a harpsichord: musical girl.
  • Poking the sleeping tiger til he rouses and pounces on me. His prey tries to escape-nothing doing: tied-up-and-raped girl.

Oh, and PS – Yes, there will be actual pictures.

Candlelight, Romance & Rope

My schedule has been so messed up with the advent of full-time Mommyhood. It hasn’t really happened yet, at least the school year hasn’t started, so I am not yet feeling the full brunt of the new responsibilities–and the new restrictions on what has been a very comfortable routine for me–but still, change is in the air, and has already happened, and I don’t like it!

I don’t want things to change, I don’t want to have to think about creating a new routine, and I especially don’t want the routine that I have grown to know and appreciate–that so very well suits my emotional and physical relationship needs–to change.

Obviously I just gotta get over it. W sees me struggling with the changes this is going to precipitate, and he advises calm, to wait and see, and that it won’t be as bad as I think. That in the end it’ll fall out in a way that will work and that will satisfy.

He is so very much better at rolling with things than I am.

I really do need to be able to plan things, and, honestly, I love my routines!  What an odd thing to say for a woman that is also able to embrace serendipity and spontaneity, make a change and a decision to change course at the drop of a hat, and to adapt to those changes with ease. (And how odd, on the flip side, that W, who is so laid back and relaxed about things like schedules, is unable to react spontaneously, and mislikes the kind of rapid decision making that I-and the world-sometime demand of him.) In any case, if I am being honest, probably what I dislike the most is very selfish–it means I get less control over the time I get to spend with W.  Whereas before I had my time split at about 4 days with Ad and 3 with W (and was sometimes was able to flip that), with two of those nights and one day being a midweek get-together, now I am faced with maybe getting to work at his house one day a week, without staying over, and one, or possibly two–if I am lucky–weekend nights with him.

So I am pissy and temperamental about it: “It’s not fair! I need my W time!”

Anyway.  All that by way of just whining.  I don’t know how it’s all going to work in the reality of things, and W keeps reassuring me that we will make it work and all will be well. I have to trust that this is true, I suppose, because what else can I do?

This past week I got to see him Saturday night. We had intended to go out to a munch, and actually meet up with someone I had dated before from OKCupid, with who I had reconnected when I reactivated my account there recently, but some health issues kept me home.  Which, while it was a disappointment because I was looking forward to this possible new direction that my friendship with this other person might take, was actually really good for W and I. That’s the problem with only having one night together. We need time to reconnect on all the levels of our relationship: physical, BDSM, vanilla, emotional. That reconnection is often intensely focused and very selfish (if two people focusing that intently on each other can be termed “selfish,” but I am having a hard time coming up with a better description) in a way.  And one night just doesn’t cut it. So given a choice of going out and socializing with others, if we know we only have X number of hours together, we will almost always choose to spend those hours focused on only each other.

Which is a lovely thing.  It is that intensity of attention and focus, that acute concentration on each other, in part, that so appeals to me in BDSM.

I was walking with Ad the other day and remarked on it. Ad plays with me, but it’s not the same. It’s fun and games, and sexy, but…the intensity isn’t there. I used to think it was that he isn’t dark enough, that he doesn’t push me down the rabbit hole as deep as W does, and in part that is true.  But I’ve come to realize that he doesn’t do it because he doesn’t have the desire to do it.  I’m not talking about not wanting to, I think he enjoys seeing me in those spaces enough to attempt it, if only occasionally.  But I just don’t think it would ever truly work for him.  He doesn’t have the focus.

Focus needs desire and passion  to manifest, and he is just not passionate about BDSM the way that W and I are.  It’s a diversion to him, not a life’s calling.  And that’s fine, because he does enough to have fun, and I have fun, and I have an outlet in W for the deep stuff.  Interestingly enough, it was walking with Ad that made me make the connection.  I love walking with Ad, and I told him so, explaining that those were some of my favorite times with him, because our focus is on each other. No distractions.  I love that and need that. “Much like I need a good BDSM session with W,” I said, and then realized the similarities between the two, and why they were connected as “similar” in my mind.

I may have only had the one night and morning with W, but I got exactly that.  Late Saturday night, I asked if we could scene. He was a bit dubious; my stomach ailment was still causing me some discomfort and he didn’t want to do anything to exacerbate it.  But finally, he agreed, if only to a small scene. “Nothing hellacious,” he said.

So we went upstairs, lit the candles and put music on, and he did a sweet, romantic rope scene with me. Okay, it ended with him rolling me onto my back and pounding into me on the floor, but still.  That is W’s brand of romance.

I say that jokingly, but the reality is that it truly was romantic. Feeling his hands on me, firm, yet gentle. Watching him concentrate in the glow of the candles; tasting the bourbon on his mouth and letting him state the wine on mine. Sweet, nibbling kisses and longer, deeper ones. Laughter, smiles, flirting…romance.

And as we got started, he said the most romantic thing to me. “This one’s just for us.”

That sounds weird. Every time we play, it’s for us, about us. But so often the camera is there too, and I want to get made up, and I dress for whatever scene we are doing, and of course there are always, always the heels. Not just for the camera, but because there’s an expectation of being dressed a certain way, because W prefers heels, but also because he uses the pics on Bondage Demons.  It’s his kink, ya know?

This time, I wore no makeup. I didn’t do my hair. I was completely naked. And I didn’t wear heels.

Sitting on the floor with him sitting in front of me, our bare skin brushing against each other, and me in my bare feet was…incredibly intimate.  It felt like making love in his bed, except we were on the hardwood floor of his bondage room, and he was tying me up.  Eventually there was rough bondage sex…but for that moment…I couldn’t have wished for anything more perfectly romantic.

In case you were wondering–it was me that asked him to get the camera out. I couldn’t let the whole evening go by with nothing to show for it!

W’s Brand of “Aftercare”

Not matter who else I play with, no matter how much fun it was or how many times I climaxed or where the play took me, it always, always, always comes back to W.

I made a joking comment today in my Fetlife status updates about W’s version of aftercare today: he drug me into the basement by my hair, lashed me to a post on my knees, and fucked me in the ass.

Oddly enough, I did feel better.  Like, instantly, night-and-day better. One moment I was curled up on the couch, sniffling on W’s shoulder, a grey fog clouding my every thought, feeling needy and lost…the next moment (well, about an hour later, after the basement and then the cool shower he gave me) I was completely revived, my head clear, happy and normal.

I can’t explain why it worked, although I have an idea.

At first I thought it was kind of like that “hair of the dog” thing. You know, here I am suffering subdrop, which is, essentially, my body suffering withdrawals from the emotional and endorphin rush that it experienced while scening. Just like after a night of drinking, when waking up to a Bloody Mary could alleviate a hangover, maybe a little “hair of the sadist” (ewww that sounds wrong) could alleviate subdrop, right?

Sure, that could have something to do with it.  And maybe…probably…does.

But actually I think it has to do with something far more fundamental, at least in this case. I needed to feel him: his hands on me, his rope binding me, his cock inside me.

I needed to feel him claim me once again.

I do know, no matter what those other men are doing to me, that I am his. I never doubt it for a moment. I am there because of him, for him. As they grab me, twist me, push me around, as they shove their fingers and their cocks and their tools into me, as they use my mouth and cunt and ass, as they hurt me and pleasure me, it’s always him I see and feel, it’s always his eyes I seek, and find, watching whatever they are doing to me.

But after it’s all over? I want him to show me that I am his again.

On the floor or in his bed, with my knees grinding into the cement of his basement or my face pushed against the wall, tasting his semen or tasting his piss, feeling his come fill my ass or his piss spraying hot and pungent over my back.

I want to be on my knees for him, I want it to be his cock in my mouth, I want to open my cunt and my mouth and my ass to him.

I want him to take me and make me his again, just as he did this afternoon.  His hands were hard on me, tight in my hair, then on my wrists as he bound them and on my back as he shoved me down onto my knees, his voice harsh as he told me to suck his cock, to keep him hard as he tied me to the post.

It wasn’t difficult.

His cock was thick and hard as he grabbed me by the hips and pushed against my asshole, but it was also wet with my saliva, and he was able to slide in far easier than he does when he fucks my ass dry.  As it always does, though, my body and my mind resisted anyway and I whimpered, groveled and ground myself against the cement, trying to get away from the pain, from the opening of that tight hole that he was forcing on me, even though I wanted it more than I wanted anything else.  Or perhaps what I wanted more than anything else was that he was forcing it on me, that he wouldn’t stop, that he would continue to take, by force if necessary, what was his, what he owned.  Me. My body, every inch of it–and my self.

And he did.  He pushed, forcing my ass to open to him.  He pushed, with longer and deeper strokes, grinding shoving forcing owning–claiming me–until, finally, something broke, some barrier between who I am alone and who I am with him.

And I surrendered.  I opened myself to him completely, welcoming him, begging him to come inside me, to mark me as his, even there.

And as I surrendered, as he grasped my hips and slammed himself into me one final time, filling my ass with his semen, I found that moment when I was completely, and only, his.

I had been reclaimed.

Work from Home Wednesday: A Snapshot & Pictorial

Today’s post is an illustrated summary of the silly posts I made on Fetlife yesterday while I worked from W’s  house.

Some days I crack myself the hell up.

This day, W wanted to try out some of the “toys” he’s found recently while he’s been on a house reorganization binge.  A full day with me here at his mercy is obviously the day to do it. The trick was to not limit my abilities to perform my real job. Cuz yeah, I got one.

My Good Morning post of the day: W says his hand is hurting. He finally figured out why…from this morning’s activity. Apparently I have superstrong, er, girlparts. “Sacrifices must be made,” he says. I’m behind that 100%!

I love it that curling his hand inside my cunt hurt his hand.  Didn’t hurt my girlparts much.  In fact, felt damn good.  Well, maybe because I kinda like the hurt.  You know the saying, “Hurt’s so good”?  A perfect way to wake up.

He started off with something simple: handcuffs.

He, of course, had to use them in a way they are not normally used (and probably not approved for!)


After a bit of time I guess he decided I had it too easy, because he moved up to something a little more…invasive.

My new friend "Hitch."

I had to share my new buddy on Fetlife.

10 AM: There’s something so wrong about typing an email to a work colleague w/ one hand so I can hold the bar w/the the trailer hitch attached to it in my cunt w/the other.

One-handed typing.

10:15 AM:Oh how thoughtful–he tied it in. What a nice Boss I have.

Coffee break. (Click to see "pretties".)

10:25 AM: Also. Pretty pink panties and lavender beads around a dull metal bar? Wrong too. 

  • (Name) commented:  Interesting…your definition of “wrong” and my definition of “pretty” are exactly the same!

Yeah, I think W feels much the same. lol

10:30 AM And, um…I just found out if I move (carefully!) it hits JUST the right spot…

11:30 AM: Also, he poo-poo’d using lube for the trailer hitch. “You produce enough lube all on your own.” He was right, of course.

We had errands to run for lunch, so W reconfigured me for going out in the wide world. He gave me the choice between the j-hook and my tit collars.  I chose the tit collars.  And a semi-sheer t-shirt with no bra all on my own.

11:45 AM: W just said of my tit-collared nipples (when I asked if they were too obvious in my semi-sheer tshirt to go out to lunch): “No! They make cute little tweaky buttons.” ‘Tweaky buttons!’ Hah!

  • (Name) commented: lol you’ve got tweak buttons!
  • (Name) commented: I wish Fet had a like button because that just made my day
  • (Name) commented: No one will notice them – they won’t be able to get past the trailer hitch…
(Click for "tweaky buttons!)

I was warm, so the Boss let me strip down a bit to cool down when we got back from lunch.

2 PM: The Boss says I need 2 update my status. Back home, tit collars still on, but he’s added new fun-the metal bra he made 4 me. It’s hot too, so I’m stripped down to a pink thong (& pink heels to match.)

And no, @name, I did not go to lunch with the lovely trailer hitch still stuffed up my cunt!

W is all about improving on prototypes, though, and he can’t ever let me get off easy.  In fact, later he made some additional “improvements”…at least he felt they were.

Click thru for his "improvement."

5 PM: Yay! Workday is over…and now we play! Basement, here I come…

Did I say “Yay”? If you knew what he put me through in the basement, you’d wonder how I could begin to say “yay.”

Oh wait, you will know, soon, when I write about it here. Stay tuned!

Wanton Wednesday – Bruises & a Scene

I started this post wanting to show off the pretty bruises I got at Dark Odyssey, but as I looked through the pictures of the scene, I thought it might be fun to show off more than just my bruised butt.

And yeah, I’m WAY late for Wanton Wednesday.  I kinda had a busy day working from W’s…which I’ll tell you all about later. ;-)

This is the beginning.
See those pretty bruises?  Those are more than a week old–the result of a very good spanking scene by a yummy new friend at Dark Odyssey. The sad part is that while I knew I’d gotten a walloping, I didn’t realize I had any bruises until I saw this picture. Think of all the mirror gazing & bragging rights I missed out on!

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Do you feel like sometimes you want to be a little more than just half naked? A bit more than just slightly suggestive? For the weeks you want to play with the wicked & wanton crowd, feel free to join us on Wednesdays. Words, photos, whatever you want to share that is Wanton will fit right in.

Check out the rest of the wantonness at the link below…