Pussy Pride Redux – Sex with Rings

Awhile back I wrote a post for the Pussy Pride Project on Molly’s Daily Kiss. I had a lot of fun with that post, and I have enjoyed reading other contributions to the meme. Recently I got a couple of replies to that post, and since I enjoy talking about my pussy (shocking, I know) I thought I’d do a follow-on post to it to answer those questions. This time, I got to elicit the Guys assistance as well, so (for perhaps the first time?) you’ll get to hear from each of them as well!

H.H. of MySexLifeWithLola said, “Can you or W write about what it’s like to have sex with all those piercings?”

Although I’ve actually written about what sex with my rings is like several times, especially when they were new, it’s usually in the context of the rest of a scene that we are in the middle of, not just about the sensations specific to fucking with rings. And I don’t think I’ve ever asked the Guys to write about it, although we’ve talked about it many times.

Here’s what W had to say:

Fucking Jade with Rings

If fucking a girl with rings isn’t on your bucket list, it should be. I’d like to say it takes a real man with cast iron balls to manage it, but that isn’t really the truth.  Sure, you can’t be a wimp, but the primary effect for me is mental. As soon as I see them or feel them on Jade I get hard as a rock, not so much from the physical sensation, but from the mental effect that they have on me. There’s just something deliciously wrong about a girl with metal rings implanted in her cunt, and to fuck such a feisty, unconventional girl is a huge turn on and conquest.

The feel of the rings depends upon the position and your technique. In some cases you can barely feel them, but with others you can feel a hardness along your cock as you forcefully push her open and you can feel friction around your shaft as you pump back and forth and manipulate her parts.  I imagine them to be guide rails placed there for the convenience of myself and that of other males that have the (power) to use her.

Most of all I like knowing that I’m fucking an industrial girl. A highly skilled, efficient, fucking machine that you can pick out of the crowd. Someone special that guys dream about and most girls can’t match.

I swear I didn’t pay him to write all that stuff. ;-)

Ad’s perspective is a little different, as might be expected.  He says:

Impressions of Sex with Rings

You wanted my impressions of sex with the rings. The first impressions that strike me are visual and tactile. The sight of the rings is eye catching and impressive. After seeing them you then want to touch them and play with them. Seeing how they can be pulled and what sensations they create. They do focus your attention to the sensations in that area. When touching them they are hard and smooth. Once you plunge inside you feel the rings sliding along your length. That can be distracting, in a good way, tho. The only small negative effect is while using a vibrator near the rings. The rings can be a little buzzy and pinchy when vibrated heavily, thus spoiling the mood. Overall the rings are fun for both partners!

So there you have impressions from both my partners about fucking me with the rings.

As for me…well, although the Guys sometimes can’t tell much of a physical difference, I always can. Getting fucked now that I am so heavily pierced is always “getting fucked with rings” for me, and they are an essential and integral part of the experience. I can’t be fucked and not be acutely aware of them, the entire time, even if I have adjusted and moved them around to minimize discomfort.

In some ways, this is good, and hot. As W says, it is definitely a mental trigger for us both. I know how much they turn him on, and, especially when he is fucking me brutally, shoving his way through them and hurting me, it’s extremely arousing. It is also very arousing to always be aware of these piercings in terms of my connection to – and ownership by – W. This, to me, is the essence of my submission to him, in a very tangible, almost irreversible way. It’s not some pretty little hood decoration that can be overlooked or ignored. There they are, hard, cold, infringing and in-my-face (so-to-speak) all the time. Always there, always a reminder of W, of being owned, of who owns me, of his possession of me. This awareness extends beyond fucking, too. I am aware of them this way every day, nearly all the time. Walking, running, sitting, doing yoga, riding a bike, turning over in bed, going pee, taking a bath, getting a massage, curling up on the couch or out and about, there isn’t more than a few minutes, maybe a half hour here and there, that I am not aware of them or having a random thought about them – and thus, by extension, W. This is true even more so, of course, when I am being fucked. And when it is someone else fucking me? The knowledge that I am marked that way – marked in such a visceral, physical way as W’s property – is a huge turn-on.

There is also a lot of imagery and physical sensations related to the rings themselves that turn me on, such as pulling my cunt lips open by the rings and spreading them wide. The image and the actuality of that – and how that makes me feel on a very base, emotional level – is very powerful.  Having them slicked with come, again, both visually in my fantasies and in reality. The image of a cock pushing through the barrier they form, and then being surrounded by and encased by metal. Sometimes I am able to hitch my hips up in just such a way as to feel the fourchette sliding along the ridge of W’s cock (I avoid doing this to Ad because he doesn’t get off on the sensation like W does.) That image alone can send me over the edge. Another image, that of one man spilling his seed inside me and my rings dripping with his semen, only to have another man push into me, sliding his cock over my cum-slickened rings, is an especially powerful and erotic one to me. Perhaps this is because I no longer get soaked on the outside of my pussy very often anymore (an unusual and unintended side-effect of having my inner labia constantly exposed, I think.) But whatever reason, having them stroked with lube or spit or semen is very, very erotic, and heightens the ultra-sensitivity that I already experience in my labia.

On the other hand, sometimes the physical sensation while I am having sex – always always always being aware and having to think about and adjust for them – can get tiresome.  And the aforementioned issue with wetness. Sometimes I just want to get fucked, you know? To feel a hard, thick cock slide into me without having to worry about/compensate for/adjust to the rings.  To not have the primary sensation be the rings, rather than the fingers, hand, cock or toy.  And yet…that very sensation…feeling the metal, the pinch, the slide when they get wet…feeling them as an obstruction and as a tool used to cause me distress or pain…feeling them being pulled or twisted or tugging on them or pulling them open myself…is all very erotic and physically pleasurable in a way I hadn’t expected when I first got them installed.

Question number two was asked by a reader that calls himself Chaos.” He asked, “Your pussy piercings are so beautiful. Do you plan to get more? And what do you think about pierced cocks?”

First of all, thank you very much for the compliment. I love my rings too and find them beautiful as well, though sometimes I look at them and am amazed at what I have done to my body. My pussy is no longer anything like what it was before them – it’s been a true body modification, and one I just didn’t expect, to be honest. As W said once, “We’ve created something entirely different from what it was.” I told him yeah, and that means since he created it (or it was created) in large part for him, I guess that means he’s stuck with me. ;-)

To answer your questions, I don’t think I am going to get any more genital piercings. I may get a few more in my ears, but I don’t really have a desire for other places to be pierced either (never my nipples.) The only other genital piercing that I have considered is a triangle, but to be honest, the potential for nerve damage is high enough in that one that I don’t think I ever will take the chance. And I love the way my hood piercing looks, but it is so distracting and annoying, and makes it hard to orgasm in a normal way, that I don’t think I will put it back in.

As for cock piercings…um…I don’t think I’ve ever seen one in person! And certainly never fucked one. W has a fantasy of getting me fucked by a heavily pierced cock, but it’s never come about.

Yet. ;-)

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.

Relationship Dynamics & Labels

I recently read a post on Fetlife (Every Relationship is Different, by Lady_Elsa, if you have access to FL) that really resonated with me. I posted it in the Twisted Tryst group on Fet because we are headed there next week, and it seemed to echo so much of the philosophy of that wonderful group and what I found the last time I was among them.

One of the tenets of Tryst is this idea of radical inclusivity, the idea that we are all welcome, no matter what our kink, gender, dynamics, sexual orientation or lifestyle is. Both the post and the comments are insightful and I believe would make good reading for anyone attending Tryst–or any camp event, where we are more likely to witness day-to-day interactions and relationship dynamics than we might at a hotel event, or a one-night play party. But really, it’s good reading for anyone that has to interact with other human beings (which most of us do), vanilla or kinky. ;-)

One of the things that I (occasionally) struggle with is trying to explain the dynamics of my relationship with W, and, to a lesser degree, Ad. Perhaps “struggle” is too harsh a word, and implies a dislike of the resulting back-and-forth discussion that often ensues. Frankly, I love talking about our dynamics, what works, what doesn’t, why it is the way it is and what it is that we do. It doesn’t fit into any of the boxes that I’ve checked on my profile, though, and other people might (and often do) chafe at the inability of these labels to completely or adequately describe their dynamic. To me, those labels are an excellent place to start.

But that’s the kicker: they are an excellent place to start.

I believe we need some labels, some way to begin the discussion about what and who we are. Others don’t, and that’s fine too. But for me, those labels actually facilitate discussion.

One of the oddities of my relationship dynamic is that while I label myself W’s submissive, while I consider myself his submissive, he doesn’t necessarily agree with this labeling. Oh, he agrees that this label, and how I use it, resonates to me, and is how I perceive our relationship, but he doesn’t necessarily agree that our relationship is one that falls under the purview of typical “D/s” dynamics.

And nope, it doesn’t.

Still, I am his submissive. It is a part of our dynamic that is always there, always a part of who I am with him, and who he is to me. That we don’t exhibit any of the typical behaviors, attitudes or conventions of a D/s dynamic matters not one whit to me. I know what I feel. And that’s enough.

W and I are lovers. Friends. Peers. He is my Owner and he is Onyx’s handler. I submit to him and I am subjugated by him. I also argue with him and push him and admire him and sometimes act like a brat and always respect him. Sometimes we are best friends, and sometimes we are adversaries in the push and pull that is coercion play. We nurture each other and care for each other. Some days we are deep in our kink, deep in this space that we inhabit where kink IS how we relate, some days the kink is beneath the surface.

And then there is how our relationship in regards to others works. He and I had some intense, convoluted, interesting and occasionally heated (in a good way) discussion about what it means to be open, poly, coerced, swingers. As you might expect, though I label myself poly with Ad and open with W, those labels don’t do justice nor encompass the complexity of what it is we do.

And I’m fine with that, because that is exactly when/where we can start talking about it. Where we can start parsing out what those labels mean to me, and in so doing, find out what they mean to you. And that is the beginning of dialogue, and understanding.

In Praise of “Normal Life”

Sometimes in my online readings, by coincidence or fate, I’ll read two very different pieces of writing that will spark thoughts on the same topic, though perhaps (as in this instance) from different perspectives.  A post by Kaya on the nature of her relationship and another on Fearless Press, Living a “Normal” Life, did just that the other day.

I so get where the author at Fearless Press is coming from when he talks about living and writing about his own poly life and relationships. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but I haven’t updated APL in awhile. Not because I don’t have anything to write about, I have many topics in my Drafts folder that I’d like to noodle on regarding love and relationships and poly and family…but sometimes, well, the reality is that sometimes my life is just…”normal.” I just don’t feel like I have anything specific to share about it.  Aside from having some fantastically kinky sexplay to write about, our life together–Ad, me and W–is just…our life together. There’s my time with Ad, my time with the kids, my time with W and the time we all spend together.  Even my time with W isn’t all kink and sex. (What?! Oh no!)  Seriously, though, sometimes we just…hang out on his balcony. Talk about life and kids and books and diet and exercise and nothing. Sometimes (~gasp!~) I’m not even in heels, slutwear, make-up or some kind of bondage.  Sometimes we take walks to the park or the river or a restaurant. We’re just…us. Sometimes we even have sex like normal people, you know, in bed, in missionary position. (Okay he is usually pinning me down, but still.) Sometimes we go to bed…and don’t have sex at all. And sometimes–he’s tender. And sweet.  He holds my hand when we walk. He looks at me with something closer to love in his face than lust.

We all spend time together, as a three, making dinner or going out to eat, and we all spend time together with my kids as well.  We talk about college and growing up and boys and life with my daughter; about school and acting and video games and books and his friends with my son.  We play board games and eat ice cream.  W stays over and we spend the day puttering around the house with the kids watching TV and reading and on the computer.

For instance, over 4th of July weekend, W came over Saturday afternoon.  Ad and I made dinner while W hung out and talked about religion with the kids, then we had margaritas and all of us played a board game. Ad went to bed early and W and I stayed up with my daughter, watching something on TV and talking until he and I were ready for bed. When we got to bed…we cuddled up and went to sleep. I know–a naked woman, two men, and no wild sex! How wild is that? But that’s the point.  It was…comfortable. Settled. The next day we all hung out together until we went to a local fireworks display.  I rode the rides with my kids while Ad and W sat on the blanket, and then we watched the fireworks together, just like any “normal” family.  I can’t describe how peaceful and happy I was, laying on a blanket under the stars with the kids, Ad and W all around me, my head on Ad’s shoulder, my hip against W’s and our hands intertwined, as we watched the fireworks. Utter perfection.

Not much to write home about, though, right?

Kaya’s post sparked similar thoughts, but not so much about my poly life; more about my kinky life with W. I get where she is coming from in her relationship dynamic. What she gets out of it, how deep her enslavement goes, her commitment to the structure of their relationship.  Even when she is railing against it or struggling with it, I know (or get the feeling) that this is her true “place” and that she loves it. Even when it doesn’t sound like she does.

But when I read her post, where she talks about his “conditioning” of her, another part of me goes–no! Seriously? Can you truly be content with never feeling a tender hand on you? With never having the flip side to the objectifying, disconnected sex?  I know I couldn’t.  I need the tenderness.  The loving touch. I need to be “W’s girl” again after he’s done doing what he’s done to me.  And I need him to be my lover and partner again. Not that brutal, dispassionate, uncaring person that he has to turn himself into in order to do all those things to me.  Don’t get me wrong.  I love love love being what he turns me into, a “Collection of Holes.” But I live to be “his girl.” To come back to him and find the man I love waiting for me there on the other side.  I need to feel “normal” again with him, to take the kink out of our interactions for the time it takes to find that normal space again.

You know, so he can make it all wrong and twisted and dark and subversive again. Maybe I am teasing when I write that–or maybe not. Maybe it is the very fact that we can be in this normal space that allows me to go to that other place.  That makes me trust him to take me there.

When I originally read her post, that was the part that I missed–and misunderstood. After I re-read it, I realized I had missed something vitally important in what she said. It’s in this one, almost-throwaway line: “…until he’s put the tools in place to compensate for it.” I only saw the feeling of failure she had because she couldn’t internalize being an object, with no needs of her own, content with being used dispassionately and with no regard to her own needs.   I read this: “…maybe it’s something he’s done for so long, and does so often, that I was starting to internalize and believe how useless/unattractive/objectified it makes me feel…” and my brain kind of turned off, because those are not the things I feel when W objectifies me, uses me as a fuckhole or loans me out to be used as such.  Quite the opposite.  But would I feel that way if it was all he did?  If I never got the flipside?  I think so, and so when I read it, I missed what came after.  I missed that all-important concept of eventual compensation.  And I realized that although our dynamics are very, very different, in some ways we are very similar.

She is able to endure that because she knows that eventually she will be “compensated” for it.  Perhaps not in the way that I am, and that would probably not be the right kind of compensation for her anyway–we all have our own, individual, needs. But she knows that eventually, her needs, for “touch, voice, attention,” for humanity, if you will, will be met. Because she trusts him. And that’s what makes it work. That’s what allows her to feel, not resentment as he orders her back under the desk to be used as his masturbatory tool, but relief, and a sense of coming home.

Of normalcy, whatever that looks like.

The same feeling that I get as I curl into W’s arms after an intensely brutal or degrading scene, or when I crawl into bed naked with my two guys and we simply cuddle and sleep, or when we lay out on a lawn with my kids watching fireworks.

His Girl

“I want you to stay here after it’s over,” he said. “I’ll want to get my girl back.”

There are all sorts of aftercare.  I usually tend to think in terms of my needs for it, as do most people; a bottom’s needs for some kind of care after an intense or physically demanding scene are usually pretty obvious.  My needs vary, depending on the type (and severity) of the scene. Sometimes I bounce right back up, ready for more; sometimes I tease, play and joke; sometimes I need an hour or even a couple of days to recover, with commensurate aftercare by one or both guys.  Sometimes the aftercare I need is of a physical nature: a blanket, arms to hold me, hydration, a quiet space to come back to earth.  Other times it is emotional: kind words, a reconnecting, being told I did well or that he is proud of me. A lot of times, part of my own aftercare–especially after emotionally-charged scenes–is in allowing myself to noodle through the experience, to pull it apart and examine it, parsing the experience out piece by piece as I try to gain an understanding of what I went through, physically and emotionally.  All of these needs are well-documented and usually catered to very well; my guys like me to recover well and fully so that they can do it all over to me again.

I don’t know if W’s need to “have his girl back,” after it was over was exactly an expression of an aftercare need, but I do know that what he was saying, that he wanted me back, his Jade, not the piece of voiceless fuckmeat I had been reduced to, was as deep a need for me as it was for him.

I wanted to feel sex with him as a connection to him, as a bonding with him, not as something remote and emotionless and mechanical that was being done to me. I needed to feel him, to see him–the man, not what he had had to become in order to use me, and allow me to be used, the way he had.

Sex for us is always heavily charged with overtones of dominance and submission. It can’t help but be, that is who we are with each other, it drives our sexuality and feeds our arousal.  It is often rough and at times trips along the tricky line of consensual-non-consent. But even at its roughest, even when he is subjugating and dominating and forcing and hurting and pushing and taking, there is always a connection between us. There is at its core this thing between us, the emotional heart of what we feel for each other, and even as I am opening up my body to him I am opening up my heart, and I know that he is sharing his with me.

That was, of course, absent from the scene the night before.

I recognized very early on in the scene, before I went into that no-space, that having lost the ability to communicate–to speak–had a very profound affect on me.  In fact I think that may have been the strongest contributing factor to how deep I went, and how quickly.  For instance, that picture I posted in yesterday’s post? I had no idea that I had been smeared with the oils and paints that the other Top likes to use.  I remember one very clear detail: after they had shackled me, and the other Top had cut off my clothes, he came at me with the oil.  I recall that moment very clearly, and then seeing the paint container in his hand, but then nothing else of him painting me at all.  It was not until I saw the photo that I even realized he had covered me with it.  I was that removed from my own body and what was being done to it.  Oh, I came back, but that was later, after they had removed the “no speaking” restriction.  Then I was back to myself: I was playful, and laughed and teased and bratted. And even later, in the car on the way home, I was wildly aroused and excited, and tried to get W to let me fuck him while we drove (he didn’t. LOL)  But there is that whole space of time when I simply wasn’t there.

In thinking about it now, I actually recognize the space I went as being very similar to ponyspace. There, too, my voice is taken from me. There, too, I am a dumb animal, reduced to a body, an animal, although in the case of Onyx, a much-loved, cared-for, pampered animal. I don’t exactly disassociate with my body in ponyspace, as much as with W and Ad as men, as sexual partners.  They are my humans in that space, my handlers, not my lovers.

W was most certainly not my lover that night.  I lost all connection with him as my lover, and was definitely no longer “his girl.”  Which was exactly what he was looking for, I think. I was as much a collection of holes to him that night as I was to myself.  If it had that profound an affect on me, wouldn’t it have on him? His statement beforehand that he would need to “get his girl back” may have been for my benefit, but I don’t know.  Playing this way is edgy for us both.

So yesterday, even after being used that long and hard, even though I was so sore, I still needed sex with him.  Desperately.

That was the aftercare I needed.  And that I think he, too, needed.

And he obliged.  Oh, it wasn’t sweet love-making.  Even as aftercare it is never that (and wouldn’t work if it was.)  He hoisted me up on his desk and fucked me there next to my computer, whispering dirty things in my ear.  He pushed me to my knees in front of him on the couch and told me to hump myself on his leg until I came while giving him head.  And then he came, groaning as he filled my mouth.  He held me, one arm around my throat, while I masturbated to an orgasm, because I’d been distracted by giving him head (yeah, not so much a multi-tasker in that respect.) And later…later, in bed that night, he pushed himself into me and filled that empty space inside me, the space that was still “no-space” with his come as well.  And it was in that moment, as he held me tight, releasing himself into me, that I finally, truly, came back to myself.  That I became “his girl” again.


I got to work yesterday morning, opened my computer bag, and started unpacking everything onto my desk. Laptop, power cord, iPod attachment, bottle of lube, cellphone cord, work folder…

Holy shit. Lube?? Lube!

I’d forgotten that I had thrown it on top of everything in my computer bag on the way out the door, as part of packing for a “date” that W has set up for tonight.

I’m having a hard time thinking of it as a “date.” And really, it isn’t at all. It’s…an assignation. He’s taking me to a hotel room to meet a Dom that he has allowed to use/play with me once before.  Once there, it is not a “social” occasion. I will not be allowed to speak or socialize at all, in fact, and will be there to be used as fuckmeat, as a collection of holes, as a body and nothing more to be used and abused by them both.

A really hot fantasy, right?

But in reality…I am a ball of nerves and anxiety. So much so that although I packed the lube (a concession on W’s part, because of my concerns about damage to my inner labia/rings) I forgot to pack my work clothes for today.  It’s kind of hot that I had to come to work in “spare” work clothes that I scrounged for at his house. I keep looking down at myself and it reminds me about tonight.

Sometimes, I wish that W would do that intentionally…prep me more. Send me to work with tangible reminders of what’s to come, of what I am, especially in a situation like this.  Tell me to wear something just this side of inappropriate, or to do certain things throughout the day…  But that’s not really his thing.  Mostly (at least in this case, I assume) because he doesn’t want to interfere with work.  But hell, I’m already having a hard time concentrating.  Then again, if that’s the case, maybe I don’t need his reminders, right? I already keep myself on the edge of anxiety.  Damn I make a good Dom! lol

Speaking of the line between fantasy and reality…my keyed-up state caused me to confess a nasty fantasy to a total stranger today. I have some dirty fucking fantasies, let me tell you, (and fantasies about dirty fucking), most of which, tho inspired by the nasty stuff W growls in my ear when he’s fucking me, I would never confess to.  Oftentimes not even to him, although he knows me well enough to know what turns me on, so can probably imagine the kinds of scenarios I dream up.  But detailing a fantasy in email or verbally is always hard for me. It’s even hard to do here, tho you wouldn’t know it to read my posts. But yes, doing it here, confessing those things, speaking the words (even thru the keyboard) is an adrenaline rush of fear and anxiety and embarrassment.  I can only do it because there’s this computer screen, and this blog, between you and I. I don’t know you, I don’t know who you are, who is reading these words, or if anyone is.  I can pretend that no one is.  I can pretend I never said it.  Like a kid hiding under a blanket, you can’t see me anymore once I click send.

(Of course that illusion is shattered when I get emails on my Fet profile from people I do know, like in real life, like that I talk to all the time, telling me how hot such-and-such a post was. lol)

Anyway. Confessing something like directly to someone in email was a bit outside my usual behavior. Impulsive. Daring, even.  Inappropriate.

I blame W. See? Even when he doesn’t “dom” me, he does. He makes me do all kinds of crazy shit.

A Love Letter to My Owner

He doesn’t like the mushy stuff. He’d rather hear or read about the sex, the kink, the desire, the heat. But sometimes, I can’t help myself. If I only wrote about that I’d only be telling half the story, and that not the most important half.

I know he won’t see this until after he gets back home, although I could wish he would see it tonight, after his family goes to bed, and I am safely in bed at home, snuggled up with Ad, thinking about him, and this long, long month, and how it is coming to an end tomorrow.  I could hope that he would have it to hold close to his heart while he sleeps, because even if he claims not to like it, I know, in his heart of hearts, he does. I know it warms him at night when he is alone, just as it does me.

I walked into his house today to bring in the odds and ends of groceries (true odds and ends: soda, wine, bagels, cereal, apples), his shirts and towels and bedding that I had laundered while he was away; to pick up a bit.  His house seems poised, holding its breath as it waits for his return; much like me.

I wandered through the familiar rooms, seeing him everywhere, seeing me everywhere: my shoes in the corner, steel buttplug on his desk, boots against a wall, the candles I had brought over for a party we hosted, the dried roses on his mantle.  I thought about being tied: on his floor, on his couch, against his posts; of making breakfast in heels and chains; of being caged next to him in his front room and chained to his desk in his office.

I climbed the stairs to his room and remembered the many times I have climbed down them, my hands tied and legs shaky, him in front of me to keep me safe. I looked at that beautiful wooden floor that he worked so hard to refinish, and how every time he ties me down to it I admire its glow, and him for having brought it out.  Much as he brings out my own glow.

I walked by the upstairs tub and thought about the many, many baths I have taken in that tub, soaking away the aches and pains of his abuses upon my body even though I would rather keep them, remembrances of every cruel, wonderful thing he has done to me, so that I can feel them, over and over.  I remembered baths we have taken together, when he has washed away grime and piss and blood from my body and held me as I returned to him once again from that place that he sends me.  I remembered conversations and debates we have had, as he sat on the stool next to the tub while I drank wine and soaked in bubbles and heat.

And I went into his bedroom, and I smelled him there, on his sheets, in his clothes, in the air. Too many memories to even begin, in that room.

I saw my shoes lined up against the far wall, and I thought about the first time I had come to him, in my square-heeled “dancing shoes,” not knowing what a high heel man he was, but quickly discovering it, and quickly rising to the challenge of finding ever-higher, ever-sexier shoes to wear for him–and being proud that I have always had the knack for wearing even the highest heels with skill and grace.

I opened the closet door, the closet that he had cleared off shelves for me (and put me on once, once-upon-a-time) and the scent of my “going out” lotion wafted out. A mixture of cherry and vanilla, its heady scent is the one I always wear when we are going to a play party, or when we are going to play at home.  I felt an immediate, visceral reaction to that scent, a sweet ache between my legs, an instant and unmistakable need in me to feel his dominance & power over me, so sharp it took my breath away and brought tears to my eyes.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, I chanted to myself as I closed the door.

I love that house. I love that it holds so many wonderful memories for me, that even when he is gone I can go there and feel him, just as if he was right there next to me.

And tomorrow, he will be.

I love you, W: my Owner, my lover, my friend.

Don’t Change Me!

I was reading a post in one of my favorite discussion groups on Fet, “Not Quite Ready for Polite Company M/sers”–

Oh, wait. I’m not in an M/s relationship, so maybe I shouldn’t be part of the group, or comment in it. Actually, for the most part, I don’t comment much, due to the above, and feeling that since I am not in the dynamic they speak of, I really don’t have any place to comment. But I like the group’s (for the most part) no-nonsense approach to M/s relationships, and willingness to say what they think without a lot of the pussy-footing around that goes on in some of the other discussion groups.  I mean seriously–if you say you’re in a Master/slave relationship, then, um, haven’t you consented to give up those very rights that so many “slaves” claim to still have (and then bitch and moan about not having, or being asked to give up?)

I’m not talking about the person that says they’d jump in front of a bus if their Master told them to, but simple things, like…cutting or changing the color of their hair. Wearing (or not wearing) certain items of clothing. Wearing nail polish, shaving themselves a certain way, losing weight, eating certain foods, learning to do certain things to please their Master/Owner.  I mean, isn’t that what this type of relationship is about–submitting to the wishes and desires of another?  And that’s just in a D/s relationship, where, in my opinion, there is still “wiggle room” as one commenter said.  I mean, it’s submission, right? In an M/s or O/p relationship, the very basis of the relationship is slavehood, being owned, by the other. Within that context, it seems pretty simple to me. Any, and every, aspect of my appearance is subject to pleasing him and to submitting to his desire.

Having come from a D/s background when I met W, I was actually a little disconcerted/nonplussed that he didn’t have any requirements about such to me. But I soon learned that not having requirements didn’t mean he didn’t have a preference. I paid attention and have tried to incorporate the things he does prefer into the way I present myself to him.

Toenail polish was one. If you look at my pictures from two years ago, I am not wearing toenail polish in any of them. Then one summer day I got a pedicure and went over to his house. His reaction was overwhelmingly positive–and to this day I am seldom without it when I go to see him.  Yeah, sometimes that means I have to sit at my desk and paint my toenails just before I head over to his house–and I’m okay with that. ;-)  And the other day I was wearing fingernail polish–and he noticed, and made a point of praising it. I was ridiculously pleased that he had noticed, and though I had heard him remark that he liked painted fingernails before, it wasn’t really driven home until he noticed the other day.  Nail polish on my fingernails is harder to keep up in my profession, but I am already pretty certain that as often as I can, especially if we are going out somewhere, I’ll be doing them now too.

And then there’s my labia piercings. Do I even need to go into those?

But all that isn’t so much about submitting to his stated desires.  He doesn’t tell me to do those things, and is not upset when I don’t.  I do them because  I like to please him. I consider it a function of my submission to him to find the the things that please him and do those things for him. Pro-active submission? Maybe. But within the context of our dynamic, it works.

And he has made adjustments in his approach to this thing that we do as well. I have learned to be pro-active, yes, but he also recognizes my own need to, occasionally, have specific things that I am told to do.  He gives me more direction now on what to wear, and if I ask his preference directly, he will usually tell me.

And of course there’s the heels. ;-)

If our dynamic was different, though, if he did like to dictate my appearance, I would have no problem acceding to his wishes.  I know without a shadow of a doubt that he could tell me tomorrow to cut my hair off, dye it purple, get a new tattoo, remove an old one, pierce any part of my body, only wear skirts and fuzzy sweaters from now on…etc., etc., and I’d do so. Our agreement–the parameters of our O/p relationship–ostensibly only covers my sexuality, but my own internal parameters go far beyond that.  Internal slavery? Perhaps.

The point is, this is about submission. Submitting to the desires of another. And what could be more basic than submitting to their desire for how you should look? It’s a no-brainer, IMO.

A Different Kind of Masturbation

I reach down between our sweat-slickened bodies and grasp his cock; the shaft warm, wet and thick in my hand.  He’s been fucking me all morning, and was just about to pull away, but I’m not ready yet.  I pull him closer by his cock, until he is nestled again in the V between my legs.  It’s been so long since I’ve been fucked, almost all month while he’s been gone, and I feel like I can’t get enough of him inside of me.  But I pause a moment in the act of pulling him to me, of opening my legs and pulling him inside, which is what I had originally wanted to do.

Slowly, barely applying pressure, I stroke the head of his cock over my labia, the outer ones first and then, carefully, deliberately, the inner labia.  Holding his cock like a toy I use it to stroke myself, up and down along those tenderest of lips.  They are hypersensitive, these delicate, fragile-seeming and yet incredibly resilient inner lips, the skin like tissue paper that has been handled and fondled until it is almost transparent.

And, of course, my rings.

I get a distinctly physical pleasure from playing with my rings, from touching them, from having them pulled on and stroked. But more than that is the mental and emotional resonance my rings have for me. Having gotten them for W, they can be nothing less than a near-constant reminder of my relationship with him, of our connection, of the commitment I have made in my submission to him. I talked to him once about wanting to have some kind of symbol of our relationship, of his Ownership of me, of my submission to him, that I could wear to lifestyle events or when we are together in places where people that understand such things would recognize it for what it is. That hasn’t come about yet, but I keep in my mind those six rings in my cunt, knowing that they are that, exact, symbol to me. Too bad I can’t show them off at those events, in those places.

Now I use the soft, velvety head of his cock to touch each one of those six, tiny testaments to my relationship with him, reacquainting him with them.  Earlier he had pushed his way between them roughly, forcing them apart, but now, in my hand, his cock nuzzles and noses them each in turn.  And I am so sensitive, after the vigorous fucking he has given me, that just that barest touch is electric.

I moan, imagining the opening at the head of his cock as a tiny mouth, engulfing and sucking on each ring in turn, a bizarre sort of  cunnilingus that, instead of turning me off, as oral sex does at times, instead fuels a sudden resurgence of heat in me.  I am suddenly intensely focused on these sensations and this fantasy, and begin stroking myself faster, although the touch is still as feather-light as before.  My breath catches, then quickens, and I feel a change in W’s body where it is poised above mine as well, recognize a focused intensity in him, a concurrence of excitement as my own rises.

With an inward sighing, an opening both physical and mental, I pull him towards me and let the head of his cock slip past the sensitive opening of my vulva.  He rests there for a moment, just barely inside me, my cunt lips now the mouth, pursed around the ridge of his glans.  I imagine myself sucking him in by the cunt…

But he goes no further.  Instead he pulls back until his cock is once again only resting against my lips, brushing the sex-wet rings, before pushing back inside.

Still he only goes in as far as the head of his cock, before pulling back out again.  He does this, over and over, stroking, caressing and teasing me with his cock until I am hugely excited, panting, making little mewling sounds in my throat, begging him in my mind to please, please fuck me;  I want all of him inside me, buried as deep as he will go.  I am still grasping the shaft of his cock with one hand and I attempt to facilitate this, pulling him with one hand, the other on his ass, pushing.  I open my legs, twist and wriggle, trying to fool him into falling into me, but he’s playing a game with me now; I can almost feel him smiling at my consternation at his thwarting of my desire.  I think, at some point, I may actually beg him: “Please!” though I can’t be certain if the word actually leaves my mouth.

I know I won’t come this way, I can’t come this way, and all I want is to come, to throw myself over the edge into sexual bliss.  I grasp, I claw, I pull and strain and moan…and he resists and resists me, an especially perverted kind of sadism, the bastard.

But then, just when I am sure I will die if I don’t get there, suddenly I am there, rising rising rising into that sweet oblivion, my orgasm tipping and spreading through me, not as a wave crashes, but as honey pours, slow and sweet and thick.  And, as if in reward, he pushes at that moment into me, deeply, a breath coming from him to match my own outward exhalation.

He is home, at last, and so am I.

Changing Dynamics

As any of you who follow me on Twitter, my poly blog (A Poly Life), or Fetlife know, W’s been out of town since the beginning of November, and won’t return until the beginning of December. As you may also know, I have a hard time with separation from either of my partners, but due to the nature of W’s and my relationship , I tend to feel his absence more acutely than I do Ad’s.  I need reinforcement, and confirmation of, our dynamic if he is gone for very long, otherwise I start to feel disconnected; unmoored. Or, as another blogger commented in a post I ran across just now (linked from the last issue of e_lust), as I was contemplating this one:

“Lacking a clear focus, lacking direction and lacking specific dominance, what do submissives have to hold onto? We’re only half of a dynamic. We can’t create dominance to suit ourselves, anymore than a dom can create a submissive when there isn’t one already lurking.” (from Naked Confusion.)

One of the things that makes this somewhat problematical is that while I view (and respond to) W as my Dominant–I am submissive to him, emotionally, not just in those times when he is physically dominating me–he has, in the past, only enjoyed exerting his dominance in tangible ways. He doesn’t want or need to control me outside of telling me who to fuck or play with, or to play with me physically (ie tie me up, beat me and fuck me, or other physical displays of subjugation and/or dominance.) When he’s home, I get my submission fix by placing myself in that situation with him, by being in his presence, and usually do not need many more reminders of our dynamic than that. But when he’s gone, I don’t get that need met at all, and I quickly start to


Okay, maybe I don’t lose my mind, but…it gets squirrelly. I get squirrelly, and needy, and discontent.

In the past, I have prided myself on my communication skills–and gee, we all know what they say: pride goeth before the fall. Actually, I haven’t been all that prideful, I am well aware that I stumble and take missteps and bumble along just like everyone else.  But seriously? This was Communication 101, and I ignored the first rule. You know, the one that says, “He (or she) can’t read your mind”? Yeah, that one.

The thing is, sometimes, submissives have difficulty communicating their needs, wants and desires.  Even those of us that know better, that know that just because we are submissive doesn’t mean we’re doormats, that we are strong and capable and can speak up for ourselves and yadda yadda yadda…even we have difficulty speaking up sometimes. It’s common in the vanilla world, too, for women (in particular) to have difficulty asking for things, especially when those things are intangibles such as needing comfort or affirmations of love or worth.

So is it any wonder that in a D/s dynamic, we might find it even more of a struggle to reconcile the necessity of asking for what we want or need with our need to be submissive; to be compliant, to give in, to subvert our own needs, wants and desires to the big-D type person in our life? Speaking up, especially if it is about an issue with the potential to cause confrontation or disappointment,  about something that the D-type might not want to hear, or if it could be perceived as criticism, can be very difficult.

Throughout my young adulthood I fought to retrain myself to behave and communicate in healthier ways than my own family did. I saw the other women in my family fall into the habit of passive/aggression, and I abhorred it. I don’t necessarily blame them for these tactics–they were only conforming to their own upbringing, following in their own mother’s, sister’s, aunt’s and grandmother’s shoes.  Women were taught to be quiet, to be good, not to make waves. The only way to get those needs heard was a sideways attack: you weren’t allowed to confront the issue directly.

And if that didn’t work, well, you could always fall back on martyrdom.

But while I don’t blame them, I certainly don’t want to be them.  And so I have really tried to learn to communicate directly and openly about my feelings.  About my expectations. About everything. It’s not easy, though, and when I began exploring submission, I realized that interacting in a D/s dynamic was going to make it even harder. But I persevered.  And still do, working to find ways to communicate effectively even within the dynamic.

And (hopefully) learning when I make mistakes.

I knew that I was going to need more in the way of reinforcement while W was gone. I have known that about myself since he left last time.  And, I’ve thought about it since then. I blamed myself for being too needy, I blamed him for not being Dominant enough.  I tried to force myself to believe that part of my “submission” is to accept what (I believed) he is capable of giving, and to believe that what I want or need isn’t important–my submission is.  And, in some cases, I believe that this is part of the dynamic.  That is part of submission, and a part that many submissives revel in, a part that feeds that need in us.

I did hint at my needs, but I was afraid of rocking the boat, of making him feel inadequate, of making him think I was unhappy with him by being more direct. I wasn’t unhappy with him–I just need “specific dominance” to respond to. The thing is, that is (perhaps) hard for someone to relate to that doesn’t need, er, “specific submission.” He doesn’t need me to kneel at his feet, or call him Sir.  He knows I am submissive to him, all the time.  He knows it is a part of me, a part of our dynamic.  But guess what?  He may not realize it, but the reason he knows it’s there is because I tell him so, all the time. I show him, all the time.  I think he thinks I don’t need to “show” it to him; that he just knows it’s there.

I think, though, that perhaps he also gets it fed without even realizing it’s being fed, because regardless of any “specific dominance” on his part, I respond to him as his submissive. That is always there, given to him by me, freely, because it is how I relate to him.  The fact that he doesn’t choose to exhibit his dominance, that he doesn’t, say, tell me “no” about something, or tell me how to do something, or make demands about my behavior…doesn’t mean that the undercurrent isn’t there.  And I know he is intuitive enough to feel it, even when he hasn’t asked for it.

The other day I was…poking…at him, trying to get him to say he missed me. “Of course I do,” he said. “But that goes without saying.”

Um, actually, no.  It doesn’t. Well, it does.  I do know that he misses me.  But–

“Let me ask you this,” I said. “You know I love you and miss you, right? But yet I still tell you.  And how does that make you feel, when I say it to you? Good, happy, loved, appreciated?” He had to admit that it did.

Same thing with D/s. I feel my submission to him all the time.  I know he is my dominant.  But I need to feel it.  I need something tangible to respond to.

But this is where my big ole Communication 101 Error occurred.  I had…sort of…expected him to read my mind, to know that I needed more, based on hints I had given him.  I didn’t say any of that to him before he left. I knew it was going to be an issue, but I just couldn’t get to that place where I could say, “I need you to…dom me.  From afar. Give me assignments, tell me what to do, give me tasks.” He has never expressed his dominance this way. Long distance Topping has never been his thing.

At least it wasn’t.

Even when I finally did screw up the nerve to say it, when I had about


I struggled with the words.  With communicating.

It took a rather long, tense, not-very-happy conversation between us to get to the heart of the matter.  I wish it hadn’t taken me getting all squirelly for us to get there, but…sometimes, that’s the only way it can happen. I’m not perfect.  I stumble, I bumble, I make mistakes. But I’m learning.

And W?  Let’s just say that he has “risen to the challenge.” Once he understood how important it was to me, and why, and once we discussed the ramifications of it (and his own concerns about it), he started shifting the dynamic, in subtle and not-so-subtle ways.  And I find myself responding to him in ways that I have only dreamed about doing with him.  I like a D/s dynamic.  Honestly? I crave it. I don’t want to be micromanaged any more than he wants to micromanage me.  But…we are discovering a middle ground.

And I find myself reacting in ways that are new and delicious. So for instance, instead of saying “I’m thinking about doing such-and-such, what do you think?” I find myself saying, “May I do such-and-such?” A subtle, but huge, difference in how I perceive things between us. And he’s said “no” more than once.  And when he did…yeah, I felt sad about not getting to do what I wanted…but I also felt…wonderfully, deliciously, reminded of our dynamic.  Submissive to him.  I like that feeling, of obeying, even when I don’t want to.  And of knowing that he expects that obedience.

So…this shift has been interesting.  For both of us. He’s actually found that he derives a lot of pleasure (and amusement) this way. And…as I knew he would be…he’s good at it.  He makes me shiver, he makes me wet, he makes me happy.  He makes me all subby and happy and swoony in my subbiness. ;-)

And, in another interesting twist…Ad has stepped in as “enforcer.” But more about that in another post, perhaps.

So…dynamics they are a’changing.  And I love it.

Oh, and PS.  He told me he misses me. ;-)

(A word here about “topping from the bottom,” because I can hear some people saying that to describe how this change in dynamic came about.  First of all, W and I communicate as two adults in a relationship, first.  Secondly, he expects me to communicate my needs to him.  And lastly, topping from the bottom doesn’t work unless the Top allows it to–or doesn’t realize he’s being manipulated.  And seriously? If a Top doesn’t see when he’s being manipulated–and stop it if that’s what he wants–then maybe he should rethink what he’s doing.  As W says, I can ask for anything. It’s up to him to grant it or not.  I can even attempt to manipulate him (which I don’t, except in certain “playing bratty” situations.)  Sometimes, it amuses him to “allow” me to manipulate him (in which case, um, yeah, he’s not being manipulated.) But simply asking your Top for something is not “topping from the bottom.” It’s communicating.  Nuff said about that.)