Cardinal Red

I’ve been craving intensity lately. Sometimes, we get kind of into a routine, where we play in a certain way, without the darker, more brutal overtones that I oftentimes crave. Not that it’s not fun, and hot, and orgasm and subspace inducing, but…it’s more…hmmm…”measured,” maybe.  Civilized. Less…visceral. I’m not saying he doesn’t play hard, or put me in some nasty predicaments, but what I want is…ferocity.

Part of it is health issues.  Part of it the constraints of travel (even tho one of the places we traveled to was a kink event, even there that edge was somewhat muted, for some reason), part of it is a certain comfort level with each other, and part of it…

Well, part of it may be that W needs to either know that he can still play that way with me, or perhaps maybe he even needs to be pushed into it a bit. It’s easier not to go there for him, maybe.  And since I love it all, perhaps I make it easy for him to stay in that comfortable place. I’m not sure. I do know that days and nights like this, and this, and this, or mornings when he drags me out of bed, throws me down and beats me up, or chokes me or slaps me as he fucks me into oblivion, haven’t been happening lately, and I miss it. I miss the edge, the ferocity…the danger, if you will.   The good news is that he and I have been talking about it, trying to figure out how to balance that kind of play, which we both want and need, with who we are to each other as a boyfriend and girlfriend, as play partners, not just as someone who gets things done to her and the person who does them (as hot as that concept is.)

So how do you find and play on that edge, after years of being together? Personally, and I hate to say this because I am big on taking responsibility for your own pleasure, I do think that is in large part the Top’s responsibility. Since he instigates and directs most of the play that happens, it’s up to him to set the tone.  On the other hand, it’s important that he knows that his partner wants that kind of play. That it’s okay to go there.  Sometimes, even a Top can forget that.

So…I reminded him.  I gave him the “green light,” so to speak. Actually I waved a big red flag at him, hoping, praying, he’d take the cue.

Hell…this is W. Did I honestly think he’d miss that cue?  That he wouldn’t take advantage of it?  He may have allowed himself to slip into a comfortable place, but he still wants to play this way. That’s what first drew us together. Oh yeah, he saw that flag waving, grabbed hold of it, and ripped it from my hands.  He grabbed me when I walked in the door, tied my hands behind my back and shoved a ball gag in my mouth, then propelled me down to the cellar where he tied me, beat me with a heavy leather strap and a cane, and then fucked me from behind, still tied, standing there with my jeans and panties around my knees. Then he yanked my panties and jeans up, and, with my hands still tied, pushed back up the stairs, stuck a roll of paper towels into my hands, pulled the ballgag out of my mouth and shoved me out the door to go back to work.

All without having said more than ten words to me.

I was dazed, and dazzled…and so fucking wet I made a spot thru my jeans on the seat of my car.

Afterwards–well, the next day–we talked about it a bit. About how hot it made us both, and how he misses play like that.  And he harked back to this thing he always says that both tears my heart out and pisses me off.  Because we just proved that wasn’t true. It’s this: “If we had stayed not ‘in-love-with-each-other’ play partners, we’d have been able to play like this a lot more.”

I can’t tell you how I hate that.  Because it is so patently wrong. I wouldn’t dream of playing like that with someone I didn’t trust implicitly. It’s not not knowing him that makes it hot.  It’s him that makes it hot. But he has to do it. I can tell him I want it until I’m blue in the face (or red), I can drop hints here and ask him all I want. It’s still his responsibility to make it happen.  I can’t tie myself up, slap myself, throw myself down, piss on myself or find all the places in my head to fuck me with. All I can do is tell him I want–need–those things.  And show him that we can play that way.  All he has to do is to do it.

It looks like he “red” me loud and clear.

For more of pics of this scene, and W’s take on it, go to Bondage Demons, click on “What’s New” and view the feature “Lunch Break” in Jade’s Collection. (Membership necessary for this feature, but you can see many others that are free.)

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!

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!


As I’ve mentioned before, I don’t often go into fantasy-realms when we are playing. I don’t pretend that he is someone other than who he is, that I am a damsel-in-distress, or that I am being kidnapped, etc., even tho these are strong themes in the stories he often tells me when he is fucking me, and I get off mightily on them when he does. But I’ve just never been much of a make-believe girl, at least in this respect, and I don’t tell stories in my head while he is abusing me.

Except when I do.

This was one of those times.

He was rough with me, abrupt and callous, shoving me down to the floor and tying me quickly, efficiently, face down, with my arms spread in a posture of utter submission and helplessness.  When I tried at one point to lift my head he shoved my face back down and held my head there for a long moment, my cheek grinding into the floorboard until I stopped struggling.  Later he would use his bare feet to accomplish the same thing, stepping on the back of my neck and head to force my face back to the floor to enforce his unspoken directive: I was not to lift my face.

Using the rope, he hauled my legs up and under me and secured them there.  Having my knees drawn up enhanced the feeling that this wasn’t about sex, this was about punishment.  And as he used his bare feet on my back and neck to shove me down and hold me there, stepping on me, how could I help but conjure up images and feelings of being a prisoner being tortured?

And yet.

And yet there was still something so incredibly erotic about the feel of his bare feet on my skin. Something so charged in being pinned by his feet. Of him holding me in place with my neck between his feet as he slashed at my back with a whip.

And there was something else.  Something about him, his demeanor, his intensity, during this scene. He was harsh in a totally different way, as though he, too, was channeling my fantasy. (In talking later he confirmed that yes, that was where he had gone as well.)

It’s a scenario I just might want to revisit.  A fantasy I just might want to venture into again, just to see where it takes me.

And him.

A Collection of Holes

Sometimes, a scene can get hotter in the remembering of it.

I know, that sounds counter-intuitive, or maybe like it wasn’t hot in the doing of it, but that’s not exactly true.  It’s…more complex than that.  And less, in a weird way.

I’m not really sure I can even verbalize what I mean.  I am pondering, and noodling, and turning it over in my head.

I’ll start backwards, and see if I can get there, make sense, that way.

This morning I woke up feeling pretty low, maybe even negative, about the scene last night. I recognize, now that I am out of that headspace, that this is actually a typical emotional reaction for me to the type of scene we did: very sexual, very objectifying, very degrading. Feeling an emotional backlash after that should be expected, but for some reason I am always taken by surprise when I wake up this way, and this morning was no exception.

So what was I negative about?

The set-up for the scene was incredibly hot. W has a friend that he has allowed to play with me before.  The guy comes in to town, gets a hotel room, and W takes me to him and allows him to do degrading things to me while he watches, and occasionally joins in.This time the scene was going to be decidedly less corporal than last time; more sexual.  W wants to get me gang-banged at some point, and this was his “calibration” to see how I’d do being fucked (and fucked, and fucked) for hours at a time.  What made it hot was that from the moment I went thru the door of the hotel until we left 5 hours later (me in W’s undershirt, high heels and nothing else) I was not allowed to speak.  I was an object, a collection of holes, a body to be used.

And use me they did. Hard, every hole, with hands and objects and cocks, until I was “used up,” as W put it, and barely able to function, much less speak. W’s objective of turning me into a “thing,” into “fuckmeat,” was well accomplished. But I didn’t really get how well it was accomplished until today, when we debriefed about the scene. In fact, all I had was this vague sense of unease, of feeling as though I had somehow failed, that centered around the fact that my memories of the night were so unclear and out of focus I couldn’t really remember what had happened, except for the fact that I do know neither man had an orgasm.

Okay, so yeah, let me just get it out there: sex just doesn’t feel complete when the guy doesn’t come. I have learned to accept that W doesn’t always come every time he fucks me, but that’s because I know that he enjoys it just as much as if he had. Hell, maybe more, because I think sometimes he doesn’t allow himself to orgasm as an extension of his power over me, and that that psychological edge is more fulfilling to him than the physical release might be. And, in the end, though it may be after two days of fucking me and hurting me and making me suck his cock, I win he eventually does lose control allow himself to come.  But generally, with the general populace, having an orgasm is a pretty good indication that “I did my job well.” I know, I know that isn’t really the case, and that, especially in BDSM, coming isn’t always or the only goal. But, damn, it just feels good (mentally and physically) when they do.

So that was a start to why I was feeling off, and what I communicated to W. And we talked about it…

And as we talked, I started to realize that even that part of it was objectifying.  They just used my holes. In and out. I came that night, twice that I remember, but even that wasn’t the objective, as it is so many times when W puts me thru hours of marathon sex. They didn’t care if I came.  They didn’t care if they came.  It wasn’t about sexual satisfaction or gratification.  It was about using me, using my body, a set of orifices.  My body came because it is trained to do so, because it simply can’t help but come when it is stimulated certain ways.  But it had nothing to do with me, with Jade.  It was my body reacting to physical stimuli.  And it was only in remembering that, in thinking about it, that how really fucking hot it was set in to my brain.

There was something else that happened during the scene that I didn’t recognize until we started talking about it.  I went to a space that I never have before.  When I said I was fuzzy and couldn’t remember clearly what happened? What I realized was that that was because I truly had gone into that headspace where W had put me.  He accomplished it far better than I think even he knew until we talked about it. I had shut off.  My brain had turned off so completely that I was, simply, an empty body, meat, a collection of holes to be used by them.  Stunned into insensibility and numbness.

It makes my cunt ache, just thinking about it.


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.

Task 1 – Sex and Blood

I’ve talked about lots of things here, but one of the things I haven’t talked about (much) is blood.

No, not the kind that happens when you cut yourself (or someone cuts you), or vampire play, or even bloodletting and the like. Neither W or I has a thing for that kind of play (for the most part–I’d like to experience cutting at some point, but that’s not really about the blood for me.)

I’m talking about “Auntie Flo.” My “period.” (I’ve always wondered why we use the word “period.”) Menstrual blood.

If you’ve read here long you know that I have a squeamishness about menstrual blood. I sincerely hate that I do. It’s so antithetical to me and what I am about and who I am that it really really bothers me to feel this way. But it’s a gut reaction, a deep shame that I feel when confronted with the possibility of those I am involved with seeing it–much less touching it!–and I can’t seem to shake it.

A long time ago W said to me, “One day I’m going to fuck you bloody.” I kinda thought he meant fuck me til I bleed, and, hey, that was kind of a hot thought! But of course he didn’t. And, since I know that he doesn’t usually say things unless he means to do them, I knew that eventually that day would come.

I never thought that it would be a day that I would ask for it.

I know! How does it happen that the one thing I really really don’t want to do winds up being something I ask for?!?

This past weekend was W’s and my last chance to spend time together before he had to be away for a month, so naturally, I wanted to spend as much time as possible with him.

And equally as naturally, that’s when my period decided to show up.  It always happens to me. Whenever I have something special planned, here comes Aunt Flo… This weekend was no different.  Sunday morning I woke up and there it was. ~sigh~ I told W, but right from the start I had a feeling this might well be the weekend he decided he’d had enough of my squeamishness.  What I didn’t expect was that I’d end up throwing that squeamishness out the window as well.  Well, maybe not throwing it out, but, um…”closing my eyes to it.” So to speak.

Okay, since I’m talking about menstrual blood here, it should be a given that this conversation may get a little TMI…so if you have an issue with that, skip ahead! But honestly, the whole thing was seriously hot, so if you can get past that, you might want to read on.

Later Sunday morning W decided to put me in some bondage.  I don’t usually use tampons, but wasn’t worried about making a mess at that point, because my period usually starts slow enough that I need only light protection the first day. So I wasn’t using anything when he started to get me set up. And honestly, I wasn’t even thinking about bleeding, I was just in “play” mode.  It wasn’t until he had me up in the corner of his bedroom, hanging from ropes that spread my legs wide open for his viewing pleasure, that I remembered that little fact.

“Hey…um…” I stammered. “Could you, um…I didn’t think about the fact that you were putting me up like this…could you, um…”

He didn’t help me out. “Yes?” he asked, snapping pictures and raising an eyebrow at me.

“Umm. Well, could you make sure that…you know…there’s no, um…” I swear I caught a smirk on his lips at my continued stuttering, so I took a deep breath and prepared to act like an adult (yes I am well aware of my childishness about this.) “Will you make sure that there’s no BLOOD showing?!? Please?” I asked through gritted teeth.

He really did smirk then. “Okay. Oh, except for that big drop there…” he said. Of course I gasped and squirmed to tried to see (I couldn’t), but had no idea if I really was hanging there with blood pouring out of my vagina.

And then I realized that it didn’t matter anyway. What could I do about it if there was? I was helpless.

Just like I wanted to be.

He continued to take some pictures, even taking some with my cellphone for my Twitterfeed. No exposure for those, thank goodness.  He preserved my modesty by covering up the naked bits–and presumably any blood–with my robe.

And then he climbed up on the bed and stood in front of me. “I’ve never fucked you in a suspension before, have I?” he asked.

I shook my head, but I wasn’t thinking about the suspension. I was thinking about being bloody, and making a mess…and knowing I couldn’t do a thing to change it.  But when he did it, as he pushed his way past my rings and my protests, as he shoved me against the wall and spread my cuntlips with the head of his cock, suddenly I didn’t care about that, either. I just wanted him inside me, fucking me, like he always did. I stopped thinking about being a mess and gave myself over to the moment, to him.  For the first time ever I wanted to be fucked while I was on my period.

Or at least he made me forget that I didn’t want to be fucked.

After I came, though, clinging to him, I could feel the slide of fluid following his cock as he pulled out of me, and memory returned.  I could feel how open and swollen my pussy was, a wet, hungry mouth greedy and gasping for more, and I was ashamed.

I shuddered as he lifted the camera again, knowing what he was taking a picture of.  Knowing it was deliberate.  I couldn’t meet his eyes.

I thought I got smart the next time we played.

Again he tied me up naked, with my legs spread. This time, however, I had inserted a tampon. I thought I was clever. What I didn’t realize was that although I’d thought I’d tucked the string up inside myself where it couldn’t be seen, it had come out.  I didn’t know what he was about when he knelt down next to me on the floor.  When he reached a hand out toward my crotch I flinched and tried to pull away.  Did he not realize I had a tampon in? He couldn’t want to…touch…it, could he?  What if he did??   But just as casual as you please, he reached between my legs tucked the string back in. Tucked and shoved and thrust his fingers against the tampon, pushing it deeper inside me, while I sat there, mute with humiliation, unable to stop him.  His very matter-of-factness was more embarrassing than the actual doing of it, I think, or maybe that’s just because I forced myself not to think of it while he was doing it (“close your eyes and think of England.”)  He fixed it, and continued what he was doing, and it was only later, upon seeing the pictures before he had tucked the string back in, that I even remembered him doing it. It was like I had blocked the memory from my mind.

(And now I am remembering the first time my ex and I ever played with someone else. It was a “mentoring” experience. I was (surprise!) on my period that time too, and had a tampon in then too.  A friend was showing him the “ropes” so to speak, on me.  I was tied face down on a sawhorse, my legs around the body of it, my ass exposed to them both, but felt little anxiety about being on my period, or having this relative stranger in that “area” during such a sensitive time, as I had on a thong and felt very “safe.” Suddenly they were pulling my thong aside, which revealed my (gaping I am sure, I was quite excited) pussy. “What do we have here?” asked the other Dominant, tugging gently in the string.  I gasped and buried my head against my arm.  He turned to my ex. “Can I pull it out?” My ex said “Sure!” and before I could protest, or maybe while I was, the other Top did just that. I still to this day do not know if either of them knew how humiliating that was to me.  I never brought it up after because I was too embarrassed. And yet…even then…that embarrassment was a trigger for excitement.  And it is an incident that I will never forget.)

Fast forward to late the next evening. That day he had taken me upstairs, tied me down on the floor, and, holding my head still between his feet, whipped me.  It was a powerful scene, both physically and mentally:  he had tied me down but he used his body, hands and feet to shove me around and pin me, all the while whipping me with floggers, a singletail, canes and paddles. It felt almost like a punishment scene: tied face down, my arms stretched out to either side, and him physically restraining me with his body was a heady mixture of mental and physical methods to beat me down and subjugate me.  He had had plans for another beating, but when it came time, I asked instead for some quiet time with him on the couch. It hadn’t been the most brutal weekend we’d ever spent, but physical brutality is not the only thing I respond to, and I was exhausted, physically, emotionally and mentally. He granted my request and we lay on the couch for awhile, just being still together.

And all I could think of was that I wanted him to fuck me. I wanted him to come inside me, something he hadn’t done all weekend. I wanted to feel that moment when he lost control and gave in to his body’s demand to release himself into me, just once, before he left for the month.

I lay there in his lap, knowing that he while he probably would fuck me later, I wanted him to know that, at last, I wanted him bad enough to override my own instinctual resistance.

“Please,” I said, barely able to choke the words out, and stopping and starting several times, “please will you fuck me?  Even though…”  My voice dropped to a whisper.  “…it’ll be messy.”

He granted that request as well.

He always knows just the right note, just the right spin to put on things. I had expected to somehow be in control of the situation.  I’d asked, right?  Now I would get to choose how and when…

Not a chance. I didn’t get to take a nice warm bath and clean myself as thoroughly as possible beforehand.  I didn’t  get to lay out a towel to lay on and have a cloth nearby.  I didn’t get to choose anything. He stood me up right there and told me to lean over the cage (which was still in the living room from play Saturday morning) with my legs spread.  I must have hesitated, or made some small sound of protest, because he grabbed me roughly and yanked me over to the end of the cage and shoved me face down over it.

Then he leaned against my backside and told me to get him hard and put his cock in my ass.

I was shaking so hard and was so nervous and tight at the thought of him fucking me on my period that I could barely get him inside me, but I don’t think an ass-fucking was the point anyway.  After a few minutes of me trying, and only barely getting the head of his cock inside me, he pulled away and told me to put his cock in my cunt.

With only a momentary hesitation, I did.

(And yep, before all the safety police shout about going from ass to vag, I’m well aware of the health risks involved, as he is. Sometimes, the risk is worth it.)

He leaned over me as I opened myself to him, as I guided him into my dirty, bloody hole, and told me how he was going to fuck me, any time, anywhere. In my ass dry, in my cunt bloody, anyway he chose. He whispered a story in my ear about leaning me over the bar during the cruise we are going on and inviting men to fuck me as I lay there, face down, unable to see who was behind me. They would just use me, a hole, open and wet, and then pass by.  Just as he was using me. And–god help me–I envisioned his cock, wet with my juices and my blood, sliding in and out of me, and then theirs’, these anonymous men, his slime, his come, mixing with theirs, dripping down between my thighs in pink rivulets.

It was that image that pushed me over the edge, and I screamed as I came, clutching the bars of the cage, trying to keep myself upright as he slammed against me, harder and harder, until finally he came himself, shuddering against me, his breathing harsh in my ears.

The feel of his cock as it softened and slid out of me, slick with his come and my blood, was one of the most sensuous and erotic feelings I have ever experienced.


(This post, while not written specifically for it, meets the requirements of the first task on my “Task List” that W has created for me to accomplish while he is gone.  This is a new game for us, and one that I will be sharing with you all as the month goes on (at least in part.)  I’ll talk more about the game  in a subsequent post.)