Wanton Wednesday – DP One Way

This is one way to do a DP.

Wanton Wednesday - Two Click-Thru

This is another.  And I know I posted about yet another way (the “conventional” way, lol) but I can’t find the post, so, oh well.

Later this week, in another of my “Draft Posts per W,” I’ll describe yet another.

Whether it’s a little naked or a lot naked, baring your soul or baring your body parts, you are welcome to join us! Yes, you! Words, photos, whatever you want to share that is Wanton will fit right in.

Wanton Wednesday

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.

Need to Know

As you all know by now (if you’ve been reading my blog for any length of time) W and I have been testing the waters of swinging. He wants me to experience it for many reasons, one of which most certainly is that he simply likes to watch me get laid, but also because he feels that the particular set of protocols and morays that make up the swinging lifestyle are ones that I should learn, and eventually, excel at. Because he believes that I will, eventually, be “good” at it.

Sometimes I am not sure about this last, but…(as you most surely know by now)…I will do anything to please him.  If doing this pleases him, if being “good” at this makes him happy, if me becoming an “accomplished” swinger makes him hard, then hey–I’m there.  And thrilled to do it.

Unfortunately the St. Louis scene isn’t exactly the swingers’ mecca that we might have hoped it would be.  And…we’ve had a few bumps in the road as well as we’ve learned to negotiate this new dynamic, both between ourselves and in regards to others.  And, frankly, we’ve had to backtrack and re-assess how it might work for us a couple of times, because it is so foreign to our own dynamic, and because, specifically, swinging itself does nothing for me.  I need some level of kink, of a CNC or coercion dynamic, or it just isn’t hot for me.  So we’ve been trying to figure out how that might be incorporated (without squicking others out or driving them away) and how best to allow our own dynamic to work within the framework of swinging.  Needless to say, it’s been a bit of a slow start.  And it may never work completely the way W wants it to. But, I’m hopeful, and (as always) eternally optimistic.  If I can make it work, you can damn well believe I will make it work.

Meanwhile, there are scenarios that have come up via our contacts in the different swing groups.  Not necessarily “swinging,” but scenarios that appeal to W’s and my particular kink and that we’ve decided to explore. Each one of these is an opportunity for learning (as well as the possibility of some hot sex.)

Lately I’ve been talking to a woman that wants to send another woman to fuck her husband in his hotel room (he’s in town for a few days attending a business function.) Ideally, for my hotness factor, this sort of scenario would happen this way:

W makes contact with the woman. She and he negotiate what will happen. He arranges a time with me that will work, without telling me the details. At the agreed-upon time, he takes me to the man’s hotel room, drops me off at the door, I go in and perform whatever service W and the woman have agreed to, and two hours later W picks me up (hopefully bedraggled and with some outward signs of having been used hard by this man.)  Oh, and with pictures of it in my phone and sent to the wife.  He then takes me home, “inspects” me for compliance with his and the wife’s wishes, uses me or abuses me to reclaim me, and sends me home to my family.

Fuck. I’m getting hot just thinking about it.

The reality, though, in large part because of the particular dynamics of swingers, is a bit different. I saw the wife’s post about wanting someone for her husband. Knowing that this is exactly the kind of thing that would get W off, I replied to her. She and I have been in negotiation now for two days, and today I made contact with her husband, confirming the details of a meeting that will happen Thursday. All the while, I kept W apprised of the situation, and he, knowing I needed to hear/feel it (even though I never directly requested it) gave me permission–and specific instructions to comply.

I need to feel his coercion, his demand that I do this thing, even though I was the one that set it all in motion, and have set it all up.  He knows that, and has neatly (and quite adeptly) turned it into coercion play.  And it works.  And I am hot.

Trying to explain this to the woman doesn’t work out so well, though.

I didn’t set out to have to try to explain it to her originally. It was more of a slip. I am well aware of the female-driven swinger dynamic. Women run the show, their word is first and last. And a woman being forced into performing sexually is anathema.

So of course I didn’t tell her I was doing it for W.

Until I did, sort of.  Accidentally.

And then I had to try to explain that yes, I was doing it because it made him hot, but that makes me hot, so it’s all good.

“You are doing this because you want to, right?” she asks.

I can honestly answer that “Yes, I am.” Because I am.  She doesn’t need to know that I want to because I know W wants me to, and that knowing it will make him hard is why I am doing it.

“He didn’t make you contact me, did he?” “No,” I can reply with all honesty, because he didn’t.  I don’t have to explain that if it hadn’t been for him, for me knowing that me doing this would excite and please him, I would never have contacted her.  But he didn’t make me do it. (Nor that now that I have told him about it, he most certainly will make me do it–there will be no cancelling out of it now.)

And when she asks, “Am I excited?” about meeting and fucking her husband, I can honestly say “Yes.” Because I am.  She doesn’t need to know that at least half my excitement comes from this fucked-up dynamic that W and I share, and that she would never understand.  Yes, I am looking forward to and will like the sex, if he has any skill at all, and I am looking forward to his cock in me, to being fucked by a stranger.  She doesn’t need to know that I will probably enjoy it even if he doesn’t have any skills, and not only because, as W says, every cock that fucks me is his cock and that the whole time that man is fucking me I will be thinking about what W will do to me later, about how hard his cock is, knowing I am there and what I am doing.  Because there’s another part to this too. There’s the other part of this dynamic that she also doesn’t need to know about and probably wouldn’t understand. The other reason I will enjoy myself is because I will be serving her and her husband, pleasuring them.  I will make damn sure he enjoys himself so that she is pleased and happy with the situation.

And that gets me (and W) off, too.

They already are pleased with me.  Amazed at what they’ve found in me, even if they don’t quite understand what that is.  They don’t realize what I am, or how hard I will work to make everyone happy, horny and satisfied.  And that, in the end, their pleasure drives my own.

But they don’t need to know that. It’s enough that W and I know.

Weekend Snapshot – Waiting

A real snapshot from this past weekend.

Waiting for a stranger to arrive.

This is how I spent Friday afternoon.

Well, until he actually did arrive.

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

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

And that was just the start of the weekend.

Cowboy #2 – Two Stories

I have this List that I am working on for W.  At his request I’ve created an Excel spreadsheet listing all of the boys and men I have fucked in my life.  It is supposed to be in chronological order, and by name, with at least one fact about each one listed.  It’s slow going, as a) I don’t recall them all in order; b) I don’t recall all their names; c) I don’t recall them all, period; and d) as with every other project I am supposed to work on, I procrastinate until I am threatened with loss of life or limb.  Or some other punishment.  And since W doesn’t play with a punishment (or “funishment”) dynamic, there really is very little to compel me to actually complete it.

(Oh shit, wait, I’m supposed to be a good submissive, right? And a good submissive does things just to please her Top…you know, because she knows it will make him happy.  Uh-huh.  Riiight.  That’s me all over.

Well…maybe I am, a little bit.  So okay, I admit, I do work on it a little bit at a time.  And preen and glow when I do and it makes him happy or turns him on.  Cuz yeah, I am a bit submissive. ~rolling my eyes and sighing~)

Anyway, I’ve already written one story at W’s behest about someone from the list.  And now I am writing another.

The fun part of this one is that it’s masturbation material. For me, not you.  Or maybe you too–I have no idea what you do with my scribblings once I send them out into the wide blogging world. I’d like to think about you all hot and bothered, reading my stories with one hand down your pants–

Anyway.  So the other day, as I lay on the floor with my cunt rings tied open–

What?  I didn’t mention that in my previous post? Oops, bad blogger.  That’s what precipitated all the fucking I mentioned in that post.  Although we ended up on his couch downstairs, it all started upstairs, when he decided to tie open my “cuntflaps” (as he called them) by my rings obscenely, and then use other nasty implements to spread open my mouth and nose (nosehooks are for THE BIRDS!) and finally used clothespins on my outer labia to “pin” me to the floor.  After which he pulled me down on top of him, and, with my rings still tied open to my thighs, told me to fuck him.

It’s at moments like those that his claim that he’s not sadistic is clearly proved false. Know what happens when a girl’s insides–the parts that aren’t supposed to be exposed to the air–are? You guessed it–they dry out.

“Do it,” he said, when I whimpered and tried to pull away.  “Go on.  Hurt yourself.”

So I did.  (Because, you know, I’m a good submissive, remember?)

I pushed him inside my dry, tender, exposed hole, whimpering and whining the whole time.

And fuck me if I didn’t get wet.

Soon I was whimpering and whining because, in spite of my head telling me I shouldn’t be, I was excited.

~ sigh~ I am just so fucking easy.

But this post isn’t about all that.  This post is about what he said to me as I impaled myself on him, feeling my rings pulling me open wider, and getting hotter as I thought about being so utterly exposed, so unprotected, my hole spread wide…

Grabbing me by the hair he pulled my face close to his lips. “Tonight, when you’re touching yourself,” he said, “I want you to think of the next guy on your list.  And when you do, I want you to imagine what it would have been like if you’d been made to fuck him with your rings tied open just like this.”

And I did. Later that night, lying in bed next to Ad, who’d fallen asleep early, I touched myself and imagined what it would have been like…

And because I have to tell the REAL story of the 25th guy on my list, you’ll get two stories in one!

#25 – Cowboy #2

(Yep, there were two of them. NO, not at the same time.  I hadn’t done that yet.)

The Real Story of Cowboy #2

Once upon a time I was living with my older (crazy) sister. I was trying to leave my first husband (trying being the operative word…I left him at least six or seven times before it stuck) and she offered me a place to stay while I got myself situated.  Shortly after I moved in, she decided to leave her husband, and moved to a small, central California town, taking me with her.

Things were not so great living with my sister.  (Note the “crazy” modifier above.) Late one night, after a particularly stressful day with her, I ended up meeting the husband of a friend of hers out at the local honky-tonk. And yes, I can call it a honky-tonk, because it was, and no, he wasn’t Cowboy #2.  He was just a friend that knew how rough it was living with my sister, so he invited me out for a beer to get me out of the house.

Stupid me, I went.  Stupid because I ended up sleeping with one of my sister’s friend’s husband’s friends, “Cowboy #2” of this tale, and that, eventually, ended up being part of the reason I ended up not living with my sister shortly thereafter. Or being friends with my sister’s friend or her husband anymore. See, I was smart enough not to sleep with F (my sis’s friend’s husband), but I wasn’t smart enough not to sleep with C2, who was also married.  And later, when it came out that I had done that, well, it wasn’t hard doing for my sister to convince her friend that I had also slept with F.  (Why would someone accuse her own sister of something like that, especially when it’s untrue? Um, were you paying attention when I used the word “crazy” up there?)

Anyway, that’s another story, and not one for this space.  The story I can tell here is a typical one: F and I had a couple beers, he introduced me to some of his friends, we had a few more beers and they all kinda flirted with me in that way that men do with any girl between the ages of 22 and 50 after they’ve had a few beers. The bar was a typical small town bar, smoky and dark, with honky-tonk on the jukebox, a couple pool tables in the middle and everyone drinking Coors (it was California, after all.)  C2 was no more or less interesting than any of the others, but he stayed later, and flirted a little harder, brushing against me as we played pool, smiling a lazy cowboy smile, and…hell, offered me a ride home when I was ready to go (F was still drinking hard.)

So I fucked him in his truck, straddling him with the steering wheel pushing against my back, at a roadside rest area about 10 miles outside of town.

I don’t recall much about it, to be honest, and can’t remember his name or his face. I do remember his truck had a saddle and a coil of rope in the back. And he wore a cowboy hat. (See how clever I am? “Cowboy” #2.)

Not a very exciting story, right?  How about we sex it up?

The Story of Cowboy #2 – As It Should Have Happened

Unfortunately you don’t get a lot of background in this story, as you did in the first. When I masturbate, I get down and dirty pretty quick, instructions to make up a story or not.  All I see is myself back in that bar, with those men around me.  Three or four of them in their shitkickers and cowboy hats, drinking beer, laughing, eyeing me.  I’m in one of my short short denim skirts this time, a tank top and a pair of outrageously high heels. The kind I never would have worn back then.

And underneath my skirt, my rings are tied open by black silk cords that wrap around my thighs.

As I lean over the pool table (ostensibly to line up my shot, but we all know I can’t play worth squat) those strings are made visible.  I feel the Cowboy come up behind me and lean into me.  I can feel the scratch of his jeans against my thighs, his wool shirt against my back, a boot on the inside of one of my feet.  He holds my leg there, keeping them open without anyone really knowing what he’s doing except me.  I feel a hand on the inside of my thigh, and then, higher. I feel his fingers, rough and callused, brush against my spread cuntlips–

–and stop. I can feel his confusion as he pauses for a long moment, neither of us breathing.

And then his voice, in my ear, “Keep up what you’re doing,” he says. “Act like nothing’s going on.” I feel him square himself behind me (hiding what he’s doing from the others?) even as he edges my legs farther apart. As I pull the pool cue back to take a shot, I feel his fingers probing that open hole, tentatively at first, exploring just the edges of this bizarre configuration that W has put me into, and then more roughly.  His fingers are hard and thick, and in a moment he has shoved one into me.

I feel his cock grow hard in his jeans against the backs of my thighs.

“You fucking little whore,” he says, grinding against me.

And this is where total fantasy takes over and the story loses all sense of reality or focus.  Touching myself, the story becomes jumbled in my head with a story I read once long ago, in fact one of the first pieces of hardcore porn I ever read, in a Hustler magazine I found in my dad’s apartment.  Suddenly the Cowboy is fucking me over the pool table, still fully clothed, with the others looking on. Then they are taking turns, and then, at some point, they are fucking me with the pool cue as well.  This is a recurring fantasy derived from the original story that I read, but now, at W’s behest, it is enhanced by the added humiliation of having my rings and cuntlips tied open.

Lovely.  Nasty and sick and so fucking hot I come in about three minutes.

And that’s the story of Cowboy #2, both real and imagined.  I think we’d both have had a better time if W had been around back then.

Thank god for small favors

Lunchtime. The park.

I have a sandwich, a book, an ice tea and a blanket. The heat curls around my hips and torso sluggishly, drawing me down onto the blanket into its stifling embrace like an overeager lover.

Stretching out onto the blanket I am suddenly reminded of another hot summer day, another park, another lover.  So long ago…six, seven years? Before W, certainly, although it seems that W knew of him, that I spoke of him to W…

Maybe I only shared memories with W.  Memories of a hand on my hip as we lay in the grass, a mouth, close to my ear, a voice whispering all the things he’d do to me if we were some place more private.  A memory of drawing my body close to his, pressing my hips against his, of sliding my hand down between our bodies to feel his cock where it strains against his jeans. “Is this private enough?” I ask. “No one can see what I’m doing…” The sound of his breath leaving his body in a sighing moan as I unzip his fly and slide my hand inside the opening and grasp him firmly, pulling him toward me by his hard, hard cock as I press our bodies closer together, shielding what I’m doing from casual passers-by.

I sigh and close my mind to the memory, take a sip of my tea and settle back against the blanket, book in hand. The book is a spare from the trunk–I have forgotten my Kindle.  It’s one of my copies of Orgasmic, an erotica anthology I was published in.  Funny thing: I’ve never read all the stories.  But I’m desperate.  I can’t spend my lunchtime without reading.

I open it to the first story and my name jumps out at me-not as an author, but as a character in the story.  Even better, it’s a story with an element of power exchange.  It’s a neat, sexy little story about orgasm control, and I find myself daydreaming as I read it, roleplaying in my mind, wishing that W liked to play such games, remembering one time when we did–and he did.  Hmmm.

I should read this to W on our drive to Dark Odyssey, I think.

I imagine him playing just such a game as we drive, making me bring myself to the brink of an orgasm and then denying me, making me stop, over and over, until all I can think about is my cunt, and getting fucked, and feeling his fingers inside me or pinching my clit or slapping it, of him using that wooden toy that he used this weekend, pushing it inside me, or other things, nastier things, spreading me open and filling me up, over and over…

I realize I have stopped reading and am simply staring off into space, the story in my head far hotter than anything I could read.  My mouth is parted and I wriggle a bit on my blanket, wishing for little snippets of real play to make my day more interesting.  As I do, I glance up over the top of my book–and see the occupant of the truck that is parked just behind my car in the shade staring at me.

I glance down.  I have one knee raised and have been unconsciously rocking it back and forth, making my skirt–a perfectly professional, just-above-the-knees-length black skirt–fall back to my thighs. I am certain that, from his angle, he can see my black panties edged with white lace; perhaps even the dark V they make between my legs.  If he has good vision he can also see the picture of the woman on the front cover of the book, head back and mouth open in orgasmic bliss, and perhaps make out the title.

I imagine what might happen if W texted. I’d reach over casually and text him a message:

Laying on a blanket in the park reading smut while some guy in a truck ogles my panties, I’d type. What should I do?

Give him a better look, he’d text back.

I’d look back down at my book, turning pink at the thought, but I’d do as I was told, pretending to be absorbed in my book again as I let my leg fall open wider, and continue to bounce it so that my skirt rides higher.

I do so now, pretending not to realize what I’m doing even as I feel my stomach clench in excitement, wondering if Mr. Trucker is still watching.

My phone would buzz again. Find a way to touch yourself, I would read.  

As my fantasy takes hold in my mind, my breath catches in my throat.  I sit up and cross my legs, seemingly to straighten my skirt–but as I pull my skirt down over my thighs I brush my fingers over my mound, and then, pretending to tuck my skirt down, I risk a more direct touch, pushing the cloth of the skirt against my cunt as I “tuck it” under my legs.

A soft pant escapes my lips before I can stop it, and I am terrified to look up and meet Mr. Trucker’s eyes, afraid that they will be boring into me, afraid that they will know what I am doing.

In my fantasy, my phone buzzes again. Find an excuse to talk to him, it says.

And that, thank goodness, is where fantasy and reality STOP.

Thank God W is a Luddite.


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.