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

Wanton Wednesday – A Handful

I wonder what it is about a hand in the hair that is such a trigger. I know, it’s almost a cliche, but still, cliche or not, that is one of those simple things almost guaranteed to make me wet, make me limp, make my knees weak.


What I like about this image is not just his hand in my hair, though. It’s my hand, clawing at his leg, holding on for dear life.

(There’s a click-thru that shows another image of a hand, his hand on my flesh, gripping me, that makes my belly do flip-flops.  And yes, it’s partly the whipmarks, and the remembered feel of them on my skin, but mostly…it’s his grip that gets me.)

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

Monday in Baltimore

(Continued from this post on W’s and my trip to Baltimore and the Shore.)

Monday came, and I had to be a professional woman again.  I’d brought a variety of Working Woman clothes (the professional type, not the streetwalker type)…

…and W had brought some Wearables to make my working days at the conference fun.


We both loved the old hotel that we stayed at. The conference hotel was too rich for my organization (we’re a cash-strapped charity) and so I had gone online and found us a deal. It was a lovely turn-of-the-century hotel in the Mt. Vernon historical district, and although at first I was sad not be in the Inner Harbor area, where I had stayed last year and where the conference hotel is, I am really glad we did now. I had decided to walk and take public transportation as much as was feasible, and we ended up walking back and forth to the Inner Harbor and all over the neighborhood where the hotel was, which was a delight.

And that afternoon, when I got back from the conference, W made fine use of the big bed in our room.

First he mauled me…

Then he pinned me.

I have to chuckle now about a Twitter conversation I recently had with someone. He is…a bit pedantic and dogmatic in his pronouncements at times, and occasionally makes “One True Way” type statements.  Recently one of those was, “Everyone interprets pain the same.” (Vis-a-vis his implication that a Top isn’t a Good Top™ unless he has tried anything he would do to a submissive on himself first, in order to understand what it feels like to him/her.)  Hrm. Okay, while I accept that one might want to know what an implement feels like, using it on yourself does not equate to knowing what that implement feels like to anyone else.  We each interpret pain–and pleasure–differently.

Case in point: clothespins.

I do not interpret clothespins–at least on certain areas of my body–as pain. They feel pleasurable to me. And no, I’m not talking pain-as-pleasure (although there are times when they are that, as well) but as pleasure alone.  And even sometimes in the places they do normally hurt, given the right stimulus, even that no longer registers as pain to me, but as pleasure. They do not hurt during those times.  In fact, when highly aroused, I can have an orgasm from the removal of them, as my body interprets that pain as pleasure as well. I’m just wired that way.

I am damn certain that what some other people feel when clothespins are applied is not pleasure at all, and in fact I have a good friend that is that way.  To her, the pain is intense, an excruciating, sharp, jabbing sensation that she can’t tolerate.

Not how they feel to me, at all.

So if this Top was one of that type, and used a clothespin on himself, and found it to be excruciating, but the person he played with was like me…well, you can see how the way he played with him or her might not be a good experience for that person. Likewise if, say, he interprets the feeling of a heavy flogger as a pleasant back massage, and his bottom feels it as deep, heavy pain, there could be some misapplication of that implement as well.  We each interpret sensation differently, and no one can know what it feels like for anyone else. Don’t ever try to tell me that you know what I feel, because it ain’t true. And don’t base your decision of how to play with me based on how a thing feels to you. Much better to pay attention to me and my reactions and what you see and hear from me, than to try to base your understanding on your own experience of a thing.

Just my two cents.

Anyway, all this by way of the funny story that goes along with the clothespins.

So W mauled me, and rubbed all over me, and then he clothespinned me, and then he zippered the clothespins off me, and the whole time he’d left my cunt alone. I was pushing it into the bed as much as I could, trying to get at that sweet spot so desperately, but he wasn’t letting me have any of that. Finally, after he yanked the zipper off and turned me over, I lay there, panting, horny as fuck, wanting to come so bad I was whimpering.

And wanting to come the way I knew I could, the way I had with my Ex, who had discovered Jade’s Joy of Clothespinned Orgasm®.

Finally, I got up the nerve to ask him. “Please,” I said, in a breathy little pant, “will you put the zipper on my tits while I touch myself, and yank the clothespins off, over and over, and not stop until I come?”

His eyes widened. “Seriously?” I don’t think he believed I really wanted it.  And honestly, the minute it was out of my mouth, I wondered too.  Did I really just ask for that?  Sure, my Ex used to put them on, one by one, and take them off as I came, but…well, I knew it would different than the Ex doing it.  Of that I could be certain.  This was W, after all…

And, <ahem> this was a clothespin zipper.  With like 40 bazillion clothespins.  The Ex had never done anything like that.  (A detail I may have glossed over when I insisted to W that I loved it when my Ex did it, by the way.)

But…that was the point, wasn’t it?

“Yes,” I said. “Seriously.”

So he did.

I took three applications and rips of the zipper before I came.

The interesting part to me is that what finally tipped me over was not actually the sensation of the pins themselves.  That felt great, and each rip left me gasping and moaning with that peculiar mixture of pleasure & pain, but my head wasn’t quite in the right place to reach an orgasm.  It was that whole “asking for it” thing rearing it’s ugly little head again.  So although I was getting there, I still wasn’t quite at the tipping point–

Until he slapped my hand away when I tried to stop him as he was applying them for the third time.

See, the ripping off actually is a pain-as-pleasure sensation, with the intensity being on the pain side of the thing in the way that he was doing it.  He wasn’t being gentle.  He applied and ripped and applied and ripped almost before I could catch my breath, mercilessly, and gleeful in that mercilessness.  I would just start to float with the pleasure of their application, then explode into the pain of them being ripped off almost before I’d had a chance to breathe, before being suffused by the nearly-orgasmic pleasure that quickly followed.  But it was almost too much, too intense.  I was actually a little on sensory overload by the time he started putting them on for the third time, and started to struggle against him a bit.

He was having none of that.  I could almost hear the words in the air as he held me down and put them on, one by one: “You asked for it–now take it!”

And that was all it took. To know that he was in control, that he was calling the shots.

And as he grabbed my wrist and pinned it down, then reached over and ripped the pins away for the third time, I writhed and bucked and came, screaming with a pleasure so intense I about had an aneurysm.

As we both lay panting afterward, he turned me and shook his head. “I never would have done that to you if you hadn’t asked for it. Women are so much kinkier than men.”

Huh.  When I think of all the things I have in my head, of all the things I’ve wanted him to do to me, of all the sick, twisted, fucked-up kinky fantasies I’ve never told him–or at least never asked him to do for real–I have to agree.  I’m one kinky bitch.

But it takes him to do all those things, and to make me take it when I want to back out, when I think I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, and to take pleasure in the doing of it.

Knowing how a clothespin feels on himself has nothing to do with knowing how to do that.

When Work & Play Meet

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

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

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

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

First, last night.

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

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

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

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

More on that at another time, perhaps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…and on Fetlife:


…and on Twitter.

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s more than that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture Request - Enema

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

But ultimately, I accept.

And accept the pleasure, too.

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

But not before W says so.

He sent me back to my desk.

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

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

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.)

Go Cardinals!

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

And that there was:

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

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

Go, Cards, indeed!