Less than…

There are moments when you are presented with opportunities to show that you really area  submissive, a slave, someone so deeply committed to your service that, without a doubt, you can prove your status.

And you fail.

And it makes you question all of it. Because you know you’ve failed. And you feel like a failure. And that’s how it is.

We’ll have to see where I go from here. I am committed to my Mistress. I absolutely am. But I’ve failed.

I realize this is something akin to vague booking and I apologize. This is what I am confronted with this weekend.

Once upon a rain storm

Another episode in the continuing series of flashback posts that Chloe has been doing. This time, John makes a contribution.

Chloe wanted me to contribute to the “Once upon a… ” posting set and I will go back to one particular scene she engineered at a camp we attended.

It was our first time at “camp”, having been lured there by two friends in kink who were beautiful and wonderful people. And were great at helping to engineer an good abduction and torture scene.

Chloe had rigged up a nice spot down on the lawn near the pool and dining hall. A high traffic area. We had this kind of spanking bench we had brought with us. I brought it down to the area she designated, she posted a sign or two, as she is famous for her signs. To this day, I don’t know what the signs said. But I do know that they invited people to do things to me. There was some measure of cock sucking involved, there were people who beat me, there were people who fingered my ass and people just wanted to touch. And that was all okay and it was what people did for a good hour or more.

It was a very hot summer at camp. Temperatures in this section of the mid-atlantic were well into the 90’s and people lived in the pool. And with such temperatures and summer heat, it was inevitable that summer storms rolled through. There I was, bound hand, foot and neck on the spanking bench, having had people doing terrible* things to me. Chloe was sitting nearby in the shade while I, out in the sun, was used and abused.** There was a veritable parade of people who stopped in, some of which we play with to this day. But more to the point, the weather turned. I was in the sun, she in the shade. Lube had dripped down my ass and down my thighs. My cock, tortured and teased also dripped. The sky darkened. The high traffic area became low traffic. We were on a downward slope and little risk of lightning where we were, but the storm blew in quickly. Chloe sat in the shade while the rain started. I remained bound to the bench, rained on. The rain became hard, even painful as it struck my body. It was almost at the point where you stick your arm out of the car while driving down the highway in the rain. All the heat and anxiousness of being laid out in public to be used was washed away. All the concern, all the worry, it all simply was washed away as the rain pelted on my back and ass and legs and feet.

Having already been in a head space where I was floating and heated, the rain washed through me, a cleansing bath, one of the more public instances of my being abused out in front of others. And the rain baptized me in the society of kink where my sins were… well… part of the life I was in. My sins had no forgiveness in this baptism, as there was nothing to forgive. But perhaps it was any misgivings I might have had, any doubt I might have had, any worries about accepting my kinky self were washed away in that rain. I was born anew, baptized in the waters of the camp and welcomed into the church of the inherently kinky and accepted into a tribe.

Man in rain

Man in rain

I was unclipped from the bench. I was so spacey, so drifty, so much head space… and she escorted me up the hill, the rain still pouring down over both of us. I naked, her not nearly so. We returned to our cabin space wherein our roommates had already taken refuge from the storm relishing in the relief of the temperature drop from the rain. And here she was, walking her dog up the hill, in the rain naked. His body chilled from the outlay of energy into others, washed off from rain, dripping with wetness… and she lay me down on the dog pillow beside our bed, a towel roughly drying me, then a blanket covering me. And all through my laying down and coming down I heard the soundtrack to Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid, by Bob Dylan.

To this day, the soundtrack of Pat Garrett exists between Chloe and I as a beautiful soundtrack to our life together. And it all comes back to this scene at a beautiful camp when she was able to craft a wonderful and perfect scene, one that began innocently enough, with me, her and a couple signs. And it rose and roared in the heavens, rained down upon us to wash so much away, but left us together in our space to come back to each other again later… recovered, rejuvenated and so deeply attached to each other.

Even as I write this, I’ve called up the soundtrack on my computer to listen to, just so I can hearken back to some of the wonderful feelings I shared with her on that day.

Since then, we’ve been back to this camp countless times, joined the staff, met many people, had so many scenes together there. We know this camp far more intimately than many of its participants and we are continuously drawn to it. And we share these memories with each other across so many miles and years and can only smile at the thoughts of them.



*By terrible I mean delightful wonderful and deliciously tortuous things… ;)


Once upon an abduction… Part 2

This post is part four of a week long series entitled “Looking Back”. They are a few pages from our ‘photo albums’ that I wanted to write about as john and I celebrate 10 years of living in a kinky power exchange. We hope you enjoy, and as always, thanks so much for reading and for sharing your comments with us.






I’m about to tangle with a grand inquisitor and I am aroused?

And so it began. German guy wanted the numbers and I told him to go fuck himself. I heard his heavily laden sigh, and he mentioned something about feeling regret that this was my answer, but he has been prepared for such a response. There was a moment of still. Of quiet. I was left with my own anticipation, and it built to heights I didn’t know were possible.

I don’t know exactly how long the torture went on, but I do know it was many hours. Back and forth it went…..the inquisitor playing both good cop and bad cop. I resisted. For hours, I resisted. The thought of giving that bastard anything that John trusted me with broke my soul.

Others helped too. The hands that abused were many. I remember crying deeply at times….my tears and snot covering my face beneath the hood. Occasionally a straw was pushed up to my mouth where I could suck in water, which I did. Sometimes I hungrily swallowed that water, and other times I tried to spit it at them through the hood.

Other times I yelled, defiant and deeply angry.


I would sob…..You are not getting jack shit from me!

But that is hard to maintain when your naked thighs are tied open to a wooden chair, and you are caned so often, so precisely, you start to tremble on top of your trembles.

I think it was the nipple torture that eventually did me in. It was such a small part of my body, so sensitive and sweet….and it was enduring things I had never even imagined.

I gave some of the numbers. I gave fake numbers to that account. The German would leave and check those numbers, determining quickly that I was lying.  I would be badly beaten for those lies.

And so it cycled.

Eventually, I just couldn’t do it any more.

What I remember so vividly was that my brain told me when it was enough. I felt it. My body shook from the abuse. I could both feel and tell that others were checking on me….more water, hands and feet being examined,  ropes adjusted. But it was my brain that waved a white flag. It was looking out for me. It said that I was done. My body was aching in every possible way, my mind had been distorted and tested, but in the end, it provided.

I gave the numbers. One by one, I recited those numbers. By the end of that series, I was crying with every ounce of heart. I was so broken to give those away. I felt as though I was giving away trust. I was breaking that inner circle he had let me into. I was not strong enough to protect his Swiss secret. I could no longer lift my head off my own chest, my collapse was complete.

“Good girl”, I heard in soft, tender German.

And that was that. Within seconds, all those hands untied me. The hood was left in place, but I was guided tenderly to a big bed that was very nearby, and naked, I was laid upon it. Bodies immediately were pressed against mine as a blanket covered us all.

Slowly, the hood was removed, my eyes blinking, my skin flinching. I opened my eyes as slowly as I could. In front of me was John’s beaming face….his eyes searching my own with joy and pride and pleasure.

I looked around me, and all I could see was a wall of smiling people. My abductors. My captors. My torturers. My friends.

“Happy Birthday!”, they said. “Happy, happy birthday, Chloe!”

I cried and smiled and laughed and then the abduction crew went upstairs for cocktails while John touched me, hugged me, tended to my many bruises and then fucked me beautifully. I fell asleep in his arms still hearing his German accent echo in my head “Good girl, Chloe. Good girl.”

The guy at the bar? The one who sat near us, the one I thought was checking us out? Yeah, he was in on it too. He was the one who took the parking garage pass from John in order to move and hide John’s car. I never did find out who he was.

About 9 months before this abduction took place, John and I negotiated an abduction and had me sign a release. It was a kinky release, he explained, in case a scene we were doing ever went wrong. Each abductor carried a copy of the release “just in case”. It was a consent form, basically, so that no one would get arrested. That is how long this abduction had been in the works.

Oh, and there is no Swiss bank account. He is not secretly rich. But as my birthday slowly approaches he keeps talking about his “Cayman Island” paperwork.

Once upon an abduction… Part 1

Gagged and bound girl

Gagged and bound girl

This post is part three of a week long series entitled “Looking Back”. They are a few pages from our ‘photo albums’ that I wanted to write about as john and I celebrate 10 years of living in a kinky power exchange. We hope you enjoy, and as always, thanks so much for reading and for sharing your comments with us.


I was the very happy recipient of a beautifully orchestrated, magnificently executed abduction for my birthday around 6 or 7 years ago. For a kinky person, it was the stuff of dreams. Nightmares too, in that dreamish sort of kinky, nightmare way that only kinky people can love.

But before I share that tale, I must tell you another story first. A story within a story.

John had told me once, in confidence, that when he was in high school, he had taken a senior trip to Switzerland with his classmates. One of the touristy things to do at the time (the 1980’s) was to open a Swiss bank account. All the kids were doing it, he said, and John opened one as well, putting in a few bucks.

He went on to tell me that for the next twenty years, he dumped extra money in that account; birthday checks, tax refunds, side job money. For two decades, he added money to that account and the total was substantial.

He told me that I was only the second person in the world to know about this account, and he was telling me this because he felt someone else should know about it if anything ever happened to him.

Important side note: John is a very cautious and calculated man. By nature, he is very careful with privacy, he is more suspicious than trusting in a lot of things, he is a quiet investigator, and always looks before he leaps. Me? Total opposite. That is why we attract, I think.

So, back to the story within the story…..

John told me that he was sharing this Swiss account information with me because he trusted me. This trust was a very big deal. I remember that my heart felt swollen with pride. He considered me a part of his inner circle, and considering how small and selective his innermost sanctions were, I felt enormous responsibility to safeguard his secret. All he asked me to do was to memorize the account number. He didn’t want it written down anywhere. He’d rather I commit it to memory in case I ever needed it, and that was that.

I did as he asked. I memorized it like a phone number and promised I’d never forget.

4,8,15,16,23 and 42. Those were the numbers I had committed to memory. Good thing for John I was never a big TV watcher.

He’d quiz me about it once in a while, for a couple of months, and he’d smile with pleasure when I recited them correctly.

Now…..back to the abduction story:

John had taken me out to dinner for my birthday. We had parked in the garage he used for work, with the parking pass they had issued him. John had mentioned something about hoping it was OK to use his work parking pass on a weekend, but figured it would be fine, so we parked and headed to dinner.

We followed up a lovely dinner with a cocktail at a sultry, dimly lit Irish pup close to the parking garage….a night cap before we headed home. At one point, a man came to the bar and sat near us, and seemed to check us both out, but I didn’t think anything of it. I went to the bathroom and when I came back, the guy was gone.

We headed to the garage, arriving at the floor where we had parked. We were deep in conversation, and at one point, John stopped and looked around, puzzled. Were we on the right floor, he wondered? Where was the car??

We were certain we were at the right spot. Level 3, against the wall. We were both certain of it. John began to wonder if perhaps he had been towed because he was using the pass for a non-work parking event. I also wondered if it had been stolen.

We stood together, touching, in a near empty parking garage, looking around, wondering what to do. It felt like a total buzz kill after a lovely, romantic evening. His car was gone. I could see him getting upset. The glow from dinner was quickly fading.

A vehicle started on what seemed to be the floor above us. No doors had been opened or had been closed, but an engine started. I noticed this, as though it was some dim recognition that tried to poke at my brain, but I was too distracted by the missing car and John’s upset. Besides, near empty parking garages are creepy places. I wanted to leave.

The vehicle on the floor above us started its descent. It rounded the corner, headlights off. It was a mini van, harmless looking, really. I pulled John over to the side, our arms still linked, so the van could pass.

Instantly, it sped up to where we were standing, it slammed on the brakes, and all doors suddenly flew open. Four masked people jumped out, all dressed in black, and came running towards us. A scream got stuck in my throat, my brain seized, my arm tightened around John. Within two seconds, they were upon us, ripping us apart from one another. I remember John being pushed to the ground, and him yelling up for me. I saw someone in black lean over him, and it looked like they were going to punch him. They knelt upon him, keeping him pinned to the concrete  floor.

A black hood was thrown over my head, a hand was roughly clamped over my mouth, and I was manhandled into the waiting van. I did every single thing I could to get away. This was no joke. Seeing John on the ground like that did something to me that made my brain react and not think. A part of me thought, “This has to be a scene. It has to be”. But I don’t know….something about seeing him treated so roughly made me question myself. It felt real, and therefore, it was real.

I didn’t know anything at that moment.  Portland is a pretty quiet little city. But stuff like this happens all over the world. The reality was, I was being very roughly dragged into a car, by 4 or 5 very aggressive people, and I was not able to get away. I could tell by how quickly they got me in the van and sped away that they were in a hurry to get out of there. I heard John from outside the van screaming “CHLOE!!!!!!” but it didn’t matter. I was gone. The van was gone.

I was on the floor of the vehicle, and I had boots, hands and legs holding me down. I still tried to fight, and at one point, I grabbed the skin of someones leg and pinched as hard as I could. I was immediately slapped very hard in the face and was told that if I did that again, I would be hit so hard, my brains would come out of my ears. That got my attention, and I was more subdued.

It was the most fucked up thing ever. I could not wrap my brain around what was happening. I could not tell with absolute certainty what was happening. I think I started to cry; I was scared out of my mind, and I wanted John, and I had no idea where he was. Or, where I was, and where I was going. How could he come help me if he didn’t know where I was??

We drove for what seemed like a very long time. The van finally stopped, I was hauled out, my upper body was tied with rope and I was roughly escorted into a building. I could see nothing, and no one was talking.  Except me. I remember finding my voice, knowing that once I was inside of wherever they were taking me, I’d pretty much be screwed. So, I gave it one last huge effort….fighting with my brain, my body and my vocal cords. I cursed every curse word I could think of. I spoke like an irate sailor. I threatened, hurled insults, begged, laughed. I wanted them to think I was a crazy person so they’d let me go.

It didn’t matter. They did not let me go.

Within moments, I was tightly secured to some sort of interrogation chair. My hood was never removed. I could tell an intensely bright light was pointed very closed at my face because I could see it and feel the heat, but I could see nothing except occasional, blurred shapes. The direct light was oddly blinding despite the hood. I had to keep my eyes closed in order to not squint.

I was left alone for a while. I could tell that people were around me, and I was ungagged, but no one touched me, no one talked to me. I was left with my own building of fear.

And then, out of nowhere, someone started to talk to me. I knew the voice, but the accent was completely wrong. It was German. It sounded like good German. It was smooth, calm, even, quiet. It had no emotion I could detect, except something I could describe as empathy, but not exactly.

This voice went on to acknowledge that I must be very uncomfortable, and he explained that he was very troubled by my situation. He was very sorry to have me in such confines, and he certainly hoped I could be released soon. My release was really in my own hands, he assured me with his heavy accent, his face uncomfortably close to mine. I could feel his closeness. It was ominous.

He explained quietly that he was going to ask me a question, and that as soon as I provided the answer he sought, I would be released with no further harm. It was one easy answer. He assured me of this. He even reached out and stroked my face where I had been slapped, feeling the heat of my skin through the hood.

My brain was rattled. It was on overload. You need to understand that my mind was not used to such complex situations, where so many things were assaulting it at once. I don’t have a lot of experience with trauma. My mind was processing trauma to a certain degree. I knew in my core that this had to be a scene, but there was a tiny shred of doubt that said, “Yeah, but what if its not??”

The accent was creepy. It got into my brain like an oily criminal… your worst nightmare from which you could not wake. This voice had a false sense of compassion, and it rattled me completely. It was purely monotone. The words said, “I am so zorry for your dizcomvort” but the tone said, “I will think nothing of breaking you into a thousand pieces”.

It felt deadly to me. It scared the shit out of me. All I had to do was give him one piece of information and I could go. I believed this to be true.

But what was that one thing he wanted from me?? What did I have that he could possibly want??

And then I found out. Then I learned.

The one thing he wanted, the one thing he was not going to leave without was a small series of numbers to a certain Swiss bank account. He needed and wanted nothing from me other than those numbers.

The moment he said, “Chloe. Be a good girl und just give us ze numbers und you vil be releazed. It is easy. Provide zem to us, und you vil go home. It is zat zimple”, my mind exploded. It shattered. It was though a mama bear rose on its hind legs, defending her most precious and vulnerable things. There was NO WAY I was going to break the trust my John had put into me when he asked me to safeguard his Swiss account, his nest, his youth.

No. Fucking. Way.

Again, my brain….struggling for composure.

Okay, I think I knew that the German guy was really John. I knew that. But I could not see, I could not touch. And not a single thing about him sounded like John except the tone, and even that was distorted. The last image I had of John was him thrown to the garage floor, screaming for me, just as vulnerable and scared as I was. My brain could not compute that he could now be something else, someone else… a torturer, a living nightmare, a grand inquisitor… all focused on breaking me.

I was staring down the very likely reality that my John… the one I loved so much, and felt so good to be around… the one who made me feel safe and cared about, and pleasured… this same John was now someone else, and he was about to do really bad things to me.

John… German John… was going to torture me, and I could feel it coming. He loved me, and he was going to hurt me.

And the harder part for me to comprehend was that while my brain was trying to process all of this and make some semblance of  it, my pussy was swelling with arousal, my nipples hardening in anticipation.


Continued in Part 2 tomorrow…


Once upon a slave auction


This post is part two of a week long series entitled “Looking Back”. They are a few pages from our ‘photo albums’ that I wanted to write about as john and I celebrate 10 years of living in a kinky power exchange. We hope you enjoy, and as always, thanks so much for reading and for sharing your comments with us.


One of my favorite memories that my pup and I share was the time that I put him up for sale at a slave auction.

We had heard about this event, and it intrigued us both, deeply. My pup indicated that he wanted to participate, which delighted me. We were still in the earlier years of taking our play on the road and including other people and other places, so those things alone had us a bit elevated. From what we gathered, it was a Romanesque type event, with Caesar himself presiding over the bidding.

What I recall most was my pup’s beautiful nervousness. I had brought everything I needed to dress him and prep him for his sale. I carefully draped him in clean, cream colored muslin. His toga was secured with gold roping. I was feeling very proud of my slave and wanted him to catch the attention of several of the buyers. I loved so much the way he looked. His flawless, tan skin glowed against his robes, his muscles ripping beneath his oiled sheath. As I fastened a rope around his neck and started leading him down the path towards the auction house, I could feel his hesitation as I pulled upon his leash.

We could see the lighted pavilion through the darkness, lit up with festive lights and many tiki torches. It was like an oasis of beauty against a wooded backdrop during a hot summer night. As we approached, we could see a line of slaves gathering outside of the structure. They were arranged in an orderly row, their ankles shackled to one another, prohibiting them from running away. The guards that stood watch are one of the other things I remember most….intimidating, fierce, enormous….whips and extra rope dangling close to their hips, in case they needed either.

I brought my pup to his place in the line, and with the assistance of a guard, began to shackle him to the slave before him. I could hear my property’s meek whimpering, meant for my ears alone, and could see the wide-eyed look upon his face. I felt compassion and delight in him in those moments before I left him standing there, alone.  It was really happening…..he really was about to be auctioned off for his services. This was no longer something that we were talking about but instead it was something we were doing.

For a last few moments, we stood together, looking into the open-air structure at all of the people gathered beneath it. It was spectacular. There is no other word for it. I don’t know that I can remember seeing such a sight as this one. It was magical. Sparkling. It was a movie set to me, the air crackling with the building energy. Everyone looked amazing. So many beautiful woman, donned in white, silky, sheer layers, their skin dusted in fine gold powder that shimmered beneath the light of the torches. The men looked just as amazing, they too dressed to impress. There were slaves lined up for every palate, and many perspective buyers walked the slave line, admiring, inspecting….and building a ravenous appetite.

I took my place among the other buyers. I was served a summer cocktail by a naked beauty, and stood watching with the others. A dashing man came to me, pressing into my hand a fistful of round, wooden tokens for me to do my own bidding, and soon, more were offered to me.

The bidding began, and one at a time, slaves were brought up flanked on either side by frightening looking guards, preventing any attempts at escape. The array of slaves was fascinating to me.

Some were sultry and sassy…..nearly dancing their way to the front of the stage where Caesar stood waiting. He read off a scroll their list of talents…cock sucking, foot worshiping, massage. He revealed their limits, and mentioned their owners.

Other slaves had to be dragged quite reluctantly to face the crowds by guards who were more than happy to wrestle them forward. Not a single slave was able to evade their grasp. One by one, slaves were presented. Many were stripped of their garments and stood naked as they were inspected. Some remained in robes. It had been determined by their Mistresses and Masters how they would be presented.  Slaves of all ages, orientations, shapes, colors were offered. The audience whooped and hollered for every single one of them.

My boy was placed somewhere in the middle of the procession.  I watched his chained ankles slowly shuffle their way closer to the front of the line. Often, I could see him when he could not see me, for I blended easily with all of those around me. I could see him searching for me, his face full of wonder and fear, his hard cock making statements of unquestionable pleasure.  I was happy to see him engaging with the other slaves, and as time when on, I could see his edges relaxing laughing as he mingled with his shackled peers.

They say that misery loves company, and this was certainly no exception.

But that laughing stopped when my boy was about 3rd in line to be brought forth. I slipped out of the crowd and went to see him one last time before he was marched to the front. His eyes pleased with me to release him, but his cock told another story entirely. When I cupped his face, and told him that I would not be releasing him, but instead he would be paraded to face Caesar and the hungry crowds, his cock throbbed as I squeezed it in my hand. My delight felt so complete in that moment… I felt so enormously lucky to be doing such a pleasurable thing with such lovely people.

It was that moment when you pause, and realize that fantasy and reality had tangled beneath the bed sheets, and you were bequeathed their successor.

I left my boy there. I could feel, but not see, him reaching for me as I disappeared back into the crowds from where I had come.

The two guards secured each of my pups’ arms, and a third unshackled him. They started to walk him to the ramp that lead to the front of the auction block. I could see my slaves’ composure wilting. I had instructed him to make me proud, and I could see him struggling with this. He began to resist and push against the guard, but he was no match for the three of them. His attempts to back away made people in the crowd lean forward; they were an audience that loved an overwhelming.

My pup was presented. He was inspected. His list of sexual and service oriented talents were read along side his limits and restrictions. My boy was being offered to anyone who wanted him… man, woman or group. I had placed no restrictions on that.  When the bidding concluded, it was a woman who came forward to claim him, and she lead him into the audience. I could see them talking, and soon after, he was released to me. It has been arranged that my pup would fulfill his slave duties for her the following day, as most slave owners did not wish to leave the confines of such a starry night too soon and retreat to their cabins.

After all, this was a hedonistic environment of sorts. Sex was everywhere, play was 24/7 constant, and no one was in a hurry to depart from it’s sexy folds.

I cannot and will not write about what happened the following day as my pup headed off to another cabin to fulfill his slave duties. That is not what this story is about. This story is about all that lead up to that moment. It is a story that reminds me that kinky people are wonderful people because we can and will make fantasies come true. It reminds me how exciting it can be to play with edges and to play with sexy fears. If D/s is a consensual power exchange… and it is… then to me, this beautiful night was the best in show.

Her prerogative

I know that our blog may feel a little jumbled lately. I know that some readers might think “Why do they keep calling their life a FLR?” “He takes so many liberties” “They’re just switches and can’t decide”. Questions such as that might be in one’s mind.

Our life has really changed over the last two to three weeks. We went from always having kids or roommates or both to finally having time alone together. And it’s been a good run. But now, I hear, we’ll have some couch surfers, then I’m away with my kids and then one of her adult children comes back for a visit. Well, indeed, it’s been a fun ride. And I’ve particularly enjoyed being naked around the house and wearing my collar as many hours a day as possible. It’s been a gift. One I have relished.

And yet, with all our freedom, my submission to her has remained a constant, even if we’ve played in other ways that might belie our FLR. At the base of it all, I’m still wearing at least one collar all the time, often two. And I wear her mark that she had placed on me by a tattoo artist. So, I am hers and I do submit to her. And yet, amid all that, there are many times where she simply wants to experience being fucked hard or beaten for 10 minutes or even simply spanked for 20 swats of my hand. And there’s almost always time for a kiss when I grab her by the back of the hair and pull her close to me. Some might see these behaviors as very non submissive. Perhaps even insubordinate or recalcitrant. I assure you, it is not.

Chloe has never wanted a door mat submissive. I’ve never wanted to be one. I may have fantasies of serving as one during a definitive period of time, perhaps serving a full weekend of naked service for a household of kinksters, under strict orders to behave a certain way. But in general, I prefer being mostly equal to my partner and submitting to her will on many things. We discuss things like money and budgets and I offer my opinions and reasons and if we disagree, unless it’s something I can demonstrate is not within my budget, she gets the last word. If she says we’re saving money for a trip to St Croix, then that’s what we’re doing. I also work with her on other things like house organizing and decorating. She’s made many of the decisions on that because she has good taste and she really is particular about how her environment looks. And I’m okay with that. She’s giving in to a lot of my ideas for Christmas decor as she has complimented my skills at doing so. And that makes me feel very good. I like that a lot. I am also far less worried about the general decor than she, so we rarely clash on it. And I don’t even have a velvet Elvis to worry about arguing over (yet! Come on Santa!).

So, while there are times when I will pull her hair, push her onto the bed and fuck her, it’s because she’s wanting that. It helps that I also want it. But she has to want it. And by now, we can read the signs on each others faces and body language. And even sometimes, though don’t tell Chloe, if she’s already really aroused I can smell it. I do know that, like Sunday, if I take such liberties, I am subject to punishment. I took many canings Sunday – as many as I was allowed fucking sessions. Fair trade, I think. And, of course, as her submissive, the decision for me to cum is never up to me. I don’t even consider that it is. That prize is hers and hers alone to claim. And I have come to fully respect that and honor it in all ways. It’s been a gradual thing to come to complete acceptance of that, but I have 100% given my ejaculations over to her each and every time. I am 100% sure that I can trust her with them and only want them when she does.

And, well, this has created interesting feelings within me. I know I won’t cum unless she permits it. And she is permitted such pleasures whenever she wants. Over the recent weeks, we’ve changed a few lifestyle things in addition to the lack of roommates in the house and her libido has risen greatly. Tonight she let me know that for each of her recent orgasms I’ve been with her for there are likely just as many at her own hands. I was thrilled! I was excited. I also felt so very denied! Here I was, giving her all my cums and she was just diddling herself into the next world whenever she wanted! How cool is that to a denied man? This is awesome!

She’s never been huge in orgasm being the “be all and end all” of sexual activities. Far from it. And I haven’t either, though with men my age, there is a certain measure of “Well, I came, so, I think I’m mostly done.” Back to Chloe, she’s having beautiful orgasms and maybe even thinking of me when she has them. And yet she smiles at me when I ask if I’ll be permitted a cum soon. And she says quietly “no”. And that’s completely her prerogative. I mean, that’s what I signed up for, right? It’s all about her.

Sunday night we had some conversation about this. She didn’t want to reject me, want me to feel rejected, didn’t want herself to echo rejection feelings and all that, even though during the 4th quarter downfall of the patriots we were texting lewd comments back and forth which led, in some way, so my suggesting she sit on my face and smother me tonight. Which she agreed was a great idea! And then… we didn’t. She got tired once we got home, as she’s been up earlier these days. And the let down of the Patriots, well… that didn’t help. (At least Mick’s Pussycats are also out of the running for “undefeated”) So we talked about rejection, real and perceived, and I reminded her in a couple ways that she is the Mistress and she can stave off my feelings of rejection with a few words. But, it really does come down to her being in charge and able to say when, where and how long we have sex, what kind we have and the outcome. I can ask and beg, but it’s all up to her. And all of this is her prerogative. But it doesn’t mean that mistakes sometimes happen.

Once Upon a lie.

This post is part one of a week long series entitled “Looking Back”. They are a few pages from our ‘photo albums’ that I wanted to write about as john and I celebrate 10 years of living in kink. We hope you enjoy, and as always, thanks so much for reading and for sharing your comments with us.
Back in the very beginning of my BDSM ventures, I was brand new, as inexperienced as one can possibly be, and I had no idea of where to even start looking for the things I wanted to know. Google was in its infancy, and the few meager attempts I took to find BDSM related content took me to images of really stunning women having things done to them that were beyond anything I could have even dreamed of wanting or doing.
They were gorgeous creatures being exquisitely tortured by stunning men, and all of it was so far out of my caliber I didn’t even feel as though I had any business looking at the pictures, much less hoping I could live five minutes of their incredulous lives.
And quite honestly, most of it looked too scary for me to even consider. Everyone looked chiseled, composed, polished, experienced, perfect. The women in those images were spinning from chains while getting whipped, and their hair STILL looked picture perfect.  What the hell?! I didn’t even drink water from the same planet as these people.
So, I was alone with my fantasies. I didn’t have a person to talk with them about, I didn’t have a place to go where I could learn more, I didn’t have anything except very strong desires, and a lifetime of hidden yearnings.
Finally, I somehow learned about Craigslist and realized that people put in ads for all sorts of things, kinky partners included.
So, one night in early December at about 10pm, I drank a bottle of wine, I rolled up my sleeves, took a deep breath and I placed an ad in the ‘Casual Encounters’ section. I was very clear that I did not want to meet anyone, I was not looking for a partner, but that I wanted to find someone who would talk with me about kink, submission, power exchange, and someone who would help me learn the things I wanted to learn and know.
I woke up the next morning to about 75 emails, all because of that ad.
I was astounded. I thought there had to be a mistake. I had no idea of what to make of such volume, such a showing of force. I really didn’t understand.
And then I started reading. And looking at the pictures that were sent to me.
The whole thing was shocking to me. Nearly all of the replies were cock shots and bad spelling.
I had no idea that people would respond that way. My quest was so genuine. Their replies were not. It pretty much freaked me out.
But not entirely.
Like a drowning person trying to make it to shore, I punched my way through the keyboard until I figured out how to take down the ad, and that was that.
However, a few interesting replies in that pile of garbage that was my inbox caught my attention and I did not delete those.
One of those gems is the person I had my first ever kink experience with.
Here is how it came to be and how I almost ruined it:
His name is John. He easily spent weeks emailing with me. He answered my questions with lengthy prose, he sent me links to actual resources with actual information. He was articulate, confident, smart, playful, sexy, honest, straight, and very helpful. He didn’t ask anything of me other than for me to meet him for coffee. Beer. Something.
I said no. For weeks and weeks, I said no.
And then he got bossy. And he threatened me. He said I had 3 days to pick a time and place to meet, or he would pick the time and place. He was right. He was owed that much. And he got toppy with me to get me to say yes. I was thrilled.  I picked the time and place. I made him work for it, though, by embedding the name of the pub in the lyrics of a song I like. I thought I was being so clever. But he was more clever, and so we met.
Fast forward a couple of months:  Soon after that first date, I ended up moving to New Orleans for about a year due to help with Katrina rebuilding efforts. I was not brave enough to let him spank me or do anything with me before I left. He had been so patient, so fun, so kind and considerate, and I was still too scared to let anything happen. He didn’t push too hard, but I could tell he was disappointed. I didn’t like that feeling of disappointing him.
He called me and said, “Hey. I am going to Florida for a week. Fly down and meet me in Key West. Let’s spend a week together”. I about shit myself. I wouldn’t let this guy spank me for 5 minutes before I left the state, and he wanted me to get on a plane, fly down to see him, meet him at the airport, get in a car, drive to key west, and share a hotel with him so he can give me my first spanking and do other, terrifying things to me that I couldn’t even wrap my brain around???? For a whole week????
I said yes.
But before I hopped on that plane and flew to see him…..before he ever laid a hand on me…..before I ever did anything or knew anything…..I lied.
I lied to him, about myself, on purpose.
And here’s why:
I was too damn afraid.
Being the nice and considerate guy he is, he had me do one of those BDSM checklists on our first date. They are pretty basic….they gauge and measure all of your likes, dislikes, pleasure buttons, fears, activities, fetishes, kinks, hopes, curiosities, and trepidation- just to name a few. He handed me the 4 page document and a pen, he ordered a beer, and he had me do the checklist. I didn’t know what at least 50% of the things on that list were, and certainly, I had not done any of them. It was more about what turned me on vs. what turned me off. Basic enough, and certainly helpful if you do it honestly. Which I didn’t. Of course.
I was too embarrassed to admit that I wanted my hair pulled or my face slapped.
There was NO WAY I was going to admit that the idea of kissing his booted foot was arousing.
And come hell or high water, he was NOT going to know that the idea of rough sex made me wet.
And water sports?? What the heck was that??
I thought the word fisting had to be a typo.
I think my brain seized when the next thing on the list was anal fisting.
I got scared filling out that form. I was a nice girl. I did organic gardening. I breast fed my babies. I volunteered at the school. People like me did not admit that they wanted to be whipped by someone they were attracted to. No way.
I remember feeling sad that I was lying. He had been such a nice person to me, I could see his hope and happiness that this was all finally happening. I felt badly that he was sitting right across from me, and I was lying as I filled out that survey. And I felt just as badly for myself. I had waited my entire adult life to have this opportunity, and I was too scared to be honest.
I was scared he would reject me. I was scared he would think I was too weird. Or complicated. Or dirty. Or strange.
I was scared he would see my naked body and walk out the door, leaving me abandoned in a empty hotel room.
We had talked about spanking, and I was too nervous to do that. How in the world could I ever survive being caned??
I filled out all those questions. I downplayed everything. I handed it over, and almost cried. The deceit was heartbreaking for me. I was too afraid of being judged to have the courage to embrace a dream that had finally come my way.
So, months later, I landed in Florida, my ass still unspanked, my heart racing….but I did it. I got on that plane and took the ride.
It was the most magical opportunity I could ever describe. I was in a movie set, and I couldn’t believe my good fortune. He was a good guy, a nice guy, a sexy guy, a kinky guy….and he picked me!!! Me! I couldn’t believe it.
And I still couldn’t be brave enough to be honest. Every core of my being wanted to jump up and shout, “I am the happiest person in the world right now!!!!!“. I was excited, happy, thrilled, scared and aroused, curious, hopeful, deeply titillated, and full of wonder. Everything was brand new and electric for me. I thought he was wonderful. He made me feel safe. And I could not tell him that. I tried, and I choked on the words and said nothing.
I got my first spanking. I got a single cane stroke. I got lots of things that week. They were all wonderful. I only got the tiniest taste because I set up limits that I didn’t really mean because I was afraid of being rejected. I desperately wanted  20 cane strokes that first time, but I only got one because I didn’t want him to think I was weird for wanting more.
He was worried about overwhelming me. I think I made my freaking fairly obvious. And I was worried that if I told him I wanted more, he’d think I was a freak. Yes…I see the insanity in this. It was all because I wasn’t honest.
I would stare at him when he slept. I could not wait for him to wake up. I wanted so badly to reach over and touch him and say, “You are awesome and amazing. I am having the absolute time of my life….thank you!”. But I couldn’t. I was afraid to show him emotion, because I didn’t want him to think I was vulnerable.
I missed a world of opportunity that week. I have incredible regret about that. Not even with him….he knows this story well and he said I didn’t need to ask for forgiveness because there was nothing to forgive. He kissed the top of my head and the core of my soul when he said that to me.
I have regret because I let my fear be stronger than my hope and my trust. It’s a crappy feeling.
We’ve had a million miles of play between us since then, and our rolls have changed, but he is still that memory for me, that first experience and that reminder to love what you do, and do what you love.
I was in my late 30’s when I took that  Florida plane ride. Now I am almost 50. If I ever have an opportunity to take a chance like that again with someone I am so curious and hopeful about, I vow to embrace it fully.
Hell…..I might even ask for 25 cane strokes!

The “Looking Back” Series



For the next week, starting tomorrow, I will be posting entries that take a look back over the past decade. This week marks the 10 year anniversary of when I placed my very first Craigslist ad, seeking to talk with someone who knew something about kink.

I didn’t know much about kink, except that I really, really wanted it, but I had no idea where to begin.

I found John when I cast that line, and I have never looked back.

I have more favorite moments than I can fit in a few days, so I picked stories that speak to me for a variety of reasons.

I started as a submissive, as most of my fantasies as a young person had to do with being powerless in a sexual situation. That is what I initially thought being submissive was all about. Little did I know, but that was why I was here…..to find out.  John was my first dominant, my first experience, my first kinky partner.  Soon after our play began, he asked me to try switching, to see how we both liked it.

I liked it. A lot.

He liked it. A lot.

And that “liking” took us through miles of trial and error to the place we are now….in a Female lead relationship that has as much full time status as we can muster. Which is pretty much 23.7 hours a day.

We still switch. I love the versatility of switching. John and I are…..at a minimum…..4 people in one relationship. We each have our top and bottom side. That makes four. And truly, things stay very interesting with four people in one bed.

But overall, I am the boss. I run the show. I call the shots. John is my partner, and what he thinks and feels matters to me completely. For us, it is real, our FLR status. But in that realness, we have a lot of fun. Some hard moments too, but overall, a ton of fun.

Me being a dominant is a natural fit for me. My personality is Dominant. And for john, his fits him perfectly, too. Switching into a bottom roll for me (and note that I did not say submissive roll) is akin to getting an itch scratched. “Scratch, scratch, scratch, stop!”.

I love to bottom sometimes because I think it’s fun. I like it. And….it has therapeutic value for me, too. I sometimes want to put myself through the paces I am going to put someone else through. For me, it is important to keep connected to that empathetic thread that helps connect me. I am a sadist, and this continues to grow in me. So, yes….bottoming is fun, but it helps me too.

So….this week…..five different stories about five very different things, involving 4 different people who are really 2 people in total. Got that??

I hope you read. I hope you enjoy. I hope you have favorite moments of your own that you take joy in, or that you are on your way to creating a cache of your own beloved kink.

Power exchange for us is a beautiful, wonderful, sexy, productive, twisted, exhilarating, versatile, expressive thing. Simply put, we don’t leave home without it.

Thank you for reading. Please come back again soon!



Battling it out…

Today is going to be a quiet day in terms of posting.

john and I are battling.

John and i are battling.

It is a beautiful Sunday, and we are home for a large part of it. A lazy Sunday of sorts, as our plan is to drift through cooking and some cleaning….perhaps digging out holiday decorations. Perhaps not.

Except we are not getting as much done as I’d like.

Because we keep going at it with one another.

We are fighting.

With each other.

All four of us, swatting, pulling, grabbing, hammering, pawing, clawing, grasping at one another.

One house, and it’s me, Me, john and John.

Top vs bottom, Dominance vs submission.

John keeps pushing me into the bedroom, thrusting himself deep inside me, knowing I can’t talk when he does that. He is big. I’ll just say that. And when he really hammers it inside of me, I can’t get past it that easily.

And that is exactly what he is doing. Smiling the entire time he hammers into me. I don’t know how I know he is smiling, because my eyes are closed, because I can’t open them, because the hammering can be that hard.

I love it. I hate it. I love it.

I love it.

Hate it.

Love it.

Love it.

It can be uncomfortable, which is why he is smiling, I think. That, and the fact that he knows I love it far more than I hate it.

He stops either when he has had enough for the round he is in, or, because I have managed to push him off of me with my foot. Or, something like that.

And then it’s my turn. As soon as the fucking is done, the caning begins.

Boots and a santa hat

Boots and santa hat, is anything more needed?

Because, if he’s gonna play, he’s gonna pay.

Because despite everything, I am the boss, the leader of this household, and that trumps everything, all the time, for every reason.

It’s not even noon, and I think I have caned him 100 times. And the bastard keeps coming back for more.

We can’t stop laughing today. We are both wearing hats in the house. His is a Santa hat, mine is an Elf hat. He is naked and collared and he’s wearing a Santa hat. I am still in my pajamas, in my hat.

If we get too close to one another, either one of a few things is going to happen; a fucking or a caning.

Or a deep, lingering kiss. That leads to the bedroom. That leads to a fucking. That results in a caning.

It’s a beautiful fucking day. Literally.

The unblog

I’m thinking of the scene in History of the World, Part 1.

“Have you blogged today?”


“Did you try to blog today?”

“Yes. And I tweeted last night!”

Look of disdain…

“Well, this is the last help you’re going to get until you actually blog. And actual blogging, not tweeting, bullshit artist. ”

*Hangs head…. *
Really, it’s been a weekend, I know Madame has been working on posts and I shall too. Spent 6 hours in the car yesterday for 7 hours of training. And football this afternoon, but we’ll be back, I promise.