Trigger Finger

127532515_0bbeb8b4ba_bDamn it, I miss my boy. Enough is enough. I completely get he is away for a very good cause, and never would I interfere with that. But damn it….I don’t like being apart like this. They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, and that’s true. But what do they say about a Dominant woman? What grows within her during absence? The heart?? Yes, the heart does indeed yearn. The body? Yes, that yearns too. But so does my trigger finger. And it just so happens that my trigger finger is the same exact one that is used to point. To direct. To beacon. To silence. To snap. With that one finger, I can make my grown boy cry. And that I do very much enjoy at times.

I am missing our routines. Can I take care of myself? Yes, of course I can. But I don’t want to. Not in all aspects. I am missing the daily rituals of him undressing me at night. Of the gentle removal of jewelry from my body. I miss watching him as he puts away my clothing, my things. I am missing his daily devotions. His kissing of all my bits and places.  His licking. His attentive hands and mouth.

I am missing the petting. The holding. The coffee. The warming of the car. The bed being made. The perfect cocktail at the end of the day.

Yes, I am without him and I am making and drinking coffee. I am putting away my clothes. And making the bed.

But I don’t prefer to do these things. I much prefer to point. To beacon. To snap. To point and command.

Even if there is a huge, wicked smile upon my face.

Blind date whirlwind

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I’m back. Whirlwind few days, but a fantastic few days.

My day yesterday comprised of breakfast in Philadelphia, lunch in New York City, dinner in Boston, and in bed with my boy for a night of sleep in Maine.

Almost trains, planes and automobiles, but not quiet.

And it’s all because of a Collarspace play date I accepted and went on.

It’s all because I used the best skills I have amassed when it comes to assessing a person, a situation, a body of risk. I used those skills and decided to get on a bus, which led me to a train, which led me to a car, which led me to a man, which led me to a play date, which led me to a city, which let me to a hotel.

I sit here in the early morning rain, not sure how else to proceed with the post, very much aware that I need to get into the office and get my bearings about me. I need to do that first. I have a big smile on my face. My sleeping boy slumbers one room away. He already has been used this morning as the sexual slave that he is. I am getting him out of bed early this morning so that he can  unpack my bags. So he can launder the panties that are the result of a play date with another. So that he can put away my things and get on with his own busy day.

I will meet up with him tonight. We will have more quality time being together, talking, catching up. Soon, I will catch up with t and p. Getting back into the swing of things. But first things first.

More blogging to come. Not sure how much of my adventure I’ll write about. I continue to smile broadly as I write this. I’ll think about it today. I’ll decide later. And I’ll carry a secret grin with me throughout the day.

 

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.

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Again…..

What.

The.

Fuck.

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.

GO FUCK YOURSELF, MOTHERFUCKERS!!!!”

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.

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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

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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.

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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.

The “Looking Back” Series

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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.

I am not pleased.

Dear pup of mine….
I find your service to be lacking this morning. I went into the bedroom to get dressed after you had already left for work and found my clothes from yesterday still on the floor. Bra, panties, top…all of it, on the floor.

I know I asked you for a few minutes of technical help this morning, and you were a good boy for providing it. But this does not exempt you from you duties and chores. Leaving my clothing on the floor is not permitted, and you are going to be punished for it when you get home tonight.

This might be unfortunate for you, for I am feeling especially sadistic these days.

I am going to have to start getting you up a bit earlier than I usually do if you are struggling to meet your morning obligations to me. Tending to me for a part of each morning is expected.

Do not make me remind you of this again.

Do you understand me??

 

Mme.

Sadistic, torturing bitch – that’s Me!

Aw, poor baby

Aw, poor baby

In the last line of john’s last post, he refers to me as a beautiful, sadistic, torturing bitch. I find that to be an enormous compliment, and I feel delighted that he sees me as that way. It IS how I see myself at times. It IS how I feel most of the time. And it DOES inspire more of the very same.

But my very first, initial response is to discredit the comment. My own personal saboteur (that bastard of a devil that sits on one’s shoulder and says we’re not good enough, not smart enough, and fills us with self doubt) can get in my way if I let it. That is often the struggle with me….not to let it. More and more, I am making that saboteur go away. I am chasing it away. And I am winning. The saboteur gets less attention and john gets more. It’s a “win-win” for everyone!

But this post is not about that. It is not about what I can’t do, but rather, what I can do. What I want to do. And how I delight in sadism.

I am sadistic.  I don’t have to be this way, but more and more, it grows within me. Sadism is different things to different people, but we can all pretty much agree on a generic definition of it. My pleasure is sexual sadism. I am also a big fan of one fingered sadism. More on that in a moment.

I am finding more and more that my sadism comes in short bursts. I would much prefer to engage in 20 little moments of sexual sadism throughout a day and night, than to have one big moment. At this point, I think my boys’ body is trained to a biological rhythm. I get up early, and always have. At around 7:30am, I come into the bedroom each morning to start the process of waking him. john is a slow riser. It takes him time to wake up….his systems slowing rising through the depths of slumber.

I am the opposite, completely. The minute my eyes open, I am alert and at high levels of functioning. Our best kink is the morning because of this.

I will go into the bedroom at 7:30am, and john will be sound asleep. I can tell by his body, his breathing, that he is no where near waking. And yet, as I peel back the covers to reveal is naked and collared body, his cock will be completely erect. Hard as a rock. This is not a “need to pee” hard on. It is a hard on because his body has become attuned to varying amounts of morning torture that I inflict upon him almost daily.

I am not typically creative with my moments of morning torture. I don’t feel I need to be. Generally, though, there is a lot of nipple biting or pinching, cock pumping and squeezing. Certainly ball torture. That’s among my most favorite things. I love how full his balls become after 50 or 70 or 90 days of not being allowed to cum. The days in between his being allowed to cum are long. The torture of his parts and bits is daily.

And the one finger thing?? I can inflict a lot of discomfort with one finger. My hands are my most favorite toys. I keep my nails long and manicured. Not polished, but shaped. My hands can bring pleasure to my boy, and I can also make him cry. There are times when I have a certain look upon my face, and I hold up one finger to him, and he’ll start to retreat and whimper. Poor boy…..this only feeds my fire…..don’t you know that??

I would like my boy to have other experiences with torture. I am working on that. He has his lover, the very talented Lady J, who helps greatly to contribute to his suffering when opportunity permits them to get together. But finding something closer to home would be good too. I am actively working on that. In addition to bringing both t and p along in how I want them to serve, I have this to look forward to as well. And….then….well…I have my own private, sexy, scary, ventures I am considering. More on that within a few days.

I have several sticks in the fire. john should be careful….those sticks will burn when they become pressed against him.

 

 

ISO update

I’m still in the ‘getting to know you‘ phase of  things when it comes to new boy #1 and new boy #2. Things that I like include how into this kinky thing they both are. I like how different they are from one another. I like that one of them has some experience, and the other has none. He is my new toy to mold and shape. How lovely to be the brand new beginning for someone else.

I like the enthusiasm they both demonstrate. It’s not loud, they’re not shouting it from rooftops (that I know of, anyway) but they both admit to being happy. Excited. Hopeful.

‘Hopeful’ is something that applies to us all.

I found these two from Craigslist. I placed an ad, got a ton of replies, and these are the two that agreed to meet. It is so interesting to me that out of the nearly 100 replies I got seeking a male submissive, nearly all didn’t believe that the ad was real, or that I was real. What got ‘t’ and ‘p’ through my front door is that they took a chance that I was real.

Taking chances. It seems to be theme for me as of late. But more on that in a later posting.

I had dinner with ‘p’ last night. john was home alone, studying for a meeting, and I had ‘p’ meet me at a pub. I had brought with me a BDSM checklist, and I had him do it in front of me. All the fetishes practically known to man, all condensed on a couple pieces of paper.

It was delightful for me. I loved watching him as he filled out the answers. I could see the blushing in his face. I could see his eyes widen, and the pencil bounce in his fingers. I played with my phone in an effort to give him some privacy and not be staring at him too much. But I couldn’t help watch the adorable squirming on the other side of the table.

I don’t know how things will pan out. I really do want a service submissive to be a part of the dynamic we have. Occasionally, I want to be wined and dined. Pampered. It’s that simple. I don’t, and won’t, apologize for it. I want a variety of experiences. I want a range of opportunities. It is mostly fun and games in an adult world. But there will be times when it is more than that, and even less.

So, that’s the update in ISO.

There is more brewing in our kinky world. I have not written about it yet, but I will. There are some deeper, darker, sexier, raunchier things in the works, and I am looking forward to them. I feel in some ways like I am playing the part of artist. I have a bunch of things piled in front of me, all different mediums and textures, colors and shapes. I can assemble them in a thousand different ways. I have not figured out yet how it will look. Maybe the pieces will assemble themselves and they’ll create their own life force and beauty. Maybe I will be the maker of shapes. I don’t have any idea yet. But it feels exciting. That much I know is true.

Until tomorrow…..