When I’m on fire…..

I want to make a few comments on john’s post from yesterday, “Switching“.

For me, I thought it was hot as hell. I know that’s a very personal observation, and I am being purely subjective, vs objective.

It’s personal because when I took my first, terrifying, tentative steps into the world of BDSM, John was there. He was, and has been, my primary partner and my most trusted everything. I learned my entire platform of learning from him.

I started as a submissive, or, at least, I thought I was submissive. All of my fantasies….the ones that turned me on, the ones I’d reach under the covers and touch myself to when when I was a teenager…. all had me as the heroine in distress, where I was rescued, held captive, and loving tortured for the rest of my happy days. For years and years (like, 25!), those were my fantasies.

Then, I met John, and he was the exact embodiment of those fantasies, and I swooned.

I still swoon over this guy, and it’s been a decade.

We learned very quickly that there is nothing submissive about my personality. I simply can’t hack being submissive and being told what to do for more than about 9 minutes. But bottoming? I didn’t know there was a difference, but once I learned the difference between bottoming and submitting, I clearly knew that I was a dominant who liked to bottom on occasion.

Really….the absolute best of both worlds, if you ask me.

As I learned and saw more within the BDSM world, my fantasies became deeper and darker.  They became darker because I included things in them I didn’t even knew existed. Who knew you could actually apply  lots of fire to a human body and have it be sexy and amazing??  I didn’t know that at age 20 or even 25. I didn’t know until I did fire play….one of the nicest things ever! I’ve tried so many things, things I never, ever thought I would try.

I am also very content knowing that some things are much better left in fantasy than in reality but for the most part, so much of it is simply amazing!

So it goes.

But John was always the exact cornerstone of my fantasy base. When I met him, I lost 40 pounds because I forgot to eat. I am not kidding, at all. That is how much I was captivated.

So, about John’s post from yesterday, his dominant side: I know it is there. I know how turned on I get when I get to see it. It’s the best aphrodisiac in the world for me.

But reading it also make me realize something that was hard for me to admit. Sad, even.

What hit me when I read his post ‘Switching’ was that I am simply not brave enough to handle his deepest, sadistic side.

I really don’t think I will get to be that girl, because I just don’t think I can hack it. I don’t think I could handle what I know he could mete.



These are particularly deep, kinky places that we are talking about. They are not for everyone. I don’t know that they are for me, even.

I have  been in professional dungeons more times than I can remember, and I have seen everything I can think of seeing, including what I would call “the most extreme” while still remaining SSC (safe, sane, consensual). I really don’t know what John means when he talks about the deepest aspects of his sadism. I haven’t asked, because I don’t actually want to know. Because what if we did decide I could handle it, or try handling it? Then I’d know what to expect, and I don’t want to know those things, I don’t want to remember them. If I am able to have that experience with him, then I want it to be brand new to me.

Knowing that John loves me as he does, it makes my head tingle knowing that we can do these things to one another. How deeply, deeply sexy to create loving torture on the one we care about so much??  John could, if we played out that scene, do terrible things to me, but defining ‘terrible’ is in the eye of the beholder.

And if that were happen, I would want to be sexy about it. I would want to be tied and gagged and immobilized. I would want to be retrained from screaming and running away. Because, I have struggled to handle when he has been particularly hard on me, and with snot running down my face, I have tried to get up and run. Not very sexy at all. I dislike the mental image of that. In my mind, I am strong and stoic and sexy as I endure. In reality, I am a blubbering, sloppy, begging mess. Ugh. Very Unsexy to me.

But I also know that this  messy image is a turn on for others. Again, all in the eye of the beholder.

I just happen to be my own beholder, that’s all.

I don’t have to decide now. But we have not really talked about this level, this side, of his kink in years. Until, that is, he posted about it yesterday. And I smile, knowing we still have so many stones unturned, so many places we can still visit if we so choose.

When I get an itch to bottom, I will crave  him pull my hair, rough me up, spank my ass, boss me around, and fuck me hard and it is enough.  He can intimidate and scare me with his strictness, which I love (ok, it makes me verrry wet). He is a very strong guy, and he can literally do what he wants with me, if he is allowed to. It completely satisfies. And really, I can handle an evening of it, and the itch is scratched, and I am done. It is so incredibly interesting to me, because when nights like this happen, I can literally feel my dominant side (we call her Madame) standing off to the side, tapping her foot, getting impatient to return. I love that she is standing there, as though the bottom of me were getting its tires changes, and Madame is eager to hit the road.

I get that bottom fix, those tires changed, and I am done. Those bags are packed, and I am out the door, as quickly as I came.

Bottoming to me is like vacationing…..nice place to visit a couple of times a year, but I wouldn’t want to live there.

I love living in the land I do: where this female rules the roost, where I am queen of the hill, and where that complex, loving, submissive, loyal, sexy boy john awaits me. That is where I live.

It’s been nice posting about this, thinking about it, and getting roughed up a little bit by John as of late. Such a lovely vacation. Back to reality.

Reality is, it’s 9am, and my boy john is still sleeping, and I am itching to wake him.

<Insert evil smile here>


I get a very calm, quiet, deeply satisfying sense of pleasure when my boy is suffering to the point that he is whimpering or moaning, or even stifling a scream, and I catch those sounds in my open and seeking mouth.

I often don’t start out to intentionally cause pain to my boy. Some animals hunt their prey for the pleasure or exercise of the hunt, not intending to cause misery to their victims.

Some stalk in order to sharpen their prowesses.

And it’s true that animals don’t always intend to devour their prey because they didn’t have devouring in mind when they started. But it is as though some switch gets triggered when the writhing of the victim begins. When the sounds of distress start to rise from the restricted throat, and beautiful eyes widen in alarm and fear, the instinct to subdue or silence overtakes and it is with my own open mouth that I catch his lament.

I am one of those animals at times.

But it doesn’t often begin that way.

Not at all.

There are times when my boy and I lay together in bed, entwined in tangled sheets, buried beneath late afternoon covers, surrounded by down pillows in crisp cotton cases. Often we find ourselves there in order to share a tender embrace or because I have allowed him the  semi-sleepy time he so enjoys on a Saturday morning and I climb back into the bed in order to get him out of it.

I like these times. My boy is sweet in the way he likes to pass moments with his face pressed against my breast.  Sometimes we lay cheek to cheek, me enjoying the masculinity of his beard while his hand seeks the curve of my breast. I see us from above, I can envision what we look like….and if we’re lucky, we have timed our siesta so that it matches the afternoon sun coming through our windows, splashing warmth across our bed. I have always loved the smell of him, the taste of him. He is water to me….clean, soft, a taste that holds nothing and everything at the same time.

Kissing him is pure pleasure. It is romantic and sexual delight. It is often our gateway drug if we have the time to indulge in its pleasures.

That is often the trigger for me. That kissing. That deep, exploring kissing where I taste wind and water as I drink him in for more.


It will start this way, and everything about us is focused on this moment.

My hand will wander to his chest, my most favorite spot on his body. My fingertips will trace all his familiar angles and curves. I will encircle a nipple and tug at it lightly. I will find the other and do the same.

The tugging becomes less tugging and more clamping. One small, lovely nipple between two well aimed finger tips.

The clamping becomes pinching, ever so slowly. I steer him away from the discomfort by deepening the kiss. I make him pay attention to my own mouth consuming his.

But soon he struggles to concentrate because that tiny nipple is now trapped between two manicured nails that I sink more deeply into his tender flesh.

I press. I dig. I express no movement at all except to press two small tips into one small place, and yet the pain for him becomes enormous.

This is what I like to swallow. This is the pure waters he offers me…..his suffering.

I take large mouthfuls of his discomfort.

And sometimes if the pain is significant enough….if my fingertips torture cock instead of nipples….the wailing spills out and over the edges of his lips, my swallowing mouth unable to keep up with the cascading fall of sound.

I will ease off the pressure long enough to finish cleaning up the spill of agony and to administer some sexual healing. Talons become feathers, pinching becomes caressing, digging becomes stroking.

Tortured panting becomes soft panting.

Eyes that begged me to stop now implore me to continue.

He is what I love to consume. These entangled moments between us may not last but for a few moments, but they are a delight for me. Many times, the more I drink of his suffering, the more thirsty I become.

So much blissful agony from the smallest of touches.

I can get drunk on such pleasures.




My Favorite Read

Wine, book, bed

Reading deep within the covers

You, my beautiful boy, are indeed my most favorite read. I take you to bed with me each night, and as I hunker deep beneath the covers, I reach for you as one would reach for a favorite bedside book, knowing that with every page turned…..or in my case, every touch administered…..a new adventure unfolds. Like a good book, you delight me with retorts that are both unpredictable and varied. Your responses to the things I do to you are surprising at times, and yet I delight in them. More often than not, I hurt you in some way that evokes deep and muffled sounds of both pain and pleasure, and I am pleasantly reminded of how much I don’t always expect that.

It is not every night that I intend to administer pain to you, my pup. But I have learned from you that pain is not punishment. Or, if it is, it is the sweetest of tortures for you. Your swollen cock does not lie. Your whimpers can be musical. Your head softly thrashing back and forth on the pile of pillows tells me you want more, not less.

You continue to interest me. You continue to surprise me. Last night, when I was pinching the tip of your cock between my two fingernails, and I felt your body tighten as you breathed sharply, I also heard your deep, guttural sounds of pleasure. The noises you make are layered. I hear the first response of pain…..light, panting and almost fast paced to the point where you lose control of it,  but behind it, I hear a different musical backdrop too….a deeper sound, a darker sound, a steady, baritone groaning that keeps you on course, and  keeps you connected to me.

You beg for mercy, knowing you won’t get it. You beg harder for leniency, but I question if you really want that. I hurt you a bit harder and I listen more intently. I hear you wrestling for control, knowing I expect this from you. I feel your body and mind do a thousand different things, and yet that cock….that big, lovely cock…..does only one thing; it continues to swell and press against me, seeming to know that it lays at the door of the lionesses’ door.

You are my adventure. You are my page turner. Sometimes I will leave you untouched as I lose myself in the covers, but more often than not, I will reach for you, hungry for a few of your pages, sleepily and happily discarding you as sleep overcomes me. You are the book beneath my covers. You are my mystery, my adventure, my love story and all of the dramatic events I could want. You are my all time best seller.