Thursday, July 28, 2016

The Wake

[I’d planned to include “The Wake” in the Tuesday Linkfest, but an expired domain name coupled with a Wordpress glitch seem to have made a number of my wife’s older blog posts unavailable. This is one of hers from several years ago, back in the Maledom days of my (our?) switchhood. We may have been different people, or at least at different places, than we are now, but kink was still a powerful connection for us, and with sometimes unexpected benefits...]

“Well, it’s finally happened.”

“What?”

“I’m looking my own mortality in the face. One of my college friends died.”

Mr. Tungsten ran his finger down a page of his alumni magazine to a name I didn’t know. “Do you normally read the obits?”

“No. Her name just jumped out at me.”

I broadcasted concern. “Were you close?”

“Well, not for the last 20 years. But we hung out a lot during college and after. To tell you the truth, I’m surprised that she lasted as long as she did.”

“Why?”

“Because of her drinking. And she had other problems.”

It was Friday when Mr. Tungsten told me this. He didn’t seem terribly affected by the news. Our date at the local dungeon was still on, even after I asked if he was sure. “I’ll get over it,” he said, and I nodded. By this point in our marriage it’s obvious when something’s really up. And though he wasn’t in the highest of spirits on the drive over, I attributed this to his regular pre-rope group slump. Once the Starbucks kicked in he’d be fine.

Not so.

“I want you to tie me up,” he said, after we’d walked around and said hi to the people we knew. “Because you’ve been getting all the bondage lately and I miss it.”

We sat down on a couple of mats I’d dragged over from the side of the room. All around us people were practicing ties or socializing. No one looked our way. Meanwhile, my mind spun at close to a thousand rpm.

Mr. Tungsten has been topping me exclusively for months now. He owns me. He decides what we do on a given night as well as when (and if) I come. I’m no longer even allowed to bring myself off without his say-so. He’d often say that there’d come a time when I’d dominate him, although not at such an early point in my training. It would happen after my hypnotic triggers became strong enough that he could boost me into top-space with a word. So what is this? I thought as the rope came out and I had him take off his shirt. Are we done with our agreement? Is there no more waiting as he steers our course? Because, to be honest, it was such a relief to give him control last year. To be his beck-and-call girl as it were. Even though I know submissiveness is a part of him and will need to be seen to one way or another, I’d been paradoxically higher than a kite during those months under his thumb.

There was irritation too. Why is he springing this on me? was a thought that came up more than once.

Meanwhile, I concentrated on the knots. I was seeing what looked good around his chest and shoulders. And before long, I settled. It was fun to be the person doing the tying for once. I got to lose myself in the world of slack and tension and how the rope wrapped around muscle and skin. At times I’d ask how he was or if his hands were tingling. There was a comfort in that too, of taking care of him in that way. He held opposite wrists and I did a kind of impromptu box tie before moving on to his legs, tying his knees in a bent position and butterflying them out. He looked good like that. Handsome. I took a picture to record the symmetry and the feeling of accomplishment I had gazing down. Without any prompting, I got behind him. Sat him up and then reclined him with his bound arms in my lap. I held him. I passed a hand over his face so he’d close his eyes and be still. I kissed his forehead and rocked just a little bit. We’d been talking the entire time—just communicating about what looked good or felt okay. But now, with my lips just brushing his forehead every so often, the conversation turned to his friend.

He told me stories.

There were weekends spent in the Catskills with all their friends, and one particular time when she’d propositioned him and he’d turned her down. The funniest story was about the time a working-class friend had taught some MIT guys how to make a mortar, and how they’d followed him around like fanboys for the rest of their stay. The saddest story was about the time they’d encountered his friend’s mother drunk and raving, and how one of the ways they bonded was over having those kinds of family troubles in common.

In short, it was a wake.

Somehow being tied up and held allowed Mr. Tungsten to remember his friend—the good and bad times—without fear of judgement, and then to let her go, even as her memory lived on. “Thank you,” he said afterwards. “You have no idea how much I needed that.”

“Maybe I do.”

He held me tight. “Yeah. Maybe you do.”

I’ve rarely felt more in sync with my husband than I have this weekend. We get one another. We’re so grateful for each other that sometimes it’s as if one or both of us is going to pop. We have this thing called kink that doesn’t just bring us pleasure, but facilitates being who we are. Right now that seems to be two ordinary people who are struggling to be, make things and know things, and get somewhere in life.

And that’s much easier when you feel understood.

Wednesday, July 27, 2016

“Delicate Dominatrix”

Admittedly, I haven’t had a session with a Domme in a professional dungeon in more than 20 years, but I don’t remember those hours ever being quite like this...


Come to think of it, there actually was this one session where after several minutes the Domme realized she had somehow (I couldn’t really see) messed up the intricate rope bondage she had been creating on and around me. She just leaned around from behind my back, though, and said with just the right amount of menace, “You don’t mind being tied up again from scratch, do you?”

I didn’t. But then again, I never do.

Tuesday, July 26, 2016

Friday, July 22, 2016

The Canon Conundrum

This is what happens when two kinky writer/gamer/role players get obsessed with the same game at the same time, but one is much further along than the other...

Her: So any ideas for that Fallout role play?

Me: I have three.

Her: Three! Tell me.

Me: Well, you know how all the Vault shelters were actually experiments, right? What if there was this one that was all male-dom, a whole psychological kinkfest study? But the gender ratio got all screwed up in the centuries after the bombs fell, so  now they have to kidnap women to be their submissives and repopulate their ranks. Women like you. From that vault where you’ve been frozen for 200 years. That way we can still sort of role play the actual storyline but avoid the squickiness of that Kellogg guy.

Her: Good thinking.

Me: And frozen people are real easy to kidnap, too.

Her: Babe-sicles.

Me: Or, you’re a Railroad operative and I’m from the Institute. And of course I have to interrogate you to learn where you’ve helped all our runaway android synths escape to. Except I haven’t actually reached the Institute in the game yet, so I don’t know if I could make that canon enough for you. Because my wife loves her some canon.

Her: I dunno if the Institute has an intelligence arm.

Me: See?

Her: Hey!

Me: Their intelligence arm was Kellogg anyway.

Her: Oh. Squick. So what if I’m Railroad and you’re Brotherhood of Steel?

Me: See, I want to avoid that most of all. You know so much more about the Brotherhood because of all the fanfic you’ve been reading and writing. I’d just spend the whole time wondering if I’m getting all the little details right.

Her: Aw, man...

Me: [thinking] Although if you gave me any crap, I could always just say, “Hey, what weird alternate universe did you come from?”

Her: [laughing] That’s perfect!

Me: Okay. So you’re a Brotherhood scribe, and you found some unknown tech in the wasteland. But you don't know how to use it, and end up zapping yourself from the game canon universe to my parallel universe and kinky hotness ensues.

Her. Oh, yes. It will ensue...

[Cross-posted with revisions from Kepl3rian.]

Thursday, July 21, 2016

Fetish Rewrite XIV


“But you have to be poly. How else can you ever give back to the community?”

“...Who are you again?”

Wednesday, July 20, 2016

Formative Kink: “Tanya, the Lotus Eater”

By age 13, I had already been exposed to Julie Newmar’s Catwoman, Diana Rigg’s Emma Peel, and even the alien prison amazons of Space: 1999. But the first “traditional” dominatrix I can recall ever seeing was Tanya, the Lotus Eater, in Blake Edwards’ Revenge of the Pink Panther.


These two minutes were a revelation, at least to me. The idea that Femdom could be in the “real” world, not just the realm of comics or sci-fi, had somehow never taken hold in me. Not only was this type of woman a fantasy, she had to be in a fantasy, and whether as an ideal or an archetype, she would always be an unfulfilled craving. I had about as much chance of being in her restraints and experiencing her not-so-tender mercies as I had of patrolling the Neutral Zone on the Starship Enterprise.

Until Valerie Leon hit the screen, that is.

Some mental wall came down during this scene, and my kink horizon broadened more in two minutes than in all the formative years before. Not only did the idea that Femdom could be in the real world take hold, so did a hope that at least some actual, flesh-and-blood women might actually, really be like this. Patrolling the Neutral Zone lost some of its appeal in those moments, because another, deeper desire of mine suddenly seemed more attainable. And while achieving it might involve an expensive, cross-dressing trip to a brothel in Paris, at least France existed.

Unfortunately, however, both for my travel planning and for my arousal, my mother was sitting in the theater beside me.

To this day, I can’t say if she knew the Tanya scene was coming. Or what she thought about it. Or what she thought about my seeing it. She never said a word. She didn’t even laugh. Maybe she had some sense of how I was reacting, or maybe she didn’t. I couldn’t have torn my eyes off the screen to glance at her even if I’d wanted. All I knew was that my desires and emotions were seething inside me, and that I was very uncomfortable inside my pants, and also very, very glad that the theater was very, very dark.

Today, this scene would probably be considered a “teachable moment,” but I was being raised by WASPs. In 1978. So this subject and its implications for my future were never spoken about, by either of us, ever.

Maybe that’s a shame. Maybe my mother should have forced the issue, giving me a awkward lesson in “Safe, Sane, and Consensual”—assuming that phrase was even around back then. And maybe she should have explained the difference between Pro-Dommes and lifestylers, and the sometime overlap between the two, and how despite what Inspector Clouseau says to Tanya’s breasts at the end, kink is nothing to be ashamed of.

Yeah, maybe if my mom had been Marlo “Free To Be” Thomas, and my father Phil Donahue or Alan Alda.

I’m just as glad she didn’t say a word, though, and let me sort this out on my own. Because when Peter Sellers delivered that final “You two should be ashamed of yourselves” line, his eyes were saying something different. And so were mine.

Monday, July 18, 2016

Elust #84

Welcome to Elust #84 -

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you're looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it'll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #85 Start with the rules, come back August 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!


~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Lightweight
About Those "Apple Thighs"
Why the Hell Haven't I Rebelled Yet?


~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

IDENTITY – hiding the evidence
friday flash--service


~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Good In Bed

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!


Erotic Fiction

Ride
Pubic Disturbance
Colds and Lust
Sex Machine
Chemistry
A Dirty Bathroom Floor
Tether
I'm Sorry I'm So Silent
S’il Vous PlaĆ®t
Edge of Morning
Dancin’ (Most) of the Night Away
Airport Arrivals

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

42 Kinds of Casual Sex
Living in Fear – An Essay on Male Entitlement
Pride

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

How To Give A Bare Handed Spanking
Reconciling dominance and love
She's a Very Kinky Gor

Body Talk and Sexual Health

Run the good race
IUD DIARY #1 (1.5 WEEKS LATER)

Erotic Non-Fiction

We Made A Resolution To Make Love Everyday
The 20 Minute Orgasm
More on cunt, corridors & Schroedinger's cock
Stoned Birthday Sex
Room with a View
I’m Not Done With Your Throat Yet
It's a strange path to trust.

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Poly and Pets
mono-poly

Writing about Writing

Why Write Erotic Fiction?

Friday, July 15, 2016

When Your Subconscious Makes It a Threesome

Spend as many years as I have messing around with erotic—all right, Femdom—hypnosis or self-hypnosis, and strange things begin to happen at unexpected times. Especially if you were an overimaginative kinkster to begin with, like me.

I started exploring this back in the days before instant Internet MP3 downloads. You placed your order, then waited for an actual cassette tape to arrive in a padded mailer. And if you were buying from Goddess Marquesa, it arrived perfumed as well, which quickly became a Pavlovian trigger all its own. So I’ve been at this, in one way or another, for two decades now, which is more than enough time for old instructions to get crossed and triggers to evolve.

Especially if you actually want it to happen, and on its own, because your messed-with-by-a-stong-woman subconscious mind taking control of your conscious body also pushes your submissive buttons. And I’ll admit, I do, and it does.

Even if it can be kind of unnerving.

Not that I’ve done much hypnotically this year, at least not formally. Subspace is a kind of trance, though, and I’ve definitely spent a lot of time there. Especially those early morning hours when I wake well before the alarm, with the kind of before-dawn erection that just pulls the rest of me onto my side and up against my still-sleeping wife. Even before our contract, when I signed away my sexuality to her, I knew better than to wake her. But now, when any—and I mean any—physical contact with her carries a charge like never before, rolling away is the last thing I want to do. And when you have no idea when your next physical release is coming, even something as simple as spooning is an absolute tease-and-denial session, a tightrope in that I can only push (or even throb) so hard without waking her up and being grumpily ordered back to my side of the bed.

The morning my subconscious decided to make it a threesome, maybe my still-sleeping wife had already primed me by grunting and pushing me away as she rolled onto her back. Or maybe the ten mostly-awake minutes spent remembering not to play with my morning wood had something to do with it as well. Either way, when she rolled back onto her side, and when I rolled back over and up against her back, the frustration soon had me just below the point of tears.

I’d been to the point before, of course. It’s a place the submissive in me craves, a strange brew of sexual control and emotional release and knowing your damn place. Subspace, essentially. But I’d always been able to roll away if things threatened to spill out of control.

Until that morning, at least.

I tried to roll back, and I couldn’t. I tried again, and I still couldn’t. I tried more forcefully, and then even more forcefully, and each time, it was like being bound to her, if invisibly, with the bonds growing stronger than harder I tried to break them. Or at least, that was what I thought at the start, until I realized that every single inch of her pressed against me had this hold, like some even coating of power and control.

Maybe the lack of any recent, actual bondage had primed me. Or maybe the time since our last full-on tease-and-denial session had done it. Not that much time had actually passed, but a few months into our new arrangement, and even a day or two can be hard to bear.

My subconscious had taken a hand in my kink life enough times over the years that I knew what was happening, at least. Not that it did me any good. Twenty years of increasing depth and suggestions had seen to that. My conscious mind understood the situation completely—and understood just as complete that it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference. I had passed that point years ago.

So I struggled, as much as I could without waking her, and got nowhere. And I pressed against her, and only grew more frustrated. And I wondered how long until the alarm would sound, because my subconscious would break the spell at that point, I knew, or at least hoped, but I couldn’t see the clock. And I tried not to cry actual tears, of frustration and sexual pain but also of utter submissive joy, because this was the kind of experience I used to fantasize about. And still do. Only fantasy might not be the best term anymore.

The dog, not the alarm, finally brought it to an end. And I saw that it had been well over an hour since I first woke up. I rolled onto my back and away from my wife and felt exhausted, drained, but also humming from head to toe like I do after subbing to her in one of our too-rare public play party scenes.

The only thing better was my wife’s face later that morning, when I told her what had happened.

Thursday, July 14, 2016

Wednesday, July 13, 2016

A Kinkster Couple Discuss Another Bad Driver

Me: “Just whip on in there, Mr. SUV.”

Her: “Bet he goes in dry, too.”

Me: “...”

Her: “Give it a minute. You’ll get it.”

Me: “...Oh!”

Monday, July 11, 2016

A Kinkster Couple Discuss a Bad Driver

Me: “This woman in the white Corolla either needs to get off my ass or buy me dinner and bring the lube.”

My Wife: “And get permission from me.”

Me: “You own my orgasms, not my ass.”

Her: “You’ll see.”

Me: “...”

Her: “That’s right. Just keep driving.”

Thursday, July 7, 2016

Fetish Rewrite XIII

“Three hours of hair, makeup, costuming, and other prep for this role play, and he cancels his session now? I am so raising my deposit percentage...”

Wednesday, July 6, 2016

Why the Hell Haven’t I Rebelled Yet?

It’s been 4 months since my wife and I signed our contract, I gave up all rights to any control over our sex life and my own sexual release, and the rabbit hole started swallowing me. And in all that time, I haven’t rebelled. Not once.

Why the hell haven’t I rebelled yet?

It was easy enough to understand during the early days. A big part of me wondered if my wife was only humoring me, if she really just considered this whole thing to be one of those marital compromises both sides of any couple that makes it through the long run always end up making. After waiting far too many years for something like this, and then getting through far too much emotional turmoil to ask for it, I was afraid—deathly afraid—that this new arrangement would somehow go away. Especially when she kept all details of possible punishment for any future “misbehavior” intentionally vague, generally opting for a quiet, matter-of-fact “You won’t like it.”

If I rebelled, I thought, this 24/7-not-quite-24/7 would be over. Done. Finished. I worried about this so much, in fact, that it probably gets the credit for me not even making an honest, unintentional “mistake,” no matter how frustrated and aroused I became or how easy it would have been to just misbehave in secret. My submission may not have been a gift to her, but her control was a treasure to me, and I treated her new authority very, very gently.

That fear lessened as time went on, fortunately, and we both felt our way through this new power structure in our marriage. And at some point, I stopped worrying that she was only in this to humor me, and even started considering certain specific actions or spoken phrases she might well have been doing to humor me more as rewards for good behavior or, better yet, buttons she knew to push for a certain result. That framing worked for me, and every bit as well as those buttons worked for her.

Much like our dog, though, some part of me still craved testing the boundaries if only to be certain where those boundaries actually were, and then to feel that same sense of comfort, security, and place that comes with that knowledge afterward. And some other part of me wondered if, even though it now felt real, was it real rather than just a long-term game we were playing. And would my gut, not just my head, ever truly believe this was all real unless I actually suffered a serious punishment at her hands and would then know, deep down, just what she was truly capable of and how far she was willing to go?

We even had that conversation one night. And her quiet, matter-of-fact response?

“You could do that. But you won’t like it.”

So why didn’t I rebel even then, when I at least no longer worried that it would all just go away if I did? Probably because enough of the rest of me, having seen her in scenes with others and experienced scenes with her for 15 years now, knew that I really wouldn’t like it. Whatever it was.

And now?

Now, at least twice I’ve been so frustrated and nearly overwhelmed by the reality—the real reality—of our situation that I’ve edged around the idea of going back to the way things were before we signed that contract. I even danced around it in another conversation we had one night. And her quiet, matter-of-fact response?

“That’s not going to happen.”

I realized then just how far down the rabbit hole I’d gone. Because even then, I didn’t rebel. And even now, today, this day, I don’t rebel because, quite simply, I’m no longer sure that I could. Assuming I even still wanted to, somehow.

This is who I am. And this arrangement, with all its joys and missteps, is what I’ve always wanted. And each act of obedience to her, however small, not only reminds me of both, it makes it that much harder for me to rebel, or even seriously consider rebelling. Just like each time that I don’t actually orgasm when my wife refuses permission, or that I do orgasm when she grants (or demands) it, does the same. It’s a quiet, matter-of-fact conditioning, and I’ve been doing it to myself as much as she’s been doing it to me.

At this rate, it probably won’t be long before I physically won’t be able to orgasm, at all, without her permission—or to prevent it from happening just by hearing the proper word from her.

We had that conversation, too, one night. And her quiet, matter-of-fact response?

“That would be ideal.”