Wednesday, November 30, 2016

Invasion of Privacy

Or, “The Pivotal Week, Part II”

It was a little thing, really, but completely unexpected, both that she actually did it and in how I reacted.

She’s had me bound to varying degrees and tucked up against her a few times now. She reads, or she writes, or she surfs the Web, while I squirm and become increasingly aroused and frustrated. This particular night, though, she pulled out the leather cuffs, fastened together my wrists and my ankles, and then straddled me while adventuring and building up her settlements in Fallout 4.

This was not the little thing, even if this alone would have been enough to make the night new and different. She would grind against and slide over me every so often. Or glance down and say something she knew would push a button. Or reach down and play with or pinch my nipples. Or set the game controller aside and invade my mouth with her tongue, claiming it (and me) as hers. And then she would sit back up and reuturn to her game, as if I wasn’t even there except, maybe, as furniture.

And I would squirm, and I would thrust. I would moan, and I would reach up to touch her as best the leather cuffs—and she—would allow, at least until she would decide push my arms away. I would feel my breathing quicken, and then try to slow it down after her attention had turned away and I had tried (and failed) to regain her notice.

I was in submissive husband heaven, even when a too-forceful-and-aroused, verge-of-anger thrust of mine screwed up the elevator placement in one of her buildings, and she had to reload because the game’s Build Mode glitched. And I was in frustrated submissive hell, because this was just a short time before the morning I finally broke down against her and cried.

No, the little thing, which was actually the biggest thing that night, happened when my phone dinged.

My wife and I have always trusted each other. We’ve never felt the need to look over the other’s shoulder while online, or check search histories or e-mail folders while the other was out. We gave each other—and at some point simply came to expect—a certain amount of privacy. This was such a given, in fact, that we never even felt the need to talk about it. Ever.

Then that ding sounded. Someone had texted me.

“Do you need to see that?” she asked, as calm and collected as she had been from the start.

“Probably,” I managed, somehow. Because work, family, responsibilities. I mean, who knew?

She rose off me as I throbbed and tried to explode through my pants and follow her. And she went to get my phone. Only she didn’t come back and give it to me.

I needed a moment to realize that, too. Then I turned my head, wondering what had distracted her, and saw her reading the text herself.

No words came, not from me and not from her. She just kept reading, intently, and I shifted in my cuffs on the floor where she had left me. The padlocks holding the cuffs together clinked, and the seconds stretched on, and on, more than enough time to read even more texts or tap-and-swipe through to other apps entirely. I was shocked, stunned, and had that first inkling that my wife/lover/“owner” wasn’t quite the same woman I remembered from even just a short time ago.

My privacy, so long a staple of our dating and then our married lifewas being invaded. Blatantly. Right in front of me. With no apologies and, very clearly, no mixed feelings or second thoughts on her part, either.

Worst of all, I was actually getting off on her doing it.

It was so unexpected, so unlike the woman who first signed that contract me, that I felt one of my moorings disappear. This was a level of control I never dreamed possible from her—and mostly likely would have argued against including or acting out back at the start. And it showed a level of entitlement I hadn’t thought she would allow herself.

Especially when she put the phone down, came over and settled back on top of me, and started playing again. And all still without a word.

“Who was that?” I asked, finally.

“It wasn’t important.”

Her tone, her attitude, I knew better than to ask again.

I should say something, I thought. I should make certain, somehow, that this never happened again. Because letting this pass would be accepting it, setting a precedent even if only by default. And yet that one little action got deeper inside my head, and drove home the power imbalance in our relationship, more than all that time spent cuffed and being alternately teased and ignored beneath her had done. And it happened so naturally that the line between our kink and vanilla spheres was now blurred, and what I had given up to her (and she had accepted from me) in that contract gained a reality beyond playtime and the bedroom.

I had always wanted that reality, too, while she had generally guarded the separation between who we were in role plays or scenes and who we were 24/7. So this was like a long-time fantasy being dangled right in front of me. A scary fantasy-turned-reality, sure, but all kinks are scary to some degree, and that touch of fear and uncertainty, even with someone you also love and trust, makes it that much more satisfying in the end. At least if you’re wired like I am.

So I said nothing, squirming and losing myself in frustration and feelings I hadn’t expected as well as in feelings I had but were now at a whole new level. I stayed quiet, and I accepted it.

I would do the same again, too. And I catch myself hoping she will as well.

Tuesday, November 29, 2016

Monday, November 28, 2016

When the Tears Finally Came

Or, “The Pivotal Week, Part I”

She promised she would frustrate me to the point of actual tears. Less than 24 hours later, she did.

Early the next morning, I was pressed up against her, spooning my wife from behind. Most mornings are like that now, with the hour or so before my alarm spent enduring an erection I no longer own. I either throb against the loveliest ass on the West Coast, or I squirm futilely against the covers and my boxer-briefs, depending on whether she rolls onto her back and if I can then reposition myself against her thigh.

These mornings have been just short of tears. Sometimes they rose close to spilling out across my face, and sometimes they felt a bit more under control. But always in a two-steps-closer-and-one-step-back-to-mess-with-my-head kind of way. As they say in polling and statistics, the trend was not my friend.

I thought I would have a few more days, though. And that I would be stronger, at least for a while. But she barely even had to try that morning. All she had to do was say, “No.”

Maybe our conversation the day before had primed me. I can be extremely suggestible under the right woman’s guidance, whether involving an actual trance or not. Or maybe it was just the actual, visceral frustration. It had only been 10 days or so since my last orgasm, which some owned men proudly preen as being nothing to them. But since our contract, an orgasm is no longer a reset for me. My starting level of frustration ratchets up a bit higher each time, and the build over time climbs a much steeper, faster slope. So I was as frustrated and ready to break that morning as I was at any time in my entire sexual life. (At least up to that point. There’s a reason this post is subtitled “The Pivotal Week, Part I.”).

All I really know is that when I asked, in a voice probably more pathetic than it even sounded to me, to please be allowed to cum, she very calmly, very quietly, and also somewhat cold and gleefully, denied me permission. Again.

It wasn’t until I asked her a second time, and she responded with “I said no,” that the tears finally came.

They did take a few seconds to explode, to be absolutely honest. My breath hitched as I drew it in. My muscles shook. I felt a deep, tangled mass of frustration and need, regret and emotion, welling up inside. Not just in my mind, but like a physical thing inside my chest and heart as well. And then I was sobbing, loud and uncontrolled and with tears streaming from both eyes.

My head had already been on her shoulder. Her arms had already been around me. So I was in a very submissive and even somewhat powerless position to begin with. And not just symbolically, either. My wife is a strong woman, and she just held me more tightly then, not giving me any choice about pulling away or fleeing the situation. Not that I even could have, though, because any resistance or pride or “manly ego” I had just broke, then and there.

I sobbed and wailed against her. I clutched her with my arms and with my legs. And this woman who had controlled, denied, mind-fucked, and broken me also held, accepted, cherished, and gave me the safest place in the world to break down in.

With 15 years together, she knew how intense this was for me. Crying was something I’d been raised not to do. You kept control, whatever the situation. You thought before acting or even speaking, whatever you were feeling and whatever the provocation. Crying was failure. Crying was humiliation. And if you did break down, you damn well did it alone, and only after the situation or the crisis was dealt with and everyone you cared about had been taken care of.

But that morning, I cried like I never thought I could. And I cried because she had driven me to it, given me no real choice, which in one of those strange kink paradoxes allowed me to let go like that. Finally.

And she just held me. And told me, matter-of-factly, that this was simply how things are now.

That was the moment I sobbed even harder. Because I knew that just a month or even maybe just a week or so before, these same tears would have tugged her heartstrings, and she would have allowed a “mercy” orgasm. Maybe from worry about the frustrated mindset affecting my work, or about a kink line being crossed that would cause problems in the vanilla side of our marriage. Either way, though, she would have “given in.”

But this time, she didn’t. My tears, my frustration, my need, it all just crashed against her and washed away, like a wave striking a rock on the shore. A rock that loved and cared about you, but an immovable, impenetrable rock nonetheless. No chance of negotiating, or of manipulating. Just her decision and her way—and my acceptance and my obedience.

In that moment, everything changed. And my tears were from shock and joy but also fear after that. They were from catharsis and acceptance but also humiliation. Because in that moment, breaking down against her, I knew that our sexual contract, or female-led relationship, or whatever we were calling it, had stopped being some game or long-term role play where I still held a big handful of cards to play. It had instead become who and what we really were, and the engine driving it had now shifted from mine to hers.

So I cried because I had no manly sexual pride left. I cried because she had won while I hadn’t even realized she had started playing for keeps. And I cried because I felt owned and controlled on a level I never had before, and because I finally had exactly what I’d been craving for so damn long, almost my entire life even, and the force of that reality was humiliating in a way I’d never expected, only I was getting off on the humiliation in a way I’d also never expected, which just aroused me even more, which just frustrated me even more, which just humiliated me even more, which just aroused me even more, which just made the whole damn thing one big paradox we’re still both unpacking.

She was understanding this kind of a relationship more now, she also told me as I cried. She was growing into the role, and no longer feeling guilty about feeding that controlling, even sadistic darker side of hers, which had been so in the forefront during our early years together but had taken a backseat as vanilla life and so many other things got in the way, for both of us. It’s almost a fetish cliche that the guy begs and cajoles his wife to take charge of him sexually, only to have her find the joy in it and then take control of him for real, blurring the lines between their kink and their everyday relationship, treating him as a plaything, and reducing his own release to an occasional reward or gift at her whim.

I cried because she was still my wife, still my best friend, but also because that cliche had just happened. I was hers in the very way I’d wanted—and still do, now more than ever—even though what that now meant also scared the living crap out of me.

I’ve cried a lot in the days since that morning, too. And humiliation has never felt so liberating.

Friday, November 25, 2016

Kink-Adjacent Friday Filler

Anyone following my Twitter account already knows this was a pivotal week for the male chastity/sexual FLR my wife and I signed on for earlier in the year. A new level of frustration and control. Flowing tears and outright sobs (mine, and repeatedly). And my wife either understanding it all better, or growing into the role, or simply enjoying her control and my discomfort much, much more. Or maybe just now without any guilt. We’re still trying to figure it all out, and I’m going to need several lengthy upcoming blog posts to help do that.

For now, though, I was also promoted in Star Trek Online. And of course, making Rear Admiral on the Tactical track called for new, meaner-looking uniforms:

As well as a more powerful, more threatening starship:

The game is great for taking my mind off the seemingly endless frustration and denial I’m being put through right now. And blowing up Borg spheres and cubes helps ease the pressure for rebellion in my mind.

Which is good, because I doubt my punished ass would respawn as quickly as my still-gets-overwhelmed-by-six-to-one-odds starship does.

Wednesday, November 23, 2016

“How to Dominate a Turkey”

Not exactly how I’ll be preparing things tomorrow. Then again, I’m only responsible for the appetizers this year:

Some time ago, we actually saw Count Boogie and one other member of the Perverted Circus do a concert at a play space. It was pretty hilarious, at least for the niche audience we all were.

Tuesday, November 22, 2016

“Let Me Take You There”

Me: [curling up against her as tightly as possible]

Her: Frustrated?

Me: [nodding against her breast]

Her: Use your words.

Me: Yes. I’m frustrated.

Her: And it gets worse every day, doesn’t it?

Me: Yes.

Her: Good. Now tell me how it gets worse.

Me: Every morning I wake up, an hour or so before the alarm, and I’m hard. Like it’s just going to burst. Just explode. And you’re right there beside me, and I roll over and up against you. And that’s bad enough, just feeling you there and knowing I’m not allowed to disturb you or wake you up and just trying not squirm and grind against you so much that that happens. Or that I go over the edge and give you a reason to punish me again. And then you start squirming and grinding and pressing back against me in your sleep, and I’m just... It’s just...

Her: Go on.

Me: Each morning I get a little bit closer to actual tears of frustration. And a little bit closer to outright sobbing in denial and need.

Her: Let me take you there.

Me: I want that. And I also really, really don’t.

Her: But you don’t have a choice anymore, do you?

Me: No.

Her: And I am going to take you there.

Me: [squirming] Yes, ma’am.

Her: Good boy. Now go away. You have work to do.

Me: [sighing] Yes, ma’am...

Friday, November 18, 2016

“Cosplay Showcase: Yaya Han”

Among my many varied yet overlapping kinks is a serious cosplay fetish. Especially anything involving Yaya Han:

Admittedly, in some gaming and/or fandom quarters these days, you’re not supposed to admit to being physically attracted even to overtly sexy and alluring cosplays (or cosplayers) and are told to limit yourself to the physical artistry of the costumes and the character channeling of the players. Unless we’re talking about my “switchness” being deeply toward one side or the other at any given time, though, I’ve never been much of an either/or kind of guy. And at least five or six new potential fantasy/erotic stories come to mind each time I watch this, let alone any of the many others out there.

Which means I should probably stop watching, I know, and start writing...

Thursday, November 17, 2016

Wednesday, November 16, 2016

Elust #88

Welcome to Elust 88-

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 #89 Start with the rules, come back December 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Heart stabbing

Redemption: The Sex Goddess Project


~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

An Open Letter To That Cunnilingus Post

I Found Myself Over His Knee

~Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

Writing Sex Scenes With Less Cissexism, Pt 1

*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

The Haunting of Iris Day
MERMAID??? Wicked Wednesday #229
Fear, Scents and Sounds
Lady Amore
love is love
Her Struggle
The New Principal

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Evolving Landscapes
Trust in Me
15 BEST Things About Giving Blowjobs!
With a rebel yell
What lie do you need to hear so we can Fuck?

Erotic Non-Fiction

The Brush
Tasked with asking for what I need
How Old Is Too Old For Wild Lovemaking?
Brass In Pocket
An Unstated Predicament
California Cuisine
Krystal's First Pegging

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

That Adult Bookstore Just Outside Town
Creature of the night
MISTRESS IN A DRESS - or out of it
Come Here. I want to Taste You
Terror of the cane! How to make caning sexy

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

11 Signs You Might Be a Side Guy

Writing About Writing

Writing Sex Scenes With Less Cissexism, Pt 1

Monday, November 14, 2016

Yesterday’s Game

The Rules:

“Today, and today only, you can dominate me whenever you want, however you want, and orgasm as many times as you want,” she instructed. “No restrictions. No permissions needed. Each orgasm you have today, however, will mean an additional week of denial starting tomorrow. Enjoy.”

The Original Game Plan:

Overindulge. In everything I’ve been “restricted” from for the last 7 months or so.

The Hurdles:

A) The Monday-morning deadline I was already behind on.

B) An already scheduled, city-related meeting with a local group I couldn’t cancel.

C) An unexpected allergic reaction. To something.

The Revised Game Plan:

Revel in the “meta” tease-and-denial aspect of it all.

The Final Score:

Christmas is coming somewhat early this year.

Friday, November 11, 2016

When Gaming and a Uniform Fetish Collide

Five reasons I’m playing Star Trek Online again:

And five more:

I’ve caught myself spending endless amounts of late-night time these last few weeks tweaking the uniforms of both crews to achieve maximum uniform fetish pervosity. And just stopping to soak up the occasional random, unexpected kink charge from an NPC:

Or the same from other online players, though in that case while also trying to angle my own avatar so I can at least pretend not to be staring:

The space battles in the newly released console version look glorious on the big HD flat screen, too. It’s still a game to be played, after all. And sometimes you just need to blow the hell out of a strike force of Klingon battlecruisers and Romulan warbirds.

Bonus terrified Original Series-type Klingon, just because:

Tuesday, November 8, 2016

An Election Day Blast from My Hypnofetish Photo-Manipping Past

In honor of our current choice between the best that America has to offer, some satirical hypnofetish photo-manippery from back in the 2008 Democratic primary:

And in case anyone thought my manipping mockery wasn’t bipartisan:

Simpler times, or so they seem today...

Monday, November 7, 2016

Oh, That Client...

“And you’ve memorized the script for my scene, yes? The entire thing? And the stage directions for your vocal tones and facial expressions? And practiced the one-page-per-minute pacing? And realize that you can’t use this script with any other client, because I own the copyright? Unless you torture me into signing it over, of course. I have a detailed script for that scene, too...”

Friday, November 4, 2016

Found on My Hard Drive V

Not having children ourselves, my wife and I are spared the minefield that would come with this particular conversation, given how we actually met...

“How I met your mother? I saw her profile on, which was my generation’s Fetlife. Then I wooed her by e-mail for months from the opposite side of the country. And on our first actual date, I watched her top three different people in public in the dungeon area of a certain club, all the while keeping a coat over my lap to hide my reaction. It was the greatest first date ever.”

Yeah, probably a good thing we don’t have kids...

Thursday, November 3, 2016

An Excerpt from “Non-Negotiable”

[The opening scene from “Non-Negotiable.” I have great sympathy for the lurkers, yes...]

I lurked, and I hated myself for it.

It didn’t matter how many dungeons or playspaces I went to, and I had been to all of them in my area, or at least the ones I knew about. Maybe there really was some mythical private space you could eventually gain entry to, if you proved yourself at the public ones. I gathered that took a kind of bravery I generally used up just getting through the door, though. So I stayed by a wall or in a corner, or on a chair or the far end of some couch, and was just another single guy, desperate to have a woman dominate him and terrified of coming off like some leering creep.

It should have been easier, I thought, especially in these Internet days. But I had been scammed online more than once already. And the munch cliques were as hard to break into as any circle of long-time vanilla friends. And the playspace poly families were as quick to take offense as the monogamous couples were, but with multiple angry partners dressing you down instead of just one, so that you found someone grimly determined to educate you about proper etiquette whichever room you tried escaping to that night.

A few months of this, and gun-shy didn’t even begin to describe me. But there was still that craving that never went away, no matter how many websites I visited or clips I downloaded, not since Kerrie the gangly neighbor girl had tied me up during that long-ago game of “Kidnappers and Feds.” All it took was an image, a tone of voice, or even a stray thought, and it was all over for me.

I was a submissive, so I lurked, and I hated myself for it.

The young, single women had it easy from what I saw. Everyone wanted to play with them. Even me.

So I lurked and tried not to. And almost always, these days, at Bordello de Sade.

Bordello was smaller than the other playspaces and usually less crowded, too. But the couple at the door always acted friendly as they took my mandatory donation, and the scenes were more serious, with the players wanting to control and be controlled, to hurt and be hurt, rather than hogging a station just to show off their latest outfits and look-at-me poses. The yelps and smacks echoed nicely without wall-to-wall people as well, and the regulars gave us lurkers our physical space so long as we didn’t crowd their headspace. It all just got to me more here than anywhere else, both in my head and in my pants. I’d even managed to graduate from the stage of awkward, accidental eye contact and then quickly looking away to having the occasional awkward, slightly embarrassing conversation with one or two of the other lurkers there.

Bordello was also the only place that had Lisabeth.

I’d thought she was a lurker, too, at first, sitting alone on half a love seat by the far wall. She never arrived with anyone, and she never left with anyone. She never got up to play or to sample the various snacks our mutual donations had bought. The couples and the poly klatches who considered Bordello their home dungeon—and they were easy enough to spot—never approached her, and the bravest—or creepiest—of the lurkers who did quickly found themselves rebuffed and wandering back to their corners.

She was always on that same love seat, though, each time I came. I never saw her anywhere else. And we lurkers were the type to move around, lest we actually be noticed like we always claim we want to be and then someone actually asks us to play in front of a large room full of strangers who would perv on us the same way we couldn’t help perving on them.

I’d thought she was a poser after that, someone just showing up to be seen. There would be less competition for envious gazes at Bordello, after all, and her simple-if-tight black dresses and not-always-high-heeled boots would have been overpowered by the look-at-what-I-could-afford corsets and too-expensive-to-actually-play-in leather on display at the other dungeons and spaces. I never saw that tell-tale glance to check if people were noticing her, though. And I spent more than enough time noticing her to have noticed that.

The curiosity got so unbearable, finally, that I actually started a conversation with another lurker. “Hey,” I offered, after approaching cautiously enough not to spook him.

“Hey,” he said back, not quite meeting my own eyes, like we were too close together in the men’s room or something.

I gave him a moment to calm his nerves—and for me to calm my own—then nodded in Lisabeth’s direction. “You know anything about her?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I wish.”

“Yeah,” I said, too.

“Her name is Lisabeth, I think,” we heard behind us then, in a voice like something from the throat of Master Lord God Sir—and then some. The other lurker and I both jumped, but at least I managed not to back away once I turned and faced what might as well have been a biker Santa Claus. Or to keep backing away, like the other lurker did, as Master Santa watched before finally pivoting his gaze back to me with a twinkle in his smile. “Son, I think you just got promoted to Alpha Lurker.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. Especially when he winked and almost dropped the two bottles of water balanced in his right hand and the plate of cookies in his left.

“Lisabeth,” I said then. “Wow.”

“I think,” Biker Claus told me again, while rebalancing his load. “She likes playing mind games. The whole night is one big role play for her, from the minute she walks through the door to the moment she leaves.”

“Wow,” I said again.

“Wow, indeed. Takes a lot of effort to keep that kind of intensity going in your headspace, so we tend to leave her be.”

I glanced over my shoulder at Lisabeth, probably for the hundredth time that night and the thousandth overall. “So it’s a respect thing?”

“Or we’re just giving the crazy woman a wide berth.” My head whipped back to him, my eyes wide, but Biker Claus just smiled again and offered me the plate. “Cookie?”

[The full story can be found on Amazon. And someday, I swear, I’ll finally finish writing “Book Two.” Vanilla life can be a cruel mistress, sometimes.]

Tuesday, November 1, 2016

A Moment in Kink History

One of NiteFlirt’s earliest stars, Mistress Myrna (a.k.a. Mommy Mabel, Bertha Bastinado, Goddess Edna, and Ziegfeld’s Folly) commanded a whopping $0.03 per minute.

Unfortunately, the party line did make billing difficult...