Self restraint.
That is meant to be my byword as a Domme.
Because if I can't control myself, what right do I have in guiding, in owning the life of another?
So far already, but so much farther to go.
Also, it sucks when you have a full entry in you but your keyboard dies...
Friday, March 28, 2008
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Passion
For a long time, I assumed I wasn't really interested in women, not REALLY, and only sort of turned on by them. This required a great deal of repression on my part, due to a very poor past with the fairer sex. Only lately am I coming to terms with the fact that thought I do like men, enjoy sex with them and enjoy them as friends, and I have married one, the love I have felt for women has been on a whole different level, scarily intense and strange, changing my behavior and making me a bit crazy at times.
The first was the hardest and strangest, and the worst part is, I can't even remember her name (I'm dreadful with names, so to myself this isn't so bad, but I'm sure for everyone who wrote their first love's name all over their binder at school, this must seem bizzare!)
But I do remember every bit of the night I first fell madly in love with another person. We were at Girl Guide camp, for the level above girl guides. Both 15. And as older campers (only a year below the age where they'd start looking to train some of us to WORK at summer camps) at a weekend camp in a huge, lovely old lodge, we got a lot of freedom. We could be up all hours provided we got up for what we had to do, and didn't bother others. She was my bunkmate, and knew her two roomates from her own troop. I was by myself, as I got separated from my group in a room shuffle.
One evening we were both stuck awake, by ourselves, talking in the common room. She was telling me about her life, her interests. I was talking, too, but part of me was strangely detached. I adored her. She was so beautiful. I saw myself as the more sophisticated of the two of us. I began imagining, as she was talking, late that night, as we sat on the opposite sides of the couch, romancing her. That we would make a great pair. We exchanged numbers at the end of the camp.
I can't remember all of what happened, but I do remember two things: I had found out she was, or considered herself to be, bisexual, and also I remember at some point calling her, confessing my feelings and quite frankly harassing her into meeting with me at train station to talk about this. She said she would. I arrived. She, understandably, never did. I didn't try calling her again.
But it was impossible to avoid her. There aren't that many 15 year olds interested in Girl Guides. We ran into each other at a dinner banquet, and I was stiffly polite, and probably stared one too many times at her. Her friends were nice enough, and sort of remembered me. She'd obviously never told them about what happened. I went to another camp weekend hoping to see her. It did not occur, the event was too big and though I know she was there, we didn't brush into each other. There was a thing about sex at the thing, since we were 16 now and older girls, and I remember part of my brain going "But what about with girls?"
The beginning of the end, and the climax of my strange obsession with this beautiful girl happened in the last Guide event I went to. I was going to summer camp to train to be a swim instructor. They ran these for a couple of weeks at a time, and I discovered that the group that did the first week of training was ajacent to our camp as we did our first week and they did their second. And She was there. I tried talking to her, but with little success. I bumped up my attention to genuinely creepy levels, though nothing she ever knew about. At one point, I followed , in the dark, her going from tent to tent, singing a lullaby to the campers she was now charged in caring for. It was The Last Unicorn song. My favorite movie. I nearly died. And I sat there, crying in the dark, wondering if I could, or should, just go talk to her. And finally, the following day, she took me aside into a cabin. She put me down, hard. She had a girlfriend. She was interested in women. Just not me. And never would be. No one like me. And to please, just leave her alone.
And I think my brain broke. My heart certainly did. I was a crazy, obsessed stalker, but luckily I got the sort of talking to that managed to stop me getting any worse with her. I agreed not to bother her, and went back to camp crying.
And that should have been it. Would have been it. Except two days later, I was taken aside into the head counselor's cabin. I was being sent home. I was "not appropriate" for this training, and they felt I shouldn't continue. I recognized the code words, the careful language, immediately. I was gay. I should not be around children. And She had told on me. I've rarely felt more hurt and betrayed. It never occurred to me to tell on her too. I'd never have considered that for a second, and it's only now, almost 15 years later, looking back as I type this, that I realize she might have outed me before I could out her. My parents were already called. I was sent home in disgrace, the only trainee not to make the cut. And I couldn't dare tell them why.
But I still remember the insane intensity of feelings towards Her, even if I don't remember her name anymore. I had echos of them, some bigger, some smaller, with the other girls I fell for over my teenaged years. And each overture met with rejection, hard, cold, thorough. I lost friends.
Somewhere, inside, the hurt was too much. By 20, I had convinced myself that though I was 'bi', I was mostly hetero. Guys were easier. Guys didn't hurt me. I knew how to handle them. I rarely got rejected, and once I got skilled, never from the ones I went after, because I chose well. Though I fell in love with my husband as a female character on a old BBS, though I trapsed around on a gay BDSM board as a switch/domme, looking for lesbians (and found one, but that's a story for another day), though one of the few online relationships I took to real life was with a MtF transexual... somehow, the pain of all the early years made me shove my feelings towards women deep inside. They were too strong, too raw, too uncontrollable.
I like men. But all my loves, the soul searing, knee trembling, desperate yearnings have been for woman. They don't compare. Nothing makes me crazy, mad, hurts me, drives me, like a woman.
The first was the hardest and strangest, and the worst part is, I can't even remember her name (I'm dreadful with names, so to myself this isn't so bad, but I'm sure for everyone who wrote their first love's name all over their binder at school, this must seem bizzare!)
But I do remember every bit of the night I first fell madly in love with another person. We were at Girl Guide camp, for the level above girl guides. Both 15. And as older campers (only a year below the age where they'd start looking to train some of us to WORK at summer camps) at a weekend camp in a huge, lovely old lodge, we got a lot of freedom. We could be up all hours provided we got up for what we had to do, and didn't bother others. She was my bunkmate, and knew her two roomates from her own troop. I was by myself, as I got separated from my group in a room shuffle.
One evening we were both stuck awake, by ourselves, talking in the common room. She was telling me about her life, her interests. I was talking, too, but part of me was strangely detached. I adored her. She was so beautiful. I saw myself as the more sophisticated of the two of us. I began imagining, as she was talking, late that night, as we sat on the opposite sides of the couch, romancing her. That we would make a great pair. We exchanged numbers at the end of the camp.
I can't remember all of what happened, but I do remember two things: I had found out she was, or considered herself to be, bisexual, and also I remember at some point calling her, confessing my feelings and quite frankly harassing her into meeting with me at train station to talk about this. She said she would. I arrived. She, understandably, never did. I didn't try calling her again.
But it was impossible to avoid her. There aren't that many 15 year olds interested in Girl Guides. We ran into each other at a dinner banquet, and I was stiffly polite, and probably stared one too many times at her. Her friends were nice enough, and sort of remembered me. She'd obviously never told them about what happened. I went to another camp weekend hoping to see her. It did not occur, the event was too big and though I know she was there, we didn't brush into each other. There was a thing about sex at the thing, since we were 16 now and older girls, and I remember part of my brain going "But what about with girls?"
The beginning of the end, and the climax of my strange obsession with this beautiful girl happened in the last Guide event I went to. I was going to summer camp to train to be a swim instructor. They ran these for a couple of weeks at a time, and I discovered that the group that did the first week of training was ajacent to our camp as we did our first week and they did their second. And She was there. I tried talking to her, but with little success. I bumped up my attention to genuinely creepy levels, though nothing she ever knew about. At one point, I followed , in the dark, her going from tent to tent, singing a lullaby to the campers she was now charged in caring for. It was The Last Unicorn song. My favorite movie. I nearly died. And I sat there, crying in the dark, wondering if I could, or should, just go talk to her. And finally, the following day, she took me aside into a cabin. She put me down, hard. She had a girlfriend. She was interested in women. Just not me. And never would be. No one like me. And to please, just leave her alone.
And I think my brain broke. My heart certainly did. I was a crazy, obsessed stalker, but luckily I got the sort of talking to that managed to stop me getting any worse with her. I agreed not to bother her, and went back to camp crying.
And that should have been it. Would have been it. Except two days later, I was taken aside into the head counselor's cabin. I was being sent home. I was "not appropriate" for this training, and they felt I shouldn't continue. I recognized the code words, the careful language, immediately. I was gay. I should not be around children. And She had told on me. I've rarely felt more hurt and betrayed. It never occurred to me to tell on her too. I'd never have considered that for a second, and it's only now, almost 15 years later, looking back as I type this, that I realize she might have outed me before I could out her. My parents were already called. I was sent home in disgrace, the only trainee not to make the cut. And I couldn't dare tell them why.
But I still remember the insane intensity of feelings towards Her, even if I don't remember her name anymore. I had echos of them, some bigger, some smaller, with the other girls I fell for over my teenaged years. And each overture met with rejection, hard, cold, thorough. I lost friends.
Somewhere, inside, the hurt was too much. By 20, I had convinced myself that though I was 'bi', I was mostly hetero. Guys were easier. Guys didn't hurt me. I knew how to handle them. I rarely got rejected, and once I got skilled, never from the ones I went after, because I chose well. Though I fell in love with my husband as a female character on a old BBS, though I trapsed around on a gay BDSM board as a switch/domme, looking for lesbians (and found one, but that's a story for another day), though one of the few online relationships I took to real life was with a MtF transexual... somehow, the pain of all the early years made me shove my feelings towards women deep inside. They were too strong, too raw, too uncontrollable.
I like men. But all my loves, the soul searing, knee trembling, desperate yearnings have been for woman. They don't compare. Nothing makes me crazy, mad, hurts me, drives me, like a woman.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Vanilla
In the circles I tend to run with, vanilla is a derogatory term indeed. It denotes boring, every day sort of sex, the missionary stuff with socks on and lights off, done twice a week for 5 minutes each time. I'm now beginning to understand the different flavours of fetish vanilla.
My friend Ophelia has been talking to me about her discovery of domestic discipline, and the Surrendered Wife (she's obvious as much as sub as I am a domme, and the sub I mentioned below) and her joking dread that her kinks are in fact vanilla and normal, at least to a weird, ultra right, conservative offset of America. That spanking your wife is a-okay, women should follow the cue of men for everything, and hey, just put out for him for sex already. I was left shaking my head and laughing. I have always joked that everything kinky becomes mainstream eventually, but this was a little surprising even for me.
The idea of vanilla was reinforced last night as I was chatting online with a potential long distance sub, one I was planning on meeting at a convention later this year, and whom I had been exchanging fantasies with. He's a nice, rather shy, rather low key boy, more interested in the BD than the SM part of this world. Much of his fantasies are just passive worship, or begging to please me. I outlined a few of my own, to his great delight, involving getting him in a pussycollar to hold him near to entertain my groin, or to take him out shopping for lingerie, try several sets, then make him dress up in the best ones (he enjoys satin women's underpants, and frankly, who doesn't? I never find this to be a shocking fetish, but rather fully understandable and enjoyable.)
After a few such lowkey sexual antics, described playfully, he ended up, after begging me for permission to jerk off, telling me "Wow, my fantasies are much more vanilla compared to yours." I was stunned. These ARE pure vanilla to me, the mildest of the mild, barely suitable of a PG rating. I was left wondering if time in the fetish community, or heck, the furry community, had left me totally jaded, unable to tell the mild from the exotic anymore. Vanilla for me is hairbrushes and spankings, mild crossdressing and begging to cum. Vanilla for him was probably visualizing being able to sit, naked by me, and admire me. Not that I mind that for a second, of course.
At the same time, I've been slowly exploring what I consider the more extreme ends of my fantasies. My girl Em was describing a video she'd been watching, a girl in a hood, bound to a chair, forced to cum, mouth filled with an inflatable gag and blindfolded. I ended up admitting after she described the tight latex hood that I'd been visualizing one for her, abet with cat ears. I say to her,"But I don't like the ones they have. Open eyes and mouths."
"I prefer just noseholes"
I writhed and let out a sigh of relief.
"Then we're on the same page with this.."
Gimp suits, totally anonymitising the face, the person, is something a few years ago I found shocking and ugly. But somehow, knowing the person inside is yours has added a massive level of sexual excitement I never expected from such a concept. Bound, immobilized, helpless, blind and powerless, it's been something that's been interesting me more and more.
But now I'm worried I'll say that to someone and they'll go "Man, that is so vanilla.." I think I'll be truly terrified of that person, but I know they're out there. Piles of them.
It's a spectrum, and all the flavours are vanilla, if you get the right taste tester.
My friend Ophelia has been talking to me about her discovery of domestic discipline, and the Surrendered Wife (she's obvious as much as sub as I am a domme, and the sub I mentioned below) and her joking dread that her kinks are in fact vanilla and normal, at least to a weird, ultra right, conservative offset of America. That spanking your wife is a-okay, women should follow the cue of men for everything, and hey, just put out for him for sex already. I was left shaking my head and laughing. I have always joked that everything kinky becomes mainstream eventually, but this was a little surprising even for me.
The idea of vanilla was reinforced last night as I was chatting online with a potential long distance sub, one I was planning on meeting at a convention later this year, and whom I had been exchanging fantasies with. He's a nice, rather shy, rather low key boy, more interested in the BD than the SM part of this world. Much of his fantasies are just passive worship, or begging to please me. I outlined a few of my own, to his great delight, involving getting him in a pussycollar to hold him near to entertain my groin, or to take him out shopping for lingerie, try several sets, then make him dress up in the best ones (he enjoys satin women's underpants, and frankly, who doesn't? I never find this to be a shocking fetish, but rather fully understandable and enjoyable.)
After a few such lowkey sexual antics, described playfully, he ended up, after begging me for permission to jerk off, telling me "Wow, my fantasies are much more vanilla compared to yours." I was stunned. These ARE pure vanilla to me, the mildest of the mild, barely suitable of a PG rating. I was left wondering if time in the fetish community, or heck, the furry community, had left me totally jaded, unable to tell the mild from the exotic anymore. Vanilla for me is hairbrushes and spankings, mild crossdressing and begging to cum. Vanilla for him was probably visualizing being able to sit, naked by me, and admire me. Not that I mind that for a second, of course.
At the same time, I've been slowly exploring what I consider the more extreme ends of my fantasies. My girl Em was describing a video she'd been watching, a girl in a hood, bound to a chair, forced to cum, mouth filled with an inflatable gag and blindfolded. I ended up admitting after she described the tight latex hood that I'd been visualizing one for her, abet with cat ears. I say to her,"But I don't like the ones they have. Open eyes and mouths."
"I prefer just noseholes"
I writhed and let out a sigh of relief.
"Then we're on the same page with this.."
Gimp suits, totally anonymitising the face, the person, is something a few years ago I found shocking and ugly. But somehow, knowing the person inside is yours has added a massive level of sexual excitement I never expected from such a concept. Bound, immobilized, helpless, blind and powerless, it's been something that's been interesting me more and more.
But now I'm worried I'll say that to someone and they'll go "Man, that is so vanilla.." I think I'll be truly terrified of that person, but I know they're out there. Piles of them.
It's a spectrum, and all the flavours are vanilla, if you get the right taste tester.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Bitchy
"Unfortunately, there was no party last night. We have been having a terrible time of getting people to attend. Despite all the advertising, very few people have been inquiring about our events and we're trying to figure out why."
GEE! I wonder if perhaps not even having a note on your door or coming down to tell people it was canceled might limit future interest?
Nawww...
(ps: never inquire about thesexxus.net )
GEE! I wonder if perhaps not even having a note on your door or coming down to tell people it was canceled might limit future interest?
Nawww...
(ps: never inquire about thesexxus.net )
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Leather and pain
Well, the folks for the party I attempted to attend suggested I go to their Saturday Night general one instead. I agreed, via email, and went out shopping yesterday to kit myself out.
As previously noted, I had a significant amount of money set aside for traveling, so while money was no object, anyone who's had the rather uncertain joy in discovering how MUCH cows cost, when converted to pieces that will cover you, I did need to plan on having a significant amount.
My frustrations began when I discovered, to the best of my knowledge, that XL in the place was probably about a size 10, or possibly a 28 waist, if anyone needs that sort of measurements. Being as on the bottom I do in fact travel with junk in the trunk, and am closer to a 16 and have a 33 waist, I was horrified to find even the stretchiest of PVC wasn't working, and the leather was straight out. Which was off, as I was a large on top. (ah, joy of being a 36-24-44.) The only relief was a beautiful woman with a swanlike neck buying herself, and walking around the store to shop, in a stunning posture collar. I was very vocal in my appreciation.
After an hour of frustration, I finally threw up my arms and said "A kilt! I'll just use a man's kilt!" I could have had a custom order, but given that I was going to a party, I really wanted something THEN. So one Medium , expensive, man's leather utilikilt later, and I felt like a real human. I said to the salesman "Well, this is probably an odd fasion faux pas" and he informed me I had no idea. Apparently once they were paid straight up 1000$ just to stay open after hours for a shy crossdresser. He managed to get 3 corsets on.. at once, mind you, and they had to be cut off. He paid for the whole lot. An expensive mistake, as the corsets cost anywhere from 200 to -800$.
I was still a little sad, as I really wanted some sort of pants, and one of the ladies from back, a glorious woman in a permanent collar with a chrome lock, came out to see what I'd got. I had seen this woman half a dozen times before but only now did the collar register. Impressed, I asked her about the comfort level, having Em in mind for a permanent one, and she reached into a drawer to pull one out. "Here, just feel..."
I was shocked to find myself stiffening, and in all politeness, I said, "Um... this is weird... I don't, uh, wear these..." while my mind was screaming no! I didn't see it, but Kyle informed me after her face did this odd flux, and he was convinced she was going to say "Sorry Mistress" but all that her professional salesvoice got out was "Oh, s-sorry!" before she quickly stopped trying to drape the thing around my neck. We talked fashionable locks, and long term wear (she'd worn hers for 10 years, without a mark on the skin!) and her outfit.
She was wearing an attractive underbust corset with large buckles that I'd seen in the shop earlier, with a skin tight pair of chaps buckled to them (I've discovered buckles are my thing, I much prefer them to laces). I said "Oh, I didn't know you had those" and she mentioned it was a custom piece, as they have to essentially measure, fit to your leg, cut out the holes of the chaps exactly to get the perfect line,a dn go from there. She was terribly enthused about doing custom work for me, and LOVED, simply LOVED my blue hair. She enthused about it, and understood when I told her I wanted a much more severe cut than the bob the guy at House of Lords gave me, short in the back, long in the front, slick and aggressive. We agreed I should have gone to Coupe Bizzare instead. And I should get my uniform done in leather. Bright, colourful leathers that will match my hair. She said there's not enough colour in fetish. I agreed.
And I have to come to fetish nights monthly (forgot to get the time and address) and have to come to the October fetish ball and I simply MUST go to Toronto pride and I was stairing at the fellow who'd helped me, ringing things up, shocked. "Uh, she's rather pursuasive?" "We all are, I just got you to buy TWO tops.."
$1000 later, some stockings aside, and I was ready to go.
Sadly, the night was a disaster. I got a drive there, and discovered the door to the place was closed. One skivy guy outside said they did that if they had too many people, but another nicer fellow, named Aldo, who I immediatly felt comfortable with, noted he'd RSVPed and paid online not 40 minutes before. So We're not sure what was up. We waited, and waited, and finally I called Kyle to pick me back up. And then Also suggested a swinger club nearby, so Kyle wa shere and I told him never mind. And we get there and they're members only (which they didn't say on the phone) and I call Kyle AGAIN. He's mad. I'm mad.
And from now on, fetish only. At least they're sane.
As previously noted, I had a significant amount of money set aside for traveling, so while money was no object, anyone who's had the rather uncertain joy in discovering how MUCH cows cost, when converted to pieces that will cover you, I did need to plan on having a significant amount.
My frustrations began when I discovered, to the best of my knowledge, that XL in the place was probably about a size 10, or possibly a 28 waist, if anyone needs that sort of measurements. Being as on the bottom I do in fact travel with junk in the trunk, and am closer to a 16 and have a 33 waist, I was horrified to find even the stretchiest of PVC wasn't working, and the leather was straight out. Which was off, as I was a large on top. (ah, joy of being a 36-24-44.) The only relief was a beautiful woman with a swanlike neck buying herself, and walking around the store to shop, in a stunning posture collar. I was very vocal in my appreciation.
After an hour of frustration, I finally threw up my arms and said "A kilt! I'll just use a man's kilt!" I could have had a custom order, but given that I was going to a party, I really wanted something THEN. So one Medium , expensive, man's leather utilikilt later, and I felt like a real human. I said to the salesman "Well, this is probably an odd fasion faux pas" and he informed me I had no idea. Apparently once they were paid straight up 1000$ just to stay open after hours for a shy crossdresser. He managed to get 3 corsets on.. at once, mind you, and they had to be cut off. He paid for the whole lot. An expensive mistake, as the corsets cost anywhere from 200 to -800$.
I was still a little sad, as I really wanted some sort of pants, and one of the ladies from back, a glorious woman in a permanent collar with a chrome lock, came out to see what I'd got. I had seen this woman half a dozen times before but only now did the collar register. Impressed, I asked her about the comfort level, having Em in mind for a permanent one, and she reached into a drawer to pull one out. "Here, just feel..."
I was shocked to find myself stiffening, and in all politeness, I said, "Um... this is weird... I don't, uh, wear these..." while my mind was screaming no! I didn't see it, but Kyle informed me after her face did this odd flux, and he was convinced she was going to say "Sorry Mistress" but all that her professional salesvoice got out was "Oh, s-sorry!" before she quickly stopped trying to drape the thing around my neck. We talked fashionable locks, and long term wear (she'd worn hers for 10 years, without a mark on the skin!) and her outfit.
She was wearing an attractive underbust corset with large buckles that I'd seen in the shop earlier, with a skin tight pair of chaps buckled to them (I've discovered buckles are my thing, I much prefer them to laces). I said "Oh, I didn't know you had those" and she mentioned it was a custom piece, as they have to essentially measure, fit to your leg, cut out the holes of the chaps exactly to get the perfect line,a dn go from there. She was terribly enthused about doing custom work for me, and LOVED, simply LOVED my blue hair. She enthused about it, and understood when I told her I wanted a much more severe cut than the bob the guy at House of Lords gave me, short in the back, long in the front, slick and aggressive. We agreed I should have gone to Coupe Bizzare instead. And I should get my uniform done in leather. Bright, colourful leathers that will match my hair. She said there's not enough colour in fetish. I agreed.
And I have to come to fetish nights monthly (forgot to get the time and address) and have to come to the October fetish ball and I simply MUST go to Toronto pride and I was stairing at the fellow who'd helped me, ringing things up, shocked. "Uh, she's rather pursuasive?" "We all are, I just got you to buy TWO tops.."
$1000 later, some stockings aside, and I was ready to go.
Sadly, the night was a disaster. I got a drive there, and discovered the door to the place was closed. One skivy guy outside said they did that if they had too many people, but another nicer fellow, named Aldo, who I immediatly felt comfortable with, noted he'd RSVPed and paid online not 40 minutes before. So We're not sure what was up. We waited, and waited, and finally I called Kyle to pick me back up. And then Also suggested a swinger club nearby, so Kyle wa shere and I told him never mind. And we get there and they're members only (which they didn't say on the phone) and I call Kyle AGAIN. He's mad. I'm mad.
And from now on, fetish only. At least they're sane.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Disapointed...
In my email today:
"Unfortunately, the response to the Women's party has been practically non-existent. You are the only one who has inquired for this event."
Well, fuck.
"Unfortunately, the response to the Women's party has been practically non-existent. You are the only one who has inquired for this event."
Well, fuck.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Adventures
A lot of things have happened over the last few days, but the biggest one is wrapped up in a lot of smaller ones.
One of the joys of being online, is that, at least in the realms I chat in, really no limits at all, bar imagination. The oddest thing that can be described is probably being done. Placed in a land with no limits, besides the ones in my own head, I quickly discovered I naturally gravitate towards women, so much so that many of my friends there were surprised to discover I am married to a man, and do enjoy them.
It has let me discover what I really and truly want, and I've been lucky enough to play with some virtual partners that have helped refine my desires beautifully (One never realized how much they liked hoods on a sub until she had a partner who clamored after them). The only issue has been, it is nothing but the virtual world.
I've also made some interesting friendships, the most surprising of which are with a few permanent 'slaves', who use the virtual world as a means to get out and do things. All with permission of course. I find them fascinating, as they are all extremely nice and often very smart women, and it's changed my perspective on the idea. (As my husband has noted, D/s relationships seem to fair no better nor worse for longevity that anyone else's.)
One of the girls I talk to has ended up being a natural sounding board for me. She's polite, but very knowledgeable, and not above making penetrating remarks of insight. I had admired her happy relationship with her Master, and she noted one day I'd be lucky and meet the right girl.
"I have, except she's in England, and taken."
"Well, she's not really the right girl then, is she, Miss?"
I was stunned, because this was it to the core. I love Em quite a bit, but at best we'll be able to visit occasionally and maybe play. And by occasionally I mean possibly, if I'm lucky, one time this year. As we both noted, her life would have to radically change for that to be any different. And currently, at least, I'm out of the breaking up people's relationships business.
And in visiting Northbound, that place of kink, I found myself seeing a little postcard. "Kink friendly" it assured me, in various terms. "Monthly women's only night." I paused. But, let's be honest, I've tried dating women. I've tried picking them up with only varying success. Perhaps I should just be direct, go to this sex party, bring some rope, and see who creams for it.
Worth a little real-world adventuring?
I think so.
Maybe I'll tie up Miss Right.
One of the joys of being online, is that, at least in the realms I chat in, really no limits at all, bar imagination. The oddest thing that can be described is probably being done. Placed in a land with no limits, besides the ones in my own head, I quickly discovered I naturally gravitate towards women, so much so that many of my friends there were surprised to discover I am married to a man, and do enjoy them.
It has let me discover what I really and truly want, and I've been lucky enough to play with some virtual partners that have helped refine my desires beautifully (One never realized how much they liked hoods on a sub until she had a partner who clamored after them). The only issue has been, it is nothing but the virtual world.
I've also made some interesting friendships, the most surprising of which are with a few permanent 'slaves', who use the virtual world as a means to get out and do things. All with permission of course. I find them fascinating, as they are all extremely nice and often very smart women, and it's changed my perspective on the idea. (As my husband has noted, D/s relationships seem to fair no better nor worse for longevity that anyone else's.)
One of the girls I talk to has ended up being a natural sounding board for me. She's polite, but very knowledgeable, and not above making penetrating remarks of insight. I had admired her happy relationship with her Master, and she noted one day I'd be lucky and meet the right girl.
"I have, except she's in England, and taken."
"Well, she's not really the right girl then, is she, Miss?"
I was stunned, because this was it to the core. I love Em quite a bit, but at best we'll be able to visit occasionally and maybe play. And by occasionally I mean possibly, if I'm lucky, one time this year. As we both noted, her life would have to radically change for that to be any different. And currently, at least, I'm out of the breaking up people's relationships business.
And in visiting Northbound, that place of kink, I found myself seeing a little postcard. "Kink friendly" it assured me, in various terms. "Monthly women's only night." I paused. But, let's be honest, I've tried dating women. I've tried picking them up with only varying success. Perhaps I should just be direct, go to this sex party, bring some rope, and see who creams for it.
Worth a little real-world adventuring?
I think so.
Maybe I'll tie up Miss Right.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Intoxication
(fair warning to friends of a more explicit post)
The room is softly black. I'm not sure yet if the purpose of the play is to help me wake up, or him wake up, or if we are doing something more yet. Hands and mouth gently tug at my nipples, caress my breasts. I'm dozing, half asleep, passively enjoying, kissing whatever is near. He teases, straddling my chest and resting himself between my breasts. He teases me with a few trusts, tormenting me with the image of what we can't do yet, before sliding off, caressing my skin. I teasingly anoint him with my arousal, stroking over the silken skin.
"Well, you're going to have to lick that off!" he notes, and I gladly oblige for a few moments, assuming this is how the morning will progress.
A mouth dips down near my ear after a moment.
"I have a wicked idea.... Turn on the light."
I'm confused, my eyes opening in the dark and I have yet to register the second command before he returns. He gently leans over, snapping on illumination, which does nothing for me. Eye shut against it and I turn my head away, but I hear a familiar snap being opened.
Oh my.
I shiver and hold still, knowing what's coming next. We have a special toy, one discovered almost by accident. My husband collects knives, and one, an onyx black, phallic thing, was found to be the perfect plaything for one who likes knives but wishes to be safe. The edge is ground to such an angle, meant only for display, that it feels sharp, but cannot really cut. The point is good enough to pierce, with some pressure, if one desires, but otherwise, safe. And gorgeous, ebony from hilt to tip, but for the slight silver of the grind where the blacking was taken off.
There is a feeling of weight as the dagger is rested on me, handle over one breast, tip just resting against the curve of the other nipple. A small push, and I moan, as the sharpness bites and holds it there. Later, I can see there wasn't even a dimple left, but at the time, I feel run through, pierced.
The unspoken command is "Hold still," one I know well from our other games with this object, and I find my breathing slowing. Stopping. I enter a strange state of zen of self controlled erotic meditation, eyes closed, breathing only occasionally, feeling rather than moving. The knife is moved, teasingly run over bare skin, the coolness causing my heart to skip. It traces along my collarbone, perhaps running over the wing of the bird there. I do not know. I only know the stillness, and the taste of sharpness and control.
The knife is gone, and then hands are back, teasing and tugging over taut nubs of flesh, my nipples aching now. I remember breathing only as I start to moan.
"I wonder" asks the voice, "If I can make you come just by playing with these?"
I consider it a worthwhile experiment. I've been driven mad from lack of contact, of relief in the last two weeks, and suspect that might well be possible now. I reply to the suggestion by grabbing his own piercing in my teeth, tying his chest to my lips. the sensations leave me light headed, I feel like I'm floating.
"How's the piercing?" he suddenly asks. Coming back to earth, I realize one hand has been tugging my own nipple, as his spare is slowly stroking over his warm shaft watching me. The other, unconsciously, has been between my legs.
"It seems good?" I say curiously, realizing the discomfort from the piercing has been gone, indeed for days. Hooray for healing quickly! I know I can, I'd attended a tattoo exposition merely one week after my final colours, and fooled everyone into thinking I'd had it for months. I'd been flogged hard and been fine in days. I test it, moving the metal from one side to another, before settling into a slow motion, matching the quiet pace, the strange feeling of intoxication from sensation.
Eyes closed, merely listening and feeling, I climax in a gentle, but powerful way, having to force myself to make a sound, my breathing nearly vanishing as it gets near and my voice somehow mute, unwilling to let out my excitement, restrained. I let out a groan on the second tremor, and a hot feeling floods over me, from nipple to chest, as he joins me, warmly covering my breast, cockhead resting just over the nipple, teasing it as my mind was only just now registering, perhaps since we had begun the experiment a few minutes ago. I touch the wetness with tender amazement, running my fingers along it, feeling relaxed and loved.
"Now isn't this a nice way to start the day?"
I nod mutely. Time to get ready for work.
The room is softly black. I'm not sure yet if the purpose of the play is to help me wake up, or him wake up, or if we are doing something more yet. Hands and mouth gently tug at my nipples, caress my breasts. I'm dozing, half asleep, passively enjoying, kissing whatever is near. He teases, straddling my chest and resting himself between my breasts. He teases me with a few trusts, tormenting me with the image of what we can't do yet, before sliding off, caressing my skin. I teasingly anoint him with my arousal, stroking over the silken skin.
"Well, you're going to have to lick that off!" he notes, and I gladly oblige for a few moments, assuming this is how the morning will progress.
A mouth dips down near my ear after a moment.
"I have a wicked idea.... Turn on the light."
I'm confused, my eyes opening in the dark and I have yet to register the second command before he returns. He gently leans over, snapping on illumination, which does nothing for me. Eye shut against it and I turn my head away, but I hear a familiar snap being opened.
Oh my.
I shiver and hold still, knowing what's coming next. We have a special toy, one discovered almost by accident. My husband collects knives, and one, an onyx black, phallic thing, was found to be the perfect plaything for one who likes knives but wishes to be safe. The edge is ground to such an angle, meant only for display, that it feels sharp, but cannot really cut. The point is good enough to pierce, with some pressure, if one desires, but otherwise, safe. And gorgeous, ebony from hilt to tip, but for the slight silver of the grind where the blacking was taken off.
There is a feeling of weight as the dagger is rested on me, handle over one breast, tip just resting against the curve of the other nipple. A small push, and I moan, as the sharpness bites and holds it there. Later, I can see there wasn't even a dimple left, but at the time, I feel run through, pierced.
The unspoken command is "Hold still," one I know well from our other games with this object, and I find my breathing slowing. Stopping. I enter a strange state of zen of self controlled erotic meditation, eyes closed, breathing only occasionally, feeling rather than moving. The knife is moved, teasingly run over bare skin, the coolness causing my heart to skip. It traces along my collarbone, perhaps running over the wing of the bird there. I do not know. I only know the stillness, and the taste of sharpness and control.
The knife is gone, and then hands are back, teasing and tugging over taut nubs of flesh, my nipples aching now. I remember breathing only as I start to moan.
"I wonder" asks the voice, "If I can make you come just by playing with these?"
I consider it a worthwhile experiment. I've been driven mad from lack of contact, of relief in the last two weeks, and suspect that might well be possible now. I reply to the suggestion by grabbing his own piercing in my teeth, tying his chest to my lips. the sensations leave me light headed, I feel like I'm floating.
"How's the piercing?" he suddenly asks. Coming back to earth, I realize one hand has been tugging my own nipple, as his spare is slowly stroking over his warm shaft watching me. The other, unconsciously, has been between my legs.
"It seems good?" I say curiously, realizing the discomfort from the piercing has been gone, indeed for days. Hooray for healing quickly! I know I can, I'd attended a tattoo exposition merely one week after my final colours, and fooled everyone into thinking I'd had it for months. I'd been flogged hard and been fine in days. I test it, moving the metal from one side to another, before settling into a slow motion, matching the quiet pace, the strange feeling of intoxication from sensation.
Eyes closed, merely listening and feeling, I climax in a gentle, but powerful way, having to force myself to make a sound, my breathing nearly vanishing as it gets near and my voice somehow mute, unwilling to let out my excitement, restrained. I let out a groan on the second tremor, and a hot feeling floods over me, from nipple to chest, as he joins me, warmly covering my breast, cockhead resting just over the nipple, teasing it as my mind was only just now registering, perhaps since we had begun the experiment a few minutes ago. I touch the wetness with tender amazement, running my fingers along it, feeling relaxed and loved.
"Now isn't this a nice way to start the day?"
I nod mutely. Time to get ready for work.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Etiquette
One of the key features of my former life was an almost painful tendency to not want to offend. I'm still working through this, but I do tend to worry a little about manners and decorum, both in my regular life and in my like as a Domme. I am not a woman who tends to bark orders, though I can. I do not see the reason to treat every sub I meet like dirt, and I try to be courteous to all.
But I forgot rule number one.
You do not talk to the sub about topping them, you talk to their master.
Well, damn.
That little slip up may cost me a lot. A potential friendship, a potential ally. The damage may not be so bad, but first impressions are irreversible. And when said Mistress reads the randy conversation (which in retrospect, reading it over myself, wasn't too bad, really, but not me at my best) of a sex-starved, servant needing lady she doesn't even know to her boy, well... I can't really expect to be in her good graces.
And ultimately, the fault was mine. See, these two are new in the scene, or newer than I am, who has been around for a decade now. And the first and foremost hope of mine, was that my husband and I could introduce them around, take them to events, gain a new perspective as the inducers, not inductees. I wanted to talk ropes with someone, to chat, to get to know a couple in their own explorations and better understand ours. To make friends with another domme and talk girl-beats-boy things. (or in my case girl-beats-girl).
I knew better. I know the rules. I've lived by the rules.
And I broke the rules.
Now I worry everything I attempt will be seen as a way to get in her good books so I can top or fuck her boy. Which is hardly the case. But that is the impression I have given myself, not of a studious domme, but of a man stealer.
All but for the want of a little manners.
But I forgot rule number one.
You do not talk to the sub about topping them, you talk to their master.
Well, damn.
That little slip up may cost me a lot. A potential friendship, a potential ally. The damage may not be so bad, but first impressions are irreversible. And when said Mistress reads the randy conversation (which in retrospect, reading it over myself, wasn't too bad, really, but not me at my best) of a sex-starved, servant needing lady she doesn't even know to her boy, well... I can't really expect to be in her good graces.
And ultimately, the fault was mine. See, these two are new in the scene, or newer than I am, who has been around for a decade now. And the first and foremost hope of mine, was that my husband and I could introduce them around, take them to events, gain a new perspective as the inducers, not inductees. I wanted to talk ropes with someone, to chat, to get to know a couple in their own explorations and better understand ours. To make friends with another domme and talk girl-beats-boy things. (or in my case girl-beats-girl).
I knew better. I know the rules. I've lived by the rules.
And I broke the rules.
Now I worry everything I attempt will be seen as a way to get in her good books so I can top or fuck her boy. Which is hardly the case. But that is the impression I have given myself, not of a studious domme, but of a man stealer.
All but for the want of a little manners.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Inspirations
I was lucky enough to receive a substantial amount of money from family for a 'trip' of some sort. But the current debate in our house is whether it would be a real trip, most likely to England, or a ticket for a certain girl I know to come here, or a trip of the mind.
After all, I did mention the thoughts and dreams we were having at Northbound.
But kink can be expensive. We have our knives, our ropes, our few items here or there. Our clothes have all been outgrown or gotten rid of. The nippleclamps need to be replace, because the plastic has degraded. I need some proper CFMs and other domme gear. We'd both like to start attending fetish nights again, but while I can and have gotten away with wearing my antique military uniform (think 19th century French Army) it tends to leave people cold, and Kyle has no chaps or other such things at all now, all having vanished as he actually went from rake thin to having some meat on him.
So now we're figuring out if trip can mean exploration, and if another visit to our favorite store of leathers and latex is in order. Ideally, I have a lovely long leather coat I'd like, that would just break the bank. Practically speaking, I could make do with a nice vinyl item I saw for $300, as previously noted. But the more we eat away at that, the less likely we could bring Em here. And after all, there's not anyone else who'd see me in them, save possibly at fetish nights, and they're hit and miss enough I am reluctant to spend quite so much to get back into them with no sure return.
Luckly, I think I am inspired. A friend of mine, nameless for now, has slowly revealed his sub site. A rather intensive and odd talk today informed us both that this intellectual equal, this masterful conversationalist that the other found attractive was simply being too polite to flirt with them. On both sides. After all, he was a happy Christian, as theoretically I am as well, we were both married, and to monogamous persons. Times do change though.
I have thought that the reason Kyle and I are still together, and will probably remain together, is we always have something to talk about. This fellow does as well. Shame I don't tend to let boys talk besides "Yes Mistress..."
A trip is definatly in order, and lunch.
After all, I did mention the thoughts and dreams we were having at Northbound.
But kink can be expensive. We have our knives, our ropes, our few items here or there. Our clothes have all been outgrown or gotten rid of. The nippleclamps need to be replace, because the plastic has degraded. I need some proper CFMs and other domme gear. We'd both like to start attending fetish nights again, but while I can and have gotten away with wearing my antique military uniform (think 19th century French Army) it tends to leave people cold, and Kyle has no chaps or other such things at all now, all having vanished as he actually went from rake thin to having some meat on him.
So now we're figuring out if trip can mean exploration, and if another visit to our favorite store of leathers and latex is in order. Ideally, I have a lovely long leather coat I'd like, that would just break the bank. Practically speaking, I could make do with a nice vinyl item I saw for $300, as previously noted. But the more we eat away at that, the less likely we could bring Em here. And after all, there's not anyone else who'd see me in them, save possibly at fetish nights, and they're hit and miss enough I am reluctant to spend quite so much to get back into them with no sure return.
Luckly, I think I am inspired. A friend of mine, nameless for now, has slowly revealed his sub site. A rather intensive and odd talk today informed us both that this intellectual equal, this masterful conversationalist that the other found attractive was simply being too polite to flirt with them. On both sides. After all, he was a happy Christian, as theoretically I am as well, we were both married, and to monogamous persons. Times do change though.
I have thought that the reason Kyle and I are still together, and will probably remain together, is we always have something to talk about. This fellow does as well. Shame I don't tend to let boys talk besides "Yes Mistress..."
A trip is definatly in order, and lunch.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
I have a few...
I think it says a lot about a person when I see how they react to "hey, even though we've just been flirting for years, sleeping with me is now no longer out of the question!". At this point, only two people been informed that, neither of whom lives locally to me anymore. Arctic met the suggestion with ribald commentary vis a vis window shopping in sex shops. Skye, on the other hand was more restrained, upping our long-standing flirt a few levels in chat.
He wondered if I had a nice , flowy skirt. I noted I might need a new one, as I've lost weight. He posited the suggestion of a shopping trip. I pointed out men aren't allowed in the change rooms. He noted that sneaking in was, in fact, half the fun of him shopping with female friends.
It went on, until some comment was met with him noting "It's not like I haven't seen you naked." This gave me pause. I've had a very, very interesting past, but I'm pretty certain I can remember who I slept with, and Skye was defiantly not on the list. I asked him when was this exactly, and he reminded me of the photos.
Me at 20 was a person who'd never regret anything they did ever. I was raunchy and happy and openly sexual. And I made the amateur mistake of allowing a lover to take photos of us together. We were both artistic, so I intended to use them as reference myself as well, though I never ended up with copies. Some time later, we gently parted ways, and I didn't think anymore of them.
Until about a year later, when Skye gently approached me and noted he had a CD of art, from this man and others, and in one of the directories were the photos of me. I was annoyed more than anything, but I considered it a reasonable mistake. After all, if you did a batch copy of everything, your porn, your art, and gave it to friends, yes, I could see the photos getting there. Skye kindly pointed out the person who had the disks, and extended his sympathies to me. Many were out already, though at least apparently no more were to go around with those photos, at least after he met the anonymous person from them. But he was under the worrisome impression that I was allowing the photos to be shared.
Nothing to be done. I tried not to let it worry me. And I forgot about it, for another year. I'd had a falling out with the former lover after he found out I was getting married and that ment no, no more casual sex, no. But I didn't think anything really bad could come of that until I came back from my honeymoon.
The photos had been on the internet. They had been forwarded to all my mailing lists and newsgroups by someone posing as myself, the day after the wedding, claiming to be from my honeymoon. The lover was suspiciously cropped out of them. I was gone for two weeks, and had my best woman not been on the ball, doing damage control, they would have been there when I got back, but she managed to get the host to pull them after a day.
The damage to my reputation was done. I had kept a careful balancing act between professional art friends who saw me as an artist who did children's books, and lovers and similar who knew about all the adult work I did as well. This was a scattershot across all the groups that might know me, and many people who'd known me for years never really trusted or talked to me much after the incident. I buried my head in the sand. I left the various forums and groups, and hid for over 2 years. I didn't speak to all but a few friends from that time. Skye was a friend from before, but he was dropped like all the others.
Unfortunately, I could never prove anything, but the person had to have the photos, know about my wedding date, and my new name. Only a select few on a mailing list I was on, a local one, knew the last two. I could never prove anything. But I soured me, and soured me on the friends I had that couldn't believe someone would be so petty and bitter to do this.
One smart cookie years later pointed out it was essentially a sexual assault, though I was never touched. It seems to fit my reaction. It was the thing that turned me off of lovers, polyamoury, trusting my body and mind with anyone else for a very long time.
I can't say I won't make mistakes now, but I'd like to think I've learned from then. At the very least, I'd like to think I've learned to select my partners wisely.
You can't get much better than the man, 7 years back, who was gentleman enough to tell me about the photos in the first place, who overlooked his own comfort (hey, admitting you have a disc full of porn to a lady you like can't be easy!) and thought of my own first. I'm sorry I dropped him out of my life with other deserving folks. I have a few regrets, but I don't think he's going to be one of them.
He wondered if I had a nice , flowy skirt. I noted I might need a new one, as I've lost weight. He posited the suggestion of a shopping trip. I pointed out men aren't allowed in the change rooms. He noted that sneaking in was, in fact, half the fun of him shopping with female friends.
It went on, until some comment was met with him noting "It's not like I haven't seen you naked." This gave me pause. I've had a very, very interesting past, but I'm pretty certain I can remember who I slept with, and Skye was defiantly not on the list. I asked him when was this exactly, and he reminded me of the photos.
Me at 20 was a person who'd never regret anything they did ever. I was raunchy and happy and openly sexual. And I made the amateur mistake of allowing a lover to take photos of us together. We were both artistic, so I intended to use them as reference myself as well, though I never ended up with copies. Some time later, we gently parted ways, and I didn't think anymore of them.
Until about a year later, when Skye gently approached me and noted he had a CD of art, from this man and others, and in one of the directories were the photos of me. I was annoyed more than anything, but I considered it a reasonable mistake. After all, if you did a batch copy of everything, your porn, your art, and gave it to friends, yes, I could see the photos getting there. Skye kindly pointed out the person who had the disks, and extended his sympathies to me. Many were out already, though at least apparently no more were to go around with those photos, at least after he met the anonymous person from them. But he was under the worrisome impression that I was allowing the photos to be shared.
Nothing to be done. I tried not to let it worry me. And I forgot about it, for another year. I'd had a falling out with the former lover after he found out I was getting married and that ment no, no more casual sex, no. But I didn't think anything really bad could come of that until I came back from my honeymoon.
The photos had been on the internet. They had been forwarded to all my mailing lists and newsgroups by someone posing as myself, the day after the wedding, claiming to be from my honeymoon. The lover was suspiciously cropped out of them. I was gone for two weeks, and had my best woman not been on the ball, doing damage control, they would have been there when I got back, but she managed to get the host to pull them after a day.
The damage to my reputation was done. I had kept a careful balancing act between professional art friends who saw me as an artist who did children's books, and lovers and similar who knew about all the adult work I did as well. This was a scattershot across all the groups that might know me, and many people who'd known me for years never really trusted or talked to me much after the incident. I buried my head in the sand. I left the various forums and groups, and hid for over 2 years. I didn't speak to all but a few friends from that time. Skye was a friend from before, but he was dropped like all the others.
Unfortunately, I could never prove anything, but the person had to have the photos, know about my wedding date, and my new name. Only a select few on a mailing list I was on, a local one, knew the last two. I could never prove anything. But I soured me, and soured me on the friends I had that couldn't believe someone would be so petty and bitter to do this.
One smart cookie years later pointed out it was essentially a sexual assault, though I was never touched. It seems to fit my reaction. It was the thing that turned me off of lovers, polyamoury, trusting my body and mind with anyone else for a very long time.
I can't say I won't make mistakes now, but I'd like to think I've learned from then. At the very least, I'd like to think I've learned to select my partners wisely.
You can't get much better than the man, 7 years back, who was gentleman enough to tell me about the photos in the first place, who overlooked his own comfort (hey, admitting you have a disc full of porn to a lady you like can't be easy!) and thought of my own first. I'm sorry I dropped him out of my life with other deserving folks. I have a few regrets, but I don't think he's going to be one of them.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Birthday wishes
"No sex for a month!"
Kyle looks bemused by this. I'm simply annoyed.
"They don't tell you that until they get the bar in." I'm griping. My birthday present to myself was going to be a triangle piecing, but the piercer and I went through my anatomy (totally inadequate) and decided a vertical hood bar was best. The whole procedure was quick, though hardly painless, and much better than my last attempt 10 years back, where I was told in no uncertain terms to get the fuck out of there if I was anything less than perfectly comfortable with the needle by some smarmy jackass with the bedside manner of Atilla the Hun. She commented on the new blue hair, my other gift for myself. I noted I had originally planned on getting this after the dye session, which ran long at 5 hours. A bit of flirting, a bit of shop talk, and I was out and signing the forms in 10 minutes. I should have done so before hand, but hey, she forgot and I was ready to go. Luckly, no regrets.
We decide since we're so early to walk a few doors down Yonge to hit Northbound. If any of you haven't been here, it's the most lovely little fetish shop in Toronto, with a very nice front full of leathers and vinyls, collars and cuffs, and an even naughtier back, where I pointed out a gorgeous human sized dog cage they got in to Kyle. Not for me, mind you, for Em.
She's a good half the reason Kyle and I decided to take the step in opening up our relationship. We'd been spending time online, me in Second Life, him in this place called Red Light Center, getting more in touch with our fetish side. In expressing my domme side, I met a lovely girl in England, and currently Kyle and I are teasing her to come visit and be our slave for the week. I know she'd quite happy spend a vacation tied up and tormented, and now the logistics are just being figured out.
"At what point in the relationship," I joked with the guy behind the counter, a cute, tattooed thing with lovely lip piercings. "Is it appropriate to send her the steel collar?" He had a chuckle, and also commented on my hair, if only to go on and on about how he used to have blue hair JUST LIKE that, but it washed out all the time and he had to redye it every week, and it ended up being dry as straw.
Thanks. I asked who owned him so I could register a complaint. Another laugh. It's so nice to talk to people who you can just be yourself with again. We discussed cute, stupid boys who look better with cocks in their mouths, and I mentioned the naivety of the ones I'd met in my old porn job around women. That brought back memories. It was only a few blocks down.
Kyle points me to a lovely coat at $300, then teases me by reminding me we've already spent $200 in hair and piercings. A fetish ball is mentioned, we note it down, and we're heading out through the back. I pause at the table of business postcards, hovering over one for OntarioCouples.com.
"Why not grab that too?"
I forgot, I don't have to pretend I'm not interested in that anymore. We pick it up, and another for a fetish forum, and exit. Kyle leans over and notes:
"You know, I was just thinking how you could get your military uniform redone here in leather."
"Oh man, sweetie... but that'd be a few thousand dollars!"
"I know..."
"... might be well worth the effort.. with leather pants and everything?"
"Why not?"
*twinge*
"Owww! Dammit... no sex for a month AND I'm going to hurt getting aroused? This better be worth it."
He laughs. What a birthday.
Kyle looks bemused by this. I'm simply annoyed.
"They don't tell you that until they get the bar in." I'm griping. My birthday present to myself was going to be a triangle piecing, but the piercer and I went through my anatomy (totally inadequate) and decided a vertical hood bar was best. The whole procedure was quick, though hardly painless, and much better than my last attempt 10 years back, where I was told in no uncertain terms to get the fuck out of there if I was anything less than perfectly comfortable with the needle by some smarmy jackass with the bedside manner of Atilla the Hun. She commented on the new blue hair, my other gift for myself. I noted I had originally planned on getting this after the dye session, which ran long at 5 hours. A bit of flirting, a bit of shop talk, and I was out and signing the forms in 10 minutes. I should have done so before hand, but hey, she forgot and I was ready to go. Luckly, no regrets.
We decide since we're so early to walk a few doors down Yonge to hit Northbound. If any of you haven't been here, it's the most lovely little fetish shop in Toronto, with a very nice front full of leathers and vinyls, collars and cuffs, and an even naughtier back, where I pointed out a gorgeous human sized dog cage they got in to Kyle. Not for me, mind you, for Em.
She's a good half the reason Kyle and I decided to take the step in opening up our relationship. We'd been spending time online, me in Second Life, him in this place called Red Light Center, getting more in touch with our fetish side. In expressing my domme side, I met a lovely girl in England, and currently Kyle and I are teasing her to come visit and be our slave for the week. I know she'd quite happy spend a vacation tied up and tormented, and now the logistics are just being figured out.
"At what point in the relationship," I joked with the guy behind the counter, a cute, tattooed thing with lovely lip piercings. "Is it appropriate to send her the steel collar?" He had a chuckle, and also commented on my hair, if only to go on and on about how he used to have blue hair JUST LIKE that, but it washed out all the time and he had to redye it every week, and it ended up being dry as straw.
Thanks. I asked who owned him so I could register a complaint. Another laugh. It's so nice to talk to people who you can just be yourself with again. We discussed cute, stupid boys who look better with cocks in their mouths, and I mentioned the naivety of the ones I'd met in my old porn job around women. That brought back memories. It was only a few blocks down.
Kyle points me to a lovely coat at $300, then teases me by reminding me we've already spent $200 in hair and piercings. A fetish ball is mentioned, we note it down, and we're heading out through the back. I pause at the table of business postcards, hovering over one for OntarioCouples.com.
"Why not grab that too?"
I forgot, I don't have to pretend I'm not interested in that anymore. We pick it up, and another for a fetish forum, and exit. Kyle leans over and notes:
"You know, I was just thinking how you could get your military uniform redone here in leather."
"Oh man, sweetie... but that'd be a few thousand dollars!"
"I know..."
"... might be well worth the effort.. with leather pants and everything?"
"Why not?"
*twinge*
"Owww! Dammit... no sex for a month AND I'm going to hurt getting aroused? This better be worth it."
He laughs. What a birthday.
In the beginning, there was curiosity
It all started with an image search, something kinky that I needed to draw.
Actually, it started long before that.
Marriage didn't sit well with me. Well, it did, but monogamy was hitting me hard. In the bad old days of my youth, a mere 7 years ago, I used to hold court over many suitors, fucktoys and friends with benefits. But caught up in love, my husband and I abandoned all that.
It's ironic really, I met him as a kinky dom, a swinger, and a lover of polyamoury, but the circumstances of his final relationship before me burned him so completely on the lifestyle, we decided we were going to be normal. A couple, and just a couple, living a simple life.
It was hard. Not at first, but it got hard. He wasn't happy, really, nor was I. We couldn't say why. But through the joys of the online world, recently we began re exploring our sexuality away from each other, through chats, first hidden, then open.
He found he didn't like being fully in charge, to direct but not to lead, and needed a Mistress over him, something I still cannot provide. I found I was really a domme myself, a natural flair for direction and command, something that should have been obvious from my years of managing the boytoys I did. I also got to explore my love of women, safely, where rejection was much easier to take and strangely never came. I talk a good talk, apparently.
But we never dared say.. "What if I meet this person from online.. is that okay?"
It was an image search that did it for me. A beautiful blog, full of lust and passion, reminding me of how much we were missing, and empahsizing that it could be fun, Reminding us it was the people we had been with who sucked the life out of it, not the activities we were doing. Find the right playmates, and why not have fun again.
I have a tattoo that says fearless on my chest, nestled between my breasts, an obvious and broad statement. I got it to remind me to live brave, live bold.
I asked my husband... why can't we be like that blog, again. If the "what if" happens, are we strong, secure, in love enough to let it?
Yes.
We're living fearless now, off the map, in the wilds. Back in the jungle, out of the tamed world of regular life.
I love it.
Actually, it started long before that.
Marriage didn't sit well with me. Well, it did, but monogamy was hitting me hard. In the bad old days of my youth, a mere 7 years ago, I used to hold court over many suitors, fucktoys and friends with benefits. But caught up in love, my husband and I abandoned all that.
It's ironic really, I met him as a kinky dom, a swinger, and a lover of polyamoury, but the circumstances of his final relationship before me burned him so completely on the lifestyle, we decided we were going to be normal. A couple, and just a couple, living a simple life.
It was hard. Not at first, but it got hard. He wasn't happy, really, nor was I. We couldn't say why. But through the joys of the online world, recently we began re exploring our sexuality away from each other, through chats, first hidden, then open.
He found he didn't like being fully in charge, to direct but not to lead, and needed a Mistress over him, something I still cannot provide. I found I was really a domme myself, a natural flair for direction and command, something that should have been obvious from my years of managing the boytoys I did. I also got to explore my love of women, safely, where rejection was much easier to take and strangely never came. I talk a good talk, apparently.
But we never dared say.. "What if I meet this person from online.. is that okay?"
It was an image search that did it for me. A beautiful blog, full of lust and passion, reminding me of how much we were missing, and empahsizing that it could be fun, Reminding us it was the people we had been with who sucked the life out of it, not the activities we were doing. Find the right playmates, and why not have fun again.
I have a tattoo that says fearless on my chest, nestled between my breasts, an obvious and broad statement. I got it to remind me to live brave, live bold.
I asked my husband... why can't we be like that blog, again. If the "what if" happens, are we strong, secure, in love enough to let it?
Yes.
We're living fearless now, off the map, in the wilds. Back in the jungle, out of the tamed world of regular life.
I love it.
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