From various places on the Internetzwebs.  And if you have an objection to any of it, just remember: “Quiet or Papa Spank!!”

Everything is fine–ticking along.  My real life is just excellent–healthier (thank you, gym), more literate (thank you, Kindle), happier (thank you, Robbie), and wealthier (thanks to my employers) than it has been in a long time.  I should thank my mother while I’m at it, but then again, I’ve always planned to thank her in any and every awards speech.

So, the blog has been quiet because I’ve been focusing on other stuff lately–hobbies and work and friends and so on.  I’m planting a micro-garden in the back, and I’ve been cooking more, and I’ve even occasionally cleaned my apartment.  I’ve been reading up on the environment, and thinking of writing more about those topics.  In fact, I’m doing that annoying blogger thing of wondering if I should start a new blog, or several new blogs, or perhaps dozens of them, as places to write about my non-kink interests.

Fortunately, I don’t have to make the decision right this second, because I still have a few kinky interests.  Since Robbie has been visiting me more often where I live, I’ve been trying to beef up the toy collection here.  (His is already dramatic.)  I just received, after weeks of obsessive-compulsive debate about design, a custom-made flogger from MauiKink.  I haven’t used it yet, so I’m not really in position to give them all of the positive press they almost certainly deserve.  But I can show a little leg.

Here’s my new flogger, photo courtesy of those great MauiKink folks:

I’ve also got a matching bamboo cane with a handle in the same burgundy suede.  Together, the pair look really stunning.

Of course, after I got the pieces and admired them, I started to have buyer’s remorse (which is a good sign–I’ve had it about all of my favorite purchases.)  I told Robbie I wasn’t sure either implement was enough to really hurt someone.  He just laughed at me and said he was pretty sure he could make them sting.  I said that I was the one who was going to be wielding these–they’re partly to use for when I switch–and that I definitely was not strong enough to make them really ouchie.  He just laughed again.  I think he’ll tease the closet sadist in me out eventually, whether I want him to or not.

So I really thought I had something more to add to this post, but then I got distracted.  I’m telling you, this writing thing is hard when you haven’t done it in awhile.  I’m retiring with a glass of red wine, a Sandra Bullock movie, and some chocolate to revive myself after the strain of writing this.  Perhaps after a couple more months of that kind of indulgence, I’ll be ready to post again.

Filed under: Blogs, Switch, Toys ]]> http://seraglioletters.wordpress.com/2010/06/03/the-ouch/feed/ 6 seraglioletters Burgundy Custom Flogger http://seraglioletters.wordpress.com/2010/04/08/place-holder/ http://seraglioletters.wordpress.com/2010/04/08/place-holder/#comments Thu, 08 Apr 2010 22:52:04 +0000 seraglioletters http://seraglioletters.wordpress.com/?p=1763 ]]> For all of you who asked: the threesome was wonderful.  Just a quick post to say that it was while I try to write about all that was juicy about it.

In the meantime, here’s a little souvenir from the event itself.  Thanks to kinkerbelle, whose fine example inspired me, and to Daddy, who did just what he promised.

By the way, Frank was not a fan of this picture.  He thought the teeth looked a little threatening.  I like it, though, because I look–and was–so very happy.  On top of that, I think “try it and see” is a pretty good motto for the agreements Robbie and I have come to about our kink.  We keep learning, one forbidden encounter at a time.

When I wrote the other day that Robbie had set up a first-rate mindfuck, I was right.  When we last I reported in here, I was dressed as a very slutty French maid, waiting for unknown perverts to arrive, on the edge of my seat with apprehension.  And when the guest did turn up–well, he turned out to be the very person I’d suggested to Robbie as an appropriate invitee, a sweet, charming, very Irish and very gregarious dominant named Frank that we’ve known for years.  We’d never played with him before, but he’s been an avuncular and supportive force in our joint kink for so long that I couldn’t help but feel comfortable when I saw him.

We settled down to drink and talk, and we were all having such a good time laughing, chatting, and exchanging stories that before we knew it, we were 90 minutes and four drinks into the evening.  I’d had some kisses, nipple tweaks, and light spanks from Frank, and lots of appreciative and pleasantly possessive affection and perversion from Robbie.   Robbie was, he told me later, rather torn at that point in the evening, because while it seemed the perfect time for me to begin the blowjobs as advertised, it was also, most definitely, time for dinner.  Prompted by my whines and complaints, Robbie lit the grill and I finished dressing the salad so we could all get something more solid than gin and tonics in our bellies.

Just then, Frank got decisively and remarkably ill.

Poor Frank.  I take it that he is now rather mortified by his queasy stomach, although as I pointed out to Robbie, this is far from the first time a threesome we’ve arranged has ended in someone losing his or her lunch.  (That’s another story for another time.)   Robbie was as perfect in this slightly awkward situation as he always is in any emergency–he managed to take care of Frank and cook dinner in about 15 minutes, and he and I ended up having a very romantic and delicious meal while Frank took a restorative nap.  Soon enough, Frank was feeling well enough to eat dinner himself, and, after borrowing a toothbrush, was, according to Robbie, more than a little frisky.

By this point, though, it was pushing 10:30, and I’d been on tenterhooks for at least eight hours.  I was exhausted, and so I went to bed.  Frank declined an offer to sleep on our couch, and drove home after he felt able to do so safely.  And Robbie came to bed with a raging hardon, asking me what he should do with it.  Apparently, I told him sleepily to “stick it in my mouth or my cunt”; he did both, in that order, and then we both faded into dreams.

The next morning, we talked about what had been good and bad about the evening, and processed it all.  It was a comfortable conversation.  But then Robbie told me that Frank was free on Friday afternoon, and I blanched.  I didn’t want to go through another afternoon of dressing to the nines, sitting on pins and needles, greeting our friend and making small talk, all in order to get to that emotional and psychological alignment we were at when things went adrift.

So I said I’d think about it.  And a few minutes later, I came back to Robbie and I told him I’d agree to another attempted threesome on one condition: I had to be blindfolded, brutalized, and objectified.  No more Mr. Nice Guy.

I’m fully aware that my desire for intensity and discomfort is related to my nervousness, and to how unsure I am about whether this kind of play is something I want to do in future.  I want to be made to be with these two affectionate, handsome, and highly sexual men.  That’s okay with me; I’m glad I’m aware of my own emotional landscape in this.  As I’ve told Robbie in the past, if I’m going to be led down his primrose bath, I want to be at least in part the agent of my own corruption.  So I am both sick and aroused at the afternoon of degradation and humiliation I’ve requested, which is due to start in an hour. 

And I will report back.  I don’t expect that things will be as chaste as the last time, but if they are, that’s also fine.  One of the best things about what happened with Frank is that Robbie and I realized that in the end, the best thing about playing with other folks is the care that goes into it.  Or, as Robbie said, “Take care of the people and the sex will take care of itself.”  That seems a good motto to me.

Photography: the PINKbook, by thyl, via ponyXpress.

I can now inform you with a high degree of confidence that, should you ever desire to type a letter or essay while wearing black satin opera gloves, you will find it far easier than you expected.

I’m sitting at Robbie’s computer dressed in a black fishnet bodystocking, black crinoline, sheer black panties, black waist cincher, black opera gloves, black shoes, and a white cotton apron with eyelet lace.  This is my French maid outfit.

I’m waiting–and apparently I have at least half an hour left to lounge–for some unknown friends of Robbie’s (and mine?) to appear.  I’m going to silently serve them drinks–and quite probably blowjobs.  I might put on a burlesque performance.  We may have dinner–or not.   Actually, I know far less about what’s going on than I thought I did a couple of hours ago.  The afternoon is turning out to be a first-rate mindfuck.  All I know is that Robbie is planning to serve me up to his friends as a metaphorical appetizer, and if I weren’t so terribly sick to my stomach and kitten-style-nervous, I’d think this was unimaginably hot.  I’m hoping that tomorrow, after it’s all happened (or failed to happen), I will find it just as scorchingly arousing.

The current predicament (because that’s how I think of my situation) came about this way: During the time we were apart engaging in wild sexual adventures, I attended Dark Odyssey’s Winter Fire.  I contracted to provide drinks and blowjobs for a lovely friend (and his guests) on the first evening of the event.  The drinks-and-blowjobs thing has, however, been a long-time fantasy of Robbie’s.  And though I felt a large quantum of regret, when broken up with Robbie, at not being able to provide my first b-and-b service for him, I didn’t anticipate that, after we reunited, Robbie would feel more than a little hurt that I’d been able to do for and with someone else what he and I had spent so long discussing and salivating over.  (Figuratively.)

In discussions about what we were going to do about polyamory and all the lovely friends we’d made, independently, over the last few months, Robbie explained that he’d really like me to do my maid routine–for him.  And so here I am, waiting to see what he’s designed for me.  He keeps reminding me that he is in control.  I’ve asked him to demonstrate it to me before I have to put my mouth on anyone’s cock, just to get my mind wrapped around my task. 

Our guests are late.  Robbie is trying to squeeze a quick shower in before they arrive.  My stomach hurts more than when I started to type.  But I feel, far more than when I began to shoehorn a post into this most improbable of afternoons, the weight and heft and love involved in what I’ve volunteered to do.  And the ownership.  And that is a particularly nice place to be.

Illustration by Riu Ricardo–more sexy examples here.

So I’m not going to explain this right now or give lots of annoying chronology, but–surprise, surprise–I’m back at Robbie’s.  In retrospect, it seems to both of us that even trying to be apart was really stupid.  I’ve been here for two weeks and am planning to stay one more; this will be about the longest we’ve ever spent together.  Our fights have nearly evaporated.  We’ve come to agreements about how to resolve differences about distance, D/s, playing with other people, and kids.  And we are having a hell of a fun, kinky, loving time.  It’s all black-picket-fence domestic bliss here.  He cooks dinner and makes me eat with bared breasts; I black his boots and clean the cage he’s planning to put me.  We are in luv. 

There’s lots more to tell.  The seven or eight weeks we spent apart were good for both of us, in their own way.  We each had wild sexual adventures, time to think about what mattered to us, new realizations, and–did I mention?–wild sexual adventures.  I want to write about all of that, and about our current play. 

Right now, though, I have to get back to things like boot-blacking, so I’ll just give a taste of what’s happening here.  Below is the list Robbie made of all the pervy things we wanted to do during this visit.  The items that are crossed off are things we’ve already done–but as you can see, there is plenty more to do.  I can’t wait.

Things to Do – March . . . Visit

talk, resolve

love, understand, accept

rope                                        take down       

cage                                        rope

swing                                     outdoors

switch again?                    medical

cellars                                          etc. . . .

photo                                      needles again?

Beat Week                            hogtie

wax                                           burlesque

knife play                             fisting

breath control                   figging

rope                                          cell popping

clips and clamps

    etc. . . .

Illustration from concept boards for the TV show “The Ex List” by Chris Carboni, who also makes wonderful short films.

First, the warm fuzzy.  Shay (of the s spot) tweeted a link to this really adorable list of the 15 Things You Should Know About Breasts.  It’s a quality list–I only knew 1.5 of the items on it.  For instance, I definitely did not know that “the average female nipple is 3/8″ long when erect.  Slightly taller than 5 stacked quarters.”

Breast graphics by Jason Powers.

Second, the squickily disturbing.  TBK posted two days ago about a porn clip with major editing problems.  The young starlet in it who was fucking and sucking two cocks would stop every few moments to complain about how much pain she was in–and every time she fell “out of character”, the cameras kept rolling.  If all (a significant proportion? any?) porn is like this, then I feel dirty retroactively for all the women I’ve watched fake their enjoyment of sex.

Third, the simply hot.  TroyOrleans is up to her many badass dominatrix tricks, my favorite of which is her use of MEO’s Silentium Tongue Gag.  No matter how many times I see this thing, it still makes me drool with desire.  (Get it?  Drool?  Gag? . . . )

Enjoy the fruits of others’ labors.

I had a fabulous party this weekend, which made me happy.  I’ve finally started to gather a group of friends–some kinky, some not, but all really brilliant and funny.  There were ten of us drinking wine and snacking on a huge, smelly, runny cheese until long past when the party was supposed to end.  And, in the universal sign of a party gone crazy, there were  broken glasses.  (I prefer going Greek and just busting them all, but my chaotic side had to be satisfied with two accidental breakages.)

So this morning I woke up and was traipsing around my house in a robe before plopping myself on the couch, where I had the following thought: “Oh weird, I just stepped on a dried cranberry.”  God’s honest truth, that’s the sentence that crossed my mind as I finally notice that a minute before, I’d stepped on a glass sliver which iwas now in the process of causing a very pretty, cranberry colored drop of blood to pool on the bottom of my big toe.  After a minute of admiring it, I plucked it out, cleaned up my toe, and pondered, not for the first time, that attempting to deny I’m a masochist is really a losing battle.