August 2009


If, in my fantasies, I live in a seraglio, a shuttered little jewel of a house filled with books, objets d’art, cushions, sinuous women, perfumes, rouge, and large baths, Robbie’s alter ego almost certainly inhabits a lair.  On the floor there are coins and precious metals, jewels (for tempting sheltered young ladies?); on the walls glitter torches and instruments of torment; the place is labyrinthine.  He can plot and plan there, as I can dream and dawdle in my place.

And just as I write him letters, he writes to me.  An email from Robbie this morning turned me on so much—he got under my skin so precisely, with just the exact mixture of objectification and love—that I can’t think of any better way to show him how much I appreciate it than to share it.  And—well—to show him off a little.

He wrote:

cheapblowjobs_kinkerbelle

Gifted Sera,

I recall that this is a long-time, long, long time original fantasy of yours that we have discussed on more than one very hot occasion (and, early on, been close to being on the brink of once or twice). It seems to be largely the objectification, partly the service and usage, partly the multiple cocks that excite you so much.*

It is obviously a very hot fantasy for us both.**

Getting to a suitably excited, willing and safe and trusting place is the part to work out, one day in the seamy, sexy, slutty everything-you-ever-wanted future that we both say we want and can foresee.

I have lots of fantasies like that–you serving drinks dressed like an exhibitionist slut maid, putting various signs on you for public display or our private pictures, kneeling with a bag as a semen receptacle like in the above picture, glory holes, etcetera–delicious someday corruptions plotted and enjoyed together.

My signage for the blowjob queen bag would, however,  likely be somewhat different.

Something like:

World’s  very best  blowjobs.

Try it and see.

Exclusive offer. Satisfaction guaranteed.

See owner for handling instructions.

And I do think that you are that good. And more.

Love and lust and fantasies galore,

~ R

I keep reading the sign for the bag, and smiling.  That’s exactly what I’d want it to say.  As long as you’ve learned basic instructions for using the toy, you can certainly playing with it for a few minutes.

And I’m curious–if this is your type of thing, what would you want your label (or your lover’s label) to say?

* * *

Note: the above photograph is not a picture of me.  The tempting slut depicted is the lovely and deeply twisted kinkerbelle.  Were I half as brave as she . . . well, I might cum just from thinking about what my life would be like if I were half as brave as she is.

I’m borrowing the picture—and if kink prefers, I’ll happily give it up—because Robbie has seen it and has drawn considerable inspiration from it on multiple occasions, as you can tell from his letter.

* Actually, me + multiple cocks excites him so much.  One is enough, two my limit.

.** Poor man I have hounded him for years, explaining that many things that are hot for me in fantasy terrify me when it comes to living them.  He’s clearly taken that comment to heart.

mclintock

“You’re my hero,” I said to Robbie, gazing over at his sweat-glazed face.

“Why?” he said.

“Because you’re driving 5 hours each way so I can catch my flight home even though you have strep throat.” That was pretty much it. We’re still working out the logistics of my new home, including trying to figure out new transportation routes from here to there. Apparently, I thought a certain airport was way closer to his house than it actually was.

“Oh, that,” Robbie said glumly. The only time I’ve ever seen him sick is when he has strep, and then he’s sick as a dog. “Well, I don’t know about that, but when I say I’m gonna do something, I do it.”

He looked so serious, and seriously old-fashioned, I burst into (gentle) laughter. “Okay, Duke,” I said.

“What? Dupe?”

“No, Duke. You sound like John Wayne.”

“Oh yeah. Duke.” And he did a dead-on imitation of Wayne. “My favorite are the spanking movies.”

“John Wayne made spanking movies?”

“Yeah, three of ’em. One of ’em was him spanking a schoolteacher.”

“Katherine Hepburn?!?!” I asked, shocked, thinking of Rooster Cogburn.

“No, not her. Anyway. They’re pretty funny.”

“Yeah, it’s funny how open they were about that stuff in the 50s.”

Now, I don’t share a lot of submissives’ 1950s nostalgia; I don’t have a 50s fixation, for all kinds of reasons including primarily my college immersion in feminism.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara as much as the next girl . . .

I made a mental note to look them–and all the other spanking movies–up. Here’s a list for you.

{Oops.  Wordpress deleted my list when I went to save the post.  I’m away for a few days, but I’ll put the list and the links in when I’m back!}

Bubbles

After I wrote my ever-so-totally-hysterical post of yesterday, Robbie and I sat down to talk about stuff between us, especially sex.  It was a good, careful, thoughtful conversation.  I managed to explain that it’s not that I don’t want to fuck him; it’s that I’m having some kind of female-impotence equivalent.  (I’m sure there are more medically acceptable ways to say this, like, “a decrease in desire,” but oh well.) 

After the conversation, we walked down to his barn.  He grabbed a cat litter bucket (which are darn handy around a garden), pulled me into the barn’s dark, dank, dungeon-y basement, and plopped me down on the inverted bucket, which made a makeshift stool.  He unzipped his fly and had me suck him off, giving me instructions about pace and approach, which he’s been doing a lot lately (and which I find both helpful and hot).  He came quickly, a few days’ desire pent up inside him, and instead of swallowing his semen as quickly as I can, which I usually do, I held it in my mouth, liking tasting and feeling the volume of his desire. 

So when he bent down to kiss me after he’d extracted himself from my throat, as he invariably does, I impishly flashed him a mouthful of cum instead of proferring him my lips.  He came within an inch of being snowballed.  “Eeew!” he yelled at the last second, rearing his head back just in time.  We both broke up laughing so hard.  (By the way, he’s not super-squeamish, but I totally surprised him.  Since he is the king of effective practical jokes, I was pleased.)

Then last night, we got dressed up and went to a munch with the folks in our local scene, whom I like more and more.  I don’t like munches that much, though, and was dreading things, but we had a great time, drinking beer on the patio of a summery restaurant, listening to live music, flashing our tits, etc.  (Okay, well, I was the only one flashing my tits, but still.)  It was warm and snuggly and loving and good.

Another good talk today and things are feeling fine.  I’d say and write more, but I have a date to go get fisted, right now.  Happy Saturday night . . .

Fist

Fun faux-polaroids from The Polaroid Freak Team.

R. and I have spent the last almost-two-weeks together, and most of it has been wonderful. We have been talking about things we have avoided for years, we have been working out ways to be together long-term, and we have had wonderful, happy days of travel and exploring.

Until about Monday, when everything started to feel wrong. We started fighting again . . . ugh, and I don’t even know about what.  We’re working on not fighting when we talk about serious stuff, but lots of times I think, why is stuff between us such hard work?  If it were right, it wouldn’t be nearly this hard.

As bad as that is the feeling, which has been around for a couple of months, that something in our BDSM is broken. My sex drive is at its lowest ebb in years and I don’t know why. (Yes, I know I need to talk to my doctor.) Meanwhile, because of all kinds of criticisms I’ve launched at Robbie, he’s feeling his confidence as a dominant at a massive low ebb. And on top of that, I can’t figure out what I want out of submission anymore, or even if I want to submit.

I just kind of don’t feel like having sex, for like, a year.

This is really unpleasant.

Sorry for such a downer entry. There are lots more good things going on but we had such a bummer of a non-successful fuck last night, and I just feel like poo. About 20 minutes into foreplay, Robbie said, “It seems like every time I do something, your response is discouraging.” I said, “That’s probably because I don’t really want to have sex.” He said, “That’s really sad and sad-making.”

And then he said, “But of course, you could still fulfill your promise.” (This is a tenant of our D/s. I once promised to give him head whenever he wanted. He promised to do the same to me, but since I don’t like it as much as he does and he’s the Dom, it basically means that he gets blow jobs whenever he wants.)  I was happy to comply, and soon enough he was rock hard and ready to fuck me, which he did, and it was exciting too, because he was saying things like, “I just want to you to feel my cock inside you, I want to fuck you and have you feel how much I want to fuck you.”  (I can’t remember the exact words, but it was kind of a “I’m so hot for you I want to (almost) rape you” sentiment, which was  super hot.)

And then his erection disappeared and he wailed, “This time it’s me!”, and I rubbed his back for a while (which is kind of our aftercare) and he said, after some time, “You know, this is so fucked.” 

I feel sure we can get through the sex stuff with the right attitude and some patience, but fuck if it’s not totally depressing.  Especially because I’m not sure what the right attitude in this case is.