December 2009

Robbie and I did not get to spend Christmas together, which was, all in all, a royal bummer.  I have thought for a long time that it just would not be right to spend Christmas away from my family.  And this year–which was the best family Christmas in a long time–I felt as though there was no need for me to be with them at all.  I probably feel this way because I’ve moved back to my home town, and so get to see my parents far more often than I do Robbie, while for the past three Christmases, I’ve seen much more of him during the year than I have of those genetically closest to me.  In any case, whatever we do in future, we are spending this New Year’s together.  I’m at his place now, and he has been eager to get me up here so he can experiment on me.

Robbie has spent much of the last six months building all sorts of totally perverted devices, and investing in all kinds of contraptions and kits for edge play.  This is almost entirely my fault.  Sometime last summer I pointed out to him that we had gotten into a rut, sexually speaking.  With a flippancy and a tendency toward hyperbole that I think of as part of my sense of humor and Robbie thinks of as fucking annoying, I told him that our pattern had two steps: “You beat me and then I blow you.”

This wounded Robbie, as he actually is a creative and sensitive lover who wants me to enjoy myself while he hurts me–I think.  And as much as he likes the fact that I can, on occasion, orgasm from a beating or from providing oral sex, I think he got the message that those weren’t everyday occurrences, and a little more direct stimulation might be needed.

So, between last summer and now, he has made, acquired, or refitted:

  • materials for play piercings
  • a cell-popping kit
  • sisal rope
  • cotton rope that he hand-dyed black (take that, Twisted Monk)
  • a fuckzall (made from attaching a saw to this thing and then to a dildo)
  • a bouncy-ball that the fuckzall dildo attaches to, so I can bounce-fuck myself
  • a five-foot bamboo fuck-pole, to which he can attach (of course) a dildo for Hogtied-style action
  • a special punishment stool (part of a longterm fantasy of mine), with dildo attachments
  • a French maid outfit that I’m to wear to tonight’s New Year’s Eve pahtee
  • a sexy black duvet cover and sheets, just ‘coz; black boots; black leather pants (ohmyhot); tight black t-shirts; hot black boxers; undoubtedly more . . .
  • mysterious pumping contraptions (hinted at, but as yet unseen-by-me)
  • a CD-player for his bedroom, with scene music, to block out the noise of beating and moaning from the people who share his house
  • various clips, clamps, and other pieces of shiny metal he can attach to my pink bits–in one case, a pair of cleverly adapted clip-on earrings
  • a Hitachi wand, with Gonzo attachment.  I keep forgetting this on the list, because it both scares the shit out of me and intrigues me.

There are so many things that I’m certain I’ve left some off the list; I’ll have him check this twice before I hit publish.   And there are so many, now, that it’s hard to find time to play with them all.  The beating-and-blowjob pattern–to the extent it was there–was there for a reason; it was fast and didn’t take a lot of time, planning, prep, or cleanup.  We’ve always had the toys–finding the ways and will to use them is harder.  As he said last night, “You pretty much have to have a real relationship with someone just to find time for it all!”  He was only half-joking.

* * *

There’s one more thing on the list, but it’s not anything new, borrowed, or Gonzo-blue.  It’s something very, very old, something we’ve talked about for a long time, one of my very darkest fantasies.  He’s started to mention it in every email to me, and I have hopes it might happen sooner-rather-than later.  And tomorrow, I’ll tell you what it is. 

Photos by Katja Hentschel, via ponyXpress.

. . . and peace.

Work by Victor Eredel, via Fubiz.

I’ve written before about how much I love games, poker, and every type of wager.  I can’t imagine much that could make the sexy game of poker sexier.  But it’s important never to say never, and now a lovely, kinky friend of mine has designed the back of this deck of fetish-and-Mardi-Gras-themed poker cards.  She and three other artists have all chipped in to create the face cards–masked men and women in bondage or doing lovely, awful, wonderful, nasty things to each other.  Robbie and I have joked for months about how these are the real definition of stocking stuffers, and now the cards are out, just in time for the holidays.  $20 per deck, available through the Deck of Art.  I get nothing in kickbacks, but I do confess that I’m hoping for a little smooch for being such a good girl this year.  *Mwah* to the lovely tartdesweet, whose own paintings can be found on her website.

I have an urge to post about a million things, but the fastest thing I can slap up on the internet right now is a picture of me in a karada that Robbie whipped up over Thanksgiving. His rope technique is getting much better; he’s been reading and studying for a long time–before he met me, really. He very much wants to learn more, and he has all the ingredients I imagine would make a good rope top: 1) toppiness; 2) the ability to tie things–he has been using knots for practical purposes since he was a kid; 3) an OCD-type focus on learning things–he’s willing to look at a picture of someone in rope until he figures out what’s going on, whereas I look at it until I get distrac–squirrel!

What he doesn’t have is a rope bunny (at least one that’s close to hand) or a mentor. A few weeks ago, he got to go to a rope workshop, and then he got to come see his preferred bunny. The rope workshop was awesome for him–he learned a lot, got a lot of feedback on his ties, and felt, I think, like he was doing it well enough.  Certainly when he got his paws on me at Thanksgiving, I could tell the difference; he was much more confident and much faster.

Lots of our previous attempts at rope ties have been abortive, because I get so turned on by rope that I hyperventilate and get dizzy within seconds and we have to stop.  (I gather, too, that I’m not supposed to lock my knees?)  This time, he sat me down on a stool for the first part of the tie, and had me in this body harness in under 5 minutes; I was comfortable and happy the whole time, and he was talking to me and checking in.  Because I was talking to him, I didn’t spin off into loopy la-la sub-land . . . at least, not until after he got the rope on and got about 500 pictures of me.  He spent an hour or an hour and a half watching me gradually cream myself before he fucked me.  Such is the hard, hard life of a bunny.

Could someone with the merest scrap of WordPress sense take a few moments to explain to me, either in comments or via email, how to password protect a post?  I have some thoughts I really would like to get out, and perhaps publicly publish at some point, but they are refusing to even consider coming out to play without a little more privacy.

Or perhaps they are just pouting, waiting for a pretty lock, like the ones The Curious Nomad collects, at flickr and etsy.