Blowjobs


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.

(Check it out. This is actually an Oreo.)

I don’t think I’ve mentioned it here before, but I’m going to Dark Odyssey’s Winter Fire in a few weeks.  Squee. I could not be more excited.  For those who aren’t familiar with it, Dark Odyssey is “a wholly unique experience which brings together sexuality, spirituality, education, and play in a fun, supportive, non-judgmental, diverse environment where fantasy becomes reality.”  Basically, it’s a three-day sex-conference with workshops during the day and play at night.

The whole event is so well-organized that there’s a private web-page for those who are attending to post little profiles, FetLife style, to introduce themselves.  I finally got around to doing this the other day and listed myself as bisexual.  This gave me pause, and I’ve been thinking about it since.

I don’t really identify as bi.  As I mentioned, I’ve been to bed with women before; the problem isn’t that I’m not attracted to them, or that I wouldn’t consider a relationship with a woman.  The problem is political; if I identify as anything, I identify increasingly as queer because of my sexual politics.  But Robbie and I went to hear Sarah Sloane speak about polyamory earlier this year, and her quick-and-dirty take on listing yourself as “bi” v. “queer” was that, “If you’re trying to attract mostly men, put bi; if you want to date mostly women, put queer.”  I’m mostly trying to attract men, but it pisses me off that in putting “bi”, the sexist ones will think I’m going to fuck girls for their benefit.  I suppose the last thing I should think about is what the jerks I am not going to date might think . . . but that still leaves me with the question of what I actually think.


Perhaps “feel” is a better word than “think”.  Robbie and I met a woman he’s been interested in during this last visit, and I expected myself, from pictures and emails and descriptions, to be incredibly drawn to her as well.  (If you’re reading this, hi hon!)  But I wasn’t.  I just didn’t feel sexual tension there on first meet.  For awhile, I was thinking, “well, it’s just because  you really don’t feel that pull to women”.  But that’s not true either.

Today, I was thinking that I just feel drawn to some people.  It sounds like that cliche–“Oh, it’s the person, not the gender, that I love.”  But that’s not true either.  I’m not talking love.  I’m talking raw desire.  Most men I meet I have pretty much zero desire to touch, much less fuck.  So when Robbie used to tell me that he could tell that I “loved cock”, I was befuddled.  Mostly when I contemplate a new cock–and the person attached to it–my overriding thought is, “Is it going to be ugly or smell bad?”  Because I hate finding out that someone is mangled and stinky when he’s six inches from my mouth.

But every so often when contemplating that new cock and its owner, my overriding thought is, “I WANT.”  I want to tear the person apart, shove him into the nearest piece of furniture, get my hands up inside his shirt, and feel him pin my arms as payback for my enthusiasm.  This is a relatively rare feeling for me–rare in proportion to the actual numbers of men in the universe, frequent enough that I’ve managed to get laid more than the average number of times for an American woman (last time I checked the stats).  And it’s an even rarer feeling when it comes to women.  But when I find it, it’s magic.

So whatever the label is for people who get electrically turned on by some individuals in ways they can’t always predict but always enjoy–that’s what I am.

Clever photographs by Kevin Van Aelst, via Feature Shoot.

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.

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.

I’m really getting dizzy from how fast things are happening.  

Last Friday, Robbie sent me Roses.  I unintentionally capitalized that–probably because no one has ever given me roses except my best friend, who did it one Valentine’s day because I kept complaining that no one had ever given me flowers.  Even my other boyfriends stuck to carnations and things.  I was blown away.

Friday afternoon, we decided to spend the next few days together.  Robbie rearranged his whole schedule (it was a lot to arrange) so we could have four night and three days of talking, fucking, and touristing.  We had an amazing time.  It was the seventh time he visited me in three and a half years.  He’s managing two trips a year pretty steadily. 😉

Wednesday Robbie left and Thursday (as in, yesterday) I moved.  I’m still stunned by the move.  I don’t even have time to think about it because I have social events out the wazoo in my new home, and unpacking, and things like that.

And then next week Robbie’s coming to see me again.  (So that’s his last visit for the year used up.)

I should write about something kinky.  Oh yeah–he nearly had me suck him off in a museum.

I did blow him in the hotel parking lot, but we’re expert at parking lot blowjobs, so while it was thrilling, it wasn’t new.  

We did about 15 new things, which I hope to have time to describe.  Someday.

Oh, and the local Dom?  I’m still in touch with him, but R. and I decided not to play with other folks for the near term, until we got a few things straightened out.  We usually jump into bed with other people when we think things are going well for us, which immediately causes things to go not well for us, and then we rinse and repeat.  We’re trying to do things a bit more cautiously this time.  

Okay, well, um.  Yeah.  That’s the news.  I gotta go attempt to shower without a shower curtain.  Wish me luck.

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