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.


Here’s what I know about My schedule for the next two weeks:

After I write this, I’m taking a nap.

Thursday I’m free.

Friday, May 8, I have to send My best friend an e-card for her birthday and take the dog to get a bath.  I will be available in the afternoon and early evening; contact Me soon.

This weekend, May 9 and 10, I hope to go for drinks with someone who refuses to call me back, so it may turn out that I actually have time.  If you’ve been trying (and failing) to go out with Me, and can risk being stood up for someone I like better, text me.

Thursday, May 14, I’m going to go see Robbie, and he’s going to fuck me blind.  As a result, from Tuesday, May 18 to Thursday, May 20, I will only be accepting appointments to have My feet worshipped.


Over the summer in general, My plans are ill-defined and amorphous, but like everyone fabulous, I have an array of parties, events, and jaunts to resorts to keep me busy.  July weekends in particular are looking pretty iffy for me.  I can’t keep track of all of them, but you can, by consulting My calendar.

I hope that’s helpful to My legions of admirers.

Photos via Male Submission Art.

So what happened was that for a couple weeks I thought I wasn’t a pervert anymore.

And then last night, I had a dream that two men came over to this house I was staying at and told me that as soon as all the guests who were about to come over left, they were going to rape me.  And then Robbie came home.  I told him about the two terrible men.  Robbie is big and strong and capable of defending me and a small village of other people; he more than fits the bill for all my damsel-in-distress fantasies.

In my dream, after I went to Robbie for help, he reassured me it was okay.  He said he’d take care of it.  That he’d wait with me until all the guests left, and that when the two men came over, he’d take charge of the “rape”, starting with having me blow him while they watched.

I kid you not.  This was the dream.  I woke up feeling all happy and smiley, full of affection for my boyfriend for taking care of me.

So what happened was I decided I’m still a pervert for now, and I’m back.

When we were starting out with D/s, Robbie told me that the best way to “train” any creature, animal or human, was to give it positive reinforcement–but not all of the time. I expressed disbelief as well as minor outrage. (My minor outrage is like someone else’s all-out rant, by the way.)

“It’s true,” he said. “They’ve done lots of studies on it.”

I knew at the time he was right–I couldn’t say why but I knew. I think it had to do with taking things for granted. If you always get complimented on what you wear, you figure you’re owed it. Getting compliments, say, 75% percent of the time keeps you working for it, if compliments are what you crave.

So in my continuing excess surfing of teh innernet, I happened across an illuminating comment on Penny’s blog Birds Are Smart. The commentator was Helen, about whom I know nothing except that she writes quite colorful and interesting commentary several places. She said:

So, three mice, three cages. One mouse pushes a lever, gets a food pellet. Another mouse pushes the lever, gets nothing. The third mouse pushes the lever. Now this mouse, sometimes she gets a food pellet, and sometimes she doesn’t.

Which one do you think pushes the lever obsessively? That’s right, the third one. The first mouse eats until she’s not hungry, wanders off. The second mouse figures out there’s nothing going on and trots off to watch reruns of Seinfeld.

But the third mouse wants to understand. Why?

That’s the rub, isn’t it? Being the kind of beasts that want to understand, “why”?

Illustrations by Rob Bridges, via Lost At E Minor.

On one of my visits to Robbie’s this summer, we built a sex swing. Robbie is good with his hands. He took a piece of cargo netting and tied it to two beams that just happen to be lodged in the ceiling of his living room.

The cargo net was about five feet wide and seven feet long, and he suspended it from each corner by a piece of bright yellow nylon rope. I watched while Robbie lined up the ropes, looped and tied them, adjusted the height of the netting. Then he got into the swing and tested the strength of the contraption. He raised his legs in the air, against the ropes, and held his hands up, as if he were restrained hand and foot. He had the meditative, speculative, thoughtful look he gets on his face when doing anything with rope and a submissive woman.

“Okay,” he said, when he was satisfied with the swing’s setup. “Come on.” He unbuckled his shorts and pulled out his cock, motioning for me to get on hands and knees and get to work with my mouth.

After several seconds he stopped me. “Get in the swing,” he said. “Hurry up, get goin’.”

I pulled off my clothes and climbed in. I put my arms and legs up, just like he had done, arranging them as if they were cuffed and clipped to the chain we planned to substitute for the rope, eventually. The swing was amazingly comfortable—I was thrilled.

Then I watched as Robbie dropped his shorts and started to nose his fat-headed cock around my pussy.

“Wait!” I squealed in protest. “I’m not ready!” I thought back to the notable absence of foreplay–from my perspective. Any arousal I felt was a result of watching Robbie throw, drop, tie, and knot ropes—which, I admit, has a powerful effect on me.

“Not ready!” he said, but his eyes were kind and loving. “You silly goose. Is anyone fucking you? Is anyone’s cock in your cunt?”

“No . . . “ I acknowledged, as he continued to swirl his dick around my vulva in luscious circles.

“Sopping wet and she says she’s not ready,” he said, and shook his head in mock exasperation.

And as I calmed down and my muscles relaxed, welcoming him, he eased into me naturally.

“Not ready,” he grunted, as he pushed in and began to thrust. “I’ll tell you when you are ready.”

This is what I love about BDSM—the game of it. Robbie can tell me when I am ready, because he knows me better than any lover has—knows when I am hurting, aroused, scared, tender . . . he reads my body like a book, and I his. Even when his words say, “I don’t care about you one bit, you are unimportant,” his body tells me the opposite—that I am his most precious thing, that I am cherished. And the contrast fills me with a kind of awe.

Alyssa Bound, by Lochai.

Did I mention that the fun thing about playing with Robbie is that he always wins?

He wins: he never fails to surprise or titillate me. And he is never dull.

After reading my Gotcha post (at least, I assume he read it), he went on to demonstrate that he did, indeed, get me. Totally. He knows how to get my attention; he knows how to keep it.

I wrote about the poker game the woman-warrior and the dragon were playing: “A finely matched pair, don’t you think? (Or perhaps just a straight flush . . . )”

So he sent me a picture of a straight flush. (Also: two pair, and four of a kind.) I kept countering with other things–a full house, for instance–forgetting that the straight flush is of course the highest poker hand. Another win for him, or, as he put it:

After that first volley of a sexy email, we started sending increasingly obscene emails to one another. (This is normal for us: that’s what you do if you’re long-distance, right?) And we kept raising the stakes of the kink we were discussing, with him sending me more intense and edgier images and scenarios, and me “earning” further emails by describing how I want him to defile me; begging for it. (He so loves that.)

This kind of e-fucking-frenzy strikes us often when we are apart; we will raise and raise each other, visually and verbally, until, all of a sudden, the stakes get too high for me. I beg for more and more . . . until finally, at the point where he would just do me already, if we were together, his own fantasies spilled over in prose and pictures. But I always hear them as demands. And then I get wobbly, feeling again that I am drowning in the ocean that is the wide compass of Robbie’s sexual interests, far broader than mine.

When I am with him, it is far easier to trust, to see that we’re floating, not drowning. And so, we are going to be together next week, to ease our ache for each other, and because. Because I need to float away, and he is the one who sets me sailing.

Dreamy image by Ewa Brzozowska, via a fuck a day.

That persephone . . . she never ceases to astound. She and her married owners have one of the more interesting relationships I’ve read about, and they are all three of them devilishly inventive. persephone mentioned recently that one of her owners often asks her to give “five adjectives” to describe things that come up in conversation.

I’ve no idea what the actual purpose behind this is, but I suspect it’s a way for her owners to check how she’s doing, what she’s feeling, how she perceives the world. In my limited experience, dominant folk tend to be vastly and insatiably curious about the effect they are having on their subs.

It’s also, I think, a wonderful opportunity for mindfuckery. Which is my favorite, is mindfuckery.

Unfortunately, like a lot of subs, I become virtually incapable of speech whenever anything seriously interesting is going on. But just before or after the major fireworks start–the question might produce some interesting results.

I’m speculating a lot about BDSM dynamics right now because Robbie and I have negotiated to spend a week together. (It really did take us a series of talks that were about as smooth and even as Cold War-era summits.) He’s made it clear that it is going to be an intense week; a challenging week; that he is going to be quite firm. (Intense, challenging, and firm are some of Robbie’s favorite adjectives. Also sore and caring, both of which I think he mentioned somewhere along the way.)

If I were choosing five adjectives to describe the way I feel about what awaits me at Robbie’s house . . . I would choose:






Oh, and lest Robbie read this and think it is yet another attempt to top from the bottom–babe, I could care less whether or not you ask me for five adjectives. I know you get enough of an earful about the way I feel whether you ask or not. Perhaps you’d rather have five adjectives to describe your cock?

See you soon . . .

Thomas Hart Benton’s masterpiece, Persephone, from the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art. Go read about it if you want to know why the old guy’s there.

Edit: This would so not work for me in real-time–I just edited two of the adjectives using a thesaurus.  Sigh.

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