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.

Robbie lives in an old house, built about 1906.  It has “potential”.  It has peeling paint, no water pressure, and only one bathroom.  It also has marvelous beams in roof and in barns, pressed tin ceilings, gingerbread trim on porches and roofs, a wood stove–and two separate cellars.

These cellars are the real deal.  Carved out of the local limestone, one has a huge cistern inside it, enough for emergency water for months.  Both have dirty, damp floors, and little-to-no light.  I think one might have a one foot square window.  I think the other has no window.

I have long and uncreatively fantasized about being locked in various dungeons, towers, taverns, pens, cells, and dirt shacks.  A favorite fantasy–one I have had since I was a teenager and still cannot get out of my mind–is being forced to serve royalty in a palace.  In the fantasy, a nasty, lecherous duke or ambassador tries to fondle me; I resist and get into trouble.  I get locked in a remote tower as punishment–or a young, not-nasty prince or earl locks me away in order to “protect” me.   The key part of this story is that, in the tower, there’s a bedstead with no mattress or blankets and nothing else in the room, that I’m chained and cuffed to the bedstead.  Cold stone and cold metal, with the occasional dashing visitor who eventually ravishes me–that’s romance to me. 

Like much of the rest of the stuff of my erotic imagination, this little scene seemed for years to be totally unique to me, idiosyncratic and quirky, and impossible to realize without time travel.  I didn’t know anyone who locked anyone up outside of fairy tales and adventure stories, and I didn’t know of anyone dashing who was in position of a stone tower.

Of course, you see where this is going.  As it turns out, lots of people find high towers and dark cellars hot–a glimpse at any of the sets at illustrates that.  (Device Bondage is a particular favorite of mine, for its damsel-in-antique-distress aesthetic.)  And that bare mattress?  Positively a cliche! 

That doesn’t mean it’s not still hot to me.  In fact, it’s only gotten hotter since a couple of summers ago, when Robbie was showing me the cellars.  I can’t remember why we were down there.  We might have been trying to figure out which side would be best for a root cellar. We might have been looking for some tools.  It might even have been the time I used the central vacuum and vacuumed up something important, then had to go rooting through the bin full of lint that’s in the back cellar to find it. 

But anyway, we were down there, I was looking around the cellar, and all of a sudden . . . Robbie shut the cellar door on me.  I couldn’t see anything–the back cellar has only a 3×4″ glass panel in its (heavy) metal door.  I couldn’t move, because I couldn’t see a thing.  I was really terrified.  And in that moment of pure terror, I was as turned on as I have ever been in my life.  It wasn’t just the fear–usually fear turns me off rather than on.  It was the idea that Robbie might, really might, keep me down there.  The rational part of my mind knew that that time, he wouldn’t–and in fact, after no more than 3 or 4 seconds, he opened the door with a broad grin on his face.  The irrational part of my mind feared and desired that he’d keep me down there indefinitely, caged or chained, without any indication of when I could leave–increasingly cold, increasingly hungry, increasingly desperate. 


Because one of the very best parts of my cellar fantasy is that, as I imagine it, the more desperate I get, the more I’ll do for him for some relief.  I kink on bargains.  You want a blanket?  Blow me.  You need food?  Take it up the ass.  You have to get out of here?  Service enough of my acquaintances and I’ll think about it.  That’s the dark, seamy, dirtiness of what goes on in the cellar, in my mind. 

At one point, I felt some guilt about the cellar fantasy.  Why, I thought, does the scenario have to be so dark, dirty, and even cruel for me to find anal sex hot?  Why couldn’t I be in the Ritz on silk sheets and find the idea just as erotic?  Now, I both understand my desire to be in the basement better–a subject for another time–and don’t feel distressed about the desires.  If this is what turns my crank and Robbie is up for it, what we do is between him, me, and the cellar.

A few weeks ago, Robbie started sending me emails entitled “Cellar Girl”, along with pictures by the photographer who shot these images.  I about died of a combination of arousal and tenderness at a new kinky nickname.  I’m hoping that we finally get to live out some of the cellar girl fantasies, and to produce some pictures on our own.  I’ll keep you posted, of course.

Absolutely riveting pictures, film, stories, and even furniture at icantmove.

I have been toying with the idea of sleeping with someone I am mildly acquainted with from this-yer-Internet-thingy. I have been toying with it, with him, and with my libido. I don’t feel particularly embarrassed about this; I figure he is man enough to handle it. Besides, he reads my blog—I’m assuming he’s aware of what a nut-case I am, and has adjusted his expectations accordingly.


The thing is: I don’t like sex that much. This might be an odd thing for a sex blogger to write. I don’t think of myself as a “very sexual person”, as so many sex bloggers do. (I think of myself as an inveterate pervert, which is different.) I don’t crave sex—not in the abstract. It’s only been within the last five years that I look at a person I’m talking to and think about what it might be like to fuck them. I never look at strangers and think that I want to sleep with them (okay, almost never). Vanilla sex is not a treat for me unless I have huge sexual chemistry with someone, and that is rare. The mere rubbing of pinkish swollen bits doesn’t get me off.

There was a thread recently on the ever-ire-provoking Fetlife that asked the age at which folks had “figured it out”—figured out the distinction between love and sex. I wanted to answer, “What distinction? I’ve never figured it out.” Having sex with someone, in the absence of deep affection, is heartbreaking to me in ways I can’t express. It always feels like a terrible loss to me, a loss of a piece of myself and of an incredibly special moment. (“Moment” is an insufficient word. I want to use a word like flower or orchid or symphony or something, but those would sound cheesy. Nevertheless, the spiritual, universe-shattering dimension of sex, the sacredness of sex, seems to me spoiled by inopportune timing.) It’s true that I’ve slept with people that I wasn’t in love with, and on two or three occasions, I even felt that strong emotional tug linking the two (or three or four) of us. But mostly, sex—and I mean intercourse—does not work for me without the love. (This might be one reason I find it easier to sleep with women I’ve just met—they’re not trying to shove a piece of their flesh into my most sensitive spots. Yeah, I know—leave fisting out of it, okay?)

Robbie gets this about me, finally. After months and months of arguing about “others” (aka group sex), he gets that I’m not about to step up for the gangbang anytime soon. I would love to, in theory. I really want that, and double-penetration, oh, and all kinds of other vile and humiliating things—in my fantasy world. But when the cock hits the pussy, I get tight and weepy and I wanna go home, now.


Robbie said to me a visit or two ago, “I understand that you need love to get open and juicy.” It wasn’t until he said the words that I finally admitted it to myself. This is one of the very good reasons to have him in my life—he understands me better at times than I understand myself. I need love.

He’s not that way. He needs attraction and mild admiration, affection. How I cope with his more frankly sexual self is a topic for another day.

But today, it’s enough for me to admit to myself, and out loud, that I’m just not that motivated to meet a new partner and get laid. I don’t think of it as a fun prospect. Actually, I think of it with terrible trepidation (although with no little arousal)—I think of it as frightening. Even if I feel affection and warmth and attraction to the person (as I do, in this case, to my prospective partner), I need the shelter of love, of its compassion and acceptance and commitment that love brings.

That, or wide unbridled animal lust. One of the two.

* * * * *

I’m really curious to hear what other people think. I was walking down the street today and wondering: is the prospect of having sex, for other folks, like the prospect of going out for dinner, to me? Do they think, cool, great, fun, this is an awesome chance to relax, kick back, have a good time, treat myself and feel good? The notion is just astonishing to me. Do people really fuck that recreationally? I’m in awe of that capacity. It seems like a wonderful thing to be able to do.

Tell me, oh internet denizens—is “casual” sex easy or hard, fun or scary?


Photos by Cornelie Tollens, via fluffy Lychees.

Sorry about disabling the comments.  I just need the quiet right now.  Thanks.


I am having trouble figuring out who I am without him, I thought to myself, and then thought how trite that sounded.  Isn’t that what every new, brittle divorcee thinks?  And we weren’t even married, despite my best efforts.

One of the more difficult things about breaking up is that R. and I embarked on “our journey”, as BDSMers insist on calling the unfolding of their kinky tastes, together.  And without him, I’m not sure what I want.  I feel like one hand, sort of dull-ly lying on the table, recalling concerts at which it clapped.

I felt this way before, last summer, when we broke up and were apart(ish) for three or four weeks.  A few weeks of silence and the air began to quiet and still.  I could hear my own voice again–not the voice that argues with him in my mind, constantly, but just my own voice talking to itself.

Confusingly, it wanted the same things it had wanted when I was with him.  A home in the country.  Plants, and pets.  Living things; green things.  A life more in tune with the life around it, responding to the rhythms of the days.  More time for reading, writing; more peaceful times; more long walks and more time for things I used to love, like listening to rain and cooking.

Then we were back together and the arguments started again.  As he told me today, “The thoughts about us–about what we should do–just fill my forebrain all the time, and I don’t want to be thinking about relationship.  I want to just be living.”  I know exactly what he means.  We analyze us so much it gets exhausting, and there is no chance to do the things we both want to do.

Anyway, that doesn’t speak to my identity crisis.  What’s confusing me now is that HE has been confused for months about what I “really” want in terms of D/s.  And I can’t tell why he’s confused.  I think I know what I want and I think I am clear about it.  He finds himself on “shifting sands” (his phrase) and at times arguing with me about my desire to switch.

Nevermind what he thinks.  After three years of kink, I don’t know what I want either.  I don’t know if I want to play with new people, or find a new lover, or wait for a new partner, or top or bottom, or if I never want anyone to touch me again.  Men or women?  I’m not sure.  I don’t know if I want pain, or humiliation, or bondage, or control, or none of those things.  I can’t tell if I want more intensity than we had or less.

I guess I’ll just have to find out the hard way.  Which actually doesn’t sound all that bad . . . not all bad.


Images here, by nikola tamindzic.  Every one a fantasy.

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.

I’m lying on a beach in Mexico, one that I’ve actually been to before, a few times.  One where there is nothing to do but stare at beauty, doze, and drink beer. 

I go back to my hotel, which is airy, and smells of soap.  I lie down for a nap.  When I wake, I shower and call the hotel front desk.  I order him.

He is the hotel bartender; he is Robbie; he is submissive; he is the man I slept with a year ago.  He is all the men who draw me to them, and none of them.  I have never met him.

He is not exactly an object, but he is definitely for my use, and he is there to provide service, without me having to ask, or give directions, or give anything back.  He takes a bottle of massage oil (that comes from some convenient and as-yet undiscovered nook of my room) and rubs me down, starting with my back, neck to toe.  Then he works me over neck to toe, down the front.

Then he starts on my pussy. 

The oil is warm, his hands are warm, the day is hot and the room is cool and dark.  I relax and let my mind wander; I am not responsible for being responsive.   I don’t have to worry about my pleasure pleasing him.   In fact, I hold orgasm at bay for as long as I can; I want to savor this.

His hands are strong, but they don’t cause me pain; they push and pull and knead.  They explore, but they are not tentative.  They know my body already.  And eventually, they drive me over the edge, into a sweaty, glistening, oily, salty, drenched, cummy mess.

I lie there, breathing deeply.  He wipes his hands on a towel, awkward.  He is hard.  He helps me up, dries off my legs where I have squirted, hands me a soft towel.  I tip him and he leaves.  I feel no pang when I think of his unused erection.  After all, I’m having him again tomorrow.


Not the image I wanted–that one’s on my home computer–but close.  By Gunter Hagedorn, found at Fresh Nudes.

Beauty in Darkness is a blog documenting things the author found while researching the history of BDSM.  I know a certain someone who finds the topic of the history of BDSM interesting.

Other things he finds interesting: science fiction and fantasy novels.

Another thing we both find interesting: fantasy art.  Really perverse or odd fantasy art.  Alien sex.   Tentacles and slime and interspecies transgression.

Stardust cum.


Illustration by Luis Royo.

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