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.

[I wrote most of this post last year, when I was living in a house with friends who had small children.]

The other day, one of the toddlers asked me to come outside and play.  “I need my batime,” he said to me, pointing to a long, shallow box filled with styrofoam cushions.  His elocution needs work.

“What is this–your Batcar?” I asked, referring to a recent obsession.

“NO!  It’s my BATIME!”

It took him crawling into the box and curling on his side for me to figure out that what he needed was his bedtime.  When I looked, I could see that the box was remarkably like a bed–the styrofoam cushions were topped with a pillow-sized block, and there was a piece of foam wrapping that served as the perfect blanket.  The day was cold, so I covered him up with it well.

And then he wanted me to shut the lid.

I balked.  I really did not want to scare him, and the whole getup looked way too much like a child-sized coffin for me to feel relaxed.  On the other hand, I was right there, the box was cardboard, and he seemed happy.  And very insistent.  So I closed the lid, lightly.

From inside came a high, hysterical sound–the sound of delighted giggles.

I opened up the box to see a smiling boy who wanted me to help fix his blanket and to shut his bed again.  So I did, again and again as giggles gripped him.  I got the idea to pick the box up and pretend I was carrying a package around, which induced more giggles, until the carrying went on a bit longer than he liked, and I heard “Want down!” from my parcel.  That scared us both off from that game for the rest of the afternoon.

Still, my young friend’s interest in enclosed spaces got me wondering, again, what it is in some of us that finds enclosure so comforting, and yet so very thrilling?

Sculpture by the German artist and sculptor Bithja Moor.

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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.

Things have been quiet here because there has been lots going on with me and Robbie in real life. We are doing that communication thing; what’s more, we’re doing it really well. This is thrilling but also a little surreal; we’re doing it so consciously that it’s as if we’ve moved to another level of relating. Here’s something I read the other day over at Sex Geek that puts it better than I could.

[T]he degree of deliberate, explicit and concerted effort that I put into my D/s relationships is way beyond anything else I’ve ever experienced in a non-D/s context. It’s actually an enormous amount of work. The payoff happens to be spectacular and it is to my taste—I wouldn’t be willing to invest this amount of myself if it weren’t, and I can totally see how if the payoff wasn’t your thing, this type of relationship would hold no real allure.

(Go read the whole post; I think it’s worth it, and so does Joscelin Verreuil, who is the one I heard about it from. Thanks Jos!)

At any rate, Robbie and I are talking to each other in deep detail about our fantasies of late. The desires are not new–what has changed is the willingness to listen, to believe, to refrain from judging, and to help the other person live out dreams.

And the result is the deepening of intimacy already far more intense than any I have ever felt.

(He likes to pull my lips, and stick his fingers in my mouth, and explore it, as if he owned all of me. Which he does. And that is how I sense and comprehend his ownership of me.)

Lovely trinity-pup tagged me for this meme. I like memes, but only if they have to do with sex, and so I took the liberty of tweaking this one a bit. I transformed it the way we used to in graduate school when we were playing party games that we found dull—if the game involved a question, we’d add “in bed” to the end of it, and then laugh uproariously at the result. (It is beyond astounding to me to think we were in our 20s at the time, instead of our teens.)

In that same puerile and immature spirit, I added “in bed” to pup’s questions, which made some of them nonsensical, but I persevered! Herewith my answers:

What are the last three songs you downloaded in bed?

I don’t download songs in bed, nor do I text in bed, nor do anything much in bed besides read, sleep, and screw. But these songs get me in the mood to do the last of those:

Sexual Healing by Marvin Gay –sexy to me because you’d have to be dead not to think it was sexy

Viva la Vida by ColdPlay—sexy to me because the singer in the song sounds to me like a Roman general

Figured You Out by Nickelback—sexy to me because Robbie loves it for its twisted lyrics

What are the last three places you visited in bed?

This one also doesn’t make sense when you add “in bed” to it, but these are the last three best places for fucking I visited were—aside from Robbie’s house, of course.

Saratoga Springs, NY



What are your three favorite movies in bed?

I’ve seen my share of sexy movies, but it’s especially nice to watch them with someone you know you’ll be heading off to bed with. The three that stirred me the most, emotionally and physically, were:


The Lover

Lust, Caution

What are your three favorite possessions in bed?

I don’t get to wear these to bed anymore, but if it were up to me, my favorite possessions in bed would be jeans, a barely-there bra, and a long necklace. They all are ways to wickedly tease, which is, come to think of it, why I don’t get to wear them. Robbie likes to do the teasing himself.

The three things I do get to wear to bed that I love are my black boots, my camisoles, and my garter belts.

My collar would be on this list, but I tend to think of it as Robbie’s possession rather than mine.

What three things can you not live without in bed?

A blanket

Padding for the floor

A place to go to the bathroom when I wake up at 3am

I think I’m a simple girl. I also think this list cries out for a kind of captive-in-dungeon scene.

What would be your three wishes in bed?

This is extremely difficult, because I already get so many of the things I want, so many things I never imagined I could ask for, and so many things I never imagined.

More oral sex (really, who wouldn’t wish for that?)

More chances to switch with Robbie

More rope—lots and lots and lots of rope

What three things haven’t you done yet in bed?

Had sex in a car (uh, in bed?)

Done the paint-each-other-with-chocolate thing

Given a long, slow, soup-to-nuts handjob

What are your three favorite dishes in bed?

My three favorite dishes in bed would be the same things we tend to snack on after sex : berries and cream; chocolate cake; bread and cheese.

Come to think of it, these are the three dishes that I might want to bring to bed, too.

Which three celebrities would you most like to hang out with in bed?

I thought of gorgeous celebrities here, but I realized that I’d just be too nervous to go to bed with them. I think I’d need at least drinks and dinner before the shock and awe wore off.

Whoopi Goldberg. She cracks me up. I don’t want to sleep with her though, just maybe have a pajama party.

Steve Martin. He cracks me up and I want to sleep with him.

Demetri Martin. Because I obviously should stick with comedians–if I’m going to feel awkward with a strange, famous person, at least I can laugh about it.

Name three things that freak you out in bed.


Bedmates who have sleep apnea and briefly stop breathing while asleep. I don’t mind them, I just worry over them.

Oftentimes, waking up

Name three unusual things you are good at in bed.

Toe sucking

Face massages

Sharing the covers

Which three things are you coveting in bed?

A bigger and higher bed, perhaps with dowels or rods at the head and foot

The foot-of-the-bed blanket chest-cum-toy-box with pop-up screen for in-bed viewing of pr0n that Robbie keeps talking about building


Name three bloggers you are tagging

Green Woman, marianne, and mia. Why? Because they crack me up, of course.

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.

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