Other people


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.

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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.

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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.

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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?

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Photos by Cornelie Tollens, via fluffy Lychees.

I’m going to Robbie’s for Valentine’s Day weekend, which he has been planning with care.  We’ve had lots of good talks lately, including ones about what to do together to make our time special and fun.  (We have both officially agreed that debating the ins and outs of our relationship is not fun.)

We talked about going out for dinner, which we almost never do unless we are with friends, family, or fellow perverts.  (And since most of our friends are fellow perverts . . . )  I suppose I should have lept at the chance to have some romantic quality time with my man, out and about on Valentine’s Day.  But Robbie has high standards for food–he prefers fine dining, and prefers it to be almost-free–and so it can be a challenge to find a place with ambience and value.  While I was waiting for him to finish sussing out the local options, it occurred to me that I really don’t like fine dining.  That is, I adore good food and I like being waited on.  But really, when I go out, I mostly want the chance to see and be seen, to feel like I’m sensing the pulse of a city, drawing near to the sexuality and daring that surge up in groups of people and flow through busy evenings.

I want to be out on the town.  I want to be my exhibitionist self and I want to flaunt what we have.

And since, after all, we can do that at a bar just as well as a restaurant, and since we are quite, quite poor, and saving our money in the ever-more-realistic hope that someday not that far away we will be together, we are going to a pub for Valentine’s Day.

Robbie said he very much thinks I need to get out in public, and I agree.

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From Darker Sights and Sounds.

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I hate my neighbor, always have.  She lives below me and listens to the kind of ambient music that is guaranteed to float, blithely, through walls and doors.  The kind with recursive drum and bass beats, plus little pinging electronic noises.

She is sexually active, which I know from listening to her fuck for seven and a half years.  There’s nothing wrong with this–God forbid that I be judgmental.  I don’t even know that she’s promiscuous (not that there’s anything wrong with that).  But she was getting some during the long, thirsty years when I had none, and for that, I cannot forgive her.

I have seen her about a dozen times.  She has that sort of post-sex, mussed-eyeliner, goth-in-need-of-a-shower look.  This is probably because most times I have seen her, she is in fact post-sex.  She and her guy will listen to ambient music for about four or five hours in the evening, or in the morning on weekends, and then loudly fornicate.  Sometimes, they go on to have even louder conversations, and a couple times I’ve gone down there to ask them to hold it down.  Five hours of music, screwing, and talking is my limit.

Today, after being woken at the ungodly hour of half-past-noon to the sounds of their moans, it occurred to me that they have another pattern.  After they fuck, they fight.  This is odd to me.  Robbie and I fight, THEN fuck.  After we fuck, we sleep or get snacks.  Whipping, biting, and slobbering all over each other tends to tire us out.  It takes us a good 8 – 12 hours to get back to our default state of antagonism towards one another.  Can anyone explain fighting after fucking to me?

On the up side, I don’t have long to deal with this issue.  I’ll be moving in a couple weeks, which its own little tale.  I don’t know what will happen to my posts before, during, and after the move, so I don’t have any predictions.  Just giving you a glimpse into harem life here.

Photo found at le Chagrin.

I owe.

I owe Robbie the account I promised him of some of the intense scenes we had over Thanksgiving.

I will likely fall behind on my promise, because this time of the year is crunch time at my job. But I thought I would give him–and everyone else–a little exhibitionist glimpse of the euphoric and amazing experience we had the day before Thanksgiving. The one that involved the shibari, the beating, the caning, the flogging, the chair-fantasy-made-real, and the blowjobs.

* * *

We made careful plans for his visit, with contingencies.  The one that worked just as we’d hoped was an arrangement to meet two people we’d been corresponding with on Fetlife.  One of them was a woman with strong submissive interests who was just starting to explore them in real life, and the other was a young but experienced top with a good working knowledge of rope bondage.  Somehow, we managed to get these total strangers comfortably and happily ensconsed in my apartment together, wine glasses in hand, late in the afternoon just a few short hours before turkey time.

We’d promised the woman a rope demo, and so the man carefully and politely tied me into a . . . oh fuck it if I remember what it was.  I slip into subspace incredibly easily, and my two biggest triggers are blowjobs and ropes.  When the ropes were around my wrists, comfortably, I mellowed out so much that I still need to spend some time reconstructing subsequent events if I’m going to givea more coherent account of the day.  For now I will just say that at some point, a few minutes or an eternity later, I was bound chest, arms, and thighs, and kneeling in front of Robbie, wearing nothing but cherry-red panties and a huge smile on my face, staring into the answering grin on his.  I do like showing people how very good I can be, for him.

We’d also promised the woman that nobody would push her into donning ropes herself, and after I was unwrapped, we helped her get herself pointed for home.  I threw on some clothes and cooked the boys big bowls of spaghetti.  We drank more wine and talked.  We enjoyed.

And then I got whipped.

Not a week before this, I had been reading Calico‘s account of the phenomenal sex party she went to and drooling mightily over the beating and fucking she had had.  I had been aroused, curious, and puzzled at her description of the pain: “I see redness, a haze. White lights burst across my vision. Stars, stars, everything is stars.”  I wanted, and I was scared to have.

But standing in my kitchen, naked except for those red panties, with Robbie sitting at the table, watching me, I let our friend flog the hell out of me.  And he gave me all the pain I wanted, the most delicious pain.  It crackled across my shoulders, bright red lightning.  It sang in my ears and through my body.  It sparkled across my skin, bursting and vivid.

“A hot pink-red sheet of static, white fizz bursting behind my eyes,” Calico wrote.  That is what it was like.  That’s how intense it was.

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Intense art by Jinyoung Shin.

I have been feeling profoundly dismal lately—partly because of PMS, and also because of things that are happening here. The “new things” I so delicately alluded to a couple of posts ago have, in fact, been further experiments in sex with other people. In my view, our difficulty in reaching a kind of common understanding or agreement about how to handle “the others stuff” is one of our biggest obstacles and among our largest sources of conflict. (His view, I think, is that our D/s dynamic is the “problem”, if there is one, in our sex life, and maybe between us in general.)

Whatever the reality, the last couple of weeks have been alternately wondrous and gloomy, with the gloom increasing steadily increasing, along with the amount of water I seem to be retaining. And still, last night as bedtime approached, my hormone-infused body eyed his opportunistically. Since nothing of note resulted, I am posting something I came across while cleaning out my desk–a fantasy from a few months ago that I apparently wrote down as soon as it occurred to me. (Actually, just after masturbating I wrote down my fantasies, which is why they’re not particularly coherent.)

Coincidentally (or not), persephone just posted about a real-life orgasm-predicament her owner recently placed her in. It seems to have worked on her.

* * *

I imagined, as I had the last time I’d been with Robbie, one of his fantasies just as he described it—I imagined him having me masturbate in front of a group of men. I imagined how I would feel with them staring at me. I was sure I wouldn’t be able to get aroused, certain I wouldn’t be able to turn myself on with a bunch of guys just sitting silently and looking at me.

But if he started talking to me, I thought, that would be a different matter. Ninety percent of the time the things that come out of his mouth inflame me. I thought of being on the long plateau where orgasm seems neither near nor far, and the thought of him turned the heat on under my imagination.

“Come on, cunt,” I imagined him saying, just the way he says it when we’re together. “Come on, come for me.” After working incredibly well for a few weeks, this actually has stopped working altogether; resisting his imagined comment, I actually shook my head, and the imaginary me did the same.

“No?” my fantasy-Robbie said. “I tell you what. You get until the count of ten to get whatever pleasure you can, because after that we’re just going to use you. You understand me?” he said, menacingly, getting up in my face, a fierce, twisted look on his. “And there will be none of this “red light”-“yellow light” crap, no ouch, no tears, or at least, it won’t matter if there are, because it just won’t make a difference.”

At this I got so excited I could feel myself start to gush. “Yeah, that’s right. You come now. And then we’re going to take turns fucking that cunt. Get it over with, get out of the way.” By this time I was plunging my hands through my folds in a way I know brings on violent orgasms, but in my mind he was the one with his fingers up inside me. “You cunt, come for me now!” I did while my mind spun out the rest of the fantasy in the endless freefall of climax: him grabbing me and flipping me over onto a horse and fucking me a bit to open me up while he hauled my head back by my hair so one of his guests could plunge himself all the way down my throat; him stepping aside to watch as the other me fucking me in turn, wherever they wanted to; and finally taking me himself, the last one, the first one, my only one, the one who owns me.

And the best, and worst part, was knowing all along that I’d have to, want to, thrill to tell him how crazily excited I got and how he is, I know he is, right when he says that given time he will get everything he wants from me.

First image by WinterWolf Studios, which I discovered thanks to Sexoteric. Second image by the tremendously imaginative Eugenio Recueno.

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