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.

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 am headed to see Robbie this weekend and very eager to be there.  My sex drive has returned at at least half-strength, if not more, and I have an urgent need to be with him.  Plus, we have at least a few wicked plans.  I say we, but Robbie seems to be doing most of the planning.  I’m hugely relieved at this.  For past visits Robbie has planned an elaborate schedule of activities, and I panic at the thought of getting it all done as well as worry about how it will go.  This time, he gets to enjoy all the anticipation of things that “I know but you don’t know” (as he likes to sing in a little song he’s made up), but I don’t have to stress about any of them.  It’s as it should be–him in control, me in the dark.

Well, I’m not in the dark about everything.

When we were first getting into BDSM and Robbie and I filled out the requisite checklists about perversions, it turned out that I had a real fascination with needles, knives, and play piercings.  Robbie was extremely cautious about all of these desires; he was happy to hurt me, but very reluctant to injure me, if the distinction makes any sense.  Part of the reluctance stemmed, I think, from some professional medical experience in his past.  But the hearty doctor fetish I have made the whole idea frustratingly hotter.

And here we are, three years down the line, and he’s finally studied up on needle play, asking a very experienced friend of ours for instruction, advice, recommendation on equipment, and an actual demonstration.  We’re having dinner with our friend and his girl this Sunday night.  I’m at once over the moon and terrified.

It so happens that I sliced my hand open by (accidentally) putting it through a glass window pane this summer.  (I tripped on someone’s inconveniently-placed roller skates in the dark, and the rest was pure Marx brothers.)  The masochist in me was pretty thrilled at the resultant blood and the pain, while the rationalist in me said: “You dumb retarded twit, you can’t like it, or people will think it’s self-inflicted!”  Fortunately, the obviously treacherous position of the roller skates exculpated me from charges of self-harm–or so I hope.


But I digress.  My point is that the thing felt deliciously painful until I got to the hospital, where I was scheduled to have a few stitches.  I even remember lying there with my hand elevated, watching the nurse prepare the saline solution, various bandages, the local anaesthetic, and thinking, “Cool!  This is the nearest I’m going to get to needle play for awhile!”

And dammit if it didn’t hurt like a mother.  There was none of the euphoric pain that had come from the slicing cut to my hand.  There was a really nasty pinchy stab, multiplied by about a thousand.  Stingy bitterness.

So, we’ll see on Sunday.  I very much like the thought of being the useful experimental pincushion for Robbie and our friends.  I just hope that the experience is a happy one for all involved, and that the pain is the flying-high kind rather than the hop-on-one-foot-and-swear-a-blue-streak kind.

I’ll try to report back, depending on the scale of my injuries.

High-fashion pics by Philippe Kerlo.


[Hi.  I missed you too.]

The other night Robbie emailed me to tell me that for my next visit, I should plan to bring–sorry, I was required to bring–white cotton schoolgirl panties and hair ribbons.  (“Colors (in priority in case they cost too much to buy all at once): pink, white, red, black and green.”  He is nothing if not precise.)

The requirement that I provide things for Robbie’s increasing interest in costumes (one that I share) was super-hot to me.  The prospect of trying to find ribbons in my new and urban environment, on the other hand, was surprisingly daunting and inspired a fit of hysteria out of all proportion to the task.  (As I’ve noted before, tasks, no matter how small they are, really don’t seem to work well for us at distance; I go into insta-meltdown, and he ends up wondering why something intended to be sexy and fun turns into emotional crisis.)

I still don’t know where I’ll get the ribbon, since I’m thinking that the corner Starbucks and 24-hour CVS, my go-to sources for all that is essential, won’t be of use.  But I’m determined to try to find something for whatever nefarious purposes Robbie has in mind.  I have every intention of being the most irresistible schoolgirl he’s seen in some time.  And I’m hoping if I’m good enough, he might even use a few of the ribbons elsewhere on me (wrists, ankles . . . ).


Robbie is not the blogophile I am, probably because he has other things to do with his life. At one point he banned sentences that began “I was reading in this blog that . . . “–it’s hard enough for us to talk briefly and clearly about what we want, never mind including what he calls “the footnotes” about other peoples’ thoughts and desires.

He will patiently read articles I send him from the Times about new methods of rice farming, or a Control Tower column on polyamory, or a Fleshbot piece on how hardcore porn stars are, really. But it’s better if I can digest the stuff and talk about it myself.

Or in this case, post about it. I was reading in this blog that . . .

That at Alison Tyler’s house, there’s an understanding. As she puts it “when my clothes spring leaks—when the fishnets rip, when the t-shirts start to fray—they become fair game. In a word: shredable.” These cords were apparently the latest casualty of The Rule.

Robbie has threatened to rip, cut, or shear my clothes off dozens of times. We’ve even bought a few dirt-cheap tops for the purpose–but then we both end up liking the way the shoddy fabric is pretty much see-through.

So, my dear, if you happen to be reading this blog . . . what do you think? I have a pair of jeans that are just ripe for ripping, and you know those stockings we’ve been hoarding for occasions when you might want me to crawl? Those are definitely shredable, too.

Alison Tyler’s actual cords, and “Portrait of Stoya”, by the incredible Nikola Tamindzic.

I have always not-so-secretly wanted to do a meme. In general I think they’re rather silly, and I don’t like the idea of being tagged. But as I’ve said, I really like quizzes.

So when I saw this one on m‘s site, along with a general invitation to everyone to participate . . . that seemed good.  (Go ahead, please do give it a whirl if you like–Greenwoman has as well.)

Here’s to fours.

Four Girls

four unusual places you have had sex:

1. on the porch, tied to the closet, pinned against the banister
2. in the woods in England, not far from some fields of rape
3. in a church converted into an apartment building
4. in a borrowed apartment in Paris that featured a pet rat

four erotic books you’ve read:

1. Nicholson Baker: Vox and The Fermata
2. Rose Tremain: The Way I Found Her and Music and Silence
3. Jane Alison: The Love-Artist and The Marriage of the Sea
4. (The one I told my lover about that convinced him I wanted to be a sex slave.)

four of your favorite erotic zones:

1. lips
2. neck
3. shoulders
4. feet

four sexy experiences you want to have: (must cheat; so many more than four)

1. pick up my lover in a bar, as if we didn’t know each other
2. get locked in the cage and/or the cellar
3. have group sex we are both way happy with, especially if it’s at Dark Odyssey
4. get to the stage where my lover and I need with a deep and visceral certitude several TwistedMonk hemp rope kits and possibly some steel suspension rings

four favorites:
1. position…from behind
2. sex toy…wrist and ankle cuffs
3. porn…The Fashionistas
4. sexy music…the kind of music on the Stealing Beauty soundtrack

four sexy things you like to wear:
1. my collar(s)
2. garter belt, stockings, no panties
3. silk
4. whatever he wants me to

Viva Ultra Boys

Impishly odd foursome art by vivaUltra, via Sex in Art.

We have a celebration coming up. A big one. I’ll be writing more about it soon . . . it’s an anniversary of several kinds.

So I asked him last night. “I’m trying to prepare something special. Which would you rather have . . .

” . . . a French Maid . . . “

From Ellen von Unwerth\'s Revenge Series

” . . . or a Japanese serving girl offering sake?”

Maid with Sake Flask

I could hear the wolfish smile on the other end of the phone and his voice came back smooth as butter, the way it is when he has something really fiendish in mind for me, something that is going to make my input basically irrelevant. “Mmm . . . you choose.”

Uh, okay. Er, maid then. The French kind. No, the Japanese kind . . . no, wait . . .

(Photo by Ellen von Unwerth, found via a tip from Gloria Brame . . . woodblock print by Ando Hiroshige, c. 1850, found via google.)

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