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.

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.


After I wrote my ever-so-totally-hysterical post of yesterday, Robbie and I sat down to talk about stuff between us, especially sex.  It was a good, careful, thoughtful conversation.  I managed to explain that it’s not that I don’t want to fuck him; it’s that I’m having some kind of female-impotence equivalent.  (I’m sure there are more medically acceptable ways to say this, like, “a decrease in desire,” but oh well.) 

After the conversation, we walked down to his barn.  He grabbed a cat litter bucket (which are darn handy around a garden), pulled me into the barn’s dark, dank, dungeon-y basement, and plopped me down on the inverted bucket, which made a makeshift stool.  He unzipped his fly and had me suck him off, giving me instructions about pace and approach, which he’s been doing a lot lately (and which I find both helpful and hot).  He came quickly, a few days’ desire pent up inside him, and instead of swallowing his semen as quickly as I can, which I usually do, I held it in my mouth, liking tasting and feeling the volume of his desire. 

So when he bent down to kiss me after he’d extracted himself from my throat, as he invariably does, I impishly flashed him a mouthful of cum instead of proferring him my lips.  He came within an inch of being snowballed.  “Eeew!” he yelled at the last second, rearing his head back just in time.  We both broke up laughing so hard.  (By the way, he’s not super-squeamish, but I totally surprised him.  Since he is the king of effective practical jokes, I was pleased.)

Then last night, we got dressed up and went to a munch with the folks in our local scene, whom I like more and more.  I don’t like munches that much, though, and was dreading things, but we had a great time, drinking beer on the patio of a summery restaurant, listening to live music, flashing our tits, etc.  (Okay, well, I was the only one flashing my tits, but still.)  It was warm and snuggly and loving and good.

Another good talk today and things are feeling fine.  I’d say and write more, but I have a date to go get fisted, right now.  Happy Saturday night . . .


Fun faux-polaroids from The Polaroid Freak Team.



This visit, as an experiment, Robbie and I agreed that I would get to do a lot of the cooking.  I have been begging to do this for months, because I love to cook and because cooking for someone is an obvious way to provide service.  (Why did I say I wasn’t a service submissive?  I forget.)

Usually, having me cook is inconvenient, because Robbie lives with folks not all of whom would appreciate my cooking.  But this visit we have had his place to our ownsome, and I have gotten to whip up quite a few things that pleased him.

Last night, as we sat down to a salad that I’d made and some sausages he’d grilled to perfection, I began to brag about what excellent food we’d put on the table, between us, the last week or so.  (Apparently, one of my frequent conversational themes is, “Look at what a great team we make.”)  And I poked fun at myself for ever having believed, as I did at one point, that our respective eating habits and preferences were such that we’d be unable to have a happy relationship.  (I’m nothing if not hyper-dramatic.)

Robbie looked at me a little confused.  He didn’t remember what I was talking about.  “Don’t you remember,” I said, between bites of sausage and mouthfuls of beer, “that fight we had, about two years ago, when I wanted to talk about food, and you said that you thought menu planning was the least of our problems?”

“I don’t remember the fight, but you’re right, if we lived together menu planning would be the least of our problems.”

He looked at his sausage, and I waited for what he was going to say next.

“It would be cock for breakfast, lunch, and dinner,” he said.  He took a drink of beer, warming to his theme, while considering the label on the can.  “Would you care for an appetizer?  Could I offer you some cock?  No?  Well then you must be ready for the main course then–big, steaming cock.  How about dessert?  We have an excellent mousse au cock.”

He looked at me, totally deadpan.  “Care for a digestif?”

I was in fits of giggles by now, but he wouldn’t stop.  “Perhaps you would like to choose our special menu, table d’hote. Seven courses of cock.  Magnifique.”

“No,” he said.  “I don’t think menu planning would be our biggest problem.  I don’t think it would be a problem at all.”

Amen to that. 


The work of Roy Stuart.

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.

Awhile back, Robbie drew my attention to this discussion on Fetlife. He has long wondered if I could have an orgasm just from giving him a blowjob, and thought that would be a rather fine thing for me to do, or to be trained to do.

On reading the thread, I did an internal and (I trusted) invisible eye-roll. I figured I would come from blowing him when he figured out a way to hook the controls on a remote vibe to the back of my throat.

Lest anyone think that I am the one getting all the pleasure, the pounding, the pampering in this relationship, I want to reassure you that Robbie gets his share (though possibly not his fair share) of attention. He can ask me for a blowjob any time, in any circumstance; he knows he has my explicit consent for that. He also requires back rubs, foot rubs, and other massages as part of the regular service I provide for him. And, as I think the number of posts here categorized under “blowjobs” show, on the whole I am very happy to provide these services. Just not, you know, ecstatic about them. Or so I thought.

So a few nights back, I was in a new kind of chest harness, trussed up tightly with by breasts bound into Madonna-like cones, kneeling with my knees spread on the ground in front of him, the object of all kinds of sadistic moves on his part, when I got my cue to start with The Oral Sex.

Lately I have been getting more and more raw in everything I do, but especially with The Oral Sex. If I don’t gag myself within the first five minutes, and work up to a rather steady gag-fest, I feel disappointed with the whole thing. I am not sure what this is about but in general, lately, I have been pushing myself rather viciously, and liking it.

Anyway . . . partway into my rather fervent throat-fucking, I started to get incredibly turned on. (I take it you all see where this is going?) Between my own sense of abandon, Robbie’s obvious enjoyment of it, and my mind’s smutty little tapes, telling me what a slut, cum-hole, cum-receptacle, yadda yadda yadda object of objectification I was, I was getting pretty turned on. Robbie was rock-hard, my hands were tied behind my back, my breasts felt as though they were going to burst, and I was finding it hard to breathe in the it’s-arousing-not-suffocating kind of way. Or so I thought.

Within seconds I was having a body-rending orgasm. My hips were bucking, my arms were pulling against their bonds, my throat was sliding, jerkily, back and forth along Robbie’s cock, and my lungs were bursting, struggling between the fact that my throat was blocked and that my abdominal muscles had spasmodic plans of their own.

My brain was loving every second of it.

Robbie, though, seemed to think otherwise, because he pushed my shoulders back hard, prying my face off his crotch, and pulled up on my torso with his considerable strength. He hauled me up from the floor, gasping and choking as I was, and held me close. “Shh,” he soothed. “It’s okay, it’s going to be okay, you’re fine, you can breathe, you can breathe, it’s okay.”

I struggled for air, coughing and frothing at the mouth like a wild thing. I wanted so desperately to get back down there, back to my orgasm, back to what I had planned would be his. At times like these–and there have been a few–I get incredibly confused and frustrated at being yanked out of subspace.

“Bu-but-couahghahck!” I said.


“But Inomnombcoughspatsktic!”

“Sh, shhh, now,” he whispered, and smoothed my long hair down against my shoulders.

“But I was cumming!” I finally managed to say, pulling back a bit to look him in the eye.

He looked straight back at me, and with his perfect deadpan, replied, “That’s no excuse.” Then he twinkled at me and I caught a grin lighting his face as he pulled me into him again and hugged me tight, until the sobs and shakes and sniffles and coughs had left me, and the shudders too, and we continued on, laughing and fucking, for the rest of the evening.

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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