Submission


I’ve just discovered Fake Science–probably old news to everyone else who spends untold hours surfing the internet, but news to me.  Lots of funny stuff here; some touching.

For all of you who asked: the threesome was wonderful.  Just a quick post to say that it was while I try to write about all that was juicy about it.

In the meantime, here’s a little souvenir from the event itself.  Thanks to kinkerbelle, whose fine example inspired me, and to Daddy, who did just what he promised.

By the way, Frank was not a fan of this picture.  He thought the teeth looked a little threatening.  I like it, though, because I look–and was–so very happy.  On top of that, I think “try it and see” is a pretty good motto for the agreements Robbie and I have come to about our kink.  We keep learning, one forbidden encounter at a time.

When I wrote the other day that Robbie had set up a first-rate mindfuck, I was right.  When we last I reported in here, I was dressed as a very slutty French maid, waiting for unknown perverts to arrive, on the edge of my seat with apprehension.  And when the guest did turn up–well, he turned out to be the very person I’d suggested to Robbie as an appropriate invitee, a sweet, charming, very Irish and very gregarious dominant named Frank that we’ve known for years.  We’d never played with him before, but he’s been an avuncular and supportive force in our joint kink for so long that I couldn’t help but feel comfortable when I saw him.

We settled down to drink and talk, and we were all having such a good time laughing, chatting, and exchanging stories that before we knew it, we were 90 minutes and four drinks into the evening.  I’d had some kisses, nipple tweaks, and light spanks from Frank, and lots of appreciative and pleasantly possessive affection and perversion from Robbie.   Robbie was, he told me later, rather torn at that point in the evening, because while it seemed the perfect time for me to begin the blowjobs as advertised, it was also, most definitely, time for dinner.  Prompted by my whines and complaints, Robbie lit the grill and I finished dressing the salad so we could all get something more solid than gin and tonics in our bellies.

Just then, Frank got decisively and remarkably ill.

Poor Frank.  I take it that he is now rather mortified by his queasy stomach, although as I pointed out to Robbie, this is far from the first time a threesome we’ve arranged has ended in someone losing his or her lunch.  (That’s another story for another time.)   Robbie was as perfect in this slightly awkward situation as he always is in any emergency–he managed to take care of Frank and cook dinner in about 15 minutes, and he and I ended up having a very romantic and delicious meal while Frank took a restorative nap.  Soon enough, Frank was feeling well enough to eat dinner himself, and, after borrowing a toothbrush, was, according to Robbie, more than a little frisky.

By this point, though, it was pushing 10:30, and I’d been on tenterhooks for at least eight hours.  I was exhausted, and so I went to bed.  Frank declined an offer to sleep on our couch, and drove home after he felt able to do so safely.  And Robbie came to bed with a raging hardon, asking me what he should do with it.  Apparently, I told him sleepily to “stick it in my mouth or my cunt”; he did both, in that order, and then we both faded into dreams.

The next morning, we talked about what had been good and bad about the evening, and processed it all.  It was a comfortable conversation.  But then Robbie told me that Frank was free on Friday afternoon, and I blanched.  I didn’t want to go through another afternoon of dressing to the nines, sitting on pins and needles, greeting our friend and making small talk, all in order to get to that emotional and psychological alignment we were at when things went adrift.

So I said I’d think about it.  And a few minutes later, I came back to Robbie and I told him I’d agree to another attempted threesome on one condition: I had to be blindfolded, brutalized, and objectified.  No more Mr. Nice Guy.

I’m fully aware that my desire for intensity and discomfort is related to my nervousness, and to how unsure I am about whether this kind of play is something I want to do in future.  I want to be made to be with these two affectionate, handsome, and highly sexual men.  That’s okay with me; I’m glad I’m aware of my own emotional landscape in this.  As I’ve told Robbie in the past, if I’m going to be led down his primrose bath, I want to be at least in part the agent of my own corruption.  So I am both sick and aroused at the afternoon of degradation and humiliation I’ve requested, which is due to start in an hour. 

And I will report back.  I don’t expect that things will be as chaste as the last time, but if they are, that’s also fine.  One of the best things about what happened with Frank is that Robbie and I realized that in the end, the best thing about playing with other folks is the care that goes into it.  Or, as Robbie said, “Take care of the people and the sex will take care of itself.”  That seems a good motto to me.

Photography: the PINKbook, by thyl, via ponyXpress.

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.

by Leonard Cohen

I saw you this morning.
You were moving so fast.
Can’t seem to loosen my grip
On the past.
And I miss you so much.
There’s no one in sight.
And we’re still making love
In my secret life.

I smile when I’m angry.
I cheat and I lie.
I do what I have to do
To get by.
But I know what is wrong,
And I know what is right.
And I’d die for the truth
In my secret life.

Hold on, hold on, my brother.
My sister, hold on tight.
I finally got my orders.
I’ll be marching through the morning,
Marching through the night,
Moving cross the borders
Of my secret life.

Looked through the paper.
Makes you want to cry.
Nobody cares if the people
Live or die.
And the dealer wants you thinking
That it’s either black or white.
Thank God it’s not that simple
In my secret life.


I bite my lip.
I buy what I’m told:
From the latest hit,
To the wisdom of old.
But I’m always alone.
And my heart is like ice.
And it’s crowded and cold
In my secret life.

I’m getting on with my life, and so much is going well.

But I miss him so much, and it seems like half the things that happen haven’t really happened unless he knows about them.

Just the way it goes, I know, and time wounds all heels.

First-rate portraits by Noah Kalina.


I am not sure what’s wrong with men.  (I accidentally typed “me” instead of “men”, but I’m 99% sure that I’m okay and they’re not.)  I went to a munch earlier this week and met a friendly, submissive-switch guy.  We hit it off well enough to chat for most of the evening about kinky things and mull over the possibility of playing together.  I have to be honest; as I’ve written about before, my interest often stops at the mulling stage, and I’ve learned not to be distressed that others actually want to act on their impulses.

What distressed me a leeetle was that when the guy went to leave, he asked me for a ride to his car, which was, by his choice, parked nearly a mile away from the bar hosting the munch.  It was bitterly cold, so I did the nice thing and drove him, although I would liked to have lingered longer.  When we got to his car, I figured there might be a peck on the cheek or something.  (I’d told him about Robbie.)  Instead, he turns to me and says, “Well, a kiss seems a little inappropriate, so how about I masturbate and you watch?”

Yeah.  No.  No thanks.

I informed him that the kiss was about 10000000% more appropriate than jizz would be, and so he gave me a very nice, sweet kiss.  Chalk up one for me in the “articulating my wants and desires” column.

* * *

I’ve started a few other writing projects in other places, which is distracting.  Every morning I get up to work on of the 15 short essay-lettes I have planned, and every day I end up staring at the computer screen jumping around from thing to thing to thing.  So, lots to say here, and hopefully I can pick up the pace a bit.

* * *

I had a huge lunch today at a famous restaurant and it really wasn’t that good.  (Don’t go to this famous restaurant whose name you don’t know, if you’re ever near it.)  I’m feeling ginormous post-holiday and I really, really want to get in better shape.  It’s a new year cliche, but I’m really hoping I can make some changes there.  I will never have legs like this woman–although I did once get to fuck a woman who had legs like this–but it’s not really a contest.  Feeling better in my own body is where it’s at.

* * *

Blah blah blah me.  Okay, well, that’s pretty much a post.

Cool pics by Franklin Obregon.  And if you really want to know, I steal most of my stuff from Sex in Art (as in this case), or ponyXpress, or the like.

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