Switch


A mutual friend recently mentioned to Robbie that she found both of us to be equally “batty”.  This friend uses words like batty and yummy; that’s the kind of person she is.  She’s adorable.  Think Betty White about two decades younger, and you have the image of this friend of ours.  Because she is as funny to us as Betty White is to the rest of the world, Robbie and I fell down laughing at this description of us.  Robbie was inspired enough to send me a pictorial representation of our battiness.  As you can tell from one or two of the images, we do–very occasionally–switch.  Aside from that, we’re just fucking twisted.

From various places on the Internetzwebs.  And if you have an objection to any of it, just remember: “Quiet or Papa Spank!!”

Argh, it’s been way too long since I’ve written anything–it’s almost physically painful to try to be writing right now.

Everything is fine–ticking along.  My real life is just excellent–healthier (thank you, gym), more literate (thank you, Kindle), happier (thank you, Robbie), and wealthier (thanks to my employers) than it has been in a long time.  I should thank my mother while I’m at it, but then again, I’ve always planned to thank her in any and every awards speech.

So, the blog has been quiet because I’ve been focusing on other stuff lately–hobbies and work and friends and so on.  I’m planting a micro-garden in the back, and I’ve been cooking more, and I’ve even occasionally cleaned my apartment.  I’ve been reading up on the environment, and thinking of writing more about those topics.  In fact, I’m doing that annoying blogger thing of wondering if I should start a new blog, or several new blogs, or perhaps dozens of them, as places to write about my non-kink interests.

Fortunately, I don’t have to make the decision right this second, because I still have a few kinky interests.  Since Robbie has been visiting me more often where I live, I’ve been trying to beef up the toy collection here.  (His is already dramatic.)  I just received, after weeks of obsessive-compulsive debate about design, a custom-made flogger from MauiKink.  I haven’t used it yet, so I’m not really in position to give them all of the positive press they almost certainly deserve.  But I can show a little leg.

Here’s my new flogger, photo courtesy of those great MauiKink folks:


I’ve also got a matching bamboo cane with a handle in the same burgundy suede.  Together, the pair look really stunning.

Of course, after I got the pieces and admired them, I started to have buyer’s remorse (which is a good sign–I’ve had it about all of my favorite purchases.)  I told Robbie I wasn’t sure either implement was enough to really hurt someone.  He just laughed at me and said he was pretty sure he could make them sting.  I said that I was the one who was going to be wielding these–they’re partly to use for when I switch–and that I definitely was not strong enough to make them really ouchie.  He just laughed again.  I think he’ll tease the closet sadist in me out eventually, whether I want him to or not.

So I really thought I had something more to add to this post, but then I got distracted.  I’m telling you, this writing thing is hard when you haven’t done it in awhile.  I’m retiring with a glass of red wine, a Sandra Bullock movie, and some chocolate to revive myself after the strain of writing this.  Perhaps after a couple more months of that kind of indulgence, I’ll be ready to post again.

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My blog was down last week because I didn’t like Robbie’s reaction to something I posted.  I got mad at him for getting upset at me, and I made everything here private.  A couple hours later, I made everything public again–or so I thought.  Apparently, I forgot to press “save” when I republished everything.  For two days I wondered why nobody was visiting me.  *Sniff*

Lately, it’s been hard to write because of the emotional interference from my relationship.  Robbie claims that he’s not upset by what I write, but in fact, we often have fights after I’ve posted about something that happens in our relationship.  On the other hand, we often have fights, so it’s not clear that the correlation is causation.

More than that, I feel that lately, whenever I get the urge to write about something between us, especially something sexual, my overall message or mood is whiny or negative, and I don’t like that.   I don’t want to write about that.  Robbie pointed out to me in a series of major emails about a month and a half back that most of my comments about our sex life are negative.  That upsets me because I don’t FEEL like our sex life is negative; I enjoy it immensely, and frankly, it’s one of the reliably amazing aspects of us.  It doesn’t take much for a discussion about chores to get snippy, but man, we can fuck for hours without anything going majorly wrong. So why DO I complain?

I’m not entirely sure, but I think it has to do with topping from the bottom, an urge to tell him, “Ur doing it wrong!”  (He’s been saying for months that this is what’s going on, but do I listen?  No, because he r doing it wrong.)  It’s not even that he’s doing it wrong in a way that is bad and needs to get fixed right then.  It’s more like, “If you always did it this way, it would suck, so just FYI, this could improve your technique”.  But it comes out sounding like a “hissy fit” (his phrase).

I’m pretty sure that I’m being a negative sub, rather than him being a jerky dom.  Why’m I sure?  Well, the weekend after he sent those emails, I had a 30-second opportunity to top him.  I got so upset by what I perceived as his “criticism” of my flogging technique (he was “whining” because I hit him in the ear, the big baby) that I threw away the flogger and stomped out of the room, crying.  There was a little more to it than that, but mostly, I was pissed that he wasn’t letting me just beat him like I wanted to.

It was a good lesson for me.  If he threw down the metaphorical flogger every time I whined?  We would have no sex.  Ever. The more I top, the more I get how hard it is to be a top.  Sheesh.  It’s enough to make a switchy girl roll over and moan, “Beat me, Daddy, I’m yours”!

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.

hagedorn

Not the image I wanted–that one’s on my home computer–but close.  By Gunter Hagedorn, found at Fresh Nudes.

I’m trying to find a way to give R. more room to be him.  From talking with him briefly, I think that perhaps he thinks that I shouldn’t have to try so hard, and neither should he.  We should be able to be ourselves, and find someone or someones who are okay with that, with whom there is less strain and struggle.

That may be true.  I am not sure.  What I know is that I’ve been watching kasia at Beautiful and Depraved trying to let go of her lover with love, and it’s an impressive effort. 

Whether I let go of him or not, I definitely want to set him free.   I don’t find Sting as moving as I did when I was 19, but he is right to say that you can’t control an independent heart.

And anyway, I think I still might want a whipping boy, at least on occasion. 

jansson010ws

And I do, most definitely, want to be a prisoner in the dark, tied up with chains no one but I and my lover can see.  Well, the visitors who came by now and again to talk to R. might see them, but that’s about it. 

I think I need to go have a swoon. 

Photo of victim found at the delicious new Male Submission Art.

Lately I’ve been thinking about stealth kinks: those things you didn’t even know you liked, and thought you probably hated, until you tried them. After which they entered your Pantheon of Favorite Fetishes.

sub lyn recently posted about how she started to enjoy one of my preferred predilections, the euphemistically-named “watersports“. (I hate most names for it. When I was 13 I first heard the phrase “golden shower” on a playground from some 14-year-old boys. I asked the most debauched peers I knew for a definition, which was not forthcoming. Finally a couple of liberated parents among our set disclosed the answer to a sleepover party full of curious girls, but added that in future, we should ask our own parents. Phwa–as if! Part of the fun was in figuring out what a naughty word meant via unsanctioned means.

“Watersports” also confused me when I first heard the term, years ago–I thought it meant waterpolo and synchronized swimming.)

* * *

Piss-play would not have been high on my list of desires when I met Robbie. Neither would spanking, nipple clamps, flogging, face-fucking, knife-play, or a variety of other things we do and love. Basically, the two of us knew we were into bondage from the get-go, and we got more gritty from there.

But I have had the benefit of other lovers in the past with some of their own kinks, and these I remember with fondness, knowing that although the same lures are not likely to crop up tomorrow with Robbie, they could be a part of future play. Tit-fucking, for instance–a favorite. Hand-jobs–not a favorite, but something I did adequately and now have, I fear, lost the knack for. And then a category of more unusual, one-off kinds of fetishry.

Packing my underwear last week to get ready to head to Robbie’s for the summer, I found a beautiful navy blue silk bra, unfortunately (or fortunately?) now much too small for me.

I didn’t know I still had it. The panties to that bra, long lost, were the sole item of clothing ever to have had a role in my enjoyment of sexualized, fetishized transvestism. (And if that phrasing isn’t more uptight than “watersports”, I don’t know what is.)

One evening, after an old boyfriend and I had gotten naked, if I recall correctly, but before I started blowing him in front of his bedroom mirror, he surprised me by picking up the silk panties in question and donning them. Then he posed, swinging his hips first one way, then the other; flexing in front of the mirror; making faces that looked as if he were waiting in line at the bank (innocent and bored expressions were ones he found particularly amusing). I laughed–and more, I was turned on. Part of it, I think, was that he was wearing my panties. Part of it was undoubtedly that he was wearing panties. But part of it was that he was uninhibited enough to think of such a thing, and then try it, and laugh, and fuck me silly afterwards.

Discovering these little pockets of guiltless pleasures, these areas where my Puritanical limits aren’t on patrol, is joyous. I know some submissives love discovering these areas because their Doms are pleased at having pushed their limits, but as far as I’m concerned, to me it’s a victory no matter which of us stubles upon a new, mutually delectable perversion.

But enough about me. Tell me, please–tell me about your stealth kinks. What has, to your surprise, turned you on and on?

Water woman from RopeRookie, thanks to fluffy Lychees. Blue woman by the haunting Carla van de Puttelaar.

The first time I gave head was with my first college boyfriend. His roommate was out of town, and we had made plans for me to stay over. I remember how tentative we had both been when he asked whether, I, y’know, wanted to, well, stay if I liked, y’know–

I felt like sleeping together meant, y’know, sleeping together . . . or at least something close to it. So as I lay astride him, we comfortably made out and dry humped and went through all the other moves we’d rehearsed together before, effortlessly and easily. But my mind was turned in on itself, focused on fretful questions: “When? When do we get naked? Do I? Does he? How does this happen?” The boyfriend gave no hint of what should come next, so I decided that I should take control. After all, I was the older woman, by eleven months.

Losing It, by Katie West

I managed to unbutton his jeans while maintaining eye contact and what I hoped was an alluring smile. I managed to get the zipper down without too much furrowing of my brow. And then I was stuck. An expanse of white fruit-of-the-loom packed tightly inside his jeans gave no hint of how to continue.

I looked at him and put on my game face again. “Here, let’s get you out of those,” I purred—or tried to. I eased the jeans over his hips with a reasonable amount of participation from him—enough to encourage me—and pulled with what I thought was a smooth motion. The jeans stuck at his upper-calf. I decided to plough ahead; his briefs ended up there too. I fought back a sinking feeling as I bent my head to his penis.

From where I lay, at his hip, it seemed huge: engorged, purple, stiff. I had no idea what to do with it, there and then. If I’d had my druthers, I’d have looked at it–privately, in my own time, playing with it and seeing how it worked without his presence to distract me or make me self-conscious. (Come to think of it, I still want that. I never seem to have enough time and freedom to simply experiment with cock. I wish I could treat a man’s body as Robbie does mine, at times—as though I am entirely absent from it.)

But I didn’t gaze, rapt, at my college boyfriend’s penis. I wanted to please him, and fast, so I began to lick it, in long licks, and to swallow it whole, sucking up and down the shaft. It fell out of my mouth. Fuck. How the hell did this work?

“I’m afraid I’m not very experienced,” I murmured to his crotch. “Can you tell me what you want?” I felt my face flush almost as deeply as his sex; felt something suspiciously lump-like start to form in my throat–the harbinger of tears. Being the Last American Virgin was getting less and less bearable with each passing month.

“I think . . .” he said. “It’s . . . “ he tried again. Finally he finished a sentence. “I think this would be going a little better if I had had less to drink.”

What did the . . . oh. That. I thought back to the party we’d just attended. He’d had two, maybe three drinks as I recalled it–not enough, I would have thought, to seriously affect performance. But I had to admit–something wasn’t working here, and it was probably time to stop pushing the issue.

I lay my head on his chest and he kissed me. I felt ignorant and thoughtless, for manhandling him, jeans, briefs, and all; for not knowing how to touch him; for pushing us both past our comfort levels when there was no need, no rush. Katie West, \At the same time, some part of me knew even then—and knows far more strongly now—that he must have been as puzzled and embarrassed, as eager and as nervous as I was. The eternity of awkwardness that I felt lasted less than five minutes, my baptism in the vulnerability that is the heart of physical intimacy.

“Come here,” he whispered to me, hugging me close. I felt safe in his embrace, knew that whatever mistake I had just made, it was okay now, smoothed out for both of us—we were back in synch. I slept there that night, as we’d planned, curled back-to-back with him, dozing fitfully, awed at the reality of being that close to another human.

He was a nice, thoughtful boy. We broke up when school ended a month later, and I didn’t try to date someone that kind for another two years. By then, although I had learned almost nothing more about the meaning of sex, I knew a great deal more about its mechanics, thanks to my best friend.

* * *

Thinking about my beginner blowjob bumbles reminds me of something I love about submission, something I rarely see discussed. When I submit, I don’t have to get things “right”. I am relieved of the burden of figuring out “When?” and “How does this work?” If I’m doing something badly or inadequately, I hear about it–usually gently, directly, and with an eye towards improving my technique.

All that falls under the general label of “control”, but it also relates to responsibilty. It’s less about me being unwilling to take responsbility for my sexual choices–at this point, I can (mostly) admit that I like pain, anal sex, and a half-dozen other things that I would never have imagined embracing two years ago. But I don’t feel responsible for ensuring that either of us has a good time. I know that the more I follow Robbie’s lead, the more pliable and “biddable” (his word) I am, the more we enjoy each other.

I consider myself a switch, but I will only top when I feel confident in what I am doing: when I know that I can make sure that my partner at least will have fun and that I might have a chance at getting some of the things I need. Submission lets me please in so many more ways. And since Robbie says domination gives him the freedom to please, things work out very well between us when we can let go of everything else and play our parts.

Photos by Katie West, via unscathedcorpse.

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