[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 owns five acres of stunning farmland, a fact I don’t think I’ve mentioned here before.  His land is so beautiful he often jokes that I’m in the relationship for his property rather than for him.  The joke is funny because we both know it’s a litte too close to the truth.  The first night I met him, he took my hand and led me out to show me the back fields, and the night sky above them, and wrapped me in his arms while I sighed happily.  “Feels like home, doesn’t it?” he murmured into my ear. “It does,” I nodded.

It still does, now more than ever.  He and I have plowed and planted here, buried and raised pets, kissed in virtually every corner.  I’ve written so little this visit because we’re in the midst of laying out a garden that is 2800 sq. feet, or maybe 2900–I forget, or he recalculates.  In fact, there has not been a whole lot of time and energy for things besides eating, working, eating, and sleeping.  (Especially since I sleep 11 hours a day when given the opportunity.) 

Nonetheless, Robbie has done more than his share to facilitate fun in the midst of farming.  A couple of days ago, he had me string a trellis for the 6″ snow peas and snap peas that are eager to climb something, anything.  I wove and tied binder twine (or is it baling twine?) in a zig-zag pattern between two horizontal pieces of clothes-line.  The plan is that at the end of the summer, we can throw pea vines and binder twine directly into the compost bin. 

Robbie had to teach me a few knots in order for me to make the trellis: a square knot, to tie pieces of twine together, an overhand knot, so that I could tie the twine to the wire, and a half-hitch, so I could secure the overhand knot.   Well, he didn’t so much as teach me the knots as teach me the names for them, and make me aware that motions I’d been making rather randomly all my life were distinct and distinguishable.  A half a day spent tying scratchy fibers definitely got my bondage juices flowing, though, and Robbie is more than attuned enough to me to take advantage of any and all juices he notices.

Later that afternoon, I took a shower and asked if there was anything more to do.  He said he had a particular task for me that might give me an idea of what my long-term farming “duties” might be like if I were around the place more often.  It turned out that this involved wearing a chest harness while I raked up a few grass cuttings from the front lawn and put them around some plants as mulch.  When I’d done that comfortably, Robbie tightened the ropes and gave me another job to do–possibly the difficult task of taking a nap.  (After three years, he is getting accustomed to my habits.)  And after one more readjustment of the ropes, I got to set the table, make a salad for dinner, and sit down with him for a bit before my ropes came off. 


I love rope almost as much as I love Robbie and his farm–in honesty, it is sometimes difficult o say which holds pride of place in my heart.  I was thinking about rope today, and about this post, and about how if I wrote it, I might be able to explain how deep and primal my love for rope is.  I thought about two 7-week-old kittens we have on the farm, and how, the other day, their mother plopped herself down in front of us and started to nurse them.  While the kittens pawed and kneaded her belly, the mother cat’s eyes were almost shut from pleasure.  A steady purr rose from the entire group.  Bondage is like that for me–a comforting presence, a steady pull that makes me feel loved and wanted, content and happy.  And luckily for me, the ties that bind me aren’t just literal.

More images from the phenomenal Yuko Shimizu.


Robbie has been melting my heart lately.  He has been trying so hard to be considerate and thoughtful that I can’t help but find him amazing.  This is inconvenient, because in some ways I’ve become pretty invested in and inured to the notion of our relationship as inherently dysfunctional and doomed, and it’s scary to let any hope back in.  But the hope is there, anyway, flowering and budding away like the young fruit tree that I gave him for his birthday this year.

I’ve been watching in fascination as Gray Lily over at Journey Into Submission has reinvested herself and devoted herself to her relationship.  Fascination, and a bit of jealousy.  I feel twinges of envy whenever anyone’s love life is going well and mine is not; for some reason, it’s worse when the people involved are kinky.  I think it might be that I feel like everyone else is doing it right, and we’re not.   If you saw us lying, spent and sweaty, in bed together after a raucous fuck, it would probably be hard to identify anything we’re doing wrong, but I still have that nagging sense that well . . . we’re dysfunctional and doomed.

Gray wrote recently about how she can truly be herself in front of her partner in bad times.  This twisted something in me; Robbie finds it hard to deal with my see-sawing emotions, although he is better at handling them than most men (people?) I know.  When I cry or get distressed, he’s often a rock.  Later, though, he tells me frankly that the intensity of my feelings alarms him, and I feel like my confidence in him, and my confidences, get held against me.

So when, earlier tonight, one small work-related issue sent me into a tearful tailspin, I hesitated before dialing his number.  But Robbie has far more professional experience than I, decades of working in and negotiating complex organizations with exacting and rigorous standards.  So I called.

He was amazing.  He listened, he was patient, he let me cry, and he gave me great advice.  He even ignored me when I argued with his attempts to put things in perspective.  I said, “Who’s been sprinkling fairy dust on you lately to make you so fabulous?”

“Me,” he said.  “Now, what do you need to do next?”

I told him that I had to finish a paragraph of a letter I’d spent the whole weekend trying to write.

“Right.  So you can write that now, or you can sink further into your meltdown.  Which are you going to do?”

“Write the paragraph.”

“Right.”  And then he told me that he was going to walk his dog and shut the house up for the evening.  He suggested I finish what I was writing before he called me back, in about an hour.   I did it in three minutes, and then I wrote this.  Nothing like motivation to help get a job done.


Really sexy, fun photos over at fre_nate‘s flickr photostream.

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.

Two years ago, I decided to dress up for him for New Year’s entirely in red. Red bra, panties, stockings, garter, and see-through apron. The only thing was that I didn’t manage to find any red panties before I left to visit him for the holidays.

Red Boyshorts

We fixed that, together, stopping at a department store and grabbing whatever was in the budget bin. The pair of red lace boyshort panties went best with the rest of my outfit, I thought, and so I got them.

I discovered that New Year’s that some boyshorts have a strange “fringe benefit”. They cut so tight through the crotch that it’s like I’m in bondage, particularly through the ass. (Maybe thongs do this–I’m still naive enough not to know. Still, the phrase “butt floss” perfectly describes what those boyshorts did to me.)

I told him this sometime around October. It took me that long to 1) realize he’d want to know that they felt this way on me; 2) want to let him take advantage of the knowledge; 3) get over the embarrassment of having to describe it all out loud. My reward was a trio of boyshorts for Christmas (among many other presents).

I wore a white pair he’d given me yesterday, and was acutely aware of it, and of him. These are the kind of things that maintain my connection to him, and remind me of past and future submission.

They are not, however, assigned tasks. I have never succeeded at submitting at distance, but I circle around the idea, like a curious animal . . . and perhaps someday I will pounce . . . or it will.

* * *

I asked him for a specific kind of task last night; before giving it to me, he reminded me of my notoriously poor history at fulfilling tasks. I love the idea; I hate the reality. I complain that the tasks are too detailed, too burdensome, too complex . . . (Do Masters have some kind of OCD that makes them think of fiendishly, almost uncomplete-able fantasy-style assignments? Mine gives me quite modest ones, but I am far less organized than he, and they chafe.)

Cucumbers . . .

Most of all, I think, I feel bereft at his apparent lack of interest in “how it was for me”. Here I am, miles away, having a full, complete, intensely physical and sexual experience of his design. I want to tell him about it. For him, the act seems to be complete with the design–whatever benefit (or irritation) I get from it is mostly mine, and doesn’t need reporting in minute detail. At least, that’s my perception. When put that way, it makes sense to me. If I were to give him a task, I’d want him to just do it, and perhaps be appreciative, maybe, at most, tell me about any insights when we were together.

But for me at least it doesn’t work that way. When I am in a couple, a solo sex life is not exciting. Online submission doesn’t thrill. We want each other badly right now–and we want the real, full, three-dimensional thing. It has been too long. Tasks seem like they might fill the gap, but they never do. Only him, and his real-life domination, sates my need.

Two nights ago he gave me a task.

 He told me to shave my underarms.

 My underarms have been furry for several months, at his request.  The fur has not been a welcome new feature to me.  And yet, at the same time, it was something special; something that reminded me of him, of us, every day; something difficult, a challenge (earlier this year, ill and tired, I hacked it off one day, unable to manage feeling bad inside and out).  Over time, it became something I clung to when things between us were rocky, a sign of my commitment to him . . . and by implication, I hoped, his to me.

 Later, wondering why it felt like such a punch in the guts for him to ask me to shave it–I’d whined and “joked” for so long about doing it–all I could come up with was imagining him asking me to flush a wedding ring down the toilet.

 Would I do it?  For him, yes, I think so.  Because, in the end, if I did (and, uh, if we were married) . . . it wouldn’t make us any less what we are to each other. 

 I don’t know if he understands what it costs, to feel tested and tested and tested.  It’s not that it doesn’t turn me on–of course it does.  It just that it’s so much more than sexual.  Sometimes I wonder if he really understands.