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.

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 Kink.com 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.