Thursday, May 30, 2013

Sex slave

I can't really begin to express how difficult it is growing up and being entranced by the idea of slavery, of being owned and helpless to another person's whim.

I devoured books about slavery all through my childhood- Roman, Greek, Egyptian, American, various and sundry other cultures - simultaneously horrified and enthralled. My very fascination amplified my horror - what sort of person gets tingles when reading about these things?

What was best, when I read the sometimes-fictional books, was when the owner and slave developed a true affection for each other, and then when it became sexual, although not always in that order. There was choice, but there was not choice; there was joy, but there was also ownership.

I tried to pretend the fascination was only academic as I grew older, to mask my fascination with slavery in all its forms with what looked like a voracious love of history, but I never could eliminate the tingly feeling I got when I thought of being possessed, of being owned, taken, controlled. The guilt always came along for the ride too - the guilt of knowing that I shouldn't be so fascinated, that the very concept should be repugnant to me, and that the world should advance beyond those base concepts of people owning people. The pleasure and the guilt became so intertwined that I wasn't always sure which was which. At least in my fantasies I was always the slave and never the owner, though that was a minimal balm at best, since the guilt still told me I was disrespecting people who had no choice in their slavery.

These days, I am a little more comfortable with myself, and I feel much less guilty. I very much identify as sex slave. I know there are people out there who will take issue with that, because I'm not "extreme" enough and because blah blah blah, whatever. Slavery is defined by the Master, not by anyone else. That has always been true - your situation as a non-consensual slave absolutely depended upon who you wound up with.

When my husband pulls me into his arms and says "Mine!" or, even better, whispers into my ear "You belong to me," it thrills me to my core. Every single time. When he further whispers that he is a lucky, lucky man, I can only be grateful. I feel that I am most definitely the lucky one to be gifted with his ownership and his acceptance of who I am. Most importantly, that I made the choice to give him my body, my soul, my Self. Certainly I never would have made that choice or given the gift of who I am to a lesser man.

Sometimes, I think he forgets. He's a lovely person, a sweet and caring husband, and he can be an absolutely demanding master and sadist. In all that, I think he forgets sometimes that there are simpler joys in owning a sex slave, things less complicated than long scenes or multiple orgasm sessions.

There is pleasure to be had from me that doesn't require his energy to be expended beyond a bare minimum. I just want to make his life better. He takes such excellent care of me - really, I am a very very very spoiled girl. It wouldn't hurt him to take a little more from me, even if he doesn't hurt me in the process. Or even if he does. Either way, really.

At the same time, I know that sex trafficking is real. I know that there are women and girls out there in the world who have been born or sold or married into a lifetime ordeal of not having the choice of who experiences their bodies and who does not. I do what I can to support organizations that can help.

Tuesday, May 28, 2013

It's all been done before

I started writing a post. A beautiful, hot, steamy post about being spanked, flogged, paddled until I couldn't stand it and a little past that.

More - double penetration with a huge butt plug, being fucked from behind, having my hair pulled while being driven into the mattress.

Much screaming, many many screaming orgasms. Helpless, breathless, overwhelmed.

I started writing that and then realized this blog is already full of that kind of thing.

It's old hat.

But it's still a bloody good time.

Kudos to Husband because it never, ever, feels old hat.

Tuesday, May 7, 2013


My husband and I are that couple.

You know, the ones always lingering near each other, with their hands reaching, their arms around each other, the ones who stop and kiss on the sidewalk for no apparent reason.

Often, when a suggestion is made that involves one of us not being with the other for any extended period of time (like an entire night), we panic, get depressed, then make a solution to fix it. "You go with me," he says, or "We go together."

He was wrapping his arms around me last night and he said that. "We go together."

"Do we?" I asked. "Do we 'go' together, or did we 'grow' together? You know, like the tree that ate the bicycle."

A visual aid for my readers. I know, I'm awesome.

"Maybe a little of both," he said.

"But that's not quite right, is it?" I asked thoughtfully. "Because that's a growing thing that carried a static thing along with it. We're both growing things."

"Mmhmm. Like two trees that fall into each other?" he said, trying not to fall asleep.

I thought about it for a moment, thought over our history, and then it came to me.

I'm a gardener. I would pore over the plant and seed catalogs all winter, dreaming of sunshine and dirt under my fingernails. One thing that I learned was that many fruit trees are not all the same plant. One plant is bred for its roots, and one for its fruit. The fruit of the root plant won't be as nice as the fruit of the fruit plant, and it's likely the roots of the fruit plant wouldn't be as strong or hardy as the roots of the root plant.

The root tree has the top of the fruit tree grafted onto it, and they grow into each other until, if it's done correctly, you'll never know it was two different plants. The original shoots of the root plant are then cut off, and the roots provide nutrients to the top of the new tree, which will be planted in its final destination or shipped off to a nursery.

If you're interested in learning more about the process:

Before my husband and I were a couple, he was drifting. Aimless, anchorless, like a hot air balloon with no pilot. Nice guy, but he wasn't really headed anywhere. Admittedly, he was quite young.

Before we were a couple, I was casting about for something as well. I wasn't quite sure what was going to happen in my life, I was lonely and didn't see the point in working or being alive. I, too, was quite young.

We came together, and suddenly we were both motivated and things started happening in our lives. From our union came joy, and from that came the confidence to do wonderful things.

I'm the roots - I spread out beneath the surface and nourish us.

He's the flowers and the fruit. He is magnificent - a rock star - brilliant. He shines and has a confidence that has really taken him places - even if a great deal of the time he's just "faking it."

Because we grew together.

Without me, he'd shrivel up and die, and without him, I'd have nothing to live for.

We still have separate facebook profiles, though. Tsk, people.

Thursday, May 2, 2013

Masochist, part 2

First part is here.

"Poor, complex girl," he said, pulling me into his arms and kissing my cheek. "Good thing for you I know how to be gentle," he murmured as his hand wandered between my legs.

He does know how. His touch was soft and so so light. I purred softly as he stroked my clit with the slightest of pressure from his fingertip. . . but then his finger stopped moving, just resting against my clitoris.

He was asleep.

I groaned, moving my hips slightly against his fingertip, but it wasn't the same. I sighed loudly and turned onto my side, feeling the frustration that had already been inside me start to bubble over dangerously.

My movement woke him. "I wish I could be as good to you as you are to me," he said softly, his hand on my hip.

"You could be," I answered, a bit snappishly. "I'm not difficult. I just require you to be present." By "present," of course, I mean there with me and not drifting off elsewhere to sleep or think about Doctor Who, rather than just his physical presence. I'm right there stumped by many of Doctor Who's mysteries along with him, but I'm not thinking about it during sex.

He pulled me back toward him, his fingers finding my clit again.

"No," I whispered. "You're bored. That's not sexy. Boredom is not sexy. I'd rather not."

"That's not boredom, silly girl. That's orgasm putting me to sleep. Brain chemicals. Not boredom." And he rose to the challenge, his fingertip gliding delicately across my clit as he held me down, his leg keeping my legs open.

He was persistent, but I was having a really hard time breaking the orgasm barrier. Until he started talking. He talked about the sex we'd just had, about his cock hurting me, and then he was telling me to come for him.

"I can't," I whispered. I wasn't there.

He didn't care though, he just kept talking, and what seemed like an eternity later, I was vibrating, screaming with my arm clutching his head. But he didn't stop.

"Oooh, girl's gonna come again. Gooood fuck hole," he whispered, my world hinging on the motions of his fingertip. I flew away. The second orgasm overshadowed the first by miles.

"Oh my GOD," I screamed as I came, my body arching up and vibrating helplessly.

Still, he didn't stop. The third orgasm was heaven itself unleashed upon my brain. Screams poured from me and my fingers clutched at him, at nothing, at the bed, at whatever they could grab. I broke out into a fine sweat and I was so, so sensitive that every few seconds another orgasm was crashing over me, each one just as good as the third.

"Look at you, fuck toy," he whispered.

"I can't, I can't, I can't come anymore," I panted, just getting over another one.

"Don't give me that!" he growled. "Come for me!" he said, and I did, because his finger just kept touching me in that magic, delicate way that makes me crazy.

"Oh God, Oh, fuck, oh my GOD oh fuck," I kept panting, helpless, tossing my head, trying everything just for another breath of air.

I could feel his cock, hard against me again.

"I have this hard cock here," he said, his finger still creating waves of sensation and setting fire to my brain. "I could stick it in you, but it might hurt you. You want that? You want me to hurt you with my cock again?"

Oh my God. He really just asked me that, while my insides still burned and ached. And I did. I wanted him to fuck me again.

"Fuck, yes," I panted. "Hurt me with your cock, hurt me with your cock. Hurt me with your cock."

He managed to push me over onto my side and slide his cock inside me without taking his finger off my clit - or if he did, I didn't notice it. The burning pain I felt as he entered me was dampened by the intense joy I felt of having him inside me again so soon - and then the pain was GONE. My top leg was over his hip, and his finger just kept delivering the goodness, and he was huge and hard inside me and I screamed with the joy of it - and then he made me come again, pressing his cock as deeply as possible into me. I felt him hot and hard inside me as I spasmed, and I screamed even louder.

"So fucking good," I gasped, disbelief warring with the extreme pleasure I was feeling.

The floodgates on my own verbosity had lifted and I screamed and talked just as dirty as I could have ever asked him to. "So so good to come all over your fucking cock," I gasped out after he held me down through another orgasm.

My brain exploded somewhere around here - I'm not entirely sure what happened. But it was amazing and splendorous and the entire night made me remember why I adore this man so very much.

I do remember, after he had pulled me into his arms, that I whispered in a joking rebuke: "You didn't hurt me with your cock at all."

"I noticed," he responded, somewhat smugly.

He has a right to be smug.