Upping the ante, part 2

The first half is here

I don't know if I growled when he directed me to suck his cock, but something inside me did. I felt another rush of wetness between my legs and I attacked his mouth, kissing him like he was my air. As I kissed down his chest, he rolled onto his back. Ahhh, so it was going to be like that. I settled between his legs then, and I did growl a little as I slowly sucked on his balls, watching his cock bounce and listening to his noises of pleasure. "Oh yeah, that feels good," he murmured.

I licked from his balls up the underside of his cock before I finally sucked the length of him in, relishing the moment, hearing his moan of appreciation as my tongue rubbed all over, as I took him as deeply into my throat as the position allowed. His legs were over my shoulders, his feet resting on my back as I held him in my throat until I started shaking. When I pulled away I sucked in air loudly for a long time.

"My girl has a good fuck hole in her face, doesn't she?" he asked as I sucked him down again. I moaned an affirmative around the cock filling my mouth. "But sometimes she needs to remember that's her air hole too, I think." He grabbed my head then, held it still while he fucked into me. I squealed around it with excitement. It's so easy to forget how very fucking much I love this when I'm not actively doing it, but holy shit this was amazing.

Then he was pulling my hair, using it as a handle to move my head up and down on his cock, pushing me down as his cock penetrated my throat as far as it could, holding me, holding me, until my feet shook, and then letting me up for air. Oh God this is so fucking hot, I thought to myself as I sucked in air. He let go, let me move on him on my own, and when I had taken him right into my throat, his legs tightened around my head, holding me in place. I shook, unable to make a sound but so incredibly excited by the whole business that I just knew my wetness was seeping out. I squeezed his legs even tighter around my head with my hands. He finally opened his thighs and let me move again, letting the noises he'd made me want to make come out.

We went on like that for what seemed like a long, long time. I was taking a breather, rubbing my cheek and lips against his cock, sliding my tongue along it until I had enough oxygen to take it in my throat again.

"I want you to get up here on top of me," he growled.

I trembled, and pulled my face away from his cock, starting to slide up his body. But as my breasts brushed his erection, still slick with my saliva, his knees locked around my midsection, stopping my upward advance. His hands moved to my breasts, pushing them around his slick cock, and he started to fuck them, squeezing them firmly, making me moan. I lowered my head to suck his cock when it advanced between my breasts. He was enjoying himself, letting me suck as he fucked me, making lots of pleased noises. "This isn't quite what I meant when I told you to get on top of me," he said, not stopping.

"You stopped me," I pulled my mouth away from him just long enough to whisper, noting as I returned to his cock that his thighs were still tight around my midsection, that his hands were still gripping my breasts, holding me in place.

"So I did," he said, enjoying himself for a bit longer before he finally stopped. "Get up here," he said, tugging on my hair. "I want you to fuck me with your pussy the way you fuck me with your mouth."

Well I don't know if that's even possible, but I understood the gist of what he was saying as I straddled him, my knees out to either side of us. I gasped as I moved over his erection, feeling the slick heat of him touching my folds. I rocked against him, letting his hardness press me open. The head lodged just inside me and I groaned, gently rotating my hips.

"You afraid of my cock?" he asked, as I was taking my time about settling lower.

"Nuh-uh," I said, enjoying the feel of him throbbing there inside me. I settled lower, taking him all the way, leaning forward over his chest, my clit rubbing against his pubic bone as I slowly rocked. He kissed me, I was gasping into his mouth with the intensity of the position, my clit, the size of him stretching me open, his mouth. Supporting myself on my arms became more difficult, but I kept rocking.

The sensations were overwhelming. "You getting tired, girl?" he asked, as I was panting, gasping for breath, but not from exertion. I was close, and I held still because that's how I respond to impending orgasm - try to stop it. He slapped my ass. "Fuck that cock, girl," he ordered, and I moved. The insides of my knees were brushing against the soft coolness of our bamboo sheets as I rocked on him, and that sensation is the one that's always managed to push me over the edge in the past - my legs moving like that, feeling so completely out of control - but he was still slapping my ass, making me move. Those two things combined really left me no choice.

"Good girl, good girl," he said as I panted,  starting to cry out. "Come for me, girl!" he ordered as I moaned deeply, still rocking on him. "Fucking come for me." I cried out several times, pulsing, my hair having long since become a sweaty curtain around my face. I stopped again, resting my forehead against him, repositioning my knees so I could lift my hips rather than rock.

It's still a rocking motion, but with more of a thrust to it, and he was sliding in and out of me as I moved, rocking up and down against him. His breathing quickened and he clutched me as he pulsed inside me. "Good, good girl," he whispered as we kissed afterward. "Mine," he said, wrapping me in his arms and legs after he allowed me to roll off him.

Cue happy lovey-dovey pillow talk here, followed by amazing sleep.

---

Several things going on in these posts:

He slaps my face with the spoon. With the spoon. I loved it. It made me feel....oh, it just made me feel. It made me aware, and I knew he was paying very close attention to what he was doing. Oh, fuck.

He's paying attention to what I'm wearing. Seriously, he gives a fuck? Yeah, I hear you all going "That's really a no-brainer," but... honestly, he's just never seemed to give a damn. If I'm wearing something easy-access he's for it, but otherwise he just wants it gone.

He puts me wherever the hell he wants me. Yes.

He's very very good at this. We're gliding along the path pretty well most of the time, and we're enjoying the hell out of each other, but once in a while he ups the ante just a little - just enough for me to know he's paying attention and gives a damn.

He tells me no one would be interested in our story because there's not enough conflict in it.

I love our story because any time there is a conflict, it gets evaporated by the twin barrels of perseverance and communication.

Anal angst

If the title is not warning enough, this post may be a little too much information for some. 

---

I love anal sex.

There was a time in my marriage when I, as the more sexually educated half of us, the one who was more aware of the things she wanted and needed, perhaps should have stepped up to educate my husband a little better.

I mean, really, how hard is it to say "Lots of lube, love, and go slow, but often, please?"

Harder than you'd think. My submissive sexuality only complicated matters, since I so often confused "Giving him what he wants" with "Waiting until he finds out what he wants and then asks for it." My husband, while I adore him and think he's amazing, is not the most proactive of souls. He doesn't actively seek out things on his own the way I do. I still have remnants of that problem drifting around due to this fundamental part of his makeup.

What I did instead worked, but I don't recommend it. It can lead to some confusion.

I would bathe, cleaning myself thoroughly, inside and out - this part I still do. Afterward, my skin still damp from the bath, my long hair dripping down my back, I would lean over the bed provocatively to lube myself. The fantasy playing in my head in those instances was always one of non-consent. 

"No, not in my ass, oh, oh, that's so sensitive, please don't, don't," I would beg my imaginary tormentor as my own fingers made me slippery and ready for penetration. A subfantasy would often run alongside this one, that my husband would walk in and find me like that, call me names, tell me what a dirty, dirty girl I was. He'd be overcome with lust and take me, forcing me to stay bent over as he slid into my pre-prepared ass. 

"How nice of the dirty girl to lube her ass for me to fuck," he'd say as he slammed into me and I groaned, protesting, writhing, kicking my feet uselessly.

That never happened. He'd always stay in the other room politely until I came out.

The fact that I often screamed quite loudly in surprised terror the few times he did walk in on me (not in lube-mode) when I wasn't expecting it didn't help either.

So, unbeknownst to the man, I would be pre-prepared for anal. Later, during sex, I would ease myself off his cock, shift, making my desires known, and he would slide into my ass.

The worst part of that? I never knew how far along in the process we were. Sometimes I'd miss the window entirely, so enjoying the vaginal portion of the sex that I would not get anal because he'd come, not realizing I wanted more.

---

Now is better, because he decides. But it's also worse, because I expend all the effort to make myself presentable and so very often he does nothing about it.

"Why you no like anal sex anymore?" I asked him recently, as we lay spent in each other's arms after some particularly thrilling sex. Yeah, I sometimes talk like that when I'm all used up.

"I suppose I enjoy myself just fine without it!" he said, sounding a little surprised. "Also, it's a lot of extra effort, you know."

Lube. He meant the lube. The lube that he applies when he is ready. Perhaps he also meant the effort of slowing down so as not to tear me open, I'm not sure.

Visions of the effort it takes me to prepare myself flitted through my head. The effort that so often is for naught. The cumulative hours that I have spent for no good reason.

Being submissive doesn't mean I want to waste my time, not even if it's more convenient for my dominant 1/30th of the time.

Sometimes, it thrills me a little, to know that I do this for his convenience and he can choose not to partake. More often though, it feels like there is no recognition that anything is happening on my side. It's just one of those things that goes on out of his view, like brushing my teeth or washing my hair, that he may or may not be aware of. Part of what I love about him is how accepting he is of me, with joint compound and paint on my clothes, sawdust and spiderwebs in my hair, or all dressed up - he seems to find me equally appealing regardless. I realize this is possibly just the flip side of that. Man who doesn't care doesn't care. Gasp. 

So I still have those fantasies. Those bent over, lubed fingers sliding into my backside while I beg them to stop, dirty talking fantasies. He plays his part well when he chooses to play it, because I have had quite a lot of anal experience with my husband and it only serves to feed the fantasies deeper.

Typical for me, I am greedy. 

I want more.

I always, always want more. Kisses, blowjobs, vaginal, anal, manual, flogging, spanking, biting, pinching, pulling, twisting, hugging, touching, stroking, squeezing. I just want more. There is never a moment when I am thinking "Nah, no more contact for me for a while."

(Amusing aside: as I wrote this post, my husband came up behind me and kissed me, three times quickly as I tilted my face back to his. I left my face tilted back when he pulled away, and he came back to kiss me again. "You always want more than three kisses. What's up with that?" he asked, grinning. 

I smiled hugely at him and pointed to the sentences I had already written above. He laughed.)

It's surprising the man doesn't give up in exhaustion, because the more amazing he is, the more of that I want from him. Perhaps he is thinking "Can't this woman ever be satisfied?"

Technically, no, I can't.

Because while I can be suffused with elation, my every sense sated in the moment, I'm insatiable.

I think that's a credit to the man for whom my hunger burns.

Chest of secrets

My favorite piece of furniture in our apartment, besides our bed, for obvious reasons, is a tufted storage ottoman with a hinged lid.

Almost exactly like this.

We bought it brand-new from Goodwill for $40. Apparently Target donates a lot of stuff to Goodwill; who knew?

It's very, very roomy. Inside I have stored hundreds of feet of rope that I have dyed, my scissors, matches, candles, dozens of reels of hand-dyed twine, and two large bags of D-rings. On top of all that sits the more vanilla stuff - two hundred feet of paracord and buckles for making bracelets, a 2-lb weight that I use for holding one end of my bracelets when I make them, and my little one's potholder weaving stuff.

We call it my rope chest. When we sit in the evenings, I often have my feet propped on it. We had guests recently, and one of them spent the evening unknowingly sitting on top of all that stuff, while we laughed and chatted and had a good time.

When you open the lid, the stuff on top gets your attention first, but you move that out of the way and all these glorious, beautiful, glowing layers shine out. My rope addiction aside, the layers are interesting to peel back. A gorgeous bit of rope may be lurking at the bottom, forgotten because of the newer things piled on top.

I think everyone has a metaphorical chest of wonders inside themselves. Inside that chest are all our kinks, our innermost desires, the ways that we best relate to others people within relationships. Some people have lots of kinks in theirs, while some people have hidden talents that they show no one. The secrets inside our chests sparkle, but we're afraid to take them out.

Many people keep theirs locked up tight and never even peek inside, but those of us who have taken that leap and opened the chest are greedy. Taking out the first layer is terrifying and exhilarating all at once, but is hardly ever enough. After the breathtaking experiences that first layer gives us, we want to drag out every little thing inside and decorate our lives with it all. The things inside are too spectacular, too wonderful, too fantastic to shove them back in that chest and close it again, to live our lives without acknowledging and celebrating some of the most amazing parts of us. Some of us want to take the things out slowly and examine them, explore and savor each individual wonder, while others want to just dump the whole thing out and let the items inside erupt everywhere in glorious chaos, dealing with the fallout as it comes.

Both of those approaches are completely valid.

It doesn't matter how you explore your wonders, as long as you explore them.

What happens, though, when you have two people in a relationship, they've both agreed to explore those chests, and one is the more thoughtful, savoring type, while the other one wants it all out now? We could of course complicate this endlessly by adding more partners to the equation, but I will stick with two.

Logic seems to dictate that you go at the slower pace, since you can both keep up with that. Unfortunately, life doesn't always follow patterns of logic. To the person who wants more, more, please just let me see/feel/do/experience more, the slower pace can seem torturous, perhaps even intentionally so, if that person is the s-type.

What then?

The way I see it, there are a few options.

• The partners talk. I know, right? While I don't think this is an issue where compromise is necessary, - especially if a power exchange is involved - if the partner with the longing can be let in, in detail, on the thought processes of the other person, I think that would go a long long way toward relieving some of that need to be on to the next thing.
  
• The slower partner picks up the pace ever-so-slightly. Not enough to feel rushed, but enough to give the other person a sense of progress. Perhaps examine several things at once instead of just one. If you have three or four new activities or ideas to ponder instead of just one, that can let the other person feel more of a sense of progress, more like the bottom will eventually be uncovered.
  
• The faster partner chills the hell out. Probably most useful in combination with the above options. It's never done anyone any good to shove a person where they're not quite ready to go yet. In concert with chilling out, talking more about what's on the other person's mind, perhaps even bringing up something new that is tangentially related to what you're already exploring, is bound to go a long long way toward building that bridge between the two of you.

I love my rope chest. I love that it occupies so much floor space in my living room, I love that it's the most attractive piece in our home so far, and I love that no visitors know what's there unless I choose to show them.

I love my kink chest too. We're still only a few layers deep, and I have no idea where the bottom is. We're having a blast exploring it though - even if I do get a little greedy sometimes.

I've just given new meaning to the phrase "Something to get off my chest," haven't I?

Happy Friday, everyone!

Intimacy: The horror

So many people are afraid of connecting with others on anything but the most superficial level.

Society encourages this. Reality TV is full of it - oh, like anyone you please, but don't like them for too long because they'll be right the hell out of here. Don't even get me started on the amazing shows that start up and are then nixed with but half a season's worth of episodes to their name. 

Almost no one is willing to make the emotional investment to really, truly connect, and the entertainment industry just reflects that.

I am a shy, geeky sort of person, but in all the friendships I have, it's been me who's reached out to make the connection, or made the suggestion that we try to build something deeper. My husband and I go to meetups sometimes, where crowds of geeks hang out. We've managed to connect with one (1) geek on a deeper level. One. We've been trying with another, but our schedules won't match up.

We went to a picnic where there were a hundred or more of these folks, and even though we knew quite a few of them on sight, we also knew none of them would miss us if we weren't there. The geeks love to socialize as a bunch, but try to start any deeper connection and you're going to have a hard time.

There's a lingering sort of sadness when you're standing in the midst of a hundred more-or-less like-minded people and you can neither think of anything to say or seem to find anyone to hear it if you did. The opportunity is there but you can't quite grab it. It will haunt you for days afterward, lingering on your soul like an oily residue on plastic.

I am full of love. I love easily, and well, once I've had time to make a true attachment. That's how I work. I attach and I love and I do my best to make sure that my friend is happy. 

Standing there, though, on that bright, sunny day, surrounded by geeks, I felt useless. Unattachable. Unlovable. Unnecessary. Really, I just wanted to go the hell home. Eventually some kind soul took pity on me and we struck up a conversation and my world was right again, because I was having a conversation even if I wasn't connecting. I was communicating, and therein lies a possibility for connection.

When no one is attached, no one can be loved. If no one is loved, then no one can be missed, and so everyone will scuttle home to their lives, their husbands, their children, their lovers and their video games. But if they haven't connected, no one can miss them.

I see people post on facebook: "I'm in town, call me!" and I wonder, does anyone actually call those people? Why don't they just call the friends they'd like to hang out with? I'm pretty sure if I put "I'm in town, call me" on my status, no one would. No one wants to hear that you're already busy. 

I've been standing in a group of my own friends and felt out of the loop. That happens when you can't see them for a year at a time, but beyond that there's this sense of "missing out" on what goes on with them when I'm not with them. In-jokes and all sorts of random stuff that just go over my head and make me want to hide. It's ridiculous, of course, to expect to know everything that goes on in anyone's life - hell, sometimes even my husband doesn't tell me what he had for lunch. That feeling is kind of unshakable for me, that clearly they don't miss me because they're actually enjoying themselves without me. The horror!

Of course I'm not necessary, but I'm preferred. And isn't that better, anyway? For someone to choose to spend time with you because they prefer it, rather than because they can't not? Of course it is. In friendship, in love, in kink, it always is.

It's scary, though, to reach out. Even if you feel like you're being led to reach out, it's scary.

When Kitty and I met, she sort of led me to the place where I would ask if she wanted to meet up. It still took quite some mettle on my part to just come out and say "So, you wanna get together then?" As hard as it was, I am so, so glad that I did.

The idea of hearing "No," which may translate in our heads to "No, you're not worth my time you steaming pile of yuck," is unappealing at best and downright damaging at worst. It's easier, safer, to hope something will just naturally happen. 

What it isn't, though, is better. It's far, far better to have reached out and been struck down, or even ignored, than to never reach out at all. Yeah, being ignored sucks. But the friendships you build with the people who say yes are worth it.

This post was inspired by Lily's need to Water the Bonsai

Opening doors

You don't find a lot of introspection here at Exploring Surrender, which is odd since the title seems to imply that you will. To be honest, self-examination of that kind makes me feel intensely vulnerable, especially since my husband reads here and honest-to-goodness introspection often makes me feel like I've just opened up my head and let all the less attractive parts of me hang out right in front of him. 

Kitty recently wrote a post that set me thinking. When she begins the interlude, she is steely, resistant to her husband's advances, even though they had planned to be there together at that time.

As much as I want to submit to my husband and crave pleasing him, I do this too. I'll sometimes have a steely attitude that will often wind up discouraging him, and nothing happens even though I'd really, really prefer that it did, and then I get sad. At that point, he's in an impossible situation.

I've turned this over in my head for years, but it wasn't until I started responding to Kitty's post that I began to see what goes on in my head.

It's probably fair to say that many submissives who bring the concept to their husbands wind up second-guessing themselves, wondering if he's really into it, or if he's just doing it to humor them.

Our relationship is amazing, honestly, it is, and I know it. But the second-guessing just does not go away. I don't have a nice little window into his head like he does into mine. He becomes more confident by the day, as I write about my feelings and how I experience our experiences. But I don't.

While I always want to be there with him, I sometimes may act as if I don't - because I feel he may not want to be there, and I am trying to open a door to make it easier for him to get out.

He may say a million positive things about our dynamic, but as soon as he says something that can be construed as less-than-complimentary, my heart sinks. I can go from laughing, happy, delighted, to deeply saddened, the spark of joy within me stilled along with my breath, my inner laughter quieted. It actually feels as though a silencer has been applied to the happiness within me, a huge wet blanket of misery blacking out the memory of hundreds of joyous experiences.

There's a large part of this that's tied up with trust - trusting him to do what is best for both of us, trusting that the things he says to me are true, and trusting that he is getting more joy out of the things we do together than he is putting effort into them.

Why is it that I can trust him to hurt me, talk dirty to me, invade every part of my being, but I cannot trust that he is where he wants to be?

It's because I know how much he loves me and wants my happiness.

I need to stop trying to open doors. If I was visiting someone's home and they kept holding the door open saying "Are you sure you want to be here?" I'd eventually feel unwelcome and leave, no matter how much I'd initially wanted to be there.

I'm just not sure how to stop. Maybe if I have to open doors, I should open doors to inner chambers rather than the exit ones, and strive to banish steely-me from our bedroom.


I haven't done a lot of this since I had my lightbulb moment on symbiotic relationships and angst having no place within them. Our "us" is so very close to perfection that it feels like blasphemy to even give this so much airspace. But when it does happen I can feel his frustration as surely as I feel my own inner self go quiet and still. Surrendering to the truth of things he says is every bit as important as surrendering to his will. I adore him, and want him to feel his words are taken for truth, that I don't think he is a liar.

I wouldn't even grant this so much time, but I thought someone else out there may be struggling with the same thing.

Being a toy

His fuck toy.

As appealing as the words are, the reality is sometimes a little daunting.

When he uses my mouth and then comes inside my pussy, falling asleep behind me due to exhaustion, his softening cock still inside me, his finger still buried in my mouth, my needs mostly unsatisfied, my dignity is affronted.

And then I realize, what dignity? This is what I asked for - to be used when he needs or wants, no recriminations, no hassles. 

I feel his seed trickle out of me as his soft cock slides from my body, shaken free by a shudder that wracks my frame as the realization hits me: a toy does not complain when it is used and its owner falls asleep. 

Suddenly it is right. It's okay. I've fixed my own internal anger and I wriggle my body to get closer to his.

But as I shift, he stirs. 

"Why are you so good to me?" he asks, as if he never fell asleep.

"You're asleep," I tell him, laughing a little, lighthearted.

"I am?" he asks. "Kiss me."

I turn my head and our lips meet in the darkness; tender heat builds between us as our gentle kiss lengthens into a place where time has no meaning. Our tongues dance, and my soul flies as his love and appreciation pour into me. His hand wanders to the apex of my thighs, which I closed when I shifted. I purr as his fingertips brush my skin.

"Open your legs for me, sweet girl." His words are gentle and soft but it is nonetheless a demand. I whimper as I am forced to release my resignation to nothing, but I comply, spreading my thighs to allow his hand access.

His words of devotion, adoration, and appreciation invade my ears. As he delivers the pleasure I had convinced myself I did not need, as the lights explode behind my eyes and I cry out with all the intensity of multiple releases, another realization comes to me.

This is what I asked for. The love invades me even more thoroughly than his words and fingers do, permeating all the spaces that are not open to physical intrusion, seeping through my skin and saturating my soul.

I was okay with him being asleep, but when he woke up he wanted to take care of me.

Spouse, lover, treasure, slave, toy.

All these things, we are for each other, regardless of the labels that make our lives more convenient.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

A spanking sex lover's problem

My husband is a lean, wiry sort of man, tall and absolutely perfect. He stays active, especially in the couple of years since we hit thirty, trying to live forever.

He's right handed, and so I sleep on his left, the better for having his right hand free for spanking me, flogging me, and giving me dozens of orgasms.

I was loving on his left arm recently, and as I stroked and kissed it, I began to realize it was noticeably thinner than his right. I stared at it for a while, trying to figure out what on earth was going on, if he'd lost a lot of weight, or what. He doesn't have any weight to lose. I began to be concerned, because I hadn't yet compared his arms and realized his right one was still the same size, and then, we put his arms together. Yep, left one's smaller, right one's bigger.

Huh. What the?

Or perhaps, how to tell if a man
has lots of amazing partnered sex.

Eventually we came to the conclusion that all the orgasms, floggings, and spankings that he gives me have resulted in this size discrepancy. It's certainly not noticeable to an average glance, but getting up close and personal with his arms, heck yeah.

The idea of the "single guy" with the one arm bigger than the other doesn't really hold water anymore, does it? Perhaps that guy is just really, really awesome to his sex partner.

I suppose my husband should add a couple of extra lifts to his left arm's routine.

What I am

I am my husband's.

If I were to start talking right now, and say nothing else but to try to describe the extent of my love for him, years would pass, and eventually I would die while still trying to get it right. He is, without a doubt, the sweetest, most wonderful man it has ever been my pleasure and privilege to know.

He is funny, always making me laugh. I am often jealous of how consistently funny he is. I don't have the funny knack.

He is brilliant, and has put his all into building an amazing life for our family, while supporting my choices 100%. We're in a bit of a transitional period right now, and we've both made sacrifices, but I think his part of the burden is more.

He left everything he'd ever known to marry me, to be with me. It just does not get more romantic than that.

He presses my buttons, as I have an entire blog here to explain to my readers. He's always open and willing to press a new one if we find it.

He is an amazing parent as well, and our little one is as addicted to him as I am.

There's a quote from a Doctor Who episode, which my husband wasn't a fan of, but the quote rings so incredibly true for me:

"You know when you meet someone and they're so beautiful, but after a few minutes they're as dull as a a brick. And then you meet someone and you're like 'They're okay; not bad.' But then you get to know them and suddenly their face becomes them and they just become so... Beautiful.
... Rory is the most beautiful man I've ever met."

So I am his.


I am happy to please him in any way I can - and that's not even necessarily related to D/s. I just enjoy pleasing him, in much the same way any person deeply in love with another wants to please their love. He feels the same way about me.


I am submissive to him. I am thrilled when he takes what he wants from me, thrilled that our passion can still flare so hot, so regularly. I am thrilled when his sexy voice whispers sweet nothings or dirty obscenities to me in the heat of the moment, or out of it. His hand pressing on my throat melts me.


We've been married for almost ten years, and our love only grows deeper.

I feel so incredibly blessed to have shared so much of our lives together.

He has gifted me with his dominance, and with treasuring my submission. The interplay between those makes my life so incredibly rich, and I really cannot express how amazing my life is right now.

I am his, and I am grateful.

Breast spanking and cock sucking

If you arrived here because you were expecting a steamy tale of blow jobs and breast spanking, sorry. I don't usually label my sex posts so blatantly. Perhaps I should.

You probably want to go read this instead: Exactly what I needed
Or this: Such a chore

Or this: I love Wednesday
Or even this: Every single day is awesome

If, on the other hand, you'd like some more insight, you might want to stick around and finish reading this one.

I was going over my search terms for the last week or so, and the overwhelming majority of repeated searches are to do with blow jobs and breast slapping. Mostly blow jobs, but the breast spanking appeared often enough I thought I'd include it.

Here's a nice sample of 58 of the most recent searches. I only removed 20 or so other searches from the list of ALL my searches:

my husband insists on a blowjob every day
love stroking cock
i love to suck my husbands cock for hours
what if my blow job
master had me give blow jobs to his friends
i love my husband cock suck
my husband+breast spanking
my husbands cock
sucking my husbands cock
i hate to suck my husband's penis
i love sucking my husband's
why i dont like to suck my husband dick
i hate sucking my husband dick
my sub doesnt like sucking cock
i like my husband licking
i like to suck my husbands cock
breast spank asking for
i love sucking cock in front of my husband. is it normal?
why i suck my husband's cock
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So now I'm the blow job giving submissive girl who loves to have her breasts spanked, I guess. I think I'm okay with it. I know I'm okay with it in life, but the whole public persona thing is a bit daunting. Fitting into a happy mold has never really been my strong point. 

The large amount of searches I get that seem to be people wondering why sucking cock doesn't do it for themselves or their partner make me sad. The search "blowjobs are a chore i hate them," vies for the sad-making crown with the plaintive tone of "why wives dislike sucking husband's penis?"

Women are all different creatures, but I can come up with some pretty good answers.

Why doesn't she like sucking cock?

There are so many reasons a woman can go sour on giving blow jobs, even if she was initially enthusiastic about the concept. 

1. It's not clean.
   Dude. Take a shower. Do you really think the idea of your sweaty smelly crotch up in her face is going to turn her on? Some woman may like your specific aroma, but generally, just take a shower. It can take as little as five minutes, and the return will be worth it.
   
   
2. He's too rough
   So you read about face fucking somewhere? Maybe even here, on my blog, where my husband grabs my head and yanks it up and down on his cock, and I love it. You like the idea of doing that too, so why not try it? But here's the thing: my husband does that because I want him to. He does it because it makes me hot. Sure, it feels great to him too, but if I didn't want to experience it he would not do it. We've been together for over a decade. We've developed our kinks over a lot of time. But most women are not going to love the sensation of having their heads used as masturbation aids. It might just piss them off.
   
   
3. It's uncomfortable
   The most important part of a blow job is a willing and happy mouth. Find a position where she can fully explore and not have some part of her body aching or falling asleep. Do not get the idea of one particular position stuck in your head. Talk to her about what feels best to her. There's also the issue of aching jaws, which can be worked out over time. Just let her stop when she needs to, no whining. My jaw used to ache after several minutes, but now I can go on for long periods of time.
   
   
4. He complains or isn't appreciative
   You have a woman willing to put your cock in her mouth to give you pleasure. Do not be an asshole and tell her she's doing it wrong unless she is doing something to hurt you. Do be appreciative, tell her what feels great, and lavish her with praise and affection while she is doing it and after.
   
   
5. He wants a blowjob and then falls asleep/leaves/goes to play video games/out with friends
   Can you say "unfulfilling?" Especially if this happens regularly. You're creating a response wherein giving a blowjob means the end of her pleasure. Do you really want this? I don't think you do. She is going to feel used, and not in a good way. She will come to resent the concept of putting her mouth anywhere near your cock. Variety is the spice of life! You can do things to her while she pleasures you with her mouth, or you can stop her and pleasure her in other ways, thanking her for the wonderful way she's made you feel.
   
   
6. He doesn't give any feedback
   She gets up her nerve to try to please you like this after much encouragement on your part, and... nothing. You don't thank her or tell her she is awesome or stroke her hair lovingly or tell her she's the most wonderful thing ever to walk the earth. . . there's no intimacy generated by this act. It's just another way for you to get off without doing too much work. While receiving a blow job is generally viewed as a passive act, if you want to repeat it then you want her to enjoy it, so you make it good for her too.

I'm sure I could come up with several more, but I'll leave it to my readers. Any volunteers?

---

Updated to include this new one: "is it safe to suck hubby cock?"

Mostly, the answer to that is yes, provided no transmittable infections in either of you. If you have a visible cold sore, then, no, don't.

Why I love sucking cock, take 2

Excellent lovers take their partners' pleasures as equal to their own, knowing mutual pleasure and the pleasure of a lover is the entire point of non-procreative sex. Therefore, a woman who desires to be the best lover possible to a man does not merely submit to sucking cock, she relishes it. She transforms the act into an erotic dance of mutual desire.

The body is rife with nerve endings and sensitivities that vary from person to person. The foreskin of an intact man is particularly sensitive, and rubbing or touching it leads the man to make many noises of pleasure. It glides along the shaft of the cock smoothly, engendering wonderful feelings for the man, and the noises he makes lead to pretty fantastic feelings for his lover as well. When that rubbing and touching is performed by a warm, wet, willing mouth that is clearly quite dedicated to the act, the pleasure is even greater, enhanced by the heat and the moisture.

Rock hard, yet covered with velvety softness, an intact man's erection is a juxtaposition of opposite sensations that feels incredible. What better way to experience all the amazing sensations it can provide than with the lips and tongue, which are also incredibly sensitive? The foreskin is soft under the lips, but a bit of circular pressure against it causes it to flatten, to yield between the two forces it finds itself trapped between, allowing the lips to feel the hardness lying in wait.

With a woman's lips enjoying that particular pleasure, her tongue can slide around the head, prodding just under the foreskin, allowing her to taste her lover, to memorize or refamiliarize herself with all the bumps and ridges and smooth places that are exclusive to him.

All of this pleasure a mere few seconds into a blow job, and the exploration can be continued on for some time before any actual sucking begins. "Sucking cock" is a bit of a misnomer, since it could just as well be called licking, exploring, enjoying cock. The phrase "cock worship" might relay more information, but might also be a little off-putting to some since it seems to imply a sort of expert level of ability. It does not. The single most important thing a woman can bring to a blow job? Her own desire to do it.

Sucking cock also allows for so many varied positions, so the individuals involved can choose to be as laid-back or as eager as they would like, depending on their energy levels. If the couple really want to enjoy each other for a while, getting into a good, relaxed position is excellent. His hands and mouth can reach different parts of her in different positions, leading each one to be its own individual set of sensations.

If the woman is particularly thrilled by sucking cock, she might also enjoy more force, though by no means is that a rule to apply to everyone. She can give herself to him completely, allow him to take her mouth as he chooses. His hands can stroke her hair, or tug on it as dictated by their preferences, as he thrusts into her willing, eager to please mouth. Some women find having him take his pleasure with her like this powerfully arousing, so while it is not for everyone, it is certainly worth exploring.

Intimacy between lovers is increased greatly by the mutual enjoyment of blow jobs. Women have the capacity to enjoy sucking their lovers' cocks on an emotional level as well as a physical one. The sheer physical sensations are definitely pleasurable, but the joy of knowing a lover is enjoying himself immensely is not the only emotional return. The man whose cock is sucked well and gladly radiates gratitude and happiness and feels even more loved. His lover will enjoy that at least as much as she thrills in their mutual pleasure.

This positive feedback loop of physical and emotional enjoyment, so easily brought about by such simple actions, is why sucking cock should be right up there on any man's lover's list of fun activities.

---

I considered doing this APA style, with references and everything. In the end, I decided to just write it as you see it, removing myself from the picture and trying my best to describe why any woman who likes her man might love to also suck cock. Most of my experience is with an intact man, though I did briefly experience a cut one. I adore the extra opportunities for play the foreskin provides.

I'm not so sure I accomplished my goal, but I'm pretty proud of the effort.

Thanks, Spanky, for the challenge. I've really enjoyed it.

Sexual shutdown: submissive defense mechanism

I like sex. In fact, I love sex. Love may even be a bit of an understatement. In a conversation with my husband I once defined sex as my three top hobbies. Writing about sex, thinking about sex, having sex with my husband. Yep, that's three, isn't it? I have a vast array of other interests; I am easily drawn into subjects. I'm interested in most things, but sex is the top three, absolutely.

I also adore my husband to distraction. He is my true love.

Something happens to me, though, when we go long enough without sexual interaction. I shut down. I've written about it briefly before.

We went for three days without sex, activity or talk, except for a blow job one night, which normally I'd count as sex but in this case really felt like servicing him for his relief rather than mutual pleasure. I was already partially into my shutdown.

I had a very bad day in there, and he was extra-attentive during the day, giving me lots of extra hugs, long soft kisses in the middle of the grocery store, squeezing me close to him while we cooked. In fact, he's done pretty much everything right.

My sex drive still shut down.

I don't deny him access to my body, his pleasure, or the opportunity to do other things. I gave him the blow job freely and willingly, even enthusiastically. Despite my own lack of desire, I wanted to be pleasing to him, to hear his noises of enjoyment. We played video games and listened to music and sat around fiddling with our computers. I don't want to be a chore for him; I want him to enjoy spending time with me, and he does.

My sensual, sexual self is really the largest part of me. Lying naked or nearly so next to him night after night and just falling alseep, or briefly servicing him before he falls asleep, signals my sexual self that she's not needed anymore. She's there, ready, willing, wanting, but he doesn't need or want her, and so she goes into what I can only describe as hibernation. She's not really the sort to throw a tantrum, to take her ball and go home, but she's very much the sort to feel unnecessary and to withdraw, quietly, without being noticed.

I do it in the rest of my life, too. I see my friends having a grand time without me and, feeling completely unnecessary to anyone, I retreat - sometimes physically removing myself from being around them, sometimes just withdrawing emotionally. Truthfully, I'm not necessary to anyone's happiness, of course I'm not. Thank goodness for that since having other people's happiness depend on you is exhausting. At most I'm a pleasant diversion from life, but some moments I feel my basic uselessness more than others and I withdraw, sad.

My sexual self retreats even more quietly. I'm still there for my husband, still submissive, still communicative, still very much in love with him. There's no absence noticed by anyone but me, unless my husband might happen to notice something is off. My entire experience of the world feels dulled, my nerve endings and other sensory inputs reduced to perhaps a quarter of their normal functionality. I feel crippled. Delight in the rest of my life is harder to find. I wander around, feeling like a branch that's been cut for a vase; I show all signs of life but I'm slowly dying inside, disconnected from my source. It looks very much like depression. I pick at meals which I only cook because there are people besides me who need to eat, I struggle to enjoy things I normally do, and I think longingly of the days when he wanted me - when he really, really wanted me. The love he expressed over the sexless days was sweet, good, and needed, but it didn't make me feel desirable.

That's the thing, isn't it? It's not the lack of sex we may have, it's the lack of desire that I feel from him. The days I think of longingly are the ones when we were forced to be apart by our widely-flung places of residence, the days when he'd tell me every day, often explicitly and in great detail, how much he wanted me. Those days, if I'd been naked in his bed neither of us would have slept for a very, very long time.

Of course I don't actually long for those days; they were horrible. I spent far, far more days wandering around in a haze of misery then than I do now. We couldn't even talk to each other with our voices without spending a lot of money, but I was wanted, and I knew it.

So this is my defense mechanism: my needs dry up and go away when they're not met, or made to feel important, and it really doesn't take that long for me to begin to feel that way. It's quite clever, really, because it means I can function, even if at a severely reduced capacity.

The biggest problem, besides me wandering around in zombie mode, comes when he does want that part of me again. She's gone, far, far away. I start to plan things that will work around having sex, just to avoid having him realize she's gone. "Let's play a game! Or you can work on your website!" I know he's easily distracted and it will get late pretty fast if we start doing something engaging, and then he'll be tired, and I can go on with my life without him realizing that she is gone. While it makes me very sad that any of this goes on at all, somehow when the defense mechanism kicks in, I feel a great need to protect the hibernating part of me.

Inevitably, the week will end, as it did this time. I managed my avoidance tactics on Friday, we played video games and he fell asleep. My sexual self rolled over a little when he began toying gently with my nipples, but ultimately she never woke up, and we fell asleep. Saturday morning is another issue entirely. With nowhere to go and our little one not yet up, he started playing with me, stroking my body, kissing me, holding my wrist tightly and slapping my inner forearm, spanking my breasts. All things I generally enjoy quite a lot, but this time, while I didn't stop him, I wasn't really feeling anything. I wasn't responsive; it didn't matter to me. I moved when he nudged me, did what he told me, and let him do what he wanted. He's a pretty bright fellow, though; he knew I wasn't into it after a little bit and he stopped, confused.

Then we had to have the conversation I'd been avoiding for two days. I feel like such a failure when I shut down like that, like I am throwing a tantrum. It's not a tantrum, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. It's a failsafe to protect me so that I'm not throwing myself at someone who doesn't want me and getting even more hurt. It's doubly needed because as a submissive woman, it's so so important to me not to force my own desires onto him. I can't temper my needs, but I apparently can shut them off, send them away completely. I can recognize it for what it is, but I can't change it. He gathered me into his arms, feeling pretty terrible himself because it happened at all.

This happens. This is a thing. I have read other people's blogs and heard them talk about experiencing something very much like this. Feel free to chime in with what your experience is like, I'd love to know I'm not alone.

---

Saturday afternoon, we came home from an outing and spent two hours in bed making out. He kissed me until I melted into a puddle of want. "I'll do things to you tonight," he told me as I whimpered longingly into his mouth. That part of me? Yeah, she's awake now.

Turns out, it's been a pretty bad week overall for us, in all kinds of arenas. Hopefully we can start turning that around tonight.

Multiple orgasms: the extra lives of sex

I've previously discussed how I enjoyed Star Trek and the X-men and various other geeky forms of entertainment, so it shouldn't be a surprise when I reveal that I spent a lot of my childhood and youth playing video games. A large chunk of the time I spent playing games, I spent playing Super Mario Bros. 3 on the NES.

You mean you don't think of orgasms when you see this? Huh.

The game was huge. It took hours and hours and hours to play it all the way through, although you could warp to the end and be done fairly quickly, I didn't figure there was a lot of value in that.  Since the game didn't have a feature to save, I wound up replaying the first levels a lot to get to the later ones, though sometimes I would warp, it wasn't often.

I became an expert at this game. Every secret, I knew. Every invisible block, every vine, every warp zone, every chance to gather 99 lives, every place to slide behind the scenery, every matching game pattern, and every place where it was a good idea to use a special item. I knew this game, inside and out, backward and forward. I played it so much that it is burned into my brain. Even now, twenty years later, I can play it and do things just like I did then, even though occasionally I'm not sure why I'm doing it. Physical memory is a bizarre thing.

The first opportunity you have in this game to collect 99 lives is in the second level, right at the beginning, so I did it there every single time I played, even if it was a quick run-through just for fast laughs. Later, when my husband would play the game in 2005 or so, I would always get those lives for him. He's not as good at games as I am, so he needed the help.

The process could be kind of frustrating, as you had to have a raccoon suit, and you had to wave Mario's raccoon tail around in the air while you landed on endless Goombas as they popped out of a pipe, using the boost jumping on them gave you to stay in the air so that you didn't ever touch the ground.

Here's a video of it that explains more than I can in words. Your points for jumping on each one doubles until you get to 8000, and every Goomba you stomp after that without touching the ground is an extra life.

It occurred to me after my post yesterday that my own multiple orgasms are like that. The tension slowly gathers as we approach the first one, and as long as his timing is perfect and he lands exactly right, he can keep pumping them out of me.

Like this! (read 'orgasm' for 1UP) Yeah, now we're talking.

Of course, the timing has to be absolutely perfect. Even I would occasionally go a little too fast in the game, and run out of Goombas to stomp before I hit the ground. So frustrating, because to get more lives, I'd have to start all over again, back from 100. Seven Goombas before I was back in The Zone, and my timer was ticking the whole time.

If it goes too long before the next orgasm, he may not be starting completely over, but it's pretty close. Once I've fallen off that delicate knife-edge of arousal, he has to get me there again in order to coax more orgasms out of me. 

And in both situations, your thumb gets really really tired.

The extra-life zone is an amazing place to be, as you watch your life-counter just go up and up and up. It may be frustrating when you fall off, but it's so worth it to get back up there again. The quality and pleasure of your entire game rests on those lives, really, whether you panic at losing everything or whether it's just all good fun, later.

He must feel like that as he watches me writhe and scream and pant, as his orgasm counter just goes up and up... and breaks, because I can't count orgasms after so many. The quality of the rest of his life, while not dependent on those orgasms, is probably greatly enhanced by them.

I know mine is.

Q&A: Why?

My husband asked a question, though it isn't March anymore, and I'm pretty sure he didn't intend to spur a blog post. I apparently did a sad job of explaining it to him in person. Anyway, I hope you all know you can ask me anything anytime, I'll be glad to answer.

 "Why do you like sex so much?"

Sex is amazing because of the connection it gives me to my husband, whom I adore. The intimacy, the pleasure he derives from it, and the pleasure I feel all combine to give me an experience I prefer to pretty much any other. The first two things inform the third one to a great degree. If I start to feel he's disconnected from the experience, or is just going through the motions for my sake, it's no good anymore emotionally. I can perhaps even still orgasm, but if the head space is wrong the orgasm will leave me feeling pretty rotten. I could end up in tears. 

If he starts to disconnect from it all, there's really nothing he can do at that point to not make me sad. if he stops I will feel I have done something wrong, if he continues then I'll feel bad he's not really into it. He's in a no-win scenario and I feel really badly for him. The best I can do is lie silently in his arms and not say or do anything to trigger a tremble in my voice - but when I am silent he knows something is wrong too. Thankfully it doesn't all go wrong very often.

Most of the time we have amazing sex and he knows exactly what triggers the most arousal in me, and gleefully uses that information. I love the space where I go during sex, and I love the physical sensations he gives me - hands in my hair, cock in my throat, cock sliding, sliding, wherever he chooses to slide it, impacts of his hand or an implement, the cruel bite of teeth on flesh, the caress of his words in my ear. Delicious. I live for those minutes where I am nothing but his. I am not a daughter, not a mother, not a friend or an employee or a homeowner or any other of the hundred hats a person wears in a day, I am just...his, and I don't have to think of anything but what would please him most. The absolute peaceful bliss that this state of being induces is nothing to be sneezed at.

If my head space is right, and I feel that I have been a "good girl" in my own estimation as well as his, after sex is a beautiful world full of golden light. Everything is right, I am loved, he is happy, and I really do feel as if I float there in his arms. I make a lot of soft happy noises. If I was a cat I'd purr continuously. To me, the love is palpable all around us. It really is making love, even if there's degrading talk or impact play or bondage involved.

If we have lots of good sex regularly then there's really nothing that can get me down for long. Even grief is eased by awesome sex. Best mood adjuster in the world.

All of those are the things I couldn't express when asked on the spot. I answered the question, but I did it badly. Lying in his arms with my head on his shoulder, he casually told me that he was pretty sure it's safe to say I get more pleasure out of sex than he does, and he went on to say that he guessed that made me pretty lucky. I fell silent, my head spinning with thoughts I couldn't express, thinking I had really, seriously botched my job of explaining why I liked sex so much. He kept trying to get me to talk, to tell him what was wrong. He told me to kiss him and I shook my head. He fisted his hand in my hair, tilted my lips up to his, and kissed me anyway.

I burst into tears. No, not just tears, messy, sobbing tears that flooded his chest.

How to explain to someone that doing this thing - this thing that was exactly what I would have wanted done -     can bring me to tears in half a second?

He is good to me, and we kept talking. He was bewildered at first, but held me, gave me a tissue to blow my nose, and we worked it out.

I feel everything more than he does - not just pleasure, but sadness, anger, excitement, nervousness. That's just our different personalities. His statement was only assigning absolute values to our relative experiences, and his personal absolutes don't have the range mine do.

I hope I've managed to be a little more clear in my answer now.

Q&A: Other girls

My last post spurred a question from Kitty over at The Submissive Wife:

But, I would like to hear more about this other girls business... not so much the him bringing it up, but the your reaction... If you are interested in sharing.

My reaction: Well, it's never going to happen, and I know that on the deepest level, but he says these things once in a while to see/hear/feel my reaction. My surface feelings are the ones that respond, not the ones underneath that know he is mine and I am his. It usually gets a shudder, a moan, and a promise from me to do anything, but he already has that. I think he just likes to hear it, likes to know that I crave not only his attention, but his undivided attention.

If he disagrees, he's welcome to chime in. (Hi, love!)

It's a hot idea to be teased with. It's definitely something my brain catches on when he does it, like a thread being snagged by a ragged bit of metal. Sometimes it puts a hot image in my mind that turns me on more and makes me move differently, more urgently. He's suggested before when I had a cold sore that maybe he should find another girl who would be able to suck his cock for him, and it's humiliating in that context, deliciously so.

We've talked about it, and neither of us are interested in messing with our dynamic by complicating it with a third person, but he feels perfectly at ease tossing the idea into a scene to watch me squirm over it. So much of what goes on between us is the heat of words, and this just gives him another weapon in his arsenal of buttons to press.

I am not a prude

I read this a lot on sex blogs.

I am not a prude, I've experienced some (threesomes, fisting, casual sex, insert activity here)

What does this mean? Does this mean people who haven't done that activity are prudes? What's the definition of a prude, firstly, because I'm curious?

Dictionary.com says:

prude

— n
	a person who affects or shows an excessively modest, prim, or proper attitude, esp regarding sex

 Now I'm picturing someone having a cuppa with their sex, pinky out, asking in a calm, sort of uppity voice,  "Please sir, may I have another orgasm?" *sip sip*

Prude does not mean "person who won't have a threesome," "person who doesn't want my fist inside them," or even, "person who doesn't want to have anal stimulation of any kind." Having preferences and limits about what you want sexually does not make you a prude. From the definition here, even knowing about those things in order to decide you don't want them makes you not a prude.

Perhaps we can even go so far as to make the logical leap that so much as writing a sex blog makes you automatically, by default, not a prude. Writing a sex blog does not mean that you are magically up for spinning the sex roulette to pick your sexual activity and number of partners. It just means you probably like sex a lot, and want to talk about it.

Which means you're not a prude.

Sharing

There's a hot fantasy that I enjoy, but to ponder the reality, the concept of it actually taking place?

No, just no.

"He shared me with his friends," I saw someone write on another blog.

So many complications would arise from such a thing - for one, his friends are mine. Yuck. I love our friends dearly, but I in no way desire to be used by them. Not even in fantasy. The fantasy multiple partners are just that, not real people at all. Even if his friends weren't mine, they'd likely be people I'd meet in casual situations regularly. Why on earth would I want those people to see me as some kind of object? Surely, the impressions from even a one-off session of "sharing" would last, and last, and last. Each time I saw one of those people it would bring back that moment - and I'm not convinced it would even be a hot moment for me to have brought back.

Therapy. I would need tons of it after any such encounter.

It's a different thing altogether from an open relationship, which we're not into personally either. At least within an open relationship every participant is equal, even if there is some power imbalance dynamic at play.

To be an object for sex, for pleasure to my husband, is very very hot to me in the moment, yes. To extend that to others of his choosing though, just to prove he could? Hell no.

That's a whole different level of crazy, at least where reality is concerned. It requires objectification beyond the moment, perhaps permanently. If that's your kink, more power to you, but for me and my relationship, no. I am most definitely not an emotional masochist. I enjoy an occasional bit of degradation talk during sex, but to be shared with a random amount of people who I know casually is way, way beyond a bit of degradation talk.

Many fantasies are lovely masturbation fodder, or even hot to have whispered to me in the midst of sex, but I would not want most of them. Some of them, like this one, would be completely ruined by reality.

What do you think? Would you be up for such an encounter? 

Symbiotic relationships: where angst fears to tread

This is my hundredth published post. I had a whole long post about the trials of my life all ready to go for number 100, but that seems wrong, somehow.

It's Christmas! Some really terrible things have happened to my family and property back home this weekend, but I have my love, my child, and I do have some really fantastic friends and family even if I never do get to see them. So I am trying to be happy, to count my blessings. The other post can sit and wait a while.

While we were snuggled together grieving over one of the terrible events, this conversation transpired between my husband and I while our child was busy trying to separate us.

"This little person seems to think we're two people or something," I observed.
"Yeah, funny, that."
"You are part of me, aren't you?"
"Mmhmm."
"A part that likes to hurt me?"
"Yeah," he nodded, "are you a part of me that likes to be hurt?"
"Mmhmm," I buried my face into his shirt.
"Thought so," he said smugly, squeezing me tightly against himself.

That exchange has been stewing in my head all day. It's true, we're those people, the ones that make people roll their eyes and fake-gag, the ones that don't go anywhere without each other, the ones that actually get irritated when couples events are divided into "girls decorate ornaments, guys play cards." Screw that, I want to do stuff with this man, not separately from him. Besides, those events are so diluted for general consumption that they're practically meaningless, surely. My man isn't interested in cards for the sake of cards, I know.

So, if you're in one of this beautifully symbiotic relationships with your other half, and if, like me, you sometimes come to question the validity of your desires, stop it.

These guys? No angst. None.

When your back itches, you scratch it or you find someone who will. You don't mumble to yourself about your stupid back needing to be scratched, what the hell is wrong with the stupid retarded back, normal people's backs don't itch. Yours itches, so you scratch it. If your head aches, you lie down or you take something or you remove yourself from the thing that started it aching. You deal with your parts on their terms, and you do what needs doing to them to keep them as happy as you can, to maintain good working order of yourself as a whole.

If you're in a dedicated relationship with a person, you're part of each other. You scratch each others' itches because that's what the hand does for the back, or the head, or the balls.

Angst over "does s/he" or "should I" has no place in this sort of relationship. I have absolutely no qualms asking my husband to literally scratch a part of my back I can't reach. He even lets me grab his arm by the elbow and stick his hand wherever I want it to scratch! That right there is fabulous, you guys should try it. Seriously.

So then why do I often try to work myself into knots about my sexual desires? He's not working himself into knots. He just does what he does. The fact that I'm submissive shouldn't come into play as a bother here - he has no qualms, he's not concerned about anything, so neither should I be. He's not complaining because his figurative back itches, he just scratches it.

I'm going to stop it.

I'm going to simply be thankful for the blessing of deliciously kinky sex, and all the itches that get scratched between us.

Ruminations on Hannah Cullwick

Happy December, everybody! Isn't life fantastic?

I've been reading this fabulous book, At Home: A Short History of Private Life. The book is awesome, but it's taking me forever to read it (months!) because it gives short descriptions of all of these fascinating topics, which then causes me to research each one more in-depth. It's really a great book. In it, Bill Bryson mentions Hannah Cullwick (1833-1909), a woman diarist and servant who wound up secretly married to a higher-class gentleman.

 

Hannah was a kinkster, you guys. No lie.  

She would have probably been a blogger if she had the tech. Check out the chain around her neck, the strap on her wrist. Did I mention that this is a topless photo of a woman taken before the turn of the 20th century, and not for public consumption, but for private perusal? If you do a google image search for her, you'll find other images. There was an independent film done about her writings as well. It's all very interesting and sheds a completely different light on what life was like at that time - for me, anyway. You think of people being prim and proper and, well, Victorian. These guys were living the life - before easy birth control. It's amazing! 

Have any of you heard of her?  

From wikipedia: 

Cullwick proudly referred to herself as Munby's "drudge and slave", and called him "Massa", an example of a Master/slave relationship. For much of her life, she wore a leather strap around her right wrist and a locking chain around her neck, to which Munby had a key. She wrote letters almost daily to him, describing her long hours of work in great detail. She would arrange to visit him "in my dirt", showing the results of a full day of cleaning and other domestic work. She had a particular interest in boots, cleaning hundreds each year, sometimes by licking them. She once told Munby she could tell where her "Massa" had been by how his boots tasted.

Despite her display of subservience and loyalty, Cullwick remained independent. She stood up for herself if she thought the terms of her relationship with Munby were being violated. She entered marriage with Munby reluctantly, seeing it as dependency and boredom. They were secretly married in 1873, after which she moved to his lodgings, where she lived as his servant, though she sometimes played the role of his wife. She also retained her own surname and insisted that Munby continue to pay her wages, and she had her own savings. She left him far more often than he did her, and in 1877 she returned to working as a servant in Shropshire. Munby was a regular visitor from 1882 until her death.

Her diaries reveal that the erotic games with Munby often included infantilism and ageplay, with Cullwick carrying Munby in her arms and holding him on her lap.

Cullwick appeared in Munby's photographs in many different roles: a farm girl, a kitchen drudge, a chimney sweep with blackface, a well-dressed lady (though with her hands, unmistakably those of a working woman, prominently displayed), a Magdalen, and even a man. Her ability to take different roles delighted Munby.

Kink isn't new, not a bit, we just have a stronger grasp on how many people are practicing kink due to our fabulous wealth of information. Bill Bryson doesn't mention the M/s aspect of this relationship, merely using the diary itself as a window into the world of servants of that era - but Hannah Cullwick hardly seems to be a "typical" servant, now does she? He does mention how even getting a bath seems to be a major accomplishment for her, as she often sleeps "in my dirt," but I'm not entirely sure that's not a kink itself. The diaries were apparently written for her "massa," at his request, too.

What kind of examinations do you think our blogs will get, a hundred+ years from now? Will they just fade from existence, be deleted on a whim, or relegated to the background noise of ten million self-publishers? I'm making some effort to preserve mine. There may be a lot more windows into existence now than there were then, but private life is still quite hidden, mysterious, and fascinating.

Making the world a better place

Sex is such a taboo.

As far as mass entertainment goes, even those television shows that imply a lot of sex show it as a base urge that is impossible to control, and that's just the ordinary vanilla kind. Movies can get rated R for nudity just as for violence. It doesn't make any sense that the nude body is just as in need of hiding from children as destruction of that body.

Even beginning to talk about sex in the most basic sense is virtually impossible with most of my family - not eroticism, but just conversation about biological structures that are involved in sex. Thankfully I was raised with less strictures, but this leads to shocked, appalled looks directed at me by my cousins when I even indirectly refer to, say, a clitoris. It's disturbing to me that the veil of privacy is so thick with them that it extends to even conversation about body parts that are involved in sex.

Sex is not a disgusting, base human urge that must be suppressed or hidden when one doesn't succeed at suppressing it. It's certainly not only for reproduction, despite some of my acquaintances' opinions on that. It's beautiful and fascinating, amazing, liberating. It feels incredible.

There are places in the world where people are still being stoned to death for having sex. Seriously. Regardless of the "guilt" or "innocence" of the accused, having consensual sex is not something to punish someone for, much less kill. I've also read news items where a young girl was stoned to death for having been raped.

This is not acceptable. We're in the year 2k+, why is this shit still going down? Oh, because sex is wrong, that's right. A beautiful expression of humanity turned into something dark and ugly to be avoided at all costs. It's more wrong, more barbaric, than throwing rocks at a helpless woman until she is dead. 

Homosexual? Polyamorous? Kink. BDSM. Oh, wow. Certainly we can't talk about those things. We're going to get angry if some bit of entertainment forces us into a dialogue about any of these things. By Jove, we'll complain.

WHY?

"Think of the children."

Seriously? The children? If the children are kinky, they're kinky. All a bit of dialogue is going to do is make them feel more accepted and 'normal' as they grow into themselves. I'm certainly not suggesting that we have full transparency of our sex lives with our children, 'cause, ew, but freaking out when something comes up is certainly not going to help. A bit of kink (or homosexuality, or anything!)  in your entertainment is not going to turn your children to that thing. The only thing it will do is make your children know that these sorts of things go on, and are acceptable. 

We've been rewatching The Next Generation lately, and I'm very appreciative of just how much sex is implied to go on there and how not hung up on it they are. It's not "OOOH SEX OH SEX SEX SEX," but it's more like "Ahh, sex. Sex is nice. All right, now on with it." You don't see that kind of behavior in many shows. It's handled well here too because if you know, you'll know. If you don't know, it just kind of goes over your head. Probing questions avoided until that age of awareness is reached. Family friendly, indeed.

So I add my voice to the thousands out here on the world wide web, talking about sex. What kind of sex I have, what it does for me, how absolutely wonderful it is. I'm am a little dismayed at the need for anonymity, but one does what one can. I can only put out there that sex is most definitely not wrong, as loudly and as often as I can.

We're chipping away at the taboo. One day I hope my child will be able to have a grown-up conversation about sex without anyone freaking the hell out.

Being The Other

Reading about other people's sex lives when they have purposely shared it with you is not quite the same illicit thrill you might get from finding and reading someone's explicit written journal. There's not the element of "I'm not meant to see this, I might see something I shouldn't."

But what comes from this is a genuine POV of The Other. It's a way to get to actually see through another person's eyes, ride it out within that person's brain, experience something that you never would otherwise. We all only get to be ourselves. But what we can do to broaden our perception of ourselves is to experience The Other's life as well. A peeping tom (or tina!) only sees what's happening on the outside, but here on my blog you get what's going on in my head.

Even if what gets me going doesn't get you going, I try to describe what it does to me, how it makes me feel. And that is so powerful to me.

Other kinds of blogs may teach you things - how to cook, how to build a house, how to make a paper hat or teach your kids fractions or make a perfect vegan pudding, and they are so, so useful. But relationship/sex blogs let you actually crawl into The Other's head. You get to be someone else for the length of a post. It can be a wild ride, even if the material isn't wild at all. I read blogs coming from all kinds of relationships and at levels of sexual description ranging from none to complete, not to titillate myself but to get that ride.

I make every effort for everything I post here as truth to be my absolute truth. Sometimes my head may go fuzzy on descriptions due to all the hormones rushing through me and I may fill in "as I can best remember" for the sake of the narrative, but it all happens.

I sometimes wish that my husband would write a description of one of our sexual encounters, just so I could compare notes, ride behind his eyes for a while. I know that even though we are sharing the same event, we're having different experiences, and that fascinates me. I'm there, having sex, and I know I'm missing half of it.

I would gladly read about my own sex life if he were to write about it.

That effectively removes the peeping tom aspect. I'm not interested in watching bloggers have sex, or in them watching me have sex. (Sorry, no. ;)) What I am very interested in is riding behind your eyes for a while, and in giving you a seat behind mine.