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  1. Lending a Hand, a masturbating one

    June 6, 2017 by Heather Cole

     

    May was International Masturbation Month, and I hope everyone celebrated appropriately. I certainly did, and I meant to have a post up to talk about why I love masturbating for others and with them. In fact, it’s part of my duties at the dungeon. I guess you could say that I end up masturbating quite a bit, so of course I should be writing about it. And now I’m thinking about it… dammit!

    Even though we’re into June, there’s no reason why we all can’t continue the party. I was asked by the lovelies at Unbound to write about the topic of mutual masturbation, a subject near and dear to my heart. Mutual masturbation ranks pretty high on my list of fetishes. Frankly, the only way masturbating could become even more amazing is if you add friends.

    Unbound is a women’s sexual wellness and empowerment NYC-based start up with an overarching theme of women’s sexual liberation, to quote them specifically. And to read about my latest adventure with Guy and the last time I saw him, click on over there. I haven’t seen him since which is par for the course, and I’m not complaining. It just seems to be the way my life is going lately. The men breeze in and breeze out, and somehow, I’m really OK with that.


  2. Circumcised or Uncircumcised, that is the question… On ASK HEATHER

    May 19, 2017 by Heather Cole

     

    Dear Heather,

    I had two questions for you:

    1. How important is circumcision status of sexual partners to you when choosing an erotic and enjoying (pleasurable/enjoyable) sexual relations?
    2. In your personal life, do you prefer men to have been circumcised?

    Thanks for writing a great blog. I look forward to reading your reply.

    Sincerely,

    J.F.

     

    Dear J.F.

    Thanks for writing! Before I launched into my personal opinion, I decided to do some quick research on the internet about circumcision.

    “Circumcision removes a substantial part of the penis, which is not just ‘a piece of skin.’ The foreskin is a specialized, retractable sleeve of erogenous tissue that protects the head of the penis, can be manipulated during sex and masturbation, and amounts to about 50 square centimeters in the adult male.”

    To read the entire Huffington Post article by a Danish doctor in favor of leaving penises intact, click here.

    “…circumcision rate in newborns has declined from 83 percent in the 1960s to 77 percent in 2010. (The overall rate among U.S. males age 14 to 59 is 81 percent, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.)

    Additionally, the data suggests there is a racial disparity driven primarily by access to procedure and cultural and educational factors. Circumcision rates over the last decade reached 91 percent in white men, 76 percent in black men and only 44 percent in Hispanic men.”

    To read the entire CBS News article promoting male circumcision, click here.

    What I gleaned from an hour of perfunctory research on the internet was that there are supporters on both sides, the circumcised and the uncircumcised. There were doctors who claimed that circumcisions should be as accepted as vaccines for infants and others who claimed that those health benefits were overblown and that the procedure was painful and unnecessary. But none of that really answered my reader’s questions, now did it.

    I’ve had sexual experiences with both types of penises, and honestly, I never formed a preference. When I lived in South America during my senior year of college, only one of the men I had slept with was circumcised. All of my college boyfriends in the US had been up until that point, even the African exchange student that I had deflowered. So I was surprised when I encountered my first uncircumcised penis but not alarmed. And after we began fucking, it didn’t seem to affect anything one way or another as far as my pleasure was concerned.

    Flash forward to the years after my divorce, and I had serious relationships with two uncircumcised men. It was the first time I really took note of the joys of an intact penis. This probably was due to the fact that I was beginning to hit my stride with oral sex and blowjobs. I finally had gained an appreciation for how a penis tasted and felt in my mouth. It was also around this time that I realized that penises possessed their own unique scent as well.

    I loved B very much. He cooked incredible Brazilian dishes, and he played with my toddler daughter in gleeful abandon. During our nights alone we drank caipirinhas and had sex all over the house. Before we got down and dirty, however, he would slip away to the bathroom for a quick penis cleanup. He was the first man to explain to me that he preferred to freshen up his uncircumcised penis before sex. I told him that it didn’t matter to me, but I respected that he felt more confident doing so. At any rate, my attraction to him and the pleasure I received/gave during sex never suffered for it.

    The other uncircumcised boyfriend who happened after B was a different story. Generally speaking, his penis was large and he knew how to use it. I loved having sex with him. Blowjobs, not so much. My sensitive sense of smell did not jive with his penis scent. I didn’t know that there was anything he could have done to change it. It was biology or pheromones or whatever, and just like some guys didn’t cotton to some vaginas, the same thing happened with women and penises.

    In my experience, being circumcised or uncircumcised didn’t impact my sexual experience significantly. The most important aspects of sex to me were the chemical, physical reaction between us and our sexual, energetic connection. Sight, taste, touch, and smell all fed into that. Looking back, I don’t know for certain that the funky penis smell had anything to do with being uncircumcised. The boyfriend in question and I had way bigger problems than that, and sometimes I think that our clash of biological differences was the first sign that we were incompatible. At any rate, the part most important thing to me was, and still is, the quality of man who’s connected to the penis, be it circumcised or uncircumcised.

    I hope that satisfies your curiosity, J.F. Thanks again for your question!

    *boob smoosh*

    Heather


  3. The Sex Unicorn

    May 1, 2017 by Heather Cole

     

    I’ve been talking a lot about unicorns and sex these days. OK, I talk about sex all the time. It’s the unicorns that keep popping up. (So many dick jokes running through my head right now. Focus, Heather!) Just last week I had the opportunity to write a yummy post for SwingTowns about this one time at the dungeon when we made a willing submissive into a sex unicorn. What the heck is a sex unicorn?? Well, my friends, click here and find out.

    Happy reading!

    Heather


  4. The Fallout of a Breakup

    April 27, 2017 by Heather Cole

    This post has spent a long time in utero. The seed of it took root during the weeks after I ended things with LH. I dissolved our contract around the holidays, and in the first weeks of that freedom after our breakup, I felt reborn. A weight had been lifted, and I could be myself without rules or restrictions. I knew in my heart that I had done the right thing even though re-reading our entries on this blog brought me to tears. The LH/Heather duo that we had been was nothing like where we ended up. I remembered those events, but they felt far removed from the people we were now—almost as if they happened to someone else entirely. The breakup, though, was new territory in the breadth and depth of its pain. I had never experienced a D/s breakup so gut-wrenching.

    LH and I didn’t stop talking right away, and as the strands of our relationship began to further unravel, I saw exactly how entwined we had been. Our communication became strained as we debated until each call and text felt like an exercise in breakup masochism—deliberate cuts to my heart with each word we spoke. But I was reluctant to cut him off. All my old protocols were there waiting to leap into action. It was ironic that a long-distance D/s dynamic had such a hold on me. The tendrils of our power dynamic had sunk deep into my psyche until it was a part of my emotional make-up. There were few parts of my life where I didn’t take him into consideration in some way.

    I spent a lot of time on this blog talking about my independence as a facet of my submission. I had a list of things that showed how independent I was, but when I emerged from the role of lifestyle submissive, I couldn’t help but feel how dependent I was on LH and our roles. For a long time after the breakup I was in denial about it. After the rush of freedom wore off, I turned once again to the man I had called “Daddy.” It was more than a habit that had worn its grooves into me over the years of our togetherness. The Little part of me, that girl that desperately wanted to believe that her daddy would take care of her, wanted to run back into his arms for reassurance.

    It killed me to know that I was afraid to be without him. I woke up in a panic every morning that our shared photos and files would be gone, that I would be blocked from his social media accounts, and I couldn’t bear to look at Fet to see if he had deleted me from his profile.  And those were only surface things. The real hold was that I had bought into the idea of being “his” so wholeheartedly, that I couldn’t imagine myself as anything but his submissive.

    What a galling position to find myself in. I played a role so well, and consented to play it, that it became my identity. And I wanted it. It felt good to me. I was naturally submissive, and with all my heart I wanted to be his. For years I had decided that no matter what happened I was determined to make things work. The man moved halfway around the world, and I insisted that we could continue a healthy dynamic. I convinced myself that a visit every three or four months was enough, and when those visits plummeted in quality and intimacy, I made myself be OK with it. It took me over a year to admit that I was miserable and then longer to muster the courage to change it.

    I spent a lot of time since our breakup questioning my reactions and memories. Didn’t we agree that his needs came first as the Dominant? Wasn’t it my place to serve? When I signed our contract, didn’t I agree to give him control? And I know what you’re thinking. That contract wasn’t anything legally binding. I could have protested and stood up for myself at any time. You would be right, but I wanted so much to be cherished, loved, and taken care of. I thought that if I gave enough of myself to him, that he would reciprocate in equal measure. When he didn’t, I told myself that I could make it enough.

    That’s when I had the big wake up call. With 2016 coming to an end, I took a trip down memory lane and leafed back through my journal. I wrote about the same heartache, the same emotional challenges, the same bullshit over and over again. Then I looked back even further at my serious relationships over the years and saw this string of selfish, manipulative partners. And then I said to myself, holy fuck Heather, DO NOT MAKE THIS YOUR LIFE STORY. I didn’t want to be on my deathbed and think, “Damn, I wasted a lot of time trying to convince emotionally unavailable people to love me.”

    The scales fell from my eyes. It eventually clicked in my brain that when someone said to me, “this is the best I can do,” without changing a blessed thing about their behavior, it meant that it was time for me to get out. It was just another way to let the entire emotional responsibility of a relationship slide off one person and on to another while pretending that it wasn’t a cop out. And when that same person chose to stay out all night drinking with random strangers rather than come home to me waiting in bed, it was a bigger more definite sign. All those signs and it felt like it took forever for me to do something about it.

    Now I’m doing all the things you’re supposed to do after a major split. I got back into therapy. I’m taking better care of my physical self, sleeping more, reading, and allowing myself the space to be alone. The thing is… it takes so much fucking time to recover. That whole annoying analogy of peeling away layers like an onion is irritatingly apt. Odd things will trigger a barrage of emotions, even after thinking that I had processed it and was feeling solid with whatever piece of our past I had dissected. Those patterns of thought where LH was the center of everything… I have to change them. I catch myself ruminating along the well-worn paths, and I have to consciously stop myself. Yet they creep up like insidious friends with false reassurances. Habit does not equal love.

    I do go on the occasional date, and I’ve had some tentative negotiations about playing with various people. None of it feels right to me yet. I probably see Guy the most and that’s sporadic at best. He has his own shit to work out, and we established early on that there are no expectations between us except honesty and authenticity.

    There was also a guy who wanted to explore my confessional fetish, but he failed to get the approval of his wife even though he said he had it. Even after several attempts to make a potential scene work between them, I had to say no. He did me a favor though. I now have a personal rule of no more married poly men or married men in an “open” relationship (unless I’m unicorn-ing, and they’re dear friends first). Then there was a primal guy who wanted a (human girl) pet while on his quest for the love of his life. Plus the super-intense vanilla guy who wanted three dates in a week, so he could judge my “level of engagement.” Not bad men necessarily, but they didn’t fit. I want more than what they offered, and as awesome as I am in and out of the bedroom, I deserve to get what I want.

    I know I’m not the only one in the history of D/s to hurt after a D/s dynamic has ended. I know that dominants hurt too and can find themselves just as fucked up. I guess what I’m trying to say in all of this is that what you’re feeling is real, and it’s a challenge to sort through the wreckage of your heart and head to find a place to begin healing. It’s possible, though, and that last person you fell in love with doesn’t have to be the pattern of the person you love in the future. Be patient with yourself and forgiving. Allow yourself lots of time to feel stuff and listen to what your gut is saying. How you did D/s the last time, doesn’t have to be the way you do D/s down the road. You’re going to be OK, and so am I.


  5. Do’s and Don’ts of Unicorn Hunting

    April 9, 2017 by Heather Cole

    The label of “unicorn” brings up a lot of feelings for people, and I’m not referring to the magical horse-with-a-horn that poops rainbows. I mean the magical creature, male or female, who enjoys joining a couple to make a sexual threesome. I like the label personally, but everyone has different expectations of what it means to be one. There are challenges on both sides, for those couples searching for their mythical third and for those of us who are searching for a suitable couple to fuck.

    Not so long ago I was interviewed for a a New York Post article about being a unicorn: The Search for the Elusive Threesome Unicorn  Thank you, EJ Dickson, for the great conversation! (Yes, she gave me a top secret fake name to protect my identity.) The article is great, because she interviewed three women with different experiences being a unicorn. Like I said, everyone has their own personal expectations about it.

    So, if you are considering a unicorn quest of your own, or would like to be a third for a couple, here are my top tips to start you off on the right hoof:

    (I crack myself up.)

    For the Unicorn Hunters

    Choose the appropriate site – I mention in the article that as soon as you put on your dating profile that you’re into open relationships and are bisexual, the couple emails start to arrive. But guess what! You can be a single, bisexual person who’s into open relationships and NOT want to unicorn. Slow your roll, unicorn hunters. Consider the website you’re searching. Is it a database focused on alternative lifestyles? Is there a search option for threesomes? Joining a site like SwingTowns will exponentially improve your odds of a successful search.

    Read the profile – Regardless of whether the unicorn of your naughty dreams is listed on FetLife or SwingTowns, don’t skim over her profile. Read. Every. Fucking. Word. Does she say specifically that she’s open to threesomes? If not, is there some clue in her profile that invites your interest? If it specifically states at the top of her profile in italics that she is “not looking to be anyone’s unicorn,” don’t ignore her statement and message her anyway certain that you will be the one to change her mind. *eye roll*

    Don’t copy/paste – Look, people aren’t stupid and most can tell a copy/paste message from the get-go. Unicorns know how bait-casting works, but even though she’s not the only one you’re fishing for, you need to make her feel as though she is. Theoretically we unicorns know that you’ve probably been messaging lots of women, but please don’t be obvious about it. Mention something that you read in her profile and liked, and tailor your message to that woman specifically. Otherwise, if you’re not willing to make any effort at all, why should she even bother to answer?

    Prepare for rejection – It happens, and in this case, silence speaks volumes. If days pass and she hasn’t replied to your message, she’s not going to, so don’t send another asking if she’s given any thought to a sweaty meeting. Don’t ask for her email, her phone number, or anything else highly personal. Just move along down the road.

    Timing – Unicorns need time to prepare for a sexy romp with a couple–they need to feel safe knowing their limits will be respected. Don’t make plans to meet for an introductory drink with the assumption she will get naked with you an hour later. It rarely works that way.

    Most importantly, be respectful, be patient, and don’t be a douche.

    From the Unicorn Perspective

    Yup, I like complementing a couple as a willing third in the threesome. True, I was *this close* to being the filling of a man-meat sandwich, but that was unusual for me. I’m most comfortable in a supportive role to the main couple. And this brings me to my first piece of advice:

    There are Different Breeds of Unicorn – We all have our different definitions of the label ‘unicorn,’ which typically corresponds to the qualities one is hunting for. “I’m dreaming of a unicorn who is ____ and has _____ and who is totally into _____.” The trick is finding that unicorn who also desires the qualities that you possess. The mythical part of the equation is that the unicorn will always give/contribute to the threesome without asking for anything in return, like emotional or physical gratification. Sweeties, that is a myth. Unicorns want to get off too. The truth is that we come in all genders and sexual tastes, and guess what, we unicorns have our own personal preferences about who we cavort with. A guy I used to date told me that I wasn’t really a unicorn because I wasn’t sleeping with ALL the couples I knew. Riiiiiiight. I think someone was mad that I wouldn’t do him and his wife. Sometimes you luck out and can find a tasty third to your twosome on a hookup site. Everything can look perfect, but understand that the unicorn may be scrutinizing you as much as you’re checking out them.

    Just Because You Found A Unicorn, It Doesn’t Mean They Have to Fuck You – Hey, Mr. Married Guy Who Wants a Chick to Seduce His Wife, I’m talking to you. And everyone else. But mostly to you. You may have a boatload of unspoken expectations regarding the unicorn you found, Mr. MGWWaCtSHW, but that doesn’t mean she has to comply with your irritating unspoken/sort of articulated plans for her and your wife. CONSENT is a huge, important part of unicorning. It’s an important facet of relationships in general, but in this specific scenario—and I can’t say this enough—unicorns don’t have to fuck you if they don’t want to. Even if I slept with you and your partner just last week, there is no written rule that says I have to do so again. And if you attempt to manipulate me into complying based on the fact that I ‘did it before,’ I will knee you in the balls on my way out of the door. No means no, and if it seems like I’m teetering on the edge of a rant, it’s because this has actually happened to me and it PISSES ME OFF.

    Communicate and Be Safe – I talk about this in the article. If you’ve started a dialogue with a unicorn regarding the possibility of a threesome, be clear about your expectations and what you want from the encounter. Everyone should discuss their limits, the things that are OK to do and those that are out of bounds. It’s really important for unicorns, regardless of gender, to feel safe in a situation. They may be saying positive things leading up to the big night, but if for any reason they don’t feel safe or don’t want to continue, they should bail. (see #2) There are ways to do this politely, and the sooner you, the unicorn, know it’s not going to work, the faster you should notify the other party. But there is never any time when it’s acceptable to coerce or threaten someone into compliance.

    A Gentle Approach – Why do you think medieval literature insisted that only a virgin could lure a unicorn out of the woods? Because we are special! If you go clomping through the forest with your armor, a pack of dogs, and 30 knights from the round table, I can promise you that every unicorn within miles will be hiding from your loud ass. In other words, if you are a M/F couple looking for a F-unicorn, for the love of all that’s holy, DO NOT have the M of your couple approach the F-unicorn first. Even dudes with the best of intentions come off as sleazeballs. And your message shouldn’t be titled: “I’m looking for a playmate for my wife.” Bring your computer over here, because I’m gonna barf on it. Your rates of success will increase if the female part of your couple reaches out to the female unicorn first. Even if the woman doesn’t really know what she wants, or if it’s her first time with another woman, her saying exactly that will be better received than a man reporting it second-hand.

    Sometimes Things Don’t Work Out Like You Thought They Would – Oh group sex… you are such a wily and capricious activity. The more people you add to a sexual situation, the more chances you have of things going differently than planned. Sometimes this is totally awesome. Other times, not so much. Just keep in mind that your “unicorn” is actually a human being of flesh and blood. They’re there to participate in your fun, but that’s no guarantee that everything will be rainbows and cupcakes. Sometimes it doesn’t work out that way. But if everyone communicates about what they want and how they want it, your rate of success will be even better

    Remember: be safe, communicate like crazy, and keep an open mind. Some day, your unicorn will come. Er, you’ll come with a unicorn. Wait…


  6. Breaking the rules

    February 3, 2017 by Heather Cole

    Rules of the Dungeon

    Eve was a flexible overseer. She was the dominant in charge without question, but she let her assistants determine their personal boundaries and general rules of conduct. We all had to obey the dungeon rules:   no exchange of bodily fluids. And the second biggest rule: no PIV (penis-in-vagina) penetration. We used condoms on all toys, and we wore gloves if we touched a client’s genitalia. After a session, everything was run through the dishwasher or cleaned in a special solution that killed any bacteria. We wanted to create a fantasy, but there were physical limits to what we would do.

    Each assistant had a different personal set of rules that we used during play. My personal rules were 1.) the person had to always ask first if they could touch me–consent first before all things, 2.) I didn’t kiss the other person, 3.) the person couldn’t touch my vagina, 4.) I never lied about the size of a man’s penis 5.) and I didn’t see dungeon players outside of the dungeon, either in person or on social media.

    Surprisingly, a dungeon player didn’t always ask to touch me, because often they weren’t in a position to. Typically the player initiating the scene was the body being acted upon. In other words, Eve was the top giving us both orders, arranging the so-called chess pieces. I acted upon the victim… er, client, as she instructed. The person was often in bondage or rendered incapacitated in some way so that they could only watch me. Watch and wish they could touch. The push-pull of teasing and denial could be the most exquisite slow torture. My luscious body would be inches from a man’s mouth, and yet he was powerless to close that gap and taste the delicate curve of my breast. He may have squirmed and begged for it, but I rarely acquiesced.

    I confess that at first it was hard for me to dance cruelly out of their reach. I was trained to please by the dominants in my life. I was wired that way naturally as part of my Good Girl identity. But submissives didn’t flock to Eve because she was nice in the way that I was nice. They asked to play because she was sadistic and sensually generous in a way that brought them quivering to their knees and begging for orgasm. Gradually I understood her philosophy. She made them feel so good alternating pleasure and pain that they almost always wanted to return. The element that I was proudest of, that gave my work purpose, was that we were free of judgment. As long as we all consented to the scene (and everyone was over 18) we would help that person achieve the fantasy they had been dreaming about. The dungeon rules kept us safe, and my personal rules kept me from giving too much of myself to a fleeting moment of an intense sexual encounter.

    My favorite visitors to the dungeon were the ones that I had seen before. The ones that I had developed a rapport with and the ones that I knew something about, they were the ones that I opened up with more. We developed trust in those interactions, and no matter what skeptics may think, those moments of brief connection were gifts. It was a gift to accept someone in all their naked glory, no judgement, and to be able to create something electric with them. I was able to do all that with my rules safely in place. Until I met him.

    Play With Your Meat

    Eve described him as “a young piece of meat.” Translation: she was excited to play with someone younger who had a hot body. I didn’t feel as excited and was generally more circumspect around younger men. Not many of them chose the dungeon, and often when they did, they arrived with the expectations of fraternity boys in an Asian massage parlor. They typically needed a lesson in consent, and often they were all over the place regarding their sexuality, so that it made it difficult for me to get a read on what it was that they wanted exactly. I found them generally unsettling, but I figured I’d at least get eye candy for an hour. He did not disappoint.

    Guy was about my height and a decade younger. He started the hour by shedding his clothing in an expedient manner, but Eve slowed his pace. She requested that I assist him, and I happily complied, sliding my hands across the muscled planes of his stomach as I undid his pants. I held his gaze as my hands skimmed up his rib cage to pull off his shirt, and I breathed in his warmth and our closeness. I let my fingers roam down his muscled thighs as I sank to my knees, my face deliciously close to the bulge in his underwear. I was unable to deny the physical attraction I felt. It was such a novel feeling that I felt giddy, like Christmas had arrived early and Santa had given me my very own boy to play with.

    In contrast there was the squirming thought that I was single without an eligible man in sight. It felt incredibly decadent to be so close to another human and to feel the overwhelming desire to sink into all that smooth, warm skin. I wanted this, not in the professional way that I was supposed to, but in a wolf that wanted to eat a sexy bunny kind of way. Devour was the word that I felt, and my body turned electric with every stroke of my hand against his muscular body.

    Somehow my clothes came off. I honestly can’t remember how exactly. And then we were both naked, facing a fully clothed Eve. I sidled up behind him to press my softness against his chiseled frame. He was deliciously warm, and I suddenly had the urge to dig my fingers into his hips and mark him as our pleasure toy for the time being. I may have asked Eve if we could keep him.

    It wasn’t only the physical attraction or instant sexual chemistry that held me off-kilter, I felt the alien urge to hurt him. Playing with Guy inspired sadistic urges within me that I had never experienced before without being coached by someone more dominant. But this sprang to life all on its own, and the only way I could describe it was that I felt like a wolf with a bunny rabbit. A bunny rabbit in a rock hard body that I wanted to sensually torture and tease until he begged for release. A bunny that you wanted to lick and bite and lovingly maul until you had both dissolved into puddles of cum. And then he asked to kiss me.

    Rule #2

    My common sense said no, but I found myself consenting. I said yes, and greedily accepted his lips on mine. He marked the time we spent together with a questioning, “yes?” And I continued to reply with my own enthusiastic “yes!” He asked at every stage of our play together, and I didn’t want to deny him. Not only because it was what he wanted, but because I wanted it, dammit. He stretched out on the massage table, and I marred his smooth skin with scratches and bite marks. He pulled at my nipples as we kissed, my hair falling around us in a curtain.

    Eve was busy with his bottom half. She had tied his cock and balls up with a shoestring into a snug bundle, and had then pushed his cock between two pieces of clear Plexiglas that could be tightened together with screws. I was only half-watching, distracted by the delicious man’s hands and lips. Eve interrupted with a simple command.

    “Use him to pleasure yourself.”

    She didn’t have to tell me twice. I fetched my favorite gold dildo (yes, we call him “Gold Member”) and rolled down a condom to the base. I made Guy put on a latex glove to hold Gold Member upright in his hand. As Eve started the hitachi on his trussed up balls, she slowed down how she screwed the Plexiglas sheet against his cock. I positioned Guy’s hand exactly how I wanted it, and then instructed him how I wanted to be fucked. It took only a moment to find a rhythm, and then the dildo slid exactly in the right spot. The first orgasm rolled over me, followed quickly by a second. But I was greedy. I knew what I wanted, and it wasn’t the dildo. I broke another rule.

    Rule #3

    I set the dildo aside and asked him to use his fingers.

    “Yes?” he asked as I leaned over him.

    “Yes,” I answered.

    My breath caught as his fingers slid into me, and I silently hoped that he would be as good with his fingers as he was his lips. Again I was not disappointed. Orgasm followed orgasm in a long line of pleasure. One arm was braced against his shoulder as I clung to the table with the other. I tried to remain upright, riding the waves of sensation as Guy experienced his own orgasm. It felt like my brain had been short-circuited. I was so high on endorphins and the power of topping that I lost myself a little bit. I remembered the rest of our time together, but I remembered it through a cotton candy haze of residual pleasure.

    I had difficulty pulling myself back together after that. Re-entering the world after intense play is like replacing your armor piece by piece. I was still trying to find my proverbial breastplate, and Guy had already cleaned up and pulled on his clothes. There had been only one other time when I regretted saying good bye, and this was now my second. We said farewell, and I felt the loss of that connection. Wistfulness, I suppose, tinged with regret. Coming down from a topping high was hard too. Looking back, I probably had a touch of top drop as well.

    Rule #5

    Later that night I thought long and hard about what I was going to do. Ultimately what I wanted to say was ‘thank you.’ I didn’t think there would be any harm in doing so, and I felt like he was the type to be polite and not turn it into something weird. Still, I was respectful of people’s privacy. Not everyone wanted to be confronted by a dungeon assistant in real life. I dropped him a short note of thanks on Fetlife. I had broken rules during our session, and I had loved every moment. I had felt sadistic and dominant all on my own, and I wanted to explain how grateful I was for all of it. To my surprise he answered, and not only that, he asked me to meet him for coffee.

    This is the part where I don’t really know what I’m doing. This is all new territory, and what if I majorly screw up? Part of me frets over it. And then there’s me who’s a wolf. And she doesn’t care about any of that. She wants the bunny. The funny part is that I don’t know which part of me will come out on top.

    TO BE CONTINUED…

    (I’ve always wanted to write that.)


  7. The Incidental Sadist

    October 31, 2016 by Heather Cole

     

    He requested tea with my beating. That was new.

    From my vantage point, with my arms bound behind me with rope and my ankle cuffs clipped to the spreader bar, I could see steam wafting from the cup. He sipped the tea and perused the implements spread across the table. It reminded me of someone shopping for the perfect fruit, not a British sadist in contemplation.

    Strike One – Heather

    Things were subtly different from the first time we played. Some of it was a consequence of my actions, deliberate and incidental. I had forgotten repeatedly to update my shared calendar which made scheduling time at the dungeon a challenge for the Sadist. Eve, the Domme supervising our play time and the coordinator of this event, “helpfully” shared my sassy texts regarding the calendar. I hadn’t curbed my tongue. Strike one – Heather.

    Strike Two – Heather

    On the day of our scene, I hit unusual traffic on my way to the dungeon. I arrived half an hour late, and although the Sadist accommodated the change, I was going to pay for it. Strike two.

    None of these occurrences compiled themselves in my mind to give me something to worry about. No, I arrived flustered and rushed to find that Eve had set up on her own. This meant that all sorts of items were out, things that I probably wouldn’t have chosen. Ouchy things. I had given my limits months ago when the Sadist and I first played, and I hadn’t thought about updating that list before arriving. But the Sadist wasn’t the only one changing things up. I was too.

    When the Sadist and I first came together I had a master, and I had everything approved by him before I played with the Sadist. Now I was free of my contract, and I was the sole person responsible for negotiating the scene. But I had mostly forgotten about that until I was dressed in the outfit the Sadist had brought and bound to the large wooden frame at the center of the room. My thoughts resembled a sheaf of paper being thrown into the air on a blustery day. He approached me with safety scissors in hand, and it finally occurred to me that I had no idea what was going to happen. I hadn’t been proactive about what I wanted during our interaction, and now it was going to bite me in the ass. Probably literally.

    Well, damn, Heather

    The Sadist pinched and caressed me through the black dress as I watched him warily. He used the scissors to cut away the fabric over my breasts and pussy. Before I could ask anything, his hand came down swiftly in a chopping motion against my right nipple. The pain was swift and immediate, and I felt tears form at the corners of my eyes. He didn’t pause and whipped his hand down the front of the other nipple. I couldn’t tell if I wanted to cry from the pain or whether the nipple slapping reminded me so much of my ex. It was my ex who had trained me to endure nipple torture. He would hit me like that in the shower or anywhere I might be exposed. He was the only man who had hurt me in that way, and now the Sadist was doing it too. My feelings got tangled with the pain. Then the Sadist gripped my jaw and brought my gaze to his.

    “You’ve been very naughty, Heather.” He tapped my cheek with his thick fingers. “You didn’t update your calendar and then you were late.”

    I started to protest, and he smacked my cheek. Another slap. And another. I began to cry in earnest.

    Again he began slapping my nipples, but I couldn’t bear it. I said “yellow,” and breathed a sigh of relief when he stepped back. Of course that respite was short. He cut more holes in the dress and abused more flesh. He tickled me, because he knew I hated it, then slapped me again when I laughed helplessly. When the cloth hung off me in strips, he shoved aside the remnants of the black thong I wore and rubbed my clit in rough circles. He knew I wouldn’t orgasm like that, but he handled me in such a way because he knew he could. It was degrading, and the humiliation made my cheeks burn in addition to the slaps.

    That was probably the biggest difference of all. The Sadist had arrived this day with the confidence of knowing the submissive he was dealing with. This was our fourth time playing, and he seemed confident that he could challenge me. I felt that self-assurance in every slap, every strike of the cane, in the way he tied me and pushed in ways that he hadn’t before. He punched the meaty part of my chest and paddled the bottoms of my feet. He explored the most sensitive parts of my body with brutal calculation, favoring the tender flesh on my sides and inner thighs. The hardest part, for me, was the predicament bondage that he had dreamed up for the occasion.

    The man tore off the remnants of my clothes and unhooked the spreader bar. He made me stand parallel to the wooden frame with my arms stretched straight in front of me. Around each wrist he looped rope that was then tied to the frame. If I dropped my arms, the loops around each wrist would tighten. He clipped pulleys to the chains at the top of the frame, and fed rope through each. He tied frozen bottles of water to the ends. But it was the other end of the rope that made me anxious. Each rope was tied to a zipper of clothespins. (A zipper is a term to describe clothespins tied in a consecutive line to rope or string. Once the clothespins are pinched on the skin of the submissive, the top can pull one end of the string and pull each clip off in rapid succession. When the clothespins are lining each side of the labia, for example, they come off like the teeth of a zipper.)

    One zipper had ten clothespins that pinched my labia, and the other longer zipper had clothespins circling each breast like a deranged porcupine. The issue was never the clothespins going on in these situations. The painful repercussions always happened when they were ripped off and blood rushed back to the wounded areas.

    My predicament was this: if I dropped the water bottles, the weight would rip off the zippers. If I dropped the water under two minutes, we would start all over again. If I held the freezing water bottles for longer, he would tie on more bottles and things would become heavier. The decision was agony. There was no way I could “win.” Any which way and those zippers would come off. I debated and squirmed as the icy bottles melted in my hands. Two more bottles went on as I danced in place. My arms were tiring quickly. I decided finally to drop the bottles on my left that were tied to the zipper around my pussy. Squeezing my eyes shut in tense anticipation, I dropped the bottles. They fell to the floor with a thud, but the zipper stayed.

    “What happened?” I shrieked, going on to my tiptoes in response to the tightened clothespins.

    The Sadist looked at me calmly. “I suppose we need more weight.” He grabbed the rope and yanked with all his might.

    The clothespins flew off my pussy, and I would have doubled over if I hadn’t been tied to the other one. I made a garbled exclamation, the pain between my legs distracting me from articulation.

    “Going to let go of the other?” he asked with mild amusement.

    It didn’t matter what I decided. No sooner had the bottle dropped from my hand then he was jerking the other rope. This time I shrieked and clutched my abused breasts. I hadn’t felt anything like that in ages, and the sharp pain of the blood circulating made me whimper. The Sadist pushed the frozen bottles against my nipples, and I begged him to stop being helpful.  

    He wasn’t finished with me yet. The Sadist had me lie down on the massage table, and then used almost every implement laid out beside his tea cup. He turned my body from pale pink to bright red. And he saved the cane for last. The thing that I loathed and loved, the only tool that was guaranteed to undo the last pieces of my self-control. Again it was because of my ex.

    The cane had been his favorite, and I through the years of us being master and slave, I had learned to read the strength and angle of its fall against my flesh like reading the sky for clues to the weather. I couldn’t be caned and not think of my ex. The Sadist didn’t know that part of it, so it didn’t slow him. The caning felt like it lasted forever, and the bruises it gave me matched the ones on my heart. I cried, my sobs muffled by the pillow beneath me.

    Finally he decided to finish it, and he pulled me to my feet and had me pick out a dildo. I pushed it into place on the fucking machine and sat down so that I straddled the stiff rubber cock. The Sadist then rocked me back and forth on the machine, controlling how fast the dildo penetrated my pussy. I had orgasm after orgasm, my tears replaced with sweat and cum. Finally he stopped the machine, and I tried to get my synapses firing again.

    I have no idea what I said or what he said at that point. We spoke of something pleasant before he left, I’m sure. I don’t remember much of anything except that I gave him many hugs in gratitude. My brain had stopped working but my heart was full. I hope he knew how thankful I was for the pain and the pleasure. And the bittersweet memories too.


  8. My Mother

    August 21, 2016 by Heather Cole

    Mother mortal coil

    I wanted to return from my travels with a fresh post about my time in Italy and how it had surpassed my expectations. My time with sir in a country rich in art, steeped in history, and incredible food far exceeded my most passionate vacation fantasies. The reality of Italy proved almost dreamlike at times. Did I really sit and ponder Michelangelo’s David? Had I gazed upon Botticelli’s Primavera amidst a crowd of people and wished I could physically press myself into its flowery details? I drowned myself in art and food while I basked in sir’s attentions. Other than daily correspondence with my mother, I was out of touch with everyone. It was surprisingly delightful. I arrived home full of foreign sights and sounds, buzzing with love and wine, only to find that life hadn’t stilled during my absence.

    I came home to a sick cat who needed a trip to the vet, and my car needed new breaks. My daughter had a dentist appointment, and I used that hour in the waiting room to frantically search for a cat sitter who could come twice a day to give Catsquatch his medicine. Meanwhile I fielded emails and texts from my brother and both sets of parents to coordinate our visit the following week. Oh yes, I was leaving town again in less than seven days for a roadtrip to the motherland. There was packing to be done while I tried to catch up on work, and the buoyancy of Italy couldn’t compete. Especially with the latest news regarding my mother.

    Sir and I were in Rome when I received the email. My mom had sent an update to the family, telling us that the chemo wasn’t working. A scan had showed that it wasn’t having any effect on the nodules of cancer on her lungs. Her doctor recommended switching the chemo cocktail and perhaps applying for an experimental drug trial. She had said that she remained hopeful in her message, but I knew better. I could read how she actually felt behind the sunny missive, so I choked back my fear and planned a trip north with my daughter. It had turned into the most inconvenient time to leave home when I had barely caught my breath from Italy, but I had to go. My little brother was going to meet us there, and I couldn’t postpone our departure without fucking up everyone else’s timetable. The worst part was the fear that I couldn’t shut out. 

    I’m running out of time.

    My mother looked older than her seventy years. She was physically fragile and her movements slow. She used a cane to walk around her small apartment and sometimes a walker when she thought we weren’t watching. The chemo was a poison that killed cancer cells and seemed to be killing the rest of her too. It affected her skin, her joints, hair, and nerves. We referred to her lapses in memory and problem solving as “chemo brain,” and I silently recited my mantra of patience, patience, patience. Patience as I waited for her to slowly make her way across a room, patience to explain again what we needed to do, patience with the long list of chores that had to be accomplished before we left. I snapped at her, feeling irritated when she instructed me for the hundredth time exactly how she wanted her dishwasher filled. But beneath that bubbling anger was fear, a fear of what I will do without her. It was a pain so keen that it stole my breath.

    She asked us to clean out her cabinets, so my brother installed new shelves in her pantry as I pulled out boxes and cans of food. She sat at the kitchen table with a blanket around her shoulders while my brother and I moved expediently around her, sweat dripping down into the collars of our shirts. The summer heat and humidity failed to warm her, so we didn’t turn on the air conditioning but silently melted into puddles in our shoes. We teased her about the exploded can of sweetened condensed milk that coated one spot, and I scraped away at the blackened, sticky surface. Eventually I asked her what had inspired her thorough clean-out, and she shrugged.

    “Oh, you know. I don’t want to leave with all of this stuff still …” She gestured at the expanding trash bag.

    I swallowed hard. She had finally mentioned the shadow that had ridden me hard ever since reading her email. I felt cracks appear in the shields around my heart, and I struggled to control the overwhelming tide of emotion. My brain refused to process the implications of her unfinished thought. I distracted myself with another task to focus purely on physical labor even though the denial was slipping from me with each moment we spent together. My heart beat with a throbbing ache in my chest. I couldn’t breathe. With some flimsy excuse, I fled the room.

    I hid in the spare room with the excuse of completing some urgent work. Sir called me soon after, and beneath his gentle questioning, my armor dissolved. I related the conversation, tears streaking down my face. The scales had finally fallen from my eyes, and for the first time since she had come out of remission, I admitted to myself that my mother might never recover.

    Our unspoken family motto is: if you put enough effort and energy into something, it will work. And if the thing isn’t working, put your head down and work harder. The older I got, the more I realized that this motto was not without its flaws nor did it serve every situation. Until that moment with my mama, I had been applying it to her recovery from cancer. I had believed, mostly unconsciously, that if I prayed hard enough and believed fervently that my mother would recover, then she would. That to entertain any thought of the contrary was counterproductive. So when she came out of remission, when the first kind of chemo didn’t work; these were signs that I wasn’t trying hard enough. I know it seems ridiculous that this was somehow my responsibility, or perhaps its conceit that my personal thinking would have that great an impact, but some part of my internal reasoning thought to make her better through sheer will on my part.

    I can’t, of course, and with the crush of my disillusionment came a startling gift. Sir told me, “at least you know that your time is limited.” It took several days for that to sink in, and at first, a feeling of resentment swelled at the seemingly harsh observation. He’s right, though. I can see now, and more importantly accept, that there is an end to the timeline. Logically we all know it. No one lives forever, but feeling that truth is something else entirely. Feeling that truth for someone that you love with your entire being… well, it’s fucking shitty. And terrible. And somehow freeing too.

    Sir’s advice was to take advantage of what I could finally acknowledge, and that I should wring every possible moment from the time we have left together. I know he’s right, and at the same time, my brain refuses to imagine a life without her in it. I’m surprised by how hard it is to sit with the feeling that our time will end and to somehow be OK. I’m striving to accept that these are the moments I have now. None of us really knows how much we actually have but we like to tell ourselves that there’s always tomorrow. I can’t keep saying that. Instead I tell myself to hold tight and love hard. It’s the best I can do.

    When my daughter and I finally arrived at home, it felt like I was walking with a bubble of sadness encompassing me. It has taken the better part of a week for me to find my footing again, and running has really helped with that. I’m still processing, still crying and sad, but I’m functioning better and can feel happiness through the miasma of grief. I was on the trail the other day, pondering the universal process of coming to grips with our mortality, and a scene from Moonstruck popped in my head. I had to laugh. If you’ve never seen it, you should. It’s one of my favorite movies of all time, full of messy relationships, long-lasting love, and of course, life and death.

    One of the storylines is that Cosmo is having an affair, and his wife of many years knows it. Part of the movie is Rose trying to figure out why Cosmo felt compelled to cheat, and she asks different characters why they think men cheat on the women they marry. Finally she comes to her own conclusion and tells Cosmo. (At this point in the movie, Cosmo doesn’t know that Rose knows about his infidelity.)

     

    Hold tight and love hard, my friends.

     


  9. How to Help the Victims of the Pulse Orlando Nightclub Shooting

    June 13, 2016 by Heather Cole

     

    If you’re like me, you’re still reeling from the events that unfolded yesterday morning. I listened in horror to the news reports of the victims and shed tears of anger and pain. I shared news and support on social media but went to bed frustrated knowing that this wasn’t enough to help those involved in the tragedy. I’m nowhere close to Orlando or the victims of the shooting, but I’m a part of the local LGBTQ community here. Even if you’ve never attended a parade or spoken up for equality for all our citizens, there are things you can do to help this situation that we find ourselves in as fellow Americans. This tragedy affects us all. The victims of the Orlando shooting are our brothers and sisters.

    So what can we do to support the victims of the Pulse Orlando nightclub shooting? Here’s a list:

    Attend a Local Vigil – A Google search will pull up LGBTQ groups in your community. See if there are ways that you can show up to give your support. I know that in my city, a popular gay nightclub held a vigil yesterday afternoon.

    Give Blood – Perhaps the blood you donate won’t go directly to a victim wounded in the shooting, but you know that a person in your community will benefit from your donation. That’s what this is about… helping your fellow human. Spread love instead of hate. Give someone hope. There are federal guidelines regarding blood donation here.

    Donate Money – Equality Florida set up a GoFundMe campaign to support the family of victims. You can donate here. Here’s the description from the website:

    “Funds raised on this page will be going directly to the victims and families affected by the horrific shooting at Orlando’s Pulse Nightclub. Equality Florida is working with local organizations – who are also helping to raise funds – to ensure the money is distributed properly. Thank you for the support!

    You can also visit http://www.eqfl.org/news/pulse to get more information on vigils, counseling, and blood drives happening across the state. We’re also posting updates on Equality Florida’s Facebook page here: www.facebook.com/equalityfl ”

     

    My favorite quote is from Fred Rogers, and I think of it every time I hear of tragedy in our community.

    There was something else my mother did that I’ve always remembered: “Always look for the helpers,” she’d tell me. “There’s always someone who is trying to help.” I did, and I came to see that the world is full of doctors and nurses, police and firemen, volunteers, neighbors and friends who are ready to jump in to help when things go wrong.

    Let’s be helpers.


  10. Birthday Girl

    June 12, 2016 by Heather Cole

    This birthday girl loves cake!

    This birthday girl loves cake!

     

    Last month I had a birthday. Not a big milestone in the chronological sense, but a huge one in a personal sense. I’ve been slowly renovating my life with small improvements, baby steps if you will. It has been a slow change, and many times challenging (like in this post), but I’m so happy to be here.

    To celebrate my birthday this year, I decided to focus on my body and celebrate this “earth suit” that I so often ignore or criticize. I don’t have a model-like bod. I have bulges, scars, and freckles in ridiculous places. This body, though, has treated me well.

    I have relied on it to see me through dark times, as well as the joyful, and it has taken me to far away places to explore. Without my body, I wouldn’t have the daughter I have today. Nor would I be able to run on the trails I love or type out the stories in my head. Sir wouldn’t have a fine ass to spank, and my dungeon friends would miss their willing demo bottom.

    I’m changing my relationship with my body to one of love and respect, but I still have to remind myself to say, “I love and deeply accept myself in this moment, exactly as I am.”

    A very talented friend of mine, who is also a professional photographer, took photos of my birthday celebration with the help of his yummy assistant. He didn’t even mind when Catsquatch climbed into his tripod bag to shed white fur all over the black interior. I could have splurged on a new dress or shoes as a birthday present, or a well-deserved manicure. Instead I got mostly naked in my bedroom on a very hot day and asked my dear friends to snap photos.

    I can’t say that I loved all the results. Not because of D’s skills with a lens but because of my struggle to accept that this is how I look. I have a tummy that sticks out and cellulite on my upper thighs. Do I want y’all to see that? Nope. *I* don’t want to see it either. But while I may see them as imperfections, I also acknowledge the strength there too. I love good food, and I love cooking. The evidence is in my tummy and my thighs. I could not eat and exercise every day and rid myself of those things, but I wouldn’t enjoy my life as much. Been there, done that, was miserable.

     

    Birthday cupcake and a fine ass

    Birthday cupcake and a fine ass

    I’m in my early forties now, and I’m finished trying to meet other’s expectations (or what I perceive as their expectations). That goes for the unattainable cultural idea of beauty that’s splashed across our media too. I no longer wish to feel bad about myself for not measuring up. I’m pretty kickass just as I am, and I think you are too.

    I want to celebrate now. Here. This moment today.

    I will never be in this exact place again, and I want to remember this birthday celebration. Happy birthday to me!

    Happy ____ day to YOU!

    Let’s celebrate all our bodies!