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  1. The Last Night

    August 27, 2014 by Heather Cole

    Thursday was our last night together. I had rearranged my work schedule so that I stopped at 3:00 every day that week, and we spent the late afternoon and evenings eating all the foods we wanted, spending time with friends, snuggling, and fucking. The time leading up to this point had seemed to crawl by and fly like lightening simultaneously. Before I knew it, we were there… the eve of his departure.

    I had finished ironing the last of his shirts and joined him on the couch. I was fresh from the shower, my hair still damp, and I wore my most softest, green dress with the plunging neckline. I felt raw and vulnerable, my emotions simmering a hairsbreadth below the surface.

    “What would you like to do tonight?” he asked.

    “What would you like to do?” I countered.

    “I’m open to a variety of things. What do you think?”

    “First I need to cry,” I said and felt a tear streak down my cheek. “After that’s out of the way, I’m open to whatever you want to do.”

    “Let’s go upstairs, baby, and we’ll cry together.”

    For the next half hour he held me as I sobbed on to his shoulder. He murmured our litany of assurances into my hair that I knew by heart. It had almost become a prayer between us–all the reasons why his relocation would be a great thing for us both. Eventually my tears dried, and I felt like I could function as a somewhat coherent human being again.

    “So what are we going to do?” I asked.

    “Remember how you asked for an enema scene a couple of weeks ago?”

    I opened my mouth to reply and then thought better of it. A pro-domme had offered to give me a scene featuring an enema, with sir’s permission, but I had turned her down in favor of a relaxing massage for my owner. I was intrigued by the use of enemas in D/s scenes, not because of the enema itself, but because of the control exerted over the submissive. I found the idea of trying to control one’s natural bodily functions to please another titillating, and I had mentioned to sir that if I were going to do it, I would want my first experience to be with him.

    Oh how those casual words had come back to haunt me.

    “Instead of a water enema, I’m going to pee in your butt,” he added.

    My mouth dropped open. “REALLY?”

    “Yup,” he said. “Let’s get you into the bathroom.”

    My mind was reeling as we emptied the bathroom of the scale, a footstool, and the bathmat. I couldn’t decide how I felt about it. Repulsed? I felt like I should have been more grossed out than I actually was. I mean, what was the proper response to a man telling you he wanted to pee in your butt? Part of me was interested, maybe even excited, and then a larger part of me was ashamed that I felt that way. I could feel my cheeks grow hot as he spread out an old beach towel on the bathroom floor.

    “On your knees,” he said.

    I assumed the position that I had hundreds of times before this night. Fucking in our bathroom was commonplace although our actions tonight were a first for us both. I tucked my toes under the ledge of the bathtub as he pushed my dress around my waist. He was already erect, the head of his cock pushing against the crack of my ass. The lube he applied was cool against my heated skin, and to my surprise, he slid into my pussy first. My first orgasm took me by storm, and I was forced to admit, if only to myself, that I was turned on. A second orgasm quickly followed the first, his strokes long and deep. As I tried to catch my breath, sir pulled out and slid into my anus. Suddenly I was gasping for an entirely different reason.

    His rhythm changed when he began to concentrate on urinating. I didn’t feel him peeing exactly, but I noticed a full feeling beginning in my abdomen. His erection would relax slightly as he urinated and then stiffen again when he switched to fucking my asshole. I closed my eyes so that I no longer saw the geometric pattern on the linoleum and could concentrate more on the sensations that assailed me.

    “I’m going to come,” he said, pushing deeper into me. I stilled as his body came to rest against my ass, instinctively tightening around him to keep everything inside.

    “You can go sit on the toilet, but you can’t expel anything.”

    I slowly got to my feet and gingerly walked over to the toilet, silently praying that I could hold it. I felt like I was trying to keep a water balloon inside me, and I was mortified that I might fail. I sat on the toilet, letting my dress drape between my thighs.

    “What are you doing, baby?”

    “May I go to the bathroom, Daddy?” I asked in a small voice.

    I couldn’t help myself. I felt exposed and vulnerable, like a little girl sitting on the potty. I felt myself blush, and I couldn’t meet his eyes. There was no one else in the world that I trusted like sir, and even though I was uncomfortable with the intimacy, I also reveled in the sense of connection. I was willing to go to this unfamiliar territory, to push past my modesty and embarrassment, and bare myself according to his will. I felt little and powerful all at the same time..

    “Look at me, babygirl, and use your words.” I could hear the grin in his voice, and when I finally looked up his expression was equal parts kindness and mischief.

    “May I please…” My voice faded to a whisper. “…poop?”

    His eyes went wide with mock surprise. “What do you want to do, Little Pookie?”

    “Poop!” I exclaimed and buried my face in my hands. “Daddy, you’re embarrassing me!” I shrieked.

    Sir laughed out loud then and gave me the OK. As my bowels released, I slumped in relief and felt sheepish. I couldn’t think of any other time when I felt so raw, so human.

    “So what turned you on the most?” I finally asked, wanting to distract myself from being the center of attention.

    “The thought that I could do this to a girl and that she would let me do it made me hot. What kind of dirty girl lets a guy pee in her? You let me pee in your butt, and you’re my girl. That was the biggest turn-on.”

    My cheeks turned scarlet, but I was grinning too. His pleasure and satisfaction with the situation were almost palpable, and I felt an overwhelming sense of pride. I did that for him. On our last night together, I had given him a memory unique to any other experience we had in our collective sexual pasts. I was his girl, and I didn’t know of a better way to show it.

    The rest of the night passed with good food, our favorite TV show, and more orgasms. As I fell asleep with his arms wrapped tight around me, he whispered, “I peed in your butt tonight.” I giggled, smiling into the darkness. It was the perfect ending to our last night.

     


  2. Under Pressure

    August 16, 2014 by Nikki Blue

    I had fallen asleep while watching JAWS on TV for the bazillionth time, but when he came through the door, I woke immediately, smiling when I saw his face. He flashed the grin I love, the one with his full lips open in surprise and his eyes wide, when he realized I was naked under the covers. I knew he was tired, though. I saw it on his face and in his blue eyes, but still, he moved my hand to his cock after he’d undressed and climbed into bed.

    “I want you to ride me,” he said.

    One of the things I love about Mr. K is his willingness to please me. He takes nearly as much satisfaction from my pleasure as he does from his own. It’s a selflessness I’d never experienced before and it’s a part of him I find incredibly arousing.

    When he’d said to ride him, I knew what he wanted was for me to climb on top of him and use him to orgasm as I’d done so many times before. I intended to, but not in the way he’d anticipated.

    He didn’t expect me to crawl up the length of his body and straddle his face, which was exactly the reason I did it, but his moans of delight sounded more like gasps for air. And he didn’t bathe his face in the flood of my juices as he licked me either. As a matter of fact, when I looked down at him, I realized he’d shifted me where his attention was focused solely on my clit. THAT was very unusual.

    It struck me that something was wrong, and because I’m me, I freaked out. My mind raced wildly, wondering if he’d grown tired of me during our longer than usual visit. Was he bored with the sex we had? My pussy? Was it no longer the scent and taste he loved after having been filled with SO MUCH CUM? WHAT WAS WRONG WITH ME?

    I blew out a quick breath and wiped my sweaty palms on the pillow near his head, thinking maybe the problem was that he only wanted to fuck. He did, after all, say for me to ride him. But Mr. K isn’t one to beat around the bush. Heh. Bush. He would have said if he wasn’t in the mood to eat me, or if my pussy had reached its cum intake capacity.

    He wants to fuck, I thought. OR maybe he wants my ass. We hadn’t done a whole lot of anal stuff, so maybe he wants me to pin his arms to his side and shove my ass on his face. He LOVES when I do that. And I’ll suck his cock and balls at the same time. Maybe even slap it a bit. Oh yeah, that’ll get him into it.

    Stop laughing. It’s the way my mind works. My plan, however, was a total failure.

    When I turned around giving him unfettered access to his gateway to heaven, I expected to hear his moans of pleasure as I spread my ass open for him to enjoy. Those moans didn’t come, though. He didn’t get all up in it either, literally and figuratively speaking. That’s when I knew for certain– something was wrong.

    “Ride me, baby,” he said. “Use my cock to make yourself come.”

    Again, I knew what he wanted.

    He smiled as I slid on to him and worked myself into the orgasm he loved to watch. The one that stimulated my clit like a continuous edge. The one so extraordinary it left me shaking. But when he pulled me to his side and tucked into the crook of his arm, I carefully pried open the lid to the giant can of obvious.

    “I knew something was wrong when you didn’t want my ass.”

    “It’s not that I didn’t want your ass. There is never a time when I don’t want your ass,” he said. “I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t sleep well last night either, and it was a long day. I’m just exhausted.”

    The thing is, with the 140-something miles in between us, we try to make the most out of our visits which are usually no more than two or three nights. We sleep little and fuck a lot. He doesn’t even take his sleep-aid when we’re together because he says he doesn’t need it. I am his Ambien. But as much as I love hearing those words, I know there are nights when he needs it, and I feel for him as he tosses and turns beside me. On the flipside, the only time I actually do sleep well is when I’m with Mr. K.

    This trip was unusual for us– five nights –which is the most time we’ve ever had together in one visit. It was also a working trip for him, and that meant there were nights he didn’t come through door until after ten. Even though he hadn’t been feeling great and was super tired, he felt guilty that I had been alone all day. Still, he was deep in the pattern of making every moment count.

    “You didn’t have to fuck me,” I said.

    “But I felt like I did.”

    And there it was. Regardless of how exhausted or how ill he was, he felt pressured to fuck me to make up for the time we’d been apart; to keep me happy.

    For the first time in our relationship, I felt like an obligation– a sex one.

    I could have easily recoiled from the sting of his words, but his intention wasn’t to hurt me. I knew that in my heart. What bothered me the most was that he’d pushed his own limits too far without feeling safe enough to ask for mercy. In my mind, I’d failed him.

    Mr. K and I have phenomenal sex, but it’s just the icing on an amazing relationship cake. And we love our cake, a lot. The last thing either of us wanted was to damage our relationship, so we talked through his feelings. I assured him that I loved him– all of him –not just his cock, and I wasn’t dependent on sex, that just being with him made me happy. Sure, I had been naked in bed when he’d come home, but not because I waited for a thorough fucking. The bed we share is a place for closeness without expectations, not for pajamas. I also told him it’s alright to take Ambien when we’re together, that his sleep is important, especially when he’s working. Don’t get me wrong, I love when he wakes me in the early morning hours for sex, but it’s not something I require of him.

    “Oh, but I always want to wake you for sex,” he chuckled.

    And as I lay sleeping soundly beside him hours later, he nudged me awake the way he always does. He kissed me softly, wrapped my legs around him, and filled his need and mine.


  3. A New Collar for a New Chapter

    August 8, 2014 by Heather Cole

    Collar 08_08_2014

     

    Sir said that he had been eyeing this collar for awhile, but it was a comment by Dumb Domme that spurred him to finally purchase it. I was surprised and delighted. Material gifts from Daddy were rare and extremely special. He made my toes curl with joy when I shook it free from its velvet bag. The collar was heavy and warmed to the same temperature as my skin after he locked it around my neck. It needed a special key to turn the tiny pin to open and close the circle, and as it fell into place, I felt the stainless steel as if it was his hand around my neck. I felt owned. Possessed. It felt like some kind of magic.

    Sir is leaving in two weeks–fifteen days to be precise. I have the day marked on my calendar in red. Dramatic, I know, but in some ways that red represents my heart’s blood. Ever since he accepted the contract overseas, we have lived in an odd sort of limbo. We’re posed on the precipice of goodbye perpetually, wanting to begin the next chapter and resisting it at the same time. It’s a horrible place to be, and yet there are gifts here too. Not only the shiny metal ones.

    The other night I burst into tears thinking about a possible delay in our tentative plans for an October visit. These cloud bursts of saline are not uncommon. I can hear a song, or read a passage in my favorite book, and the pain of sir’s departure will sweep over me like a rolling wave. I cope by crying until it fades, leaving me empty and somehow relieved. After my tears dried, I had an insight. If I loved sir any less, then I wouldn’t feel the pinprick of pain at the slightest reminder of our chapter ending. Honestly, I don’t ever want to reach a point where I don’t mourn our separation. Yes, I may be resigned, but I don’t ever want to feel neutral. Neutral would be the death of us, the final ending of our dynamic. So I do what all masochists do, I embrace the pain and surrender to it. When I think about sir leaving, I dive into the deep sadness and then come back up for air and continue living. The contrasts can steal my breath, moving in between the darkness and light, but I always manage to regain my equilibrium to move forward to the new chapter.

     


  4. Boobs, Junk Punches, and Science

    August 5, 2014 by Nikki Blue

    Yesterday I stumbled across this article on the interwebz, and to say that it angered me is a gross understatement. The author deserves a junk punch for the title alone.

    5 Signs Her Breasts Are Fake

    See? Junk punch totally deserved.

    And the tagline…

    Here’s how to tell–without being a total creep! 

    <shudder>

    The author’s attempt at not being a creep was a total failure. He did, however, pull off body-shaming women with breast implants with flying colors, so kudos to him.

    Normally this is where I would spew a host of reasons why it doesn’t matter if a woman’s breasts are fake or not, post a photograph of my breast implants, or call him out for being a critical douchebag, but I’m above that sort of behavior, mostly. I will, though, point out that he used ‘silicon’ twice in his horribly offensive article when ‘silicone’ would have been the correct term. I would have written the first off as a typo and tried to look past it, which is super hard because typos freak me out, but the second slip told me didn’t know the difference between between a synthetic compound and a chemical element, and THAT was a fuck-up I found strangely comforting.


  5. The Method to My Madness

    July 28, 2014 by Nikki Blue

    When Heather tagged me to write about my writing process, I was like wait, what? No seriously. That was my exact reaction. See?

    photo (2)

    Then I was all WHAT DID I DO TO PISS HER OFF? I should also point out that this happened two, wait, three months ago, so that says a lot right there. Thank God there’s no math in writing.

    Oh, shut up.

    I know there’s some sort of format I’m supposed to follow here, but that ain’t going to happen sweet cheeks. I will share with y’all that I’m currently writing CONTROL, the second book in my memoir-new adult-fiction-BDSM erotica-contemporary fiction-romance, erm, memoir series.

    Yes, it’s a genre.

    And because I have project A.D.D., I’m also writing a guide to swinging and group sex, an idea born from a snarky blog post I recently wrote about a rather awkward experience with chicken wings, boobs, and attempted double penetration. Laugh, if you will, but it happened and yes, it was totally weird.

    I’d love to say I’m one of those writers who boast to their Facebook friends that they wrote 4,300 words while sitting in their local Starbucks, but I’m not. I hate them, by the way, but only because I tend to write with the swiftness of a handicapped snail. Hell, there are days where I write little more than a paragraph because I can’t move past it until it feels right. I’ve been known to rewrite an opening paragraph a bazillion times before pulling up my big girl panties and sharing with Mr. K or Heather to ask if I’m on the right track. And even if their response is favorable, which it usually is, I blow it up and write it over anyway. Have I mentioned I’m super anal? Heh. Anal.

    Aaaaaand we’re moving on.

    Most of the time I love writing, but there are times where I’m overwhelmed and find myself curled into a fetal position, especially if I’m writing about the fees. And then there are the moments I doubt my ability, thinking every word I’ve ever written sucks sweaty balls. There’s also the issue of balancing my writing career with the life outside of my head, which doesn’t always go as planned. On occasion, my kids would go hungry if they weren’t old enough to feed themselves, and my friends have been known to stage interventions by dragging me out of the house kicking and screaming because the sunlight hurts my eyes and burns my pale skin. And sleep, well, that’s something I learned to live without long a go.

    To sum it up, my writing process isn’t complicated, but it does involve a lot of crying, self-doubt, balls, and snails. Wait.


  6. Coffee and a Spanking

    July 26, 2014 by Heather Cole

    Our mornings usually began with coffee. I was a morning person, and rather than inflict sir with a cheerful good morning, I crept downstairs to start our morning pot of coffee. On this particular day, my mind was running through the events of the night as I threw out old grounds and filled the pot with water. In the past eight hours I had given two blowjobs and had been fucked thoroughly, but despite having enjoyed myself, something nagged at me.

    I straightened the kitchen while I mulled over matters, the aroma of fresh coffee swirling around me. I couldn’t decide if I was being overly-sensitive. My gripe seemed petty, but I no longer trusted my perspective on the situation. Sir and I were having more and more conversations about my behavior lately. I didn’t classify myself as a brat, but in recent weeks I had taken to talking back and even telling sir ‘no’ on occasion. He kept a sense of humor about it, and told me that he loved my sass, but I couldn’t seem to curb my tongue. Part of me didn’t want to, and as a result, I was pushing back and acting out.

    I wasn’t proud of myself. As I chewed my lip in front of the coffee pot, I worried that my irritation was only subterfuge, that I was fooling myself into thinking that I had a defensible position for my irritation. All the while the nagging feeling in my chest warned that if I probed deeper into the motivation behind my brattiness, I’d find a bigger issue that I didn’t want to deal with. And I really didn’t want to look into that writhing can of worms.

    When the percolating stopped, I took a cup up to sir still wrestling with myself. He was awake and propped up against the pillows, his laptop settled across his lap. The light from the screen highlighted his slightly mussed hair and hazel eyes. I loved seeing him this way, half-awake and drowsy with sleep. He murmured a thank you for the coffee, and his gaze followed me as I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth.

    “So what got you riled up in the middle of the night? Were you looking at porn?” I asked.

    “No,” he said, a small smile on his face. “I woke up with a boner and decided to put your face on it.”

    His wording made me laugh, and I almost spit toothpaste on the mirror. “You know, you woke me up from a deep sleep. I thought maybe I’d get a thank you for the service or at least a high-five. Maybe a ‘way to go, slave.’”

    I kept my tone teasing and light, but my earlier feelings of angst bobbed beneath it. I had blown him before we went to sleep only to be woken up a few hours later for a second blowjob. Oral sex was one of my duties as a sex slave, and it was one of my favorites. In the middle of the night, though, when I was yanked out of dreamland to suck cock… well, I tried to be gracious about it. And regardless of my feelings, I did it.

    This isn’t the problem, I thought. But I squashed it down and silently scolded my feelings to shut the fuck up.

    “I said thank you by filling your mouth with come. It’s your reward.”

    “Right,” I said, unconvinced. I knew he was teasing me, but I couldn’t muster a smile in return.

    “After I gifted you with my come, I wrapped you in my arms to snuggle you. But my phantom girlfriend was gone, disappearing into the bathroom. Without permission, I might add.” The look on sir’s face was pleasant, as was his voice, but I felt a twinge when he mentioned my disobedience.

    I had left our bed on purpose. I put my toothbrush away and came to stand beside him. He reached for my hand, but I avoided his eyes.

    “I didn’t want to snuggle you while feeling bitchy about your silence so I got up to clear my head. I came back right after I peed,” I said.

    “Perhaps there’s a better way that we can communicate so that you don’t feel like you’re unappreciated. Maybe you can say, ‘I felt ____ when ____ happened.’”

    I tried not to roll my eyes even though I knew he was right. I hadn’t handled it well, and I should have told him about my irritation rather than abandoning the situation.

    “Fine,” I said.

    Sir’s eyebrows arched with surprise. “I think someone needs to remember her manners.”

    “FINE. SIR.”

    As sir’s eyes widened with incredulity, I gave him a look that would have made any five-year-old proud. I couldn’t help pushing him, needling him one step further.

    “Come to the other side of the bed, please,” he said and patted the space beside him.

    “I have to go to work.”

    “This won’t take long. I’ll count to five. 1… 2…”

    I didn’t stall any further, knowing things would be so much worse if I delayed even further. He instructed me to get on my knees towards the edge of the bed with my ass pointing out towards the window. I stared at the jumbled sheets around me and wondered what kind of hot water I had landed in.The jingle of a belt buckle answered my unspoken question.

    “I want you to count, and I want you to thank me for each one, because you need a lesson in manners.”

    “Yes, sir,” I said meekly, my fingers digging into a blanket.

    He hit me hard, the sting of leather stealing my breath. I counted and thanked him, tears pooling beneath my lashes. I only had to count to five, but sir made every one of them count.

    After the last one, I stayed in place, trying to catch my breath. I heard the belt drop to the floor, and then sir’s arm gently pushed me down. I toppled on to my side, my emotions a zigzagging blur inside me. I felt outraged that I was punished even though on the heels of that came a giant wave of relief for it. All it took was those five strikes and my defenses were breached. I was laid bare, open and vulnerable.

    Sir’s arms came around me, and he pulled the blanket over us both. He spoke in my ear, his words soothing and sensual at the same time. The tickle of his breath on my neck, and the rumble of his voice against my back… I told myself to remember every last little detail. I wanted to soak in the experience through my skin and into my bones so that I could recall it in the lonely weeks to come. It was then that I realized that the quagmire of emotion inspiring my behavior was grief, an ocean of sadness that he will be leaving. It wasn’t a can of worms that I was avoiding. It was one giant, Dune-sized, earth-shaking worm of loss that I wanted to un-see. I decided to continue ignoring it even as it threatened to surface.

    We have today, I told myself. We have this moment.

    It had to be enough.

     


  7. Where’s Nikki?

    July 21, 2014 by Nikki Blue

    No, I’m not in jail for something ridiculous and totally not my fault. Nope. I am, however, over on Rachel in the OC where I’ve written a guest post about my experience with physical abuse and how writing BROKEN changed my life. Check it out! 

    Photo for RT guest post

     

    Image courtesy of Serge Bertasius Photography / FreeDigitalPhotos.net


  8. Sex and Aging

    July 15, 2014 by Heather Cole

    This blog was conceived at my dining room table on the eve of the demise of my almost decade-long marriage. I was near 40, and I was preparing myself as best I could to start my life all over again. This time with a child in tow. I remember being on the phone with Nikki and saying, “there have to be other 40-ish women like us who want to have active and fulfilling sex, and there have to be other people like us who want to read about sex, kink, and the real life that goes with it.” Age was a main theme in our writing before we published our first post. It was a theme that ran through our sexual evolution as we created and discovered our sexual identities again and again, and through this blog and the many other sex blogs out there, we confirmed that women “of a certain age” are still getting it on. Let me state for the record, hot and dirty sex didn’t stop at 40. Hell, it doesn’t have to stop until you choose to. According to a New York Time’s article in January of this year, “between 2007 and 2011, chlamydia infections among Americans 65 and over increased by 31 percent, and syphilis by 52 percent.” There are lots of people choosing to have sex (gasp!) as they get older. The saying is true, it ain’t over ’til it’s over. But women over 40 aren’t the focus of porn or the media when it comes to sex or desirability. We’re shown images that equate good sex with youth even though many of us acknowledge that better sex comes with age and experience. (Need evidence of that? Read this blog.)

    Sometimes it feels like according to society at large, a woman goes through menopause and her sexual self simply falls off the map, as if her sexy, desirable self becomes invisible as her hair grays and wrinkles appear. The older you become, the more invisible you become in some ways. And I think that’s utter bullshit. If men are generally viewed as more distinguished as they age, then why can’t we recognize that women are too? Recently I’ve become more and more aware of older women in the media, because some day not that far away, I’m going to be her. What is dating going to be like in my 60′s? What is sex going to feel like after menopause? How am I going to adapt as my body ages? They’re questions I’m unable to answer until I’m having the experience, but one thing I know for certain. I want to feel healthy and at home in my skin, and I want to have a fulfilling sex life, even with wrinkles.

    The other day I read this blog post by Robin Korth, a 59-year-old author and professional, about her dating life. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Reading the words, “your body is too wrinkly,” uttered by her 55-year-old love interest made me aware of the double-standard between older men and older women all over again. Do you think Metallica is getting that sort of dating feedback? I sincerely doubt it.

    In case I thought the Korth experience was a fluke, the Universe pushed this Esquire article, In Praise of 42-Year Old Women, into my mailbox. I thought, I’m only 41, I should be psyched about this! And then I read: “There is simply no one as unclothed as a forty-two-year-old woman in a summer dress. For all her toughness, and humor, and smarts, you know exactly what she looks like, without the advantage of knowing who she is.” In other words, we can see your body, but we can’t get past the wrinkles unless we know how great your personality is so that we can pretend your body isn’t, um… old. <headdesk> Obviously the author thinks he’s complimenting women in my age bracket, but he’s actually delivering a slap in the face. (And not the kind I enjoy)

    Thankfully, Ann Brenoff penned this response to the Esquire article in the Huffington Post, and I wanted to give her a standing ovation. She articulated many of my instinctive reactions to the piece. “You are wrong when you suggest that it was the women’s liberation movement that made it possible to find a 42-year-old woman appealing, or that 42-year-old women flock to yoga and pilates classes to be appealing to men. It isn’t that at all. We’ve been beautiful and smart and ambitious forever. You just can’t see it.”

    I’m more than a 41-year-old woman in a sundress. I’m a fucking awesome woman in a sundress. To those people who choose only to see the physical signs of a woman’s time on this planet and count them against her, I feel sorry for you. You’re missing out, because we’re “beautiful and smart and ambitious forever.”

     

    Sex and the Single Senior. New York Times. 18 of Jan 2014. web.


  9. Swinger House Party

    July 8, 2014 by Nikki Blue

    The tiki torch in the front yard told us we were in the right place. Admittedly, I was a little nervous about the swinger party. It was our first and I had no idea what to expect. Mr. K was anxious too, but his worry differed from mine. Again, he expressed his fear of not being able to get hard in a group setting. Again, I laughed, blowing out a breath when he took my hand as we walked toward the front door. He seemed to sense the familiar flutter of wings as the butterflies flitted around in my stomach and he worked to calm them, reminding me that, as always, we would leave if the right vibe wasn’t there or if we didn’t connect with prospective playmates. He didn’t need to say it out loud for me to know it was true, but there were times when hearing the words gave that little reassuring boost and this was one of those moments. Like he knew it would, his affirmation settled my unease, and by the time we stepped over the threshold into our first house party, I was sure and tall in my stilettos. Seriously. I’m like 5’10” in heels. Swear.

    The hosts, J & M, were super gracious, greeting us with shots of something strong and a tour of their home. Early in the night, the ambiance was what you would expect to find at any friendly gathering. There was food, booze, music, and porn. Okay, so maybe porn playing on a big-screen TV isn’t the norm at just any kind of party. Nor was the supposed “down to fuck” agenda of the attendees. But that was where we were confused, because as the night crept on, no one was fucking. They weren’t even making out. We questioned whether or not we were really at the right place, more than once asking each other why aren’t people fucking? WHERE IS ALL THE FUCKING?

    We rolled with the flow of the evening, drinking more shots of something high on the proof scale while we mingled and chatted about life in general with other swingers we’d met. Some poked fun at my southern twang while my feet ached and a trickle of sweat rolled down my back. I gathered my hair on the back of my head, hoping for some sort of air circulation to cool me down a little. It was hot up in there, y’all. Mr. K tried to help, exposing my barely covered ass to the roomful of people behind us as he lifted my dress. Now that I say that, though, I wonder what his motive truly was– cool me down or show the ass he worships.

    Still, no one was getting busy, and the the bulge in Mr. K’s pants told me whether it was alone or with others, he was ready to fuck.

    I was aware of trailing eyes as Mr. K led me up the stairs to the master bedroom, and with the door ajar, he slid my panties down from underneath my dress and off over my heels, pushing me back on to the bed. As he opened my legs wide, I noticed others watching from the hallway. I found the idea of being watched incredibly hot, like porn, but without the cheesy background music. I moaned loudly, gripping the bedding I lay on top of when my orgasm ripped through me. When I opened my eyes, I found J standing beside the bed, watching as I came again. Mr. K asked if he would like to taste my pussy, and when I gave my permission, J dropped to his knees just as Mr. K shoved his hard cock into my waiting mouth. Being both devoured and used was an amazing feeling.

    After J made me come, we exchanged thank you’s as he left the room, giving Mr. K and me the time we needed to regroup. He held me close, looking at me with limitless love in his eyes before he kissed me deeply. I relished the moment of intimacy before he stuffed my panties into his pants pocket while I checked myself in the bathroom mirror, doing what little I could with my sex hair.

    We wandered back downstairs as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened and for us, I suppose, it hadn’t. We sat on the sofa with W and L, a couple we’d chatted with earlier. Mr. K and I both found L super sexy and knew right away we wanted to fuck her, but she was confused– and a little drunk –about my sexuality. She couldn’t tell if I was into women.

    Here’s the thing– I love women. I love the soft curves and the taste of their bodies. I love making them writhe with pleasure, but I don’t consider myself to be bisexual. I am, however, heteroflexible, and what that means for me is that I need Mr. K’s supervisory penis in the room. It wasn’t the time or the place to explain my sexuality to her, though, so I leaned over Mr. K’s lap and kissed her lovely mouth. I didn’t need any prodding to kiss her and I didn’t do it to please Mr. K. I kissed her because I wanted to taste her soft lips; I kissed her because I wanted to fuck her.

    Mr. K said it was the hottest thing he’d ever seen; even hotter than what I did to her upstairs a few moments later. He confessed he will be masturbating to the memory of it for a while to come. Heh. Come.

    As we thanked our gracious hosts for an amazing night, I couldn’t help but giggle at M when she pouted that she didn’t get to at least see my boobs. So I showed them to her in the middle of their living room, because really, how could I not?

    After Mr. K fed me the best burger and chocolate shake I’d ever had, we showered and snuggled into our bed. We made love and held each other close, talking about the events that had taken place during our first swinger party. He expressed his powerful love for me, again saying I’m the best girlfriend ever because I am, obviously.


  10. Ask Heather: How Do I Pee in front of Sir?

    June 27, 2014 by Heather Cole

    Dear Heather,

    Sir and i were watching a film together with me sitting by His feet. In the middle of the film i felt the need to go to the bathroom. i got up and said to Sir that i needed to go to pee. Suddenly He asked me, “Do you really want to go to the toilet?” I replied yes. He then asked again, “Would you pee into a glass if I asked you to?”

    i should have known better but i immediately said “Are you kidding me? Of course not!” HUGE MISTAKE to be defiant. He said to me either i peed in a glass in front of Him or hold it. I did hold it till the end of the film and asked Him again. i still didn’t want to pee in from of Sir in a glass. So He ordered me to bend over my bench. He told be He was going to strike me with my paddle 40 times. He would continue till I would go pee in that glass.

    After a dozen of strikes, i said i would try. i tried but nothing came out. Some kind of muscle down there just wouldn’t relax enough for me to pee. Embarrassment was out of my head already. i just wanted to do what Sir wanted me to do. i failed and accepted the rest of the punishment.

    But Sir promised me that He will have me pee in that glass one day.

    Do you have any tips? No matter how much i tried to relax, the pee won’t come out.

    Zoe

    P.S. i am very happy with the blog you and Nikki have. I especially love your letter to your Sir at the anniversary. Very touching and inspirational.

     

    Dear Zoe:

    Thank you so much for writing! I had to squeal with joy that you gave me the opportunity to share this skill I’ve developed. Let’s face it. It’s not every day that you get to offer pointers on how to pee in a cup with an audience. (Although I suppose this would be helpful for drug testing.) Your email about the situation with your Master sent me tripping down memory lane to the first time I tried to pee in front of my sir. Like you, I couldn’t relax enough to do it, and I felt embarrassed that I had failed in my service even though my first reaction was, “YOU WANT ME TO WHAT?.” I’d say that my smartass mouth has improved since then, as well as, my ability to pee in front of an audience, but that’d be a lie.

    A little background for those VA readers who are wondering why the heck this is even a thing… in a dynamic of Dominance and submission, whether it’s part of BDSM or Domestic Discipline or whatever, the Dominant is the doer and the submissive receives the stimulus. Sometimes the action of the Dominant, in this example the command to pee, isn’t the actual fetish. It’s the aspect of control, of making your submissive do something he/she doesn’t really want to. And sadism can certainly play a part if the Dominant enjoys the sub’s discomfort, embarrassment, or humiliation. The submissive on the other hand, providing that the action isn’t a hard limit, often enjoys having boundaries pushed and likes complying with the command. Of course, how this specifically plays out in the dynamic depends on the people involved, but that’s the general outline of the game. And holy moly, can it be a fun fucking game.

    My dear Zoe, there are two specific things that helped my bladder get over its stage fright. The first thing was kegels. (I simply read the word, and I’m compelled to do them.) Here’s a simple how-to and why from the Mayo Clinic. If you don’t do them already, they will be very helpful in teaching you how to control the muscles that control urination. Not to mention the added bonus of tightening up your vag. Stopping your pee midstream while you’re by yourself in the bathroom can illustrate what those muscles feel like when you tighten and release them. This is the first step to many things sexually. Know your body and how it works! When your brain gives the command to stop peeing, you then have to give yourself the command to release. As you become conscious of this instinctive function, you’ll be able to control it more which will allow you to control it better when the time arises for you to do it on command. Hurray!

    I’m guessing that your punishment didn’t help matters either, because your body was tensed for the spanking. Once your muscles are in the place of receiving stimulus, it would be challenging to relax them enough to relieve yourself while feeling embarrassed about doing so (or failing to) in front of your Dominant. The trick is to become comfortable enough to pee and perform way before the situation gets to punishment. Although your spanking sounds pretty hot. Just sayin’.

    The other thing that really helped me was practice. I was partially forced to practice because sir took away my right to privacy. In our house, there are no closed doors except when sir wants his privacy. Otherwise, sir can wander in and watch me do whatever I’m doing in the bathroom. In the beginning, I was appalled. And grossed out. I mean, bathroom functions are private. I don’t like doing them in front of trained medical professionals let alone people I love and have sexy times with.

    I don’t think you have to start peeing with the bathroom door open, but you need to shape up your pee muscles by practicing with kegels. Then you need to practice more by peeing into a cup in the bathroom or wherever you want to do it. Don’t be afraid to make a mess. My first couple times I freaking sprayed pee everywhere. Thank goodness I was in the kitchen (and on the linoleum). I started out with a bowl then worked my way into smaller and smaller cups. When I finally could pee in a juice glass without spilling a drop, I felt like a badass ninja motherfucker. I’m pretty sure I yelled, “Fuck yeah!” and did a victory lap through the dining room.

    When I was finished writing this response, I read it aloud to sir for his feedback. He replied that he didn’t want to condone unsubstantiated claims on the internet (can you tell he’s a lawyer?) so he sent me downstairs to fetch a juice glass. Next thing I know, I’m standing in the bathtub and preparing to pee into the juice glass. I confess that I got a case of the giggles as I watched sir settle himself on the bath mat like he was preparing to watch something riveting on the television. No doubt he wanted to scrutinize the process and add to my nervousness. He suggested that I hum to myself to get things going, but once I focused on the task at hand, I filled that juice cup with ease. I was reminded of two other factors that may help in your training. 1.) It’s easier if you feel the need to go. Not an emergency situation, but wait to practice until you feel a significant urge to empty your bladder. 2.) The more delicate I try to be or the more careful (i.e. when I’m trying making it a trickle), the more I spray or dribble all over myself. It’s when I let go with confidence that I have one single, strong stream. Also, don’t hold the cup too high against your crotch. You’ll only make things messier.

    Once you become familiar with the series of muscles working when you pee, and you get used to peeing in things other than the toilet, I have the utmost confidence that you’ll be able to pee for your Master when the situation calls for it. And when you do, please tell me about your victory lap.

    *boob smoosh*

    Heather