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Boob smooshes and lots more antics coming soon.
April 10, 2014 by Nikki Blue
When Mr. K and I added swinging to our sex resume, we were excruciatingly specific about our wants, limits, and expectations. Simply fucking another man and woman in a full swap, different room– or same room –scenario held no appeal to us. We wanted a tangled pile of body parts, shared orgasms, and a pleasurable daisy chain of sorts. And what we needed was to always touch and be a part of whatever it was the other was experiencing in that moment. And because our wants and needs are what they are, “dating” other couples can be tricky. Setting out to mesh two personalities together is challenging enough, but working with four of them can be extra sticky. Heh. Extra sticky… Get it?
With that having been said, swinging is really no different from dating. In fact, it’s the same thing. Even with another couple, you will still have first date jitters, naked blunders, and sometimes, people just don’t click. And that’s okay. All of it. There are no hard and fast rules when it comes to swinging. However, if you are taking the sexy skillset into consideration, there are a few words of advice I would like to offer. Of course, it should all be taken with a squeeze of lube. And a condom. Definitely a condom.
1. Having snacks and beverages of some sort on hand is a super fantastic idea for that sustenance intermission from group sexy-time, and trust me, you will need one. But, do NOT refer to a pause in the action as a “first quarter food break.” Or any sports related analogy, for that matter. And for fuck’s sake, let the woman eat without her boob in your mouth. It’s just weird.
2. Orally sharing your man’s cock can be loads of fun, but it’s a difficult concept for some to grasp, apparently. And while I understand not all men are fluent in the language of cock, if you consistently try to stick your tongue into my mouth while I am enjoying Mr. K’s wonderfully hard cock, I will reach a point where I shove your mouth on it until you gag. Probably.
3. If you play with a couple you have met in an online community for swingers, chances are they’ve taken the time to write a detailed profile, listing their experiences and fantasies. The point of it is to establish common ground and mutual desires. It’s not to be treated like a sexual bucket list. Remember, sugarbritches, Rome wasn’t built in a day, and the amount of trust required for double penetration isn’t either.
4. Respect everyone’s limits. When a couple says ALL anal play is off limits, it’s not an invitation to push it. Whether it’s sneaking licks of her asshole or trying to shove an unwelcome vibrator up his ass, stop that shit.
5. It seems some who enjoy the lifestyle don’t care to fuck their respective partners during group grope sessions. And that’s fine. But others, like Mr. K and myself, immensely enjoy coming together often throughout playtime. Pun totally intended. If you’re not into that, though, if you are full swap, different room players, disclose that information upfront so prospective playmates can decide whether or not you are a good fit for them.
6. When a couple says it’s time for them to leave, don’t beg for just two more minutes. It’s kind of creepy. And when your partner whispers “fake an orgasm” into your ear, flex those acting skills, baby, and go for the gold.
7. And finally, we all know how expensive sexy things are, so when redressing at the end of the night, double check to make sure the lacy, black panties are the same ones you walked in with. Just sayin’.
Also, on a first date, I strongly caution against inviting your new friends for a sleepover. As fun as it may sound to frolick into the wee hours of the night, it’s just too much way too fucking soon. Keep in mind that they will probably need time alone to reconnect with each other, reflect on the evening, and re-hydrate with a big-ass Coke with lots of ice from the 7-11, erm, maybe.
April 4, 2014 by Nikki Blue
So how much do we really know about anal sex and pain? Not much, apparently. And this study proves it. Also…
March 26, 2014 by Heather Cole
When I first began exploring BDSM, it took me awhile to figure out that there were different ways to “do” dominance. There were Daddy Doms, Doms, Tops, Service Tops, Dommes, Mistresses and Masters, and there were hundreds of styles of dominance. As a newbie slave, there was one thing I was certain of. I didn’t want a caretaker. I wanted someone to worship and serve and fuck. I wanted my boundaries pushed, and I wanted pain to feed my masochism. Daddy Doms were slightly mystifying to me. I understood that being nurtured and cared for were wonderful facets of a relationship, but the loving Daddy dynamic held little appeal for me. Frankly, I didn’t get the attraction even though I respected the kink.
Once I entered the local kinky community, my eyes were opened to new worlds of power exchange. I learned that many of my friends were adult babies, littles or middles or were the mommies and daddies of littles and middles and adult babies. I found age play fascinating, and I loved hearing about the players’ experiences and how play was incorporated into their lives. But it still held little appeal to me. Like the role of the caring Daddy Dom, I could appreciate it, but I didn’t particularly want it as part of my own D/s.
Age play came front and center after I read a book by a friend of mine, Mako Allen. He wrote Auntie Eva’s Boarder, a fascinating look at age play and how one man became an adult baby. I expected to be entertained, because I thought Mako was a talented and creative writer. What I hadn’t expected was to find parallels between the age players and my own Master/slave relationship. And I really hadn’t expected to get turned on. As I read passages aloud to sir, I could see the wheels turning in his head.
Our first foray into age play wasn’t successful, and it involved hypnosis. I didn’t like the feeling of being a little girl. I felt powerless, and the “little” feeling blurred the lines of sex from consensual into non-consent territory. Not because of anything my master did but because of my own perceptions of feeling little. I was certain that being a mother to a young child also complicated the situation for me. Typically when I thought about children, I experienced the protective ferocity of a mother wolf. Add to that the fact that I was self-reliant to the extreme, often to my own detriment, being a little girl and dependent on another person felt more uncomfortable and conflicting than pleasurable. We didn’t manage to make it work for both of us, so I stopped thinking about age play and Daddy Doms and everything else. I stopped thinking about it, because life got interesting in unsettling ways.
Sir had been interviewing for a new job since last September. Because of my custody agreement, and my choice to be a present and loving mother, I chose to stay in this area until my child went to college to share custody with my ex. I knew that sir would be leaving his current position since last spring, but for much of that time, I figured that he would take another job in our locality. My assumptions, though, were firmly in place because I didn’t want to think about the alternative. I didn’t want to think about what life would be like without him. We had spent a year forging our dynamic and creating a life where I woke up to his body beside me and his cock in my mouth, and every night I burrowed into his arms after a thorough fucking. But it was the day-to-day rituals and interactions that I looked forward to so much: cooking his meals, ironing his clothes, bringing him coffee in the morning, and showering together… The list of mundane togetherness went on and on, and I cherished each connection, no matter how slight it seemed. My life now revolved around him in significant ways, and his absence would mean… even now I lacked the words to describe that devastation. But I forced myself to take a good, long look at reality after sir had a second interview for a position overseas. Everything sank home at once. There was the very real possibility that sir would spend most of the next two years halfway around the world.
This realization wasn’t graceful, and it was barely coherent. I spent most of one weekend in constant tears, lashing out at anything and everything. We debated. We cried. I felt overwhelmed by anger and hopelessness. Nothing had been decided, but I hated that many things that I loved in my life were now in jeopardy. I had done long-distance D/s before, and I knew logically that I could do it again. Really my anger was a product of my fear; that I was losing him somehow. I couldn’t stand the thought of being left behind, a slave without an owner. Our life together was something I had dreamed about for years. But if he left, our lives would be irrevocably altered, and the fear in my head whispered that we would never have this again. I was a mess, but I didn’t know any other way to process the cold hard facts of a possible separation.
To sir’s credit he braved my emotional tempest with calm and equilibrium. He pulled me into his arms as I fell apart, soothing me the best he could. I felt like the walking wounded, like my pain and fear were this open wound I carried where my heart would be. He stroked my hair and called me his BabyGirl, and promised that he would take care of me. I’m your Daddy, he told me, and it was his responsibility and his pleasure to provide for me. He said he would never let me go, and that no matter where he went I would always be his BabyGirl. Somehow those assurances didn’t strike me as uncomfortable. He was a nurturing Daddy, and I needed him. I was in such a state of raw vulnerability that all I wanted was to be his BabyGirl and crawl into his lap to let him deal with everything. I needed his nurturing spirit and kind words. I needed his care.
Since then the words Daddy and BabyGirl have crept into our daily vocabulary. I don’t think it’s age play exactly, although there are elements of that sometimes, but more like a caring Daddy Dom. Every day sir holds me, snuggling me close and reassuring me that he’s going to take care of me. And I soak in his words, basking in his strength and assurances. I’m learning to be comfortable in my vulnerability and open to his help. I’m his BabyGirl, and I’m starting to feel grateful for that.
March 23, 2014 by Heather Cole
I’m a big fan of Boobday. I love the curves of the ladies who participate and the various boob themes that Hyacinth creates with her sexy awesome mind. So when Hyacinth over at A Dissolute Life Means asked me to submit a boob photo for her anniversary edition, I was all OH HELL YEAH!
The theme for the anniversary post was Hyacinth, and I concocted two different poses that were reminiscent of Hy’s photos. One involved holding my grumpy cat to my cleavage which he was thrilled about. THRILLED. He’s probably going to eat my face off some night in revenge. The other pic is all boob in one of my favorite Hyacinth photos. So go on over and admire all the ladies and Hyacinth, of course.
Hurray for boobs!
March 20, 2014 by Nikki Blue
I’m THAT mom, the cool one– in my mind –who is wide open with her kids. The teen especially. She tells me things like I have a great ass for a white girl, makes a whooshing sound as she drags me across the floor while trying to pull off my boots after I’ve had one or three too many vodka tonics, and rolls her eyes super hard at the potty pic with my friend on my phone. I encourage her to make her own choices, whatever they may be, and never EVER let anyone make her feel less for them. I also tell her she’s going to make a fuckload of mistakes as she moves through life because it’s what humans do. But they’re her mistakes to make, and her responsibility to learn from them.
I’m as honest with her as I can be without scarring her for the remainder of her days. We have frank discussions about life in general, drugs, and of course, sex. She doesn’t run away screaming and she doesn’t bat an eye when it comes to asking me what most would consider uncomfortable questions about bodies and sexuality. But telling me about her first kiss was a different thing entirely.
I was at a party with friends when I was told the teen had been “making out” with her boyfriend during school. I was all like WHAT THE FUCK? THE TEEN DOESN’T EVEN HAVE A BOYFRIEND! I WOULD KNOW THESE THINGS BECAUSE SHE TELLS ME EVERYTHING! Also, vodka may have contributed to my stellar reaction. But my spidey senses said it had to be bullshit. For starters, the source was questionable, and the teen had kicked the aforementioned boyfriend to the curb weeks earlier for pressuring her to do things she wasn’t ready for. I knew this because she tells me everything, because we’re tight like that.
It turned out that she didn’t tell me everything after all. She burst into tears when I questioned her the following morning, confessing that it was true and begging me to forgive her for not being completely honest. When it came down to telling me, she was terrified of how I would react.
I was stunned, speechless even. I panicked, wondering what else she had omitted from our conversations. On the outside I stayed calm, but on the inside, my brain exploded with questions. Had she gone further? Had sex? How would I handle it if she were to get pregnant? What if she had me completely snowed? Was that even possible? Realizing I may have overreacted a little, I asked if there was anything else she had kept from me, anything I needed to know. And in the midst of hysterical sobbing, she swore there was nothing more than a kiss. Then she asked if I’d told my mother when I had my first kiss.
“Oh hell no,” I scoffed. “But we didn’t have a relationship like you and I do.”
“I know, but it’s still scary, Mom. You get crazy when you get pissed.”
Okay, so she had me there, but in the end, I wasn’t disappointed in her for kissing a boy. She’s fifteen for fuck’s sake. It was bound to happen, but I assumed she would tell me when it did. Truthfully, my feelings were a little hurt that she didn’t.
When she was an exhausted, snotty mess, I gathered her into my arms and attempted to tame her curly mane, reassuring her that she could come to me with anything, no matter how bad she thinks it may be. I promised her I would never judge her, I’d always be there for her, support her, and I’d love her to the moon and back. I also told her what an ugly crier she is, because I’m nothing if not honest.
Finally, she said, “You’re going to Facebook this, aren’t you?”
March 12, 2014 by Heather Cole
When it comes to watersports (Urban Dictionary definition: “In BDSM terminology, refers to sensual or erotic play involving bodily fluids, typically urine, saliva, and less commonly, blood. Considered ‘edge-play’…”) Nikki has had more experience than me, and she has written about her good times with Mr. K on Vagina Antics. When I entered the BDSM lifestyle, urine used as a facet of play time didn’t hit my radar. Not in a oh-this-is-so-gross-I’ll-never-do-it way, but more like I didn’t know it was a thing. In fact, Nikki didn’t discuss her water games with me until she was ready to write her blog post. My reaction was “you did WHAT? Of course you should write about it!” And that was my first exposure to erotic play involving pee. We can all blame Nikki Blue.
We’re writing about both our perspectives today, because they’re so different. We both have fun with watersports but in different ways. I was going to make a joke about y’all reading in the “splash zone” but never mind. I’ll keep it classy.
On my list of kinks, urine was in the ‘I don’t have a fetish about this, but if you really want to I’m game to try something” category. It was never added to my play list, because I was having so many other firsts with D/s and my master. Urine first entered our conversation after a dominant friend of ours related a story where he used his sub hard and when she was crumpled on the floor in a sweaty, teary mess, he pissed on her then walked out of the room. I know what you’re thinking. Holy shit, that sounds so MEAN. For those masochists among us who were into a little humiliation, though, there was something poetic and degrading and… it gave me tingles. Not because of the physical feeling of being pissed on, or the actual urine, but the drama of the scene. There she lay, utterly depleted and used emotionally and physically, and the closing action was to be a receptacle of his piss. Afterwards he scooped her up, showered her, snuggled and told her how much he loved her. But in that moment, in that scrap of time in their universe, she was this thing to be used in whatever way he wished. From my perspective of masochist and slave, there was something terrible and beautiful in that like the best kind of dark fairy tale.
After I related that anecdote, the element of watersports was assimilated into the fantasies of sir. He liked to brainstorm out loud, so I heard a lot of scenarios escape from that man’s mouth. Many of them freaked me the fuck out, but that was half the fun for both of us. He wouldn’t do most of them, because his intention wasn’t to damage me. Hurt me, yes, but not damage me. He began talking about pissing on me, and I listened, reacting appropriately when the ideas became extreme. And then one day as we showered together, he pissed on me. I didn’t have to look down to know he was doing it. He had this expression on his face that I could only describe as one that my cat had when I accidentally walked in on him using the litter box. The one that said he knew I’m watched him do his business and he could give two flying fucks. Sir had a similar attitude. Part of me wanted to act in a ridiculously squeamish way and whine about how GROSS it was even though it wasn’t disgusting at all. I mean, who didn’t pee in the shower on occasion? My reactions, though, were part of what sir looked for, so I sighed loudly and set about washing myself again in a resigned manner, ever the practical slave.
The next time, though, I was sitting on the toilet after a particularly rough fucking. I still wore a sports bra and was taking a breather and relieving myself. Sir walked in the bathroom, as he often does (I’m prohibited from privacy so all doors were open when it was only the two of us), and ordered me to spread my legs wider. Next thing I knew, he was pissing into the toilet. I think my mouth dropped open, and before I could utter a word, he directed his stream over my breasts. I shrieked, NOT ON MY SPORTS BRA! He laughed and told me to get in the tub if I was going to complain.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this!” I squealed and stepped gingerly into the shower.
I was aware of the cooling piss dripping down my abdomen and the slight smell of ammonia. Part of me still couldn’t believe he was going to continue. The air felt cool in contrast to the hot urine, and I stood in partial shock as he pissed all over the front of my body. He smiled at my reaction then shook his head with mock chagrin.
“What kind of girl stands still for a man to piss on her?”
I felt my cheeks grow hot with shame. “A dirty girl,” I whispered.
“Do you feel dirty?” he asked. I nodded, peeking at him through my lashes. The smile of satisfaction on his face made my heart beat harder.
“How embarrassing for you” he replied.
I was mortified and ashamed, and as soon as those two elements combined, I started to feel aroused. As sir watched me squirm, I wanted to fuck him again. Lips, fingers, tongue… I didn’t care. I was his dirty girl, the one he knew would do almost anything to please him. It was uncomfortable and the pee was starting to turn cold, but the look in his eyes as he watched my small humiliation made it all worth it. Eventually he helped pull off my bra and started the shower for me.
“You’re such a good girl,” he said as he pulled the shower curtain closed. “Get cleaned up. I’m not done with you yet.”
Part of the beauty of my relationship with Mr. K is that we play with few limits. We’re open to trying most anything together and we are incredibly turned on by each other’s scent and body fluids. His slow licks down my sweat-soaked back while he fucks my ass make my head spin, he nearly orgasms when I spit in his mouth, and precum leaks from the tip of his cock when he cleans me with his tongue after I pee. And after everything, he kisses me long and deep, sharing what he loves with me. He’s always said he would never do anything to me that would keep him from kissing me afterward. Yep, he’s a keeper.
I’ve written here and there about our foray into Watersports, so I won’t bog y’all down with the same warm, wet details, but I will say I still haven’t been able to successfully pee on Mr. K due to my bladder’s performance anxiety issues. And it’s something I desperately want to do for him. I can pee when we shower together and while sitting on the toilet with his fingers between my legs, but for now, peeing ON him seems to be a hard limit for my bladder. Fucking bladder.
Like Heather, I get peed on as we shower too. Every time. But the difference between us is that I expect it, want it even. It’s a totally natural act for us and I love the feeling of the warm fluid streaming over my body. I watch as it flows and the look of pleasure on Mr. K’s handsome face as it does is a super huge bonus.
With that having been said, it’s not often I’m able to say something that surprises Heather, but when it comes to my Watersports tales, I leave her in a constant state of WHAAAAAA? And I confess I kinda like it. I may have even rendered her speechless when I told her Mr. K had peed on my face, boobs, and in my mouth. I think she was pretty shocked when I didn’t find it gross, humiliating, or feel dirty, but that’s not how it was intended to be received. Mr. K would be horrified at the thought of making me feel that way. He pees on me because to him, drenching me with his body fluid is a wonderfully intimate expression. It’s a moment of sharing I will always welcome. Every golden, salty drop.
March 4, 2014 by Heather Cole
A year ago this week we had our second date. The first involved my introduction to Indian cooking, and I made your favorite dish, sag paneer, and chocolate cake. For dessert you tied me to a massage table and gave me more orgasms than I could count. Our second date took place at your office where there was more rope, a caning, anal sex, and 43 orgasms (you made me count that time) among your bookshelves and the scent of paper and incense. We were tentative and sometimes fumbling, but I was completely mesmerized by you. You had captured me, brain and body. I was yours, but I didn’t know it yet.
All of those sensations and images run through my head when I think back to where we started. I thought I wanted a weekend-warrior-type kink style of domination. I thought that what I needed was to be tied up on occasion and beaten. My past experiences with Dominance and submission fell along those general lines, so I assumed that was what I was looking for when we began dating. I had my defenses firmly in place in case you were just another guy who thought they wanted a sex slave. I was prepared to cut my losses and walk once you proved that your intentions weren’t long term or serious. I had every expectation that this would prove to be yet another casual encounter, and I felt fairly certain that you didn’t know what deep waters you were messing with. You proved me wrong, though. Over and over again you proved that you were exactly the man and dominant that I needed.
It’s funny. I’ve prided myself on being independent. Even without the people that I loved most in my life, I knew I would continue to function; I would continue to succeed in my life no matter what. You showed me, though, that it was OK to need someone. You once explained to me that you would tighten the tether between us until we were so close that we became a part of the other. I laughed when you said it, shrugging it away as if you didn’t know what you were talking about. I figured it was the kind of sentiment uttered in romantic BDSM novels and not anything that could be sustained in real life. And yet…
I need you. Need in a way that is basic and fundamental to how I operate through life. You have become my center, my true north. What I’ve discovered is that I may balk at something you ask of me, but I will submit in the end. Despite my willful moments and sassy mouth, my submission to you feels like eating or breathing. Perhaps the face of it will evolve and change over the years, but I’m sure of it like I am certain of my heartbeat. As long as I have a heart, it will be yours.
You understand facets of me that I couldn’t fathom before we met, and you make my most idiosyncratic parts feel “normal.” Like I said, it took the discovery of you to find all those lost pieces of myself. ‘You complete me’ is a trite phrase, but it’s true. You took someone who was floundering and groping around in the dark and gave her a purpose. You gave me a different kind of goal: to be the best person I was capable of being. You also gave me yourself, in all your flawed and battle-weary wonderfulness. You’ve shown me what it means to submit every day, in little ways and in big ones. Sometimes that means standing still and naked in the kitchen as you stroke the tips of ice cubes over the most sensitive parts of my body or being turned over your knee to take the birthday spankings at a party of fellow kinksters. And sometimes it means giving you my mind, my most cherished possession, and trusting that you will do wonderful things with it. Every day you show me what it means to be yours, and every day I strive to be your best girl.
I’ve told you before that I wished to give you everything, every fiber of my being, every nook and cranny of my soul. That’s not to say that I won’t ever question you or balk at your guiding hand, but in the end, I will always submit. I will go to my knees when you ask it and try to bend my own desires to fit your will. I understand that you want me to fly, to stretch my experience to the far reaches of my imagination. And as much as I want to be launched into my wildest dreams, at the end of the day, I want to return to your feet and be locked inside the cage of your choosing. In the end, I want to return home to you. To the life that we have made together and the bonds that we both have chosen as Master and slave. In the end, I will choose you and our dynamic. Over and over again I will choose you. I want your ring, your hand, and our love.
February 28, 2014 by Nikki Blue
Just a note to ooh and ahh about your blog. I imagine sitting around a kitchen table with you and Heather over a bottle of wine while enjoying (and admittedly being incredibly turned on by) your tales in person. A room filled with laughter and suggestive lip chewing. How fun to have a girlfriend to share your adventures with. Know how grateful I am you two so candidly share via the blog.
While I have a zillion questions may I ask just one? When you and Mr. K play with others you have referenced condoms. What ground rules did you two establish for ‘protection’ when mingling?
Thanks in advance!
Heather and I love, love, LOVE ooh’s and ahh’s! Truthfully, they make us downright giddy. And having a bestie to share the intimate and explicit details of sexy time is totally swoon worthy. Hell, Heather knows the inside of my vagina almost as well as Mr. K. There was even a time when she referred to my updates as “The Vagina Report.” Kind of like Inside Story, but way juicier.
If you’ve read Vagina Antics for any length of time you know I’m super serious when it comes to safe sex. And because my vag is the delicate flower that it is, arriving at the decision to play with another couple made for bumpier travels than agreeing to share another woman. But the ground rules for protection in both scenarios were simple: No condoms, No penetration.
For us, the use of condoms when playing with a couple safeguards against more than the possibility of infections. It protects the implicit trust and incredible intimacy we share in private. And that’s something neither of us are willing to trade for a bareback romp with others.
Fingers, however, are a little more challenging to control. They can slide out of one orifice and into another before it’s realized, so if you’re terribly paranoid like me, I suggest keeping a handy-dandy pack of antibacterial wipes next to the bed for quick swipes in between.
The use of condoms greatly reduce the risk of acquiring an STI/STD, but HPV and HSV are spread through skin-to-skin contact. This means that even if you’re nekkid dry humping or getting down with some super hot mutual masturbation, HPV and HSV can be transmitted if present. And they don’t always present symptoms which is why protection is an absolute must when expanding your play circle.
When it comes to opening your bed up to another couple, never assume they are infection/disease free because they’re married or in a long-term relationship. And don’t wait for them to volunteer the information. Step up and ask. It really is that simple. But even then– unless you exchange test results –you only have them at their word. So unless they’re swearing on a bible in front of a Supreme Court judge, protect yourself. Play smart and play it safe.
February 21, 2014 by Heather Cole
One of the main tenet of my slave contract was sexual availability and sexual service. First and foremost I was a sex slave, and when sir and I began this journey together I was vocal and explicit about my sexual needs. Objectification was a big turn-on for me, and I craved to be used. I enjoyed being a living, breathing sex doll of sorts. In fact, I insisted on it. It wasn’t that I didn’t want an emotional connection during sex, but it didn’t always have to be about the feefees. Sometimes what I wanted was to be bent over the kitchen counter and commanded to present myself for penetration. Luckily for me, sir was looking for that exact thing. We both had high sex drives, so when we crafted our contract, sex was number one on the proverbial “to do” list. This meant that it didn’t matter if I was in the mood or not. If sir wanted to fuck, or be sexually satisfied in any way, shape or form (in a way that wasn’t on my limits list) we did it. Even though he pushed my boundaries in his charismatic and loving way, I was game. It got intense at times, but we more or less saw eye-to-eye when it came to sex. And then December happened…
I think it’s part of the human experience to have contradictory feelings about the holidays, but December was particularly intense for sir and me. Sir had the month off, and since I worked from home, we spent most days together. Sir called it The Month of Obsessive Compulsive Fucking, because we did it all the time. At least, that’s how that month felt to me in hindsight. When I think back on it, everything seemed blurry. It passed in a haze of come, sweat, rich foods, endless family visits, and booze. It felt like we squeezed a year’s worth of debauchery into 31 days. I wasn’t sleeping more than a couple of hours in a row, because we’d fuck in the middle of the night. There was a blowjob in the morning, at night, and sometimes in the middle of the day. He’d come downstairs, pull out a chair beside me at the table and tell me to get on my knees. We fucked all over the house, in all the rooms, using all my orifices. I took to keeping a tube of Aquaphor on my nightstand, because the delicate skin of my labia, lips, and anus were rubbed raw. It was an intense rush. I had never felt closer to sir emotionally, and it seemed like our physical joining was reinforcing that. On one level I felt amazing, but by the time January rolled around, I felt like I was falling apart emotionally.
The first sign of trouble was that I began to resist being hypnotized. We have had a lot of fun with consensual mind games, but in December, more often than not, sir would put me under and I wouldn’t remember what transpired. One moment he was mid-thrust, and then my consciousness was gone. I would eventually wake up to our dark bedroom with sir fast asleep beside me. I’d be covered in bodily fluids, smelling of sex with come trickling out between my legs. Any other time, I would have been so turned on by that level of objectification that I’d wake sir up to fuck me again. I loved to be used in this way. I felt like a sex detective which made the disconnect in my brain fun. I’d take stock of my body and sensations and try to guess what had happened. Often sir would give me a brief recap of what had occurred between us, but it got to the point where I feared that I was hypnotized more than I was conscious. I began to have an emotional reaction to going under, and I couldn’t figure out why my sex doll role play wasn’t making me the horny, wanton slut the way it usually did. Sex wasn’t supposed to be a point of stress for me, but that’s precisely what happened.
It took me a long time to work up the courage to say that I needed break. In fact, I still feel guilty that I said anything at all. I’m a prideful whore, and I take great satisfaction in pleasing my dominant. Admitting that I was beginning to unravel felt like weakness, but I had to do something. There was an internal war happening, and sir didn’t have any idea that I was ripping myself to shreds. I resisted hypnosis because on some level I felt like he was rejecting the conscious Heather (who had an opinion about everything) in favor of a doll that he could control completely. An insidious voice whispered that if I truly was as devoted as I claim to be, I could have endured. I could have stuck it out while silently hoping I’d be granted a reprieve. I learned, though, that there was a limit to how much pounding my body could take in the span of 24 hours. And I now know that even though I wished to submit and serve, I also wanted to be present. Not all the time, but for most of it.
These feelings of criticism and self-censure were an echo of an old family message that I’ve struggled with almost my entire life. It takes time for me to become conscious of them, and part of my healing has been teasing apart the strands of what happened in December and articulating exactly what triggered those shrieking monkeys in my head. Sir and I both had to expose our feelings about the situation, and it turned out that the emotional landscape behind December was vastly different from what showed on the surface. Both of us grappled with outside stress and uncertainty, but we weren’t talking about it with one another. We clung to each other and tried to find solace and distraction in our favorite activity: sex. My mini-breakdown finally ripped off the cover to expose what was going on at the root of our compulsive fucking. We were trying to bury ourselves in sex and physical connection in an attempt to cushion ourselves from the pain of what we were feeling regarding outside circumstances.
I’m still sorting out the repercussions of December. Hindsight is a helpful lens, and I’ve been able to open up more to sir about what I was feeling. Our conversations since Debaucheries December have revealed that there are innate expectations associated with our role of Master and Slave. It’s natural for sir to feel pressured to be in control of himself and everything else as a loving, caring dominant, and I have my own expectations of how a slave should behave. But without open communication regarding the feelings associated with D/s, we’re stuck playing shallow roles that have little to do with who we are as people. As my dear Mama pointed out, there is strength in vulnerability, and I think that’s the biggest lesson for me. It takes strength to open myself to the control of another, and it takes strength to advocate for myself as well. As uncomfortable as it feels in the moment, I’m learning that this kind of emotional exposure only strengthens the bond between us in the long run. I don’t want a robotic, super-human dominant who knows all without me uttering a word. I want a flawed, loving man to take the lead and who understands that I’m bringing along baggage as well. The gift in this has been forming a healthy dialogue and pushing past our perceived hurts to find the other willing partner again. It’s my sincere wish that we will always find each other again.