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Posts Tagged ‘kinky relationships’

  1. Fifty Shades of NO: The Movie

    July 9, 2015 by Heather Cole

    Image courtesy of Salvatore Vuono at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

    I watched Fifty Shades of Grey the other night. I haven’t read the books, mostly because of the lackluster (poorly written) excerpts I read online. Sir watched it last week, though, and his feedback surprised me. He said there was a D/s contract and negotiation, and even though I was openly incredulous, I knew I had to watch it for the sole purpose of being able to discuss it with him. Plus, sir said that Mr. Grey’s playroom was kickass, and I’m a sucker for a well-appointed dungeon. I settled into bed after my child fell asleep, and watched the movie with my phone in my hand, so I could text Nikki about all the failings of the movie and its portrayal of D/s.

    I discovered that Fifty Shades of Grey, the movie, is about a woman who doesn’t want to be a submissive. She wants a billionaire boyfriend that treats her to amazing, spectacular adventures like flights in a glider, a helicopter, and buys her fab things. She wants love and romance, to be courted and swept off her feet. And there’s nothing wrong with that. The crux of the problem is that the billionaire boyfriend is a dominant and a sadist, and what he wants is a submissive with a signed contract that commits to a D/s relationship, which doesn’t guarantee emotional intimacy. At least, not the kind of emotional intimacy that a more traditional dating relationship would entail. Christian Grey also has a tendency to creep, stalk, and lurk. Add to these conflicting, fundamental differences the fact that BOTH characters are positively shitty communicators, and you have the basic gist of this movie.

    But… but… Heather, you say, aren’t you always going on and on about the physical and emotional intimacy you enjoy through BDSM? How can Mr. Grey be anything but a cad and a blackguard for wanting Anastasia bound and naked yet not wanting to cuddle with her overnight?

    My perspective of this movie is from the viewpoint of a woman who signed a D/s contract without the promise of romance. I committed myself to a dominant without the knowledge that we would fall deeply in love and that our partnership would expand into “regular” life. What I desired most of all was a man that would hurt me in all the ways that I wanted, who would use me, control me, and degrade me in the most delicious ways I could imagine. I wanted bondage, and pain; an outlet for those nameless things that clamored inside me–I wanted to serve. And I knew that sir was a decent man, one who would keep me safe while I explored all the dark, twisting turns of my desires. I knew he would be a caretaker for me in those times of domination and submission, but in the beginning, I didn’t have aspirations that our D/s would follow a path to romance and courtship. I had no expectation that we would live together, that my submission would turn 24/7, or that we would continue together despite an overseas relocation and months of separation.

    So no, I don’t think Mr. Grey is fucked up for being a dominant or a sadist. He lacks the ability to communicate his feelings to the unwilling, yet grudgingly submitting Anastasia. He utters the words “due diligence” to her, yet they fail to do anything except some light bondage and fucking six-ways-to-Sunday in the playroom. That’s all well and good, but she needed to do actual research on D/s (it’s called Google, Anastasia). Contracts in D/s can be a big frickin’ deal, and even though they aren’t legally binding, I would never enter into one without a lot of thought and consideration beforehand. But that’s a rant for a different day.

    Where Mr. Grey did fuck up (besides the stalking, lurking, and non-consensual control) was that he didn’t say anything regarding the trauma of his past (talking to someone when they’re asleep doesn’t count), or how it’s possible to be a loving sadist/dominant. Probably because he’s completely unfamiliar with what a functioning relationship may feel like.

    With such fundamental differences between them, you know the movie isn’t going to end well. It really doesn’t. In fact, it’s the last twenty minutes of the movie that made me hate it. Because nothing infuriates me more than a play partner begging for a certain thing, hating it but not using their safewords, and then when it’s all over, shaming the other person for doing the exact thing that they requested earlier. This sort of interaction is precisely why BDSM gets a bad rep when our lifestyle is actually based upon a foundation of consent and trust. And the simple act of writing about it has pissed me off all over again.

    sigh…

    I need a glass of wine and funny cat videos to forget this clusterfuck of a movie.

     

    For an eloquent fact-checking article regarding the “kink” (yeah, I placed that in quotes) in FSoG, Nikki found a great article written by actual kinky folks who engage in actual Dominance/submission. Read it HERE.

    ~And since Heather watched the movie, sharing with me a bazillion texts regarding its ridiculousness as it unfolded, I’ve agreed to finally read the clusterfuck of a book. Oy.~ Nikki

    Category BDSM | Tags: ,,,,,,,, | 4 Comments

  2. Sexual Healing

    April 28, 2015 by Nikki Blue

    sexual-healing-sex-blog-vagina-antics

    Photo via Depositphotos


     It’s been six months since I’ve had sex–SIX MONTHS. I haven’t gone that long between romps since my sexual escapades began at the tender age of fourteen. And I miss it terribly; the intense connection of it, the feeling I would burst into flames from the lightest touch. I miss feeling like the sexual being I know I am. The confidence of my sexual prowess is what I miss the most, I think. I haven’t felt that confidence in a while now. I know I haven’t lost it–it’s still there–it’s just gone dormant, waiting to wake again when the time is right.

    The dismantling of my sexual assuredness started with a bad haircut, and even though I’m dying to reference Samson & Delilah here, I’m not allowed. Heather has forbidden me to use any more metaphors until the end of forever, but whatever. I will say I felt as if my power had been stolen, and I was left looking like a poodle.

    Black Poodle on a white background

    Sexy, right?

    Okay, so a poodle is a bit of a stretch, but I did see the lead singer from the glam-rock band, Cinderella, when I looked in the mirror. But with less makeup and fewer sequins.

    The coiff-conundrum took weeks to grow out to a fixable stage, but even after giving her the opportunity to make it right, my stylist seemed to have forgotten how to cut my curls and again I was unhappy.

    During that time, my three year relationship with Mr. K blew apart, destroying what confidence I had left. I gathered what pieces I could and retreated, shutting the door to the outside world while I licked my wounds in private. I hardly left the house or answered the phone. I stopped writing for myself and I stopped masturbating–I stopped looking in the mirror. I threw myself into my career, working my ass off to prove that I’m dripping with awesomesauce–and I totally am–and I concentrated on being the worst mother I could possibly be. And it was enough…for awhile.

    But then I began to miss more than just sex–I missed desire. I missed the glow of sexual confidence that I’d had, and I knew it wasn’t going to magically reappear on its own. The power to rekindle it was in my hands, and mine alone, so I focused on myself, which is something I’d done little of in, like, ever. Heather has even suggested that I talk to a therapist about the traumatic experiences I’ve endured in my life.

    “Surviving isn’t the same as healing,” she said.

    I couldn’t see her face at that moment, but I’m fairly certain her brow was quirked. And she’s right–I do need to get my ass into therapy. It’s been a long time coming. It’s a step I haven’t taken yet, but I plan to.

    In the ‘Year of Nikki’ thus far, I’ve taken my health super-seriously for a change. I’m learning to treat my body with the respect it deserves, both inside and out. I’ve stopped eating my feelings, sugar, dairy, gluten, and processed foods. I feel better than I have in a long time. Heather has taught me how to meditate, which seems to clear my head and help me sleep better. I still have nights here and there where I lie awake offering to trade my soul for some shut-eye, but those nights are outweighed by the good now. And I found a new stylist who has made me love my hair in a way I never imagined. I’ve also started writing for myself again, which makes me bleed in the most beautiful way.

    In the past, I would have disconnected from my feelings and sought solace in one boozy sexual encounter after another, but that’s not healthy. I know that now, and that’s why I’m taking time out for me. I’ve faced my feelings instead of choking them down, allowing myself to cry more than I have since 1989. It’s totally not my badass style, but in the process I’ve grown; prioritized. Heather likes to say I’m like candy–hard on the outside with an ooey-gooey center. Whatever. I’m hard. Heh. Hard.

    I’m still not at a point where I’m ready to fuck again–or shave my legs–because I’m still healing. There’s no rush, unless you ask my mother. Anyway, when the day comes when I’m strong enough to make myself vulnerable again, I’ll have no doubts. But until then, I’ll continue to work on me; to grow, and to finally realize that I’m pretty fucking great.

    Category Randomness | Tags: ,,,,,, | 7 Comments

  3. Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

    December 31, 2014 by Nikki Blue

    Young woman runaway walks away road. Copy space

    Because of the way we sex bloggers write our titillating tales, it’s easy to think we have mind-blowing sex every single time we get naked. I wish that were true, but it’s not. We’re human and there are days we don’t feel sexy; times we can’t seem to get on the same page as our partners. There are also those unflattering moments when sex goes wrong, such as butt plugs that play hide-and-seek and accidental scat during anal play in the most awkward way. But fuck-ups are to be expected, right? Of course they are, and a lot of us write about the less than sexy blunders, using our platforms as a way to process and share. What happens, though, when our sex lives slow down or stall altogether?

    That’s what I’m in the throes of figuring out for myself.

    My relationship with Mr. K isn’t strong as it once was. In fact, we’re flailing wildly out of control. Murky waters have clogged our lines of communication, leaving us sexless and adrift in a sea of uncertainty. Will we survive the breakdown? That’s a question I can’t yet answer. Truthfully, I’m not certain of anything right now. I’ve often said I was his fantasy come to life and I was proud of it. In light of certain things, I can’t help but wonder if that’s what he fell in love with– the fantasy of me.

    I stumbled through the stages of grief as I watched the slow death of one of the most significant relationships of my life. I’ve cried until my face resembled something only my mother could love. Well, a face she would love if she wasn’t so superficial and shallow. *ahem* At this point, I’m all cried out.

    Eventually, I moved on to the vast land of denial where I lost patience along with my Best Girlfriend Ever crown. Let’s be realistic about that title for a moment here– it’s a super-tough title to maintain. Especially when disappointment knocked the breath out of me again and again, metaphorically speaking, of course. And each time he failed me, I trusted him less; raised my protective walls a little higher until I soon found myself on full guard and wicked pissed. I knew I wanted more; deserved better, so I opened the floodgates that once shielded Mr. K from my feelings. I’m pretty sure he’s drowned in them by now and I’m okay with that.

    The emotional bloodletting has left me drained, and because my feelings often taste like cupcakes, I’m also feeling a little fluffy. Honestly, some days I feel like a denim sausage. Others, I’ve resorted to wearing sweatpants, Ugg boots, and a messy bun. Oh, and a wifebeater with coffee stains, because nothing says “I’m fuckable” like food-covered clothing. But I’m not fuckable. I don’t look fuckable and I damn sure don’t feel fuckable. My sexual confidence that blossomed so beautifully as my marriage crumbled is now withered and in need of tending. Hell, other than to take the edge off so I can sleep every now and then, I hardly even have the desire to masturbate anymore, and that makes me so very sad.

    So…many…feels…

    The crux of it all is that I’m a sex blogger who’s not having sex, and I’m trying to figure out what to do with that. It’s kind of like an oxymoron, right? Or maybe even a little hypocritical? I don’t know, but it feels awfully weird. Then I have to wonder if I’m even allowed to call myself a sex blogger if my vagina has no antics to share. Heh. See what I did there? A big part of me is terrified of the changes I’m facing. Another part of me is a big believer that everything happens for a reason, like the bad haircut that’s forcing me to change my style. It’s true, y’all. The 80s will no longer rock on through my big hair, and yes, that made sense.

    I’ve done a lot of soul searching over the last three or so months, and there’s no denying there are some big changes over the horizon. Personally, I was so sure I’d found the second great love of my life, and now, well, I don’t trust him with my heart. Professionally, the thought of turning another corner scares the bejeezus out of me, but I know my purpose is there, waiting for me to ride it hard. And once my palms stop sweating, I’ll take a deep breath and step into the next chapter of my life filled with new projects, new experiences, new Vagina Antics.

    *Photo credit DepositPhotos.com

    Category Kinky Relationships | Tags: ,,,,, | 21 Comments

  4. Masturbation Monday: The Cucumber

    October 13, 2014 by Heather Cole

    Cucumber Pic

     

    It’s an old cliche:  the bored housewife decides to use a cucumber as a masturbation device. I had joked about surveying the produce aisle for sex toys, but in all my years as a sexually active woman, I had never placed food in my vagina. In fact, Nikki and I have preached, “NO FOOD IN THE VAG” for as long as we’ve had this blog. Because let’s face it, the vagina is a delicate ladygarden. A cucumber, though, with it’s protective peel and generous girth… I mean, it really gets one’s imagination spinning. Right?!

    Last Wednesday found me seated in a plush chair facing the flatscreen of my computer, my thighs spread wide for sir to see. I was nude and carefully positioned so that I was completely exposed. He stared at me from beneath heavy lidded eyes and gave me instructions in a voice that made goosebumps ripple over my flesh. It didn’t matter to me that half the world separated us physically. He was my Dominant regardless of distance, and despite the prickly feeling of vulnerability, I responded in the same way that I did when he was directly next to me. The man owned me, body and heart. And my responses were partially the product of habit and training, and partly devotion.

    His first command was that I fellate the cucumber. I blinked at him and felt ridiculous, but I did as I was told. I awkwardly placed the wide vegetable in my mouth, the taste of green peel coating my tongue. As sir coached me with encouraging words, I moved the cucumber in and out, pushing it further and further into the back of my throat. It was much wider than my esophagus and could only go so far. With watering eyes, I pulled it out and gasped for air.

    “It’s too big, Daddy,” I said and wiped my eyes.

    “You’re such a good girl to try. I miss your mouth, whore.”

    I blushed and squirmed beneath his gaze, unbidden lust rising inside me. I had been so careful to keep my desires leashed. Shoved inside a steel trunk and wrapped in chains, they had sunk to a shadowy place inside me while I dealt with the sadness of sir’s departure. I had spent weeks mourning the distance that now separated us, and more than one of our calls had consisted of me weeping in front of the computer. My body missed him with a physical ache, but I refused to acknowledge how deeply that sexual need was rooted. Dealing with the day-to-day challenges of missing him filled my time. I wasn’t ready to open the trunk and feel all of that captive sexual energy pour forth.

    A towel stretched beneath me to protect the fabric of the chair from lube and my own juices. A second cucumber and the bottle of lube sat on the table next to the computer, and I had two extra-large condoms nearby as well. Sir’s low voice demanded that I lube up the American cucumber. (The English cucumber was saved for my ass and a later date). I adjusted the angle of my hips so that they were raised slightly and squeezed more lube on to my fingers. My fingers worked the cool liquid around the lips of my pussy and then into the wet heat. I was physically ready, my body responding eagerly to the stimulus and my master’s presence.

    Nervousness made my hand tremble as I placed the cold cucumber at the entrance to my vagina, and in slow increments, I pushed it inside. It felt smooth and alien, stretching me wide. I glanced up at the computer screen to see sir’s eyes widen and a slow grin cross his face.

    “That is so fucking hot,” he said. “Now fuck yourself faster.”

    I complied, my eyes falling to the side as I felt another blush start. Spreading myself open for another person wasn’t exactly new territory for me, but there was something extra dirty about being on camera. Maybe it was the anonymity of it even though I knew the man on the other side intimately. And then there was the foreign object that I used to impale myself. I felt wicked which lent an illicit quality to my masturbation. All these elements combined into a whirlwind that fueled my desire.

    Every thought left my head, though, when I changed the cucumber’s angle to stroke along my G-spot. Suddenly my entire physical awareness snapped to attention, every synapse and nerve focused on the building pressure of an orgasm. My gaze met sir’s in an unspoken question.

    “I want you to get close, but I’m not going to let you come. You’re not permitted to come,” he said sternly.

    I nodded, too engrossed in the pleasure that rolled through my body. I was almost there.

    “Please may I come, Daddy?” I panted.

    “Beg.”

    “Please please please may this girl come, Daddy? Please let this girl come for you.”

    The words slurred in the rush to expel them. My hand slipped along the cucumber that was now slippery with my arousal. I could feel my inner muscles tightening in anticipation of orgasm, and the vibrations, both and internal, almost pushed me over the edge. The fantasy in my head imagined that I could feel

    “Come for me, baby.”

    The orgasm exploded, golden sparks of ecstasy sparking through me. My eyes squeezed shut, and I cried out, the cucumber falling from my hand. Sir murmured his appreciation as I fell back, my legs sprawled like a rag doll.

    “You’re such a dirty girl barebacking a cucumber like that,” he said with a smile.

    I giggled. “I probably should have bought organic.”

    “Thank you, Daddy. This girl is happy to please you.” I made a motion to sit up, but he stopped me.

    “Let yourself relax and enjoy this moment. There’s nothing but me and you. No rush. No responsibilities.”

    Two months ago I would have placed my head on his lap so he could stroke my hair as I basked in the afterglow. That was impossible at the moment, so I smiled and let my eyes drift shut. Sir was right. For this brief space, it was only the two of us again. I loved being there with him, and at the same time, I acknowledged that it was fleeting. We couldn’t remain on Skype forever.

    “Pick up the cucumber, babygirl. I want you to go again.”

    I pushed away the bittersweet thoughts to grab the vegetable. Later I would peel and slice the still-warm cucumber for my salad. Dinner would be eaten alone with the erotic thoughts of my faraway lover and the echoing sensations of our electronic date. First, though, I had to orgasm again.

     

    Want more #masturbationmonday? Check out Kayla Lords’s post and the other steamy, sexy participants!

     

    Masturbation-Monday-badge-medium-300x300

    Category Masturbation | Tags: ,,,,,,, | 11 Comments

  5. Golden Showers: Two Perspectives

    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.

    Enjoy!

     

    Heather

    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.”

    Nikki:

    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.

    Category Kinky Relationships | Tags: ,,,,, | 8 Comments

  6. Expectations

    January 30, 2014 by Nikki Blue

    Like a lot of women I know, I felt pressured during my twenties. I was enslaved by the traditional beliefs of marriage, expected to settle down, and I wanted children. And because of that, I made choices I probably wouldn’t have otherwise. I chose a man who would give me my dream house in the suburbs, a SUV, and financial security. However, a deep emotional connection, equality, and great sex weren’t part of my Phase One package. I greatly underestimated the importance of their roles in a happy union. But Phase One ended the day I signed my name on the divorce papers. Now I’m in Phase Two of my life, and so far, my needs differ greatly from Phase One. Truthfully, I’m still discovering what they are.

    I was fresh out of Phase One when Mr. K found me and falling in love was something neither of us anticipated. But it happened, and the past two years have shown us that we’re more than just like-minded lovers who rock in the bedroom. We’re equal partners who get each other in a way none have before.

    During a recent jaunt down memory lane, Mr. K questioned the direction of our future. He wondered if we will continue down this same long-distance path, but I didn’t have an answer. It’s something I’d never really allowed myself to think about because there were just too many uncertainties.

    The thing is, our everyday and professional lives are deeply rooted one hundred something miles away from the other. They’re complex and not easily untangled. We come together once a month — sometimes more –and our time is no less than phenomenal, but there are parts of him I don’t get due to the distance between us. It’s the one place where he feels like he fails me. There are times the miles seem to stretch farther than others, moments when I would give anything just to breathe in his scent, and nights I lay in my bed missing him terribly. But because I’m the best girlfriend ever, I try super hard to shield him from the windfall of my emotions. And I succeed, mostly. There are, however, moments where I fail spectacularly because I’m human.

    When I asked myself what I needed from my relationship with Mr. K, what popped into my head first were the things I don’t need. I don’t need for him to define who I am as a person because I already know. And I don’t need him to secure my financial status, or aid in bringing children into the world. Those goals were accomplished in Phase One. Surprisingly, society still has pretty traditional views in regards to how I should live my life, but I say fuck society. This is MY time.

    So what exactly do I need in Phase Two? I need Mr. K to be proud of the woman I am, stimulate me intellectually, satisfy me sexually, and love me not in spite of my flaws and history, but because of them. Do we need to be married or in a full-time situation for that to happen? No, we don’t. We haven’t been thus far and he meets my needs every day. Whether he’s by my side or two hours away, he makes me happy.

    We are realistic, though. We know that if fate finds us together things would be a bit different from the way they are now. For example, he would see how glamorous I really am when I do laundry. He’d notice my eye twitch when the teen pisses me off, and he would see me eat peanut butter straight from the jar with a spoon. We also wouldn’t fuck for hours every night until his dick is chafed and sore, but our passion and desire for each other would remain unchanged. We’ve agreed we would still sleep naked, wake each other to fuck in the middle of the night or in the morning, delight in all sorts of anal play, and spontaneously fuck like teenagers whenever possible. Who knows, maybe I’d finally be able to pee on him.

    Only time will tell if there is a happily ever after in our future, and if so, it’s up to us to determine what it will encompass. Whether it’s full-time or just more time, Phase Two is our story to write. At this point in our lives, we no longer feel the squeeze of society, family, or the tick of our biological clocks. Those pressures are a thing of the past. In this phase it’s about satisfying every facet of the other person in ways we never imagined were possible. That’s exactly what we’re doing and we’re enjoying the fuck out of it.

    Category Kinky Relationships | Tags: ,, | 4 Comments

  7. Vanilla Isn’t a Bad Thing, It’s Just Not My Thing

    October 10, 2013 by Nikki Blue

    He asked if we were turning vanilla. Not that there’s anything wrong with vanilla, because there’s not. I happen to like it. A lot, actually. I like vanilla icing and vanilla cake too. Ooooh, and vanilla lattes are the bomb. But in terms of sex, vanilla just doesn’t work for me. I relate it to unhappy times in my life which was why Mr. K’s question during a recent text conversation put me on high alert. His words were unexpected and jarring, and because I was a glass-half-empty kind of girl, I immediately assumed the worst. White-hot panic shot through me as I lay in my bed one hundred forty-something miles from him, my mind racing to understand why he would say such a thing. Was he growing tired of me? Was he falling out of love? Did the things he once loved now make him YAWN?

    “Nooooo! Why??” I replied. If I’d spoken the words aloud, my voice would have been unnaturally shrill, because helloooo–panic.

    “Toys. We used no toys.”

    The words glared at me rudely, and I glared back. And in the midst of our showdown, I began to wonder if the horrid heat radiating from my core wasn’t panic but a hot flash instead. Fucking hormones… He was right, though. Other than my butt plug, which I ALWAYS wear for him, our toys remained untouched during our last three visits. The simple truth was that time didn’t always allow for toys, and there were occasions when kinky hotness strayed from a planned scene, taking on a life of its own.

    For example: Mr. K wanted face-sitting, pegging, and spanking during one of the visits in question, but he arrived feeling super dominant, and that turned me all kinds of inside out. Then there was our last visit, which was…well, see, there was this really BIG mirror and a camera phone, and lots of fucking. Then Mr. K pushed my legs open while I sat on the toilet, licking my pussy after I peed. Oh, and there was more fucking. A lot of it. So yeah, toys never entered my mind. But does mean we’re vanilla-fying (totally a word)? Fuck no.

    Mr. K and I went at it hard during the first months of our relationship. Not a second of our time together was wasted, and we used every toy in our arsenal. We rode the high of finding another to whom we could express our kinky desires without fear of judgement, and we slept very little. But in my opinion, playing with toys didn’t make us kinky. It’s the way we’re wired; the way we think.

    If you think about licking your girlfriend’s sweat from the crack of her ass after she works out, you might be a kinkster. Or, if you call Home Depot ‘Dom’ Depot, you might be a kinkster.

    Move the fuck over, Jeff Foxworthy. I’ve got this.

    My point is, we see a lot of things in a different light. And the beauty of kink is there are many degrees and no qualifying guidelines. If a person considers themselves kinky because they like their hair pulled during sex, then by God, they’re kinky. Nowhere does it state a person must wield a flogger for X number of hours before the title of kinkster is granted. Again, toys don’t make the kinkster; the kinkster makes the toys. Or something like that.

    I didn’t hear from Mr. K again that day until early afternoon, and by that time, I’d run a million errands, overreacted, and freaked out accordingly. I was prepared to hear discontent in his voice, and concern that our sex life was growing stale. But to my surprise, there was no disappointing tone, and he wasn’t dissatisfied. He was happy. And he agreed that we don’t always need to play with toys. “It feels good just as us,” he said. “It just does.”

    “So you don’t think we’re turning vanilla?”

    He laughed. “Hell no. That was a joke.”

    Jesus fucking Christ.

    “Are you kidding me?”

    “Nope.”

    Heh. Isn’t it funny how the word ‘vanilla’ can throw a kinkster into a tailspin? No, it’s not. Not at all.

    Category Kinky Relationships | Tags: ,,,, | 8 Comments

  8. Making Distance Doable

    July 2, 2013 by Nikki Blue

    Almost a year and a half ago a man sent me a private message on FetLife complimenting my eyes. He was witty and charming, and his approach was a far cry from the usual you’re hot notes I was accustomed to receiving. His words had my kinky senses tingling, and as luck would have it, he would soon be traveling my way. Our emails quickly graduated to phone calls and text messages, hundreds of them in a matter of days. He wanted to know everything about me and I found myself wanting to share myself with him, which was very much out of character for me. He was smart and respectful and not once did he suggest I send him a naked selfie, but I did it anyway because NAKED SELFIE. I wasn’t naive, though. I knew his desire to see past my hardened exterior into my soul translated loosely into I want to fuck your brains out. And boy did he.

    Mr. K and I weren’t thinking in terms of a relationship when our flirtation began. Our primary focus was hot sex. Mind-blowing, however, was unexpected. We connected on a level neither of us had experienced before and like withdrawals from a highly addictive drug, we were jonesing for more. He changed everything I thought I knew about myself sexually, encouraging me to allow the dominant to emerge from within, and when the feelings happened we found ourselves barreling toward a full-blown long distance relationship.

    I’d be lying if I said there aren’t times when the miles separating us don’t suck old, wrinkly balls. There are plenty, but I’ve learned to manage them because I’m super tough. And because I carry a life-size cardboard cutout of him around the house, which kind of freaks my kids out, but whatever.

    I miss the hell out of Mr. K every day and I confess some days are harder than others, but our constant communication makes the distance easier to tolerate. He can’t always dedicate time to me during the day and that’s okay, but that doesn’t stop me from texting him thoughts, happenings, and of course, XO’s whenever they strike me. I know he’ll read them when he has a moment to breathe. I also know there are a lot of nights he lays in bed asking about my day even though he can barely hold his eyes open. And he always tells me goodnight regardless of how exhausted he is, because he knows it’s important to me. It’s like he said: our communication makes it seem as if we’re always together, and that there’s no one like you, I can’t wait for the nights with you. Wait, maybe that last part was the Scorpions.

    Anyway, we spend a lot of time sharing fantasies we have every intention of bringing to life when we’re together again, the anticipation of kinky sex building to a crescendo as our visits draw near. But things don’t always go according to plan in the mad rush to get naked and feel the closeness we’ve missed so much. Golden showers don’t always work out due to my bladder’s performance anxiety issues and unless I start wearing my strap-on under my pants… Hmmm, now there’s an idea. My point is, we conjure up many sexy fantasies, but sometimes just being together without the toys and power exchange is what we really need.

    Long distance relationships take a lot of work and communication to keep them from going stale. They’re not for everyone. And even with a partner who puts in just as much effort as you, there are times you’ll want to pull your hair out. Assuming you have hair. But now that I think about it, that’s the case with any type of relationship. Am I right? Yes, it may be slightly unconventional, but our relationship works for us. Even the distance. It gives us the space we need to focus on our daily responsibilities, but we grab every moment we can to talk, tease and masturbate. And when he tells me at midnight I owe him a photograph, you can bet your sweet ass I’ll spring from bed, trip over my laptop charger, do a quick mirror check, rip off my tank top, jump back into bed and take at least three naked selfies to get a halfway decent one. Lying down, of course, because everything looks better from above.

     

    Category Kinky Relationships | Tags: ,, | 5 Comments

  9. Dear Nikki: How Much is Too Much?

    June 16, 2013 by Nikki Blue

    Dear Nikki,

    I have a really great group of friends who know I’m kinky. It’s an amazing feeling to finally be myself without worrying about what others think. My friends have been very supportive of my kinky endeavors and are very open about sex themselves. We love to sit around and talk about things that would make most people’s ears hurt, but lately when I bring up sex, one friend in particular changes the subject. The first few times it happened I thought I was reading too much into it. But now she clearly takes control of the conversation or clams up altogether and I feel like she’s judging me. Should I confront her about her attitude change?

    Baffled in Baltimore

     

    Dearest Baffled,

    Coming out of the kinky closet to your friends takes sizeable gonads, my kinkalicious friend, so let me give you a big high five for that brave moment. And I agree with you wholeheartedly. It is amazing when you feel safe enough to let your hair down among friends, sharing the parts of you that normally require a super secret password to unlock. It’s like you can finally breathe. This newly found freedom, however, comes with the responsibility of establishing boundaries that everyone is comfortable with.

    I remember the hot wave of relief that rolled through me the first time I divulged my kinky nature to my friends and they didn’t hunt me down like the village ogre wielding pitchforks and buckets of holy water. It was both terrifying and exhilarating, and to my surprise, a few of them unveiled their own little juicy box of lifestyle secrets. I no longer had to hide my kinky tendencies and that level of comfort is a fan-fucking-tastic feeling. So I empathize about wanting to spew the contents of your kinky wishlist to your accepting friends.

    It sounds like one of them, at least, has had her fill of your sexploits, and she may be trying to clue you into the need for a subject change by hijacking the conversation. I understand your focus may be on sharing every delicious detail of your kinky sexcapades with your friends and you may not be thinking about limits outside of a BDSM scene, but you need to keep boundaries in mind as they relate to friendships as well.

    Balance plays an important role in any type of relationship. It’s all about give and take, and if you try to make your sex life the primary topic of conversation with your friends, you’re doing all of the taking and none of the giving. And by giving I mean listening to what they have to say about their partners and what’s going on in their lives too. You’re assuming that everyone is interested in hearing the particulars of your kinky lifestyle, and I have a sneaking suspicion this assumption is what is making your friend uncomfortable. I highly recommend you put the brakes on the sexy talk, otherwise your friend may redraw the boundaries of your friendship to include less of you in her life.

    Have a heart to heart with your friend. Ask her what is bothering her and be prepared to listen, offering an apology if you feel it’s necessary. Don’t apologize for being who you are (never apologize for that), but for monopolizing the conversation and forgetting to listen. Then maybe smoke a peace pipe, slam a shot of tequila or whatever you agree on, and get back to the give-and-take that good friends experience. Don’t get me wrong though, if your audience is open to it, you can talk about group sex and slapping your partner’s cock until the cows come home. Just remember to ask what’s new in their lives, and maybe talk about the blowout BOGO sale going on at the grocery store. Or what a douchebag your best friend’s ex-husband is.

    See? It’s all about balance, baby.

    *hugs*
    Nikki

    Category Ask Nikki | Tags: ,, | 4 Comments

  10. Best Laid Plans

    January 18, 2013 by Nikki Blue

    “I think we may scene.”

    The words appeared on my phone during a text conversation with Mr. Kink as we discussed our upcoming trip together. It has been too long since we’ve fucked each other silly, and at this point, I’m questioning our ability to make it out of the airport without being arrested for all sorts of explicit groping. I’ve imagined the moment I see his wicked smile as we come together between the North and South terminals in great detail. I’ll run to him and he’ll catch me, kissing me passionately and inappropriately by public standards. Just like The Thorn Birds but better. Then we’ll fall to the ground because of the strain on his back and I’ll probably break a bone, because I’m fragile. Hot right?

    The things we intended to do to each other were always a regular topic before our visits, but he had never used ‘scene’ before and it glared at me brazenly. It half dared me and half taunted me to respond, but I wasn’t sure what to say exactly. I admit I panicked a little, worried that he wanted me to morph into Super Domme, complete with thigh high leather boots and harsh words. That’s not me. Then I had to ask myself if he was just caught up in the heat of the words flying back and forth, or maybe my eyes were deceiving me. But when I put on my glasses and read them again, they remained unchanged. I swallowed hard, wondering if he fully understood that a scene meant his complete submission and trust. But he knew. To be honest, I should have seen it coming.

    Lately, Mr. Kink has expressed his desire for me to push him farther, domme him harder. During our last visit, I did exactly that. It was nothing more than words really, but they had an incredible impact and his response was amazing. It wasn’t a huge leap, but it was somewhat of a turning point for both of us, blowing the doors wide open to becoming more defined in our roles. And as much as he wants more, I want to give it to him. He’s still discovering his needs, though, and I’m still learning how to satisfy them. As we discussed our plans for the trip, it became clear that he has certain expectations for our time together. I was uncertain what to do with that realization and it sat heavily on my shoulders, doubt rolling through my veins begging another question.

    Am I capable of giving him what he wants?

    I wasn’t sure at first, but as I thought back over the past year, it was apparent that this is where we’ve been heading from day one. We’ve evolved together and I now know I was meant to be on top. The dominant in me was there all along, it just needed to be freed. So, to answer the question of my ability to meet his needs, fuck yes I can. But because he will read every word I write, I must be vague about my design. I will say this, though. I’ve researched and purchased new fetish toys for his my enjoyment. After careful consideration, I’ve decided against wearing my steel plug on the plane, because let’s be realistic here. When was the last time you saw a TSA Agent with a sense of humor? Exactly.

    I can’t say much more about my carefully planned menu of hot, kinky sex without spoiling the surprise, but I did buy knee socks and watch hours and hours of femdom footage for ideas. In my opinion, the majority of it verges on ridiculous, but I did snag some fantastic ideas. I refuse to copy their cookie cutter style, though, and I won’t wear a latex catsuit under my strap-on harness. It must be as hot as Satan’s balls in there with no room to sweat, and that’s just not sexy. But the main reason I don’t like them is because neither one of us is willing to sacrifice the intimacy of skin to skin contact. I will, however, wear a wifebeater and thigh highs with bows as I make him beg over and over again, because as I’ve said before, I’m fucking girly.

    I can barely contain my excitement about this weekend and my emotions are all over the place. They’re too scattered for me to put into words. Heather even sent this back to me three times wanting me to articulate how I’m feeling, but I’m having a difficult time focusing on anything. I trust that when we’re together, I’ll level out and slip easily into my role as dominant. Until then my nerves will remain a tight ball in the pit of my stomach and at risk of sounding cheesy, my heart will race wildly. SO STOP NAGGING ME, HEATHER!

    Category D/s | Tags: ,, | 2 Comments

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