Black and Blue

Just has a skim read back through this blog. Ahh dear, what's happened to me in a short year or so? From the boy-shy wall flower who presumed she wasn't interested in anything on the kink spectrum to... this? My, what interesting parts of myself I've uncovered. Very publicly, for the most part (but that was one thing we DID know I liked).

So what have I been up to? Partially this...


Although I feel I must point out that was entirely asked for, consensual and I dare say enjoyed. I'm probably convening all sorts of things by posting that and will probably be ganked for it but... I'll deal with it, I'm sure!

Dealbreakers

Now, my limits aren't where some girls' might be, and my standards may be a bit odd, but I am NOT sleeping with anyone who says things like this, and this is PASTED from IM, for god's sake:

shot deep inside one of your hungry fuckholes

..Let's take a look at that phrasing. "...shot deep inside one of your hungry fuckholes..."

...Shot?
..hungry?!
...FUCKHOLES?! "one of"; indiscriminate?

...Hunrgy fuckholes? No, sorry, just no.

When I didn't go to dance

It’s one or two in the morning, we’re watching girl be very elaborately tied up and suspended from what looks to my uneducated but willing eyes a lot like the frames children’s’ swing and slide sets are attached to, or a giant version of the rails I hung clothes on at Matalan. We watch, and talk about it, his hands subtly circling my wrists, my collarbones, the places his fingers suggest ropes should be. I turn to put my hands on the stair rail and watch more intently, him kissing my neck, my ears, the side of my face, my lips when I turn my head, and grinding the jut of his hipbones, his hard cock, into my pvc skirted ass. They see us watching, no one has a problem with this. We’re at the side of a dance floor, in the path of one of the main doors with friends and voyeurs and the people who DID come to dance, and we touch and kiss and sweat and I do not care.

Hours of dancing, talking, standing outside watching others smoke and chatting, him holding my hand, taking it back from men who kiss it in greeting defensively, comfortably half my owner and half my pet - one last time, another entirely the time before - and I am yet to learn his second name. I watch them presume we are a couple with the feeling I am more bothered by this than he is. Hours later we retire to the couples’s room, surprisingly clean leather sofas and enough space to sit down, this time. I sit in his lap and we kiss. He unpins my hair and the grip gets lost under the sofa, the will to care lost in quickly bruising bites and nail scratches. For the first few seconds his fingers are too rough but I slow him down with retaliation and then I can accept him. It’s peaceful, slow but urgent, the DJ plays Bauhaus and we grind.

Kisses on my collar and he slides to kneel on the floor. I go to stop him, he shouldn’t... why shouldn’t he, why shouldn’t I allow myself that? So I take a deep breath and I do, heedless of the thoughts, the place, and the other people who could be watching if they wanted. Its dark enough that I don’t have to notice but I choose to know they’re there, I know they can see his lips press against me, his tongue reach out to touch me. Perhaps they see me shiver; perhaps no one notices us. The warmth of pleasure I was expecting to need to imagine, the shock as he hooks his teeth into the piercing and pulls. Licks again. stops to bite the skin and i know i shouldn’t enjoy that pain but i do. I know i shouldn’t want people to see but i do, and it would be senseless to pretend I don’t. How long did I spend pretending to enjoy things I didn’t..?It doesn’t matter now, here with him and when I’ve had enough I’m up on that sofa with him, persuading myself to put his cock in my mouth. I can’t kneel, that’s crucial, and I doesn’t bother him in the slightest. He arches his back and sighs ,that smile of pure bliss which says this is good enough. I am good enough, and I can do this.

Told You So

Done, done and done, but wasn't it fun?

I'm not ecstatic, I must say, but chin up, some good memories and get back out there. There are many many things to do and no doubt people to do them with. Plenty of things to write up retrospectively too, so nothing's quiet on the blogging front.

Things I Like Being Hit With

Hands - as spanking, obviously, not someone taking a swing at me. A
good slap on the arse or the thighs isn't going to do you any harm,
and there's something beautifully degrading about it.

Riding crop - gently gently, but I do enjoy the sensation, the noise,
and the look of my partner of choice holding one of these.

Tailed whip/flogger - my tolerance for these is surprisingly high, and
I find used softly or striking with further up the body rather than
the tails, the 'thud' rather than the sting is quite pleasing. Can
also be safely used on the back/shoulders - a good place for me.

Improvised items - If you're being particularly cheeky and your master
has to grab the nearest book/hairbrush/ruler/whatever to give you a
smack with, you had that coming.

and

Paddle - I actually genuinely don't like this feeling, which is why
it's great. There's no 'mmm' to the 'ouch': it just hurts. So if I've
really been bad and you want me to scream, cry, beg you to stop,
there's your weapon.

This is all very "oh please, don't throw me into the briar patch," isn't it? Is that why I liked Bra'er Rabbit so much?!

The Berlin Incindent

Wow, it's been a while. Sorry about that - much more doing, much less writing about, but truth be told I prefer it that way so I'm not THAT sorry. Still, I've peen promising this story so here it is, in all the detail I remember. Every word the truth.

Berlin was weird.


I always felt that, not drinking, I'd missed the whole 'mad night out in a foreign city' thing. Hand on heart, I planned the Berlin weekend for entirely different reasons, but there was a boy there I had unfinished business with. That is to say, for huge amounts of kink, experimentation and general messing about, I'd never had actual sex with him. In fact, I was still in the rather uncomfortable situation of only ever having had sex with one guy (sort of, that serves for argument's sake) and felt an immediate need to break the claim my ex of six years had over my sexual experience.

So, yes, I'd wanted to have sex with him. I'd dithered and delayed and missed my chance - so I thought - when he moved back to Berlin in the summer and had met other people, moved on, dismissed all of it to dream-like memory

But I was going to Berlin, for just one night. Could I say no to one more night of dancing, laughing, and whatever the night brought, with him? Like so many happy memories from London? not a chance. so despite a migraine, a post-migraine panic attack and having been awake for 38 hours, I bade my mother goodnight and meandered off to get the u-bahn, dressed to the nines. (For the record, my mother doesn't let me walk to the shops in my hometown alone, Christ only knows what was going on in her head to let me 'meet a guy I know, back in time for breakfast!' in Berlin...)

Not sure why I was surprised when he turned up, on time as always. Tall, skinny, femininely gorgeous as always, strutting down the platform in jeans tucked into knee-high boots, gloves, belted-coat and scarf, all black, laying starkly against his pale skin, the sweep of blonde hair, the bright blue eyes lined with kohl and mascara. for the same record, my own black coat covered a floor length but thigh-slit PVC skirt and a red vinyl corset top, and for a while we just stood there, in the tube station ,drinking in the strangely effortless attraction that had always crackled between us, however unlikely we were. All the pleasantries and small talk were somewhere between breathy and entirely breathless, just context for the tone of voice to tell each other what we actually wanted to say

We took a walk by the river, chatted in a way we hadn't managed since a weird London weekend when a mutual friend had ended up dead and everyone else hugely shaken. Time was a healer, and the distance even moreso. He was home, and I was there to enjoy just one night of the city he loved.

It was just us, too, which made it all so easy. None of the bitchy hangers-on he'd acquired in the London clubs, no drugs, no one particular friend who runs around licking people.

We started at Boheme Noir, a notorious yearly fetish event with some of the most bizarre cabaret I've ever encountered. Flashes that spring to mind now include a guy doing hula hoop with glowing things inside a giant bubble, a weird live-sex thing about faeries, fire and a woman in a business suit sitting on an actual stuffed alligator

We danced, we drank red bull, we laughed at a montage about boobs in horror movies and sang johnny cash songs and acquired a friend who was wearing a judge's wig. To say the night had taken on a hallucinatory feel doesn't even nearly cut it.

From there we moved to KitKat, still where the original was and apparently famous for being the most hedonistic club in Europe. It's unmarked, a doorway behind a gate down the side of a building, with a bell I was too scared to push. We arrived at three or so, when entry cover should have been the unfriendly side of thirty Euros but we were young and beautiful - we smiled at them and they signed us in, checked our coats and waved us on. Apparently the dress code is fetish or naked, enforced to the extent that if you turn up in street or club clothes they hand you a sort of tie dyed sarong thing and make you strip. You then get the German equivalent of "towel skirt!" shouted at you by the regulars.

KitKat was all sorts of crazy, neon and swirly with sculptures and sex gear and too many levels and side rooms. Without a firm arm around my waist I'd have been lost in seconds, and I'm not sure I'd have wanted to be found. suddenly I have a sweet drink and a lollipop, I'm dancing happily to music which is far more pulse than tune amidst the naked and the bizarre, everyone as at home as everyone else, people talking and meeting, dancing and kissing, a timeless freedom within which i feel that the norms of outside... of my outside, not theirs, from what I've seen of this city... are truly forgotten.

We get tired, retire to the chill out room to roll about on inflatable furniture, beneath an angel statue which is missing its genitalia ("It's hole-y! see? Holy?" laughs a cheerful German guy who looks like a musketeer).

We meet, make friends with and both alternately make out with a truly breathtaking boy of about our age who's wearing startling bright blue contact lenses, and it takes me an hour or so to work out that's not something which usually happens. Nor, I suppose, was laying intertwined with them both, although favouring the company I'd arrived with, absently talking to an Italian guy and translating because he spoke English but no German, whilst watching someone on the other side of the chill out area being fisted by a procession of people, none of whom I'm convinced she knew. I don't call that chilling out, really.

Suddenly, or maybe over hours, who knows? the mood changed. At once I'm alone with my... date? Is that the word? and wordlessly, the decision is made. On what could be - but isn't - our last meet up, I'm giving that voice that chimed up in my head the first time I ever set eyes on him the answer it's always wanted. Hand in hand, we shun a number of more logically appropriate places because they're overcrowded, too cold, too noisy. We spot a caged seating area, twelve feet or so above the dancefloor and awkwardly scramble up the narrow blocks that lead to it, all decision making and forethought required already over with.

So, what I've spent arguably a couple of hours or a couple of years trying to second guess happens there and then, behind bars and with an audience of a packed, sweating dancefloor of hundreds and a working bar, if i look one way, and throbbing total darkness if I look the other, underneath black-lit neon swirls and glowing ethereally violet under blacklights. He reads my hesitation but I push the nerves away: now is right, this is all so right in its utter wrongness.

It hurts. It hurts so fucking much, and even if my mind is totally ready for the actual milestone, my body is nowhere near ready for the physical necessities but all I can think, with a determined smiles as the pain slices as high as it's going to, is 'there. I am myself again now.I can do this because I want to.' And I do want to, and soon it becomes enjoyable for both of us. I still wouldn't by any stretch describe it as fundamentally good sex: he is held back by nerves and I am kept in check by discomfort and inexperience, but we soon regain our old dynamic of roughness, nails and teeth and I hope, if any of those watching from the level below (and they ARE watching) commit an image to memory, it is of me astride him, head back half because I'd thrown it there in abandon, half because he's yanked it there with his hand in my hair, his teeth sunk firmly into my neck and our chests pressed together.

We waited a while, after, in case we got heckled or applauded or something, I'm not sure, and then mostly fell down the padded step-blocks we'd used to ascend to wander off and get drinks. We laughed and chatted again, back to our easy company, until I realised that it was light outside and that, being November, this meant I had likely missed breakfast and had half an hour's journey across central Berlin for an earful from my mother and a day of sightseeing. we said our goodbyes, I think he called out 'see you in London'; I didn't turn round.

Winter morning sunshine is a funny sort of light to be delirious in, it doesn't help the lucidity when you've been awake for forty something hours. It was all in danger of becoming one of those things I merely imagined I'd done: after all, it played back in my head like something I'd read about, not something that happened to real people, least of all me. I quickly text one or two safe people, confessing the brief details, subconsciously pleading for absolution. I was cold, dizzy, tired and hungry. The sex had left me bleeding, i was conspicuously hiding a plastic outfit under a coat. it wasn't a nice time to be trudging around a strange city on my own. Still, i made it to the hotel in time for a shower (at which point I found feathers and glitter down my bra, always signs of a good night) and immediately took back to the street in jeans, t-shirt, a hoodie and a clean face.


Weirdly, at something like 11 am, I was blatantly propositioned by a middle aged guy, just randomly in the street. I had a moment of sheer mortification - the word 'slut' seemed to be lipstick-ed onto my forehead, or he could still smell the night on me through the hotel soap and the Chanel No. 5. Maybe he'd been there, maybe I wasn't as anonymous as I felt in the country I consider my home-from-home. Maybe it was just like every other time that's happened to me, magnified by the perceived enormity of what I'd done.

So... so what? I drank hot chocolate, stayed awake for another fifteen hours before a brief sleep and going back to work. I analysed, and was baffled, and recount the story occasionally to those who are easily shocked by my less-scandalous behaviour, purely to amuse myself.

I've never regretted it for a second.

True Mascochism

I spend my entire life bemoaning being people's second choice, being second best, being second priority etc etc, because it hurts too much. Someone suggests an actual stance as a secondary partner...

...and I consider it. If that's not real masochism, I don't know what is.

Not Cut Out for This

I love my body.

Okay, no, I don't because it doesn't work and I'd like not to be in pain for five minutes, but I love my body in the way most people don't like their own.

I'm a decent height and reasonable weight without much effort. I've got disproportionate, child-sized hands and feet, an almost unnaturally narrow waist for my size. My boobs are small but perfectly formed (and probably not as small as I joke them to be. In a decent push up bra, they're adequately distracting). I have a little soft curve of pudge under my navel, curved hips, stocky but muscular thighs and the best arse you'll see all week. None of it's perfect, but it's a nice woman-shape and onlookers can like it or fuck off.

The hinderances, then, if you want to call them that: I'm very much the shape for corsets. So much so that I have to buy them very very small or they just don't do anything, I already have that extreme shoulders:waist:hips ratio.

Any restraints which would use the hands or feet are not going to work on me. They don't account for such tiny hands and feet and I will slip right out of them.

Any shoes with a fetish bent, or even a decent heel, need to be custom made. Now, I'm not arguing they should make platform stilettos for kids, but it gets expensive!

I have to wear gloves at fetish clubs, or I get the hand-pervs. As it is, I get an immense amount of aristocratic kisses on the hand. I daren't ever dance in bare feet when I get tired, I made that mistake once. Bare, high arched, size two feet are a little too much of a temptation for people that way inclined, it seems.

That said, I'm never short a human foot stool, a shoe shine, or a massage, so really - why complain?

Flingers

I have had the great pleasure in my life to encounter more than one flinger.

Know what I mean? Are you one yourself? The type of lover who will pull an item of clothing, normally your underwear, off and fling it haphazardly into the middle distance. Sometimes they don't even know they're doing it, something's in the way and they are removing the obstacle. Others, it's a very deliberate "you won't be needing these..." In either case, it's fun and the noise as such items hit the floor (usually) a metre or so away is delicious. Flingers, never stop, you are truly fantastic.

This, however, is why my flatmate remarks when doing the washing that I seem to get through twice as much underwear as I reasonably should. The logic behind this is that I never put the same underwear back on after sex:
A) It feels a bit weird, and
B) I normally can't find it.

Also, come laundry day, I have normally found at least one tangled lace item on top of my wardrobe, behind my radiator or bunched up in a bit of my curtain. Sorry, grim but true. At least you now know they were relatively clean.

On a final point, just don't fling condoms. I mean, I know there's used as in rolled on and taken off and used as in used, but even the former... come on, that was dry-clean only.

On Being a Dodgy Perv in an Overcoat

I bring you this blog from an exhibition, where I'm very well dressed, handing out business cards and causing designer handbag envy. Makes it all the more delicious, I feel.

Ahhh, there's nothing like a proper knee length belted mac for making you feel and look like a grade A pervert. Particularly when what's visible below said mac is freshly-shined black moulded rubber stockings and seven and a half inch stiletto heels, as it was when I deigned to horrify a perfectly respectable woman in a hotel lobby.

I'd like you to picture the scene, because I find it incomparably amusing. Dressed thusly -


I held my head high and took three brave steps out of the lifts into the hotel lobby… where we were faced by an average middle aged couple. The bloke, bless him, gave us a cursory glance and walked on. The woman gave us a genuine triple take.

The first look was barely registering our obstruction of the path to the lift.

the second was a gawp of enthralled disgust. A thinly veied 'people like you really exist?' Indeed. And the fact neither of us are the fat, balding loner men associated with such stereotypes but in fact, may I say it myself, relatively attractive examples of the species probably did nothing for her confusion.

She made herself look away, of course, and then couldn't resist a look back. The last one was definitely fascinated contempt, for some reason aimed far more squarely at me than my actually more rubbery date, and then when she attempted to avert her eyes, they went to the floor, got stuck on my shoes and I almost tripped over it as I continued to saunter along, suppressing a lot of giggles.

Was all that really called for? Other than the overtly sexual connotations, there was nothing obscene or visually offensive about it - so the thought process is then 'what am I missing out on, here? What pleasures do they know of that I don't?'
A fair few, if that face was anything to go by, you miserable trout.

It's half eleven, madam, we're consenting adults. Let's face it: what you don't like about this picture is that I am having more fun than you. Does my composure in such hip tilting shoes threaten you? Does my comfort in attire that speaks such filthy volumes about my proclivities unnerve you? Does it make you uncomfortable? Good. Does it maybe turn you on a bit? i do hope so.

So here's to you, Ms. Face like a slapped arse - not only were you the source of much immediate amusement which i'm still having a chuckle at several days later, but I thought about you. Oh yes. However many hours later, drowned in pounding music, surrounded by darkness, enjoying the admiring stares of strangers whilst being thoroughly fucked, what remained intact of my outfit still on, apart from where it counted, I thought of you. I thought how absolutely horrified you'd be by the entire scene, let alone my inadvertently involving you in it. I knew you'd be entirely appalled and just maybe the tiniest bit jealous, and nothing turns me on quite like that. If only you knew.


Other hilarity includes being bumped to a suite bigger than my entire flat because they'd originally allocated us a room with two single beds pushed together. The temptation, had they not been cooperative, to spill the contents of two suitcases of kink onto the reception desk and inform them that really, a double room would be better would have been overwhelming. And it might have sidestepped the moment when room service knocked a bottle of latex polish off the table. Or we once again spectacularly failed to notice something conspicuously dodgy in full view before ordering food. And actually, it's just occurred to me that I may have been upside down on the sofa reading in none too conservative underwear and a duran duran t-shirt when they came in, and that on the scale of the weekend's weirdness, this was normal enough to have escaped my attention until reflecting several days later.

My turn

Fetish clubbing tonight, which should be fairly brilliant, followed by a weekend in the city making the most of hotel facilities and as much pervery as you can fit into two reasonably sized suitcases. I sat on mine to get it done up and, on triumphantly padlocking the two halves of the zip together, realised I hasn't actually got proper clothes with me. Probably irrelevant, I doubt I'll need more than what I'm travelling in.

A chance, tonight, to dredge up and tick off a few of my long term fantasies. Not that things so far have been by any means one-sided, but we've mostly gone for things he's suggested and I've thought were a great idea, or decided were worth a try and ended up loving. I think all of tonight's set up was my idea first, and this is pleasingly new to me. I'm excited.

What's not as new to me as he thinks is the club sex. I'm not hiding much, it's just that when playmate du jour was first warned of my relative inexperience, his reaction was interesting, and I may have been laying it on a little thick since then. You know, the "why, no... I've never done that..." which I might possibly have lead him to the impression covers sex with an audience. White lies, white lies, I figured I'd be best off not telling the Berlin Story, particularly as aforementioned playmate and I were already seeing each other when I had that little interlude.

I haven't even posted any club sex stories yet, have I? Shame on me, bad girl, etc. My very next post, promise.

Payment in Kind

Actually, my handmade custom rubber outfits (enthusiastically donated by playmates who would enjoy my wearing them as much as I do) are worth a damn sight more than the Louis Vuitton purse your fiance bought you. And I'm not making dinner.

Arse: Knowing my elbow from, etc.

It takes a lot to confuse me about my sexuality.

I like men. I like women. I like all shades of everything in between. I seem to be able to top and bottom and D and s, I'll try everything else that's going and if I like it, I'll do it again. That's about the size and shape of it. No confusion there.

He and I are supposed to be all about kink. My pure-sex attraction is supposed to be about kink. So when we wake up in the early hours and the odd brush of skin turns into a warm hand, the press of bodies, soft lips but no teeth and we screw like that, gentle and slow and electrifying, and then lay there kissing and stroking hair and cuddling close, intertwining bodies until we fall asleep or can't survive any longer without coffee...

...and I like it...

...this confuses me.

Some People have One People..

I was having a bit of an internal whinge (which became an external one, for one person, sorry about that) today about how I never seem to be able to find what I want and, in the process of explaining, realised I already have it.

I want love. I want sex, and orgasms (not one or the other, as so easily becomes the case). I want companionship, and conversation; hugs; friendship; company, love of the deserved and spontaneous AND unconditional varieties. I want lust and warmth and happiness and, whilst I see and argue for polyamory as a completely valid lifestyle choice, I seem to think I need to find all of this in one person.

How daft would that be? You risk becoming a recluse, alienating/ignoring everyone else. If it goes wrong, you've lost it all. Talk about having all your eggs in one basket.

I have all those kinds of love, I have company and peole to do things with, I have the sex (sporadically, and hey, if you want a good job done, do it yourself),I have people I can talk to about different areas of my life. Ok, I have to remember who knows what andI can't always do the bits I want with the people I would like to do it with but it's all there, right when I want it. If I fall out with someone, or the relationship changes... that's one or two spacesto fill, not all of them.

I have everything I want. I just need to remember what that is.

Oklahoma, Pancakes and Harder

Safewords are great. I tend to find, in non-extreme play, that the mere fact one is in place means it won't get used. It takes the potential for panic away, means you know that if you genuinely want it to, everything stops so you can push yourself and let yourself enjoy things which, if you weren't confident of this circuit-break, might be a shade too heavy to enjoy.

That said, I'm fortunate enough to be playing with someone extremely conscientious of such things, who will break to check I'm alright if he thinks I'm struggling in the wrong kind of way or if something felt a little harsher to him than he meant it to. He also knows the difference, if I'm gagged, between "oh, woe is me, I am helpless" struggling, and "shit, I can't actually breathe" struggling. He knows I have a bit of a negative history too, so he likes a nice clear green light.

We set up standing safewords the other day, which is nice for both of us, should anything spontaneous happen and we're not sure we're on the same page. It makes it all so very simple: If the word's there and they haven't used it, you're good to keep going.

You need a sort of code. As well as that all-encompassing, pulling the plug, "I say [this] and it stops straight away", I tend to find a few code words for feedback work nicely. An "I'm okay, but no further," or "slower," word, and maybe a "that's good but it's too much" word. As a domme, I'm very much the beginner: I lack the confidence to push past any resistance unless I know for a fact that it's put on, and I don't know well enough how to read that yet. If I ask "more?" and the answer is "please, no, mistress" it still takes me a while to compute that this is no level of safeword and as such is in fact a yes. But I'm getting there.

I got a new crop the other day. I found it's a nightmare trying to work out how hard you're going with it, so instead of having him count one to whatever for me, I had him count each stroke between one and ten, one being "I can't feel that", five being perfect, ten being "that hurts too much to be enjoyable". Started at a two, misjudged and got a nine, then settled around a nice seven. It helped not to have to work out if yelps were a good thing or not: if he'd wanted less, he could have cranked the number up and I'd have eased off.

I saw someone in a t-shirt which said 'the safeword is "harder"' once, which amused me quite a lot, and I've also been told of games where you use a pleasure word (a yes, a please, a partner's name or something) as a safeword so as soon as you're really enjoying it, you risk them stopping, which would probably be fantastically amusing in the right game but I can imagine might be horribly confusing if it slips. That's a bit much for me, I need my words clear.

When No doesn't mean no, something has to.

Fuck "love", give me fire.

Fetish, by its very nature, is not serious. Don't get me wrong, there are some things out there you need to take fairly seriously, lest you do yourself or your partner(s) some serious damage, but it's play. You take a concept, or an element, and crank it up and up and up until it almost becomes a parody of itself, a pantomime version of whatever you feel like you shouldn't find appealing but do.

Playing at something is not the same as doing it. It's a world apart, however realistic you make a game, purely because it isn't real. It's like when you play at being princesses or soldiers as a child. A current plaything and I were discussing this the other day - people's different preferences for games as children, about how early you develop a fascination with particular subjects, and what makes different people file different concepts away as enjoyable, even at a pre-school age. How these ideas turn into fantasy, long before you even have the physical ability for sexual urges. In primary school, my friends wanted to play mums and dads, or princesses on unicorns. Only one friend and I wanted to play at kidnap and being held prisoner. I had a definite preoccupation, throughout primary school, with most forms of torture. There are things I still don't have the confidence to admit I was thinking about at such tender ages that I now recognise as pure fetish - god, the things my poor Barbies went through - and we wondered, to what extent are people born kinky? What creates this predisposition to be attracted to things outside conventional parameters, even before you realise that is what's happening?

Aforementioned play thing and I started off quite shakily. He quickly picked up that I hesitated in strange places, correctly guessed at abuse although I think he thought I'd been treated a measure worse than I had. Still, he was worried abbot crossing lines that would trigger bad memories and to be honest, so was I, but it turns out the more lines he crosses… the more I like it.

When you've been with someone who claims to adore you, who should rightfully be trying to please you, but who essentially uses you quite carelessly, gets bored and tosses you away, you can get pretty jaded. Such a pleasurable inverse, then, in someone with no pseudo-romantic agenda, taking you and dressing you up and near-visciously doing as they please with you…all the while touching you almost worshipfully, appreciating every second and determinedly pressing all the right buttons even when they're pretending not to. This is the way round it should be: it's the difference between use and "use", between feeling dirty and being told you are whilst someone's doing something which feels insanely good, and you know it's not REAL.

I had a huge problem with someone spewing out how gorgeous I was, how good they were going to make me feel, whilst looking at me with general disdain and leaving me feeling used and empty. On that basis, having someone hold me by the hair and tell me they're going to use me like a doll, whilst looking at me like they can't believe their luck, touching me with tender reverence and ensuring I'm left sated, thrilled and comfortable is almost like having an antidote applied to a venomous snakebite.

The phrase 'no contest' springs to mind...

Epic Vibe Fail.

Browsing around the other day, it came to my attention that I'd never seen a sex blog without a toy review. Well then, this will be quick and relatively painless, as I own a grand total of one sex toy.

Yep.

It's my own fault, because I did it all backwards, as I tend do. I thought I knew everything - another one of my more annoying tendencies and went blundering in to somewhere, I suppose it was an Ann Summers, and bought my first vibrator before I was even legal.

I'd not even learned my body yet, didn't really know how to get myself off... I sort of thought I'd had orgasms, in the way you can only sort of think these things when you haven't, and was under the impression (blame Cosmopolitan) that this buzzy pink thing would be getting the job done.

Of course it bloody didn't. It turns out intense vibration does absolutely nothing for me, and the poor bastard thing was trying its best but it's too big, solid-hard, not something I'd even consider insertable these days but oh, I tried, because in my head that was what you did. No joy, really.

I've tried more than a handful of times since... and nothing happens. And it's not that I don't know how to press the buttons... just with my hands, I do fine. More than fine. There are times I'd quite like to buy my hands flowers and chocolates and take them out for dinner and a movie, maybe, and back to mine for the ever euphemstic coffee. But the vibe? Nope, lives in a shoebox in my wardrobe and I'm having to TRY not to leave it behind when I move out.

On the subject of moving out, here is where my sex toy education will come in. It's impossible to get that illicit, experimental thrill when you live with your grandparents. It has to be planned out way in advance, scheduled, hidden. Nothing sexy about that. Out on my own, on the other hand... well, living with my ex-Ann-Summers-Rep co-conspirator who knows more about my antics than I do at any given time, I shall find something which does it for me. I know this, because I will try EVERYTHING until I find it.

Debit card at the ready. I move out two weeks today!

"We're Temporary Anyway..."

I'm putting this down on record now, so that when I say I knew it was coming and am okay, I can prove it's not just a brave face.

This is only for a while, and it's a sex thing.
The end is already planned, for early summer. Yes, I'll probably still get upset.
It will doubtless get on my nerves that the girl he runs back to looks... like me, in ten years. Fifteen, if I feel like being unkind.
It's use, of a sort, but it's consensual, two-way use and I am going to use the fuck out of this as and when I can.

So, no one try to console me about the above, please. I know I'm asking for trouble: it's what I'm best at. It's fleeting, it's fun, and bloody hell will it give me something to blog about.

Border Crossing

It's all about challenging perspectives, I suppose. Pushing your boundaries. If you don't try it, I suppose, you'll never know if you like it. The idea of sushi always freaked me out until I tried it, tried a bit more, liked it and will now happily tuck into raw tuna and squid salads. I'd have missed that if I didn't have this burning urge to give things a go, just so I can say I have.

There are two concepts which I've always found really odd, sexually: spanking and dirty talk. They both struck me as a bit false, like you'd feel totally ridiculous. Whipping, less so, things like that I could imagine the quick stinging thrill of, but the idea of being put over someone's knees and spanked like a disobedient child? Just seemed a bit wrong.

Turns out that's what's great about it.

Yeah, I had both of these ideas simultaneously blown out of the water. I agreed to give it a try - the combination of sexy man, which in itself is quite unusual as I tend to find women more attractive, and natural curiosity made it a bit more appealing. I thought I'd wuss out, to be honest, or crack up laughing, but having it whispered as a threat whilst you're trying to have a conversation with a bar tender just kills that dead. Finding yourself back at a hotel, in that awkward kind of lost momentum, and just being instructed to "Sit. Here," starts off the shivering and the reminder of what you've got coming to you, with lips touching your ear… that's hotter than it should be. Being gently but unexpectedly manhandled into position takes the awkwardness away; you have your skirt lifted up and suddenly this is actually happening and you don't feel weird at all, just excited.

And he speaks to you all the while, utter filth in that oh-so-gentle lilt with the undertones of 'shh, it's okay', and the things he makes you say are, if anything, worse but it doesn't make you cringe. It makes you shiver.

Ninety, was my figure - it's amazing how many misdemeanours you can amass in six weeks, and he was very gentle. By fifty, I was working out how to earn myself some more.

On a separate but related note of expectations… Glamour is sexy, so I'd always sort of presumed you need to maintain an air of glamour during sex. Well, there you have it: I was wrong. It makes you tense, if you care about how you come across, you're just not going to get into it.

Something obscurely liberating, therefore, about having your face shoved down in the pillows, your hands crossed over behind your back and fastened there, your legs shoved around at angles that wouldn't be possible if you hadn't been doing gymnastics for sixteen years and being fucked with your boots still on.

No chance whatsoever of thinking you look dignified then - even less chance of caring.

Sometimes I'm lucky.

I got my miracle. I got spanked, I got fucked, I got called names and tied to things and kissed and petted and treated like a princess. Mmm,mm mm. More when I'm more coherent.

As an afterthought, it never occurred to me that having child-sized hands would mean wrist restraints (quite fortunately, when you think about it) don't go down to my size. I could wriggle out of just about anything, if I wanted to, i could be bondage Houdini.

But what would be the fun in that?

An Embuggerance

Ladies, gents... mostly ladies, actually: The contraceptive pills.

Wonderous invention. Accredited with female sexual liberation, with preventing countless unwanted pregnancies. It decreases your risk of certain cancers, helps with acne and other hormonal problems, and theoretically prevents you getting your period when your weekend plans include an expensive hotel and a very attractive man who would have you lick his boots, or put you over his knees, give you a sharp spank and call you a fucking filthy slut.

Theoretically.

The word 'fail' springs to mind, although I'd prefer something a little less internet speak-y, but I'm more concerned with making contingency plans. Mostly, these include praying that the additional hormones will kick back in, working out what can be done in spite of the interference and drafting the apology/request for prompt rescheduling that may otherwise be necessary.

If I get my miracle, you'll get the full story, so cross your fingers for me.