Certified COVID-Safe for Fucking

 Tomorrow.

I’m scheduled to be vaccinated tomorrow.

Something could always go wrong.

But if not tomorrow then maybe next week?

One way or another, an early birthday present.

 

I’ve started thinking about compiling a list. A list of friends and acquaintances and one time, sometime, some time lovers as they get vaccinated once, twice, and then live through the weeks that follow until the vaccine has done as much as it ever will. And then…

I want an orgy.

Well, maybe not an orgy.

I’d rather spread it out.

Savour it.

I’ll go through the list, one person at a time.

For touch.

For hugs.

And, 

where appropriate,

and maybe where not quite appropriate,

sex.

 

I need to get laid.

 

I need to be spanked.

And then I need to be thoroughly, deeply fucked.

 

[pause for fantasies and memories]

Ah… if only some of the men I’d wish to have inside me weren’t too young to be vaccinated any time soon. The problem with having a thing for younger men. Not to mention unavailable men. And yes, I’m talking men. I really need cocks right now. Beautiful, beautiful cocks, deep inside me. I’m not really one for dick pics, I want the real thing, and then I’d like to admire them for a while, marvel at them, stroke them as I wonder that such lovely things can exist, attached to this panoply of potential lovers whose appendages I’ve never seen and mostly probably never will, but oh… [she smiles to herself] I think after this particularly miserable last year I’ve earned the right to my inappropriate lust, no?

Something to think about as the needle enters my arm.

One slave, returned. Did not meet product specifications.

Warning: Read product description thoroughly before making your purchase. Never make assumptions that go beyond the specs.

 

He told me that.

Over and over.

Never make assumptions.
And yet, he did.

Over and over.

 

He had this idea of who I was, of what I was, of what I could be, of what I should be, and then would get angry when I didn’t live up to expectations. He had a plan, a training strategy, which more often than not didn’t work as much due to his distraction as it was to my disobedience or inadequate performance.

 

Again and again, I was a disappointment. 

 

And after numerous ruptures, numerous resets, numerous attempts on my part to get away, he finally said enough. He was ridding his life of things that didn’t give him pleasure, and I was now one of those things.

 

I did not protest.

I was frankly relieved.

He would never let me go if it wasn’t by HIS choice.

I was never quite sure what he thought I was.

What he was convinced I was.

 

There was something he saw in my old profile on Fetlife that made him pursue me for a week, announcing to his masochist slave that he would have me in a week. And that he did. But I think he thought I could be trained into perfect obedience. And it both angered and, I think, wounded him when I resisted. He thought he’d found some treasure, but he hadn’t read the fine print.

 

And yet he couldn’t stay away.

Then again, neither could I.

On and off for 12 years.

So here I am.

But where, exactly?

 

He wasn’t all wrong.

Nor was I wrong about my desires.

And those haven’t gone away.

The question is what to do about them.
The question is what path to follow.

The question is how to be true to myself.

And who is that, anyway?

Given my age, I’d better get down to finding out.

Wild Fire

 Maybe it’s a hormone storm. 

How can I be having a hormone storm?

 

Or maybe it’s begun. Four years of fear folding up their tents and slipping away, leaving behind piles of brush and dead branches to be consumed by flames. 

 

I’m burning. 

 

Conflagration, sweeping up and down from my brain into my cunt and then up into the phantom womb. Desire so strong I want to scream and moan - not with pleasure but in desperation. Images that grow wilder, harder, starker, darker than I should want, darker than I could bear, but everything is burning, burning, and the only escape is obliteration. 

The Tale of the Fly Swatter

I erased all the correspondence.

Every word of it.

 

I wish now I hadn’t. With what I know now, with what I’ve lived now, I’d like to read it. But it’s all gone. Deleted in a panic, as if wiping out the words could wipe out the memory of an experience of being someplace I didn’t know existed, in a state I wasn’t prepared to handle, sent there by a man who didn’t understand what he’d done, didn’t know how to bring me back, and cared too little to try.

 

I came across his ad on Craigslist, where I wandered in those days looking for… for what? I think – I choose to think – that my goal was mainly for erotic stimulation of the linguistic variety. I like to think I was as reckless as sometimes I was.

 

How did it come to me, the awareness that sometimes people indulged in the things I fantasized about? Erotica, maybe? My library was growing, I must have known something. And the ads…

 

And then there it was. A man – see, there it is, I wish I hadn’t deleted the correspondence. But as I said… anyway, he declared his interest in spanking those women who needed… well, they always come up with some way to phrase it. Women who needed what happened when they were taken over a man’s lap and his palm came down on their bare butt.

 

When they needed the pain.

 

Or something like that.

I must have read the ad a dozen times. Read it and read it and felt the hunger and the arousal and – because it’s never just my cunt, it’s always also my brain – felt the curiosity.

 

So I wrote him, from the anonymous yahoo account that served all sorts of functions.

 

I wrote him, curious, wanting to know… more.

What was he thinking.

What would he do.

What did he want.

 

What would it be like.

It was all about the spanking, he said. For him. Giving me what I needed. As for him, maybe at the end there would be a blow job. But that wasn’t the main thing for him.

 

But for me?
What would it be like?

 

So he made a suggestion.

A bit of self-flagellation.

Did I have anything I could use?

A fly swatter.

I had a fly swatter.

I still have it, hanging from a hook in the kitchen.

That would be long enough.

Long enough to reach behind.

OK, fine, an experiment, I can do that.

And I did.

 

I went into the bedroom, fly swatter in hand. 

Took off all my clothes.

Went from there into the bathroom.

 

Why? Why did I go into the bathroom? It’s a small room, not much space to swing anything. But with the door open, I’d be looking straight at the large mirrored closet in the hallway. Maybe that was it. So many details aren’t clear.

I went into the bathroom.

I put the mat down on the floor.

I got down on my hands and knees.

Naked, I got down on my hands and knees, facing the expanse of mirror in the hallway.

I must have looked up at myself, facing the mirror.

Did I see the change in my eyes?

Did I already see a change in my eyes?

I picked up the fly swatter in my right hand and reached behind…

 

Now. I feel myself going there as I write, as I describe, as I remember. I’m so damn suggestible, even to myself, that as I describe the scene I’m back in the scene, there on the bathroom floor, in the moment before that small square of mesh landed on my naked butt. I feel myself going to that place. That place I didn’t even know existed.

With one swat, I took myself to subspace. 

 

I can’t remember if I accompanied the action with a fantasy. I have a feeling I didn’t. I think that the position itself was enough, without words, without a script, without an image. I was down on my hands and knees. Submissive. Exposed. Vulnerable. I must have been aroused by the impact such as it was but it was the mental response… the emotional response…

 

I scared myself. 

I was deep in subspace.

Lost in subspace and didn’t know where I was or how to find my way out.

 

I was probably crying.

I wrote him back.

I told him what I had done and how I had responded.
And he gave me nothing.

 

It’s a good thing I never saw him in person, because he had no idea what to do. No idea where I was, what to say, how to help me. 

 

A common acting technique is emotional recall. You learn it in acting class, you do it there as an exercise, remembering an intense experience so you can bring back the emotions, the reactions, when your character is going through something similar. A common technique – but potentially a dangerous one, if the remembered trauma is too triggering and the teacher too inexperienced to deal with the effect of the memory.

I was in a place I didn’t know existed, alone and lost, with no one to pull me back and no one to offer aftercare.

 

I deleted the correspondence, as if that would erase the memory.

As if that would make me safe.

 

But I wasn’t safe.

Not one bit.

 

I was Odysseus tied to the mast, hearing the siren’s song, struggling against the ropes, cunt swelling, struggling and cursing and begging to be released, until my desire melted my bonds and I threw myself into the ocean, swimming towards my doom and my salvation. 

 

 

Unleashed. Unlashed

I'm on my own now.

Pondering possibilities.

Contemplating, calibrating,

Lusts and wants and needs.

Brain and cunt and bank account

Begging to be filled.

I’m too old and too poor to be left on my own.

Still wet and horny, though.

 

(Alas, not old enough to have been vaccinated yet, which does limit one’s options if survival is a goal. Which it is, as Ketzel is still alive at nearly 18. We keep each other warm and groomed and kissed. In that, I’m luckier than some.)