Red hot bottom

He took up the cane
not for my pain
but for color, for
heat, the rain of blows
restrained, traveling the
lane from the mounds
of my butt
down wincing thighs,
back to the blush of
white turned to pink
burnt to red.
"It hurts,"
I cried. "Daddy,
you're hurting me!"
I whined, as the
flow down my thighs
betrayed to his fingers
the truth of my need.

Delicious

3 kinds of nipple clamps.
Chains and leather bands.
One big black flogger.
And an orgasm.

Oh yes.
And a massage.

I wasn't even going to say that much.
My Master seemed disappointed.
He said I should add "More to come."

Was he talking about another post?
Or another event like today's?

In any case, it was a wonderful way to welcome Spring.

Thank you, Daddy.
And... to the other guy.

Iron rings in the concrete floor

Chains or rope?

That is the question.

On risk and life and death. Mostly death.

"Risky behaviour?" the allergy nurse asked.

She was taking a medical history for their new, computerized record system.

I just looked at her, at a loss as to how to respond.
She thought I didn't understand the question.
I knew she'd be taken aback by the answer.

"Like HIV..." she said, trying to be helpful.
I just shook my head no.

Except when the sadist closes his hands around my neck, my risky behaviour doesn't seem to have any bearing on my asthma.

And besides.
I've made my decisions.
My activities may not always be safe,
but they are consensual.
We'll leave aside the issue of my sanity.

Still...
risky behaviour.

A child going to school...
this should not be risky behaviour.
We should -
should! -
be able to count on their coming home alive.

But this is the United States of NRA,*
where guns are easier to get than treatment for mental illness,
and little children
bleed out
their lives
on a classroom floor.
This isn't the lesson they were sent to school to learn.

And the lesson that is so clear to so many of us? The lesson we learn over and over, from one senseless massacre after another? Our politicians are too chicken shit to act on it. The election is over, and they're still being choked by the NRA's chain.

And people say we're perverted.


* NRA = National Rifle Association, which vehemently opposes any form of gun control.

She sulks

It's true.
I'm sulking.
I'm not proud of it.
But I won't deny it.

I'm like a deflated balloon, one minute bobbing around cheerfully on the end of my string - on the end of my chain, to be more accurate - and the next minute I go splat, all energy gone, falling asleep over my laptop. For real. Nodding off. Staring at the screen and nodding off and wishing a message from the joy and torment of my life would pop up but knowing it won't. And it doesn't.

Sulking.

Because life gets in the way.
It always gets in the way for us this time of year.
But this particuar year is worse than most.
And there's a good chance he can't visit this weekend.

Sometimes this arrangement sucks.

The carrot & the stick. Mainly, the stick.

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Love and lust and mutual mental masturbation

There's been a shift,
just the slightest change,
since my Master's last
implied confession
of his feelings
via a song he wanted me to hear.

Nothing major.
Not the kind of thing he has feared
in which the delicate balance of power
toppled
when my knowledge of his emotions
was added to one side.

I'm not even sure I can say exactly what it is. I certainly can't give a name to it. But it feels as if we're closer with the veil of pretense removed. I still and always will be on the controlled end of the chain. Neither of us would want it any other way, and he's right in think the relationship could not survive having it any other way. But it's almost as if a different sense of union has joined the D/s dynamic.

Which still doesn't seem like the right word.

Any suggestions?
I feel it so clearly inside.
In my head and my heart.
But I just can't pin it down.

It feels good, though.
Whatever it is.
And makes me feel both safer and bolder.
Isn't that nice?

Meanwhile, I almost came in my allergist's waiting room from the texts the fiend and I were exchanging. I can't believe no one noticed me writhing in my chair, pressing my pussy down into the seat, nearly moaning out load, and surely - oh definitely - grimacing as he described his exercise regimen in real time. (Ha! Surprised you! Doesn't sound a bit erotic, does it? Fat lot you know... we continued to make each other crazy all day, giving my plain white cotton panties a permanently sodden crotch. One touch and I would have cum screaming. If, that is, I were allowed. Which I'm not. There are many forms of torture...)

I'm so very happy.

Don't you two have sex anymore?!

Why yes, now that you mention it.
We most certainly do!
And also yes.
I can hear what you're thinking.

First she disappears for months at a time, and then comes back only to give us these very vague references to undefined issues and unexplained resolutions, while going all poetic and mushy on us. C'mon! Give us a break! Where's the sex? Where's the pain?!

So yes.
To answer your questions.

He fucked me on and off for a long time today. And yes, that was pussy fucking. Lots of pussy fucking.

For a change, he didn't poke at my tight little butt hole.

He did fuck my mouth. But then he always does that. There is normally lots of raping of my mouth, and lots of very expert sucking and licking on my part.

Plus he's teaching me how to deep throat him. Very slowly and patiently, since I have an overactive gag mechanism and, in fact, had never been instructed in this fine art. Now, though, I can manage it for short periods of time, and am coming to understand why it is so pleasurable to the recipient.

Because in addition to being VERY sexual and very dominant, the fiend is very sensual. He cultivates my awareness of how things feel to him, which not only enables me to serve him better but also makes every act, every moment, more intimate. There's this communion of mind and body. A sharing of sensations, not just because we are both feeling something at the same time but because we are feeling the sensations through each other.

I really should find something better to call him than "the fiend." That term originated in the early days. But now...

The problem is, that any one word feels so incomplete.
Inadequate.
Daddy.
My Dom.
My Master.
My Owner.

My lover.

That's what a mistress has, isn't it?
A lover?

I've hesitated to use that term because of the multiple embedded meanings. Someone you have sex with. Someone who loves you. The first seemed reductive and the second... presumptuous, I suppose. Although yesterday he wrote that a mistress has the right to be presumptuous.

There is no one word.

He spoke a little more today about what he did for me last night. Whom he spoke to - although I knew whom he had to have spoken to. And no, it's not necessarily who you think.

He didn't reveal what he said, and I'm dying of curiosity, especially as he said he did specifically talk about me. And he didn't reveal what changes he was requiring. But I know - and this is what makes my heart melt - I know that... can you hear me faltering as I try to get out the words? Holding the idea close to my eyes and then turning away because of how it glows? It is both beautiful and fearsome, its flames licking at my cheeks and burning the lips that marvel as they kiss his.

I think...
I think I'm not just his treasure - a term he has used for years.
I think...
And this word is my choice.
I think I am his joy.

So now...

Imagine him fucking me...
Sometimes sweetly.
Sometimes fiercely.
His body melting into mine.
His arms restraining mine.
His chain around my neck.
Imagine him caning me
to remind me to work harder on my diet for him.
To remind me to exercise more.
Imagine me sucking his cock
as he lies back against the pillows.
Sometimes I'm up on my knees
so he can see the welts from the short, mild beating.
Sometimes I lie flat on my belly,
my legs together
giving my soft, moist mouth a better angle for service.

I often do that.
But this time
he looked down on my pink buttocks,
smaller now from the weight loss,
and they looked like a child's bottom,
so that he ordered me across his knees
and spanked me long and hard,
except I was drunk on endorphins
and it barely hurt at all.

I didn't want him to stop.

I wanted him to cane me.

And then I made him cum with my hand.
So he could look at me as his pleasure became more intense.
So he could look in my eyes
and look at my tits
and hear my voice
and kiss me as I served him.

And then he came,
as I said I am his mistress,
as I said that I love him,
and I've been saying I love him for 4 years now
but these days,
this last month,
the words make him cum.

The words make him cum and he cums with a smile.
He cums with a smile
from a different place.
A place of beauty.
A place of joy.
And it's
so
damn
intimate
that never
ever
in my whole life
have I ever known anything like it.

And it's maybe 4 hours later as I write this, and I know I'll be high for days. Barring something that unceremoniously hauls me back to a more pedestrian reality, I'll be floating at least through Tuesday, feeling his cells on my body, feeling his cells commingling with mine, feeling the gently sweet intimacy of this sadist's cock dwelling inside me, caressing me from the inside, loving me from the inside...

I've slipped into a reverie, and can't seem to find my way out. And really, why should I? So I'll stay there for now, incapable of summoning any bluntly pornographic sex scenes for your titillation. My sadist is a romantic, he can't help it, it's always been there, from the moment he found me.

And now he seems to have stopped pretending.

We were slaves...

It's here again.
Passover.

A celebration of liberation.
A holiday that tells a story.
We were slaves and now we are free.

We sit around a table with family and friends and symbolic foods, reading new versions of the traditional text, performing small rituals in ways that have become rituals of our own.

Sometimes we charge right through it.
Sometimes we stop.
And think.
And discuss.

Sometimes the words swirl around us as we search for ways to make them meaningful in our own lives.

What if being a slave is something we embrace?
What if it is something we struggle to embrace?
What if we struggle to free ourselves from the fear of freedom?

"Freedom is a chain", my high school teacher said to illustrate the concept of the oxymoron. Yes, we said, nodding sagely, understanding only some of the implications of the responsibilities that come with freedom. Because of course there is the flip side.

If
freedom = a chain
then
a chain = freedom.

At least in our world.
Our alternative, chosen world.
A world where the chain is worn willingly,
is accepted with pride,
is borne with humility
and with the understanding that it, too,
brings with it responsibility.

A world in which I feel an unexpected safety in belonging to a sadist. A world in which his torturous desire to hurt me speaks of his feelings for me, feelings that doom him to wrestling with himself to protect that which he treasures.

I was lucky enough to get to know Laura Antoniou and her wife during the short period of time they were in this area and belonged to my synagogue. A while back they wrote a haggaddah for a leather seder, which includes some commentary connecting power relationships as lived and explored in the BDSM community with the themes and stories we address at this time. You can find a pdf of the book here.

As for me, tomorrow night, as I sit at the table of dear friends who are both leather men and long time AIDS survivors, every time I read the word "slave" my mind will ricochet back and forth between the story of the Exodus from Egypt and my own story of finding freedom in submission to the will of another.

And then I'll remember this.
In the story of the Exodus,
the Jews flee their slavery in Egypt,
and then,
of their own free will,
enter in a new covenant of obedience,
accepting the Ten Commandments at the foot of Mount Sinai.


Yes, they say to God.
Yes.
We accept.
We are your people,
and we will obey.

Yes, I say to he who is the anchor of my life.
Yes.
I accept.
I belong to you.
The struggle will never end.
But I belong to you.
And I will try,
again and again,
to obey.

Floating beyond the pain

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"Come here, my pet."

It hits me every time.

I see a reference to pets and I startle.

Just a little.

A moment of translation

from what the sign means

to what I am.

Today it was from the cat food.

The words stamped on the can of kitty tuna:

PET FOOD ONLY.

As if pets were some lesser creatures.

I am his pet.

I am his treasure.

And yet I am forbidden.

Probably a good idea.

But still...

What if we had driven together out to the casino?

What if I had begged for a pee stop?

Would he have obeyed the sign

and taken me from the car on the end of the chain?

Would he have made me pee in the designated area?

Would I have tottered through it on my black spike heels?

Would I have been naked except for the shoes?

It was a warm day after all...

You see what happens?

My imagination escapes me.

Leashes can be useful at times...

On my own but never alone.

I've enjoyed the last few days.
I've enjoyed being on my own.
Because being on my own means being with the fiend.

Not that I've been hanging out at home alone. It's been a busy time. I stayed home Friday night and now I can't even remember what I did. I was very tired. I think I went to bed early. And earned Daddy's praise by waking up early on Saturday.

I do love earning Daddy's praise.

He was so pleased that he phoned me from his car.
He almost never phones me.
It was a special treat for both of us.

I love my Daddy's voice.

He ordered me out for a nice long walk on Saturday. I got air and exercise and sunshine and lots of pictures of fall foliage. Happy pet. And happy Daddy. Because as usual I sent him messages from along the trail.

I'm walking briskly, Daddy.
On the trail by the creek.
People are out with their kids and their pets.
The pets are leashed.
As am I, Daddy.

I took a lot of pictures.
I was very happy.
Daddy was happy.
He didn't reply but I knew he was happy.
He loves being with me on my walks.

A housewarming party later.
Followed by a project I'll report on in a few days.
This morning he allowed me to masturbate.
Checking out a new sex toy.
Yum.
He let me cum.
I'll report soon on that, too.
Daddy, of course, got his report in real time.
Lucky Daddy.
Lucky, aroused Daddy.

The rest of the day.
Brunch.
Home.
Nap.
Supper with friends.
And always.
Always.
I felt him with me.
I felt soft and warm and sweet and happy
and he was with me.
Always with me.

Happy Daddy.
Happy pet.

Pussy on stilts

I bought heels today.
2 pairs of 3 inch heels.
This is a big deal for me.
I don't wear heels.

Well, I do have one pair I wear occasionally.
But they're Dansko's.
The people who also make my clogs.
They're not very high and they're pretty cute.

But he said I have to wear heels.
For a special occasion.
And that won't be the last time I wear them.
Though maybe the last time I wear them with anything else, he said.

Luckily, I was already at the thrift store when the order came down, and within 20 minutes of receiving the message I had found 2 pairs that looked as if they've only been worn once. The tops are all thin straps, so my toes don't suffer the usual feeling of confinement. Except for my occasional foray in clogs, I almost always wear Birkenstocks, either sandals or closed shoes, so my toes are used to spreading out. My toes are used to being happy. Which makes it hard to find shoes that have enough room for them. An array of skinny straps solves that problem.

They do NOT solve for a lack of cork in the sole. The heels on both pairs are relatively solid, so I should manage to walk without immediately falling over, but the soles are very thin and merely trying them on as I stood there in the thrift store made my feet hurt.

The man is truly a sadist.
Though I doubt he has any idea how uncomfortable they are.
Not that he cares, of course.
And neither should I.
If it turns him on,
if it amuses him,
if it arouses him
to see his little pussy in heels,
then so be it.

But I'll have to walk very slowly.
Carefully.
As if my ankles were shackled.

Makes my pussy twitch just to think of it.

Another way to be chained...

I will love suffering for him.

How Can I Keep from Smiling?

Damn.
I did it again.
And I was reminding myself not to!

Smile, that is.
I smiled when he arrived.

Not at first.
He came in the door and I stood there naked and adoring.
Not smiling.
Feeling his eyes inspect me.
Approve of me.
A brief smile graced his lips and was gone.
His smile was gone and I was lost.
Because my mouth couldn't keep from responding to his.

It was just a small smile!
And was gone as fast as his as I realized what my mouth had done.
How my mouth had betrayed me.

Of course, he saw the smile.
And saw the Oops! in my eyes.

No.
He didn't beat me.
He said nothing.
Not until I mentioned it myself at the end of his visit.
He could have done something.
But that's not where he wanted to go this time.

On the other hand, he did spank me.
Three times, I think.
Plus some occasional swats here and there.
Delicious.
Perfect.
With a later one that was quite hard but didn't really hurt.
I could feel that the impacts were quite hard, but they didn't hurt.
They just took me deeper and deeper into that place...

And now, hours later, I'm still all floaty and soft.

And very happy.

A perfect autumn day for a walk along a wooded, creek-side trail.
Alone.
And yet not.

He's always with me.
I always feel him with me.
I walk beside the creek and he is with me.

I talk to him in my head.
Especially when I'm out walking.
And now and then I stop and send him a message on my phone.
When the thoughts become too big to stay inside my head.

He rarely answers.
But I know he's with me.
I know he hears the soft whispers in his ear.
I know they make him smile.
And sometimes his cock will smile, too.

All along my walk were people walking their pets.
On leashes.
Dogs.
There could have been the other kind of pet, too.
My kind of pet.
But if I did pass any, they weren't on leashes.
Not physical ones, anyway.

I was on a leash.
I am always on a leash.
A chain.
The sadist holds one end in his hand.
The other end is locked around my neck.
Always.
Hard steel links that could be the softest silk.
Wherever I am
wherever he is
he holds me on his leash.

Exactly where we both want me to be.

This is not something I do.
This is what I am.
Deep inside and all over me,
this is what I am.

He is my life.
Everything else is secondary.

Well...
maybe not the cats...

Anger vented, pet protected

One of my favorite lines from my story You awake ahead of the alarm (printed in M. Christian's anthology Best  S/M Erotica Vol. 3) is this:

She has no gradations of grief at disappointing you. Any failure feels like the end of the world to her.

This is horribly, unfortunately true. I am terrified of failure because I'm terrified of rejection. That by not being good enough I won't be wanted. That one way or another, I will be shut out. As I beg the sadist whenever we have one of our episodes: "Please don't send me away."

I trace this back to my parents. Which is a whole other story that I won't go into. But I realized last night that I developed a very strong fight or flight instinct. And the flight part manifests itself in two ways: as a physical urge to leave, quit, get out, give up... and as a flight to inner safety, behind a strong wall that locks away any feelings.

This, in some ways, was the scariest part of this little episode. I shut down inside. I stopped having any feelings for him - or rather, I walled them off so I thought they had gone. I thought - all right then, I'm not what he wants me to be, I can't be, I never was. I won't walk away from him, but if he sends me away I'll be relieved. Because I can't stand disappointing him.

But - with him - it never ends up that way. Even the separation early in our first year... I had never meant for it to be over then. I merely misunderstood, and was angry, and then he... well, obviously we made it through that.

Tuesdays are his usual day with me. He was curt this morning. Short, economical e-mails relative to his plans. The first was but 3 words. And then he told me to take the cane, the paddle, the wooden spoon, and the chain outside and lock them up in my car.

You see?

He does protect me!

Besides, he has ways to hurt me far more powerful than implements of pain.

He has words.

He has silence.

We had a lot of time.

And we worked our way through.

He even gave me the gift of what could almost be termed an apology.

He also left a very serious bite mark on my left butt cheek.

(Again, he looked after me, advising me to cleanse it. I wiped it down with rubbing alcohol. It stung, so I knew I was doing the right thing. Then I coated it with antiseptic ointment and covered it with a bandage. Human bites do carry a danger of infection, and a visit to the doctor for treatment of a big butt bite would be highly embarrassing...)

The last couple of months have been hard on both of us. He's been under a lot of stress from many sources. One thing ends, another immediately erupts, and then something else lands on top of it all. Thinking about it dispassionately, I'm not surprised we had a blow up on Sunday.

As for me... well, we've had 2 months of rain. Two months of rain with sun promised in just another few days and then it would be pushed back and pushed back and pushed back...

Finally.

Today.

It arrived.

Autumn.

Sunny and cool and dry.

For at least a week.

I am sorely tempted to shout "Praise be to God" even though - if I believe in God at all, which isn't quite certain - I don't believe in that sort of God. But in this case... well it feels like credit ought to be apportioned somewhere.

The point is that 2 months of rain when you have SAD and are still supposed to be recharging your personal solar battery is NOT A GOOD THING. I've been struggling. Concentration has been shaky at best, moods not all that firm, and my ability to think minimal. 

Plus the issue is a persistent one. This won't be the last time we'll bump up against it. If only we could keep from reacting on such a deep emotional level! 

Still, we made it through. And at the end, as we talked about ordinary things, he enthroned in the Eames chair and me, still naked, sitting on the floor at his feet with my head resting on his right knee, I felt the gentleness of his hand stroking my hair and the love flowing back through me and knew that I couldn't make him so angry if I didn't also make him feel so good.

Ouch. Screwed up again.

I do know.
I do!
Sometimes I even think about it.
And remind myself.

Don't smile when he comes in the door.

It's inappropriate.

But every so often I forget.
I can't help it.
I'm so happy to see him!

He came in the door
and a smile spread over my face
and I thought
"Damn."

No smiling.
It's inappropriate.

There are smiles later.
Sometimes.
But not when he arrives.

So I was punished.
Beaten.
With the strip of wood he uses as a cane.
Which hurt.
And I cried.

And afterwards, I was even softer.
And deeper in my slave space.

I learned a lot about my slave space.
But that's another story.

Maybe I'll tell you.

Meanwhile, there's this.

I realized this.

Whether for punishment or pleasure,
a man has the right to beat his slave.

Lingering on the edge

More details.
In my comments on yesterday's post, I promised more details.

Edge play.
Keeping him on the edge of cumming for over an hour.

It's by his choice, of course.
His directive.
His training.
Never up to me.
He knows what he wants.
He taught me how to deliver.
And gets from me even more.

I do it with my mouth.

With my hands, too, of course, but especially with my mouth.
With my lips and my tongue and my teeth...
And my words.
My breath.
My sighs.
My moans.
My whimpers.

Get one of your recent toys, he said.

I should have picked the latest one. The new purple rabbit. I needed another session with it. You'll read about that tomorrow. But instead I reached for the LAYAspot. I think I may be growing fonder of it than I wrote in my review. And it's perfect for what I knew my Master wanted.

To watch me.
To watch me arouse myself.
To listen.
The noises I make...
My voice, my breath, they do something to him...

I spread out an old red bathmat, to keep from staining the carpet with AstroGlide and pussy juice. I spread my legs, turned on the lubricated little clit vibrator, and pressed it gently against me.

He watched.
With concentration.
He watched and I started rising...
It seemed like a long time but I guess it wasn't long enough.

"I may cum, Daddy. If I'm cumming, may I cum for you?"
"Don't rush," he said gently.
"Don't reach for it."

I let myself fall back.

I never did cum.

I felt his eyes on me.

I began to talk.

I felt as if I were in a peep show. Behind glass. Not because I wanted to be working there, but because I had to. I felt eyes on me. Other men's eyes, though sometimes he came to watch, too. At times I felt the chain... around my neck, on my ankle, pulled taut so I felt constrained, restrained... not that I would have refused, resisted, but to be sure I felt that none of this was for me. It was all for those watching, who got off on knowing that I felt their eyes, that I felt them watching.

That I knew I was no one.
That I had no volition.
That I was there as a slave.

And that if they fucked me, if later they fucked me, they would use me as if I were one of those masturbation toys for men that simulate cunts and mouths and tight little butt holes.

At one point, as these words leaked from my lips without my intention even as I knew that they'd please him, the sadist leaned forward in his throne of a chair. I was on the floor before him, and he leaned forward and observed me with the detachment of a researcher. He observed me. He listened. Closer, he caught every little morsel of sound.

Later, I sucked his cock. Or maybe before and after. I can't really remember. It's all part of my service. Taking as much time as he wants. As much time as he has. Teaching me to feel. To feel him feeling me. Have you tried that yet? I felt what his lips and tongue felt as they enjoyed my mouth. I felt what his cock felt as my mouth traveled up and down over him, pulling, sucking, pressing my tongue down against the base before suddenly releasing him and running my tongue or finger tips over his balls.

"Bitch!"

He cries that out sometimes when I suddenly desert his cock.

But it's what he wants.
To take him up and back.
To lead him along the path of pleasure
and keep him teetering on the edge,
only to pull him back
before leading him to the edge
again
and again
and again.

Until it's time.
And then he cums.
And I'm his sweet baby girl.

I lay my head in his lap,
and wrap my arms around his waist,
and he strokes my hair
and he feels all soft and sweet
and he tells me how good I made him feel
but he doesn't even have to say it.
Because I know.

All his tension is gone.

And my only regret is that soon he'll have to leave.

PS - I left some things out...

My Master lets me share his teachings

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Masturbation mania (7) - Testing the Fun Factory LAYAspot

(I started writing this weeks ago, very late at night, before deciding it might be smart to go to bed. Since then... well, you know... trip prep, trip disappointment, trip recovery... So I'm back to finishing 2 weeks later but not inclined to throw away the beginning. So let's pretend... it's June 23rd...)

It's hard to review a sex toy when you're not allowed to masturbate.

Let me rephrase that. I certainly did subject Fun Factory's LAYAspot to my usual rigorous battery of tests. But weeks later, as I am writing this review, I am not allowed to masturbate.

These days, my Master often allows me to masturbate after he has visited. Occasionally he has me touch myself for him. Even more occasionally, he allows me to cum for him, one end of the chain clipped tight around my neck, the other end clutched firmly in his controlling hand so that my breath is restricted.

Given that he was here yesterday, I might have been able to renew my acquaintance with the LAYAspot before writing. But as he left, he specifically said that I may not masturbate. I'm not complaining. I know why. Saturday night we will be together in the hotel. Back in the room with white linens. He wants me to save everything for him.

It all belongs to him anyway.

Back to the subject at hand.
Or not at hand.
My pussy and her latest little friend from Edentoys.


Luckily, when I'm in the lab, I take copious notes.
And I send them in real time to the Professor.
I mean, my Master.
Which means that
no matter how long I postpone the final write-up,
I can still pass on my immediate responses.

So what is this LAYAspot and how did I feel about it?

I'm not a vaginal orgasm girl. I do love the feel of a cock inside me - as long as it's not too big. I'm still very tight at 62, and even with plenty of AstroGlide I'm not that hot for a big, fat cock. Not even in my mouth. I gag much too easily! But we're not talking mouth sex. We're talking pussy sex. With a cock. Or a pseudo cock.

I do like fucking.
The closeness.
The weight of a man.
The different flavours of the dance.
A well-choreographed partner routine
or a strong, determined male lead,
where he takes what he needs
and gives me what he wants me to have.
If anything.
Perhaps he just takes.
Uses.
Invades.
There are so many options.

I'm submissive.
Very submissive.
I like when he leads...
Though on top can be fun...

I'm losing focus.
The sadist is always on me about losing focus.

The point is, with me and cocks, it's not just the phallic sensation. It's the interaction. The relationship. Even if just a momentary relationship. So a cock - a phalloid pleasure object - a battery-powered super-dick - all on its own, that's not such a big deal. Especially since dicks don't normally do it. They usually don't make me cum. Not on their own.

I'm a clitoral cummer. I've been rubbing myself since I was maybe 2. So what I really wanted to try was one of those clit vibrators that are shaped to nestle in the palm of your hand and then nestled up against your sweet, needy pussy to add a little oomph to what you normally do.

As some of you may remember from back in December, what I've been lusting after is the lovely Siri from LELO. My friends at EdenFantasys weren't able to manage that at the moment, but they did send me something similar: the LAYAspot from Fun Factory. I've been very pleased so far with my Fun Factory sex toys, so had high hopes for this one. And though I had to make a change from my Variations on a Theme of Purple motif because I wasn't all that taken with the violet and vanilla model, I was able to get the one being eyed above by Ketzel. Magenta and pearly rose. How could I resist?

But the first time I tried it, I was disappointed. Part of that may have been the mood I was in. As I wrote the sadist:

I did masturbate last night. I wasn't trying to relieve any sort of urgent, persistent arousal. As I've said before, I do tend to feel some measure of release when you cum, as I've been riding your own waves as I give you pleasure. But last night it was more wanting to prolong a general sense of physical pleasure, from having been close to you... from my body having been close to yours... under yours... lying alongside of yours... and finally all that sweet time together after you came when you stroked my head...

But somehow it didn't quite come together. Or maybe, my Lord, I should have stayed with my fingers. I did follow your advice to try not to push it. I let myself enjoy the physical sensations as I fondled my clit and caressed the shaved area just above. I pushed in, which felt so good, and I thought of how you like me to push in there...

And then I tried that new little vibrator, which sort of shut things down. It has a harsh sort of buzzy sound, my Lord, and doesn't have that soft padded area that the little lavender Meany has, which makes it soft and comfy. Or maybe I really didn't want something artificial at the point. In any case, I didn't like it and dried up and was annoyed.

In the end, I abandoned the LAYAspot and did quite nicely with my fingers and my fantasies - which, as I keep learning, are sadly much more extreme than I can tolerate in real life.

About a week later, I tried again, and quickly discovered one of the reasons my previous test run hadn't been very successful. Silly me. I thought gee... I'm not putting it inside me... why do I need lube? I'll avoid the mess and use it as is.

As I said.
Silly me.

Cause this time, when I brought out the trusty AstroGlide, it felt much better! Plus I took my time in making its acquaintance. At first I rubbed it gently around my clitoris and labia, greased up but not turned on and then pressed the little + button to slowly explore the different levels and patterns of vibrations.

Tomorrow I'll share with you my on-the-LAYAspot reporting of my experience and responses. Here, though, is a summary of the results.

1. although given only 2 bees for noise level, which is the same as the other toys I've tried, it seems much louder. Perhaps that's because it is for external use only, so my body isn't dampening the sound. Whatever the reason, it seemed rather loud, which was distracting.
2. the toy is quite small, meant to snuggle under your sensitive bits. So the vibrations go through the entire thing and into my fingers. It's weird. It's annoying. The Meany is small, and does in fact vibrate up to the cap, but doesn't bother me as much.
3. a problem I've found with other vibrators as well is that when I keep it going for a long time it makes my pussy kind of numb. At that point, I can't feel much if I switch to my fingers. Again, the Meany is the only one for which this isn't that big a problem - perhaps because of its sweet, soft, squooshy tip.

As you'll read tomorrow, I did get my orgasm from the LAYAspot. And it was a perfectly fine orgasm. But when I think of reaching for silicone assistance... Oh. Wait. Silicone...

The LAYAspot is not silicone. I've become a big fan of silicone playmates. But this little baby is something called Elastomed. It's ok. But not silicone...

Anyway, come back tomorrow and follow my clit as it dances with the LAYAspot.

NOTE: Tuesday July 5 - after our very pleasant and extended lunchtime rendez-vous and excellent service on behalf of this devoted slave to his cock, my Master said I might masturbate if I wished. And oh yes, I wished. I gave myself a long, leisurely masturbation session and - all on my own - I reached for my little lavender Meany. And used it only on my clitoris. Or... have you ever tried this? Pressing it on that area at the top of your pelvis? Just above the bone? Yummy... Anyway. It was delightful. For about an hour. And I didn't go too numb. And it gave me an orgasm all by itself. So for me, in or out, my Meany is still #1!