The Bright Side

Things that are good about London, because I have to remind myself to keep from turning into a ball of misery and self pity. Because apparently that's a bad thing. 


1. Him
2. Them
3. Beauty is cheaper, I mean $40 for waxing really seems over the odds.
4. Dim Sum, there must be more Ping Pong on Sundays, with obscene quantities of delicious Char Sui buns and cocktails. 
5. Socialist fucking healthcare! Here's to free STD screening where they practically throw condoms at you (including flavoured ones and female ones, about which I hear good things) and don't look at you funny when you tell them what you've really been up to. 
6. Public transport; the London Underground may be full of foolish and irritating tourists, but it beats DC hands down on a bad day. It's bright and cheerful, and frequent and fast. The buses aren't too bad either. 
7. It's London. And it is (more than anywhere else at least) where I was raised, and therefore has certain home-like qualities. 
8. London has a cinema chain which (hopefully still) does an unlimited card, for peanuts, I will be able to see literally unlimited numbers of films, and I am a film junkie, so this does make me happy.
9. I'm running out. 
10. London has no rope bomb squad yet, it could be that I will start a trend and become London's first guerrilla bondage type. (Weirder things have happened!)


11. My friends are all in DC and Baltimore (and the surrounding area) and heaven is a place called Ramblewood, and it's going to be on the wrong side of the Atlantic rather than a smooth two hour drive away. I can be thoroughly miserable in my little bedroom missing the place I've come to call home and the community I've come to call family. 

Definition

Sometimes a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Sometimes you're not sure about that. Sometimes in order to be able to enjoy smelling the thing, you need to have a name for it. Sometimes 'that sweet smelling red plant' isn't enough. 


I find myself in one of those situations now. I have a something with a someone. I don't know what it is, I'm not sure I need to, I maybe helped make things a little messy last time by pushing the thing into a box and making it fit (sort of), but it needs more form than it currently has.


Currently, and let's think in FetLife terms here, because, let's face it, your relationship doesn't count until you've put it on your FetLife page, I think we're between 'It's complicated' and 'Masochist/Sadist to' each other. I think that could work for me. Complicated sounds like a good way to put the slightly amorphous still developing 'something' that we have. But if it's 'complicated' what are the rules? Do we need rules in the first place? Assuming that rules, or at least some kind of piratical 'guidelines' are required, how should we decide them? Who makes the first suggestion? Him because he's the 'Top' or me because I'm the one who'll have to follow whatever protocols we agree upon. Does one call one's complicated person Sir? Or do we revert to first names which no longer seem quite right? If we do stick with Sir and pet, how do we stop ourselves, out of habit, slipping back into the roles we've held for what seems like so long, and thus repeating the pattern?


For now at least, I have a thing with a guy (ok, a couple of things with a couple of people of varying genders, but we're talking about this one right now) and I love him, and he loves me, and we can't (and possibly wouldn't if we could) change that fact. All we can do is try to keep adapting within the blobby, slightly sticky relationship thing, and keep adapting it so that it looks good to both of us, although it will probably still be blobby and amorphous, and slightly sticky. And yes, it's sticky for exactly the reason you're thinking (although it might also be butter-cream icing).


Relationships; who'd have 'em?

There is no switch to flick

Sometimes I wish there were a switch to flick on love. Sometimes I'm glad there isn't. 
Sometimes I cry that I can't stop loving someone, and sometimes I'm just glad that they still love me. 
Sometimes it hurts, and sometimes it makes me stronger. 

I dare to dream sometimes

I dreamed. And I felt selfish for it. Not for dreaming, but for the things I dreamed of. 


I dreamed that I lived in a nice flat in the city with my lover, wood flooring, scattered rugs, a cat, a nice big kitchen/living area, huge shower, and two bedrooms, the rest isn't really important, the rest is just what fills up the space around the aforementioned important things. 


Anyway, I lived there with my lover, his wife was out of the picture, because, let's face it, how could anybody look at my lover and not want to jump his bones? Unless they were a straight man or a gay woman. But she's neither as far as I know, all I know is that she doesn't love him like I love him. I've never met her, we've never talked a lot about her, I may be misjudging her horribly and I'll go to hell for it. I don't care. I love him. 


And as well as having my lover, I had my Sir, not living there, just staying when he came into the city. Coming over for dinner after a hard day at work, having the kind of wonderful intelligent dinner conversation I love so much, then, after dinner, after dessert and a cup of tea, bidding my lover good night, and taking me to the other bedroom to use me. To tie me up and beat me and make me beg for more and more until both of us were satiated, satisfied, and ready to fall asleep, my head resting on his chest, his arm around me, keeping me warm and safe and happy.


On nights when Sir wasn't around I'd spend my time sometimes cooking but mostly jumping my lover's bones. Fucking him until neither of us could go on, until we collapsed on the bed, soaked in sweat and cum, and slept, warm in each other's arms, spooning, warm and safe and happy. He'd have another lover too, or maybe more than one, a pretty girl or two (or more) who would come over and play with him, or both of us sometimes.


I dreamed it. And I want so much for it to be true. I feel selfish for wanting it. For wanting my dream house of love, with those closest to my heart, those I care for more than anything else in the world. 


Everybody can dream.

The point

The blood flowed steadily, hot, dark, shining in the dim orange light of the street lamp. Her eyelids flickered and she moaned, his leather gloved hand around her throat made more sound hard, the bare fingertips dug into her pale neck, bruising, hurting her, but she didn't ask him to stop, her eyes rolled back, and she gasped, eyes suddenly wide as the knife found its way to her clit, "mm, mm, please" the words were barely above a whisper, but he heard, he knew what she wanted. 
Ten.
She moaned into him, her knees trembling, he pushed the knife just a little harder into her clit and she stood on her tiptoes, imploring him with her eyes. 


Nine.
He whispered filth into her ear and she whimpered. "Please, please Sir." She didn't finish the sentence, unable to find the words, her breath came short as the knife dug into her tender flesh.


Eight.
He released her neck, grabbed her hair and threw her to the floor. Pushing her face down onto the rough road, pinning her with his fist tangled in her hair, he spat in her face.


Seven.
He forced her legs apart, shoved the toe of his boot into her soaking crotch, she cried out, tears coming to her eyes. The sound of a zipper reached her ears, and then he was inside her.


Six.
He forced himself into her soaking cunt, moaned. "Oh yeah. You like that you little cunt? Or you like it a little harder?" He wrenched her head back, arching her back, pulling her up, close to him, holding the knife against her throat so hard she was afraid to breathe. 


Five. 
He pulled his dick, slick with her juices out of her pussy and she gasped as she felt him pushing against her tight ass, whimpering in pain as he pushed himself into her, making a noise of satisfaction. 


Four. 
"God you're such a tight little slut!" A drop of blood ran down her neck, her chest, her cleavage. He fucked her harder, till she was afraid he'd tear her in half and cut her throat.


Three.
"Are you gonna cum? Are you going to cum while I break you little bitch?" "Please!" Tears ran down her cheeks, barely able to breathe, aching and battered and bruised and bleeding.


Two.
He threw her onto his back, folded her in half, slammed into her ass again and leaned down to sink his teeth into her throat, clamping down over the bloody line on her neck, drinking long and deep.


One.
A growl tore from his throat, animal, harsh, wild. "Cum! Cum for me slut!" Tell me who owns you and cum for me!" "You!" She screamed into the night "Oh God Sir!" Her screams were cut short as he clamped his mouth down over hers, her body shook, her muscles clenched around him and he growled again, jerking against her, filling her with his cum. 


They fell together arms wrapping around each other, a tangle of limbs, searching lips, tears and cum and blood and sweat. The shredded remains of her dress and stockings were scattered on the ground around them, she felt the graze on her face stinging in the cold air, the blood sticking and clotting around her cuts. She ached everywhere, deliciously. 

On Love and Convenience

I saw a quote once, it said "Love that is not madness is not love."


Love doesn't come along when you've decided that it would be convenient. It doesn't fit into anybody's schedule, it doesn't play by anybody's rules. It rarely happens in the way we think it will. Some people fall in love with one person, and forsake all others. Some people love the world, some people fall in love with just a few people, they weren't necessarily looking for this. They just happened to be busy loving one person when another came along and took their heart, and suddenly, they found that they had two hearts, or three. One for each person they loved. You don't give someone a quarter of your love, you give them your whole heart, which sticks its finger up at maths.


Sometimes I wish that the people I love were more convenient. One of them was once, he was not only nearby, he was also deliciously kinky, fabulous in bed, a geek, a foodie, ginger, tall... And married, so I didn't have to worry that our relationship would get all heavy and deep and meaningful and people would start wanting 'more.' Then, rather inconveniently actually, I found that I was lost, it was too late, I loved him. It took me a while to come to terms with that, a while to realise that love doesn't have to be the end of the world. It can be the beginning. Inconvenience was moving to the other side of the Atlantic. Inconvenience is being so far away from him that I have spent nights wishing that I could teleport someone to my bed just by my need for them. 


I fell in love again on this side of the Atlantic. He didn't have to tie me up to catch me, but don't tell him, he might stop tying me up, and I never want that to happen, ever. I love him and I'm so far away, a six hour journey's worth it though, to see him smile, to be in his arms. Convenience? Where? I think I've made a habit of inconvenience in the people I love. Maybe one day I'll fall in love with a boy (or girl) next door. But not today. 


Inconvenience does at least have its positives. You can't take something for granted if it's inconvenient, if it's hard sometimes, if it demands that you care for it. You have to want it, sometimes you have to fight for it, sometimes you have to defend it, and it reminds you every time you see it that it's worth every tear and every step of the journey you took. If something was too convenient, too easy, wouldn't you take it for granted? Wouldn't you go looking for something which would challenge you a little? Be a bit more exciting? I think I for one will be happy for married high school sweet hearts, and people next door. I will take my inconvenient, wonderful people, and I will love them will all of my hearts. 


Love is inconvenient. But, contrary to what I once thought; it's worth it. A thousand times over.

Life is like...

Not a box of chocolates, who thought up that nonsense? You know which one you're going to get if you look at the leaflet! 


No. Life is like riding a bicycle. Funny metaphor for someone who can't ride one, but there it is. You ride along with the wind in your hair, and you're happy and free and it's a bit of work going up hills, and then you go down them and you feel like you're flying. Until you wobble, until you feel like you're going to fall. And suddenly you remember the road beneath your wheels. The road you've forgotten about, and you know that if you fall, then that road which helps you to fly now, that road will tear your skin, will rip it away, just like peeling an orange, it will try to catch you, try to hold you, and your face will be dragged along it as the road bites it, rips it, tears it...


And then you're afraid. You know that you're okay, but suddenly you have to concentrate, you have to think, you think too much and you hold onto the handlebars too tight and you can't make your legs pedal right, and you wobble, and you can't get straight again, and you're weaving like a drunken man, and you can't straighten up, and you know that all you have to do is not be scared, but you're so scared that you can't stop, you can't ride straight and now you can't think straight, and you're so afraid of the road that you've forgotten, it's still holding you up. 


All you have to do is trust yourself, but you're so afraid of falling that you can't. You can't trust the road, or yourself, and you know that somewhere there is someone who loves you, someone who can wrap you up in their arms and keep you safe, and make all the fear go away. But you can't get to them, because you're too scared, you're so scared of falling that you can't make yourself safe. 


You're so scared that you can't see the most important thing.

Thank You

I'm not religious, I don't believe in anyone's concept of 'God' or go to church. But I do believe in a benevolent higher power, it might be the rope gods, it might be providence, it might be  Aphrodite, or Venus, or just collisions of circumstances which sometimes don't seem completely random. 


Whatever it is, I owe it my thanks, my love, my all. I have been blessed, I have love, I have friends, I have been able to be there for me, and they've been there for me, and we've held each other up, leaned against each other, helped each other to ground, and flown hand in hand to the stars and back. This weekend was a stressful one in some ways, someone had a scare and I was able to help, to hold a hand, to reassure, to stop someone dwelling on a worst case which might not come to pass. 


I helped people find things, and get to places, I made sure that things were where they needed to be, fed people cupcakes, ran Quizno's to friends and volunteers. I participated in a double gravity boot suspension, I gave a suspendee my cleavage for a pillow and I demoed for my Sir's two classes, Sexual Shibari and Partial Suspensions. I laughed, I lived, I loved. 


My Sir tied me to a rig we waited on for an hour, just a simple chest harness, a takata kote, nothing more. I couldn't fall over, only into his ropes, or into his arms.  He held me tight while he threw his fists into me again and again all over, kicks, and knees and climbing on me, digging his knees into my body, punching me harder than ever before, slapping me across the face to make my head ring with the force of the blow. He threw both fists into my chest and I managed to gasp out a 'please!' but I don't know that I would have been able to stop the orgasm that tore through me on his 'cum.' That one word sent me shaking, falling into the ropes, he didn't move his fists, digging them in instead, and I leaned in, standing on tip toes and leaning in to his fists, shaking with the force of my orgasm until he put a hand gently on my chest and said 'stop' smiling, calling me his good girl, I was so good, I smiled back, happy to have pleased him, glad that the ropes were holding me, it was as if I were wrapped in his arms. He made to untie me, and all I could say was 'Please don't say it's over Sir!" almost plaintively, but he laughed, and gave me more, more of his fists, more of his open hands, all over my body, climbing up me again.


I wasn't on the planet earth any more, the world held on by a thread, if that. I was alone with him in a parallel universe, we floated together, linked by our eyes and wherever he touched me, hands, fists, knees, boots and I knew that I was his. 


Someone caught me in the lobby a while later, and said that it had been a beautiful scene to watch, I had no idea that he'd been there. The rest of the world really had ceased to exist for a while. 


That was my Winter Fire, and I thank all the people involved, and whatever higher power gave me the opportunities I had, and the love I felt. 

North of the Border

I should have written this up ages ago, but as my blogging back then was even more erratic than it is now. 


Last year I went to Edinburgh. I won a two night stay in a wonderful hotel in the centre of the city, and I took my lanky ginger geek with me. An upgrade thanks to useful contacts meant that we ended up with a two bedroom apartment, beautiful, simple and elegant decor, super comfy, and, awesomely cool, the kitchen, living room, and both bedrooms all had floor to ceiling windows. There was an office block across a wide boulevard that swept below us. This is important because with windows like that, and a view like that, over the two days we were there (Tuesday and Wednesday) I got fucked against every window. I even got fisted in front of the one in the kitchen. Weird bit; I don't think anyone in the office noticed. 


It wasn't all sex in front of windows of course. There was sex in the bed, on the sofa, in the shower, on the kitchen counters.... Oh, and a bit of culture, we were in Edinburgh after all, we visited the castle, we walked the Royal Mile to Holyrood House, we ate fudge till I almost felt sick, and then we fucked some more. My every hole was thoroughly abused. On the second night we were there, he sat on the sofa and I leant against it upside down and he fisted me till I begged him to let me cum, then he made me cum till I was almost ready to ask for mercy! 


Despite that, I think my favourite moment was when we arrived, we fell into the room, and, having barely gone from end to end of the place, landed in front of the window in the nearest bedroom, bags having been thrown on the bed, and I dropped to my knees to tear his jeans from his crotch and take his cock down my throat and suck it till he was rock hard in my mouth, then he pulled me up by my hair till I was standing, pushed my face against the window, we tore my jeans down together and he fucked me, told me to cum again and again and let me twist and duck at just the right moment to drink his cum, he filled my mouth and I looked up, mouth open and full of cum till he smiles down at me and says 'swallow' and I obey and gently kiss the head of his cock before looking up at him, smiling. 


Those moments are the ones I see in my mind. Those and the post coital spooning while he talked about all manner of geekery. Post coital education. Is there anything quite like it? It's funny the things we miss, the things we picture when we thing about a person, I see him from my knees, as if I were looking up at him with a mouthful of his sweet cum. 

Two Things

There are two things in this world you should never do; never start a land war in Asia, and never challenge my Sir to anything. 


Which is precisely why I told him that I had once been forced to have eight orgasms inside of five minutes with nothing but three fingers on my lover's right hand. Wouldn't it be challenging to make me cum even more than that by punching me Sir....


Yes. I am a masochist. 


No, I am his masochist. He is the one I beg for pain, the one I thank for it unbidden, the one to whom I am grateful for it. Others I may goad and provoke in to hurting me, I may fight with them and tell them they can do better, I may tell them to put their backs into what they do. But him, him I simply ask as politely as I know how, and can only hope that it pleases him to hurt me that day. 


Funny how things change, they always said, 'never say never' and now I know they were right. I said I'd never be a pain slut, and now, for one man, that's exactly what I am.

A little more on service that doesn't include sex

Non sexual service isn't something I've ever even pretended to understand before, if you said that was your thing, I'd probably have given you a funny look, been confused, pondered for a while, and then given up any kind of attempt to understand. 

Not so much any more. It would appear that for the right person, any form of service can appeal, and be fulfilling, and meaningful, and beautiful. My Sir does not demand that I kneel to offer him tea if I make it, I do it because it is my place, because when I am kneeling he can look down at me and smile and say 'thank you pet' in his soft, smooth rich voice. Then I can stand, and smile, and take care of his breakfast, or whatever else he might need. 

I know it doesn't make sense from the outside. Let me try again. Tell me that you want me to be something, and I'll try if I care about you at all, but eventually, I'll probably shrug and give up, yawn, get bored, and tell you to make your own damn tea. Let me watch the beauty of service from someone else, the way she kneels before you, the way the service is so natural, so effortless, and so perfect. Don't tell me that this is what you want from me, don't expect it, and somehow, apparently, the need grows in me to serve you. Not out of a desire to be her, or out of any jealous feelings, but because I aspire to please you to the best of my ability. This seems a new way for me to please you, and therefore I want to learn it. I want to perfect the art of service. Though don't get me wrong, I still want you to fuck my brains out, just not while I'm carrying your tea. 

Someone once tried to convince me that I was a pain slut. He said I was, that he would show me, that I would learn, that one day I would beg him for pain, I would beg him to make me bleed just with the strokes of the cane every week. He would beat me with the cane until I cried and begged him to stop, and then he would carry on. But somehow, all that time, I never let a safe word pass my lips. I just came to resent him, hate him even, for the pain he caused me again and again. I swore I would never be a pain slut. 

Then I met my Sir. And he didn't ask me to be a pain slut, nor did he tell me to. He didn't hurt me more than I could handle. In fact, he hurt me not quite enough, until I wanted more, and more and more, and he let me ask him, beg him, to hurt me. That, I think, is how I came to orgasm from a single punch. That is how I came to beg my Sir for pain, to ask him to hurt me, to beg him for his rage, to try to calm him from his frustrations by telling him that nobody would be as grateful as I for his anger. 

I am sure that service not including sex is not something everyone would enjoy. But for the right person, even making tea can be an act of love, an act to put love into. Receiving the tea can be an act of love just as much as an acceptance of it. Giving the punch as much an act of love as its receipt. 

Dark Odyssey Winter Fire

I would be lying through my teeth if I said I wasn't excited about Presidents' day weekend. I have no idea what Presidents' day is, or even if it's Presidents', or President's, but I don't care either, because the reason I am excited has absolutely nothing to do with any number of Presidents. 


I get to not only spend Thursday night to Monday afternoon with my Sir, I get to be his puppy for large amounts of that time. Not only that, but there will be service and protocol of the kind I've never really done much of before. His morning cup of chai with four sugars goes without saying, but throughout the rest of the day I'll be on hand with Gatorade, Spike and gushers (get your mind out of the gutter, I'm talking about the kids' chewy sweets) there will be French maid outfit wearing, and kneeling to offer him his tea, or a drink, there will be asking to go anywhere/do anything, the kind of thing that might drive me crazy if it were an every day expectation, but is lighting a fire between my legs when I think about doing all these things for him for the long weekend. Mmmmmmmm 


Service of a non sexual nature has never been something I've even considered for more than a moment. Until him. Now I'm not going to start dressing him and packing his gear and doing his housework, but making tea, being on hand for whatever he might need at any given moment - that I can do. 


Suffice it to say at this late hour that I'm as excited as all hell, and there is going to be some serious pre-bed time masturbation. 

Please Sir, can I have some more?

I know you'll give me exactly as much as you want to, or maybe less if I really need you to. I know that you hurt me because you love me, just as I ask you for pain because I love you. I know that the thrill that runs through me when I notice you packed your sap gloves wouldn't happen for anyone else. I know that there are few people in the world of whom I would ask such pain, to whom I would give my tears happily, but they don't come because, simply put, I just enjoy myself too damn much when you're hurting me. All is right with the world and my eyes are shining with happiness, not tears, and I worry sometimes that you might only like the single tear that rolls down my cheek when you make me cum so hard even my eyes try to squirt. Maybe you're not a dacryphiliac, and you don't want to hurt me till I'm in tears. Maybe that's why I ask you for more and more, because I don't think you'd hurt me so much if I didn't ask for it, beg for it, love it, thank you for it. 


I've met sadists who have ordered me to be thank them for every horrible stroke of the cane. I thanked them though I wasn't grateful, just hoping and praying for it to end. You I thank Sir, for the pain you give me, though you never told me to, and I don't know that you expected me to. I thank you because I am sincerely grateful, I thank you for the gift that you give me with every impact of your fist, your open hand, your boot on my wild, begging soul. I thank you for the ways you push my body, tying me in hard, painful positions, asking me to push. I know when you do that, I can. I can do anything my Sir asks of me, I can let my body relax into the stretch of every muscle, even as they scream at me for release, I can push, I can stay, silent and happy in the sharp ache of the tie, as the rope bites in, and my head spins with dizziness. Of course I can, you asked me to. 

The Perfect Formula

Aftercare is a subject of much discussion and debate in any community which involves intense, extreme, or emotional situations. I believe I have the answer, the solution, which will bring unity and harmony to the world. 


The Recipe:
One screen (bigger is better but we're going for cozy, not cinema)
Near unlimited episodes of transformers playing (sequential is preferable but not essential)
One sofa (for him to sit on)
One floor (for me)
One cushion (the floor gets uncomfy after a while)
One comforter (we all need warmth after all)
Him on the sofa
Me on the floor at his feet.


Put all the ingredients together in a living room or similar situation, probably with something to eat and drink on hand, and sit back and relax, no deep and meaningful conversations required that can't be found on the screen, entertainment not too heavy or too light, robots that turn into cars, or cars that turn into robots, heroes and villains,  saving the world from the clutches of evil and certain destruction in every episode. What more could you need from your aftercare?


It's funny, unless I've got the raging horn, in which case all I can think of is the violence, the rough, wild sex, the tight rope, the hard ties, the impact of his fists on my soul; what I think of when I'm missing him is resting my head on his lap while he strokes my hair and Optimus Prime leads the Autobots to another victory in their eternal battle against the evil forces of the Decepticons. I sigh my whistful sigh and wish to be there. Perhaps because it's a simple, easy place to be, it's safe, and happy, and time slips away and doesn't matter any more. The rest of the world is worlds away, and all its troubles with it. 


Oh to be at his feet again.

The Lover, the Sadist

There are many sides to every person, two such sides of my Sir are the Lover and the Sadist, sometimes they argue, sometimes they are one.

The Lover wants to hold me close and tell me that he loves me. He wants to care for me, wrap me in his arms and watch transformers with me. 

The Sadist wants to hurt me, wants to make me cry, wants to wrap me tight in his rope and kiss the tears he put there from my cheek. 

The Lover would never want to hurt me, would never want to make me cry, wants to wipe away my tears, to tell me that everything's going to be ok, that he loves me, that I'm safe in his arms. 

The Sadist knows that I am safe with him, but sometimes wants to make me forget it while he hurts me more than I think I can take, gives me more and more until he gets to hear me begging, for more, for mercy, for permission. 

The Lover wants only for me to beg for permission to cum, wants to make me orgasm until I can't any more. 

The Sadist wants to deny me until I can't take it any more, wants to drive me to higher levels of intensity, wants me to go further than I have before, wants to show me how strong I am by breaking me a little every time to help me know myself. 

The Lover wants to nurture me and protect me, wants to take me higher, wants to show me how strong I am, tell me I'm wonderful, and help me to know myself. 

The Sadist and the Lover realise how much they have in common, they want the same things for me, they both love me, they just show it in different ways. 

They talk, they resolve their differences, the Lover realises that he can show his love for me by letting the Sadist take over sometimes, he realises that the Sadist would not hurt me if he did not love me, he realises that the hurting doesn't mean he doesn't love me. The Sadist hurts me because he loves me, he realises that he doesn't have to fight with the Lover, he can give in and love me with all his heart. The pain he gives me can come from the love he has for me. 

The Lover and the Sadist hold hands, they kiss, they walk off, hand in hand, into the sunset, to live happily ever after. 

The End.