Category: Summary

So many things, and so much time. I’ve got to stop doing this — leaving it months and months between posts when really the time that passes is a rich scenery of love.

Since the last time I updated on T, we’ve grown together in a different way. There isn’t any taking of each other granted anymore, or at least, far less than there was before. He doesn’t see me as something he only has when he doesn’t have a girlfriend. I don’t see him as mine-mine-mine, as something I can’t let go of if it were to ever come to that. In our understanding, we continue our dance, deepen our love for one another, and improve our level of intimacy.

There’s been a lot of stress at my home in the last several months. Things are uncertain, and Master is feeling the wobbliness of it all. If anything, Master has been trying to keep me stable while I try to give him love and reassurance and ensure that he has a nonthreatening lovely place to strip off all of his stress and shields and simply be loved. This uncertainty has my own heart beating a bit fast, with my tendency to worry unnecessarily. Things seem to be settling down and Master reassures me that I have no reason to worry. I’m trying, with difficulty, to not do so — T has helped me masterfully in this way. While Master is busy intensely applying himself to the stressor in an attempt to make it go away, he has trouble being soft and comforting and reassuring. He’s busy just concentrating on eating and getting enough sleep.

T, on the other hand, has always excelled at the emotional side of managing the kitten. I can cry, and he reassures me and helps me understand. We can talk through my craziness and worry and he is exceptional at talking me down. Lately, this means he’s been holding my hand while I hyperventilate about stress I can do nothing to control.

It feels like the last hiccup, where he left me for other girls, where he ended up getting burned and coming back, was a good thing. I feel like we’ve pruned away all the bad parts of the relationship — the aforementioned taking people for granted, the worry and self-censorship, the possessiveness. The love we have seems purer and less cautious, the tenderness more overt, the reassurances coming freer and very much in earnest. The sex has therefore gotten better — we have gotten better — as rather than looking inward at ourselves and trying to extract the maximum amount of pleasure from the moment, we spend more time trying to administer the most pleasure to the other person.

Lately, some most exciting things have come up. T has a lady that he would like to pursue. This lady seems to want to explore poly as well, which leaves us in a position where I do not have to give up my T to have T enjoy someone as a primary lover. I’m extremely excited by this not only because I get to keep my very dear friend as a lover, but because it means he’s liable to have some extreme happiness coming his way in the future. Nothing is for sure yet, of course, but I have my fingers crossed rather tightly as I hope for new and exciting things to come his way.


All manner of newness

A lazy summer, missing the Master, has left me mostly uninspired. Six months minus the love I’ve known for years. It has been conspicuously quiet around here. Just me, T, and the kitty.

The last few months have had me scratching at an itch. Master has forbidden me, you see, to engage in any non-vanilla activities. My kink button is screaming to be pressed, down, hard.

Last night I opened my drawer, the one brimming with leather and bristling with buckles. I ran my hands over His tools, untangling the doe-skin flogger with my fingers. My fingers itched to shackle myself, my inner mind craving the presentation of it, limbs bound, holes lubed, the selection of toys lined up at the ready. I sighed deeply, for these things are not for T. Only my Master and I. The drawer remains closed.

So I throw myself at T, my hunger burning in my throat, and I engulf him, swallow him whole. By the end he can’t stand, can’t walk straight, sweat pouring off his face and splattering my breasts. I am sated, but not satisfied. My hunger has retreated to the pit of my belly, where it remains, itching, until I can stand it no longer. Sex is incomplete; I must have his hands around my throat, must feel my resistance slipping from me like an exhaled breath. I crave the headspace. The rush.

Three weeks until I see my Master again. I have been instructed to bring my assortment of toys, enough toys to make airport security do a double take. Toys, and lube, lotions and cuffs. I feel like it’s Christmas, and I can’t wait to unwrap my present. I have been spending hours dreaming up scenarios, his hand twisted in my leash, yanking my collar at his will.

Master hasn’t been helping my desires. He and I have been exchanging naughty text messages, discussing my upcoming training. A new province, a new home, a new life, just me, and my Master. His kitten, his pet, his wife-to-be.

new beginnings

“I’ll just have to be a better benchmark,” he said to me, and I’ll never forget how he said it. Matter-of-fact, unshakable, as if he just-knew his love would be enough to conquer everything.

I took his virginity with no reverence, and he gave it to me guiltlessly. I was awestruck by this person who gave sex a large measure of respect, without outright telling me how ‘bad’ a thing it was. He had no experience and all the experience I had was with selfish partners who had even less experience than I did. Now I had a lover, and no idea what to do.

Points for enthusiasm?

I know I loved him like I’d never loved anything before, and he loved me back. We functioned on a crippled form of sexual communication — my telling things was stifled and he only responded to the messages he received. I’d doublethink my desires. ‘I shouldn’t [ask for something different] because it’ll [insert reason I made up].’ I had absorbed that women’s-magazine bullshit about pleasing your man producing a perfect relationship. I was castrating our sex life, and he was none the wiser. I thought it was normal. He didn’t know any better.

We talked about all kinds of ideas that came into our heads; we really were two peas in a pod. He professed to love me so much that he would do anything — anything — for me. He came out and said outright that if there were someone I wanted besides him, we’d talk about it. I agreed, not fully understanding. It wasn’t until in thinking about it later that I fully realized the gravity of the situation — a man who was offering to fulfill my every basic desire, and this included in the sack!

He knew I’d had relationships with women, but in his matter-of-fact way he said he didn’t care one way or another because he loved me how I was. I told him I thought I was bisexual — he said he knew I wasn’t going to run off with a girl and get married and leave him, so I could have all the girls I wanted.

This man surprised me at every turn. I was a girl who trolled the internet learning about sex the hard way — filtering out the meaningful facts from the mythical bullshit. I trolled four sexual health forums for close to two years, mostly answering questions, but learning amazing amounts as I went. This sex business was really controversial within everybody’s head … maybe I wasn’t alone in not understanding my sexuality.

I consumed pornography at breakneck pace and masturbated as appropriate. The day I figured out how to give myself an orgasm was a red-letter day and I’ve worked hard at having them often, ever since. I was consuming written erotica in genres considered out-of-the-mainstream — specifically bisexual and orgiastic pornography. I dug out my rape fantasies from childhood and young adulthood and watched rape-fantasy pornography. I didn’t breathe a word of this to my boyfriend.

One day, I was at his house, sitting at his desk, playing on his computer. We were getting ready to go out, and I was surfing his internet history. I came across a porn site he’d used, and followed some of the links he’d followed, interested in what turned him on. I named a category in a light voice, laughing, pretending mischief in searching through his sexual desires.

I was unprepared for his reaction, though in hindsight it should have been expected. I was pounced, nearly knocked off his chair bodily with the force he used to grab the mouse from me and close the browser.

Our eyes met and I could taste his fear, hear it in the quivering anger in his voice. I don’t remember the specific words in the conversation, but I remember him feeling as if his privacy had been invaded because the girl having sex with him wanted to know what turned him on when she wasn’t there.

I think that’s when I realized that what we’d come to was effectively a sexual crisis. He wanted things I hadn’t considered, and I wanted things he’d never thought of. We were both too terrified of alienating the other person to ask each other, and this was the way our society intended for us to develop sexually. So I grabbed him, and we got in the car, and drove.

We talked deep into the night. At first it was fear and anger and privacy issues, but eventually the walls came down, and the truth came out. I’m afraid to ask you for this because I’m afraid I’ll gross you out. I’m afraid to ask you for this because I’m afraid you’ll think I’m weird. I’m afraid, so afraid.

It opened a dialogue, and the floodgates opened. I want to try this, this, this, this. Let’s try this, this, this. I think this, this would be fun.

He asked me if I would consider letting him play with my ass during sex, confessing that anal turned him on a lot. In fact, it was the anal category that had caused his panic in the first place.

I was so, so hurt that he’d not want to discuss something sexual with me. I felt hurt and rejected and like maybe the reason he didn’t ask me about it was because he didn’t want to do sexual things with me in that way. In reality, it was nothing like that at all… and in reality, I was doing the same thing to him.

We went to the sex-toy trade show the week after, and walked hand-in-hand, in public, browsing for buttplugs. It’s one of the happiest memories of my life, the memory of starting to get over one of the things that made me hate myself — my large sexual appetite, my deviant tendencies… that which sets me apart. Apart became, suddenly, a desirable trait — a trait that brought my soon-to-be-Master and I together.

a coming-out, of sorts

Perhaps I should explain.

I am a slut.

I’ve always been this way — since I could remember. I don’t know how child’s play devolved into playing ‘doctor’. I don’t know how the neighbor girl and I ended up playing with each other with our clothes off. I don’t know why my friends at the time were interested in roleplaying a married couples’ struggles with sexual desire. I don’t know where I got the idea to see and touch other peoples’ nakedness.

I do distinctly remember the first time I found pornography.

I was mesmerized. Fascinated by all this new content, pretty ladies in pretty clothes, their nethers being photographed in extreme close-up. I remember my favourite section being the letters section, where I would read story after story of some fabulous sexual tryst. I locked myself in the bathroom, delicately pulling the magazines out from their hiding place, turning the pages slowly, carefully, drinking in every detail. I felt feelings in places I’d never felt feelings before — tightenings in my sides and tinglings down under. I knew I enjoyed all of this talk and the sight of all of these naked ladies, but I was terrified of what it all meant.

All of my first sexual experiences had been with women. Women, and their nakedness, their warmth, their curves and softness. Pictures of these women aroused me. I had never had a boyfriend. My train of thought, as a young woman just beginning teenagehood, was one of constant anxiety — the petrifying circular fear that I was a lesbian, a pervert, abnormal, different, set apart in some way.

I was precocious. In a house where my mother talked openly about how little girls who wore makeup looked like whores. (I wanted to wear makeup.) They talked about homosexuality as if it were sick. When my mother found out my father had pornographic magazines in the house, it was a Big Freaking Deal.

I grew up with a twisted sense of what sexuality was, or what sexual identity was. This was further exacerbated by the fact that I was lucky to go to a school that discussed puberty as a topic — let alone sex.

I believed when growing up that since I’d had sexual contact with a woman, that made me a lesbian. It was like a disease that I had caught, that I couldn’t get rid of. I tried to rationalize it — maybe as I got older and more womanly I could “shed” it like a skin, love boys, get married, have an easy life and that would be it.

Eventually I started reading about what being homosexual actually meant. I felt relieved to be attracted to men, to not be this big “L” word, to not have to tell my family I was going to cut my hair like k.d. lang and the whole works. But to be attracted to women at the same time was strange. I ignored it, wholly, though I maintained sexual relationships with women. The tension was huge and I had crushes and loves. I said to myself I was just ‘curious’ but it wasn’t curiosity that caused my head to lean a little closer to hers, to make my heart stall a beat at the thought of kissing her.

I dated men. I grew up. I met bisexuals, who told me it was okay to be the way I was — how unfortunate that this message came at the same time as a large number of other ones. The signal-to-noise ratio was not a good one. I was coming out of a long-term relationship with a man I’d thought (naively) I was going to marry. My mother called me a slut for having sex with him, at the tender age of 16. I was crushed. She grilled me as to why I would do such a horrible thing to her. I was encouraged to ask the man to apologize to her. I didn’t understand then, what I understand now. I didn’t understand the old-school idea of my virginity as the property of my parents. I just knew that while it was he who’d pushed me to have sex with him, it was me who was being called the slut.

That stuck with me, that word. My one [real] male sexual partner had made me into a slut — whereas the four or five girls I’d had relationships with before didn’t. True, my mother didn’t know about the four or five girls — or not that she let on, anyway.

Thinking back, perhaps I was a bit sluttish. I say [real] because I’d had sexual contact with men before — wondering what all this fuss was about, about this singular act. More learning when I discovered that what I’d thought was a singular act — sex — was actually a series of acts, acts which a woman was expected to be proficient in, without ever having practiced.

The inequality did not strike me at the time; at the time what I was most struck by was how little I’d been told. Even though I’d been exposed to such topics as oral sex and multiple partners, I’d never thought about the implications of such things. Suddenly things that weren’t sex were sex and things that were sex weren’t sex and it all depended on who you spoke to. Some girls weren’t sluts because all they did was suck cock — the ‘technical virgins’ that are commonplace in today’s media, which, as usual, is about a decade behind the times.

I resolved to raise my children differently with regards to sex, and walked into my relationship with my now-Master feeling very much like damaged goods. I’d lost my (value) virginity to someone else, I’d fooled around much since then, what was to make my sexual relationship with my sweetheart anything more meaningful than a pair of drunken tourists fucking in a hotel room?

My society taught me not to expect sex better than the sex joked about on TV. My society taught me that to want more or to expect more or to, Lord forbid, demand more, was anathema. I would take the cock I got, and damn it all, I was going to like it whether I liked it or not.

I’d like to lodge a complaint.