Tag Archive: good sex

what I dream about at night

Nights like these, where I can’t sleep, I turn to my good friend, the orgasm. Continue reading


ah, stress…

Stress has led me to be rather subtle with my approach. A subtle approach is often non-effective. I really must change this attitude I have that I have decided what will happen; it’s sabotaging my ability to get what I want. I should learn to throw caution to the wind and accept the future for what it may.

We crawl into bed and it’s hard to not talk about the stress and what’s stressing us out. Continue reading

New sex partners have a way of showing me a new perspective, putting a spin on something familiar so it seems unfamiliar and exciting. Occasionally, completely foreign concepts come up. Mostly, it’s different. That’s something I seem to gravitate towards — different-ness. It’s therefore impossible to talk about sex with T without at once comparing it to what I experience with my Master.

T had a handicap the Master never had. With my Master, I was crawling up his leg. T, however, was forced to take it slow. Master insisted on it, and I agreed — things should progress at a pace that Master was okay with. T seemed to deal with this quite well — he was obviously quite experienced in holding back.

Our late-night conversations involve quite frequently our past relationships. T talks about his girlie before me, and I find myself talking about Master, and the asshole I dated prior to Master. T has the deepest of respect for the Master, and is in no way like him. I like this different-ness, since what attracted me to the Master is not present in T, and yet I find myself enjoying him as well. I’m feeling reacquainted with my body in a way I haven’t in a long time, with T eliciting responses I’d long given up on, after a number of dissatsifying encounters with those prior to Master.

One night, late, T and I lay awake, limbs tangled, discussing how things tend to play out for us in bed. T spends a lot of time attending to my wants and needs, servicing me in his own ways, more often giving love to me than asking for any kind of tit-for-tat exchange. “Why do I deserve this?” I asked, panting, after T had spent the better part of two hours slowly teasing me to climax with hands and lips and tongue. My old programming was rattling around inside my head — a man who gave hours of petting and oral without a natural expectation to jump to the next step?

His happiness, as he tried to explain to me, is not dependent on him being able to stick his dick in me. It turns out that watching my enjoyment is satisfying enough.

It is no insult to my Master that this concept did not come clearer earlier. It’s not been until now that I’ve had a sexual relationship with limits, limits aside from those I made myself for my own personal comfort. I’d never had that period with Master where I disallowed certain contact; with T, there were days where all he could do was look and wish. I had difficulty grasping that the looking would be at all satisfying.

The conversation spun off into a discussion of worthiness — to have a worshiper, someone who existed (even for a moment) for nothing more than to bring my body pleasure, someone who would follow my curves and kiss their sensitive parts, whose idea of a treat was to be able to taste my orgasm, especially if he’d caused it. I was unfamiliar with this concept, of worthiness. Why am I worthy of this sort of treatment, this worship?

He looked at me, confused, flabbergasted. I am worthy because I am worthy. My worthiness is inherent. Crazy woman, what a question. You are worthy because I’ve decided you are. And he worshiped my body.

I’m still used to thinking of sex as some kind of exchange. A transactional thing. If I want oral, I’d better be prepared to suck some dick. That kind of thing. However, more and more, the lovely people who’ve been doing the majority of my sexual educating have been teaching me that it’s about asking for what I want, telling them what works well, to be daring and adventurous, playful, but certainly not convinced that there’s expectations or that my desires for certain activities will only be met if I’m “deserving” enough. I don’t need to earn love. I am already worthy.

I’m hoping that this realization will mean I’m more comfortable with saying when I want something and what I want. Prior to this I’d sort of been letting the situation declare itself and going along with whatever appeared to be appropriate at the time. There was no real thought put into what I wanted, or how to go about obtaining that. This is not to say that I am or ever was dissatisfied with the intimacy I shared in these situations, just that my future encounters are very much limited by this glitch in my thinking.

I am worthy, I am telling myself. I do deserve what I want, and I should not feel ashamed asking for it. I’ve been enjoying this new freedom I’ve allowed myself in sexual expression. I’ve enjoyed feeling comfortable in my own skin and powerful enough to be able to initiate what I want, when I want it. I am loving how the ability to initiate things myself doesn’t mean T stops chasing, either; I still find myself receiving a string of kisses planted down my neck and shoulders, receiving invitations to more should I so desire. I’m enjoying the open-endedness of it.

I’m enjoying being in control.


That’s the word for me. To develop exceptionally early or exhibit mature qualities at an exceptionally early age.

I taught myself to read before kindergarten. I grasped cosmic concepts (the immutability of time, the certainty of death) before age 5. I was a generally strange kid who didn’t socialize well, from what I remember. And sex. Well, sex came entirely too early for me.

It wasn’t even my cousin telling me the plumbing of how it worked. (We were like eight and six, respectively.) It wasn’t even when my mom caught me playing with the Barbie dolls. I think it was when she found out I’d been playing “house” with the neighbor kid, and the not-minor freakout she had over this knowledge. Before third grade, I not only understood how sex worked, I understood that it was important to hide this kind of activity from my parents, lest they have a gigantic meltdown. No talk. Ever.

I’m never going to forget the way she asked me, stooping down to get in my face, in a confrontational manner. “Did you suck his dick?” she asked, browbeating me. “Did he jack off in your mouth?” I felt like a horrible, filthy, sick, perverted, twisted, disgusting person. I was eleven years old, eyeing older men, wondering at what an act of rape would be like, wondering at the experience of sex.

Because I couldn’t trust my parents, everything I ever learned about sex was something I learned from somewhere else. Pornographic magazines, the internet, the radio. I’ve talked before about how Sue Johanson is one of my personal heroes; I’m lucky to have had her while growing up. I’m lucky to have grown up riding public transit, where the government publicized links to places like sexualityandu.ca. I feasted on reliable and correct information, and used all the birth control correctly.

I was armed with a false sense of security, knowing what facts I needed to know to keep my body from being physically damaged. I was completely unaware of what place sex served in a healthy relationship, however, and so when my boyfriend-at-the-time started correcting me every time I said “If we have sex” to say “when we have sex,” I didn’t take it as the pressuring I should have. I didn’t see how he was trying to control my boundaries, by setting them for me verbally. I didn’t feel the profound sense of violation I’d feel now, knowing my boundaries. Boundaries had never been explained to me. I was a slut. Sluts don’t get told about putting up boundaries. I was wrecked anyway. I was sixteen. I was fucking a man nearly four years older than I was. My mother was convinced his relationship was based entirely around his ability to use me for sex. I believed otherwise.

The day she figured it out, or rather, the day she screamed about me fucking him, throwing it in my face, and I gave her an answer that wasn’t “fuck off,” … that’s a day I will never forget. There was tons of histrionic crying and hysterical screaming, shouting, threats, shows of violence, and emotional abuse. For the next six months, my mother froze me out of her life. I fantasized about suicide.

“I just don’t know how I’m going to tell my family that my daughter is a slut,” I remember her whispering, between sniffles and tears. I fantasized how my skull would fly apart from a self-inflicted shot to the head. I imagined dying slowly of a wasting disease, leaving home, becoming pale and cachectic and thin. I wondered what it would be like to die of a drug overdose. I was too scared to jump off a building. Guilt, guilt, guilt. My boyfriend was no help. He lived alone, and complained about my mother constantly. I ground my teeth down to painful stumps. He threatened suicide. At first I was scared, concerned for him, missed him, loved him. Later, the attention-seeking behaviour became exasperating. Then, came the Master.

My Master met my boyfriend and lived with him for a short time. I was pressured often to spend time with him, in compromising situations, often asking me to use my Master or my best friend as a pretext to borrow a vehicle and be afforded additional freedoms. At first I exploited this, and Master was given many opportunities to observe me with this strange man. I was depressed and sullen. Then came a night when I deliberately didn’t invite him along somewhere, because I knew he would try and make me have sex with him, and I had no interest in being effectively date-raped. It was at this time that I realized he didn’t respect my body, or what I wanted, or my boundaries. I began avoiding him in earnest, and the histrionic behaviour erupted in full. I didn’t break up with him, because I was terrified if I did, that he’d kill himself.

My Master, who by then had moved out of my boyfriend’s apartment, felt that this was an opportunity to act. I remember listening, horrified, as he detailed to me the list of things he observed while living with the man who would come to be known by many names besides his own. The behaviour obsessing around sex (and calendar marking to match.) The misogynistic comments. The sense of entitlement. The arrogance. The ignorance. I sobbed on the phone, after my boyfriend had yelled at me for lying to him to keep him from being able to have sex with me. He knew I was avoiding him, but I had no idea how to tell him I was terrified of him, that he made me feel unsafe. The Master stood up for me, tearing a strip off of this man on my behalf. The act was sealed when Master returned with the report of how guiltless, entitled, and arrogant the boyfriend had been when Master insisted he treat me as I deserved to be treated. “Are you going to talk to her, too?” he asked, as if my Master was my parent to mete out punishment on the boyfriend’s behalf. Instead, he told me the truth. Master saved me from a pitiful little man, rescuing me from a situation where I, and my precociousness, were being taken advantage of. I smiled for the first time in years.

The ideas about sex stuck, though. I was shocked when I was discovered to be having sex with Master, and my mother was amused rather than infuriated. I was convinced, down to my bones, she was going to kill me and gouge Master’s eyes out with her fingernails. With no explanation, she laughed instead. I learned nothing.

I still believed, as I had when growing up, that I was broken or tainted or unworthy in some way, because I was a slut. From being made fun of by my little brother for being a closet lesbian, getting caught using porn, slurs based on my more boyish appearance, my strangeness was polarized for some people. I hated myself. I wasn’t a virgin, I wasn’t thin, I wasn’t pretty, I wasn’t stereotypically ‘hot’ (big-titted-narrow-waisted), I wasn’t popular… I didn’t even think I was particularly smart. I’m almost ashamed to say that my relationship with Master was not one of romance — I leapt out of a sick and sorrowed relationship, out of a fountain of emotional abuse, into him. I crawled up his leg, into his bed, and unloaded, piece by piece, my months and months of pent-up need for, and lack of, love.

Fortunately for me, Master was smarter than that. He insisted that that not be the direction things take, and caught me, carefully, and put me down. I tried to take advantage of him, sexually. He held me at arm’s length, until I stopped with the force, and he held me close, until he wanted to do more. He picked me up, bandaged my wounds, and didn’t let anything complicated develop until he felt comfortable with everything. He was gentle and careful, calculated and slow. For months and months, our sexual activity consisted of me crawling into his bed, naked, so we could nap together. I had no idea how to expand things, how to get what I want. I had no idea what I really wanted. We built a sexual relationship out of teenaged fumblings, and it’s taken a great deal of time to get comfortable talking about sex and about what feels good. I still feel guilty for asking for things (such as oral) despite many reassurances to the contrary. I still feel like an asshole when I tell him to stop because it hurts.

My precociousness and my armament of knowledge didn’t lead me into good choices, and I was unable to distinguish between sexual attraction and an actual relationship. I wasn’t protected by being shut out. I was unable to seek advice. What should have been a strength became a weakness. I grew into this idea that I should be this totally willing and submissive little thing, a real slut, with no desires of my own, since I was value-less after having lost my de facto virginity to the man before Master. My precociousness, my early development, should have been an opportunity to teach me how to wield the weapons at my disposal, how to protect myself. I was taught to ignore that part of me, and later, taught that it diminished my worth. “Who wants to marry a person who’s not a virgin?” asked my schoolmates, at Catholic school, and later at college. “Not me!” they’d chime. I’d remain silent, trying to shrink myself smaller.

The first person I had a healthy sexual relationship with was my Master… and it seemed the strangest thing, at the time. He insisted on the above — that I tell him to stop when it hurts, that I not have sex I don’t want to have, that I not do anything I don’t want to do. This seemed foreign to me at the time. I remember being stricken with a dermatitis or vestibulitis of some sort from having reacted to a particular brand of lube, and every act of sex was excruciating. Halfway through, Master noticed my pain, and I was sorely chastised for letting him hurt me like that for his own benefit. I have value? I was bewildered. This man I had known before Master, this man who was three-plus years older than Master, who was so much more experienced … he’d never made me feel as if I could ask for what I wanted, or refuse. He’d never made me feel valuable, sexy, beautiful. I had missed out on the best part of sex entirely.

I thought back to my sexual experiences prior … on the ex’s inflatable couch, being groped, knowing that within a time frame of hours he was going to take me to his room and try to have sex with me. Instead of acknowledging the feelings I had on the subject, how distasteful I found the idea, instead of refusing, I simply talked myself into it, trying to relax, detached, for when the inevitable moment came. I ignored my revulsion at the completion of the act, and tried to ignore him as much as possible while he was performing it. I was emotionally detached.

I think my mother’s idea was that she was protecting me, by making sure I knew nothing. Her idea backfired in the sense that I learned everything there was to know — factually — but nothing about what there was to know — functionally. I could tell you brand names of birth control pills, but nothing about intimacy. The solution my mother came up with was to pretend that intimacy wasn’t possible because of my age, my sluttiness. Or maybe she just forgot to mention it, what with all the talk of what a whore I was and asking me if I did it ‘so I could feel loved.’ I was never asked a single question about sex that didn’t sound like a personal attack before I’d even answered. I was terrified of her, but knew sex was as normal as breathing. I had to figure it out on my own, somehow.

I hear this type of thing is genetic — my grandmother developed early and so did many of my aunts. My child might end up being much like me, in this way, and I think about it all the time. How will I handle it? Will I have to explain to an eight year old or a six year old, one day, what sex is, without lying to her or making her feel as I did, as if she were a filthy valueless little thing? And if I don’t, if I indeed tell her (or him) the truth, how many people are going to come crashing down on me, thinking I’m setting my child up to be assaulted sexually? Truth be told, I had no concept of what sexual assault was until I was over the age of 18. Several of my friends had experienced it without realizing, this non-consensual-but-not-totally-forceful sex, myself included, without seeing that we were being taken advantage of, with no advice on how to protect ourselves from things besides pregnancy and disease.

I had no power to say ‘no’ and no idea of when I should say ‘no’ or why. It’s this that I feel it most necessary to correct. I had a significant decrease in my self-worth with the knowledge that I was a slut, and so have vowed to never make my child feel ashamed about their sexuality. It’s a huge part of me, and of my life, and trying to shut off that part of my personality, or not being allowed to experience it because I’ve been taught it’s ‘wrong,’ is one of the bigger travesties of my teenagedhood. It’s part of why I have felt it so important to write about sex, and my sex life, and my sexuality. I need to come to grips with this somehow, to jackhammer the idea out of my head that this is somehow wrong, or bad. Fortunately, I have Master, T, and my good friends around me. My children will grow up happier than I did. That’s a promise.


My Master and I are learning to do a thing we never did learn… a thing the construction of our sex life seemed to skip.

This is through no fault of anyone’s, and is actually a product of the times, and of my society’s brainwashing young adults about sex. I had finally broken out of a long-dead relationship, and my awakening had mostly been to do with the experience of my Master’s love. He moved close, lived with the long-dead boyfriend, learned more about me, about the relationship I existed in. He watched as we spent time together, my long-dead coupledom, himself, and my best friend.

He watched my eyes as they traced the ground and my flat voice as no touch of the long-dead could awaken me. He knew (from conversations) that it’d been more than a yearish since I had had sex. He knew (from living with the long-dead, hearing him talk) the number of days it had been, as an exact number.

He knew (as I had told him, between sobs) how I craved to feel closeness and loved, and how I felt nothing from this man. I was living in difficult and strange times, short on close friends, limping through my last year of high school, trying to fade away from my tortuous family. I had no sympathy or empathy from the long-dead, and there was no end in sight.

Master threw himself down as a hero. He controlled the situation. This is Master’s calling … to control the situation, to make a difference, to improve lives. He did it without expectation. He did it simply because he loved me.

He swooped in on the long-dead, itemizing selfishness. She lives with a mother who views her daily with scorn, he scolded, and here you live, alone, bankrolled by your parents — sobbing to yourself about how your life is so difficult because you can’t fuck her?

My Master’s love for me shone through.

I gravitated towards this love, searching for warmth. I wrapped myself around him. Once severed from the dead, I slept with Master, enjoying his warmth. It was our first real shared experience. The snuggling. And napping. I had never done anything so intimate and so lovely.

I threw myself at him.

There is no other way to describe it. We have described it between ourselves as exactly this, multiple times.

He protested. He thought too highly of me. He wanted to make sure it was right. I think he was afraid of taking advantage of both of us. Of me.

The first time we were together was memorable for all sorts of bad reasons. What I remember most clearly, however, is the feeling that things were different now, that I could exhale, as if all of my sins were suddenly washed away.

We did not learn to tease this out of one another. There was no dancing around the subject. There was abject need, deep-seated want, and submission.

Now that Master is gone, I am learning to tease and be teased. He is so far away, he is learning a patience that was never required of him when he lived here… he is learning to tease and be teased.

At this moment, we have words. Occasionally voices, but sometimes, only words. So we tease each other with words — no senses, except those generated by the mind.

It helps we’re both heavy-duty readers and good writers. It helps that we’re both communicative, have been from the start. It helps that we both love technology and will communicate with whatever technology is at hand. IM, SMS, lots of abbreviations in technology. It means we’re good at it. So we revel in it. Teasing each other, with only words.

It’s been an education in what we want. Newly uninhibited, secrets formally abolished, we’re talking about things we’ve never talked about — with no judgmental attitude and no hurt feelings. Just openness — hands, palms up, on the table, a meditation on openness and sharing.

I have booked a trip down in May (shh don’t tell) and anticipate some particularly needy sex. I plan to draw out the need … on both our parts. I want to experience that deep-seated want, that quivering, near-painful need, and I want to watch him unleash in want.

I’m learning to tease, to draw it out, to make him be patient, whether it be by resisting (ah!) or controlling the situation. He’s had his admonishments but I have my own ways of being drawn out — and they involve the silent fingers of a flogger on the curve of my back.


There are times, however, when I don’t want to feel submissive. Times I don’t want to defer control. Sometimes I am the one in control … most recently, with T, the close-at-hand boyfriend.

T is submissive by himself. I daren’t ask him to dominate me … aside from the fact that Master disallows it … since he’s so submissive I doubt he could manage to truly throw me down in a way that had meaning. I have to believe it, or I’ll fight back. I don’t believe it, so I don’t fight back, or submit — I dominate. It’s a setting, almost, an if-I’m-not-being-dominated-then-dominate switch.

I dominate T in ways that don’t seem like actual domination. He came out of a relationship where he had everything he’d asked, for a long time. When he started dating me, I made it patently clear to him that he was not going to be able to ask-and-receieve … that it was up to me whether he got it or not, and that sometimes, the answer would be ‘not.’

He pays his attentions to me, occasionally getting me very riled up — I tease him back, enjoying how I manipulate his responses with my body. Eventually we are breathless, nearly on top of one another, quivering with anticipation. When he takes me, he takes me over and over again, on my urging, until we collapse in a heap, exhausted, hot and sweaty.

I like teasing him with my body and studying his responses… pretending I don’t notice the erection brushing against my wrist, pre-cum trailing down my side, my arm. I will deliberately graze sensitive areas and tease myself away — rolling over in bed and twisting. Arms wrapped around me are manipulated so they grip me in a sexual way or not at all … hard to stay unaroused when your hand encircles my breast.

It amuses my Master when I tell him about it, how I coax and tease this man into a frenzy with my body, and let him give me orgasms until I am gasping and dry-mouthed. I return the favor … painfully slowly … but the painful holding back always gives way to a grappling acrobatic sex act, something stimulating mentally as well as physically. I know he enjoys having the opportunity to enjoy my curves, dampness and folds, to bury himself in woman as I know he desires. I am predatory in my ways, yes, but my prey is not mishandled.

My master soothed me on the phone today, telling me about how I shouldn’t be afraid to talk about how much I love sex, even sex with men who aren’t him, even how much I enjoy fucking T. He has the option to not read it, and would rather hear about my enjoyable moments than have me keep my mouth shut about all the good parts for fear he’ll get jealous. If he only hears the bad parts he is similarly disinclined to let me play with boys!

I remember the last time I played with girls in earnest, how I beat the one with the crop, how disappointed I was when she cried out “too much!” … my Master talks of one day acquiring a lovely little slut besides myself, and training her to be a third. I imagine, sometimes, watching my Master fuck her, fill her with semen … I like to imagine what a theater show that would be. It would appear as if I’m a bit of a voyeur.

In talking about my tendency to switch, my Master and I discussed some of the other sexual activities I’m interested in exploring with him. We came out with a pretty impressive list, one that reads much like a porn category browser and not as a list of kinks: group sex, bisexuality, anal, DP, BDSM, voyeurism, cuckolding, roleplay, nonconsent, and on, and on. How much of this do I want to explore with my Master? All of it — even if he’s not the most involved party member, and is simply the one in control.

How interesting … that I dominate when left to my own devices, but when Master is involved, he automatically gets control, in my mind. I think it’s telling … I think it’s good.