It’s on

Country Hottie provided some views and skews on the roleplay.

He’s moved the venue to his house, presumably to shift the balance of power even further his way. The premise is that he is putting his house on the market and I will make an appointment to appraise the property as the local real estate agent’s rep. The only other guidelines are to dress as professionally as possible in clothes that won’t be lamented if they’re destroyed. Anything that happens during my inspection remains locked firmly inside his head.

The date might be a few weeks away: I need a couple of framing questions answered so we can be in role from my first phone call and I don’t know his availability for next weekend. My period’s also due the following weekend. I know out on the streets that assault doesn’t wait for bodily cycles, but fantasies are hygienically-modified worlds of desire: we slap instead of punch, bite instead of break, ravage instead of damage, and I have no qualms about pre-editing the elements over which I have control.

I wish it was now. I’m in what seems to be a pre-depression mindset of darkness around my heart and being insulated from life but hypersensitive and prone to crying deep inside. I’d like to ask him to have the Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds’ cover of ‘The Carnival is Over’ playing during the most harrowing of whatever happens, but I’ll be in his hands by then and will only have control of the soundtrack in my head.

They’re baaaaack

After Mr New Year’s Eve crawled out of a hole last week, another two returned. I keep looking over my shoulder because it feels like the march of the undead sex zombies.

Someone sent an e-mail asking why I hadn’t been back in touch about a roleplay. My memory is usually sharp but I wondered who the hell he was and why on earth I’d be discussing a boss/secretary scenario (I spent enough years in real life being called ‘The Temp’ and misfiling documents to last a lifetime, thanks). I followed the e-mail trail and saw he was someone I had been in contact with and declined his proposal. He disappeared for six weeks before dropping by with a new e-mail name the same as a famous porn actor’s and a renewed approach that I had allegedly agreed to. I guess his ruse didn’t work.

The second person to express renewed interest was the man from April who at the last minute insisted I always wear an arse-skimming skirt and high heels or the deal was off. We’d had no contact since deciding it wasn’t going to work for either of us, yet all of a sudden after three months he would very much like to get together and play. No wonder I’m short tempered. Go away.

Is it the time of year? Other options exhausted and they’re hitting the recycling list? They can sense I’m sitting home knitting and letting my pubic hair grow instead of braving the elements in search of adventure? The only missing in action man from the past few months I’d want to hear from is Mr OMG, which of course will make him the least likely to be in contact again.

Negotiating

Over the past couple of weeks I’ve been involved in more admin than action with ArmyDude. After he cancelled the meeting with the possible third person, we had also planned tentatively to meet a couple the following week and I was to contact another woman he’d been in touch with to prove I did indeed exist. After a couple of dozen indecisive messages the night of the first cancellation he asked me to postpone the couple and the woman for a week, yet we still didn’t have any kind of plan for getting him out of the house safely in future.

I hit my limit of crap, cancelled them all and ignored him for a couple of days. The project was becoming bigger than the underpinning reason for being together.

I said no to his next invitations to meet and reluctantly yes to a third when I’d worked out what I wanted to talk about — it was hard to convert “I dread hearing my phone buzz at the moment because I know it’ll be you” into language and intent that wasn’t so heartless.

I dropped by his house and we sorted a few things out on the chair of his study when his head was between my legs and his fingers were working my cunt and anus. I made sure to do most of the talking to avoid interrupting his work.

We agreed on more while I was on all fours on his bed and he was fucking me from behind and pulling my hair.

I disagreed with his proposal to stick his cock in my arse without lubricant — his response was to flip me on my back with my legs in the air and fuck me while standing at the side of the bed with my feet curled around his neck. I keep forgetting about this undervalued position until I’m in it and remember the pleasures of being able to feel so damn good while watching the show in front of me.

He later suggested we suspend the shared online account for a while and get back to basics. I could only nod assent because his cock was in my mouth and about to erupt down my throat.

All in all it was a successful meeting, however, I zoned out a couple of times during sex and don’t know why. I over-compensated by participating with more energy so he wouldn’t notice my mind wandering. I hope it’s just post-crapfest comedown.

Somewhat lost in translation

I received a text message from Country Hottie in response to the scenario ideas: “Mmmm thks for e-mail so horny now lets do one line soon x.”

I think that means no at this stage to the first 95 per cent of my message, but he wants to fuck my arse as I described in one of the final lines (the sentence was more graphic and daring in the version I sent and was presumably the one that got his testosterone racing.)

I’ll see what happens — or when, more to the point because it is him, but I already have a Plan B dom/sub scenario in the back of my mind. I should be careful what I wish for because he is of larger than average length and girth and has enviable endurance. Each time with anal sex feels like the first time, which is the dangerous beauty of its dual games of trepidation and anticipation.

PS: I hope the unplanned new look is working.

Fantasy of force

When I was last saying goodbye to Country Hottie he mentioned that a dom/sub scenario might be fun next time. I let the thought simmer and sent some textual hints of leather, bindings, lengths of chain, a blindfold and an excitable woman of great desire but variable discipline who wants to please him very much.

He went a giant leap further and asked if I was interested in a mock rape scenario.

I said yes without stopping to think what I was potentially signing up for.

He then asked if I was up to it.

Doubting me is the quickest way to make me want something. I said I hoped I was and promised to e-mail him some ideas.

Usually at the drop of a hat I can imagine dozens of fantasies involving forced sex.  Now that a real opportunity has arisen my mind is porridge with possibility overload. All I know is that I’m bursting to see him transform from a sexually generous and gregarious dirty talker move past the d/s realm into a harsh and potentially cruel captor. The prospect of him turning the tables from trust to fear in the hero/villain archetype excites the living bejesus out of me.

Perhaps I check into a motel because I’m town for a conference. The physical setup is the motor inn kind with rooms accessible from a central car park. He is watching me from his car, noting that I have left the door ajar to collect armloads of bags and equipment and forgotten to secure the door when I’m finished because I’ve taken a phone call.

I settle in and take a shower.

Is he already in the room waiting for me when I step out? Or perhaps he is in tradesman’s garb and knocks on the door for access to fix something? Do I want the accelerated path to fear or a more circuitous and complex route? He would be good at inspiring trust through friendliness; perhaps the latter will suit both of us.

We chat while he fixes the television wiring and I set up my laptop computer on the dining table to run through a presentation for the conference. After a few minutes of polite banter I almost forget he’s in the room as I concentrate on my task (in real life my heart will be thumping through my chest with the waiting and anticipation of when he’ll make his move).

I don’t hear the click of the door locking.

Hands grip my wrists in a blindingly quick swoop and sharp teeth clamp the back of my neck. I barely have time to yelp when he locks my arms behind my back and renders me immobile. The beginnings of a shout form in my lungs and the grip of his hand squeezes the breath out in a sharp whine. He makes a threat I feel compelled to obey.

Game on. I want him to surprise me for the next hours.

Panic turns to slumped acceptance. I do his bidding fearfully and shamefully, grow in confidence when I think I’ll get out in one piece but am broken again after I attempt escape. I am shifted and bent into innumerable positions as the receptacle of his sins. He sees me respond occasionally with small moans of arousal and corrects me harshly, reminding me of my imprisonment. I wear the colours on my skin of his relentless aggression and disrespect. He depletes me, leaves me alone in the darkened room until I think I am safe and re-starts the treatment with a renewed ferocity.

Is an anal ‘rape’ too stereotypical a finale?

I’ve e-mailed the scenario to him but, of course, he hasn’t yet replied.

Other ideas?

I can give you reason to be nervous

I still don’t understand why my phone sits silent for days and I suddenly hear from several people at the same time. I spent a fair part of last night preparing for my first home visit with ArmyDude as the guest of honour. I was a wreck by the time I finished washing linen, making the bed, stocking up towels, finding scent-free soap for him (ah, the considerations of fucking married people), shopping and filling the fridge to prepare for dinner, agonising beforehand for hours about what I might make for dinner for someone I know so intimately but not well when it comes to the domestics and, of course, tackling the most dangerous job of scrubbing the computer’s insides of all traces of my other lives in case he wanted to check the shared account together.

He had an alibi that allowed him to also set up a drink with a woman who had expressed interest in us. Five hours before we were due to meet I received a couple of texts saying he was convinced his wife was acting suspiciously. I thought he was projecting his own nerves but I happily gave him the option of deciding to proceed or cancel because he is taking the greater risk.

For the next three hours he disappeared from phone contact, and I knew from experience that he was cancelling but didn’t know how to break the news. An hour beforehand I received a message saying he felt more comfortable cancelling. I didn’t mind: I’d already prepared mentally for a no-show, dinner was almost ready, vibrators were fully charged and the thought of a freshly-made bed was hardly the end of the world. He sent another half a dozen messages apologising and saying how bad he felt, which started tainting my accepting mood. He got the message when I sent a terse “No more apologies, please.” Go away!

At the same time, Pierce came back in a mix of optimistic pleading and anticipated rejection. He unfortunately was at the end of a cycle of meeting people mindlessly and I didn’t want the reminder or to try to start again. Whatever was causing me to lash out with the wrong people seems to have settled for the time being. I’m probably in the opposing mindset of wanting nothing more energetic and safe than lounging in the winter sunny window like a neutered cat, but that’s bound to change soon enough.

The woman I’ve been trying to make contact with also sent an e-mail citing great amounts of nervousness about meeting one-on-one. She suggested we meet at a swingers’ night as the surroundings would be less stressful for her than at a cafe. Really? I could easily get offended if I think about it too much.

To top off my night, a message saying hello and enquiring about my wellbeing landed in the phone from an unknown number. I asked who it might be. Low and behold, it was Mr New Year’s Eve from … let me count with two hands here … oh, six months ago. I asked coolly if he’d mistaken me for someone else because we were meeting last Christmas and he cancelled the same day and disappeared. He bravely (or stupidly) responded and claimed nerves but he’s back now and ready to meet. Again, really? That’s nice. I struggled to contain my sarcasm said it was a shame that people becoming paralysed by nerves sure seems to happen a lot. He didn’t come back. I’m a lot of things but six-month-old bargain barrel slops isn’t one of them.

How to give a girl a heart attack

I logged in to edit a new post and, holy fuck, a burst of paranoia stopped my heartbeat for a few seconds. I re-wound every word I’d written the past year for tidbits that might have outed me.

Oh, I’ve been Fleshbotted. I can breathe again, but I wish my sex life was on that comet-like trajectory. The link was a snippet taken from my last evening with Country Hottie and I’m blushing at my awful post-orgasm dialogue when it’s highlighted to the world. Thank you to whoever generously nominated or found me.

The treble — fail, finished, well and truly done

I was lying on my back with my legs in a diamond shape, toes clasping each other in a pre-orgasmic rhythm and fingers clenching the bed covers. Beforehand I had promised myself to be enthusiastic but detached, but promises fly like leaves in the wind when he is naked, positioned between my legs and studiously inflicting a squishy and energetic havoc with his fingers.

A heat rose in my centre, overlaid with a growing feeling of sharper discomfort when his fingers plunged faster. I was surfing the ragged crest of either coming or asking for a rest but my body took over and rushed an orgasm like an electric shock that ended almost as soon as it started.

“What the fuck was that about?” I thought, when I regained the ability to think. I had squirted dark patches over his bed sheets, left droplets down his torso and legs that shone in the light and somehow had spattered myself from belly to shoulder.

I asked, “How do you do that? I haven’t squirted, don’t squirt and now you’ve done it more than once!”

He laughed and deflected my question with a kiss, no doubt wanting to keep his magic finger gushing technique to himself. He should be more community minded and share with the world.

We weaved in and out of frenetic fucking and tender caresses of recovery under the covers. After a few hours he observed that we had been strictly vanilla and not yet ventured to the dark side. I nodded but said that vanilla has again been proven a great flavour on its own.

Later he asked one thing I’d like to do during the evening. In the back of my mind was that I was an overly spoiled, jelly-legged mass of endorphins and he hadn’t yet come. I ended up dirtying the vanilla and kneeling on the bed with him standing before me, a leather lead tautly connecting the collar around my neck to his hand. I coated his cock, balls and anus with saliva and tongued and kissed and licked and massaged and feasted and asked for his come in my mouth. He gave quickly and willingly. I opted not to shower and drove home wearing the many aromas of us.

He gives many reasons to be lust-crazed and unbalanced at times but I know I’ll be on the road again for more if the opportunity arises.

The treble — fail, finished, ?

I’m concerned about my current level of detachment or self respect or whatever’s driving my choices lately.

I met the pierced man (may as well call him Pierce) at a park adjacent a busy road. I wasn’t attracted to him physically but he was there, I was there, a picnic bench in a protected cove was over there and his skilled kissing tipped the scales towards staying.

He was a large man with a small cock shaped like a rounded triangle, like an elongated Dalek from Doctor Who, but with a massive handful of testicles. I don’t know what Mother Nature was thinking. It was bitterly cold but we left a small mess behind on the wooden bench when his fingers found my g-spot. We switched places and afterwards he was keen to talk and hug. I could picture him as a family man, playing with shiny-haired kids and a family-sized dog in a park and giving flowers unexpectedly to his wife, because that’s what he should be working towards instead of evening distractions without a future. I had to go. He sent a nice text message when I got home to make sure I arrived safely. I felt heavy with emptiness inside.

Number of times I questioned my moral compass: one

Number of times I corrected myself that my moral compass is fine but it’s my something else and I don’t know, perhaps my motivation: several

Number of times I thought, wow, people do this in beats, gay saunas, orgies and swingers’ parties all the time but, no, not for me: one

Number of times I thought sucking a cock with piercings on the underside was potentially hazardous to my dental health: six

Number of times sucking his cock higher in my mouth to avoid damage to lower teeth causing gagging: four

Number of times I thought what the fuck am I doing here? too many

Number of strokes with my lips until he came: 138

I never count when I’m excited.

The treble — fail, ?, ?

This time last week I was primed with superfluous energy and looking for somewhere unsuitable to expend it. This time this week I couldn’t be arsed. And men say they don’t understand women …

If you saw hell frozen over last night it’s because I said no to ArmyDude. Get out! I know! He was messaging excitedly and incessantly about us potentially meeting a couple, but shied away from logistical aspects such as when he could escape home safely to meet people about 90 fucking minutes away and, oh yes, I just got access to their private gallery and experienced an instant case of anti-wetness in my central region when I saw the man of the duo. He went into a defensive ‘oh my god, she’s turning into the fishwife’ mode and didn’t reply to my messages yet hours later came out of hiding with a hard-on and invited me over. I thought about it and couldn’t be bothered. Wanting low maintenance needs to work both ways.

I could be meeting the pierced man tonight. Our last contact was left open-ended a couple of days ago as he suggested meeting at my house and I insisted on a neutral place first. I don’t know if a lack of repsonse means that he’s fine and we’ll sort out a meeting point on the day or he’s not happy with that.

ETA: he’s just let me know when he’s free tonight — I must be getting old and out of touch with the she’ll-be-right communication habits of those a dozen years younger *smiles*.

In an act of masochistic game playing I can’t quite drag myself away from, I had Country Hottie pencilled in for this weekend but again he hasn’t confirmed anything beyond, “Hey there, sounds great, will be good to see you, I think this day will work for me xx.” I think more than anything I’m curious about why he swathes non-commitment with flowery niceties that I’m the most special person on earth when we’re both aware I’m not — I’m the loan girl. I’ll absorb his attention gratefully, of course, but it means nothing without follow-up. I think he runs the same attractive, charming cad who makes ‘em feel good routine on everyone and I’m just still stubborn enough to think I can manage him in my way.

ETA: I’m a bit gobsmacked as he has just asked what time I’ll be there. Roadtrip here we come. Note to self: take more notice of what I just wrote about him getting away with caddish behaviour. I rest my argument on my relative detachment and desire for some bondage — I was sorting through a bag of equipment the other day and lamenting I haven’t played with ropes and cuffs since probably the first time with him.