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The bad and the ugly
It’s been a year since my first external sexual encounter after The Drummer and I opened our relationship two years ago (yes, I took 12 months to shed the mental ties of jealousy, envy and confusion, and to tap into the freedom we had given each other). I smile with embarrassment thinking about the dichotomy of being a scaredy-cat sex fiend.
M1 was first. He is a sexually-dominant man who introduced me into the BDSM world. I met him through a sporting activity but can’t for the life of me remember how our conversations progressed to sexual interest and taking the leap to meeting one-on-one. It’s like the memory tries to erase traumatic experiences with time but has done it mischievously with a positive experience.
We were involved for about seven months, meeting at his family’s holiday house every second or third weekend as schedules allowed. While I’m vague on how we got together, I’m clear about ending our involvement as my interest waned and I lengthened the time between meetings with excuses. I lost the ‘always on’ mindset of a submissive – the feeling of service without accompanying desire was the death knell that told me to move on.
The sense of achievement gained from completing his homework dulled after several tasks to insert kitchen implements in both holes and send photographic evidence. I used cutlery, wooden spoons, spatulas (handle end only on the inside, thanks), and almost everything short of egg rings, but his demands kept coming without giving even thanks in return. I started dreading his messages.
My role also evolved into more of a service submissive than a sexual submissive. My duty was to supply and change bed linen, maintain a stock of condoms, take (and pay for) ingredients to prepare meals and ferry cups of milky tea when I wasn’t kneeling at his feet waiting for something to happen. Before departing for our other lives I’d also clean the kitchen, vacuum, sweep floors and bag up the rubbish to take home (the holiday house was bring everything in/take everything out and I did the bringing everything in and taking everything out). With the benefit of hindsight, domestic duties were tolerable when sexual rewards were fresh and plentiful but I became resentful when the scales tipped permanently to his advantage.
Occasionally he set tasks that guaranteed failure to meet his unspoken desire to inflict punishment. Manipulation of power and setting up a submissive for guaranteed failure are among the biggest potential ills of dom/sub relationships. One night both wrist cuffs were attached to my collar and I had to prepare and serve a meal with my hands somewhere near my chin and my ankles bound to allow about six inches of movement. I didn’t mind challenges with a degree of difficulty (watch me hurl hot food from stove top to table without burning my nose!) but sometimes he’d throw spanners in the works to see me fail. He seemed gleeful at seeing me muddle along before he ‘had’ to step in with punishment.
On this occasion I managed the evening meal adequately until I served and fed him dessert. The pastry encasing the lemon tart had hardened in the fridge and the spoon wouldn’t cut with the limited leverage I had. The more I hacked, the more he sniffed his opportunity to hurt me. I ended up bent over a coffee table with the thick leather paddle applied to my bare arse. The ‘damned if I do, damned if I don’t’ frustration caused more tears to flow than the searing heat of the beating. The dominant is not always correct and he never displayed the strength to admit weaknesses in judgement or behaviour.
As I developed greater confidence and self awareness, I could isolate what worked and what didn’t as part of my wish list for future encounters. His few attempts at performing oral sex on me were out of duty than pleasure — life is the longest thing we have but it’s still too short to live without mutual oral pleasures. One day he urinated on me in the shower stall without allowing me to remove the leather accoutrements, knowing full well I’d be cleaning the piss off them afterwards — I have enough domestic work to do at home without adding more in my personal life, thank you very much. They were interesting lessons for me learn that I don’t serve purely for service’s sake.
Ultimately, he was left by the wayside as I craved newer and broader experiences to sate my growing hunger. Submission in isolation was a profound learning experience at the time but I also had domination and other adventures on my mind.
It wasn’t all bad and the good times deserve a separate entry.
Postscript: M1 left a message about an hour ago and we haven’t spoken for a couple of months. Perhaps his ears started burning that I was ‘talking’ about him.
A few days ago the sneaking hound of depression bit without a warning growl. Nothing is how it was, even though the only change in the world is my perception.
My mindscape has warped into a Dali-esque interpretation of Alice in Wonderland and I have morphed into a paranoid, suspicious shrew. Yesterday’s innocuous thoughts are today’s threats and life’s minor hiccoughs have grown and mutated into immovable roadblocks. Everyone within reach is guilty of scheming against me until proven innocent or driven away. Jekyll is the latest to experience my transformation into a self-centred monster and I think I am sub-consciously provoking him to validate my eroded self worth.
He cancelled last weekend’s arrangements at short notice. My normal, know-my-place-in-the-world self would have shrugged it off because life sometimes gets in the way. The possessed-by-demons me fired off an e-mail:
I don’t know what’s reality and what’s a figment of my imagination at times. For instance, I’ve felt a bit isolated from you the last few days and I don’t know if that’s merely because we haven’t had one-on-one time, or my ego choosing to become offended that I’ll always be second string to your family commitments while most of the time it’s a good thing for both of us as we know the rules, or medication messing with my perception, or something my intuition hasn’t been able to put its finger on yet. Fuck knows.
Jekyll’s intolerance of emotional games is a quality I value greatly. I don’t get away with the tiniest dose of eyelash fluttering or wheedling, even in jest. We spend time together positively for reasons based around pleasure and experience and are comfortable with our emotional boundaries: We’re grown-ups playing adult games and we’ve got it all worked out – watch us for a lesson in having fun without anyone getting hurt … whoops, game over.
He e-mailed a measured and balanced response without playing my game, as I knew he would when I hit the ’send’ button. Now I’m too embarrassed to face the consequences although he’s interested in understanding the ‘other’ in my personality. With mental stability returning, I think at the time I just wanted a hug and a warm, understanding body to melt into and forget about life for a while. The Drummer was working, Jekyll had other priorities, I have kept my family in the dark and I felt resentful towards everyone for ‘deserting’ me, even though I didn’t tell anyone I was in need. Pride is a pathetic camouflage for internal hurt.
I feel selfish in wanting to protect Jekyll from my erratic periods, to keep us on ‘first date’ best behaviour without the domesticities of a primary relationship, but be emotionally available when I want or need more attention. I don’t think I want him to peel my inner layers, but it’s not fair to shut him in a dark toy chest until I want to play again.
He has re-scheduled our plans again because of mixed-up dates. My intuition is too wonky to interpret his error as sincerity or a step to loosen the ties. He has no reason to lie and I have no reason to question his motives but I am thinking too much and understanding too little and don’t know up from down. My lack of faith is going to hurt both of us, especially me if I hit the self-sabotage button first to prove my pride correct. In the meantime, he is e-mailing as usual and oblivious to most of my hidden turmoil. The storm needs to abate before I front up tomorrow night because he deserves a lot of my trust and a little more of my respect.
Hope is one of life’s most affirming qualities but is sometimes a screen to hide facing an unavoidable and unpleasant reality. The Drummer’s experience at the swingers’ party fell firmly into the latter.
He called a couple of hours after he left to say he was heading home. I asked how his night went although the lifeless drone of his voice said more than enough. His response went along the lines of, “There were 15 men, only five women and they were all old broilers and I tried to fuck a garden gnome of a woman but she smelled awful when I went down on her so I tried to fuck her but I went soft.”
Okay, see you when you get home.
There could be lessons among the sweeping insults expressed from his frustration.
I am unsure if The Drummer’s view of casual sex is merely different to mine or indicative of an overall difference between women and men. He was content to settle for any sex because the first woman who spoke to him was available and interested even though he wasn’t attracted to her. In bluntest terms, he got what he set himself up for and hope interfered with reality. I’ve avoided once-off encounters for years because in the space of minutes or hours no one will have a grip on what I like, where my boundaries lay, develop the trust to work out where they might be stretched, and likewise me to understand what makes a new partner feel good. I have fucked casually for fun but I can’t remember ever for satisfaction.
After having sex with her for about 10 minutes he lost his erection and said he’d return for round two, but post-libido letdown set in and he dressed and left. I’d have left after first scanning the room, but perhaps that’s where he’s less averse to risking disappointment.
I’m unsure what he was expecting after we went to the first swingers’ party, apart from a higher ratio of unattached men. He sees the pool for meeting other women even smaller after the no-shows from online meeting sites and this experience. I didn’t know how to respond except suggest that instead of trying to change the mindsets of those around him, he could step back and wait for the right woman or women to cross his path. He said I couldn’t understand his frustration that women are generally more conservative and protective of their sexualities and often scared to step over the line from interest to action. I understand because I’ve been there but it’s difficult for the randy and idealistic to listen to my appeal for patience. I’ll live in hope that he understands what he wants and be energised rather than deflated by the thrill of the chase.
The Drummer has been in the doldrums about work, life and the universe and is going to a swingers’ party tonight by himself. The venue we tried a few months ago is one of the few to hold a night open to uncoupled men (the hundred dollars for admission I assume pays for additional security and not a guarantee of sexual success). I’m at the tail end of my period and reading a book and not inclined towards leaving the couch or interacting with strangers.
His low mood has improved over the last few hours. We bantered about whose behaviour has been wildest of late and I scored a winning jibe when I reminded him of the young man who performed oral sex on him in a hotel car park a few months ago. He admitted defeat and returned to his bathroom routine.
On the way out the door, he looked at me and shot the arrow that burst my victory bubble.
“And who was licking Jekyll’s arse this time last night?”
I squeaked, “Um, me,” and blushed partly with guilty recognition and partly fond recollection. Jekyll was bent over the passenger’s seat of his car and nearly drove his head through the headrest when I ran my wet tongue in a broad brushstroke from his balls to his anus.
I couldn’t capitulate so easily.
“I wasn’t just licking. I probed with my tongue. Oh, and flicked,” adding a parody of a flicker and satisfied grin for good measure.
He called me a trollop. I told him his goal for tonight was to rim someone. He left the house laughing.
I shake my head in disbelief at some of the conversations we have. I hope his good mood continues because he deserves a change in fortune. If I dig more deeply, my inner voice of self protection also wants a short break from his pervading melancholy of the last few weeks. I’m not always strong enough to hold both of us up; I hope someone is there to look after him for a while as I have some down time from the last few weeks on the domestic front.
I have read that writer’s block is the internal struggle between the creative process and the editing process; in effect, trying to do two different things at the same time and succeeding at neither. I think this time around it’s writer’s constipation in that handfuls of ingredients have been thrown into the mixing bowl this week but remain unprocessed and undigested.
The Drummer misses the beat
The Drummer has had an interesting week with women. He is a paid member on two dating websites and having little success with either. I’ve been told by several men that online meeting is a women’s market and they can pick and choose and, finally, I believe them. The last three women backed out of meeting The Drummer only hours before their agreed meeting times.
My impression is that many women hit the online market as an attention-seeking or self-validation tool, and perhaps some want to explore further but lose courage at the final moments. It’s hard to see The Drummer engage in banter at the women’s levels of comfort and half-expect he won’t get to see them in person, let alone move to a more intimate level. On a more selfish level, I try to be conscious of playing down my own activities when his travels have been more laboured and fruitless.
Mid-life crisis
I have many thoughts about the truth or falseness of the mid-life crisis but it’s hard to get them all down. My jury is leaning towards a verdict of true. More later. The Horny Housewife brings a wise perspective in this post.
Retail therapy
I bought a vibrating egg toy with remote control and can’t say I’m pleased with it. The Drummer inserted it inside me yesterday while I was working his arse with another vibrator. He hit the seven speed and tempo settings like a kid with a new toy and it’s more funny than arousing, like a mosquito rather than a road compactor I was expecting (and wanting). At the moment I think it’s $60 that could have gone towards the electricity bill instead.
On a more euphoric note, I found a new replacement for Golden Boy (the sex toy’s equivalent of Jerry Seinfeld’s beloved yellow t-shirt) while at the local emporium of getting your rocks off. I caught a glimpse, knelt before the display, stared boggle-eyed, did a double take and, yes, it’s real. I ran to the counter as though breaking stride might interrupt the dream and blathered to the sales assistant that it’s the only toy that has worn out before it’s broken. She seemed genuinely happy for me and popped in new batteries (and stayed out of my path when I ran to the car with package in hand).
It’s a humble-looking California Exotics vibrator designed with a t-bar for anal use, but it’s buzzy, hard on the inside, squidgy on the outside, and hits every good spot known to woman. I can’t recall getting the first one in my possession (it may have been an impulse purchase by The Drummer) but I’m too scared to use the new one from in case it’s the last one I’ll ever find again. Yeah yeah, it’s not the last piece of a treasured dead relative’s Sunday crockery and is made to be used, but … what if it’s the last one left on the planet?
I’d like to try a Wahl next – just need to find a merchant with international shipping and a 240 volt converter (and clear the bills first).
More retail therapy
I took Jekyll to my favourite BDSM supply shop and left with a can of Crisco. It remains unopened and the race is on to see who gets to use it first.
Some things are better left in fantasyland
I haven’t even had time to reflect on Jekyll’s visit to my office – I was on all fours on a yoga mat and he said afterwards he had three fingers from each hand inside my vagina. Inching closer to the mythical fist. Even with my over-preparation of two sets of security doors locked, curtains drawn and at least three hours until guards did their evening rounds, I found it hard to relax, even when I was pushed backwards over a desk with Jekyll’s tongue exploring my slit. He shuts distractions out more easily than me and happily threw me around with some bottom slapping, 69 with me on top and slid inside me until he came.
Build-up
The first week with ArmyDude working under me (so to speak) has been a game of side-stepping the white elephant of sexual tension in the office. The elephant is hungry and wants feeding. Something is going to happen: it’s more a matter of when and how rather than if. We’ve had a couple of interesting discussions about his home life when privacy has allowed. It’s amazing what people open up about when ears are open and the urge to judge is switched off. He and his wife haven’t had sex this year so he’s taken matters into his own hands. Two years ago I was where she is now. I know why she’s avoiding sex and pretending their elephant in their bedroom doesn’t exist, but I can’t help her and it’s not my role to rescue him. I think I mentioned a couple of weeks ago that my reasons for talking further to him were desire and selfishness and that remains the case.
That feels better. I need a nap now.
It was time for all good things to end and Hyde to return to his other life (even at this early stage it’s obvious he gets the guilts after orgasm and looks for a polite moment to shower and leave). Jekyll offered to drive him home and return to the hotel to ravage me some more.
We agreed a fitting last act of the night was to spread-eagle and tie me to the bed, though I can’t remember why.
I adjusted the pillow and settled my limbs into an X formation as my soft Japanese ropes were run under the bed and through the D-links on my cuffs. Jekyll worked quickly and quietly, only pausing when Hyde asked him for knot recommendations on his side of the bed. Master and apprentice discussed the merits of popular knots as if I were a yacht that needed mooring against an oncoming storm. Jekyll demonstrated a nifty slip knot with the rope ends at the wrists within reach if I needed to undo them.
I joked and said to Jekyll, “Is that because you’re going to leave me here like this when you take Hyde home?”
Eyebrows rose in devious arches and within two minutes the room was dark, the clock on the bedside table was turned away and I was by myself with nothing but my thoughts, a dildo in my vagina and an anal vibrator buzzing away at my clit, its wire and controller resting on my torso and over my bicep.
I listened to the buzzing and squeezed my pelvic floor muscles to adjust the vibrator’s position. I wriggled the digits attached to each arm and leg in turn, and arched my back every few minutes to keep my muscles pliant. I pondered how many minutes had passed and imagined where Jekyll and Hyde might be. I heard my stomach growl and send extra-sensory messages to Jekyll that he might want to return with supper. Notes and lyrics from the music I was listening to earlier reverberated through my mind. Self-congratulatory claps of “Ooh, aren’t I daring for allowing myself to be tied up and left alone?” occasionally rumbled between my ears. Enforced relaxation can be an agreeable way to pass the time.
An unknown number of minutes later, fissures started appearing in my flow of pleasant thoughts. Shouldn’t Jekyll be back by now? What’s that grinding sound outside the door – surely not the elevator cable breaking? I wonder if Jekyll’s car has broken down; I wouldn’t know if he’s called because our phones are set to silent and are over yonder somewhere. I could really go to the toilet about now, or sooner. Crap, he must’ve had an accident. What if I release myself but he comes in the door 10 seconds later?
Internal muscle contractions caused the dildo to fall out which made the buzzy toy drop from my clit. Wriggle, wriggle of my arm to prise the thing to its former place. If I untie myself I could re-position the toys … hmmm, but how would I re-tie the knots?
Is that a fire siren outside the window? Would I have time to remove the leather bits in the event of an emergency evacuation? My god, what if a by-stander captures photos of me in a collar, tangled in ropes, the red marks on my bare backside accentuated by the spotlights of television crews? Goodness me, the situations I allow myself to be in. What will my parents think when they see their eldest and most sensible on the late news?
The door clicked.
“Oh, hi,” I said.
“How are you?” he replied.
“I’m fine, thanks. It’s nice having some quiet time to relax.”
Sometimes things just happen, like having my hand up to the knuckles inside Hyde’s anus. Before withdrawing, I gave my fingers a disbelieving wiggle and, yes, they were missing up his arse. The most intelligent sentiment I could express was, “Wow,” and days later that’s still the closest I can describe the experience.
He was lying on the bed with me on all fours between his knees, trying to suck his roller-coaster erection to firmness. His anus accepted my index finger like an old friend and I squirted more lube and added my middle finger. He swallowed them without effort and soon took my tee-pee of index, middle and ring fingers.
Jekyll was performing miracles on my bottom with his tongue and thankfully stopped the distraction when he became aware of the sudden quietness. We three are shamelessly visual and I almost heard Jekyll’s jaw hit the mattress when he saw how much of my hand belonged to Hyde.
Hyde grabbed my wrist and, without speaking, pulled it into his body. My supporting left hand squirted more lube down his cleft as my mind tried to catch up and thought fuck, I wasn’t expecting this. I nestled my little finger with the other three and held the now-larger cylinder of my hand against his anus. I didn’t have to wait for him to push into it because he pulled again with his hand, as if having it disappear up his arse was the urgent priority for the night. We were both heading into new territory and I was petrified on the inside but fascinated by how far we might go.
He pulled with enough force over time that my forearm muscles started shaking. I felt like I was in an action film sequence and my rapidly-fatiguing arm was the only thing stopping him from careening over the side of a cliff. Jekyll noticed my instability and I nodded in his direction that I was still in control – just. Hyde kept pulling and I wedged my elbow into my inner thigh to provide greater leverage and stability. And remembered to tuck my thumb into the protective cone of my fingers. And hoped like hell that his arse didn’t suddenly swallow my knuckles because I imagined my hand would shoot at a hundred miles an hour out of his stomach.
I enquired into Hyde’s comfort level. He said he felt fine but full and hadn’t a clue how many fingers were inside him. Jekyll replied chirpily that it was all of them and it looked amazing. A mental barrier went up inside Hyde’s head and he said he was starting to feel discomfort. I allowed his body to slide my hand out slowly as Jekyll and I watched the reverse motion in abstract wonder.
When my hand became mine again, I showed Hyde how much he had absorbed. I managed to form a lucid thought beyond ‘wow’ and said that – because of my lack of a penis – I’ve never had that much of my body inside someone else’s. We agreed the awe wasn’t sexual but surprise and newness and anticipation of more to discover next time. I have already scoured the web for a heavier-duty lubricant.
