fiction: Liminal State

She was languid in the passenger seat, seat back reclined, one leg stretched out and the other bent, knee resting against the door. She could see her still limbs reflected brightly in the windshield, trees on either side of the freeway streaking through the image. When she wasn’t dozing, she passively observed the countryside and sky.

He drove in silence so as not to tax her with conversation. It made him inscrutable; she supposed the reverse was true as well. He had woken early (awake again, at a time when he was more likely to be awake still) so that he could meet her at the airport and bring her home. His home, at least.

It was warm in the car. Drowsily warm. He mostly left her to herself but occasionally he beamed at her and murmured a few words. Sometimes he squeezed her knee ­– to demonstrate his affection to her; or to reassure himself of her presence. Or both.

She’d been travelling for most of a day. It began when she had checked her luggage and gone through security and, though still in her city, in a way was no longer really there. Then the flight to a larger centre. In and not really in that city. In and not really in her country. Schrodinger’s airports. The interminable flight, the time zones. Just a few hours since takeoff and already it was hard to make sense of the time displayed on her watch. Neither here nor there.

As a seasoned traveller, being on a flight didn’t feel so far outside her normal life. Landing at the far end, she knew to expect that oddly familiar feeling of unfamiliarity: How is it possible that I’m really here? How can this place actually exist outside of a photo?

Passport control, that rite of passage. Then trundling her luggage cart through the double doors of frosted glass…

…And beyond, spotting him almost immediately, closing the distance quickly. Arriving safely, into his arms and care. Fait accompli.

Except… not quite. There was still the drive home. His home, at least.

On the flight, she’d imagined the exchange at the border: Business or pleasure? Oh, pleasure, for sure – sex, actually. She had smirked at herself. But it wasn’t just that. She had come here to see if she could trust him enough to submit to him, if she had the strength to allow herself to do that. Trust as an act of brute will – was that even possible?

She was almost sick with the vulnerability of it.

Something would, probably, change in the atmosphere between them after she arrived at his house. That was a big reason why she was here. They were already lovers. He could have started the game during the drive but he hadn’t and didn’t seem likely to now. But the closer they got to his house, the sooner she would be thrust out of this liminal state into… something else. She was weary and had no desire to prolong the time between herself and a proper bed, but by this point, being in the car was known and therefore comfortable in its way and she regretted just a little bit that it would end soon, because then what? When would it start? Or would it start at all? Would they pass the entirety of her visit in light amusements, without even a glimpse of the depths?

He turned from the freeway onto a city street, and the altered tone of the engine was enough to curdle her vague worries into a knot in her stomach. Six minutes later the tires crunched onto the gravel driveway.

“Here we are.”

I don’t feel safe

I don’t feel safe. I mostly mean sexually, but this could apply to other things too; I’m not sure.

Intellectually, I know that I am safe. Wolf and I have been together for a lot of years, and while there have been rare mistakes or missteps, I’ve never felt that he he looked down on me, disrespected me, or used me. Since I’ve been more aware and deliberate about trusting him, I’ve made a bit of progress but not as much as I would have liked.

I seem unable to feel safe. It’s like I don’t have a sense of safety because I don’t have the organ, nerve, bulb, whatever it is that I need to sense it. Or maybe my sense of safety exists but is partly impaired, since I’m perfectly attuned to detect the slightest whiff of danger.

Not feeling safe means I’m always reflexively on my guard such that I don’t necessarily even notice the tension. (It has recently occurred to me to wonder whether my chronic physical tension is connected to this.) Because of my history with Wolf, I can choose to let my guard down a bit but it takes a great deal of effort, and it’s imperfect because I don’t fully understand why I’m on my guard in the first place.

The other night, Wolf and I cuddled the way we always do. Ordinarily he’d touch my back and rub my neck, and I’m happy to let him because he knows through lots of experience what I like. But it still feels to me that he’s in control.

This time I was thinking about my feeble sense of safety and what I could possibly do to develop it. We decided that I’d tell him what I wanted and he’d do it, or he’d stop if I said stop. I often ask him to touch or massage one spot or another, but this time I just told him “touch me here” or “massage me there”. It’s a minor grammatical difference but it was enough to make me feel a little emotionally vulnerable. I hope I’m not imagining this, but when I told him to hug me a certain way because I needed reassurance, it seemed to sink in more thoroughly than usual.

With Jaime, dealing with my inherent feeling of unsafeness is more challenging. He has demonstrated his trustworthiness to me in myriad ways but we don’t have the same length of time together, and most of the time that we do have is long distance, which is qualitatively different and can’t really address issues of physicality.

I think this is why I haven’t really progressed beyond splashing around in the shallow end of the BDSM pool. BDSM often uses a dash of fear to heighten physiological arousal, but when I don’t feel fundamentally safe, all it seems to accomplish is to make me even more cautious and guarded.

I’ve been thinking about how things are with Jaime, and how I’d like to go deeper but I feel like I’ve plateaued. This relationship started with a BDSM flavour and the undercurrent is still there but right now it’s very quiet. I feel a bit disappointed about that. My difficulties with depression and low libido have been a significant issue, and in response to my general mood Jaime has chosen to back off, BDSM-wise.

Thinking about some of the BDSM things that we’ve done together that didn’t go so smoothly, I realised that I’ve probably deferred to him too much, trusting his domming experience more than my understanding of myself and my needs. And frankly, I’m not always that good at knowing my own needs, so it’s really attractive to believe that someone else knows what they are and will satisfy them.

Now, I like to know why things are the way they are, and when facing a current challenge, I often revisit my childhood to see if there might be some early learning colouring the way I think about things now. One of my tentative conclusions is that my parents were not very responsive to me when I was very young. This difficulty is that you develop your earliest sense of self from what is reflected back to you from your caregivers. If my parents weren’t good at knowing me, then they couldn’t teach me to know myself. As an adult, wanting someone else to know and satisfy my needs without my having to figure it out myself sounds like a mind-reading fantasy. But isn’t this basically what parenting young children is about?

But despite the past, I’m an adult and I now understand myself better than anyone else does. “Just going along with things” is a theme in an awful lot of my sexual experiences, and historically the results for me have been neutral ranging through to actively bad. If I’m going to submit, I think I need to trust myself more and be more assertive regarding both process  (how and when we communicate, how I express my needs and concerns) and substance (the activities I agree to).

I believe that it’s possible to be both assertive and submissive, but what I’m struggling with is whether it’s possible for me to do so, in my way, in this relationship.

Sinful Sunday: panoply

No arty photo this week. This one is a straight-up catalog of the various items that Gawan used on me: mostly implements for impact, but with a couple of bondage pieces thrown in for good measure.

panoply
Top row: leather paddle and suede flogger; leather flyswatter; cuffs; spreader bars. Middle row: canes in two weights; patu; belt; razor strop. Bottom row: riding crop; tawse; light flogger and leather fly whisk; birch. Items are shown in approximate order of first use.

It was very clear to me that he was using the impact implements lightly, even though I generally didn’t see him landing the blows. Logic tells me he would have started at zero and then ramped up until I was reacting, which didn’t take long at all. I definitely had a sense that he wasn’t putting much weight into it*, which I suppose I intuited from the speed of the strokes and the fact that his breathing didn’t change.

The leather paddle got the most use – it gave him the reactions that he liked best. The birch was the most… memorable.

[*With one exception, which I may write about.]


Some months ago I pointed out the existence on my blog of both a mystery and a clue to solving it. The mystery is still out there and there have been plenty of clues lately. I don’t want to tell you what the mystery is because it might give away the game completely and that wouldn’t be any fun.

So, do you know what the mystery is? And have you solved it? Let me know in the comments.


Edit: Andrew and Pixie of Kink Craft chose my image for the Round-up.

The intention for this may not have been for an arty image but it has turned out to be one. This is like a kinky patchwork quilt and that just works. The individual images tiled into one are just like the panels of a quilt.

Thanks guys! The quilt effect is due in part to the fact that the background of all the photos is the sheet on the bed, so it’s literally textile. And one of my (old) hobbies is sewing.

badge Sinful Sunday

the apparently conservative couple

The other day it was finally cool enough for denim leggings (aka sprayed on jeans), which meant I could wear them with the Breton shirt I’d bought on my trip (balanced stripes in navy and white). With a trilby and nice leather sandals, I looked put together and rather presentable. Wolf was wearing flattering new jeans with a T-shirt, and somewhat dressy black shoes.

Wolf wanted to buy some hardware to make me some leather cuffs, so we headed out to a store that carried saddlery and tack, among other things. The place was quite large so we were fairly invisible, but they didn’t have what we needed. We went to another shop, which was boutique sized, and there was no escaping the clerk’s attention.

As Wolf picked out buckles, loops and clips, I wandered around to see what other stock they had: saddles; leather care products; riding boots for people who actually ride; horse medicines. And then this collection of whips and crops in the corner caught my eye. Er, these implements are a little advanced for me yet, but it pleased me to see them there: shopping becomes more entertaining when you have a dirty mind. I snapped one quick pic, hoping that I didn’t give away the game by paying too much attention items that are so easily pervertable.

whips-and-crops

The experience was reminiscent of a time when I was the retail clerk. I worked at a women’s clothing shop in a mall, and the clientele were mostly in their 30s and 40s. One quiet evening a couple came in. I pegged them as mid-40s. She was wearing a navy top and a matching knee-length navy-and-white striped skirt. I think he was wearing a suit.

While his wife shopped, he entertained himself by looking at the jewelry. Well, tried to. There wasn’t much and it wasn’t great. So he struck up a conversation with me, leading off with a complaint that the jewelry was crap. I couldn’t argue – he was right. I suppose he started to hear himself and thought his tone was inappropriately negative, so he said, “I do have good taste in jewelry though,” and from the bag he was carrying he withdrew a little object to show me. It was a tiny ziplock containing a captive bead ring, so I asked what was pierced. “My wife’s labia,” he said. Er, I kind of walked into that one, didn’t I?

So there we were, many years later: my partner is picking out benign-looking materials while I’m entertaining myself by looking around in a saddlery shop and thinking about being restrained and possibly cropped.

I never thought I’d be like that. I never thought we’d resemble that couple in the slightest. God, I never imagined myself wearing navy.

F4TF: limits

badge F4TF

The questions:

Is there something (or things) that you would absolutely say no to in a sexual context?
What are your limits? Are they hard? Soft?
Have your limits changed over time?

My sexual limits have definitely changed since my epiphany, which has made the last year and a half quite exciting.

Before, I placed a lot of restrictions on sexual play (and on my partner) in order to feel safe. Receiving cunnilingus was OK, and being penetrated with a finger or two was OK in that context but not otherwise. Touching his cock and having intercourse were essentially soft limits. Fellatio felt threatening and degrading: hard limit, no question. Anal play: hard limit. No toys. Non-monogamy was an absolutely rigid limit that I wouldn’t have even thought about questioning.

What a difference it made when I no longer had sexual shame putting on the brakes: I get turned on, I get wet and relaxed! Intercourse is no longer uncomfortable and I actually enjoy it, physically and emotionally, even though I can’t climax that way. Touching my partner’s cock is no longer a limit. I have a few toys now – my little vibrator gets the most use.

Fellatio first became a soft limit, and now it’s not a limit anymore. I tend to feel shy about it, but I’m able to offer without taking ages to work up the nerve, and once I get started I’m fine.

I’ve found that I enjoy anal play with fingers or toys. I’m curious about anal sex, but it’s not going to happen for a while: I find my partner’s girth rather, um, intimidating at the moment.

I now enjoy some spicy stuff that verges on BDSM (spanking, dirty talk, mild bondage, being blindfolded), or is definitely BDSM (flogging, submission, enforced availability). The stuff I tend to fantasize about is generally BDSM. I’d say non-monogamy is a soft limit: I’ve had some mild sexual play with one person who is not my partner but I have no interest in being sexual with anyone else.

My current sexual (non-BDSM) limits: monogamy with one notable exception. I’d probably try most “ordinary” things. If I were single, one-night stands would be a hard limit, and “friends with benefits” seems highly unlikely to appeal. No swinging, cuckolding, threesomes or group sex. I’m not interested in playing with other women.

My BDSM limits are much, much broader since I’m such a novice – there’s a lot that I might try at some point but I’m not ready for now. Hard limits: scat; needles, cutting, drawing blood, permanent marks; humiliation; breath play.

Gawan: Intro to Flogging

As promised, Gawan brought a flogger with him. With black suede falls about 3/8″ wide, black suede covering the handle, and silver hardware, it looked entirely BDSM-y. Surprisingly so, in fact. He’s no slave to tradition (sometimes even actively subverting it), so any color would have been possible. Now, hot pink would be highly improbable, but it wouldn’t have come as a total shock. On the other hand, he recognizes the power of symbols, especially if they tend to increase hotness: if a black flogger contributes to the mood, then that’s all to the good. But I’m guessing that his primary reason for choosing this flogger has more to do with function and feel. Hell, it could be his travel flogger for all I know.

I’m not sure whether it was day or evening, but I have a recollection of the warm and intimate glow of the bedside lamps. Our room was decorated in warm tones: mango and blush on the walls, bedspreads of cinnabar and gold. The room was not cool — the air conditioner was barely up to the task at any time of day.

I was nude, face down on the rumpled white sheets, hips elevated with two pillows, when he gave me a safe word. It wasn’t the standard “red”, or any other safe word that I’d heard before. I repeated it to myself a few times to make sure I’d remember it, especially since it was novel and my mind would soon be elsewhere. It sounded a bit silly, the sort of thing that, if I found myself under enough strain to need it, the mere saying of it would break the spell of seriousness and lighten the mood at least a little.

I’d never had a proper safe word before. Explicitly being given special means to stop meant that we were — that I was — officially starting. This was, at least in some sense of the word, real.

He began slowly, caressing my back with the falls of the flogger. That was… good. Delicious, even. I sighed my enjoyment. Then he began to rain light blows on me. It was heavy enough that it must have started to color my skin, but it still felt pleasant.

After this point, my recollection is hazy at best. I could have been a more objective observer if I had clung to ordinary awareness, but that would have sacrificed some of the fullness of the sensation. Objectivity be damned, I wanted to feel. So I let go.

And I could have reconstructed it if I’d revisited the experience soon after we finished, but it didn’t seem all that noteworthy at the time. It wasn’t until much later, when Gawan told me that I seemed to have dropped to somewhere near subspace, that I tried to fill in the gap.

So, what happened? The blows must have become heavier, no longer pleasant as such but not actively unpleasant. I would have been focusing on managing the sensation the way I do with a deep tissue massage, which feels uncomfortable yet satisfying because I know it’s helping. In those moments when a knotted muscle is being probed with, say, an elbow, I’m entirely focused on the treatment, breathing deliberately through it and making an effort to relax into it because if my attention wanders, it hurts more. I could never doze off during a treatment — in fact, I feel very alert — and yet afterwards I can barely remember what was done. I think this must be what was happening during the flogging.

The details return when it got heavier. Occasionally he threw in a sharper blow. Those stung. I flinched. I gasped. But I never felt like I was getting close to calling a halt.

He went on for some time — how long, I have no idea — but as far as I was concerned it was over too soon. When he was done, he casually put the flogger down. On the bed. In front of my face. I knew the placement was entirely deliberate, and I did my best to hide my smile.

Nothing he had thrown at me had felt terribly challenging. I hadn’t needed the safe word, nor had I expected to. I had been confident that he would have a fair sense of how far to go the first time and to be able to read my reactions, and he worked comfortably within my limits, despite the fact that I didn’t even know where those limits were.

Later he said all my reactions showed that I enjoyed it. That surprised me. All of them? Sure, the caresses and the light blows were clearly well received, but what about the focus and the flinching? I wouldn’t have described that as much of a demonstration of enjoyment. So either he misunderstood my body language (which seems quite unlikely), or he knows something that I don’t. Maybe I should ask.

They say that you should leave the recipient wanting more. If that’s true, then mission accomplished.

Gawan: Intro to Commands

All of the dominant stuff that Gawan tried out on me was calibrated to fall in the happy space between too boring and too challenging. Given that I’m an utter novice to submission, he was working all the way at the light end of the range.

Spanking and flogging are physical activities that take some time, where one person does and the other is done to. In contrast, a command is a brief communication setting out what the desired conduct is and expressing the firm expectation that it will be done. It has a substantial psychological effect, although the content of the command is often physical in that the submissive is either to do something or to refrain from doing something.

The spanking certainly felt like Intro to Spanking (just as the flogging was Intro to Flogging), but the commands felt more tentative in comparison, and I don’t think that was just because of the amount of time spent on each. I’m not sure this was Intro to Commands as much it was the placement test.

***

His first command (originally mentioned here) was given while we were still travelling. We were in an airport, far away from any people and, when I made to leave some room between us on our bench, he told me to sit right beside him. I interpreted this as him testing the waters, sketching out a bit of the shape of the relationship that he was hoping to establish. The words were in the form of a command, but really he was asking me two questions: Will I sit next to him? And more importantly, will I obey a command for him?

I felt odd receiving the order, but choosing to obey wasn’t difficult. For one thing, it was low stakes. And part of me was grateful: he knew exactly where he wanted me to sit and communicated that clearly while I was still busy doing the math to calculate probable personal space requirements. As a bonus, it created a mild and pleasant frisson.

***

Days later in the hotel room, he delivered another command, as a preface to a sensual spanking. I was on the bed, prone and waiting when he ordered me to put my hands behind my head.

Ah, that wasn’t so hard.

Hands behind the head is a symbol of submitting to an authority; it leans on the type of authority held by police and military (which is underpinned by government authority and physical threat), rather than that of an employer or religious figure (where control has more to do with the fear of the disapproval and the threat, if any, is not physical). I didn’t find this order too difficult psychologically, perhaps because I was already in something of a submissive position. In for a penny, in for a pound, perhaps. In addition, prone and hands on the head are thematically linked, so while the order might feel a little odd, it wasn’t jarring the way it would be in an atmosphere suggestive of, say, the boss’s office.

And it wasn’t entirely unexpected; although I’m not used to receiving commands, he has written things that made this specific one unsurprising. That bit of familiarity helped. In fact, I had probably already imagined myself obeying such a command.

***

Gawan had quite enjoyed my fringe photos, so I brought along one fringe (which first appeared here) to model in person.

I had posed for those photos sans culotte. Reality is always more awkward, isn’t it? Now, in the hotel room, I was taking off my street clothes and had gotten down to underwear. I was wearing a thong and debated briefly whether to strip down any further. It occurred to me that there was a slight possibility that I might somehow manage to get the fringe damp and I didn’t want to have to deal with trying to clean it. And would the dye then run? Cautiousness won out: the fringe is so dense at the top that the panties probably wouldn’t be visible.

“Not expressing an opinion either way on the matter, but is there some reason why you have your knickers on?”

I thought a moment: it wasn’t worth explaining my concern that I’d have to clean dampened fringe. If that became a problem, I’d figure out a way to deal with it. I shrugged. “Not really.”

“Well then, get those knickers off right now, young lady.”

So I did. It turned out that one of my reasons for keeping them on – that not much would be seen through the fringe – worked just as well to make me feel comfortable taking them off.

***

Then there was the time when we were on the bed in a state of undress, kissing. He was lying on his back and I was lying on my side, propped up on my elbow. My other hand was more or less free.

He broke off the kiss. “Touch my cock,” he said.

Aha.

Like the other commands, I took this to be a question in disguise. But this time I found that couldn’t do it. I was frozen, mute. I leaned back and looked him in the eye.

“Touch my cock,” he repeated a tad more firmly, making it clear that this was an order. Testing me.

I paused.

“No. I can’t. I don’t feel comfortable with that.”

I have written before about feeling uncomfortable with cocks generally. It has gotten easier, but it appears that my progress has a very limited application. I was a little surprised, actually.

The progress I’d made in relation to nudity seemed to carry over to Gawan — why not this too? Nudity is an issue relating to my relationship with my own body. If I’m more comfortable in my skin, it would make sense that a certain level of comfort is inherent and independent of context. With cocks, it seems to be about my relationship with the man to whom the cock is attached.

***

While I don’t have official results back from the placement test, he shared some thoughts with me the other day about commands he figures I’d enjoy. Whether through our experiences together or just getting to know me long-distance, he has found something he can work with. The proper Intro to Commands may happen next time we meet.

erotic styles

Or, “How to Turn Me On: A Duffer’s Guide”.

I recently read Jaiya’s Cuffed, Tied, and Satisfied, which I found interesting overall, despite the fact that there were a few areas that seemed to me to be a little weak.

One interesting (but underdeveloped) topic was patterns of erotic needs and wants that vary from person to person. She calls this “erotic wiring” but I don’t care for that term; the suggestion of soulless mechanism or programming is at odds with the deliciously organic nature of sex. So I’m going to refer to her concept as “erotic styles” instead.

She identifies four styles, which she calls sexual, sensual, energetic (another term I dislike), and kinky. Although I found her descriptions a little sparse, I think I learned something about myself, and that’s all to the good.

[The blocks of text below are my own synopses, while the bullet points are direct quotes from the book.]

Sexual

For a sexual person, the focus is on intercourse. You have a medium to high libido and get off on erotic visuals and films (i.e. porn, presumably). Sex is both a need and a source of relaxation; orgasm is the focus, fucking is the way to get there. You may not feel much need for creativity in bed because you’re easily warmed up and easy to please.

According to Jaiya, a sexual person needs:

  • visual or other sexual stimulation
  • a willing body — either their own or their lover’s
  • standard, direct techniques

Easy peasy!

Sensual

A sensual person focuses on environment. Both physical space and head space need to be orderly. The things that work are typically romantic: food and drink, relaxation and massage, music and dancing, candles and perfume. Mood-killers include stress, clutter, and incomplete to-do lists. You prefer cuddling, kissing and foreplay over intercourse.

A sensual person needs:

  • clarity of mind — no chaos
  • cleanliness
  • toggle activities (like massage) that help you switch from daily life to sexual life
  • stimulation of the senses (candles, oils, music, etc.)
  • clear beginnings and endings — ritual
  • lack of stress

Energetic (aka Sensitive)

This refers to being sensitive to energy — I prefer the term “sensitive”. For a sensitive person, the key is (not surprisingly) their sensitivity. Anticipation is half the fun. Picking up on your partner’s mood allows you to take great pleasure in their pleasure, but also sets you off if they’re in a bad mood. Great heights of pleasure are possible, including an aptitude for multiple orgasms or full-body orgasms — if properly warmed up. Direct touch is too much, and traditional turn-on techniques probably don’t work. You feel intensely and are often misunderstood.

For sex to be satisfying, a sensitive person needs:

  • attention and absolute presence
  • indirect, full-body stimulation
  • anticipation
  • light energetic touch
  • eye contact/emotional connection

Kinky

A kinky person focuses on sexual play that is “outside the box”, whatever that means for you. You tend to be creative and have a rich fantasy life. A partner’s acceptance is a need, and good communication is very helpful. Fear, shame and judgment cause problems. Interests may include power exchange, bondage, role play, sensation play, training.

A kinky person needs:

  • psychological turn-ons
  • playing with taboo sexual practices (BDSM)
  • creativity/fantasy in sexual play
  • acceptance

The sexual, sensual and sensitive types seem to fall on a spectrum with directness of approach or technique at one end and indirectness at the other. Kinky seems to be a separate category typified by difference or novelty — in other words, off the beaten path.

So where do I fit in all this?

I’m clearly not a sexual type. I’m not easily warmed up. Don’t go for my groin, or even my breast, thinking that will turn me on: if I’m touched sexually too soon, I get right pissed off. The standard direct techniques do not work for me. I’m quite selective about what images or stories I find hot, and my response to the good stuff tends to be mild.

I prefer cuddling, kissing and foreplay over intercourse. Stress and clutter throw me off. I can find music particularly moving. As for food, drink, and the rest of it, they’re pleasant but they’re not going to light my fire. You can skip the rose petals. So I’m somewhat sensual.

I’m very sensitive. I’d say “yes” or “hell yes” to all of this. For me, sex is deeply emotional so I’m unable and unwilling to be sexual with someone who I don’t have a good emotional connection with. If I sensed that my partner was phoning it in, I’d be inclined to pull the plug — there’s just no point.

Another big issue for me is getting — and staying — warmed up. I have to be in a decent mood, he has to be in a decent mood, the pacing has to be good. I find it very satisfying just being aroused, perhaps because it’s still something of a novelty. If I’m not warmed up, there’s absolutely no point for me to try to get off either by myself or with a partner; it’s like having a stuffed up nose and eating a fancy meal despite the fact that everything tastes like cardboard. Deeply unsatisfying, emotionally and physically.

Great heights of pleasure? Yeah, I’d say so. Before my epiphany, the orgasms I had felt nice, or maybe quite nice. Now the low end is around “mmm, that’s gooood”. I fairly often get to “oh, oh, oh” and “oh fuck”. Tears afterward are not uncommon. I sometimes shout during, and I’ve had a couple of literal screaming orgasms. But for all that, I don’t actually orgasm easily. It’s definitely a skill that I/we have been working on. There’s a spot on the nape of my neck where, when touched delicately, makes me shudder orgasmically but it will never make me actually orgasm.

(I’m curious about how well the sensitive type maps onto the definition of the highly sensitive person. Both Wolf and I are HSPs, but he identifies most closely with the sexual type and I don’t at all.)

I’m also kinky. I’m a creative person, and I appreciate creativity, including in sex. I don’t have a rich fantasy life, perhaps because I had suppressed almost all sexual thoughts for so long due to sexual shame. I know I’m interested in some of the more common BDSM activities, especially spanking, power exchange, and bondage. (Hmm, just typing those words is arousing.)

Jaiya defines kinky as being outside of the box, but doesn’t distinguish between novelty and taboo. Transgression is a specific kink; for many people (myself included) whether an activity is taboo does not figure into their enjoyment of it. But I do enjoy combining certain psychological and physical sensations with sex in a way that happens not to be mainstream.

So, sensitive and kinky. That makes things… interesting.

Gawan: Intro to Spanking

It was virtually certain that, during this trip, Gawan would give me a spanking.

The merest suggestion, barely more than an allusion, had been made very early on in our correspondence. We had arrived at the topic with both of us knowing that the other had an interest in it (I as a novice, he an expert), and when he made his vague invitation it was infused with a certain polite flirtatiousness — that is, he was polite while flirting, and flirting was the polite thing to do in the context.

Later he praised my cleverness and banter (and my breasts — he’s no churl), but I think it may have been my ass that finally got him checking his calendar and booking flights.

To be spanked by a master! I had no doubt that this would be an educational experience at least. I’d intended to be studious and to try to learn some transferable skills.

It didn’t particularly work out that way.

There were at least two spankings, maybe three, but they sort of blur together in my mind. I recall a few isolated details here and there but I can’t reconstruct the experiences in an objective, chronological way. I think that’s probably because my mind disengaged and I was mostly just experiencing.

I noted two distinct tempos (or tempi, for the musicians in the crowd) that seemed to have metronomic regularity. At one point, he observed that I seemed to respond better to a regular rhythm rather than an irregular one. I didn’t have any recollection of his having tried an irregular rhythm. Perhaps he tried it very briefly and was able to reach a conclusion before I noticed. Or perhaps that scrap of information just floated away on the stream of my consciousness.

I noticed that he started with a cupped hand, which is milder and makes a distinct ‘clop’ sound. Cupped or, later, flat, the sound rang out through the small room, bouncing off the terrazzo floor and out into the empty hallway. I felt a bit self-conscious about it but not to the point of distraction.

These were sensual spankings and I didn’t find them challenging. That will have been a deliberate concession: I’m certain that he could have had me crying if that had been our goal.

The regular rhythm, the even progression from my ass down-down-down the backs of my thighs, and the gentle crescendo of intensity was pleasant, even a little soothing. I relaxed into it, but that relaxation was limited and conditional, not transferable. My ass was warm and pink, and I was wet, content to go this far and no further. And so it was.

I had expected that I would color rather easily. Rather disconcertingly vampiric, he found it, when I seemed to pale and heal in the few moments it took for him to locate and ready his phone for photos. He was good-naturedly frustrated with my rapid recovery. It seems that he wanted the evidence of his handiwork to last a little while. To put his mark on me.

spanked
Photo courtesy of Gawan, who apologizes for the quality. He was “too distracted by other matters to get particularly arty.”

This is about as good (i.e. red) as it got.

There was one incident of hand-to-ass contact that was not a spanking. We were waiting on our floor for the aged elevator to arrive. In front of the elevator there was a good sized space (on every floor but the main), into which had been shoehorned some configuration of rather tacky overstuffed chairs and loveseats. It was like a miniature lobby, smaller and more private than the one at ground level, and the rooms themselves were small such that handy sitting area wasn’t a bad idea. I supposed that one could enjoy the breeze through the open windows, and perhaps a smoke. (What a cross-cultural experience it was merely to see ashtrays in a public building!)

So, we were just going down to breakfast. It was early-ish, sunny and cheery, and we were unencumbered. With mischief in his eye, Gawan led me the few steps to one of the chairs and, after a quick peek back down the hall to ensure that the coast was clear, jovially manhandled me over the oversized and overstuffed arm and proceeded to deliver a couple of quick swats to my bottom. When the elevator chimed, he grinningly rushed to right me. I was grinning as well, and on my feet again before the door clattered open. And I’ll bet my cheeks were a bit flushed too.