from “hard limit” to “want”

“I want to fuck your mouth,” he says. I squirm with desire. I can’t help it.

It’s amazing how completely I absorbed the idea that a blowjob was a degrading act without ever having heard anyone say so and before I even knew what a blowjob was.

I lie on my back, my head on a pillow. He straddles my chest and could easily trap my arms at my sides with his thighs.

I allowed Bad Boy (aka the Narcissist) to guilt-trip me into doing something I really didn’t want to do. Excluding the major issue of the manipulation, it wasn’t objectively a terrible experience. But it served to steel my resolve never to do it again.

“Arms above your head.” He pins my wrists in place.

Blowjobs became a hard limit before I knew what a hard limit was, but I adhered to my rule strictly. Given the relationship chaos that followed Bad Boy, that rule functioned to actively protect me. I had no other such damaging experiences, could not be manipulated into it, could not be forced. Regarding this one act at least, I was safe.

I open my mouth so he can rub the head of his cock, slick with pre-come, on my tongue. I take him into my mouth and suck firmly. He hums with pleasure.

The hard limit became an unthinking reflex. But since I realized that I don’t need to protect myself from Wolf, old habits like this now come up for review. Aside from those negative attitudes that I inherited early, I’m practically tabula rasa, which is a good thing. I surprised myself when I discovered that I enjoyed fantasizing about blowjobs.

I keep my head still. He thrusts in and out. Sometimes he murmurs praise, sometimes he groans. The groans are praise too.

Our current favorite position happens to be one in which I can barely move and he has control over depth and pace, because it’s the most comfortable for my perennially tense neck. I don’t associate it with real coercion — it’s all play.

He grasps a handful of my hair to communicate control. Then he uses that grip to move me on his cock like he’s using my mouth to masturbate.

He has never really gotten anywhere near coming in my mouth because I’ve only just promoted it from “hard limit” to “willing”. This is just as new for him as it is for me and, given my past difficulties, he worries about going too far too fast.

His thighs start to shudder. He’s close, so close. I’d asked him not to pull out until he starts to come but he won’t yet let himself go this way, so he pulls out and starts to stroke quickly. My mouth is open; he starts to squirt, but on my neck. I lift my head a little to put my tongue right on his cock, demanding a taste.

He has nothing but praise for the way I suck his cock, and that’s not just politeness speaking: there’s no feigning that delight. But it’s easy to please him because he always lets me know when it feels good. And I can take pride in a blowjob well done.

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.]


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!


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


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.

being noticed in London

London sidewalks teem with people who are just trying to get wherever they’re going. There’s so much to look at but people’s eyes rarely leave the path ahead, or their mobiles.

Gawking tourists are an obstruction to be sniffed at. People standing still, looking eager, and holding clipboards are studiously avoided and best passed just beyond hailing distance. People standing still, looking somewhat defeated, and holding collection jars are avoided, I suspect, with a whiff of guilt or the defensive thought, “I’m too busy to stop.” Or perhaps they’re all simply tuned out as part of the visual noise of a large city. Eye contact doesn’t happen.

With the sheer numbers and diversity, even the odd ones tend to blend in to a degree. Or they get a passing glance until their oddness is comprehended or dismissed, and then they’re deliberately ignored or merely allowed to sink into the noise again.

So when we were out in London the other day, and my partner noticed people noticing us, it bore some consideration.

When we were waiting — on the Tube platform, on the train itself, at a bus stand — he would silently touch me, while continuing to survey our surroundings. If we were facing each other, he would grip my right wrist, the one without the watch.

More often, he would stand beside or behind me and place a hand on the back of my neck, usually fairly firmly, as a way of creating a loving connection without the need for words. Sometimes he stroked my nape lightly, and I would lean in to his touch.

It hinted at control and possession and thus play. It made us both take a virtual half-step out of the chaos, into ourselves and towards each other. It made me relax in one way, tense in another, and sometimes catch my breath — and then slowly and deliberately exhale. Sometimes it got me wet.

I don’t know what other people thought they were seeing. I don’t think they knew either, which is why, while scanning the environment and catching motion or a slightly unusual tableau, they noticed, and then watched, processing. At one point, while we were waiting for a bus, we observed a string of pedestrians passing by, observing us. One woman even made eye contact with me. They always looked away again: we’re a little odd but quiet and clearly harmless. Harmless? Well, we clearly posed no danger to them.

Of the few who saw, I wonder if any understood.

reunion fuck

[TMI warning: menstrual blood.]

As my trip to the UK approached and I was thinking about packing and logistics, I had the novel experience of sex being a significant part of my travel plans. Stock up on preferred brand of condoms. Should I bring any toys? Yes, but which ones, and how shall I pack them? I know I’ll need a nap when we get back to the room, so how many hours will intervene between arrival and first fuck? But as the day got nearer, it became apparent that I’d be travelling during my period. So then we planned not to have sex the day I arrived.

At the end of that very long day — flight, reunion, coach trip, settling in, and lengthy nap — I had a lazy, steamy bath. Once I’d had a thorough soak, he came in to visit, sitting on the edge of the tub. While I reclined sleepily in the hot water, he lifted my left arm up and gently bathed me; he repeated this with all my limbs, and my front. Then I rolled over luxuriantly so he could wash my back. When I was right way up again, he slowly rubbed and explored my folds. He then left me to my bath, and I finished up soon after.

As he was pouring his bath, he told me to be ready — naked and in bed — when he was done. So I was.

He came in, I was slick and ready, and he was soon reaming me vigorously from behind. At some point, the slickness became a slippery wetness and it eventually occurred to me that the menstrual flow, which had stopped for a while, had probably started again. Not a big deal — we had a towel down.

When we finished, he said somewhat hesitantly, “It looks like I’ve done you a great violence.” It was dark. He didn’t really want me to see him and he was even a little concerned about me looking at myself. So I looked down. Of course I looked. There was blood all over my vulva and the tops of my inner thighs, with a drip on each leg running down toward my knees. There were bloody finger prints around both hips and on my lower back. (The only thing missing was a big, red, possessive handprint on my flank.) He was no tidier; he later reported that his cock and the front of his pelvis were uniformly red. He went to wash up and I stayed put, on hands and knees, because I didn’t want to sit and drip on anything.

I started out feeling entirely ambivalent. My main concern with period sex is mess and discomfort from cramps. I’m not squeamish about it, nor is it a fetish. I wasn’t feeling upset or particularly self-conscious. Surprisingly, there was no mess anywhere but on us. I was processing.

That delicate emotional balance was tipped by the first vaginal fart.

When he fucks me from behind, it tends to fill me full of air, and I must have been inflated like a goddamned balloon. I giggled, which immediately created a feedback loop: fart, giggle, fart, etc. Within moments I was howling — until I couldn’t breathe any more. I was still giggling (and farting) when he came back from washing up.

My turn: I filled the bath and left the water rusty, and I still giggled now and then. In the meantime, he checked the walls for blood spatter.

Tenderness, lust, comedy, gore. It’s got everything.


My partner and I are finally in the same time zone again.

I arrived at a reasonable time in the morning, local time, but travelling east folded the day back onto itself and those precious hours that represent sleep disappeared into the ether at 33,000 feet.

As I pushed my trolley out of the luggage area at Heathrow, I started scanning the faces of the people on the other side of the barrier. We’d joked about him holding up a sign with my name on it; there was a thin layer of people on the other side of the barrier nearest the door, most of whom were holding such signs and looking bored. He wasn’t among them, so I rounded the corner to the right and kept going. That’s when I saw him at the end of the passage. I pushed the trolley up to him, stopped, and then we grabbed at each other, hugs and kisses. We’re both introverted and often self-conscious, but in that moment, neither of us gave a flying fuck about who might have been watching and what they might have been thinking.

I was travel weary, overheated, and my face needed a wash, but just about the first words out of his mouth (when we resumed speech) were a compliment on my appearance. For international travel, comfort is my priority, but I also wanted to look good, in part because lately I feel like I look good. My strategy involves yoga pants, and he liked my clingy T-shirt.

As soon as we were together, he took over. It made sense that, as the visitor just off a long flight, I let him lead. But we’ve also been playing at a bit of a D/s vibe, so there was also a slight undercurrent to it all, enhanced by his fervor and intensity.

He commandeered my trolley and led me through the bowels of Heathrow to the coach station, where I was happy to stand back and let him sort out the tickets and then lead me to the platform. We unselfconsciously hugged and just held each other while we waited to be let onto the coach, ignoring the few people around us. When we took our seats (with me tucked beside the window), he got me to take off my watch so he could grip either of my wrists as the mood struck. We stayed in constant contact for the whole trip – over an hour.

Then it was a 10-minute walk back to his room, which will be our room for the next two months. So far, I haven’t seen much else.

the “on” switch

I used to wish that I had an “on” switch.

Playing around pretty much required perfect celestial alignment. It wouldn’t happen unless I was in a decent mood overall, I was actively thinking about playing, it was the weekend (probably morning), I wasn’t having my period, we hadn’t lazed about in bed so long that my back was bugging me, etc.

On those rare occasions when I was in the mood, I didn’t feel like I could actually just tell my partner that I wanted to play. Well, it was more complicated than that. I was torn: part of me wanted to play and the other part vociferously denied it, like stepping on the gas and the brake at the same time. Part of me wanted to speak up and the other part thought that was impossible. Not speaking always won. The result was that play pretty much depended on my partner reading my mind.

If I wanted to play and he didn’t successfully intuit that from my very vague hints, I’d get irritated. If I wasn’t thinking about playing and he tentatively tried to start something, I might or might not get irritated, depending on a host of other factors. If he successfully started something and then went too slow, I’d get very irritated. It was a fucking minefield. He probably did well against the odds, but in absolute terms it wasn’t all that successful. Big surprise.

I wished for an “on” switch because I thought it would have made everything so much simpler: decide to play, flip the switch. Done.

But the problem wasn’t the lack of a switch, or the presence of a switch that was always set to “off”, because the flow was being interrupted earlier than that. It was more like a power outage.

So the power is on now. (Read about how that happened here.) Or to change metaphors, the pilot light is on and with it, the heat. I often find myself at a low simmer but sometimes up to a boil. All this without the need for a switch.

My partner has been away for about three weeks now, and I find that I’m very easily distracted when I should be doing other things. (I could tell him to stop sending me hot emails, and I could stop sending him hot emails, and stop all the other little things we do, but that seems a little drastic.)

And now I’m almost — almost — wishing for an “off” switch.

can’t wait

He’s up and out the door early, and I immediately revert to my solo morning routine of thinking pleasant thoughts while I prepare to greet the day. I pick up where I left off yesterday evening, thinking on some new ideas for playtime. I clearly have some good material because it gets me nice and wet.

If he were home, I might try to ignore it ‌— he’s busy with a big project today, I’m still self-conscious about taking care of myself when he’s around but not involved, and surely I’m getting fucked enough already…

He fucked me last night. First he did my ass with an anal toy, and then with the toy still in place, put his cock in my cunt and reamed me out. And he fucked me the night before. I have every reason to expect that he’ll fuck me tonight and, if I’m not too tired after the party, tomorrow night too.

But I’m wet and warm now. I reach over, grab the vibe, and deliberate…

Then I heft a toy that was readied last night but not used — a weighty piece of surgical steel with a mirror shine and a graceful arc, icy to the touch. Press it to my wet lips – so cold! And then proceed to fuck myself with it.

I think I can make it to this evening now…

black bra and g-string

Evening. My instructions are to have my bath and then get dressed in a black bra and G-string. The foam cups of the bra are thin and smooth. And small. The bra is still in good nick, but I’ve had it for years and it seems that my shape has changed a little. Specifically, my breasts seem to be a full cup size bigger. I’m spilling out.

He is dressed, sitting on the bed, his back against the wall with his legs outstretched. I’m to kneel, straddling his lap and facing away, then he gently pushes me forward to lie down and rest my chest on his legs. He touches and caresses my exposed ass, my hips. Pulls that bit of string out of the way and touches delicately, dipping down to check if I’m wet.

We rearrange: I let him up, he stands, and I lie back. Standing by the foot of the bed, he directs me to caress my clit. I move the black triangle of fabric away and I comply. My snatch is slick while he watches.

He goes for his shower. Until he comes back, I’m to continue working my clit. The room is cold, so I retreat under the covers. When he returns I’m almost completely hidden in the billows of down and, as he asks if I’ve obeyed his instructions, he climbs on the bed beside me. His face is close. In mute reply, I reveal my hand and offer him my wet finger to suck. “Good,” he says. I understand: my obedience, my taste, our evening.

Now he calls me out from under the cozy covers, onto the floor, on all fours. He tells me to continue with my clit, using the vibe, and I comply. Then he slowly slides his cock into me and works my cunt. Slowly. Smoothly. Slowly. Smoothly. I get close and hover there, the goal just out of my grasp, attention split between cunt and clit, and I ultimately come.

It was sweet, but small. I want, still.

Back to the bed. His fingers slide in so easily and he presses on my G-spot. Not rubbing, just a firm pressure, and he gets me close again. It builds up, and the pitch of my moans gets higher and higher.

And then, oh fuck! oh yes! I shudder and groan, and all the muscles that had clenched and tensed finally relax, and I melt.

short hair

I like my short hair because
it doesn’t get in my face, and it doesn’t accidentally get leaned on;
“just-fucked” hair is never a big deal;
the nape of my neck is always exposed
and sensitive,
especially when he
my stubble.

I’m not allowed to have sex today

I decided this yesterday and informed my partner. It’s a practical decision: I have a dance performance this evening, I can’t afford to burn up any significant amount of energy before I perform, and it’ll be too late and I’ll be too wiped out after.

Yet lying in bed this morning, when my partner reminded me that I wasn’t allowed to have sex, I felt a little hard done by. We cuddled, and he caressed my breasts, and I stroked his cock, and I was a bit disappointed that this was all I would get for the moment.

Now, zoom out. If you had told me a year ago that I’d get my knickers in a twist that I wouldn’t be allowed to have sex for one day and I’d be pissed off about it, I would have scoffed.

And then maybe the idea would have taken hold, and I would have imagined what it would feel like to desire so much that giving up one day would feel like a hardship, and I would have been a little sad, grieving for the libido that didn’t exist.

And now I laugh a little because I finally solved my mystery and it’s no longer like this. My libido does exist and has come out of hiding. My already excellent relationship is that much richer.

And he’s promised to fuck the shit out of me all morning tomorrow.