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.

Sinful Sunday: trunk show

When I take photos, I play around with poses that I hope will work out well. Sometimes they do and sometimes they don’t. Being both the photographer and the subject, I don’t have a great deal of control when creating the image because I can’t see what the camera sees when the shutter clicks, so I don’t bother planning too much. I just collect some images to work with and see which ones, if any, appeal.

This one ended up out of focus but I loved the pose too much not to use it.

Black and white, slightly out of focus? This puts me in mind of a surveillance photo. So what was the observer looking for, and what did he see?

trunk show

A voice – belonging to the subject of interest, who remains tantalizingly out of frame: “Over the trunk now, love. There’s a good girl.”

badge Sinful Sunday

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.


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.

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.

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.

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.

take me for a ride

I want to go for a ride, but I want you to drive.

I don’t need to know exactly where we’re going. Take me on the scenic route.

There’s no speed limit here…

Floor it, throw me back into the seat, downshift and accelerate into the curves.

Make me laugh in delight… or swallow my smile until

it turns into a conspiratorial smirk,
my glittering eyes peeking
through lowered lashes.

give me that fuck now

He gives me my instructions: I’m to have my bath, and once I’ve toweled off I’m to get dressed in a tight little T-shirt, a black thong and stilettos. When I’ve readied myself, he orders me into the kitchen and, with firm hands, bends me over the counter. I know he’s intending to fuck me, and I wait, warm, while anticipation clenches in my stomach.

But it turns out to be a false start. So much of this is still new for him too, and this time focusing so much on exercising domliness renders him less than hard, throwing both of us off our game.

He heads to the bedroom, no doubt revising his plan, and I’m to follow. I’m feeling slightly snappish: after my bath I put lotion on my feet as usual, but the order for the stilettos came after the lotion, and I’ve been worrying about the lotion wrecking the shoes, so I ditch the heels. I retire to the bedroom and now spanks are on the menu. Mood or no mood, I’m at least fairly confident that his hand on my ass will get me in a better frame of mind, as well as wet. I can take it a little harder now, and he gets a few nicely stinging ones in.

Once I’m good and warm, and he’s good and hard, the pounding can begin. One: from behind, with my ass in the air, knees together, and chest pushed down into the bed. Two: on my right side with right leg straight down; I start with my left knee lifted a little toward my chest; after a bit I straighten the left leg and hold my ankle up approximating the splits. Three: on my back with my ankles on his shoulders; then I grasp my feet and stretch my legs up straight almost to the wall behind the head of the bed (thanks, yoga); finally I wrap my legs around his hips and draw him into me.

Thinking to encourage him further with a bit of dirty talk, I demand, “Give me that fuck now.” Given the circumstances, it’s a bit redundant, but he manages to give it to me harder. A little too hard, actually.

I rapidly recant: “OK, maybe not quite so much of a fuck!” and we both dissolve into laughter.

wait and see

Morning. He’s already up, and I’m lying in bed trying to warm up by thinking pleasant thoughts, but I’m distracted and I can’t maintain sufficient concentration to get a fantasy off the ground. Although I’m nicely wet, my mind remains largely disengaged.

He comes in and asks how warm I am. “Somewhat,” I answer vaguely. But I am, at least, in the mood for him to be quite bossy, relatively speaking. The night before, we discussed what ‘bossiness’ will look like: for minor adjustments to my position, he’ll simply push me where he wants me; for anything else, he’ll give me terse instructions.

“Sit up. Move out of the way.” He moves my pillow down to hip-level. “Lie down, face down.” It’s cold, so he covers my back with a blanket.

And then he starts on my bottom. Pats and squeezes and caresses. Spanks and squeezes and caresses. After a little while, he asks if I need any more. “Maybe a few,” I respond. More spanks. And still more. Stinging spanks. It goes on about three times longer than I’d expected, with the last few feeling sharp indeed. My bottom is well warmed and I’m so wet that the moisture is practically dripping off my clit. He checks, hmms appreciatively, and licks the juices off his finger.

He deems me ready (and how!) and arranges me with my ass in the air. But the concentration required for running the show so far as left him less than hard. He lies down beside me, we spoon for a bit, and I start to worry that he’s going to give up in frustration. So I ask, “Would you play with my nipples?” And he says, quietly, “I’m still in charge here…” Oho, the game is afoot!

A moment passes, and then he gets up. “On your hands and knees.” He has opened the dresser drawer, I hear the crinkling of a packet. A pause. And then he’s sliding in and he’s fucking me from behind and he’s putting his finger in my ass. I won’t come this way, but mmm.

He comes and then it’s my turn, with vibe and his fingers on my G-spot. The lead-up is promising but the orgasm is anticlimactic. No matter. We’ll take care of that later, maybe later today. Maybe with fingers or cock or a toy. Maybe just once, or maybe more than once. I’ll just have to wait and see.

my hair is too short

I’ve got a pixie cut, short back and sides. Short. Clippers short.

I want him to grab my hair at the nape of my neck, twine it around his fist, pull my head back sharply.

I want him to breathe on my neck and lick me.

I want him to kiss me deeply, control me.

But my hair is too short.