It’s dark and stormy outside right now. God, I love thunderstorms. They make me feel wild and sexy and unrestrained. It makes me want dark and dangerous things. All that power. It makes me shiver.

I miss many things about my time spent playing with BDSM, but one of the losses I’ve felt most keenly, particularly of late, is the feeling of being mastered. Mastered by someone who knows more than I, more in control than I, someone to whom I can give up control and allow them to lead me places that I can only imagine.

I miss the sting of the flogger; while I am far from a pain slut, there was something soothing, challenging, and incredibly fuckably sexy about presenting my ass for a good flogging. Particularly when tied standing up, facing a wall. Soothing, because it was good and solid contact, making me deliciously aware of my body. Challenging, to take the pain and turn it into pleasure, to fight the instincts of my body to curl up on itself and instead work through the pain – like how a good workout feels. And incredibly fuckably sexy, because in spite of what efforts I put forth, I’m deliciously aware that I am naked and they are not, they are watching my body’s reactions to every stroke, and whether I want them to or not, they’re likely aware of just how wet my pussy is getting.

Of course, it’s sexier and hotter still when they pause to slide their fingers into my pussy, just to make sure. Making small comments about how wet I am. The shame and the pain and the contact brings high colour to my cheeks and makes me whimper. Body on fire.

I miss the feel of good, solid restraints around my wrists. The challenge of holding my body properly when restrained. The excitement of wanting to move, to gesture, to touch them, and not being able to until they allow it.

I miss being on my knees, finally allowed to lick them and slide them in my mouth, particularly when my hands are bound behind me.

The challenge of doing so with my balance just slightly off-kilter. And the incredible sexy pleasure when I sense that I am pleasing them. A hand on the back of my head, helping to guide, and also stroking to tell me that I am being a very good bad little girl.

But most of all I miss trusting someone enough to do all of those things. Trusting them to be wiser, more controlled, trusting their imagination and understanding of my body to guide us through a scene of their devising. Trusting that they will challenge me when I need it, soothe me when I need it, and be present for me if my submission is particularly difficult or emotionally trying. Trusting them to know my limits, and help me play the edges of those limits, expanding my abilities and bringing me greater faith in myself and that of my master.

Rainy day thoughts.

he with the magic fingers

A million years or so ago I promised to tell the story of He With The Magic Fingers. I warn you, the story might take a while, because there’s more to it than fingers.

It started pretty innocently; friendship. I was still married, still living with my husband, though only in name; he was due to move out in a few months.

I remember how it really began because it was the night my husband moved out. He took most of the furniture with him. I had dragged my bed into the middle of the living room just to have someplace to sit and look at my new television set on the floor. My new furniture wouldn’t be delivered for several days. It was deathly quiet and echo-ey in the place, and really, the last thing I wanted to do was to spend the evening in the gloomy emptiness.

So HWTMF called, and we went out, and then ended up back at his place. We talked until 6 am. It was the night he introduced me to Morcheeba, playing as background music as we talked. And as so many of my conversations tend to be, a lot of the talk was about sex. What I liked to do, what he liked to do, what I’d like to have done to me, etc. And honestly, I thought conversation was all it was. Mostly, anyway. Sure, I was turned on – the talking, the hot sweet liquid sex music – but I was also numb and a little in shock, I think, from the events of the day. That sort of cotton-head feeling. You know.

He walked me home while the sun was coming up. And at the front door to the building, he kissed me. Didn’t expect it, reacted quite badly, and in time we moved back into friendship groove.

But eventually, as my wounds began to scab over a bit, the attraction came back. It was a confusing time. I was incredibly obsessed with his best friend, actually (Very, Very long time readers will know him as The Muse). Which HWTMF knew about. But The Muse wasn’t available, and HWTMF was so adorable, and available, that one night I made a rather heavy pass. Oh, my God, I don’t think I’ve ever had so much fun just making out. I couldn’t believe how turned on I was. And yet all clothes stayed on.

Fast-forward over a whole bunch of confusing inter-related relationship stuff to do with the strange triangle I’d somehow gotten myself into.

The fact is that HWTMF listened.

He created a safe, trusting space for me. And then he proceeded to turn every single thing I’d ever said about sex, everything I’d ever thought or fantasized about during our talks or in my blog, and used them against me in the sweetest, most incredible way. He paid attention. He used the information he was given. And by the end, he could bring me to a fever pitch with just a teasing fingertip on the inside of my knee.

He gauged my arousal perfectly. He could turn me on with a look, a touch. But he delayed. He teased. Oh, sweet Jesus, did he tease. He took control of my body in ways I’d only imagined up until then. I remember one evening in particular, when he had his hand down my “daisy dukes”, his fingertip hovering about a half-inch away from my body, my entire body poised and stretched and tensed for just anything, a breeze even, to push me over the edge, I was that close.

His fingers were magic. He introduced me to my first silver bullet. He understood more about pleasuring a woman’s body (and mind) than any man I’ve ever known.

But there was more to it than that. I laughed in bed with him more than I’d ever laughed with another lover. Everything was natural and easy and sexy and strangely comforting, and I didn’t spend nearly enough time thinking about what that really meant.

I got too caught up in other crap. The triangular nature of the moment. The Muse. Whatever. The point is that I didn’t see what I had when I had it. Hindsight is always distressingly 20/20, isn’t it? And so my time with HWTMF was sadly short.

But he gave me several lovely perfect memories to walk away with. And Morcheeba is the soundtrack that plays over those memories like sweet, sun-warmed honey.

For that, I’ll always be grateful to him.

and so

You know, when I first set up this blog a billion and a half years ago (4+ years ago, Internet time) I set up a single guideline: no talking about present lovers. I could talk about the past, fantasize about the future, but no fair mentioning current partners.

It was for my own sanity, really – it’s the only way I could force myself to write uncensored, not worrying about what the current partner thought about what I was writing.

And also, you know, not having to broach the subject of the inevitable breakup in public.

So, I’m finally going to bite the bullet before this diary disintegrates into dust from disuse, and say yes, The Boy and I broke up and no, I don’t want to talk about it.

I’ll just consider this a good reminder of why I set my guideline in the first place, and return to it.

More sexy posts soon, I promise!