I’ve always believed that everyone’s kink is OK, even if it’s not OK for me. I’d never judge someone (or I’d try really hard not to, at least) on the basis of an element of their kink. Hey, whatever turns you on, so long as it’s consensual, it’s all good.

That said, I’ve never really understood the women’s underwear/women’s clothing aspect of femdom/malesub BDSM. Honestly, it’s one of the biggest things I knew I wouldn’t want. Not because I think less, sexually or emotionally, of people who do it. It’s just:

Look. I’m a feminist. The idea that putting on frilly or pink or satiny clothing or panties makes someone less than, or a sissy, is kind of offensive to me. Because I don’t think being a woman, looking like a woman, feeling like a woman, should ever be something demeaning or less than or in any way embarrassing for anyone because I at my very core do not believe that having female traits is any more embarrassing than having male traits. In other words, why wouldn’t it be ok? 

Luckily, my Darling agrees with me (he’s a feminist too, sort of) and we were both on the same page about wearing frilly underpants being a no in our relationship.

Then, we started playing with butt plugs and learned pretty quickly that actually, those gently sloping silicone things don’t actually stay in your ass very well at all. One or two good squeezes is all it can take to make it shoot out of there like a rocket. I have no idea why no one ever seems to talk about this. But I’m telling you now. All of your fantasies of walking someone around (or being walked, depending on which side of the fence you’re playing on) wearing a butt plug pretty much go up in smoke when confronted with the silicon skinny reality. Even bigger ones? Same thing. Shooty McShooty.


So then: I had to start looking for a new butt plug. One that would stay in. What I wanted was simple. I wanted something with a small base (easy to sit on) but broad enough not to get lost up there. I wanted something with a tiny stem that was easy for anal muscles to cling to. And then a nice deep flare that would seat and stay in. Too much to ask? Nay nay. Unfortunately, the only butt plugs that fit this description come with a crystal at the end, all sparkly and bright.


So on one hand I have the desire to not feminize my sub because in my world that would make him more powerful. You see? And on the other I have a very anal greedy sub who I wanted to walk around in a butt plug without having to strap him in like international luggage.

Needless to say, I bought the plug – with a clear crystal, natch, since it would be more masculine. We tried it for the first time last weekend. And I learned something about sparkly (and by inference, feminine) things.

What if it turns you both on not because it’s bad or less or humiliating, but because it’s pretty and your boy has never in his life had a chance to be pretty?

I was amazed at my reaction to seeing that crystal sparkling in the groove between his butt cheeks. It was pretty. I liked looking at it. And it didn’t make him less of a man to have it there. It made him more of a man.

My man.

See? Learning things.

the first time I used a flogger

I have always loved my flogger. Purchased years ago from quality leather retailer Northbound, it has a lovely solid feeling braided leather shaft and long strands of suede-backed leather. I bought it myself, as I bought so many of our sex toys, because I wanted the toys to only be used on me, to stay with me if I got a new partner. But also it was because they were lovely and well made and it turned me on to touch them, to own them.

It’s moments like that when I think back through my reasoning that I wonder if I was just a domme all along. What sub buys their own paddles and floggers and cuffs? Moreover, what Dom agrees to use someone else’s toys? Was I fooling myself all this time?

It was about two months ago that, for the first time in the eight years since I bought it, I used the flogger on someone else for the first time.

I was a little scared. Not that I’d hurt my Darling, because the flogger is lovely and thuddy but really shouldn’t hurt as long as I was light about it. But I didn’t know how to swing it. And I never believed I had very good aim, either – I had visions of Rose from Titanic aiming the ax once and then trying to line up for the exact same shot, and missing by a mile.

When it came time to swing, I messed up the first few shots, landing imperfectly. then I caught a rhythm. And so did my Darling.

Learning about Vikki moment #1: I loved it. It was deeply satisfying physically to swing the flogger. Deeply satisfying to land it on a sweet pair of ass cheeks. To feel the swish. To hear the thud. To watch my lover push his ass up for more.

When I was done, my pussy was soaked.

Every time I’ve swung it since that first scene, it’s been more deeply satisfying than before. More arousing. I will talk soon about this odd cock reflex I’m developing – it defintely triggers that. Makes me want to try a scene where I can really gorge myself – half an hour or more of nice deep thuddy flogging.

Plus, cardio. How could that hurt?

fast forward

Man (Dom) and woman (sub) met. Played with each other’s naughty bits. Fell in love. Got married. Life happened – family and bills and pets and work.

He had over the years revealed himself to be a less confident man than she had originally met. She over the years had revealed her confidence and ability to direct.

Somewhere along the way, although they both knew better, things got a little worse. Less sex. More resentment. The things that happen to your life when you’re not looking.

But they stayed talking. They loved each other. And through the long conversations, something extraordinary happened. She said to him, with full truth but no desire to hurt:

“I don’t think you’ve ever been a Dom. Everything you do seems based on submission and a desire to please me.”

And so, to try to save their marriage, a couple who met and first defined the rules of their relationship as Dom and sub, decided to make a change.

Switch roles.

This is my (new) story. My new exploration of sexuality and fantasy. I hope you’ll come with me on the journey.


So my man decided to join me in the shower last Saturday. He loves to wash my hair and back and, okay, naughty bits too.

(Truth be told, I think he’s mainly there for the naughty-bit-washing. The shock!)

On this particular Saturday, I was out of body wash. Vikki’s been a busy girl of late. So I’ve been using my body scrub every day instead. You should have seen his face when I opened the tub to let him dip his fingers in to pick up some creamy gritty scrub to wash me with. 🙂

Of course, the surprise was on me once he started rubbing it all over my body. It just feels different when a man is rubbing body scrub all over your body. Sexier. And – oohgoodlord, what’s that!?

That, as it turns out, is the feel of his strong fingers rubbing body scrub all over my pussy lips. The friction. I tell you. Made me want to squirm and rub up against him, because it was incredible but Not Enough Dammit.

And then his other hand moved up to my nipple. Usually my nipples are too sensitive to be played with much in the shower (I have, like, the world’s most sensitive damned nipples, and not always in a good way) but this was OHmyOHmy. Somehow the extra friction didn’t make it worse, it made it better. I was naked and squirming all over.

I lubed up my hand with a little scrub to see if it felt as good to him. Apparently, based on the growls reaching my ears, it was. The scrub was a delicious friction against my palm as I stroked him from root to tip and back again, twisting and pressing in all the places I know he likes best.

Meanwhile his naughty fingers had started rubbing against my clit more directly, and the friction. SHIT! The friction. I tell you. I was literally out of my mind, no more rational thought, completely in VikkiSlutLand and just wanting more and harder and ohmygodohmygod.

This wonderful interlude also reminded him why I so rarely come standing up – because my knees just drop on me the second the orgasm hits. Thank God he’s strong and kept me upright because if it were up to me I would have sprawled naked and wet into the bottom of the tub.

Once I was able to pronounce my name again, we rinsed off the remaining body scrub in a hurry (how did I get some on my lips?) and he threw me, damp and naked on the bed for a good rogering.

Body scrub. Who knew? 😉

just when you never thought it would happen

I’m sure the only computers still checking this web site for updates are manned by ‘bots; however, that’s OK. This was always more a place for me to think out loud and formulate my desires, dreams and opinions “out loud”, so to speak – so it’s just fine that there are more echoes in this “out loud” place than there used to be. 🙂

One of my most basic, but most fundamental sexual fantasies has always been denial. Not real denial, likely – the kind where you go days and weeks – but the kind where you really really want to come, so much so that you just feel like grabbing whatever’s handy and rubbing it against yourself over and over until you come, and at this point you really don’t even care if it’s a boy or a toy or a blanket or a blender or…

You get the idea.

Anyway, the fantasy has always been to get to this point, to more importantly for my little subbie desires to be brought to this point, and then be held at that edge, to be told “No”, to essentially be tormented and frustrated and aroused long past the point where I would normally have my orgasm, until I’m finally allowed to come.

As an adjunct to this fantasy, there’s a fantastic passage in one of my favorite Aran Ashe books (The Dungeons of Lidir) where the poor pretty slave is tied and spread on a table, and her “torturer” uses a pot of jelly to rub her clit over and over again, stopping to re-apply the jelly every so often, for what seems like hours. She’s not allowed to come with fingers, though, and is stopped every time she gets close. He wants her to learn how to come while being smacked, instead.

Good God I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gotten off to that passage. Yu-um.

Anyways. So this weekend. Out comes the deliciously wonderful soft black rope. He ties me up, so embarassing – wrists to the footboard. and knees to the headboard, spreading me wide open to his eyes. And his fingers. And that naughty soft little brush I bought for him that I never, ever should have bought because DAMN.

And he begins. It’s not long before I lose all track of time and all I want in the whole wide world is for him to touch me, dammit, really touch me not with that damned teasing brush that makes me want to climb out of my skin. His fingers, wonderful naughty talented dammit fingers, start teasing my clit.

I should have known when he got out the lube that he intended for it to last a while, but I’m deeply stupid when aroused and basically just go off into VikkiSlutLand where I’ll agree to anything and say anything as long as the pleasure continues.

On and on the torment went. It didn’t take him long until he found the perfect touch. The one that, given enough lube and patience, can keep me at the edge for so long I’d like to tear at something. Hence, the wonderful soft black rope which prevents me from doing so.

But usually, he takes pity on me and after drawing it out for a short while, he lets me come.

Not today. He gets me absolutely crazy – the point at which he usually relents – and then asks me do I want to come, and you can imagine by now which word I’m screaming, because it’s been forever with his fingers just lightly stroking my clit and slutland is here in all its glory.

To which he then responds with “Well, you’re not allowed to.”

And continues to stroke me with just-that-enough-ness to keep me going but not let me tip over. Taking care to stop periodically and re-apply lube.

Somewhere in all my whimpering and moaning and general nonsense (if you think I retained speech ability at this point you’re SO mistaken) I begin to realize that this is it – my fantasy, the thing I’ve always wanted to have happen but never found a man willing to stand up to my begging or capable of holding me on the edge (to have both skills together in one lover is – well all I can say is oh good god).

At which point I think my arousal, uh, triples.

Finally, at what seemed like two hours later but was probably only ten or fifteen minutes, he let me come, rubbing and squeezing my clit, and oh my oh my oh my wow that was fucking amazing.

I don’t remember much after that. There was some untying, some hard cock inside of me, but honestly, I was pretty much gone with the moaning and sensation that you would have thought I was on drugs, I was that out of it.

One hell of a way to live out a fantasy. Thank you, honey.

what the hell was that?

Something happened the other night that has me mystified. I was being stimulated, close to orgasm, built up and up and then finally I was there, I was having an orgasm but it didn’t feel like relief, it felt like there was more and things kept happening and it built again as I nearly screamed my damned lungs out and ten to fifteen seconds later it built even higher and I think every bone in my body broke (for a moment, at least) as I came, incredibly hard, bucking and just blown away by the force and the pleasure.

[Those of you who’ve been reading me for years know that I’ve traditionally been a once-a-night-if-I’m-lucky girl, only very rarely capable of having more than that, and even then it’s never guaranteed.]

So my first thoughts were: What the hell? Was that a multiple orgasm or… what the hell WAS that?

Being the scholarly little slut that I am, I hit the books in my reference library as well as Google to find out exactly what a multiple orgasm is. And according to what I’ve been reading so far what I had last night does not qualify; most descriptions of MO mention the ability to have three, four, five orgasms in a night… with a brief refractory period after each.

That definitely doesn’t sound like what I experienced – there was a long enough gap for me to recognize the two separate peaks but there’s no way I went through four stages in ten or fifteen seconds.

Some sites have made reference to extended or expanded orgasm, which sounds like a closer candidate – except generally these refer to one looooong orgasm, (that link above describes orgasms that can last up to twenty minutes – good lord, I’d be dead) and what I felt really did feel like two, just without a break in between, sort of.

Like sneezes, they’re hard to explain. 🙂

I will say that it was extraordinary, it reduced me to giggling tears afterwards, and I think I actually lost my voice for a few moments. My poor neighbours. *laughs*

I continue to research, including, with any luck, more hands-on experiments, if you’ll pardon the pun. I’ll keep you all updated!


You know, I never really considered myself an exhibitionist. Despite my deep wet sexual ungh for public places, it was never really the being seen itself that was the turn on – just the danger that you could be caught. I think. Er. That is to say, I’m not sure. There’s also the fantasy I had a while back, about a guy and his friend. Is that exhibitionism? Probably. Just not how I ever perceived it.

When I think about exhibitionism, I always thought: creepy men wearing raincoats. Or beautiful, drunk college girls riding on boys’ shoulders, sans bikini top. Stuff I’d never do in a million years.
And yet. And yet.

I’m a noisy girl in bed. I don’t say much – and depending on my level of arousal and general subbieness, I may not be able to respond sensibly to questions, either. But I moan, and whimper, and there are generally ascending levels of “oh god”s and “oh my gods” as I come closer to orgasm. If it’s a particularly intense orgasm, the sounds that come out of me as the wave crests are very loud indeed.

One time, a (dominant) partner of mine decided to record me as he touched, teased and fondled me into complete and utter ecstasy. I didn’t know he’d done it, and was so very embarassed when he chuckled and played it back for me once I’d come back down to myself again.

And yet. And yet.

Part of me was so very turned on. This wasn’t fake porn moans. These were real whimpers, moans and pleadings of a very turned on subbie feeling incredible pleasure all the way to a (relatively loud) orgasm.

And here’s the “and yet”.

Part of me wanted him to share it. To turn me on. To turn him on. And to turn on anyone else who cared to listen to it.

The idea of someone else getting turned on by listening to it… Whew. Is it warm in here? Does that make me an exhibitionist? Not sure.

Perhaps I should think more about this whole exhibitionist streak, hmm?

who left the toys out? woof!

Please note that this story is going to be very broken up due to editorial comments, which are in italics. Bear with me! 🙂

So a girlfriend of mine calls me today to tell me a funny / horrifying story.

Well, funny to me – horrifying for her.

Once or twice a year (!) she pulls out a toy to play with.

And the rest of the year, she… what? Uses her hand? The shower massage? Closes her eyes and prays for that naughty feeling to go away? I left that alone at the time, but I think we’ll have to pursue that topic at a later date. And for her, that probably means after a few beers. 😉

And last night was one of those nights. After she was done, she was tired, so instead of putting it right back away like she usually does…

The woman’s got much better control than I do. Of course you’re sleepy right after! That’s the whole frickin point, many a night.

And then she got busy today, and forgot to put it back, and left to do some errands. Came home to find the cleaning lady was already in the house, working. And was horrified. Ran up the stairs double-time to get to her room before the cleaning lady found the terribly embarassing sex toy that she’d inadvertently left out. Luckily…

She said that part with such a sigh of relief it was all I could do not to laugh out loud.
The cleaning lady hadn’t yet entered the room, and she managed to get in there and put the toy back before cleaning commenced.


Perhaps it’s just me, but I really don’t understand the horrifying deal. Sure, perhaps a little awkward, but it’s not like she left her 200K stash of heroin laying around or was in the middle of an orgy when the cleaning lady showed up. It’s just a sex toy, folks. 😉

But then, I’ve always been a little different about these things. There was a time not so long ago when I had an entire surface of my bedroom devoted to sex paraphernalia, like a little shrine to lubricious goodness. Butt plugs, vibes, lubes (both edible and non), condoms and ben-wa balls had their own place on the shelf. And really, I only ever entertained sex partners in that room anyway, so it was all good.

In time, of course, I began to have two problems.

1) Lack of available surface space in my bedroom.
2) Growing cache of sex toys.

So, the shelf became a drawer, and then in time that also expanded to some longer or more interesting, er, implements, being hung from behind the door to my bedroom. But there’s still a ton of sexy things around my apartment if you look for them – an entire bookcase full of erotic literature (both fiction and non), the aforementioned hanging implements, and a few naughty bits tucked into DVD collections or drawers around the house.

I hide none of it from visitors, nor do I invite them to explore. They’re simply there, a part of my life.

Though I will say the bookcase usually gets a visit from most of my friends when they stop by.

My sexuality is a part of me, a vital and healthy part. I don’t rub it in the faces of my visitors – a show and tell session, while amusing, might be too much for some visitors to take – but neither am I going to tuck in all the corners of my life so that I’m all hospital-approved spic and span, either. If I happen to forget a toy lying around, well, oops. Sorry. I pick it up and move it someplace else.

There are so many other things in this world to get tense about. Where my sex toys are at – and who sees them – is just the least of my worries. 🙂

an adventure (well, almost)

So I’ve been promising for ages to tell you all about the one and only time I ever kissed another girl.

This seemed like a good enough moment to sit and pen the tale. Like most of my stories, it has an element of the ridiculous. I swear, I don’t make these things up. Suffice it to say that by the time you reach your thirties, you’ve usually collected a few funny sex stories along the way. And since I love to laugh almost as much as I love to have sex, these are the stories I like to share with all of you.

We’d been friends for a couple of years, though we couldn’t be more different. I was short and very curvy, she was tall and very slender. We met one night for drinks and got talking about sex – well, to be honest, I was talking and she was asking me questions. I’d just begun my foray into BDSM, and there were a few fascinating stories to tell, so we talked about it.

There were more than a few drinks. And we both started to get a little turned on – combination of booze and discussing very hot sex, really. And someone – to this day, I don’t remember which one of us – mentioned threesomes. And at first, as it usually is when this topic comes up between two women friends, there were demurs and laughter.

And then there were more drinks.

Somewhere along the way, this started to seem like a good idea to us. We had a few single male friends in common, and figured that surely one of them would be up for it. Young horny males in their twenties. Sure!

We decided to head back to my place, call a friend, and have an impromptu, never to be repeated but hey wouldn’t this be a fun thing, evening. And as we got into the cab, we realized that this would mean we’d actually have to touch and kiss each other. I’ll be honest here and say that I think the idea turned her on a bit more than me – for me, it was going to be more about watching the guy’s reaction. But we realized that maybe we should practice a bit, before trying this in front of the guy and realizing that we just couldn’t do it.

I know. Silly drunk girls. But that’s how it started.

So I slid over the seat towards her. She was most definitely submissive, although she’s never played with BDSM. I knew I’d have to be the one to take control here. So I slid my hand into her hair, pulled her mouth to mine, and kissed her.

It was interesting. Different. In some ways it was like a first kiss, all over again. Learning how to move, where to lick, how to thrust. I ran my hand over her shoulder, down over her breast. She seemed very turned on. I remember we were both moaning. How much of that was the booze, I’ll never know.

At some point we came up for air to find that the cabbie had turned the meter off. Apparently he was really enjoying the show, and didn’t mind giving us a free ride. Obviously, the poor shmuck thought we were going to get into it, naked and everything, right then and there in his back seat. But he was very accomodating – not only letting us borrow his lighter to light a cigarette, but telling us to keep the lighter! 🙂 I kid you not.

We made out, touching a little here and there but nothing too overt, the rest of the way back to my place.

When we got there, we were tipsy and excited and a bundle of nerves over the whole thing. Of course, I had to make the phone call. She would never have gone through with it. So I called one of the two male friends we had in common.

Explained what was going on. Told him we very much wanted to try a threesome – no strings, just one night, just for fun. Would he come over?

After I convinced him that we were dead serious: turns out, well, no. He was tired and it was a long way to drive just for a threesome. Yes, that’s the reason he gave.

So, we tried friend #2. Explained what was going on. Told him what we’d decided. Would he come over?

After I convinced him that we were dead serious: turns out, well, no. He thought it was a little weird, as though women don’t decide to do something crazy and sexy on the spur of the moment. 😉 The point is, he declined.

So we stood there. Looking at each other. And shrugged.

I know what you’re thinking, what you’re hoping. We tumbled into bed anyway, long hours of delicious sapphic fun, right?

Nope. We hugged, I walked her to the door, and she went downstairs to flag a cab.

I found out later that friend #2 wasn’t really all that attracted to my girlfriend. I suspect friend #1 felt the same way about me, though I never found out for sure. We never discussed it again.

Sadly, I’ve lost touch with all three other players in this story, nothing bad or evil just the general hustle and bustle of life, people dropping away if you’re not vigilant about it. But I still laugh about the irony of that night.

I mean, if you’re going to try a woman and a threesome for the first time all in the same night, it should have a special place in your heart, right? *laughs* Regardless of the end result, I was glad I tried to take that chance.

And no, I’ve never tried it again. Been tempted once or twice, but never gone through with it.

Well. You wanted to know. 🙂

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.