My Writing

Friday, July 31, 2015

Happy National Orgasm Day

I didn't even know...until I read this great post by Cara Sutra. And then I had to do some quick research to see that this wasn't just a U.K. thing....you Brits sure have your priorities in the right place and put your sexuality right out there, now don't ya? Love that. A bit jealous, actually.

Anyhow...we should probably change the name to "International," because I can see it's celebrated...or at least observed...in several countries.

Hell...I say it should be International Orgasm Day every day. But that's just me. Wait...no it isn't. Because I know YOU would agree. Why else would you be here?


The more of us that write about sex in positive ways, the more conversations will be had, the more books will be published...and sex writing...hell, let's be honest -- SEX -- will no longer be relegated to the dark alleys of society. That thing we don't talk about in polite company. That thing we hide from the world (well...some people do -- WE don't, now do we? We say what we feel, write what we want, and share with each other on a regular basis). Actually...I shouldn't say that. I only put it out there anonymously. I hide behind a pen name and never show my face. Because I can't. Ugh. And I so envy those of you who can. Those of you who've made sex and sex writing a part of your public world - I wish I could do that sometimes. But, I have judgmental parents who'd likely disown me - or at least be terribly embarrassed. And I'd lose my job. And I'd have to move, because small towns don't take kindly to telling the truth about socially uncomfortable topics.

But, I can write from behind a mask. And I can sustain my needs by feeding my urges a little at a time. I can live vicariously through writers who show themselves to the world. And I can hope for a time when sex writing isn't so "scandalous." Like...when I retire...and my parents die...and my son graduates from college...and I move. There is still hope in my life for that sort of freedom. For now...other things are more important. But, I will nurture this little seed of hope. And I will keep my secrets, filing them away, using them as inspiration.



Thursday, July 30, 2015

"At Your Service" (EFF)

It's that time again...Erotic Flash Fiction! And I'm finding my own rules to be simply too constricting. So...since I'm in charge...of my writing at least...I'm simplifying. A photo prompt...and 500 words or less. Every time. Period. Easy-peasy.


"At Your Service"


She kneeled at his feet, wrists crossed and bound at the small of her back, just above the perfect, crisp bow of her apron. Her gingham dress floated at least four inches above the hand-polished linoleum floor. She'd done such a good job, he could see the reflection of her bare pussy.

"Don't mess it up, doll."

"Yes, sir." She said it confidently, but her lip quivered.

He pulled out his cock, close enough that she caught his scent. Splashing a bit of olive oil from the counter into his palm, he began to jerk himself off.

"Don't look down; watch me."

With his free hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a remote. Pressing a button, he grinned, as her eyes widened and her lips parted, a quiet gasp escaping as she bit her lip to help keep her composure.

She could feel the vibration intensify between her legs, and a tiny drip of wetness began to dribble its way down the inside of her thigh. 

Oh, god, she thought. I'm fucked.

He revved the vibration...to the point she could feel it in her lower abdomen, the echoes of it crawling up her spine, to her nipples, now completely erect and pressing against the fabric of her bra. She blinked, trying to concentrate on controlling her pussy lips, contracting and pressing closed as best she could.

But then he began to pulse the vibration. She sighed; tears began to invade her flushed cheeks as she started to shake. He turned off the vibrator.

"I failed," she said softly, looking down at the floor, a small puddle of her own making glistening on the floor beneath her.

"Yes, you did."

He grabbed a dish towel and placed it between her teeth. 

"You'd better clean that up."

She turned her back toward him and bent forward, the towel the only thing keeping her lips from kissing the floor, her dress barely covering her behind. 

She could feel the warmth nearing her skin before it touched. His oiled cock pushed against her asshole and slowly entered her. He grabbed hold of her tied wrists and used them to pull her toward him again and again, his speed increasing, and his intensity building.

Her face pressed into the linoleum floor, and for once, she praised the heavens above that she'd cleaned it to such a shiny slickness, as her cheek slid smoothly against it.

The vibration returned between her legs and within seconds, she felt her second orgasm spiral out of her to meet his. 

He pulled out slowly and watched the mingled liquids of their spent desire drip between her legs and fall to the floor.

"Such as shame...you worked so hard on that floor." He shook his head and "tsk'd" his disappointment.

"Let's go and check how well you made the bed today, shall we?"

He grinned at her, pulled her to her feet, and pushed the button once again.





Wednesday, July 29, 2015

True intimacy is letting go

True intimacy for a sub is a beautiful thing, and it doesn't just happen. Sure, you can lose yourself completely in a one-night-stand...or with a new lover who presents surprise and excitement. But being with someone who can literally grab hold of you and tighten His grip around you and make the entire world fade? That's a deeper sort of thing. It's partially a choice...I make the decision to let that happen. But it's also partially out of my hands. Sometimes, I'm spinning out of control, losing my mind, and He literally takes me in His arms to calm me. I steady my breathing to match His and listen to His words. He grounds me...centers me...brings me back to balance.

True intimacy for a sub is a necessity, and it doesn't just happen. Sure, you can know what you want...what you need (which I didn't, when I met Him). But committing to it is more than just saying, "Hey, big guy...take control." I have to admit, sometimes it's hard for me to give up control. Hard to follow. But when I do, I feel a sense of calm...like all is finally right with the world. That "giving up" actually translates into "letting go" of all the shit that doesn't really matter. And it transfers into all parts of my life, not just the bedroom. Because this isn't just about sex.


True intimacy for a sub is not a tool, but THE goal. It's made up of love and trust and need and want and the knowledge that this other person has your back...in such a deep and complete way that you can rest easy in their arms. Regardless the type of sub, true intimacy is something all of us need to feel safe. I suppose I could sub for someone other than Him...at some point. But it would be at His request. Which means, that I'm still in a situation where my intimacy with Him is what pulls be through with someone else. I do what I do for Him. Period.

Maybe it's weird that coming to terms with my own submission is what's making our world so much easier. Anyone who's read my blog for any measure of time probably is aware that we've struggled...mainly with communication, because our needs seem so different. But, submitting to Him fully has made our conversations more fluid and open, which has led to less "butt hurt" over lots of things. "Knowing my place" (in more than one way) has made it easier for me to breathe my way through things that might have otherwise driven me crazy (or to tears). Because I can always resort to "Daddy's got this." And when Daddy needs it...he can always resort to "My girl's got this."

It goes both ways...intimacy. We need to be able to trust each other. To confide in each other. To screw up and forgive each other. To hold each other to our "places." To simply love one another...regardless of everything. And to grow with each other. Long term relationships cannot stagnate. I know this from experience. Though change terrifies me, I know I can hold His hand and follow Him anywhere.

Not every girl needs a Daddy, I suppose...so I'll qualify this..."In many girl's lives, there should be a force..."
Every year we are together, we overcome new hurdles, we grow closer, and we find new ways to be us. Every year, I am grateful for the chance at another year.

Okay...now I've gotten that off my chest...I'm going back to reading The Perfect Submissive by Kay Jaybee (review pending...if I can ever get past all the missing apostrophes, I'll have good things to say about the characters and plot.)


Tuesday, July 28, 2015

Am I starting to like it? WTF?

I never considered myself the spanking type. I'm not much into pain (small amounts in the right situations...you know, hair-pulling, rough sex). But, it's growing on me, and I'm beginning to understand the need that some people have for serious spanking sessions. That whole "out of body" experience, getting outside of one's self, can be freeing and cathartic. Some people do it with drugs. Others with alcohol. Still others with physical activity like running or sex. It's all about the endorphins. Regardless of how you get there, it's about the build up of tension followed by the intense release.

We all seek it in one form or another. And as I begin to find it in ways outside of alcohol (I can admit that me and wine are pretty close...and gin is a happy third wheel)...mainly through physical activity, and as Daddy and I continue to adapt and find what works best for us, I'm finding that the occasional spanking...that tiny bit of pain...isn't so much a "bad" thing. There's intrigue there. There's just a little fear. A lot of mental build-up. And then a sudden burst of pain followed by release.

The sting...ouch...I can do without (though I don't always have a choice). A nice solid smack with a hand...the flogger (which expands the pain into more than one place so it's not so intense)...the pretty pink rose that blooms on the skin afterward. Yeah, I can live with all of that. In fact, at certain moments, I actually find myself craving it.

Weird.

Plus...he likes it. He likes to smack my ass...he likes to see it turn pink with the shape of his hand. he likes to hear the crack of skin against skin...or spanking implement against skin (whichever). So it's hard to use it completely as a punishment. For now, it works, because I don't love it. But, what if it grows on me? Or better yet, what if I begin to want it? What if I start adding it my requests and it comes out sounding like...



Of course, it has a lot to do with me either being ready for it, and steeling myself against the pain, or simply being off my guard and not being ready for it. If I have too long to think about it, I build it up in my mind. I turn it into a much bigger deal than it is. I panic, and I make it worse than it is. But, I'm finding that my brain is turning on me. It's starting to consider it. It's starting to open up to it. 

I'm not sure if my brain is my friend or my enemy at this point.

Monday, July 27, 2015

I write what I know...and sometimes...I do what I write


He told me to get my little blue friend, lay down on the bed, and begin pleasuring myself.

Why? Why the sudden interest in watching me masturbate (well, let's be honest...it wasn't sudden; he always wants to watch me, He just doesn't bring it up all the much because He knows how much I hate doing it).

I think it was because he read my post: "Masturbating for Him." Why wouldn't he be inspired? Why wouldn't he want to watch me?

I spread my legs, placed the tip of the flicker on my clit, and turned it on.

I don't like being watched. For all my online exhibitionism, I'm pretty shy when it comes to...well...everything. I'm extremely private. Even with Him, which is wrong, I know. But I'm learning...I'm always learning...and every day I'm more and more open to it...pushing myself to please Him.

And so, I did as I was instructed. I pushed the vibrating bullet up against my clit, the way I always do...while He rummaged through the toy drawer behind my head, and I listened, wondering what He'd pull out, what His plan would be.

He told me to present, so I rolled over and stuck my ass in the air, my face pressed against the mattress in waiting. I closed my eyes and felt the cold drops of lube meet my asshole. I'm sure I sucked in a breath of air, nervous about what would be next. And then I felt it...a plastic tip pushing against my opening. He's quite kind about sticking things in my ass. Never pushes too hard or before I'm ready...so He was slow, working the tip in and out, going further each time, until the plug was fully inside. And then He told me to roll back over, which I did. My knees bent, legs spread, He lay at my feet, his hand supporting his head, with a full and easy view of my pussy. I placed the flicker back on my clit, and He showed me the purple, bendable, vibrating dildo, complete with its own set of balls. He smiled and covered my cunt in a few drops of lube, spread it around with his fingers, and turned the thing on, slowly working it in and out of my pussy.

"It won't take me long with all of this going on," I told Him, smiling and breathless. The stimulation of my clit, the butt plug and the dildo pushing up against each other inside of me...

The orgasm was intense...and as soon as I came, He pushed Himself inside, before the spasms had even finished, and fucked me, my orgasm stretching out until it met his and we made a complete mess of the sheets.

It's good to know that my writing is inspiring. It's also good to know that my sex life is inspiring. Here...in this post...as in many...the two meet...for your entertainment.

Friday, July 24, 2015

A Human Platter

EFF is my sorry substitute for Flash Fiction Friday...which I miss. Each month, on the first Friday, I'll start with 100 words times the number of Fridays in the month. Since July has 5 Fridays, I began with 500 words as the limit for the first story. The following week...it will be 400-499. Then, 300-399, and so forth. I'm down to 200-299 words this week. I select random images around the internet...just something that grabs my attention. And then...well, I let my brain take it where it will.

I tried hard to whittle this little story down to 200 words. But the best I could do and still keep the story in tact was 282. So there you have it. Of course, the story would be better if I could write 3,300 words, but as that's not what this challenge is really about, we'll just say, my ruthless slashing could go no further and still keep the semblance of a plot.

A Human Platter

“Where’s Casandra?”

“She’ll be joining us later,” he said with a devious smile. “She’s helping the staff prepare tonight’s meal.”

He busied himself, taking coats, filling hands with various types of glassware, making small talk.

A young woman dressed in plain black entered the room. “Mr. Kent...the meal is laid out to perfection? Shall I lead you and your guests to the dining room now?

“Yes,” he said, “Let us all come to admire your spectacular work.”

As each of his guests filtered in to the dining room, their faces took on various reactions. A few of the ladies blushed, all of the men smiled.

“Why, Mr. Kent, what a lovely spread you’ve provided. I’ve never seen such a remarkable platter. Where ever did you find such a splendid piece?”

“Well, I met her in a coffee shop 10 years ago, and decided to keep her around for just such special occasions.”

He winked at his wife, lying in the middle of the glass table top, covered artfully in various types of sushi.

“Shall we eat?” He implored.

One of the men replied, “If this is the main course, what will you be serving for dessert?”

“My dear sir, we’ll uncover that surprise as we work our way to the bottom of the platter.”

Several of the women giggled.

They all took their seats, grabbed hold of their chopsticks, determined exactly which piece of her they’d like best to be exposed, and began to eat.



*****

I can't claim the idea for this story. Daddy occasionally threatens to use me as a human platter for a dinner party. So, I just incorporated it into a little scene. I personally would be fairly horrified to be the centerpiece of a table, covered in foods, slowly being uncovered for our guests' pleasure. 

Thursday, July 23, 2015

Deconstructing Desire

So this is an add-on to yesterday's post. I've continued to consider that whole "asking to spend money" issue. Because it's not just an act of submission. It's not just about asking. It's about exposing my every little desire. Even the seemingly stupid ones. What is it that draws my attention? What do I want? A lip gloss? What color? Why? What about it makes me want it? Do I need it? 

It's something my therapist asked me to do, as well. To figure out my impulses and what drives my desires. If I can lay out all of my impulses for a day...for a week...by having to ask Him before I make a purchase (which is also intended to help us budget better and make me more accountable to our financial goals), AND I make note of all the impulses I have that do not require a purchase (such as reaching for chocolate or a particular book), things I might otherwise just do automatically, maybe I can make better sense of what drives my emotions. 

It's a part of cognitive behavioral therapy, which I'm sure some of you already know about. And it's a facet of the process my therapist is taking me through, to target my triggers...what is it that pulls me up and drags me down? What sets off my spiraling moods. 

Plus, Daddy can see my impulses all spread out before him, via text message request. Is it make-up this week? Maybe I'm having appearance anxiety. Maybe I need a reminder to appreciate my appearance just the way it is. Is it food that might crash my health goals? I'm sure he'd have something to say about that. Is it clothing? What kind? Would he approve? Is it a book? Coffee? He learns stuff about my through my requests. And he squirms his way into my head...not only by receiving the knowledge from my request, but also because I have to think of Him every time I want something. He becomes associated with every impulse of desire I have. And he also becomes the provider, that one who can give or take away. And that is the essence of Domination.

I think that gets at the core of my resistance in asking for everything. Because it relinquishes control of my very basest desires. I'm admitting that. And I'm letting it go. (Wow. I think I just felt a weight lift off of my shoulders with that confession...and we move a little closer to our goal.)

So there you go, Daddy...is that the breakthrough you were looking for me to make? 




Wednesday, July 22, 2015

Learning to fully inhabit our roles



I didn't review the contract in a post last week, but I'm pretty much always thinking about it...and journaling. I know Daddy's been wondering when I would post again. He even inquired a few days ago about when I'd be writing about "us." I know he loves to read my fiction (it gives him insight into my head in a different way), but really, this is a place he can go to get the writerly version of my thoughts, once I've had a chance to process his questions or our experiences and turn them into proper sentences that sound better than, "Uh....I don't know..."

A few things I've been considering...

There are certain complications to being married to your Dom...especially when you started out completely vanilla, adding a bit of kink here and there, until you found yourself actually requesting that He take control.

We've had to be careful to mesh our D/s needs with our everyday life. Both of us having professional goals and commitments, a child to parent (which we do equally), and a home to run (together). Certain things have come naturally from the beginning. We have always had pretty stereotypical gender roles, which have only become more so over time (I think I offered to start doing his laundry before he even moved in). I take care of the house and do most of the chores, including childcare...but He cooks most of the time and handles the majority of the serious discipline with our young'n. He does the yard work and has, at my request, taken on the finances completely (thank that gods above!). That alone has taken a world of stress off of my shoulders.

As my Dom, He is more my guide than a Master. He knows me well enough to know when I need an attitude adjustment, when I can handle certain commands and when they'll set me off. That might sound like He's dancing around me, that I'm really the one in control, but that's not the case. See, we have bigger roles to fulfill than just Daddy and his good girl. We are Husband and wife. We respect each other and want each other to be happy and fulfilled. So he's a bit relaxed with me, and bit tentative to do anything that might ruin either our burgeoning D/s relationship or our marriage. He's a benevolent, supportive, and protective Dom and rather permissive in a lot of ways. He likes to spoil me and pamper me. But, I know, deep down, that if it came to it, He'd discipline me if needed. I fully expect it. Because, while I'm not really much of a brat - I don't try to piss Him off or misbehave on purpose to get a rise out of him - I can be extremely moody, and my moods aren't always conducive to an even-keeled D/s relationship (or any kind, really). He's not likely to kick me while I'm down, basically. Trying to beat my depressive episodes out of me wouldn't really be effective, and He knows it. There is a time and a place...and we both have limits and needs that have to be met.

For example, we watched a spanking video online last night. I didn't know what a quirt was (something in a book I'm reading), so I asked him to look it up. He did, and we watched a Dom whip his sub with it 25 times. I winced with each crack of the whip against her behind. I could feel her pain. And I didn't like it. Even though it sort of intrigued me, I know I couldn't handle being whipped. And He wouldn't want to whip me like that. He could do it to someone else, no problem. But me? I don't think he wants to hurt me. And that's the difference. Pain isn't something I crave or need, so He doesn't want that for me. If it were something I needed, I'm sure He'd relish giving it to me. Funny thing though: the girl grabbed hold of her ass cheeks at one point, to quell the pain, I suppose. I told Daddy I was surprised she hadn't been given 5 more for the insubordination, rather than just being reminded to hold her position. He agreed, and smiled at me. It was a sign (to me) that I am "getting it." In my head, I was thinking, "You would never let me get away with that." And the thought made me proud of Him...and of myself.

He likes to spoil me...but He also likes knowing that I'll do what He says, no matter how uncomfortable it makes me. He's slowly training me not question his commands. And though I'm a slow learner, he doesn't have a tendency to punish me or reward me really, with anything other than disappointment or a simple "good girl." Right now, that's enough. Maybe at some point we'll grow into our roles in a different way...fill out different places and find ourselves experimenting with different types of experiences. So, as far as the contract goes, this is a place where we've sort of veered off the planned path. Or maybe we're just finding out that it isn't as important as we thought it was.

For now, simply knowing He's in control...really feeling it and believing it and trusting it...is what it's all about.

Tuesday, July 21, 2015

The Mental Process of Concocting a Fantasy

Characters: Me and My Brain

[The room is dark. I am lying naked and alone in my bed, lube and a vibrator close at hand. The curtain flutters a bit - the window open to the night air.]

My brain: So what's your pleasure today? Cowboy? Biker? Athlete? Businessman? What kind of fantasy man am I going to need to conjure up?


Me: (contemplatively) I guess I'd choose biker. But not your stereotypical leather-vest-wearing, long-haired, gold-toothed, Harley rider.

Brain: What kind, then?

Me: The sport bike type. Faster, younger, dangerous, Vin Diesel-y, and a bit out of control.



Brain: Oh. Okay. Next question...now that we've got the guy, what's under the helmet? Short hair, no hair, long hair (I think you already said no to that), mohawk, spikes...?

Me: Clean cut. Nothing showy. No facial hair...well, maybe a 5 o'clock shadow...that's pretty sexy. Bald is good, too...as long as there's facial hair...goatee, mustache...

Brain: Got it. Eyes?

Me: Blue...green...hazel...grey...don't really care...surprise me...

Brain: Alright...how 'bout this guy?



Me: Perfect!

Brain: Done! Now the scenario: day or night? urban or rural? crowd or no? inside or outside?

Me: Hmmm...I guess night, big city...but outside of it...looking down on all the lights...on a hill top? And I'm not really into crowds.

Brain: (Sighs with disappointment.) I know. (mumbles) Damn...I had a good one with a crowd... (speaks back up) but I can save it for another fantasy. Last few elements: romantic, sultry, frightening, frenzied, raw...what emotion are we going for here?

Wuthering Nights (a book review)

I have an affinity for classic literature. After all, I was reading Brontë and Austen and Shakespeare before some kids were even aware that books held secrets no one could really tell you.

Inside the pages of a novel, I could hide out, fall in love, travel the world, go back (or forward) in time. And I learned quite a bit about human motivation and desire. I learned that people could be cruel for the most vulnerable reasons, and the most sinister. I learned that people could be driven to commit the worst atrocities out of both love and hate. And I learned that often, things just aren't fair and they don't always make sense.

I remember quite clearly the night I finished reading Jane Eyre. It was late (or very early). Alone in my room, my heart broke for my characters. For, at that point in the relationship, they were MY characters. I remember being so angry at the ending that I threw the book at the wall. It fell to the floor with a thud, splayed and rejected. In the morning, as I stepped over it, I noticed the pages bent beneath the open covers, the spine creased back. Even the book was in pain.

That being said, you can see that I become very attached to the worlds and the people in my books. So, late last year when I received an email request to review an eroticized version of Emily Brontë's Wuthering Heights, I was both intrigued and wary. Change my story? Alter my characters? I wasn't at all sure it was a good idea...for the book to have been written or for me to read it.

When the book came in the mail, I put it away on the shelf. For months. It wasn't until just last month that I decided to give it a try. 

It has a lovely cover:





Dark, with just the right about of scrolling print, the red ribbon a focal point, suggesting the dominance and submission between its covers.

Monday, July 20, 2015

Masturbating for Him

He likes to watch me masturbate. But I hate being watched.

If He tells me to do it, though, I can't say no. It would be against the rules.

It makes me uncomfortable to be so open and vulnerable. So "on display." But, then. I'm His to display as He wishes, right? If He wants to gag me with my own shirt to keep me from crying out, and then asks me to close my eyes, bite down, and slip my hand into my panties, I'll suck back my pride (because I shouldn't have it, anyway, should I?), feel the heat in my cheeks (both sets), and begin to rub my clit.

Image source: MasturbationMonday.kaylalords.com

He won't accept that for long, though, will He? He'll know I'm holding back. He'll sense it, and He won't like it. And as much as I don't like being on display...the humiliation of being watched...I like disappointing Him even less.

So, I'll do what He asks. I'll slip my fingers inside of myself, and though I won't forget He's there, reclined, relaxed, and amused, I will begin to enjoy myself, if only because it's easier to come that way, which will get it all over with faster. Because, see...He'll know if I'm faking. And He wouldn't take kindly to a lie.

I'll go deep into my head, recall something arousing...I'll imagine my fingers are His dick, and I'll feel the heat and weight of him on top of me. I might moan a bit as the image takes over. With Him so close, I'd be able to smell Him, and that would help keep me in the place that allows me to hide.

But He'd figure out my trick. And He wouldn't let me fall back on it for long.

He'd make me open my eyes and look at Him.

He'd make me face His challenge.

He's benevolent, though. He might help me. He might place a vibrator on my clitoris while I worked my fingers in and out, feeling the wetness multiply, soaking through the satiny fabric.

He might have mercy on me.

But he might not.

He might pull the vibrator away, tell me to remove the wet panties, and command me to present.
He'd probably tell me to keep touching myself, so he could watch me from a different view. This one, even more vulnerable...my ass cheeks in easy placement for a smack, my asshole exposed.

I know Him well. He'd have to touch it. He'd maybe lick his forefinger, insert it into my asshole to the second knuckle. Hell...He'd probably go all the way, fucking me with it, slowly.

And I'd have trouble concentrating on my own movements. I'd slow down, maybe even drop my hand away from my pussy.

But, He wouldn't let me stop. No, He'd still be watching.

He'd pull his finger out. And, knowing it would drive me mad with embarrassment, he'd lick my asshole. He'd make out with it as if it were my mouth, tonguing me, loving to make me squirm with discomfort.

He likes to make me squirm...to make me uncomfortable.

He's looking for my limits.

He's mapping them out...keeping track of every curve, harbor, inlet, and peninsula of thought, fantasy, and fear. So He can use them.

He's a very observant man. A detective of sorts. And He misses nothing. Forgets nothing.

I find that terrifying and exhilarating all at once. That He knows me so well. That He cares to. That He can tell me to do something as simple as shove my shirt in my mouth and masturbate for Him. And that He knows I'll do it.

No matter what.




Thursday, July 16, 2015

A Painful View (EFF)

EFF this week (since I skipped last week) is 300 words, since I'm subtracting 100 words each week. Here's the image, I've selected:

I'm not sure where I found this image,
so I can't credit it.

A Painful View


He put a mat and a pillow on the floor. But that was to be the limit of his benevolence. 

Tonight was about penance. She’d disappointed one too many times this week, and he’d been keeping track, holding out for just the right punishment.

The full-length windows offered a perfect view of the busy downtown street below, which had been closed to traffic for tonight’s music festival. In a tent at the end of the block, a band she loved would be performing tonight.

He opened his hand to her, directing her forward. 

“Take off your clothes.”

Her eyes lowered, she took them off, one piece at a time. She peeled her dress over her head, unclasped her bra and let it fall to the ground. Last, she kicked of her heels and pulled her panties down over her ample rear, feeling them inch slowly down her thighs and calves. 

He pointed to the mat on the floor in front of the full length windows that would provide a perfect view of the festivities below. 

“Kneel.”

She did.

“Now spread your legs as far as you can. Until your hips can no longer take the stretch.”

He reached down and placed the pillow between her legs.

“By the time I return, your body should be feeling the pressure. Your lower back, your inner thighs, hips, knees. In fact, much of your lower body will probably be numb.”

He picked up his keys from the table.

“I’ll let you know how the performance is. And the food. I wish you’d made better choices so you could accompany me.”

She winced when the door closed behind him. And she began to cry.

Next week...it's 200 words!
Yikes!

Tuesday, July 14, 2015

Hormones: a cash cow

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I find it ridiculously amusing that "Hormones" is the topic of this week's Wicked Wednesday prompt, considering the trouble I've had with this particular issue for the past 7-8 years (mental helath and libido).

Hormones, or the possibility of unstable hormones, have pretty much affected everything having to do with my physical, mental, and emotional health. I've gained 30 lbs. (okay...some of that is just my laziness and my love of good beer), my energy levels are all over the place...my moods...my libido. And it's all supposedly (or probably...or possibly) tied to hormones, according to my doctors.

Late last year, I went to a naturopath (because I wanted a "natural" way to deal with my symptoms). I began using natural progesterone cream, to see if that would help. It didn't, really. So my doctor added bio-identical estrogen cream. Then testosterone cream. I've had all my levels checked, and oddly they all show as fine.

So is it all in my head? Maybe I'm not a hormonal wreck, but a mental one instead? That's a great thought, isn't it? I'm not hormonal, just crazy.

And you know...I'd take crazy if it came with horny, because that would work out for my marriage. Instead, it comes with depression, which makes me lethargic and lazy and fat...and does nothing for my marriage but cause stress...and I need more of that like I need a hole in the head. Or, it comes with manic episodes which won't let me sleep and make me irritable, agitated, and forgetful. Good times. Anxiety is the spice of life.

Hormones have ultimately just not been my friend. And hormone-related complications are hard to diagnose. Because perimenopause can cause all of my current symptoms, and because all of my symptoms can be hard to diagnose and attribute to a cause, it's hard to counteract them all.

Basically, what it comes down to is, if I don't want to be on a hundred medications, I just need to eat healthy, exercise daily, practice yoga and mindfulness, get acupuncture, drink less, develop a sleep routine, and keep seeing a shrink. Sounds easy, I know. And for some people, it might be. I wish I were one of those people.

I could probably do without all the meds, honestly, but now that I am on them, all my docs are reticent to take me off of them. Western medicine does love its prescriptions. I've managed to get the dosages down. As for the hormone supplements, those are complicated. While using them may be beneficial, especially if you really are low in one or more of them, using them also presents a host of fun side effects: weight gain, oily skin/hair, acne, hair growth (in odd places), aggression and irritability (yay...cause I need more of that), fatigue...and on and on. Seriously, it's a case of the side effects being worse than the disease. (A decent book on hormones and their functions is The Hormone Cure. It was suggested by my naturopath, because he refused to prescribe anything until I was educated on the issues...smart guy.)

I feel sort of like I started getting old at 30...because my body has seriously railed against me from childbirth on. Aren't we supposed to be friends, or something like that? Isn't my body supposed to be my temple? Because really, it feels like a war-zone...me against it, and it usually has the upper hand.

What I've found over the years, too, is that issues having to do with hormones and mental and emotional health (even physical health, actually), have provided the opportunity for a booming business in books, programs, supplements, and medications. And there are sooooo many "answers," it's hard to know which to try, if any. I've read my share of books, spent hundreds on supplements and medications, and have found myself choosing the more natural paths, because...hell, they do less damage even if they help less...and mostly I see them helping more.



My biggest issue for the natural methods of mental, emotional, and physical healing is the time it takes. And actually...the money, as well. Yoga is expensive because it's trendy now...and because those little yoga studios have to make a living, right? The time, though is trying to fit in yoga, along with regular work outs. If I were doing what I am supposed to do, I'd be working out/doing yoga 1-2 hours per day...add showering and such to that...twice...and now I'm at 2-3 hours. But, I work full time. So now I've used around 11 hours working and working out. And I have a child and family. And...well...I HATE working out!

As far as I can tell, however, exercise and diet are the keys. The two things many of us really don't want to accept. Why can't there be a magic pill? Instead of all that hard work and time? It'd be one thing if I liked exercise...and believe me, I've tried all kinds - I'm just not a "physical" person. I'd rather sit on a couch and read a book.

Speaking of that...I'm off to run from zombies (see, they were sneaky and sucked me in with STORY). One of the ONLY...besides yoga...physical exercises I like to do. And later...I'm off to see my shrink to discuss my "thought distortions."

You know, I'm starting to come to the realization that the Western World wants us all to be mental, emotional, and physical wrecks so it can capitalize on our suffering and keep us feeling "broken" so we'll keep seeking ways to fix ourselves by adding to the gross national product. And blaming hormones is perfect...because it's so hard to pinpoint the cause...and so easy to spend time and money on a "treatment."



Here's a complimentary set of blog posts of you're interested: an on-going review of Sex Again: Recharging Your Libido (covers issues regarding hormones but really pushes to counteract them with natural methods).

Does she know any tricks?



"Why on earth would you want to do that?"

"Are you seriously questioning me? I just do...and that's enough."

"I couldn't possibly go to the banquet on a leash, Michael," her voice was an octave higher than normal, incredulous to his suggestion.

"I believe you could...and you will."

She gave him a look of utter horror, "But..." He placed his finger to her lips to silence her protestations, and she lowered her gaze in resignation.

"No whining. It's not allowed." 

Michael pulled a small bag from the back seat. Inside was a red collar, studded with clear, sparkling gems and a matching leash. It was the exact color of her dress and heels. And her cheeks bloomed a complimentary shade of scarlet as he slipped the leash around her neck, clasping it in front, and attaching the leash to the silver loop meant for such purpose.

"Stay," he commanded. She rolled her eyes at the ridiculousness of his command and closed her eyes, humiliated to be treated like an animal, but she refused to let him see it. It would only encourage him.

Michael came around the front of the car and opened her door. Normally, he would have offered his hand, taken hers, and helped her up from her seat. This time, however, he reached in, took hold of the red leather leash, and pulled her gently from the car.

"I hope I won't have to spend much time leash training you, my love," his eyes glittered with mischief, "you've always been such a smart, good girl." He eyed her in that way that warned she had best behave. She said nothing in response, but began to dutifully walk behind him as he made his way to the front door of the building. He yanked the leash a bit, pulling her forward and upsetting her balance. She caught herself before stumbling, her eyes wide with surprise. 

"Honey, do walk beside me like the obedient slut you are. Behind me is so...timid...so meek. You aren't weak, my dear...are you?"

"No, sir, I am not." There was a slight, and noticeable edge to her voice which caused Michael to frown and "tsk, tsk" his disappointment.

"Are we being spoiled now, pet? You know that will lead to nothing good, don't you? Nothing good." He shook his head disapprovingly, and she bent hers in submission and apology.

"I'm sorry. I'll behave. I promise."

"That's a good girl, Lauren." He turned again and began walking forward. She stepped quickly to catch up and remain at his side, the benefit to her being that the leash was less noticeable if she stayed close.

As he opened the door and walked in front of her, pulling her behind him, she nearly jogged to keep the leash slack and to match the speed of his gait. Making his way to the front desk, he asked the receptionist which ballroom the medical awards banquet was being held in. She smiled pleasantly and gave him the requested information. He glanced sideways at Lauren, clicked his tongue as if in warning of his movement, and began to proceed to his destination. The tapping of her heels on the marble tile echoed in the high-ceilinged lobby. They were uneven and sounded something like Morse Code...possibly a call for help...surely a message of supreme embarrassment. What would the other doctor's wives say? What would they think? Surely they would judge...possibly even call Michael in for abusive behavior. What was he thinking in doing this?

When they reached the giant arched doorways of the ballroom, Michael turned to Lauren. 

"Turn around, my pet." She did. And he began to unzip her dress. 

She turned quickly toward him and hissed," My god, Michael, what are you doing?!"

"Ah, ah, ah...you do not question me, love. And never take that tone. I can see I have a lot more training to do." He continued to unzip her dress, then pulled it from her shoulders and let it drop to the floor, encircling her feet like a puddle into which she wished she could sink and drown on the spot. Her facial expression was one of complete horror, her cheeks burning, her body shaking.

There she stood, her back to the doorway, in nothing but her underthings, red heels, a collar, and leash. Her face blazed heat that spilled down her throat and onto her chest, which was heaving with fear.

"Pick up your dress, love, and give it to me." She did as requested, but refused to look at him, her embarrassment turning to anger.

"Come now. Let us join the party." He tugged the leash gently and she followed, her eyes lowered and nearly closed in shame. She could see several sets of feet in shiny dress shoes and heels as they made their way into the crowd.

"Kevin! How are you? I was hoping to see you here. And this must be your lovely wife, Anne, that I've heard so much about? Lauren, say hello to Kevin and Anne." His voice was jovial as he shook hands in greeting, leaned forward to kiss Anne's cheek, and put his hand beneath Lauren's chin, pulling up to force her to look at Anne.

In front of her, Anne stood naked, in nothing but a pair of open-toed stiletto pumps and black fish net thigh high stockings.

"What the....?" Lauren looked around the room filled with mostly men in tuxedos and naked women in striking heels and sparkling jewelry. A few women in expensive evening gowns led naked and semi-naked men from table to table, glasses of champagne in hand as they toasted each other and laughed. 

"What kind of medical awards banquet is this?" 

"It's not, my dear. That's simply our cover. Now follow me to our table. There are a few more people I'd like you to meet."

She looked around the room in awe as he tugged her gently to keep her at his side. Her body betrayed her embarrassment by donning trails of goosebumps like tiny pearls along her skin and triggering her clitoris to twitch and her pussy to moisten. 

So many naked bodies.

When they came to their table, Michael pulled out his chair and sat down, leaving her to stand beside him. He looked up at her, pushed the chair beside him back far enough to provide space, and then glanced at the floor meaningfully. Lauren's eyes widened imploringly, but she dared not refuse his silent command. She lowered herself to her knees.

"Take off your shoes, my dear. I want you to be comfortable at my feet."

She did as requested, turned her feet inward, her big toes touching. and settled her backside onto her heels. A man sat beside Michael and they began to talk, but he never let go of her leash. She sat there, at his side, blushing hotly, trembling, and fuming inside, mostly at herself...mostly at her body, which seemed to enjoy every second of what her mind felt was torture. 

"Is this your wife, Michael?" Both men gazed at her from above. 

"Yes...yes this is Lauren. Isn't she beautiful?" He ran his hands through her soft curls.

"She's gorgeous. Does she know any tricks?" The man laughed deeply, but looked at her admiringly.

"Oh, plenty. Would you like to see?"

"Of course!" His eyes widened like a school boy's in the presence of an ice cream truck.

Michael patted her head, "Lauren, touch yourself, please."

She looked up at him with a look of pained questioning, her lips parting, sucking in sharply.

"Go on...you can do it. Pull your panties aside and touch yourself."

She spread her knees, pulled her panties aside, and touched herself.

"Keep going...that's wonderful..." He reached down and pulled her breasts from the cups of her bra, letting them set on top, plumped up, her nipples erect from the cold of the room and the illicit nature of her situation.

"Lay on the floor, Lauren, and continue."

She sighed, her breath growing quicker and more shallow as she lay back on the floor, one hand holding her panties out of the way, the other still circling her clit.

"I want you to make yourself come, Lauren."

Lauren closed her eyes in shame. She wanted to recede into the floor and become one with the basement. But she did as Michael commanded. Her fingers slipping inside of her, the palm of her hand pressing against her clit, she rubbed herself to orgasm quite quickly, cried out softly with the climax. Her cheeks flamed a red that trailed down her throat, across her breasts, all the way to her belly. She pulled her hands from between her quivering thighs and looked up at Michael. His face beamed with pride and lust. 

"Come..." He patted his thigh, and she came back to her knees, back to his side. She could see the lump against his thigh and knew that he was hard beneath the fabric of his dress pants. He took her hand, inhaled the scent from it deeply, and then slipped her first two fingers into his mouth, sucking the wetness from her. He licked his lips, closed his eyes briefly, an smiled.

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"There is nothing sweeter, love, nothing sweeter. You are amazing. And I love you."

Lauren smiled for the first time that night. Looking up, she saw in him a man she had yet to meet after fifteen years of marriage. And looking inward, she began to see a woman she'd never realized she'd wanted to be. How was it that he could know her desires better than she knew herself? Fifteen years provides a lot of time for study.



Monday, July 13, 2015

Daydreaming

She looked at the large pile of dirty clothes, sighed, and shook her head. Walking out of the laundry room, she glanced at the kitchen sink full of dishes, the counter cluttered with papers, keys, and wayward items that just never seemed to find a proper home and stay there. There were toys on the living room floor, and her office desk was covered with piles of bills and to-do lists.

"Fuck it," she mumbled under her breath.

Sometimes that's the only solution.

She wandered in to check on her napping children and then padded back to her own bedroom, drew the blinds, and then closed the door and locked it.

She lay down on the unmade bed, buried her head in his pillow, and inhaled deeply. His scent still permeated the room. She'd been up early with the baby, and when she'd come back, she'd found him naked, the sheets drawn back, his cock in one hand, and his other teasing his own nipple.


She'd smiled and slipped in beside him, her hand cupping his balls while he continued to slide his fist up and down his shaft. He'd moaned softly with her touch. Leaning over his chest, she took his other nipple in her mouth and sucked hard, letting it recede back to his body through her teeth. He'd pulled her on top of him and slid into her like a knife into butter, smoothly and slowly, both of them letting out a sigh of release as she settled at the base of his cock and squeezed her vaginal muscles around him. His hands on her hips, she rocked back and forth slowly, rhythmically, speeding up and slowing down as he willed her, wordlessly, with his body. It took only a few moments and his stomach muscles began to contract, his hips jutting upward into hers, lifting her and taking control even though she was on top of him. His head went back, his chin up, neck muscles strained and taut, face looking pained with the intensity of the pleasure and the imminent nearness to climax. Just the sight of his expression caused the beginning of her own orgasm, and as he exploded into her, her cunt began to pulse like the mouth of a hungry fish around his rigid cock. Every muscle in his body was tightened, but as the orgasm subsided, his abdomen let go, twitching its way to resting. A sheen of sweat beaded up on his forehead. He'd looked up at her and smiled, his hands reaching up to hold her breasts and squeeze her nipples until she giggled and pushed his hands away playfully.

He'd left for work shortly thereafter, leaving her here in this mess that never seemed to go away.

Now as she lay in the dark, in the blissful and brief quiet of the afternoon, she spread her legs and found release again as she breathed in the smell of his sweat from the pillow.



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Sunday, July 12, 2015

Wednesday, July 8, 2015

Oui



It's what her t-shirt said that caught his eye: Oui. It was an answer. And he had a number of questions he hoped would elicit that response from her.

He followed her in, waited for her and her friend to find a stool, and then sidled up next to her at the bar. She glanced sideways at him, unconsciously looking him up and down. He looked back at her..."Damn hot today, eh? Couldn't wait to just come in and get a cold beer to cool down."

"Yah." She said little, but her eyes showed interest, and she smiled. Oui number one.

She looked back at her friend who was ordering for them. Two margaritas and two shots of rather expensive tequila, which the bartender poured and scooted toward them. The two girls took hold of the shot glasses, giggled, and counted to three before bringing the glasses to their lips and tipping their heads back.

"Celebrating?" he asked.

"Yah, I got a new job today." Oui number two.

"Oh," he smiled, his impressively straight, white teeth framed perfectly by his curved lips.

"Let me buy you another shot? To congratulate you?"

She giggled a bit and looked back at her friend, who also giggled and gave her the look. The one girls give each other when they want to encourage their friends to do things...the raised eyebrows, the smile, the nearly imperceptible nod.

"Okay..." Oui number three.

She blushed, her pink cheeks round and high beneath her sparkling green eyes. The bartender put the second round of shots, this time three, in front of them. They all took hold of the glasses, clinked them together in a toast, and quickly drained them, simultaneously slamming the glasses back on to the bar.

"So what's your name?" he asked.

"Amber."

"Well, nice to meet you, Amber. I'm Greg. And I'm going to head on over to that table back there. The one by the pool tables. I'm going to order a pitcher of beer, and if you ladies would like to join me, you'll know where to find me." He nodded toward her and smiled again, a slight dimple in his cheek. He was tan in a way that showed he either worked outside or spent a lot of time out in the sun. He was also muscular, and his t-shirt was tight enough that it followed his shape all the way to his waist. It was hard not to notice Amber's shy but obvious gaze downward along his torso before she looked back up at his blue eyes as said, "Okay, maybe we will." Not quite a Oui. But close.

He grabbed his pitcher of beer and three glasses and headed to the back of the bar. He could feel her eyes on him as he walked away and smiled to himself.

He put the pitcher down on a table, poured himself a glass, and chose a cue stick from the wall. He heard her voice behind him, "You going to play by yourself there, hot shot?"

He turned toward her, "It wasn't my first choice, but I figured I could make do...mess around a bit, wait for someone to turn up. You know how to play?"

"Yes. My dad taught me when I was a kid." Oui number three.

"Where's your friend?"

"She's back at the bar with some of our co-workers."

"And you thought I looked lonely?"

"Well, yes, a little." Oui number four.

"And you felt sorry enough for me that you decided to come on a back a share this pitcher of beer with me?"

She blushed, but confidently answered, "Yah, I didn't want you to look silly playing pool alone. A guy like you...I'm sure you've got an image to uphold." Oui number five.

"Oh..." he leaned back a bit, eyes opened wider, brows up, questioning, "...and what image might that be?"

She stammered a bit. He'd flustered her with the question.

"I'm not trying to assume anything about you..um..but it looks like you..uh...care about how you look...so maybe you care how...um...others think you look..." She had that deer-in-the-headlights expression.

"Right now...I just care about how you think I look."

She smiled, blushed, and looked away as she stuck her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, causing her chest to jut out toward him, her breasts stretching the fabric of the t-shirt in an irresistable way.

"So, Amber...what do you think? Do I look alright?"

She looked back at him, breathed deeply, and replied, "Why the hell would I be over here right now if I didn't like what I saw?"

"So you like what you see?"

"Sure, yah...that's pretty much what I said, genius." Oui number six.

"Well, then, Amber, that makes two of us. Two hot geniuses who know how to play pool, just hanging around not playing pool and not drinking beer. So shall we remedy that?"

"Yes, Greg...we shall." Oui number 7. She headed to the wall and grabbed down a cue stick of her own.

"Pour me a beer, Greg...I'm gonna kick your ass." She smiled at him and looked at him rather seductively through her lashes while she chalked her cue. He watched her hand move around the tip and felt a slight twitch in his groin. Good god he'd love to see those pretty hands doing a similar dance on his own stick.

"Wanna chalk mine up, too...you're awfully good at that." He grinned.

"All in good time, mister. All in good time. What's the game, Greg? Standard 8-ball?"

"Sure...you wanna rack the balls?"

"Yep...I do, indeed, want to rack the balls, Greg. But can we play a few games of pool first?" Oui number 8.



Just a short, flirty story...nothing too sexy today. I'll be off on vacation for the next few days and, because I guess I sort of suck...I have not written and scheduled posts. So, I'll be off the grid until Saturday. That means no EFF this week...unless I post it late again on Saturday instead of Friday. Regardless, I wanted to at least get my Wicked Wednesday post completed before I turned off my computer for good (I'm sure it could use a rest, too.)



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