Two Hitachis

A friend sent me a link to a great price for a Hitachi vibrator on Amazon — a price so low that I momentarily freaked, dropped my phone, executed a 5-second happy dance with lots of leg lifting, and placed my order. I did not need a new Hitachi, but I rationalized the purchase by telling myself that this would be a “basement Hitachi,” and I would keep my other, relatively new one upstairs as my “bedroom Hitachi.” Which, of course, had me questioning my monogamy. Do I need a “bedroom man” and a “basement man?” Can the tenderness of romance, cuddling and making love be found with the same person who will pull my hair, shove a piece of glass up my ass and tie me to the rafters? Or am I destined for two, distinct love-flavors? I’m not going to kiss and tell (really, I’m not, everything is theory here), but I believe that there is someone who can transition as easily from the bedroom to the basement as I can. Someone who would be just as likely to hogtie me and use me on a Friday night as he would to take me to the Farmers’ Market and buy me flowers on a Saturday morning. I resolve to have some fun. Although my heart may eventually follow that same old, monogamous path — boring, maybe, but for which I offer no apologies — my body wants what it wants. I won’t deny either for any one man. […]

Why I don’t wear thongs

I was talking to someone new today and experienced an unlikely trigger: thongs. I didn’t realize that it triggered something in me until he pointed out how fascinating my reaction was. I didn’t think that I was even trigger-able, but apparently I am. I hate thongs because: A) I like the mystery of the reveal that a thong doesn’t provide; B) They are incredibly uncomfortable; C) They don’t look good on me; and D) If I don’t feel sexy then my headspace is rubbish. I believed my reaction was because of the above, but after brief consideration, I realize that my dislike of the thong went beyond that: E) I was with a thong-fan for a few years who stopped taking my desires into consideration. He didn’t do this in a Domly way, but in a “we’re doing what I want to do, always” way. He was never happy with my panties unless they were thongs. He called anything else “granny panties” and made me feel like the least sexy schlub to ever schlub in Schlubville. I told him that I didn’t like the wooden paddle and that his use of it was killing my spankiness. What did that prick do? He kept it in his nightstand and EVERY TIME I spent the night, that motherfucker would come out after an all-too-brief hand-warming. I told him that I didn’t want to lick his asshole, a hard limit for me at that time. So what did he do? He tied me […]

Zipless

Craigslist is for the illiterate crazies of the world who seek the zipless fuck. No emotions, virtually anonymous, greasy, guiltless fuckery. That’s what she always thought. So what was she doing here on a Monday evening, lights blazing and no wine in sight, creating her own post in the Missed Connections section of Craigslist? She was looking for the man who said to call him Mister. He said he liked my shoes. “These shoes?” I asked, looking down at my worn and cracked, red Mary Janes. “They’re so old. But thank you.” “Old is good. I like pretty shoes, worn shoes. And you’re welcome,” he said, tipping his graying head forward in a mock salute before strutting away toward the produce section. It was a simple compliment, undeserved in my opinion as I knew, firsthand, that these shoes had seen better days. His kindness stayed with me as I made my selection from the olive bar and built a six-pack out of varied Arcadia Ales, all the while aware of the soft leather encasing my feet. This attractive gentleman had noticed me. And he said something without expecting anything in return. In the parking lot, he was loading his black SUV with groceries, a line of perspiration at his back where his shirt clung. I sensed his slow approach as I placed my own paper bags in the back seat of my soccer-mom Honda. “Because you are so pretty,” he said as I turned and saw a pale yellow rose […]

Am I Right?

I do not feel selfish. I do not feel guilty for basking in the pleasure of being over his knees, or bent roughly over the arm of the couch and rapidly man-handled. I know it’s not one-sided — and I think I know what he gets from all of this. I trust he will tell me if I’m wrong. He gets the warm willingness of a beautiful woman succumbing to his demands. He gets the freedom to make those demands, able to command in such a way that is impossible outside of this. When you are in position and looking questioningly at him from over your shoulder, hair partially obscuring your dilated pupils, back rising with each quick intake of breath, your anticipation is a welcome invitation: do what you will, Sir. And he knows he can take it as far as he’d like, whether it is short and intense, or prolonged and sensual. When you present your pantied bottom to him, he is free to admire it for as long as he wishes. He can smooth those panties over the cheeks, adjust the elastic so they lay just so, or perhaps he will yank them upwards into a “Y” and expose the blank and quivering whiteness beneath. And when he begins, he gauges each effect his hand makes. He admires the fingerprints he creates; he presses and kneads your bottom for as long as he wants, turning the freshly pink area white again under his touch. Lifting each cheek […]

Dear Sir

Dear Sir, I fear that I’ve hyped this fantasy disproportionately. So much so, I feel inclined to embellish it — but I will refrain. Awhile ago you told me about an old friend in Florida who you were thinking about arranging a session with the next time you traveled there. I don’t know where that stands, but it popped into my head last night. And I could not stop thinking about it. Sort of like a fly on the wall, I imagined all kinds of scenarios between you two. Rather than feeling any sort of jealousy — which, by nature, I’m usually immune — I was incredibly turned on. If I had thought about anything beyond the punishment of this stranger, I may have been jealous, but my thoughts just went to you spanking her and me watching avidly as she submitted to your expert maneuvers. I’m not saying that you should or you shouldn’t, or that you are or aren’t, but the thought of you spanking any woman (myself included) makes me dripping wet. It’s an intimate exchange worth studying: how your face looks while you administer the punishment, how she loosens her anxiety and just lets it happen. Perhaps it was because I haven’t orgasmed in so long — not since we last played (for shame!) — but I came multiple times picturing the set of your expression and the bouncing yield of her bottom. I don’t know that I’d enjoy it in reality. The fantasy is probably […]

What he should do with a girl like me

Five transgressions. He says ‘premeditated’; I say ‘mistakes’. So four of the five were ‘premeditated mistakes’. Based on my affinity for premeditation, he says, I should enjoy planning my punishment. He is wrong. Choosing my own punishment is a bit like cutting my own cake: if I weren’t concerned about my ass, I’d take a bigger piece. Those details are better left to someone who doesn’t have to fit into my unforgiving jeans come morning. But as any girl like me can tell you, there is no reasoning with a man like him. And so the fine print will be left to my imagination and my hand, written shakily in my punishment notebook. What should he do with a girl like me? I think on it for days. There is a part of me that wishes to outline, step-by-step, my impending punishment. First a hand spanking — perhaps not so soft. And then twenty-five with the hairbrush, followed by twenty with the cane, and fifty with the strap. Over his lap, over my dining table — with my knuckles bulging white — and then over the foot of my bed. This same part wishes to time my punishment: five minutes with each implement until my bag is empty. I look longingly at my kitchen timer. I count the number of implements. I begin to write, but it seems unrealistic. Too much? Not enough? I rip the page from the spiral notebook. What does a girl like me need from a […]