I was someone’s secret for three years. He didn’t cheat ON me. He cheated WITH me. In order to do that, he lied to two women who he supposedly loved. For years. He lied about: where he was, where he slept, his living arrangements, who he would have drinks or dinner with, his business trips, and his kids’ school performances and who he went with. He even lied about what he got for his motherfucking birthday, most likely tucking my carefully chosen gifts to him away in his closet. He told me his elaborate plans for the weekend after his birthday. His plans were so detailed that I grew suspicious. When he didn’t call or text me his usual ‘goodnight’ the evening before, I did what any jealous, distrusting, crazy girlfriend would do: at 5:00 in the morning, well before his supposed plans, I drove the 25 miles to his house, a home where I’d been invited numerous times. His car wasn’t there. He wasn’t there. He lied to me. That’s when I knew, truly knew, that our entire relationship was a lie. That’s also when I knew, truly knew, that this relationship had changed me. I was never THAT girl. I never needed to have access to email accounts or phones. I never distrusted what my lovers told me they were doing. And I never, ever was anybody’s secret. How did I become THIS person? He and I don’t communicate anymore. One day he was my best friend, and […]
To: Pink Subj: Scheduling Conflicts with Hand and Cane Dear Pink, Due to an unfortunate lack of planning, this bottom was somehow double-booked on Sunday. I had hoped for a nice brunch with the Hand, but since it was not set out clearly on the schedule (ahem), there arrived two implements to greet me instead. Yes, the Hand was present for this informal gathering; thank you kindly for inviting him. But in short order, there arrived the Cane, hoping to feast on the remaining bounty of Sunday brunch. Being the gracious hostess that I am, I greeted the Cane with a smile and a polite hand shake (a true sign of sophistication in times that could otherwise be uncomfortable) but quickly regretted my decision to include him as the relaxed conversation grew somewhat terse. The Cane and the Hand have little in common, you see, and maintaining the conversation between them is fraught with peril, even for a well-versed and engaging bottom such as I. With regard to your earlier verdict that Sundays shall be kept for “spontaneous pursuits”, this bottom wholeheartedly objects. In order to avoid future double-booking, and the inevitable discomfort that follows, I respectfully request that all plans be penciled in on my calendar for approval. Please contact me if you have any questions about this matter. I can be found in the usual place. Sincerely, Your bottom To: Bottom Subj: Re: Scheduling conflicts with Hand and Cane Dearest Bottom , In regards to your memo of […]
On their first date, he pointed to his lips, commanding her to kiss him. Her lips gave his a questioning squeeze of interest as she chastely obeyed. On their second date, his index finger traced the line of lace on her panties. His eyes never left her face, surely seeing the heated ebb of desire flush her cheeks. This was taking things slowly. She shared her naughtier thoughts in a text: I think of your face between my thighs, the way those lips of yours will feel against my clit while your beard tickles my soft, smooth skin underneath. I imagine my tummy on your lap and your hands all over my bottom, smacking and caressing it possessively. I wonder at the sounds you will make when your cock is in my mouth. I want you to tie me with my arms above my head. I wish you would use me. Make me wet with my cum and yours. I think about these things all day. I haven’t yet mentioned your fingers. She was taking it as slowly as she could physically handle: I will not make the same mistakes. I will not allow a physical relationship determine an emotional one. I will not. Slowly. But then his reply via email came: I imagine: you bent over in panties, stockings and heels. Your big, firm ass just fucking begging me to caress, swat, knead, and bite it. Pulling down your panties and finding that your pussy has stained them […]
“So, uh…now that you’ve broken up with me, can I swing by and pick up that economy-pack of condoms I left in your nightstand?” In part, I admire him for being unabashedly cheap. Own it.
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. […]
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 […]