Choking . . .

It is a funny thing for someone to hold your life in their hands.

I do not count myself a submissive, and I have no desire to give up control. Having it taken anyway is a sexy thing, but it is not a craving for me. So when Mr. S has his hands around my throat and colors start to fade . . . for my vanilla self it wasn't quite ecstacy, nor satisfaction. There was a sense of peace, odd only for the fact I should be fighting for my life.

The orgasm that resulted from that sex was itself an odd mix of satisfaction but not satiation. It was very, very comforting to hand my care over to another person, but in the end all I wanted was more. (Perhaps not of the choking, but definitely of that feeling).

By that evening I had a freckling of bruises across my cheeks, which indicates to me that we went a bit far. My concern, which I later raised with Mr. S, is that if my blood pressure is high enough to burse capillaries then I am getting too close to aneurysm territory for my comfort. He was infuriatingly nonchalant about it until I made him look it up.

That nonchalance also struck a deeper worry in me. I know that he would never push me past a safe word, but his inclination not to take me seriously 'just because" made me wonder just how much of my interest he's looking after.

Everyone has an agenda, and like E said in a comment there's no doubting Mr. S has one too.

Pretty Eyes

FTN asked an interesting question: "Do you prefer compliments on your kindness, sense of humor, and how you interact with people, over someone telling you that you've got pretty eyes, beautiful legs, or a sweet ass?"

Being starved for attention as I am, any kind of compliment would be dearly appreciated. Although being the fool that I also am I would probably turn into a blubbering mess if a man ever did give me a compliment related to my body. The question brought to mind a moment with Mr. S in which I very nearly did break down, but for all the wrong reasons.

My body has never generated compliments. Despite a well-endowed chest, a pillowy rear just begging for a good smack, wide hips, long legs, and even a decently attractive face, my physical form might as well not exist for all the notice that it gets. The one exception is my eyes. I am forever hearing about my "pretty eyes". Yes, I know that sounds ungrateful. But that is the phrase, every time. These eyes of mine are apparently never captivating, sultry, intelligent, or deep windows into the soul. They are just pretty. That compliment is such a copout, such obvious searching for something -- anything -- nice to say that I have nothing left but derision for it.

Some days ago, I was happily slurping away at Mr. S's cock when he felt the need to bring out this particular chestnut. As soon as it said those words, those hated words, his cock turned to ash in my mouth and my heart broke just a little. It occurred to me in that moment with the full force of Truth that if this man, my friend, my healer, my lover, this man who obviously somehow thinks me attractive, if he cannot find physical beauty . . . then no one else ever will either.

I will never have the words I so long to hear.

Hmmm . . .

I have been mulling over a post about this past weekend with Mr. S. Most of our time was pretty tame, except for one choking episode. When the dust settles a bit, I may actually write that post. Before then, however, I have to work out how I feel about it, and how I feel about his reaction to some of my concerns afterwards.

In the meantime, your Spinster would like (brace yourselves, people) to have some gentle, sensual sex with includes copious amounts of time spent on building her own orgasm. Send your resumes, Gentlemen. All applications will be considered.

Satisfaction

Mrs. S absented herself again this weekend, this time for a legitimate business trip. She chose, for whatever reason, to include her mother since the destination was some kind fo resort. So while she was hanging out with Mom, I was boinking her husband. Woo :)

After a nonstarter attempt at vanilla sex on Friday night, we gave up and went out to see a movie. All I will say is that it was obvious in more than one scene that the makers of The Last Legion had seen Lord Of The Rings.

The sex I will tell you about, Dear Reader, just about killed me. Literally. And it was fantastic.

It started after some lazy cuddling in bed. We were spooning, and his hands began to wander.
His right arm was my pillow, and he bent his elbow to put me into a chokehold. His other hand went between my legs. He pulled me on top of him, my back to his stomach and started to choke me harder and harder as his fingers dug into my pussy. It was ecstacy.


I know that breath play can be a serious thing. If things go wrong, it can cause aneurisms and brain damage. Today my face has freckles from a little bit of bruising, so I know I need to talk to Mr. S about limits. Even though I enjoyed what he did all the way, I don't know that I want to subject my body to that kind of stress.

Girl Watching

john recently pointed out a post from Craigslist, which he was kind enough to save for posterity.

Go read it.

Back now? Ok.

As a card-carrying Modern Feminist my inital reaction reading that post was a fervent "Amen, Sister!" She, and any other woman, should have the right to go about her day without being a sexualized if she chooses.

By the end, though, jealousy overcame my support. Not once have I ever had an experience like any of those. Not once has a man treated me sexually just because of how I look. The hard truth of the matter is that being given no sexuality is just as dehumanizing as being treated only as a sex object. There are indeed moments when I am grateful for my position on the spectrum.

And then there's all the other moments of my life, in which I am very, very, not grateful.

Suspicion

I awoke this morning with my spidey-sense tingling with the notion that Mrs. S is going to cut off my access to Mr. S in the near future. (End of September at the latest).

This would, of course, have nothing to do with the fact that she and I went shopping last night and I just happened to pick up some new frilly things I intend to wear for Mr. S. *snicker*

In talking with her, it really has become apparent that the only thing we still have in common is Mr. S. That makes me sad for what it is gone, but no longer guilty that it might somehow have been my fault.

*whap* post-scripted

One thing I have held back from mentioning in my posts is my deep insecurity over Mr. Smoochy. Looking at his bag of tricks the other night really brought it home to me how little experience I have. And how little I fit into his world. This man, who is used to all manner of kink and perversion, volunteers to spend his free time with me. Why?

The one thing that I am secure about is our friendship. Clothes on, I know that he enjoys my company as I enjoy his. Clothes off, I wonder. I know our sex isn't bad for him, not by any means. If it were, he wouldn't have been coming back for more. But why does he come to me instead of the girl who wants to be set on fire? Or the one who (reportedly) can come from her neck being held like a kitten's? Or the one who likes to be paddled until her skin bleeds?

I have no sex tricks up my sleeve. I have no talent for other peoples' orgasms. I can barely manage my own, and often fail at that. I am not the world's best blowjob, or tightest pussy, or kinkiest painslut. What makes what I have to offer better than that? That which he has had before, that which he can still have.

*whap*

Last night I had an amazing session with Mr. Smoochy. There were some scary, hurtful parts to be sure (but not the parts that you think), but there were also lustful parts, and there were some loving parts.

Mrs. Smoochy absented herself from town rather unexpectedly, leaving Mr. Smoochy without plans and me therefore rescued from an evening of obsessively checking my favorite blogs for updates and perhaps writing here some pathetic missive on loneliness.

He brought down some movies, and we snuggled on the couch. I found in unbearably cute that in the moments he was bored with the movie he would start to fondle me. When the action picked up again, he would stop.

When the movie was over, and after some playful necking, he said he wanted to show me the things in his play bag. This has been kind of a touchy issue for me in the past. As I've mentioned before, I've known for sometime that both he and his wife are into BDSM. I suppose it was to protect myself, but I've viewed their interest as more tourism than anything else. I was somewhat distressed last night to have my nose rubbed in the fact I was wrong.

Some of what he pulled out was fairly mainstream: there were the requisite floggers and restraints, a leather hand for spanking, a good bit of rope. I was a little nonplussed that he had not one (or two) Wartenburg wheels, but six. In their own leather carrying case. But I was most upset when he pulled out a violet wand and started talking about electro-fire-knife play. It really shouldn't surprise me that a geek like him would be most attracted to the techno-chemical parts of his perversion, but it does. He is such a cautious person, it bothers me to think that he's convinced himself that things couldn't go disasterously wrong. (And before you go posting that all kink is ok and lots of people do this, let me remind you that lots of people jump off of bridges too. That doesn't make it ok.) I was a little upset also that he dismissed my concerns as if I were a mouth-breather, but eventually we more-or-less agreed to disagree about this and he put his toys away.

I know I've said it before, but I will say it again. Mr. Smoochy has the most amazing hands. As he laid out his toys, he stood across the table from me and because of the peculiar geometry of the ceiling light, the width of the table, and my own height, all I could see were his hands. I could not see his face. Or even most of his body. It was just his hands, these marvelously large, strong, capable hands and his voice. Mr. Smoochy caught me mesmerized; I didn't dare tell him it was the hands and not the toys. He has enough power over me as it is.

I won't bore you with the more vanilla details of our encounter. I will tell you, though, that Mr. Smoochy used his leather belt on me. And I loved it.

He first used it as a choker, tight around my throat as he pushed his cock into my mouth. Later he took it off and used it as a whip. I do not count myself a true submissive (or a pain slut, as I am the world's biggest wuss), and I don't generally indulge in spanking fantasies. But kneeling before this Greek god of a man, his cock in my mouth (yum!), looking up over the expanse of his sexy-furry torso, and seeing the gleam in his eye as he was about to come down on me with his belt . . . that was hotness.

While he was striking me, the thought ambled through my head that I would like sometime to be the one doing the striking. But not to Mr. Smoochy. I am glad that he does not have a submissive bone in his body . . . I don't think would adore him as much as I do. I think, though, that I would like to give back to the world some of my aggression.

For all the wrong reasons.

Sucking Cock

Today over lunch I gave Mr. Smoochy a blowjob. Just because it pleased me to do so.

It is a funny thing, having a penis in your mouth. Velvety soft, sometimes like jello, sometimes like a rock, masculine muskiness, the fur border. Filling, thrusting, squirting.

I have learned to enjoy cock in my mouth, but this was not always so. Early in my sexual miseducation I acquired a distaste for blowjobs, and a change of opinion was long in the coming.*

Always overthinking things as I am wont to do, I sometimes get myself quite hung up on the sexual politics and power dynamics of cock sucking. Down on my knees, in front of a man, I sometimes feel a moment of panic. What am I doing here? There is no dignity in this. Even though I do it willingly, gladly even, I still struggle with the submission of the act. The only time I can truly claim the power of it for myself is when a man is bound before me. Then it is *my* deed.

Sucking cock is an art, and really there ought to be classes that teach it. I remember as early as 7th grade the sex ed teachers having us girls practice how to put condoms on cucumbers and bananas (with, of course, the inevitable hilarity). Why is there not included with that even the most basic blowjob primer? (Let me apologize here to Number One and the other unfortunate gentlemen who underwent my ministrations before I was in possession of a clue). Why do girls have to learn technique from porn or from guys whose only experience is porn?

I wish, I wish, I wish that mainstream porn was not saturated with the notion of females as cum receptacles. Especially the mouth. I think that to take a man into your mouth and lick him, suck him, caress him with your tongue, this is a fundamentally loving thing to do. Even in the most base and primal of encounters. Even when the man is a stranger. This essential nurturing is what makes blowjobs so fundamentally feminine, and that is fine. But it makes me very sad to see that goodness perverted into something degrading.

I enjoy, for a variety of reasons, sucking off Mr. Smoochy more than any other man I've been with. He responds in gratifying ways to my touch. He tastes good. He is perfectly sized for me -- not so long that I gag, not so thick that my jaw muscles cramp. Fills my mouth, fills my pussy.

Tomorrow, I might just suck his cock again.

* All puns intended, of course.

To Spinst or Not To Spinst, That Is The Question . . .

Because of the developments outlined in yesterday's post I have considered hanging up my title of Invisible Spinster. It is, afterall, difficult to make the case that I am either invisible or a spinster if there is a ready man in my life to have sex with.

That is, I was considering it until today. See, occasionally part of my job involves going to peoples' houses and negotiating until there is a deal. (Yes, that's purposely vague). When my father was alive, he and I were in business together and my Marla Hooch imitation actually helped him close the deal. (That was a racket in and of itself, and worthy of it's own post another time). On my own, though, I am forever battling the fact that people, especially men, don't want to deal with women who don't look Hollywood beautiful. Today was one of those days. I went to this farmer's house out in the boonies and whomever he thought was going to show up when he called my store, by the look on his face I obviously wasn't it. It was plain to me that no matter what I did, he would never close the deal with me. Two hours and a lotta gas wasted. *sigh*

I don't understand this attitude. Not one bit. I am not the Avon Lady, come to sell you beauty yet failing at it myself. I am not selling a lifestyle. Hell, I am not even in sales. What I do gives people money. My business should not depend one whit upon how I look . . . and yet, deals are affected time and again. Some of it, I think, is my relative youth -- most of the people I deal with are Baby Boomer and older. But a lot of it, the majority, is this Cloak of Invisibility with the 3+ Ugliness embroidery. Because if you're not beautiful, you must be ugly.

Or something.

Whoosh . . .

That breeze you're feeling? That's a flock of pigs winging past.

Apparently Mrs. Smoochy has had a brain transplant and I am now officially on The List.

I am not sure what to make of this turn of events. She made a rather public announcement of this in her LiveJournal, in a "not-naming-names" sort of way even though anyone who knows her will know who's who. Mr. Smoochy and I are both rather intrigued by this post, as it outlines reasoning somewhat different from what she has said to either of us. Still, I am pleased at her change of heart.

Everything from here on out is completely new territory for me. This is the first time I have ever been pursued. It is the first time a friendship has morphed into a sexual relationship, and also the first time a sexual relationship has included friendship. With the (possible) exception of Number One, none of my bedmates have even pretended to be my friend. This is the first time I have knowingly shared a man with another woman, and certainly the first time I've been with a married man.

This will be interesting.

Our Precious

Cold be heart and hand and bone,
Cold be travellers far from home.
They do not see what lies ahead,
When sun has failed and moon is dead.

I have another confession for you . . . I have naughty thoughts about Gollum.

Yes, he is an ugly little worm. Part of the attraction is, I know, some of that big-eyes-small-head thing that makes most baby critters cute. However, I think Gollum the person is deeply misunderstood and really quite a charming character.

He is intelligent, clever, loyal . . . a broken soul waiting to be healed. He is childlike in his naivete of the world, and childish in his emotional displays. I actually envy his ability to feel his emotions 100% -- be it joy, pain, hunger or anger, Gollum feels it with no filter. I can only aspire to such completeness of feeling.

He is also a repulsive head to be pulled to my breast, grabbing hands to paw my body. I think, in a way, he is Everyman. Appealing, and yet not. There for you, and yet not. Desired and yet reviled.

And I think he would fuck like a horny little jackrabbit.

Truth

Bitchy says,

"Frustrated male desire ought to have the threat of violence mixed in there if it is real."

So true.