Keeping the Tank Full

We’d spent the day moving, and still weren’t done.  Things needed to be unpacked and boxes broken down so the house wasn’t so unsettled.  Daddy sat in His office chair surrounded by piles looking frustrated.

He turned His chair to face me as I entered sneezing from the accumulation of dust.  “My tank is low,” He said, reaching for me.

I moved to Him, wrapping my arms around His shoulders as He pressed His face to my breasts, sighing.

In past relationships, I couldn’t have suddenly announced a low love tank.  I wouldn’t have understood that was the problem, and I wouldn’t have had the communication foundation built with my partners to express it.

I remember drowning in unhappiness, knowing I didn’t feel loved but with no idea how to communicate that concept.  I’ve had partners who I know felt the same way.

This relationship is different.  Because we both actively feed each other’s needs, the fire burns as hot as it did when we began.  Any diminished glow is a noticeable difference from regular operations.  Armed with the knowlege of how *full* feels, it is much easier to pause and tell each other we need more touch, more time together.

Sometimes life gets in the way.  Moving, holidays, family emergencies, arguments:  these things can drain the tanks fast.  Refilling them takes specific and intentional effort.  Sometimes that means taking a day just for us, or a day with family.  It might mean a surprise date night, holding hands at a movie and dinner just to make googly eyes at each other and the hot waitress over declicious sushi.  It might be me asking for impact because it has been a while, beatin’ toys boxed up for too long.

For us, the important part is that we can communicate those needs to one another and it becomes a priority for us to remedy the issue.  It helps us both to know this matters enough to set aside the other things and focus on each other.

So we took a day off from the world together.  We ate bacon and eggs, had an impromptu visit, played board games with Apples and spouses, ate designer cupcakes, and laughed.  I cooked something I’ve never made Him before, and we watched Remember the Titans, but just until right before the car accident because I always cry extra at that part, and that movie already has enough feels for me.

Sometimes those things are what we both need.

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Oh, How Things Have Changed

He kissed me goodbye.

It was supposed to be a quick kiss, but He pressed me to the bed, teeth capturing my lower lip and sinking in.  I was panting when He released me.

I sat up, somehow now stretched diagonally across the king bed, part of the blankets covering bare breasts.  He blew kisses at me from the doorway and I had a sudden flash backwards to the first time He left me alone at His place and went off to work.

It was huge.

I didn’t have a key yet, had to lock the door behind me when I went to work (very careful to leave nothing behind).  I felt a little nervous that He trusted me with the responsibility of being alone at His house.  I made sure to do the dishes before I left, and that nothing else was out of place.  The weight of that trust demanded that I respect it.

I wasn’t allowed to peek inside the toy drawer unless I wanted Him to use everything in it on me.  I’m quite certain that rule was just to mess with me.  I got as far as touching the handles a time or two, curiosity burning.  The fear of Bluebeard and Pandora kept me from taking the final plunge, though.

Forward in time, back to present day, when we have this new house together, our first home with no ghosts.  The ghosts of old relationships live elsewhere, now.  Each new day is bright, boxes to unpack moving forward, finally nesting in and consolidating the bookshelves.  I’m even allowed to know what’s in the toybox.

It turns out we only need one copy of Roger Zelazny’s Chronicles of Amber, and three bottles of Windex is at least one too many.

It feels good to be here, content in the streaming sunshine, teeth marks on my breasts and ass, the smell of bacon cooking downstairs.

I think this may be what waking up in heaven feels like.

 

I Swear I’m Actually Emotionally Stable

I think it’s amusing when I see people talk about special media and self image.  They always mention how peole show only the highlight reel.

We do that here.  People show pictures of their kink and occasionally remind the rest of the world that a life exists outside of those snapshots.  They remind everyone that living M/s means dishes and laundry, kids and carpooling, and kink happens when we squeeze it in.

Our writings and photos are pictures of the smallest moments in our lives.

I can’t help but think I’ve avoided the trap of appearing to lead a perfect Kink Life.  In fact, I may have the opposite problem.

My journaling tends to center around moments of extreme emotion for me.  One day you might see some loving tribute to spanking or me gushing about our dynamic, the next talking about my insecurities, working through a flash of jealousy, highlighting a moment of less-than-stellar communication, or bemoaning leaving 16 floggers out on my desk for the exterminator to find.

Just as it would be easy to see perfection in those of us who post a moment of kink beauty, I think it would be easy to overlook me as the bumbling kink neighbor essential to your sit-com needs.

Therefore I am taking a moment to state for the record that I am actually emotionally stable.

I promise.

 

So, the Exterminator Definitely Knows We’re Kinky

One of the first things we wanted to see to at the New North Pole was to make sure it was preemptively exterminated.

I have a deathly fear of tree roaches.

While exterminating won’t stop them from coming inside when it rains, it will definitely make sure I find dead bodies rather than live instruments of digusting torturous death.

So I called the company and set something up for a time I’d be home, then promptly forgot about it.

I wasn’t thinking about a stranger, some 60 year old man, who would wander our home when I found the tub with all of the floggers for the spanking party I’m vending at in May.

I wasn’t thinking about where he’d have to spray when I unpacked them so the leather would be laid out nicely.

I wasn’t thinking about my office connecting several rooms together when I positioned them all across the top of my desk.

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I also definitely wasn’t thinking about him being in my bedroom when I left the box of packed toys open next to the bed, or the glass plug in the bathroom.

Seriously, though, good for him for managing to maintain eye contact without leering or smirking as I paid him.

 

Clitoral Sucking Vibrator (A Review)

So, I’ve been holding off on writing this one, since I’m all for giving things a fair shot.  Plus moving.  Ugh.  🙄

Okay, so one of the things Paloqueth sent was their Mango Clitoral Sucking Vibrator (retail $29.99).

To start, I loved the charging mechanism, the packaging, and how well it was made.  It charged really quickly.

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(It’s the purple one.)

The first time we tried it, Daddy operated the device.  It has seven vibration patterns.

Now I should point out that I have a vertical clitoral hood piercing.  I haven’t done anything with a vibrating toy since the piercing happened.

We used some of the Paloqueth lube (formerly reviewed here, and I think we’re in love, tbh) since we were concerned that the vibrations would feel uncomfortable without enough moisture.

Daddy started slow, positioning the soft cup over my clitoris.

I didn’t like how it vibrated my piercing against my clitoris.  It was WAY too intense for me.

He tried another setting.  We found that I liked the ones that have a pause and then a bit of a surge, like an ocean wave.  We settled into a bit of a groove, Him talking dirty to me, me breathing heavy.

Every time I got close to the big O, it slipped away.

Finally, after about a half an hour, He switched to hands alone, and I finally rode the wave.

I wanted to give it a fair shot, so we tried again last night.  He suggested I do the work while He showered and prepped.  I ran through all the settings again, confirming that I prefer the ones with pauses, but again I remained frustrated.  Something about the vibration of the piercing combined with the toy completely overstimulated me.

I’m pretty sure it’s 100% me, though.

The toy was great.  Waterproof, well made, great settings, easy to use for self or partner, it just wasn’t happening for me.

I feel comfortable recommending this to to others who enjoy vibrating toys, and we’ll likely try it again.

I just haven’t quite got the hang of it yet.  😅

 

X-Posted to Fetlife

Sir Humpsalot

When Daddy asked me what I wanted to do on all of the islands we were visiting for our honeymoon, I told Him I had never been and I was happy to do whatever He wanted.

He’s pretty intense about His itineraries, so He insisted I be more specific.

To Trip Advisor!

I started scrolling through.

I wanna pet the donkeys!!!” I exclaimed.

He responded that He was not taking me to pet donkeys in the Carribean when we can do that at our local zoo, and besides, being allergic to horses, He’d probably be allergic to donkeys, too.

Fine.  I got more exotic.

I wanna pet the ostriches!!!!” I excitedly suggested.

He sighed loudly.  Apparently we can do that locally, too.

Fiiiine.

I gave Him my best emotionless face.  “I wanna swim with all the fluffies.”

So we swam with and petted fluffies:  stingrays, endangered starfish, captive turtles, wild turtles, and finally, when we arrived in Florida, manatees.  All animals were commemorated with a souvenir stuffie.

The manatees were my favorites.  They were so huge, they could have been scary, but they were gentle.

There are lots of rules about swimming with manatees, because they are protected.  You can’t use your legs and stir up the bottom of the river, you use pool noodles and push yourself around with your arms.

We had our noodles and I had the underwater bag for my cellphone, and we were ready to float.  We found a big momma manatee, and we floated, just watching.  I was looking down messing with the camera when Daddy started tugging on my arm, very quietly.

While I had been distracted, a baby manatee had gotten curious about Him and decided to hump His leg, riding along and clinging to it for quite some time, as we casually breast stroked through the water.

It was pretty amazing.

So back at the gift shop, Daddy gave me a $50 spending limit.  I promptly settled on the largest manatee I could find, easily 3 ft long.  It was marked $49.99.

Daddy really didn’t want that one.

“With tax,” He clarified, which was obviously cheating.

Fortunately the lady behind the counter happily gave me a discount.  😉

I promptly christened him Sir Humpsalot, and he got his very own seat on the airplane, which is a completely different story.

So now Sir Humpsalot has a new friend:  Tits Bunny, courtesy of a new Fet friend.  😍💗

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With Small Power Comes Great Responsibility

I don’t run a munch.

I don’t really think I *run* anything, for that matter.

I am, however, a group administrator, in that I assist with a collective decision about hosting a bimonthly gaming event which has been located in my home several times, and will be located in my home in the future.

I don’t see this as a position of power, rather more of meeting a need in our local area.  Be that as it may, it puts me in what some might term a leadership position.  The way I see it, this comes with a much higher level of responsibility over perks.

If something bad happens to someone in my home, I am responsible.  For example, in the unlikely event my chocolate lab were to suddenly attack a guest, or if someone fell down my stairs, those medical bills would be my cross to bear.

If I vet someone into my home and they violate another guest’s consent, I bear some responsibility.

People come to our events both in public and in our home with a certain expectation of safety.  They trust I have done my job and excluded people who engage in predatory behavior.

This small group is, in essence, my flock.  They are our Kik group, the people we trust to recommend to others as play partners.  They are people we spend a lot of time getting to know, and ones who know my family.  They *deserve* that level of conscientiousness from us when it comes to their safety, and ours when we give them this level of trust.

This means that when whispers happen in our community of wrongdoing, I cannot turn a blind eye.  It is important that I honor the trust our little flock has placed in me by doing what I can to understand, to inform myself, so that I can make what may sometimes be difficult decisions.

With small power, comes great responsibility.

An Open Letter to the Next Girl

My Dearest New Girlfriend,

There was a time I thought I’d never say the word girlfriend again.  Well, at least not referencing *my* girlfriend.  It has taken a lot of time to get here.

Of course, we haven’t met yet.  But at least now I’m open to you being a possibility in my life, where for a time I would have denied you a place here as I sat in a corner and licked my old wounds.

You may be hesitant about getting to know me.  I share a lot of personal things with the world at large.  I can promise you, though, that what you prefer remain between us will.  If I have thoughts I need to let out of my brain, I can do so on actual paper.  I do mean in addition to conversation.  I expect a lot of conversation.

You’ll have to be patient with me.  I know I can come across a little assertive or aggressive at times, but I am rarely the aggressor when it comes to interpersonal relationships.  I will send you a drink from across the bar with a wink before I will send you a personal message on Fet.

When I think I have zero shot with you, I’m a terrible flirt, sending winks and kisses your way.  If I actually think there’s a chance, the awkward arrives.  Expect it.  Embrace it.  I *will* go away, I promise.

The firsts bring it out.  Our first exchange.  My first admission of attraction.  Our first kiss.  Once we are past the firsts, I promise to pull your hair and kiss you like I’m drowning and you are my only air.  I will drink deeply of your lips and find myself love-drunk.  I will sink my teeth into you and join us as one.

But the talking.

The talking will always be more important than the kissing for me.  I want your love tank to be full, and that means I need to know what’s troubling you, and how I can make it better.  Do you need more time?  Less time?  More attention and reassurance?  Less?  We all have different needs, and those take adjustment and adaptation.

We won’t always see eye to eye.  We’ll fight about something stupid.  I promise, I’m really used to being wrong.  I can be a bit stubborn in the moment, but if you let me take a minute, I’ll see the error of my ways.  I hate going to bed angry, though.  Please don’t ask me to do it.  Let’s just stay up and resolve things.  If the issue isn’t a fundamental opposition (like wanting kids / not wanting kids – you can’t both win) we can find a resolution.  The important part is that if we love each other enough, we will always find a solution we can both live with, and love with.

But I guess I mostly want to say thank you, whoever you are.  Thank you for coming into my life at the right moment, when I was ready to take this step forward.  Thank you for being patient, as I overcome old hurts to be brave with you.

Thank you for just being you.

I think we can have something really beautiful together.

 

STI’s and Immunodeficiency

I see educational posts about STI’s every now and again.  I think that education is excellent.  While I’m no expert, I think the current method of showing video slides of worse-case outbreaks is the kind of public information that can really hurt people.  Yes, that’s what my now-21-year-old reported as his sex ed from high school.

So my main concerns when reading these posts is the lack of information in them (and elsewhere!) regarding the intersection of a supressed or deficient immune systems and potential increased risk for STI’s.

After asking some curious questions and finding very little information, I hit up “teh googles.”

I should probably start with some background.

My partner, my Dominant, my Master, my Daddy, my love without end which encompasses my being, is immunosuppressed from an organ transplant many years ago.  What this means for us:  when people have sniffles or sick kids, even when they may not present visible symptoms, he can end up with a worse-than-average childhood disease that he shouldn’t be able to contract past age six.

Why is this relevant in a Kink-related discussion?

While there are transmissible STI’s which are curable, his immunosuppressed status makes it more likely that he would experience side effects which are more severe than the average person’s.  They also mean he would be fighting them off much longer.

Read the rest of my article here on Kink Weekly.

Negotiations With the New Girl

She’d bargained to let me watch, touch if I’d wanted.

I had declined, prefering to get to know her a little better, and give her the first time with Daddy as a solo act.  I find sometimes more is not merrier when it comes to forging those first physical bonds.

She slept between us that night.  I’d been glad to have her there, missing the feminine more than I’d realized.  I woke first, or perhaps second, noticing she and I were alone, nude bodies pressed together in slumber.

I pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder and her eyes fluttered open.  She smiled lazily, the expression of someone who’d found something she’d been missing the night before.

“Shall we negotiate?” I suggested with a sly smile, knowing what she’d liked from the night before.

I grasped her by the hips and rolled her to straddle me, feeling her warmth tickle my thighs.  Her hair fell in waves around her and I reached up to tug it, mesmerized for a moment.

“You say sex is on the table,” I murmured.  “Hair pulling?” I asked.

She moaned her permission as my fingers found their way closer to her scalp, fisting there exactly the way I loved it done to me.  I raised my torso to meet hers, breasts brushing against breasts as I slowly bent her backwards with hands and will.

“Biting?” I asked.  “Soft or hard?”

My teeth found the mound of her breast and began to sink in slowly, tauntingly.  Her breath caught as the pressure increased.  I could feel her getting damp agasint my thigh, and I shifted mg legs so she rode one.  As I bit into her other breast, she pressed that wetness into the stability of my thigh.

“Shall we try a flogging then?”  I asked.

I disengaged and began to organize my floggers.  Selecting one I knew was excellent for warm ups, I had her assume the position.

A throat cleared at the door.

Daddy leaned against the door frame looking amused.

“Having fun with your toys, babygirl?” He asked.

“I was just about to, Daddy,” I responded, the gleam in my eye suddenly bearing an odd similarity to the one I saw reflecting back at me.