Fast boys

This isn't the sort of thing I'd have done a few years ago. I've learnt better now: there is no time like the present. The things that you want are not going to magically resolve themselves without your input and nothing ever fell into your outstretched hands. If you want something, you should take it.

I wanted him.

I took him.

I'll even name him, after one of my friends rather pointedly noted my failure to name him even in conversation. As if it would be bad luck, somehow, and once made concrete I would only too soon be announcing that he has left, or not been all than he seemed. Ganymede, then. For the beautiful boy stolen by Zeus.

So named, we are together. Happily. Disgustingly well-matched. It's bewildering, sometimes. I try hard not to giggle, out loud, on the tube or at work. We are still in that sweet spot of a blissful daze, repeated fucking, barely able to keep our hands off each other. The realms of new discovery: each other's tastes and desire - sexual as well as otherwise. He's been reading the blog, from the beginning it seems, and we've discussed with interest the way that his own submission mirrors my own nascent desires. We become the dominant that we want, and then we develop into something else when we meet others - I feel as if I have discovered the submissive that perfectly matches me completely. It's not precisely like doing unto him that which I want to have done to me, it's more about acts that satisfy me are acts that satisfy him also. We are enthusiastically boyish together, and I am enjoying having an appreciative audience for my masculine persona, someone who revels in my androgyny. And I in his. We form an interesting mirror for each other, roughly of the same height and build. The fact that we can swap clothes is creating a lot of excitement in the wardrobe department, and I'm looking forward to developing an appreciation for cissyfication.

We fall into each other easily, as if we have been lovers for a long time.

Lying in the sun, his fingers searching out my pleasure in my cunt. I can see his delight at my satisfaction, and we reflect back upon each other. His pleasure in my pleasure skin bleaching white in the bright daylight. I watch him bite his lip - I love it when they bite their lip - his cock is hard and snug against my side. The obvious signs of desire are sometimes the best, and I am fond of a good erection, thus far he has not disappointed. The game is experimentation. Toys old and new. Each time we learn something new about what works, and each time we build on the last.

There are certain acts, certain first times that are significant. The first time you put a collar on someone, whether in play or to make them yours more permanently. The first time you experience a sensation that transports you elsewhere, into those spaces within you that you never knew existed. Ganymede and I are moving through first times at a rate of knots. where cherries are popped at a speed of kernals of corn. But some are worth savouring.

I'd initially thought to wait for a "special" moment to strap on and fuck him in the arse. It's one of those significant points. I knew that he was bi, so I'd assumed, wrongly as it turns out, that it wouldn't have been a new experience for him. I started slow, all the same, because the build up is part of the fun and I don't think I'll ever tire of putting things in people. After a while, I selected the narrowest of my cocks, pushed him down and pressed into him. A few experimental thrusts and he wriggles his bottom against my hips - I think the boy likes it. I flipped him over onto his back, resting his hips on a pillow to get a better angle and throwing his legs atop my shoulders. Taking him harder now, riding against the moans, grinning at the way his eyes stare wide at me, grinning harder after I slap his face and he whispers, smiling, "you are a mean Daddy." And he is my beautiful boy. We fuck. I revel in the fullness of his appreciation of me, of what he sees in me.

Later, I put him to sleep secure in a padded leather collar, with cuffs around his wrist and ankles. Tied loose enough to the head and foot of the bed, I give him some movement, and to avoid any accidental strangulation in the night. He lets me know that was the first time someone had fucked him like that, and I hold him, happy that I took him. That I have him. Yes, it's been quick. I know that. But I've been long in waiting, so now, I see no reason to hold back.

Many Pleasured Things. Part Two

The morning after the night before.

We hadn't slept, but spent the night exploring the possibilities of our bodies. Touching on the outskirts of new territories with fingers, mouths and toys. Those first few touches, like the moment of penetration, of a hard object sliding in to fullness, can never be really recaptured. There will never be a second, first time. The movement from unknown to known. The thrill of expectation followed by satisfaction as you realise that yes, this is as good as you had hoped, had wanted. As good, and perhaps better.

Friends had left, for other places and other people, and the room had become more empty as the evening became the night became the day. We bid them farewell in amidst fucking. There was an unselfconsciousness about seeking joy in each others bodies and I don't recall we actually broke contact. A limb would touch a limb. A mouth seek out a tongue, a cunt, a nipple. Fingers would search for warm hardness or soft wetness and tease out more soft moans.

The sun rose. My eyes had only closed in moments of pleasure or that warm, light, not-quite-asleep, not-quite-awake cocoon following an all-nighter. Quiet but not still. Chemicals still whispered to our skin of heightened sensations and unreality. Our smells had mingled in the night giving that strange perfume that comes from the sweat of sex, the scent of another body overlayed on top of yours like a ghostly embrace. His eyes opened and revealed that bright, bright blue I had hoped was real and not a trick of the night. Much like the rest of him, I was not sure that this could actually be real, my experience so far has made me wary, to anticipate some catch, some flaw that would prevent me from getting what I wanted.

We have all known the fragility of our hopes and desires when, come the morning, those whispered promises and offers are revealed to be the gasps of transient passion, never to be consummated. I was ready for that. Ready for us to say goodbye and shake hands like gentlemen, to accept that what went before was a wonderful thing, in and of itself, but not to be repeated. An experience amidst other experiences and water under the bridge to boot. There comes a moment, in the morning, when you wake and you know it is time to leave. When you feel the day come heavy upon you and time, real time, rather than the hazy time of parties and play dates, starts to tick.

I took a breath and readied myself. He was still looking at me.

"I want to be yours."

Without a beat, I replied "yes" and wrapped him up in my arms. As simple as that, then. Again, it all seemed to good to be true. But as we talked, it became clear that feeling was one he shared. That what I represented did not feel real to him either, as if I too would evaporate in the sunlight, to be merely a reverie. I took control, he offered it. I explained what I wanted and required from him, how he would become mine: my slave, my servant, my boy and many other things besides. I gave him my name, and the instruction to never call me Mistress.

I gave a reality check, for fear that I was on an imaginary pedestal I could never climb upon in reality. That this was a beginning. That there would be more, and less, than just kinky fucking. That there was a full life to be had, a future. That I wasn't interested in half-hearts or half-measures. I wanted something whole and complete and with potential. That this was now. That later, as we developed together we would change and grow. That underneath it all, alongside it all, I was just a person. Not a fictitious mistress who stalked the night in heels and hair scraped back tight. We would have bad days along with the good, but that he would be mine and in a curious way, I would also be his.

With mild euphoria, and sleep-deprived adrenaline we got up, got dressed and went out into whatever passes for the real world. Over coffee in the fresh air we checked our histories. Loves lost and won, what we wanted for ourselves. Those beautiful beginning moments. I feel a little as if I have started again. His newness to the scene combined with his openness for experimentation, alongside the broad plains of his desire gives me more scope than ever before in a D/s relationship. We are not constrained by the demands of others, by the worries of sexuality, by the expectation of loss or of foregone conclusions. Like some kind of rite of spring, the world had changed, suddenly and quite dramatically.

And I am very happy that it has.

Many pleasured things. Part One.

The orgy happened.

And then some.

It's take me a long time to compose this piece, because I really wasn't sure where to start. There was no point during the night when I wasn't completely revelling in one form of decadent sensation or another. It's all Glamourama's fault, she's a gateway drug to sexual hedonism, and I rather love her for it. Going through my mind is a series of edited highlights one by one like a sequence of events that by all rights should have occurred over many months rather than one night. And yet it did, giving me that wonderful feeling of being removed from the world which has been so difficult and dull for such a long time and into something brighter, sharper and more free.

There are few places in the world where I feel comfortable enough to let go and safe enough to get what I want sexually without worrying about who might see. In a very strange way, domination, particularly female domination is about being unreachable, in some fashion aloof and challenging. Something always, slightly, out of the grasp of most people. That way when you do accept someone they feel special, because they are special. This makes, to my twisted logic, group sex sometimes difficult. Especially if you want to be fucked, rather than doing the fucking. However, like I said, this was a good space for me. It helped, certainly, that most people there did not know me very well, and those that did were accepting of my changeable, capricious nature. And desire to be many things at once. A dominant masochist. A switch. A gay man in a woman's body. Someone who wants everything at once, with a cherry on top.

I met my date in a coffee shop for a pre-flight briefing. I'd had my eye on him for a while, but wasn't sure whether he was comfortable or interested in what I liked doing. We talked, and the more we talked the more things started to click in my brain. We collected flowers and perverts along the way, and my step became lighter as the night fell and the world became darker, into that marvellous lilac colour that the London sky could get. We were off for an adventure.

We started with drinks and nibbles, as any good party should. Once all the guest had arrived and stripped down to a reasonable level (she keeps her house hot on purpose) the shows started. We'd been encouraged to bring party pieces: I had my violet wand to hand. The performances did not disappoint - an instructional strip tease, a spanking counting lesson and I tested the flesh of one of the new boys finding him delightfully muscled and responsive to the touch of electrics. A wide grin formed on his face, and I knew - as I had known when we first met and I smelled him, that I wanted to fuck him. Soon, everyone was in their underwear and people were starting to feel each other out, quite literally. I was entertaining myself tying people up and surprising myself with my rope skills - it appears I have actually learnt something through my practice, and enjoying looping rope tightly around two people.

Then I put the rope on my date. And that felt very different. There was something in the way he held himself, the way I moved the rope around him and the way he just melted against my touch. We kissed. For a very long time. And then I pushed him down, holding his hair, and raising my hand. He looked at me, properly looked at me, with beautiful blue eyes, whispering fiercely "go for it." I hit him. His eyes widened briefly, he gasped, we kissed again. And I hit him. Again. I spoke to someone later, who was watching me as I was doing this. Time had stopped. My pupils had enlarged and my face was lit up, radiating desire and excitement. Which was true. The offering had been perfect, full of want and insistence. The reaction too - willing me to do more, to take more.

Flow. A recently discovered word, it described that space between control and arousal, where skill and challenge meet. For me, it represents the perfect arrow flight of dominance within submissive space. Something I hadn't felt in quite a while. And the night flowed from there...

Orgy organising. Part Two

The day of the orgy finally arrived. Glamorama and I had been working rather hard - if contacting attractive young men and meeting them for coffee counted as "hard" - over the past few weeks to arrange everything.

The interview process happened last weekend and was an interesting experiment in being proven wrong. I had assumed that given we were attractive women with an offer of exciting sex with ourselves and other exciting women (and men) that there would be no shortage of takers. At the beginning of the process, we had already gone through around a hundred men online, booking in eight to meet beforehand, so they could meet us and we could meet them. Out of our expected attendees we had three fail to arrive for a coffee, one who did arrive but couldn't make the party itself (sadly, as he was quite delectable) and out of the remaining five, two were not suitable. Which left us with three.

We reasoned this was acceptable, although not ideal, with the men we already knew were attending that left us even numbers girls and boys. I remember piping up in a vaguely put out voice that I needed two, to the sounds of laughter. I remain perfectly serious on this front, mFm is fast becoming a passion. But I was very happy with the three we had chosen, although not all my type, I was selecting for a group of people with varying tastes and I had invited a boy who I'd had my eye on for a while so I knew I would be entertained in some fashion.

Come the day, come the party. We kicked off the day with the knowledge that one out of our three was unwell, which brought the number down to a paltry two. Out of an original eight. Which brings us to the point where I had been wrong. In discussions online, I was assured by various old hands at arranging orgies that men were notoriously shy at actually putting their cocks where their mouths were and actually turning up to have sex. I was told I would need to invite at least four times as many as I needed, and scoffed at such. And yet, there we were. Down to two. As predicted.

Now, any number of excuses were offered as to why people didn't turn up, but that is a high ratio of dropout by any estimation, which makes me wonder whether there is something else going on. I met up with one of the two who did show today for a coffee and he admitted he had been nervous, especially as he didn't know everyone. But therein lay the excitement, for him. I think that for some, perhaps, the strangers may have been the difficulty, or perhaps the BDSM element. But I'm really clutching at straws here.

I think that there is a good opportunity to repeat the experiment with women to see if there is a gender bias, but then I wonder whether a woman, any woman, would be prepared to meet up with three men for a coffee and be assessed on her suitability to attend an orgy with them and some other people she didn't know. It's a tall order, when you think about it, which makes me think slightly more kindly towards our drop outs, and no-shows. After all, I can be scary. I make it my business to be so.

Setting people on fire

Last weekend officially marked the beginning of spring and therefore time to skip merrily back onto the scene. I had both a date who was going to teach me how to set him on fire, and an invitation to go to Chiaroscuro's house for a small play party. I always enjoy these parties because they are usually very fluid, queer and kink heavy, and very open to experimentation, I usually come away feeling relaxed, floaty and having learnt or done something new, as well as feeling satisfied that my esoteric urges have been sated. Friday did not disappoint.

Like a scene from a film, I packed a leather holdall and headed out with a spring in my step and everything I might need for the weekend over my shoulder. Spare clothes, washbag, party outfits for Saturday and some kit: flogger, wickedly sharp metal chopsticks and a small knife. The basics. After work I met up with my date and we head off into the night. Somewhere a soundtrack was playing, I imagine. Ninety degrees from reality, with the sun set and the dark blue sky pinpricked with stars and neon glares. It's the other world I live in, the one in which I feel absolutely free and absolutely myself. A world of bodies, pleasure and pain. It's the world I miss when I don't have enough time for it - as I currently do not, and one that I'm working hard to return to.

And last weekend reminded me of why I need to be there.

We arrived, had drinks and met the other guests, some of whom I knew already, two were new. A nice way to meet new people is to turn up to a sex party and get naked. It's the ultimate ice-breaker. My date had a small red metal tin, in which was a lighter and a small bag of cotton-wool like substance. Flash cotton. He took a small piece and spread it out thinly, giving instructions as he did so. We watched. Rapt. Like the beginning of a magic trick, and indeed, flash cotton is part of the stage magicians toolkit. Perverts and magic go hand in hand - we like games of trickery that induce oohs and ahs (especially if there is applause). He set fire to the cotton, it burnt quick, bright and orange. Almost as soon as it arrived, it was gone. A puff of fire, blink and you'll miss it. I clapped my hands, delighted.

I carefully placed the cotton on the back of my hand, and, taking a deep breath, lit it. It flared up and I let out a bark of surprise, but before the noise had left my mouth the fire, and it's brief heat, was gone, leaving only a vague warmth and slight odour. I giggled. This was going to be fun.
This of course meant that we were breaking Rule One (do not be on fire), but in general it appeared we were pretty happy with that. Several wads of cotton and the smell of burning hair in the air, we left the lounge and went into the bedroom where we shed clothes. Chiaroscuro and I had settled on our chemicals for the night, and were experimenting inhaling red balloons full of nitrous oxide. We looked like very bad circus clowns. Very bad.


I'd never tried this before, so watched carefully the pattern of inhalation. Breathing the gas in from the balloon, then re inflating with exhalations, repeating until the world becomes a small white pinprick in the centre of your vision and your ears ring. Like the sensation of being very deep underwater, except with additional euphoria. Laughing gas, to be precise. Continuing in the vein of experiments we passed balloons around, holding the gas as long as we could and kissing, deeply, upon exhaling. Feeling our partners melt in our mouths, the delicate feeling of tongues and lips against the tingling sensation of the chemicals.

The final circus act involved knives and other sharp, metal objects. I bade my date to lie down, face upon the bed. The room became quiet and I was keenly aware that I had an audience. I took a metal chopstick in each hand and began to scratch down his back. In the silence you could hear the skin ruffle and tear as red lines began to appear. He moaned. That wonderful, mascohistic noise. Not the clenched teeth or the yelps of someone for whom pain is a shock and an intrusion, but the delicate purr of a body that can settle into the floating endorphin stream that I carefully submerged him into. Playing with pain is an art, knowing the way you need to layer it on, to pause, to pace yourself, watching and waiting all the time for the twitches and responses from the bottom as they begin to dance underneath you. Dancing with them and riding their feelings. Taking them to a long, slow crescendo and then helping them down, like a gentleman holding out his hand for a lady to descend the staircase.
 

Poly Means Many: Green eyed monster

Poly Means Many: There are many aspects of polyamory. Each month six bloggers - Amanda Jones, An Open Book, One Sub's Mission, Polyamorous Parenting, Post Modern Sleaze, and Rarely Wears Lipstick - will write about their views on one of them. This month: jealousy.

Jealousy. It's the black sheep of the "relationship emotions" family. Being labelled as a "jealous person" creates all kinds of dreadful associations. It's often viewed as the antithesis of being open, in the binary that has jealousy bad and openness good - often without really having any kind of framework for what kind of jealousy might be bad and what kind of openness might be good. Therein lies the rub.

I'm going to wave the controversy flag and say that jealousy can sometimes be a good thing, here's how, bear with me. Jealousy is the flip-side of caring. If I didn't care about you, about being with you, about the time we spend together or touching you - then I don't get jealous when you touch someone else. You are not relevant to my feelings. Give jealousy a little tweak and you get protectiveness, guardianship, control, even. All, in the right hands and in the right way positive dominant feelings. I feel a lot of those things about the submissives I have had the honour and pleasure of offering my patronage to - a little flash of jealousy every now and then is an expression of my passion, my drive, my ownership of them.

It's what I do about it that measures me as a dominant and as a person..

I can feel a bit of jealousy and not act on it, or even say anything. I have self-control, after all. If it goes on for a while or if it is getting to me, I can talk to you about my jealousy (and it is my jealousy after all, it lives in my head, my heart - I am jealous about my jealousy), we can discuss why and work around it. The jealousy is a reaction, a response to a stimulus. It highlights something that needs addressing. It is a warning and should not be ignored. Acknowledging jealousy and choosing how to deal with the cause, whether internal or external - together - is a way forward. Ignoring the jealousy, blaming the jealousy, getting angry or upset about it is no way at all.

When you have a relationship with someone you come to have expectations of each other. Often within D/s these are codified, there are things that one partner does for another, rules to be followed, a structure. Most relationships will have levels of expectations, although they might not be overtly stated. Social convention is often a big, unconscious, influence on these expectations - that there are certain things which are and which are not "right" within a relationship. Cheating is one of them, and the assumption of monogamy is problematic for people who are not. The fact that jealousy exists within multiple-relationships is often used as an indicator that those relationships are bad or unproductive. But that's a very reductive way of viewing some extremely complex feelings.

For me, this video hits the nail on the head when thinking about jealousy, as well as being very funny. It's actually about sibling rivalry, but the ideas hold true for multiple-partner relationships and highlights many things that can be done to counter jealousy - expectation management, proper conversations, empathy.

The D/s jealousy connection gets especially interesting and when we deliberately create jealousy. Dominants and submissives love playing with powerful feelings: we create scenes that embroil us in worlds of headfucks, intense psychological connections. Our games of power and control revel in and relish the strange fruits of supposed "negative" feelings like shame, guilt, hate, anger, humiliation, abandonment... So many to pick from!

Cuckolding is a great example. Here, the point is about inspiring lust using jealousy as an emotional vehicle for submission. It's nice to layer your scenes. In a cuckolding scene the bottom (cuckold) is forced to view their partner being attended to - often in a replica of a way they either really want to do or are unable to accomplish themselves. This can be wrapped up in humiliation play by throwing in references to how the bull (the guest star, brought in as the replacement lover) is better in some way or another. All of this combines to give the cuckold that sense of emotional "smallness" and subservience. A bit of voyeurism and physical restraint are often thrown in for good measure: perhaps the cuckold is tied to the bed and forced to watch, or only included for certain service purposes such as oral sex before and after. The bull eventually departs and the cuckold returns to their partner, meek, aroused and very grateful to be back. One of my idealised fantasy relationships is an mFm partnership with a cuckold/bull pairing - a toppier switch and more submissive one. It's currently high on my masturbation imagery list.

Cuckolding, aside from being fun in and of itself, can also be cathartic where genuine fears and concerns of infidelity or insecurity exist. Crucially it only works if jealousy exists, even in potentia, otherwise it's plain ol' voyeurism, which is wonderful, but not the same thing. I don't think it's possible to actually cuckold a non-jealous partner. The physical longing might be there, but the emotional edge, that crunchy insider knowledge where you feel you have really "got" someone hook, line and sinker, would be missing.

When we play with jealousy - or any emotion, for that matter - we have to be even more careful how we handle aspects of genuine jealousy within our relationships. It's like the difference between slapping someone in the face because it's something you both enjoy and it's hot, and slapping someone in the face because you just lost your temper and lashed out. The two can look exactly the same, but they are poles apart. So it is with feelings.

Our green-eyed games must be ordered in such a way that we feel safe to explore, rather than considering our relationship at risk. If done well, you can experience extraordinary levels of intimacy and thrill. If you don't think you can do it well, don't do it at all, this is not a game to dabble in. It cuts to the core of many of our most private feelings and sense of self-worth. I had a very challenging time when a partner was playing games of jealousy at the same time as I was experiencing genuine jealousy and the two became very confused in my mind because we never really handled the real jealousy in any sensible fashion - it was always my jealousy therefore my fault and my problem, I was wrong-headed and needed to change my world-view. I was made to feel bad and guilty both within scenes and without.

For me, this is where the hurt / comfort aspect of domination comes into play. If you both choose to play a jealousy based theme you must ensure that the emotional after-care you give to your partner brings them back from those dark and difficult mental spaces. They must be re-enveloped in the safety and security of your relationship, to be able to clearly distinguish the play from the reality. Consent, as ever, is king.