Briefly About this Weekend

This weekend was amazing and I want to come back and tell you more about it and write stories and everything…

Switchy Witchy Woman hosted a dinner party on Saturday night, inviting myself as co-host and two guests, NeighborFemme and A, a trans guy.  SWW worked super hard to get her place spiffed up and prepare a wonderful meal.  I stopped by during the afternoon to help out with cleaning and deliver kisses.

Cocktails were at 5 and I arrived at the same time as our guests, guiding them up to the apartment. My sweetheart was doing final dinner prep and looking gorgeous, as always.  NF was a Lady in Red and A was handsome and spiffy.  I had my bright blue shirt and a tie that SWW got for me, featuring her favorite color, turquoise.  {you all, we have to remember to get a group picture next time, we’re a good looking group}

Dinner was amazing:  roast beef, fancy cut carrots, mashed potatoes and gravy and SWW’s amazing green bean casserole.

Between dinner and dessert, we’d planned a diversion.  I offered myself as a sort of party favor, an interactive live entertainment device.  To enable our host/ess and honored guests, I brought out a number of implements for use on my person. I also had a list of hard limits.. though not as well thought out as it should have been. {HELLO MINTY FRESHNESS!}

I want to tell you ALL ABOUT THAT, I do… and my time as an entertainment device deserves it’s own post.  So that’s how it will happen.

Drinks, dinner, dessert, live entertainment and charming, hilarious conversation. It was such a success we all agreed it should be the first in a series.  I love my sweetheart and I love our friends, it was a wonderful evening.

SWW and I continued to entertain each other after we said goodbye to our guests.  We did finally sleep, and sleep, and wake to make love again and sleep some more.  We had a lovely slow leisurely morning.  So slow that we missed the breakfast time at our restaurant of choice, ending up at the Reef where it’s always breakfast time.  We ate a pile of food (it was after lunch hour by then) and headed to Ocean Shores. We are great road trip companions, her and I.  Even the rain couldn’t slow our roll or dampen our good mood.  Once at the beach, we got right to work scandalizing the seagulls who could not stop staring.

After trying unsuccessfully to enjoy ourselves at a tacky lounge with crappy service, we headed toward home and found a bar in Hoquiam to watch the Seahawks’ game while imbibing adult beverages and noshing on nomables.  The waitress at that bar was awesome and enjoyable to look at.

We wrapped up with a nightcap of loving back at her apartment before I tucked her in and kissed her goodnight.

Thank you, my love, for a wonderful weekend.  As always, time with you is always a good time.


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Posted in my love, queer life, sexy friends | Tagged , , , , , , | 1 Comment

I belong to You

“Are you still at work?”

I picked up my phone and thumbed out the answer.

“Yep, still here until 5″

Not long after, another message popped up.

“I’m here, side door.”

I met her there, held the door open as she stepped through.

“You want the private room?”

She nodded yes so instead of heading to the right, toward my office, I turned to the left and led her down the hallway.

Opening the second single stall bathroom, I stepped through.  She came in close behind, closing and locking the door.  Before I could say or do anything else, she slammed me against the wall.  I looked into her eyes, she was all business.

With out a word, she unbuckled my belt and unzipped my fly, reaching behind my packy to find my hole.  I threw my arms around her neck and rode her hand for a moment or two, climaxing hard.  I almost sobbed when she pulled away.

Her eyes were hard, fierce, demanding. Words crowded my tongue and went unsaid.

She spun me around, pressing me face first against the beige wall panel.  I was filled with conflicting emotions.  There was the sexy rush of her forcefulness, the feeling of desire to be used, worry that I’d be too loud and summon ‘help’ from some well-meaning passerby.  She yanked my pants down and the back of my briefs, exposing my ass.

Ohfuckyes, I breathed.

She gave me one lick and she may have licked her fingers before forcing one – or was it two? – into my tight asshole. It wasn’t enough to lube my hole.  No, it wasn’t pleasant. It hurt, I felt dry and raw and she fucked me hard.  She called me a fag and a slut and asked me if I liked being fucked in the ass. “Yes!” I gasped. Did it feel good?  No.  Then why did I like it so much?  Why did I push back against her and take her in as deeply as I could, why did I squeeze on her fingers and come so hard it made my knees weak?

Why did I like it so much?  Because it was hot and exhilarating to be used that way.

I belong to you.

Did I say it out loud? I don’t know if I said it or if I just thought it loudly.

I belong to you.

Push me up against a wall and use me anyway you see fit because

I belong to you.

Treat me like the come-hungry whore I am because

I belong to you.

Tell me it’s for you and not for me because

I belong to you.

She washed up and told me she’d talk to me later before stepping out, leaving me there to pull up my pants and get out before someone else walked in.

I was in a daze, walking down the hallway toward my office.  My phone buzzed, it was her, checking in, asking if I needed a hug or anything.

I stepped back out the back door, feeling all blushy like some young thing on a first date.  She pulled me into her arms, her eyes were glowing with love and excitement.  She wanted to know if I’d liked it, was I alright.

“Oh, love, that was so hot” I gushed. “I love you so much!”

We kissed and held each other close.  I thanked her more than once, told her I loved her.  She kissed my face and told me how good and sexy and hot I was.  And that she loved me, oh my god, yes, I know baby, you love me so much.

Did I say it out loud?  I hope I did because I want her to know it, I want her to feel it to her marrow, I want her to remember it on the good days and the hard days. On all the days.

I belong to you.


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Art isn’t Always Comfortable

A comment by OregonGirl indicates she’s disturbed by the snippet of ‘Assignment 3′ I posted recently.  She cited the underage girl in the story, that the story was written for titillation, etc.  She pointed out that in my Daddy/girl stories it’s clear that I’m writing about adults and consensual activity.

Yes, yes there is something disturbing about the way I’ve set up the story.  The way these characters think and their motivations are not mainstream, not comfortable to read at times.  My head has lots of characters like this, actually.  I’ve been noticing them, seeing them, feeling them grow in me over time.  I’ve resisted letting them out to stretch their legs.  Why?  Because I knew they would not only be a challenge to write, they’d be a challenge for some people to read.

But here’s the thing, as someone who wants to grow as an artist, I need to be willing to unleash my imagination even if it is uncomfortable, disturbing, even disgusting to me.  I can’t keep putting up barriers and walls, that’s going to short-circuit the process.  Additionally, some of the greatest works we have in any art form are those that stray past the edges of the mainstream and comfortable.  They exist because life is not always comfortable and easy, it’s not always consensual and safe.  Life gets shitfaced and falls down and does things it regrets later.  Life doesn’t always control it’s impulses and people get hurt.  Artists are driven to communicate what’s going on in their heads and hearts to the outside world.  The translation is always imperfect, we are driven to push through those imperfect attempts and try again.  Always trying to get closer to that ideal we can envision or hear in our heads.  And because we create art as a reflection of life, which can be both beautiful and ugly, our art is sometimes beautiful and sometimes ugly.  My favorite art, the work that effects me the most profoundly, is not comfortable and easy. It challenges me, it grabs me and alters my perspective without my consent.  As I said on Facebook yesterday:

Art isn’t always nice or comfortable or easy or well mannered. Sometimes art sits down next to you and farts, sometimes it stands on the corner and screams at the top of its lungs, sometimes it sits quietly in a dark corner and catches your eye, staring in a way that makes you wish you’d gone another direction.

I am a writer, I write a lot of life inspired fiction.  Some of that is erotica, though I’m moving in the direction of erotica not being the main focus of all my work. I’m also moving away from my life experiences being the sole inspiration for my characters and stories.

Erotica is meant to elicit a particular response, to turn on the reader.  What arouses each of us is very individual, so writing erotica is not a science and I don’t pretend that what I write works for everyone.  I’ve gotten plenty of negative feedback on my Daddy/girl stories, for example, indicating that plenty of people see those stories as too close to incest and sexual abuse for their liking.  Fair enough, they can find their turn ons elsewhere.

OregonGirl was disturbed by my story featuring an adult and an underage girl.  Fair enough, it’s not going to be everyone’s thing.  Part of her protest was the power imbalance in that situation, the lack of consent where underage people are concerned, the appearance and/or approval of sexual abuse.  I get that, I really do.  I have written quite a few consent based, feminist erotica and I’m proud of that work and will continue to produce it in the future.  I also know that some of the stories in me are not going to be pretty and comfortable with respect to consent and feminism.  That’s a reflection of life as we know it, rather than life as we’d like it to be.

Back to the particular story in question, I believe when it’s done the similarities to Lolita will be much smaller than they appear from that snippet.  My female protagonist has a healthy libido and complete agency throughout.  She’s never forced into anything.  There is never contact between the two characters – the whole point of the story is a sexual relationship between two people who never have contact, they barely speak to each other.  Certainly I didn’t need the female character to be underage, but that’s how she came to me.  If it serves the story to change that particular characteristic, I will consider it in the future, however, I don’t feel particularly driven to do that yet.  And to repeat, this is a character with full agency and I really like that.

Question to my readers:  Do I have an obligation as a feminist and erotica writer to always maintain and reflect my feminist values in my stories?  Discuss.  I am genuinely interested in any viewpoints you as a reader want to share, so jump in, please.

For a future post:  What about stories that involve sexual encounters of underage people with their peers?  First sex encounters like the one I had in my own life – are they also outside the bounds of consent based, feminist erotica?

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From Assignment 3…

A portion of a story I’m working on for my writing class… 


Richard’s attention had drifted to the backyard of the house behind Bill’s old place, which he could see clearly from his upstairs window vantage point, when something bright fluttered through his peripheral vision.  His attention was pulled back abruptly by the arrival of the new denizens of the house next door.  Son, between eight and ten… daughter – the bright object that caught his attention – between five and 7… He murmured to himself.  Father, somewhere between thirty-five and forty-five, Mother in her early to mid thirties.  He nodded, typical family of four in the suburbs. Then he saw her, a teenaged girl maybe as young as thirteen or as old as sixteen.  While the others had been talking animatedly to each other and pointing out various features of the yard and exterior of the house, the teenager was taking it all in with cool detachment.  She was sucking on a lollipop while strolling slowly up the walkway.  Instead of looking at the house she was approaching, she was looking up and down the street, taking in the neighborhood.  Richard was transfixed, unable to look away from her.  His breath caught in his chest as her eyes swept across the front of his own house, then to the side and up to the window he was standing in.  Though he was staring through a small space between the blinds, held open by two fingers, he felt utterly exposed.  He felt certain she could see him, was staring into his eyes as he looked down into hers.  She pulled the lollipop out of her mouth, it was dark red, cherry, he thought.  Slowly, she rolled her tongue over the glistening sphere, then rubbed it over her lips.  Richards mouth hung open and his pants felt uncomfortably tight.  The feeling of exposure, of having his clandestine viewing station discovered in this way, was horribly uncomfortable and yet he couldn’t bring himself to pull away and break contact with this utterly fascinating creature.

What he couldn’t do, she could.  Her head jerked toward the house’s front door where the father appeared, waving her toward him.  She glanced up at Richard once more and then, popping the lollipop back into her mouth, strode the rest of the way up the walk and disappeared into the house. He groaned out loud when he was finally able to relieve his aching bladder.  He stood for a moment, penis in hand, bladder drained.  His fingers slid up the length of his shaft, his mind’s eye replaying her tongue on the lollipop, the way she pushed it through her pursed lips, popping it into her mouth, the bulge of it inside her cheek.  His cock fully hard, he stared fixedly at the wall tile, mechanically pumping it with his closed fist.  The slideshow in his mind kept playing the images in quick succession until he ejaculated into the toilet.


“Feona!” Father’s voice called out from the front of the new house.  “Come in, you need to pick out your room.  I promised you first pick but you’d better hurry, your brother and sister are getting impatient.”

Fe glanced back up to the window and winked at the watcher behind the gap in the blinds before following Father inside.  She quickly went upstairs and kicked her little brother Isaac out of the bedroom closest to the neighboring house.  Pulling aside the curtains, she smiled, satisfied.  The upstairs window where the watcher had been was aligned with this window.  Not long after, she’d rearranged her room so that her bed was under the window.  The watcher hadn’t come back to the window yet, but she was sure he would.  She was sure the watcher was a he, after taking in the unkempt lawn, the lack of flowers or other ornamentation, blinds shut tight on all the windows.  She’d never guessed wrong before.

After sharing a dinner of delivery pizza with the family, she’d gone back to her room, kicked off her flip flops and sat down on her bed. Leaning back, she pulled up her skirt and pulled off her pink flowered panties.  With one hand she lightly stroked her breasts, bringing them to attention.  The other hand went between her legs, where moisture had already gathered.  Practiced fingers brought her close to orgasm and then she slowed down, delaying the moment.  It would be so much more delicious if he was watching.

Where are you, lonely man? she asked the darkened window above hers.

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The Sad and Pathetic Cowardice of Anonymous Commenters

Most bloggers go through similar stages in the early days of their blog.  There’s excitement, anticipation and planning.  There’s that first week or so of blogging and excitedly awaiting your first comments.  Refreshing your stats page is a valid occupation.  Updating your blogroll with related websites, and leaving comments on those blogs, helps build community.

At some point the inevitable happens. You get your first troll.  Maybe it’s someone who actually knows you, but that’s rare.  You can take precautions of course, but that doesn’t every eradicate the infestation for good.  If you started your blog with unmoderated comments, your optimism about the human race, especially that represented by internet users, is dashed when the trolls show up.  That’s when you realize that moderating comments is a good idea.

I’ve gone through many stages in the process of being a blogger with an infestation of trolls:  disbelief, hurt feelings, outrage and public ranting, responses meant to open dialog, responses meant to expose the troll to the ridicule they so richly deserve.

Guess which stage I’m in right now.


blog troll

Here we have an example of doubling up on the anonymous trolling by slamming both the blogger AND the person being blogged about.  In one of the pictured comments, the troll offers insightful commentary indicating that not only am I a shit writer but so is Sassafras Lowery.  The absurdity of that double-slam is obvious; I may be a shit writer but Sassafras certainly is not.

A key piece of this for me is the anonymity.  The comments are offered by someone unwilling to be identified. They would like us to believe they are an authority on writing, how to write well, what good writing is and, clearly, what bad writing looks like, however, they are not willing to offer their own identity in order to validate their authority.  And they sure as shit aren’t giving us samples of their writing to compare, contrast or shoot down like drone flying too close to an airport.

Though there are legitimate reasons for anonymous commenting, this is not one of them.  In the examples above, anonymity is the refuge of the incompetent and cowardly.  This is not someone who is willing to subject their writing to the scrutiny and criticism of others.  They hide behind the shield of Anonymous and take pot shots at those who are willing to be vulnerable in public.  You, anon, are a chicken-shit.  Anybody who puts themselves out in a public forum is leagues ahead of you in authenticity and courage.  It doesn’t matter at all what the quality of writing is, anyone who is putting themselves out there for whatever purpose is a superior human being to your sniveling, cowardly self.

I give no fucks and no shits about your opinion of my writing.  I have plenty of qualified people giving me useful and informative feedback.  Given that this is likely either a form of entertainment for you or a pathetic attempt to bolster your self-esteem, I won’t lose any sleep over your apparent contempt.  When you have the guts to put your writing out there, you can link to it in a comment and accept the public critique that will surely follow… and that’s when I’ll give any shits at all about what you have to say.

I hope you get back to therapy or whatever it is that helps you cope.  I wish you well in your search for meaning in your life.  (Hint:  don’t read and comment on blogs written by people you disdain, find something meaningful to do with your life like cleaning the funky cheese fuzz out of your bellybutton or volunteering to clean out shit in an animal shelter.)

Anon, if you think you’re such a hot writing expert, offer something more than your bullshit anonymous lobs and I might reconsider my opinion that your comments are as meaningful as a fart in a hurricane.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some substandard writing to do.

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First Assignment

I’m taking an online erotica writing class called “Between the Sheets”, taught by Rachel Kramer Bussel.  This is an excerpt from my first homework assignment.


For a while I occupied myself with my phone, thumbing through social media and email accounts, stealing glances at her while the countertop grew more and more obscured by ingredients, mixing bowls and utensils.  An apron was hanging from her shoulders and tied loosely at the waist.  I had a brief daydream about being that piece of protective clothing, my arms around her shoulders, legs wrapped around her waist, catching the spatter from her mixing bowl and beater.  That fantasy shifted to using the apron ties for something more restrictive.  I could feel the heat rising from my crotch to flush my cheeks.   If she’d looked at me right then, she’d have known I wasn’t having pure thoughts.  Luckily, she didn’t look.

I got up and stepped past her to the fridge, making sure to brush myself against her backside on the way to getting another beer.  She reacted by stiffening her spine and giving me a quick sharp glance.  Flipping the bottle cap off, I reached around her to drop it into the garbage can under the sink, where she was standing, pressing against her backside.  I stood up close behind her, watching over her shoulder as she folded ingredients in to her batter.  She frowned in concentration, I leaned lightly against her back.  She turned and threatened me with a spatula covered in white goo.  If I hadn’t been dressed in my good shirt and a nice tie, I might have taken the risk.

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Trans*date 2015-08-02: Pictures Speak – One Year Later

I’ve been taking testosterone for about a year and a month.  I’ve been letting my facial hair grow to see what it does when I don’t shave or trim it.  We start with two pictures taken in June 2014, right before I started.  The rest are from now:

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Posted in genderqueer, Genderqueer Transition, This Genderqueer LIfe, transgender | Tagged , | 3 Comments

Now that I have Facial Hair, It’s Easier to Be Feminine

You might be looking at this post with a quizzical eye, maybe an eyebrow lift.  Or maybe you’ve been through all this and you’re nodding in recognition.

It’s not something that happened right away, but as my appearance and voice have become more and more masculine – corresponding with being read as male more often – I’ve gotten more and more comfortable showing my feminine side.  I don’t think it’s something too obvious to external viewers, except for those who know me well.  I don’t wear dresses or skirts, or make up, or lots of jewelry. My femininity expresses as a softness, an openness, some additional flair in the way I talk with my hands.

So why now, you ask?  Why now, when T has commandeered my body and taught it how to do all sorts of amazing things with hair and vocal chords?  Why as my face gets hairier and my chest furrier do I feel OK getting my nellyboy on?  Confidence is a powerful drug.  Feeling good in my skin, being seen, being recognized, being appreciated in a way that is aligned with my self-image has been like Miracle Grow on my self-confidence.  And apparently, it was the lack of that confidence that led me to stifle my feminine side.  Even as I defended its existence, even though I’ve insisted that I’m not all male, that I am a blend of genders… even though my feminine is a closely held part of my identity, I felt insecure expressing anything but masculinity.

I know from conversations with other transmasculine folks that this isn’t uncommon. I’ve been struggling against outside expectations all my life and some of those struggles have been about my masculinity.  My mother tried her darndedest to suppress my masculine side.  The feminist lesbians who were around me in my early 20s did their best to shame it away.  It went under and didn’t come out until it had received repeated invitations from people who were butch positive.  So yeah, once I found myself in a place in life where my masculinity was not only visible, but celebrated and in demand, I didn’t want to confuse matters with a flounce or a faggy flip of the wrist.  I didn’t want to detract from the image I was painstakingly building at the very time that image was beginning to get legs and walk on its own.

So what has changed?  I’ve been asking myself this question.  It’s not just a matter of reaching the proper ratio of body hair to total surface area.  Confidence doesn’t arrive with a  particular Free T level or as a prize for the 100th time someone calls me Sir and doesn’t take it back.  I don’t really know why now is the magic time.  But I have theories.

There are two elements to this new level of comfort I am feeling in expressing my full range of gender.  The first is that I have reached a level of visible and audible masculinity that feels very affirming, it feels right and that has resulted in a lot of confidence. I don’t fear that the slightest hint of femininity will erase the recognition of my maleness.  The second is that I have a sexual partner who is comfortable, turned on and ecstatic to be in the presence of all of my gender expression.  I feel very comfortable and safe with her.  She accepts and loves me in all my configurations and blends.  I feel safe and welcomed and adored by her and my feminine side has been present more and more – which has delighted us both.  I feel less and less gated.  My gender is able to roam freely and express itself in whatever way feels good in the moment, which is really the way it should be for all of us.

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Posted in exploring gender, finding me, Genderqueer Transition, my selves, This Genderqueer LIfe | Tagged , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Book Review: Lost Boi by Sassafras Lowrey


I remember reading social media updates from Sassafras Lowrey while ze was writing this novel, updates that spoke in excited tones about the characters and the way the story was unfolding. Now I know why.

Lost Boi is a retelling of Peter Pan, yes. A brilliant, imaginative, ambitious retelling that replaces pirates with Leather men and mermaids with Femmes. There is magic and kink and fairy dust and flying and through it all there is Pan, the charismatic enigma who pulls everything together.

images (1)

I enjoyed it for the storytelling, for the character depth and definitely for the kink, leather, BDSM and gender non-conforming elements.  Everyone in that story is someone I could have met, or could still meet.  I found myself slowing down toward the end of the book because I wasn’t ready for the story to end.

This book is a must read for anyone who cherishes creativity and good writing. It’s also a sure bet for those of us hungry for gender nonconforming characters with depth and complexity.  I think in 10 years, we’re going to recognize this novel as a classic in queer literature.  I am eagerly awaiting whatever Sassafras has in mind next.

Lost Boi by Sassafras Lowrey gets 5 boots from this reader.


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Black Hankie: You Earned It

My Dearest Lover,

You are amazing, do you know that? I am still in awe of the nasty beating you took from NeighborFemme and me at BSQ earlier this month. And you thought you might not perform well enough to deserve your black hanky. Let me tell you something, I never doubted you.

It was a hot day and we knew it would be hotter inside the play space. Hotter still with two tops giving you undivided attention. I watched from my perch on the bootblack’s chair while you set up our space. I appreciated the way you resourcefully solved a technical problem with the equipment I’d brought. I watched you and loved you and the anticipation inside me built. I imagine your anticipation was at an 11.

Neighbor Femme arrived and we had a quick conversation about how to approach our double team. I told her about the black hanky and her eyebrows went up. “Well, this is a special evening.”

You were very quiet.  I could tell you were gathering yourself, trying to prepare when you couldn’t know what exactly to prepare for.  You knew she was bringing crops and you’d seen all that I put in my bag – you’d set it all out for me.  There was the new flogger I’d bought that day, there were paddles and an impact toy.  There was the DIY toy I’d created just for you – extension cord with the ends cut off, creating two raw wire ends.  That’s the one that had prompted you to give me a dirty look and call me a fucker.  I think maybe that’s my Top’s first name, Fucker.  We’ll go with that.

I asked you if you wanted to start facing toward the post or out.  You opted for out, so I got you buckled into the cuffs I’d bought earlier that day (it was a good shopping day).  I’ll be honest, I was nervous, too. Remember this was only the second time I’d topped someone in public AND it was the first time I’d ever double-topped someone.  I knew Neighbor Femme was up to the task, it was me I was worried about.

There are practical aspects to doubling a bottom that I hadn’t encountered before, like how to coordinate the my flogging with her cropping so that I didn’t hit her and didn’t hit you in an out of bounds place.  We seemed to find our way fairly quickly, wouldn’t you say?

I started you with a warm up, slapping and squeezing you with my hands.  NF made a joke about it, but she didn’t try to dissuade me.  She’s not much for warming up but I know you like it and I like to give it.  I like to get the feel of you in my skin, to see the way you pink up under my attention and to hear your breathing get heavier.

The real fun started when I began using the flogger.  NF quickly joined in with her crops and you quickly became pink-tinged squirmy.  NF has a mean streak, you knew about that from my stories and it’s part of what made you nervous.  She showed you a bit of that when she used her knuckles on your chest.  I know how much that hurts. She became particularly interested in your armpits, and you howled about that.  I cannot say I know how that feels, though from your reaction, I’m pretty sure I don’t want to find out.

Once your armpits and front side were a lovely pink color, tinged with quickly rising purple splashes, it was time to turn you around.  We both checked in with you, wanting to see how you were doing.  You had wet cheeks and tears in your eyes.  You also had fierceness in those gorgeous eyes of yours.  You gave me a stern look when I asked if you were OK, perhaps you were even offended.  Of course you were OK.  I gave you a quick kiss and we continued.

I warmed you up with the flogger, really enjoying the sweeping figure eights I created across your pale skin.  NF came in soon, liberally sprinkling stingy pain over the traces of flogger.  She wanted to play with the flogger, too, so I handed it off to her and looked through the other implements you’d set out.

You got a taste of your heart paddle, a hurtful device made of acrylic that left lovely heart shaped marks on your sweet ass.  NF and I admired the way they showed up against your paleness.  I only gave you a taste because after all the beating you’d already had, too much of that paddle would have taken you right out of the game.

And there was definitely more fun to be had.  Dropping the heart paddle, I grabbed the extension cord.  You glared at me as I cheerfully informed you that it was time to get some tiger stripes. After a couple of strikes, your fears were confirmed:  this was a fucker of a way to get marks.  ”Look at those tiger stripes!  Do you feel like a tiger, baby?”

I cackled with sadistic glee.  You glared at me anew.  NF came in close to ask you if you could roar like a tiger.  You gave it your best, though we’d taken a lot out of you already, it came out as more of a whimper.  I had a feeling you were nearing your fill of Fucker and Bitch.  I gave you some more of that extension cord and then used my hands to ‘massage’ it in.  The marks were excellent.  Once I had my hands on you, it was hard to keep them off.  I ‘massaged’ you some more and threw in some slaps and punches.  Mmmmm, I do love your flesh so much.

Was it the punches that did it, finally?  It’s a bit of a blur for me now.  NF bid us adieu and gave you kudos before joining her family for a demo nearby.  I came in close again to see how you were doing, “Do you need more?”

You did not.

I unclipped you and took the cuffs off.  I was so proud of you – I’m still so proud – for taking so much pain in a short period of time.  Your performance was impressive.  You sat down and took a few moments to compose yourself under a sheet.  I cleaned up and put the toys away.  We moved from the open public space to the back room and stretched out on a bed.  You started coming out of your after-scene shell and we talked about the scene.

You’d told me that you wanted to have the final say over whether you’d earned the black hankie or not.  I agreed, even though I was concerned you’d be far more critical than I would.  I agreed because if you didn’t feel you’d earned it, it would be an empty reward.

“So, how do you feel about the black hankie?”

Your eyes were fierce, “I earned that fucker!”

Yes you did, love.  I handed you the hankie that I’d bought months before.  That fierce, triumphant look in your eyes was priceless, beyond measure.  I love the way you proudly display your hankie at every opportunity. I am so grateful for the gift of you, for the way you submit to my sadistic pleasure.  You are a prize, my love.  I know it, Neighbor Femme knows it and anyone watching us that night knows it, too.

You didn’t just earn it that night, but all the times leading up to that when you took everything I dished out and asked for more.  You’ve lived up to it every time since.

Thank you my sweet, fierce, strong, amazing lover.  You wear that black hankie well.


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