Re-inviting the sensual into my life

Before Richard, my life was very cerebral and above-the-neck. Not just in my work; also in the things I did in my off-hours and in my relationships with men. The only thing that felt full and complete in my life – body and mind and soul – was my relationship with my children.

I knew what my life was missing. I was raised in a tropical paradise by lazy, live in the moment, sensual parents. I grew up mostly naked and brown and happy. I spent my non-school time with a big group of family and extended family and friends, beaching and drinking and not doing much of anything at all.

Somehow when I went off to college I lost touch with that side of myself. It was as if, to grow my mind, I had to shut off my body. In graduate school, I even stopped reading poetry. Poetry had always been important to me, both reading it and writing it, but I was suddenly unable to appreciate it anymore – it felt silly and affected to me. Only recently have I begun to enjoy it again, and I’ve discoverd Rumi and Pablo Neruda, among others.

No complaints about my brain. It’s made a lot of money for me, created a nice life for me and my kids. I’m proud of it. But I’m more than a big brain, and the rest of me had been neglected for a long time.

Last year, I went looking for what was missing. It was a little more complicated than just re-inviting the sensual into my life. For one thing, I’d never known the grown-up side of sensual. For another, I was coming to terms with the reality that I was a sexually submissive woman. How did those things fit together? How could I find what I wanted and needed, when I wasn’t even sure what it was?

What I found was Richard. Richard is smart and analytical and intellectual and emotionally intelligent. He keeps pace with what he calls my “monkey brain”, he can match me in debate, he can parry when I tease or challenge, he can talk me through emotional minefields and sensitive social scenarios.

But he’s so much more than that.

He’s my man. He’s my mate. He’s my master.

Sometimes I wake at night to feel an arm snaking over my hip. It wraps around my belly and pulls me hard against him. I feel his chest on my back, thigh against thigh. I feel him nuzzle my neck, I hear him growl “mine” quietly. I know he means it. This isn’t a sexy game. I am his.

When I come back from the office in the early afternoon, we slip on our swimsuits and head for the pool. We slide into the water, leaving our arms propped on the deck, and bake in the sun like lizards. We talk desultorily – what he did, what I did, what the real estate market is doing, politics, philosophy, what photoshoot we’d like to do next, how great our last fuck was. I’ll turn my head, eyes half open, and see that Richard has disappeared underwater. He’ll surface with a big grin on his face – either to tell me about some silly pool game he played as a kid, or that he was looking at my breasts underwater and liked how they bounced around.

Sometimes he’ll swim underwater the length of the pool and then turn toward me. Suddenly his face will light up, and I know he’s going to “hunt” me. Nothing is as gleeful as Richard on the hunt. He’ll begin moving toward me, not taking his eyes off my face, watching for the sign that I’m about to bolt. I’ll try to stay put, try to tell myself that he’s just being goofy. But I always spook eventually.

I’m a strong swimmer, but there’s nowhere to go. It’s a small pool and before I can get far enough away to pull myself out, he’s on me. He’ll grab my leg and pull me toward him, chuckling under his breath, then pull me close and slip a hand under my suit, cupping a breast or an ass cheek or my pussy. I have to remind him that people can see us, and he always releases me reluctantly.

I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t know if I’m doing a good job. I may have to try again another time.

Here’s how it is: Richard is my mate in a way that I didn’t know about before. I love him like an animal. I need him in a primal way. I physically ache for him when we are separate.

He is mine. Mine.

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One year in BDSM

Richard pointed out to me that our play or interactions in which he ignores me or uses and discards me may be “edge play” for me, given my past bad experiences of being neglected and taken for granted in relationships. Edge play, for the non-kinky people out there, is play that skirts dangerous ground, either physically or emotionally. So, for example, knife or needle play is considered edge play by most, although one person’s edge play is another’s yawnsville of course.

I think a part of me was hoping, once he pointed this out, that he would say “So I think it best that we no longer do that sort of thing.” But he didn’t.

And that got me thinking.

I started exploring BDSM online less than a year ago. Up until the time that Richard and I first met in real life, part of me thought that D/s would always only be a part of my fantasies, NOT my real life. If it became part of my life, as I’ve said before, I thought it would be in the bedroom as sexual play, not permeating my entire life. Not 24/7. Not Master/slave.

This year (24/7 D/s M/s) has been incredible. So erotic, so exciting, so thrilling. At the same time, life with Richard is so…easy. We get along so well, we’re so compatible. It’s a luscious combination of new relationship excitement and old relationship comfort.

I’m so spoilt! For the first time in my life, I’ve had as much attention and snuggling and affection and nurturing and fussing over as I could wish for. I’ve also been spanked more and slapped more and bitten and pinched more than ever in my life.

And ordered around! Constantly! But, hey, that’s still attention. And it appears that all attention is good attention for Amy.

I’m taking a long time to get to my point. Sorry.

Richard’s post “Disposable Girl” and the following discussion made me realize that (wait for it): it’s not all about me.

Not that I mostly think that, but at some level I have been loving all the attention and feeling very special and precious and adored and not facing the fact that: I am a slave and it’s not about me.

This is real. This is not role play. This is not acting out fantasies. I entered into a relationship in which one of the critical agreements is that I give up all control to Richard. All control.

Sure, I can always change my mind. But that would be monumental. Telling Richard I no longer wished to submit to him would be comparable to saying that I realized I am a lesbian. It would be more than becoming sexually incompatible, because this is about more than sex. This is about intimacy and this is also about how we “run” our lives.

You might say “Yes, but you don’t have to say you don’t want to submit *at all*. You could just say you didn’t want to submit to a particular thing.”

That would be the same thing. I agreed to submit to him completely. I can’t say “I submit to you completely…except for X”. That’s not submitting.

So. I don’t get to say “I don’t want to play *disposable girl*” anymore than I get to say “I don’t want to play *nasty-pinchy-clothespin-thingies*”. (Richard would be quick to point out that of course I can say that, it just won’t have any effect on what he chooses to do.)

Bottom line: I am still learning the reality of being a slave. I am still coming to terms with having handed over all power to Richard. It feels wonderful to have done, I trust him completely, I don’t regret it, but I’m still adjusting to it. Stay tuned.

My torture fantasies

We’re in San Antonio for a couple of days. For business, but I booked us at the closest hotel to the city’s annual Fiesta. Fiesta, as far as I can tell, is a giant street party (hence the name), with food booths and lots of beer and margaritas, carnival rides, and great bands. The atmosphere is remarkably like Bourbon Street in New Orleans, where we were just a few weeks ago on business, except for a larger Latino presence and more kids running around.

Richard has talked about enjoying exhibitionist women, and I’ve talked about being about as far from an exhibitionist as a woman can be. I decided that while we were here, away from home, I would try to be a little more relaxed about how I look in public.

This morning, as we dressed to go out for breakfast, I pulled my collar from the suitcase. Richard didn’t know I had brought it. I asked him to put it on me and his face lit up.

I wore it to breakfast. I wore it to the Alamo. I wore it along the Riverwalk. I only took it off when he wanted to take a picture to send to his family.

(Who wants to have THAT discussion? “Richard, your new girlfriend – she’s wearing a dog collar.” “Yes, Mom, that’s right.” “It’s a nice dog collar, but why would she wear a dog collar, Richard?” “She likes wearing a dog collar, Mom.” “Richard, does she eat Alpo, too?” etc)

Richard was teasing me when we were walking along the Riverwalk. We were in front of a big group of people, and he suddenly grabbed me by the waist and pushed me up against the wall of the underpass and kissed me passionately. I could see all of the people staring at us as they passed, so of course I flushed bright red.

He had been saying that he was going to make me take off my panties and give them to him, and a little later he pulled me into an overgrown area and raised his eyebrows. I was so scared he was going to make me take them off! But then he just laughed and pulled me back onto the path.

After we’d been walking for a while, I went into a public bathroom (with permission, of course). When I came out, I slipped my panties into the back pocket of his jeans. He was thrilled.

Later, I wore a VERY lowcut, red wrap dress to dinner, with matching strappy sandals. Richard was appreciative, as were some of the locals when we walked around the Fiesta site after dinner.

 

So, I’m doing my best. And he knows I’m doing my best, although I know he’ll keep having me do more. This is challenging for me, but it’s worth it when I see how much he enjoys it. Plus I’m expecting payback tonight (as soon as I get this posted hehe).

And I was forewarned. When I was looking through old emails a few days ago, I found Richard’s reply to me, when I asked him what it was he wanted to do when we got together (two weeks before we met for the first time). He said:

I want to fuck you, to torture you, to strip you naked and display you to the world and say you are mine.

Fair warning.

Training her for belly dance

Amy is learning to belly dance.

She doesn’t want to show me what she has learned until she feels she can do it properly, which is cool with me, but last night she wanted to show me a couple of her moves.

She had on a thin gray undershirt, her jingling coin skirt, and something else – I don’t know what. I found it hard to look below her upper body, with her braless 38D breasts at eye level, nipples already erect and and a sexy smile on her face.

This pic I posted previously will give you a idea of how those nipples get your attention.

bdsmcouple-amy-morning-bed
She shows me some hips moves, which were dead sexy, then she goes into a shoulder shake, that just makes her breasts dance wildly.

God.

I’m gonna get her some tassels.

God.