At Burning Man 2017, my partner and I attended a demonstration called “Dinner and an Interrogation”, hosted at the theme camp Brûlée.

Two BM contributors (names withheld until/unless I get their blessing) allowed an audience to watch one of their “rough body play” BDSM scenes. The general scenario was that S had a four-digit number that M had thirty minutes to “interrogate” out of them.

Before the scene began, there was some lengthy description of what was going to ensue, so that anyone in the audience had ample opportunity to decide this was not their cup of tea (and potentially triggering) and excuse themselves.

There was an explicit discussion of consent and the absolutely essential role it plays in ethical BDSM.

M displayed a table of tools that might be used during the interrogation, and S had the opportunity to review the table and remove three items that they didn’t consent to that evening. No argument, no wheedling, no debate; bam they were off the table.

The actual scene was incredibly intense to watch, even hard to watch at times, but I was mesmerized for the entire event. There was punching, wrestling, dragging across the dusty playa ground, pressure points, paddling, tying to a chair, and even waterboarding! Somewhere around the 20-minute mark, M got the final digit from S and the scene ended and the pair immediately departed for aftercare.

There was a lot in the scene that didn’t work for me. Not that I’m being at all judgmental about someone else doing it, but a lot of it wasn’t my particular kink. For example, I have a tough time figuring how I could conduct waterboarding in a way that felt arousing. However, I was absolutely fascinated by the rapport between the two participants, their commitment to explicit and enthusiastic consent. It was a thing of beauty.

So when I saw the pair was returning for Burning Man 2018, their events were circled in red in my “What, Where, When” book. First we attended a “Rough Body Play” workshop where the same pair talked through a lot of the thinking and planning that goes into that sort of scene. As they talked through and demonstrated punching, kicking, grappling, judo throws, they spoke at length about some of the risks involved, steps to minimize those risks, alternatives for people with physical challenges. I was absolutely delighted to see the same (or even higher) level of emphasis on consent. There was also a fascinating blend of professional and serious presentation with the playful affection and obvious respect between the two of them.

Two days later we saw the “Dinner and Interrogation” scene again, this time with M and another partner, P. I was astounded to see P last the entire thirty minutes, yielding only two of the four digits to M. The difference between how S participated in the scene in 2017 and P in 2018 was night and day, and it was educational seeing the range of experiences. Once again, the entire scene was breathtaking to watch.

The very next day there was a “Fetish Friday” party at the same camp where M and S were chatting with people one-on-one and tutoring them through some specific moves. Melody and I approached them, gushed in a hugely fanboy fashion for a while, then started asking for some pointers on grappling and punching. Both M and S were enormously gracious and generous with their time, and the next thing you know we were piecing together foam grappling mats on the playa dust and stripping down for business. Melody learned a couple of ways to throw me, as well as a position where she could almost completely immobilize me. We got some pointers on how to punch more safely and then… we started talking about breath play and choking. I got some essential pointers on what to avoid, the proper places to apply pressure, different positions to try, and safeguards to follow. In the process, I admitted that I had never been choked out and and was curious about it. My rationale is that I don’t want to do something to anyone else that I hadn’t experienced myself. Asking if I really meant it and wanted to experience being choked out, M offered to oblige me.

I dropped to my knees in the dust (*ahem*) and M stood behind me with one arm wrapped around my neck, my throat in the crook of his elbow. He applied gentle pressure on the back of my head and … we stayed there for several seconds. I waved to someone in the crowd watching (I was later told we had an enormous audience), and then began to think it wasn’t going to work and even felt a small bit of sadness for M. “Aww, it’s gonna be embarrassing when the big ole dommie top can’t choke me out.” Then… something happened… and the next thing I knew my brain was rebooting. I was on all fours. It was dusty as all fuck. Flashing lights. Noisy thudding bass. I looked up and made eye contact with a human it took me several seconds to identify. Melody said it was quite disturbing to look in my eyes and not see any glint of recognition for several seconds. My first rational thought was “What happened? Did… did I just pass out?” Then I glanced to the side and saw M and recalled that I had asked him to choke me and… it all kinda popped into place. It was incredibly bizarre feeling all my systems slowly come back on line and to reconstruct what happened based on such disjointed data. It was an amazing rush!

Melody and I left for a while after that so that I could collect myself and integrate the experience. Every thirty minutes or so I would exclaim aloud with shock and wonder, “Holy crap, M choked me the fuck out!” Mind. Blown.

Oh, and I want to point out; the entire hour we spent with M and S getting tips and techniques and demonstrations, every single time either M or S was going to lay a hand on either me or Melody (to demonstrate something), they asked for consent. Every. Single. Time. Melody tells me that when M choked me and I finally blacked out, M cradled my head with great tenderness and very carefully lowered me to the ground.

Those interactions were the highlight of a really amazing burn! When you admire someone from a distance (as we did after watching last year’s scene), there’s a little apprehension about getting closer to them and finding out the reality doesn’t match the expectations. Instead, our expectations were exceeded. M and S were kind, gracious, generous, incredibly thoughtful, and I cannot thank them enough. If you at at the Burn next year (and this is your kind of kink), I strongly encourage you to look for future events with the names I listed below.

Like most women I know, my girlfriend’s prior experiences with anal sex were loathsome. There was no prior discussion or negotiation, and when it happened there was a great deal of difficulty and pain. The result was a resolve of “Nope, not for me. Never again.” that lasted for years.

When I raised the topic some months ago, S was very frank about her past experience and the overwhelmingly negative impressions it had left. Given how much trust she had in our relationship and the successes of our on-going sexual explorations, she wasn’t completely closed to the idea, but she was open about her apprehension and skepticism.

With her explicit permission, I began a very gradual process of simple, classical conditioning. I’m going to describe that in some graphic, and not always sexy, detail.

In the beginning, I just wanted to make her aware of her asshole, in the context of actions she already enjoyed. For instance, while I was going down on her, I would simply rest an oiled finger on her puckered sphincter. There was no attempt to penetrate, in fact there was only the very lightest of stroking. I just wanted her to be aware of her asshole while I was licking her pussy and bringing her to orgasm. This was a sporadic and occasional association for some weeks, but gradually became more of a regular thing; while giving her head I would lightly pet her asshole.

Once she seemed fully at ease with that pairing, and even enjoying it, I raised the stakes. After a particularly vigorous bout of pussy licking, once she was completely aroused and engaged, after several orgasms already, I asked her to roll over onto her belly. I pushed one arm under her and started stroking her engorged clit with my fingers, swiftly bringing her back to the brink of orgasm. When she was right on the cusp, I started gently lapping at her asshole with my tongue. She stiffened with surprise, I increased the speed and pressure of my fingers slightly, and she came quite loudly and enthusiastically. I reinforced that association several times, bringing her to orgasm with my fingers while my tongue licked and swirled against her sphincter.

Again, licking S’s asshole while fingering her clit and pussy was an occasional thing at first. Over the course of some weeks, it gradually became a more regular part of our sexual repertoire. Additionally, I became a little more vigorous with my tongue, licking her asshole more firmly, and even worming the tip of my tongue just a tiny bit into her sphincter.

Over time, it became quite apparent that S was deeply enjoying having her asshole licked. I began to experiment with stroking her clit and fingering her pussy a little less, keeping her just below the threshold of orgasm, and then using the licking of her sphincter as the tiny bit of additional stimulation that would push her over the edge of climax. That worked better and better over some time. The day finally came when I rolled S onto her belly and started licking her asshole intently, with no other stimulation whatsoever. It took a little time, but she finally reached a frantic orgasm from no other stimulation than having my tongue on her ass.

From there, things accelerated a bit. I started giving S head by having her sit on my face, with the tip of my pinky finger on her asshole, as I licked and sucked at her clit and labia. Slowly, with a lot of lube, I started sliding my finger inside her ass. I listened carefully for sounds of discomfort, pulled back when needed, and focused on making sure she was cumming so much from the cunnilingus that she wasn’t too distracted by what was happening to her ass. I probably didn’t get more than the first knuckle of my pinky inside her the first time, and that was just fine. Over the course of weeks, that position became a more common activity, very slowly working my finger a little deeper, and gradually moving to larger fingers. As with having her sphincter licked, eventually having her asshole fingered became a source of pleasure for her, all by itself.

From there, it was only a matter of time before we were both in the right headspace to try putting my cock in her asshole. I’ll tell that story in a little more detail later, but first stop here and stress some of the major guidelines of all this:

– Consent: Embarking on this journey was explicitly discussed and freely agreed to. There was a tremendous amount of trust involved and my primary goal all along was to make sure S never had a reason to regret that trust.

– Association: I always started with an activity S already greatly enjoyed and looked for ways to add very small forms of anal stimulation to that activity. Gradually, she began to associate the anal play with the pleasure she was experiencing. Over time, the repeated reinforcements of that association meant the anal play was pleasurable on its own, without the associated pussy play.

– Patience: This process happened over a span of six months or more. It was very important to me that every step of the journey be enjoyable and pleasurable, so that S would be enthusiastic about continuing. I let S’s reactions guide how fast and how far we progressed, focusing on being patient. The last thing I wanted was to push too hard too fast and cause a negative reaction, undoing all of the previous progress. I stayed intent on simply enjoying where we were at any given moment, being ready to back off at the first sign of discomfort.

– Hygiene: We take some very simple precautions. Make sure our recent diet is respectable, with a minimum of greasy foods. If there’s been a bowel movement since her last shower, maybe it’s time to shower again. Don’t be shy about using plenty of hot water and a soapy wash cloth to wipe at the sphincter. That minimum amount of preparation has worked fine for us; I’ve never felt like an enema was a necessary part of the process. Mostly, I refuse to worry about it. If I’m doing it right, sex is messy; I regularly end up smeared with spit, cum, lube, and pussy juice. I just don’t obsess over it; I’m too busy having fun. Thus far, there have been no messy accidents that have led me to regret those guidelines.

That has been our process, and it has worked very well. No doubt, a lot of that has less to do with the process and more to do with my extraordinary partner.

Summer 1983

During the Summer session at my town’s art college, my highschool girlfriend’s mother taught art classes on the campus to local elementary school students. Occasionally, Paula and I would go to the classes with her, ostensibly to help, for a very loose definition of the word. Paula and I had just started having sex a couple of months prior, and were going at it like we had invented it.

On one such occasion, we snuck away to a bathroom near the classroom, locked the door behind us, and had a frantic, urgent quickie. We fucked with the kind of brevity only teenagers can manage, then composed ourselves, and snuck back into the bustling classroom with what we imagined was smooth subtlety. And not even a half hour later, we repeated the trick. And again. And… Before the day was over, I’m sure we visited that bathroom over ten times. Hey, we were teenagers! At the time, we thought we were being terribly discreet, but in hindsight I cannot imagine it was not blatantly obvious to her mother. I can only imagine what she must have thought. Later that same day, Paula and I wandered off to stroll through a nearby art museum, where I seem to recall finding a quiet nook and enthusiastically fingering her. I am truly fortunate that my first serious girlfriend was easily as sex-crazed as I was. Those were some good times.

Fall 2017

Though I left town over 30 years ago, my family still lives in the same area and I return occasionally to see them. On the latest visit, I brought my current partner with me. Melody is an amateur artist, so one morning when we had no other plans, I took her to that same art museum to spend a couple of hours looking at paintings and sculptures. As luck would have it, the museum was very lightly attended that morning, and when a suitable opportunity presented itself, I slipped my hand under Melody’s dress, pushed her panties to the side, and stroked her clit attentively for several minutes while she pushed back against my hand and stifled her moans. After a furtive but enthusiastic orgasm, she composed herself and we resumed our art appreciation. We left the museum with some time to spare, and so… I led her to the nearby college of art. As we headed that way, I told her the story of my teenage adventures with Paula at that site. We spent some time admiring an exhibit of student art in the atrium, then wandered upstairs and found a bathroom much like the one Paula and I used (perhaps the exact one). We entered, locked the door behind us, and I fucked her from behind with all due enthusiasm. The facility was as tiny and grotty as I remembered it, though it had been updated with automatic sensors for flushing the toilet and dispensing paper towels. We managed to accidentally trigger a release of paper towels at a climactic moment, to some laughter.

Again, I am truly fortunate to have a girlfriend who is easily as sex-crazed as I am. These are some very good times.

M was not gone from my life very long when I took up a relationship with S. She was a long-time friend and confidant, a member of my logical family for some years. We had even had sex a handful of times, quite enjoyably, but neither of us were in a place to pursue that more frequently or more intentionally, until M left.

Three things came together in a quite unexpected fashion when S and I embarked on a more serious relationship.

First, we started incorporating BDSM into our sex play from the outset. I had long known S was a self-described sensation junkie, with a very high pain threshold. She also had some challenges reaching climax during the early renewal of our relationship, so rougher play and BDSM were a way of reaching some of those intensely transcendent moments during sex without orgasm.

The second major factor was that I took the occasion of deepening our relationship to ask S for some details regarding her past and childhood. Most specifically, I wanted to hear the full story of several years of childhood sexual abuse she endured. This was a fraught process. S had spent a great deal of her adult life trying not to think about that part of her past, had internalized a significant amount of shame and blame about the event, and had never before shared the entire story with anyone. Thankfully, she felt like she could trust me, and we spent long hours over several different meetings going through all of the horrific details.

So there we were. Meeting once a month at the start, very soon moving to once every two weeks, and shortly after that to weekly. Talking very intensely about her childhood sexual abuse. Engaging in some fairly rough sex play and BDSM. Quite unintentionally, the two began to overlap in some unexpected ways. After rough sessions of flogging and spanking, we would take time for aftercare, soothing her skin with oil, reassuring her that she was in a safe space with someone who loved her and cared for her deeply. During those times, she would often flash back to our conversations of her abuse. On some occasions, she flashed back to specific events and details with graphic clarity. Other times she would break down sobbing over the guilt she felt over “letting” the abuse happen. I categorically reject the assertion that a seven-year-old has any agency in sexual abuse inflicted upon them and I started making that case with increasing vigor and firmness. As incredible as it seems to me, this was the first time S had gotten validation that her childhood abuse wasn’t her fault. It took a lot of time, reassurance, and discussion for that idea to begin to take root within her.

The third major factor (remember, up above, I said there were three parts?) was that all of this elevated BDSM activity motivated me to get much more serious about the practice. I spent some considerable time thinking about my own internal ethics and the moral implications of striking a woman, repeatedly and quite hard. Growing up as a good Southern boy with lessons of “you don’t ever hit a woman, ever, for any reason” left its imprint on me and I had to really think deeply about how these new sexual behaviors integrated into that. There are some past posts in this blog where I wrote about that issue at some length. I also did a bunch of research and reading in the neurological science behind pain play and why that “works” so dramatically for some people. The BDSM sessions I planned and executed for S started to follow more specific and intentional patterns, based on that research. Over the course of ten minutes I would gradually escalate a pattern of stimulation, building within S a reservoir of endorphins, ending in a climactic rush of stimulation/pain to dump those into her bloodstream. Then the next ten-minute session would immediately begin and the cycle would be repeated. We would get three or four of those cycles completed before S was effectively “tripping balls” on her own internally-produced endorphin rush.

There was one particularly note-worthy moment that brought all three of these factors together. We were in the midst of an intense BDSM scene. S was standing, arms restrained by padded wrist cuffs. I was behind her with an array of floggers and leather straps, escalating the activity towards another endorphin release. She was at a particularly vulnerable moment, the flogging was really getting to her, there were tears flowing. To this day, I don’t know quite what prompted me to do this, but as I was flogging her, I started asking her, roughly, angrily, “Whose fault was it?”

The first couple of times, she was silent and didn’t answer.

“Whose fault was it?” Thwack!
“Whose fault was it?” Thwack!
Eventually, she responded, breaking down sobbing in the process.
“It was my fault!”, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Whose fault was it?” Thwack!
“It was my fault,” she answered, more tentatively this time.
“Whose fault was it?” Thwack!
“Whose fault was it?” Thwack!
“His fault?”, this came nervously, tentatively, like she was trying it on for size in her head.
“Whose fault was it?” Thwack!
“It wasn’t my fault.”, this came more firmly, like she was finding sure footing.
“Whose fault was it?” Thwack!
“It wasn’t my fault!” This came out stronger still. She also stood a little taller, and did not shrink from flogger blows.
“Whose fault was it?” Thwack!
“It wasn’t my fault!” This came out as an angry shout, defiant, solid. She flared her back and shoulders, daring me to do my worst. I put my back into it and swung hard.
“Whose fault was it?” Thwack!
“It wasn’t my fault!”
“Whose fault was it?” Thwack!
“It wasn’t my fault!”
“Whose fault was it?” Thwack!

When I released her, the aftercare was especially long, and there was a great deal of crying. However, these weren’t the hot tears of shame and violation, but the cleansing tears of release. For the first time, S was really coming to terms with releasing the responsibility she had been trying to carry.

This experience shaped much of our subsequent BDSM play. Over much time and discussion we would identify issues where she was “stuck” mentally or emotionally and look for ways to bring them to the surface during an intense scene. In the process, her confidence grew and emotional weight she had been carrying for virtually her entire life began to fall off her. She was reframing her memory of the experience, from something that defined her, into something that “merely” happened to her.

Late on a quiet Sunday afternoon, I was lounging on the sofa and S was reading in the bedroom. From the other room she called out, “Do we have talcum powder?” “Nope, don’t think so.”, I replied. After a moment of silence, S came back with, “How about corn starch?” “Sure. In the cupboard, in a round, blue and gold can.” Without responding, she padded barefoot into the kitchen and then returned to the bedroom.

Intrigued, I asked from the couch, “Why do you ask?” In a matter-of-fact voice she said, “Because I was lightly stroking my clit, and I wondered what it would feel like totally dry and buttery soft, like with talcum powder. You know, instead of all wet and oily.”

Can you see why I adore this woman?

Within a bare few minutes, I could resist no longer. I got off the couch, went to the bedroom and laid down beside her on the bed, where she was idly playing with a pussy liberally dusted with white powder. With her welcome blessing, I joined in the experience, and found it was quite lovely. The powder made the skin contact soft and smooth, and the lack of oil meant I could feel every little crease and fold and all the subtle differences in the skin texture. It was extraordinary!

Despite S’ appetite for overwhelming sensations and rough play, an excruciatingly light and fairly slow touch is the surest way to get her off. With my powdered finger feathering up and down the shaft of her clit, she was ready to come in very little time. I teased her for a while, denying her that first orgasm until she begged and pleaded and offered me anything I wanted (like that’s anything new) before I allowed her to have that first shuddering orgasm. Once the dam broke, I continued stimulating her and brought her off several more times before giving her a break and letting her breathe. It was a delightful experience, and one I enthusiastically recommend.

After, her eyes twinkled and she asked hopefully, “What would you like to do next?” I did not have to think very long. “Friday night you talked about wanting to squirt again. Let’s go up to the attic and do that.” S did not need her arm twisted. “Okay!”

I hasten to point out that she hopped in the shower to briefly rinse off the corn starch; we weren’t trying to make a roux here!

In the redwood paneled attic that a friend called our “Fuck Treehouse”, we put down the “sex blanket” (a Liberator Throw) to catch any fluids, got out the NJoy Pure Wand, and brought the jar of coconut oil into easy reach. As aroused as S already was, getting her to squirt took surprisingly little time. Her ejaculate was copious and decidedly milky white. I still haven’t found the knack of making her squirt with my fingers, but the heavy steel barbell does the trick pretty reliably. As I was using the barbell on her, I provided some auxiliary stimulation by playing with her clit, then later very shallowly fingering her asshole. She soaked the blanket quite thoroughly and noisily (and happily, the mattress below stayed entirely dry).

We have gradually been exploring more ass play between the two of us, and this seemed like a good time to push that envelope a bit. (“I’d push her envelope, I tell you whut.”) We took some time to examine in a clinical fashion what she liked and what wasn’t as good. With not even one knuckle fully inserted, I demonstrated lightly jostling and bouncing my finger (her favorite), working my finger in and out without actually stroking the skin (I can demonstrate that better than I know how to describe it), and then stroking my finger in and out a way that actually stroked the skin (which was a little too intense for her).

Equipped with a better idea of what was working for her, I asked her to get on hands and knees. I inserted the narrow end of the NJoy into her pussy and played with that in the usual fashion, soon getting her to squirt a bit more. After a while I bent forward and started lapping at the puckered pink rosebud of her asshole. She groaned deeply, her face and shoulders dropped to the bed and her ass arched towards the sky. We played with that for quite a while, with explosive results. I have become familiar with how fast and how often S can orgasm, in rolling waves one right on top of the other. This was several steps beyond that. She was thrashing side to side, screaming gutturally into the pillow, utterly incoherent, one step away from a grand mal seizure. When that went on long enough that I thought she might hurt herself, I backed off slightly, stopped lapping at her asshole, let her gather her wits, and then resumed the intensity, this time stroking her clit as well. And whoosh, there she goes again. I played through several variations of that, until she begged for a break to have a drink of water.

After the briefest of respites, we decided to very carefully try to narrow end of the NJoy wand in her ass. Still in the “face down, ass up” pose, I held the wand very still and let her gradually work it inside her ass. With me holding the wand still, she could be in control of the speed and depth of the action, pausing to get used to the size and sensation as needed, then working deeper, then waiting, then again. Ultimately, she took the ball end of the wand and perhaps an inch of shaft, and that seemed to be a happy place for her. With the slightest rocking motion of the wand, I started stroking her clit, bringing her to a couple of very happy orgasms with the wand inside her. Emboldened, I slipped two fingers inside her pussy and started playing with her g-spot while the wand was still in her ass. The wall separating the rectum from the vaginal canal is rather thin, and I could clearly feel the hard ball of the wand against my fingers as I stroked her g-spot. She had several more orgasms this way, rather louder and more enthusiastically. On a hunch, I removed my fingers and just played with the wand in her ass, hoping it would tap in a diffuse way against her g-spot. It seemed successful, and she had two solid orgasms with no stimulation aside from the wand in her ass (albeit, stimulating her g-spot indirectly).

When her ass finally reached its limit, I held the wand steady and let her ease forward until the bulbous end plopped free. I reassured her that I saw no sign at all of any tearing, nor any slight bleeding, and frankly, no messy “santorum” either. I gave her well-used asshole a friendly and comforting lap or two, set the wand aside, and fell on the bed beside her as she exclaimed a tired but joyful “Wow!” Then she noticed my cock, which was rather happily erect, and perhaps even a bit larger than usual.

She attempted some profound deep throating, and found the extra smidge of length too much for her throat. She asked me to fuck her instead, and I did so with great abandon. In all honesty, I was so crazy aroused by this time that I didn’t last very long, but it was still enough to give her three or so more orgasms before I reached my own shuddering, groaning climax.

Goddamn. Is it any wonder we so rarely leave the house?

Note: Wow, I threw around a couple of brand names in this post. I want to rush to reassure readers (all two of them) that I have no connection with the companies cited and there’s no compensation whatsoever. I only mention the brands with such specificity in case someone reading thinks to themselves “That sounds nifty! I wonder where I could find one of those.”

As has become my tradition for several years, I’m spending the Christmas break at a rental house on the coast with some very dear friends. We pass the time enjoying the stunning view of the ocean waves rolling in, listening to music, cooking ridiculously good food, hiking, soaking in the hot tub, experimenting at the massage table. Most of all, there is an abundance of love and a complete lack of drama or stress.

Of course, one of the people in attendance is a beloved girlfriend. Thus there has been a copious amount of sex. Slow, languid sex; eager, enthusiastic sex; sex in the bright sunlight, bending her over so she can watch the ocean waves break and crash while I plunge into her repeatedly; sex in the middle of the night, in the dark, still quiet, face-to-face, while clutching tightly and kissing deeply.

My only regret (and it is a tiny thing compared to the abundance of awesomeness) is that the friends are not “that kind” of friends. The girlfriend and I are very considerate about keeping our enthusiasm private and the most salacious thing we do in front of each other is walk around in nothing more than a shirt and pleasantly snug underwear.

In an ideal world, I’d have that ideal magical combination; friends that I love enough to be fully relaxed and open with, and friends who are uninhibited and lusty enough to be sexual in front of. I’m picturing the two women sitting on the couch with their legs spread, holding hands, whilst enthusiastic attendants sit on the floor and lazily suck and lap at their pussies. I want to be fucking my girl on a sheepskin rug in front of the fireplace, get up briefly to take some photos from across the room of another couple riding together in blissful pleasure, and then return to the open thighs awaiting me. I want a four-hand massage to seamlessly segue to four-hand petting, with one hand in her pussy, one on her clit, one pinching a nipple, and another gently pulling hair.

As I say, this is more of an ideal than a complaint. Off-hand, I can’t recall having a better Christmas (and I’ve had some really amazing Christmases in my time). But that doesn’t mean I can’t fantasize about something even better.

This memory came back to me with a sudden clarity this afternoon, and I wanted to write it dow for keeping.

In high school, in Memphis, in the 1980s.

I’d brought Paula home after a date that neither of us wanted to end. She peeked in her house and determined that her parents were sufficiently asleep, and so decided we could risk lying out on a blanket in her backyard. If her parents awoke, at least she was really home by curfew, even if she wasn’t exactly inside and tucked into bed.

Lying side by side on the blanket, staring up at the sky and the clouds sliding past. Holding hands turned to snuggling, turned to cuddling, turned to petting, turned to fucking.

Paula had mastered riding me with a slow pelvic rock that ground her clit against my pubic bone, slowly, leisurely, quietly.


When a warm, Summer rain started, Paula spread her arms, arched her back, and lifted her face to the dark, wet skies. She held herself in that ecstatic pose while I pushed and surged under her until I came hard and hot inside her, panting, dripping.

Years later Paula found out her sister (2 years younger) had been watching the entire time, most avidly, masturbating furiously the entire time.

I’ve been thinking about boundaries lately, scattered thoughts bouncing around in my head that haven’t quite gelled into a cohesive whole. But here’s some of the preliminary thinking:

Act 1:

– At Burning Man 2014, I participated in the Human Carcass Wash. I could write a huge blog post just on this one topic, but the short version is that it’s an activity where a bunch of volunteer Burners wash a bunch of other Burners. During the orientation, our guide made the point, “Every time a new person steps up to your station, when you help them into the basin you must ask, ‘What are your boundaries?’ Some people will say ‘I have no boundaries, wash everywhere.’ Others may say, ‘I have a bruise on my shin, please avoid that.’ Others might say, ‘Please avoid my pubic area. I’ll wash that.’ Any answer is fine, and those boundaries must be honored. Any person being bathed has the full right to change their answer at any time. ‘You know, I thought I was okay with having my bottom washed, but… umm, no. I’ll get that area.’ And that has to be okay too.”

The most powerful thing the guide said (for me), was the following. “Please remember that your boundaries matter too! Just because someone says, ‘I have no boundaries, wash me everywhere’, that doesn’t mean you’re obligated. If you’re not comfortable touching them ‘there’, then don’t!”

Powerful stuff!

Act 2:

I’ve been ramping up my massage practice, doing several massages a week for the past few months. I’ve been greatly enjoying it, but as the frequency increases I have to be mindful about not zoning out and going through the motions. Massage is not a time for auto-pilot. There have been a couple of occasions when I’ve been just starting a massage and catch myself really leaning into it. “Slow down, this person on your table isn’t ‘Cheer’. Ease into it and then find out how much pressure she wants. You can’t just start at 9 and escalate from there.”

When you have someone on the table, you have to meet them where they are, and work with however much or little they are willing to present to you. I’ve had a client who asked for deep glute work and who left their underwear on. I had another guy on the table for a full massage who wore his jeans on the table! It’s all good. If that’s where their comfort level is, I can work with that.

Act 3:

As I’ve blogged about recently, I have a new partner who is open to some fairly intense sensations and activities. The previous time I saw her, we spent extensive time at the massage table, starting at an intensity of 8 and swiftly escalating from there. I used every bit of my anatomy knowledge, my size, and my muscle to do things that I knew would have her writhing in that fascinating blend of pleasure and pain that she craves so desperately. We spent about ninety minutes doing that, and it was an unqualified success.

We saw each other again last night, and I orchestrated a suite of activities that were completely different from the previous meeting. We started by focusing on her pleasure – what things pushed her buttons, what made her purr, and what things were an inhibiting distraction. As things progressed, I escalated and began pushing her boundaries (or at least tried to). Not with pain this time, or at least not overtly. Instead, I worked on providing pleasure, increasing amounts, from various sources, and with growing vigor. I started with a luxurious spell of cunnilingus, savoring her smell, her taste, the musky flavor that comes with full arousal. I seem to recall her asking for something and responding with a “Hush. This part isn’t for you; it’s for me.” I took my sweet time lapping at her vulva, sucking her lips into my mouth and gently pulling, and lifting her legs while I plunged my tongue into her as deeply as I could reach. Once I had sated my own hunger (for a while at least), I started working on hers.

I gradually eased a finger into her, sliding in and out while I flicked my tongue beside her clit hood. That got a very enthusiastic response and I held there for some minutes, letting her pleasure rise and plateau before I continued. Eventually my finger curled and started stroking her G-spot, which was met with energetic and rhythmic clenching of her hips. Holding tight for the ride and continuing to lick and stroke, I slid my free hand up her torso and found her nipple, which obviously needed rather firm pinching and stroking. I let her energy build and swell over several minutes, until her wailing reached an urgent pitch and her bucking got too frenzied to ride.

In a big rush intended to add to her disorientation, I withdrew, roughly rolled her onto her belly and sank my thumb deep inside her. Just sliding in and out at first, roughly, quickly. Before she could relax into that I changed angles so that the pad of my thumb was stroking over her G-spot with each push. With each stroke, she cried gutturally into the mattress, and finally her hips contracted and her ass rose off the bed to meet my hand hungrily, greedily. I put my free hand on the small of her back and crushed her to the bed pinning her in place while I put my knee between her thighs to keep her open and exposed. Finally, I changed the motion of my thumb completely, leaving it deep inside her pussy and pulsing up and down, tapping, drumming on her G-spot. Her crying became constant and incoherent and it was a struggle to keep her pinned to the bed. I increased the speed and force of my drumming, far beyond what I would even consider with most partners. Finally, with every muscle of her body tensed, rigid, and straining, she rewarded my efforts with a long keening cry and a splashing surge of fluid.

So there’s another kind of boundary, not of pain, but of pleasure, of giving in and submitting, and of taking more than you knew was possible.

Must. Push. Buttons!

Act 4:

That same evening, after a necessary break for recovery, fluids, and laughter, we decided to return downstairs one more time to play with some floggers I’d made. I bound her with some padded wrist cuffs, which I don’t think she was expecting, and started working on her upper back and bottom. I began with a medium-weight flogger and eventually moved up to a heavier one, letting her feel the thudding, percussive weight of each stroke. I alternated targets, working on her back for a bit, then shifting to her ass with no warning. I played with speed, giving her a slow deliberate rhythm, then pausing and letting her dread the next blow. I practiced some crossing strokes, raining down in a fast persistent pattern. She sagged against the cuffs once or twice, only to leap to attention again in response to a carefully placed lash on her bottom. Periodically I would pause the flogging to whisper deep and low into her ear and to glide my fingertips ever so gently across her burning cheeks and shoulder blades. The feathery touch made her writhe even more than the flogging.

With considerable reluctance, I called a stop to the action. She seemed to be in a good space, watching her writhe was so very compelling, and I really wanted to continue, but… that sort of space takes a great deal of thoughtfulness, deep attention to detail, real care and caution. I often think of it as a high wire act. And I was too exhausted (very happily so) from all of the previous activities to be as “on my game” as that kind of play requires. I just didn’t want to gamble with being sloppy or careless when she was in a position so vulnerable and trusting.

Which is to say, I hadn’t hit her boundary, but I very much hit mine.

Act 5:

I’m an enthusiastic bicyclist. (A hell of a segue, I know. Bear with me.) There’s this interesting phenomenon when riding with another person. If you’re riding side-by-side, you can each go at your own pace. At any given moment, one person might be feeling more energetic and surge ahead, while the other person might drop back a bit and catch their breath. Over a long ride, this sort of ebb and flow balance out (assuming roughly equivalent riders) and you both end at the same place at the same time.

However, if you’re riding single file, the person in back is restricted by the top speed of the person ahead. If the follower is feeling bouncy and energetic and the person ahead isn’t… the follower has to wait. They might try to hold a little energy in reserve to accelerate ahead when the leader decides to push, but they basically inherit the limitations of the leader’s pace.

In sex, there’s no one ahead and no one following, but it’s still a group ride. The boundaries of the “slowest” person necessarily set the pace. You might find yourself in a time and place when you wish your companion was going faster so you could really give it your all, no holding back, working towards furious and glorious exhaustion. It’s an amazing, dizzying feeling! And if you ever find such a *ahem* “riding partner”, you’ll soon realize that now you’re the slower one, putting your boundaries on them.

And that’s okay too. Your own limits are just as real and just as valid as your partner’s limits. You might enjoy playing right at the edge of those limits, you might enjoy pushing them a bit, but ignoring them is a really bad idea.

Back in December, my primary partner asked me what I would like for my birthday (in January). I’m pretty shameless about buying myself whatever toys catch my eye, so I always struggle with answering these kinds of questions. I laughing said something about how “a drug-fueled fuck fest is the gift that keeps on giving, and giving, and giving”. And promptly forgot all about it.

On the weekend of my birthday, the aforementioned girlfriend and I traveled to central Oregon to traipse about in the snow, and had a perfectly lovely time. As we prepared for the return trip on Sunday (the anniversary of my birth), I began to get some small hints that something was up. She said small things like, “I’d like to get home by the early afternoon” without offering any reason, and “Let’s not stop to eat there on the way home; you might not want a full belly.” Curious, but completely vague. I enjoy surprises, so I didn’t pry.

We got home, went for a run and showered. Knowing full well that something was in the works, I asked how I should dress post shower. “Comfortably sexy. I don’t think we’re going out.” Of course, one has brief thoughts of fantasies that are far too improbable for reality, but I quickly settled down to earth. “Hmm, maybe she’s asked B over to give me a massage. That would be lovely.” Then the girl tells me if I wanted to indulge in any recreational pharmaceuticals, now would be the right time. *gulp* I’m enough of a control freak that taking a mind-altering substance without knowing exactly what was in the works for the evening took a considerable leap of faith. But I leapt in an ecstatic fashion. And somewhat nervously waited for the other shoe to drop.

About thirty minutes later, the doorbell rang and I nearly jumped out of my skin. She smiled and said, “You should go answer that.” Heart thumping, I went to the door to find… a woman I’ve been seeing lately! And behind her… was the other woman I’ve recently become involved with! They came in bearing pizza boxes, homemade cupcakes, and absolutely mischievous grins. My mind quickly bounced back and forth, “This can’t be what I think it is! Oh my stars, I think it is! No, it can’t! Oh shit, I think it is!”

Some background, for context: “Splendor” has been my partner for a good long while, and knows both of the others socially, but has never err, umm, “gone there” with either. “Cheer” I have known for a long time, but the relationship has only recently escalated to a significantly new level. And “Mirth” is someone I’ve been involved with off and on a couple of times, currently “on” and hopefully done with the “off” problems. Cheer and Mirth had met briefly at a couple of parties, but that was about the extent of their experience with each other. I found out after the fact that about a week ago Mirth asked Splendor what plans were in store for my birthday, and my quote was relayed to her. Bless her heart, she took the idea and ran with it, contacting Cheer and coordinating the event. Such balls!

The Three Graces

Back to the narrative. The girls got a bite to eat while I fidgeted in an anxious fashion, trying to figure out if I was already deeply hallucinating. After a short time, someone suggested that perhaps it was time to find a more comfortable space to lounge. A brief bit of scurrying for armfuls of pillows and blankets and we were soon ensconced in a very cozy nest. Soon enough, clothes were shed, copious amounts of oil were applied to all available flesh and things got decidedly warmer!

I can only pretend to relay the roughest of outlines of what followed; my head was swimming in an ocean of awe, appreciation and astonishment. For a brief time I lay passively and accepted the oily petting and stroking of six hands and many kisses, sometimes from multiple people at once. But I’m really not built for passivity and soon started orchestrating matters. Splendor was placed in the middle and received ample attentions from all of us, with one person leading the main event and the other two assisting in whatever clever ways they could find. And then another person took the lead. And then I took the lead. After we had thoroughly given Splendor all she could possibly handle, we rotated Mirth into the middle and repeated the process. We took a brief break to soak in the hot tub, but swiftly returned for a second act. We repeated the same routine with Cheer, and then I got the finale session in the middle.

Each girl is so completely different in her wants, needs, preferences; I began each session by telling some story about that girl’s kinks (Your kink is okay!), amusing little stories about our early experiences, anything to break the ice and set the stage for what that girl might especially enjoy. And for fuck’s sake, did they rise to the occasion! Every one of them dove into the action with all due vigor and enthusiasm, as though they were long-term lovers. I tried to quietly check in with each of them at various times, just to make sure it was all good and everyone was in their happy place. Each time I was met with a big damn grin and firm instructions to quit worrying so much. I did my best to comply.

The night was such a long series of amazing things, and everything flowed so easily, so naturally, so comfortably, that it’s hard for me to lock down a precise sequence. However, some specific moments remain etched in my brain: The way Mirth lay directly under Cheer and held her down spread eagled to be used and abused. The way Cheer curled up against Splendor in a fawning, adoring, submissive fashion after receiving a series of exquisite bites on her torso that left bruises visible for days. The way Mirth presented herself face down, ass up so that I could make her squirt profoundly, multiple times, to the delight of our audience.

But more than anything, I will long remember and cherish the feeling of love and adoration that filled the space. Everyone was so incredibly loving, open, giving, accepting, supportive… I was just awestruck. And when I remind myself that this was the first time any of them had ever interacted with the others in anything resembling a sexual context, I hardly know how to respond. I am blessed beyond measure.

The following day was a flurry of glowing messages and photos of spectacular love bites. One of the girls said, “I went into it thinking I was doing it for you. I came out of it knowing I did it for me.” I find both ends of that so beautiful, it makes me tear up. That any or all of them would consider doing such a thing for me is an honor I can barely comprehend. That it became such a beautiful, shared, mutual experience for all three of them just fills my heart with joy and love.

The bravery and openness of these women completely awes me. I fail to see how I have earned it, but they assure me I have. I’m going to bust my ass trying to live up to the person they think I am.

26. July 2006 · 2 comments · Categories: Uncategorized · Tags: ,

Bad timing and an extraordinary hot spell conspired to reduce our chances for sex to nil. So it was a great relief when the situation improved enough for M to summon me back to bed this morning. I went downstairs, shrugged my nightshirt over my shoulders and slid between the sheets, a little too cool in the morning for the first time in ages. I laid on my back and M curled against my side, an arm draped over my chest and a leg across my thighs. We curled, cuddled and caressed, tossing and turning to kiss, nuzzle and stroke. I kept the pace very slow, drawing things out, resisting the urge for a fast, savage fuck.

My hands roamed freely over her body, kneading her buttocks, gripping each cheek, pulling to open her cleft, squeezing it tightly together again. I drew my fingertips along her torso, counting the ribs, making her squirm at the occasional ticklish point. She leaned over me and I raked both hands across her back, lightly dragging my nails enough to make her arch her back like a purring cat. My hands found their way to her legs, stroking her flanks and settling at the top of her inner thighs. I petted and stroked there for the longest time, marveling at the baby-soft flesh. I strayed as high as possibly without touching her lips, teasing her, listening to her gasp, feeling her squirm under me. Before long I had ample evidence my teasing was working, as her thighs were moist from her drooling cunt. I inched just the barest bit higher, until the side of my hand whispered against her dripping lips. M found my neck and bit hard as I taunted her.

I pressed my fingers directly against her sopping twat, slipping side to side against her clit, pulling a gasp and groan from her. I pinched her lips and clit hood, the slick folds of skin squirting from between my fingers. I rubbed for several seconds, and then pulled back before she spilled over into an orgasm. M groaned in frustration and reached down to wrap her hot palm around my cock. She squeezed my shaft firmly, and I tortured her again, roughly rubbing her to a peak and then backing away before she found the release she craved.

M tossed her head from side to side, her hair splaying on the pillow. “Why won’t you give it to me? Why won’t you let me cum?”

“Are you begging me? How badly do you want it? What will you do for me?”

“Anything! I’ll do anything you want! I’ll be your little cum slut, I’ll milk your cock with my cunt, just .. please, give it to me!”

I continued toying with her pussy as she begged, rubbing her to the brink of orgasm, then pulling my hand away. “You’ll be my fuck toy? Service my every whim?”

“I will, I promise! Just let me cum, please!”

With that, I pinched her clit hood firmly, then rubbed aggressively. She started a prolonged crying orgasm, and I continued rubbing through her peak until her cries grew sharp, and then I pressed firmly against her clit until I could feel her blood pulse. Her thighs locked rigid for several seconds, an then as soon as she started to move, I attacked again, ruthlessly driving another orgasm from between her thighs, smearing her own cum all over her thighs and lips, and she groaned in relief again.

As soon as her eyes could focus again, M sat up on her knees and straddled my lap. My cock still in hand, she angled it straight up and sat down with a satisfied grunt. She pumped up and down several times, wriggling to get as low on my cock as she could. As she lifted one time, I reached down and spread her lips obscenely, and when she dropped low again, her bare clit slapped against my pubic bone, and she cried with surprise. We rocked together for several minutes, my hips driving up against her thrusts, my palms cupping her ass.

I put my hands on her shoulders and pushed M backwards. She leaned far back, arching her back, bracing herself with her hands against my shins. I gave her a wicked smile and made of show of licking my thumb before sliding it down to the wet junction of our bodies. I stroked once up her clit and her back convulsed. I set my hips rocking gently as I continued to finger her clit, making her shout at first, and then crying as she was wracked by another climax. As soon as she peaked, she leaned forward and started grinding against me with vigor. Her tight little pussy spasmed against my cock, milking me as promised. We started thrusting in concert, racing towards my own orgasm. I held her hips firmly and battered against her, selfishly chasing my own release until my balls tightened and I fired my load inside her. My hips bucked upwards and held her off the bed for several seconds until my throbbing subsided and I could unclench again.