Unprotected

Sex is a big deal for me. It carries so many physical and emotional risks that, despite my slutty sensibilities (sex is lovely! Sex is good! Have lots of it!) it's really not someplace I'm willing to go with just anybody. I need so much from another person in order to feel like I'm safe. But when I have that, it's wonderful -- that same vulnerability that frightens me so much is something I value more than almost anything.

When Ben visited me this March, I spent a week feeling totally overwhelmed, flooded with all the scary old emotions from before . . . but safe, controlled. This time it wasn't a free fall -- we'd talked about everything we could possibly think to talk about, over and over again, because for months we'd had nothing but talk, and pictures, and the occasional webcam thing. This time he knew where I was at with everything, and there he was, ready and willing to handle it, not running away screaming from my more neurotic moments. There was no need to protect myself -- I was safe.

The first night we fell asleep holding hands. We'd been running around trying to see the other people who had missed him and wanted his company, and by the time we got home I knew he was exhausted -- as much as I wanted to rip his clothes off, it seemed better to let him have his rest.

I woke up around five in the morning, went to the bathroom, got some water, and then attempted to crawl over him back to my side of the bed without waking him. I was sure I'd succeeded, but no -- all of the sudden there were hands on my hips, pulling me back on top of him, pressing me down on his cock.

I'd never fucked a man without a condom before. I was sure it couldn't be that different, that everything I'd heard about the sensation was exaggeration. It wasn't. Exaggeration, that is. It was very different. There was so much heat, and I could feel every little pulse and throb that went through him. I was dripping wet after being teased all day, and having missed him for months, and I was sure I'd never wanted anything so much before. For maybe a minute we tried to go slow, to savor it, to be sweet with each other, but I'm no good at that. I'm not patient about sex, and while Ben is much moreso than I am, he is not patient after nine or so months apart. He gripped my hips hard and rocked me back and forth just how he wanted me, and I . . . well, I probably woke up my neighbors.

I'd never felt a man come before. Of course, there's often a kind of shudder, maybe a groan or a crying out, so I know. But Ben is quiet, so quiet, and more prone to go still than to jerk or squirm in pleasure. I can see his responses on his face (the blissful half smile, the closing eyes) but in the dark I might have missed it if not for that pulse again, stronger this time, and the warmth and the wet. He pulled me down to him and we lay curled together, breathing heavy. I was shivering like I usually only do after playing especially long and hard.

A condom is just a thin layer of latex. There shouldn't be any particular significance to using one or not, aside from safety concerns (which any number of loving, trusting couples may still have.) But for me . . . unprotected sex is an enormous symbol of trust. It says, "I do not need to protect myself here." And that is the lesson I've learned over the last year or so with Ben. That I am happier when I accept vulnerability, when I don't keep distance between us.

Valentine once said that if we were ever both single (though he didn't really want that) and tested negative for STI's, he'd love for us to have sex without a condom. We are so far from a world in which that is possible that I just bit my tongue, but the answer would be no. I care for him, and I trust him, and there's no rational reason why not. But he's a friend. A wonderful friend, but "friends" isn't enough for me to go there. Right now I can't imagine it with anyone but Ben.

I'm so happy to trust someone this much. It's kind of amazing to me, to reject the physical and emotional boundaries I've always insisted on. We had a lot of sex that week. Then in June I went to DC to see him, and we had a lot more sex. And it's nice to have something that is just ours, that we don't do with anyone else. We're not exclusive, so sex is not that thing. Unprotected sex is. So okay, maybe it's silly, but it makes me really damn happy, even if it means washing a lot more sheets. I like being unprotected.

Months later . . . Magic, part II

He shut the door behind us and pushed me against it, pulling my shirt over my head and kissing me roughly while I, pinned so tightly I could scarcely move, attempted to kick off my shoes. He pushed my skirt down off of my hips, and dug his nails in, a little reminder of earlier. "Upstairs," he said. I hurried upstairs.

I perched on the bed, smiling up at him, ankles crossed, knees demurely pressed together. It's hard to be ladylike when I'm naked, heart thumping hard in my chest, ready to spring and pounce and take what I want, but I needed to be patient. He had plans for me.

He grabbed me by the nipple and twisted, and my composure went to pieces. I squirmed and whimpered and opened my legs, pressing up toward him with my hips. "Sit up," he told me, and I took a deep breath, made myself wait and offer my hands and ankles for the cuffs. The chain collar came last, comfortably heavy around my kneck. He turned me around and put me on my knees on the bed, attaching the wrist cuffs to the ankle cuffs between my legs.

"Um. May I have a pillow, please?" I asked. I lifted my head from where it was pressed agains the comforter, and he tucked one under. "Thank you."

I closed my eyes and listened to him moving around the room. Soon he was standing behind me, nudging my legs further apart with his knee. He parted my labia with his fingers and slid something cool and slick inside. I pressed back against it -- the Hitachi wand, of course -- and groaned as it pressed just so inside me. He flipped the switch and I gasped.

I was half-incoherent already when the flogger's tails first landed on me. He hit my back and shoulders for a while, pausing every now and then to manipulate the wand, pressing it deeper or tilting it to make me moan and squirm. I rocked my hips back and forth, fucking it breathlessly, startled by how good it felt inside me. The sting of the flogger made me yelp, then laugh. He switched to beating my ass and I was gripping the comforter, making deep-inside moaning sounds.

Then he stopped flogging me. He gripped the wand and worked it in and out, grabbing my hip with his other hand. It brushed against that place again and I couldn't think. He was using it to fuck me bruisingly hard. I tried to hold back the little whine of desire and it escaped anyway. He slowed it down, tilted the wand up and then down again, and I went quiet. It was all I could do to breathe, in and out, deep breaths, taking in air suddenly a conscious task instead of a reflex. The wand was buzzing so sweet, so perfect inside of me, angled just right, and I shook, my legs and my hips and my elbows on the bed trembling and a little oh coming unbidden to my lips.

When he turned the wand off, I wanted to collapse, but I couldn't the way I was bound. I flopped awkwardly on my side, taking a second to form words. "I think I just came," I said.

"Oh, really?" I wasn't watching his face, but I knew the arch of his eyebrow, the faintest smirk.

"I've never come from penetration. I didn't know I could, so I wasn't expecting it, so I don't think I ought to be in trouble for it."

He laughed, ruffled my hair with his long fingers. "I'll take that into consideration."

I got a spanking later, but it was made very clear that it was just for fun.

It's been a while

I realized today I haven't posted here since November. That's okay, really -- I keep this blog for my own enjoyment, and as a student with two jobs who is also attempting to keep acting, I don't have a ton of spare time. Trying to write a post every week or something like that would, with my schedule, quickly leech out the enjoyment.

But also, I haven't needed it so much. When I first started writing here I didn't have many people I could talk to about BDSM or my desire to be submissive. Those I could talk to, I was failing to talk to -- I got shy, and spoke in very general terms, or avoided the conversations altogether. I needed this space to sort myself out, to think through what I wanted and why.
These days I understand more or less what I want. When I don't know I have other people to use as sounding boards -- Ben, Valentine, the members of my local community, which I'm getting more involved in . . . And I'm getting what I want. I don't spend my time craving what I lack. Well, mostly. I do miss Ben like crazy, and I think about that a lot. But I'm flying out to D.C. to see him at the end of May, and I've got my memories of his visit in March (when I have a little more time to write I should definitely cover that here.) I keep a daily journal on another site, which he can read, where I write about the tasks he sets for me and about my fantasies, and much of my energy goes into that. I wear these each day, and who knows? If we survive this long distance thing for the year that's left before I graduate, maybe I'll move out there.

So, I'm still alive, after all these months. Maybe I'll even write something one of these days.

D:

To add to my mental list of 'reasons obedience is a good idea:'

• requests to come much less likely to be denied.

I've gone nearly two weeks without an orgasm. It doesn't sound like much, and I'm sure others have gone much longer, but damn. I'm not used to this.

May I just say . . .

YES WE FUCKING CAN!

And we did. I am proud to be an American today.

Magic: part one of two

Another story from D.C.:

At a shop just outside the city, Ben bought a Hitachi Magic Wand. The clerk wrapped it up and we headed home with our prize. We still had plans for the day, so there wasn't time to stay and play, but he plugged it in -- just to try it, he said. He took out the attachment it had come with, eyed the blue phallic curve. "Subtle," he said, in the sort of deadpan that hides a grin. He stuck it onto the end of the wand. Then he shoved me down onto the bed, straddled my legs, and pushed my skirt up above my thighs, dragging his nails over my skin. He pressed the head of the wand into my inner thigh. The vibrations shot through my whole pelvis. I saw one corner of his mouth twitch; that smug, considering look of his. Oh, really. And what happens if I do this? Then he twirled the wand in his hands, rolled it over to press against my vulva.

I yelped. Tried to squirm away. "Too much! Come on, your friends are probably wondering where we are."

He laughed and pushed it against me harder. I may have whimpered. This was the kind of toy to wrench an orgasm out of you, I remember thinking.

Then he swung his leg over mine, used it to nudge my thighs apart. Parted my labia with his fingers and slid the slick blue thing into my cunt, pressed a hand down on my chest to keep me still until I stopped struggling. I gave in. Rolled my hips up towards him. Fuck me. Please? I didn't ask, but he knew what I wanted. He rocked the toy back and up, pressing the tip against that lovely spot inside of me -- there, yes -- and I groaned, caught my lip between my teeth, gripped his knee with my hand.

He pulled the wand away. I lay there for a moment, panting, as he wiped it down and put it away. "You'd better get your shoes on," he told me, his grin belying his nonchalant tone. "We're running late."

On Rules and Why I Like Them

I've never done the 24/7 thing. I don't think I'd want to. I don't feel a strong desire to be "owned," either. Either I'm too damn stubborn about doing things my way, or maybe it's too big a commitment for me, I don't know.

But I wouldn't call myself strictly a bedroom sub, either. There's a part of me which wants very much to belong to someone. What's the difference between that and being owned? I don't know. It's difficult to pin down and make into something articulate. Similarly, I want a loving relationship with a dominant person at some point, but I do not want a master or mistress. Although that may just be because titles make me giggle, I don't know.

Somewhere in here comes my thing about rules.

I like having rules made for me. I like it a lot. And rules have been a part of my BDSM play almost from the beginning.

The very first night I spent with Ben, we played with another friend. It was mostly about she and I, him only on the periphery, tying knots and occasionally adding a smack or a scratch. The second night was just the two of us. He and I went over a checklist. We explored what I was enthusiastic about, and a few of the things I was unsure on. It was hot, and revealing, and that was when I knew I was a masochist, at least, although I wasn't sure about this "submissive" thing.

But the first real night, months later, when we'd been apart and I'd had time to think, the first night we slept in the same bed, I started to realize maybe I was a sub after all. I fell back onto the pillows with my hands above my head and left them there until he pinned them, held me, tied me down. He bit and kissed my neck. With two fingers inside me, he drew circles on my clit with his thumb, and when he heard my breath drawn in ragged, he told me, "If you think you're going to come, I want you to ask permission first."

I nodded, bit my lip, squirmed happily under his hand. I didn't come that night -- it's difficult for me, and all the more so with a new partner. But I fell asleep smiling.

There were other rules. If he fingered me, or fucked me with something, I was to say 'thank you' each time. I forgot that one a lot.

When I went to D.C. this summer, I didn't think of these. The morning after I arrived, he tied me to his bed and laid out the rules. Informed me there would be consequences for forgetting so far.

"I didn't know we were playing by the old rules," I told him.

"Of course we are," he said.

"I'll try to remember," I said. "I'm sorry." And I was -- it was important to get it right, to do what pleased him.

There were a few more. No underwear, unless I was specifically told otherwise. If I needed to use the bathroom, I was to ask first ("Nothing to do with piss," he assured me, knowing full well that's a limit of mine. "Just having control of such a basic function. That, and this way you can't just say you need to use the bathroom if something's too much for you -- I might say no. You'll have to use your safeword." I was annoyed at the implication I'd do such a thing. Then I remembered I had, at least once.) I would get his approval before getting dressed, and wear something different if I was told. I was to masturbate every day, but ask before doing so, and only with him watching.

It didn't amount to a lot, ultimately. The structure of my day still looked more or less normal (aside from the hours and hours spent at play -- I only wish that was normal, these days) but there were always rules. Always something to keep in mind. Always something I could do which would please him, even something small. I loved that. Even on a nonsexual level, there is something in that which is comfortable, pleasant to me.

Not to discount the sexual element. There's nothing like wandering around without panties all day to get a girl worked up. Nothing like getting close to the edge and begging to come and realizing the fact that you might be denied will only make it harder to hold off.

So rules. I like rules. I like feeling like I belong to somebody. I like the look on his face when he realizes I belong to him.

We're not setting anything in stone right now. We're neither of us really looking for a relationship, especially a long-distance one. But here we are, just the same, laying out rules. I guess we'll see where it goes.

A shift in dynamics

One thing I love about my life. Things like this happen to me:

Over the course of an AIM conversation with my on-again-off-again lover and playmate, I let slip that I might be just a little, tiny, teensy bit bored with my sex life right now. Not that it's bad, but that there is some element missing, something I am craving which is not present.

We talk a little more, discuss what we might do when next we are able to see each other, bemoan the distance that makes it impossible right now.

Just as I am getting ready to sign off and go to bed, he asks, "What if I made some rules for you?"

"It would depend on the rules," I say, the practical part of my brain overriding the part of me that wants to say yes, please and leave it at that. There are restrictions which wouldn't fit into my day to day life, couldn't be realistically managed, and some which would make me cagey and irritable and resentful. These things have to be discussed before decisions are made.

I wait a moment in internet-silence, then; "For starters, you would have to obtain permission to orgasm. Up to two hours before would suffice."

We go over the practicalities. Yes, that means blanket permission for a session -- no need to wake him up at 3AM if I'm pulling an all-nighter with someone else. Yes, in the absence of a response to a text or voice mail, I should assume I do not have permission. It doesn't sound easy -- what about the spur-of-the-moment things, where, say, I mean to go grab lunch or coffee with Valentine and we stop at home for me to get something and then I'm bent over my kitchen table and he's fucking me? But that's part of the appeal. The challenge. The not always getting what I want. The knowledge that I'll most likely slip at one point or another, and then we'll have to talk about what to do about it.

There are a few more rules. If I want to masturbate, for example, I have my pick of a list of painful things to do to myself, but I must pick one. Little things. It's funny, we'd joked about the idea before, repeatedly, each of us feeling it out in a "safe" way, laughing, not suggesting. But I like this. It's a new layer added to what is already in place. A way of interacting despite the distance, without the ability to reach out and touch.

Now it's just a matter of remembering the rules.

Typecasting

In lieu of a real post, the conversation I had via texts the other night:

Ben: So you haven't seen Spring Awakening, have you?
Me: I have not.
Ben: You really should.
Me: Unless I catch the touring cast, it's not likely.
Ben: I just did. Still don't like it, but there is this one scene,* and if you see it you'll know which it is, that you will laugh very inappropriately at. It may also inspire you to audition, should the opportunity present itself.
Me: Yeah, unfortunately I don't look 15.
Ben: Yeah, but you audition in that purple babydoll dress of yours and mention previous experience exposing yourself onstage in the context of German oppression** and you've got the part. Hell, if they find out you'd be okay with actually being caned onstage rather than faking it, they'd probably throw in an equity card.
Me: I don't think she's supposed to get all smiley when he beats her.
Ben: The phrase "you're not doing it hard enough" begs to differ.
Me: Heh. So if I walk in and tell them I can provide my own realistic bruises . . .
Ben: "THAT'S OUR HITLER."***
Me: So would you see it again if it involved me getting beaten, or would you need more incentive than that?
Ben: For shiz.
Me: Well, if I'm ever getting my ass beaten onstage for that or any other reason, I will be sure to let you know.
Ben: Do.
Me: Now the question is, how to keep them from noticing that I'm 5'10" even in flats?
Ben: You could pull it off. Maybe a little tall, yeah, but more than German-looking enough to make up for it. Just go topless and color your last name in glitter on your resume.
Me: lol. I'll do that.
Ben: Promise? ;)

Ahh. The things that make me smile.

In other news, my show opened last night. The director cried at the reception, and we all had too much champagne. It was wonderful.


*The scene in which Melchior beats Wendla with a stick because she wants to know what it feels like.
** I, uh. Played a stripping Nazi last year.
*** If you haven't seen The Producers, I cannot make this make sense to you.

A wee bit drained

So, I'm working on a new show currently -- a beautiful, smart, interesting show -- and it's been eating up all of my energy and attention span, at least that which isn't spent on work and school. It's exhausting and extremely satisfying. Unfortunately, that makes for a lot of silence blog-wise, despite there still being plenty to write about (although if I don't nab a little more spare time to spend creating material, I will eventually run out.) I do intend to fix this.

Stuff I want to write about at some point:
- further reflections on the trip to DC, including: an excellent party, my first g-spot orgasm ever, and playing by the rules.
- an awkward one-night stand with a friend of mine, and why I told him it won't happen again
- the first time I saw Valentine after spending the summer away
- geeky webcam sex
- experimenting with anal
- bisexuality and dealing with stupid people
- rough sex vs. play

Now that I've got a list, maybe I'll find the motivation to do it! I hope.