I’m no good in humid weather. It makes me fidgety and
unsettled and I can’t bear to be touched. By hands, by clothes, by anything.
This then unsettles the children and leads to a very grouchy household.
To combat this, an emergency night away (for the children)
was hastily arranged with the grandparents and I could take my clothes off and
Time for some sensory integration.
Ice cubes seemed obvious in the heat, but alternating these
with heat and other sensory play was Mr Hunt’s wicked plan for the evening.
Wax has always a temptation and new candles had arrived a
couple of weeks ago, but finding time to play… finding time to breathe has
been hard for a few weeks.
Trussed up, and propped in front of the tv, I was told to
concentrate on the Killer’s Glastonbury set whilst all available skin was set
alight with sensation. Hot. Cold. Sharp. Soft…
Applying patterns bi-laterally combines both play and calming
techniques learnt from occupational therapy and psychology to help me calm and
In the heat, it was just what I needed to chill out.
I think as soon as I became comfortable with anal sex, the idea of being doubly penetrated was on the table. I can’t remember though quite when or how that happened. (However, since I tend to do my own photos, I’m going to throw in I’ve not got comfortable enough to have photos on this post!)
It seems strange now, with easy access to every possible type of sex through the internet, that there was a time when anal sex was not part of a mainstream (plausibly) hetero teenager’s sexual lexicon. Not included in the possibilities of sex in a steamy romance novel.
Some of the girls in my secondary school were selling sex, and I remember becoming aware of anal as a way to have sex that couldn’t get you pregnant, which, in a Catholic school where rubbers were seen as akin to abortion, was important. Looking back, there is a type of nostalgia in remembering how I collected all these little pieces of knowledge and tried to put them together, trying to work out my own sexual identity.
From the age of 13, I would babysit with my sister for a number of families. One couple we regularly sat for would come home with a friend. Over time, we began to realize this friend was someone who shared their bed. There were no obviously unsettling after effects of this revelation to the core relationship, which seemed to function for parenting and other “normal” purposes, just that they were … well words like threesome, non-monogamous, kinky, adventurous even didn’t really trip off the tongue then. They were a little anthropology experiment I observed and thought about without talking about.
That exposure meant when opportunities for a threesome arose, I took them without fear, but as I was happily exploring the descriptor bisexual at this point, these were limited to fleeting f/f/m combinations. Not that there aren’t variations of DP available in this combo, but whether sexual inexperience or my preference for relationships that last more than an hour or two, I didn’t explore.
I’ve been with the lovely Mr Hunt for 17 years. So where does that leave me when it comes to DP?
The night we met, we were two thirds of a threesome. This is not the story we rolled out at our engagement party! It was everyone involved’s first opportunity for a m/f/m threesome and we took full advantage. It speaks to the sexual experience of the men involved though that certain parts were more awkward than others. They had seen porn of m/f/m sex, but the reality of where legs go and accidental contact were a limiting factor. I don’t really know if it helped that they were friends before and remained friends after, but it makes for some entertainingly semi-awkward moments at this point in our lives.
I enjoy being penetrated. The giving over of myself. And penetrative sex is not always about chasing an orgasm. Not all sex is for the same purpose, and, depending on where we are in our relationship and communication, I can be far more satisfied by being used than I am by being given or taking my own pleasure.
This is what appeals to me about DP.
We have many ways of achieving this with stunt double cocks that can be brought into play without adding a third into the mix, although we are not adverse to this in the correct circumstances.
The double penetration toys we have are all about the added sensation for the female partner, with the aim that missionary sex can become more interesting. They work best for us if we are feeling energetic and bendy, with my feet on his shoulders to allow for a rolling thrust, or with me on top. This is fun, but it doesn’t give me everything I want from a DP experience.
Everything moves at once based on whatever penetrative action you’re using, leaving little room for fantasizing there are three people involved. Also, the parts designed for anal stimulation tend to be a little dainty if you really like being fucked anally. (Finally, I have found something that makes me blush!)
Using a seperate dildo/plug gives me a better experience if we are going for a fantasy threesome. Again, just like a threesome, getting bodies into the correct placements can be a bit of an issue, especially if Mr Hunt is going to be driving the toys rather than leaving them passively in place. If I were a skinny slip of a girl then this might be easier, but built for comfort, not speed, means everything is a bit more of a reach and legs don’t fold out of the way as easily now as they did twenty years ago.
These are sexual experiences I would put into the mutual pleasure/chasing orgasms type of sex and sometimes that is exactly what we both want. The toys tend to signify that we are putting extra effort into the occasion, as opposed to a sleepy parental fuck at the end of a long evening. Silent of course, so we don’t disturb the kids.
Sometimes though, being used (or from his point of view, using me) is much more where we are.
With separate toys I like that we can go for double vaginal penetration. I like the stretch and feeling completely filled. Mr Hunt favours this as well, generally going for a toy with texture that he can really feel as he rubs along inside me. My inner submissive wants him to take what he wants, to get to orgasm using me as he might a masturbator. Being stuffed like this fulfills that need.
My favourite form of non-threesome DP doesn’t need toys, just good lube. His hand in my cunt and his cock in my arse. The control, and conversely the complete lack of control, needed to relax enough to take him like that. DP is a way for me to be completely surrendered to Him, but also to what we need from each other.
It’s taken a little while to get used to admitting that anywhere other than in my head.
In fantasy, there is still room for more. Room for Mr Hunt to take control of a DP situation with a living, breathing third, rather than a silicone friend, but that would need the freedom we had when we met, combined with the trust and experience we have now.
To understand how I have experience of PTSD there is a preceding blog for #SB4MH, Child Abuse-a parent’s perspective – but perhaps the title gives it away.
My home, containing two adults and three children, is full of acronyms: ASC (Autism) 4/5, ADHD 3/5, DCD 1/5, PTSD/cPTSD ?4/5. There are also more creative diagnoses including Adjustment disorder, social anxiety, dyslexia, hyper mobility… we read like a diagnostic manual. None of them are easy to explain in a casual conversation when you leap out of the car in a disabled space with two working legs, but they are all disabling in their own way.
These diagnoses can be useful, as they give professionals a road map for communication and helps us reach greater self understanding. They can also be problematic, limiting others’ view of our potential outcomes. It can be exhausting on a personal level to be constantly monitoring which behaviours of ourselves or our children might be affected by which diagnosis. What you challenge, where to support, what to discount…. everything need analysis.
The reason PTSD has a question mark is because it has been difficult persuading the appropriate professionals that Mr Hunt and myself need a diagnosis. It is established we are traumatised and in my case that it is complex, but ongoing properly funded support and treatment relies on a diagnosis. This in turn relies on getting to an appropriate professional who can make the diagnosis, and the gatekeepers to these seem to think we are managing and therefore there is no point. We would question what managing looks like.
I see a psychologist, who has supported our family since 2017. Most of what we do is talking therapy. With my eldest, who has a formal diagnosis, she has tried EMDR, but they were not ready to access it. I’ve tried it also with her, but I struggle to visualize what might happen, probably because of my social imagination issues to do with my autism. She is very supportive of just how battered myself and Mr Hunt are, and also how many complex things from my growing years affect how we have developed different handling of the situation.
There is a quote from Black Beauty which I can’t lay may hands on right now. A passage about selling horses. The price relied on the height of the horse, so to make sure a horse couldn’t be measured properly, unscrupulous dealers would prick their whithers repeatedly, so when the innocuous measuring stick was offered up, they would dance away in fear.
That is pretty much how I feel. Innocuous things can trigger me. And different innocuous things trigger all of the other members of my house, bar the six year old, who has grown up with us all jumping at irrational shadows.
Complex PTSD comes from repeated trauma, often from someone in a position of power or responsibility, commonly a parent but also teachers and peers with whom you desire to build relationships. There has been some discussion between my psychologist and myself as to the links between autism and PTSD of this type. Constantly failing in social or educational situations leaves you battered. Then failures to successfully enter the job market as your condition is not accommodated. When new things hit you, you already are receptive to the trauma rather than resilient to it. The poor emotional and physical learnt responses kick in, even for individual events that for a resilient individual would hardly register.
Feeling isolated and cut off from relationships, as though no one understands you, are symptoms of PTSD, but also potentially symptoms or descriptive of autism. Disassociation is for some people on the spectrum part of their normal. When this is the case, diagnosing PTSD as a separate condition can be difficult.
The main symptom we all share in our household is hyper-vigilance. Being alert all the time and the utter exhaustion that comes with it that makes sleep feel like defeat. Sleep is guilt-inducing. It is rare for any of us to get more than 6 hours sleep… and because the children are exhausted sooner, those six hours for them might be 8pm till 2 and for us might not start till later. That means our sleep is broken by own our insomnia, our childrens’ insomnia and nightmares, intrusive thoughts and each other. We take it in turns to try to catch up when we feel able to sleep, but fit this round work and parenting.
Hyper-vigilance isn’t just being on edge all the time looking for potential abusers grooming their way into our lives.
It is starting fights with shadows about things with only tenuous links to the subject. The PHSE curriculum in school. People who rely on a DBS (criminal record) check to show someone is suitable to work with children. Fights I don’t have the energy for. Some of them justified. Maybe. I can’t tell anymore.
It is not being able to let go of the levels of supervision we were required to have for years, because if it were needed then (it wasn’t) then when would you remove a safeguard now? The idea that because a social worker who has spent 30 minutes with us thinks we are safe with one care worker working alone because that’s all they will pay for, doesn’t mean we can ever settle for that again.
For my eldest child, there are nightmares that have us sitting up sipping tea at 3am and defending their in school exhaustion over aggressively. The words “you just don’t understand” could be true, or they could be the isolation of PTSD. His concentration and attention are shot to pieces. Is it the exhaustion, the PTSD, autism or inattentive ADHD? Does it matter?Flashbacks that leave him reeling and take him by surprise when his mind wanders in class.
For my middle child it is an inability to trust anyone other than me. A need to press against me, sleep with me. I can’t count the nights I lie awake holding him sleeping in my arms.
It has been decided therapy rather than medication is best, but at the moment no-one is paying for them to access anything and nothing is available through the local NHS commissioned services. At the moment that means they are on their own going through it, and we are on our own supporting them. Maybe that is ok? Maybe there is nothing practical we can do beyond loving them?
Mr Hunt is locked down. Getting on with everything and unable to relax unless he is on a boat away from us all. I want to help, but I don’t know how. He has moments when he grinds to a halt and other symptoms I’m going to let him keep private. But there is no doubt he is in trouble.
I have panic attacks when I have to deal with the professionals involved in organizing the children’s care and moments of dissociation so strong the world turns 2-d, like I’ve stepped into a cartoon. Sometimes I can’t leave my bedroom, let alone the house. I do take medication, and it improves things enough to let me keep going.
The children are improving. The nightmares are coming less frequently. The sleep was poor before the PTSD and now they generally stay awake later and sleep more in line with Mr Hunt and myself. Pity we still have an 8pm till 4am six year old.
We complained that we were unable to get support. The government ombudsman awarded us £250 for grief counselling. That paid for one hour and 40 mins of time with a general counselor. Thank heavens for private insurance through Mr Hunt’s employer, as the money stretched much further as co-pay and this has let us keep the psychologist who already knew us and is specifically trained and experienced in autism and PTSD.
Getting better is the dream. Getting there is an uncertain road.
Specifically roots of shame… the Biblical version … that make us cover our bodies and act as though no generation before us (or coming after us) has ever had or should ever have sexual pleasure and a self identity where we feel loved for who we are.
Is shame really a fear? I guess sort of and not at the same time. I fear being shamed, or people trying to shame me. Having made the decision to not feel shamed internally by my sexual preferences, I fear being made to defend them in courts bound by different rules and frameworks. I fear the societal acceptance that I should feel shamed and the impact that could have on my family. I fear changing my behavior, not because I want to based on a reasoned decision, but because I feel shame.
I’m a Christian and I’m not prepared to feel ashamed of that either. This is not me criticising or defending any people of faith or people with none. But I am astounded by the ignorance, within my community and beyond, of social and cultural values surrounding the writing of the Bible and how these may have influenced what was written. How the language used in translation distorts meaning. And even if these could be excused by the reader’s inability to access appropriate history or linguistic teaching, there is a pick and choose nature to what things are labelled Christian or Jewish values and even which rituals are followed by certain areas of Christianity and Judaism and not others, means that to pick one or two sentences and try to enforce them in the 21st century without context and understanding of ritual and the thinking of the time is appalling.
There are no philosophers or teachers appearing in the mainstream narrative whether in churches or the press, willing to take a 21st Century view at how this document was potentially biased by the people who recorded it. No edits or revisions. No leadership from denominational hierarchy.
I don’t want to be associated with extremists within my religion (or even sometimes the mainstream of it!) anymore than all football fans want to be considered rioters. And there was a time, when to be a fan but not a rioter made you an extremist in itself. If I am that type of extremist, I am happy.
The church I attend is made of mix of denominations and is a broad mix people and variations of belief. We have active members of the church in LBGTQ relationships. We do not pay into central systems of wealth accumulation for the church, beyond paying ministers and their pensions and other legal aspects of looking after them as is the right of an employee. We share our building, gifted by a group of denominations, with other churches who lack a home and a myriad of community groups and our rental charges cover the costs of the building upkeep, but do not make a profit beyond a small contingency. Last week when a minister came and talked about about buying families out of bonded slavery in Pakistan and setting up a bank in their local church, so they could access money for medical treatment etc without selling themselves back into slavery, our congregation, full of people with limited incomes, found the money needed to buy a family out. We support the local night shelter, Womens’ Aid and Foodbank with what we can and this includes time and effort and care as well as money. Where practical we open our homes ad share our resources. We have outreach for families with caring responsibilities and additional needs support way beyond adding ramps to the building to increase accessibility, including access to non gender specific bathrooms and visual aids for those needing language support. Our safeguarding policies are robust and proactive to the point of being a daily nuisance.
None of this comes with the bargain you can only access it if you believe what we do.
We certainly have our faults and prejudices however we try to interrogate them. It is just a reminder for those people who might not have met this type of Christianity that it does exist
I will not be shamed by a misreading or misinterpretation of the will or misunderstanding of a man writing a document over two thousand years ago into being framed as Eve. I will not feel ashamed and need to cover myself. I will enjoy sex on a holy day with no ability for that sex to lead to procreation. I will enjoy it everyday. Sex for enjoyment is part of being human and humanity in all its complex ways is a gift. Whoever or wherever you think that gift came from.
And if you believe that God made all of the wonders of creation and you think the prostate and clitoris (and all the other wonderful bits of our bodies that can be delightful under the right circumstances) were not specifically made with joy in mind alongside any practical purposes they serve, then I wonder which other gifts you might be missing out on.
Just think, with this teaching gone we wouldn’t be discussing abortion rules in the States in terms of patriarchal ownership of women’s reproductive rights, or whether same sex couples should be able to marry in Ireland. People wouldn’t be stoned to death for their sexual orientation. Just like Brexit, whatever you think of it, has sucked the political energy and time out of the system and stopped us talking about things that matter, like the collapse of social care and priorities in medical needs, sexual and gender rules creating shame suck away from the positive and kind approach to our world we could be focusing on.
I am not declaring I would like some type of free for all. I just think that some of the narrative clouds the story, and a bit of editing wouldn’t come amiss. I’d rather narrow it down to “Be kind and considerate to yourself and others” and “Love one another”.
so yes… throw biblically based sexual and identity shame in the bin and start with something new.
If you’ve been to my my blog before the following statement will not come as a surprise.
I like to follow instructions.
Although it is a prompt not a hard and fast instruction, my brain can only take it one way.
Soft I have in abundance. It was the focus I was lacking.
In odd moments, this weekend has been a sea of curses as I tried multiple approaches to getting a soft focus on a camera phone, where an appropriate downloadable filter was not available. I tried different fabrics, but due to scars I have a tendency to wear 50+denier even in skin tone tights, so that idea was a no go. I got out the clingfilm and various slightly sticky substances but nothing seemed to quite work how I wanted it.
A couple of interesting shots down though, but nothing quite right, Mr Hunt and his techie know-how can charging over the horizon.
The thing I think I love best about
the online community I have stumbled into is the acceptance that everyone’s
experience is different. There isn’t one path or one goal.
It’s easy to get swept away by mainstream portrayals of sex and especially sex with more kink than a satin blindfold. It can be so many things: beautiful people madly in love; an exotic adventurous activity with no emotional ties; weaponised into a control mechanism for individuals or groups.
What sex rarely seems to be, in media of any type, is slightly old, exhausted, baggy people, muddling through while trying their best to support the people the value most. But that is who we are, me and Mr Hunt.
We hadn’t planned our lives to be this, and our path to a moderately adventurous sex life based on a broadly D/s dynamic seems even more pedestrian. Sometimes we lie in bed and plan a trip out to something openly sex positive that we rarely get to. Sometimes I twist my embarrassed tongue around the description of something kinky I fancy trying. More often I blurt something out when we’re driving somewhere and eye contact or detailed discussion is impossible.
I understand some people know their sexual orientation from very young and others don’t, so I guess similar things apply to how you like sex. I knew I was interested in the power balance and sensory aspects from before my first real sexual experiences. I remember feeling weirdly excited reading stories about dystopian oppression. I developed crushes in school on people who were “of a type”. Gender didn’t matter. It was about an attractive, magnetic, confident persona. Something about the way they looked at and spoke to people. My best friends from primary school on have always had what might be called dominant characteristics.
A particularly memorable early
experience involved a good friend and a heavy, spiky hairbrush. I learnt in
various ways to appreciate the endorphin release of good pain.
But how I got from there to this point in my relationship with Mr Hunt, I’m not really very sure. Tiny steps. With the occasional leap.
Mr Hunt sort of came with me for the ride. But as I said, I crushed on a type, even if he didn’t realise it when we first met and I’m a very lucky lady that he has embraced and researched and thrown himself into every experience I’ve expressed an interest in. It takes a special sort of man to take on a lady who knows kink is a staple of her life, with only slighty spanky porn as his reference point. And he is very special.
I wrote and self published a couple of ebook shorts while the kids were tiny and sleeping in the day, so to be encouraging, and because he knew I’d never go without a shove, he bought me tickets for Eroticon in 2017.
A year on and I went again, with much less shoving. And because they are astoundingly generous with their time, energy and knowledge, there were things to try from Molly and Michael’s toy bag. There was a medical stapler ordered on a very quick shopping app and delivered to a rather bemused Mr Hunt before I even get home.
This is new, because unlike most toys we’ve played with where you can vary intensity, there is either a staple sticking into your skin or there isn’t.
And in a nutshell for me, that is the appeal. It is leaping off a cliff. So much of this adventure can be done hesitantly. But sharp things that pierce the skin are in that split second a done deal.
If anticipation is part of your enjoyment then staples are good, because there is a bit of prep and (if you go for a design) that can be drawn out in touches to sensitise the skin while mapping and planning, as well as making sure the area is clean.
There is also a wide range of placement. Within a range of variance, I guess a large percentage of marks end up on the bottom or backs of legs where you craning in a mirror to see them. Staples can be placed where you can see the immediate aftermath or watch, or be made to watch them happen.
I love the aesthetic of piercing. Of everything from a staple to full on body mods. But when you’re one half of a slightly old, exhausted, baggy couple, with kids and middle class job expectations there is only so much you can change without issue. Staples are great for that. There and then gone so much more quickly than bruises, but with a massive ‘in the moment’ visual rush. I love the look of my skin with metal sticking through it.
I love it even more that I submitted to the person I trust and let them do it. That rush that comes from letting something happen. Of letting go of the decision. Each staple placement is different, and just because one went in easily with little discomfort, the next one might be more painful and I don’t have to worry about it at all. Just be. This hits a particular button for Mr Hunt also.
The trust is deeper than that squeeze of a trigger. Because of the structure and needs of our family life (social workers have inspected my house including the bedrooms again today), we have to be seen to be sticking to a societally approved life plan. In my mind, there is a sort of heirarchy of acts that have a greater societal taboo that we can easily get up to and that appeal. A smack or a slap on the backside is at the bottom of list. Staples come nearer the top. Breaking the skin. Letting or encouraging this to happen shows I willing to break boundaries as an offering of trust. Mr Hunt completing the act shows the same trust in me.
Although I sensory seek for things others would call pain, staples are not as gratifying in that way as some other things. I think the lovely padding just beneath my skin helps with that. In some ways I would like there to be more pressure. A sharper sting. But there are other things out there for that. Or places on my body. Kneecaps, elbows, feet…and I’ll have to stop there or I’ll distract the masochist who lurks deep within. And Mr Hunt will eventually read this…so….oops.
You can play with the sensation when staples are in place. Wobbling them while playing with threads (on a large embroidery needle with a blunt end) or ribbon (so much easier to lay out and staple over) will make you more aware of them…so if you’re after more of the good hurt, this can be fun.
Oh…and they have to come out. Personally, even with the proper remover, this is the bit that makes me flinch.
Mr Hunt wishes there was more mechanical noise with our staplers. A more mechanical feel, like the old desk staplers, even if that was purely manufactured in for the kinky user and not part of the receivers experience. I have, just once, shot myself in the hand with an upholstery style staple gun, the type used for display boards in schools. I think he want a user experience like that, but I, even enjoying a good sensory rush, don’t fancy repeating that experience. It was, I hasten to say, an accident not an experiment.
If you’ve never tried staples and think they are scary because a board stapler is what comes to mind, the experiences are off the scale different. Staples (and this is just the experience of this one particular woman, not general wisdom) are much less scary in practice than in the distant idea or even the immediate anticipation. Quick, potentially beautiful and easy to tidy away without much in the way of marks.
One last word of confidence. Even with my tendency for breaks in the skin to heal slowly (insect bites can take months to heal), staples have not caused an issue.
We are taught by societal convention there is a perfect
woman. Perfect femininity.
Her skin, velvet smooth beneath my fingertips, unmarked, unblemished is part of this image. The only part. Value is given to pale beauty that intimates untouched purity as much as it does temptation.
We are taught that
the curve of her waist and hip should be soft. Enough to cushion their partner
who is angular and hard. Not too padded though. That a fat woman could ever be
considered attractive is fetishized or given cultural overtones of wealth and
Fuck them all.
Her unblemished skin is only of interest to me because I get
to mark it.
The way her body takes rope gives me aesthetic pleasure. Not
just restrained but segmented. Portioned. Flesh blooming in cushions between
the neat, taut lines. Her body talks to me. Rolls of soft flesh around her
middle that quiver as she laughs. As she comes.
That laugh. There is nothing pure or innocent in the joy and
mischief she can communicate in a giggle.
She giggles now, as I balance astride her. Relief that we
have reached this point. Nervous anticipation of what comes next. Jiggling
boobs and gasped breaths.
My woman. Spread beneath me. Beautiful.
I will work to the death to deserve the confidence she shows
in me when she gives her body over to my keeping. She inspires ferocity.
Comfortable with being bound, too comfortable sometimes,
rope is often a decoration. Not tonight. She would have lain across the bed
like this if I asked it of her. Stretched her arms above her head and crossed
her wrists. Dangled her feet from the knee so she couldn’t push up. But there
is a difference between her holding a position and me creating it. Insisting on
it. Enforcing it.
Tonight there is power in the taking.
She licks her lips, hoping to entice a kiss. I give her one,
taking the pale crest of her breast into my mouth. The lovely softness before
resistance. Skin tightening reactively against my tongue. Filling my hands, I
smoosh them together, trailing kisses and nibbles and bites, dipping my tongue into
the crevasse of my own making.
I feel her tremble between my thighs. Laughing.
I bite down. Tilt my head to glare at her beneath my lashes,
giving her the visual of her heavy flesh suspended by stretched nipple from my
The giggle turns breathless, and within the confines of the
rope she tries to arch. Eyes widen. I revel in the experience, ever new, of leading
her from easy intimacy to something sharper. Even when she knows its coming,
knows our plan, there is surprise when we meet that edge.
Opening my mouth, I let go and feel the bounce. Stay with
the slight wince that tightens the corner of her eyes as blood rushes back to
bruise. With her solid gaze that tells me she is with me here. Walking the
There is a shared concentration between us as I unroll a
length of tape and pass it behind her neck and under her boobs, bringing them
together to create a tighter cleavage. A few minutes of creativity later and I
can sit back and admire my hand-made demi bra cutting into and taming their
fullness. Pause to take photos.
I turn the screen to show her. All those little expressions that run across her face. I run my finger down the place I know has brought the hint of frown, where a messy ridge of swollen creamy breast overspills the sharp edge of tape. Pinch the purple tipped nipple I’d bitten, knowing how much she loves the bruises.
All of her. I want her to love all of herself. To see beauty
in the curve and crease.
I want to see my marks, add them to the final images of this
evening. Take my time sucking and biting and pinching. Playing with the gift of
nature which are her nipples. How they stretch. Tighten. Flush and bruise.
Crenelate into puffy peaks like thick icing and sweeties topping the best fairy
A work of art. The fake whirr and snap of the camera
captures my view and my mind races ahead picturing the images edited to highlight
the unctuous richness of her body and the cruel touch I brought to it.
Desecration has rarely created a more perfect image, and yet, I feel there is scope to improve.
Cheeks flushed and wet mouth open she is beautiful. Tears weave
a damp trail to her hair. I kiss her to savour their salt.
Wiping my kisses from her skin feels cruel in a new way.
Clinical. The crisp antiseptic biting through the heavy scent of our combined sweat
and lust. Stripping her feel from my fingertips. The moment shift from organic
to mechanical, from lust to process, but her eyes on my face don’t lose their
need. Her body focuses on disinfectant dampened skin, breaths even but shallow.
Satin ribbon lies precisely across her chest. Tonight, she
had an image in mind and I will create it. This is not completely new to us,
but this is the first time face to face. First time those reactions will be
laid bare, untranslated, for me to read. The dichotomy of wanting to have first
sight of the metal piercing her skin and of watching that moment in her eyes is
I line up the staple gun across the ribbon and realise I can
have both. Hold her gaze, before squeezing the trigger handle.
I know that first release that I will always want to be working on her front when we do this. However beautiful the patterns on her thighs or back, I want this. The everything of her reactions from the tension in her limbs to the sound that doesn’t know how to mark the surprise, is topped by the flash in her eyes that takes us from anticipation through sensory invasion to that look. That look that is indescribable and makes me ache for her.
Her skin barely flushes around the entry sites. I smooth the
ribbon and place the gun again.
Squeeze. I wish this shared the false sounds of the camera, because
I notice the silence where I expect the heavy mechanical clunk of a desk
stapler. Would like the metal puncturing her body to come with more fanfare.
Carefully I fold the ribbon to create a laced pattern. The
image she wanted was of tight lacing, but straining the catch points will make
her hiss with the sting. I only want that sound when I want it, not
Place the gun. Catch her gaze. Squeeze. Fold the ribbon.
We are in our own bubble, our whole focus the framed by her captured
arms and the shiny tape.
Place the gun. Catch her gaze. Squeeze. Fold the ribbon.
Her breath barely hitches. I jostle the ribbon through the
hoops, pulling it more snug and feel my face crease into a smirk at the
slightly strangled moan she emits. It is funny to feel more connected to her
body than my own.
Place the gun. Catch her gaze. Squeeze. Fold the ribbon.
Tie the bow. Capture
Her skin demarcated by rope and bondage tape. Cream velvet stretched over generous, ripe flesh. Marked, bruised and pierced with dull metal staples. This beautiful image.
I’ve been gone from my blog for 10 days, so although this post is all about the picture there are some words alongside.
I started writing in 2017, after my lovely husband sent me to Eroticon. I managed to sustain content for a little while until the first parenting crisis derailed me. My confidence knocked, I pulled myself together and started again in Spring 2018. I lasted until June and more parenting. I’m going to work hard to not be derailed this year, even if sometimes I need to step away to deal with life.
Mr Hunt and I have three children with a variety of additional needs. Parenting crises come with more regularity than the local bus service. We are called to be advocates for activities able people take as right, access to education, to social groups, to sport. For the right to have appropriate support that feels safely staffed in both the individuals we can afford to pay and the appropriate ratios. And then we do all the things normal parents do…
The stress of this on our relationship is immeasurable. We both work from home and yet to communicate we send each other emails. Meeting invitations direct from our calendars to find time when we can speak to each other face to face.
We fight hard to remember the promises we have made each other through the midst of everything. Spoken and unspoken. To love, honour, cherish and obey. In every context.
This week we went to court for the right for our eldest to have an appropriate education. I was away from my blog preparing answers to the 500 pages of evidence the local authority put in place to say why we couldn’t have the placement we wanted. Why he wasn’t that special. I couldn’t afford professional support so we had no new professional evidence of need or a paid solicitor to combat the one the local authority paid to oppose us.
We won. The LA conceeded on everything, which really goes to show we should never have had to fight for it in the first place. We go back to court next month to legally tie down everything agreed and to force health and social work to contribute to planned long term support.
There has been no exuberance. No celebration meal. The result of winning was complete and utter exhaustion.
But last night…
…it takes planning to have an night together. One child at Scout camp, one to a sleep over with another autism mummy, one to the grandparents.
Getting “in the mood” on queue is hard, but these opportunities so rare we can’t waste them either. And what would wasting it look like? Lying on the sofa watching a movie? Falling asleep at 8pm because we can? Failing yet again to give what we perceive we owe our partner?
We plan. It’s not that spontaneous is gone for good, but for now having a plan works best for both of us. So last night was “Staples” for Kink of the Week. Something we’d played with a little before, knew we enjoyed, but really has to be saved for a night like this.
Still, we were tense. Trying to clear the physical space for some play meant picking up a thousand pieces of lego. We snapped at each other trying to get organised. He couldn’t find the ribbon. I wanted to relax into it, but tried to fuss over the details like finding scissors, then gave up, then was cross when he’d forgotten them.
There was no meeting of minds. No way to access the dynamic we both wanted. But he can’t control me like that and I can’t control him.
I can only get to grips with myself and make the offer. Push things from my mind and let the openness to him become the central pillar of thought. Remember, cognitively, that I trust him.
Hope he is going through the same thought process.
Stretched out on the duvet I was closer, but not there. He went through the mechanics of getting ready, some of which I could feel but we didn’t communicate. I really didn’t want those staples. Instead of the beautiful quietness I get from a scene, my head was asking all sorts of logical questions about pain and damage.
This isn’t a matter of responsibility. I could have said nothing and gone with whatever happened. He could have read that I wasn’t feeling it. Perhaps he did. But he knows me. I ideally prefer to push through, rely on discipline. Because the underlying anchor in our lives is that I trust him in all things.
I am frustrated that tonight when I want to demonstrate that trust, I can’t. I have to remind myself it is not a failure to need to stop and talk more. I never feel he’s failed me when he the need is reversed.
His palm cracks down on my backside. Hard. Unexpected. Needed. Again and again. Loud and sharp like a bunch of balloons popping.
His jeans clad thigh pushed roughly between mine, his weight on me.
The harder it is, the more we need to communicate.
I run out of writing here… because the stuff in my head about what happened next can not be tied up in words.
Suffice it to say we found our flow. Our dynamic.
A little footnote here is when we were gathering supplies on Saturday evening, the failure to plan hit home. Although we’d known this was coming, neither of us had checked the width of ribbon we needed for the staples, and the only decent lengths we had to hand were left over from the making of our wedding invitations years ago. My dress and veil were stored in the same box…so getting them out for photos just seemed to be the thing to do! But having come to write this piece, it seems an important emphasis on how we focus on each other, how we picture our dynamic and how we operate day to day, whether parenting or playing.
If staples are of interest, please check out my to companion pieces, a fictionalized account Fierce, and A Staple of my Life which has a little more detail. 😉
I would love to tell you it was a long, hot summer, but I suspect
it was grey and drizzly. It was the summer I took my GCSE exams, and as they
were over by mid June, it was the awakening summer of young adult novels.
It wasn’t that I led a sheltered life. I defy anyone to go
to Catholic co-ed secondary school and come out without at least observing a
very wide range of experience. At the same time, my then undiagnosed autism
made me feel like I was in a bubble, not really part of world I walked through.
I was very fortunate to be part of a group of friends. I think at the time I
thought they were all friends with each other and I was the hanger on, but now
I realise just how much they really looked out for me and included me without
realising why I was always the one asleep in doorways at parties.
I was weeks shy of turning 16, and never been kissed, which was why my friends fixed me up with a guy at a local music festival. I’m not sure I’d ever met him before, and probably not since, but he was someone’s much older cousin and I’d had enough cider this seemed like a good idea, so off we went into the woods.
A very few minutes later, I was naked to the waist, exposed on my back in the leaf litter, feet from the public footpath. I remember the sky through the trees, how hot and wet his mouth seemed on chilled skin and the scent and feel of leaf mould beneath and around us. The rustle of other people finding their way into the woods for the same experience. Skin wet with rain. Feeling the strangeness of his hard dick pressing against me, rutting against my thigh.
I don’t think I realised at the time that so much later in
my life I would still think of that experience. How much it would filter
through everything I’ve grown to enjoy.
It didn’t matter who he was. That was something I learnt about myself that day. Books had been a great source of information and I now knew life was far more Jilly Cooper than Mills and Boon. I wanted the experience, the sensations, more than I wanted a grand romance. I wanted those hard fingers pushing beneath my clothes. Wanted him to use me to get off.
I wanted Lysander’s moment dancing to Blue Pearl in the
garden. I was prepared to be that unashamed.
I wanted the risk of discovery.
For an otherwise “good girl”, this was a strange juxtaposition.
Being scientific, I repeated the experiment to try to work out why. As often as I could.
It’s easy to see this through this light of adulthood and think
maybe this is how I choose to see it now, but in a box beneath my bed are my
diaries and writing from the time in beautifully teenage handwriting. In words
I didn’t know I tried to explain things I didn’t understand. I rolled the problem
round in crap poetry trying to work out whether I was making powerful decisions
or doing things to fit in with what I thought I should be doing.
As a teenager living at home, you don’t have a bed to take people to… but living caught between countryside and coast there were plenty of places to be alone enough. My favourites were open spaces. The beaches, just over the tidal lip from the car parks. The sheep runs in the bracken on the moor tops. The Victorian Park in the sodium orange night.
At Uni I had my own room, but that was my space. Being somewhere untraceable was a type of emotional safety and security of its own, even when it went wrong. And it did go wrong. It was still that strange mix of taking control and risking it all to fate. Of the freedom to roam as a wild animal in the urban jungle as both predator and prey.
The scratches and bruises from being pressed into rough
walls were the first marks that made me feel proud.
I’ve been with my husband for a long time now, and we are
settled and domestic and middle class. I’m am still the same good girl I was at
15. Which is why, after the kids are safely tucked in bed most evenings, when
the temperature is bareable, we can be found naked in the garden.
It feels right to be an animal in its natural environment. We are cautious and polite to our neighbours, carefully cultivating a wall of trees for privacy and a well draped gazebo, but the house is full of commitments and obligations and the garden is quiet of those.
I am a sensory led being and outside there is so much stimulation. Temperature, air movement and scent fill my mind, pushing away domestic worry. A different quality of quiet than inside the home, full of creatures and people making their own way through time and space. People who need nothing from me.
I feel free.
We can just be us. Human animals. Skin on skin, if we want.
We can be exhibitionist whilst not, silently fucking feet away from a busy footpath, safely tucked behind a brick wall. Hidden from overlooking windows by the soft blanket of night.
We can be creative. Whilst heavy duty fixing points would look odd in the house, outside they are just overly cautious fixing points for hanging baskets and washing lines.