An outward sign of an inward grace

Lillith’s words in the introduction to her new meme have given me confidence to share here.

BDSM in all its facets and ideas is a place for many people with very different concepts.

We all know those kink representative images – pictures with various BSDM concepts. And while a concept might be true for one, it might not work for another. Because there is No True way.”

I don’t know if how Mr Hunt and I structure and share our relationship is the same as anyone else, but it is our way. We stumbled and fell into who we are by happy accident and created our own grace.

Our grace is the strength and energy we draw from each other and from the structure of our relationship. The honour and credit we bring to each other through our behaviours.

Looking back on my life before the lovely Mr Hunt, I can trace and track all the loose threads that are now the life we’ve woven together. I can see where in his life his personality and desire to be in control first started to develop and the life choices he made that began to mould him into someone willing and able to be in control. All the messy relationships I developed with people where I relied on friendship to give me the structure I needed to deal with the world were me searching for someone who could give me what he does.

After a hook-up, the lovely Mr Hunt had to travel with work for an extended period and we spent time conversing by email. This was in the dark ages. I would write a letter on my computer and save it to floppy disk. The next day I would take it to work and add the letter as an attachment to an email to him and download any rely from him to the same disk. That evening I would devour every detail and write back in return.

In this communication we established lots of things. I won’t pretend it wasn’t cheesy. To begin with, we tiptoed around descriptions of our sexual experience and preferences in euphemistic terms, partly in case our messages were intercepted, and partly because neither of us were adept flirters. I still have the letters somewhere, but I distinctly remember very early on that he “enjoyed taking the wheel” when it came to sex. By the time he was due to return, we had advanced to distinctly kinky and detailed fantasies which established a sexual dynamic between us. More importantly, we set out lots of our social and emotional goals in those letters and that negotiation meant when we could be together, we had a strong foundation.

I was in my mid twenties and had already discovered and labelled my submissive desires, but I was ashamed of the breadth of my desire to relinquish control. It seemed to me you were allowed to be sexually submissive as a choice, but you shouldn’t be submissive as a life characteristic. There was lots of should and ought language in my thoughts. I should want to and be able to make decisions for myself. I ought to have a plan for the next stage of my life. With a degree under my belt, I should handle my finances and correspondence without approval from another person. Being a strong, independent woman was the life goal I should want and didn’t.

Everything about our relationship has grown organically from those early letters. We fit together, balanced but different in what we bring to the table. We started to use language to define our relationship as D/s as a choice and not because I was too flaky to adult, but because I was happy and trusting in him to help me with things I didn’t enjoy. He appreciates the domestic things I can do for him and our children which I find easy to do for them but would unmotivated to do for myself. He supports my career, which sees me fighting for the rights of my clients and supporting their development, again something easy to do for others, but not myself.

Growing like this, a collar as a symbol of significance has never really been important to us. We don’t transition from being us as a couple to us ready to engage in play or a scene. We just are.

Who we are in the privacy of our home doesn’t need an outward sign to be real and important. We don’t have many friends with whom we could share openly our dynamic: we did however express ourselves ceremonially, hidden in plain sight. I promised to love, honour and obey, and for Mr Hunt to cherish, it was no casual choice of words. To us, it was one moment where we could freely express our dynamic and relationship openly and honestly in front of our friends. We exchanged tokens, our rings, and for all intents and purposes, my wedding ring is my collar.

Ten years into our married life, domestically everything was a mess, with three young autistic children and several other strands of difficulty happening. But for us the dynamic, that I look to him to lead and he expects me to trust was more important than ever. And a collar even less so. I couldn’t wear anything round my neck without a child sucking it or pulling on it.

I read voraciously, and tried to be careful to choose fiction that had awards that suggested realism in the relationships portrayed. I found and read blogs as did he. It seems to me, for many people in a D/s relationship, a collar is the outward sign of the grace of their relationship, but aspects like collars and rituals didn’t apply to who we were. Mr Hunt says “That type of ceremonial or play symbol, it’s not that it has no meaning and I can see for others it can be imbued with deep significance, but perhaps our approach is bourne of pragmatism. We don’t break out of our vanilla lives to have sex or other interactions with a dynamic that is different to our daily pattern. A supportive, constructive type of D/s is our daily pattern.”

He is my protector. I am aware how my tendency to assume a submissive role in any relationship including friendship and professional relationships, can leave me in a position of tremendous vulnerability. It makes me extremely high maintenance, because I need protecting, mainly from myself and my desire to give of myself in many forms to make others happy. If a collar were a way of signifying to the rest of the world that to get to me, you would have to come via his gatekeeping, we would both jump at the opportunity.

He is the scaffolding through which I can grow my life. I can be safe inside it’s shape, but I can grow and reach out supported safely.

Sex is the glue that holds us together. Sleepy sex at bedtime with his hand on my throat. The random fuck in the middle of the day, because he felt like it. The detailed pre-planned exploration that included booking a babysitter so he could force me to be loud. Like the rest of life, he is the safe structure from which I can push through boundaries. Sensory boundaries. Mental boundaries.

Sex is just a metaphor for the whole of our relationship.

When he wants to show his possession, he leaves his mark, either as bruises, or given then can be difficult to explain away to little eyes, with temporary tattoos across my skin. I haven’t been away from him without his name signed on my body for a long time. I have a gold necklace which we thought of as a kind of touchstone collar I could wear if I was away from him, but it never quite had the feel of permanence of my wedding ring.

We both love playing with rope, and before the aborted Eroticon this spring, I asked if he would make me a collar that I could wear, knowing it would be recognised as an outward sign of who I am. It is beautiful, and some of the rope shots on my blog from earlier this year show me wearing it. I love how it feels because similar to being able to drape oneself in a pride flag for the first time and feeling the magic of acknowledging one belongs in that community, it gives me a sense of joy to take pride in being submissive.

While an outward sign of our relationship, beyond our rings, is not necessary, an outward sign to those who would recognise it that I am proud of being submissive would be lovely. A sign of how far I’ve come within the security of this relationship.

But the actual collar has no spiritual or magical feel for me, which is probably just as well since I’ve caught two of my children trying it on, having found it hidden in my underwear drawer or under my pillow. Nothing physical is sacred in this house as autistic children have little idea of boundaries.

And on that note, I am currently collarless. Under C-19 advice from my workplace, my hands are bare of my rings, including my wedding ring. He took his off in solidarity that same day in March. They are tucked away on a dusty shelf, because even given as part of a sacrament, they are just symbolic.

Whether our chosen symbols are worn or not, I am still his.

And he is mine.

No True Way

Facials

Different places, different pages in our lives, the mechanics of sex can be very different.

There was a period in my life, about eight or nine years ago, when Mr Hunt and I needed to be really creative. I had already proven to be ridiculously easy to get pregnant. With two young and boisterous children at home we were not ready to add a third, but neither were we willing to make that decision permanently.  I’d had years on the pill as a teenager to combat appalling PMT, and didn’t want to fuck up my new finely tuned mental health balance by fiddling with the hormone settings again, and condoms and me…we don’t get on. Not long term…and not after those glorious windows of time when he could come in me with impunity, in the glorious anti-taboo moments of being married and trying to start a family.

Sex could have become something stale or even worse, disposable, in the changing challenges of being a family, but it seemed too important to become a victim of over-familiarity and exhaustion, so instead we experimented.

Secure in our relationship, I could admit sex didn’t need to follow any sort of plan that included tit for tat orgasms. In fact, I quite liked it if my orgasm was inconsequential or even better ignored. Becoming a parent, especially the breast feeding, had changed my relationship with my body and “sexy” felt different than it had before and I needed to be honest about that.

Before, I would have found it much harder to admit I wanted to be used.

I wanted to be a hole he could fuck. To be a toy, not a mother.

By necessity of avoiding pregnancy, and a whole lot of creativity, I became his spunk splattered whore.

PIV sex was emotionally hard, instead of being the one step shop it had been before. I could never relax and enjoy it in the way I wanted to. I wanted to trust Mr Hunt in everything, wanted to trust he would never get carried away and come in me, but I couldn’t. Then would get really cross at myself for not quite being able to have faith in him, even though as he admitted it, it was a calculated risk.

He loves anal sex. And so do I… but with the proviso of prep. After years of access to a vagina that pretty much did all the prep itself we were lazy. It couldn’t replace the “just having a sleepy cuddle that finishes with sex” sex, nor the “just woken up and have time for a quickie” sex.

I became a fan of feeling him come on me. Any part of me.

That hot splash of jizz that conferred he still wanted me despite the rainbows of stretch marks and the night feeds and that he wanted me respectful of our decision to not have another child right now, despite knowing he’d rather be buried in my cunt or my arse.

The snake trails of dried cum that marked me as his life choice.

I think necessity increased our freedom to get messy.

I love a cock in my mouth. In preparation for full-on adulthood, getting to grips with the social skills needed to have a sex life, I identified being able to give a damn good blow job was a necessary life skill. Cosmo had a new article on it every month and I had studiously read every tip, then found friends I could practice on.

I cringe as I write that. I wish I could go back and tell 17 year old me that all those little party tricks were not the thing that was going to find me someone who loved and appreciated me, but then, confidence and bravado go a long way when you start dating. I still am the type of person to read the manual before I get a toy out of its box.

It came as a surprise when I first met the lovely Mr Hunt, that blow jobs are not his favorite thing. But that was ok…

…I didn’t want to give him a blow job. Didn’t want to give him some sort of carefully orchestrated performance of lips and tongue and the tiniest hint of teeth.

I wanted him to fuck my face.

The gagging, choking, overwhelming peacefulness of being used.

And then it didn’t matter if I liked it when he came down my throat, or preferred it when he nearly pulled out and coated my tongue to make sure I registered every bitter, salty splash.

Whether he deliberately pulled out to paint my lips and make me hold position for long seconds without licking them clean.

When he’d bark the instruction to keep my eyes open, and I ‘d have front row seats to twitching spasms of his ejaculating cock inches from my face or when he’d cover my eyes and leave me with the whispered friction of hand and skin, punctuated with the tightly controlled pants and grunts of a man who knows the benefits of a near silent fuck, before wiping his spent cock clean in my hair.

We are years past this point in our lives now. Things have moved on. He has had a vasectomy giving us the freedom to have PIV sex without the risk of pregnancy. We no longer need a silent fuck to simply be about not waking the baby…although silent fucks are undoubtly hot. And it is rare for him to come anywhere but deep inside me.

It was only when I read the prompt for this post that I realized we were in a different place and on a different page of our sexual journey.

I think, maybe, they are places and pages that are worth revisiting.

Kiss the lips
You know you want to x
Two kisses?
Go find out who else is being Sinful this week x

What’s Lust got to do with it?

When you practice any elements of BDSM away from a community, either online or in person, it can be very difficult to gauge how what you are doing relates to what others are doing, either in terms of practices or intensity. Even as part of an online community, I only know that what we do suits Mr Hunt and myself and don’t quite know where this fits in with the practices of others.

While sex is important in our relationship, it is not everything, neither are routines and rules and rituals. We have been together 17 years or so, married for 14 and parents of special needs children for all but the first 9 months. It is important that we communicate and support each other. There are many different ways to practice BDSM, but communication is key. Being very aware of each other, our verbal and non-verbal tells, as well as explicit communication is vital to our survival as a couple.

I am a sensory seeking autistic, with children who are also sensory seeking autistics, and we all enjoy what is termed by the occupational therapist “heavy touch”. This might include tasks to calm the children from the health team that involve squashing them with a therapy ball or restraining them with what is called deep pressure. My eldest has a very fidgety body and likes to have things to push against. In a school lesson situation this includes tying a therapy band around chair legs that they can push against, but in the evening, when watching tv at home, he is calmed by having his legs tied together with the same band.  Some people with autism find things like weighed blankets very relaxing and the feeling of this can be very similar to the feeling I get from bondage.

In the last week, Mr Hunt and myself have been experimenting with a mermaid tie around my legs. He can be very exacting about how these things appear on camera, so we often have one or two practice ties to decide photo angles and what sort of underbeneaths I would feel I wanted to be wearing. This tie was very relaxing, but scored low on the turn on factor from the actual rope. The calming factor was very strong and it reminded me of the calm brought on by having a therapy band to push against.

Other ties have a very high turn on factor. Usually, for me, these include rope around the torso and perhaps a little constriction around my ribs that I can feel when I’m breathing. The feeling of being manoeuvred and controlled as well as other cues from touch and words turn things sexual. Rope is the thing most likely to push me out of myself into a dreamy state of turned on relaxation.

We mainly play with rope but have begun to branch out after I had an experience I wasn’t expecting at Eroticon trying out the Vac bed. The whole point of the Saturday pm session was to try new things, and it is all very light hearted and giggly…so I gathered all my personal confidence to try the vac beds at the second opportunity. What I didn’t expect was to find myself sliding under and to come out feeling completely disorientated and lost. It was only when I’d scurried back to my hotel room and had a little cry that I realised that I had full on sub drop and needed to ring home for a virtual hug and treat myself with water and get my blood sugar up a little. Bondage can be sexy, or it can be calming, and on that occasion, it was just extraordinarily powerful without being particularly either, and it really took me by surprise.

Whether you read the D as discipline or domination, again I can find this is a sliding scale for me, between calming me down or turning me on and sometimes both. I struggle with disordered mood and executive function as part of my autism, so handing decision making over to someone I love and trust completely is a relief. But just like being a sub doesn’t make you less, being autistic also doesn’t mean someone should take control of your life. Knowing someone can when I need it, gives me room to recover.

I wouldn’t characterise our relationship as being solely a D/s dynamic, but before we got married and before we were more than occasionally spanky in bed, we defined where we thought our relationship dynamic was going. We talked about it in terms of agreeing a direction, or a way of choosing a direction. Not that we don’t discuss things and work to change each other’s opinions, but ultimately, he is steering the ship. With that power comes responsibility. With our vanilla families that is the joke- anything goes wrong, it’s Mr Hunt’s fault.

It delighted us to be able to marry with the traditional words where I promised to obey and he to cherish. For us, it is core to the total dynamic of our relationship, and sex is an extension of that rather than the defining feature. Whether he is helping me with my executive functioning by sitting with me to work out a list of things I need to do in my work life, breaking a huge chore I need to do into small achievable goals with frequent rewards to help me when my head is fogged up with overload or responding calmly and firmly to me effectively bratting when I burn out, our dynamic is both in line with D/s but also with good autism structure.

I am comforted knowing that give or take a few kids, I am the focus of his life and he is the focus of mine.

But yes… there is a “D” dynamic in the bedroom. And sometimes there is cross over. Sometimes I will brat just to get a rise from him. Sometimes his instructions are just a path to our mutual pleasure…and especially if my pleasure is found from him taking his.

I am also in another relationship that is impossible to define by traditional characteristics, but when you understand the vibe Mr Hunt and I live at home, perhaps makes more sense. I fell in love with a friend, and the defining feature of that relationship is that she is firmly Dominant within our interactions, but we are not sexually intimate. Does that stop what I feel for her being love? Definitely not. She appreciates my submissive behaviours, meets my needs by taking control and letting me let go. Mr Hunt appreciates she can do this for me sometimes when he can’t, maybe because of work commitments. Sometimes he sends me to her because I need her specific brand of control. She presses every submissive button I have, and at the same time, just like Mr Hunt, I trust her when sometimes I’m exhausted from trying to navigate life. We came into this relationship from an autism community stance, so some of the behaviours from that over-spilt, but when I realised more was involved we did discuss it fully and she went away and read up on the type of domination she was unconsciously providing. Now it is consciously delivered.

And then we are back in the sensory experience.

Does Mr Hunt like hurting me? Probably not as much as I would find manageable. He loves to experiment and I like to be experimented on. It is a niggly frustration that I don’t mark up well when I’ve been spanked or caned, but that because I have poor healing and potentially circulation issues we can’t go as hard as we might like.

One of our future goals would be to perhaps train with someone as to new techniques we can use at home. In reference to the prompt, I think we’d both feel comfortable that this is not lust driven experience.

Sometimes stimulation can be helpful in our normal lives too. I have periods where my brain doesn’t work well and I struggle with social anxiety and the inability to focus. One of the ways to support me to work through or around this is to raise my endorphins, and a quick route to this is a little targeted discomfort. Mr Hunt has lots of tricks up his sleeve to help. There is nothing ground breaking about this, as the science for pain raising mood is well understood, but having the trust and openness as a couple to use it like this is, I think, unusual.

The takeaway for me from this prompt is that my life is underpinned by principles that whilst they align with BDSM, cannot be principally characterised as kinky sex or as a lust driven experience. For Mr Hunt and myself, our relationship is an expression of communication and trust through the media of restraint, pain and discipline, through acts of service and denial. From rope bondage and pictures on the internet, to cooking dinner for the family and cleaning the bathrooms, from fisting and staples to the school run, which I delight in being able to ignore as it triggers my social anxieties, we do what we do because it meets each other’s needs. . He is dominant from a position of love because he knows that is what I need. I can be safely submissive because I trust him to value my contributions to our family and challenge me to be the best person I can be.

And if that involves sex…all to the good!

Do you agree with me..?
Go see who else has been writing this week and see if they challenge your opinions or support your viewpoint.

The Mermaid

I guess if you’ve been here once or twice, you might have realized by now that one of my favorite kinks is rope… well not just rope, but bondage generally. I love the feeling of being restrained.

When we were playing around with the this tie we started by tying my ankles together, even though the pattern for the tie starts at the tops of your legs. I needed the rope to take the strain to enjoy the process as this one was a bit fiddly to get the ropes to lie beautifully.

Sometimes rope is the process of being tied, sometimes it’s how it feels when the tie is complete. This is one of the latter. The rope hugs you and constrains you in a very even pattern. Secondly, this is one for being tied in place as your restraint means moving around is tricky. The other in the series all start with getting the kids to bed and cracking out the box of ropey bits hidden under the sofa, then creeping out into the garden to get some decent shots that don’t have lego in them. Tonight was a little different. More time went into setting the scene, thinking about the angles for the photos and working out anchor points. I really wanted to have tension on the ropes in the shots, and that meant our bedroom, which has several points set into joists or coach bolted into the walls. It also, delightfully, has black satin drapes so I have something to photograph against…

Enjoy the photos… and maybe follow the links to try the tie yourself, as it is one you can self tie if you’re all on your lonesome. I can however vouch for this as “fun with your partner” if you are lucky enough to have one to hand. The lovely Mr Hunt took his reward for patient rigging by stringing my legs up to one of the roof ties while I lay on the bed and the angles this created were definitely worth the patience needed for him to finesse the lie of the ropes.

Follow the link to find out how to replicate this tie and see others having fun with rope

Alethea and I

Alethea Hunt is a work of fiction, dreamt up to go in the blurb of the first short story I put onto Smashwords about 9 years ago. At the time I was mum of two strange children and about to become pregnant with a third.

I needed to be something other than a mother to two non-verbal toddlers who wanted to watch the same three Pixar movies in the same order every day. Alethea was born with a single line.

“I remember the kisses with most regret.”

Something only found in fiction, Alethea started as a notion of a person and gradually became more and more solid, and that wasn’t just because they liked to lie around on the sofa eating calorie-free chocolate and could always find time to write. They can always find time to write even at the moment.

Allie would look at the one of those silly internet memes where you work out how many things in a list of forty you wouldn’t eat and would score zero. “If it’s edible, I’ll put anything in my mouth!” they would say with a smile that suggested a million innuendos. I didn’t have the smile, but allowing for risk awareness, I was pretty much an eat anything once type of girl. Allie made me look at this differently. Perhaps I was a secret risk taker.

Alethea had a daring sex life. I didn’t. But then it turned out, I did, I just didn’t appreciate all the experiences I’d had. Allie made them seem much more daring. Perhaps starting your dating life with a poly relationship wasn’t as run of the mill as I’d thought. That power aware role play stuff I’d done as a lark with friends (and found I really enjoyed) was useful, if only so Allie had something to write about. Who hadn’t had a selection of threesomes in different configurations? Thrown in partners of different genders? Had sex for money?

Alethea loved to take all these vignettes of life and turn them into something more polished and sexy. To me they were just the memories of a worn out mum who couldn’t properly remember what life was like before nappies.

In 2017, Alethea finally had enough of a life to need a wardrobe and struck out to Eroticon in London alone, with the blessing and encouragement of the increasingly lovely Mr Hunt. (I mean, of course he would take their name…they definitely have a dramatic personality!)

Mr Hunt, it turned out, was very fond of Alethea, and I found myself in a very strange threesome. Alethea was not shy about sex toys or positions, or exactly what they needed from us. Sometimes they’d whisper in Mr Hunt’s ear, some saucy thing they wanted to write about, so could we just experiment a little. Just for them to watch and take notes.

In London, Allie made friends and they’ve  shared those friends with me. With every friend and comment on the blog they became more and more rounded. Eventually, we couldn’t share my computer anymore and had to be bought one of their own. They entered Sinful Sunday and became flesh in more ways than I ever had imagined.

Allie and I will never quite see eye to eye, but over the last 9 or so years we have become more and more alike. They voice the opinions I dare not. Dares to love openly and honestly even if that doesn’t fit the tightlaced life I chose for myself. Challenges me to speak up when the mums at coffee insist their daughters thinking babies come from eating apple seeds is ok or that you shouldn’t ask your child’s consent to a cuddle because it’s your right to just take one (or insist grandad has one).

We can’t really be seen in the same places. I have one of those jobs where people think your sexual morals should be debatable in the court of public opinion and raising the children turned out to be far harder than I could ever have dreamt. Alethea meets it all head on in a lace dress and a collar Mr Hunt made, so their place in our lives was obvious to observers. If my social worker met Allie, it could bring down a shitstorm of hell I’m not ready for, because Allie isn’t the type of person social workers are good at understanding. I can’t introduce her to my minister at church either, even though their on good terms with God and has more than a few things to say about biblically literal theology they’d like to air. My psychologist however, she really likes Allie and thinks they’re good for me and Mr Hunt and in fact for the children, because someone needs to  know how to have fun. They have coffee with my mum and dad and they think they’re unusual, but if meeting her keeps me happy, they can cope with that. Mum and Dad will never get used to their preference for a gender neutral pronoun though, so it’s a good job Allie still answers to she/her and has a lot of patience.

Allie is my friend. Keeps me sane when the world is full of unsolveable tedious knots of problems. Has a million ideas for spicing up our sex life. Writes pretty hot porn and takes a decent photo when pushed. They slow down every second of an encounter and makes me consider it with wonder.

When they were born, fully formed like Venus rising from the sea, Alethea changed my life, very much for the better. I’m still a frumpy mum, with too much work to do, messy kids and an adventurous palate. And I can be that, because Alethea exists, and not drown in it.

Allie writes truth disguised as fiction, and fiction disguised as truth.

Gives me a place to hide and a place where people can truly see me.

The Little Blue Dress

Monday night is rapidly becoming rope night and I am really appreciating the kick up the backside to get playing.

I love the rhythmic feeling as I am shaped by each pass of the rope. Just discarding my work clothes and putting on a little something for under the rope felt decadent.

Here I am, all dressed up and only one place to go.

Leftovers

Kiss the lips to see who else is being Sinful this week

I had ideas…lots of ideas for this week, but nothing has panned out. Mainly because there have been children everywhere I wanted to take pictures whenever I wanted to take them, or screaming over the wii controller when I tried to get a few minutes in my bedroom.

But then again, I had indulged with the camera a little this week for #TiemeupTuesday and #Kinkoftheweek, so there were pictures left in my phone to reassess.

So I offer you my unedited heated up leftovers.

Lace

Kiss the lips to find others exploring kink with lace this week

Dressing myself, while I love sheer materials, lace is not a favorite among them.  Lace to me is about a type of femininity I don’t possess, something soft and subtle and tactile. The patterns are small and delicate and on my bigger body I just feel like they don’t seem to balance. I have never been able to wear frills and ruffles in a way I felt suited me or felt comfortable, so many years ago I gave up trying.

When I came to write this piece I had very little to go on. There was a lace dress in my wardrobe, but it is possibly one of the most matronly things I own…

For as long as I can remember, I have been aware that guys in eyeliner were hot. As I grew up, although I am slightly too young for the whole new romantic vibe to be “my” music, that is definitely the start of my appreciation of things that don’t conform to conservative gender presentations.

I read voraciously, more like other people seem to watch tv. And like how we watch tv, some is serious documentary style stuff, but the majority if fluffy (if well written) pleasure. One set of books I have enjoyed over recent months is the Leashes and Lace series by Shaw Montgomery.

I decided this prompt was a good excuse for an experiment. Leashes and Lace are M/M romances that are bubblegum bright, based around a male lingerie company. The idea intrigues me. Not necessarily the old cliché of the businessman wearing his wife’s undies exactly but I do apparently love men in lace lingerie.

The lovely Mr Hunt was patient with me as always, and we decided on a trade off.

Lacy boxers for him and something he wanted to see me in, however I felt it was unlikely I would feel comfortable in, for me.

Him first.

He swaggers in to the living room, with a happy little smile which wasn’t entirely from getting the kids to bed, and starts to unbuckle his belt. Black lace shorts peak through the fly.

They invite touch. To press them against his skin and catch more of a peek at the skin beneath. And they are soft. Much softer than I expected, letting through more of the warmth of his flesh.

I had forgotten how nice it could be to kiss someone through lace. That added texture brought back memories of very different bodies and very different times. Despite the memories, the physicality of exploring the new sensations with him made me very aware of each tiny point of our contact. He loved the feeling of my breath through the fabric, the almost touch of my mouth against the lace.

I loved the visual. I loved the newness.

I loved being able to see everything happening beneath the fabric.

Then it was my turn.

The first thing I learnt was next time I want to wear lace, I need to change out my nipple jewelry for something less likely to snag in the fabric.

It was hard to feel attractive in something I’d told myself didn’t suit me. Hundreds of photos later, I still wasn’t convinced. There was nowhere to hide, no structure to hold me in place.

The answer to this was to not rely on my own perception of my body. I was never going to defeat the feeling that I looked as attractive as a pound of lard in a string bag. I handed the camera over.

He told me he like the tease of knowing what was beneath the fabric. The contrast between the paleness of my skin and the black. The softness adding texture under his fingers and his mouth.

I prefer to see myself through his eyes.

Is lace our new kink? Probably not… but it was very interesting to explore something new that kept us both focused on each other rather than stressed by the world.

And yes… I still like men in lace, including my own lovely Mr Hunt.

A little tied up at the office…

Today has been a very long work day.

As my children had finished their evening activities on Zoom, I took a crafty five minutes to check nsfw twitter and saw a beautiful picture by the beautiful @deviantsuccubus and off I went down the rabbit hole of want.

We’ve not really played around to get photos in a while. It’s been busy and we’ve had no babysitters available, but tonight…

The sound of a fresh coil of rope being unbound. The kinks worked out, so it would be smooth to work. The slight sway of being pulled as the lovely Mr Hunt dragged length after length through each pass.

Fuck me, I needed that.

And then it seemed like a good idea to take it for a spin…

Slowly…

Little by little…

Trusting the rope… and my rigger

God, I love having anchoring points lurking in the garden…masquerading as fixings for the washing line or hanging baskets…

Midnight at the Oasis

Go see who is being Sinful this Sunday

Finding space to relax is hard at the moment, with the children home all the time and very thin walls. Don’t get me wrong, I love being made to be quiet, but being quiet because we have to be just doesn’t have the same appeal.

Running round naked in the garden after dark though… very much up my street! The spa is my favourite place to be, naked with Mr Hunt, relaxing under the beautiful bats, stars and satellites.