I got to play last night

Visits to the dungeon are rare these days.

I like them. The public aspect of playing in a dungeon pushes me to endure just a little bit more than I tend to at home. People are watching, after all…

And that’s how my exhibitionism works.

I got to play last night.

Thank goodness I didn’t find out until this morning that someone entered our room during our scene. My partner ushered him out without me being the wiser.

I got to play last night.

But at one point, while trying desperately to hold on to the edge of an orgasm, I growled “Please tell the people in the hallway to shut the fuck up.”

I got to play last night.

But I couldn’t wait to get home. Being in public certainly pushes me.

…But public play when the others in attendance aren’t well-versed in dungeon etiquette is pushing all the wrong buttons.

Ninety Three Seconds

I’m certain I was yammering as we walked through the door. There was a plan: to drink, to cook, to eat, and to fuck.

I had assumed in that order, and therefore, was not expecting to be held by the hair and drag/pushed into the living room. That was certainly a surprise.

But when he pulled the pillows off the sofa and dropped them to the floor before me, I had an inkling.

And when he pulled his phone out and fiddled with it after ordering me to masturbate, I had another inkling.

Some time after the orgasm, after he’d given me a taste of him, after he’d told me to get dressed and make him a drink, he’d nonchalantly told me that it’d taken me 93 seconds to orgasm.

“Because you were watching me,” I explained.

Manual override on my own could take an hour. Any sort of stimulation when he’s watching me takes significantly less time.

Dinner was decent.

It was during the fucking when I was asked how long it took me to orgasm earlier.

I don’t know how the fuck I remembered the number.

But I did. “Ninety three seconds, Sir.”

He started to smack me. Slowly, then quickly, altering speed and intensity.

And then he stopped.

“How many is that?”

Well. I don’t know. Maybe it’s like the pillows and I’d had some sort of nonverbal cue. Or maybe it’s something I always do, the counting.


I could hear him smile. I felt the swell of my own pride in getting it right.

Here’s what he doesn’t know. I think I lost count somewhere after the next 20. I dropped into some altered state for a moment and when I came back….I could have sworn we were at 83, not 93.

But those last five smacks were double handed and hit hard.

Maybe they counted for two.

Trust and responsibility in BDSM

In one of my early posts on Fetlife long ago, I wrote “It’s not that I’m lying when I tell you I’m okay; it’s that it isn’t until much later that I realize I was mistaken.”

This week, there have been a couple posts out and about that are debating the issue of …I guess it’s personal responsibility in a bottom to communicate truthfully to their top on matters of consent, limits, and negotiation.

On the one hand, you have two posts making the point that many bottoms may be failing in communicating their true limits out of the fear that they will be “disappointing” their tops; and another that argues that if this is too often the case then we are setting up a situation where a bottom can’t be taken at their word.

It made me think of that little thought from such a long time ago. That it’s not about “truth” and “lies” so much as it is about being really self-aware and confident that one’s top is not going to be disappointed when a limit has been reached; and likewise that one’s bottom is not going to put you in a position of harming them irreparably.

There is a difference between pre-scene negotiation and mid-scene check-ins, and I don’t think anybody has a problem understanding how an s-type might agree to or give consent once their mind has been altered and later regret it. If you do have trouble with that let me know and I’ll clarify in a separate post. That’s why collaborative negotiation ahead of time is really important; especially if the relationship is new.

But there’s something else I’ve been exposed to that helped me a LOT in my ability to set my limits and boundaries during the pre-scene negotiation as well as during mid-scene check-ins. I think I’ve written about it before (though I don’t remember when) and I know I’ve talked about it recently as a panelist for an S-type panel discussion as part of the BDSM 101 series.

It was “safeword training.” See, back when I went by the label of “submissive,” I was one of those submissives that would pressure herself – potentially past my personal limit – out of fear of disappointing my partner. There were many times that I’d end up heavily bruised; and, I am on record as not a fan of heavy bruising.

But I didn’t stop them. I didn’t want to disappoint them by not taking what they wanted to give me.

When I explained as much to a partner I’d been spending some time with, he did what he called “safeword training” with me, where he told me he was going to spank me five times and on the fifth, I was to call “yellow.” I did so, and was able to witness what his reaction would be to my calling “yellow” during a real scene.

Then he did it again, this time, ordering me to call “red.”

And so I did. And so I saw what his reaction would be if I were to do that during a scene.

This was critical in my being able to accept the difference between what he wanted to do “to” me and what he wanted to do “with” me.

He wanted to give me a good experience that was not tainted with regret because I was too afraid to speak up for myself, and for what?

No top I’ve ever been with has actually wanted to harm me. None have ever truly wanted more from me than I would have been willing to give. That takes our scene into the “not fun” territory. And if it’s not fun for me, it’s sure as hell not gonna be fun for my top. Especially afterwards.

But I have played with inexperienced tops as an inexperienced bottom; and I have had tops who had no prior experience with me who have gone too far, and I didn’t stop them until too far had already been reached.

Did they have my consent to spank me? Yes. They did. But I didn’t specify to one that I required a warm-up before he went to town on my ass. And …well, the other accepted my consent after I was already inebriated, and left me passed out on the floor of the dungeon by myself after our scene. In fact, I remember enough of that night to recall that I approached him for the spanking, and not the other way around. He also never checked in with me again. (P.S. that was the last time I ever mixed drinking and kinking).

In the first example, I was self-aware enough to know I was not having a good time. In the second, the onset of that self awareness was quite delayed. Both times I let it happen for longer than I needed to because I was afraid of disappointing the top in question.

So. What to do? We can all write eighty-billion essays urging bottoms to speak up for themselves and to speak truthfully when they’re negotiating a scene for themselves; but remember – sometimes the opposite of truth isn’t a lie, but a lack of self-awareness.

And when someone who wears the label of “submissive” has agreed to something and then during said thing realizes they’re not really loving it – I guarantee you that MANY said submissives will try to grin and bear it because they don’t want to go back on their word and disappoint their tops.

Does that mean that the bulk of the responsibility falls to the top? You gotta question everything? You gotta take their consent with a grain of salt?

Not necessarily. It’s a power exchange. If you’re negotiating something new, or something edgier – try making sure your bottom understands that you won’t be disappointed if they ask you to slow it down because something doesn’t feel right. If you’re the bottom, make sure your top knows if there’s something on their list of things to do that you’re not entirely sure about.

You know….communicate.

And, before you play – make sure you know how you’ll react to a “red” or a “yellow.” Make sure your bottom knows what to expect from you if those words are called. If necessary, consider foregoing safewords and use ENGLISH (or whatever language you speak) to communicate during the early days of your playlationship.

“Ow ow….slow down, I need a minute” or “Oh holy shit STOP” are REALLY great words to use until you’ve gained a level of comfort with your partner where you are allowing them to push you a little further beyond your established boundaries.

Hell, I’ve been with my partner for over a year now and he LOVES to push me. There have been times when he’s about to do something and I cry out, “NO NO NO!” and he’ll pause, and look at me with a look of pure sadistic pleasure and ask, “No?”

It gives me a moment to pause and consider my answer carefully. It’s like my version of “yellow.”

Because my response is almost always, “Okay, yes,” but even when it’s not, I never feel like he’s disappointed in me.


That’s why I am able to be 100% honest. And my honesty is why he’s able to push me further.

That’s the beauty of an exchange.


Photo credit: Renata Colette, rope by @MisterBacon, model…me 🙂

Defining my kink, and not the other way around

Sometimes my inspiration is a pharmaceutical commercial at 5am. This one started with the statement “Your body was made for better things than rheumatoid arthritis.”

My kinky brain finished the rest of the thought before I flipped the window to see what the images were that went along with the thoughts.

“Your body was made for better things….like being restrained and pushed and spread and used.”

As these thoughts spill into my head, I’m watching this serene couple having a really great time slow-motion folding towels. In fact, the entire commercial is this really crisp and sanitized and wholesome suburban montage. She and her husband fold a beach towel into a bag, then the sleepy kid in pajamas holding a floppy stuffed bunny by the ear walks into the hallway rubbing her eye, and mama gets all smiley and maternal. Later on, they’re packing up the mini van and off to their lakeside family adventure.

Meanwhile, the thoughts are in my head. Yeah, you look the picture of effortlessly casual earth-mother now, lady, but behind closed doors you’re decked out in a leather corset with stockings, garters, and knee-high patent-leather boots.

The thought made me smile. That behind these softly filtered G-rated images lies this true relishing of life and pleasure through kink.

“Your body was made for better things….”

I thought of this notion of “what kinky people look like,” and realized that it doesn’t matter what they look like. Being “kinky” doesn’t really mean you have to present it 24/7. I mean, you can….but that’s not for everyone.

It’s not that this towel folding, white one-piece swimsuit super mom can’t be authentically kinky because she’s got this wholesome exterior. I mean, hell, I clean up pretty well, too, and can adjust my outward levels of appropriateness to suit any occasion.

Corset and heels? Stripped naked in public? Evening gown? Sun dress? Casual jeans and a cardigan?

I can pull them all off, and they’re all still authentically me.

So…you know. Those are the thoughts that bounce into my head at 5am: that I don’t let my kink define who I am or dictate how I present myself every day. I get to define my kink and when, how, and with whom I express it.

As the commercial wraps up, I see the family in a canoe against the backdrop of an early morning sun.

I totally wanna fuck in a canoe now.

One Lucky Whore

When I miss him, I ask if I can “see” him and he sends me a selfie.

I was still three days away from seeing him again. He sent me a selfie. He was smiling in it.

“is that smile for me?” I asked him.

“The smile. The photo. The excitement.”

I grinned. “Oh, but I do love pictures of your excitement,” I replied smugly.

“Well, there’s an idea….” he started. “Seems like I should deny you the sight of it for a bit.”

“I’ve been denied a week already!” I threw in a shocked face emoticon for good measure.

“Are you ready for me to be nasty?” he asked.

I had no idea if I was ready. Two weeks ago, he wouldn’t let me kiss him until after I’d fixed dinner, we ate, and I’d washed the dishes, then kissed every inch of his body before he let me touch his lips.

“Yes?” I responded.

“You will not touch, taste, or see my cock until I pull it out of your wet hole and come on your face, my beautiful whore.”


I got out of the shower around 6:45. Plenty of time, I thought. He usually arrives at my house around 7:30.

“Trying to decide if I should wear makeup for you to ruin” I texted him.

“Heh, sure, do it.”

“Sweet,” I replied. “Whore it is. After I go to the market.”

“I’m here.”

My heart skipped a beat. “Here?” Did he mean he was at my house already, or that he was still at work?

“Your house.”

He was early. Forty five minutes early! I hadn’t cleaned my vibrator, picked up the laundry, brushed my teeth…I hadn’t scooped the litter box! I was still wearing a bathrobe!

He let himself into my house as I was brushing my teeth. He was on his way up the stairs when I stepped out into the corridor outside my bedroom wearing only my bathrobe. “You’re early! I didn’t have time….!” I stammered. He smiled and pulled me in for a kiss.

One kiss led to another, and soon I was naked and leaning back on the bed with my legs spread and his fingers probing my wet cunt.

After an orgasm, he stepped back. “Well…? Go whore yourself up.”

I nodded dreamily and went to the bathroom to put on some makeup. I did it quickly – heavy mascara and eyeliner, light on the rest. Then grabbed this very slutty dress that I’d picked out for the evening. About 20 pounds ago it looked hot. I’d worn it to the dungeon about a year ago….but not since.

But he loves my body and always makes me feel sexy. For him I’ll walk around naked or in a bikini and I still know he wants me.

He’s laying on the bed when I finish. I walk over to him and smile. He gets up and pulls me into a kiss. Then forces me to bend over the bed kicks my feet apart at the ankle.

He fingers me until I come two more times. He pulls me up by the hair and, woozy, I lean against him for support.

“I’m gonna go change so I’m not wearing cargo shorts,” he said.

“Wait..,” I say, looking up, “Where are we going?”

“To the market,” he replied.

I’d forgotten about the market.  “Can I change?” I asked..

“No.” The gleam in his eye….


I’m dressed like a whore in a too-tight, too-short dress, wearing leather knee high boots and no panties at my upscale, suburban neighborhood market. As we’re heading over, he points out what’s on the shopping list…

Cucumbers. Japanese Eggplant. Condoms….



I was bent over the foot of the bed, knees on the padded bench. He fingered me roughly. Spanked me a lot. Shoved my face into the mattress, then pulled it back up by my hair.

He walked around to the side of the bed and leaned over to bring his face down to my level.

“You are my whore…” he said, searching my eyes.

I nodded. “Yes, Sir.” I am.  I always am.

“Tonight, I’m going to treat you like one.”

My heart skipped a beat.

True to his word, I never saw his cock. I heard the swoosh of the belt, and was grateful for the long warm-up that made it possible for each strike to land hard, loud, and solid on my ass and thighs. He entered me from behind, reaching around to roughly grab my tits and pinch at my nipples. I lost count of my orgasms. I just remember that he told me to close my eyes and keep them closed before he flipped me over onto my back.

By then I was naked except for the boots. He was fucking me so roughly, and so deeply, that was the first time I’ve ever squirted….and the second.

He pulled out of my cunt and crawled up over my body. “Open your eyes,” he ordered.  Just as I complied, I felt his hot come on my chin and neck, then tasted it, followed by the sensation of his plunging his cock into my hungry whore mouth.

When he was finished, he pulled out and leaned down to kiss me, deeply.  “I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you,” I whispered back.

“Do you like coming on my face?” I asked him over breakfast the next morning. Eggs, bacon, and vegetables.

He paused to think, then answered honestly. “I like knowing you enjoy it. It’s not really my preference…”

I smiled. There was a version of me a long time ago that would have been horrified to hear that a lover of mine had done something for me that he didn’t thoroughly enjoy. It’s different with him.

Or maybe I’m different with him.

I recall my soft whisper while still dazed after our morning fuck before breakfast. “I’m the luckiest whore in the world,” I’d said.

And I am. Because I belong to him.


Beads of sweat still glistened, trapped in the soft hairs of his chest and belly. She gently wiped them away with the tip of a finger, one by one, reminiscent of the chasing and popping of bubbles floating through the air during a childhood summer.

Her ear to his chest, she could feel more than hear the thump of his heart beating against her cheek. She could taste him still on her lips, but just to be sure, she leaned them forward and planted a gentle kiss on his smooth, luminescent skin.

“I am yours,” she whispered. He nodded in agreement.

“Whatever that means….” she trailed off absent-mindedly. “I just know it means something.”

He tilted his head. “Mmmm?” he questioned. “I could hear the first part, but you’re whispering too quietly for me to have heard the rest.”

“I said I’m yours,” she repeated.

“Yes, you are mine.”

“And I don’t know what it means, but I know it means something.”

He smiled. “I think it means you’re my dirty, red-headed slut,” he said, reminding her of the force with which he’d just taken his filthy slut’s holes in succession. “I don’t know if that’s any great revelation though. You’ve been a dirty slut for a long time.”

“Sort of,” she laughed. Years of abstinence. Years of waiting for the right fit to come along. Desire and opportunity had never presented themselves together so perfectly until he came into her life. What made her the slut? The desire? The action? The sheer jubilation with which accepted orgasm after orgasm when he fucked her?

The truth hinged on the word “yours,” as it so often did.

“Before I was yours, I was Schrodinger’s slut,” she surmised.

His broad smile met with the twinkle of her deep blue eyes.

There was no doubt anymore. Whatever had been in that box all those years belonged to him now.

On Submission

The challenge was to define “What’s sub mean to you?”

Sub to me is a sandwich. Or a type of submersible watercraft. Or a prefix that usually means “below.”

I don’t think of myself as anything remotely related to the word “below.” This probably one of the reasons I began rejecting the label for myself. (Not that “bottom” is much better in that regard). Too often, the term “submissive” is thrown about as something that is below or beneath its dominant counterpart. I don’t think that’s how it works.

So I’m going to clarify, because I’m a word nerd and I need to clarify. Am I writing about what submission means to me or what it means for me to be a submissive?

It’s easy for me to say what submissive is not. Or, rather, why I don’t identify as such anymore. It’s a label that seems to carry with it too many assumptions that don’t reflect the whole of me. When I say “I am not a submissive” what I’m trying to convey is that “submissive” is not all that I am. It’s a characteristic, not a character.

But it’s in there. Part of me. One of the little Russian nesting dolls that make up the whole of Phi.

So, how do I describe it? How do I isolate that characteristic, make her a character and assign her that label? What does her submission mean, to me?

I’m going to use an example from my current relationship. Even though there is not a strict D/s dynamic to it, there are times when he is more D and I am more s. There are times when that’s not the case.

There was one evening when his D was prominent and brought my s out for the whole evening. On her own, she’s a bit more quiet and reserved. She’s very obedient; she listens carefully and asks questions because her mission, her goal, is to please him. To make him proud. To serve.

She serves best by asking questions to ensure that her actions meet with his demands completely. That means identifying loopholes that could have gotten her out of something uncomfortable. She doesn’t mind discomfort as long as it’s intentional.

But if he didn’t mean for her to be uncomfortable, she doesn’t see any reason in enduring it; so she asks.

A strange thing happened that night. Frequently when he comes over, we prepare dinner together. That night, because he was very much in D mode, he supervisedwhile she prepared. Usually, after dinner, I (or we) clear the dishes from the table and take them to the kitchen. I usually leave them there overnight, opting to spend more time with him and deal with the mess in the morning than take time from him and do them in the moment.

But that night, in submission mode, that wasn’t an option. Not because he demanded it – not in the slightest. He went upstairs and she set about washing dishes, wiping counters, and sanitizing the stove top. She even preset the coffee machine to brew around the time she thought he’d be waking up.

That was my submissive head space. She wanted everything to be perfect. Clean. Her service resulted in sacrificing time away from her lover, but in service to his comfort. Not that a few dishes in the sink would have made him uncomfortable – but that’s her: she goes above and beyond.

She wants him to be proud. She values his approval, and unless he’s given her some other directive, she’s on autopilot to do whatever feels right to ensure his happiness.

This might have something to do with prior “training.” The last time I was in a D/s relationship, my domestic duties were the measuring stick by which my former partner used to rate my performance. And, in my original D/s relationship: that with my mother (she said, tongue-in-cheekly), it was VERY much valued, despite my not being quite motivated by duty or submission to do it.

What drives her? Love. I’m pretty sure that’s the only thing that really can drive her anymore. It used to be something else: need. In the absence of love, need was a handy substitute, but not a lasting one.

Do little aspects of this character pop up now and then during times when I’m not necessarily in “submissive” mode? Sure. Like i said, it’s really a characteristic, not a character. I’m very rarely in a 100% submissive state of mind anymore.

But it can happen. It did, that night.

I’m sure it will again.

But that doesn’t make me a “sub.”