Drew’s specification

Drew sent me a text yesterday telling me to go in the bathroom and take off my underwear and go commando the rest of the day and he wanted proof that it happened. I was in a meeting at the time and couldn’t do it right away, but when I had the opportunity, I went into the large stall in the bathroom (the one a construction worker looked down into that one time and saw me in the Halfshell) and made him a video of me taking off my shoes and pants, stripping my underwear off (an old jock strap) and puting everything but the underwear back on, hoping the whole time nobody came in and caught a glimpse through the crack in the door of the odd behavior. The jock went into my pocket and then my computer bag. In fact, it’s still there.

I sent the video and he told me that for the rest of the week, unless I was carrying a plug in my ass I had to go without underwear. And if I had a plug in, the underwear had to be skimpy. This is a bit of challenge since I’m in the Steelheart this week and it’s heavier than the other devices I wear and it’s not comfortable to wear commando. The only option, of course, was to put in a plug. The XXL WMCBP is what I chose.

Issue is, for me, that the thong I’m wearing pushes the plug all the way in all the time, especially when I’m walking around. It feels exactly like someone’s following me and holding it in as far as it’ll go with their fingers. I mentioned this to Drew who thought that sounded awesome so, since I had to come home to deal with a carpet install, he told me to take the opportunity to replace the XXL with the XXXL plug. So…I have that to look forward to. I’ll do it after the carpet guy leaves.

After the jump, I’ve included the image I sent to Drew this morning as proof I was plugged and wearing the type of underwear he specified.

Continue reading “Drew’s specification”

Bottom’s up (by Thumper)

Hey, it’s Thumper again. [waves]

As I’m writing this, I have the XXXL Mr. S World’s Most Comfortable Butt Plug inside me. That’s almost two pounds and 8″ in circumference and it’s been there for seven hours and will remain there for at least three more today. And, since I’m writing about it here and not on my blog, you may have guessed it’s inside there at Drew’s direction. Not that I wouldn’t want to carry it around anyway, but we’ve settled into an understanding where Drew tells me what do to with my ass (what’s in it, how long, etc.) and, as sub, being in that kind of situation is so much much more rewarding than doing something only for myself.

For example, a little while back, Drew and I spent part of a morning on FaceTime where I was naked and he wasn’t and he told me what he wanted to see put up my ass and I did it. I, of course, enjoy putting things in my ass, but I had never done it so explicitly at the direction of another. And that totally changed the texture of the experience. It was another expression of submission. Being pushed to used certain toys for lengths of time not of my choosing. To fuck myself with it for more strokes than I would had it been up to me. To sit as far down on the largest toys, trying to get them a centimeter further in, and then leaving them there until he was satisfied I was as full and open as possible. Feeling discomfort and a need to stop but fighting that because my ass’ Dom was calling the shots, not me.

I’ve written here before about the effect Drew has had on that part of my sexuality. It’s satisfying to have found a way to explore and develop in a way that wouldn’t be possible with Belle (based simply on her differing interests). Knowing that I’m not just a sub, but a sub bottom. And working with Drew to make me a better, more accomplished bottom. As I said last time, all this will eventually culminate in Drew fisting me.

Right now, today, it seems inevitable. I feel as though being a bottom and having a Dom top’s forearm inside me is what I was born to do. Well, one of the things. But totally natural. It’s what I am. Something I was made for. When I’m really buzzing with subby bottomness, I crave it like little else. I will not be happy until it happens.

Recently, I decided it was time to upgrade my selection of dildos. Most of the ones I have are years old (one at least 20 years old, if you can believe it). My favorite, the Jeff Stryker dildo, is definitely fully depreciated. In any event, as I was shopping, I found a series of toys described by Fort Troff as “monsters.” The smallest, which I ordered, is 8″ long and 8.5″ in diameter. That’s a half inch bigger around than the XXXL WMCBP, but smaller than other things I’ve been able to take. So, no problem.

It was kind of surreal looking at the next one up (10″ in circumference) and think, “Yeah, I could do that.” And then the biggest (12.5″ around) and thinking if Drew told me to…eventually. Then imagining him watching as it slid slowly into me, pushing it’s massive head deeper into my hole, forcing his will up my ass as far as it would fit. Then sitting there, waiting until he told me I could move, feeling myself stretch and open. And how he’d probably tell me to let it all out except the head, then push it all back in again. And wait. And then repeat until I was so open and loose that he could tell me to fuck myself with it as fast as possible until he told me to stop. A giant, fat pole of cock-shaped rubber pounding into me, past the point I’d want it to, just waiting for his word.

Unf. I mean, seriously. Though I’ve never had a dildo that large inside me, even that seems inevitable now.

Working and training my hole with Drew has been amazing. Seeing myself progress and overcome what I once thought were barriers and knowing that it’s just a matter of time before his big, meaty fist punches through the last one. Feeling that both ends of my sexuality are controlled. Knowing that he’s not really interested in the penis one bit. The focus of his intent is my hole. And it enjoys the attention.

The Drew Effect (by Thumper)

Thumper here. Drew was in town the other day (see the post immediately before this one). In the recent past, these visits have not involved sex between us but this time around we approached it in a way that works for me.

The struggle I’ve had is flipping between friend and sub. Between Drew being Mr. Confident Dom vs. Thumper’s friend. But coinciding with the last visit was a desire within me to do some serious subbing so, in order to make that work (because I also knew he was ready to top the fuck out of me), I asked for him to only interact with me during the day we had as a sub. Which, besides the actual time spent having sex, might not have seemed that different to anyone looking in from outside, but it worked for me. I was able to maintain the headspace. Partly because of little things he did (like leave his trash on the table at Shake Shack for me to clean up and not obviously seek my approval about anything) but also the fact that I had a heavy chain collar on the whole time we were out and about.

Anyway, it worked. And, if anything, we’ve more or less maintained a Dom/sub dynamic after he left. One that’s been able to intensify since Belle has been away for about a week and a half. Since he’s wherever he is and I’m here, this has manifested in me letting him have control over the my ass.

I’ve been thinking lately that Drew has been instrumental in leading me to better understand some things about myself. I’ve always known anal play was something I enjoyed, pretty much since I can remember having sexual thoughts, but Drew has helped me achieve a new level of consciousness about it. Since we’ve been “together” I’ve come to realize I am 100% a bottom. I just don’t like anal penetration, I crave it. Just as I’m a total sub, there’s no top in me. Even though I have no functioning penis when we’re going at it, I have realized I really don’t need one. I don’t want to top anyone and I never really have (I’ve never enjoyed fucking men). All I want to do and be is the bottom. Thanks to being with Drew, I have come to fully embrace this part of me in a way I never have before.

Since I’m bisexual and have primarily been with women for most of my life, I didn’t have a chance to delve into the subculture that is bottoming. It’s a really fascinating role for a man who, culturally anyway, is expected to be the penetrator in any sexual situation. To invade the partner. So to feel none of that need when having sex with another man is…interesting. All I want is the opposite. To be entered and used and taken and to do it all in the best possible way. To be the best host and provide maximum outlet for his sexual needs. I may have struggled at some points in my life with my deep need to bottom because we have no positive role models to look to, but I don’t now. It’s an identity I wear with pride. Like my need to submit, it’s something of a super power.

I can even see this how this manifests in my relationship with Belle. She has no desire to fuck me and, of course, is not naturally built that way anyway. But I have always, my whole life, felt a deference to ensuring the women I’ve been with are experiencing as much pleasure as possible. Sure, I wanted to fuck and the feeling of being inside a woman is uniquely intoxicating, but even then, I fucked with her needs and feelings in mind. I rarely, unless invited to, took my pleasure first or gave it priority over theirs. While I’m not technically bottoming in a penetrative way with Belle (or any other woman), I still very much feel the part. It’s also, I think, a part of what makes the idea of her being with another “alpha” man so attractive to me. I so badly want her to have what I am not, by nature and circumstance, able to provide.

Practically, Drew has helped me in another way. I used to have in my mind an idea of what I was physically able to take as a bottom. If you go back and read my review of the dildo modeled after Jeff Stryker’s cock, it’s almost comically presented as the biggest thing I’d ever be able to get in my ass. I spent a great deal of time describing how hard it was to take. I actually thought, seriously, I could not stretch any bigger. Now, I see that dildo as a minimum size for any real solo funtime. Even if I haven’t played with anything in my ass for a while, I can take that dildo without a great deal of effort.

In a weird way, what one’s ass can do is limited more by one’s own expectations than one’s physiology. Once I knew the Stryker dildo was no big deal, it wasn’t. Drew helped me understand that, too, by encouraging (and not for purely charitable reasons, to be sure) my experimentation with bigger toys.

The best example of that is the World’s Most Comfortable Butt Plug from Mr. S. I had the one they call size XL which has a similar circumference as Stryker and I assumed it was as big as I could use, but Drew got me to try the XXL (I can’t recall now if I already had it or he bought it for my ass). We would have FaceTime sessions where he watched me struggle with it and generally be a whiny dramatic little bitch, but it eventually got in. After a few times, it became less scary. I was able to carry it around for a day at a time. It stopped being a challenge and started being fun.

So he got me the XXXL WMCBP. That one’s a beast, but it was the same kind of deal all over again. I swore it would never fit. Was terrified that once it went in it wouldn’t come out. But Drew was insistently supportive. He had more faith in my ass than I did. And, eventually, it got it. In all its 8″ around, nearly 2 pound glory. In fact, as part of our current Dom/sub understanding, I have it in right now. My confidence with it grew so that, at first, I wouldn’t dare leave the house while it was in. But just like the XXL, I’ll go anywhere with it now. To work, shopping, whatever (it’s not as simple as just leaving in there, but I’ll spare you the details for now).

Other large toys came after. One, in the shape of a fist nearly identical in size and appearance to my own, that’s 12.5″ in circumference. My desire to take these larger toys was driven as much by my need to to do it for him as it was the incredible physical sensation of being stretched, figuratively and literally, by the experience. Now I find my desires with regard to what happens to my ass magically align with his fantasies. In much the same way my expectations with regard to sex with Belle eventually became essentially what she wanted. That’s my zero-dominant nature molding to be the mirror of my sex partners.

To this end, Drew has told me he intends to fist me at our next meeting. I can remember a time when the very idea of that would be impossible to imagine. I cringed at images of fisting because I didn’t understand the dynamic that would lead two people to be in a place where it would happen. But I get it now. And I want it now. I want it because it’s essentially the last challenge I have yet to accomplish (it’s like the ultimate TRUE BOTTOM™ achievement) but I also want it because he wants to do it to me. Just as he’s a Dom and I’m a sub, he’s a top with an intense interest in making me bottom to him. He gets off on the idea of making me accept his whims over my ass and, of course, I do too.

So that’s going to happen. His giant hand will be inside me, easily the biggest thing I’ve ever taken. And now that I know it’s going to happen, I know I will be able to do it. He’s more than an inch bigger around than the fist toy I have (1.25″, in fact) but he’s also not a molded piece of silicone and I’ll be motivated to perform for him. It’s going to happen. I’m sure I’ll still be a whiny little bitch about it, but…he kinds of likes it when I suffer.

Confidence game, part 2

Drew said when we got to LA he wasn’t going to give me any choices as to what he wanted to take from me or do to me. That kind of talk makes me nervous. While I crave someone taking control from me, I also like holding on to it. Like a security blanket. I end up using it as a shield to protect me from things I might not otherwise have the nerve to do but really want to.

Being able to let myself go there with him is sort of a chicken and egg thing, though. He used to ask me if he could do things, specifically around pain. He’d ask if I could take more. He still tends to defer to my mood on things. But I don’t want to be asked or deferred to. As nervous as losing my own agency makes me, it’s also ridiculously hot. So I told him to stop asking. Start telling. Start doing. Take what you want. In essence, his declaration to me as we arrived in LA was an extension of what I asked him to do. Logical in that we’d be together for longer than a few hours. We were going to be together for two nights and most of three days.

The only hard rule, besides that he could do to me whatever he wanted, was that I had to be naked in the hotel room. There was a line where the tile met the carpet and I couldn’t cross it in clothing. Being forced into nakedness pushes me down into my sub headspace. Several times (most of the times, actually) when we got back to the room I wasn’t much in the mood to be naked but I allowed myself to follow his rule and, each and every time, I took everything off (except for the Holy Trainer, of course). Usually, he didn’t say anything. Didn’t even look. It was just what I had to do, so I did. Quietly, it put me in my place. Enough that I found myself asking his permission to get dressed before we’d leave the room.

Of course, I am submissive, but I do not always feel submissive. He didn’t care. He’d reach over and twist my nipples or grab my balls and squeeze them or slap them or he’d shove a finger (or three) up my ass or shove his cock in my mouth, whenever he felt like it. He never asked. I never said no, even if I wanted to. Even if I wasn’t in the mood to be pinched or squeezed or slapped.

At the beginning of our relationship, Drew and I made it too prescriptive. Too rigid. Too many rules. We had to throw them out as I couldn’t live in two worlds like that. But when I got to know him and like him and trust him, all those rules boiled down to “he’s in charge when we’re together.” But only when he allows himself to be that way. If he prevaricates or allows me too much freedom and self-determination, it starts to falter. It’s OK if that’s also what he wants. No Dom can be in Dommy Top mode 24/7, after all. But I’ve learned to allow myself to believe I don’t have any say over what I’m forced to do or endure when I’m with him and, as long as he also plays along, it’s kind of magic.

This played out several times over the weekend, but most explicitly on the last day. I woke up with the very beginnings of a cold and wasn’t at all in the mood for sex or anything else, really. But Drew was. I tried to avoid his advances and play coy, but he kept pushing. In my head, I had visions of resisting. Of making it stop. And, truth be told, I did resist a little. I didn’t open up to him as quickly as I might have otherwise. I hoped he’d stop. But he didn’t retreat.

Part of my issue was my nipples were very sore and puffy from two days of abuse already. They fucking hurt. But it didn’t matter. He wanted them to hurt more. I complained and whined and squirmed, but that didn’t do anything but make his inner sadist’s hard-on as hard as it could be (he’s never harder than when he’s hurting me). The more I pulled away the more he advanced and the harder and more cruel he was. I said to myself this wasn’t what I wanted. That I should make it stop. But the illusion held. At one point, with his fist gripping my nuts in a vice and his other hand twisting my poor abused tits, the magic flip happened. My whiny protests turned into moans of pleasure. I found myself in subspace’s neighboring suburb. The one where, if I’m not careful, I can get lost in the caverns of masochism. Where I cannot get enough pain. I cannot be hurt. Pain and pleasure merge and become something else. That’s when he has to be the one to watch out for me because I will never make him stop whatever he’s doing. I will always ask for more. Always be able to take more.

And, of course, he fucked me. Hard. Not in a way that was meant to provide me pleasure. Whatever I did eek out was a byproduct of him using me for my holes and taking his pleasure from them. It was difficult to endure at times. It went on longer than I would have liked. But he didn’t stop. He didn’t ask how I was doing. He just pounded me until he came.

What I don’t really know about myself is where my illusory resistance to his dominance ends and is replaced with real resistance. If I didn’t know him and trust him, it seems to me this would be recipe for abuse. But I do know him and he knows me. I don’t always want to be pushed and hurt and fucked but, if he takes those things from me with enough tenacity and force, I end up liking it. It’s weird and hard to digest, if I’m honest.

But it didn’t matter in LA. He took what he wanted when he wanted. He hurt me and used me. And I think back on all of it through a gauzy haze of contentment and pleasure.

Somewhere else

A few observations from my most recent assignation with Drew…

He flew in Thursday and I, of course, had to be on a conference call at the time we were coming back from the airport. I was almost supernaturally horny that day so all I wanted to do was get into his hotel room, rip his pants open, and suck his cock. That was mission one. Life, though.

But yeah, I sucked that cock. And then he fucked me. No drama, no artifice. Just sex.

Next morning, for whatever reason, I wasn’t in the same place. Maybe because the cock sucking and ass fucking itch had already been scratched. Maybe because Belle and the kids were interacting with me via text before I came over and even in the sphere of being in his room. Whatever, I didn’t feel so much in the same place as the day before. Eventually, he stood before me and pinched my nipples. Not as hard as he’s able to, but hard enough. The pain wasn’t on the right channel. It was plugging into the “ow” socket and not the “mmmm” socket. But I forced myself to take it. Reminded myself that part of my sexuality was to demonstrate to my top that I could take their pain. That was what I gave back to them as they gave it to me. So I let it wash over me.

Then he put the clamps on. So much more pain. So hard to take. Dangerously close to surfacing and calling for a time out. But I took it best I could. Pathetic, sympathy-seeking whines escaped me (and, in retrospect, probably only encouraged him).

Then the turn. He brought a high discipline collar this time. One I’ve never worn before.

He had already put the cuffs on my wrists and ankles. Had already put the harness on me. Had already secured my hands behind my back. I had been decidedly not subby giving him pointed feedback. Not a good bottom. Again, I was just letting him go through the motions. But there’s something about collars. Something about the feeling of leather being cinched around your throat. Smelling it under your nose. Hearing it creak. Immediately, before the buckle was buckled, I felt myself being pulled down into the warm goo of submission. The feeling of being outside my body observing the scene started to dissolve. I entered myself and started to inhabit my role. To feel it in my chest.

The specifics of the order of things after this is a bit of a blur. He put a ball gag in my mouth and cinched it tight. I couldn’t work it out with my tongue. Barely budge it. He put a blind over my eyes. A one point, I was leaned over a little ottoman and fucked roughly. Spit dripped from the gag freely as I had no way of stopping it. The steel between my legs swung and the ring on the collar clanked to the rhythm of his pleasure taking. Then he had me bent over the bed, face in the fluffy comforter, soon slick with spit. The collar held my head out straight and eyes forward. Hands secure. Penis locked. Ass full of him. Face rubbed in my own spit.

After the fucking, he was back at my nipples. Pinching and twisting. He’d give me a warning before ratcheting up the intensity. He’d ask I could take more. I always said yes. Don’t ask. Just say you’re taking it. Just push me. Wait for me to break.

But I didn’t break. I couldn’t break. I was past the point of breaking. No matter how hard he pinched and twisted and abused the tender pink spots, all I felt was hotter, harder pleasure. There was no air in the tube. Just straining hard oozing meat. I found myself in that place where pain ceases to exist.

“Please, sir. Hurt me.”

Be bent me back over the ottoman and went to work on my ass. With his bare strong hands and his wide black belt. His technique was flawless. His aim true. But again, no pain. Just pleasure wrapped in fire. HURT. ME.

Gah. I’m shivering now just thinking about it. My eyes want to close. Even inhabiting the memory affects me. Pulls me down.

I don’t know where the door to that place is. I never notice going through the door. I only recognize the room when I’m in it. There’s no way for me to give directions to him. How to get me there. Restriction of movement. Taking my control. Using me. The collar. The cuffs. Some alchemy of all those things.

Maybe there is no door. Maybe it’s a transporter. One moment in one place, the next somewhere else.

Exactly what I wanted

Earlier, Drew wrote:

If you follow us on Twitter, you will know that yesterday we had some delicious fun that I am quite hoping repeats itself this morning,  although since he greeted me this morning with a text that so eloquently said “You made my butt hole sore” (he’s poetic, that Rabbit) I may have to aim my fire elsewhere. The sex was good. Frankly, the best we have had together. He may or may not write about it…

OK, let’s write about it.

I wasn’t much in the mood for anything other than raw sex yesterday. I’m just too fucking horny to mess around with all the theatre that often accompanies the kind of sex we like. I wanted to suck his cock and then get fucked, period.

But, I’m still a subbie little rabbit and Drew had already planned onto which chair I’d be tied and how so I went along (after, of course, well and truly sucking him off). The particular room we were in at the W had a round chair with metal legs so he had me kneel on it with my head, chest and arms hanging over the back. He put the cuffs on my arms and legs and a high leather collar with D-rings around my neck. He secured my wrists to the legs of the chair pulling me over the back of it. He only used carabiners but it ended up being a tight fit and I couldn’t have gotten my hands into position to undo them if I had to, so that was hot. I admit, I was starting to get into it. He then placed a padded blindfold over my eyes and a ball gag in my mouth. The cuffs around my ankles were secured to the chair’s legs with a length of black rope that came up from the bottom and through the D-ring on the collar so my head was held down and in position.

Next thing I know, he was rubbing my exposed asshole with lube. His thick, rough fingers were poking and exploring freely and I wiggled and squirmed and whimpered into the gag but there wasn’t much I could do about anything other than accept my predicament. Next, I felt the head of a dildo against my hole push its way in without a lot of prevarication. He fucked me with it before leaving it there while he messed around with something in the room. I pictured myself there, tied to the chair, eyes covered, mouth gagged, ass in the air with a dildo sticking out and the heavy steel hanging between my legs.

Now, this next bit nearly killed my mood entirely. I noticed as I got onto the chair that he had a big Sharpie marker on a table, but didn’t think anything about it. I heard the cap come off but didn’t know what it was before I smelled the noxious odor. Then I felt him writing on my back. It may have been “DILF” (but I didn’t know) followed by an arrow leading down my spine and pointing to my ass. I tried to speak through the gag, but he kept going. After, I pushed the gag out with my tongue and asked what he had done. We didn’t discuss this beforehand and, in the past, we has specifically talked about the issues with marking me in any way since I went home to Belle at the end. Honestly, I was angry and suddenly did not want to be playing this game anymore.

Turns out, he was tricking me. There were two markers. The big black stinky Sharpie and another “invisible” marker. He used one to get my senses going and the other to “write” on me, though nothing showed up. Like I said, I was mad. But he fessed up right away and I was, as I mentioned, really fucking horny and by this time he was running his hand up and down over my asshole again so I decided to not make a scene and let him fuck me.

And boy howdy, did he fuck me. The chair rocked back and forth and tipped up a bit — enough that I though he’d push me over in his enthusiasm (and right down onto my firmly secured face). This is one of my most basic fantasies. Feeling the heavy steel swing in between my secured legs to the rhythm of him taking his pleasure from my hole. It was intense and difficult and not always enjoyable from my perspective but I was tied and locked and fixed in place and being what every sub wants to be in his heart: A receptacle of pleasure.

After a while, I could feel his sweat dripping onto the small of my back. He fucked me fast, he fucked me slowly, but it was always hard and deep. I was grunting and panting though the gag in syncopated rhythm to his thrusting.

Eventually, he tired. But most importantly, my chest, which was bearing a lot of my weight and the brunt of his pounding (after my ass, of course) ached. He undid my restraints and we moved to the bed.

Neither of us was done, though. We both wanted more. He put my legs up over his shoulders and entered me again. A deep, hard pounding with my head sunk between the soft, clean hotel-smelling pillows. All I could do was grin at the world-class fucking I was getting. The fucking I craved and needed. Badly.

As I laid there and felt his cock moving in and out I sensed another one to those trippy head games long term chastity will play on you. All I was, sexually — all I had — was a hole. I was a total bottom. I didn’t think about the penis. Didn’t consider it. It wasn’t there. I didn’t have it. Just a heavy thing hanging down over my stomach. It’s hard to express, but I expect this is what it’s like to be a woman. My job in this act was to be the thing he fucked, period. It was my job to service that cock, completely.

After a while of legs-in-the-air fucking, he fucked me from behind while we were laying on our sides. Then I got up on him and rode his cock. Then he laid on top of my back and fucked me that way. We fucked and fucked and fucking fucked. It was glorious.

It was exactly what I wanted. And that’s why my butthole hurts today.

That place where you can take only trust

A comment here on Drew’s blog touched on something I wanted to write more about.

Skipper said:

Drew? I’m demonstrating that I’m naïve, but here it goes.

I think you and Thumper have been together twice, and both times it has read to be very natural and awesome.

How do you know not to be too rough? How does Thumper know when to use the safe word, in the future? Do you plan to have casual, intimate sessions in the future, or would that be too boring for the two of you?

I know I could read about bondage encounters elsewhere online, but I feel you would be sincere, and truthful with your reply. Plus I really like to read what you write.

Before I get to the bit I wanted to touch on, there was only one time I even thought of using a safeword with Drew the other day. It was when I was hooded and zipped up in the sleepsack and he was fingering my ass roughly and shoving his cock in my mouth. I know, hawt, but at one point he pushed his dick in as far as it would go blocking my mouth entirely (he has such a beautifully thick penis), triggering a bit of a gag reflex and, because of his position, covering my nose with his balls. So, no breathing. Breathplay is not a thing I kink on and I was unprepared for the momentary no airedness so I kinda freaked and bit him. I don’t even know if he noticed or thought anything about it (though he does have a small straight cut on the underside that may be a consequence). In that situation, I have no clue how I could have safeworded anyway. My hands were bound and hidden, he couldn’t see my face, I was already making all kinds of otherwise hot little mrphing-kind of sounds.

Thing is, I do want him to be rough like that. I want to feel like he’s really using me. But I also like to breath. I’m left trusting that he knows how what he does to me affects me when he’s doing it and won’t do things like keep me from breathing for too long.

Related to that is this moment I wrote about the other day:

I was near actual tears when something extraordinary happened. The twin fiery jets of pain I could actually see behind my clenched eyes flipped and transformed into streams of pure, liquid pleasure. I was no longer enduring the pain, I was revelling in it. I could not get enough. He could no longer hurt me. I felt the sounds from my throat change, too. From whining whimpering to growling to a kind of gravelly purr.

I’ve only been in that place a handful of times. Once or twice with Belle when she was beating my ass and a few times when I was on my own (is it still masturbation when no genitalia are involved?). In retrospect, it’s a scary place because, as I said, I did not feel pain. Not like normal. It wasn’t pain anymore. When it’s just me or when it’s with someone who doesn’t really get off on inflicting pain and only does it because I do, that’s one thing. But when I’m in that kind of situation (and really, that was the first time) where someone is hurting me who does get off on it and I know that and I’m being both masochistic and submissive and trying to show how much I can take for them while also trying to take more because I know they like making me feel it and I start to sink down into it and is all suddenly isn’t pain anymore and…and…oh, mama. I’m getting all hot just writing about it.

In that situation, I can no longer be trusted to even know where the line is. Even if I had a safeword, I don’t know that I’d use it. He could have done almost anything to me anywhere on my body at that moment and left any kind of mark or even drawn blood and I would have not said a thing. I would have only wanted more. So right then, when he takes me there, I have no choice but to trust him. He’s my designated driver, so to speak. He has all the control over both of us.

Like I said, scary. Because I can be taken to a place like that and lose my most basic safeguards. I am not one to drink to excess and have never wanted to do drugs and have only smoked pot once, all because I really, really don’t like losing control over myself. Not like that, anyway. But, oh god, do I so badly want to lose myself in that pain again. Drew knows the responsibility he has and I trust him to take care of me when we get there.

Sort of the two twin towers of BDSM happiness: Trust and communication. You really can’t have one without the other.