Vanilla holidays ahead - but the devil girl's coming right along

I'm about to head off on holiday, so there won't be any posts to speak off for a couple of weeks. You might think that we ought to be going on some crazy swinging cruise (great idea!), but actually it's all a little more vanilla than that. The greatest amount of nakedness we'll see will be in a Swedish sauna on our ski touring trail through the wilderness. That's also a great experience and not one I'd ever devalue even compared to some glorious fucks.

But before that I'm going to go even more vanilla. I'm going on a week long painting course and to top it all off, I'm going take my mother and big sister along! This is a little tricky, because everybody on the course who knows us already expects the perfect family bliss. Unfortunately I however, am a cesspit of rebellious feelings at the moment and suffocating nicey-niceyness just makes me want to vomit.

Real life adventures: Black Man's Fan Club

There are swinging nights and then there's this: nights where we abandon any pretence of harmonious 2 couple soft swapping, full swapping and whatever else there is. There are nights when it's just about getting yourself fucked. Doesn't sound pretty? Believe me it isn't, but it's also amazing, outrageous, physically intense and exceedingly greedy.

Now, before I say any more, I should really say upfront that in many ways I'm not that comfortable venturing out with my husband on a night that's all about my pleasure and mine alone. But he will insist, and I believe him, that whilst this isn't his main kick, he gets much pleasure out of watching me have a wild time. So I won't argue and instead humbly accept his generosity (and his graciousness in passing me condom after condom after condom that night).

But I digress. Black Man's Fan Club is exactly what it says on the tin.

Good girl, slut - there's only ever been the one girl

My most significant learning from the events of the past few weeks has perhaps been this: the girl who loves, the girl who cares about others, who thinks hard and feels deeply,  and the girl who likes to get herself fucked, who pursues her pleasure, who likes to get her arse spanked - they are one and the same. There's only just the one girl. At least three different people have now told me that they are often not sure what they want to do to me: slap me or cuddle me. Both, I answer, always both. They sit just side by side in me, in that strange one girl it's taking me a lifetime to understand.

On bruises II - S&M vs submission

As I started meddling with the darker side of sex, I didn’t define these experiences particularly as BDSM. I didn’t want to categorise myself or become part of the scene, I just wanted to experience. In fact, I didn’t even know that, there was just something about those experiences that thrilled me beyond belief and made me want more.

I’ve been lucky. I’ve had enough therapy over the years for me not to fall prey to the “Am I sick? What’s wrong with me?” gremlin. With a little bit of effort I could accept that this was what I enjoyed and that, in a consensual setting, there was little harm in that. Still, I wouldn’t have ever told you I was into BDSM. The term just comes with too many presumptions, too many dodgy mental images. BDSM, that was for those more extreme people, not for me! I did odd bits of reading, but didn’t really want to know about the seemingly minute differences between Bondage/Discipline (B/D), Dominance/Submission (D/S) and Sadism/Masochism (S/M). Nothing for me to worry about – or so I thought.

Real life adventures: Fetish night defloration (part 2)

I returned to the dungeon area armed with a glass of wine, ready to do some watching. I'd not really ever seen a live BDSM scene and I was hoping for some visual titillation.

A beautiful blonde girl had just been tied up to a bondage chair. She was slender, delicate, with the most perfect breasts, differentiated sharply from her defined ribcage. The chair spread her legs wide apart, her body covered only with delicate pale pink panties and some narrow wrist and ankle restraints. Exquisite. Her dom was equally appealing. He was perhaps in his late twenties, dark haired, just the right kind of toned, and wearing what can best be described as some kind of black leather breeches that left his crotch and buttocks fully exposed. His cock was already erect as he approached his girl with the kind of magic wand vibrator I'd only ever seen in S&M porn.

Real life adventures: Fetish night defloration (part 1)

I had had a bad week, in fact the most appalling week – top 3 on my list of worst weeks of my life. Going out to my first ever Fetish night with my beautiful banshee friend was supposed to help get me “back on the horse” as my darling husband put it.

I wasn’t all that sure. My body was so chronically high on adrenaline on that Saturday morning that I could barely cope with daytime London crowds and the fearful nausea just didn’t seem to want to shift. At that point even meeting my wild friend seemed like more than I could handle. So when she didn’t make it, I had the perfect excuse. At least 50% of me just wanted to go back home and hide, the other 50%... well, the other 50% is easily lured by temptation and too stubborn to be beaten. It’s also the second 50% that got egged on by my husband to go and do it anyway. He didn’t seem to care that I was anxious about being left in London by myself or that I’d never been to a club on my own. He did know that once I was there, I’d be in good hands though. I was meeting a great couple we’d swung with before. Lovely, warm, safe and fun people – just what I needed. I also knew that he would give me the most beautiful athletic fucking and that she was keen to spank my arse in the process. So in the end I’d texted them to say that I was by myself, but still wanted to come out if they could give me a lift home afterwards. The text that came back said “No worries, just pleasure.” How can a girl resist that kind of invitation?

On bruises - the good and the bad ones

Today I’m carrying my first ever bruised arse into work. And you know what? It brings a smile to my face. I can still feel the warmth, the slight tenderness against my office chair and it just reminds me of the most epic night out of all time. It’s a good feeling and one with a good story to match (watch this space).

It’s also a timely bruised arse, one that sits in an odd juxtaposition to the bruise on my face. That one is not so much one of pride, it comes with a much more mixed bag of feelings. While I’m doing my best at disguising it from the world (which would no doubt suspect my sweet caring husband), I can’t really disguise that from myself. It is a potent reminder of what I’m starting to understand as the difference between playing rough and playing with S&M for pleasure. No doubt there is more to be said about that. For now however, while I’m hoping for many more tender-arsed Monday mornings, I will try and avoid much more of the other kind of bruising.