Life, Death, and the E.R.

The plan was for a nice brunch with one My local subby boys, whose Missus is out of town, leaving him at liberty to serve a little.  During brunch it slowly emerged that he had been feeling strange for two days, with a serious of recurring sharp pains at a particular spot in his head.  We adjourned to a local home furnishings outlet I like to cruise, I gave him a quick Protect The Property speech, and shortly after arriving he conceded that the attacks were becoming more frequent, and he looked none too good.  The pain was clearly intense, albeit fleeting.

Having already had one submissive drop dead early in My kink life, I'm not about to risk it becoming two, so I went full monty Protect The Property on his ass.  I took the car keys, and marched us into a walk in clinic a few blocks away.  He was acting just a little odd, and his irritability was increasing with the frequency of the pain. We didn't even sign in before I was able to convey enough information to the front desk nurse that she told us to go straight to the ER.

I threw him back in the car and proceeded at a brisk pace to the freeway. I was glad his car is the same type and one step up from My own, as I had immediately a good feel for its handling and felt comfortable pushing it to perform. He fought Me about wanting to go to the hospital near his home, which is both unknown to me and a bit further away, then five minutes later realized why that mattered.  Now he was becoming concerned at his own lack of clarity and irritability, and perhaps just a little scared.  As he noted, you can cut out a gall bladder; you can live without your arm; but when something's not right with your head, that's a problem.

Upon arriving the ER, I told him to write down Wife's cell number so I could call Her if things got serious. he dutifully took the pen, and proceeded to write his own phone number.  This did not make Me feel better. I parked illegally and hustled him in.

Standing in line, we had a quick surreptitious conversation wherein I informed him that for these purposes I was now his daughter.  With Wife out of town and him behaving a little oddly, I wasn't about to let him navigate the system alone. I offered My outside voice opinion that it might be a possible cardiac event in progress, which got us into a room without filling out payment forms first.  We spent a very competent 3 hours in the hospital. He was quickly on a monitor, and promptly through a CT scan.  I was watching the heart monitor and saw a lot of blinking lights that said "irregular" and that he was throwing a fair number PVCs. I don't actually know what that means, but hey, I used to watch a lot of E.R. back when George Clooney and Juliana Margolies were an item, before they had to play Somewhere Over The Rainbow for Dr. Green. Tests all came back fine, thankfully, though the attacks of pain continue and will likely be only partially controlled by the prescriptions. Next steps will be taken, but we have peace of mind knowing he isn't likely to drop dead.

So about a month after I was labelled boy t's Mom, today I was boy e's Dutiful Daughter. This consisted, in part, of keeping the Crocs on his feet to hide his pink toe polish and discretely accepting his precautionarily removed lace panties on the way out of the bathroom. I also learned that at some point in the past, he was arriving a kink event in his cross dressed rig, was spotted by a redneck as a man in a dress, and shortly thereafter returned to find his car heavily keyed. That made Me sad. People may not always appreciate My dominant personality, but it's never triggered physical destruction of My property.  Sissy play isn't My kink, but I totally support his right to girl it up.  I found it touching that his marriage ceremony included piercing his ears. And I'm touched, honestly, that he wears his nice earrings, a pretty pink button down shirt, and has a good pedicure when he takes Me to brunch.

Upon leaving, I hustled us to his preferred pharmacy, wanting to be sure that at 5pm on Sunday, July 3rd, he would be able to get the prescriptions filled before they closed.  That done, we were again hungry and headed for BBQ, then home, whereupon he immediately sacked out, and has remained zonked for five hours. Must be the meds. The pharmacist was very concerned that one of the meds is contra-indicated, but the ER doc had gone off duty so couldn't be reached, and the ER already had administered the first dose two hours before without him crashing, so she reluctantly filled the RX, but strongly encouraged Dutiful Daughter to keep an eye on dear old dad.

So I'm making up the bed in the spare room and expect to have a lightly snoring house guest for the next 24-48 hours.  He has an existing doc appt tomorrow, I may even wind up providing chauffeur service.  He's apologetic about being unable to serve me, but that's OK. Being a Master is a package deal, and the responsibility flows in all directions.  Last fall, j found himself without his Mistress and had to navigate emergent care alone; I wished I had been there too.

I'm mindful that this all is happening right around the anniversary of My first subby's death, from a heart attack at his desk at the age of 34, from a heart condition he had not fully disclosed to Me.  I was lucky, really really lucky, that he didn't die while strung up in the dungeon, arms above his head as I beat him for an hour the way he loved. he had been specifically told not to have his arms over his head for any length of time, not that I knew that in the moment.  After I went through being horrified at his willful failure to disclose a life threatening condition, and heard the whole family story of his life under intensive and invasive cardiac care from infancy, I understood though.  He got to the point that he decided to live his life, instead of letting the disease govern it.  So he rolled the dice. Whether it was running bleachers for exercise to get that cute little body of his, or riding that crazy rice rocket at high speed for an hour in the rain to see Me, at the end he lived on his own terms.  If I was conservative with today's boy e because a previous boy e died too young, well, I take responsibility for that too.

Camp: Taking It

It was a wonderful summer kinky camp and though I've written a lengthy draft of posts already, they need to rest and then they need to be transformed into something for the world's eyes, rather than My own. So nothing posted right after camp, days passed, and drop hit. What goes up must irrefutably come down.

When I returned to work Wednesday, the boss said, "Welcome back. Strap In. It's going to be a bumpy re-entry." And the man was not wrong. What he didn't know was My body was present but My brain completely stewed with lovey, sexy, attachmenty oxytocin and friends, and it was complete mush in that very specific, intense event-drop way. I was there and cared not for anything that needed done. The first day, I glided though unconcerned and happy. The second day I felt pressured enough to force Myself to focus on the looming deadline. And by today I was intensely irritable and fantasizing about quitting on the spot, singing Myself a low ostinato of, "it's just drop, hang on, it's just drop, hang on". The deadline met, at 5pm Friday I put another hour of PTO on the books, and tore out of there like the place was on fire.

Coming home I stopped at McDonalds, then sat in the car outside my house during a downpour, eating a soft serve cone. Once the salad was done, I headed to bed to soothe My jangling nerves, and found horniness asserting itself through the fog. As I cast My mind about for something hot to get My muddled body off, My mind went to none of the events in the draft blog. It went, unsurprisingly, to something involving j.

Dark had fallen, we and about 2 dozen others were sheltered by a large wedding-type tent. His Dominant had arranged for him to be pegged while other orgy-astic play went on in all directions. It wasn't My scene though I was there and energetically engaged, trying to strike that delicate balance of sharing space without being invasive. He was on a 4x6 wrestling/ exercise mat, naked in spirit, face down, legs clad in ass-less black leather chaps, spread, chunky boots on his feet. It's a very hot look on him that I just drink in. The top of his leather boy outfit had been removed. There was a magnificent young Indian woman covering him with her full body, an impressively long dildo in her strap on.  We've tried a number of times at events to get j well pegged but it has not been an overwhelming success. This was.  They struggled to penetrate him at first, but She was patient and would not be locked out. Soon enough his cries of genuine discomfort were cries of something else.

There in My mind's eye floats My adored boy, a worthy cock deep in his ass, nestled in the right spot, fucking him good, like he so needs to be fucked. Plus he remains in long term chastity, not allowed to ejaculate. He is not even touching the cock, in fact. He is alone on the mat. There is no talking to him. No loving coaching or sexy talk. He is pinned. His head is tossing a bit, his back arching as She rides him, his hands are pawing the air and mat, but finding nothing to cling to. He is coming in that tantric seizure way he sometimes does. He is coming over and over, beautifully out of control. He is a hole. He is being taken. Forced to endure whole-body orgasm without relief.

As the fucking hit stride, his Dominant asked Me to step away across the tent, so that he could be completely alone in that moment. I didn't really want to, but I respected their scene, understanding the goal is to give him experiences with many different people at camp... Who aren't Me, aren't Her.  It was hard for Me to withdraw, and hard to watch him reaching out and finding no one to cling to, not finding Me. I love that ecstatic place he goes to, I love being there with him. 

In My mind's eye now, as I stroke My hungry clit, I see him spread, used, helpless against the grinding cock inside him, coming against his will.  Taking it.

And it turns Me on. Powerfully. It punches all My buttons.

It gives Me the rip roaring-ist of orgasms, and I feel Myself gushing wet heat as I come the way I've needed to for days. As I drift into richly satisfied sleep, he's still floating before My eyes, pinned, flailing, crying out, pawing the air, coming helplessly, Her ass flexing as She drives short, fast strokes of the cock into his sweet spot. Forever.

Gratitude to all.

Let's Go Ride a Bike

It's two toiling visits later and things are proceeding very well with boy t.  We have quickly stepped foot into some significant  personal issues, and trust has built comfortably over several visits. By the third visit I had realized that due to childhood circumstances, the boy never learned to ride a bike, and since I wanted him to join Me, I decided he should learn now in his 30s. he expressed some doubts about clumsiness and general trepidation but I figured it was manageable and resolved to take it one step at a time.

I had us both watch online videos describing the learning steps. Then I got a 24 hr bike share membership and began by having him simply sit on the bike in its station, just to get used to the idea. Over the course of the next day we went to several other stops and practiced just getting used to the feeling of being in motion coasting and building his confidence. I sent him home encouraged, with instructions to seek other bike shares near his home and keep practicing. Over the course of the next few weeks, he worked at it, and incurred a rather impressive number of bruises from the pedals. To help the effort, I had him buy a pair of padded cycling bibs. By time he next returned, he seemed to have hit a plateau in his ability to self teach and My ability explain. So I found a 1:1 class at REI and announced he was attending, with Me there to observe. By this time it was clear that the bike share bikes just don't have the right geometry for his height and shape, in particular the pedals are too far back for My comfort and certainly for his ease. Despite the considerable heat, after a two hour coaching session with an actual teacher, he had made huge progress and had successfully coasted a good distance, slalomed around cones, and pedaled in a straight line. I declared the day victorious and took him to lunch.

Later we went to a different REI to "test ride" a bike, really just to get him more practice on a bike that actually fit him.  More steady progress but night fell and it was again time to stop just as it felt he was having a break through.

The next day he was to head back out of town, so I took us once again to REI where we rode the same bike as two days before. In a back parking lot, we found a variety of inclines which helped him get some initial motion and made getting started easier. Now that he had access to a properly fitting bike, all was proceeding apace.

I will confess that I wanted to send him home feeling successful and accomplished, and in My enthusiasm, I suggested he change his path through the parking lot to one that would give him the largest possible arc of travel. Unfortunately, I misjudged just how much additional incline that path provided. Like the good boy he is, he again did as suggested, and had a nice long, victorious ride before taking his first fall.  And it was a good one.

Not only was he road rashed and bleeding from elbow and knee, but his hand took a good hit as well. The bike no longer had handlebars where they belonged, they had rotated 90 degrees. I eventually had a pointed conversation with the store manager about failure to properly assemble the bike and failure to appropriately respond to a customer bleeding from three major joints.  No first aid had been offered, no manager called. All we got was an employee looking at the wildly misaligned handlebars and saying unhelpfully, "That's not supposed to happen."

A week later the boy's knee continues to present new shades of purple, and his elbow - which had looked the worst initially - is hugely improved and healing well. His palm had looked bruised and had a skin break, but 9 days later he continues to have pain and weakness. As of tonight, he is being treated from what we presume is a fractured wrist. Soft cast, and appointment with an orthopedist in a few days.

Shit.

Remarkably, he evidences no rancor against Me, or even unwillingness to continue learning at an appropriate time, and as always, I stand in amazement at a true submissive's willingness to obey. I am struggling with feeling bad about his injuries. I tell Myself that just as chicken pox are minor as a child and major as an adult, so too is learning to ride and falling off a bike. I tell Myself it's impossible to learn to ride without falling some, so the fact I chose that unfortunate route matters less, and yes, if he feels he lacks capacity to do anything I ask, he knows he should say so, and I really thought he could handle it.  It was an honest mistake. But in truth that helps not at all; I take My boy's trust and his injuries very much to heart. I pushed him too hard, I was not as patient as I intended to be. The only thing I feel good about right now is that in his pain, I gave him comfort and appropriate care.  I believed him when he reported symptoms and I have actively monitored his healing daily. I pressed him to see a doctor when the hand did not improve. I tell Myself Masters are human and will inevitably make mistakes, that what matters is taking care of the property, physically and emotionally, when something happens. It's the right answer for My intellect, but it's not very satisfying for My spirit.

I'm very proud of My boy for all his determination and hard work and his fantastic attitude to the whole challenging undertaking.  Anyone who thinks being on the boy's side of the /s slash is easy or wimpy should take a long hard look at him right now.  I've always taken My responsibilities as the Master and Dominant very seriously, but seeing him in a cast as the direct result of My wishes takes Me into new territory, and brings Me face to face with the fact I'm less patient than I like to believe, and I'm not very good at forgiving Myself. In fact, much of My success in life can probably be traced to refusing to accept My flaws and errors, and forcing Myself to be exceptionally competent. It's a standard I don't ask others to meet at the same level.

I've had only one prior experience where I felt this badly about something that happened with a boy, and that sucked too. In the end, in order to achieve some peace, I had him kneel and thank Me for the scene; describe how much he wanted it and liked submitting to Me; and I had him absolve Me of any errors, real or perceived. That boy thought it slightly silly and didn't really think I should feel so badly, but I did, and that's perhaps one of the things about being the Master that folks on the /s side don't intuit, the powerful feeling of weighty responsibility. It may be time to trot out that absolution technique again.

Cherries and Chard

As I head into My third spring in the house, I remain very pleased with it, esp. the garden. (Gotta give a shout out also to the crawl space vapour barrier and IQAir air filter).

When I bought the house in fall, I couldn't be certain, but hoped I was right about the tree in front being a cherry of some sort. It has that reddish, horizontally striated, smoothish bark. And indeed, I am now watching for the third time as My fruiting, ornamental cherry blossoms, about a week behind peak Yoshino bloom at the Tidal Basin. Soon the sidewalk will be covered in tiny little cherries - edible, but it would take the whole tree to make a pie. They bring the birds, and it's lovely to watch.

At the outset, I thought it possible My interest in gardening might wane, so I resisted investing too much in doodads, and I've been using assorted metal wire containers lined with free burlap. After two years, I've learned that burlap is good for about 10 months, tops, even if you use multiple layers, and replanting the baskets that often isn't My favorite activity, even if it provides some excellent dynamic weight lifting. Also they don't hold water well at all, it's like watering dirt in a sieve. As the burlap fails, the plants begin to die of thirst, and when you can make a rosemary water stressed, you've accomplished something. I've got three nicely established rosemary now and they are getting too big to keep replanting. I was sad the lavender didn't winter over last year but lavender is finicky and this definitely isn't Tuscany.

I am flirting now with investing in permanent raised beds, something nice, designed for hoops that would extend My season with a bit of cold frame capacity, and the ability to easily cover the beds against winter's worst. This year, I just ran a cheap (free? dumpster-find? ) blue rope diagnonally across a corner of the yard, tossed a double layer of 6 mil clearish plastic over it, and pinned it down with 2x4s, rocks, and containers of dirt holding things I didn't mind sacrificing. Bless My neighbors for not protesting the sight of it. I make a point of putting some flowers close to the sidewalk for them to enjoy.

So here it is April, and I have three large containers of hard neck garlic, two chard that wintered over, three different rosemary, plus a highly improbable arugula. I'm very pleased to have the chard so early, at this rate I can be picking for dinner in 2 weeks. Where the tulips have gone is a sweet mystery, I can only conclude the squirrels retrieved them all before I put down hardware cloth. The only tulip to be seen is a volunteer along the fence line, where two years ago I dumped a pot of tulips from the grocery store after they expired, and the hardy little bugger took root. I'm gonna go cut him tomorrow before a squirrel lops off his head like last year. The indoor pot of crocus did fine until I started leaving them outside. The outside containers of crocus did well, but got cold snapped and I begin to suspect the damage is irreversible.

I'm keeping close eye on the galvanized tub of iris from the now-deceased venerable neighbor. I put holes in the bottom but I suspect it stays wetter than ideal. All the solid metal containers, really, stay too wet, even with holes and gravel in the bottom. I want those iris to live on, so it may be time to undertake a massive replanting effort.

As for the burlap, I've been experimenting and have settled on some brown grow bags. They are about the same color as the burlap, look nice in the baskets, and hold the water better while still being permeable enough. I've definitely noticed intense root circling in the metal containers and am curious to see if this "air pruning" actually happens in the grow bags. It remains to be seen how fast the UV will do them in, but I think by time they fail, permanent raised beds will be in place. It's a subtle change but does make the yard look a more finished and intentional.

Tomorrow the junk man should come to take away the piles of wood I've been keeping. It's wood from the renovation, either studs from walls I tore down, inducing 6 months of tendonitis, or scraps from the hardwood floor replacement with the salvaged boards. Good stuff I had hoped to keep for nice evening fires in a brazier. And I know just what kind of a pretty firewood holder I want. But there's too much of it, it's been in the weather a while now, no one on Craigslist has wanted it, and critically, the tax refund has come and it's in the way of doing the projects that need to happen before decorative firepitting makes sense.

I have a maxim for all things House:
Buy the house.
Fix the house.
Decorate the house.

I tend to want to jump ahead to the decorate phase. So when torn by choices, I consult the Holy Trinity of House, and if I've gotten a step ahead, I back up. Buh-bye premature firewood pile; hello gravel, sand, and bluestone. I've still got three grills (front yard, back yard, portable) and plenty of hardwood charcoal; I can still have fire any time I want it.

Naughty Outerwear

WinterFire has a charity bootblack station in the common area, where street legal dress is required. It is the site of many subtle scenes and a lot of loving hard work by folks who adore leathers. I've been going there with a pair of boots every year and this year decided that the long black leather coat I acquired second hand for a song really needed some bootblack TLC.

So after j's second tease and denial ordeal with Me on Sunday afternoon, I sent him off to his playdate and took the coat down to bootblacks. I had stopped by earlier to discuss donation amount and quantum of time, and learned that they needed Me to wear the coat while they worked on it. Looking around, I could see the need, as there was nowhere to effectively hang it and no flat surface where it could be worked.

It is a full length leather coat as well as insulated, and though I initially didn't consider it a winter coat, it has proven equal to the freakish Arctic blast that consistently accompanies WinterFire. GoreTex windbloc has nothing on cow hide. I knew I'd be uncomfortably warm wearing it indoors for half an hour. So after a few words with the bootblack, I popped into the uni bathroom (why all bathrooms cannot be uni is unclear) and popped back out wearing nothing but well chosen panties under the coat, which I did not care to button.

I stepped up onto the raised platform which allows the bootblacks to work comfortably below, and turned to face the milling mid-afternoon crowd of clothed kinky humanity... Most of whom walked past Me at the base of the stairs without realizing they were passing a naked Lady in Her panties. The nice bootblack boy I had not met before - 30s, kind, a bit serious, presumably service oriented but not screaming affiliation in any particular direction - asked if I preferred a workmanlike session on the coat or whether I would like more of a massage through the leather. Massage?  Yes, please.

And so we began, he rubbing the leather with saddle soap and a brush, asking Me to turn this way and that, as he worked the garment in sections. I took the opportunity to pose a little, intermittently flashing some boobie at the bypassers paying attention, and dropping My hand when hotel staff entered the area so the leather shrouded the view once more.

As the boy vigorously worked the coat, I lost balance a little bit, and reached to put a hand on his shoulder, which turned into a hand on his head, and some friendly petting as we chatted. When it was time to work the back, I turned around and stuck My booty out, slowly shifting My hips back and forth. I've never been much interested in exhibition, but this was fun, and I felt flirty and prankish being naked in the crowd. A few people did notice and stopped to watch the subtle show while it lasted, which I enjoyed.  And the rest of the time I was just smiling and waving and saying hi to people I recognized. It took a little bit of courage in the deciding, but once up there I felt completely comfortable - as I always do now - amongst My kinkster tribe.

The coat was well cared for, the boy very nice, and I was well served when it decided to snow heavily during move out. And whaddya know the nice bootblack from 400 miles away - boy t - and I struck up a correspondence in the weeks after the event. When I mentioned needing some help around the house, he said I had only to ask, and he would come toil for Me. I accepted and we had a lovely visit of toiling, which has led to a second visit being scheduled this month.  And perhaps most amusing of all, I had placed an ad for a subby boy locally, and it turns out he is just as advertised.

47

WinterFire is now on the receding horizon in My rear view mirror, and it was wonderful as always. My birthday falls a few weeks before it, and I wanted to do something a little special with j... Sort of to make up for our missed opportunity last fall, but really, I always want what happens when we see each other to be special.  I want to give him a great experience, and he inspires Me in a slightly scary way, a way that happens on the fly and it never feels clear whether it will actually work. It *does* work, consistently, but it feels high stakes poker to Me much of the time.

Folks in the scene will know that Dominants commonly "give" their birthday spanking to a submissive, and those tend to be a fun scene, often in a group at a party. I've done it several times Myself with at least three people, in one case a woman who slightly misunderstood the invitation and agreed thinking she would be spanking Me. I found out a little something new about her interest, but she took it like a champ in the end.

It crossed My mind to give j My turning 47 birthday spanking, but it didn't feel right. It's been done so often, it felt like a lazy choice and yes, I want him to be able to respect My choices for our scenes. The last scene I was in with him back at Fusion was a group scene and the pretext for people beating him was because it was his birthday (which it wasn't exactly). Besides that, heck, this is the boy that has taken a thousand cane strokes in a single three hour scene with Me; it took Me from strokes 700-900 just to get him to bleed. About wore Me out. That boy is tough, mentally and physically, it's one of many things I enjoy about him. It didn't matter which toy I picked, it just felt like 47 whacks of anything wasn't going to challenge or engage him or Me. I really didn't want to phone it in. Plus I had three days to work with, but 47 whacks wasn't going to take long at all. I felt a little stuck, it's hard to summon inspiration on command.

What to do... What to do...

I had an idea that might be too ambitious, so I posed a question to j's Madam, but the answer was unknown. Feeling sure I was onto something worthy of the attempt, even if it failed, I informed j that I had decided what his birthday gift to Me would be. The look of surrendered curiosity on his face was delicious as I waited to tell him.

"Your birthday gift to Me, My dear, shall be 47 denied orgasms before we depart on Monday."

I don't know what he thought (how I wish I had mind reading powers some days), but I sensed he felt this a worthy gift. And I know that as a sexual submissive, it didn't seem like 47 years of breaking rocks at Leavenworth to him.

The question I had tried to answer earlier was: what's the most times he has ever been orgasm-denied at once?  I knew from prior visits that I had once taken him to 12 in a row. And I had a sense that he might be unable to endure 47 in one session. So I had a floor and ceiling of sorts.  Honestly, how many men do you know that could be brought to the very precipice of ejaculation and resist tipping over 47 times? This sort of boy is a rare and splendid bird, the proverbial ruby-cocked mattress thrasher.

Most of a month later, the fine grain detail of what became three tease and denial sessions has already faded into a tender glow of remembrance and awe. I know that I beat him in the dungeon for an hour in a tour-de-toybag scene Friday night.  I got nicely wet and rubbed some girl perfume on his face at several points while he was strung up, instinctively taking the scene from a nice whacking to something with that rich emotional/ energetic content we both enjoy. It became as the Rough Crowd folks in Chicago say, a violent display of affection, deep affection. Then afterward dinner and cuddling in the sumptuous hotel bed, where he learned of his impending gift, and began working to provide it to Me.

Easy enough to do Friday night, I was doing all the stroking. And I'll tell ya kids, it's not for sissies, this forced tease and denial, it's not a great angle when comfortably lying down; My arm got sore. But here's a first world problem if there ever was one. I faintly recall he got to 14 that night. Such a nicely trained boy he is!  I stroke until he gets within a hair's breadth of orgasmic inevitability, and he is trained to announce STOP!  he's a good boy and doesn't try to shirk it, he plays it straight. Stop means more like Freeze in a game of freeze tag. Any touch, a single word, even a breath blowing across his quivering nerve ends can send him over the edge. I know because I did it once by accident several years ago. It's also possible that something just clicks and it dissipates, he's done. But until that point, j is My personal, adorable musical instrument and I tune him, tightening the strings further and further as I play him, bringing him to the pitch I desire, making him sing.

It was Friday late evening. I had already spent an hour doing impact on him and was coming down from My rush. He was tired from the travel and event set up plus his hour long beating and a good dinner and 14 almost orgasms at the hands of a beautiful Woman. So 14 was enough for us both and we zonked early, by about midnight.

We had agreed Saturday would have nothing scheduled between us, though we did spend good time together for much of it.  Sunday we co-topped one of the other staffers, a former Marine who is both cute and tough as nails. It was My first time co-topping with j and so interesting to feel we were as much connected and dancing together as tops as when we are in our other dynamic. And he's so evil, God bless him. The boy we were whacking is an experienced, heavy bottom with that crazy pain processing ability you sometimes see in Marines and Special Forces guys. It was j's scene to lead, which I respected, and I had to admire him for screwing with the bottom in two great ways. First, we beat the guy all over, except his right calf. Because as scene people know, ya always want to leave the person feeling balanced. Except when you're intentionally fucking with them. Second, j had him doing math while we beat him, because it forces the brain to operate a little differently and fucks with the experienced guy's usual well oiled pain processing machine.  Good. Times.

Afterward, we retired to the room and j gave Me the next installment of My gift. This time, I made him stroke himself, so I could focus on watching him like a bug pinned to a laboratory specimen board, wiggling, and on talking to him.  I commanded him START!  He stroked until he had to say STOP! and I froze whatever else I was doing... Dirty talk, taunting, playing with his nips or balls, caressing his scruff, kissing.  Sometimes I gave him a nice few long minutes to fall well back from the edge, sometimes I shoved him right back at it and watched him trying to keep balancing. By #16 of this session he was profoundly struggling to keep control and at #17 I really thought I had pushed him too far. After letting go the cock at STOP he was leaking thick and heavy -- but it wasn't an ejaculation. he stayed in the sunshine, just barely. And he had two beautiful tantric orgasms, which I just love watching. I know he cannot control them, j has in fact chosen to *not* try to learn to control them in a deliberate manner. We both like them wild and unpredictable.

Then it was time to send him off to his afternoon play date. I don't know what they did to him, but when he returned he was done. he begged off our evening play date plans, and I could see it was unlikely the orgasm scene would be finished. It was a mood I haven't seen him in before. We went into friends hanging out mode for the rest of the evening. I got the sense he was deeply missing Chloe, and I really felt that with him, so although disappointed, I also totally respected his changed headspace. I don't think I could have managed the equivalent nearly as well. And he switchy, while I'm not, so I get that the headspace oscillates and frankly, how that works is a sweet mystery. We hung out around the dungeons and socialized in the bar, both just a little deflated it seemed. Then because he is event staff, Sunday had to be an early night. We went to the room, I gathered My things to one side, and he planned to sleep then pack in the morning, but neither of us wanted to actually part even though it clearly was time. I don't know how it happened, maybe j just got a 15th wind, but in the end he completely packed as I watched and we talked, and then he invited Me to sleep over.  I still didn't think the last set of the 47 orgasms was going to happen, I'd written that off hours before as to-be-continued-at-Fusion. But once settled in bed it became clear he had not forgotten or given up, he was determined to complete the gift despite the lateness of the hour. It made what happened next all the sweeter.

Less than 12 hours after completing nearly disastrous orgasm denial 31, he finished My marathon.  I watched in awe as he flailed and endured for Me, while I did little more than announce in an intentionally indifferent tone what number he had completed. I wanted him to feel like a toy being used, and I'm sure he did. Somewhere in the late #30's, he leaned over and pleaded with the only two words I recall him saying the entire scene: "Command me."  And I knew he needed more words from Me, understood he craved more emotional connection now. I happily provided. I commanded Start! each time and as before, I taunted him, but more intensely, more dangerously, things that might be the wrong things to say and couldn't know until it was too late. Telling him to be a good boy and not spill; making him say STOP louder and Louder and LOUDER, saying it would be awful if I accidentally didn't hear him and accidentally pushed him over the edge when he was so close to victory, and if he wasn't LOUD ENOUGH for Me it would be all his fault; taunting him not to break Madam's command against having a cum at the event; how awful it would be for him to return to Madam having failed; how he doesn't want to disappoint Her; how much I want to send him home with a glowing report and how proud She will be of him when She hears what a good boy he was for Me, how much he suffered and endured for Me.  I knew he was missing Her, and instinctively, I brought Her with us down the homestretch. Such is the intimacy of kinky, poly love and affection. Like I said, he inspires Me to things that are in the moment, and have the potential to go seriously awry.

The last few denials are a blur. My sweet strong boy was flailing, we were in that shared space of a single thought, a combined breath. We had achieved the joyous merge and were reaching for the summit of what had become a far more epic undertaking than even I foresaw on Friday. The last two denials triggered another pair of tantric orgasms, the first big, the second huge, looking for all the world like an epileptic seizure. For all the build up, it still caught Me off guard and I had to fight to keep j from hurting My neck as he thrashed and spasmed around Me. I spent a beautiful 45 seconds or so thereafter with his kneecap grinding quite painfully into My shinbone. But I didn't really care, and he held. My strong, sexy, enduring boy held fast. And I was deeply proud of him, and of us.

As he finally came down enough to relax and cuddle together comfortably, he leaned toward Me, kissed My face, and said, "You are beautiful."

Gift received.

I Don't Promise This Is Pretty

Today I finally had the routine ob-gyn checkup I've been overdue for. My doc left her previous practice and it took some doing to chase her down and get into the new practice. I took that trouble because she was great and I need great lady docs, especially for the lady parts. That's just Me.

All that, and it was still a moderately rotten experience. First bad sign: the clear sealed bag containing the metal speculum. Metal? Who still uses metal for this?  Uh-oh. Then I asked if they had a smaller one, the nurse said yes, pulled out another, set it next to the first and left.  Door closes, I pick up my giant Kleenex cape and go look, only to find yeah, she was bullshitting Me. It's exactly the same marking, size, sku, the whole enchilada. Lying to Me is not good, and really not when someone is about to put that lying stainless steel in My tender coochie.

Then I look at the lube. It's sort of a generic KY, water based, doesn't claim to be sterile, and it's already got a couple squeezes out of it. Ok, that's not a deal killer if done with proper technique but hell's bells, I have single serving packs of steri-lube at home. My medical play is better than my medical office? This troubles me, while I also acknowledge that I'm bored and tense and prone to focus on things like this that maybe aren't all that important. Or alternatively, My intuition is picking up on something very important and how fast can I figure it out.

So I sit there, cuz that's what everyone in a paper dress about to be made to spread their legs really wants to do. And I quickly realize that much as I would dearly like to think I don't need half a Xanax for this, it really would have been a fine choice. I'm not hugely worked up, I'm not spinning disaster scenarios or anything.  I'm just all Buddhist mindful about huh, yeah, I'm tense, and I know this about myself, and why did I so lack compassion for myself that I didn't do the obvious to manage it. I'm tense enough I completely forget that I do KEEP a halfa something xanaxy in a deep dark unused corner of my coin purse...For almost exactly *this* kind of oh-shit situation. But I'm all-in now, and the part of my brain that plans that sort of stuff isn't in the room.

So she comes in, hi how are ya, good fine great. Sorry to keep you waiting (can't recall the last time a doc didn't keep me waiting, can you? This is just ritual now, that passingly annoys me.) cuz I know how much you're probably enjoying sitting there in a paper dress. 

Right. Is this like, post-modern irony we're going for or what? 

She has me lay down and I'm immediately aware this isn't right. My butt isn't dangling off the table bizarrely enough, the stirrups are somehow not in the usual position. She goes to get the (grimace) metal speculum and substandard lube and says: now I just want to let you know I've been having a little trouble with the PAPs lately so if it's not going well, I'll just pop out and go get NAME and she's great, you'll love her, cuz it just kinda depends on the day, you know, and between the two of us we always are fine.

It flitted through my mind that 1. This Adam Sandler in Wedding Singer-ish should have been brought to my attention earlier when I was actually not already highly vulnerable, I'd been suckered and 2. W.T.F. What Doctor admits to having an off day and how do I feel about that?   and 3.  RUN!!!  But I didn't, partly because the weight of the power imbalance inherent in most medical dynamics had already had the intended disempowering effect on me and two, I gots no fallback position. This is my gal, my prior visits with her were great, I have to believe those soberly formed positive impressions have validity. So she's having an off day, these things happen. I admire her for naming it and having a plan. That's what I'd do. 

Plus I waited four months to get this appointment and took three hours off from my yes-in-2016-we-no-longer-get-sick-leave job.  Nothing like finding yourself blindsided without options to keep you in frozen place.

So forward things go. That's ok, right? It's an article of faith no one enjoys this, right? We can all agree on that. And as accurately predicted by the doc's negative self talk, she can't do the PAP today. The angle is wrong, it pinches like holy fuck. I am NOT in a mind frame to be chill about it, and I'm waaaay too tense. The only person getting that damned cold thing in me is me. After thankfully only two tries, she bails and has the blessed sense (I knew I liked her for good reasons) to call NAME, who comes in with the bubbly personality of a freaking cheerleader, bends over at the waist so she can look at me straight on, a la Detective Goran, and then gets down to it. As she begins prodding again, she asks how many kids I have. Doc lady and I answer together "None" and NAME begins commenting on how deep my cervix is, so incredibly deep. I know this because I can feel the damned speculum coming out my spine on the other side. Now we're back to veeery significant, pinchy intense excruciating are-you-fucking-kidding-me discomfort. I have no idea what she is doing or where she is in the process or how far away the finish line is, I'm only capable of gasping and grunting and trying not to 1. Cry 2. Tense 3. Punch 4. Run 5. Pass out. Then it occurs to me passing out might be the best choice.  Oh, yes, no kids, cervix so closed, very difficult, so much easier if you've had kids.  I'm being blamed for this whole nightmare, and I know that's fucked up, and it makes me mad, mad makes me want to cry, but a bigger part is just in whatever-you-do-don't-move-for-God's-sake mode.

The Doc is now upset enough that she looks uncomfortable, she's actually trying to soothe me by stroking my leg a bit, and that act of kindness both registers and makes me want to completely disintegrate, maybe cuz the person I came in counting on, I can't count on, and I don't have any idea who this cheerleader painfully up my junk is. It feels like we're all in a blender and nobody has any control over what's happening in this room... to me.  It's not good. And for a split second, it feels absolutely barbaric, it's the fucking Spanish Inquisition and nothing has changed.

Across this little narrative arc, part of me is watching me watch this. And another part of me is aware of doing so. And another part is counting how many different levels there are of me watching. And another is saying: you know what this is, this is dissociation, it's a trauma response.

Then it's done. We say what needs to be said. I cannot recall what that might have been. I get dressed. And here's where I land as I'm pulling on my socks:

1A. I'm bringing my own damned lube next time. Really, something thinner and more liquid. You could lube car parts with that thick shit. I don't use that crap on My pussy at home, don't see why we can't crack open a new bottle of the good stuff next time.

1B. I'm putting in my phone, in the contact for the doctor, next to her name so I can't miss it: "take the f-ing Xanax when you exit car".

2. I'm bringing my own damned speculum. It's gonna be the finest fucking plastic speculum in the world. I will find where to buy it. I will learn my size and once I do, I'm buying a box of em. I will happily overpay for this.  Fuck it.

3. I'm throwing down the gauntlet to the world: invent me a stealth speculum-dildo that I can insert my Own. Damned. Self. and then doc lady can maybe attach a handle to open it once in place. Man on the moon. Rover on fucking Mars. This can NOT be that difficult.  Want something done right, do it yourself.

4. I'm bringing My boy and during the paper dress wait, it is his job to turn Me on with every kinky skill and head trip he knows. And I'm telling the doc I'm not unlocking the door until I've had a good cum in the exam room.  I need to be relaxed and I bet that cervix will open up a little with a good warm cum.  Make everyone's life easier.  Why the fuck can't eroticism have a place in all this? Boy also makes me a sexy recording I play on headphones, so I have a backup plan.

5. I'm bringing a damned wedge pillow so I can tip my ass off the table properly and I'm write down that I gotta tell them to raise the table back, which will shift the historically deep, unbreached cervix down and make it more accessible.  I know I'm a Dominant,  but do I have to think of absolutely EVERYTHING, people?

I leave the office, get in the car. Don't really want to return to the office, I've been through the wringer here. Seems unwise to get on the rainy freeway just now. I'm hungry. I head for Starbucks for an egg sandwich and when I get to there three lights away, I'm falling apart. Shakey and weepy. Something akin to suddenly and intensely depressed. I eat the sandwich and wait it out, working to allow it and be compassionate and let it go. I go to the grocery store and seriously consider buying myself roses, but they are beat up crappy roses. I have standards. I give myself persmission to go to a real florist for roses that smell and look good. I go back, sit in the car, turn on the heated seat. And wait. And remind myself this is a trauma response. It's completely natural. It's just your brain coping with something scary and unpleasant that, hey good news alert, you already survived. There's no story. There don't have to be any emotions. It doesn't have to be anyone's fault. It's just energy, just your body discharging the adrenaline and epinephrine that dumped into your system when you wanted to run away, and couldn't, and it got stuck for a while when you forced yourself to endure. It will pass, you will live.

I was shot after that. I made it back to the office but I was done. I immediately noticed My filters weren't in place, so I made sure I didn't talk.  I deeply missed my now-moved-away massage therapist / healer. And I longed heartily for a gigantic corner bathtub at home.  And eventually, in a few hours, I became engaged in something related to the music I love.  And I forgot about it.

I didn't stuff it, I didn't block it, I let the wave pass through and then it was gone.

I'm very proud of that.