Posts tagged spanking
Sex Stoned

In the beginning I worried that Mr Right and I wouldn’t be a good match in the sack.  We had chemistry and really enjoyed one another’s company, but historically I’d needed some very rough handling to be satisfied in bed and Mr Right wasn’t the sadistic type.  So I figured we’d canoodle for a while until we got bored with one another. In the meantime I would enjoy the heck out of tying up this hot young fellow. It would be a sweet but brief adventure…

Fast forward a couple months to a weekend fairly recently: Mr Right and I (still happily in a canoodleship)  are wandering through Cathedral Park.  He’s taking pictures and I’m, well, hugging a bush.  A literal bush. I’m also petting the large white fluffly flower poofs that cover it because this is the softest thing I’ve ever felt in my life. 

Mr Right eventually stops shooting bees and flowers and notices his lady friend elbow deep in a tree and comes to investigate.  “This is the best flower! Have you seen this? They all look like animal heads!  How have I never noticed this flower before?  I’m going to cuddle it again.  Stop judging me.”


No one can blame him for capturing this moment with his camera.  “This is going to be great black mail material.”

“Shush you, you did this to me!  Stop being smug you brain chemical altering beast.”

He just smirks at me, amused and enjoying the show.  As he should.  The only drugs I’m on in this moment are the ones we’d created in bed earlier that afternoon.  Using only the powers of his impressive digital dexterity, oxytocin, intimacy and--okay there was a little spanking in there too--he had more than satisfied me in the sack.  He had gone so far as to briefly break my brain, flooding it with so many orgasmic happy chemicals I’d never been more high in my life.

My early worries had been for nothing, it had just taken us a bit to figure each other out and a couple of really sexy talks to find out what the other needed to get off.  Now we inhabit this glorious and dangerous state of sexual exploration in which very little is out of bounds. But there’s a lot of talking involved.  People who don’t think communication is sexy are missing out!  Because heavy duty communicating is what got me so well fucked I’d become obsessed with embracing flora.

It started with, “What one thing (sexual or otherwise) do you want for your birthday?”

He had already agreed to hang out with my friends on the actual day and was whisking me away to Seattle for a lovey dovey adventure, and I was allowed to ask for more?  Who is this person that actually seems to like me and can talk about feelings and desires? Whatever was going on I liked it!

“Well no surprise, I’d enjoy getting tied up and you know a spanking is traditional.”

“Hmm I’ll see what I can do.”

Problem was we were too tipsy on my actual birthday for more than fumbling silly sex (though he did manage to restrain me to the bed with Velcro cuffs and give me a good tease regardless) and the room we stayed in Seattle was too echoey for kinky shenanigans with our hosts a thin floor away.  So by the time our schedules lined up a week later we were both a little (read: a lot) pent up. 

We fell into bed minutes after getting home from a hike, sweaty bodies made sweatier with lust.  “Do you want your birthday present?”  He asks from behind me.

“Um, yes!”

He strips me and bends me over the bed, being more aggressive than usual.  And my blood goes hot with anticipation.  It’s been a while since I’ve given up control but so my everything is thrilled to be given this sexy break from reality.  But it’s not enough to have me bent over his mattress, Mr Right shoves me down prone, ass in the air so I’m exposed to him and my hands splayed in front of me.  These he gathers together and uses one of his hands to pin them down.  My breathing quickens with excitement.  His other hand makes contact with my ass.  The smack of skin on skin loud in the quiet room.  I gasp, he isn’t fooling around.

I turn my head as much as I can given the position to look at him.  His eyes are different, somehow harder, but he gives me an aw shucks shrug as if to say “yeah I’m doing this all the way.”  Mr Right shoves my grinning face back into the bed before going back to the doling out of my belated spanking, a beating that has even a hardcore masochist like myself squirming at times.

When he finishes, he curls up beside me, holding me.  It isn’t long before I catch my breath and crawl a top him to take him in my mouth, hungry for the taste of him, to have him as close as possible.  I lap at him deeply, enjoying his sighs of pleasure as my tongue dances along his cock.

Wordlessly he grabs for a condom and he’s inside me, the weight of him engulfing me so that I’m gasping at his first thrust, biting at his shoulder.  Every nerve ending is on edge after the spanking, that unexpected treat, and he fits so well that the pleasure is abundant.  More so when he slips a hand between our bodies to play at my clit in time to his thrusts.  I’m moaning and grasping at his back and ass like a crazed person, overtaken by lust and seemingly endless orgasms. 

For the second time that afternoon when we make eye contact I widen my eyes in surprise at him.  This only seems to encourage him because instead of stopping or slowing his ministrations when I’ve come so many times that all I can do is giggle, he continues.  Words vaguely related to “no, oh please, sheesh”  come out of my mouth but I don’t mean them and even if I did he’s taken ownership of my body at this point.  So I’m powerless to do anything other than to enjoy his touch, the joy of him inside me.  My pleasure becoming his and vice versa.  Soon we’re both coming and collapsing in a sweaty laughing pile.

One more orgasm, a kazoo briefly confused for lube, and a tiny nap later we’re falling out of bed for substance, water, and that silly walk through the park as an excuse to enjoy the sunshine. High on my own brain I watch Mr Right kneel to commune with flowers and trees, capturing them with the lens of his camera with the same attention to detail with which he’d earlier fucked me silly and I smile, feeling pretty damn fortunate.   So I go cuddle a bush to celebrate.  

Living the Dream…A Week of Rope: Rope Journaling 7-11


It starts when Mr Right says “I bought a new chair.”

What could I do but bring my rope and tie him to it as soon as possible.  Especially since it was that brand of sparse Swedish furniture that practically begs to be taken advantage of thusly. Much like he all but called out to be used, ass in the air, arms tied to the back arms of the chair, kneeling on the seat of it as I teased and spanked his available and willing flesh.

It isn’t the most tie-able chair as it turns out but after as we lay sweaty, giggling and exhausted in his bed we count it as a success nonetheless.


The next day after the beach, a picnic, and much cooing at cute dogs I practice on him to prepare for teaching in the upcoming days.  It’s time to part ways. I should put my clothes on and get ready for my evening plans but seeing him vulnerable and smiling in my bed is irresistible.  So our mouths on each other starts a cascade of lust I don’t want to stifle. 

After I look down at his smug grin and say, “You’re a trouble maker.”

“Me? That was all you, I just went with it.  I was surprised. You’re the one that has to ride a bike naked all night long after this.”

“Fair enough.”  And we spoon in swoony happiness until I absolutely have to get up and meet a friend, sad to send away Mr Right.

Hours later at a city park full of naked people I tie my friend Victor into a chest harness and then myself into some semblance of decorative rope as drunk idiots hit us with their bikes.


We pedal down streets free of cars, naked and elated.  Protesting our city’s dependence on cars.  But in the weeks after a cavalcade of ugly news and a shooting that has our queer hearts hurting, this freedom and chance to be literally naked and sharing space with my chosen extended family of weirdoes meant more than it had in past years.

I passed out that night exhausted, bruised, and sore while smiling at the friendships and love I have in my life. 


Later that week I teach a class and my love shows up to be my stunt bottom, smiling and sassy. No drama, no fear, just fun and kisses.


Another night and I’m at a lover’s house.  We flirt over a magnificent meal and drinks.  Hedonistically full of mouth watering sensations we move from the table to the floor where I tie him cruelly, tease him endlessly and he fights me until my hands are rope burned and bruised.  More brat than switch.  I appreciate the play, the power given and taken but I don’t love how much my hands hurt that I have to work so hard to be on top when he keeps asking for me to top him.

We tussle in bed but the chemistry that we’ve shared during play isn’t there when the rope is put away.  It all feels flat and forced.  Literally forced, I say yes but still feel used.  And not in the sexy way. No one did anything wrong but I don’t feel right. I go home wholly dissatisfied and feeling off center.

My pleasure wasn’t on the menu at all.  I didn’t feel seen or honored or wanted as an individual.  I felt like a rope vending machine.  And intimacy was nowhere to be found, that blessed closeness I’ve been reveling in recently with Mr Right. Maybe casual sex doesn’t thrill me like it used to.  When I’ve found someone that fills me with so much joy, there’s little need or room for meaningless (truly utterly meaningless) fucking.


I feel empty and vaguely tarnished.  But I don’t cancel on C.  It’s been too long since we’ve shared space. And he’s one of the truly good men.  Someone I always feel 100% safe, honored, seen and cared for as an equal. No worries about his intentions or boundaries.  He’s very clear about his own and endlessly communicates with me about mine.

He texts me a list of desires for the evening.  My sadist boner grows at “spanking, caning…”  I smile at “include something green…”  And I cry to read “your orgasm…”  C is a stark contrast to the man from the evening before.  He gives a shit.  He wants me there in the moment with him, both of us enjoying and playing off the other.  He looks me in the eye when I’m hurting or pleasuring him, connected by the experience and enjoying it because the other is, making space for the other to get what they need.

By the time he arrives I’m hungry for human touch.  I tickle him until we’re both giddy with happy energy.  This is what play should be, light hearted and connective.  Now I’m out of my head and in the game with him, forgetting the night before.

I tie him to a chair. I tie him to my bed.  I tie myself to him and straddle his back as I come.  Though I trust him I don’t trust myself to be ready to be vulnerable enough for him to help me cross over into pleasure.  So instead I tease him by undulating on his hips as he moans face down into the bed, helpless.  I spank him periodically when I’m not 100% distracted by my orgasm. 

When I release him I return the favor, blown away by his ability to be so vulnerable as to ask for exactly what he wants and to lose himself in his orgasm.  It’s a beautiful moment of bliss to provide the touch he needs, as I stroke him my hands feel like my own again, healed from the bruises of the day before.

As we come down to earth I realize how happy I am to have a handful of friends that remind me that pleasure is wonderful. A basic human right too often denied us.  It’s not casual lust that’s a problem, it’s the lack of affection and closeness that made the night before hurt.


The next night I’m finally with Mr Right again, exhausted with aching hands and a heart longing for his tenderness and kisses.  That night I’m glad he’s not a switch, that there is no struggle for control.  That with him at least the roles are set, even if finding the right activities to perform takes a moment.  But he communicates his desire, that gets easier every time as we settle into a comfort with the body of the other.

I experiment with sensations, enjoying his gasps, moans, sighs, the sharp surprised intake of breath that can either end with a smile or a “that’s too much.”  Then our bodies together.  Oh our bodies together.  Rarely have I been able to let go and enjoy pleasure so easily and consistently.  This is good, he is good, life is good.


While fireworks go off in the mid-day Portland gloom Sock Girl and I close the curtains, drink rose’, flatter her cat, and experiment with rope. Giggling and snarking as we take turns folding the other over with helpless laughter.

“What a week.  If you’re too tired we can go sit in the yard.  We don’t have to do rope.”

“Shut your mouth!  I didn’t come over here with rope to not use it on you.  I haven’t tied you up in forever!”

Shrugging her acquiescence to her fate Sock Girl allows me to put her in some truly fucked up ties. Ones that no one else would ever dream of letting me tie, let alone ask for.  So even though it’s “just practice” we’re both flushed with rope happy by the time I follow my apparent chair obsession by tying her to a lovely vintage metal chair.


I’m too tired to even think of rope or power exchange.  So luckily Mr Right takes the lead.  In the end I ask, “What would you like?”

“This but restrained.” He says.

I don’t even bother moving my body from his.  With him still inside me I reach for the cheesy velco restraints on my headboard and strap him down.  He smiles that smug smile of his and we both proceed to get exactly what we want.