Posts tagged vibrator
Wiggle Room: Rope Journaling 11-3

It’s been a week of “be careful what you wish for.” In the past I’ve wished Mr Right were a little more switchy and now here I am, two days since we last hung out and I still can't bear to look at my vibrator let alone imagine longing for an orgasm. To be fair it's at least half my fault. I did start it.

See my brain spent all of last Friday distracted and dreaming up ways to torment Mr Right. It was an especially creative day in the naughty section of my brain because it was the sort of day where I was hardcore procrastinating at work. And Mr Right’s butt was the focus of all my creative energy as I avoided doing boring crap like accounting and answering emails. So that by the time Mr Right picked me up from work I had written a dozen bad ideas (well bad for him, great for me) down in my rope notebook and had an evil smile on my face I couldn't hide.

By the time we were ready to retreat to the bed room I was grinning up at him like a creep. “Nope you don't have any ideas.”

He tried to kiss away some of my smugness but it only made my head full of deviousness fuller. My look seemed to be making him a little nervous, which it should have, I was feeling downright cruel. While he was in the bathroom I got to the task of hiding hard points along the length of the sides of his bed frame by tying rope there. He came back just in time to catch me finishing up. “No, no ideas! I'm not in any trouble.”  He promptly walked out of the room.

“Glad you understand. Now, less pants!”  I called out to him.

My hands were grabbing at his ass before he could fully drop his jeans to the floor. Such was my desire for him. I hoped I could resist the urge to fuck him long enough to fuck with his mind.

Once he was naked I fell to my knees admiring his hardness and inwardly reminding myself to not take him in my mouth. Instead I leered up at him while I tied rope lines all up and down both of his legs then lines around his hips and belly and chest. Finishing with the most comfy wrist cuffs I could devise.

“Boy it's a good thing you're not up to anything.”

“Me? Nope just want you to be comfy since you're going to be in this for a while. A long while.”

“Oh really?”

I push him back on the bed, briefly knocking the sass off his face. “Yeap, now scoot to the middle.”

First I bind his wrists spread eagled to the far corners of the head board.  Next I use the rope I’d tied to the bed earlier to snug the ropes around his chest and waist, repeating this on both sides so he’s trapped in the middle of the mattress and can’t move an inch.  I test his confinement by periodically tickling him, if he can still move I tighten the ropes around his torso until he has zero wiggle room.  There comes a moment when it clicks with him, the general idea of what I’m up to and he looks at me like, “Really?  You’re going there?”  To which I just lean into kiss him and whisper, “You’re in a lot of trouble, mister.”

He shyly smiles at me and I return to the work of binding his legs, the entire length of them--not just his ankles--to the bed, so he can’t even wiggle his thighs.  This is the most important part, the part I’m counting on, so many of my plans hinge on being able to torture his exposed thighs and teasing his still hard and unused cock without him being able to turn away from me.  So when I tickle test him again and he can’t move at all, I snicker and leave the room, increasing his vulnerability, in order to retrieve the things I’ll use on him.  “Don’t go anywhere!”  I joke over my shoulder.  

Next comes the blindfold.  He’s seen me gathering most of what I’ll use on him so the general idea of what will happen can’t be a surprise.  And yet this addition always seems to quiet him, making him more compliant as he waits, down his ability to see or move.  So who am I to deny him the pleasure of denying his ability to see.  Plus he looks so cute in my red satin scarf that I use as a blindfold.

Who can remember what order I tease and hurt him in.  There’s ice cubes (especially cruel for the man who hates to be chilly), a pin wheel, clothes pins, tiny rope tied around his cock, a vibrator run along the ropes, and my hands or a cane applied to his thighs with him unable to flinch at the pain.  I occasionally brush his cock with my hands but not sexually, totally denying what he (and let’s face it, I) want.  So that by the time I untie his dick, it absolutely dripping with longing.  I take pity on him, lubing up my hands to stroke him to which he makes the most beautiful sighs and moans, louder and more plentiful than usual to make up for the fact that he can’t move.

Soon I can’t take it anymore, I tie his hands in a more comfortable position, and untie the waist ropes so that I can straddle him.  I take off the blind fold so that he can see I’m naked where I hadn’t been when I started and he can watch me fumble for and apply a condom to him.  The joint relieved sigh that issues from us is incredible and we smile at one another as I continue.  I fuck him until I can’t anymore and have to untie him and insist he take over. 

And yada, yada, yada…sex. 

Flash to the next afternoon, we’re sitting watching something dumb on TV or making a cheese plate or looking at dog pictures…any of those mundane activities we enjoy together when not fucking one another’s brains out, when he looks over at me.  “I have ideas for later.”  It’s said with that gleam in his eyes that I know exactly what he means.  My turn to feel shy, blush a little, and feel that lightening hot flash of lust pass through me right to my cunt.

“Oh really?”  He nods and waggles his eye brows at me.  “Well shit, this is the hazard of teaching you things, now you can use them against me.  Oh darn!”

No enormous surprise that later that night I find myself undressed and tied up much the same way I had tied him the night before.  “Oh gee I wonder what you have in mind.”

“Nothing, nothing.  Totally innocent and virtuous thoughts only.”

He even tosses me in the bed the same as I did to him before tying me to the bed in the same way.  I have to laugh as I resign myself to what’s about to happen, knowing just how screwed I am.  Probably literally.  And there’s the blind fold, and the rattle of the ice maker and the clink of the pin wheel and clothes pins.  He applies them all to me much in the same way I did to him expect meaner because I can take it.

“Is this what you mean when you say you like awkward rope and pain?” he asks at one point as I squeal and admit, “Yes!” 

And he places the evil new vibrator between my legs as an ever present torment and distraction.  Evil because it has settings built into it that are very good at keeping a person just on the edge of orgasm but never vibrating strong enough for release. It’s also surprisingly powerful, and able to drag orgasms out me, orgasms outside of my control, orgasms so powerful I lose the ability to speak or move or function as a human. Something he found out the other night when he helped vibrate me to an orgasm but then refused to stop, holdingme down until I couldn’t move anymore and screamed, “Fuck you, I hate you, shut up, I hate this, you’re terrible.”  Much to his great and endless amusement until he stopped just before I was worried I would pass out.

This in mind, I thought “oh shit” the second he turned that vibrator on and seated it in just the right place between my legs.  I knew exactly what he was up to and I wondered if I’d survive the number of orgasms I’m sure he was plotting. And what felt like an hour and a million and two orgasms later the answer is, just barely.  He did eventually untie me for…yada, yada, yada water, more sex, and oh so much cuddling.

This is how days later I’m pout/grinning about how exhausted my clit still is.

Absence Makes a Heart...

My lover goes to another country for two weeks.  Not that long.  Easy peasy.  The time will fly. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that, right?  His last words to me are “I’ll miss you.”  He leaves me with a vase of flowers to remember him by.  I’m so secure in our mutual feels for one another that it’s all silly puppy love pouts of longing and not worry about the distance, neither physical nor emotional, that has me bummed.

Except: absence makes the heart grow fonder…

He texts me about his days, his adventures and I live vicariously through him. One day the phrase “and I had company” appears in his run down of the day.  And I feel a weird flutter in my chest as I read it a couple of times to parse that out.  And the queasy feeling grows, not because he’s likely slept with another woman—he’s free to do whatever he likes within the bounds of safety and honesty—but because none of this is ideal.  There are conversations we should have had before he left, and silly us, we were too busy saying good bye to have those talks. 

So logical me smiles and teasingly congratulates him, eager to hear more about her later, ideally when we’re in the same room so I can touch him, see him smile when he describes their time.  Because I do want to know more and I want him to do all the things (and people) that make him happy.  But emotional me can’t figure out why this hurts. I frantically leave the brunch place I’ve taken myself to while texting him good morning and lay in bed feeling deflated.

Then it hits me. I hear his voice in my head, “She was just keeping me company, stop over reacting, Emily.” Not Mr. Right’s voice.  It’s Mutton, the shit box narcissist abuser whose manipulation and mind games were as plentiful as the amount of women he kept around to make me feel insecure during our two years together. That was years ago and yet…

And I feel like a shit for not being able to say more, say the right thing to Mr. Right just then.  My feels are not his fault.  Dear, PTSD brain, you suck.  Unfuck you Mutton and the abuse that keeps on abusing even though you’re long gone from my life.  It was the euphemism, too familiar, too often used against me, and not the information conveyed that hurt.

Logical me treats herself to an orgasm because Mutton never gets to ruin my day ever again.  Seriously, unfuck that guy.  I turn on porn and fuck myself for a good long while, delaying the inevitable, getting myself just to the edge and stopping to go plainfly slow while watching the man and woman on the screen.  In my head the couple becomes Mr. Right and his mystery hook up.  And it becomes more difficult to wait. 

Holding myself on the edge is excruciating as I fuck myself with the vibrator, not allowing myself the stimulation to my clit that would put me over the edge.  The couple on the screen kiss, looking at one another that way only people who are really enjoying fucking do.  Eyes and mouths wide and bodies absolutely on the same page of pleasure.  Looking almost as if they’re shocked to find themselves in this situation.  Their connection is palpable and erotic as hell.

I wonder if Mr. Right looked at his mystery lady that way.  It’s a look I’ve seen on his face many times.  And I hope so, I hope his hotel room was full of pleasure.  I fantasize about watching them from a chair in the corner of that room, touching myself as my lover fucks another woman.  Would their entangling look anything like ours?  Does he touch her the way he touches me?  What’s specific to our repertoire?

It’s not enough that I’m a dirty old woman fucking this sweet young thing?  Now I’m imagining his trysts?   Knowing this fantasy is weird makes the moment that much better.  So of course this is the moment I move the vibrator to my clit and let go.

And the climax is so cathartic that I cry while coming down from that high. Sweaty and sticky between the legs, face covered in tears, I laugh at myself.  I never stop being surprised at the human heart.  That limerence*, lust, and sadness can occur in the same moment.  That both people can do everything right and one person can trip over the strangest trigger.  That a bruised heart can lead to such debauchery.

Emotional me feels raw the next day until she grows the ovaries to text Mr. Right the “right” way to let me know next time he sleeps with someone else.  100% industrial strength honesty with no euphemism please and thank you.  And that is that.  I have a communication-is-sexy boner the rest of the day.

And the heart grows fonder still…

So I have to throw my hands up and roll my eyes epically at the universe to hear that as soon as Mr. Right gets home, he’s sick.  Instead of having a sweet, sexy reunion we’re both miserable, our bodies playing cruel tricks on us both.  Fortunately he’s well enough a day later to snuggle up and hide from the world. 

We aren’t able to follow our lust anywhere deeper than to spooning but we talk and that’s world’s more intimate.  I hear about the mystery woman and my heart swells to see him shy and pleased, sharing the perfect amount of details.  And in hearing him talk about her I learn more about him, what he likes and what he is like.  What delights him and what drew him to her.  I’ve never adored him as much as when I hear him speak kindly of another woman and their time together.  Because he doesn’t hide anything or compare us. No one is better or more than, we’re just both ladies who happened to cross paths with this same man.  And isn’t that beautiful and strange?

And I tell him of my own minor hook up while he was away.  The rope fun I had when my regular rope bottom was away.  Everything is sweet and silly and out in the open.  We tease one another and giggle at ourselves, it’s not the cathartic sex I’d prefer to be having after having such a vulnerable conversation, but when is life ever perfect?

Instead he lets me hold him through a long night of fever sleep, my arm wrapped around him, hand on his heart, feeling him close.  And I don’t even feel sad about our lack of sexual intimacy just then. Instead I’m consumed with sweetness. For once I actually believe what’s happening in front of me, none of it is manipulation, or denial to keep me on my toes, sad and stressed.  It’s just life.  And we’ll get to the dirty stuff soon enough.  For now the tenderness is plenty satisfying and real.

When I finally get around to tying him up…  Oh boy.

 

 

*used here to describe that delightful mushy lovey dovey near obsession that happens early in a romance before the commitment and bonding stage begins