Having it all

Is it possible to have it all?

Well, of course it is. We all know people who have it all. What do I mean by “having it all”? I’m talking about having relationships that satisfy both our BDSM joneses as well as our other, various human desires. All at the same time. So that you feel like a whole person, you know?

This topic has been on my mind since I enjoyed a dinner out with a ProDomme friend of mine a couple weeks ago (and, no, all you junior detectives, it was not with either my Mistress nor with any of her close associates, so give it a rest). My friend “Helene” was telling me that her successful BDSM practice satisfied 80% or more of her urges, but then there was the small matter of watching a movie with someone without it becoming a big deal; spending holidays with that someone; and , yes, getting a hug when it’s really needed. So just how do you fill in this “missing” 20%? Being dense and somewhat self-centered, I had never really appreciated that fact that ProDommes are frequently in the same dilemma as their clients. For the client with the wherewithal to session twice a month and attend fetish events once or twice a month, he too is 80% there. On paper it would seem to be an easy hole to plug (sorry). After all, we’re not looking to take someone out of their comfort zone and ask them to do things they probably consider weird; we’ve got that piece covered! So this will be easy! Well, not really. You see, any candidate willing to fill in the missing 20% is in fact going to want more than that, and rightly so. And, chances are excellent that when s/he figures out what is fueling the 80% part, your ‘wonderful’ friendship will come to a screeching halt.

I want to tell you a related story. A true story. For such a smart guy, sometimes I can be so thick it’s breathtaking. Stating it very briefly, I used to regularly see a ProDomme who is now retired. She was very famous, drop-dead gorgeous, brilliant and funny. By any measure one of the world’s most beautiful and charming women. I am fortunate enough to say that she adored me as a client and made every session seem extra special. She also had a list of dos and don’ts on her website that took a measure of concentration for the reader to get through -- in other words, she was highly ethical. Well, one fine day, without any prior warning that I recognized at the time (but with the benefit of 20/20 hindsight, I see very clearly now) she began “forcing” me to perform vanilla sex acts while in session. Damn! I loved it in the moment, but later the thought of it weirded me out just a bit. Does she do this with everyone? (She tearfully protested that I was the “only one.”) And I was married at the time…this was not really what I was seeking when coming to the studio space she rented. Some 4+ years later, I get it. Finally. She was looking to plug the empty 20%. She told me that she attended many high-end formal events on the arm of this or that gentleman, but having sex with a slave who was tied up in a compromising and stressful position was something she could not do. Except with me, a client she decided was cool enough trust with the task. I really puzzled over this for a long time. This was a woman who should have been capable of reeling in any man she wanted “on command”. But there is always the untold story. I was one of the few who knew her well enough to know that her day job was as an executive VP at a major corporation. Ooooh, that 20% can be really hard to fulfill!

So circling back to my friend Helene, I’m not sure what the answer is. Her partial response seems to be to have her especially moneyed clients take her to very expensive restaurants for polite banter. I guess that fills the gap at least partly. As for myself, against my better judgment I have been seeing a vanilla girl who I know will cut off all contact with me when she hears about BDSM. She has somehow not noticed my decorative cutting or the hole where my cock piercing is (phew, I manage to get it out in time before any action starts. It might be fulfilling a need, but it still sucks. I hate being so dishonest with someone close to me. It makes me feel like a fucking criminal. And all this with a very beautiful younger woman who knows all my present and former business associates. Literally, a time bomb waiting to go off. Well, I’d love to search for a new “business” model, but I’m not sure how to go about that. Let’s see, seeing a ProDomme who is into totally different things, so “play” never becomes an issue, meanwhile we understand each other in a very organic sense. Hmmm. Actually, that sounds a bit like Helene and me, although she has made it clear that she deeply resents the fact that I have no desire to play with her. Uh oh, that doesn’t sound good. Or maybe I should try a polyamorous household…but that sounds so messy. Or serving a Mistress who maintains a stable of different subjects, each utilized for different moods. Feh. Than that leaves other gaps to fill.

When I figure it out, I’ll let you know.

JO

Time was, I’d do it anywhere. My first industrial jerking off took place in grammar school (my school system had no Junior High School) in the eighth grade. I became an expert in leaning my chair back, rocking slightly and rubbing my dick against the frame of my desk. Gently…back and forth…discretely. One of my classmates, Megan, was 14 going on 24, with a developed body and a firm grip on her own sexuality. Above average height with a meaty, athletic build, she cut an imposing figure, even in the eighth grade. She wore jeans so tight that it must have taken a half hour to get them on. And the back seam disappeared deep into her ass crack in the form of a mega wedgie, fueling my earliest ass fetish moments. Damn, she was hot...and seated two rows ahead of me. I even discretely ejaculated from my rocking chair position on at least two occasions, but after leaving a tell-tale wet spot on my pants, I learned to control my urges.

From that early start, I became a dedicated masturbator.

Getting a frenum piercing changed everything. Well…not quite like when I had stitches in my “good” hand and realized that I was a one-hand jerker-offer….but I digress. In order to have a painless JO session, I have to carefully place the frenum between my index and fore fingers, and keep it there throughout the whole process. Sounds like a pain, but it really isn’t. One other change the frenum has introduced: it is harder to do the act while sitting down, making the bed the new and improved place to jerk off. Not that I CAN’T do it while seated, it’s just that there is more potential for snagging the frenum if not lounging. I don’t know, it’s hard to explain …just take my word for it. So lying there and getting in the mood I will conjure up a variety of images, but when I really get rolling, I end up thinking about one individual. I just cannot shake it. Lately, there is a small part of me that feels like this is some sort of cosmic imposition; I can’t figure out if it’s cool or not. Then there is the whole matter of WHAT am I thinking about. Am I thinking about stuff that we do already? Well, yes. But those “appropriate” thoughts are ‘enhanced’, as our former Veep would say, by other thoughts, mostly of the anal worship variety. Tongue in asshole…mmmm, yes. Talk about motivation. My fave vanilla position, practiced many times with my ex, consisted of my tongue deep in her asshole, with my ex tugging on my nipple clamp chain with her left hand and rubbing one out with her right. But it seems like I’ve said this before. And maybe that’s not such a “vanilla” position, after all. No matter. Repetition is good and I hate categorizing things, first and foremost what I am and what I like. So, it’s rare for me to have a JO session without somehow getting to the point where I am dreaming of performing anal worship under painful duress, not to mention being given firm feedback on the merits (or lack thereof) of my performance. Actually, a current variation is to dream of performing this fete with my cock locked into chastity. That’s a whole other subject, of course, but the notion of jerking off while fantasizing about chastity strikes me as a little strange…even though I do it all the time. I love to dream about my Mistress climaxing several times in the position road-tested by my ex, while taunting me about my inability to get really hard, never mind ejaculating. (I always whimper, I know, Master, you have to come for both of us.) Since she is so sweet (not everyone knows this, ha!), after finishing the session and going out for a drink, she invites me back to her space for a brief post-script. Upon entering, I am told to drop my drawers and assume the kneeling position. Mistress mater-of-factly attaches the nastiest combination of nipple toys she has and coldly tells me that I have 90 seconds to ejaculate. Failure will mean six uninterrupted months in the chastity device. While jerking off to this well-rehearsed routine, I never fail to have a spooge explosion approximately 15 seconds after embarking on this last mini-scenario. In my dreams, as in a real life (live?!) session, I lick up the ejaculate and am cheerfully sent on my way by my Mistress. But I’m forgetting a few details. Not about my fantasies, but about how they are executed. You see, I cannot ejaculate if I am not being tortured. Truth. (Poor Keith Carradine. I relate to his predicament, though auto-erotic asphyxiation has never been my bag.) But while I may dream of zippers and nipple stick/clamp combos, I have a couple of very tight clothes pins that get the job done quite nicely. I will twist them as I slowly work my way up the ladder; I’ll imaging that my Mistress is using alligator clips, twisting them until I cry (which makes her laugh). She punctuates this with a series of spits. I know she prefers to sensually allow a stream of spittle to slowly decent into my mouth, but I dream more of her curtly spitting in my face…which I do not regard as a humiliating act, but rather an act of anointment. Then I dream of her gazing at me, expressionless, cool, not terribly amused until a tear gathers up and dribbles down my cheek. And then I’ve come again, this time a thinner, more watery version. Totally out of breath and slightly spaced

All of the above can easily take a couple of hours if I’m not careful; a ridiculous indulgence of time…and then I’m asleep with a smile on my face.

Forced

There is nothing quite like the silence one feels when blindfolded. Deprivation of one sense accentuates the acuity of the remaining senses, and the empty nothingness that defined normal silence in this case is replaced by a sort of mute roar that envelopes the him. It’s the grand hum of soundless static. Occasionally he could hear her walking about in the next room, her platform heals making a pronounced and authoritative sound. Not exactly clicking, not exactly pounding: a clipped kuk, kuk, kuk. He could intermittently hear her voice as well; whether this was her speaking into the iPhone, he could not determine. Or perhaps there was someone else present and she was chatting to her/him. Maybe.

He had been lead to this place while being blindfolded. What he was doing prior to this station-stop is not important. Suffice it to say that his world has slowed to a crawl; even her voice was sounding like something he had once heard during a particularly intense acid trip; harmonious and distorted all at once. He loves her confidence, her unflappability. Other people admire her command, but to him, her command is reality and is thus unremarkable. Her command and control just is. Upon arrival to this vast and empty loft space, she crisply removed some, but not all of his clothing, and in his current state he cannot determine or remember what he has left on. He does know that he is in some fashion clothed by the thick hemp rope that she applied to his body in a serpentine manner. Perhaps shibari. Does he have both feet on the ground? Who knows? She is silently inspecting him now. Touching lightly here and there, warily circling and evaluating him. He can feel her warm breath on his cool flesh. He is frankly a bit chilly, but he dares not say so. His mouth is bound by an unusual gag that keeps his hole forced open and available. Far from ideal for speaking, and in any event, he has understood that any communications he embarks upon now will be of the non-verbal variety. He feels mummified. He is trussed, suspended and immobilized. He is blindfolded. His world is dark. It is quiet.

She is touching his head. Her long and lanky digits (can a finger be lanky?) lightly but firmly caress his skull. He is reluctant to tell her how much he loves this, for fear she will stop doing it. There are some things they discuss in great detail and others that are left unmentioned. Despite allowing him to get closer to her – over a matter of years – she is always on guard…mustn’t let him get too close. This caution does not seem to come from a place of fear, but rather some sort of rectitude or probity that he understands…and yet doesn’t understand. He has not questioned her. His fear – yes it is a fear – is that inviting her answers and interpretations will cement their friendship in a static state that will preclude, or at least render difficult, any future adjustments. He wants badly to explain his motivations and goals to her. He thinks she would approve, though not necessarily because she is ready to embark on them, but because he feels certain, he knows and feels, that she would find them appropriate. But instead, he enjoys the sifting sand under his feet: their interaction is not what it was six months ago, and most probably not what it will be in another six months. They are explorers; she the Captain, he the mate. She will pilot this ship to whatever port she chooses.

She is lightly caressing him all around, spinning him from his overhead, single-point suspension. She is laughing softly, compressing certain body parts with her hands and fingernails, others with accessories. He feels her warmth and her proximity in an almost reiki-like way. Soft. Warm. Gentle. Firm. An intense squeeze here (accompanied by giggles) , a soft caress there. Her laughter did not punctuate events, but provided a backdrop to them.

Silence again. Alone. He is a human pendulum, slowly drifting from his tether. Time passes… in his dark and quiet world…

How much time, he cannot say. She is now back. Her greased cock has swiftly negotiated it’s way up his ass without preamble or commentary. He is relaxing his sphincter, enjoying, staying in the moment, doing his best to please her. She is pumping furiously. Removal and re-load. Slightly softer, this cock, and warmer, but not squishy. A mouth sensuously envelopes his cock. Warm, wet, experienced. Her? Not important. It is her because it is she who is manipulating these events; she is the maestro. More. Change of position. Masculine grunting, from somewhere. Someone now in front, it’s her, twisting his nipples with a vengeance. The cock in his ass is now not moving, but the mouth on his cock working hard. His head is spinning, he’s short of breath, confused and aroused. She breaks the silence with talk of total ownership: he is her toy, her object. He will accept anything, the sole criteria being that she finds it amusing. She is no longer interested in his opinions or limits; his limits have simply been replaced by her own limits, the contours of which she has not shared with him yet. On other occasions, in different contexts, he is her dutiful pet, but presently he is just a thing, a holster for her cock, a slut to be used and enjoyed. She had waited a long time before training him like this. Gales of laughter dance about, and he dreams of her smile. He knows she is happy. Suddenly, a change of vibe, and demands to come are issued. He is close. “You have no choice”, she said simply while viciously but lovingly twisting his nipples. It was so; he had no choice.

He ejaculates in three pronounced spasms. “Good boy, pet”, she approvingly coos. Out of breath and spent he is unexpectedly greeted with a come-filled mouth. A long kiss from an unfamiliar mouth follows and he obediently sucks semen. Upon completion, the mouths uncouple, their work now done. She wants to command, “spit on him”, but she remembers that he cannot be submissive to a man. So she does it herself. She spits and spits and spits. And pulls and twists some more. It matters not that he has just ejaculated. His devotion is enhanced after release, as it should be. His whimpers begging her to stop only encourage her to continue.

Then, she was done. “Next time you will be violently raped”, she tells him matter-of-factly. He remains a pendulum, listening to the sound of her heels, and a second set of feet – bare feet - fading away to the distant reaches of the loft.