I don't shine if you don't shine.

It seems I spoke too soon when I told our doctor earlier this week that we seem to both have recovered from our series of colds this winter -- I can tell that I'm fighting something off even as we speak. We were in the doctor's office for a check-up for Daddy, which is especially important since he is on T.

I'm even more proud of him than usual because recently he completed disclosing his trans status at work, which was something we were both concerned about. I've mentioned before that we work in the nightclub industry, but additionally we work at a venue that is traditionally lesbian. When he was hired we agreed that we would settle in and then we'd disclose, in case the staff turned out to be anti-trans. I'm happy to say that isn't the case, but I'm embarrassed to say that I am still confusing pronouns at work for him.

In fact, this happened the other night. We were outside having a quick smoke and a woman approached us for a light. She drunkenly began telling me an intimate story about her and her American lover, (this is an unasked-for talent that I seem to have: random strangers tell me their deepest secrets on a very regular basis, and in all kinds of situations. It's definitely more noticable at the club due to the alcoholic lubrication of the tongue and sometimes it can be very awkward for me. Flattering, but awkward.), saw that we were a couple, and immediately read us as boy/girl and therefore straight.

"Oh, you aren't gay?" she asked me, eyebrows rising.

"Yes," I answered, drawing an invisible line in the air between him and me, "we both are."

Her brow furrowed and she swayed on her feet. "I'm confused. You're both gay?"

She was drunk, and I rarely take that as the time to educate people on what it is to be trans -- the path of least resistance, I feel, is the best tack to take with the inebriated masses. But what I did next was nonetheless wrong on my part, and hurtful to my K.

"Girl," I said, pointing to myself, "and girl," pointing to K. "Yes, we are both gay."

He went back inside abruptly and I briefly realized that I'd fucked up, all in the name of getting out of this unwanted conversation with a stranger I would never see again. So I excused myself and we finished work without mentioning the incident.

Later, in our bedroom, he suddenly said, "I am not upset about this but I need to say for the record that I'm out at work, so you don't need to tell people I'm your girlfriend anymore."

I was taken aback, partly because I'd intended to bring it up myself, and apologize, but hadn't settled into bed with him yet and therefore hadn't said anything yet. And I felt ashamed, because it was wrong of me, even though I'd just been trying to get out of a conversation I didn't want to have in the first place. I apologized and we went to sleep.

But it's been bothering me since. And last night one of the regulars, one that knows us both, approached us to tell us that he wishes he could transition, too. It was a brief but very good conversation between he and K and somewhat me, but watching them together, one of my favourite aspects of K shone through to me: his willingness to mentor those who need it, without question.

I appreciate and admire who he is, his uncompromising selfhood, his unshaken and unshakable knowledge of his identity. I am still learning how to navigate the murky waters of sexuality and gender, but I'm glad he is holding my hand and giving me the gift of patience while I do. It's something he's done throughout the decade of our friendship; in fact, it's his firm declaration that there is nothing wrong with being who you are and loving who you love that gave me the courage to be who I am and love who I love. His self-respect bled onto me, at a time when I most needed it, and helped shape the person that I am today. I cannot overstate the positive impact that he has had on me and on my development as a person.

And I needed that lesson again. It's both important and not important to be able to explain who we are (who he is and who I am as it relates to him) to people that are out with friends and drinking and having a good time. But I respect and love him with all my heart, and my actions need to reflect that better, even in dicey situations.

I am going to be more aware of how my language and behavior reflect upon him.

Stalemate

It seems we are at a stalemate, Daddy and I. How do you bring up your desire for BDSM when one of the issues that you're working on is a difficulty in articulating what you want, what you need? I am finding that our sex life (at least in that vein) is currently nonexistent. We talked about it last night, kind of, and his reasoning is that my mood has been so low over the past few weeks (due to circumstances outside both my control and our relationship) that he doesn't want to make me feel forced into a BDSM situation that might make me feel worse. My response was immediate, though: it makes me feel better. At the very least it helps me to shut my brain off, to disconnect from anything other than us, here, now, this feeling, this emotion, this release. It's so rare in my world for that to happen and I cherish it completely.

Ultimately it's about communication. Isn't it always? I am working on becoming more able to tell him what I want/need, but I'm not there yet. And he has promised to talk to me instead of assuming that he'll make it worse.

It's been hard, though. The words, "I really would like it if you'd hurt me, please," don't always come easily to my lips; not nearly as often as they beat inside my mind and heart. My inability to simply say it to him stems from fear of rejection, fear of "making him" do something he doesn't truly want to do, and fear of judgment. Do I need it too much? Too often? Too desperately?

And so I yield to his lead, which, unfortunately, puts all of the pressure on him to decide when we're going to do this. That's not a fair position to put one partner in, even a dominant partner.

So we're working on it. I'll let you know how it goes...because I miss it. I miss it so, so much.

In and Out, Up and Down

I've forgotten if I have ever mentioned that Daddy and I work in the nightclub industry on the weekends. It's a lot of fun and I enjoy meeting new people, and there's always something dramatic and/or interesting happening. Never a boring night, that's for certain. However, we've learned the big downside to all this socializing: we pick up every single illness that every single moron who's too sick to be out but went out anyway is carrying with them. UGH.

So this is the third week that we've been juuuust recovering from one illness only to fall prey to another because neither of our immune systems have had the chance to build back up. It's put a significant crimp in our loving -- one generally needs to breathe without coughing or needing to grab a tissue in order to, say, bury one's face in one's lover's delicious nether regions. We've made do with our fingers (when neither of us is absolutely in misery, which has been very rare over the last three weeks) and have racked up many promises of tantalizing and evil things to do to one another once we're better.

Yesterday it was all looking much better: Daddy was about halfway through Cold #3 and I wasn't hacking too hard from Cough #2 and it had been days since either of us had managed an orgasm. We had somewhere to be in 45 minutes, so we needed to shower...and of course that meant getting naked, which naturally led to tumbling one another on the bed in a mass of warm skin and hungry lips and flushed cheeks and exploring hands. He threw me onto my back, peeled back the covers and kissed his way down my stomach, hooking my legs over his shoulders and pressing his mouth and nose between my folds within a matter of seconds. I gasped, laughing, as he took a long, deep breath.

"You smell amazing, little girl," he murmured, and slipped his tongue inside me, working it in and out rhythmically. My hips matched it and we moved together until I couldn't stand it any longer. "Please," I whispered, "please, I need you inside me."

He flashed that knowing grin at me and grabbed the lube. And then...my uterus tightened uncomfortably. Cramps. Unmistakable, painful, and FIVE DAYS EARLY -- cramps! I cursed silently to myself and decided they would just have to hold off until we were through.

His fingers teased my entrance and made me squirm just the way he likes. "You need me right there, baby? Right there?" I moaned shamelessly and tried to impale myself on him. He chuckled and drew back just enough to keep me from getting what I wanted, "Yes, right there, I think..." Suddenly I was filled with him and it was enough to make me arch my back and cry out. "Good girl, good girl," he told me, stroking me inside firmly. It always makes me feel emotional when he does this -- it brings me back to my first time with him.

All too soon I was coming, his hand was full of me, and I was breathing hard, half never-wanting-him-to-pull-out and half wanting-my-mouth-on-him-right-away. The cramps were much better -- perhaps there's truth to orgasms helping with that? At any rate, I switched places with him, glancing at the clock.

"I'm going to skip the foreplay, I think," I told him, kissing his stomach between words and working my way downward. "Besides, you should be pretty worked up after fucking me like that, right?" I found his clit, completely extended from beneath its hood -- T really is a miracle worker! -- and hard, just like I like it.

He mumbled something in the affirmative and scooted up the bed to give me better access. "Two fingers inside me, please," he managed to tell me as my tongue curled around his clit. I didn't answer, just complied. It's arguably his favourite way to come while I'm fucking him, and it wasn't long before he did, his muscles tight around my fingers and my mouth full of him.

Reluctantly, I pulled out of him and we held each other for a few minutes. I am still amazed at the emotional connection that I experience with him through sex. It's a kind of closeness that seems to be specific to making love with him and I cherish it so completely.

And then it was time to get in the shower and now today we're both sick again and I have my period but still, the warm feeling I get remembering that closeness is with me. Once again I must say this: I am a lucky, lucky grrl.

Innocence for Days

When I first established this blog, Daddy and I had intended to write it together. That hasn't happened (obviously!), partly because he's demurely insistent that he isn't a good writer, (though he absolutely is), and partly, I think, because he's come to think of this place as my own, a place where he can see some of what I think about this facet of our life.

Occasionally he'll ask me to write about a specific topic. Sometimes this is a simple request and sometimes it's more of an order. He made one such request some time ago -- a week? two? -- and I've been sitting on it ever since. I think I'm ready to address it now, though.

SO! Anal sex! Here we go.

Anal is something I think I've touched (heh) upon here but I'll review quickly. In the past, I've fucked nearly every biomale I've ever been with in the ass -- usually with my fingers or tongue, but occasionally with an appropriate toy or two. Now, it's not like I went into sex with guys thinking, "Gosh, I'm just waiting for the right moment to stick it in!" or anything, but as far as I'm concerned, there's not a lot I won't at least try if my partner wants it and gets pleasure from it. So by the time Daddy and I got together, I'd had quite a bit of experience as the penetrative partner in anal sex.

Receiving is a totally different story, though. I have always found it nearly intolerably painful. Even a single finger -- even a single SMALL finger -- caused me intense pain, no matter how much lube we threw at the problem. Not only that, but as far as I was concerned, I have a pussy and I'd far rather use that, thanks. But I gamely tried it time and time again, especially since I find the idea of having another orifice available for penetration quite hot.

Now, Daddy's past in terms of anal sex was somewhat similar in that he's fucked bioboys before -- even with a strapon, which is something I've not done -- but not as often, I think, as I have. Receptively he was even less experienced than me, however. His previous long-time partner found the idea disgusting and saw fit to mention that fact frequently and loudly. That contributed to his shame about That Area, to the point where he completely buried his real feelings on the matter. It wasn't until we'd become more comfortable with one another that he was able to admit that it's something he's always been interested in.

So with time I was able to discover that he enjoyed it when I took his clit in my mouth and gently penetrated him with a fingertip. I've worked up to an entire finger once or twice but this is something he can't take for long. We'll get there.

With that discovery came the discovery that he really, really wanted to fuck my ass. I wasn't sure how I felt about this. I was certainly willing to try, with the caveat that it wasn't likely to work, but hey, why not? So we did.

At first it hurt. He was gentle but I found anything other than simple massage to be painful, as I always had. I took to laying him on his back, laying my head on his ribcage and jerking him off or fucking him with one hand while he fingered my ass with the other. It gets him off beautifully and one night....it felt good. It felt REALLY good. It felt so good that I had what I can only assume was an orgasm -- it felt different from any kind of orgasm I've yet had but it felt GREAT and left me shaking so I don't know what else to call it.

I don't know if that night was a fluke, but we took full advantage of it. He flipped me onto my back and slipped a finger back into my ass, handing me a vibrator with the other. I turned it on as he penetrated my cunt with two fingers and roughly located my g-spot (which I love, love, love, oh god I love it so much) and placed it against my clit.

20 moments of bliss followed, my body so strung out with desire and arousal so acute it was nearly painful, and I came harder than I ever have before...so hard, in fact, that I ejaculated. That's a major first to me, and one we've been unable to recreate since (though we haven't done that exact thing since...perhaps that's a theory I'll need to test!) but as Daddy put it, one moment his hand in my cunt was slick and the next it was soaked. I'll report back on that for sure.

We haven't been able to repeat that experience (yet) but I hope to do it again because it was wonderful. Since then, it hasn't been as good and in fact, the other night it was downright painful. It's a difficult feeling to describe, especially since I get off on Daddy hurting me...just...not there. It's not the kind of pain I like at all. That's something we'll need to work on.

So we're making a lot of progress on the anal front. Having him inside me like that was actually quite moving for me, as that is the last of my "traditional" virginity. I often wish that he was the only person I was ever with at all, (though of course that would have its own challenges, I'm sure), so it makes me happy that he has that particular part of my sexual experience all to himself.

There are so many kinds of virginity, though, and in all ways that matter, he has mine. I say it all the time in these posts, but only because it's true: he's made everything new for me. I am the luckiest girl in the world.

On rocks and stones

There are times when circumstances conspire to keep us from enjoying the type of sex we most prefer. Lately, I've had a number of issues that's kept that from happening -- kept me from being able to enjoy my body at all, frankly -- and this has me musing over my sexual history, because I have a track record of on-again off-again receptive sex.

'Stone' is a term that I first heard applied almost exclusively toward butch lesbians who derived no pleasure from receptive sex but did derive pleasure from making love to their (usually femme) partners. I've heard it applied differently since then (once I read that 'stone femme' means a femme who is attracted to stone butches...which didn't make much sense to me because logically I'd thought a stone femme would be a femme who doesn't enjoy receptive sex, but perhaps it can mean several things) but for a while I thought I might be stone myself.

Of course, I don't identify as butch or femme, but in terms of being-unable-to-enjoy-receptive-sex, I've been there for sure -- for most of my sexual life, really. I still go there far more often than I'd care to admit. (And I know that's not what stone actually means because my understanding is that people who really are stone can't turn it off or cycle through it, pretty much ever.) But there have been points in my life when I honestly thought I'd never be able to do more than just endure receptive sex for the sake of my partner, who seemed to want/need to reciprocate more than I wanted/needed to not allow that to happen.

When I was with bio-boys, that's how it always was. I can't describe how horrid it was to allow them to go down on me. No matter how communicative I tried to be, it never felt good. In fact, most often it was uncomfortable, verging on painful, and I always stopped it as quickly as I could and tried to distract them with just plain old regular sex, and I always faked my orgasms, just to get it over with. It wasn't them, really, it was me...I think.

Maybe I should have tried harder to tell them what felt good to me and what didn't, but the truth is that NOTHING felt good to me when it came from them. It wasn't so much that they touched me too roughly or in the wrong spot or anything. I just couldn't let go at all. I still often can't. How much of this is my own mental block and how much is my physical self, I still don't know.

So sex was something to get through and I came to enjoy being the non-receptive partner. I got a lot of satisfaction out of pleasing my lovers without actually having to allow anything to be done to ME because then I felt that I wasn't shirking my responsibilities in a sexual sense (and I did enjoy being sexual, if that makes sense, just not having to lay there and act out pleasure that I didn't feel) and this way we both enjoyed it.

All of this is a horrible segue into this: lately I haven't been ABLE to be receptive in bed, physically (partially I just can't take sex while I have my period, partially other stuff)...and it's the first time I've actually missed it. This is huge for me because when Daddy touches me it's...so different. I'm not afraid to tell him if I can't take being receptive on any given night and he doesn't take it personally, because we both know that soon I will want it again.

The interesting thing is that until we got together, we were both effectively stone. This was a big worry for me! Firstly, I thought I might not be able to satisfy him and he'd feel obligated (like I always had) to allow me to have him, and secondly I worried that I'd feel the same way I always had and we'd basically both be faking our way through our sexual relationship and neither of us would be satisfied at all. Happily, I was wrong.

But for the better part of the past two weeks, I've had to put a moratorium on receptive sex, and it's been HARD on me! I have loved being able to fuck him for hours and making him come and concentrating all of my attention on him and his pleasure, (I'm a pleaser and this brings me great satisfaction and joy), but I'm ready for my turn soon, please. I miss it, I miss our connection and the feeling of being so loved and safe and free to let go that I get when I'm in his arms that way.

So I can't say that I'm stone anymore. Perhaps I'm a rock sometimes, but those times are fewer and further between, and less about my mindspace than about my physical needs. This is big progress for me and it makes me very, very happy.

More Reasons to Love T

{NOTE: This post details a somewhat more intense sexual practice than I have discussed before. I mention it in case any of my readers are easily disturbed by discussion of pain and pleasure -- I assume that isn't an issue for most but I'd rather put it out there just in case.}



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I mentioned in my last post that I adore T, and I do, for more reasons than Daddy's increased libido. For another thing, his facial hair has begun to grow and fill in, and if he doesn't shave about once every other day, he ends up with a bristly chin (and even a bit above his upper lip, too!). This is exciting because he only bumped his dosage higher and shortened his time between shots about two months ago, so these new changes are very exciting to us both...

...in more ways than one. Before Daddy and I got together, I hadn't explored my interest in heavier pain play at all. As an idea, pain in a sexual context turned me on (immeasurably), but sometimes the things we think are sexy are just bad ideas when put into practice. Which is why a rich fantasy life is a good thing to cultivate. :)

But as his beard began to grow in, I began to get ideas. A few weeks ago, while he was gripping both my nipples and rolling them between his fingers, I gasped, "Harder!" He smirked and complied, but not enough for my satisfaction. So again, "Harder!" and again his smirk, until he had both in a vice grip and I was writhing with pain...and on the edge of orgasm. The next morning he looked me over, certain that I should be bruised and over-sensitive -- and I was sensitive, but not bruised, and not at all in pain. Instead I loved him even more fiercely for daring to hurt me in ways I wanted so desperately but had been too afraid to request before. I really thought he would draw the line at my nipples, much less my cunt or clit. Happily, I have been proven wrong.

(And before I continue, let me make it very, very clear: this is what I want. The pleasure I get from all this eclipses anything that came before, and I could not and would not choose to go back, ever. I do have a safeword in place, and he always listens if I need to back off or stop entirely. I have never felt safer, more loved, cherished, or protected than I do when I am in his arms. This is what I need, and I am extraordinarily lucky, because it's what he needs, too.)

Once we discovered this mutual love of nipple torture, I often found myself laying on my side with him behind me, my arms over my head, his arms wrapped around me and crossed in front of me, one nipple in each hand, and his slick cunt pressed to my hipbone or against my ass, his breath hot in my ear as he came and came and came. I writhed with him, (his pleasure only fans the flame of my desire), and sometimes brought out my favourite vibrator. But still I wanted more.

One night, he had one nipple in his mouth, teeth gently scraping the tip, while he twisted the other. He let the one slip from his mouth to say something to me, and accidentally scraped it with his beard scruff. And I gasped: it felt incredible! "You like that, pet?" he asked -- he never misses a single reaction from me -- and when I nodded frantically, he lowered his chin and began to scrape my nipple back and forth. Eventually I came hard -- HARD -- and hid my face.

"What's wrong, baby?" He pulled me close and gently turned my face to his.

"I'm sorry, I just thought you might not want to do that. I've wanted you to but didn't know how to ask or if that was too heavy for you..." I trailed off. Everyone is different, and not every person that is into BDSM is into it to the same degree. Some tops are happy to whip one's back bloody but wouldn't dream of dealing pain to one's more delicate bits. I don't know why I didn't just ask him how he felt about it...well, I guess I do. I just wasn't sure I could take it, and I didn't want to open a door that I'd then have to close later.

At any rate, the door was open and we both loved it. Scruffing, as we called it, became a regular part of our lovemaking. One night, as I was stuck at the edge of orgasm, he growled in my ear, "Come, or I swear I'll scruff your cunt bloody." I think I almost pulled a neck muscle riding that orgasm out.

So there it was, out there as a threat but not in practice at all. I have mentioned before that I am reluctant to receive oral sex -- I have a bad history with it, but also I feel that I take too long (I know, there's no such thing as taking too long, and this is not at ALL coming from Daddy. This is all my own issue that we are both working on together.) and most of the time it doesn't get me off because I can't allow myself to relax into it.

But Daddy loves it, and I love to make him happy, (and I love that he makes me feel so wanted, so beautiful, so special to him), so normally he'll tell me that he just wants my taste for a while, and normally I say I'd love to be close to him like that but as a forewarning I don't feel like I'll be able to come, and we both agree and he goes down on me for a while, and it feels wonderful, and then we continue on with something else that often does make me come, usually internally rather than from my clit.

One evening he was on his stomach between my legs, his tongue lightly stroking my clit, while I held my outer lips open for him. He gripped my inner lips, pulled them taut, and sucked my clit into his mouth. This always makes me squirm, so he presses against me more firmly, and that's when I felt his chin digging into the entrance of my cunt.

It was prickly and sharp and it hurt. And I loved it, and I swear I got twice as wet in mere seconds. I pressed my legs further apart and bucked my hips against him, increasing the bite of his whiskers into my sensitive flesh. He looked up at me and smirked, then slowly began to shake his head. Oh my god, my eyes rolled back in my head and I had to beg him to stop and fuck me right that second. I came and came.

This brings us to last night. We'd worked until very very late, but when we got to bed I was too keyed up to sleep even though it was a positively ungodly hour. So I smoked up and was able to relax enough to lay down and turn off the light. He leaned up and over me and began to kiss me, and soon we were making out furiously and both of us were naked. I am much, much more responsive when my inhibitions are lifted, and there's been a lot of life stress on us both lately, so this relaxation has been a long time coming.

He bit at my nipples, pulling and twisting them with his fingers, and I panted -- it felt so good I thought I might be able to come just from that (which would be a first for me), but soon he pushed me up the bed and spread my legs, pressing my lips apart and attacking my clit with his tongue.

It felt heavenly. I went from aroused to desperately aroused in seconds, though I just kept wanting him harder. I couldn't speak, could only moan my encouragement, and as he pressed against me I again felt his chin against my entrance and his whiskers biting into me. I wantonly thrust against this pain/pleasure, wishing desperately that he'd make good on his threat from before. As his tongue grew tired, he responded to my hip movements and began to scruff my lips and vulva. I was in ecstasy and tried to press my clit against the roughness, unable to ask for what I so desperately wanted.

And then he did it. His chin rubbed against my aching clit, the hard bristles scraping my skin painfully and yet all I felt was pleasure. I snapped my hips against him, dragging my cunt up his chin from clit to the very bottom of the opening of my cunt. I realized I was probably scraping the skin enough to make it hurt the next day, but I didn't care. I was on the edge of an orgasm of a magnitude I had never before achieved, and he felt it, too. He grabbed my hips, roughly spread my lips, and scruffed my clit, over and over, hard.

I came after a few seconds, my eyes rolled back in my head, and I think I screamed. (Not in pain, I assure you.) And this morning I am sore, yes, (but not bloody, not even last night) and no, I don't plan on doing it again today (I don't intend myself serious or long-lasting irritation), but I will definitely, definitely be asking for it again. It was blindingly intense, wonderful, and the hottest thing I've done in a long time -- and that's saying a lot, since I think my Daddy is the hottest thing this side of the sun itself.

Have I said it lately? I am a lucky, lucky grrl.

T for Two

T has been very good for our relationship. My Daddy has always had a strong libido, whereas mine was a sort-of hit or miss kind of thing, but the day he gets a shot (and for a day or so after), he has a surge that carries us both away.

We have a ritual now: he is on injectable T, which is actually kind of scary to do yourself, so I do it for him. (If he was to do it himself, he'd have to inject in his leg, which can be painful for up to a day afterward if he tenses during the injection and he doesn't trust that he could stay relaxed while about to jab himself.)

Our ritual goes like so:

He assembles the necessary supplies (2 needles, 2 alcohol pads, the bottle of T in suspension, one syringe barrel, one band-aid) and I wait for him in the bedroom. He comes in, I undress him, and lay him out on the bed. I spend the next 20 minutes to half an hour going down on him, trying to get his endorphins working nicely.

We retreat to the bathroom where I roll the bottle of T between my hands, warming the liquid up while he attaches the first needle to the syringe barrel. He takes the bottle, swabs the top with alcohol rub #1, and I go and check our online calendar to see which butt cheek is up for the day. While I am doing that, he draws up the proper amount of T into the syringe and removes any air bubbles, then changes needles to the non-blunted one that we'll use for the actual injection.

I come back, wash my hands, and he swabs the correct butt cheek. I find the upper outer quadrant of the cheek, unsheathe the needle, count to three quickly, and inject him. He tries to relax. I pull back on the plunger just enough to determine that I haven't hit a blood vessel, then inject the T. Once it's all in, I pull out the needle, sheathe it once more, and dispose of it in our under-sink sharps container. He puts on a band-aid, if necessary, while I apologize for having to stab him with needles every ten days.

We return to the bedroom, where I go down on him some more. (His clit is more sensitive after the injection -- it might be psychosomatic but I don't care. It's lovely!) And after another half-hour or so, he becomes extremely toppish and rough with me, and I let him, which makes us both very happy.

T is a wonderful, wonderful thing.

(I'm sorry I disappeared for so long! I will be continuing to post but sometimes I have a hard time writing, especially when other life crap gets in the way. But things are fine and thank you for caring. :)

When good scenes go bad

I don't actually think of what Daddy and I do as "scenes", really. That word, to me, implies a level of planning or forethought that we don't always utilize. But sometimes, like today, there is planning involved, and even then things can go...well, wrong.

Daddy and I had an intense morning yesterday. I topped him for the first time -- like, really topped him. It was intense, it was hot, and it was totally unexpected. I have never considered myself a switch, but I must admit that I found trying out the Domly side of things was fun. I wouldn't say it got me off, exactly, but I did find it beguiling. I imagine it will happen again, but isn't likely to become the norm around here.

At any rate, he promised vengeance for my insolence, and decided he'd like to wait until today to wreak said vengeance. So this afternoon, he asked me how I was feeling (we find that checking in before starting something heavy emotionally or sexually leads to less unintended upheaval afterward -- though that was a trial and error sort of enlightenment for us) and when I smilingly told him I was fine, he brought my collar and two wrist cuffs, told me to strip and put them on and wait for him in the living room, on my knees.

Naked, collared, and cuffed, I waited. And waited. And strained to hear what was happening in the bedroom: music came on, was turned up. Various banging and knocking sounds, doors opening and shutting...but since I was not too far from the bedroom I couldn't get up and peek. He'd have caught me for sure.

Perhaps ten minutes went by. My knees and back started to complain, so I started shifting my weight around. (Note: technically I stayed "on my knees" the entire time. But sometimes it's easier to settle in that position if you rest your hands on your legs and take some of the weight that way...)

He entered the room in my favourite outfit of his: black binder, camo shorts, thick leather belt. God, he is beautiful. We recently shaved his head down except for his mohawk, so he has this black streak down the center of his head that goes beautifully with his shirt....hot. Just...hot.

I knelt up for him and he caressed my nipples with one hand as the other cupped the back of my head and brought me close against his chest. "You're beautiful, baby," he whispered to me: I whimpered in response. He slipped a finger into the back of my collar and pulled me up onto my feet, moving behind me so that my back was against him.

I actually *felt* myself becoming aroused for him; blood rushed to my cunt, my nipples became harder and much more sensitive. My hips moved of their own volition and he chuckled. It's so obvious that I love what we do.

One set of handcuffs later, (to connect my cuffed hands together behind my back), he maneuvered me into the bedroom and onto my stomach on the bed.

"You can cry, you can whimper, you can moan, but if at any time I can hear you above the music, I'm going to gag you, pet. Do you understand?" His lips were harsh against my ear and I found myself wishing desperately that he would kiss my cheek, just for a moment. But I simply nodded, and he got up to choose something off of the dresser.

He'd been careful to show me the dresser before he blindfolded me, and the contents made me cry. The flogger, a belt, the dreaded drumsticks, two clothespins, a candle, and razors. Of that list, I would only ever *request* one of those items be used on me. The rest, I loathe to varying degrees.

The bed moved with his weight when he returned. "Lay still," he warned, and I felt the cool metal of a razor against my back. Just stroking at first, not cutting me yet, but I whimpered anyway. It takes me time to reacclimate to the razor and so at first even just stroking it against my skin feels like I am being sliced to the bone.

But he knows this, so he works up to actually cutting me. I actually love the razor once I am used to it. The pain is sharp and focused and somehow it drives everything else out of my mind. A younger version of me used to cut (like so many of us do) so I still associate the physical pain of cutting with emotional release and relaxation. I like it.

The one part of razor use that I don't like is when he goes over the initial he is carving into my lower back. I scar easily, being a pale girl, and he is bent on scarring his letter into my flesh. It's been healing over for a while, though, so each time he re-cuts it now, he is breaking scar tissue and it is *painful*. I mean, really, really painful. I am barely able to stand it, and each time my entire body breaks out in a heavy sweat from the sickening rush of adrenaline.

So he did that today, and then gave me a rest in the form of a forced blowjob. This was part of the payback, see, I had tried to make him suck my cock (an activity he hates), so it was turn about. Personally, I don't mind blowjobs, even on bioboys, (except if they come in my mouth without telling me first -- how RUDE.) and I am not bragging when I say I'm pretty good at it. The only difficulty comes if my jaw locks, which is actually a very common thing for me. (I could get it fixed surgically but elective surgery isn't high on my list of things to do right now.)

Daddy put me on my side, my arms bound behind my back, and proceeded to shove his cock into my mouth. I don't know if it was the angle, or the fact that it's hard to tell how deep you are with a strap-on, especially when one partner is on their knees and the other's on their side laying down....at any rate, I ended up choking several times. And that's fine, hot even, except...the last time somehow my gag reflex was triggered past the point where I could voluntarily suppress it.

And I threw up. On his cock. Oh my god.

All of my usual okay-ness with whatever happens in bed flew out the window. I THREW UP ON HIS COCK, that's all I could think, and I couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry at first. But crying won out very quickly, because OH MY GOD, I mean...AHHHH!!! Nightmares walk in daylight: I threw UP on his COCK. And sure, some people like that, but it's not something that interests either of us...and that's okay. Also, throwing up SUCKS, and this is the first time anything like this happened to me.

Plus, it was on my favourite comforter, which just adds insult to injury.

He was great, though, not at all grossed out. He cleaned everything up, including me, and asked me if I wanted to continue or stop. I seriously considered trying to work through it, but....the horror of the situation won out and I used my safeword. He removed my collar and cuffs and held me, rocked me, reassured me that he didn't hate me or think I was gross. And he apologized profusely -- so did I -- because he hadn't meant to choke me quite that badly.

I am disappointed in myself because I really did, one the one hand, want to continue. I felt (feel) like I ruined his plans. But on the other hand, I am proud of myself for being able to clearly admit that this had put a cap on the day's activities for me and not tried to soldier on when I was too distressed. It wouldn't have been fair to either of us.

But I'm still really grossed out. Ech.

Fantasy

Before Daddy and I moved in together, we often wrote back and forth to each other. One day, he asked me to make a list of some of my darker fantasies for him. I am working on another post right now but decided to share this while it's in progress.



1. You've got my back against the wall and are right up in my face and I laugh at you, which infuriates you and you slap me several times. My eyes well up and you laugh at me, grabbing my arm and twisting it up behind my back. (Note: my arms are double-jointed so you can pretty much put them how you want them.) You throw me on the bed, face-down, yank my pants off, and poise yourself to fuck me with your cock...and stop with the head juuuust inside me. You growl in my ear until I begin thrusting my hips up against you, trying to get you inside me, but you maddeningly remain still. You wait until I'm crying and begging for you to fill me, and instead you roll me over and make me suck you off. And then we go to sleep.

2. You make me kneel on a chair before you, facing the back of it, and you stand just up against me with one arm across my neck and the front of my shoulders. Holding me tightly, you tell me not to move, not even to twitch, and not to make the slightest sound. Then you begin to cut me like you did the last time we were together, only this time there are many, many more. I remain still but whimper inadvertently as my wetness runs down my thighs. This infuriates you: you gag me, throw me over your lap and spank me. No matter how hard I cry into the gag, my pleas never make it to your ears.

3. We are at a club and I am naked from the waist up. You are fully clothed, all in black, and you are binding me to a cross, my back to you. I have the impression of people gathering to watch us, and you smile cruelly at me as my eyes widen -- I prefer our scenes to be between us, but that doesn't matter. You tell me I may scream but I may not speak, and I nod. Then, after what seems like hours, you begin to whip my back and shoulders, starting with something not TOO horrible, but ending with a signal whip that makes me bleed. I cry and scream...but I don't speak, and you tell me you are proud of me as you take me down and hold me in your lap until the world comes back into focus.

4. We are in a strange house and I have done *something* that makes you furious, much more cruel than usual. Something in your eyes brings out the fear in me -- terror, really -- and I drop what I'm doing and run. I don't know where I'm going and I can feel you just behind me, so I drop to the floor and try to hide in a convenient closet. The door is partially open; I hear your footsteps pause as you pass the room I'm in. I'm going to be caught, I know it, and I curl myself into a ball and hide my face in my arms. But you throw the door open, grab me by my hair, and haul me out to the living room with me fighting you every step of the way. You throw me into the middle of the room on the floor; I regain my feet only to find you with a knife strapped to your belt and a predatory look in your eyes. I run again but it's futile; you corner me easily. You are shouting at me, calling me all kinds of names, I am slapping at you and in a frenzy of panic -- and you grab me by the throat and pin me against the wall. I can't breathe, I can barely see...and I lift one hand to my lips, kiss it, and place it on your lips because suddenly I am so turned on I think I may die. You use my throat to force me to my knees and slice my clothes from me. Then you run the tip of the blade over my body -- my cheeks, my lips, my throat, down to my nipples, over my belly, down my thighs and between them, prodding my clit, and then you shove me onto my back and roughly spread my legs. I am perfectly still when you trace my lips with the knife, and when you stop at my cunt, you take my chin in your hand and force me to look at you. I have no idea whether or not you'll actually do it, and a wild part of me wishes that you would.

5. You are fucking me and choking me at the same time, so much so that the room is black around the edges and I feel as if I'm on another plane of reality.

6. You play-pierce my back, corset-style, and lace me up. I shiver the entire time but you don't seem to mind.

7. This one is simple: put me in a corset (a real one) for the first time and lace me into it. Be rough.

8. We go to dinner and you don't give me a single choice about anything: where we go, when we go, what I eat, what I drink. We go out dancing and you make every decision there, too, up to and including deciding when we are going to go fuck in the back and how many times I am going to make you come. And wherever we go, you lead me by the wrist.

9. You leave me unrestrained and whip me until I collapse from sheer exhaustion. Then you punish me anyway for moving without permission.

10. This one makes me feel guilty because it's so selfish: we go away together for a weekend and you decide that I am finally going to come for you. So you spend the entire day teasing me while we're out, talking to me cruelly, telling me that if I don't come I am being especially bad, making it into something that I need to do for you, for us. You stroke my nipples and my lips through my clothes in public, but never touch my clit. Later, when we're alone again, you spank me with your hand and with your belt, and finally I manage to come with your hands bruising my hips as you bite my clit and I sob in agony. (and who knows if that would do it...but in my fantasy, it does.)

11. We are at a secluded cabin in a forest -- the kind with beams in the ceiling. You throw a length of rope over one of them and tie my wrists to it, pulling me up onto my toes. Then you whip me until you're exhausted: my back, my ass, my thighs, my stomach, my breasts, all over until I am a mass of welts. Then you let me down and I kneel before you, my entire body pulsing with agony, and fuck you with my fingers and tongue until we both pass out.

I could go on forever. These are just the first few I thought of...

Possession

I find that as my libido goes in cycles -- SEX. NOW./Need Lots of Sex/Need Some Sex/Sex Would Be Nice/Sex?...Okay/NO SEX, NO WAY -- so, too, does my mental state. There are times when I think that I'd be totally fine sharing Daddy with someone else in a sexual situation (threesomes, etc). In fact, just this afternoon I told him about a number of fantasies I have about the two of us in sexual situations with another partner -- or partners.

This discussion arose from a dream I had last night, in which Daddy and I were staying at a hotel somewhere. In the dream, I awoke in the hotel room and saw him awake, looking at me. "How did you sleep?" I asked.

"Not well...I was really, really horny so I went downstairs and fucked the guy at the front desk," My jaw dropped, but he continued: "and after that I was still really horny so I went and fucked the guy in the coat room."

I gaped, and finally managed to sputter, "But why didn't you just WAKE ME UP? I would have loved to fuck you! Didn't you want me more than them?"

He smirked at me. "Nah. Sometimes I just want cock." I stared at him, stung, a whirlwind of emotion flooding my mind -- anger, hurt, arousal (which surprised me) -- and then I woke up.

* * *

I meant to segue into a post on jealousy, my sudden fantasy of having threesomes (or more) with him, (even though I am not ready to consider the actual reality of such a proposition, nor am I considering opening that box in the near future), and how I feel about the idea of seeing him with a biomale or two or three...but I let the post sit for too long and I'm going to have to return to the topic when I am more inspired.

On being proven very, very wrong

An addendum to my last post on the unendurable pleasure of the bare clitoral orgasm: evidently I can take it if I'm high. I find that all sex for me is better while high, actually. My mind is fogged up enough to not interfere with my body's experience of pleasure, and I come so much more easily, naturally, and enjoyably. The pleasure is undeniable and, for the most part, not at all frightening. (This can be my biggest block on the road to orgasm: when it gets really, really intense, I get really, really frightened.)

Last night Daddy repeated the procedure of pushing my hood back and directly stimulating my clit, but this time I was able to get past the light-blinding feeling and make it to the most intense clitoral orgasm I have ever had. It went on for what felt like ten or fifteen minutes (I have no idea if this is accurate) and it was just...bliss. I'm so glad he decided to try again because it was definitely worthwhile.

On the fisting front, neither of us have yet been successful. In fact, we've both found that when we've been trying, each of us have been simply too tight at the time to manage more than 3 fingers. (I might have taken 4 for a moment or two, but it was too much.) But we intend to keep trying. And trying, and trying, and trying...

Light-blinded

I may have mentioned earlier that I find it very difficult to get into a sexy frame of mind when I am under stress of any kind. Actually, this has gotten easier as I've grown more accustomed to stress and my body's reaction to it, but when I'm under a LOT of stress, I still find myself in a place where my mind has overpowered my body and I can't, under any circumstances, let go and feel anything sexual.

This doesn't mean I can't have sex. I take great pleasure in loving my partner even if I am not up to have that physical gesture reciprocated. And there are times, usually after some great pressure has lifted, that my libido normalizes and my body just wants to make up for all the orgasms it missed.

It's hard to be selfish, but Daddy makes it awfully easy sometimes.

I've never before had a partner that craved *giving* oral sex the way that he does, and since he is my first female-bodied partner, I've never been in a situation before where I felt I could fully trust my cunt to the person manipulating it. But with him, I do -- he knows what he's doing, after all.

Yesterday we did really nothing other than fuck. The entire day. But while he was going down on me, something suddenly felt...different. Wildly different. So different that I wasn't entirely certain that I liked it and I writhed away from him a few times.

"WHAT are you doing?" I gasped, the second or third time he made my hips move in a way I'd never felt them move before.

"Shhh. Just feel it," he whispered. Looking down, I realized that he had one finger on my clit -- it wasn't his tongue after all. "Relax, baby."

But the feeling was so intense...overwhelmingly so. My eyes welled up the way that they do if you try to look directly at the sun -- in fact, that's how my clit felt, too. "No! I can't, it's too much, what are you DOING?"

His finger moved relentlessly. "Just playing with your pearl, darlin'. Tell me how it feels."

I didn't understand. "It's making my toes numb and it feels totally different than when *I* do it," I gasped, "and I don't know if I even like it." He spread my outer lips and seemed to take a new grip on my clit -- the sensation tingled in my toes and I squirmed restlessly.

"Well, it's just different when it's someone else's hand, baby, that's all -"

"No!" I cut in, pulling entirely away from his stimulation. "It's TOTALLY different. It's a lot."

"A lot of what?" His eyes locked on mine and he gently stroked my clit, not in the way that had unsettled me, but in a soothing, gentle manner.

"It's just..." I groped for words and unexpectedly, tears welled up in my eyes, "...it's a lot. I don't know how to explain it but I think it's too much for me right now."

His eyes glimmered in the half-light of our bedroom as he considered for a moment. "It's like that for me, sometimes, too. You know when you make me come really hard and I burst into tears afterward?" I nodded. "That's when I have this same kind of intense sensation that you're talking about. It starts at my toes and works its way up until it hits my clit, and then I come really, really hard. I think if you can make it past the initial weirdness, you'll find the same thing."

I caught my breath in a sob and shook my head. "Maybe but it doesn't feel good right now. It doesn't feel at all like it does when I do it." My feet twitched involuntarily as he brushed my clit again. "Just tell me, please, what's going on down there?"

"I've got your hood pulled back and I'm rubbing your clit, baby," he answered, demonstrating. "Try to relax and go with it, ok?"

But it was still too much for me, and we stopped. I felt emotionally overwhelmed, unable to hold on through the strange, intense, eyes-to-the-sun feeling just then. So I cried a little and asked him to please be inside me, because I wanted to be as close to him as possible and I knew that would feel good. It always does, with him.

So he slid two fingers inside me and fucked me until I swear my eyes crossed. And afterward I asked him to show me what he had done that made me feel so strange, and he did. Did you know, until that moment, I had never actually seen my clit before? And I had no idea about hoods and all that. I mean, it makes *sense* now -- I mean, I've seen tons of hood piercings and such, but I never stopped to think about it.

I think I still have a lot to learn about sex.

Floating

Yesterday, after I had leaped into the pool without testing the water first (I am very much a leaper-inner -- I don't care if it's cold, I know I'll get used to it. I wish I were more like that in life...), after he sat on the edge trying to acclimate to the cold water, after I tried to relax and let the water hold me, after I failed, after I cried over a hurt that my heart has sustained that has nothing to do with my Daddy at all, a hurt that is weighing me down in every sense of the word (and stealing my words so that blogging is difficult)...

...he got into the chilly water, wrapped me in his arms, laid his cheek against mine, and walked with me back and forth around the pool. My legs were tight around his waist, my arms tight around his neck, and he stroked my hair while I cried. It was so comforting, more comforting than any words he could have whispered to me. I felt enveloped by his love, protected, cradled. He makes everything feel better, always.

A is for Anal

So, anal sex. When we got together, both Daddy and I skirted the issue nervously and left it alone for the most part. I had tried it before, a couple of times, but always with little pleasure and more than a little pain. Never more than a fingertip had entered my body, and even then it was just Not Good. Orgasms for me are almost purely mental and if I can't talk myself into arousal (or if my partner doesn't talk to me while fucking me) it just isn't going to happen, and I couldn't coax myself through the pain to any kind of significant pleasure. So I stopped, somewhat regretting that I couldn't just DO IT -- I mean, it looks fun. I like the idea; the thought of having a second orifice available for penetration turns me on greatly. Just, in practice, it didn't work.

On the other hand, I have been the "giver" of anal sex, (oh, I know that is totally not the way to word that but I can't think of a better way to say it right now!) with nearly every partner I have had. I like the way my fingers feel buried in my lover's ass, and I love the intensity of the orgasms that come (heh) afterward. I really enjoy being the penetrative partner, the one to assess the situation and go slowly when it's needed, or faster and harder when it's time. I function very well on that kind of level and it makes me feel extremely connected with my lover. And it makes me feel very...tenderly protective. It's the closest I come to topping, honestly.

As we became more and more comfortable with each other and ourselves when we were in bed together, both Daddy and I gradually admitted that anal was one kind of sex we hadn't been comfortable exploring, but that now we were both curious. In fact, his previous partner had used anal sex as a target of ridicule and made it seem filthy, something of which one ought to be ashamed. (Need I add that they never even tried?) He was even more reluctant to admit his interest because of the mentality that he'd become accustomed to. It took a lot of coaxing on my part to help him understand that I find nothing about him or his body filthy or gross, and never could. Besides, I really do believe that if sex isn't messy, (at least SOMETIMES), then you aren't doing it right!

Earlier this week, I was going down on him, mouth snug against his clit, two fingers working deep inside his cunt, (wet, always so amazingly wet for me), when he asked me to please add his ass to the mix. It pains him to make this kind of request, and I don't actually require that he does it, but since this is such a sensitive issue with him, I am often reluctant to just go for it without knowing it's what he wants. When he made his request my heart swelled with pride for him and, fully aware of the effort it had cost him to ask, I gladly reached for the lube.

It took a little doing, as I was already laying on my stomach between his legs and partially propped up on my elbows, but in a few moments I was able to maneuver my left hand carefully between his cheeks. I stroked there gently, moving my mouth back to his clit and sliding the fingers of my right hand back into his gorgeous cunt. (Side note: I am unbelievably careful about which hand goes where -- I NEVER use fingers on the same hand to stimulate his cunt and his ass at the same time, much less move one hand from his ass to his cunt. I use my left hand for his ass and my right for his cunt, always. I just don't want to transfer any bacteria where it shouldn't go. Totally careful at all times about this.) He was tight -- nervous, I think -- and so I didn't push at all, just gently ran my fingertips over the ridges and valleys of him, feeling the contractions elicited by my fingers in his cunt echo in the twitches of his anus. It was lovely and I was prepared for that to be the extent of our exploration for the evening.

However, I think the sensation of so much stimulation between his legs was what allowed me to accidentally slip one fingertip into his anus after only five minutes or so. He moaned deep in his chest and began to buck against my hands, a huge orgasm washing through his body and shoving my fingers out of both ass and cunt. He is so strong! I hung onto his clit with my mouth, tongue working furiously, and penetrated him again in both holes. Another orgasm, this one complete with his body lifting entirely off the bed and shouts of pleasure that I'm sure were audible to our neighbors. (What do I care? Let 'em be jealous. :)

He begged me to stop then, and I did. His emotional reaction afterward was entirely reasonable; he was shaken by the pleasure he'd felt and still in the throes of "butt-shame" as he calls it. I washed my hands quickly, came back, held him, comforted him, and reminded him that he is beautiful and so his his body.

It's true; his body is perfect to me. It is a source of so much pleasure for both of us, and feeling him come as hard as he did that night satisfies me in a deep, intense way. I love when he lets me hold him, I love to take care of him, and that night brought out my tender, protective side like nothing had before.

He's my Daddy and I love him until the end of time and beyond.

(Soon I will detail my first experience with receiving anal from him. It was...intense.)

Poetic license

"Want to play?"

His breath was warm against my ear. When I craned my neck just enough, I could catch a glimpse of him in his black binder and camo shorts; he was wearing my favourite outfit of his. The binder accents his muscular arms and flattens his chest; he carries himself so differently when he's binding. The charisma he exudes is even more enticing than usual and I? I am lost in the dangerous purr of his words.

Unable to respond, I simply shake my head. No, Daddy, I don't want to play Maria Callas with you. It's a game I can never win, though it is fiendishly simple. The one and only rule: don't move, even as the razor slices deep and the cut lasts as long as her voice holds whichever note he chooses. And this is his favourite recording of her, so he cheats and picks only the longest passages, the times when she impossibly lilts up and down the scale for longer than I ever thought anyone could without breathing.

Opera singers. Sometimes they are the bane of my very existence.

But my denial is feeble, cursory at best. One of his long-standing rules is simple: I cannot use the word No when speaking to him. Sometimes, when he is feeling especially vicious, he will take a simple head-shake as a No as well, and make me pay for that. But last night he simply laughed.

"Come on, pet. We'll just play real quick." I tried my best, I really did, but every time he cut me my hips thrust helplessly into the bed, even as the tears came, wetting my cheeks. I cannot deny that the feel of his lips against the blood on my back turns me on terribly. Recently he confided that he can sometimes come simply from the taste of one mouthful of my blood, one deep slice of my skin, and that's all it took to reframe this practice of ours. Now I can take even the most painful cut, knowing that it feeds him even as it does me.

Before him I never dared to consider this kind of surrender, giving him the very flesh of my body to carve, the very blood in my veins to paint with or taste, as he pleased. Now I am fulfilled completely by the depth of our bond: fluid-bonded, soul-bonded, as he whispered to me last night, after the pain stopped. I cried then for a different reason; I have never felt love like this before. I am the luckiest girl in the world.

Butches and femmes and everyone in between

I began this post with the intention of writing about our progress on the fisting front (fisting me, I should specify) and the progress I made last night toward taking Daddy's ass, but this morning I am finding that I need to mull over both a bit longer. They feel too new and too tender, so I shall let them marinate.

Instead, I have been thinking quite a bit about butch/femme identities and how that applies -- or doesn't apply -- to my life. I've always been reluctant to quantify "my type" when asked. I mean, I am attracted less to a specific physical trait than I am to a personality quality; I am mesmerized by charisma. Daddy has it in spades; when he turns his attention to you, you can't help but feel bathed in his interest and approval, a heady combination that draws people to him like moths to an especially bright porchlight. It's an addiction in me now, and when you add his dominant personality to the mix...well, it is the perfect storm for me.

For a while, during the past couple of years, his doctors told him that physical transitioning would be impossible, that his liver couldn't take it and he might die trying. After such crushing news, he tried to move forward with his life, unable to accept that he might always have to be trans but pre-T and pre-surgery. So he tried to re-mold his personality and rebirth himself as the butchest dyke possible. He even managed it for a while -- after all, it wasn't all new to him. That's where he was for at least some of his life as a queer woman. But, of course, it didn't fit him, and he was able to take sufficient steps to achieve a level of health at which he could transition. And now he is and he is so thrilled with it, and so am I.

But that's a bit beside the point: when we are out on the street in our neighborhood we are routinely read as a lesbian couple, sometimes even if he is binding. I, with my shoulder-length hair, curvy figure, and clothing from the "girl" stores at the mall, read as the femme; he, with his mohawk, broad shoulders, over six feet of height, men's clothing, and gorgeously visible tats, is read as the butch.

At first, this bothered me. I thought it would (of course?) bother him, as well. He is from the deep South, where passing as male is less a political statement and more a matter of survival (at least sometimes, even in the year 2007 and beyond), so when he came here, to this queer, queer, queer enclave in this city that I love, and rarely passed, even though he changed NOTHING about his appearance...it was strange. And yet, when we talked about it, it didn't bother him. People seem to be more open to different gender expressions here, and many are so polite that they don't want to assume that he is trans, or step on either of our toes by suggesting that he ISN'T female, so they acknowledge him as a butch lesbian. I may not be able to explain that correctly...the point I'm trying to make is that people try to acknowledge him as butch and yet female, which is, to me, an expression of respect.

And I, of course, am by default the counterpart to his butchness. This does bother me because first of all, not all butches partner with femmes, nor do all femmes partner with butches, but that's not even it. What is it is that I don't identify as femme, no matter what I look like. Yes, I can dress feminine-ly, but I am not comfortable in heels and lipstick. Nor am I comfortable as a butch -- I just don't identify, personally, with either of those roles. But that isn't to say that I don't respect those expressions of gender and sexuality in others because I do. I am very often attracted to butch women, and I am very often intimidated by femme women, (and yet also inexplicably drawn to them). I just am neither one nor the other, as many of us aren't.

Which brings us to the thing that I most wanted to talk about: living in the grey. Daddy and I often talk of this because it's where we both are, always, and it's something that we love about each other. For me, I am neither butch nor femme, (and I know I don't have to be either, but for the purpose of explanation, I'll pretend I do), and at times I express (small) aspects of one or the other or even both at the same time. I love that I don't have to be one or the other for him or for me.

As for Daddy himself, yes, he is trans, and yes, he prefers male pronouns, but he also dwells in the grey area between male and female and is most comfortable there. He doesn't want gender-neutral language applied to him, (and, really, I have a hard time slipping them into conversation anyway -- lack of practice, I know) but he does see himself as genderqueer. I love that about him: I love the man in him and the woman as well and at the end of the day, to me he is my Daddy and that's all I've ever wanted. He's on T and he's going to have top surgery, but never bottom surgery. He loves his cunt, as do I, and wants to keep it. It's not a source of anguish for him, as it can be for many, many other transfolk.

The best thing about being as fluid as we are is that the friction between us is constantly changing. There are days when his male/butch/top energy is waxing and it brings out a very feminine/submissive side of me, but other days that same energy will bring out my own butch/aggressive side and we'll fight, wrestle, attack each other -- in a very good way. But no matter how things evolve between us, we bring out the best in one another.

I may need to return to this later. Hmm.

Update: showerhead

I am very, very sad to report that the showerhead, while shiny and gorgeous, does not "do it" for me. The water pressure just isn't intense enough. I'm keeping it anyway -- I mean, we did get pretty...involved, for a while there so I can't just kick it to the curb -- but my plans for big happy fun shower time are rather dashed. Le sigh!

It's time for another disappointing update: I have made no progress on Operation Tranny Fisting. Our schedule has prevented the kind of time comittment that this kind of venture necessitates, but I am hoping to give that another go within the next week.

Update #3: testosterone. We were recently lucky enough to become patients at the Sherbourne Clinic here in Toronto and we're under the care of one of two doctors on the LGBT floor. (We have our very own floor. I am...floored!) Daddy was able to get his T rx the very day we met her, and she even suggested that he move his shots from every 14 days to every 10 days to help him deal with the emotional flux that is common around day 12-14! He is thrilled, I am thrilled, and things are going *very* well on that front. Every day I bless T and the heightened libido that it brings to our relationship, and now I have something else to be thankful for: Sherbourne. I have never before felt so comfortable with and accepted by not just our doctor, but by every single person that works there. We waited about two and a half months to become patients but it was worthwhile. They are so trans-positive -- and not just trans-positive, but genderqueer-positive too. When they process you as a new patient, they take down your legal name, and also your chosen name, if you have one. And that's the one they use for you while you're there. I could write a novel about them, but the best thing I can say is what our intake counselor told us: they run the clinic the way the world *should* be: everyone is accepted just as they are, nobody is judged, and they constantly try to evolve with the changing needs of the communities that they serve. I wish I could work there, too.

For shame, blogger!

I've been remiss lately, I know. But I am back with a short observation on Things That Give Me a Happy: hand-held showerheads.

When I was a little girl I used to masturbate with allllll kinds of things, including a motorized nail-file (without the sandpapery part!), a mechanical toothbrush (again, without the abrasive part), and dolls of many sizes, shapes, and colors. All of this occurred within the safety of my bedroom, mostly at night, but the first-ever orgasm I had outside of my safe haven was in the shower with a hand-held showerhead.

It started innocently enough; I was just showering, you know, like you do, and rinsing off, also like you do, when one of the streams of water...caught my attention. That's all it took and voila, I had discovered the joys of masturbating in the shower. Sadly, I have never in my life OWNED my own hand-held showerhead.

Until today.

Daddy and I spent yesterday trying to install the showerhead only to be totally thwarted by the flow restrictor that turned the flow of water into a dribble of water. BUT. Now we have a bigger, better, (more expensive) showerhead, and I am actually praying that it works. Because I really, really miss shower orgasms. Here's hoping!

On Safewords

I've been following an ongoing discussion about butch/femme relationships (among other things) at Sinclair's blog, and while I'm not ready to tackle what *I* think about various gender expressions and sexuality, I did note an interesting comment from one of her readers about safewords.

Actually, I'm going to go back and find the comment so that I can give credit where credit is due: Kimi Dreams (here's her blog) commented on this post by Sinclair and mentioned that not all BDSM relationships utilize a safeword. All of this is to set the stage for me to say: we started out without safewords, Daddy and I. It worked at first, as we both grew more confident in our desire and in what we could expect from one another. I think we both wanted to be safeword-free for the duration of our relationship because that's the kind of friction that is most ignitable between us: what he wants to take from me and how I am able to give it up, and really, I don't want to be able to say no, and he doesn't want me to either.

But we ran into a problem. I have, as so many of us do, a very rocky time in my sexual past that occasionally rears up and bites me when I am not expecting it. One afternoon, Daddy began lining my breasts, belly, and clavicles with clothespins. The pain was searing, so intense that I couldn't keep still and in fact barely kept from screaming. I cried and thrashed but he refused to yield. Suddenly I was beyond terror -- I lost control of my emotions and began hysterically crying. I felt myself begin to panic (I have panic disorder -- normally this wouldn't happen in this situation, though) and tried to use my usual methods to calm down but the pain pushed aside everything I attempted.

"If you need me to stop, say the word," he told me, another pin biting into the thin skin above my right collarbone, but I didn't know any such word. "I don't know it, oh god, just take them off, please, please," I screamed, panic constricting my throat and roughening my voice. He saw, too late, that I was far beyond the state he had intended to put me in and immediately removed the pins, gathering me into his arms and talking to me until I was in control again.

After that, we established safewords. I can't speak for everyone in this kind of relationship, but I know for us that we need to be able to tell each other, very quickly, if things move in a bad direction. And yet I still wish I could have held on to the ideal of a safeword-free relationship...part of that is just my own pride. But I have yet to safeword because he was hurting me "too" much. So far only my own mind has overwhelmed me to that degree.

Natural

"You're a natural, baby girl," he panted to me, cradling my face in both hands as I raised myself from tonguing him for the first time. He told me later that he wondered for a moment if I had lied and if he wasn't my first. I am still not used to it; not used to thinking of myself as good at this. Somehow I expected that I would have much to learn, that I would need diagrams and books and gentle tutoring.

Is it strange that I was both elated and let down when I was told that I don't? Of course it is a pleasurable surprise to find that you are good at something that you're trying for the very first time, but for me I find that learning, allowing oneself to be taught, can be an act of submission. Admitting that you don't know it all and opening yourself to new knowledge -- I find it erotic. No more so than when he slipped his fingers inside me for the first time and showed me my G-spot.

"Orgasming is a learned behavior for many women," he explained to me as I writhed beneath him, more than a little afraid of the intense sensation he was coaxing from deep inside me, "and you haven't learned yet." I half-sobbed that I thought I was going to pee and recoiled from his touch as much as I could. "You aren't." He thrust his fingers into me firmly and curled them, stimulating me in ways I had never felt before. "You're just going to come for me really hard."

But I couldn't tell; I had never orgasmed like that before. Until I was with him, orgasms occurred only when I was alone, or *maybe* if my partner played with my nipples and gave me a long time to work through the many mental blocks I've set for myself against that simple, explosive pleasure. Coming was a chore, (it can be still), and it meant working my clit alone. I had never had an internal orgasm, as he calls them -- in fact, I never realized that there was more than one way to come.

When it happened for real, for the first time, I cried. It took us over a month and he literally walked me through it, and it was one of the most beautiful times of my life so far. Never before have I had a lover who knew and understood my body so intimately; my body had in fact begun to orgasm from internal stimulation before I recognized what it was, but he could tell by the feeling of my muscles working inside. "Tell me," I'd beg him, and he would. "Now...you're coming, baby," and I learned, slowly, to tell the difference between regular muscular contraction and orgasm. It felt so very different from what I know as a clitoral orgasm.

In the beginning, I was afraid. I thought it would hurt and I found the almost-going-to-pee feeling much too intense and off-putting. So we got me high first, enough so that I could relax and just feel what was going on. Normally I can't turn my mind off enough to enjoy sex, so this was the first time in my life that I really let go of everything that normally holds me back.

The night that I first honestly came, I was high and he had been fucking me carefully and tenderly, talking to me and reassuring me, for nearly an hour. Up until this point, I had slowly become more comfortable with the pre-orgasmic feelings that came from his fingers curling and uncurling inside me. I trusted that I wasn't going to pee on him, but I wasn't able to go from "ok...that feels pretty good..." to actual orgasm. It freaked me out too much and too often I would wrench away from him, distraught by the emotions that came with pushing me so close to the kind of edge I'd never before felt.

But that night, he didn't let me flinch away. "I'm going to fall," I cried to him, gripping him tightly around the neck and breaking into wild tears. "I'm right here and I'm going to catch you, little grrl, so fall. Let go, let go, let go, it's safe, you're safe, just let go..." he murmured into my ear, urging me closer and closer, until I did fall. And he was there to catch me, there to wipe my tears, there to bring me back to myself.

I am such a lucky grrl, to have a Daddy like him.