Results of the Anal Sex Poll

The question posed was thus:
Before anal sex, does the dick get lubed, or the asshole?
A whopping 75% of you voted "both".
Of those who picked one, the asshole got double the number of votes as the dick.
A handful of you voted "neither." To which I say…OW.

The reason why I asked is because Husband never lubes up his dick. I don't know why. Periodically over the years, I've asked him to, and he never does it. I think it has something to do with him not wanting to go to the trouble of rubbing his own dick when an available hole is right there, warm and inviting. But I might be wrong.

It definitely has something to do with the fact that lubing my ass can be a hit-or-miss thing, and in Husband's mind, this adds to the sadistic fun. Oftentimes, Husband's not too careful about it. He'll tip the bottle over my ass crack, let some lube slide out…and if it lands on my cringing sphincter, great! If not, I'm out of luck. He might be kind enough rub the lube around if he missed his target completely, but if the slippery stuff manages to get on one side of my ass, but not the other, Husband's mentality is usually something to the effect of Oh, well. This is gonna pinch her a little. 
Tee hee.

If he's feeling magnanimous, he'll spread the lube around the sphincter area…with his dick. This is also a hit-or-miss thing. Sometimes it feels like he's spreading the goop all over my butt cheeks, everywhere but on the asshole itself. Sometimes he'll tease me with it, rubbing his dick along my crack until it feels like the lube is starting to dry, and I'm filling up with fear.
More often times he's just assuming his pumping will managed to smear the lube everywhere it needs to go—eventually, anyway—and there's no reason to hold back.
Yes, the lube gets everywhere it needs to go…eventually…usually around the time I'm trying to crawl away from him to escape the agony and he's pinning me down and ramming into me and the tears are pooling in my eyes and I'm crying and he's pulling the hair away from my face so he can see my expression of torment as he laughs in my ear.
But he knows I enjoy the pain. More importantly, he enjoys my pain—and my subjugation.
That is why he does it.

And yes, sometimes he'll use his fingers in me, sometimes he'll use a butt plug first, sometimes the anal vibrator comes out…and in those cases, I get lubed up nice and deep before his dick comes anywhere near me. But I never know when that's going to happen. I never know what kind of foreplay he has planned in his head unless he tells me, which is not very often.
And the thing is, he's not using his fingers or plug or toy to help get me lubed and relaxed. He's using them because it's fun and he feels like it.
If he doesn't feel like it? Oh well. This is gonna pinch a little. Suck it up, anal slut.

I think I might bring this poll to his attention. Look! I'll say. Most people lube both! Not just the asshole! You can lube your dick you know! 
Then again, he may just choose to become one of those people who uses no lube at all.
OW. And OH. And…I'm totally getting turned on right now.

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Taking the Skirt Back

When I was young, I grew up in an Orthodox Jewish home, and attended a Jewish day school through high school graduation.
School had a strict rule: girls had to wear skirts. The skirts had to cover the knees while sitting, and they couldn't be too tight. If the skirt had a slit in the back or sides, the slit could not rise above the knees.
If the skirt was too short, or deemed too "immodest" by any teacher, the girl was sent home to change.

The thing was, the school expected the girls to follow the dress codes out of school, as well. Now, if you were caught by a teacher or school administrator outside of school wearing pants, that was frowned upon, but overlooked.
But if you were caught wearing something more immodest, more revealing, like a mini-skirt? That could get a girl into a heap of trouble, not just with the school, but with the other girls. A girl who wore clothes like that was a slut. She was asking for it.
As I'm looking back on it now, it disgusts me to even write those words.

After I graduated and moved away (far, far away) I began my long farewell to my skirts.
First I only wore them if they were comfortable; when they all stopped being comfortable, I only wore them if I was going somewhere where I was required to wear a skirt; then I stopped going anywhere where I was required to wear a skirt, and started wearing jeans all the time.
By the time I met Husband, I hated skirts. Hated them. To me, they represented everything I had walked away from when I left Orthodoxy behind.
For years, I did not own more than one or two skirts.

Then I came into the kink scene. All of a sudden, skirts looked…different. They were long, short, billowy, skinny, bright, dark…but more importantly, they were sexy. They weren't worn to be modest, oh no; they were worn to show off the female figure, and flaunt a woman's curves.
Pants were suddenly modest attire, compared to the skirts I was seeing around me.
And I started buying some.

Now I have a whole collection of skirts again. Some are short, but still cover my knees. Others barely cover my thighs. I have a couple that are very long and wide; I wear those under a corset, with no panties. They are perfect for lifting around the hips for a spanking.

My skirts make me feel sexy. Womanly. Confident.
Ironically, the last thing they make me feel is submissive.

It has helped me realize submission is something a woman must feel within; it is not something a rabbi or teacher can dictate with clothes. Dictating how a woman should dress for modesty's sake is forcing her to don a costume of someone else's choosing. It is an abuse of power.

I am a kinky, submissive woman, and I will wear what I want…even skirts.

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Jewish Christmas

Yesterday, Husband and I followed the long-standing Jewish tradition of going out for Chinese food on Christmas.
We had planned on going to a nice Chinese restaurant; what we hadn't counted on were their jacked-up prices. So we took a walk to Panda express, which was only a short distance away.

As we walked side by side, Husband took my hand, and entwined his fingers with mine.
"I'm so lucky," he said, looking at me.
I looked away and grumbled, "I'm not wearing enough makeup."
"You're wearing too much clothes," he quipped back.
My eyes went wide, my cheeks blushed, and my mouth opened in a wide O—which, by the expression on Husband's face, was exactly the reaction he was hoping for. He smiled and squeezed my hand.

Unlike the nice Chinese restaurant next door, Panda Express was comfortably empty. We ordered our food, took the containers to a corner table, and sat. We talked about our kids, our parents, our work, and the mundane going-ons of our week in review.
We talked the way best friends do.

I opened up my fortune cookie first. Kindness makes for happiness, it said. "It's true," I had to admit. "When I'm kind to you, you make me happy."
"I thought I always make you happy."
"You do, but…you're nicer about it when I'm kind."
"If 'being kind' is your euphemism for blow jobs, then yes, I agree, I'm nicer. I let you come, too."
"Shh!" I said, glancing to the right. "There are children at the next table."
Husband smiled devilishly.

Then he opened his fortune cookie. You take criticism as an opportunity to grow, it said. "It's surprisingly accurate," Husband said. "You criticize me, I punish you…and I grow. You can literally watch me grow." His eyes danced with lecherous glee. "I guess they skipped the middle part."
"You are awful," he hissed at him, trying to stifle my smile.
"Are you criticizing me?" He asked with raised brows.
I couldn't hold back my laughter.

We walked back to the car, hand in hand again, and started the drive home.
"This was nice," he said.
"Yes, it was," I replied.
The rest of the drive was passed in cozy silence.
Someday—if we're lucky—we'll live long enough to see our parents gone, our kids away, our work forgotten…but we'll still have each other.
And, for that, I am blessed.

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Conversations with My Mother

(I posted this yesterday on Fetlife, and it's #1 on Kinky&Popular right now, so I thought I'd post it here, too.)

Conversation with my Mother

Mom: Shelby-leh, you write sexy stories, right?
Me: Yes, Mother. I write sexy stories.
Mom: Can you answer a question for me?
Me: I guess….
Mom: Why do all these writers, when they're writing sexy scenes, all use the same words?
Me: What do you mean?
Mom:…
Me: Can you give me an example what you're talking about?
Mom (quietly): Like "he put his finger in her sweet wetness." Why would they write it like that?
Me: It's called purple prose, Mother. The writer doesn't want to get too graphic, but they still want to get the image across, so they use this flowery kind of writing.
Mom: I see it all the time now. It's weird.
Me: Well, writers are putting more sex in their books, but they don't want to make them too graphic.
Mom (after a long pause): Why would he even want to put his finger in her 'sweet wetness,' anyway? And why would she want him to put his finger in her 'sweet wetness'?
Me: Mother…you've been married over forty years. If you don't know, I can't explain it to you.
Mom: Well, it's better than that 50 Shades of Grey book. I mean, that thing was just unrealistic. A girl goes on one date with a man, has sex with him, and has three orgasms?
Me: …..

Later, after telling Husband of my conversation with my Mom

Husband: I don't understand how you came into the world. Were you fucking adopted?
Me (grumbling) I wish I was.
Husband: She really doesn't know a woman can come more than once a night? Why didn't you tell her?
Me: I wasn't going to say anything. What was I going to say, 'Your son-in-law makes me have multiple orgasms on a regular basis'?
Husband: That would have been interesting. How many times did you come last night, anyway?
Me: I don't know, you tell me. You were the one with your fist in my cunt.
Husband: I'd say more than three.
Me: Well, there you go.
Husband: When I had my fingers in your sweet wetness.

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Bothered

We were lying in bed last night, naked, my cheek resting on Husband's stomach. He was pushing my head down now and then, to indicate to me where he wanted it to go; but while his wishes were obvious, I was resisting...because that's what I often do.
Predator and prey, baby. Push and pull. It's how we play the game.

He was not yet at the point where he would force me, but the moment was coming. We both knew it, but I was enjoying the lull that always comes before.
"If I were to tell you I never want to give you another blowjob again," I asked him, "would you be okay with that?"
"Of course," he said. "I'd be fine with that."

Now, Husband is a pretty cool cucumber. He knows how to keep his emotions in check, how to rise above the turmoil that often rules my actions. He knows how to stay calm and collected, to maintain the advantage. Still, I was very surprised by his nonchalant answer.
"Really?" I asked. "Why?"
"Because I love you," he said. "And if you never want to give me another blowjob, that would be okay with me."
"Really," I murmured, irritated. "You wouldn't be bothered."
"No."
"I should put this to the test See how long it would take you to admit you're bothered."
His head jerked up. "Wait, what?"
"What do you care?" I said, lifting my own head to look at him. "You just said you'd be totally okay with never getting another blowjob again."
"That doesn't mean I want to start now," he said. He started pushing my head down to his cock in earnest.
"No no," I said. "If you're not bothered by never getting another blowjob from me ever again, why should I bother?"
I pulled while he pushed, he opened my mouth and I bit his finger, he spanked my ass and I scurried away...but in the end, he did get my face over his cock, and I did give him a blowjob.

After it was over, I asked him, "Why did you say you'd be okay with me never giving you another blowjob?"
"My first reaction was to act cool about it," he said with a sigh. "I think I miscalculated."
"Yes," I said. "You did."
"It seemed like you were upset by my answer though. Were you?"
"Yes, I was. I put a lot of work into my blowjobs you know. How would you like it if you worked hard to make me happy with something, and then I took on this attitude like 'oh, I don't care about this, I could take it or leave it.' You wouldn't like it either."
"Well then," he said, "let me clarify: I would be very bothered if you never gave me another blowjob. But that's never going to happen, because you're going to keep giving me blowjobs whenever I want."
"Thank you," I said. "And damn straight."

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Believe Him

When he wants to hurt you, he'll tell you how much he wants to hurt you.
So when he tells you how much he wants to comfort you, be there for you, and hold you in his arms…believe him.

When he wants to humiliate you, he will find a way to humiliate you (probably with the greatest Mind Fuck yet).
So when he tries to build up your self-confidence by praising your skills, and whispering words of encouragement in your ear…believe him.

When he thinks you look like shit, he'll tell you you look like shit.
So when he tells you you look beautiful, that your smile lights up the room…believe him.

When he thinks you're behaving badly, he'll tell you you're being a brat, and to fucking stop.
So when he tells you how proud he is of you, how impressed he is with your grace, poise, and charm…believe him.

When he wants to say something negative, he will say something negative. Because he is not coy, or evasive, or reserved. He does not engage in the passive-aggressive bullshit you learned growing up.

He is honest. He is straightforward. He speaks his mind. This trait stems from his assertiveness—one of the things you love most about him. He is sincere, but never cruel. He can be abrasive; never abusive.
Even when his words are harsh, they are truth. You believe them.

So when he says beautiful things to you, words of praise and applause, words of flattery that make you feel uncomfortable because *that isn't right, he can't be talking about me, I'm not that person, I'm not that smart or funny or beautiful*…believe him anyway.
His words are truth. He would not say them otherwise.

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The New Meaning of Whore

Here's the situation:
I'm in the car, driving my 15-year-old home from school. There's nobody else in the car with us. He starts telling me about his day
(Someone once explained to me, after I had complained that my boys will only broach serious topics with me as I'm driving them somewhere and never while I'm sitting down comfortably at home, that boys will usually talk more, and open up more, in the car, where they know you cannot maintain eye contact with them. I largely think this is correct)
and he gets onto the subject of P.E.
Now P.E. is not my son's favorite class. He doesn't hate it, but he doesn't love it, either. His favorite class is actually Physics. Followed by Calculus.
Jock he is not.
But he has a nice group of friends in P.E., and they all just kind of hang out together and bear it collectively. They call themselves the "Nerd Herd," both in and out of P.E.
Son starts telling me about things they were discussing during P.E. time—words like "linux" and "steam" and "portal" and "pie graphs" and "Alpha" and "Beta" start flying out of his mouth and straight over my head—and then I realize he's started to talk about people.
"So Beta thought—"
"Wait, Beta is a person?"
"Yeah. We have names in the Nerd Herd. I'm Alpha, cause I'm Alpha Nerd. They decided."
(I am so not surprised.)
"Beta is second. When I'm out sick, he's the Alpha, but only when I'm not there."
"Okay....wow. What are some of the other people's names?"
"Well, we have Omega, and Fucker—"
"Wait, you have someone who's nickname is Fucker?"
"Yeah. He wanted it."
"Oh sheesh."
"If you don't like that, you're not going to like the others."
"Okay," I say, granting he's probably right. "But what about the girls? You do have girls in the group, don't you?"
"Yeah. Two."
"What are their names?"
"We call them the whores."

At this point, it was hard for me to drive, because my jaw was jamming the steering wheel.
"Son," I say, "that is NOT OKAY. Why would you do that? Why would you call these two girls whores? Do you understand how hard it is in general for girls to be nerds? How everything they do ends up being tied up somehow to their sexuality? How they're put down and insulted for daring to try to be included in circles of gamers and nerds?"
"Okay. Jeez, mom."
"No, it is not okay. It's very wrong for you guys to call them whores, just for being members of your group. What the hell were you thinking?"
"We were thinking it's funny."
"Well it's not. At all. You need to stop."
"It's supposed to be derogatory towards us, mom. Towards the guys."
"How—how is it derogatory towards the guys?"
"Because the joke is that no girls would be willing to be in our group unless we paid them."

I didn't have a clue what to say. I'm not exaggerating here: all possible answers were just wind-swept out of my head. Because when I looked at it from his point of view...yes, they were insulting themselves, not these girls, and certainly not women in general.
But it still didn't sit well with me.
Son then went on to tell me that the girls know about the name (it's not something the boys call them behind their backs), that they agree it's funny, and that they laugh about it, too.
Does this make it okay?
Can it ever be okay to call a women whores?

But then, maybe I'm whore shaming now? Certainly a woman has the right to label herself whatever she wants, and not have to get flak for it. The word "whore" doesn't have to be derogatory unless we designate it as an insult.
It can be a fact, not an epithet.
But for a group of boys to label girls "whores," even if it's to put down themselves, even if they don't mean it as an insult to the girls in question...it bothers me.
I'm just not sure I can articulate why.

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Motivation is everything, I guess

Husband came home yesterday in a good mood. Thursdays are generally slow days, but yesterday was particularly sedate.

"R's girlfriend was in the office today," he told me. "She hung around for a few hours. She borrowed a desk to get some work done."
"That's nice," I said.
He looked away and smiled. "R and she kept making smoochie-smoochie with each other," he said.
"What?" I said, shocked. "They were kissing in the office?"
"No, not really kissing," he said. "But you know, telling each other 'I love you,' kissing each other on the cheek, that kind of thing. Sweet smoochie-smoochie stuff."
"Aw, that's cute."
He shrugged.
"If I visited your office, would you make sweet smoochie with me?" I asked.
"No," he said.
"Why not?" I asked, upset.
"Because I'd fuck you in the bathroom!" He said, smiling devilishly. "It's why I don't want you visiting my office at all."

Um…thank you?

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NEWS! NEWS! (Read: Some Major Self Promotion Going On)

Two things!

First of all: I was named in Rori's famed list of Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2013. Yes, I am pleased. Yes, I am grateful. Yes, I am horny…and I'd like to think, with this insane blog of mine, I make a few of you horny, too.

Second of all: My next book is coming out soon! Its title is Blood and Desire, Seduction and Murder: A Hotel Bentmoore Romance. I've added it to the list of my books, right at the top. It should be out in the next few weeks; I hope you like it.

That's all for now. I'm off to a kinky Winter Ball. My life is good.

Edited to add: I put in the link for Rori's list, because, duh, you want to see it! Also, there's a button on the right, if you want to get to it by clicking over that way. 

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Battling Behavior

Well, dear readers, yesterday was an interesting night. It was the last night of winter break, the last night of Husband's vacation…and it was the anniversary of the night Husband and I met.

I knew Husband and I would be "getting down and dirty," but as far as I could tell, He had no distinctive plans. So I decided, when the time came, I would be behave differently from how I normally act: I would be obedient, I would be amicable, and I would give into his every order and suggestion quickly, without protest.
I would be utterly submissive.

Our "private time" together began.
He ordered me to pleasure him; I complied. He ordered me to pleasure myself; I complied.
A frown began to etch across his face. "What's up with you?" He asked.
"I'm trying to be good," I said. "I'm trying to behave."
He rolled me over and slapped my ass, hard, with his open palm; I knew within a few seconds I'd have the blush of his handprint outlined on my ass.
"What the hell was that for?" I screeched.
"You were being too complacent," he replied.

Of course, after that, all bets were off, and I tried to struggle as much as I could.
But I had two strikes against me: one, that Husband had already maneuvered me into easy spanking position; and two, that I am not a very strong woman on my best days.
Husband enjoyed my struggles, though. He laughed the entire time.
I laughed, too. Laughter during a scene (and sex) is, in my book, always a good thing.

I know some Doms and Masters out there prefer their subs to be docile, meek creatures, willing and eager to serve at all times.
Husband is not like that.
Thank God.

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Thank You for Walking Away

You guys know I can be a brat, right? (Okay, stupid question, you can stop rolling your eyes now at me now, STOP LAUGHING.) Here's the thing: for me, bratty behavior is not the same thing as prey behavior. Husband responds very differently from my bratty vibe to the way he does my prey vibe. Bratty behavior is insolent, saucy, a little bit defiant…but it's all done in the name of fun. Prey behavior is on a different level of consciousness: it's a primal challenge of an animalistic sort.
Maybe this issue deserves its own post.
But what I want to bring up now is this: Husband's reaction to my behavior depends (at least somewhat) on whether my behavior stems from my bratty attitude, or my need to be taken down like prey.

The other night, we were in bed, and I was being a brat. He was wrestling me across the bed, and it was all fun and games…until I bit him.
Now, I have bitten Husband before. When I'm in prey mode, I bite, scratch, kick, pull…but I have my limits, of course; even on that level of consciousness, I don't want to really hurt someone.
(I guess I'm really not a sadist.)
But Husband is prepared for my tricks and (futile) attempts to fight him when I'm prey. He's into it just as much as I am.
The other night, when I was being a brat, and I bit him? Not so much.
I bit him a leetle beet too hard. Hard enough to break skin; hard enough to make him bleed. He yelled in surprise.

He bounded off the bed, swearing loudly. For a moment, I was in shock: I had no idea I'd hurt him so badly. But it was soon made clear to me how badly I had bit him, because he was not getting back into bed.
Husband went into the bathroom, washed off his finger…and then he came back in the bedroom, got dressed, and left the room. Didn't say another word to me.
Didn't even look at me.
Left. The. Room.

I lay there wanting to cry.

He came back about five minutes later.
"You bit me really hard," he said.
"I'm sorry," I whined.
"Never do that again. Understand?"
"I understand."
"Lean over the bed."

The punishment was harsh. His disappointment was worse.
But you know what would have been worst of all? If he hadn't left the room to calm down. If he had hit me in anger, instead of calm, deliberate punishment. If he had acted in a moment of fury, instead of regaining his composure first.
If he had tried to lash out at me without consideration for me.

I often act recklessly, on impulse. It's a problem. Husband has tried to train me to do better, and believe it or not, he's had a lot of success. (I know, I know, stop rolling your eyes, SHUT UP.) But I still have my moments.

A Master who has control over a sub/slave, who can manipulate his/her emotions, his/her sense of self-worth, who can strike him/her physically when necessary, can never strike out of anger. It is not fair to the sub/slave, it is not fair to their relationship, and it proves the Master still has a lot to learn.

Those five minutes Husband spent out of the room to cool down were horrible; in my mind, they were worse than the punishment itself. But Husband knew staying in that room with me would have been worse for both of us, so he walked away.
For that, I thanked him.

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Conversations With the Body Parts

Mind: Get dressed get dressed get dressed get dressed
Cunt: No. Play with me.
Mind: I can't, it's time to get dressed and get ready to go
Cunt: How much time is there left?
Mind: Half an hour, tops.
Cunt. Plenty of time. Play with me.
Mind: Later, okay? I promise. LATER.
Cunt: No. Now. I'm needy.
Mind: Of course you're needy, you're always needy, shut up!
Cunt: Play with me, plaayyyy
Mind: Shut up, I'm serious
Cunt: I won't shut up, I don't ever shut up. Whatcha gonna do about it, hmmm?
Mind: You just watch.

(Puts in a call to Husband.)
Husband: I'm busy. What do you want?
Me: Can I have permission to come?
Husband: No. Wait until I get home. I have plans for you tonight: I'm gonna try that new toy out on your ass. It's bigger than what you're used to, but I think you can handle it.
Me: ...What?
Husband: I'm getting back to work now. Bye.
(Hangs up)

Cunt: Fine. You win. I'll leave you alone.
Ass: Did someone mention my name?

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Folsom Fringe

So as I mentioned in my last post, this weekend I tried something new. Actually, a few things new. I
1. Attending my first kinky conference
2. Gave my self-publishing class to a room full of people
2. Vended my books

Number one rule about trying something new: it's all about the experience. I went into the weekend with a clear head and a list of hopes, but zero expectations.
IT WAS AWESOME.
Seriously, if you can attend Folsom Fringe next year, DOOOO EEET. It is an easy way to meet kinky people, take a ton of classes, learn a whole lot about things you never even knew existed, and PLAY.
Oh my god, people, the PLAY.
I had friends there who basically only left their hotel rooms to eat and meet up with new potential play partners. Once negotiations (and meals) were done, they were back in their rooms, having more fun.

The saturday night party was a huge ballroom of ongoing D/s, S/m, and kink. I got spanked, caned, punched (a first for me), wrestled to the ground, hogtied, and pussy chained. I got to scream, cry, struggle, flail, bite, kick, and punch back.
And the whole time, all around me, there were other scenes going on, with people laughing, crying, and coming. Countless play stations, chairs set up all around for those who wanted to watch, cleaning supplies, safety supplies....
All the while, around the corner in the social area, people sat in their dressed-up best, eating delicacies and socializing in hushed tones at intimate cafe tables.
It was lovely. Hedonism at its best.

I signed a lot of books. Sold out, in fact. Of course, I had to do a lot of begging to sell those books. The other vendors found me quite entertaining. But then, begging comes natural to me, so what can I say?

I was told my class was good. If you want to see much of what I taught, you can take a look at the menu bar on the blog and click on "how to self publish."

Of course, one of the biggest draws of Folsom Fringe is the ride to and from Folsom Street Fair. But the  thing is, since you've been partying and playing the whole weekend already, Folsom Fair becomes one aspect of the weekend, not the whole thing. For many, it's not even the grand finale. I know for me, the saturday night party was the highlight of the conference, and the weekend.

I came home with bruises on my shoulders, back, and breasts, rug burn on my knees and ass, a hoarse throat, and a sense of incredible accomplishment.

That last one? That was the best souvenir of all.

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