The bath was where I learned how to masturbate; still one of my favorite places to rub one out to this day.
When I was teaching in Korea, I noticed a large cultural difference in terms of how students would address creative questions. This became very apparent when I asked my university students the following question:
“If you could travel back in time, when and where would you go?”
In the US, students might answer that they would go see ancient Egypt, dinosaurs in the Jurassic period, or Woodstock. My Korean students, however, would always – without fail – tell me that they would revisit a time in their own life in order to change it (usually to study more or take a test over!) or return to an age when they had more free time. It’s because of their answers that this idea popped into my head.
If I could go back in time, where and when would I go, professor? That’s a hard question. Maybe you want me to say something about some big historical event or a famous person I might meet, but to be frank, there are moments in my life I want to go back to. Missed opportunities. Moments of regret. No, not the chance to study abroad or take more advanced classes. The chance to have more lovers. You’re blushing, professor. No need; I am just answering your question.
Let me give you an example. You always ask us to give examples to show our answers, right? So here’s mine. Last summer, I took a trip to Europe with Jun to celebrate our last year in university; you remember me talking about this before. We were at a hof one night in Zurich talking to a small group of Swiss women; Jun wasn’t feeling well and went home early, but I stayed. I was left with two women, both so beautiful. They had shiny hair, soft skin, perfect teeth. They were young like us, and we talked about the difficulties of expressing our thoughts in English. Well, to make a long story short – we all drank many beers, and these girls started kissing each other. I had never seen that before; there are gays here, but they hide. I watched them, so surprised – and so… well, it was exciting.
One of them took my hand and leaned in to my ear; she asked if I would come back to their apartment with them. I had never done sex with one person, and here were two girls asking me to come with them! Professor, I was so scared that I couldn’t. I was afraid that I would be bad at it. That they would laugh at me. Now, I regret that. So to answer your question, professor, if I could go back in time, I would say to those two Swiss women, “Yes. I will come with you. But I am inexperienced, and I need guidance.” They would say to me, “Yes, we will help you.” They would take me home and teach me everything.
I would give them as much pleasure as they wanted, and I would touch them the way they wanted me to touch them. I would lie back and let them touch me and kiss me, wondering about my luck. I would have – what is the expression you taught us? – seized the day. Professor, I don’t want to say too much, because you seem uncomfortable. But in my mind, I live that night every night. If I had a time machine, I would make a girlfriend in my first year instead of getting high test scores. I would kiss many girls on my trip. And I would enjoy my time with the two women I dream about every night.
I was finally put into full rope suspension for the first time last fall; it was comfortable and calming, and the mistress who bound and hoisted me was brilliant (she’s a friend, so I may be biased). Can’t wait to do this again someday!
P.S. Many of you noted in the comments that you were interested in being suspended; I asked Cammies on the Floor for a piece of advice or a tip I could put on the website for folks who were interested, and here’s what she wrote: “Going to rope practice classes and socials is the best way to meet someone. Being a practice bottom isn’t very fun, but it’s important to a top and segways into knowing a top well enough to suspend.”
My freshman year in high school, my closest friend (on whom I had an immense crush) and I walked through the halls, clicking away on the tiles with our brand-new, matching, shiny white gogo boots. We wore miniskirts and lip gloss; we linked arms and sashayed into rooms like we owned the joint. It wasn’t just that the heels on the boots made our legs more shapely; it was the way we had to bend down to zip and unzip them*, the way the line of the boot draws the eye upward, the way poise is affected by confidence is affected by poise. A feedback loop. I felt untouchable – an intoxicating emotion for a fifteen year-old who criticizes and doubts everything about herself.
My father was in the military for thirty years, so I’ve always associated boots with power. When he would head off for weekend or summer trainings, he shined his boots beforehand ‘til they glowed like fresh ink on a typewriter page. He laced them lightning quick, ready to go in an instant in case of emergency. When I smell shoe polish, I think of his nimble fingers pulling the strings just so and whipping them around hooks before tying bunny ears. There are pictures of me as a toddler stomping around the house in his big black boots – laces undone, dragging on the floor. I was in Nepal on a hike when I realized that I lace and unlace my boots just like he used to, and it made me cry in the middle of the mountains.
I’ve worn boots as both a domme and sub in session; I’m a bottom by nature, and it can be difficult for me to inhabit a dominant headspace. Attire makes a huge difference! I know that a true dominant can do all their domly domming no matter what they’re wearing, but… I’m just not a top. Wearing boots is the number one thing – at least from a physical standpoint – that helps me get into a dominant role. Be it cowboy boots used to step on someone’s dick (love that guy), heavy, thigh-high black vinyl boots being worshipped by a man on his hands and knees, or – any boots, really – used to boost my height and assertiveness, boots make me feel in command. Self-possessed. A force to be reckoned with*. I feel like my fifteen year-old self: swaying my hips, begging to be looked at, and acting grown up – not even really knowing what that means.
I love the idea of this being the first thing The Engineer sees when he gets home from work someday – but a much more elaborate and luxurious spread than this, complete with a candelabra and a vintage lace peignoir (I wouldn’t consider these items to actually be epicurean, but I worked with what I had!). I want to make a complete mess with him on a hard dining room table.
On a completely unrelated note, E is the best! letter! ever! for a photo prompt (all those exquisite adjectives)… there were a million ideas that I didn’t have the time or resources to follow through with. If anyone can tell me how to overlay one image on another without Adobe Photoshop, please let me know in the comments!
Blindfolds allow me to be immersed in my body. When I can see someone looking at me – especially a new partner – I feel more pressure to perform pleasure than to experience it. Don’t get me wrong: There are times I love looking into a partner’s eyes. When I’m riding The Engineer and have my whole body wrapped around him, then pull back, look him in the eye, and kiss him long and deep, it feels like magic.
There’s something about having a scarf, bandana, or slip of satin suddenly thrown over my eyes that shifts my perspective from pleasure collaborator to receiver of pleasure. It allows me to fully accept pleasure in a way that I have a more difficult time doing if I can see my partner, especially during oral sex – even better if I’m immobilized. If the blindfold is used as part of a BDSM scene, it’s a basic show of trust in my top and a testament to whether or not that trust is well-placed (it’s not always; I once had a play partner use a violet wand on me when I was blindfolded without asking first!). It also lends itself to a much higher level of anticipatory arousal for me if I can’t see what’s going to happen next.
I have a few notable memories involving blindfolds: The first is when my manfriend (I call him this because he was 13 years older than me) grabbed a black silk scarf from his lamp one night, slid it across my breasts, and tied it around my eyes before grabbing my legs and wrapping them around his muscular hips. The second is the first time I had PIV sex with The Texan (I’ll write about this in detail one day – it was really hot); as I lowered the blindfold over his eyes, I whispered, “I promise I won’t hurt you.” I wrote about the third memory here.
The Engineer loves blindfolding me as part of our kinky play, and I just bought a brand-new delightfully fuzzy blindfold for us to use. He’s a bit claustrophobic and has told me before that he doesn’t enjoy being bound or deprived of any senses, but when I told him I was writing this, he said, “I would let you blindfold me. I trust you.” I am VERY excited to close off one of his senses and kiss and touch him everywhere. I think he just might like it more than he thinks he will.
I wear a red pencil skirt and a tight black tank top; he says I’m the best-looking woman in the room. I know it’s not true, but I love him for saying it. We get drinks and sit back at first, watching all the other vacationing revelers and locals dance together; we aren’t drunk enough yet to join the fray, so we chat quietly to each other while stroking each other’s arms and legs. A couple of drinks in, I’m feeling better about dancing, so I stand up and stride into the middle of the floor, keenly aware of the fact that he’s watching me move my hips in figure eights and play off of other dancers’ moves. He stares at me from the bar as I dance with other men, wanting me more than ever. When I walk over to him and suggest we take a detour to the bathroom, he is so in. We walk back to where the restrooms are, keeping watch of people coming and going until there’s a lull in traffic, which is when we take the opportunity to dip into the ladies and sneak into a stall. We put our empty glasses on the back of the toilet; I sit on the lid and unbuckle his belt, eager for what’s underneath. I unzip his jeans and pull out his semi-erect cock, letting it grow in my warm, moist mouth, making bright red smears on it with my lip gloss.
He slides his fingers into my hair, pulling my head toward him, leaning his own back and closing his eyes with satisfaction as he thrusts in past my lips until he’s rock hard, head tight and glistening with my spit. In a moment of inspiration, he takes my hands and pulls them up and underneath his belt, then continues to fuck my face in a way I would only let someone do if I really loved them.
I pull back eventually and look up at him, my eyes laughing because the bathroom is now filled with the chatter of drunk 22 year-olds. I continue stroking him, holding a steady gaze, until we can no longer hear voices. He zips up and I peek out first before conspiratorially grabbing his hand and tip-toeing back out into the bar. We continue drinking: beer, shots, cocktails. At one point we’re at the far corner of the bar – not quite hidden, but not quite out in the open – and he says, “I have something for you.” He unzips and pulls his cock out, then places my hand over it. “What are you doing?!” I squeak. “It’s fine,” he slurs. Luckily, everyone else in the room seems to be in the same state we are, so I touch him lightly with my fingertips, trying to block the view with my body. I’m not as concerned later on in the evening when he pulls one of my legs onto his lap and slides a hand up the inside length of my skirt before slipping a finger under my knickers and into my cunt. Then I give zero fucks about who can see us. I tilt my pelvis toward his hand, clenching around his finger. He laughs and pulls it out before putting it into his mouth to savor my taste.
We leave the bar and walk down the beach toward our guesthouse; there are no lights along the way, so anywhere is good. We park in front of an overturned canoe; he sits down against the faded wood, drunk enough not to care about having sand all over his bare ass, and I slide a condom down over his surprisingly-erect dick (ah, the beauty of youth) before straddling him and using the strength in my quads and gluts to rise and sink down onto his cock. I hold his head in my hands and kiss him, my knees stinging from the hard sand, my cunt wanting and wanting and wanting, all charge and sizzle. A couple of people walk past us on the beach with their phone flashlights on to guide the way; I sit perfectly still for a couple of minutes while they pass, convinced that since I’m wearing a skirt, it’s fiiiiine. If we don’t move, they can’t see us. I restart and ride until the sand becomes too much, at which point we stumble 100 meters to our guesthouse and pass out, tangled limbs fitting together like Tetris pieces.
We wake up hungover to a bed covered in sand; we mumble “Morning” to each other with sleepy eyes and knowing smiles, then kiss each other languidly in the blind-striped, mid-morning sunshine. We gossip about ourselves over a full fry-up and suddenly, I know I’m in deep. Dangerous waters, maybe – but I’m a diver and I know the risks. For now, his arms are a buoy, his lips a regulator. I’m safe.
I love butt stuff. Plugs, fingers, vibrating plugs, rimming, beads, plugs of various shapes and sizes, pegging, and – have I mentioned plugs? I love them. That said – anal sex isn’t really my thing.
Having a partner slide a finger into my ass while licking my puss? Definitely my thing, and my clitoral orgasms are so much more intense when combined with anal stimulation. I often incorporate beads and plugs when I wank, especially to tip me over the edge. Riding a partner’s dick with a vibrating butt plug in so he can feel the vibrations through my vaginal wall? Absofuckinglutely. I often fantasize about double penetration – sitting on a dick reverse cowgirl style and lying back on that gent while having another fuck me missionary style while other people watch. Giving languid analingus at the end of a long body massage makes me drip, and putting on a strap-on, making it goopy and slick with lube, and sliding it into a wriggling ass that can’t wait to be penetrated, only to hear a deep groan of satisfaction, makes my heart pound. PIA, though? That I could take or leave.
Then again – maybe I just haven’t given it a fair shot. The first time I tried anal was in uni; we lubed up, used fingers first as a warm up, and… it was good. Not great, but good. The second time we tried I really got into it. Then one night my boyfriend was pounding me hard from behind and his dick accidentally slipped into my ass (yes, this really does happen); it hurt so bad that I didn’t want to try anal with him again. I tried with another partner a year later, and then didn’t do it again until a decade later when I started dating The Texan, and then only once. I think that part of it is that I’ve gone on dates and had one-night stands with a lot of men who want to fuck me in the ass, but would never in a million years allow themselves to be pegged – and that just doesn’t sit right with me. If someone expects me to take their cock in my rectum but won’t even try a finger in theirs to see what it feels like, they’re probably out the door.
Anal sex is not a casual sex activity for me. It’s something I’ve only ever wanted to do in relationships in which I feel I can really trust my partner to pull back, slow down, or stop if I feel uncomfortable – so maybe now is a good time to give it another try. A noble goal for 2018. The Engineer and I are keen (but he also has quite a sizable cock, which makes me a bit nervous), and it’s something we talk about doing often; I’ll make working up to it a goal for our next visit. “Let’s go home so you can put it in my butt” would probably make a welcome airport greeting, don’t you think?