Suck it up and screw me

I am more than a little confused about what I need and want right now. Sometimes I am so horny I feel like I would have sex with the first person who asks, and sometimes I feel quite the opposite. I mean, I’m horny regardless, but I am just so emotionally raw.

Last night I went out with a girl I met at a Fet party, L. We’d been out once before, then through a couple months of life getting in the way, hadn’t been able to schedule anything until last night. She told me she was on the rag so I was pretty sure nothing would happen. We grabbed a drink and some appetizers after work and just talked.

She knows Suicide Girl, my ex-Mistress. They worked together ten years ago and recently re-connected through the lifestyle. So when she and Suicide Girl talked recently, the subject of me came up. I asked L what Suicide Girl had said about what happened between us, mainly because I wanted to know if she was blabbing about my pregnancy and subsequent termination to every curious ear. L said she wasn’t sure how much she could say because she wanted to respect Suicide Girl’s privacy, and I was sort of like “Fuck this shit, what happened isn’t even Suicide Girl’s story to tell!” So I wound up telling L everything. Mostly because I just wanted to see if it matched up with what she had been told. She told me that S.G. had said that things got very messy very quickly and that it just wasn’t going to work out.

And while I was glad that S.G. wasn’t out telling everyone my business, just talking about her and The Switch made me realize how much I still hurt, not just from what happened, but from their responses to it. The fact that after they found out I was pregnant they both did everything they could to convince me I had no choice but to end it. The fact that S.G. got so involved in it when really it had nothing to do with her. The fact that no one seemed to respect the fact that this was my body and my decision, or understand the complex emotions I was facing, and the fact that immediately afterwards I was dumped by them both, fills me with such rage in retrospect. As if what happened was not emotionally and mentally devastating enough without immediately being tossed out like trash, yet again.

Last night I felt okay–I was outraged, but I was drinking so that took the edge off. But this morning when I woke up I was so upset I really didn’t even want to get out of bed. Suicide Girl wanted to meet me for coffee this morning–she says she is still my friend. But I am so hurt by the fact  that the only thing she cared about what making sure I didn’t fuck up her future with her boyfriend, that I just can’t see her. I just can’t.

Fet Life is another trigger for me. Every time I’m on there I end up cringing or crying. I hate the fact that my ex-Dom has a new play partner. I hate seeing the little comments The Switch and Suicide Girl leave on each other’s walls. I hate the fact that my old Dom hired Sir. S to take his new profile photos instead of me, and the fact that it appears they are best friends now. When I broke up with my Sir, Sir. S and Peanut promised they would be there for me. They said we would get together and talk it through and they would support me and make sure I was okay. That never happened, in true Sir. S fashion. I can’t decide if he is all around flaky, or just when it comes to me. Anyway. What I’m trying to say is, that despite my raging libido and mounting sexual frustration and the fact that I feel like if I don’t get laid soon I’m going to put my fist through a wall, I am just…not sure I can handle it right now. Sex, I mean. There is a party in a couple weeks that I am supposed to be attending with L, and everyone will be there. My old Dom, Switch and S.G. It is at Peanut’s house and hosted by Sir. S, so he will be there too, and I just….I don’t know if I can go. I don’t know if I can see everyone right now. But for reasons I will expand on later, it is kind of a now or never situation. Will I regret not going since this may be my last chance to see these people? Will I regret going if I do and end up hiding in the bathroom, sobbing for the entire night?

Additionally, I told L I would come over on Saturday. She wants to play with me, we are attracted to each other, have a great mental connection, and as I told her last night, I really wish I had got involved with her instead of S.G. and Switch. But while last night, playing with her seemed like a great idea, this morning I think I may bail. I know she would understand–she knows how broken I am, and was similarly taken aback by the way The Switch and Suicide Girl handled things–but I just don’t even know what I want right now.  Actually, what I want is for my husband to stop falling asleep, suck it up, and screw me.

But I’m not holding my breath.

The Other Side: Part III

(The Other Side, Part I and Part II)

I used to be vehemently pro-life. I always swore that stance had nothing to do with my belief in Christianity. A fetus was a baby–it had it’s own heartbeat, it’s own DNA. It was clearly alive, since if it wasn’t, it would be called a miscarriage. My opinion wasn’t based on religion, but science, I insisted. A fetus was its own person–yes, it was dependent on its mother for survival, but weren’t all children?

I didn’t judge women who had abortions. I assumed that they made the choices they did because in their opinion, a fetus was just a clump of cells. They were clearly just misinformed. I, however, knew the truth. I knew when the brain waves started, I knew that a fetus developed so quickly that by the time most women found out they were pregnant, it was basically already formed.

When I left religion, my ideas changed. I still thought a fetus was a baby, it’s own person, with its own unique set of fingerprints. What changed was, I wasn’t sure it mattered anymore. Since humans are just here by chance, since we come from the same stuff as grass and mud and rocks, who was to say that a fetus had any inherent worth? That it needed to come into this world? In fact, I started to feel the opposite–that life is a struggle, and unless you could be damn sure you wouldn’t be signing another human being up for an existence filled with heartache, there was really no reason to add more beings to the chaos.

When I found out I was pregnant, I was absolutely conflicted. The thing growing inside me was a person. I looked at my children, with their beautiful little faces, and I thought–what if they had never come to be? It hurt so bad I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t imagine a world without their smiles, their laughter, even their tears. Their snuggles, their words, their curiosity. At the same time, I live with daily guilt over not being able to give my children the lives they deserve. They have two parents who are cranky and stressed–parents who, quite honestly, should have never got married in the first place. We live in a crummy two bedroom apartment, all of us on top of each other, never able to have our own space or a moments’ peace. We are struggling hard just to get by. My husband and I count the years until both kids are in school and we can finally have some time to ourselves. We send out job applications like its going out of style, hoping against hope that one day we will finally catch a break, that we can become the family we were meant to be. That we won’t need to save up to take our children to the dentist. That sending our son on a field trip with his kindergarten class will not break the bank. That our funny, dramatic daughter will be able to take acting or music or ballet. That our rough and tumble son can have the opportunity to channel his energy through hockey or karate.

And then there is our mental health–the pair of us. Clinically depressed, with a nice helping of anxiety. Tired, stressed, dying for the day when we can afford a baby sitter so we can go on dates. Desperate for a future that does not involve sharing our bed with a toddler who wakes up crying several times a night, and being greeted at 5:30 AM each morning by a four year old who is a hopelessly early riser. Both of us, having our meds adjusted every couple months so we don’t crumble at the billionth request for a cookie, a cup of juice, someone to turn on the TV or play Legos with.

And me. So unable to handle pregnancy hormones that I’d almost been hospitalized when pregnant with each of them. Having had to quit my job when I was pregnant with our youngest because not only did my crying all day make me a lousy employee, but my sciatica was so bad that my legs frequently gave out underneath me and I became a liability.

I could not have anymore children. I could not be pregnant again. I could not. I could not. I could not. We wouldn’t survive it.

And…whose baby was it anyways? I didn’t know. I couldn’t be sure. All I knew was that my husband was on leave from school because his depression had got so bad he couldn’t manage anymore, and if I went to him with a stick with two lines and the word “pregnant”, we probably would have both ended up in the hospital.

Who would care for the children we had now? Maybe we could send them to live with my husband’s parents on the other side of the country while we both received psychiatric help. And then…I could have the baby. Find another family to raise it. But my children would know that I had given away their sibling. And…being a minority, I couldn’t be sure I would find a family to adopt my child. Having volunteered at a pregnancy center in college, I knew the statistics. White healthy babies were adopted immediately. Children of colour were often sent to foster care. I could not hand my child over to the government. I would have no idea who had him or her, if they were okay. And then I realized, even if I did find a family to adopt my baby, I would still not know that they were okay. Could I bring another human being into this world in which I had suffered so, if I wasn’t able to ensure it would have a decent life?

And…I have my two kids. They are here, and they are now. They are born. They feel. They are. How could I go through with something that would shake their world so badly? I brought them here, and I am responsible for making sure that, at least as far as my own actions go, they are taken care of.


The Switch freaked out when I told him it was probably his. He tried to remain calm and act as though my well-being was his primary concern, but he kept talking about how he had paid child support for 18 years, like he deserved some kind of medal for donating sperm and writing checks and abandoning his child’s mother. He called the clinic for me. Said there was an appointment for Thursday–just 3 days away. I needed to call and book it myself. If I had to miss work he would give me the money I’d miss out on.

I told him it was too soon. I needed some time to think. I could hear the edge of panic rise in his voice, wanted to slug him when he mentioned “18 years of child support” again. This was my baby. It didn’t belong to him. He didn’t care about what was best for anyone but himself. In a way, it was understandable–I mean, who was I, the girl he’d been screwing for a month? I told him I would make the right decision and he needed to trust me.

I went online to calculate how many weeks along I would be, and felt like I’d been slapped in the face when instead of telling me how far along the pregnancy was, the Calculator announced “Your Due Date is November 3.” Due date. I had a due date. No. No. No. No. No.

At five weeks it was was still an embryo. It wasn’t even a fetus. That was better. It looked like a tadpole. That was okay too. “YOUR BABY” the website announced, is the size of a poppy seed.

I had a baby and it was the size of a poppy seed.

I needed to do this before it got any bigger. Before it had fingers and toes and started moving around. I remembered my 12 week ultrasound with both of my kids, how very baby-like they had looked. Their ultrasound pictures are framed on our wall. When I’d been pregnant with my daughter, we’d compared her profile to my son’s. We could tell her lips would be bigger but her nose would be smaller. And when she came out, that had been exactly the case. Her beautiful little mouth curved up like a doll’s. Even now, she sticks out her bottom lip dramatically and says “Heyyy!” when something doesn’t go the way she wants. It melts my heart. I had to protect her.

I made an appointment for that weekend. I wasn’t sure I would survive an abortion, but I was sure I wouldn’t survive having another child.

The Other Side: Part II

(You can read part one of The Other Side, here).

It started with The Switch. I’d been dumped a couple weeks before, and I was ready to get laid again. I had a few friends in the kink community who’d communicated an interest. Since I was now a free agent, allowed to screw whoever I wanted without having to ask, I started flirting.

I sent The Switch a message, and he wrote back, telling me that he was working on a spanking bench. He asked if I was interested in coming over and testing it out. Hours later we were together, drinking and fucking. Then came the photo shoot, where I met Suicide Girl. That weekend their relationship statuses on Fet Life announced that they were in a polyamourous relationship. The next day she asked me to be her Pet, and The Switch put me under his protection. We were a House.

It happened fast. It nagged at me–we did not know each other that well. I wanted something real. But I liked them, and if I said no at that point they might not have asked again. I didn’t spend much alone time in the bedroom with my new Mistress. Neither of us were able to host, so if it was just the two of us we were having coffee or shopping. We both slept with Sir on our own, or together. When we went to events they whored me out, but only played with each other. I was jealous, but knew I had no right to be. They were both single and I was married–and I liked getting fucked by different people, so it really made no difference.

The problem was, I liked The Switch, our Sir, more than I liked my Mistress. I was turned on by her sexually, but as far as our personalities went I didn’t feel like we had much chemistry. Sir, however, could make me tingle just by laying in bed together, talking. But he was her boyfriend, not mine.

On our very first night out together, she collared me. Again, it felt too soon, but I accepted. It did not matter that my ex had cut me loose–I was collared. I belonged.

On the last night I was with the both of them, we were at The Switch’s house. I had said I didn’t know how much playing I’d be able to do since I’d probably have my period. They said that it was a good thing I had other holes, but luckily (or so I thought at the time), I still wasn’t bleeding by the time our date rolled around.

I fucked Suicide Girl with a strap-on while The Switch fucked her ass. I rode him while she rimmed him, then put my finger in his ass while she sucked his cock. And then it was my turn–my first time having anal sex that wasn’t either forced on me or didn’t hurt so bad I had to stop after the first few seconds.

I slid onto The Switch’s cock, using him until I exploded with pleasure, and then he told Suicide Girl to grab a small purple dildo out of his nightstand. She slid it slowly into my ass until I saw stars. She worked me with it gently, making me writhe, until The Switch asked her, “Do you think she’s ready for the real thing?”

“I think she needs the real thing,” she said.

He told me to lay on my back on the edge of the bed. I spread my legs for him and  he slowly slid his cock into my ass, Suicide Girl playing with my tits.I let out a low, primal moan.

“Is it hurting?” he asked. “It’s not fun if it’s hurting.”

I shook my head. I couldn’t form the words to explain how it felt. He fucked me slowly as my cries built, then faster.

“I’m gonna come in your ass,” he growled eventually. I whimpered, so hot I couldn’t stand it. Seconds later I was dripping from both holes.

Later, having eaten and sobered up, I kissed them both and went home. It was the last time I would be with them.

Two days later I sent Suicide Girl a text. No words, just a single photo. A white stick with two pink lines. A death sentence.

The Photo Shoot (Part II)

( You can read part one of The Photo Shoot, here).

Suicide Girl pressed up against me, teasing my pussy with the tip of the strap-on. I moaned.

“Do you want this?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Yes, who?” she and The Switch asked in unison.

“Yes, Mistress,” I whimpered.

“That’s better,” she replied.

I was aching. From the moment I walked into the bedroom and saw her, I’d been overcome with lust. Being so close to her with a strap-on between us was torture. Mercifully, she didn’t wait long before putting me out of my misery.

She slid it slowly inside me, once, twice, and then fucked me fast with it. I moaned loudly, entering that space where coherent thoughts are impossible and sex is almost an out of body experience. Suicide Girl was moaning now too, her pace growing jerkier, and I could tell without looking that The Switch was behind her, fucking her doggy-style.

We fucked until we collapsed with exhaustion, three layers deep. The fog lifted and we realized that camera was clicking and the make-up lady was still standing in the corner. Both were kinksters, and neither batted an eye, but I am slightly concerned by my ability to become so consumed by sexual contact that everything else, including other people in the room, disappears. I am not so much an exhibitionist, as I am a person who loves sex so much that self-consciousness and propriety are not even a factor.

The make-up lady packed up her styling gear and half-joked about how she was going home to jump her husband before their company arrived. The photographer left soon after, but The Switch got a text from him two minutes later saying he wanted to come back and rub our feet (he has a foot fetish, ha ha). The remaining three of us drank wine for a few more minutes in the living room, until The Switch said “Take off your clothes,” and made his way to the bedroom.

“Okay,” we said immediately, shucking the clothing we’d replaced only minutes before and climbing into bed with him, naked.

Suicide Girl and I kissed and groped, while The Switch fingered her. He entered her with his cock, and she narrowed her eyes and looked at me. “Get your pussy on my face.”

She licked and sucked me, rubbing with her tongue and nipping with her teeth, spreading me with her fingers to make sure she hit everything.

“Come for me,” she commanded in a deep, throaty voice.

I moaned loudly, muscles squeezing, pussy throbbing, soaking wet.

The Switch threw me on the mattress, held my hands above my head, and pounded into me with incredible force. I screamed, eyes half closed, as Suicide Girl gently shushed me. “Too loud,” she said, running her hand lightly up my arm.

I bit my lip and tried to make less noise. I didn’t want The Switch’s basement tenant to complain, but I have never been known for my ability to keep quiet.

He fucked me until we had nothing left, and then we all fell asleep, a tangle of limbs, holding each other.

The Photo Shoot (Part I)

The Switch met me with a hug, poured me glass of wine, and led me back to his bedroom.

“There’s not a lot of space,” he warned. “But we can squeeze into the corner.”

He was right. A large light occupied one corner, in another was a man with a camera, and by the window stood a red-head with chopsticks in her hair, holding a reflector. On the bed was Suicide Girl. Her long blue hair fanned out around her face, and her tattoos covered her body. She looked up at me and smiled–a bad-ass mermaid shipwrecked on land.

The Switch introduced me to everyone. I said hello, then made myself scarce, allowing the professionals to do what they were there to do. I was a spectator–for now.

The photographer directed the posing, the stylist swooped in every few minutes to re-apply lipstick or smooth a stray hair, and The Switch and I stood and stared, our temperatures rising. At one point he picked me up by my crotch and smirked.

“Getting a little damp there?”

“Yep,” I quipped. “Through my jeans!” When Suicide Girl stuck out her ass and propped a leopard-print heel up on the bed, I nearly came. God.

It was time for a wardrobe change. I followed the women-folk into the kitchen. Suicide Girl stripped off her lingerie without a hint of self-consciousness and began to dig around in her bag for her next outfit. I was amazed at how much lingerie she had, and she told me I could try on anything I wanted. Minutes later I was standing in the kitchen in a black bra, and matching black and red garter and thong. I was just messing around, but was soon informed that I was now part of the photo shoot. At first they wanted me just as decoration–they chained me to the dungeon wall as background art for Suicide Girl’s shots. Eventually, though, she started to touch, kiss and grab me, and that was caught on film too.

When those shots were done, they unchained me, and Suicide Girl and I were instructed to get on the spanking bench. They took some photos, and then The Switch told her to get up.

“What am I going to do with you?,” he mused aloud, referring to me. “Okay. Suicide Girl. You can do whatever you want to her.”

“I get to do what I want to her!?” I couldn’t see her face, but I could tell by her tone of voice that she was smiling  and possibly bouncing up and down. She sounded like a kid at Disney Land.

I received several bare-handed spanks to start off. Then the whip came out, and while it didn’t exactly tickle, I wanted more.

“Harder you Pussy!” I smirked.

And from there I was completely dominated. I ended up yelling “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”  and then I got some cuddles and kisses to make it better. Not a bad reward for my insolence!

The Switch left the room for a couple of minutes while Suicide Girl and I snuggled on the bench, and when he came back he said “Suicide Girl, you’re wanted in the kitchen for a minute. They want to fix your make-up.”

She left the room and I was instructed not to move. When she came back and climbed up behind me, there was a distinct difference in the way she felt: She was wearing a strap-on.

(To Be Continued…)

The Switch

The first thing I noticed when I got into The Switch’s car, was his hands. They were huge, and rough from doing manual labour. Through talking to him I’d learned that he’d been building a spanking bench, and that he did warehouse work for a living, and it showed. They were the hands of a man, and I immediately wondered how they would feel against my skin.

We grabbed a quick dinner at a local sandwich shop (it turns out he literally lives around the corner from me–bonus!), and then went back to his place. He gave me a tour of his house, including in-progress dungeon, and then led me to the kitchen where he poured me a glass of wine.

“How’s your wine?” he asked, lips pressed up against my ear.

“Good,” I replied, complete with dirty smirk.

“Nice scarf,” he said, tightening it around my neck. “We are going to use this.”

I moaned as he pinned me against the counter with his body, covering my lips with his. We kissed, grinding against each other, my wine glass dangling precariously from one hand.

“How’s your wine?” he asked again with a knowing smirk of his own.

“Good,” I purred, with new meaning, then drained my glass in one final gulp.

“Let’s go tear your clothes off.” He scooped me up and deposited me in his bedroom, on the edge of his bed. “Strip.”

I got down to my bra and thong, then cocked my head and looked at him.

“Almost there,” he laughed.

I took the rest of it off. The Switch grabbed me and turned me around, pressed his cock up against me, and then spanked me several times until my bare behind was stinging as I screamed and moaned.

“What is it you like best?” he asked in that same menacing voice. “A beating? A fucking?”

“A fucking,” I answered, so hot I could barely speak.

“Yeah? You like being fucked and choked and gang-banged and used?”


He yanked my head side-ways by my hair, and bit my lip as he pushed is big, rough fingers inside me. I moaned as he fingered me then put on a condom and slowly slid his dick inside me. He filled me, my pussy gripping his cock with each thrust. A familiar buzz met my ears and I went weak. It was a Hitachi–I’d recognize that sound anywhere. Reaching around he pressed it against my clit, and continued fucking me. My screams got louder and within less than a minute I was squirting all over his floor. 

“Who said you could squirt? Who gave you permission to do that?” he growled in my ear. This only made me hotter.

He threw me effortlessly onto the bed, proceeded to fuck me senseless, then commanded me to get on all fours with my ass in the air before he fucked me from behind again. He grabbed my scarf from where it lay on the bed, wrapped it around my neck, and pulled. I was being fucked hard and I couldn’t scream and I couldn’t breathe–I saw stars.

Gripping the headboard, I caught our reflection in the mirror behind the bed. Fucking sexy. Then at his command I was riding him, which always intoxicates me since it puts me in control and makes the man my tool. I used him to my advantage, getting myself off with his cock. Eventually he flipped me again, pinning me so I could do nothing but scream as he slammed against me with all his force.

“When you make me come,” he growled in my ear, “Where do you want it?”

“Anywhere,” I responded, too weak to think.

He fucked me hard, then rolled me over. “Open your mouth.”

Hot cum spurted out of his cock and I caught it on my tongue, then sucked him into my mouth to make sure I swallowed every drop. It tasted amazing.

“You are so fucking sexy,” he said.

I licked my lips.