Whips and Knives excite me…

“Are you ready to tell me what I want to know?” He growled from in front of me.

I had cuffs on both wrists, bound to a St. Andrew’s Cross, and a heavy chain attached to a steel collar around my neck. My hands had enough slack to stretch from the restraint point to the top of the cross, alleviating the pressure from the metal on my wrists. My neck didn’t have it so easy. The weight of the chain caused the collar to pinch my neck if I moved too quickly. And I was naked.

The room was dim and He’d taken my glasses. All I could see was a man, tall with dark hair and gleaming eyes. Then I realized that He had a knife. It pressed against my throat just as I identified the danger it posed. This man was fast, and I was helpless. Still, I wouldn’t cave. He had no idea what kind of masochist He was dealing with. At the very least, I’d go out with a bang.

I flinched, but I didn’t break eye contact. I watched the fire blaze in His eyes.

“I can smell your pussy, you sick bitch.”

“Then I guess you better bring it.”

“I’m going to enjoy this.”

“Still not telling you,” I taunted.

I heard Him laugh. Now that He wasn’t standing in front of me, I let the fear flood my body and face. I knew what He was going to do. When I thought the anticipation would kill me, I heard the whistle of a whip next to my head. My body tingled with need and heat. The near-misses continued and my body stopped trembling, growing complacent in what it thought was safety.

“If you take your hands off the cross, I’ll know you’re ready to talk.”

I barely had time to acknowledge His statement.


I gasped. The sting increased, and my body shook, trying desperately to absorb the pain. The thing about impact tools that are thin, like canes, single tails, etc, is that it is such a small surface area that takes the hit. It’s not big enough to be soothed by stretching or contracting muscles, and there is nothing around that will soothe the surface pain. It’s excruciating until it fades.

More strikes landed amongst the intentional misses, where He threw the whip right by my head.

Then He was in front of me again, the knife dragging across my side. I flinched, and the tip of the blade pressed into my skin. I waited for the give and trickle of blood, but it never came.

“You gonna talk?” He asked.

“You wish.” I replied.

He shook His head and walked away. The next lash of the whip sunk into the flesh of my back. I screamed a blood curdling scream.

I let my arms hang loosely from the cuffs. Within seconds, He had returned, the knife blade again caressing my skin.

This continued. By the third or fourth time, I stopped speaking when He asked me questions. He reminded me that He would stop if I lowered my hands.

I don’t know how much time passed. The alternating cool smoothness of the knife was oddly calming after the single tail strikes. Or maybe it was His touch.

The first time I felt His fingers, they were tentative and soft, as He caressed the area around a welt. His fingertips were rough and calloused, but warm and soft at the same time.

That’s what broke me. Not the whip or the knife, or even His hard and unyielding gaze. When He touched me, it was with fascination and tenderness.

“I’ll talk,” I whispered. “Just please don’t stop touching me.”

He smiled. He had me now.

A step closer to healing

Why is it so hard to be positive? I asked myself this question today, and I really don’t like the answer.

I don’t feel like I deserve to be happy.

Get this… I actually felt there was no point in approaching this 8 week recovery period positively, because it was going to suck. And everywhere I looked, there were clear signs of suckage. So, what’s the point?

Then, on top of that, my religion-trained mind made me feel guilty for taking time to recover. Actually, my mind didn’t even make it about me needing time to recover. It told me that I was causing Z to suffer needlessly not being able to have sex with Him.

How had I seriously FORGOTTEN that I had an organ cut and pulled out through my vagina 28 days ago! I remembered it, really remembered it, in the shower this morning when I was checking the incisions. But even then, I hadn’t had this epiphany, so it didn’t sink in much.

I’ve had some time to think today. I’ve had a lot of really awesome people remind me that I am valid and loved no matter what, and my worth is not based on my sexual performance. (Yup, a thing I really thought despite knowing it was false.)

I appreciate each and every one of you.

Z, Sir, I love you. Thank you – not only for always sticking by me through the rough stuff, but for also showing me the way out of the rut, and then helping me get back up.

I’m so grateful there’s only a few more weeks of recovery. I am going to read through this post often and focus my thoughts on things I *can* do, like finish those lines…

Hysterectomy recovery for a hyper sexual

Hi, I’m Muirnah. I love sex, but I can’t have it for 8 weeks because I had a hysterectomy.

In plain terms, my uterus and cervix were removed, and in my case, tubes as well. Now, if you need a brush up on female anatomy, the cervix is at the top of the vaginal canal, and the bottom of the uterus. So, if you take off the top of the vagina, it must be “cuffed” to be closed again. Because of this, I cannot have anything penetrating my vagina or anus for 8. Whole. Weeks.

Z suggested one morning, once I felt well enough to be horny, that I have some Hitachi Time. And like I’d been punched in the gut, I broke down and cried.

My marriage had been sexless for a while before it ended. Using the Hitachi to orgasm became a daily thing. I was usually in too much pain to use dildos. It was all I had, and my resentment grew towards my wife and the Hitachi.

So while I do use it sometimes, those circumstances are supplemental. Treats, if you prefer. Plus, I was so desensitized it took me 5-10 minutes to cum with the damn thing anyway. So the thought of just using it on myself because I can’t have intercourse is a complete turn off and as we found out in this situation, a heartwrenching trigger.

Sex is important to me. My love language is touch. I struggled with not knowing how Z and I would be able to share the intimacy we both would crave without having sex.A lot of it was also contingent on my recovery and how quickly I would feel well enough to think about sex (answer: several hours) let alone be well enough to do things and move around (answer: 6 days).

Originally, I had planned to tell the nitty gritty of how to get off when you can’t have intercourse. And I still might, but honestly, it’s hard to articulate. I want to tell you how much it hurts to miss that intimacy. I’m not talking general sexual urges, although those are equally difficult. Like, damn, I just wanna fuck! But, that feeling, that connection when He is deep inside me and He looks into my eyes… It cannot be duplicated and it cannot be replaced. We’ve tried.

Sure, we’ve had fun, but the truth is, it cuts me deeply. It kills me that I can’t feel that connection. And a few nights ago, it surfaced in a big way. We were being as close as we could – His cock on my labia and clit, just feeling our bodies together… But I was so wet, I was terrified He would slip in. And as soon as that terror reached me, I was crying. Not just tears, but sobbing and heartache. He held me, and told me it was all going to be okay, that He still wanted me, that He always would.

Last night, this version of our fucking brought Him to orgasm. I was happy, but not as happy as I wanted to be. Yes, I have given plenty blowjobs, and Him cumming on my pussy was definitely hot. But it wasn’t the same. Nothing will ever be able to replace that intimacy.

Logically, I know this is temporary. Logically, I also know it’s for the best. I mean, this surgery has already changed my life. Like, literally, I feel like myself again! No chronic pain, no constant cramping, no bleeding! And yet, there is a part of me that isn’t whole without this intimacy. And I am sure I am not the first to feel like this. I know I won’t be the last. And now that we begin week 3, I am that much closer to week 8.

The thing that is driving me to be okay is knowing that He feels the same way. He misses me terribly, despite the fact that He can and does have sex. (I am grateful that He has that outlet, for His happiness and hers. She’s a beautiful person and has extended kindness after kindness.)

But our poly steps do feel 1,000 times more difficult because I can’t use sex to reconnect with Z. But *knowing* that it’s hard for Him too, that He really does miss it, and me, and our lovemaking…

We will do plenty of fun things in the mean time. Last night we had some impact play. I’m grateful that my body is healing enough that I can do things like this, to reaffirm our dynamic in my mind. I am going back to work Monday, and I am looking forward to the routine and distraction. And the best part is, much of our weekdays incorporate my servitude, and what a beautiful focus that will be.

In short, if you ever find yourself in a similar situation, practice patience. Communicate. It’s okay to spend an hour together just saying you miss each other. It’s okay to cry. It’s okay, to not be okay. Because you will be. And when you’re on the other side, you’ll be able to look back and see just how strong and capable you are. (And yes, that’s me talking to myself as much as you, my reader friend.

When you struggle to reach the top of the mountain, and you’re *so close* but not there yet, don’t forget how far you’ve already come. It matters. You matter.



“I think I wanna put out an ad for you to service some cock on the way home from your appointment.”

This is how I began my day, with wet panties from a lot of orgasms this morning, and a whole lot of anticipation.

My mind whirled in a thousand different directions. Was I ready to do something sexual with someone other than Z? Would I worry too much about His reactions to enjoy myself?

We negotiated the terms again. You see, this isn’t the first time we’ve discussed something like this. But we fine tuned our limits and expectations, and agreed that I could decide at any time not to do it if there was no vibe or if I felt uncomfortable.

The ad told of a traveling tall bbw looking to give head on her way home. The ad was flagged over and over and over, and I really didn’t think it was going to happen today. (Was that relief, or disappointment?)

I’m in the room waiting for my post op appointment, and I get a text from Z that the ad finally went live. I didn’t have time to dwell on this until after the appointment.

“Your ad is popular, slut.”

I had already been wet… and now? Pffft. My leggings were damp from my panties being soaked. (See, we tease each other a lot. And now that we found that work around, we tease more than ever.)

He sends me several dick pics and over the next half hour, He chooses one, and sends me necessary info. I nibble at my sushi lunch because the last thing I want is to throw up on this guy if he fucks my face enough. (Spoiler: happened anyway and he handled it like a champ!)

Finally, it’s time. I’m on my way. Z and I talked again, and I made my way to this guy I was about to meet for a blowjob. Now, this isn’t my first rodeo. It was for Z in His position, but that’s a post for Him to write.

Without incident, I got to his house. We exchanged greetings. The first thing that blew me away was that he immediately asked about any limits he needed to know about. (In my time on Craigslist, I know that is a rare thing).

So pleasantries aside, I dropped to my knees. He took out his dick and I set out to destroy the makeup I just applied. Oh, and enjoy a big, beautiful, black cock.

Some of you may know this, but before Z, I hadn’t been with a man for over 5 years. And the only cock I’ve had in the past year, was Z. I was timid at first, but quickly fell into my place at this guy’s feet, sucking, stroking, and face fucking myself on his dick.

He tasted good. He smelled good. He felt good in my mouth. He was also gentle at first, and slowly amped up his intensity. He told me to get on the bed, and I didn’t hesitate to get up and hang my head over the edge.

Yeahhhh, I’m a presumptuous little slut. Whatcha gonna do?

I was sweaty, had drool in my hair, running makeup, and when he shot his load in my mouth, I felt like a porn star. I was Z’s little whore.

It. Was. Fucking. Awesome.

The best part, y’all? The lust in Z’s eyes when He walked into our bedroom and looked at me. He crawled into the bed and kissed the hell out of me. Both of us breathless, He told me I was a filthy whore with a face that smelled like cock. He dropped His shorts, and I went to work on my second cock of the day like a good little whore.

My journey into poly continues…

So you may have guessed by now that Z and I are both highly sexual people. We have sex daily – most of the time. Life happens, including periods. But not anymore, because I had a hysterectomy.

In plain terms, my uterus and cervix were removed, and in my case, tubes as well. Now, if you need a brush up on female anatomy, the cervix is at the top of the vaginal canal, and the bottom of the uterus. So, if you take off the top of the vagina, it must be “cuffed”. Because of this, I cannot have anything penetrating my vagina or anus for 8. Whole. Weeks.

For either of us to go 8 weeks without sex would make us super grumpy, no matter what the circumstances. I didn’t want Him to go without that release. I knew I didn’t have a choice. But more on me later.

I have been doing a lot of work on myself being ready for Him to have another lover. I love all the possibilities that open up to us when we open our hearts to love in all forms. And this has always been on the table for our relationship. I wrote about it back in June.

Now I was worried He would get a week into my recovery and stress about asking me if I was ready to consider Him having a lover. I didn’t want to be caught off guard either when the time would come, regardless of timing with my surgery. Plus to avoid stressing myself and feeling guilty (recovering catholic) for not being able to give my body to Him, I told Him several weeks before the surgery that I was okay with Him looking around.

I put in a lot of work to fight off jealousy and insecurities between then and now. He has reassured me anytime I needed it, that my place in His life is not threatened by His sexual activity or connections with other people. I am His life partner. I am a part of His family. No one will take that away. His wife has also helped me with a lot of that too.

But the timing was still very hard for me. I struggled with my own demons.

Anyway, throughout the week, plans were made. Friday night was their date. I suggested to Z’s wife, L, that we get chinese food, and so the kiddo, L and I settled in with some visually appealing Netflix for background, and a deliciously comforting dinner.

I kept myself mostly distracted with movies and crafting after that. I tried not to look at the time. And it worked! Then He was home!

When He got out of the shower, and I came into the bathroom, He told me they did the thing. (I knew already; He was showering again). My rational mind raced ahead to my reassurances and reminders. I could see the spring in his step. I was glad that He was able to. But my heart… it couldn’t understand my mind. It felt like it was being squeezed by a fist. I couldn’t breathe.

I cried uncontrollably for over an hour. He held me, then gave me some space. L comforted me, then gently nudged me to go to Him. He comforted me while I cried some more and reassured me of all the things I already knew, but needed to hear again. It was so emotionally intense to feel such turmoil based solely on the conditioning of growing up knowing only monogamy at complete odds with my desire to be polyamorous, and not controlled by envy.

But to actually see the bounce back in His step and His relaxed demeanor after that physical release that He needed… I knew we were on the right path and that I would be okay.

Sure enough, within an hour of talking, reaffirming, and even hearing about His evening, I wanted to serve my Master and make His night the best it could be. So naturally, I gave Him a bomb ass blowjob.

Poly isn’t easy, folx. But it is rewarding. I’m no expert, and I know I will still struggle on occasion. But I’m committed to being the best me and doing poly in a healthy way that works for us.

Turning 34…

Master and I just kicked off my last weekend being 33 with me worshipping His feet and then His cock. It was exhilarating after a very long week of life. It happens. But I still managed my daily slave ritual every day this week!

I digress. On Monday, I will be 34. And that has me reflecting on the last year. I met Master and shortly thereafter, endured the end of my marriage. I moved out of Maryland and in with Master and His family. I took a new role at work. I negotiated the custody of my dog, Penny. I dealt with tons of health issues related to my uterus and mental health.

I struggled with a lot of self loathing and guilt. I had to rediscover who I am, what I want to do and be, and for the first time in my life, I truly am living for myself.

Hehe, and by that I mean the majority of my time is spent living for and serving Zehguul. πŸ₯°

I am still recovering from the harm I’ve done myself in attempt to protect myself. I’m still healing from the end of my marriage and the emotional trauma that happened there. I am still growing and becoming the best version of me.

The best part of the past year has been the growth that both Master and I have done as individuals and as a couple. We continue to evolve and reach goals. It’s the part of a relationship I never knew could exist. Just being with Him is all I ever want.

So, as I turn 34, and Master and I celebrate a year together, this week also brings the court hearing for my divorce. Anniversaries abound… and not all of them pleasant. But there is so much to be happy about! Thank you for sharing it with me!


a glimpse of energy transference

I was sitting on the floor at his feet with my eyes closed. He was using our leather slapper on my face.


“Thank you, Sir.”

Smack, smack.

“Thank you, Sir,” softer this time.

Each hit landed with purpose, some harder than before. And every subsequent “Thank you, Sir” became more breathless. I felt tension in my body, spooling up to orgasm potential. I felt the sting of each slap and the corresponding surge of tingles in my clit.

I also could not. stop. smiling.

The scene wasn’t a heavy one, per se. But it wasn’t very light either. I was in subspace, but the energy I felt was almost giddy. It didn’t exactly match to my own feelings.

I was euphoric, but now I was euphoric and giggling, which usually means a very Sadistic turn of events. Desperate to see where things were heading, I opened my eyes to look at Him.

He was trying, and failing, to conceal a smile as He continued slapping my face. They came a bit harder, with more sting, but the giggles still persisted.

“Why are you smiling?!” I asked incredulously.

Then I burst into fits of giggles again.

As an empath, I have days when I loathe feeling other people’s energy and emotions. The general public can be very negative. But moments like these, when we’re so in tune with each other, that I feel His excitement and barely contained primal energy, make it a worth while trait to have.

γ€Šγ€ŠCross posted to Fetlife 》》