Tag Archives: personal

Ace in the Hole

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I’m sure this will surprise most of you.

There was a time, long ago and far away, when I was an innocent virgin girl.

Okay, it was LONG ago and far away, but it was indeed a thing. I was a virgin until seventeen. At sixteen, I was restless. My libido was in full swing and I rarely slept before two or three a.m. during the summer months (…that hasn’t changed much). So, being a restless 90’s child, I would go onto one of the few forms of electronic entertainment that I had that wouldn’t cause a lot of noise. I went on to online chat rooms, back in the day when most internet people were catfish and it was still much more of a dangerous place.

On one of those restless nights, I got lucky. I met a twenty-one year old from North Dakota. He and I stayed up until the wee hours of the morning. He told me of his visits to Rome and Helsinki, far away exotic places that I had very little concept of back then. My world was a cage, trapped in a small town in New Jersey, and here was a handsome man offering me a window into another world. We would talk for hours, on and on for week, and my poor little heart didn’t stand a chance. I fell. Hook. Line. Sinker. I fell for him.

Of course, it was an abstract sort of first love. There was the reality that I was a poor sixteen year old and North Dakota was far away. Visiting was an impossible idea at the time, and so I let myself love him. Because I knew I could never have him.

Time passed. Years went by. I remember the sadness that struck when Ace told me he was engaged to a local girl a couple of years later, not much older than myself. At the time I was very much monogamous, and knew that in that world marriage meant there really was no room for my little fantasy. He was lost. Someone else had won him. In the early days of his marriage we didn’t talk much, as life got in the way…but through time, from time to time, my phone would buzz and there would be a text from Ace. We would pick up right where we left off, talking about everything and nothing.

During all this my world was broadening. He was still in North Dakota, but I was in Boston for school. He would call me while running errands for his brothers or on nights alone while his wife was out and we would talk into the wee hours of the morning as we once had. Gradually Skype became a more normalized thing and we saw each other’s faces… and other things sometimes. There was always a flirty energy between us…and often that would cause blocks of silence where we couldn’t talk to one another. Feelings would rear ugly heads and we just…couldn’t. But we never fully left each other’s lives. I would watch his posts. He would watch mine. We always found one another again and continued to talk.

It’s been almost ten years since he and I first began to talk. In that time I’ve had my series of relationships, including a short engagement, and moved from New Jersey to Boston to San Francisco. He picked up and went from North Dakota to North Carolina with his wife and child, and gradually began his own discovery of kink and polyamory. The stars began to align where we were once again on the same wave length as we had been a world ago. We were both poly, and kinky, and for the first time ever I had his partner’s blessing to pursue some sort of..thing with him. But. I don’t do distance anymore. It’s just too hard, and so Ace remained a relatively abstract concept.

Sometimes I make very poor, masochistic choices for the right reasons. One of those was deciding that I was going to find a way to finally, FINALLY see Ace after Fusion this year (I promise there will be a Fusion entry as well. There’s a draft, I swear). Him being an eight hour drive from the campground was the closest we had ever been to one another. He was separated from his now-ex wife, and his adorable kiddo was with grandparents for the summer… We made a date. He got off from work and I drove as fast I could after camp to make something that had been abstract for so long a reality.

Driving through con drop is not one of my brighter ideas. I was wrecked, dealing with mundane blowups (June is trying to kill me…more on that later), and frantically calling my roommate during anxiety attacks to help remind me where the break was on the car when I got out of control at one point. I was exhausted, functioning on almost no sleep, and fucking determined.

The first time I saw him, he had his back to me. He was watching TV. I let myself stand there for a moment and just take in the sight of flesh-and-blood Ace. The summer night was perfectly warm. There were lightning bugs dancing in front of his window. The air was just the slightest bit muggy. It was… surreal. It was happening. He was real.

I knocked on the door and was in his arms before I knew it, and then REALLY in his arms as he picked me up, excited. “You’re here! You’re really here! You’re real!” he said over, and over, and over, putting words to what I was thinking. He smelled surprisingly familiar, right, easy, and I quickly felt at ease in his arms. And then he kissed me…and as far as first kisses go… Whelp. Remember the ending to Princess Bride?

I am a lucky. Fucking. Bitch.

After ten years I was so afraid there would be no chemistry. Which. Would be fine. We had been forced to be platonic before. I could do it. In fact, the opposite was the case. The top had been let off of ten years of sexual tension and we couldn’t keep our hands off of each other. He gave me the tour of his apartment and I found myself craving contact with him. A hand on my hip, or in my hair, or on my ass..just to remind me that this was real. That he was real. That we were actually seeing each other.

It still feels like a dream.

I was the bad one that started stripping first. He pinned me to the ground, eagerly grinding against my ass before flipping me over and diving between my legs. I have never been so eagerly eaten out in my LIFE. I don’t like it typically. I’m an internal girl. But my Ace’s tongue is incredibly skilled. K was screaming his name and bucking under him in a matter of minutes. 

There was groping, and playing, and flirting before we stumbled our way to the bedroom, both of us refusing to fully take our hands off of one another. Pardon my gloating, but my godde that boy has one of the prettiest cocks I have ever seen. He is thick enough and long enough that he’s a challenge for me to take… but not so big that I can’t deep throat him. 

I hoped we would have chemistry. I didn’t expect mind-blowing sex. Again. And again. And again. We took a break for food and to sleep, but I can’t think of a point when we weren’t touching somewhere. Hands. Overlapping legs. Me snuggling into the nook of his shoulder. Not even morning breath stopped the kisses. When we weren’t kissing or fucking we were talking, just as we did eons ago. He told me the intimate details of his world. I shared more of mine. 

There isn’t enough time. There never is. He took me to breakfast at an adorable coffee house. As we ate tasty treats he told me more about his amazing child and how much he loved his community. My heart twisted. I was so happy he had found home… And I selfishly wish I could take him to mine. He’s so far away. So. Damn far away. 

It’s been a long time since I have been around someone who’s a soothing balm to my soul… and that’s what Ace is. He pulled me out of an anxiety attack from outside stressors faster than anyone ever has. Being around him calms me down, just as James always has.. and yet he calms me in almost the exact opposite way of James. Instead of a man of few words my Ace is a wordsmith. A beautiful, wonderful wordsmith that showered me in compliments and kind words. 

There’s always been a switchy energy between us. Out of all my partners he is the one I have always felt the most equal too. We are both… fragile in certain ways. Both familiar with brain squirrels pertaining to matters of the heart. I am often pulled out of brain spirals through acts of submission. Focusing on the needs of others fixes my headspace. 

I didn’t know if it would be the same for Ace. He began to spiral at one point and I just… had to fix it. A part of me came out that I didn’t know existed. A Domme. Not a service top. I dominated that sweet boy. I crawled on top of him and rode him with no inhibitions, knowing he wanted me, knowing I drove him wild. The moment he drifted I had him focus on me.  I told him that all he had to worry about in that moment was pleasing me. 

He called me ma’am. For the first time ever that made my pussy wet. 

Yes, he was my sweet boy, and he let me fuck him at my leisure until I wanted him on top again. And then he pleased me with his cock, fucking me until we both toppled over that delicious edge. 

In about 24 hours we found that edge six times, sometimes with him as the dominant partner, sometimes me. After sex we would find equilibrium again snuggling in one another’s arms. I’ve never had such a fluid relationship before.  The switching happens naturally, with the top roll being filled easily in a split second by the proper partner. 

I’ve never wanted to be served before. Never desidered to collar a boy and have him sit at my feet as I socialize in Wicked Grounds. I am naturally very submissive… but also very protective. The desire to help the one I love won out, and even became extremely pleasurable. He is my boy. We belong to one another. 

And I am utterly fucked. 

I thought foolishly getting together after ten years would sate some urges. Instead it was like lighting a powder keg. A hunger that hadn’t existed before now eats at me. I want more of my Ace, both as my sweet boy and as my Top.

We have a lot of exploring to do, he and I. This is the tip of the iceberg with our dynamic, and I know that… Now we are learning how our lives can possibly fit together. He has a partner with a child, and a child of his own to worry about. I have three partners, a complication, and a community. We both have our homes. And there is that fear of once you leave the Bay Area you can’t return. Selfishly, I want him with me, in my world. I want to show of my boy at BaGG and the citadel. And yes, I want to sleep in his arms at night. 

I miss him horribly, and it’s only been a couple of days. Ten years, and it felt like coming home when I was with him. My mind is terrifying me. It’s thinking long term. And that scares me. I’m anxious to get my mark on him, to claim that part of him that submits as mine. And I am anxious for him to claim me again. 

I love you, my sweet boy. I’m.. scared, but excited for the journey ahead. All will work out when the time is right, just as it always has. I will see you in my dreams ❤

Yours hopelessly in love, and suddenly switchy,

-Rene 

 

Teacher, Mine

Relationships go in cycles, or so it seems. At least, mine always have. Those who are meant to stick around in your life cycle back around in one way or another.

One of those that has cycled back for me is Cal, the person who started all of this. I still chuckle when I think about how I was when I started this journey. Monogamous, green, terrified of pain. Spankings were far from enjoyable for me and knives terrified me.

Now, most of that is the opposite.

Cal and I have danced around each other for years now… and we’re still dancing. It’s never been the right time. Things have always gotten in the way. He hasn’t been available. I haven’t been. And so, I swallowed the bits of desire that remained after his last breakup and told myself, over and over and over, I would be a safe person for him. I would be a friend.

What I didn’t factor in was that nothing about Cal is safe. At least for me.

I have several people that have always been kryptonite for me, just on a visceral level. James is one of them. He gets to me on every level. His voice, his smell, his presence… Cal is another one. When I was his mentee I would sleep in tee shirts that smelled of him. I think I still have one of his old green shirts stashed away that I sleep in on colder nights (I don’t normally wear shirts to bed. I get strangled by them). He figured out how to fuck my mind before he ever got to my body, which hardly helped things when I was first starting out. And he was protective of me. All things that give me a lady boner.

He started coming to BaGG, on and off, a couple of months ago. He saw James again (James doesn’t like him), met my Daddy and my Sir. BaGG… is a work in progress for Cal and I. The first time he got me shit faced on scotch and left me before saying goodbye and after making out with me. Several times. And telling me that he would be there long after James was gone, and we would end up together because we’re both too broken not to. The second was similar to the first, only I was more sober and stuck him on a stool for the last hour of the night to sober up while I rubbed at bruises he left on my neck. He’s into breath play, which is something I also love, but when he’s drunk his hands are very rough. And I was afraid.

Still. There had been kisses. And hugs. And he called me little one.

I found myself protective of this man, broken again by a relationship that I saw going down in flames long before it did. And I found myself terrified of him as well. He apologized for the incidents and promised to try and manage the alcohol more. He’s hurt, physically, and not eating as much as normally, and so alochol is affecting him more strongly than it normally does.

There is a war in my head when it comes to Cal. There is the good, protective friend that kinda wants to guide him back into our local scene and then there’s the submissive chomping at the bit to prove herself to him. To show what he missed. It’s the submissive that gets me in trouble, in ways that I didn’t see coming. And it’s the submissive that still.. can’t help but react to him. Smell. Voice. Presence. ESPECIALLY when he milks it. When he purrs my nickname after too many drinks and I tell my brain to shut up for a minute so I can enjoy.

He’s gotten better. We both have. Thank godde for time, firm boundaries, and bunnies. He has a new love that has slowly wrangled a lot of the darkness he has been carrying..and it means he’s behaving a lot more. And she is lovely.. Full compersion here. She’s the right age and the right temperment to actually be GOOD for him after his string of lemons, and I’m happy for him. I truly, honestly am. I just…have brain squirrels.

Last week, Cal came to BaGG. I was freshly back from a trip east and felt like absolute shit. I now know I probably had a fever..but I was determined to go. My friends wanted to see me. My meta wanted to talk about her trip and mine. I wanted my time with James. I was getting there.

I spent a good portion of the night on my knees, which were so sore they could barely support my weight. I didn’t think about this, until Cal saw me do it in the back of the smoking alley.

His hands were in my hair before I could warn him not to. He pet me gently, and I purred. Daddy was right in front of me. I knew it was safe, and Cal kept saying it wasn’t sexual. He was careful not to call me my nickname. I was careful not to call him sir. We were Cal and Rene and it was just a few head pets when I was in pain.

Later in the back room, he hugged me hard. He gets emotional after a few drinks and has a habit of thanking me for still being around.. which I appreciate. The hug captured my head. He had his hand in my hair and pulled, hard. I whimpered and reached for Daddy’s shirt, tugging just as hard. It was a signal we had agreed upon earlier in the evening that I would do when I was scared. Daddy interviened, gently pulling Cal off of me while my meta calmed me down. I blamed the last double he had and tried to shake it off.

It’s just with alcohol that I find myself on edge with Cal. When four or five drinks are removed he’s a safehaven. I crashed at his place after a play party last weekend, grateful for the couch and a day when I didn’t have to pay a bridge toll in order to get to work. He hugged me hello and I smelled him and immediately knew cuddling was out of the question. I put a big, fat blanket between he and I on the couch until he went to crash for the evening.

The next morning I tried to sneak out, dressing quickly for breakfast with Chris and scampering out the door. I dressed quickly before tossled hair and a furrowed brow stumbled outside, slightly confused. He was adorable. Bits of me melted that had been holding firm, and I smiled. He hugged me goodbye a beat too long. A dangerous beat. I wanted to kiss him.

But. I also want his head on straight. I want him established with his new parter. I want him happy and mostly whole. I want him to know that I am safe, and stable, and honestly pretty fucking close to poly saturated right now. I want to see more than one BaGG in a row without me getting scared of him physically harming me.

I want time, that lovely balm that heals all things, to finally decide the course for Cal and I. I keep telling myself that we are going to be friends. Friends are safe. Friends are good.

And all my instincts keep wanting more.

Yes, Cal is my teacher from a world ago, but lately we’ve been teaching each other. We talk daily, reading one another and keeping each other in check. For now, this is healthy.

For later?

I don’t know. Time will tell. Time always tells. For now, I have brain squrrels and he has a bunny. And this is how it should be.

So, what have you got left to teach me, teacher mine?

Yours, playful,

-Rene

Goodbye

This entry is not kink related… This is life related… This is life and aging and loss…

A couple of years ago, my first grandfather died. He was my dad’s dad, a happy little elf of a man who was should have been canonized a saint for dealing with my she-bitch of a grandmother. He had dementia, among other health problems, and was the ripe ole age of 84. He had lived a full life, which is not something that could be said about a lot of my relatives.

Right after he passed my dad and I were in the back yard having a drink, something not uncommon for he and I when I’m home. On that balmy summer night he told me about the last real conversation he had with his father, and how they had said goodbye a couple of weeks before he died, when his father was still somewhat himself. They had had one of those very rare good talks that stick with you for the rest of your life. They talked about fatherhood, about what being a good dad really meant, and how much they loved each other and respected one another. Even though one is never quite ready for something like that, my dad said goodbye to his that night and mentally prepared himself for the actual physical goodbye to come.

I did that tonight, not with my father (thank the Gods) but my other grandfather, my DadDad.

I am the reason he’s called DadDad. He had wanted to be Grand Dad and I just couldn’t say it as a young child, and someone DadDad had stuck even though he was my mom’s dad. He always has been, and always will be, a superhero in my mind. He tried out for the New York Yankees back in the day, and would have played for the team if he hadn’t been drafted… He handled my Grammy, who is a force of nature. He tells the best stories about sneaking into his mother’s basement and drinking the house-made alcohol when he was much too young, and flipping a taxi over in Paris with his Navy buddies, and coming home with a baseball bruise so deep that you could see the individual stitches in his skin that led to my Gram SCREAMING at him.

His background is an interesting one..  Before he was even born his father was out of his life. The youngest of four kids, his father had managed to knock up his cousin’s wife and his wife at the same time and left my great-grandmother for the cousin’s wife the moment he figured it out. I’ve heard horror stories about this figment of a man, this great-grandfather that wasn’t so great that would chain his own daughter to a radiator in the basement for entire nights at a time because she gave her brother’s too much food, or would show up when it was convenient to him to see if the family was making money, and if he could get some when he didn’t know his own damn son.

My DadDad not only survived this, but thrived. He had four kids of his own, and then five grandchildren. He survived the loss of his wife and his eldest daughter, and until now has had minor health problems.

Now…

Now his confident, booming voice is soft. His blue eyes that normally sparkle with humor are dull. The man who used to lift grandchildren onto his shoulders with ease and run around the house can now barely walk. He used to love food, as any good Italian man does, and is now going days without eating and rapidly losing weight.

This is part of life. Humans age. They eventually die. My DadDad doesn’t have cancer. He has no deadly disease other than time, and he’s well aware of this on his good days.

Today was a good day. He was more coherent than he’s been in a couple years with me. Normally, he slips between past and present. He’ll call me by my aunt’s name, trailed off mid-story to stare into space, and repeat the same story time and time again. I never mind. I’ve always loved listening to his stories.

Today there were no stories. It was short. His girlfriend (yes, at 84 he has a girlfriend because my DadDad has always been a handsome devil) decided that he needed to spend the weekend with her, which resulted in a fight between her and my mother… While they fought I helped my grandfather into the car and took a knee next to the car door so that I could talk to him. I hadn’t seen him since June, a visit filled with stories about his mother and growing up.

He surprised me by locking his eyes with mine. They were clear, not foggy, and his voice was direct but soft. “Your grandfather’s getting old, kid. I’m not going to be around much longer. I’ve lived a good life though. 84 years… I never thought I would have lived this long.”

I put my head on his shoulder, trying not to cry. He kissed the top of my head and hugged me with shaky hands. “I know you’re being practical… Just try to take care of yourself while you are around, okay DadDad?”

He laughed. He hugged me. “I’ll try.”

We talked about me being in California. He remembered that I lived near San Francisco. That I had a boyfriend who was older but not too old. That I worked “too hard for someone my age”.

“Are you happy, kid?” I told him honestly, that I was. That I was tired, but I was happy.

He smiled, happy but tired in a different way. “Then that’s all that matters. You look good. I’m proud of you, of who you’ve become. I love you, you know that right?”

Of course I know that… I love my DadDad to the moon and back. I know he loves me too.. I’ve never had a fear about our relationship. Never. He’s been a superhero to me since I was a child. He protected me from the sea witch in the Little Mermaid when I was a child and from an abusive partner as an adult. He knew amazing things thanks to street smarts and protected his house and my parent’s house during Hurricane Sandy because of wiring work he had done thirty years before. He was, and in my mind always will be, invincible. Even with his body failing I see a quiet contentment in him that I hope to one day have. His spirit is invincible, untouched by age and decay, and the memory of his smile and that sparkle in his eye when he laughs will remain long after his body is gone.

I apologize for this entry being so long… This blog has become an outlet for honesty and emotion… and I can think of nothing else right now but this goodbye. Tonight I saw MY DadDad. I don’t think I’ll ever get to see that again.

Goodbyes are hard. They are part of growing up, of life and the passage of time…but that doesn’t mean letting go of a superhero is easy. They live on in legend though, always.

Yours with a heavy heart,

-Rene

A Change in Title

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I have identified as a ‘submissive’ since I entered the public scene. It’s a catch-all term, a word that was the easiest way for me to explain the pleasure that I felt kneeling in front of Sir, of having someone I care for use me how he sees most fit and gaining pleasure from it. It was the easiest term to use as the flashing neon sign next to my Fetlife tag. “Use me. Please. For your pleasure and mine. Mark me. Claim me. Want me.”

For as much as I’ve played and explored, I clung to that title above all others. I’ve identified sides of myself that are little, masochistic, a wee bit switchy at times, hedonistic, damn slutty, and bratty to name a few… and it was easiest to just throw them all underneath the submissive umbrella. All were components of my service, and service meant submission, right? Different ways, different times, but everything I did was to serve my partners and bring them as much pleasure as possible, which in turn gave me pleasure. A great deal of it.

Very rarely are the right paths the easiest ones.

I am going to start with two short stories that seem unrelated, but then combine into one. One is that my primary has told me, from the beginning of our relationship, that regardless of whether or not we work out he’s determined to see me a better person as a result of it. He pushes me, not hard enough for me to ever come close to breaking, but hard enough that I question myself in a healthy way. If I say self-demeaning comments, usually out of complete reflex, he will catch me on it and ask me why I say that. He peels back layers I have safely hidden behind, my armor that keeps people from getting too close and knowing too much, and waits. Waits until I trust him enough to give him a straight answer which then unravels my behavior… And yes, I love him for it. I love him for his patience with me, for being understanding, and for being there to stop the negative spirals when it seems I’m falling too fast or too great.

And now, story number two. Not so long ago, Sir and I met a couple. We were at Master’s Den, one of my favorite events both for high protocol it is and because he doesn’t work..and so I get to play. Before Sir and I played, we watched this particular duo. The female, small yet incredibly mighty, took quite a lot from her Master in the exact opposite way that I do. I’m… vocal. Very. I will stay mostly still but I scream. She danced, and jumped, and wiggled, but remained silent. After their scene, Sir approached them both and asked permission to play with miss Small yet Mighty… Which led to a scene, and more scenes, and talk of photoshoots and friendships…

And thus, with a couple beatings, began a bit of a learning experience for me that I’m honestly still exploring. The couple have become fantastic friends, with an incredibly energy about them both individually and together. Watching them I was surprised at some of the similarities between their dynamic and my own… The fluidity they had between strict protocol one moment and laughter and giggles the next. The sassy playfulness. The respect all around when respect was due.

She was his slave. He was her Master. Two titles I had never considered in relationship to myself.. and yet…

I was always afraid of the label of ‘slave’. I was taught, early on, that slave’s were not allowed to say no. A slave gave up their safeword. A slave was used whenever, wherever, with nothing off limits.. As much as I’ve explored, and as much as I want to please, I do have limits.

…But I’ve also never let a man push my limits as much as James has. I’ve never trusted someone so completely to know my limits, and to listen to me when I express that we’ve reached one.

The lovely slave and I have met up a couple of times on our own and talked, about our relationships, our pasts, our current friendships..and the parallels continued to tweak in my mind an identity I had been so set on.. But I didn’t know. I didn’t know for sure.

And so, I did what I knew to do. I asked James.

We were driving back from an event earlier in the night..and I love those car rides, because we talk about everything from childhood road trips to future naughty plans to what he plans on doing once the car is in park… In the dark, uninterrupted, with no one else around and with a great night behind us, I asked the question that I had been asking myself for a couple of weeks.

“Do you think I’m a submissive or a slave?”

I got a raised eyebrow and a volley of questions back and forth as he searched for the origin of my question and why it was brought up. He answered some of my questions..and dispelled the last of my fears. Slaves, just like submissives, can say no. They can always stop it..and he will always respect my limits. And so, I asked again what my Sir thought I was.

“I don’t know.” Pause, a smirk, a raised eyebrow. “What are you?”

I didn’t think about my answer. I didn’t pause. I didn’t have to. It came out on its own.

“I am yours.”

He chuckled. “Well that answers that question, now doesn’t it?”

And it did.

Hello, my name is Rene. I’m a 24 year old kinkster living in the Bay Area. I enjoy submitting to people and playing in all manner of fun ways, from impact to sensation to fire and wax. I am polyamorous, though lean more to the realm of poly-play than poly relationships… I am a lover, a girlfriend, a little, a partner, a pixie, a squeaky toy..  And I am a slave. I am owned by an incredible man. I serve him happily.

As it was in the beginning, it is even more so now.

I am his.

And I am happy.

Bittersweet

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My life is radically changing in the next few days… Hence why I’m awake at 2:33 in the morning on a night when I did NOT have a kink event for once.

I was up packing..because this is when I have time to pack.

On Saturday I am moving to the most wonderful new home. My roommates are kinky; a stable, owned and collared couple that have been together for years and are the most welcoming people I’ve ever met in my life. They’ve worked with my budget in every possible way (even letting me pay some of my first months rent on the 12th when I move in and the rest on the 16th), cut the price of rent almost in half to give me a home, and even have a little black cat of their own to keep Poe company when I’m at work. There is a kitchen to cook in, a garage to work in, a back patio for awesome BBQs, and a sense of peace that I am feeling for the first time since August 1st when I was given notice. The place is even wheelchair accessible with enough room for two, in time.

The one con of my new home when I have all these pros? It’s a con and it’s not.. The house isn’t in San Francisco. It’s down the Peninsula a ways, in a small town called Menlo Park.

I know Menlo Park pretty well. That’s where Rocky Horror nights happen. There is a cute bookstore, and Italian restaurants, and summer festivals that happen.. The town is just quiet enough that I can park on the street but not so quiet that I have little to explore. I’m suddenly close to Palo Alto, a city I’ve only driven through once, and am closer to friends in San Jose. I’m still only a half hour away from San Francisco by car (an hour by Bart), and as someone who grew up with that same amount of a commute into New York City from her home town this is nothing for me. This is normal for me.. The city is close, but not overwhelming, and I like that.

But it means giving up my San Francisco address, and being further away from James.. It’s a doable far away. San Francisco is our meeting point, just as it’s always been. I will continue to be at all the events I go to normally. I still have my jobs in and near the city. It’s just a matter of making sleepovers work and..seeing where this goes.

Packing up my life makes me nostalgic. I was wrapping up my fifty gazillion mugs (I’m a bit of a tea whore…), thinking about how much I’ve changed since I first moved into this place. This was my first real grown-up apartment. I was never in school while living inside these walls. I worked. I worked my ass off, and I grew. I learned. Almost my entire relationship with Kane happened while I lived here. I remember texting him after my road trip with my sister, telling him that I was all-in, that I wanted to be his.

I went from almost completely isolated in my kink relationships to being in an amazing community of people. Having friends that I see outside of just kink events. Having the first healthy poly relationship..and probably the first healthy relationship in general that I’ve had in a while with a man I am crazy about. I’ve gone from kink being at the fringe of my life to kink being in almost every aspect of my life.

I’ve lost some things along the way… I didn’t work while I was here.. not the way I wanted. My hands rarely touched clay. It’s something that I’ve sworn to change once Saturday comes to pass. I found a studio in San Francisco with drop in hours that I can afford..and dammit I need to work again. James has honestly taught me that without really trying to. The more I see him work, the more I hear him talking about what he loves about what he does and I see the dedication and time he puts into it.. the more I remember what it feels like to be lost in the studio. To be running around at 3 a.m. with headphones on, covered in clay and lost in my own world. There is a physical ache to find that part of myself again.. I need it like I need air.. Honestly, like I need to submit..

I met some friends that showed me an even broader part of my world. The Dark Odyssey events and the people involved in them are amazing, and I am honestly grateful to Smith for getting me more involved. For being my initial reason for going to Fusion, which led to connecting with Chris and several other awesome people.

I discovered today that that particular relationship has come full circle. I was poking around on Fetlife, as per usual, and ended up liking a blog that Smith’s primary had also liked. It was seeing that that made me realize I hadn’t seen updates from her in about a month. Smith was never much of a presence on Fetlife as it was, so I wasn’t exactly missing his updates. I clicked, and saw that she had blocked me, and so had he.. and honestly, I laughed. It was a sad laugh. It’s always sad when a friendship dies..but I had been so busy enjoying my life that I hadn’t noticed they had finally fully exited it. Part of me is still curious to see how they will navigate this when I plan on frequenting events they are involved with, and share play with someone that they play with as well.. We shall see. Still… It’s nice to have that negativity out of my feed, and out of my life. Cowardice is not a way to keep my friendship.

With all these changes I want to make one small change to this blog. I’m sure many of you have figured out from a couple posts ago that my name isn’t Rena. It’s Rene. One letter off, but still different. I don’t know why I changed that letter. Why I was so afraid to openly be Rene on here. I have this blog linked to my Fetlife profile, so many people know that it’s me.. Whatever the motivation, I would like to drop that small twerk and just..be myself. So, the writer is still the same It’s just the name signing the posts that’s changing slightly

So many beginnings, and so many endings. It seems appropriate that all these things seem to be happening at once, less than a month after my birthday. Will I miss some of the things that are gone from my life? Of course… but I have a feeling the best is yet to come. Good things are coming. I am excited to see what this next chapter in my life with bring me.

Yours overwhelmed with the amount of packing still needing to be done… GAH

-Rene

Day 16

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Day 16

Have you found your submission has changed with different partners/relationships? If you’re involved with partners of both sexes, does your submission relate or change based on gender or does it depend on the person?

Isn’t it that way with relationships in general, BDSM, kink, vanilla or otherwise? Different relationships have people interacting in different ways.

I’ll start with the second part of this question and then delve back into the first. When I was younger.. around 19 or so, I was in a very unhealthy relationship. It was an abusive rebound that continued for a year… I consider him part of my young and dumb phase. I’ve always been what I consider bicurious. I’ve always thought of women as beautiful creatures and appreciated the female form. I love pixie-like faces, sharp cheek bones and sparkling eyes. I am not immune to the charms of my own gender. It’s just only once in a blue moon that I actually actively pursue a female. I am a big, big fan of the penis. I admit this.

Back then, I was a bitch in the most unhealthy way possible. I was so angry at men for the relationships that I was in that I decided I was going to delve deeply into the lady pond and pursue that side of my sexuality without my boyfriend knowing (I was in Massachusetts and he was in New Jersey at the time, so this was not that hard). … This consisted of several one-night stands, drunkin hookups, me promising to call when I knew I wouldn’t, and all around slutty behavior. In six months I had managed to sleep with more women and burn more bridges than I had in 19 years with men.

It took me a long time to see that my attraction to women was a natural, healthy thing and not just something that grew out of my unhealthy relationship from back then. For a while I assumed I was a switch, because of how I had treated the girls I played with during that time period. I was a toppy douche, calling the shots and telling them when the relationship ended and what would be done… I thought I would end up topping all women.

… Not so. NOPE. It depends on how women approach me. Cal’s former partner, for instance, loved topping females like me. When I said I wasn’t comfortable with that she took this as a challenge and would bait me on a regular basis, saying she would love to dig her heels into my ass, etc, get me to kiss her feet… It made me challenge her right back and want to look eye level with her. I didn’t necessarily want to top her.. But I wanted to meet her in the eye and be her equal.

I wrote in here about my first experience being topped by a woman.. A good friend of mine named Ren. She is very sweet, and for a while wanted me to be her house pet..but I was never physically interested in her in that way. There are a couple that I am physically interested  in these days.. I have a small circle of friends at BaGG, women and men both, that I’ve somehow become entangled with… I want to kneel in front of one while helping her spank the other.. It is a welcoming, healthy feeling.

…That is as toppy as I get, with either gender. If someone asks me to help with a spanking I will.. but otherwise I want the spanking dammit.

As for my submission changing from partner to partner.. Absolutely. I’ve already talked about what I an absolute masochist I can be with James. I love poking the bear just enough to go home black and blue at the end of the night, knowing that we’ll both enjoy it. As sassy as I can be with James there are times when I can be completely docile if that’s what he requires of me. There is no question of who the one submitting is. There is absolutely no question of who belongs to whom. How sassy or sweet or over the top or quiet I am depends largely on my partner. He leads the scene, in every sense. He is an actor. He takes the stage, commands it. He shows me where our marks are. And I happily walk behind him, follow his lead, fall in naturally with the scene he is directing. It all feel right, and gives me a greater peace than anything I can imagine. James is the star… but I’m his leading lady and I know that. No question. No doubt. I love it. I love him.

Huh.. I think that’s the first time I’ve typed that here.. I’ve told him. He knows…but it’s the first time I’ve openly said it.. I’m in love with James. I love being his.

I have another partner that I formally met when I was at Fusion over the summer. He is a fabulous man who did a beautiful needle scene on my back. We hit it off talking before and after the scene and I ended up spending my last night at camp snuggling with him in bed. He is very different than what I am used to.. Older than I’ve played with before (double my age), but doesn’t act it most of the time. I love his energy. He’s put me at ease from the beginning, making friendship with him a very easy thing and not pushing me to to define the relationship between us in any way. He knows I am poly, but my focus is on James. He is KING of poly..has more partners than I can possibly keep track of and has nicknamed me ‘dessert’ because just when he thought his dance card was full I showed up..and there was somehow room. He’s been helping me slowly navigate both my interactions with him and also James.. answering any questions I have with the patience of a saint.

Playing with him is VERY different from playing with James. I don’t have the desire to push myself so much. They’re both sadists, but with Chris I am sassier. I can get away with more because while James reads as all DOM to me, (with the added dash of ‘this is the man I belong to and serve’ thrown in) Chris is very much a switch. When we play I call him sir, and of course I do respect him… but my most docile side seems reserved for James… The man that owns me also owns the part of me that absolutely submits, without question.. Chris does not own me in any way. I like pushing my limits more with him.. seeing if I can squirm away from him when he has me pinned, seeing what wiggling my ass in his direction will get him to do.. and after we will sit, and talk, and exchange kinky stories of the play we have done since we last saw one another. And I enjoy it. I am grateful for Chris’s company for as long as I am graced with it. He’s taught me quite a bit so far.. and reminds me often when I am in a rough patch that he was at one point as well, and that this too shall pass.

I am lucky, very lucky, to have the people in my life that I do. I don’t know how I got so lucky..but I am a very blessed submissive.

yours..and his,

-Rena

Day 11

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Day 11

Do you include service as a part of your expectations of your submission? How do you define service? What does it mean to you? If not, what is it about the concept of service that is not for you?

I consider myself to be a service oriented submissive… Now, what that means to me when I say that can mean something different to another.

To me, that means that when my Sir says “jump”, I already know how high he wants me to be jumping and instead I am asking him how long. If it’s a partner I truly care about, I try to anticipate his needs. I know what he likes from Wicked Grounds on Wednesday nights when we grab a bite before BaGG…but know not to order it unless he asks me to. I know how a play partner takes his coffee at this point and will fix it for him before I bring it to him in the cafe.

I anticipate and learn how best to serve the person I’m with… which for me can mean learning how to make his favorite meal to learning proper deep tissue massage to help with backaches..

I enjoy this. I get pleasure from giving pleasure, even in the simplest of ways. If that means they want me to clean up their place or cook them dinner then I will, but only if that’s what they want.

Cal’s partner and I both share a certain… erm.. opinion of his ex partner. Her and I ended up in a conversation about service submission the other night, and she expressed the irritation in how the ex would come and clean the house, do the laundry, and how her partner didn’t actually like that.. Those domestic duties are what a lot of people associate with service. Okay, yes, that can be part of it..but that’s not the first thing I think of when I identify myself.

Honestly, when I think about service in regards to myself I think about my relationship with pain.. My masochistic side developed because the person I belong to is a sadist. He enjoys digging his nails into my flesh, making me squeak and yip and whimper in the club and cafe and..wherever else he decides to hit me. The first couple times we played in any way I remember thinking “I don’t know if I can do this… I don’t like pain. I can’t take this. This HURTS.”

And then I saw the twinkle in his eyes.. I saw the sadistic smile that lets me know just how much trouble I’m in… The impishness. And I wanted more, not because I craved the sensation but because I craved that reaction from him.

I crave the look of pride he gives me when he’s beaten me to my limit and he has to all but peel me off of the cross because standing is hard… When he pulls me into his arms while I’m still trembling and gives me the feather light kiss on top of my head, and then the gentlest kiss on my lips.. Little, silent thank yous that let me know that I did good, that I made him proud. I love the look of delight on his face when he’s taking photos of me being beaten by another, the voyeur in him enjoying every second of it.

I get pleasure from giving pleasure, and that manifests in multiple ways… That is the best way I can define service for myself.

Yours, a content service subby

-Rena

Day 8

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Day 8

Is spanking or corporal punishment a part of your submission? Why or why not?

…This may end up being a very short post.

Yes. Yes. YES it is part of my submission. Big screamy capital letters YESSSSSSS.

It used to scare me.. being hit. Spanked. Flogged. It used to scare the living shit out of me.

Now?

…mmmmmmmmmmmmm

With Kane, spanking and beating used to be the work for the reward.. The tender touches, the good girl, the fantastic sex to follow. I wanted to earn the ‘good girl’, the ultimate reward for the submissive…

James… He’s a whole other ball of wax. Ever since he and I started playing around months ago, before any feels or dating or… relationshippy stuff… he’s turned my perceptions of pain and pleasure on their heads. It’s just.. part of the dynamic between he and I… I take pleasure from being on my knees in from of James, chest out, knowing a hand is going to come down and redden it. Knowing it’s going to hurt, and it’s going to make him smile. I HATE when he hits my thighs, but smile after the pain fades and they are red and warm.

But spanking with James?

How do I put this…. and this is not in a bragging sense.. This is just him.

The man is to bare handed spanking as Midori is to rope.

His upper body is BUILT. Pretty sure his biceps are bigger than my head… and he wants to get in even better shape. The man can bruise with a single strike.. He could easily finish me for an evening easily.. and instead he pushes me.. His spankings are a rare treat for me. It’s never just a strike. It’s always a build up. He will reach out first, let me know it’s coming, and gently put a hand on my ass, caress it.. sometimes squeeze. And then his hand comes down. I scream. I buck. I gasp. I wonder if I can possibly take another, because damn if that man isn’t always symmetrical. It hurts..and I want more.

There are times when his spankings are gentle. Well, at least for him. Sometimes he will spank me while I’m in between his legs sucking him, light taps compared to his normal strikes. Just enough to attempt to distract me and make me moan, through pants or skirts.

Other types of play… Floggings, paddles, mean wooden spoons that I am still not on speaking terms with… Yes, I like all of that as well. Intense scenes don’t happen as often between James and I.. It’s usually quick moments of play. We’ve only had one full official play scene at a party, on the cross, where he beat me to my almost-breaking point… and then stops right before I would have yellowed.. The man can read my body extremely well. He’s learned how I react to different types of pain even before I process how I handle them.. Yes, I love the intense scenes as well. I look forward to more.

So yes, spanking and corporal punishment are part of my D/s relationship. Why?

Because we enjoy it, both Sir and I. Because we both, in certain ways, need it. And love it. And crave it.

Because it’s part of who I am. And I relish it.

Maybe if I’m a good girl, I’ll get spanked tonight.

I’ve made it more than a week. YES!

Yours in antici…..pation,

-Rena

Day 7

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Day 7

Do you accept and/or expect discipline or punishments as a part of your submission? How do you feel about it?

I was never one of those submissives that dreaded submission. I was one of those trouble makers that tried to get rewarded for bad behavior. I still am.

My relationship with pain and punishment is a unique one.. My pain tolerance varies depending on who I’m with and what the setting is. Sometimes I am a real masochist, craving the pain. Sometimes I dread it.

A couple months ago, I went over my friend Chris’s house. We had met up several times in the past, and I admit that I was tardy almost every time to see him. I was a sassy creature that often forgot to call him sir even though we played, and when we played he topped me.. And so, one even when I came over his house he punished me. He had me crawl on to the bed and told me why he was punishing me, said he only punished those he cared about, and proceeded to hit me with his belt. I HATED it. The belt stung. It made me cry. I counted the strokes and was grateful when it was over.. Penance paid, life returned to normal and all was well.

The beauty of punishment is that once it’s done, the issue is dune. All is forgiven, the slate is wiped clean.

My interaction with James… blurs the line between play and punishment. He has yet to really punish me.. and I try very hard not to earn his punishment or his disappointment. However, he is a sadist, and under his hand I am a masochist.. I will do things like mew quietly, kiss his arm, nuzzle him… Nothing warranting real punishment.

He then turns to me and raises an eyebrow, a half smirk on his face.

“Really now?” Usually I will mew quietly, my body slightly shrinking in expectation of the pain that will follow. “You’re sure about that?” Again, I usually mew. I’m never sure. I never can be sure. This is a trick question.

“Well okay then.”

And then the pain starts. A smack on my thigh. Nails digging into my chest or back. Bites. Lots and lots and lots of nibbles. But never enough nibbles. I love nibbles…Mmmmm…

I have a love/hate relationship with pain under Jame’s hand. It hurts, I scream… But I crave it. It’s our dance, the steps familiar and comforting now. Not punishment, per say, but punishment-like behavior and discipline that keeps me happily under his hand.

I accept punishment when I have earned it.. I would rather stand in the corner, go into the ‘apology’ position, get spanked until I bleed, or even wear a fucking ball gag than carry the burden of my Sir’s disappointment, or the disappointment of another friend or partner. Physical pain is much easier for me than emotional… And the truth is that fuck ups happen. As much as submissives try to be perfect for our Dominants, we are human. Humans are flawed. We make mistakes, and we mentally beat the shit out of ourselves because of the mistakes. Because we failed. Because we let the person who we belong to down. We disappointed the person we try more than anything to please. For me, personally, punishment and discipline after the emotional beating I just gave myself is a very sweet release and relief. It makes it all better… Fresh, clean, blank slate. I am a good girl again, willing and eager to serve my Sir.

A whole week down! HA! Twenty three days to go.

Still here, still writing, still yours,

Rena

Day 6

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Day 6

What do you feel are the roots of your submission? Do you think it has something to do with childhood? Is it a relationship management tool as in the practice of domestic discipline? Is it a sexual thrill or something else?

Honestly.. I’ve been trying to figure this out for myself for a long while.

It definitely didn’t come from childhood. My mother spanked me maybe twice in my life… My dad even less. Corporal punishment was never a thing in my house growing up. It was mostly “go to your room” which ended in me sitting in a corner happily reading a book.

I don’t know where it came from… My parents shared domestic duties. My mother taught me how to bake, my father taught me how to cook. I was raised in a house that preached gender equality and an even playing field for all… and yet the root of my BDSM relationships is the desire to submit. To please another. To jump when they say jump, knowing how high they want me jumping and instead say “for how long, Sir?” I have in me something that needs to please and be pleasing… It varies and changes from partner to partner, the amount I submit and how that submission appears, but that need never goes away…

Your guess is as good as mine on where it came from.

As for it being a “relationship management too” or a “sexual thrill”… Eh…

Do I enjoy D/s relationships? Yes. But my submission is a part of me.. not some tool to keep relationships on track. As for it being a sexual thrill?

… Do you really think I would have this blog if I didn’t like kinky sex?

Not just kinky sex. Hand wrapped around my throat while fucking me like you’re ready to rip me in two sex. I like that. I also like spanking my ass a bright red before taking it sex, and hair pulling, biting, scratching foreplay before frantic fucking sex.

…But I also love gentleness. I love head kisses and cuddles..and tender touches that make me feel incredible cherished. I love that safe, satisfying feeling of curling up in his arms and feeling every last muscle in my body finally relax. That underlying sweetness that comes with submission… Yes, you will be used, you will feel pain for both your own pleasure and for the person you belonged to… but aftercare is a thing. Tender moments between scenes are also a thing.. and for me, that’s the glue of a D/s relationship. Otherwise… It’s not a relationship. I’m play partners with someone. I let them do things to me, fuck me, push me…and then when the emotional, squishy feels come out they aren’t there. A relationship means the squishy feely parts too.

Day six done, twenty four to go.

As always.. I am his 😛 but also yours.

-Rena