The jaguar and the cougar

So I’m home, and like I always do when I travel, I got sick, so I’ve felt like death ever since the airport. So this post is actually a little delayed, but I couldn’t not tell this story.

Our vacation was the best ever. I mean, it’s weird, I wasn’t planning on sleeping with half the hotel. Because it’s not exactly an intelligent decision to sleep with half the hotel right at this particular moment.

Of course, Kazander and I are vaccinated, because we’re not Fox-worshiping sheep, but even so, I still have leukemia and people are idiots. I wasn’t planning on doing anything with anybody.

So we met this girl. And just like the sisters, I swear she walked right out of a porno.

She was 20 years old. Columbian. A librarian (complete with the cute big hipster glasses). Smart as all fucking hell. She speaks Spanish and Portuguese, as well as English, and she knows about philosophy and history and politics.

She’s a vegetarian because it’s more environmentally sustainable, but she admits that she loves steak and chicken nuggets every once in a great while, and she only just recently tried bacon for the first time, and oh my god, you guys, the way her eyes lit up as she gushed about how amazing bacon is, it was like watching a little kid at Christmas.

And yeah, her hotness puts even the sisters to shame, but it was her mind that caught my attention. It started because Kazander and I admitted that we don’t know basically anything about Columbia, except for drugs and Pablo Escobar.

And she sat there and gave us an entire history lesson about him. And it was amazing, you guys.

I mean, first, I love shit like that. I love seeing those other perspectives. And as smart as she is, her perspective was brilliant. She explained how he rose to power, why he became so popular, and how Columbia teaches kids about him. It was so much more in depth than anything I ever learned here.

I mean, of course he was still a bad guy, everyone knows that. But there was so much more to that story than I ever knew.

She carried her laptop with her, everywhere she went, and multiple times during our conversation, she’d open it up and look up a word she didn’t quite know the right translation for, or a fact she couldn’t quite remember.

And I don’t think I’ll ever get used to just how friendly and kind people in Latin countries are. I see it in Mexico all the time, and it always takes me by surprise, but she put even Mexicans to shame.

Just bubbly and outgoing and the sweetest, nicest girl you could ever meet. And easily one of the smartest people you could ever meet.

Needless to say, we all hit it off.

And then we really hit it off.

At one point, she ended up with her tongue down my throat. Then down Kazander’s throat. Then she wanted a three-way kiss.

Then she wanted a three-way.

And I mean, I was not about to deny this sweet Columbian naughty librarian what she wanted. I’m not a monster.

We brought her back to our room, and the entire way there, she was just a damn wildcat. Pawing at me, kissing and biting, climbing all over me. Once we got to the room, Kazander wanted to hop in the shower and rinse off (it’s humid. Lots of sweating), so I picked her up and carried her into the bedroom like I was carrying her across the damn threshold.

I tossed her on the bed, but she immediately jumped back up with a dark grin and just attacked me. Crazy aggressive, biting and scratching and tearing my clothes off.

And it just woke up that primal predator in me. I found myself almost growling, throwing her around, biting and clawing at her just as hard as she was biting and clawing at me.

I’m a few inches taller than her, and much broader and stronger, but she was agile as fuck, and every time I threw her down, she immediately jumped right back up and pounced on me again.

By the time Kazander came out of the shower, the bed was completely destroyed, pillows were thrown across the room, I think her bra was hanging from the bedroom door, I mean, it was intense.

And yeah, pretty much all he could do at that point was lie back and let us have our way with him. The poor guy didn’t stand a chance.

By the time it was over, I was bruised, scratched, bleeding out of like eight different places, my sheets looked like a damn war had broken out on my bed.

And jesus christ, y’all, I think I met my match. I was exhausted.

I’m not 20 anymore, mkay. I’m not a young adult anymore, I definitely lean closer to “cougar” now. I don’t have the energy I did 15 years ago.

And my personal brand of intensity is slower, more mental, and usually involves a lot of carefully-planned build-up, gradually growing more and more intense until the sub feels like they’re going to absolutely break, before I finally let loose on them.

While she was just fucking explosive. No hesitation, no build-up, just a goddamn wild animal.

Honestly, she was like a jaguar. Small and lithe, aggressive, absolutely predatory, laughing and growling and trying her damndest to take a chunk out of me.

Finally, things died down, and I had Kazander walk her back to her room while I hopped in the shower and counted my battle scars.

He came back and shook his head, nursing his lip from where she’d kissed him goodnight and tried to take a chunk out of him, too.

“My fucking god, she’s crazy,” he said.

I laughed. “Yeah, she definitely is.”

And we all ended up making out again the next day, though (thankfully) we had to get up early the next morning for our Covid test, so we couldn’t stay out late. Because damn, she was ready for round 2, but I needed a day to recover after that.

Ah, to be 20 again.

Kazander made the comment that he was glad she was the last one we played with, because there was no way the sisters or the couple could have ever lived up to that.

I mean, how do you follow up something like that? How do you top that?

We got her contact info, and we’ve been chatting with her since we got home. When she turns 21, she wants to come to Vegas and hang with us for awhile, and yeah, that’ll be a hell of a lot of fun.

But holy hell, I think I’ll need to wear armor.

Becoming Bar Mom

Fair warning, y’all, I’m drunk. And I ramble uncontrollably when I’m sober, you think I get less talkative when I’m inebriated?

Hehehehehe……

So I’m in Mexico. This is our first vacation since the pandemic, so of course, there are hoops to jump through, and the resort is at half capacity (and half staff), and we have to wear our masks, and social distance, blah blah blah.

But honestly, it’s not as bad as I was expecting. It’s mostly just common sense. Don’t be an idiot, just wear the damn mask (because my only child can’t get vaccinated yet, and I haven’t punched anyone in the face in like six months, so I’m overdue, bitch test me, I fucking dare you).

Anyway.

So it’s actually been really great. Sure there are some annoyances and inconveniences, but the staff seems to be working even harder to make up for it, and our butler and my favorite bartender remember us, and even bent a couple of rules for us, and honestly, even with the extra hoops and the tests and the inconveniences and the annoyances, this might my favorite vacation I’ve ever been on.

Hell, I walked up to the bar in the lobby, and one of the bartenders came up and greeted me. We weren’t here last year, but he remembered me from two years ago (though he got my name just barely wrong. He called me Gemma. But hey, after two years, that’s not bad. I’m impressed).

The extra fun started the other night. I got to talking to these two women at the bar, and we struck up a conversation.

And for most of my adult life, I was always the youngest in every group. Now I’m 35, so that’s changed.

At first, I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. In the past couple of years, I’ve lost a lot of things that were kind of central to how I define myself. First I lost my voice, then I lost my “plus size” status (which doesn’t seem like a thing, but realizing I was too small for Torrid was kind of an unexpected hit), then I lost my “young adult” status, and those were all things I loved about myself.

I had an entire plan for singing. I was damn proud of being plus size. I’d always been the youngest in pretty much every group. I loved my youth.

There have been a couple of other things too, that are a little harder to explain. But now it’s all gone. It’s been a lot to get used to. It’s been…

Well, not bad, actually. I have moments where I feel a little lost, but on the whole, it’s actually kind of exciting. Because now I have to go out and find new things, new ways to define myself.

And one of those new things is “bar mom.” I’m not the youngest anymore, but a couple of times now, both here in Cancun and back home in Vegas, I’ve found myself surrounded by women practically half my age, and holy shit, I kind of adore it.

These girls haven’t done anything. They haven’t seen anything. They’re barely adults (especially true here, where the drinking age is 18).

And they see me, this effortlessly confident woman, hot as fuck, sauntering up to the bar, and all of a sudden I have them hanging on my every word.

Which, I mean, I don’t know if you guys know this about me, but I have a teensy bit of an ego. So having a group of 21-year-olds sitting around like, “Teach us, o wise seer. Impart to us thy wisdom,” is kinda nice.

So the other night, I’m hanging out at the bar, chatting with the bartenders, and got to talking to these sisters.

And they’re both insanely hot. Like, just stupid-hot.

I mean like…

We’ll call them Hannah and Montana (not their real names, but their real names rhyme just like that). One is 18, the other is 20, sitting together getting plastered on a beach in Mexico, it was like they walked right out of a porno, I swear to gawd.

And as the night went on, we just totally hit it off, and suddenly we just totally hit it off.

I brought them back to my room. Kazander was off with his family, so I asked if he’d be cool fucking off for half an hour, and I’d find him when we were done. He was insanely jealous (justifiably so), but he agreed, so I brought them back to our room and that’s when we really hit it off.

It wasn’t like how it is in porn, though. Sure, it was a little kinky, just because they’re sisters, but they didn’t really do anything with each other. They were both completely focused on me.

Which, I mean, I kinda like being the center of attention, so that was nice.

I fucked them both raw, then I walked them back to their room (because I’m a lady, dammit), then I came back and passed the fuck out, because I was just a little sloshed, myself.

I was pretty proud of myself. But then, a couple nights later, I saw them again, and they literally screamed my name, and jumped up from the table to hug me, and the blonde asked for round 2.

So I mean, I was pretty goddamn proud of myself. Here I am, 35 years old, curvy, with stretch marks and big thighs, and I pulled off something every sculpted-Adonis dudebro wishes he could pull off.

Those guys fantasize about it, but I actually did it. Without even trying.

And I did it so well, they came back wanting more.

And just how hot are we talking? Well, I’m not showing their faces, but the night they screamed my name across the resort’s central plaza, I did manage to get a picture with them.

Again, no faces, so y’all are just gonna have to take my word for it, but even without seeing their faces, can you imagine walking through a beach resort with one of those on each arm?

‘Cuz I don’t have to imagine it.

And it’s funny, I’d kinda forgotten just how hot 20-year-old bodies are. Don’t get me wrong, I love my body, I’m okay with my flaws, I know how to turn heads and carry a room, etc. But I also know that I have the kind of body you only get from 30+ years of tacos, alcohol, and mild neglect, plus having a kid.

But these girls don’t have those problems. No stretch marks, no cellulite, everything stays in place when the clothes come off, just smooth and tight and fucking hot.

And hanging on my every word, following me like puppies.

I was just impossible to be around. I felt so bad for poor Kazander having to deal with my ego, so I promised that the next time I find sexy fun, he’s included.

Which… just so happened to fall into my lap later that very night. He’d already gone back to the room, and I was on my way back, I’d just stopped at the pool to finish my drink, when another woman walked up to me.

I honestly don’t remember how, but we ended up in her room, and I had Kazander meet us there. Turns out, they wanted to be poly, but they live in a small-ish town in a red state, so that makes things difficult. They haven’t been able to actually do anything yet.

And they were hot, too. The woman was especially hot. She was in her forties, fit and toned, with a gorgeous rack.

The husband was hot, too. He was in his fifties, muscular and fucking tall. He had to be every bit of 6’5″. I’m not used to having to look up to talk to people.

But he was such a gentleman. A teensy bit heavy on the benevolent sexism (he kept insisting that I text Kazander so he’d know where I was, and kept wanting to make sure I felt safe in the room with them), but I can appreciate the thought behind it. I’m aware bad shit can happen in Mexico.

I mean, bad shit can happen at a music concert in my hometown, too, but again, whatever, he was doing it to be nice, and while I don’t love being infantilized and seen as a helpless delicate flower, I also recognize the dude is from a different time in a conservative state, where they still think women can’t survive in a world of dangerous scary men without a dangerous scary nice man to protect them.

Ugh. That shit annoys me. You want to make me feel safe? Stop creeping me the hell out with that shit. Knock it off and go make me a sandwich.

That goes for all of you reading this, too. If you ever do that, knock it off. Being seen as if you’re a child isn’t cute. It doesn’t make us want to fuck you. It’s creepy. It’s uncomfortable.

I’m not a child. I’m old enough to drink, old enough to vote, old enough fuck your mom so hard and so good, she’ll leave her husband and call me Daddy.

Quick, someone ask me how I know. Maybe I’ll tell that story one day.

Not the point of this post, though. I appreciate that the guy was trying to be considerate, and he is a big guy, so I’m sure he’s dealt with being perceived as a threat everywhere he goes.

I’m gonna bitch about it here, because I can, but in the moment, I was good with just shrugging it off and letting it go.

But it was so cute, the wife told me he was nervous and self-conscious, because he’s a little older, and you know sometimes the plumbing doesn’t work as well in a man his age, and he’s also not quite at the level of hotness she is.

So of course, I immediately thought he was so sweet and adorable, and decided I wanted him to feel like he can still rock a girl’s world.

Kazander stayed with her in their room, and I led him to ours.

And of course, he was intimidated and flustered and nervous, so the performance anxiety kicked in.

Which, first of all, was great. This guy was huge, okay. Broad, strong, tall as fuck. But once I got him alone, he was like a blushing virgin.

I adored it. I wanted to give the sweet tall boy a good time. And I’ve always liked older men, so I know how to work around performance issues.

But I was reminded once again just how different vanilla men and sub men are.

And that’s something I told Kazander later. It’s always weird with vanilla guys. I don’t really know how to relate to them all that well. If the husband was a nervous sub, I would’ve known exactly how to fix that.

But a vanilla guy? Like, literally, what do I do? They’re like a different species or something. How do I handle a nervous vanilla guy?

I mean, I figured it out, because it’s me, of course I did. But I thought that was kind of funny, just trying to figure out how to give this boy a good time, and make him feel like “the man,” and give him a bit of a confidence boost, while also working around his performance anxiety and his nervousness.

He really was so cute, though. And eventually, he did relax and loosen up a bit. Once he did, we were golden.

The poor sweet thing, I think I broke him. But I managed to get him back to his room and traded him back for Kazander.

Unfortunately, they were leaving the next day, but they come to Vegas a lot, so I got the wife’s number. If it works out, they could turn out to be a couple of fun play partners when they’re in town.

But yeah, if I wanted to nitpick, I could find things to complain about. And the Karens and Chads are out in full force this time.

I mean, there are kids literally right down the street from the resort that go to bed hungry each night, but god forbid Chad has to wait 5 minutes for his refill.

We had semi trailers, in our own country, filled with dead bodies, but god forbid Karen can’t have an extra lounge chair at the pool.

And the poor overworked staff is doing everything they can. There’s a pandemic here, too. Some of these people have lost family members, too. And they come here and smile and bend over backwards so we can have a good vacation.

So every time I see someone chewing out an employee, I get super loud and snide and just dickish about it. Like, “Oh, no! A 5-minute wait is just going to ruin his whole vacation!” Or, “Hey, we found the woman who has never been told ‘no’ in her entire life.”

Or, “hey, cut her a break. The worst thing that ever happened to her was that time she got bangs. Poor thing can’t handle waiting for a chair.”

Yeah, I’m not making friends with the other guests. But I am making friends with the employees, and they’re the important ones. And now every time we walk into the lobby, or up to the pool bar, or the spa, or the privilege lounge, we have employees smiling and calling our names.

So the assholes can sit in their rooms and pout because they’re too fragile to handle literally anything, and oh their entire lives are just ruined.

I’m gonna hang out with the bartender who shouts “Mi Jenni, mi amor!” across the lobby every time I walk in. And I’m gonna have fun with the sexy waiters and cabana boys, and get completely plastered, and play in the pool, and just have a goddamn blast.

And we’re still here for another whole week. Yeah, I’m a happy Jen.

How do rules affect your mindset?

The very lovely miss emdimensional wrote a post asking about rules a couple days ago, and I loved the way she asked.  I love those questions that encourage you to probe deeper for a complete answer.

I’ve always been a bit more laid back than most of the Dominants I’ve known in person.  Sure, I’ve got rules, but real life gets in the way.  At the end of the day, I’m more concerned about having a healthy relationship than a list of rules.

I don’t sit down at the beginning of a relationship and set out my rules.  I’ve learned, through years of poly relationships, that every relationship is different, every dynamic is different, and what fits one may not necessarily be right for another.

My subs are people.  I celebrate their individuality.  When I begin a relationship, I want to see what develops organically, rather than lay out a map.  That works better for me.  I feel like it means more, it’s more intimate.

So the rules come as the relationship progresses.

But rules are good.  They make expectations clear.  Most submissives excel within that structure.  It provides a sense of security.  A step-by-step guide to what to do and how to act.

And there are times when rules and protocols can be healing.  When shit hits the fan, sometimes even the strongest stumble and fall.  I have seen men and women I’ve owned fall under the weight of the burden they’re carrying.

I’m not a fan of empty words.  When someone I love is hurting, I want to be there to help them.  But words and pity and allowing them to continue turning that pain over and over in their head does nothing to help.  When they’re that deep in the pain, they struggle to pull themselves out.

When this happens to a friend, there’s very little I can do.  When this happens to a submissive I own, I can stop that tailspin and pull them out.

How do I do that?

With rules.

I was informally trained by a member of an Old Guard leather family (and for the sake of not turning this into a 5,000-word hostile bitch-fest, I deleted the paragraphs I started to write talking about the sad disaster Old Guard turned in to.  As bitter as I am about it, I wasn’t even a member of a Leather House.  My mentor was, and the subculture was dying when I met him, with all these people jumping up and screaming, “Look at me, I’m Old Guard!  It’s so special!  But what’s all this about leather and the military?  And where are all the chicks?”  Hell yeah he was bitter).

Anyway, one thing that is true is that the Old Guard communities often had huge lists of very strict rules.  Some of those rules were grouped into Protocols.  There was Low Protocol, Mid Protocol, and High Protocol.

They were different for every community, every House, and some didn’t even have them at all.  But they were a useful tool.  When a sub and Dominant both know those rules, all it takes is one word from the Dominant, and the submissive immediately knows what to do, what the general tone of the day/night/whatever will be, and what will be expected of him.  Just one word was all it takes to pull a submissive’s focus and plant him firmly wherever his Owner wants him.

I’m rambling.  I said all that to share the most extreme example of this; a story about a man I owned when I was younger.  I’ve mentioned him briefly before, he was the veteran who suffered from manic depression and being bipolar.  Throw a healthy dose of PTSD (he even had a service dog) into the mix, and navigating his mind challenged every skill I had learned up to that point.

It was about six or eight months into our relationship, I’d only recently collared him, when he called me at 5am, hysterical.

As it happens, that particular day was the anniversary of the deaths of two of his friends, and the injuries he’d received that ended up getting him discharged.  I still am not clear on the details, he was never able to remain calm enough to tell me the whole story, and I stopped pressing when I realized he just wasn’t capable of saying it.

He never told me about the anniversary because he thought he could handle it on his own.  Supposedly the previous year hadn’t been all that bad.  But 5 hours into that attempt, he was smart enough to realize he was in over his head and needed help.

I called in sick to work and drove to his house, using my key to let myself in.  His poor dog was losing her fucking mind, the sweet dumb thing, and he was lying in a puddle of tears and alcohol in his hallway.

My first thought, after I got over the initial shock of seeing him like that, was, “Nope, we’re not doing this today.  Not today.”

Which may sound cruel.  But hear me out.

Trying to talk to him about that, trying to sort out his feelings wasn’t going to work.  Telling him how sorry I was that he went through that wasn’t going to work.  He was too deep in that hole, and he just wasn’t capable of handling it that day.

So what do you do, when you see the person you love writhing on the floor, suffering from a pain you can’t save them from?  What do you do when nothing you could ever say could ease what they’re going through?

You shift their focus, you narrow their vision, and you shrink their world.  You take them out of their world and put them in yours, bring them to a place where they can reach emotional neutrality, where they can rest and reset, and step back from the chaos threatening to swallow them whole.  To a place where they can quiet their minds long enough to take a breath without feeling the weight of their burden crushing down on their chest.

I slammed into full-on Dominatrix mode and told him, in a tone that brooked no argument or hesitation, to get off the floor.  It took him a moment, but he stumbled to his feet, mumbling an apology and a string of self pity and self hate.

I didn’t listen.  I interrupted him by saying, in that same tone, “Stop.”  The next words out of my mouth were, “High Protocol.”

I could tell he was confused, and even seemed a little angry at those words.  And I could understand that.  He was wallowing in his own personal hell, it’s very likely he thought I was an ass for treating him like a slave instead of a man who was hurting.

But one thing he always did very well was trust me, so after that split-second hesitation, he adopted the position I’d taught him, lowering his eyes with a heavy sigh, resigning himself to obey me, even though I’m sure he didn’t want to.

After all, if being a submissive meant submitting only when you wanted to, it wouldn’t mean anything at all.

Another thing I quickly learned was that, to more effectively take him out of his world, I needed to take him out of his home.  That was his turf, his environment.  And right then, his environment was toxic as fuck.  I needed to erase it from the forefront of his mind and take him somewhere else.  Since I was going to college and still lived with my parents, my place wasn’t an option.

So I called a friend of mine, who owned a cabin boat on Lake Mead.  It took some convincing and lots of promises, but I finally convinced him to let me borrow it (FYI, I’d only ever driven a boat three times in my life at that point).  We got some things together, drove to his house, I picked up the keys to the boat, and we headed out to Lake Mead.

And honestly, I was worried about the drive.  It’s a good 45 minutes, and I obviously couldn’t do much with him, since I needed to keep the car on the road and not up a pole.  But I needed to keep his mind and his focus on me.  I couldn’t let his mind wander.  I hadn’t had a chance yet to really put him deep in subspace, and if I didn’t control his thoughts, I’d lose him.

So I did something most people would consider reckless (and most people would be right).  I put him in the backseat, told him to strip, lie down, and fuck himself with a vibrating dildo (it was his car, so I wasn’t worried about having to try and hide any potential messes from my parents, who were often in mine).  He could touch himself with permission, but could not cum.

I tilted the rearview mirror back so I could see him and talked down to him, humiliating and objectifying him, the entire time, while he moaned and gasped and squirmed all over the backseat.  Then, I let him put his clothes back on, parked the car in the lot, he grabbed our things, and we headed to the boat.

I had literally never pulled a boat out of the marina before, and was very tempted to ask someone for help.  But it was still crazy early, and no one was around, and he was already a puddle of adorable subby goo, so I decided that was the day I was going to learn.

I sent him downstairs to get all the food, drinks, and toys we’d brought organized and unpacked, and spent an embarrassingly long time inching the boat out of its little stall thingy and through the docks until I got it out into the open water.  Then I brought him up with me, and just explored the lake for a bit.  I found a secluded spot, dropped the anchor, and told him to strip once again.

This time, I took his clothes from him and hid them under the bed when he wasn’t looking.

We spent the entire day there, and he spent the entire day in High Protocol, following those strict rules.  When he wasn’t doing something, he was expected to kneel in a specific position (back straight, knees spread, hands resting on thighs, palms up) at my feet, watching me, either waiting for me to give him a command, or to anticipate a need and act on it.

He was not to speak without first kissing my feet.  He was also allowed, if his knees started to bother him to the point that it pulled his focus, to lie on his back, spread-eagle, his arms and legs spread wide, his cock and ass exposed.  That, moving to kiss my feet, and when he would anticipate a need (such as noticing my glass was empty, and going to refill my drink) were the only times he was allowed to break the position without permission or a direct command from me.

He was to answer every command with “Yes, Mistress,” or “No, Mistress.”  He was to refer to himself as “slave.”  For example, if he needed to pee, he could break position, kiss my feet, I’d give him permission to speak (most of the time.  Once or twice I told him to wait, just for shits and giggles), and he’d say, “Mistress, may this slave use the restroom?”

I didn’t keep him in that position for very long throughout the day, though.  I wanted to keep him distracted, keep his vanilla brain shut down.  I did that by tormenting him, beating him, fucking him, edging him, making him give me oral, making him lie on the front of the boat naked, making him tell me what dirty, depraved things he hoped I’d do to him.

It was fucking exhausting, man.  But it was so worth it.  I still kept him in that headspace when I inched the boat back into its spot, and he fucked himself again on the drive home.

Once I got him back to his house, I kept him in High Protocol for awhile, then released him to Mid, then Low Protocol over the course of a couple hours, giving him time to gradually, gently start turning his mind back on again.  When I finally released him completely, 16-ish hours after I’d found him lying on the floor, he was stable, and calm, and balanced.  He curled up next to me on the couch, resting his head in my lap, and watched TV with me while I ran my fingertips up and down his back.

Those insane rules, that extreme level of control was a tool I used to shut down the part of his brain that had become poisonous, until he could find that neutrality, that balance, again.  If I hadn’t, that poison would’ve just continued to spread, until he passed out in a drunken stupor, or done something very stupid.

I’m much better now than I was then.  I don’t need High Protocol to achieve that effect.  But back then, I relied heavily on it to keep him in the environment I created for him.

And it worked.  Not that it totally fixed the problem, mind you.  He still had to process the pain he was feeling, he still had to find coping mechanisms for his grief.  I couldn’t keep him in High Protocol forever.  At some point, he needed to face it.

But he needed to face it with a calmness, neutrality, and balance that he couldn’t achieve on his own, not that day.  He needed to face it constructively, with emotional stability, and with the ability to see past his very strong emotions.  I used rules and distractions and a new environment to help him do that.

So yes, rules can have a profound impact on someone’s mindset.

And even just having some stricter rules for an evening, or a weekend, or even a week, is fun.  It’s hot, having that level of control.

Just not 24/7.  I’m not a disciplinarian, I’m not a micromanager, I’m not a control freak (stop laughing).  That level of management, over a long period of time, starts to feel like work.  And (I’m just speculating here) after long enough, the submissive may start to feel suffocated, unable to express him/herself, and unable to have their voice heard.

Kazander and I don’t have the spawn this week.  She’s staying with the inlaws.  So I wrote up a few basic rules for him to follow, rules that aren’t usually in place with the kid around.

And really, even that is simple.  He has to strip down to his panties as soon as he walks into the house.  He has to call me Mistress and answer all questions with “Yes, Mistress,” or “No, Mistress.”  He has to ask permission to use the furniture.  He has to ask permission to put clothes on.

Simple stuff, nothing too crazy.  It’s enough that it’s a near-constant reminder of who he is and who he belongs to, but it’s not so much that I’m exhausted and he’s annoyed.  It’s that happy medium for us.

Squee!!! Fire!!!

 

It all started with a text from Sadie two days ago.

Want to help with some light sub torture?

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You have my attention…

She was planning on having two subs blindfolded and tied up, groped and tormented, and ending with one giving the other a blowjob.

Why yes, yes I can.

So I was already excited when I got there, knowing that I’d be able to do vicious things to helpless boys. But that wouldn’t start until later, and in the meantime, her husband Mal was going to set a pretty sub girl on fire.

So naturally, I was all up in his face.

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Oh, did you need some personal space? Are you sure?

And he talked me through the whole process, from making the fire wands to actually setting someone on fire.

It was amazing, I loved it.

Soooo awesome. I was stoked to learn.

Until he said:

I won’t teach you unless I can do it to you first, so you can experience it yourself.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

How badly do I want to learn? Maybe I don’t need to learn after all. I’ve gone 30 years without knowing how to do it, right?

Ugh, I really, really want to learn. And he’s right, it can be extremely dangerous, and I do need to understand it from both sides. And the other 3 girls he did it to all said it felt amazing, and didn’t hurt at all.

Fine. Goddammit.

Fuckfuckfuckfuck.

So I shed my dress and bra (for the second time that night, incidentally) and climbed up onto the table, my blood pressure skyrocketing, with a promise that I’d set his clothes on fire if he tried anything.

He believed I’d make good on that threat, and assured me I’d be fine.

My heart was pounding. I am soooo not a masochist, and pain pisses me off. I didn’t want to deal with all that.

But he was great, and the girls were right, it didn’t hurt. In fact, it felt really, really good.

I couldn’t let myself relax, though, because I never can when I’ve been in that bottom role, and I’ve never bottomed for anyone but Kazander.

And I’m just naturally distrustful of male Doms, anyway. I almost said no, that I’d rather wait until Kazander or Sounder were there with me. Having one of them standing by to make sure no lines were crossed would’ve made me more comfortable.

But I don’t really do the “patience” thing well. And while he did make me nervous with a comment about how he had to catch himself from slapping my ass, he didn’t cross any lines, and it was fine.

He did let the fire burn for a bit longer once, so that I’d feel what that felt like. And it hurt, but not too bad. He put it out before it got too bad, and explained the difference, about how letting the fire burn longer would burn off the alcohol and start burning skin. Which could definitely be used to a Dominant’s advantage, but caution needs to be used, or it’ll blister.

So it was a learning experience. When he let me up, I was more than ready to jump off the table and get dressed. Even though I agree that I needed to understand what fire play is from both sides, bottoming made me angsty and nervous, especially since the only people I knew there were female and tiny.

Not that I thought Mal would do anything from a rational standpoint, it’s just one of those irrational, illogical things. Bottoming makes me uncomfortable, and bottoming for a male Dom was a struggle to keep from freaking out.

Remember, until tonight, even scening as a Top with a male Dom was a hard limit. Bottoming for one was an exercise in shutting off my emotions so I wouldn’t lose my fucking shit.

But I’m a big girl, I survived, he was great about it, and I’d just zipped my dress back up when Sadie called me to the front room.

I walked in to see the two boys, hooded, their hands cuffed and chained above their heads.

Ooooooh…

Sadie gave me the smaller one, an adorable little young thing who made the cutest noises when he was in pain. I tortured his nipples with clamps, completely loving the way he squirmed, gasped, and moaned. Especially when Sadie hit his ass with the cane while I tugged on the clamps.

Masochists are so much fun.

But then I found the bag of clothespins, and Sadie said, “You can do a zipper, if you want.”

Why yes, I think I will.

And even just putting the clothespins on him got some adorable little gasps and whimpers. When I was done, I stood back, holding the two ends of the rope together. I imagine he’s glad he was blindfolded, so he couldn’t see the look on my face.

I pulled them off, feeling that uniquely satisfying resistance as each pin was pulled off, hearing the incredibly addictive sound of the pins snapping shut. And the even-more addicting sound of him crying out.

God, it was fucking hot. And his reaction was just beautiful.

I wanted to do it again.

Luckily, just at that moment, Sadie asked if I would do it to the other boy. And I was more than happy to comply.

After that, the violet wands came out, and both of them reacted so wonderfully to it. It was so much fun.

And when the little one (we’ll call him Pet) was pushed to his knees to suck the other one’s cock, it was amazing.

Just lots of amazingness all the way around.

So after that, we all socialized, and hung out, and had fun. Pet’s ride needed to leave, and he wasn’t ready to go, so I offered to take him home (he’s 18 years old!! Still in high school!! Like, an actual has-to-go-to-school-on-Monday, homework-having high school student! I had helped torture a high school boy!).

And he blushed and got the sweetest little smile when I told him later that he makes cute noises when people do mean things to him.

Then, right around midnight, when the majority of the people had left, Mal, Pet, Sonic and I were all sitting outside, when I commented that I couldn’t wait to try fire play for myself.

Mal said, “Alright, let’s do it.”

“What, now?”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

I was surprised. He originally said that he wanted my first time to be with an experienced sub, who was knowledgeable about being on the receiving end of fire play. And no one present fit that bill.

Moreover, Mal is as straight as they come. And while fire play isn’t inherently sexual, I’d still never seen him Top to a boy, and I’d assumed he would want to teach me on one of his female play partners.

But I sure as hell wasn’t going to complain.

Sonic currently cannot participate in any play, so I looked to Pet. “Can I set you on fire?”

He grinned and said, “Sure.”

Which, to be honest, surprised me. Because we’d only just met that night (and weren’t formally introduced until after I’d made him whimper and moan, which was funny. “Oh, you already met her.” “I did?” “Yeah, when you were naked and blindfolded, she was the one torturing you.” “Oh, well cool.” Gotta love those conversations), and he’d never done fire play, and he knew that I’d never done fire play, and what is it with these incredibly trusting boys Sadie has that let me use them as guinea pigs for some pretty risky edge play the first day I meet them?

I mean, I know I’m amazing, but damn.

So he took his shirt off and lied down on the table while Mal went back over everything with me, making sure I had it all down. He stood right beside me, the damp cloth within reach, as I held the fire wand in my right hand, and the alcohol wand in the other.

I was going to set something on fire!

Holy fucking shit!

Up until this point, I was squealing and jumping up and down, and basically acting like a 12-year-girl about to meet Justin Bieber.

No, y’all don’t understand. I have a thing with fire. I’ve wanted to do this for decades, but never had someone to teach me how.

But now, it was the moment of truth. I was literally going to set an actual living person (and a high school student, lest we forget) on fire.

Like, holyfuckingshit.

I used the alcohol wand to draw a straight line across his back, then tapped the fire wand to it.

And I about came all over the floor.

Holy.  Fucking.  Shit.

Mal was there the entire time, making sure that I did everything right, that everything was going the way it was supposed to, offering advice and suggestions.

But Pet was practically falling asleep. He’d already been through one session, and I’m serious, y’all. Fire play feels pretty good.

He was quite relaxed.

There were a couple of times that I let it burn for just a fraction of a second too long (not long enough to burn, but long enough to hurt), but that’s the awesome thing about doing it on a masochist. He loved it.

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The very first time I hit him with the fire, the moment I went from “No, I’ve never done fire play,” to “Yes, I’ve totally set someone on fire.” You can just make out Mal’s hand to my left, ready to step in if he needed to. And of course, these photos are posted with Pet’s permission and blessing, he assured me that I didn’t need to crop or edit them.

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After you make the line or pattern with the alcohol wand, you have to set it down and use that hand to smother the flame once you ignite the alcohol. And you have to be quick, the alcohol burns off fast.

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This is my favorite of the pictures that were taken. You can see the fire on his skin really well. And his expression is adorable. That’s the face of a very relaxed boy.

So it was beyond, beyond amazing. I loved every minute of it. And by the end, Mal was standing back, while I did it all. All he did was switch out the wands when I needed new ones. It was soooo amazing.

After we finished, Pet got up, got dressed, and we hung out for a bit longer before he had to be home.

He got in the car, and surprised me again when he started singing along to a Green Day song that came on the radio.

“So you have good taste in music,” I observed.

And as it turns out, he’s like me. I have very eclectic tastes in music. Green Day may come on over my Milk Music account, then Marilyn Manson, then 3 Doors Down, then Sublime, then Idina Menzel, then Renee Fleming, then Flogging Molly, then Rise Against.

So the car ride to his place wasn’t boring. He’s fun to talk to.

So yeah, the night was incredibly, amazingly, terrifically, epically awesome.

And now I know how to set people on fire.

Fucking yay!

Murphy makes an appearance

Southern was back in town this week, so obviously I was eager to see him.  We had originally planned to have him come over to my house to play here, and I’d get to fuck his ass, which I haven’t been able to do since I moved back to Vegas.

But my recent hospital stay meant that Kazander’s parents came into town a couple of weeks early to help take care of the spawn, and we had no privacy.

Ugh…

But that was okay, we could do the same thing we did last time he was in town, and have a lot of fun.  I really enjoyed teasing him and being cruel to him, and was looking forward to doing it again.

So we were set to meet on Monday, and on Sunday night, I went to get the things I’d need together.  I grabbed the vibrating egg he’d gotten me, and the remote.  And just for fun, I decided to test it out.

The batteries were dead.

And of course, the toy doesn’t take AAs or AAAs.  It takes weird batteries that nobody sells.

I was supposed to meet him the next day, and we had no batteries.

Ugh…

But I figured, it’s the Strip.  People from all over the world come to the Strip.  There’s got to be a place in the mall we went to that would have the batteries we needed.

After walking the entire length of the mall, every floor, we were at a loss.  No one had even heard of the batteries we needed.  There was nothing we could do.

So we gave up, and arranged to meet for breakfast on Wednesday.  There’s a battery store in town, and I was planning on heading there Tuesday to pick up the batteries.  The store says they sell “every type of battery,” so we’d be fine.

And in the meantime, we decided to go to Chipotle for lunch.  Neither of us had been there before, so we were standing in line, looking up at the menu, and I discreetly reached down behind him, running my fingers down his ass, completely shattering his focus.  And of course, I did it just as he was about to give the lady his order.

I love the effect groping him has on him.  It completely derails his train of thought, completely destroys his concentration.  It’s beyond entertaining to do that to him in public, and watch him get all flushed and try to deal with it.  Watching him try to carry on a conversation with someone else is especially amusing.

And I hadn’t touched him up to that point, so it was completely unexpected, and totally threw him off guard.

Such a little thing, and it has such a big effect.

It’s addicting, it really is.

After lunch, I drove him back to the other mall on the Strip (I find it hilarious that he knows more about where things are on the Strip than I do, and I have to ask him for directions).  And once we got in the car, the groping continued.

He has this adorable habit of thrusting his hips whenever I play with his cock or his ass, and as we were driving, he was squirming all over the place.

I have to say, I didn’t mind the traffic in the least.

So I dropped him off and went home.  The next day, I went to the battery store, and was stunned to find out that they didn’t carry the batteries I needed.  They could order them, but they wouldn’t be in until Friday.

UGH!!!!

Every possible thing that could have gone wrong was going wrong.  It was unbelievably frustrating.

But we would still meet for breakfast.  I’d bring the egg with me, and at least he could have it inside him, even without it vibrating.  So I drove to the mall, met him, and we went into one of the family bathrooms.

The poor boy hasn’t had his ass played with in so long, and it was so very tight.  I’d thought about bringing a plug with me, but the only one I have that he’d be able to take has the habit of falling out of Kazander, and the mall just wasn’t the place for that particular experiment.

So I stuck with the egg.  But, as it turns out, Southern had forgotten just how big the egg is.  He was squirming and moaning, and I could tell he was seconds away from telling me to take it back out.

But I’m not the most patient of people.

I pushed it in, gently but quickly, before he had the chance to say anything.  He gasped, then sighed once it passed his entrance.  It was so cute.

While we were at breakfast, he said he could still feel it inside him, especially while he was sitting down, so that was good.  It’s still a bummer that I couldn’t use the remote, but it was better than nothing.

And that’s one thing I like about Southern.  He’s a fun toy to play with, and I love doing mean things to him, but we can sit and talk about anything and everything.  One moment, we could be talking about all of the kinky, twisted things I want to do to him, and in the next, we could be talking about music (we’re both musicians) or family or the economy or literally anything.

We finished breakfast, and we happened to be right next to a theater that he was going to see a show at later.  So we went to stand in line to get his ticket, and I took every advantage I could to discreetly grope and distract him.

And really, his reaction is so great, I just can’t help myself.  I feel like I have to do it.

He got the tickets, and we went back to the bathroom to take the egg out.  I knew it was going to be a little painful for him (he’d mentioned that he was mere seconds away from telling me that he needed a break when I put it in, confirming what I thought).  So I decided to use the Band-Aid approach and pull it out smoothly and quickly.

He damn near screamed, and it was awesome.

We got in the car and took the scenic route back to his hotel, to give us time to grope some more in the car.  I found a somewhat secluded corner of the mall parking garage, parked, and played with him a bit.

Man, I want to do mean things to his cock.  It’s so pretty, I want to hurt it.

But he needed to get back, so I drove him to his hotel, dropped him off, and went home.

It was so great being able to see him again, especially so soon.  He usually only comes to Vegas once a year.  But next time, I’ll make sure that I have batteries a couple of weeks before he gets here.  If we can’t swing a private place to ourselves, I’ll at least be able to use that on him again.

Language, dammit

So I was talking to the Body this evening, specifically about his new wife (dude, don’t ask) and why saying things like “Maybe we can play with your rack” is inappropriate.

Like seriously, we had to have that conversation.  It started with this:

Body: Maybe we can play with that awesome rack of yours.

Me: (paraphrased) Maybe instead I can bend you over, tie you down, and let my subs take turns fucking you.

Body: Are you being sarcastic?

Me: I’m making a point.  Feels kinda uncomfortable when someone talks about doing things to your body like that, right?  I don’t even let the men closest to me talk to me like that.

Body:  Point taken.  Sorry.  I was just under the impression you enjoyed it when I played with your tits.  I just thought it’d be fun.  I am sorry.

(Which, for the record, is a pretty big change from the defensive, condescending shithead he used to turn into whenever I told him he was being a dick, so apparently that new wife of his is calming him down quite a bit)

So I explained that tact, and respectful language, goes a long way.  I suggested he instead say something like, “How would you feel about the possibility of us playing together?”

And of course, because you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, this happened later.

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Like seriously, he makes my head hurt. Badly.

But we started talking about male Doms and why I generally avoid them as a rule, and why I will never again enter into a relationship with a vanilla man.

Why I avoid male Doms is easy enough to explain.  They have the annoying tendency to push boundaries and say inappropriate things.  They’re super-aggressive in the way they talk, especially about sex, and it gets on my nerves.  And they always, always do or say something that makes me think, “Oh yeah, that’s why I avoid the species.”

Am I making a blanket statement and lumping together an entire group of people?  Yeah, I suppose I am.  But whenever I meet a new one, and think, “Maybe I am being a smidge prejudiced,” I’m reminded once again why I feel the way I do.  So until I find one who doesn’t give me an “Oh-yeah-that’s-why-I-avoid-the-species” moment, after, say, a year, the statement stands.

Because what they don’t seem to understand is that the way they speak is disrespectful as fuck.  Sure, submissive women may love being spoken to that way.  But not all women are submissive.

Say it with me.  Not all women are submissive.

A good rule for any Dom when speaking to me is to ask yourself this question:  Would you say something like that to another male Dom?  No?  Then don’t fucking say it to me.

100% of the male Doms I’ve known (not counting my mentor) have broken that rule with me at some point.  And it’s been frustrating, because it seems like that shouldn’t have to be spelled out.

Does that mean I hate them?  Absolutely not.  There’s only one that I currently actually like, and even he has given me a couple of those “oh-yeah” moments, but I don’t hate any of the others.  I just avoid them.  Simple as that.

And really, submissive men are so much more fun, more fascinating, more…. I don’t know, just more.

What is more?  That’s kind of tough to describe, and I think it’ll be the topic of my next post.

But I damn sure don’t have to worry about being spoken to like that by a submissive.  Even submissives I don’t own have usually been respectful in the way they speak.  And, while I’m sure they exist, I have never met a Domme who felt the need to “assert her Dominance” over me, as if me being Dominant threatened her in some way.

Wait, is that it?  Is that why Dominant men get so verbally aggressive?  Do they feel the need to reassert the fact that they’re Dominant, because the idea of a Dominant woman makes them feel threatened or uncomfortable?

I mean, vanilla men generally just don’t know any better, and vanilla women generally just brush off those kinds of comments.  But a Dominant should know better.  So why do Doms insist on crossing that line?

I really don’t want to think that it’s because they don’t respect women, or any of that sexist nonsense.  So is that it, then?  Is it because they’re intimidated and don’t know how to react to a woman with exactly zero submissive tendencies?  Does just being a Dominant woman challenge a Dominant man in some way that I’m missing?

But then that doesn’t make sense, either, because it would imply that 100% of the Doms I’ve met are insecure, which I don’t think is true.

I don’t know.  I’m just going to continue avoiding them.  It’s worked well enough up to this point.  And as for the Body, ugh, I think he’s just hopeless.

Blast From the Past

Alright, so I feel like I should be on an episode of House.  I’ve apparently got some crazy, exotic, rare disease that no one can figure out (don’t worry, I’m not contagious, they checked for all of those).

I’m home, with an appointment to see a lung specialist, a blood specialist, an infectious disease specialist (because of the unexplainable [why does WordPress’ client say that’s spelled wrong?  It’s not spelled wrong] absurdly high white blood cell count, not because of something gross, like the words “infectious disease” tend to imply).  Oh, and then I’ve got to see a psychiatrist, just for the fuck of it, apparently.  I know there’s a list somewhere of kink-friendly medical professionals, including psychiatrists, but I want to find the most conservative, vanilla one in town.  That’ll be a fucking entertaining hour, and totally worth the $20 copay.

So I got home on Saturday, slept for 29 hours, and feel a hell of a lot better.  Hospitals tend to not understand the concept of sleep deprivation.

And what did I find in my Fetlife inbox upon waking up?  A message entitled, “I know I’m the last one you want to talk to.”

Ooooh, this could be entertaining.

Then I saw who sent it.

Well, hello again, Ash.  Dammit, and I thought it would be some crazy, interesting, juicy drama.

Miss Jen,

Because I flaked twice already but I now have a disciplinarian but she lives in Canada. She is trying to find someone to help carry out punishments. Is there any chance you’d consider talking to me again?

I see I even made your blog and that you were looking forward to me serving you until I flaked.

Please let me know if you will hear me out

Oh yeah, because messaging me out of the blue after two years to ask me for something is a great way to get what you want.

And mentioning the blog, and that I was looking forward to him serving me was supposed to serve what purpose, exactly?  Sure, I was looking forward to it.  He’s hot, insanely tall, and made great noises when I did mean things him.  Oh, and he was going to pay me.  Uh, yeah I was looking forward to it.

The sky is blue.  I’m bored with this conversation.  Men who message me out of the blue, asking for shit, are idiots.

Wait, are we not pointing out obvious things?  I thought that’s what we were doing.  Are we not doing that?

Alrighty-then.

I thought about ignoring him, but I couldn’t help it.  I replied.  But hey, I was nice-ish.

Three times. You’ve flaked three times.

And what exactly are you asking me to do? To randomly punish someone I don’t own based on rules that someone else laid out? To do the grunt work for someone who lives in another country? To do all the work and get none of the benefit?

Yeah, I’m not hugely eager to do that. Particularly with you. I’ve got 3 reliable subs now. Any free time I have, I’d rather spend with them. And I’m not about be at the beck and call of another Dominant thousands of miles away.

And yeah, I was looking forward to you serving me. But the same thing happened that’s happened every other time. You flaked. On top of that, you got all butthurt when you weren’t the center of my world. And when I didn’t “discipline” you exactly the way you wanted. I’m a Dominant. Not your personal fetish delivery system. You serve me. Not the other way around.

So no thanks, I’d rather not.

Pretty clear, right?  Pretty cut-and-dry, yes?  Precision of language, and all that?

This was his reply.

Fair enough. I just was hoping you’d give me a few minutes to talk with you. Like 15 minutes to lay out what she had in mind.

I’m sorry I flaked. I got scared and was immature. Hopefully at the very least you forgive me for that

First of all, there’s nothing to forgive.  I’m not angry with him, I don’t hate him.  I haven’t even thought about him in two years.

Secondly, didn’t I just say no?  That I’m not interested?  That I have no desire to get in the middle of their two-week-old relationship?

Didn’t that happen?  I mean, I know I’ve been on a surprising amount of medication, but I could’ve sworn that happened.

An hour later, I guess he decided he didn’t want to wait for me to say no again.  He wrote another message.

She’s going to put me in chastity, make me wear panties 247, and make me into a sissy turning my bottom hole into a vagina.

She wants me to follow rules and then wants someone to come over and do the physical punishments. Id be allowed to serve them domestically as well as worship them sexually as well.

If you aren’t interested which you made clear you are not would you be able to advise me how to approach someone about this? Or am I looking for something that isn’t possible.

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Why are you still talking?

Okay, dude….

Seriously, first of all,  he lives here.  Vegas is nowhere near the Canadian border.

So he entered into a disciplinarian “relationship” where the discipline can’t be enforced in any way?  She can’t punish him, she can’t enforce the rules she sets out for him (and he has been known to be disobedient).  There’s absolutely nothing she can do.  So being in a relationship with her still requires being with someone local.

How is that supposed to work?  Logistically, I mean.  What was the thought process behind that?  Behind entering into a remote disciplinarian relationship, a dynamic based solely on a metric fuckton of rules and a level of control I don’t even exert over my collared submissives, much less someone who doesn’t wear my collar?  Who thought that was a good idea?

Now, I’m a possessive Dominant.  My boys are mine.  I’ll often have them play with others, but on my terms, and I’m still in control of the situation.  Every other Domme I’ve played with has known this, has known that the boy we’re playing with is mine, and that my word is goddamn law when it comes to what happens to him during the session.  And it’s the same with me when I’m playing with someone else’s sub.  It’s one of those unwritten rules between Dominants.  You don’t fuck with things that don’t belong to you.

So the idea of entering into a relationship in which I’d have to rely on someone else to do 98% of the interaction would bother the fuck out of me.  I wouldn’t want him submitting on a regular basis to someone who is not me.  I sure as hell wouldn’t want to enter into a situation where that is not only encouraged, but required by the specific dynamic.

And yeah, I’m kind of thinking he’s asking for something impossible.  I sure as hell don’t know any Domme who would want to do all the grunt work, doing exactly as she’s told by another Dominant, basically being nothing but a fetish delivery system for someone else.  She can’t make any decisions, she can’t use her own judgement to guide or correct him, she can’t change or adjust his rules, she basically can’t do a damn thing without getting the okay from his Owner.

Granted, I obviously don’t speak for every Dominant woman in Vegas, but I know a few of them, and there isn’t a single one I can think of that would be okay with a situation like that.  I mean, domestic and sexual service is all well and good, but you can’t develop a relationship with a submissive that belongs to someone else, where someone else dictates what your relationship can and cannot be.

Who would want that?  Especially when, as a Dominant woman, you can get sexual and domestic service basically at the drop of a hat.

And then, of course, there’s the fact that this guy is a proven flake.  Who would want to waste their time with someone who is, in all likelihood, going to flake out again?

So, my dear Ash, no, I am not going to help you approach other women with this ridiculous little proposal.  I think you were an idiot to enter into a relationship like this to begin with.  I do not have the words to adequately express how little I care about your situation and your dynamic.

I also do not have the words to adequately express how thankful I am that my number has been changed since the last time we chatted.  Oh, but every message or email you send me will be posted here on the blog and publicly ridiculed (because really, you just make it too easy).  So have fun, and I’m sure we’ll talk again in another year or two, when you’re still single and unable to find what you’re looking for.  No reason to deviate from the current pattern, right?  It’s worked so well for us for the past what, six years?  Wow, almost seven years.  Almost as long as the average American marriage.

Is it just me, or is that “Definition of Insanity” cliche getting harder and harder to resist quoting?