Archive for Bonking

“I thought it was a game”

Subspace – the place a bottom’s head goes to when a top pushes their buttons, or rather their limits, in the right way. I suspect it feels different for each person each time, like an acid trip or a live song. Some people fall down a bottomless rabbit hole, others report out-of-body experiences or hyper-real hallucinations.

My trips into subspace take the form of a meditative absence. I simply stop thinking, stop being, beyond the sensations I’m experiencing. It takes a while afterwards to come back to Earth, to reconnect with myself as the woman in the scene.

The headspace, coupled with all the gorgeous neurotransmitters that flood the brain in response to pain, is incredibly cathartic and energizing. Trite I know, but leaving the world for a while is a wonderful way to appreciate living upon it.

* * * * *

Full disclosure: I had an out-of-body experience once, when someone fisted me while I was high on a cocktail of recreational drugs. I rose straight up from the bed along a matrixey Tron-like tunnel, and at the top there was the huge disembodied head of an old Chinese guy, smiling beatifically at me. I think the moral of this story is, for safety and sanity, stick to vanilla sex when you’re high.



I wrote this three years ago with a recipient in mind. This is the first time I’ve read it since and I was a bit shocked by how graphic and unapologetic the description is, but I still like the piece.

Needless to say, there is content of an adult nature behind the cut.

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The weirdest thing that ever happened to me

I’m not sure this is definitively the weirdest, but it’s up there. I was wondering how I’d define my weirdest experiences if someone asked, and it struck me that some of the things that might seem weird from the outside (a 300-person orgy in a crumbling central-London mansion for example) actually don’t feel that weird at all. But Ah-um-ah-Andy definitely still rates.

I met him early in my TG days, when he politely, nervously complimented my boots and asked if he might rub my feet.

Me: Yeh, probably, wait… J, can this man rub my feet?

Equally eloquent, J said something along the lines of “Yeh, why not,” and my new foot fetishist friend hoisted me up onto a huge speaker. I was dressed in a style befitting the location: skirt with no sides, pinstriped waistcoat, and platform boots comprising more buckles than leather. I set about removing these beauties without flashing too much muff, and belatedly realized I was also wearing Sleepytime Pooh Bear ankle socks.

I whipped them off hoping to belie my noob status, and hid them in my boots. The guy probably didn’t care anyway, and set about giving me a (mediocre) massage. He didn’t seem particularly comfortable making small talk, and when I asked him his name he paused then came up with “Ah… um…. ah…. Andy.” Nothing too strange about that though* and he was communicative and conscientious when it came to sharing his intent and seeking permission.

After a while he nervously asked me if it was ok if he wanked, and I’ll admit his underdog demeanor contributed to my saying yes. I flicked my eyes over to J, who was hanging out with friends some way off, made some lewd gestures and he nodded his assent. Ah-um-ah-Andy set to it and came fairly quickly. While he was cleaning up (I can’t remember the details – wet wipes, tissues, wipe it on the curtains?) I said, “I’ve never done anything like that before. How was it?”

To which this previously timid, whispering, almost apologetic boy looked at me, shrugged, muttered “You were alright, I s’pose,” and disappeared into the night.

Thanks Ah-um-ah-Andy, you were magical too.

* J and I have never been smart enough to come up with fetish alter egos, but there are plenty of good reasons why people do.

The slut: quantified and qualified

Every so often I realise people’s assumptions about me don’t match reality – I guess this happens to all of us. Most recently it took place during a conversation with a drunken other about numbers of conquests.

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Sex dream

Woke up from a torrid dream in which I kept trying to kiss a friend of mine. I would put my arms round her and lean in, quite forcefully, and she would twist away and shout at me to stop.

I felt rejected and frustrated, and kept trying to force myself on her (IRL she’s someone who’s a mixture of comfortable and coy about that kind of thing). Back in the dream, she and her boyfriend then tied me by my wrists between two poles.

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Silence gives consent?

Consent sounds like it’s cut and dried. I say yes or I say no. But contested rape cases, hazily remembered or uncomfortable evenings, or scenes with no safeword point to fuzzier boundaries.

I was discussing this with friends recently, and brought up the following incident. I don’t think I’ve posted it before so here ya go:

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Singapore sex

Two thoughts.

The first is that I’ve realised I pull my punches in Singapore. In London if I got to a point in a conversation that referenced my relationship I just said it. Open. Poly. Any questions? I didn’t always expect people to understand, but I always gave them a chance.

Here I back away from those moments, leave things unsaid. I guess I’ve done that since I arrived, but lately it’s bothering me. For a start, it isn’t fair to assume I know how somebody else will react – if it’s something I would normally talk about I ought to give people the opportunity to decide for themselves how they feel about it.

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