Happy Thanksgiving, Canada.

My foolish sweet tooth.

Once again, I didn't follow my instincts.

She was a reader of the blog, a sexblogger herself, and found me through a fetish networking site. She was going through a breakup at the time and had moved nearby from another city to the west, and she approached me to see if I'd be willing to escort her around the Toronto fetish scene. It sounded like fun, and I've come to really enjoy meeting blogreaders lately. She wanted an opportunity to make new friends, start over, and move beyond whatever it was that her previous Top partner had apparently stung her with. She was missing "kinky submissive goodness."

Me, I expected that we'd make platonic good friends, and having her on my arm would give me an excuse to go to all those local fetnights that I've allowed other elements in my world to keep me from lately. Win-win.

For eight months, off and on, we chatted through the fetish networking site. She was full of compliments about my writing, and eventually the flirting began. It became more personal. I already knew that she had also connected with a new Top Daddy, and since both my being largely poly and the fact that she hadn't really become Serious on my radar yet, I had no issue with that and told her so. After all, if nothing clikked, there was no reason why we couldn't stick with the original plan and just be buds exploring the local vibe, right? Sure. We set up a date for drinks.

Over a perfectly pleasant Indian meal, we discussed ourselves, our desires, mutual interests... the usual on-a-date thing. We talked about her past experiences amid the fetscene in her previous city, and she bemoaned the drama in her post-breakup experience there.

(Oh, the irony. ...But I digress.)

Gradually, our datetalk seemed to shift from comrades-in-kinkdom-looking-to-attend-stuff-together to potentialities-in-seeking-primary-partnership-in-life. Was she asking me if I was interested in pursuing a partnership with her? I rolled with it, enjoying myself.

Cupcakes is an early30s mulatto brunette BBW with a passion for shoes but yet, curiously, is also hugely podophobic. (I would later tease her that the worst BDSM punishment I could ever put her through would be to blindfold and restrain her as a circle of men and women gently touched her body with their bare feet.) I was initially intrigued with her background in French literature, her mixed race status, her desire to submit.

And, yes, it's true: the possibility that maybe there might be something here beyond dating, beyond even fucking, appealed to me. I do enjoy being single. But it's also not been since Kara since I had the compatible opportunity for More. Cupcakes appealed to that sweet tooth.

While we were relaxing on the couch in her small apartment, I was looking into her dark eyes when I moved closer for the first kiss. Her lips responded lightly, and as I brought my hands upward to her head and nipped at her ear, she began to slowly melt under me.

I enjoyed the texture of her tight, small, black curls as I held her head and nibbled upon her neck. Her gasps were moist in my ear. Her groans were soft as I tugged her hair from behind. Her nipples began to harden under her lacy top, and when her round, firm breasts were revealed to me, they were capped attentively.

When I found myself kneeling on the floor before her couch, tugging her jeans down to reveal the equally lacy black panties under them, my cock was straining inside my jeans. I removed my shirt, parted her thick legs, and began to taste her. The panties were tugged aside, and I nipped at her thigh as a very lightly sparsed mound opened itself up before me. I swabbed her with my tongue. She gasped and cooed appreciatively.

After a short while, I was eager to see her ass. Turning her down and around, she rested her knees to the floor and bent comfortably with her tummy on the couch. I tugged the panties down and off an ankle, and knelt back as I enjoyed the sight her her womanly round derriere. Opening her up, I continued to taste her from behind, but soon switched to lay down on the floor itself with her thighs to the sides of my head, holding her hips gently as I lowered her pouty cunny toward my mouth. She was warm and rich and definitely moist, and her scent soaked my light beard and lips as she gently rode me.

Soon, I knelt up. I caressed her broad back, massaging her shoulders as she whimpered into the cushions. I moistened and began sliding my fingers inside her, probing her Gspot as I fucked her with my hands. My fingers teased, slid, twisted, cupped, fucked. When she finally came, I was stroking ribbed flesh within her body as she shuddered and quaked beautifully.

I stood and stepped to her bedside table, where a small stack of condoms already awaited me. Selecting one, I tore the package open with my teeth and continued to watch her, on hands and knees over the couch, as I rolled it down the length of me. I brought my knees to the carpet, held the base of my cock with my fist, and slowly guided it inside her thick body. She looked at me from over her shoulder, her mouth open, her breathing heavy. I ran my nails along her spine. I massaged her shoulders more as I started thrusting inside her. I gripped her wide hips and pumped, feeling her phat ass against me. When I started to grip her coiled hair and tug her head backward slightly, she cried out and shook once more.

I brought my pace down, smiled, stood up, and peeled the latex from my cock. She was still shaking gently and panting into the cushions when I reached for the wineglass on the floor and drained it.

Bringing ourselves up to the couch again, I coiled my arm around her waist and lay her across my lap. Her arms and head lay on the armrest of the couch as she realized what was about to come. She had already confessed to me that among her needs was to be spanked regularly, for "maintenance," so I saw no reason to let a fair opportunity like this go to waste.

I held her as we had a Time-Out moment to discuss what would be coming next. I gave her her safeword for the evening.

Once she was comfortably settled, my caresses to her bum shifted to gentle pats. Gradually, pats become slaps. Slaps became strikes. Upon one asscheek, then the other, I alternated and changed where I brought my palm to her submitting body. But knowing that she already had experience and desire in this kind of play, I didn't linger on gentility for very long. Soon, my palm was noisily striking across her seam in crisp, short strokes, and I smiled to myself as I felt it across my fingers. It had been a while.

She began to shudder again, and so my grip around her waist tightened as my other arm continued to alternate the intensity of my strikes. But this time, it wasn't an orgasm that was swelling up inside her, but tears. When the sniffling little thing was reduced to soft sobs, I gradually came to a stop.

The energy shifted. My first thought was that, like other subbies I've enjoyed back in the day at the BDSM clubs, she was of the kind to desire this sort of release. But, no. A nerve had been struck, she had been brought to a place she didn't necessarily want, and so the only thing left to do was to hold her and caress her and try to help her feel safe. Listening. Confirming the thought that, ok, this didn't go right. More listening.

This happens sometimes. And, in my experience, a healthy Top endeavors to handle it as gently as possible, as nurturingly as possible, especially with a new partner.

The silly tart hadn't used her safeword, and this elicited a strong but nurturing response from me. Lesson learned. "I need to trust that you'll alert Me when you've gone into an uncomfortable place, because I may be thinking that you're otherwise enjoying everything that's happening. I observe, I see, I'll make a call if it doesn't look like fun for you, but that doesn't mean I expect to do without your responses, baby."

Cuddles. Relaxation. Wine. Talking. Soon, we were discussing more about our shared interest in having Primary Partnership in our lives, and we each opened up about our respective backgrounds. The time went by enjoyably.

I would be spending the night. Her luxurious bed awaited us, and I smirked as I saw the Hitachi wand still tussled amongst burgundy sheets. Stripping, we slid under the duvet together and held one another.

She wanted me to read to her.

But that's another story.

And to my even later surprise, this otherwise lovely "night out for drinks" wouldn't become what it seemed like it could have been.

And that's another story too.

Tabletalk.

Hey. Good to see you. Come on in.

I'm just out on the deck here, at the barbecue. Gorgeous night, huh?

There's beer in the fridge, but help yourself to the bottle on the counter. Glasses are in the cabinet there. It's a really robust 2009 Tilia Malbec. Argentina. The new girlfriend picked it out for dinner last night, and I'm turned on by it.

You want cheese on your burger? Cheddar or provolone?

The new girlfriend?

Yeah. No, I haven't written about her yet, but she's fucking cool. And the really ironic part? She's mulâtresse. Actually, she dislikes that word and identifies as black, although I have to admit that the biracial thing is hot for me. And it blows my mind since it was just a short while ago that I was yearning at the stars, Aphrodite, for a black lover again. It's been since Pamela.

Those smell good. ...Hey, about your last post. Can I ask you something?

Go for it. Yeah, they do.

Alright, like, I know it's just a blog and all, but really, what were you thinking? I mean, you were pretty harsh there.

Mm. I love it when the flame embraces the meat like that, you know? Won't be long now. Yeah, I've been thinking about that, actually. Over the last day or two, I've had some interesting responses to it on the blog, in my personal email box, and even on FetLife. They run the spectrum.

Not everyone who reads the blog might be in the know as far as kink ideas are concerned. You said before that most of your readers seem to be women, and if someone found your blog for the first time and read that post, dude, you'd probably come off... well...

As an arrogant, misogynistic jerk airing personal dirty laundry in a public forum?

Well, kinda, yeah. They look done. You gonna toast the buns?

Already did. Yeah, that occured to me. But I'm hoping the context comes through.

Context?

Here you go. More wine? Just nudge her off of your seat there, she won't bite. Whoah, these look awesome.

Hell yeah.

So, yeah. I realize that that post was pretty volatile, but I was trying to make some important points. Normally, no, I wouldn't use the blog as a platform to target someone on some nasty personal level. I mean, sure, I've made the occasional snippy remark about my ex-wife, but even that's extremely rare and brief, and always, I hope, reflecting a bigger picture. And I've earned it. But to cite someone broadly like that? Not something I'd normally do.

So why do it to Little Ginger?

Well, for one thing, she kinda walked right into it. I mean, I was already wanting to draft some posts with my thoughts about the power dynamics behind topping anyway, but when she started targeting me with this weird nonsense, it just seemed like the perfect springboard to make an example with. I can be a little snarky anyway, but the writer in me just saw this delicious opportunity to use her actions as backdrop to illustrate that, for one thing, respecting Tops and Dominants is a pretty paramount feature to power exchange play. At least in my view. For me, the post really had less to do with her than it had to do with making that point. She became the perfect example of what not to do, and I ran with it. And it's not like she's going to be hurt by the post anyway, since, duh, her moniker is a pseudonym.

But don't you think a certain amount of detachment would have made a stronger point? Could I have the steak sauce? Christ, these burgers are great.

A friend actually suggested that very thing to me, and yeah, after more thought, I think maybe that's true. Being more objective does add to a strong argument, I agree. But, you know, at the same time... well, it's not like she didn't deserve some kind of punishment too, you know? It wasn't the main intent, no, but it's not like it was entirely accidental, either. Just not as much as perhaps some readers might have thought. Especially those who emailed me to say that I'm an ass.

Maybe some of those people were offended because they're SAMs too.

Sure, maybe. And SAMs generally dislike it when the jig is up for them and they've been called on their shit.

So, do you think then that any bratty sub is a SAM?

Oh, hell no. SAMs aren't just brats: they actively ruin a playsession or a scene because they're deliberately manipulative and personally hurtful. A bratty sub might totally enjoy whimpering and refusing to comply with instructions or do other things to play up the role, and I can easily see how a Top in that playspace could have scads of fun with it. But even in that kind of scene, it's still about the bratty sub's submission, eventually anyway, to the Top's playful "wrath." Being naughty to acquire "punishment" can be awesome fun. But SAMs are much more destructive: they say and do things that deliberately, consciously attempt to incite a Dominant into stronger and stronger retributive responses, and they'll do it with chiding, shaming, disrespectful remarks and taunts. That's just hurtful and sexually impolite. It would be like a man saying something shaming to his BBW partner about her bodytype when in the very middle of deep lovemaking, or a woman making a rude comment about her man's cock size in the same situation. It's just not something good, healthy, caring lovers would do. SAMs deflect their own inner demons by playing this you-can't-catch-me mindgame which is inherently unwinnable by a reactionary Dominant.

Why so?

Because it ruins the sense of power exchange. There is no power exchange: it becomes a battle of wills. A reactionary Dominant feels the need to stand ground, and so the matter just gets bigger and bigger. And most importantly, it becomes unfun.

At least for the Top. Is that like "topping from the bottom"?

Can be, I think.

So, what "context" was that last post written from? Or are you really an arrogant, misogynistic jerk?

I think the blog demonstrates pretty clearly that I'm anything but. Then again, that post...

Oh, c'mon. "Cuntswipe?"

Ha! Yeah, I have no idea where that came from. Not a word I've ever used before. Although, the new girlfriend I mentioned did tell me that she thought that was hysterical. But remember: that post was written in the context of a pissed-off Top actively in scene mode. I tried to indicate that by noting how my approach to Ginger changed when I figured her SAMmishness, and when I included the now-we're-in-scene warning label. I think I may write a post or two to help clarify things as well. Oh, hell, we're almost out of wine.

And the real violence you mentioned? You said your past BDSM mentors would wipe the walls with her, and that physical assaults could have happened.

I like to believe that the vasy majority of kinksters in the world are safe, sane, consensual-minded people, and I certainly count myself as among them. No, I certainly don't condone something like genuine physical assault. But, the fact of the matter is, SAMs push buttons on some people and sometimes, unfortunately, unpleasant results can and could happen. Now, that doesn't mean it's right or healthy or advisable or good, but it's one reason why fetish educator Laura Goodwin has even suggested that mortal injury can be a risk factor in those circumstances. Tops protect their territory; it's part of the whole point.

Have I witnessed genuine violence in such a situation? Yes. I've seen people slapped, backhanded, when something Really Ugly happened during a playparty or in a fetish club. People can be dramatic sometimes. People don't always think clearly.

I think it's important to remember that power exchange play, dominance and submission play, is about roles. Masks. It's supposed to be a game, like a grown-up version of "Cowboys And Indians" or "Cops And Robbers" or some sexually kinkified version of "House." Oh, it can get deeply serious, but there's something to be said, I think, relating those childhood roleplay scenarios to the naughty adult potentials.

So that also means that the game can, and often has, definite start and endpoints. Me, I'm a big stickler for ritual and protocol and symbols, so I use real and concrete ways to illustrate the parameters of a scene. It might be the gear I'm wearing: if that leather band is still on my left wrist, I'm still in Top mode, and if that collar is still around your pretty neck, we're still Playing. It might be a handsome candle that's burning: as long as it hasn't been blown out, the game continues. That sort of imagery allows players to sink deeply, and safely, into the skewed-but-scandalously-fun role dynamics happening during the scene. It also means that when the scene is over, we're equal partners again.

But it's all about roles, personas, roleplay. And people choose their roles, and how deeply or consistently they want to take them, based on their fantasies and experiences and what they want to achieve and/or release through the process. It's kind of like ancient ritual theater in that way; it's cthonic.

And that's also why there's a sense, at least a subtle one, of violence to Topping. In life, certainly no, I'd never dream of laying a hand on anyone. Well, not usually anyway. But to some extent, can't it be argued that a fundamental part of the mythology behind this whole Topping thing is the image, the hint, the whisper of a chance that he or she could fuck you up? Isn't that part of the playful element of danger to it all? And, for that matter, wouldn't any self-respecting Top possess some amount of arrogance? Now, that doesn't mean that I really believe that women can or should be threatened or treated with sexist disrespect... but it might mean that, during a pre-negotiated, limited, consensual, limits-respecting scene between trusting partners who know what they are doing is a game, a roleplay, yeah, I just might call you some nasty name when you've "transgressed" and "require punishment."

So, are you saying that taking on any role means you're basically faking it?

No, I don't think so. It depends and what you want out of it, no? Sometimes people wear one role because their daily lives are so entrenched with its opposite: the submissive male who, during the day, is a barking corporate CEO for example, and who seeks release from the stress of responsibility. Or, the other way around, someone with real authority in the daily lives who enjoys that authority so much that they carry it into their sexplay. And then, there are people for whom the roles are entirely and happily fluid, and can wield a riding crop just as quickly and easily as receive the strokes of one. Those sorts of kinksters, it seems to me, are more interested in the shared physical sensations of the toys than in delving into the theatric psychodrama of the power exchanging. But that's just me. In any event, it's all good.

What about 24/7 kinksters? And Ginger's remark about "true Doms"?

For me, trying to be in Topspace 24/7 would be a huge amount of work. Besides, I adore knowing that my intimate partners are, in daily life, my equals: I expect her to have her own pursuits, goals, and interests outside of me. I think doing extended play over a few days would be a blast, but then there are times when I don't feel like making all the decisions too. And, again, that's me.

And this whole "true Dom" stuff is, as far as I'm concerned, hurtful, splitting nonsense. I'm certain that even the haughtiest, slickest, most deliciously ominous professional dominatrix with a walk-in closet full of PVC and leatherwear has her days when she just wants to kick back and catch Sex In The City reruns over a tub of ice cream.

Ooo ice cream. Have any for dessert?

The word of the manor lord.

I swear. I was minding my own business, when all of a sudden...

"Awwwwww how can one be a dom without dominating someone? Bring it on... Ur about as dominent (sic) as a baby boomer with a golden spoon in it's (sic) mouth..."

Oh, for the love of God.

(And, for starters, I'm first-wave Gen-X, not a Boomer, thank you very much.)

Remember Little Ginger? Probably not. The naked truth is that she was barely a blip in my dating life.

Short recap: A late20s curvy redhead in the campus security biz with Toronto police aspirations and supposedly submissive interests. We connected through a dating site. She plied me with praise and longing. I wasn't entirely convinced, cynic that I am, but I took her out for a relaxed night of pub food and improv comedy anyway. As a date, it was actually really fun. Yet after some more banter she decided that she couldn't pursue anything further.

"I'm just a little girl who came in her pants too soon," she would tell me. Fine, I shrugged. It would have been nice to turn her sassypants over my knee, but no big deal. Little did I know how much she would genuinely deserve to have those sassypants over that knee after all.

So, this post is also something of a rant.

(Side note: Hey, Maeva? Remember when I told you that normally I wouldn't get all pissy about a partner/almost-partner on the blog? Well, this'll be one of the exceptions.)

"Maybe I just have to stop being friends with you. Your statuses are always 'I am enjoying this, with this, while doing this' and it is the most decedent (sic) thing in the world!!! They don't really inspire common ground, insite (sic) discussion, or encourage rapport. It actually makes me think of a Marie Antoinette, or like a lusty lord partaking in only the finest of his land."



Hrm. A 'lusty lord partaking in only the finest of his land.' Yes. Yes, I can handle that.

Bring me my cognac, wench.

But let me explain.

After my one date with Little Ginger, months ago, we became Facebook friends. Like so many others with Facebook friends, we stayed in touch on occasion at best, and when we did, it was usually me trying to make some kind of supportive remark when she would rant about whateverthehell she felt like negatively ranting about.

I "liked" her photos. I gave her life-goal advice when she asked for it. I was, in short, a perfectly nice and mentorship-minded kinda guy. She would eventually move to Saskatchewan (God knows why), and I figured our "friendship" would simply remain a cordial if distant one. Fine.

Now, about my Facebook: I have two. One reflecting this blog (which I may or may not continue), and my "real life" me. Some of you (and don't you feel special?) are Friends with me on both. On that profile, I rarely-if-ever cite anything related to this blog, and seem to use my "status update" thang to be inquisitive, reflective, seditious, satirical, meditative, sarcastic, or... God help us... positive. Little Ginger is right: many of my status updates there reflect moments of joy, decadence, and pleasure.

Why? Because, in my view, life can rob us of those moments in an instant if we allow it too. Call me an avatar to Dionysus, but I sincerely believe that hedonism is a life pursuit in any way we can make it. I sincerely believe that there is no strife, no struggle, no strain that can't be transcended to save our own emotional and mental health with the right application of good food, good drink, or a good screw. I'm a sybarite.

Am I enjoying a great wine after a hard day at work? Status update. Jesus, those ribs on my barbecue were amazing. Status update. Ami gives me a lime macaroon that, just the previous morning, was still in a bake shop located in Paris? Status update, baby.



Little Ginger, it would seem, really disliked it when I made these status updates that were, shall we say, pleasant. Go figure. And so, completely out of the blue, she began spamming my Facebook wall and filling my inbox with these offensive little tirades. Now, why the hell would she do that?

Little Ginger: "Maybe I'm just being a hater, or cynical... Probably I am. But I am also an aggressive douche and I don't know why I have to be nice all the time and ur statuses whenever I read them make me want to punch you."

blink
blink blink

Me: "I don't understand this sudden, unexplained, unnecessary, unprovoked, undeserved hostility from you."

What the fuck is she talking about?

Me: We went our separate ways, fine. The truth is that you barely know a thing about me and you decided to cut and run before you ever had the chance. Now, that's your choice. But I still don't understand why you're suddenly behaving like a morose little churl..."

Skip ahead, skip ahead, skip ahead. I keep trying to figure out where all this is coming from, what the problem is. But, gradually, I realize that I'm simply wasting energy. And then, rather than actually respond to my very-confused, very-real questions, she flanks me and drops the above-noted shell about my being a Top.

Ohhh..., I realize. That's what this seems to be about. Now I'm annoyed.

Me: "So this is about my approach to kink. You, child, have never had the privilege of my space in that department. You fucked up your chance.

Little Ginger: "I fucked up my chance?"

Yeah. Because you were, as you put it then, 'just a kid who came in her pants too soon' just at the sight of me on our date. Our, remember, first (and only) date. Our, remember, non-kink-related date.

And then I figure it out: Little Ginger is trying to be a SAM. She's just trying to stir up trouble, drama, unnecessary bullshit. Christblood, but I hate SAMs.

And that realization changed everything.



WARNING:
Do you see this black leather bracer
now adorning my left wrist?
Do you see the set of restraint keys
now tinkling at my left hip?
Do you see the black cotton kerchief
swaying from my left rear pocket?
Good.
The remainder of this post is written in Topspeak. Hup to.

So here is why I'm including her stupid little tirade on this blog. Little Ginger had thrown a gauntlet.

Now, again, remember: Little Ginger and I have never Played. She has no clue what I do in a Scene. She is not criticizing from an informed place of experience into what I like, what I do, or how I do it. Apart from a little flirting, we never had a conversation about kink, bondage, or anything even closely related. In fact, I'd be surprised if she had ever been inside a functioning, real dungeon or blackroom or playparty... ...Because if she had, I am certain that someone would have given her some fucking idea of how to (and how not to) behave.

In short, Miss Sassypants here don't know shit.

Kinkster Rule Number One:
Barring the near-unrealistic situation where you are genuinely placed in mortal danger, you treat the Tops, the Dominants, the Mistresses, the Masters, with respect. You shut the hell up, you do it, and you like it.

Does this really need saying?

Why? Not only because They know how to fuck you up. But because They hold the keys to the tools that you will be subjected to, even if representationally. Because They are the ones who are investing time and love and skill and nurturance and protection and affection and patience and money and effort into your sorry subbie ass in order to bring you to the forbidden ecstacies that you motherfucking went to Them for in the first motherfucking place. Because, when you have the privilege of being social and in public around Them, They are the peers to your Top or Dominant or Master or Mistress, and to minimize Them minimizes yours. Because, if for no other reason, acting like a stupid little guttersnipe reflects poorly on you, your training, and your Top's choice in you.

Because it's about discipline. Disrespect a Top, especially your Top, and you disrespect yourself.

Me: "As far I'm concerned, a smartmouthed little snipe (which is the way you're behaving right now) doesn't have the privilege of criticizing someone who've been active on that scene for more than 20 years. You know nothing of what I've done, and continue to do."

Little Ginger: "Domination starts with mental engagement before you even step near the bedroom- you were far too accomidating (sic) to be a true dom. Or maybe with the very submissive women there was not even mental fight- but I guess what men like right? The easy target?.."



A "mental fight." Right. I do this because I like to have "mental fights."

My "targets" aren't "easy." They are sophisticated, educated, articulate, imaginative, freespirited, liberated, emotionally mature, sexually conscious women whom have had the courage to embrace their fantasies and the awareness to do so in safe, sane, consensual ways.

Some of them can even spell.

Me: "I see. So you seem to think that Tops must, I suppose, behave like ignorant, brutish neanderthals. I was "accomodating" because... what? Because on a relaxed, social date, I took you for food and laughs instead of a bruising? Because the communication we've since shared was me being supportive to you?

You so unimpress me. I thought you were more sophisticated than this... If bullies who deride, insult, threaten, abuse women in their daily lives are your vision of Top males, I am confident you'll find your love match in a prison. You'd be wading through dangerous waters if that was your expectation out of a First Date with someone you'd never met before."

There's a long pause before she replies.

Little Ginger: "It's just talking, and mind fucking. I do it all the time. I eat men I just met for breakfast. I would love for one of them to rise to the occation (sic)......"

Me: "If that's seriously what you seek, what you are, then take some advice: It isn't cool. It isn't sexy. You are deluding yourself if you think it makes you attractive or desirable to be around. You have a lot to learn... about yourself, about people, about communication, and as far as I'm concerned, certainly about kink. Rational, intelligent people aren't interested in mindgames. And this is why, and how, yes, you fucked up your chance. Are you really that inexperienced?"

And then she responds with something that's actually almost lucid.

Little Ginger: "I am not talking mind games, I am talking about handing people a thought which ignites a touch. Put people into a mind state where a look can rise lust, the sound of one breath can make you stiff and the trailing of a finger tip can release you mind into a state or the ultimate submission to pleasure..."



Hrm. I actually can't disagree.

But, for me, I see several vital steps missing.

How would someone like her expect to reach that plateau with a partner without first developing a sense of trust, of communication, of intimacy? Little Ginger, it would seem, expects to be bullied into a dominant/submissive dynamic. And her way of "criticizing" my gentlemanly approach to our date seems to be to taunt me into exacting retribution.

SAMs, at least one of Little Ginger's apparent stripe, can be such a headache.

So, on that, let me take this full circle.

What Little Ginger is doing is asinine. If I were to respond in the way she apparently expected, to get furious and threaten her with divine wrath, that would be playing right into her hands. That would be making an ass of myself. That would be me abdicating my own sense of Topspace self-control, my own Topspace discipline unto myself.

Not that I think that divine wrath is undeserved. Yes, it is true: back in the day, I could easily see someone like this little guttersnipe getting what she justly deserves. Publicly. And yes, the police would have damned likely been called afterward... but that still wouldn't stop the response from happening. My past mentors would have wiped the walls with Little Ginger and used her for community bullwhip practice over Chambord shots afterward.

(Corrine? Buzzy? Linda? Pam? Miss you guys.)

But, you know, the 80s are gone and committing actual physical assault isn't exactly cool anymore.

So. Ginger? I have a better idea.

How about I not backhand you and do something else. Because, you see, all you've done here is demonstrate to Me exactly how unworthy you are of My time. No, I'm not going to spank you or paddle you fiery red or cane you or hogtie you next to a jar of red ants or "rise to the occation" in any way that you would like to expect.

Why? Because, you ignorant little trollop, you're right about at least one thing.

I am the lusty lord who partakes in the finest in His land.

And you, you pretentious little cuntswipe, are far from the finest in My land. Because, yes, My Topspace is about My pleasures, My joyfullness, My taking what I wish from the courageously pliant and seductively beautiful and happily playful sirens and pets and playtoys and stray kittens and bottoms and waifs and curvy belles that cross My path and please Me so. Because my Topspace is about My fun, and they who enjoy My efforts unto them do so for their fun under My company, and because you and your childish little tirades are not fun for Me or for Us. I am too experienced, too sophisticated, too way ahead of you to even see your presence in an otherwise empty room.

So, no. Your peurile attempts at admonishment are ridiculous. I, and those with whom I share My pleasure, are out of your league.

But you will be disciplined.

My pleasure, My discipline for you is this: to light my Gurkha from the smoldering embers of the burning bridge now between us, then to turn My back to you, strolling away with pleasure and decadence and command in my heretic's heart. We grown-ups have more important things to do.

Dismissed.

Go.

Die einreichende Walküre.

This post may be a little anticlimactic and a little surreal, and if so, it's only because this most recent experience was as well.

The Valkyrie and I have been Just Friends for more than ten years.

We met when I was first visiting Canada, before the damned marriage that led to me taking residence here. I'd been visiting Toronto to teach some workshops, quickly found myself among a crowd of mostly interesting people, and immediately wound up seduced by one of her friends (but that's another story). The days when I was more innocent and impressionable.

(Oh, shut up.)

I visited Canada more often, dated other women from among that crowd of interesting people, and eventually moved here to pursue the aformentioned marriage-made-in-hell (and again, that's another story). But the friendship between The Valkyrie and I continued to grow, mostly founded on our shared interests, our drinking, and generally being opinionated, outspoken people in a British commonwealth nation where no one tells you what's really, truly, honestly on their fucking minds.

The Valkyrie is a very Teutonic, early40s damn-near-platinum longhaired blonde BBW who would look absolutely natural were she to come to dinner dressed in amber-decorated armor and carrying a seven foot pike bearing the head of her ex-boyfriend. She'd be the perfect alewife, clad in a heavy boustier and with her massive fists sporting two or three pottery tankards of frothing brew, except that she's far more likely to be among the drinkers at the worn wooden table beside the fire than she would be the wench to serve it.

Yes, it's true, she and I have been flirty with one another for years and years. Yes, during a mutual birthday party that we threw for one another, I semi-drunkenly tugged her into a private nook to give her a "friendly" kiss. (...Um, ok. I thought it was a private nook... it wasn't unti, loooong after when I was told her then-boyfriend witnessed thw whole thing. Oopsie.) And, yes, it's true, over the years, she's talked to me for friendship and counsel about her own sex life on the rare occasion.

But, and I swear on a stack of Prose Eddas, everything in the back of my mind was simply Just Friends flirtaciousness. Really.

Alright. There was the one time she came over my pad for dinner and there was... this tension... and the underlying question of, "Valkyrie, darling, are you here because you wanted to fuck?" It certainly seemed that she wanted to. Over a few glasses of wine, the question hung in the air, but in the end, both word and body languange made it clear that she had reservations. So nothing happened. And that was fine. We've been Just Friends, after all. And it quickly was put out of my mind. No worries.

So if you're getting the impression by now that there's apparently been this odd, lingering, hot-and-cold vibe from the Valkryrie, you'd be right.

Now try to imagine where my headspace was when, totally and completely out of the blue, I suddenly get this call from her some time after public knowledge among my friends was that I was single again. My headspace was in Complete Dismissal when it came to the Valkyrie. Totally off my radar. Not even a blip in the fuckability option department. Long gone.

So when she starts asking for my advice about how to best approach a bdsm scenario that she's been thinking about, I blinked a little to myself (because, lemme tell ya, the Valkyrie woulda been the last woman I'd have expected to have submissive fantasies) and simply offered my straightfoward, friendship-based, objective thoughts. Not a problem. Happy to help. That's what sex-positive friends are for, dude.

But what began as an unexpected little chat with an old friend quickly became a bizarre, though not unpleasant, gradual mental gymnastics session of leapfrogged ideas and expectations. Let me explain.

Let's call it a "performance art project" that she wanted to pursue, and one that would involve the Valkyrie submitting herself to an experienced dominant male who would escort her through a bondage experience that would intentionally result in her orgasm. That we share some background in such things is one reason, as she said, why she approached me, plus she knew about my background in kink, and she trusts me. So, when I invited her over to my place for a relaxed dinner to discuss all this with her in detail, I thought I'd be trying to learn more about her (sudden?) interest in kinkplay while also trying to get an idea of what sort of art piece she was envisioning. Because, over time and further discussion, it was apparent that wanted me to be her partner in this.

Whoah, said I to myself. So, my inner voice continued, you're not just asking for my thoughts, but to be my playpartner for said art piece? Hrm...

Maybe I would have been more relaxed had she just come out and asked me to do this from the get-go. I know I wasn't entirely thrilled to have had to put it together, despite the fact that such a request was, in reality, a charming and sensitive offer. But I'm kvetching.

She comes for dinner. I make some succulent marlin steaks in a light ginger-tamari sauce with butter-sauteed creminis. She breaks out some really excellent Hells Angels hydroponic cannabis. Good food, good hard cider, good weed, and a good friend who seems to be rekindling an interest in my bod and I'm feeling very, very nice.

But the Little Voice in my head knew that something was still amiss here, although I couldn't put my finger on it. Perhaps the best decision would be to take things one step at a time. Test the waters. See what's what. There'd be plenty of time to see where the Valkyrie's head was at as far as her submissive fantasies were concerned.

And it was when I was in this thought, in this cannabis-hued fog, when she stood close to me and pressed her double-D treasures against my arm and kissed me deeply.

"I've been waiting for you, you know," she said.

Had I been totally sober, I might have quirked my head to one side and asked her about that. But I wasn't. Instead, my hands reached upward and were soon squeezing two handfuls of very blonde, very German, very big tit, and I couldn't stop the laughter at the unusual (for me) experience of it all.

The bedroom. The Valkyrie, topless. My hands and mouth, feasting. Her wide and pink areolae. The snap of her jeans before my face. My teeth at her fleshy ribs as I undid it and lowered them. Denim being pulled down her legs. Her white panties. Her shaven mound. Her thighs in my hands as I closed my eyes and feasted, elsewhere, again.

I knelt up, stripped off my shirt. How odd to see my longtime friend before me, on her back on my back, naked. How interesting to see myself lubing my hands as she parted her strong legs wider. How the heat of her clung to my skin after I teased her open and began to slide my fingers... one, two, three... four... two from one hand and three from another... deeper, gently pistoning, moving inside her body. Her pussy opened like an orchid for me, and the Valkyrie gasped and bit her lips as she clutched the sheets, panted, and screwed her eyes tight. My hands glistened in the lamplight. She came into my palms.

On my back. She's kneeling beside me. My hands caress through her long, perfectly straight, platinum hair as the back of her slowly bobbing head fills my hand gently. I'm sinking into the pillow as I feel the cider, the weed, the food, and her soft and open mouth gently taking the head of me inside. It's a relaxed, slow movement that she's doing, no real suction to speak of, but a gentle bob of mouth and lip with the occasional dart of tongue. Gentle. Pleasant. She holds the base of me firmly in her fist, her face away from me, her body leaning against mine.

"You are just so... perfectly shaped," she tells me between tastes.

(Mm. Nice. I love it when lovers tell me that sort of thing. In my experience, so many women don't say what they're liking. Tell me. Men like to hear it too.)

I tug her up, bring her face to mine for deep kisses. My hands slowly down her spine, her hips, grasping her generous behind. Her kisses become deeper still when she feels my fingers teasing her rosebud, and her heart quickens. She's straddling my thigh, grinding her core against me.

I get the hint. I slowly spin around and over her, and she's already assuming a yielding position as she pulls a pillow under her breasts and parts her legs while raising that butt a little higher. My thighs at either side of hers as I kneel up, reach into the drawer nearby, and warm the lube in my hands before teasing her crinkled hole with it. By the time I'm noisily stroking my hardness and getting it wet, she's biting her lower lip and whispering very quietly.

"Yes, please, God, yes."

The tip of me against her, and I'm surprised at how fluidly, how easily she takes me in. She tenses just slightly, but soon I sense it's more from pleasure and expectation than discomfort, so it isn't long before my fists are just above her shoulders as I deeply stroke myself into her body. I'm fucking my friend of more than a decade in her ass.

She's gasping, her eyes clenched shut, repeating my name. I set myself to thrust my cock in long, steady strokes and feel the perspiration between my shoulderblades. I hold her open more with a palm gripping her right asscheek as I piston myself inside her in consistent, steady motions until she starts to stiffen underneath me. Shudders. Quaking. A brief moment of total, ecstatic silence just before her loud shout and whimper as she feels her cum build and finally crest while she's getting taken. I don't relent, I don't slow down just yet, I don't show her mercy, and she's getting the full length of me deep.

Her eyes open, her breathing steadies, and only then do I relax and bring myself to a gradual stop. I withdraw, we cuddle, and snooze for a short while in the lamplight.

"I think," she slowly says after I've left the bed to warm some towels for us, "that... that's the first time I've ever cum by being fucked in the ass..."

I smile. The rest of our evening was relaxing, full of talk and discussion, before we drifted to sleep. It was nice to not be in an empty bed again. The cats squeaking in the morning. A light breakfast. Tea. Showers.

"Would you like to fuck me in my ass again?"



I did note that this post would be anticlimactic. I was certainly anticlimactic, and experience has taught me that when I don't cum with a lover, there's usually a subliminal reason. True, that frequently happens the first time I'm with someone new, but my cells were telling me that it was something more.

Was it because she and I had been Just Friends for so long? Maybe. But if Bree ever found herself in my bed (and you'll learn about Bree in a future post), I have no doubt that my bursts would reach the stratosphere. So maybe it was because during our friendship, it's been on-again, off-again flirty with the eventual (seemingly) entrenched conclusion that Nothing Was Gonna Happen.

And maybe it was because, once this new vanillafucking started, the Valkyrie seemed to speed from zero-to-sixty. She wanted to share a bdsm-related art art project with me. Really? Sounds like fun! Ok, let's talk. She's been "waiting for me." Waiting for me? But... you've been blowing me off for years. No, she wants to be my playpartner. Uh, ok. Can we still talk about the project you want to do? No, she wants to be my slave... whoa, that's a big step, you sure you know what you're... She wants to be my girlfriend. Huh? Um, hang on, maybe cool, yeah I'm single right now, but you're going a little... She wants to see me every weekend... fast here...

Now, you'd think that I, being single now and potentially thrilled to encounter a partner with a passion for kinkplay and someone who already knows me really well, would have been flying high happy. But I'm also conscientious and a little bit of a cynic, and when my synapses are starting to hit overload, I've learned to listen.

And I like the Valkyrie. I really do, but I was starting to feel a little railroaded. I was still adjusting past the wait-we're-Just-Friends stage when I was being essentially told what my weekend schedules would start to be like.

You like me? Awesome! You wanna fuck me? Sweet! You want to splay yourself across my lap and be my playpartner? Cool! You wanna be my girlfriend? Yay, great!

But... could I be included in this decision-making process too?

It's slightly challenging to write this sort of thing because, you know, I'd be thrilled to be in a bonafide relationship again. I would. But if I can't do it with my eyes and head and heart and voice and priorities and boundaries open, being listened to as much as I work hard to be listening, then hey, I'd rather stay single. Good sex is great, it's a requirement, but dude, it isn't all of it. Not for a relationship.

So I was on the threshold of having A Conversation about this consciousness with the Valkyrie and see about happily working with her in her kinky art project alone for a while when the Fates helped decide it all for me. Within three weeks of our tawdry tussle, she had explored a kinky social site enough to connect with someone else, another male Top, in another city. She seemed smitten.

Oh. Ok.

She actually asked for my permission to pursue this other guy. What struck me the most about that was that, by doing so, she clearly had already developed kink expectations that I was her Top. I wasn't. Not by a long shot. One (ok, two) assfucks and a homecooked dinner does not your Top make.

Do I need to vanillafuck every potential subbie playmate before I consensually, happily use&abuse 'em? No. (Oddly, had I just dove straight into bdsm Top-headspace instead of as a relaxed-guy-just-taking-her-out-on-a-date-and-getting-to-know-you with Little Ginger, I very probably would have had her as Silly Putty in my hands too.) But because of all the mental gymnastics I found myself in, because subbie play is a totally new shiny for her, because sometimes I worry about her headspace and any possible fragilities under her double-D armour, I wanted to approach things an ittybittytitty step at a time.

Had she been collared by Me, yes, asking would have certainly been appropriate... but in my mind, we had barely scratched the surface. I never had a chance to catch up to the paradigms that she seemed to increasingly, rapidly want.

And trust Me, had I taken her under my glove, she would have fucking known.

We're still friends, of course. As best as I can, I've decided to keep a discrete eye on her because she's a kink beginner and God knows there are some pretty loopy dudes out there too. If it comes up again, maybe, yeah, I'll see about helping her in her project. But, as I continue in a nonpartnered world, I'm also a little relieved.

Rogue finally submits.

I accomplished a longstanding goal recently.

I've enjoyed writing erotica for years, but it's been only recently that I've finally decided to take the action that I've been nagging myself to do and send a decent submission for publication. I've been published before, and usually on other topics, but for some reason I just haven't been pursuing my intentions to do more in the sex-positive realm.

A recent submission call by Cleis Press changed that, and I've issued a light femdom, male subbie, first-timer tale entitled "Bad Influences" for their upcoming Sweet Love project.

It was an amusing exercise to twist my brain into male subbie space. Maybe a dirty martini will fix that.

But, exclusively for youse Urban Roguery readers, here's a taste of my, uh, submission...

* *

I bobbed my outstretched palms and fingers on his flesh, feeling his bubble shape and patting him. His ass filled my hands nicely. I slowly drew a finger or two up and along the seam between his cheeks, enjoying how pert he really was. Daringly, I slowly probed a finger inside further, found his anus, and teased it with a fingertip. It was warm and soft and tight, and I gave a little pressure under the very outermost ring of his sphincter when it started to clutch the tip of my finger.

My arms still around him, I felt him tense up as he pulled back just slightly. The quizzical look on his face was precious.

“Um. What are you doing?”

Did I see the hint of a smile under those widened, glittering eyes?

“I’m enjoying my man,” I smirked, looking up. I pressed my forearms firmly against his strong legs and held him, my hands sending a clear message: stay just where you are, dude.

Finding tribe.

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Sunday comics.

...continued...

Kara's birthday spankings.

She was already under the blankets, casually reading an erotic novel from my bedroom bookcase as I came in from work. I enjoy it when she lets herself in. She looked to me with a smile as I came upstairs, and the smile remained as I slowly stripped before her to get into the shower.

The day before, we strolled on Yonge Street to enjoy some birthday shopping. (Yeah. I'm a guy. And I shop. Deal with it.) At Northbound, we picked up a sharp black PVC evening gown and charming black satin corset, and later found some racy shoes to match both. Gradually, my little spitfire is creating quite the fetish collection, which is as it should be if she's going to drape her arm (or lap) over mine at deliciously sinful venues.

I had already given her a large box from Jacob the week before that contained a very sheer black sweater, a satin miniskirt and a shimmering bra and panty set. The metallic studs on the black and purple bra could easily be seen through the thin sweater, giving Kara an excellent dancefloor look. Our mission for the evening was to visit the store again and confirm my sizing choices, since we wanted her to be completely comfortable during the coming playparty before her impending fate made her completely uncomfortable.

Anticipation had been building up for weeks: Kara was to experience her first public birthday spanking session, and she had been left a-quiver as she waited for me in my bed. It had been at least two years since I last had the pleasure of administering birthday spankings with a lover, and so I thoroughly was enjoying seeing my waif whimper and whine for a while. She's so cute.

Despite how striking and precious the PVC is, she opted for the Jacob ensemble for the evening's play. Its miniskirt and panties would certainly make for easier access and more subby-appropriate vibe for what diabolical plans lay ahead of her. She had already taken it upon herself to polish the linked steel ringlets that adorn one of my favourite leather collars, and this fit charmingly around her throat to shower her upper chest with diamond-like glitterance.

Red attire was the theme for tonight's playparty, which I met with a sensual scarlet shirt under my leather officer's cap. Kara's contribution to redness would soon be her blistering, tight, naked and pert little ass.



Hands down, Goodhandy's is the most cosmopolitan venue I've ever been to. "Toronto's Pansexual Playground" is foremost a den for the local queer community, but is so adventurously openminded that people from any orientation or interest can and does taste its forbidden fruits and all in complete harmony with one another.

It was Dancing Nazi who first caught my eye as we entered the club. A buff dude grooving to DJ Jimi Lamort's tunage with his nearly naked partner, his Nazi replica uniform bugged me. Not because of what it was, mind you, but because the history buff in me was peturbed that he had mixed his insignia all wrong. Go figure.

And how often does one have the opportunity in life to watch a Nazi... dancing? Life can be so weird.

Leave it to Kara to steer my attention toward more topical eye candy. Nursing our ciders, we drooled at th sight of a sensual lioness n the dancefloor, a lithe and bald woman in a PVC gown very alike that which Kara chose not to wear for the evening. Alone, she swayed fluidly on the floor, and heartily beamed when we later shared how much we had enjoyed watching her.

Another couple, a plump Asian woman with a very athletic grunge blonde, kissed sensually as they swayed. Multiple couples of muscular men gyrated and filled the house with laughter. T-girls shuffled about in perfumed packs, eyeing one another enviously and each striving to command as much ambient space as possible. Kara and me took it all in, whispering to each other joyfully as we drank and moved to the tunes.

Until it was time.

I took her hand and led her upstairs to the play area. A blonde twink tended bar (yes, a 'drink twink'...) there, around whom a few voyeuristic dudes watched the dancing below from the balcony. A robust, mulatto woman with long, golden dreadlocks was receiving a light whipping on her naked ass by a muscular dark black dude as she rested on all fours on a table. A lesbian couple relaxed with their drinks in an alcove. Numerous individual men, gay and not-so-gay, enjoyed the action.

I made our way for a reasonably empty spot near the other end of the balcony where an unused spanking bench sat lonely and isolated. It wasn't very long before Goldielocks' nearby flogging came to an end and the area began to clear of most of the voyeurs. Once the space opened some, I commandeered it by turning the lonely spanking bench into a position that suited me, with its upper tier facing what I knew would become new voyeur space and its rear close to the back wall but allowing me plenty of safe movement room. The area was dim, with the blended scent of cologne, bodies, and drinks. Shafts of light from nearby spotlights in the rafters beamed down to the dancefloor but yielded an ambient glow to the area. The thumping thunder from the DJ's work below pulsated through the floor.

I sat Kara down on the bench as I lay my bag of tricks on a shelf that ran along the back wall, moving some candles and empty beer bottles. I went to Drink Twink for some ice, and he looked at me with that slight sneer that gay boys are wont to do when they feel like being judgmental, but his attitude cleared up rightquick when it dawned on wee li'l him that he was being addressed by a Top that wasn't just looking for free fucking ice.

I stood before Kara and held her head in my hands, giving her a slow and wet kiss.

"How do you feel?"

She smiled.

I grasped the short, dark hair at the nape of her neck and slowly pulled her around and upward until she was in position, on her hands and knees on the two-tiered spanking table. I rested her forehead all the way down to the polished wood before turning away to stand behind her and near my bag on the shelf. Leaving her there untouched, I knew the voyeurs would begin to gather around again as I set my toys in a neat little row along the shelf while my back was to her. By the time I turned around, a gathering had come but nicely remained at a respectably workable distance. Among them was Goldielocks.

I didn't waste time. After a few gentle shoulder rubs, I went for Kara's backseat jugular and hoisted her hem up and over her pert heiney. Her panties framed her most nicely, and with only the minimal amount of warm-up, I began an openhanded assault on her delicious little ass. I wanted her to see stars. I wanted her to twitch and yelp aloud. I wanted her writhing and her face looking at me from over her shoulder with a shocked and embarassed expression, wide-eyed and stunned, as she received her birthday spanking. I wanted her to thoroughly entertain every hungry pair of eyes, male and female, gay and straight alike, with her public punishment.

And I got what I wanted.

I had count aloud, marking each of her years with every spank. Of course though, my memory lapsed from time to time... seventeen does come after thirty-two, right? Oh well. Damn that grade school I went to. Better start over.

Kara's ass was bare and red and glowing by the time I paused long enough to slip some ice into her mouth. She was panting yet breathless, her face even redder than her posterior as she strained to keep her forehead against the wood. She looked at me pleadingly.

"Are you alright?" I smirked.

She nodded slowly, blinked, panted some more, and gratefully swallowed the water that melted along her tongue.

Behind her again, and now I pressed against her lower back to guide herhips even closer to the edge of the upper tier to the bench. This raised her butt even higher, giving her lithe body a pretty but uncomfortable S-curve. By now her bare knees were feeling the wood too.

I drank a swig of my cider, and looked around me. Some looked right back, smiling and nodding most approvingly. Others couldn't take their eyes off of my pet. One man sat nearby, slowly stroking his cock. One of the lesbians gently played with her partner's earlobe as they watched.

I retrieved one of my slappers and began giving my pet a series of loud, cracking smacks on her raised behind. Kara wiggled and squirmed, especially when I used my other hand to hold the crotch of her panties and tug them upward to apply pressure to her swelling and drenched clit. I rained punishment along her thighs, which sent her into jolts. I held her head up by tugging her hair, forcing her to look at the crowd which so enjoyed seeing her suffer.

"I love you. Are you having fun?"

She smiled and nodded. "I love you too."

I paused. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes."

I smiled and returned to my cider. I took a long look at Kara's glowing ass, round and red but still somehow ready for more. I turned to one of the lesbians who had moved closer to me.

"Hi," I said. "So, it's her birthday... would you like to help me out?"

One of the things I learned when I was bouncing and supervising playparty scenes back in my pro-dom days was how to raise the bar of fun in a safe, well-considered way. If you're going to seek "audience participation," it's healthy and wise to know how to read body language and observe that someone understands a sense of protocol. If a Top is going to offer the utmost in generosity and actually offer his or her pet to a stranger, intuition and resilient observation is vital.

But this woman only blushed and stammered, smiling in her quiet and polite refusal. Oops: I had picked a submissive. Still, it was adorably cute. But I was undeterred and wanted a sharing. Somehw I knew I wouldn't be turned down again if I sought a guy. Call it a wild guess.

Greek Guy looked presentable and intelligent, and he had been enraptured with my handiwork. When approached, he almost came in his pants at the opportunity to participate, and I gave him a crash course in certain ground rules before squatting down near Kara's head. I gave her a sip of cider and more ice. Her ass remained high in the air. Caressing Kara's head, I kept a watch on Greek Guy as he stood behind my pet and began with a series of very light spanks.

He had a (shall we say) interesting technique, beginning with a rapid fluttering of his outstretched fingertips that only barely met her skin. Her firm ass jiggled slightly under each series of rapid butterfly swats, which he would then finish off with only a moderate final smack. He was completely enjoying and behaving himself, but for Kara this treatment was a cool-down. Not entirely a bad thing, but not where I wanted to take her yet.

(Later, Kara and I would call this the "good kitty" technique, and mimicked it while rapidly patting one of her cats on its head. "Goodkittygoodkitty...")

It was Goldielocks who helped me make the evening. Even though I had seen her on the receiving end of a lash, somehow my instinct told me that she was an experienced, sex-positive switch. I was right: she positively beamed when she was invited to help me wish Kara her happy birthday.

Goldielocks was an earth mother. Those long, golden dreads rained down her light brown back like a lioness' mane, and her eyes shimmered with sharpness and wit. Buxom and broadshouldered, I could easily see her gyrating with thunderous feet around a bonfire as djembe players resounded on a lakefront beachhead. I could see her smoking cigars. I could see her downing whiskey. She resonated with fun. I liked her instantly.

I gave Kara a break and let her kneel up, sip some more cider. I introduced them.

"How shall she address you?" I asked Goldielocks. "Ma'am... or Sir?"

She chuckled deeply. "Sir."

Smiling, I looked down to Kara and back to Goldielocks. "Have fun." I walked aside and leaned against the back shelf, confident my pet was in good hands.

And she was. Goldielocks' hands were soon all over Kara, caressing and stroking and teasing her little faerie titties. Kara was in bliss, like a little domestic kitten caught by some wild mother tigress, and soon found herself back in position as her new friend had her way. The nearby lesbian couple sat up with rapt attention. Submissive girl practically drooled. The crowd of men doubled, and soon I was standing to maintain acceptable distance as I supervised what went on and guaranteed my lover her safety. With eye contact and the occasional ear whisper, Goldilocks and I handled the scene as though we had been partners for years, keeping it smooth and safe and fun. It was a treat.

Goldielocks spanked Kara's smart little ass to a glowing amber, and it glowed even under the red spotlighting. Each swat was decisive and true, and my poor little dear cried out with whimpering, gasping breaths. Her ass was squeezed. Her ass was gently punched, with Goldielocks smacking her bum with enclosed fists that would tenderize a slab of beef. We flogged her. We caressed her. We made Kara a shared little public playtoy, and when all was done, Kara was a puddle of living goo.

Goldielocks and I shook hands.

"We really need to do this again."