Not Otherwise Specified

It's been quite some time since I last blogged. Not much has been going on in the world of kinky and I've been unbelievably busy as a full-time ministry professional with a part-time ministry gig on the side.

Often, at the end of the day, I'll think to myself, "Gee, tonight would be a nice night to pull out the riding crop or ask Doc to use the belt." But by the end of the night, I'm too exhausted to make the request. I don't have the mental energy necessary to engage in play and so I say nothing, perfectly satisfied and quite delighted just to fuck.

Last week, though, something happened, and I don't have a place to talk about it and though it's not really related to the purpose of this blog, I don't want to write about it elsewhere.

Doc and I were watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer, about 3/4 of the way through Season 6. Willow is detoxing and Buffy has broken up with Spike and Anya has gone back to being a vengeance demon and Xander is trying to pull himself together.

Spike shows up when Buffy is about to take a shower and assaults Buffy, attempting to rape her.

While we were watching the show, I had been lying on the couch, my head in Doc's lap, playing with his penis, a favorite pastime of mine. When the assault began, I was mostly okay. It was awkward, but I didn't think too much of it. Then, Buffy was on her stomach, crawling away from Spike and he grabbed her from behind.

I withdrew my hand. I didn't want to see a non-kinky depiction of sexual violence while touching Doc's penis. What if his penis went soft? There would be no fun later. What if it got harder in response to the multiple stimuli?

I have no doubt that Doc would never assault anyone. But in that moment, I wasn't sure I could easily separate out Doc's response to being touched from my own horror at watching the show.

We didn't have sex that night. I didn't touch Doc's penis again and he didn't initiate sex with me when we went to bed.

I spent the next three days passing bloody stools. Body memory. It was unexpected. I thought I'd moved past that. *sigh*

When Vanilla Sex Hurts

I didn't know what I wanted.

I suppose that was the first problem. Problems always seem to start when we don't really know what we want, what we're looking for, but we get started anyway.

This wasn't one of those cases I've heard and read about where things just spiraled out of control. Nothing went wrong. Nothing bad happened.

At the end of it though, I still felt bad about myself. I couldn't pinpoint what had gone wrong with me because I couldn't figure out what I had wanted in the first place.

To start, it was a bad couple of days. Days when I got to the end of them and wanted to be punished. I wanted Doc to take his belt and use it on me, to make me feel pain in my body so that the pain in my heart might be lessened.

But we're both exhausted and I didn't want to ask so much of him at this point.

So, I hoped that everyday vanilla sex would help - to feel more connected to myself, to Doc, to something other than frustration and impotent rage. By the time evening ended, though, I had fallen asleep on the couch and when we made our way to the bedroom, I wasn't feeling the need for sex as intensely.

Still, Doc initiated sexual touch and I responded. I wondered vaguely what I was doing and why; what did I want in that moment and what expectations did I have for fulfilling that desire?

Mostly, I thought, "I'm not entirely sure that I'm in this." I also thought, "If I tell Doc I'd rather just cuddle against him and sleep, he'll be okay with that, too."

I didn't, and as he entered me, I wasn't sure why I hadn't told him. I just knew that finally the pain was there and it wasn't at all what I wanted. I delighted in finally being joined to him again, but I wasn't wet and it hurt.

It was confusing, this sex that didn't feel good and physically didn't feel okay; pain that wasn't the right kind; but still finding some kind of joy in the act of fucking.

After, I curled up against him, took a deep breath and felt tears begin to prick at the back of my eyes. The last several days have been long and frustrating and emotionally painful and I just wanted to release it all.

Doc's phone rang. The moment was gone.

Fruitful, regardless, as I learned that I want pain before fucking but not during.

Riding the Crop Again

"What would you like?" he asks me as he slips into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

"Hmmmmm.... Everything," I tell him, knowing that everything is both too much to accomplish in one night and not specific enough to narrow down the focus.

"Would you be more specific?" he requests.

"Are you saying you can't read my mind and you'd prefer if I told you explicitly what I want?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying," he tells me as he squeezes toothpaste onto the head of his toothbrush and begins to brush his teeth.

I come up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist. I kiss the back of his neck. I reach into to waistband of his boxers and begin to stroke his cock with one hand while I cup his balls with the other.  "I want the riding crop or your belt tonight," I tell him. "Whichever you prefer."

When his toothbrush gives three pulses, I know his two minutes are up. I return to the bedroom and lie face-down on the bed, naked, waiting for him to finish his evening routine.

He enters the bedroom and picks up the riding crop from the top of my nightstand a few moments later. Standing at the foot of the bed, between my feet which are dangling off the end, he begins to caress me with the leather flap and his free hand. The tickling sensation is enticing.

Without warning he strikes me with the crop. I know from the loud crack the leather flap makes as it connects with my skin that this is a good one even before my brain can process the impact. Milliseconds later the sting catches up with the sound and my pussy is instantly dripping on the duvet.

He continues like this for some time, alternating gentle caresses with sharp cracks, stroking my calves, knees, the backs of my thighs.

Every time he touches my with his hands, my body tenses up and I push my ass closer to him, desperate for his fingers to spread open my pussy lips and feel how wet he makes me.

And every time he withdraws his hands without touching my cunt, I whimper with need until my body relaxes into the bed and the joy of feeling the crop hitting my ass again.

My brain goes blissfully numb and I reach the silent space. When he asks how I'm doing, I struggle to answer, because there are no words in my head. Just silence, clean and white and empty.

After several minutes, he asks again, "What would you like?" as I writhe and moan when he touches me with his bare hands, near tears when he strokes the juncture where my inner thighs meet my sex, but never once actually touching my pussy.

I have shift down the length of the bed, pressing my pussy against him, desperate to feel pressure on my outer lips, my clit, aching to feel him penetrate me with his fingers, his cock, fuck I don't care, the handle of the riding crop - anything so long as I get filled and he's the one doing it.

"What would you like?" is a question I can't answer at this point because it requires thoughts and words and desires; in this moment I am nothing but burning fire and need and hunger.

"Touch me," I tell him, because it's all I can get out.

And he does touch me. He caresses my legs, my ass, my back. He reaches around to my sides and I lift my torso off the bed so that he can caress my breasts and play with my nipples.

But it's not enough. I need him in me. Right the fuck now!

"Feel how wet I am," I plead with him. And when he touches my cunt I think I'm going to explode with the desire to have him hammering into me.

I leap forward on the bed, immediately on all fours, my ass in the air, a clear invitation for him to take me.

It's an invitation he accepts with vigor. And as he fucks me from behind, fucking me harder and longer than he ever has before, I pull out my magic wand and hold it to my clit, moaning, gasping, pleading with him to "Just keep fucking me," screaming in ecstasy when my orgasm peaks and sends me tumbling over wave after wave after wave of pleasure.

He finishes shortly after I do. We collapse onto the bed and I curl into his side and sleep peacefully.

I'm a Terrible Girlfriend

Today is the day I realized that I am the worst girlfriend in the world.

Prior to today, I thought I was the most amazing girlfriend ever. When Doc and I started dating, he told me his favorite dessert is lemon bars and his favorite cookie is the snickerdoodle. He also indicated that though he does not eat these or other sweets often, he's a sucker for any kind of cinnamon laden sweet bread.

Shortly thereafter he was on the receiving end a limitless parade of baked goods. So much so that he pleaded with me to bake less often.

Knowing his schedule, I did my best to never pester him during his working hours. When we were first dating, as I was essentially stealing his weekends from him, I chose to leave him to his own devices during the week so he would not have me as a distraction.

Whenever he asked me about my preferences or needs, I answered honestly and respectfully.

There was one small hiccup that I thought was mostly an issue for me. I realized today how wrong I've been.

When Doc and I were first intimate, he was stroking my cunt while I massaged my clit. He kissed my lower belly and inner thighs. "Do you want me to move my hand?" I asked him. He told me no. He continued to kiss around my genitals and penetrate me with his fingers while I masturbated to orgasm.

The next morning, he asked if he could go down on me. I consented. "I thought last night that maybe you wanted to," I said to him.

"I did," he told me.

"I wanted you to," I confessed.

"You should have told me! I would have!" he exclaimed.

"That is the one thing I'll never you for," I told him.

"If you want it, you should ask me for it," he said.

"No," I told him. "It's not that I don't want it or don't want to ask you for, it's that quite literally I can't ask you for that. I can't." And then I cried.

When I was 15, I was repeatedly sexually assaulted by a 22 year old man in my town with whom my parents pressured me to spend time because they thought I wasn't "social enough." In the sixth months this man abused me, on multiple occasions he told me how weird my genitals are, how they aren't shaped like other women and how the proportions are all wrong.

Hormones being hormones when you're 15, it did not matter that I fought and struggled against his physical pursuit, every time he touched my cunt I got wet. He complained about my natural vaginal lubrication, telling me how gross it was that I was "always wet."

I grew to hate my genitals: their appearance, their form, the way they worked.

Once, I tried to confront my body hatred and seek reassurance. I had just finished up my annual pelvic exam and pap smear. I had gotten dressed, the nurse had left the room, and the doctor had returned to finish the rest of my appointment - I was getting a flu shot that day. At the end of the appointment, my doctor asked me if I had any questions.

"Yes. Am I normal...down there?" I asked him.

"Everything looks perfectly healthy," he said. "You'll get the results of the lab work in a couple of weeks, but based on the visual exam, you have nothing to worry about."

"Okay," I said meekly, because I knew it would violate all kinds of ethics to tell my doctor, "Look, you spend 8 hours a day, 5 days a week looking at women's cunts. From a purely aesthetic perspective, is my cunt normal? Does it look like other cunts? Is it pretty enough?" because those are the questions I really wanted answered when I asked my doctor if I was normal, and hearing that everything "looked normal" wasn't enough.

When I had my first consensual sexual experience, the man I chose to give my virginity to told me how much he wanted to go down on me. When we got back to his apartment and got naked, he said he couldn't possibly go down on me, his girlfriend didn't care if he fucked other women, but she wouldn't want him to go down on anyone but here.

Several years later a childhood friend approached me about a casual sexual relationship, telling me how much he loves going down on a woman. When I took him up on the offer and asked if we could discuss boundaries, limits, and needs, he begged off the entire encounter because making the experience emotionally safe for me took the spontaneity out of it for him and it no longer appealed to him.

That was it.

I was done.

At this point, my hatred for my body, specifically my genitals, was so intense that I just resigned myself to the fact that I would not only never experience oral sex, but I decided that I hated my genitals enough that I never wanted to even have sex again. I just didn't want anyone to look at my hideous, abnormally proportioned, all-wrong cunt.

But I met this man and he pursued me and we started to date. And he pushed and pressured and told me how much he loved going down on a woman. So, I got naked and he changed his mind. Later he insisted that I shave my genitals, despite my own personal preferences and health concerns. So, when the next time we got naked and he told me if I shaved, he'd go down on me, I headed to the bathroom with a fresh razor blade and shaving cream.

When I finished, I left the bathroom, my cunt bare, and laid down before him as he asked. Then, he insisted that he'd nicked his lip when he'd shaved earlier in the day and couldn't possibly go down on me because the saltiness of my fluids would be too painful.

My next relationship started long distance and when we finally met in person, we headed to a hotel to spend the night together. A couple of hours into our play date, he said to me, "You're still nervous."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"You still haven't told me what you want from me tonight," he said.

"I want oral sex," I told him.

Despite his previously insisting that he loves going down on a woman, he begged off. I was in my luteal phase and my cervical mucous was thick and creamy in texture. He couldn't possibly go down on me at this time of the month.

I was not safe with this man. When he asked me if he could fuck me I had a panic attack and sought to get as far away from him as I could - not an easy feat in a hotel room bed when he was above me, his 6'4", 250lb frame covering mine.

Once he'd calmed my fears, I allowed him to handcuff, shackle, spank me, and use an anal plug on me while stroking my cunt and hammering my g-spot with his fingers. But I knew I'd never be able to have sex with him.

I knew I'd probably never have sex again. And I knew that no matter what happened, no matter whom I might happen to meet, no matter what man might enter my life, and no matter where any of my potential future relationships might lead, I knew I would never again ask a man to go down on me, no matter what. I couldn't do it.

And then I met Doc. And he is more than I ever could have hoped for in a boyfriend and he is the single most amazing lover in the history of humankind. And I can't ask him to go down on me.

He wants to go down on me. He loves to go down on me. And he's told me he wants me to be comfortable asking him to meet my needs.

After he went down on me the first time and I explained that while I am happy to allow him to go down on me I will never be able to ask him for it, I decided that just maybe if I tried one more time and it went well, I would be okay. So I asked him if he wanted me to ask for what I wanted.

"Yes," he said to me. "Because you deserve to ask and you deserve to be told 'yes'."

So, I took a deep breath and said, "Will you...?" It was all I could get out.

"Yes, he said, moving down my body and his head between my thighs.

But I couldn't do it again. Every time I'd try, I'd panic. I'd try to ask, but I couldn't get the words out and as tears would threaten to spoil the moment, I'd focus on something else rather than ask Doc for what I wanted.

Finally, one night I screwed up my courage and decided I'd just do it. I would ask. I wanted it and I knew if I asked, he would do it. He kissed my mouth slowly. I pulled away and took a deep breath. Then, I went back to kissing him. I repeated this ate least three times.

I thought, "Maybe if I turn out the lights, if I can't see his face, then if he says no, maybe, in the dark, it won't be so bad." So, despite the fact that we both prefer to fuck with the lights on, I leaned back and turned out the lights.

Doc kissed me again, and again I pulled away. "Are you okay?" he asked me.

"Yes," I said and I kissed him again. Then, I pulled back, determined to ask him.

But I couldn't. "Are you sure you're okay?" he asked me.

"Yeah," I said. "I just... Am I safe with you?" I asked.

"Of course!" he said. "Do you not feel safe? What's the matter?"

"No. I do! I do feel safe. I just...I wanted to ask you for something," I mumbled to him.

"What would you like to ask me for? What do you want?" he asked, and the tone in his voice told me he wanted to meet my needs in that moment.

"Would you...I mean...I just... You shaved today..." I said.

"Yes," he told me, sliding down my body and moving his head, once again, between my legs.

And still, in all this time, I've never actually asked Doc to go down on me. I'm always choked by fear and I end up suggesting that he could maybe do something if he wanted because I kind of want something and he shaved that day.

When Doc went out of town this past week, I knew I would miss him, but I had no idea the intensity of my longing for him would be so significant. After he'd been gone several days, I emailed and asked him to go down on me when he got back, and though I knew there were probably a few misspelled words and grammatical mistake, I hit the send button before I lost my nerve.

He told me he would very happily go down on me when he returned, that he would even shower first so as to provide me with a fresh shave. Then, he told me that he would really like for us to work on my feeling more comfortable asking for what I need. He told me that it helps him when I'm clear about my desires and that it makes him happy.

"I can't," I told him. I try and I end up paralyzed with fear, petrified that it will all go wrong and everything will be ruined.

"I like eating pussy, end of story," he wrote back. "I will gladly go down on you, even without you asking," he went on.

But he wants me to ask. And I can't because I'm afraid.

It was on my way to work this morning, an overly long commute with too much time to think, that I realized what a terrible girlfriend I am. Suddenly, I reframed my exchanged with Doc and saw things in a whole new light.

For months, I've thought I was privileging my fear over my own desires and Doc's preferences.

On my drive to work this morning I realized I was wrong. While it's true that I've been privileging my fear over my desires, more significantly, I've been privileging my fears over Doc's sexual needs. And Doc's sexual needs are legitimate needs. I have the ability to meet his needs and absolutely no reason not to. His needs don't violate any of my boundaries. His needs don't demean or belittle me or introduce danger.

Doc has legitimate sexual needs that I've simply refused to meet because I was afraid to be vulnerable with him.

On my drive to work this morning, I realized that I am the most selfish person I know and the worst girlfriend on the planet.

So tomorrow, when Doc gets home, despite the fact that we've already discussed it via email, despite the fact that when he arrives, he's going to shower and shave, despite the fact that I know he will be going down on me, tomorrow, when Doc gets home, I'm going to stretch out in bed beside him; I'm going to kiss him on the mouth; I'm going to look him in the eyes; then, I'm going to say to him, "I'd really like for you to go down on me tonight." And maybe, just maybe, we can start something new and good for both of us.

Why I'll Never Again Shave My Lady-Bits

When the alarm went off at 6:00 this morning, I knew it was time to feed the cats. I also knew that if I hit the snooze button, I could go back to bed for a few minutes after I'd taken care of them.

That's what I did.

I did not, however, go to sleep again.

Instead, I lay in bed and I thought about all of the ways that Doc is better than other 3.5 billion men on the planet.

It started with my vulva and the second thing about Doc that made him attractive to me: he prefers his partners au naturale.

About 9 months before I met Doc, I started dating this man whom I met casually. In the grocery store. We dated for three months before it ended. This was all before I entered the world of kink, but well after my first kinky fantasies and desire blossomed at the tender age of six.

I was adamant with this man that I would not have sex prior to marriage, so if he was expecting sex in the near future, he'd best move on. I realize now that my complete comfort and certainty that not having sex with him would be an easy thing was an indication of just how little I liked him and how little I wanted to be in the relationship.

But, alas, there was much heavy petting.

Shortly after we met, this man was transferred for work and we ended up living three hours apart. Still, we continued to see each other a couple of weekends a months. I would drive down to see him as he worked Tuesday through Saturday and I worked Sunday through Friday. Friday nights through Saturday morning were the only time we had to get to know one another in person.

Frankly, he was mean.

Starting off, he was wonderful. He complimented me, constantly telling me how beautiful and worthy I was, how much he liked me just the way I was, that I was his dream girl. He was cruel, disrespectful, and insulting to everyone else when speaking to or about them. I was waring, wondering when the shiny glow of first attraction would wear off and he'd begin to treat me that way.

The relationship lasted three months, and it should not have gone for that long.

He was the first to indicate an interest in kink, telling me he wanted to spank me. I told him we should have a conversation about it, limits, boundaries, preferences. "But how will I know in the moment if you'll be okay with it?"

"Just ask me," I told him.

"But what if you say 'No' and get mad at me for asking and leave?" he asked.

"If I say 'no' it means I'm not in the mood for it at that moment, but I'd like you to ask again another time, or I might even ask you to do it at a later date. But I am NOT going to get angry that you asked and I'm not going to leave because you asked," I replied.

He refused to ever have a conversation beyond this.

He did, however, hit or otherwise harm me without consent. On more than one occasion.

In the middle of the night, I'd gotten up to get a drink of water. In the kitchen, he grabbed me from behind, turned me around, shoved me into the counter, bruising my lower back. He proceeded to dry hump me while I cried out in pain, pleading with him to stop. He bit my neck so hard he caused deep tissue damage and I couldn't turn my head for a week.

The next morning he told me how sorry he was, he has nightmares, he didn't mean to.

I told him I understand having nightmares but if he pulled that shit again, I was gone.

He never again assaulted me in the middle of the night, but he continued to bite me so hard he'd cause the tendons in my neck and shoulder to swell every time we kissed. "I don't know what's too much" was always his excuse, as though my telling him repeatedly while making out, "Ouch, that hurts, not so hard, stop!" wasn't enough.

On multiple occasions (basically every weekend I'd visit), he'd come up behind me at one point or another while I was in the kitchen, usually washing dishes, and hit me so hard on the ass that I'd slam into the counter. Often times I'd drop whatever I'd been holding. Once he hit me so hard, he knocked my hip out of place. When I complained he told me he was "just joking." His joke cost me 2 hours lost time at work, a trip to the chiropractor, and a $43 dollar co-pay I couldn't afford.

I started only washing dishes when he was at work. But his breaks would change, and often he would come home at a time different than I'd expected, and if I was at the sink with the water running, he'd sneak into the house (I couldn't hear him over the running water), sneak up behind me, and hit me hard enough to pop my hip out of place. Again.

Most lost time at work. More trips to the chiropractor. Another $43 I did not have.

When I was offered a potentially huge, career changing opportunity, I was so excited to tell him about it. It would mean we'd be a little farther away for a short period of time, but much closer in the long haul. He cared little for my success and picked a fight about the fact that I was going to be late, as the interview I'd had lasted 2 1/2 hours when I'd expected it to be only 60-90 minutes. We were going to miss the movie he had wanted to see.

He proceeded to yell at me and ridicule my inability to navigate traffic in an unfamiliar city to get to his apartment faster, despite my telling him that the interstate was basically shut down due to a traffic accident several miles ahead. It took me 40 minutes to drive two miles. There were no exits to take back roads I wouldn't know how to navigate anyway. I was stuck and there was nothing I could do.

Nothing I said mattered. "I have to get back to work," he told me. "Just make sure you move to get your ass here fast when you're off the freeway."

At his next break he called me and continued to yell at me while I drove as fast as I could to get there in time. I got pulled over and ended up with a speeding ticket. The cop was nice enough to knock the speed down from 25 mph over the limit to 6-10. It was still $114 I couldn't afford given the gas prices and 400 miles I was driving every other weekend just to see my boyfriend.

When I finally got to his place, he berated me for getting pulled over and then said, "That's what you get for taking the back roads. This wouldn't have happened if you'd just stayed on the interstate."

"There was an accident. Traffic wasn't moving. You told me to get here as soon as possible and take the back roads around the accident," I reminded him.

"Well how was I supposed to know there was an accident?" he asked.

"I told you that traffic was at a stand still when you first called. I told you it was because of an accident the second time you called."

"Well, I just thought that traffic was going really slow and you couldn't figure out how to navigate it. I didn't realize you meant it wasn't moving at all and that there had been an accident," he said.

'Ummmmm, that's what a stand still is,' I thought. 'Traffic isn't moving at all.' I didn't say anything because I wanted to avoid another fight.

This was Valentine's weekend and the first time he insisted that I shave my lady-bits. He'd asked before, telling me that whatever I preferred was fine. This time, however, he told me how a woman who shaved was "just cleaner" and it proved she "cared about herself."

I wanted to start by telling him that if evolution gave us pubic hair, it was there for a reason. I had already explained that my skin is sensitive and prone to ingrown hairs and folliculitis. I wanted to tell him about the studies that indicate that genital shaving leads to micro-tears, an entry point for bacteria, and the possibility of staph infections. I wanted to tell him that women who shave their genitals have higher rates of bacterial vaginosis.

I said nothing, because more than anything, I wanted to avoid another fight or being hit again unexpectedly or being bitten so hard I couldn't turn my head.

Instead, I pulled out shaving cream and a razor and shaved my labia, because it was what he wanted. And because he promised that if I did shave, he'd go down on me, and no man had ever gone down on me before.

Shaving my lady-bits seemed a small price to pay to avoid another fight, to avoid another trip to the chiropractor, and to finally figure out what all my girlfriends raved about.

Incidentally, after spending 20 minutes doing shower yoga to make sure every last hair was dispensed with, he begged off the cunniligus because he'd cut his lip shaving that morning and was afraid the saltiness of my fluids would be hurt.

Three weeks later, when I called him for moral support after a bad day, he dismissed my feelings with a sneering remark. When I told him that I expect a certain level of emotional intimacy in a romantic relationship and his options were to either engage in the relationship in a mutually caring and supportive fashion or not date me, he chose the second option. Thank God.

But by that point, habit had become ingrained - shaving 3 days a week because it's what expected of women.

I hated doing it, but I did it. After all, if there's anything worse than shaving your labia, it's the discomfort, abrasions, and itching that comes with the early stages of hair regrowth.

So, when I met Doc and I asked him if it was true that he preferred his partners be unshaven and he confirmed it was true, I knew I would never shave again for anyone. Because whether or not Doc and I are together for the long haul, there are men who prefer women with pubic hair.

What's more, if the men out there who prefer women shaved do not respect a woman's right to bodily autonomy and will insult the choices those women make about their own bodies, then those are men I would not want to be with anyway.

It also helps, certainly, that Doc, on occasion, tells me how pretty my pussy is now that my hair has fully regrown.

Because, you know, he's better than the other 3.5 billion men on planet earth. And when he gets home on Wednesday, I fully intend to make sure he knows how much I appreciate him.

Porn and the At-Home-Alone Pastor

I watched porn this week for what amounts to basically the first time.

I mean, I'd seen porn before - around the house, stashed in other peoples' closets, and in a class I took in undergrad (Sexual Violence, Pornography and the Law). But, this week, as Doc is out of town and I've been home alone (I moved in with him, sort of, after Thanksgiving; for real just before Christmas), I was really horny. As I've heard from multiple people, including Doc, that the visual stimulation of porn can help in one's masturbatory pursuits, I decided to give it a try.

So, I loaded up the Late Night section of HBO GO and was sorely disappointed at what passes for porn on HBO's on demand service. It was terrible. The plots were ridiculous, the sex was terrible and every female in the two movies (we're talking six porn models total) had belly button piercings. What is it with female porn stars and belly button rings?

I detailed my disappointment to Doc and he shared with me where he keeps his DVDs and even recommended one. My curiosity piqued, I pulled it out and sat down to watch on Saturday morning.

There was no plot, it was just a group of porn stars taken to a resort for a weekend and allowed to couple up and fuck in a totally organic nature. It was exceptionally well done. There was only one belly button ring (out of five models). The movie included the director explaining how she conceived of the project and what drover her to make the movie.

The models were interviewed about their personal and public sexual experiences. In the first scene, the female model talked about her history as a "loser" in high school and her desire to fuck the particular male model as a way to fulfill her high school jock fantasy. It was like a really amazing documentary on a social experiment that contained a lot of fucking.

I was fascinated by the interviews, couplings and follow-ups. The sex was mostly boring. Sure, it got me hot and wet, but after about 3 minutes, of fucking, I more or less thought, "So, I'm not unusual in the things I say and the noises I make when Doc and I fuck. Cool! And oh, my God, that model has the prettiest genitals I've ever seen.... God, I wish I had a vulva that pretty."

I decided porn probably isn't for me. It's not something I feel particularly drawn to. It was interesting, but again, I enjoyed the interviews more than the sex. I guess sex is like spectator sports - I'd rather be playing than watching.

And, you know, given the fact that I've long struggled with a high degree of hatred for my genitals, and the fact that I'm pretty sure Doc would recoil in horror if I ever mentioned the idea of having my genitals custom sculpted by a plastic surgeon, watching other girls with prettier vulvae get fucked, probably isn't going to help my self-esteem.

But, I would like to watch porn with Doc, if he's interested, because I think that would be hot. And while I wait for Doc to return, I fantasize about when he will return and fuck me hard. I fantasize about all of the ways I'd like for him to fuck when I masturbate. I spend a lot of time at home naked.

And when Doc does return, I'll likely pull out the hand mirror and look at my own genitals while Doc fucks me. That is, of course, after he pulls out the riding crop he got me for Christmas and gives me a good cropping.

So Good to Me

Doc asked me the night before Thanksgiving if I wanted to engage in any of my kinks.

He had promised sex in a church the next night, so I was sitting pretty and wanting for nothing.

Don't get me wrong - I love it when we do kinky stuff together; but I'm so exquisitely satisfied with the sex without kink that just the anticipation of spicing things up is enough to satisfy.

The day after Thanksgiving, however, Doc pulled out a cane and suggested we use it, because ... well, fuck yes!

I got naked and lay on the bed face down. Doc caned me; alternating between striking and stroking me with the cane. And it made me wet. It made me so wet.

On more than one occasion, I lifted my hips and shifted closer to Doc, trying to silently encourage more, silently begging him to touch me with his hands, to finger fuck me until I came.

And he did touch me. He stroked my pussy. He probed my cunt.

It wasn't long before I couldn't take it anymore. I rolled onto my back, moved in front of him, positioned myself until Doc was between my thighs and pleaded with Doc to fuck me.

And he did fuck me. And I finally worked up the courage to pull out a mirror so I could watch his cock in my pussy as he fucked. It was the hottest thing I've ever seen.

Oh, yes. Doc is very good to me.