S p o r o t i c a

Sunday afternoon, and there is nothing pressing. Nothing urgent. Six solid hours of daylight left before the Sunday night angst of Monday morning sets in. I am lazing in bed with the boy and toying with my birthday present, a lovely set of eight rosebud urethral sounds. Polished, shiny. He knows I love shiny things. Especially evil shiny things, like scalpels, straight razors and now, urethral sounds.

My birthday is not officially here for four days. He knows I can never wait until then to see what he has found for me. His taste is exquisite in every single aspect.

I pick up each long, slender rod between my fingertips and watch the sun glint off of the new metal. Each rod has an increasingly larger ‘bullet’ on the business end, originally designed to clear obstructions from the male urethra but it did not take long before the kinksters of the world found much more fun ways to press them into service, so to speak. I have wanted a set for a year.

Turning them over in my hands, I pretend as though the conversation the boy and I are engaged in is at the front of my mind. I shake each to test the bonelessness of each shaft, waving it and watching the slim metal rod flex and create bright paths of glitter in the sunlight.

The boy watches me idly, laughing and talking of some recent misadventure at work. He does not seem nervous.

But then again, he is a masochist. And a beautiful one at that.

I tip him over onto his back and tell him to lie still for a moment. He blinks at the sudden movement and chuckles softly.

“I was wondering how long it was going to take you to decide to use those instead of just teasing me by playing with them.”

I laugh and reach into the nightstand for alcohol and gauze. He watches silently while I arrange the cool metal rods according to size on his broad chest. The smallest is nearest me, and I pick it up and clean it thoroughly, my fingertips brushing over old scars on his skin. Scars that I had put there. He grows from piano to forte in the space of eight heartbeats. The air in our bedroom became suddenly heavy with promise.

My big brother was a pharmacist. He died on Christmas Eve day 2004 of lymphoma. I often find myself thinking of things he told me at the oddest times. This was one of those times. I remembered his recounting an event many years ago while in college going through one of his endless clinical classes. He told me that when he looked through the end of the microscope and dialed that tiny world into his focus, that he was always and without exception excited at the anticipation of what he might discover, what might be revealed to him through the eyepiece. And how that revelation might change him.

I felt that way right at this moment. Shaking off the frisson of brief discord that came from thinking of my brother while holding my husband’s cock, I blinked and drew in a deep breath. Exhaling softly, I smiled down into the boy’s face and generously lubricated the smallest sound. He closed his eyes. I made him open them. I want his feedback, physically and emotionally. I always do when I play with his pain, especially for the first time with a new toy.

I eased the bulbous and greasy tip of the smallest sound into his urethra. His eyes held mine. I raised one eyebrow in a silent question. He sighed softly in response as the silvery bullet entered his body. I could feel him wanting to prove something to himself, to me. A sense of urgency came over him after several minutes of my ministrations. Not the urge to climax, but rather the urge for me to not be so gentle, to be so patient. He didn’t wish me to spend so much time easing him into the experience. He was greedy for the pain. He wanted to take the larger sounds in closer succession. I would happily have made him scream just for the sheer joy that it brings to me. Ah, but no.

This is always the crux, the deciding point for me. To crush, to wound..or not. To push the edgeplay past the point of sanity for a moment, or to retreat to safer ground. Just because something is offered, and it is something I desire does not necessarily mean I should accept it. Not this afternoon, anyway.

Besides, I rather enjoy seeing his need. I guess it is the sadist in me.

One type of encounter that has always had the ability to make me feel exquisitely alive is the deliberately surreptitious, spontaneous encounter. Even moreso, if it is of a sexual nature, has an inherant risk of getting caught associated with it, and is with my VSO. What’s not to like?

Today, my VSO came home from work after only working an eight hour shift instead of his usual twelve. Needless to say, he still had some energy. Ah, but how best to take advantage of this (rare) situation? We went for a drive, first to drop a pile of bills into the mail, and next to the local drugstore emporium to purchase bath soap. We chatted amiably, laughing and teasing each other a bit and just enjoying the late afternoon sunshine and seasonally cool temperatures. One of our favorite things to do is to drive aimlessly and purposelessly on nice spring days, and see what kind of trouble we can get into, so we were in the process of taking advantage of that when I asked him, “So, tell me something really dirty.” (more…)

My VSO (very significant other) came home from work yesterday, looking a bit worn around the edges as usual. As he changed out of his work clothes, he spoke briefly of his day and its frustrations. As he spoke, I handed him two aspirin and a tall glass of icy water. He took the aspirin gratefully, and I instructed him to sit for a few minutes at his computer, read his email, and start to unwind from his day.

At this point, I need to mention that even though I am a Dominant sexual sadist, my VSO is not submissive, is not the expected diametric opposite of a Dominant. He is a sexual masochist, and delightfully conflicted spiritually and convoluted both spiritually and emotionally. It is precisely these deeper traits that I was appealing to at this very moment. (more…)

Being in a D/s relationship is not always a walk in the park. Those involved in one might say that that is the understatement of the year.

What makes a D/s relationship different than a plain vanilla one (besides the toy collection)? For me, it is the depth of the emotional bond the boy and I share. I trust his decisions, he trusts my judgement. We discuss everything with each other. There are no unpleasant hidden surprises lurking around in the corners of his mind, or mine. He never has a need to push me away, and I give him all of the solitary time to think that he needs. I always trust that he will tell me if he is having an issue with any facet of his life, either with me, or without me. I encourage him in his goals; he supports my often wacky ideas about life. (more…)