Robert and Stacy redux

I have continued to have fond thoughts of Stacy in these days after. I’m well aware it’s as much about the circumstance as the relationship, but I do find myself thinking of her, being with her, and smiling at the memory.

By “circumstance,” I mean these persistent memories are in part about the arrangement of my being shared. For all my fret and fuss ahead of time, I found I rather liked the sharing experience. There was something nice about being bedded without ropes and chains and having the ability to love freely. Not that it would lure me away from my life of submissive sex, but it was sweetly memorable in the difference.

By “relationship,” I do not mean I presume an ongoing closeness with Stacy, or expect more from her with me. Part of the pleasure of the “gifting experience” is that intimacy is a one-time proposition between strangers, and that assumes the ability to walk away without further expectation. I know this. I have no intention of clinging to what cannot be there. But I’m simply expressing that the recollections of my intimacy with Stacy still tingle.

As promiscuous as I am in my life (or made to be), I feel these after-longings often. My situations are mostly with dominants, a different vibe, but I still walk away from their hard fuckings of me with a soft desire for the person. My ongoing desire is not to be “their one and only,” but merely to have a place in the corner of their mind space for what I am. I don’t need my dom to say he loves me, just to say I belong somewhere. Which sounds sad in a way, but it’s not. I’m happy just being someone’s concubine.

Perhaps that’s what’s going on now in me regarding Stacy. I don’t expect there will be anything more. That was never the arrangement. And that’s fine. But that doesn’t mean I’ve walked away without continuing to feel something for her.

It has struck me that Stacy and I came to each other with two different purposes. Hers was to have a full lesbian experience. Mine was to be shared in a vanilla sexual experience.

Each of our purposes allowed the other’s purpose to be explored.

I think this was a serendipitous alignment, never intended and probably impossible to coordinate ahead of time. But there it was, each of us being something the other wanted. It was like the stereotypical scene of a couple eating a bite from the other’s plate, arms extended with forks feeding the other their own culinary delight. I think this made the night more fulfilling in some way I didn’t realize until after.

It was for each of us a “first time.” Stacy had not been with a woman, not fully, ever before. I had not been “shared vanilla” ever before. One could quibble about that, citing certain experiences I’ve had and written about, but in those I am more clearly submissive, provided to them as a sex slave for their sexual needs. This with Stacy was a vanilla, mutual, sexual relationship for us both.

I’m not sure what more to make of all this. Maybe nothing. If and when I am shared with other neighbors, I don’t expect we will have merging interests quite like that. And now I’ve already had the “shared vanilla” experience, so am no longer a virgin in it.

But that’s okay. In future arrangements there will be, I expect, other points of intersection. And I am realizing that part of the pleasure is thrill of allowing strangers into our private places — which is unique with each new situation.

Amanda is bemused by my little infatuation with Stacy. I wish actually she were more jealous, but she’s almost maddeningly not. She arranged this and seems smugly pleased it worked out so well. Like she’s saying, “I knew you would feel like this.”

I am perfectly content living perpetually in a closed room just with Amanda, but, you see, she just has to open all these doors. I reluctantly walk through a door and suddenly get all omg about what’s on the other side. She knew all along my capacity for more and that the wonder existing on the other side would enthrall me.

Now she teases me about my lingering feelings for Stacy. “Maybe you could apply for a job at her company and become her assistant,” she said, trying to sound serious. “Then you could see the love of your life every day.”

I threw a pillow at her.

There was a moment in my night with Stacy when I cried. Tears of happy, of course, but not what you’d think.

I have wondered if in my experience of lesbian sex there is something about my knowing, as a woman, what she is feeling, as a woman. I knew exactly what Stacy was experiencing. It was as if I felt my pleasure — and also a portion of hers. That becomes almost too much, an overflow, a surfeit of sensation that sometimes comes, and comes to tears of some kind of ecstacy.

Maybe it was that, I don’t know, which becomes unexpectedly a deeper bonding. And makes it take longer to fade.

my first time with another woman, part 1

She was blonde and elegant, with a dollop of danger. Chandra was an agent in another firm at the time I was also doing real estate. We had met in passing at house showings and open houses. Once when our paths crossed, she asked if I wanted to do coffee sometime. I did. We had coffee the next morning.

It didn’t happen all at once and yet it did. I know now Chandra had had her sights on me for a while. And this was my “miracle year” of self-discovery — I was twenty-seven, exploring my sexuality, and willing.

One Saturday following an open house, we walked together to our cars, and Chandra put her arms around my waist, pulled me into her, and kissed me. She literally took my breath away, and I remember being so light-headed afterward that I had to pull off the road on my drive home.

She called me the next day, telling me she was going on vacation —and maybe I wouldn’t hear from her for a week. “About yesterday…” she started to say — making me afraid she was going to apologize and take the experience back — “I just wanted to tell you that really enjoyed …that.” There was silence, and I realized she had called to see if my feelings were mutual. I think I said back to her rather lamely, “For me too.” There were other words between us I forget now, but I remember at the end of the call I said to her, “Chandra, I’ve never been in anything like this before.” She paused then said, “I know..”

Chandra was some seven years older than me, richly experienced in real estate — and it became obvious experienced in other things as well. She was slightly taller than me, slender, and often wore blazer-skirt combos of cream linen and starched colored blouses underneath. Neat lines, no fussiness. Likewise, as long as I knew her, she kept her ash-blonde hair in a clean angled bob cut, curving under her chin. She had eyes that flashed a dangerous blue. She was the embodiment of a word I really didn’t know yet — alpha.

Back from vacation, Chandra called again, asking if I was going to a real estate seminar up in Denver. In fact I hadn’t planned to but now I told her yes I was. She suggested we might drive up together. It was a date.

During video sessions in a darkened room, Chandra reached over and took my hand in hers. On one break, she led me to an upper floor of the hotel, walked me into the stairwell, and took her sweet time bathing me in kisses. She said to me then and later that she loved how I blushed after she kissed me.

I was so wonderfully infatuated with her, but also ga-ga over my own sexual experience in this. Being touched and kissed by another woman felt surprisingly natural to me, and I exulted that I was in an adult relationship, finally exploring my confusing sexuality. Maybe as early as my senior year in college, I suspected I was bisexual, but my experiences, the few there were, had been with guys. This with Chandra was a full-blown lesbian romance, and I was giddy to be the love interest of a beautiful woman.

So, I didn’t pay attention to some details. One was that Chandra, it seems, had had a previous lesbian interest a year before, and maybe one before that. She was always discreet with me, and I presumed she had been with others. It wasn’t known generally, but someone close to me had some knowledge of it, and mentioned it to me. This didn’t bother me much at all — we all have had previous relationships.

The other “detail” was more substantial. Chandra was married. To a man. I knew this, kind of, sort of, though I guess I pushed it out of my mind in some way — early on she didn’t talk about him and perhaps I figured she and her husband were separated or something. But she wore a ring, so it was always there in front of me, or nudging my finger when Chandra and I held hands in dark rooms.

She was bold and aggressive with me, which I liked. While our relationship was never D/s, it’s perfectly clear looking back that I was the submissive and she was the dominant. My infatuation with Chandra was not only about the sapphic pleasure of us in dresses passionately making out in stairwells but also about my being captured by her, the lioness with the golden mane.

We had lunches and happy hours and on occasion went to a movie. So far, it was just the sensual effervescence of caresses and kisses, without the true opportunity for more. To this day, I don’t know if Chandra limited herself to just so much in her conquests of her other birds of prey. It seemed sometimes that was perhaps a protection of a sort if this came to light with her husband — the “nothing really happened” and “we did some kissing” defense.

But if that was a self-imposed rule, I think I helped Chandra break it.

In November that year (2012), Chandra and I attended a national realtors convention in Orlando. She booked our rooms, separate but adjoining.

I think we both knew what was going to happen there.

my attractions to women

It’s the stray thing she casts outward without knowing, a light beam of a kind, a look or smile or glance, usually casual and unintentional, yet so much a part of her she cannot help herself. I’ll see some woman across a crowded room or Zoom, and this unique ray beam will emanate from her like a beacon. It will come to me and get inside me.

The light can be any of many: a smile, a tone of voice, a flash of the eyes, glasses (omg), a giggle, how hair falls across her face, her walk. Her words, of course, and that she chooses them carefully, though shyly.

I am not attracted to models. Not that I am in the presence of actual models ever, but there are beautiful women who look and carry themselves like models. They intimidate me, and not in a dominant/power kind of way. Models are pretty but not interesting. But I think women are interesting when they’re not perfect. Imperfect is unique. I am attracted to unique.

So, I like flesh. Not to say that thin-and-delicate doesn’t send me sometimes (especially wearing glasses), but I like flesh-full curves. I suppose I anticipate the feeling of my curves against her curves, which is not to say I’m thinking sex. Rather dancing.

Being submissive, I love seeing another submissive girl in front of a dominant man — or woman. But especially a man. I see myself in her. Something about a dominant man — and a sub girl standing before him in some sort of debasement. Obedience. Submission to objectifications. Sexual use to come. Been there, done that. Simpatico, I want to touch her.

So there’s all that.

We have not had parties this year, but last fall and in January when we did go to a few around the holidays, as Amanda and I drove home, she would casually mention some woman there. “That Chantelle,” she might say, “is interesting.” Of course, Amanda saw me looking and she is teasing me with it. So I’ll play shy for a while, saying “Which one was she?” and “Oh, right, that one” as if I hadn’t noticed, but of course I had, very much so, which she very well knows. It is our little game.

Later Amanda will prompt again: “I didn’t see what color eyes Chantelle has,” she will say, and it will be that I too quickly answer, “Green like mine,” revealing that indeed I was looking, if not gazing longingly at Chantelle’s body and bearing and being. And eyes. A short silence, and then I’ll confess, “Yes, she got into me.”

Another party and it would be another woman casting her spell on me. Such infatuations don’t seem to have anything to do with body types or age or occupation or role in life. Often my attractions surprise me. A month ago, I was in a clothing store and saw a mom with two teenage daughters. She was in her forties and a little overweight and looking frazzled. But she cast some sort of beam of something — I think it was laughter and a very pretty smile — and I found myself attracted to her. She just got into me. It may have been I just wanted to do her makeup and hair, give her a massage, and provide her with a time of rest. If a kiss would happen, all the better. Nothing more. It doesn’t have to be something more.

A man, as I’ve written, attracts me because of his power potential to get into me literally and physically and sexually.

A woman casts her light, her special beam, often not knowing, and she gets inside me emotionally, even spiritually, making me want her more and more.

two events

As usual, there is much going on here — work and busyness and party-planning and things dom, sub, and sexual. As usual, this has made it hard for me to find time to write. And also, there are so many different things to write about, I am again paralyzed, writer-blocked, and unable to write anything. Sigh.

I need to focus, and so I will here just advance news on two things.

The two big events are the Halloween party and what Amanda is now calling her “watching experience.”

The Halloween party went through a last-minute overhaul, due to the recent upsurge of COVID here in Colorado. Then just yesterday new restrictions in the state were reinstated, and Amanda and her lifestyle friend, Martin, canceled the party altogether. They may re-invite a smaller group for a lifestyle party a week or so later.

Meanwhile, Amanda is not saying much to me about the watching experience. She seems to have a woman in mind for me, but she has not shared with me who it is. Amanda may be having conversations to work out a date and time.

Also, she is looking for a circular bed. Right.

I am apprehensive about what woman Amanda will choose for me. It seems it’s such a delicate balance of desires and attractions and purposes, and to imagine it will all work out seems unlikely.

I’ve tried not to make it a guessing game, but I can’t help but wonder. It occurred to me that this chosen one would need to be a woman Amanda herself would enjoying seeing with me. That leads me to think about body type and personality and age — very superficial things, but then, I think that’s the nature of this.

She also will take into consideration my wish that it be someone I myself am attracted to — perhaps some woman I’ve seen and then admitted to Amanda that I think she’s kinda cute. Again, this starts to feel like the teenage slumber party in Grease and someone breaking out in “Hopelessly Devoted to You.” God help me. It’s about then I stop speculating.

I remind myself that this is for Amanda’s pleasure. It’s perhaps her own carnal desire or fetish, but I think it’s more than that, of course having much to do with her ability to control others, even to the extent of bringing two women together sexually and watching them make love.

Also it is about me and my ongoing training as Amanda’s slave, her cultivating in me greater and greater degrees of my obedience and subservience, to even such a thing as this.

While I am apprehensive, I am also excited. It could be wonderful.


“I want to watch you with another woman,” Amanda says one night.

I say nothing but put down my book. I lean my head against the side of the couch, and look at her. We’ve talked about this before.

She adds, “I think it’s time for that.” Amanda says it like there’s a calendar somewhere with deadlines for my fornication: Sapphic Love Fest: Tuesday at 3:00.

“You know, I don’t want to be with another woman,” I say.

Amanda knows this is not a statement of defiance but preference. For her. “Good to know,” she says, “but I’m not asking.”

“OK, but I’m just saying… and you really are asking, kind of.”

“Yes, I am,” she admits.

It all hangs in the air for a while, a silent cloud of a possibility. When she’s brought this up before, it’s been hypothetical. We’ve discussed it as a kind of what-if, yet Amanda has not yet ever made it happen. This feels different. Maybe it is time.

“You would have to find someone,” I reply, “who would want to do this with me.”

“I happen to know that’s not a problem. People come to me. Ask about you.”

“They ask if they can have sex with me,” I say flatly, with skepticism.


I press further: “Women ask you if they can have sex with me.” I have trouble believing that.

“Yes,” Amanda says simply. “I’m surprised you’re surprised.”

Again, we drift off into private tracks of thought, sipping our wines. I know better than to ask why she wants this. The why of it doesn’t matter. Amanda simply wants it. I know it has to do with her control of me and extending that control to my being with another woman. It has to do also with her love of seeing my body, my nakedness in the sexual service of another person.

“There needs to be mutual attraction,” I say. By this, she knows I am saying yes. “There has to be something.”

“I know.”

“So, you must have someone in mind.”

“One or two.”

“Who?” I ask.

“Not telling right yet.” Amanda says. She pauses, looks at me, and then: “Is that a yes?”

“You don’t have to ask. You can just make me.”

“I want you to want to.”

I continue looking at her, again leaning my head to the side of the sofa. I smile at her, slowly shaking my head, not as a no but as an expression of modest exasperation. “OK, then. Yes.”

update and mom

I’ve been away from blog-writing for a while due to a sudden health issue that faced my mother in Pennsylvania. With Amanda’s blessing, I went to visit Mom for much of this past week. For a day and a night, it looked to be cancer, but after a number of hospital tests, it turned out to be just a scare not a reality, thank God. Mom has another condition she needs to attend to, but it’s not cancer and not dire, very treatable with medication. We are relieved.

Despite all the freakish drama of this, it was good for me to have time again with Mom. It was almost a year ago that I came out to her about my relationship with Amanda and also my lifestyle in D/s. I blog-posted this and won’t go through that again now, but suffice it to say she surprised me with her openness and acceptance.

This time, after the worry part, we had time to talk normal, and eventually mom got around to asking a few questions about my lifestyle. She is ever curious. She was asking this time about “how I got this way.”

This kind of question has come up recently from other people too: In an email trail with Jeremy, my former university colleague who recently found my blog. And from our progressive-minded neighbors, John and Patricia, with whom I sat topless during my public weekend as they served tea and scones in their living room. There are variations: “How did you come to want this life?” and “What do you think has made you submissive?” No one is asking judgmentally, but out of curiosity, so it feels friendly to me, and much of it goes to the nature or nurture debate that swirls around so many things.

Coming from mother, the question of “how I got this way” is not artfully posed but also not accusing or shaming in how she asks it. I know, as it comes out the question is more about her — did she make me this way? Is that a problem or is it OK?

We talked, and I assured her. “I don’t want to be anything other than what I am, Mom.”

Mother is funny in that, for a Baptist woman, she is surprisingly open to alternative preferences and practices, such as her daughter lives them, and yet she is quite naive about what this all is. Her sense of me is that I’m “sometimes” a lesbian. Her notion of bisexuality, so I learned, is really heterosexuality that’s just a bit wavering and undecided. In her view, I’m sometimes a lesbian and lesbians tend to get into that “BDSM stuff.” Sigh.

We talk, and I make efforts to clarify these things, to say that my bisexuality is deeply committed not wavering, and that I am both fully attracted to women and fully attracted to men. But I’m pretty sure she doesn’t quite get this.

That’s OK. I am blessed that Mom is open and accepting and that we can talk about such things.

And that, for now, she is physically OK.

One more thing:

For mother, the foundational thing about people is their sexual orientation. Thankfully and surprisingly, she’s gotten to a place where she’s not judgmental about that, but sexual orientation is still, for her, the primary thing about a person. It matters to her, like it’s some sort of compass that gives her bearings about folks.

As I was talking with her, I realized that for me sexual orientation is one of the least important things about people. It is what it is. One hopes it is about attraction and smiles and love and erotic play and sexual pleasure and joy in being together — whatever the gender or orientation. One’s type of sexuality just doesn’t matter much.

Mother and I are so different.

Her question about how I got this way is then more about how I am a “sometimes lesbian” than about how I am a submissive. I’d hoped to be able to explain to her better what submissiveness was and wasn’t, how two women could live as domme and submissive, relationally without chains and shackles and “BDSM stuff.” You know, that “BDSM is not D/s discussion.” But we never quite got to that point in our conversations.

When I got home, Amanda tied me naked to the wet bar for the evening, with chains and shackles and all that “BDSM stuff.”

So what do I know?


I’ve been out of pocket this week, unable to post much here. After a week away from Amanda, she has had business work for me all week, full days of spreadsheets and systems tasks. I’ve also been working on this side project from the journalist, editing his interviews, which are most interesting.

I drove back from Kevin’s last Sunday night, thoroughly filled yet, in my usual insatiability, craving him again. Sex with Kevin is like Chinese take-out — you get stuffed and an hour later you want more. I had driven halfway home and had this crazy thought of turning around, standing on Kevin’s porch, and, when he answered the door, begging him to fuck me yet another time. He would like that, of course, my begging for it.

But I kept driving, and I felt the longing once again for Amanda, both her dominance and her body. I miss her even when I’m with Kevin, but there is a desire, a longing, that washes into me when I’m coming home.

Such is my life that I swing back and forth, at least for this season of time.

Upon my return, Amanda helped me unpack. She talked with me about my week and then recounted her activities during my absence. We had a light supper of soup and salad. She told me of a conversation she had with some new neighbors.

She ordered me to undress, mounting me naked on the entryway wall. She felt my breasts and fondled me softly. She kissed my nipples, my lips.

It is her way of taking me back, reclaiming me after time away. Shackled to the wall, I am once again her possession.

For me, I like being on the wall in these moments. It settles me. I cannot do anything and am not expected to do anything. It’s very calming.

I told Amanda what I really wanted to do was to bathe her. It has been a while since I drew her a bath and washed her body with the thick sponges filled with suds.

She liked that idea, and so we did.

something I might regret writing

There is something within me now, right now tonight, that wants to be seen and known as the slave I am.

Perhaps it’s because of coronavirus time, the sheltered isolation of our lives, and the total deprivation of public experience. But I think it’s more than that.

Maybe it’s the inner experience of my submissive need finally wanting to be seen, exposed, known.

She wants my body to be viewed by everyone, and wow that’s a major deal, of course. And yet it’s her pride in me, what I am physically and sexually, and that she possesses this body of mine and my heart and will. She is proud to own me.

The issue has never been if I would submit if she walked me down main street naked and leashed. That’s always been the hypothetical test case. Always, I would have done so. The issue is how I would experience that and process that.

Now, tonight, I think I actually want that. There would in any case be humiliation and shame. But now I would want that.

She is keeping me more and more as her sex slave, with the emphasis in the sex part. Which is lovely and juicy and shuddering in our evenings together and our nights in bed. I don’t mind that she is using my body for her pleasures. One could do worse in being used sexually.

In the night she rolls over in her sleep, but reaches for me to bend my body to her new position. She reaches for my hand, placing it between her legs. My other arm curls above her head, and I press the side of my face against her back. I am not comfortable, but that’s not the point. She is, My purpose is to make her comfortable and pleasured. She uses me to conform to her shape. I am wrapped around her like another skin.

It is a metaphor for my slavery, for my life with her, for our relationship: she uses me to conform to her shape.

The greater sex thing is her using my body with others for her pleasures. Which is the next frontier, it seems. She will watch me with others. She will thrill to me with others — others inside me.

I think I am saying I trust her with my body and my sex to this end. Maybe I’m ready for that.

And maybe I’ve had too much wine tonight.


I kiss her there, feeling her guiding hand at the back of my head crunching my hair.

My tongue traces a figure along her delta lips, and I imagine I am signing my name upon her dotted line, a contract that submits me to being there, plunged into her sex, for the rest of my life.


She moans, a beautiful sound, full and deep. Even in her vulnerability she is strong. Her music commands me, and I am happy to be a player in her orchestra.

My tongue extending, I enter her, my wet into her wet, tasting her desire, thick and sweet. I lick her there, over and over. Her places swell and open. I eat her, nourishment like no other.

I am between her thighs, my arms stretching across her flesh, my hands pressed against her hips. She is curves and flesh, and I want to feel all of that, all of her, and all at once. I want to be saturated with the pleasure of her body, overfilled till I pass out.

I push myself from her, and she protests. Sliding up her body, I hover over her like a dream. Our eyes meet. “Don’t worry,” I say. She nods.

I lower myself until my breasts press roundly against her breasts, full on full as they kiss and marry, a sighing sapphic pleasure. My thigh comes between her thighs and pushes against where I’d just been, feeling the ooze of her swollen pussy.

Our bodies meshed, I nestle in the crook of her neck. My arms reach above and circle her head and chocolate hair.

We sleep.

There is later and there is more, as I had promised her.

It is a full night.

Again and again, I am inside her, our intercourse of tongue and vagina a carnal symbol of our spiritual channeling.

There are several for us both, but one time, I slide my tongue from her and without intent it scrapes along her exposed clitoris. Spontaneous and unexpected as all should be, her orgasm sends her into shudders. Her whole body ripples. She grabs my hands and squeezes to me the waves of her release.

There is sex and there is sleep and there is something in between.

conversation 2

This was a strange and wonderful and difficult conversation I fell into with Amanda the other night. It started as a playful, sexual repartee and went into a darker place, and some deeper realizations. I’m posting it in bits in pieces as I write it. Note that it’s not all in chronological order. There will be a part 3. Here’s how it started:

I confessed to her that I wanted to be with Kevin.

I can tell her these things because she’s not jealous. She knows it’s not about me wanting to be away from her. She knows it’s not that I prefer Kevin. Indeed, she was the one who set up the Kevin thing.

But I am sometimes shy about telling her my desire to be with Kevin — or my desire for any man, for that matter. I don’t know why. Perhaps because I am bisexual and she is, by her own admission, a “former bisexual,” now lesbian. What I mean is that perhaps I feel a little guilty with her that I am attracted to men as well as women.

She calls it my “man-need” and says my submissive body and parts need periodically to be sex-conquered by testosterone. She says it like I need to be taken into the shop once in a while for an oil change.

So I would say it differently than that, less hormonally, less 10W30.

“You want to have his cock in your mouth,” Amanda says. It’s sort of her go-to conclusion to any of my man confessions.

I sigh deeply and give her a glare — just as much of one as I could get away with.

She notices and glares at me back.

I’m close to being insubordinate, and I back off. “Sorry,” I say. “It’s just that not every time is it because I crave his cock.”

She pauses, allowing me time to explain further, but then she can’t help herself: “Really, Shae. Out of ten times when you mention Kevin,” she asks, “how many times is it that you long for his cock in your mouth?”

She loves talking with me like this — or more to a point, she loves tugging me out into blunter sex talk like this. She thinks sometimes I “pretty up” my words when I express my own sexuality to her in conversation — that I am a touch too demure and shy about my sexual desires with her.

Now all of this is relative. We are both, by community standards so to speak, very open about our sexuality, quite frank about our sexual lifestyle, and transparent about sex. And Amanda appreciates how I write about myself sexually in an open and honest way on my blog. But in talking with her directly, I am sometimes withholding a bit of frankness about my raw desires, especially when it comes to men.

But truth be told, she would hate it if I actually became less blushing and demure in my talk about these things, because she absolutely loves forcing me to speak aloud those sheer, visceral cravings inside me. She likes to tease and shock me with my own raw sexual self.

Her question hangs in the air: “Out of ten times, when you mention Kevin, how many times is it that you long for his cock in your mouth?”

“OK…” I finally answer. “Nine… nine out of ten, I admit that, but that’s not what this is right now.”

She laughs at me. I blush. There is truth in her gleeful teasing.

And yet, about Kevin, that’s not what this is right now.