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The NEMRF is a huge catalyst in my day-to-day humdrum existence.

Yes, I have a day-to-day humdrum existence, doesn’t everyone?

Every so often, someone plugs me in and I light up like a Christmas tree. I sparkle — sometimes, I even go as far as to expound a shiny little rain shower. Usually it’s the Big Bad Cat. It’s hard to spend even a minute with him without my glowing from the inside like a Jack O’Lantern.

But other than that, I’m just me.

I do not complain, please do not misunderstand me. Once, years ago, there was no enlightenment. I floated from day to day, week, to week, month to month, year to year. I was not myself, I had lost the essence of me. I was buried and smothered under a sea of mundanity.

And then I rediscovered life.

I found myself through a process of awakening that began over five years ago, that was catalyzed by my falling in love. I have been in love several times since then, and am still in love in certain of these cases. The true love of my life, prior to meeting the Evil Rotten Cat, who is a deeper and no less true love and Cat-of-my Heart, was and remains my love.

This is what they call polyamory, folks. Living and breathing. Loving more than one person.

I speak now of the love I mentioned, the one who came before the Cat. We are barely in touch for a number of reasons, mostly involving his own personal hell, which has effectively straitjacketed him to the extent that we communicate rarely and sporadically. On paper, that is, or rather on screen. We still have a degree of telepathy that is frighteningly effective. He will think of me, and I of him, and then we will find out letters crossing in mid-stream. He traveled to this region last year, not actually to this country, but over the border.

He wrote to me:

“When I stood on the eastern shore of the lake and gazed toward your country last year, I called your name.  Didn’t you hear me?”

I checked my diary. I’d written of him on the day he mentions. He’d been in my head the way he usually is in my heart.

He is older than I, by 17 years. He has experienced life to the full, in both the positive and, unfortunately, most negative sense. He owned my heart as he was the first to fully expose it, to tease it, to provoke it to love harder, deeper, fuller than ever before. He encouraged me and my creativity, he dragged me with him on eternal flights of fancy, he opened my eyes to real erotica and all that lay beyond.

He wrote to me:

“I miss you more than you can possibly comprehend.”

Really? He’d be surprised at how much I can.

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“You may eat the cookie, but you may not use your hands.”

That dastardly cat. He baits me with chocolate chunky cookies that would tempt the Archangel Gabriel (Garcia Marquez?) and he know — he knows! — I will be powerless to resist. However, I have a secret weapon — my all-encompassing ability to eat, despite prevailing circumstances.

Delicately i take the cookie from his proffered hand, with the edges of my lips and teeth… and then open my mouth (not even that wide) and take the whole thing into my mouth.

Wow, that’s the first time I’ve written that on these pages, and not been describing fellatio. Heh.

Purrrrvert cracks up, as do I, and we laugh our asses off.

There i am, nakedly draped over the back of an armchair, wrists cuffed and caribbena’d together, and he is dancing around me, eating cookies, and allowing me sips of Coke Zero here and there, spanking me occasionally with a newly mended flogger, and swatting at my ass with a fish-slice. In addition to the passionate lovemaking, the sub-space inducing flogging and beating (oh, evil kitchen-utensil-pervertibles) and the eight or nine orgasms that I have already experienced, (the cooling wet spot on the bed being hard evidence of this), we have also found time to have fun.

It’s what indicates that the “essence” of what we do, is so much more than fucking. We like spending time together. We’ve had most of the afternoon together, and the evening stretches ahead of us like a long empty road, yet to be traveled.

I don’t think I have ever been so happy. I cherish the feeling like velvet against my heart. He completes me. My own journey is still in its infant stages, but it progresses with alacrity, and I already know that as a person I am healthier and more together than I have ever been before, in all my 39-plus-one-mumble-mumble years of existence.

I say as much to him later. Several hours have passed, and we have repaired to the best local Japanese joint to indulge in a sushi-fest.

We’re sitting at an intimate little corner table, the waitress having seen the way he looks at me, and given me a conspiratorial grin, before leading us to what appears to be the most romantic nook in the restaurant. I couldn’t care less, to be honest. Wherever I am with him, the rest of the world fades into oblivion.

We’re discussing the notion of collaring, and commitment. Conceptually, I mean. I wanted to understand, from BDSM context, how significant a collar is — both to the collared and the collarer.

He laughs, and spreads his hands wide. “Collaring is, as with pretty much anything in BDSM, dependent upon the individual for the amount of significance behind it. There are those who take it very seriously, and perceive it much as one would perceive a marriage. There are also those who can talk to someone for five minutes and be “collared and owned” within a week. Different strokes for different folks.”

I know this man, and without asking, I know that he takes collaring very seriously, and say as much.

“Yes, you’re quite right. I do. It’s a very serious symbol of commitment, and I respect it as such.”

I nod sagely. Genuinely sagely, before you snicker.

He continues.

“However, you know my feelings about outward symbolism. I don’t need it. When I commit, I commit with everything I have, without any need to display it publicly.”

I look him straight in the eye, and feel my heart beat faster — that’s the effect he has on me.

“Me too. For me, the commitment, and the love, and the everything are all part of the same package.”

He smiles, and takes my hand, stroking it softly.

“I know that your feelings about outward symbols are similar to mine. If that ever changes, you only need to let me know.”

I am overwhelmed by emotion, and feeling. While deep down I knew of his assured and complete commitment and devotion to me, hearing this affirmation does not fail to move me, visibly and emotionally.

He reaches out to hold my hand, and my eyes fill with unexpected tears of joy.

And no, it wasn’t the wasabi.

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It was an unexpected, although extremely welcome, phonecall. His dulcet tones purred comfortingly into my ear.

“My meeting finished early, and I’m about an hour away from you. Can you get out for a short while?”

Could I? Hell, yeah.

It had been the day from hell at work, and I was glad of any break, but one which involved being in close proximity of Purrrrvert was more welcome than any other. It was one of those days when, through cosmic intervention, we had wanted to meet but couldn’t — originally… but now it seemed that Fate and the Parking Karma gods were on our side.

I did the patented Elegant Slut happy dance at my desk, and then turned my attention to the voice on the end of the phone line.

“Fabulous, darling. Call me when you’re downstairs, and i’ll come running.”

Now when i say “run”, I am perhaps somewhat overstating things — after all, when i run i give myself and anyone around me black eyes, but I certainly moved with great vigour and enthusiasm. Next thing I know, I’m sitting in his car and we’re speeding off to a little out-of-the-way place in the middle of the countryside, about five minutes from my office.

This place, let me tell you gentle reader, looked gorgeous but the stuff they served…. holy fuck-me-slowly. They can serve me any and all of it in heaven. Or hell. Wherever I end up, I don’t care if the food is iced or flambe. It’s simply fucking delicious.

We sat, and he took my hand, as we breathed in the surroundings, and the flora (and fauna?) that waved appealingly at us through the windows. Perusing the menu, we discussed this and that (Shibaricon, jazz music, the annoying habits of middle management over perceived peons, new tricks to try next time we were both naked in a room together — that sort of thing). All the time we were both comfortingly aware that this was pamper-us time — unexpected and therefore more precious than any other. Time to be savoured, if not exactly savoury (from a culinary perspective, anyway).

Having decided upon decadent dessert indulgence, he chose an item involving Belgian chocolate and truffles moulded on top of a cinnamon stick, and i ordered a pear tart tatin.

“How is that served?” I asked the very pretty young waiter, as he hovered attentively.

“With a scoop of ice-cream, on the side. Vanilla.”

“Of course. Ice cream — everything that vanilla should be.”

The waiter nodded, and bustled off to fill our orders. Purrrrvert’s eyes met mine, his face a study in restraint.

“I take it you’re going to blog that…?

 “Naturally.”

😀

(Happy birthday Purrrrvert. May there be many fun vanilla and non-vanilla times in our future!)

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I’ve been in the alternative sex lifestyle thing for a while, and i have observed much and learned even more. I’ve also discovered a lot about myself — one salient fact of which is that I am polyamorous.

Wikipedia defines polyamory as follows:

Polyamory (from Greek πολυ [poly, meaning many or several] and Latin amor [literally “love”]) is the desire, practice, or acceptance of having more than one loving, intimate relationship at a time with the full knowledge and consent of everyone involved. The term polyamory is sometimes abbreviated to poly, and is sometimes described as consensual, ethical, or responsible non-monogamy. The word is sometimes used more broadly to refer to relationships that are not sexually exclusive, though there is disagreement on how broadly it applies.

I added the emphasis in the above paragraph to the statements which jumped out at me. The latter is what polyamory had meant to me, while i was non-exclusively involved with more than one relationship at a time — but, while making no secret of my non-exclusivity, i also refrained from informing any of my partners of who or how many others i was being non-exclusive with.

If that makes any sense.

I added the emphasis on the former phrase because that really is how polyamory *should* be.  In this elegant slut’s humble opinion, anyway. I say this not from some lofty, preachy, know-it-all height of moral high ground; rather because it is into this kind of polyamorous situation that i have tumbled and landed smiling, on a bed of roses.

Naked. 🙂

I met someone — if you’re read my last couple of posts, you’ll have figured this out all by yourselves. (Because, gentle reader, I love you not merely for the fact that you validate my very existence by reading my li’l ol’ blog, but also because you are independently intelligent and can figure stuff out.)

I met Purrrrvert, as he refers to himself as in the last few comments, through a social networking site where kinksters meet, greet and get down-and-dirty. He describes himself as dominant and polyamorous in his profile, and i knew of at least one person to whom he was (is) romantically attached — although i know of this because i knew of her before I “met” him.

Fast-forward to a couple of months later. After talking for a while, and then flirting  a bit the question of moving beyond this point arose. A meeting was discussed — an ordinary, all-above-board, innocent cup of coffee meeting. Which duly happened. Because how would we know if we wanted things to progress yet further if we hadn’t had the opportunity to look deeply into each other’s eyes and catch a glimpse of the other’s soul? Hmm?

So from cup of coffee, innocent-or-no, we then progressed to the next stage. And this is what prompted the latter bolding in the paragraph above. He then made it clear that beyond a hug, nothing further would happen between us until he had spoken to his wife (Sub 1) and his other submissive partner (Sub 2, the woman I already knew), and find out how they felt about it.

When he told me this, I stared at him incredulously, my jaw slightly open. I may have even  dribbled a little. I was shocked. Actually, to be more accurate, I was gobsmacked.

My experience to date was of two kinds of situations — one experienced first-hand and one experienced in a more voyeuristic manner.

The first: when i was with my former Dom, he was very open about the fact that he was polyamorous, but made it patently clear that this was the maximum information to which I was to be privy. Not who. Not when. Just the fact that I was one of many. Being inexperienced and green as I was, I thought that this was “par for the course” , and “the right way to be a submissive”.

I was wrong.

The second: there are many “polyamorous” relationships online about which i read. Several of the most notable of which were situations where, again, the male in the equation made no secret of the fact that he was not monogamous, but did not discuss or get approval from any of his partners regarding the others. It caused ill-feeling and jealousy and inspired mean-spirited bordering-upon-insane behaviour between some of the “polyamours”.

I do not judge nor do I cast apersions — I merely note. It is not the sort of situation in which i would want to be — not from either side.

I preferred this situation, the one I was in, theoretically at least. I just had no practical experience thereof, first or second-hand. In short, I was a little unsure of how to proceed — especially given that it would be open and known about by all concerned. To be fair to Purrrrvert, the numbering system is merely for dentifying purposes — as he says, so correctly “the only indivisible element is time — and when problems arise they are usually associated with that. But communication is the key.”

My first concern was that in no way did i wish to hurt or offend Sub 2, who, as I already said, I had known before I knew Purrrrvert, by making her feel as though I were encroaching on her territory or anything like that. Which was, I believe, a valid worry.

My second concern was that I was nobody’s tertiary anything — which was one of the first issues I raised with him.

“Do you… um… expect me to be… um… exclusive?” I asked, knowing full-well that were the forthcoming answer to be yes, my next sentence would end the aforementioned innocent cup of coffee, and that friendship was all that was our future destiny.

No chameleon, I.

Note: It wasn’t that I necessarily wanted to be with anyone else. I just wanted to be sure that my options were open, and i wouldn’t find myself swept away and feeling trapped.

But I digress.

He smiled — a smile that I have since learned can turn from sweet to evil in a heartbeat, not to mention desirous and lusty.

“No, not at all, Hey — I don’t even expect Sub 2 to be exclusive. I would have absolutely no right to do such a thing.”

Hurdle number one overcome. Next!

Afterwards, we sat in his car, still talking. It was difficult to stop. We just got on so well.

“So you’ll speak to them… when?”

“Well, I have initially spoken to Sub 1.”

“And?”

Blue eyes twinkled at me over his glasses.

“She said to have fun, and tell her all about it.”

“What about Sub 2?”

He looked me in the eye.

“I really don’t know what she’ll say. I suppose we’ll know sooner rather than later. I’ll see her the day after tomorrow, and we’ll talk then.”

“And if she says no?”

“Then it’s no.”

And so began the wait.

To be continued….

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Update: Fleshbotted by the uber-sexy and fantabulous Madeline. Thank you, Mads!

In honour of  someone very wonderful whom I will miss enormously. May he only ever find happiness, where’er he may seek it.

The moment that you feel his hand on your flesh, that’s when you know.

Not all trysts work this way, it can be freely admitted. But there are occasions where you instinctively know that the owner of said hand is one with whom there is something very unusual and special going on.

You know for sure that you two have connected in a very unique way; that the sex will be of the mind-blowing, furniture-moving, scrape-me-off-the-ceiling variety… These are usually the times where you have cause to feel as though an electric shock just ripped straight through you, from nipples-to-cunt, with a nod and a wave at your g-spot.

And you’re right. A casual touch over a table in a restaurant, as he passes you the soy sauce. You take a lump of wasabi with chopsticks clutched in trembling fingers — what the fuck was that?! Your skin is tingling as though you’ve just been rubbed with mentholated cream, and your heart is beating faster than it should.

You take a deep breath, and try to compose yourself, but there’s no point. You don’t really want to. Such levels of connection are so rare and so precious that you want to savor every second, but still cannot quite help your knee-jerk reaction to deny it, suppress it, re-normalize the situation. Each attempt you make is very clearly in vain.

Nothing seems normal at the moment, but you revel in the abnormality. This is what you thrive on, and you plan to utilize it to the max.

The remains of the miso soup and the tuna tataki are arranged in that lackadaisical manner that the leftover food from a carefully ordered meal is wont to take; sprawled in disarray over the dishes where once they were heaped so beautifully.

And you two sit, exhausted from the effort of eating, but exhilarated at what is to come. From the moment your fingertips touched you knew that you had connected in that amazingly intimate, physical way, and the countdown was on till the required niceties were out of the way and you could be alone.

Although, if the truth be told, both of you had, at separate times, considered sweeping the dishes onto the floor, throwing the other over the table and fucking them senseless. Said thought had rendered the thinker speechless for a while; which had actually gone unnoticed due to the disproportionate amount of body language being used as the primary means of conversation.

Bills are paid and you leave, and as you do, your hands bump against each other, which immediately becomes a firm handhold. The urgency is palpable and rising, and you know that it doesn’t matter where, or what, but you must be alone with him now. Now. NOW! Apparently he feels the same as he drags you down the side street where his car is parked and almost throws you up against it, much as you might have thrown him over the restaurant table, and kisses you for the first time.

It’s amazing how much a kiss can convey; how it surpasses speech in its communicative ability. You know what he is thinking, feeling, needing and wanting — and he knows the same about you.

It’s only a matter of time before it happens. The time it will take for you to drive there. A journey which will not allow you to separate your hands, and a destination where the remainder of your bodies will continue what the hands started.

And all this you know, from his touch.

Previously posted elsewhere.

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