A different approach to polyamory (II)

I ended the previous section of this post at a point which I hoped sounded suitably dramatic and cliff-hanger-y.

Because, you know, I’m all about the evil. Well, no, actually, i ended the post in the middle, thereby forcing myself to write a part two, because i felt it was getting a little long.

Anyway, as I was saying: the wait began. Part of it was utterly unbearable. I am not the world’s most patient person at the best of times, those who know me well can attest to this. The anxious child within me refuses to be quashed, and continues to dominate my knee-jerk reactions to pretty much everything in my life, although she can be subdued most of the time.

But waiting is tough on her. And me.

What concerned me more than anything was how Sub 2 would react. More to the point, how the suggestion would make her feel. I asked Purrrrvert how he would broach the subject — since no meant an absolute and final no, I wanted to know how the odds were to be stacked against me from the outset.

“I plan to say to her: Look, this is how I feel, and what I would like to do. How do you feel about that?”

Fair enough, I thought. It’s not paving the way for her to say no, and it is presenting the situation accurately.

It still didn’t help much. I was still stressed and and now having to face the demons i’d been squashing mentally up until now.

Each time i meet someone new, I subconsciously hold back emotionally until I know the form the connection will take. Sounds fairly normal, right? I’m guessing that i’m not alone in that. I will say to myself — literally, sometimes — on the non-receipt of a phone call, or email, or sms that hadn’t been promised but had been hinted at, or alluded to: ‘It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. No promise made is none broken. No emotional investment means I won’t be hurt; I can’t be hurt. ‘ (Ha.)

However, this was now a different situation. Now I was at the mercy of not the man I was hoping to begin an as-yet unspecified and not-really-defined relationship with — unless you count BDSM as specific enough a definition — but the two other women who knowingly shared his life. And my women friend readers will bear me out on this — we all know that women, while capable of immense compassion, care and gentle sincerity are also capable of evil passive aggression, defensive behaviour and subtle dismissive yet effective annihilation of anyone encroaching on their turf. Right? (Misogynists who comment offensively on this point will be bitchslapped, consider yourself warned.)

I was accustomed to an ostensibly monogamous and vanilla lifestyle. This was my first experience of real live polyamory, as I detailed in Part One. My expectations were wildly inaccurate for the setting in which i found myself, although I believe i can be forgiven since i was completely new to said setting; moreover that the “polyamorous” relationships i’d been privy to up to this point had all been of a secretive and underhand nature, where no one involved other than the central figure had known who or what was up with (or just plain up) who.

Now I found myself overwhelmed by the hitherto suppressed emotions and the feeling that I had never wanted anything so goddamn badly in my entire life; which, coupled with utter frustration, powerlessness and helplessness did not make for a calm and rational state of mind. I was entirely at the whim of another person. Another woman, to be specific. Another woman whom I’d met and gotten to know prior to meeting her Dom and getting to know him. I was concerned she’d see the almost-if-not-quite-actualized development of a relationship between he and I as a threat, as a deception, as an attack, basically. It had not been intended in that way at all… it had been he who began, he who introduced flirting to the mix of intellectual discussion and daft humour, and it had been he who had said “Sapphire, I would really like to get to know you better”.

But I know women. They will always blame the other woman, regardless of the facts, and rationale behind the situation. Hands up those of you reading who have experienced this? Yeah, thought so.

I was judging the situation (note: i do not judge people) on how I perceived the situation, and this too worried me. It seemed to be spotlighting horrible tendencies in me — if, hypothetically, my kneejerk reaction were someone else to want my partner (and I speak here on a philosophical level, lest you forget) would be to kick her to the curb but quick, involving one hell of an ass-whuppin’  and the threat of possible banishment by means of various anti-aircraft missiles.

And this reaction in and of itself stopped me in my tracks. Since i try to live according to the maxim “do unto others as you would have them do unto you”, i then took a step back. Why should my kneejerk reaction to sharing a polyamorous partner be so possessive, jealous, violent and generally unpleasant? Why, bearing in mind that monogamy and I have not been friends for many years now, would i not be able to grant the same freedom to a partner that i would want granted me? Purrrrrvert himself had made it clear that he did not expect me to be exclusive to him, and while i currently had no plans or extant connection with any other, the empowerment itself was enough to allow me to breathe.

Breathing is everything.

Come the day of reckoning — the Thursday night that Purrrrvert usually spends with Sub2. I spent the day in a state of unconscious breathlessness, managing to remain mostly calm during the day, but in the evening locking myself in the bathroom and wildly hyperventilating into a plastic duck.

I went to check my email sometime after aforementioned plastic duck incident, and I found a message to me from Sub2, which read as follows:

Hi Sapphire,

I just wanted to tell you that Purrrrvert talked to me today about your meeting. He was surprised to know that it was not a suprise to me. i know him i think more than he thought 🙂 i knew from our first conversation that you were his type :-).

I just wanted to tell you that as far as I am concerned, it is not for me to have an opinion regarding who he plays with. so i hope you have great time together, have fun.

Take care,
Sub2

I wrote back to her immediately, infused with a mixture of happiness, gratitude, relief and excitement.

Dear Sub2,

Thank you very very much for writing to me. I was really touched by your sweet message.

I don’t know if Purrrvert mentioned, but when he first broached the subject with me, my first thought was how you would feel about it, and how in no way would I ever want you to feel hurt by anything I did — and I told him so. Of course, he replied that without discussing such a thing with you and Sub1, under no circumstances would anything happen — which was a huge relief to me.

I confess; as a result of previous first- and second-hand experience, i did worry a little… however, I clearly underestimated you — big time. I apologize sincerely for comparing you with lesser people who behave with (a lot) less maturity, and grace.

I don’t need to say anything to you about your relationship with Purrrvert: for one thing, it’s neither my business nor my territory, and for another — what i could possibly tell you that you didn’t already know could be written on the head of a pin. What i can tell you is that i think you are a very lucky woman — not just because Purrrrvert is your master, but because of who you are inside: you are intelligent, very talented, mature and you have a very good heart.

I’m honoured to know you, and i hope you still consider me a friend — and will allow me to get to know you better over time.

Warm hugs,
Sapphire x

Almost immediately I finished writing, Purrvert popped up in my chat window, with his customary purr.

“I heard from Sub2,” I told him, all the while conscious of the over-tightly wound spring in my chest uncoiling, and the breath I had held for so many hours finally being allowed to escape and re-oxygenate my blood, and proceeded to tell him about her letter to me, and then I showed him what I’d written back to her.

“How are you feeling now?” he asked.

“Relief. I’m exhaling. And I literally cannot stop smiling.”

He sent a smiley “cool” face (with shades). “I’m so glad. Now we tackle the next hurdle. But this one we do together.”

And this, to me, said it all.

This is how polyamory works. Honesty is everything.

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Deprived, depraved, fucked and satisfied

Deprived of what? I hear you ask.

It’s not unusual for a Dom to withhold the thing most essential to the being of his servant, slave or sub — wherever they slot in along the sub-o-meter, and whatever the agreement between they and their master — the concept of denial is one of the basic tools of torture that a master has at his or her disposal.

My master deprived me of my words. The essence of my being. Not my written words — thank god, that would have been a safeword-inducing occurrence — but my spoken words. It was a highly unusual situation for me. But, as ever, I was happy to fulfill his wishes — happy to please him. My goal was — is — to make him happy. ‘Nuff said.

It did not change, help or hinder the outcome. Never before have i been simultaneously satisfied, denied, spaced-out, focused, aroused, in pain, and utterly, totally fucked. I tingle all over, still, inside and out. I couldn’t do enough for him — I’m not sure that I even did.

At one point, i lay supine — at his behest, of course — while his hand explored my cunt, and his mouth nuzzled and nibbled at my breast… not the traditional position for a sub, although god knows I am not complaining. It was wonderful. I was owned. Possessed. His fucktoy. His slut. And yet I felt — how should I phrase it? Cherished? Kinda. Needed? Maybe. Wanted? Definitely. As though I could lie there under his hand forever?

Hell, yeah.

He once told me that his eventual goal was to have me adore, worship and love him. It’s not as distant a goal as it once may have seemed. I worshipped him tonight, with my tactile lips, tongue, fingers on his body, and my body wherever he wanted it to be.

I came i don’t know how many times. I know i asked permission every time, except for the g-spot orgasm gushing moment — I’m still unable to control that orgasmic urge, love it though i do. Fortunately, he’d already told me to come, so the issue was neatly avoided.

At first I was deprived of my words by his command. By the end of the evening, when he permitted me to speak freely, I was hard pushed to find words to express myself. How did he manage to be so brutal and yet so tender? So dominant, and yet so sensual…

I reflected on this as we lay there recovering. I love the controlling part of him, even, to a certain extent, the cruelty that accompanies it — else why would I become his slut? — but i was unaware of and therefore all the more surprised and delighted by his sensuous and tender inclinations.

So intense an experience that I was actually speechless. He’d caused me to perpetuate the effect that he had initially ordered… if that isn’t adoration, then I don’t know what is….

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Blind date: Impressions of a Dom

If ever an ordinary cup of coffee and a tuna salad played host to an extraordinary event, today was it.

Blind dates unnerve me, no matter what the circumstance. Blind dates with a self-confessed sadist and narcissist-in-recovery, before which i am not permitted to smoke, and with whom I am more than a little interested in exploring depths of my sexual psyche previously unexplored or even considered, scare the shit out of me.

It’s understandable, therefore, why i may have exhibited an initial display of defensive body armour.

I arrive and wait in the appointed place for a moment. Then, realising that I am 15 minutes early, and preferring fresh air to recycled air-conditioning, I step outside and sit on one of the swing seats, so thoughtfully placed by the management of the marina, and idly watch the boats bob up and down. Upon turning to go back inside, in order to be at the appointed spot precisely on time, I notice a large burnt out would-be entrance to the very same restaurant, the open and thriving version of which (located inside)  we have arranged to meet by. I sigh and realise that this could cause confusion, but i go back in to the concourse and wait, thinking that if he finds the non-version of the restaurant, he will phone me. No need to freak out. Chill.

Two minutes later, the phone rings:
“Why did you choose a burnt-out shell of a restaurant?”

“I didn’t, but I know where you are. Hold on, I’m coming to meet you.”

I exit the building and there he is, smiling as he surveys me quizzically. I smile back, ever-conscious that I’m really not sure how to act. This is to be the one occasion where I have the ability to dictate, so to speak, the proceedings. After this, he is in control. I’m still finding it difficult to understand exactly how the situation works. However, I know that I will eventually get it, and what’s more, it will be worth the transitional thinking. It will probably be osmosis that allows me to fully comprehend what I should do, what is expected of me and so on, that and paying keen attention to what he says to me today.

He doesn’t look very much as I had pictured — ever the writer, my mind had conjured up a different physique and the face, that, first seen in snapped splendour at the end of a work shift — wearisome and somewhat harried — did not compute with the animated searching visage spotted in profile outside the doors of the mall. No complaints — it was just…. different. Good different, definitely. His eyes in particular — bright, alive, piercing, and curious. And a beautiful colour.

A chaste kiss on the cheek — his instruction — and we begin to walk.

*************************

We pause to gaze at the boats, and he gives me his first impressions.

“You present more body armour in person, than on the phone. More defensive.”

I turn to face him, and laughingly explain.

“Look, I’m not the calmest and most serene of people anyway, blind dates of any shape or description make me nervous. And I haven’t smoked today.”

He smiles understandingly, and we move off.

We walk to the place where we will be sitting, and he gallantly allows me to choose the place where we sit. I pick a different table to his initial choice — not simply because this-is-my-date-and-I-can, but because the size and shape of the table lend themselves to a more intimate level of conversation.

We talk about this and that. I ask him questions that have been preying on my mind, and he answers them, fully, and frankly. I listen to the prosaic voice from our recent phone calls take shape within his facial expressions and body movements, enjoying how he becomes more and more familiar with every word. Appreciating what an amazing opportunity I have in front of me.

The more he explains, the more i relax. The more i hear, the more I realise that this time around, I made the right decision. It’s right that I’m here. In fact, nothing has ever felt more right. i find myself noticing everything he does — as though my sensory perception of him is uniquely heightened and attuned to him. Barely noticing what I’m doing, i eat my salad automatically until he turns to me and says:

“You know what I want you to do now?”

Stupidly, I nod, so engrossed am I in noticing how his mouth forms words.

“You do?” he asks, somewhat surprised that I have apparently metamorphosed into a psychic.

I shake my head, and smile. “Allow me to change that movement to this,” I say, as I shake my head.

“I want you to go into the bathroom, and come for me. Now you can picture me, my face, and who I am in person, use the same fantasy as you’ve used at my instigation over the last few days. You have five minutes.”

I stand, and leave for the bathroom, intent on getting there as soon as possible in order that I can do his bidding. Suddenly, there is nothing as important as fulfilling his wishes. I do exactly as I am told –bringing myself to a furious climax as i imagine him fucking me hard from behind, and permitting me to come, and his voice afterwards: “Good, Sapphire. Good.”

Despite the onset of an unusual stabbing head pain, i complete my task and return to the table, flushed and breathing heavily. He reminds me to thank him, and I do, blushing that I had forgotten to do so without being told.

Clearly the paradigm has shifted, so i incline my head a little and request permission to resume my salad. It’s granted, and gradually the conversation returns to something resembling normal. On the outside I am calm, but on the inside I am so happy that I have had the opportunity to show him my will to please him, and my ability to fulfil the instructions he has given me —  in person.

He has paid the bill while I was away from the table, and I thank him for that. He asks me how much time i have until I have to leave, and upon hearing how long we have, tells me to lead him to a more secluded and discreet spot.

I walk with him to my car, and on his instruction, unlock the door, throw my bags onto the passenger seat, and lock the doors once more. He tells me to follow him, and I do — to a niche in the back wall  of the car park, under a large heating pipe. I suspect that he is about to kiss me for the first time, and my suspicions are proved correct. I know that he has been in two minds about whether to kiss me in a manner less than chaste, knowing how much I wanted him to, and I’m truly touched that he has decided in my favour.

He stands me in front of him.

“Give me your mouth. No hands.”

I lean towards him and give him my mouth; he kisses me — passionately and deeply. I tentatively respond, unsure as to whether this is what is expected of me, but i hear no complaint from him nor do i feel as though I’m doing the wrong thing, so the response becomes less and less tentative as the kiss goes on. The kiss goes straight to my knees, and i struggle to stand upright, so intense an experience am i having. He sucks at my lips and tongue, and pulls my hair for the first time, sending a jolt of electricity to my cunt.  He pinches my nipple and i moan, unheard in the noise of the car park. He runs his hands up and down my body, feeling my flesh, pinching handfuls of it as though he is testing it or, more to the point, as though he owns it. Which, for now, he does. He pulls my hair again, and again, bending my head to the angle at which he wants it. It’s as if he is bending me to his will although, in truth, I am already bent that way. I get an immediate sensation of what he means when he says he wants me to be his fucktoy, and I love the feeling.

He ends the kiss, and sends me back to the car. With a brief goodbye he departs, walking off in the opposite direction. As i drive off, i pass him and incline my head towards him, my lips and cheeks still tingling from the feel of his stubble against my skin. I savour the feeling, reliving the kiss over and over in my head as I drive. No one has ever kissed me like that before; the depth of sensation has left me reeling as though i were drunk. My cunt is sopping — not so much from my previous masturbatory efforts, but as a direct result of the kiss — and stays wet and squelchy for hours afterwards.

As i drive home, and throughout the afternoon that follows, as I go through the motions of being present and correct at home, all i can think is how lucky I am to have met him, and how much more than ever I want to serve him. I have ceased to think of it in terms of the exploration of my sexuality — for now, all that matters to me is that i make my master happy.

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