This is the kind of thing where I’m like oh no no no don’t do that to me
but also absolutely please do that to me.
anal
I haven’t done any butt stuff in a long while. Mostly because I usually don’t consider the payoff worth all the effort. But lately, I don’t know, I’ve been thinking about it.
A year ago, Sir and I tried to have anal. Key word: tried.
Sir had engaged in anal in the past, but I never had. I also had the kind of interest in it that stopped at fantasy. I considered it a soft limit. It wasn’t something I sought out, though every so often I would stop on it in a porn and think “damn.”
I consented to trying it with Sir because I knew how much he liked it and I enjoyed the idea of doing that with him. But, I was really anxious about it. I was worried I would make a mess (I’d heard a few horror stories), I was worried it would hurt, I was worried I would hate it. I also found the invasiveness of it – though super sexy – a little triggering.
We tried an enema one afternoon and I was completely triggered by it. I kicked him out of the bathroom and expelled it on my own, then wound up crying. He took care of me afterwards, but I wound up reacting out of trauma and turning the situation to blame him for “making” me do it. He hadn’t, but I’ve come to recognize these are the kinds of trauma responses I have.
Another time, we tried anal sex and I got so anxious I clenched my sphincter right as he was trying to enter me. Even though he’d made sure to warm me up a lot, it still hurt like crazy because I’d clenched. And, once again, I got super upset and somehow blamed him for making it do that.
Sir was incredibly patient with me, and we had a long talk about why I was being triggered. He held me and promised that he wouldn’t bring the subject up anymore.
But over the past year we’ve both eased into the idea of it, and I’ve also grown to trust him more deeply than I ever thought possible. So, when he came to visit back in August, we tried again.
This time, I relaxed through the enema. He was patient with me. I let him stay in the bathroom with me the whole time and we shared in the pride of how calm I’d stayed.
Even though I was still incredibly anxious about it, I let myself relax and trust that Sir would take care of me. He was experienced in this. He went slow, tried a few positions, and when we finally had a comfortable momentum, I caught myself smiling. “We did it, babe,” I kept saying, getting used to the feeling of him inside me. I was swelling with joy over the fact that this had turned out to be this really amazing bonding experience which I guess isn’t the first thing you think of when you consider anal, but that’s what this was for us.
So what’s the secret to anal sex? I don’t know, I think it’s trust. And probably a lot of lube, too.
You know, just something that’s been on my mind lately.
He says he likes the idea of a glass buttplug.
And a little flashlight.
I tell him nuh uh and nonono and you caaaaan’t.
Because people weren’t meant to be looked at so deeply.
I’m usually pretty awful at routines, confessedly. But, Craftsmate’s developed one lately that’s managed to somehow fix my horrible sleep patterns and drive me completely insane. Essentially, since Sunday, he’s been having me come over to his place at night, strip down to my panties and a t-shirt, and lie on his bed with my face down and my ass in the air.
I have to pull my panties down and wait while Craftsmate takes his sweet time applying lubricant to my asshole and his fingers. First with one finger, then two, he gently starts probing and thrusting into my asshole. Sometimes, he will rub my clit, but he’ll never let me cum. He does this with a rubber glove on, knowing that it only adds to the humiliation of the entire ordeal for me. Because, yes, I find the whole anal inspection thing to be completely humiliating.
When he has finished, he blindfolds me and has me pull my panties back up. Then, he puts me into the crotchrope arrangment he did on Sunday – with my wrists tied at my sides and the tiniest bit of slack to helplessly flutter my hands on either side of my pussy in an attempt to relieve myself. He teases me for a little while before tucking me in and leaving me there to go do work or watch television.
By the time he comes to bed, I’ve fallen asleep that way: bound, blindfolded, teased, always vaguely aware of the push of the knot in the crotchrope against my clit. In the morning, he teases me a bit more, unties me and only removes the blindfold after he has inspected how wet I had gotten during the night.
I don’t know how long this routine is going to last and I kind of like how much I simultaneously despise and enjoy it. Every morning I ask him if that was the last time and try to convince him that I’ve learned my lesson, but part of me is almost relieved when he tells me no and informs me of what time he expects me that night.
And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go blush for about six years after sharing this.
Sometimes rope pulls
tighter on your mind
than it does on your skin.