As usual, there are just so many choices. It’s hard for me to pin one down. It must be the Aquarian in me?! Well, remember I’m not a follower of many rules, so…I guess I can continue working through multiple words of the Letter of the Day…right?
The first F word that leaps to mind is…of course…fucking.
I mean, this is a sex blog!
And yanno, I really, really like sex. I like sex a lot. And I like a lot of sex. There are just so many kinds of fucking that I can think of and I mostly like them all. And even the one’s that aren’t my favorite…well, it kind of makes that weirdness inside of me go all gushy and tingly when He makes me do it anyway. It’s strange how that works, I know. I think I don’t want it, but when he makes me do it, and I don’t like it, it’s hot as (fucking) hell! Sometimes it is fucking hell (when you’re going through hell, keep going. Though in my case, I tend to keep cumming…)
Isn’t that what this is all about? Taking, being used, and enjoying the stress of even the “bad” parts? (note this is NOT an ‘atta boy’ to go off and hurt some unwilling person. If you do that you’re an asshat, and NOT a dominant.)
Now, on to more of my favorite F words…
There’s also Fine. Now, in a fight with your gal, fine is never “fine”. Fine is a classy “fuck you”. Fine is “I’m done arguing, you lost and you can go on about your merry little way but there will be payback.” Fine is your supper in the trash can, or burnt beyond hope and you better eat it and like it anyway, if you fucking know what’s good for you.
heh. Even my M knows if I say “Fine”…it’s not.
Moving right along…
Fine can also be a brilliant sunny day, birdsong in the yard, the trees dancing in the light breeze, the temperature a perfect 77*. Oh yeah, that’s a Fine day indeed.
And we mustn’t forget Fine china, (thank you Wedgewood!) nor Fine Art (who knew that a Jackson Pollock canvas in real life would choke me up that much? Freaking massive and massively impressive!), nor any other kind of fine craftsmanship. As someone who likes working with her hands, I deeply admire anyone else’s talent in their chosen path. I understand the work and dedication and sweat equity involved. This includes fine rope work on a female body. Especially including tit bondage. (You didn’t think I’d go three whole paragraphs without saying something dirty, did you? LOL. Silly you.)
Let’s see, more F words. Well, there’s Frozen, which is the temperature up north here, and not just a movie by Disney. It’s (fucking) April (see what a clever slut I am?! I used fuck in a sentence. I know Jz is cringing now! And might make me order something other than orange chicken in retaliation…!) and it’s been in the 30’s for weeks. I think we maybe topped 40 only 3 times since mid-February. We’ve had TWO major snot (whoops, typo! That should have said snow, but I’m leaving it because just now, in April, I’m sick unto death of snow. And if you’re sick, there’s usually snot. I rest my case.) storms dumping a combined total of 31 inches of snow. Even for me, 31 inches is too much. (yes, that was a double entendre!) The weather people are alleging that we’ll hit the sixties after this weekend. I’ll believe it when I see it, and have to take off my jacket.
Forecasters are people I usually look up to, too. And an F word. . They are good people, skilled people, necessary people. But snow. April. ’nuff said!
Now, I’ve saved the best for last.
Now, now. I know what you’re thinking. How the hell does a D/s relationship even consider “foreplay” in their playtime. It’s about serving, it’s about obeying, it’s about many things inside that dynamic, and foreplay isn’t mentioned. Ever.
I’m not saying tender kisses. I’m not saying softly stroking hands, the teasing edge of a palm stroking along a fully clothed breast. I’m not saying sucking lips, or necks.
D/s foreplay–at least M’s and mine- involve violence. Beautiful, shocking violence. Quite a juxtaposition to the word “foreplay”, I know. His hands will wrap around my hair and slap my face. He’ll throw me up against the wall so I cannot squirm away, and grab my tits so hard that I’m almost scream-less. My mouth is open, and I’m gasping for air, and my pussy is so wet that I’m almost juicing my inner thighs.
He pulls me off the wall, turns me to the mirror. I don’t want to look, not at that woman-thing. She’s flushed in the face, her hair is mussed badly, and her tits are consumed by two mammoth hands. His hands are curled into fists around that flesh, squeezing, squeezing, flattening, pulling. She’s arching and wiggling and trying to get away but the hold is too tight and her needs are too intense. When her eyes begin to roll in her head, he releases her and her head drops forward. Through my hair I see myself, a toy, used and abused, His face grinning that fearfully sexy grin as he knows what he’s done to me.
He’s undone me.
And we’re not even close to the bed yet.
D/s Foreplay. It’s real. It’s rough. And we like it that way!