Waxing Philosophic

Scot here. It is my extreme honor to hand the key to the keyhole to my lovely doll Leigh, who after much persuading (in other words begging) has put fingers to Macbook to share with all the Peekers™ her first-hand (literally) account of our evening christening our new Gigi Brazilian Hard Waxer.

I will just add in advance that this was all her idea, I did my best, and that no waxing salons will be seeing my resume any time soon.

Parental guidance suggested. Not for the squeamish.

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Scot has been on me to write this post for a while, so here goes.

This is not going to be a super sexy hot wet accounting of a sensual night of trying out our new Gigi Brazilian Wax Kit. Despite the video included, it is not painless. At. All. And despite the fact that I actually like pain, I like good pain. Ripping the hair off your hooha is NOT good pain.

But I digress.

It started with a video. They had included a handy dandy DVD to give you a play by play on how to do the waxing. I recommend not watching it on the kitchen island with the screen to the window where anyone walking up to your front door can peek in and see. There is a life sized hoohaa that leaves nothing to the imagination and may just make your elderly neighbor stopping by with a tray of brownies expire right there on your front lawn.

I had opted for a hard wax system, which does not require strips. You just spread the melted wax on and pick up an edge, and then pull. Easy right? The woman in the demo smiled the whole time like she was in a toothpaste commercial. Pain free. Bullshit.

We decided to do this in the bedroom so I could lay on the bed and be comfortable. Everything was set up nicely, the heater was on a small stand, the popsicle sticks that are used to spread the hot wax, a towel, and the two bottles of pre- and post- rip.

We put on some nice music and started out with candlelight, but it wasn’t bright enough to really see anything, so we had to turn on the over head light. Not flattering to anyone, but when you’re laying there spread eagle trying to figure out the direction of hair growth between your legs, it’s even less flattering.

So the wax was hot, we had figured out which way the red fern grows, and it was time to get started. The videos all showed people laying there relaxed and serene, then the waxer would spread the wax, flip up the end, and pull. There was no screaming or crying. They said over and over again how it didn’t hurt at all. I was ready.

We decided to start on the bikini area, as the video said that is the least intense spot. A nice thick layer of wax was applied, (it was stringy and drippy and we got it all over the floor and thank goodness I put a towel down on the bed first) we let it get tacky, then Scot tried to flick up the edge. Holy fuck. There was hair in the end that pulled out when he did it and trying to get enough end to grip was excruciating. Finally he had it, and I held the skin taut and on the count of three, he pulled. And it ripped apart. Scot then had to pull off three different smaller pieces. There may have been a few tears. This was not off to a good start.

We regrouped, changed the strategy and tried again, this time a little closer to the middle. You’re supposed to rip the wax off against the grain of growth. Imagine pulling your bottom lip over your forehead. Yeah. It didn’t get better either. With every strip, my pain threshold lowered.

Though I did not scream out Kelly Clarkson’s name, I did scream. I’m surprised the neighbors didn’t call 911 to report a horrific murderous attack at the house next door. (They are probably used to the screaming quite honestly. God help us if we ever really do get attacked in the middle of the night!) Scot kept asking if I wanted him to stop, and I would shake my head, glare at him and say, “just keep going” through tightly clenched teeth.

We made it through most of it and decided to do the backside before tackling that last strip right in the middle that the video mentioned it “might cause some discomfort.” In my mind I heard “this is going to fucking hurt like the fires of hell are shooting out your vagina” and needed to prepare a bit longer. I got on my hands and knees and held my cheeks open while he spread the wax. (Yes, at this point there was much commentary going on by the waxer. I’m not sure that professional waxers talk that much or put their fingers in that place before they spread the wax. Then again, I’ve never had this professionally done. They might.)

I will say, it wasn’t nearly as painful back there. And the resulting smoothness impressed even me. There is only so many ways to hold a razor while shaving that area, and its inevitable that spots get missed. Not so much with the wax. Weeks later it’s still nice and smooth.

I rolled back over and took a few cleansing breaths. I’d come this far, and it was a point of pride now not to cry uncle. Scot spread a nice thick layer of wax right down the middle and flicked the end up before it had time to set. So far so good. The wax got tacky. I thought about changing my mind. It was too late. Yes, definitely changed my mind. “Pull it” I ground out. “Are you ready?” Scot asked. “Just pull the fucking wax off so I can roll over and cry already!”

I held the skin tight, he braced his hand, then pulled. I might have levitated off the bed for a second. Then I screamed. Then I heard Scot say, “Oh crap.” For one terror filled moment, I thought he ripped my clit off. “There’s still some wax there.” The five most dreaded words in the human language. (Okay, maybe just in mine.) For the next five minutes, which felt like a hundred years, he proceeded to pick off tiny spots of wax attached to deeply embedded hairs.

As he did, I thought about all the ways I could kill him, as painfully as possible.

This whole process took about an hour and a half. At one point, I looked at Scot and said in my best Spongebob announcer voice, “Six hours later.” You have to be a Spongebob fan to get that. We both laughed.

My closing thoughts are short. Don’t believe everything as advertised. THEY LIE. At home Brazilian waxing is not as easy as rolling a pie crust. It’s not as pain-free as getting a manicure. It’s not fucking simple at all. It hurts. Like nothing else on this great green earth could hurt. Like a million bees stinging a third degree sunburn hurts. I personally think the model on the video was on huge doses of Valium. I can’t imagine just laying there smiling serenely while your crotch hair is ripped out by the roots.

If I decide to do this again, I am paying someone professional to do it. My modesty has a price, and apparently it’s called excruciating pain.

Eta: I got my revenge. Oh yes, I did. Scot said if I did it, he would do it. At one point, there was a two-handed rip that resulted in a scream of pain. This time, it was not me who was screaming. Revenge. Oh yes. So sweet served with a side of sadistic pleasure. 😉

– Leigh

Scot again. Yes, I did. I got a full Sphinx at the hands of the bloodlusting, revenge thirsting Leigh. What she neglected to mention in her account is that, when she pulled the first strip off me that the end peeled up easily and the wax did not stick to my skin. It seems that someone with a penis put on the recommended quantity of the prep oil, which you can imagine made her even more upset that her Spongebobesque bulldozing of the red fern was more than likely much of her own fault.

But yes, one particularly memorable moment was her asking me…

Who am I kidding? Warning me that if I wanted to retain possession of my boys I better make my skin as taut as possible with both hands.

I made my skin as taut as possible with both hands.

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRIP!

With two hands (TWO HANDS) she removed a swatch of wax the size of a small hairy pancake. We put it next to the one of hers that looked like an either an upside down fur V or a porcupine roadkill.

Apparently the oil dried or soaked in by the time she got there. Yes, I screamed.

Good times.

My first thoughts when it was all over?

“They look like a boiled chicken.”

But as Leigh alluded to its been two weeks and the stubble is finally starting to reappear. We’ve had a lot of smooth fun in that time. And more to come (heh)

– Scot

A Peek Back 6-30

You should know by know that AM dived by single digits on the clock (in other words before 10AM) equals coffee. Lots of coffee.

It is a food group here, and one thing Leigh and I Will. Not. Compromise on. We drink microroasted coffee done so locally. Other aspects of the budget may change, allocations go up and down (heh) but this is a hard limit. We will both safe word on cheap, crappy ass coffee.

Welcome to this Saturday’s A Peek Back. This feature of TDND™ allows long time Followers as well as first time Peekers™ to quickly review what has transpired over the past seven days.

If you are a neophyte Peeker™ I strongly encourage you to view all of the established Pages, which can be viewed by selecting any of the tabs at the top of this page.

The Archives are an inclusive, running version of every post of note on this blog. If you have not read any or all of the stories, random musings, poetry, etc linked from The Archives by all means please grab a seat, perhaps something to drink (like coffee!), sit back and enjoy.

So, without further teasing (which I am very good at, so I hear), A Peek Back:

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Interview With A Submission Vampire Vol.1 No.6: Leigh & I both discuss not just how do you know you are submissive but also how to find like-minded kinksters.

If Its Early Monday, I Have A Java IV In: My weekly Monday cup of coffee (notice a trend here?) and stream of consciousness.

The Medium Is The Message: Does it really matter who in the D/s dynamic lights the way as far as the overall journey?

Territorial Marking: An erotic poem about what its like to have a woman beg to come all over you…again and again.

Leigh Has Another Cute Musing: Leigh’s cute little….poem…in response to Territorial Marking

Finger Sandwiches: Not what it sounds like. The one thing Leigh does outside the bedroom that sends me flying.

Welcome To Topdrop Live!: Topdrop is real. It sucks. Ever wonder how a Dom feels when they drop? A stream of consciousness post as I actually dropped… and hard.

BDSM On A Budget – Cuffs, Collars & Gags, Oh My!: Because binding arms and legs shouldn’t cost an arm and a leg

Inspiration: I’m still in shock over this. Our real-life adventures inspire some hot, erotic BDSM fiction!

More coffee, Sir? Thank you Leigh.

– Scot

Inspiration

I…am humbled. Seriously.

The lovely Shayna York conveyed to me via Twitter that Leigh and I’s journey inspired her to pen a short piece of BDSM erotica entitled Kept Waiting.

Never, and I mean never, did I ever fathom that our humble blog would serve as a muse to a talented author of erotica. Peekers™ may recognize various aspects of her most delicious scene from various stories that have been shared here.

This is seriously too much.

Thank you so very much Shayna for this. It really confirms that TDND™ is, slowly, achieving its goals.

– Scot


BDSM On A Budget – Cuffs, Collars & Gags, Oh My

We’ve been pretty creative and frugal thus far in the BDSM On A Budget series. But, within every discipline, interest, etc. there are just indisputable necessities that require stepping back from creative repurposing on a budget. I honestly don’t care if Martha Stewart has an online tutorial for making thrifty, yet hinting at spring with floral accents versions of today’s topic.

Yes, as the title indicated, this time we discuss what should be standard gear for any couple engaged in BDSM and/or a D/s dynamic – leather bondage cuffs and collars. We’ll even toss in a leather strap ball gag at no extra cost!

When people and/or couples first start exploring bondage, it’s almost always via hands tied with scarves, rope, clothing, even tape. But in time the fumbling with knots that are either too tight or too loose will get to be an issue, as well as the limitations that a restrictive, focused binding has. You can tie hands together, or even through/around something like I did with my belt in Away Games. You’ll need to tie knots twice to secure legs wide. Tying limbs together? More knots. Still erect? Still wet? I hope so.

And so on.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Rope is sexy, timeless, romantic even. Scarves are amazing. I mentioned them when we went thrift shopping. Clothing is very spontaneous and adds a delightful irony to bondage. Tape is cold, violent and will add a sadomasochistic aspect when removed.

But eventually you will, once your Dominant unties you, want to get off porch and “run with the big dogs”. I’m talking the real shit – dedicated leather bondage cuffs and a collar. Like these:

Leather Bondage Cuffs

Before I continue, all of what I will be discussing today can be purchased at Leather Etc. The images are linked to the product pages. I ask that you please finish reading before clicking any links.

(Disclaimer – I am not receiving any compensation from Leather Etc. as result of any endorsements…….yet)

We own two pairs of the fleece lined, leather, double ring cuffs like you see above. They are comfortable, secure, can be actually locked with a small padlock through the buckle if you like and just look sharp as fuck. The two rings allow for a multitude of bondage opportunities. They even come with a metal connector (like you use on a dog chain/leash) at no extra cost.

They go on quickly, are extremely secure and make your submissive just glow, radiate. And again, with one on each wrist and ankle, the possibilities for bondage origami are almost endless. Many times Leigh will be able to relax her legs in that the restraints are holding them in place. She may not appreciate how open and vulnerable that place is, but at least she is not doing kinky Pilates.

Now here is the kicker. Each set is only $29.95! And…they come in wrist AND ankle sizes if you wish to go that route. When we bought ours years ago they only had one size, which we have found to work on both wrists and ankles. Plus they were $5 less then! The S/H is a flat rate $4.95.

So, for what you would pay for dinner and a movie (even less if you get the large popcorn) you could have two pair of serious play leather bondage cuffs with connectors at your doorstep.

So now that you have your submissive restrained, you need to keep them quiet. Ever fumble tying the scarf gag, or catch loose hair in the knot? Want to use what the “pros” do? Then for a mere $8.99 your submissive’s screams could be muffled very nicely with this:

Leather Ball Gag

This leather strap ball gag is adjustable and comes with a buckle. The perfect fit every time, and no more clumps of hair torn out in that scarf (not that a lil’ pain is bad, mind you). And again, there is the romance of the classics. Submissives droop at the sight, but relish the thought that you care enough to gag them with the very items that porn stars use.

Finally, the one piece that actually does not truly fit into the budget theme, but it should be in your toy box:

Leather Bondage Collar

The symbol of submission – a leather bondage collar. Please note that I said “bondage collar” and not just collar. Big difference. A leather collar often only has the one front ring. A bondage collar has three rings. BIG difference as to what you can do to and with your submissive as a result.

This one is fleece lined. Some submissives may enjoy the feel of just leather on their necks. That’s fine. Leigh prefers the fleece, plus I think it increases comfort, which can lead to longer play sessions when its being used for what it’s designed for.

Those side rings are crucial for adding countless binding options. Wrists to neck is the most obvious. I like to use them to keep Leigh’s head immobile with lateral restraint. I could go on and on….

…sigh.

This is an investment. But again, collars are extremely symbolic. Merely wearing it starts the mind fucking, let alone what potential lies within its kinky three-ring circus. Your submissive deserves a proper and attractive collar.

It’s not cheap at $49 for the fleece lining and three rings, but again a small price to pay for the lifetime of orgasmic memories it will generate. If you just want straight leather, single ring collars they run only $14.99.

I know there are tutorials on-line as to how to make all of these, but let’s be honest. I would want these to be made by someone more versed in leather work than I. Restraints should be safe. I trust these. This is not a place to be cutting corners, in my humble opinion, but you can get professional quality leather cuffs and collars at a very reasonable price.

So there you have it. For about $130 you could have all of this to play with. I think, for the passion you invest in your passion, it’s a very fair price to pay to bring some quality to your bondage efforts, as well as so much more.

Next time we go Budget BDSM we will visit the home improvement store and show you a very cheap, efficient and kinky way to use your new cuffs and collar. It will give new meaning to “hardware”…heh.

– Scot

Welcome To Topdrop Live!

(Note – this is a stream of consciousness and a peek inside the mind and soul of a Dominant in the midst of a hard Topdrop as it is happening. If the structure of the following words seems chaotically haphazard and wandering aimlessly, well, welcome to Topdrop)

My mind is so scattered right now that I don’t know how to start this post, so we’ll go with that as the opener…

For you regular Peekers™ you may have read my mentioning an amazing spanking session Leigh and I shared two nights previous.

And with that sentence I just stared blankly at the screen of my MacBook for easily a minute, my fingers hovering over the black keys like vultures waiting for words to just die so I can easily devour word count from their carcasses.

I am experiencing Topdrop. And it fucking sucks.

The fact that I am immediately chasing a 2nd cup of coffee with a cold Pale Ale isn’t probably the smartest idea right now, either.

That evening was beautiful. I wrote Leigh a love email (doesn’t sound as poetic as a love letter, does it?) With her blessing I am sharing it with all of you so that you may grasp what a special evening it was as to better understand why I dropping so hard right now:

Good morning doll,

I wanted to text you, but what I am feeling and have to say cannot be done best in 140 characters bites.
 
You were exquisite last night.
 
As you lay there, face down on the bed with your amazing ass arched high and tight, I thought to myself “I am the luckiest bastard in the world right now.” To have someone so beautiful, so fucking gorgeous, offer not just their body to me to do with as I pleased, but to also submit to me their inner self for my safe guard. To know that they trust me enough to display themselves so vulnerably, so erotically, so open with the mindset of that which was presented was going to be the recipient of pain so delicious they would see “the pretty colors”, sparkling little stars and float away inside themselves.
 
As I type these simple words of praise and appreciation I keep pausing to allow my hand, the same hand that blistered your sweet ass with thousands of stinging blows not 12 hours prior, to wander over the painful erection the memory of is causing me.
 
Fuck, through these jeans won’t do. *unzipped* Freed. That’s much better.
 
I crave spanking you. I desire to make your head spin and heart race, your soul fly and your spirit soar through administering the flat of my firm, rapid hand on your quivering ass cheeks. Feeling them grow hot with blood, blushing pink with friction and arrousal. Drinking in your submission and the ramifications of it. Pushing you, teasing you, abusing you. Listening to you whimper with my comments, the sound of your focused breathing an erotic symphony to my focused ears on where you are inside your beauty. Raking the raw flesh with fingernails and teeth. Making you do that which you secretly crave but feebly protest.
 
Again and again and again and….well…I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.
 
And get used to it. I vow that from last night forward you will never go a week without receiving a proper spanking, probably more like days. And that once a month we will devote an entire evening to a special scene from which you will be able to completely let go of all you know as reality and just drop into the abyss, so you may temporarily exist in a state of welt induced tears of joy, flowing as freely as that cunt of yours does when its properly aroused.
 
I want to, no…need to give this gift of freedom to you.
 
Thank you again for a lovely evening. I adore you, doll.
 
Love,
Scot

That is why I soared. I fucking flew. The Topspace I orbited in over one phase of the earth’s rotation was simply wonderful.

But what comes up (not a euphemism) must come down. And when you were as high as I was, thats a fucking death spiral from the heavens back into myself. And the landing?

Well, its not looking good.

Before I go any further, I feel its important to know that I am keystroking this from outside, specifically The Hammock™. Gotta love WifI and secured local networks. I can have my blog and Mother Nature too. Leigh prescribed, via text, an hour of sun and air. “For the both of us since I can’t,”she said. I protested. She won. And yes, it’s the same hammock of Swinging legend.

So, I decided to share my hand- knotted, rope-braced plummet with all of you…

It is serene. The wind is blowing just enough to cause the leaves on the maples and poplars to mimic the sound of surf on the shore. Birds sing, chirp at each other. The sky is a landscape artist’s fantasy, full of cotton ball clouds scattered amidst a pale blue sea of heaven. LOL…a squirrel even went postal on me from the safe confines of its branched domain with a litany of squeaks. Probably a good thing I am not fluent in Squirrel or I’d likely be POd from its comments. I do know its seriously upset right now.

I can relate, my nutty buddy, trust me.

Told you my mind was scattered. That’s one of the ways Topdrop manifests in me. I have extreme difficulty focusing. My train of thought gets derailed easily and often. I typically wander, looking for focus or ways to make me do the same. And when I mean wander, I mean room to room, or task to task, not just thought to thought. Its frustrating as fuck.

But that’s the easy part. Its the actual falling back into myself that I loath.

Much has been written about subspace. How it comes about, what it is, what it’s like, etc. Inclusive in these numerous reflections, by default, is subdrop. This is when a submissive comes back down from floating away into their subspace.

A lot of it is chemical. Endorphins and dopamine are powerful ass compounds. Forge them in the furnace of stress induced adrenaline and all the body’s self-defense chemical factories are at maximum production, pumping the owner full of these as they are flogged or spanked, etc. When the assault of the senses stops, these chemicals WHOOSH in. No wonder the sensation of flight or floating is often described when referring to subspace.

But what about the Dominant?

They drive joy and satisfaction, even arousal, from the submissive’s distress and resultant subspace. I touched on this when I wrote about subspace. They crave all the aspects of persona that the submissive MUST get rid of to create subspace. This is the power exchange incarnate.

It’s like emotional and spiritual endorphins and dopamine. And it has the same effect, only instead of a physical manifestation being required (BDSM) its a intangible one (the “aura” created as a result).

Addictive? Fuck yeah! I crave it. Not ashamed to say I need it. I am a submission vampire. I literally “feed” off Leigh’s.

Still with me? I can’t tell through the fog if any of this makes any more sense than a bad recipe. I apologize if it seems confusing, not my intent. And I am vowing to, with the benefit of time, NOT edit this at all. I want all of you to see what its like to Topdrop.

It’s actually scary, at least for me. Why? Because its the exact opposite of subspace, but in the same place. Oh, I’m falling into the abyss that is myself, what makes me Me. But without the endorphins. Or dopamine. Or adrenaline. No floaty feeling, no pretty colors, no nothing except the cold, hard, dark as ink gravity that is reality, sucking me down like black quicksand at midnight.

And there is not a fucking thing I can do about. Which is fair, in hind sight (bad spanking joke). It was my firm hand on Leigh’s amazing ass that sent us both into our respective spaces. She came down. I immensely enjoyed her fidgeting yesterday, her ass cheeks itched like mad as she sat. So in the interest of Equal Opportunity Perversion I too shall come back down. Hard. Just like my hands were on her.

Poetic justice. Balance.

It doesn’t make it any easier. Well, that’s not true. The sado masochist in me appreciates the irony.

So I lie here, twisting in two kinds of wind. One created by the sun’s rays heating the earth’s surface, the other by Leigh’s Sir’s hand heating the skin of her backside. One is physical. I can feel it on my skin. The other is spiritual. I can feel it under my skin. One is comforting, soothing, the other howling, screaming for its due.

So I fall….

It sucks. Big time. And there is absolutely nothing I can do. The irony of the fact I am, in essence, in a form of internal bondage is not lost on me. Topdrop will make me its bitch.

I remembered to forget that this topic is touchy within the BDSM community. Dominants can’t be weak. They must be the Strength of the dynamic, they’re not allowed to be vulnerable, or heaven forbid let their submissive see and experience Them in this state. Many don’t believe in it.

Its real. Oh fuck yeah, its real. Trust me. I’m feel as if I am being drained from the outside in, collapsing upon my own perverted critical mass like a kinky black hole, and not the fun kind.

I want my Leigh…

To hold her, be held. Soon. She even made mention of getting me chocolates, which gets mentioned quite a bit as a BDSM trauma recovery tool. A lot of it is the fact its simple energy, but also there is the science that chocolate, from a chemical viewpoint, shares a lot of qualities with the body’s own chemistry when experiencing what we perceive as “love.”

And… just stared at the screen with a 1000 yard stare for, oh, almost a minute. Wondering where I was, where I was going with all of this. Fuck.

Topdrop is very real.

Any submissives reading this, please keep this in mind if your Dominant seems to act peculiar post-scene. May be hours, might be days. But please don’t take Their indifference, lack of communication or, in my case, desire to over communicate and crawl inside my doll’s space and experience what she does when I hold her after beating her ass so severely she cries for no reason.

I guess it really is a power exchange. Trust. Communicate. Be. Share. Smile.

Now, if you excuse me I need to just let go and *deep breath*…fall…and let Mother Nature rock me to where I need to be until my Leigh takes her place.

With chocolate, blue eyes and her embrace 🙂

– Scot

Archives Redux

I realized, while doing the  Look Back post every Saturday, that the links collected in The Archives did not have have descriptions. Just a bunch of post titles under sub-genre/headers.

That does not help you, the Peeker™, as far as selecting something to read. It was like a kinky box of chocolates. You knew you were getting something sweet and kinky, perhaps nutty (Leigh just spontaneously nodded vigorously at that last one…smart ass), but didn’t know exactly what flavor of kink.

“Ohh, a spanking meltaway! (heh) Not what I was expecting, but still very good. Has a lingering bite to it, like ginger. Hmmmm, is that a flogging creme? You really have to whip the fillings to make them moist. Which ones have the “toy” surprises in them?”

So to help you get the chocolate you want (sorry, no “vanilla” creams) I’ve provided each post link with a brief description. Hopefully this helps you choose wisely.

Have as many as you wish, but don’t bother trying to find any of the double chocolate creams (no, not THAT). I memorized that swirl pattern ages ago and already cherry (I can’t stop) picked all of them out of the box.

– Scot

Postscript: I really can do that, by the way.

Finger Sandwiches

As many of you know, Leigh is a submissive fantasy come true behind a closed bedroom door. That is our arrangement, our dynamic. She knows that her body is mine to do with as I fucking please. This is not to say I do not listen to her. Simply put there are times when real life Dominates both of us. If she needs personal space for focusing on her writing, or simply is exhausted (we do play a lot) she asks me for an evening of just snuggling, which I am more than happy to listen to and 99% of the time will respect. (What can I say? I’m a guy, she’s hot, things pop up….heh)

When that door opens we are equal partners in our marriage. The “Please may I..” stays in the bedroom. I have no problem with this. To be honest I would not want or could fucking handle the responsibilities of a 24/7 D/s dynamic. She is a bright, intelligent, witty, funny, hard-working woman. I’d be a fool to want to corral that. The exchanges we share outside the bedroom as Mr. & Mrs. fuel the exchanges we share behind its closed door as Sir and doll. And vice versa.

Now, I admit that I would like to expand some of the D/s relationship outside the bedroom and, on a few occasions, she has been receptive. Public orgasms are one example. But I know she also bristles at this notion, which I admit makes her all the more worthy of the attempt to slowly integrate D/s into everyday life.

It’s not the kill, it’s the thrill of the chase.

But there is one thing she does do outside the bedroom that does echo D/s. And I love it. Absolutely adore everything about it. To be blunt I enjoy it more than some of the events that transpire behind that closed door.

What is it? What could she possibly do to make me float in mild Topspace?

She manicures my nails.

The first time she did this was beyond words. Dressed in only a silk robe, leather hand and wrist cuffs and her leather ring collar she sat on an ottoman and waited for me at the end of the couch. Upon sitting she looked up into my eyes and asked “May I? in regards to my hand.

I soared.

Now, before I get into the (at least for me) arousing details of what a Leigh manicure is like (and she does not dress like just described for these), it should be stated that she has a very staked interest in the general condition of my fingernails. No woman wants fingers rife with long nails and hanging edges of sharp dead cuticle probing inside her hooha, let alone thrusting in rapidly enough to cause her to squirt. So yes, she is vested in my digits, be it for safety or purely selfish reasons.

But for me, it’s an D/s indulgence. She knows this, and her eyes will dance with tongue-in-cheek fire at the thought. This is not part of the arrangement.

But then she takes my hand…

Having had some fleeting cosmetology schooling in her teens she knows what she is doing. She starts with the clippers and, finger by finger, addresses each nail. Once trimmed to her satisfaction the large file comes out. Working sideways, on top, even across the just trimmed nails are evened out, smoothed down to a soft burr instead of a flesh tearing edge. Her fingers work over and around each nail, seeing by Braille if you will, feeling for any edges, spurs, rough spots. I love this in that my fingertips are basically being gently massaged, one of life’s unspoken joys.

Now the cuticles and with them the metal nail file, the one with the almost sharp point. Pushing, prying, poking, she gets them under control. Some times there is a little blood if its gone a while or completely feral in its growth. On occasion the clippers get a recall to remove the accumulated dead skin. All the time her fingertips work mine over and over, in essence practicing reflexology.

To do all of this she needs to be seated lower than I am. The aforementioned ottoman is typically her office. And yes, she is aware of the Higher/lower position we are in. Often she will make a comment, then sit there anyway.

Again, I love this. It appeals to the Dominant in me fiercely, plus satiates my efforts to stick our toes in the outside the bedroom end of the pool. And fuck yeah it feels good. Inside and out.

The small talk we share during these often relates to D/s in that we are in the outskirts of that dynamic. The other evening, prior to an amazing spanking session, we had a very sincere, frank conversation about the past two months. I reiterated to her how important it was to me to just “have” her….period. It’s not about the sexual nature of my efforts. It’s much more, and she now knows exactly how I feel and she is agreeable.

We also addressed some of her concerns, thoughts, ideas. All the while the buffer on the opposite side of the large file smoothed my nails over.

By the time she massages each fingertip with well lotioned hands (which alarmingly mimics having a certain appendage being manipulated in the same manner) I’m usually in a very mild state of Topspace. Why, you ask? Because she is not just giving me a most enjoyable manicure, but is allowing our behind closed doors D/s dynamic to manifest itself outside its typical perimeter. An analogy would be a down the shirt glimpse of some amazing cleavage in everyday life. Odds are you have seen or displayed far more to/of your other, but within context. The sight of that which you are not supposed to see at all, especially in public, makes it all the more memorable and arousing.

Hotel sex would be another comparison. Same person, same act, whole new setting.

So yes, I revel in this small appetizer of D/s outside the AYCE buffet that is our bedroom because its just that – off the menu. And its delicious.

And, hopefully, there will be more to eat in the future.

– Scot