A Peek Back 9-8

200 posts.

Hard to believe that, as of last night, we reached this milestone so quickly. Still hasn’t sunk in. It does not seem like just over four months ago that I came to Leigh with a crazy idea and a single blog post introducing myself. If memory serves me I believe our first day we had 8 views. We went over 30,000 total earlier this week.

So in honor of this momentous occasion I am sleeping in Saturday. The words you read right now are, with the assistance of a celebratory 24oz Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, being keystroked Friday evening.

Its been an amazing ride so far. And its only going to get better. Thank you all.

If you’re a first time Peeker™, welcome!  You are invited to peek through the keyhole. We 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 a drink (the 24oz Pale Ale may need to wait until later in the day) sit back and enjoy.

So saluté!  It’s time to Peek Back!

Interview With A Submission Vampire Vol.1 No.15 – Longtime Peeker™ Ms. D wanted to know if moments like Breaking Leigh were life altering.

A Coffee, Cricket And A Dom Walk Into A Monday – A very laid back, touching Labor Day induced Monday musing.

The Butterfly Chains Act IV – In short, I fuck Leigh fast and hard. One of the most well received Acts of any story I’ve written. Peekers™ went gonzo over this one.

I Had No Idea – My stunned reaction to the above, plus an announcement about a new blog feature. It involves me coming.

The Looking Glass Act II – A very special memory begins, complete with soundtrack. This one is personal on many levels.

Butterfly Chains Are Making Noise – The aforementioned Act IV that everyone freaked out over got republished!

Seek And Go Hyde Act VI – The final Act in this story. Hyde takes over. It gets intense, a bit wild…and very messy.

WII Is WII – Has nothing to do with video games and everything to do with defining WIITWD. Curious? Read on.

Chain Of Rules Act VII – After two Acts of nipple abuse, it’s time to add spanking to Leigh’s chained misfortune…or is that fortune?

Pretty – A poem because sometimes you just want to fuck the pretty girl you wake up to.

For My Leigh – For the 200th post on The Dom Next Door™ I wanted to do something special. I did.

Just tiptoe on the way out…..ZZZZZZZZZZ.

– Scot

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Chain Of Rules Act VII

(To read Chain Of Rules Act IAct IIAct IIIAct IVAct V or Act VI)

As soon as my hand caressed the gentle slope of her ass cheek, Leigh knew she was going to be spanked.

Closing my eyes I can still see her the small of her back gracefully sliding into the curve of her backside. From the side the view is breathtaking. As much as I lose my mind when she places her shoulders flat and raises her hips, the lateral view of the female spine is, without question, geometric perfection. No other curve in nature even comes close.

We were made for each other. My hand reaches her sweet spot…

Oh, yeah. The sweet spot. Every woman has one, and not the one located under her clitoral hood or hiding inside her up under her pubic bone. No, each and every woman has a spot on her ass that, when struck, makes her eyes glaze over with thoughts of more. Each woman is different in this regard. For some its all over her ass. No matter where she’ll beam. Actually they want all over. Spanking in the same spot repeatedly is what heightens endorphin production.

Others want the fleshy mass struck. Some crave what is actually upper thigh, which really stings like a mother fucker. Not many seem to like the upper cheeks near the back, which is perfectly understandable as well as advisable. Never, I mean never, strike a submissive with any force or impact play there. Their kidneys thank you.

Leigh’s sweet spot is on the underside of each ass cheek, right above the crease where the thigh starts. That’s my target. I need to hit there repeatedly, accurately and often. If my hand strays I can tell by the sound. That’s also how I can tell if the force is right. Once I am dialed in muscle memory will allow me to spank each cheek in the exact same place a thousand or so times.

But, as I was saying, my hand reaches her sweet spot when she stands next to me. It’s a perfect fit. It’s easy on my shoulders and back, which is nice as well as convenient.

It means I can spank her longer.

Leigh arched backward into my hand, the cleft of her ass flaring open as an invitation to explore its secrets. By doing so her chest thrust outward in the opposing direction. The effect on her silhouette was …

“Fuckkkkkkk!” I exclaimed at the erotic perfection now at my mercy. The curvature of her spine was exaggerated to such a degree it took my breath away. Her full breasts provided a perfect counter to her round ass.

“My God baby you look fucking amazing” was my offering to her as my hands explored the gifts being presented. With a hand on her breast, another clutching her ass, my mouth inhaling her neck she was in heaven. As was I.

The next few minutes were spent in worship of my chained angel. I explored as much of her nude form as I could. No curve was left untouched, no part of her neck unlicked, no orifice unexplored. Except that damn belly button. Someday…

Nipples were gently tweeked, collar bones nibbled on, ass cheeks made to ripen with goosebumps. Her torso painted with feathery touches, the nape of her neck grazed upon, her cunt and asshole teased with fingertips.

The way my hand circled her ass cheek should have been a hint.

SMACK!

Leigh was so far into being touched that she purred at the introduction to being spanked. The ritual that we share as far as touch-spank-other cheek-repeat began. The room filled with smacking sounds, only broken by her sighs and deep breathing.

Yeah, she was into it.

The pinching of a nipple elicited a sharp breath. This was the first time I’d ever had the opportunity to abuse her breasts and ass simultaneously. Playing one off the other was exquisite, but no where as striking (bad spanking joke) as her reaction to one or the other, better yet both. I could feel her confusion at how to weather this dual front storm. Normally she could just focus on spanking or nipple play.

Now she had to do both at the same time. While chain bound.

The steady rhythm of smack smack smack smack escalated in frequency as I tried to bring her to a plateau. My other hand continued to work those already raw nipples over with more attention. Her breath grew ragged, her torso twisted in a sad attempt to evade my hand. That only made my spanking more likely to SMUCK instead of SMACK when she moved the target.

I take a lot of fucking pride in my ability to administer a good spanking. I do not take well to hearing SMUCK when its not my carelessness causing it.

“Hold still” I ordered. As much as I adore her squirms (she is a world class writher) they were beginning to piss me off mildly as far as all this SMUCKING.

Leigh exhaled with one of her “HhhhhhhmmmMMMM” pouts. I love that fucking sound. It says “I don’t wanna!!!……but I will.”

Yet again she found herself practicing self-bondage through forced posture. That made me smile.

Once properly posed it was easy to play her like a first seat would their cello. Now her noises were more from duress, her arousal from pain not pleasure. Again and again I took her ass and breasts through their respective paces. The smacks grew louder, harder, her nipples tugged on longer and tighter.

By the time her panting signaled she had reached a new level I backed off to allow her to acclimate to her new altitude. The aroma of female arousal filling the room made me content.

Content to finish her off in style by enjoying that wet cunt of hers.

WII Is WII

No, this has nothing to do with a popular gaming console. I’d mention the manufacturer, but then the Search Engine Term results would undoubtedly reflect that false advertising. Hate to get a guy’s panties in a bind that there might be a BDSM video game.

No, WII is the first part of WIITWD, aka What It Is That We Do. It’s an acronym commonly used by those who participate in BDSM and/or D/s (are two / in a row allowed?).

As part of my self-education into WIITWD I read a lot. Granted, there is no substitute for first hand (heh) experience, but reading other’s thoughts help. I have a lot to learn, and I make no secret of this. If the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, I can still see the starting line from where Leigh and I stand now.

But its good. Fucking great, actually. As with so many other married couples we discovered that, in order to do WIITWD, the communication and trust required flowed over into other aspects of our lives. Both of us have found recesses of our psyches that, prior to D/s, we either did not know we had or, more likely, cared to admit were. Leigh grapples with love of good pain and the desire to be forced. I wrestle with Hyde and how sadistic a fuck he is. Sometimes he and Leigh’s inner Cock Slut play with each other. Things get…interesting.

So I read. Study. Learn. Try to grasp new philosophies, explore different avenues, acquire new techniques and skills. Learn what not to do instead of what to. Which leads me to the focus of this musing.

In my quest to learn I have noticed an overwhelming need on the part of Dominants to quantify everything. So many times while perusing blogs or web pages the phrase “What is..” comes up. Over and over to ad nauseum. Be it a defining statement or a leading question, it seems one cannot escape these two words while exploring the topic. Submissives are guilty of this as well, but not to the degree Dominants are.

Truth be told I learn a lot more about how to be a better Dominant from (pardon my adjective) lowly submissives than most if not all the Dominants put together. Submissives share their feelings, thoughts, kid’s illnesses, desires, experiences, recipes, YouTube playlist, poetry, pictures of their cat, toys they long for, toys they fear, reactions to what Sir or Madam has said, pout, emote.

Dominants, for the most part, read like an instruction manual or Intro To Sexual Psychology 101 course text. There are exceptions, for which I am glad. Without the Dominants who own cats and like YouTube I’d be frustrated beyond words. But even a great deal of their discussion about WIITWD has no life. It’s as dry as yesterday’s toast. Many times its merely pre-existing literature (I use that term very loosely) that has been reformatted from elsewhere. Sad to think the quote “Look, it’s a submissive and her Wiki” is not unreasonable. They trust their bodies, minds, hearts and souls to someone who thinks Google and not for themselves…

Am I frustrated? Not really. I’ve realized how good I have it with Leigh and that, even though I’m very wet behind the flogger in terms of experience, I’m alright as a Dom. I can definitely get better and damn well know I could be a lot worse.

The one thing that does rub me the wrong way (ironic coming from a Dom, huh?) is the apparent desire to define everything. I suppose it stems from the need within a dynamic to explain and set parameters, but still it feels all too syllabus like. No, I am not going to say there are (gag) gray areas. Even I have my standards.

Even with the acknowledgement that this phenomenon most likely is an outgrowth of expectations, there is a concrete quality to them. Cement is cold, impersonal and dull. Its even gray (heh).

So what do I think Dominance is? What makes a good submissive? What is submission?

That sentence right there will result in some Search Engine Terms finding us. Guaranteed. So when they do stumble across this page I want them to read this:

WIITWD stands for What It Is That We Do. It’s a term often used in reference to those who practice BDSM and D/s.

The We is you.

The kink community uses it. But that second W is referring to the set of eyes reading this, and the second set if my humble thoughts are being honored by a Dominant and their submissive at this moment.

It’s what you define as BDSM or D/s. That is what WIITWD means. Be it decades of experience in the lifestyle or planning to try it for the first time, you define kink. Your views on Domination are the ones that matter. How much submission you choose to explore creates the correct definition. Please, for the love of all things leather, do not feel that because what you read sounds like a graduate level Philosophy text makes it right. No, you make it right.

You’ll also make it wrong. It’s OK.

Experience is the cruelest teacher in that it gives the test first, lesson second. You’ll learn more from that than you will any other. That’s not to say just go explore shibari and flogging without some due diligence. Use a little common sense.

A number of you reading this will laugh and think I’m a fool. Fine with me. I’ll see you later, further down the road of this journey, still holding Leigh’s cuffed hand. TETO – To Each Their Own.

I own my kink because it’s mine, which makes it right.

– Scot

Seek And Go Hyde Act VI

(To read Seek And Go Hyde Act IAct IIAct IIIAct IV or Act V)

I admit I was not thinking straight. Or sanely.

By the time Leigh’s body had been racked with a second sadomasochistic orgasm that left us both drenched in her vaginal fluids I was gone. Just not there. Hyde had taken over.

Content with how destroyed Leigh was physically and emotionally, he craved the one thing she had left.

Her pride.

And he was determined to not just have it but fucking devour it.

It feels odd to write in this tense in that it was me. It is me every time Hyde comes out to play. But it isn’t really me. Or that’s something I just say as a means to rationalize the sadistic evil that is my alter ego.

(for more about that sadistic evil comment, you may want to read  Torn)

I’m honesty not sure if I should write the remainder of this in first or third person. Tell you what. I’ll toggle between the two. Myself and Hyde. If its confusing, join the party.

Leigh had given me everything I asked of her, yet that wasn’t enough. He wanted more, plus it was now my turn to be the one screaming through an orgasm. Tired, soaked, pissed off for some fucking reason, still the proud owner of a rock hard erection. Enough of this punish her shit. It was time to abuse my cock with drenched cunt.

She was a mess. No other way to put it. Her timeless beauty was awash in sweat, her own ejaculate and the aura that oozes from a woman’s pores after she has multiplied. She looked feverish, flustered and uncertain. Matted auburn locks painted her face like a Japanese ink print.

Her face? Devastated. Not from external blows but from within. Disheveled is being kind. When Leigh’s baby blues become china doll blacks…

“Hold them open,” he growled. Hyde didn’t give a fuck about any of that. And, at that moment, neither did I. As her Sir I learned very early that Rule #1 of being the best Dominant I can be for her was this:

I must be selfish.

It sounds incredibly uncaring, cold and shallow. It’s actual the opposite. By focusing hard on my own needs I address her desire to be completely dominated. I can’t give her that while being concerned about her. But by the same token I am completely focused on her, reading her, listening.

Its fucking hard to Dominate someone! Any submissives reading this, try it sometime. You’ll see.

“No, here” I said. My hands gripped Leigh’s Achilles tendons firm. Now she understood where and why.

With a staccato whimper she replaced my hands with hers. I had spread her legs as far as anatomy allowed. No bent knees or drawn in thighs. Straight out, wide open. Nothing had changed in that regard, except Leigh was the one holding them that way.

Hyde roared at the thought she was being made to abuse her own flesh a final time. The sweetest part? Her hands were no where near the soft parts that were going to suffer.

Drawing my face nearer to hers I grinned, then proceeded to try to choke her with my cock via her cunt.

Vicious. Brutal. Each stroke bottoming out. They would have regardless with how wet she was, but holding herself that wide open? Fuck.

My hips slammed into hers, the spray from her cunt going everywhere. At this angle both our faces were doused. Slapping sounds of soaked flesh rammed into the same filled the bedroom. Leigh frantically tried to hold on as her labia were bitch slapped over and over. It would have been painful by itself, but as engorged as she was made it even worse. Her voice was…well, I’ll just say she was speaking in tongues, which I suspect is Hyde’s native language.

Again and again I fucked her as hard as I could. My toes curled, hips tightened, that familiar cramp all too welcome. I started to build. With my impending orgasm in its infancy I started to growl. Mouth closed, guttural, animatistic. If you have even heard a cornered predatory animal, that’s what it sounded like, each one a little louder from deeper inside.

Now it was I who grew frantic. Blood raced from every corner of my being to my groin. I grew light headed being asphyxiated by my central nervous system, my ass cheeks locked in an attempt to force myself inside out.

Faster. Harder. More yelling than growling, yet the same. The way Leigh stared at my face hinted at the contortions that seized it. She was completely caught up in my delirium. I felt a knot start deep inside me. Tighter. Push. Harder. So. Close. So. Fucking. Close.

When the inevitable became reality I seethed through clenched teeth “DON’T MOVE YOUR HANDS!!” then withdrew from Leigh, reared back onto my knees, grabbed my cock with my right hand and…

…exploded.

I came with the same force I just fucked her stupid with. Semen roared through my cock. Upon its release I went to scream…and couldn’t. No air. None. Splurt after splash of hot cum went fucking everywhere. It felt like I was being strangled. The colors were pretty in there as my eyes rolled back. Within seconds I raced towards unconsciousness.

I saw Leigh turn her head to her left. That’s about all I recall as far as my surroundings.

Stars. Fireflies. The smell of semen filled my nostrils, Leigh’s fluids spewed all over my thighs and waist without stop.

Then the air came back. I screamed. Again. Roared. Again.

Remember how your grade school music teacher always wanted you to sing from your diaphragm? I came from mine. With the oxygen came blood back to my brain. That’s when things got fuzzy, but I was too busy growling and snarling to appreciate the head rush.

My orgasm lasted well over a minute. I about died.

Collapsing onto my haunches I looked at Leigh. Her body was awash in cum, yet she wouldn’t move. Her hands still clung fiercely to her ankles. But it was her head cocked to the side with eyes closed  that caught my attention.

Apparently that first massive load didn’t just hit her in the breast but bounced off it and splattered all over the side of her face. Semen dripped off her cheek like a candle gone mad.

I smiled. Or was it he smiled? We smiled? I’m still not sure.

– Scot & Hyde

The Looking Glass Act II

(Note – If you wish, you can listen to the same song that Leigh & I did while the following occurred. Just open the link in a new window)

To read The Looking Glass Act I

“So when the sun goes down
And those nights grow colder,
I will be there
Looking over your shoulder. “

– The Deeper The Love, Whitesnake

I couldn’t help but hear David Coverdale’s voice as I looked over Leigh’s shoulder. The sun had gone done, and the nights had grown colder. And there I was behind her.

Our eyes gazed into one another’s through the mirror’s reflection, a precursor of what the next fifteen or so minutes held for us. My face, only partially visible, floated above her left shoulder. There was a macabre quality to the way the candle illuminated my features with drama, some areas almost void. My right arm draped across her chest, the left around her stomach. Candlelight makes my forearms damn impressive, if I say so myself. It looked like a muscular snake had coiled around her nude form.

Leigh, on the other hand, looked like a goddess.

If you have read any of the stories I’ve shared, you know that candles are de facto to our play. The sputter and hiss of wicks singing anew are often the first part of the ritual, usually followed by the bedroom door being shut. Leigh and candlelight go together like peanut butter and jelly. They were made for one another, the sum greater than their parts. She glows under their flickering gaze. The blank canvas that is her alabaster skin becomes a masterpiece of erotic theater. Hues of pale tangerine and warm cream hint at its texture. Aside from the pale blue of the first light of day, she never looks sexier than she does when awash in candlelight.

Having a candle not even arm’s length from where we stood made her skin torturous. I wanted to devour her. The mmmmmmmmmmm of the vibrator’s RPMs would more than sufficiently do the same. In time.

“You,” I said trailing a kiss down her nape, “look incredible.” More dry bites, my eyes on hers in the mirror, my hands on each breast in the reflection. To feel her nipples harden under my touch, but see her whole body’s reaction to the same, was exquisite.

“So,” scraping my teeth across her arched neck, “fucking,” taking the opportunity to use my tongue on the same, ” beautiful.”

“Look at yourself” I exclaimed. It wasn’t an order, nor begging. It was shared excitement at the vision in the mirror, and I wanted to share it.

She looked into my eyes, not the reflection as a whole. The vibrator constantly hummed while a soulful melody filled the room.

“Not at me,” I said, “at you. Us. Look at how fucking beautiful you are.”

Her eyes left mine and joined her own in the mirror. She finally saw herself. Us. It.

Standing with legs slightly spread, her hand moved in slow, steady circles, each one a lap of her clit with the mini-vibe. Again and again the mmmmmmm faded slightly, each echo another tease. From behind, thick forearms enveloped her torso, their hands kneading each breast.

Leigh’s face was angelic in its slow surrender to her own manipulations. The music haunting us from across the room seemed all too perfect. Delicate, drawn out, the repetitious melody grew in intensity as the minutes passed. Her eyes closed as she sank back into my chest, each breath an escape. It was more prayer than seduction.

I really hope you chose to listen to the audio option provided to you. Perhaps you’ll get a small taste, a fleeting glimpse, a faint echo of what I was privy to as the first moans escaped her throat. If you chose not to, that’s your right and I respect it. I think you’re a fool, but at least a respected one.

The gestalt of the scene enveloped me in a hypnotic spell. Just as Leigh seduced her body with her hand, I succumbed to her siren’s song. Not one of lyrics or verse, but rather of spells and hints.

Leigh exhaled in drawn out sighs, indicating she was becoming aroused. It wouldn’t be long until they were replaced with moans or purring.

My eyes played leap frog. Mirror. Over her shoulder. My hands. Back to the mirror. Her breasts. My hands on them. Back on her face. Now at her face. Down to her hand on her clit. Then her arm using the oak dresser as support.

“Be careful,” I said, while moving the candle mere inches from where she gripped the dresser’s edge, “we don’t need to be explaining the kinky burn pattern to the EMTs when they arrive.”

She laughed, drawing some much needed levity.

“Yeah, it would be difficult to explain how I got burnt there…and there…and there” she replied, all the while the mmmmmmmmm of the mini-vibe kept perfect time.

Now it was my turn to laugh. We both smiled at each other’s reflection. Our eyes met.

Her moan brought us both back to the matter at hand. Literally.

I trailed my fingers down the length of her left arm, with which she held the dresser. Goosebumps leapt from her skin, their shadows easily discernible in the candle’s glow. As my fingertips danced across the thin flesh of her inner forearm she purred loudly. The vibe purred louder as well.

A nipple grew rigid between my fingers. My lips greeted her offered throat. We danced as lovers, not moving a single step, yet completely in time to the rhythm of the moment, a vibrator steadily agitating her clitoris. By her own hand. At that moment neither of us could imagine the lengths to which we were going to need to go to get to where she needed to be.

We were about to find out just how far that was.

The Butterfly Chains Act IV

(To read The Butterfly Chains Act IAct II or Act III)

There are times when I just know that, regardless of how long I may want to fuck Leigh, it’s going to be fast, hot, sweet and intense.

Not a quickie, mind you. That’s different. Quickies are spur of the moment volcanic tremors of lust that appear without warning, leaving in their wake unplanned sweat, gasping and various bodily fluids. No, this was just going to be over long before I wanted it to be. And there was not a damn thing I could do about. No amount of recalling names of baseball players or envisioning Ernest Borgnine in briefs was derailing this train.

The sounds of passion coming from Leigh were guttural, raw, raspy. And by that I meant her mouth. I could write a kinky thesaurus on the ones her cunt was making. Slick, oozing, full of secretive juices and suction. It was bad enough that the physical sensations had me on the clock, but when combined with symphonic sex like that? I was a dead man fucking.

So I made the few minutes I knew I had count. If I was going down fast, so was she.

Buttressing my arms against her sides, I rose up on my toes and put myself in a pure plank. The only part of my anatomy touching Leigh, aside from traces of forearm, was my cock. That would be all that would touch her for the duration of the fucking portion of the evening’s activity.

Leigh’s eyes widened in attention. She knew what this posture meant, as well as how it was going to feel in the position she was chained into.

“Oh fuck…” she said as she stared at my cock head positioned just inside her folds.

And with that I buried it balls deep inside her. Hard. Fast. Repeatedly.

The squishing sounds echoed off the candlelit walls, the shadows we made danced wildly to the aforementioned symphony. Only now I had added a percussion section.

I love sex sounds. Adore them. They’re arousing beyond words, exciting to every sensorial capability. They are to an impending orgasm what a gallon of gasoline is to a bonfire. Leigh’s squeals played off the way her fingernails scratched the bed sheets. Her sobs of helplessness mixed with the frantic tunnggg of the chains as her legs pulled against them (to no avail). Her cunt’s juices squirted and flowed with each stroke. Our breathing became more ragged with each thrust as it built in tempo. The crescendo of it all bombarded my ears with relentless teasing.

I tried to fight it as long as I could. Leigh could tell I was there, but not the in the way you may obviously think. My cock swelled in every aspect. Her eyes grew even wider. As my orgasm neared the rate of my fucking increased to a blur, which trapped her own liquid excitement deep inside her.

My eyes grew tight, nostrils flared, arms rigid as steel. Rising off my hands I made each a fist and filled them full of linen. My toes dug deep into the same as my hip and core muscles started to sense the impending explosion building inside me.

Tight. That is how it feels when it starts. There is a tightness that resonates from my groin to my testicles as if my muscles are, one by one, surrendering to orgasm. It draws closer, firmer, squeezing tighter and harder with each stroke in and out of Leigh. At this point it could go either into auto pilot or an aborted landing. One stroke more the right way and its inevitable, but say in the heat (and lubrication) of the moment I slip out. That alone will almost invariably require a “do over.” Go back to Start, do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Or cover your chain bound wife in semen.

So fuck yeah, I focused. Hard. And all of what I just described? Totally masturbated with perfection every one of my senses.

Step away from the bonfire. Cue the gasoline. In three. Two. One. More. Stroke.

The first explosion of semen was as my cock withdrew from the hot silk of Leigh’s cunt and anointed its mound with what can best be described as globs. Not the sexiest of terms but certainly the most accurate. It fucking rained cum all over her pubic arch, shot after pulse. I was too busy examining the interior of my skull with my eyes roll backed to see all of this, but I could feel it as well as Leigh reacting to each spurt.

I growled, roared, whatever animatistic sound you can envision I made it. If its possible to seethingly hiss I did that too. A lot. As much sound came out of my mouth as semen spewed out of my cock, both all over Leigh’s convulsing form. She was not immune from all of this. Oh no. For my cock had been a kinky cork keeping all of her own secretions bottled up. Upon that cork’s sudden removal, combined with the sensation of my frenum fucking her clit as I came, she gushed like a fountain. Again and again her wetness sprayed my hips, the bed, innocent bystanders, you name it.

This lasted for well over a minute. I typically rate the intensity of my orgasms by a complicated formula involving duration of ecstasy multiplied by how close I came to passing out, carry the two, then divide by the diameter of the wet spot. And this one was downright Noble Prize worthy. Holy shit…

With my cockhead still oozing drops of semen upon her mound I gazed down at the aftermath. Or more accurately an industrial accident that required a HAZMAT team to properly clean it up. I’m not one for taking pictures, but I admit it may have been a Kodak moment, where something just looked so fucking insane in its sexiness that a quick JPEG or twenty would have been nice.

My arms ached, my fists were white and my hips were cramping. Without even thinking I pushed back from Leigh, bent my knees and kneeled at her waist. The sensation of blood filling my relaxed arms was nice.

With my first deep inhale I smelled it. Or more accurately us. For not an inch from my face was all the chaos. The carnage of the scene of the crime of passion in all its gobular, dripping glory.

And my mouth mere inches from where I had wanted it all along.

Interview With A Submission Vampire Vol.1 No.15

I’m reading about writing.

As a part of this week’s Selfish Sunday Leigh and I, once again, found ourselves at a Barnes & Noble. And I treated myself to a copy of Stephen King: On Writing (10th Anniversary edition…ooooh). From everything I have read on writing it’s considered a seminal tome on the genre. Only 30some pages into it but so far I have enjoyed it very much. A number of the passages made me smile, some laugh and a few mandated rereading out loud to my sexy chauffeur.

It’s no secret that all of this fingers on keyboard is extremely new to me. The words on TDND™ represent, by a verbal landslide, the most I have ever written. Period. Probably sometime in the upcoming month the word count on the blog may reach 200,000. No idea how that equates for any writer of any genre for twenty weeks. Leigh says that qualifies as “prolific.”

Its fun, and I feel as if I am becoming a better story shower (notice I didn’t say teller). And apparently a number of people think that my musings are good. I wish I had some way to quantify that, but truth be told I do not read nearly enough as I wish I did, or more accurately should. Leigh is voracious. She reads books like I drink coffee. And she is also 100x the writer I am. A parallel, perhaps?

In four weeks I have drawn a line in the sand as far as my first attempt at erotic fiction being available for purchase. Two weeks prior to that is the deadline for submission (that sounds like a naughty book title, doesn’t it?) for the Avon Impulse New Year’s Eve anthologies of novella length. And I want to be included.

Sounds like my weekly word count is about to go way up. It needs to. It has to. And it will. But not at the expense of Peeker™ Nation. The stories, musings, poetry will all continue. They need to. They have to. And they will.

I’m looking forward to listening to the voices (no, not like that….well, a little) as the characters talk to me when I shift from first person past non-fiction to the same but fictional for my ePub and, deep breath, third person. We’ll see if the words still flow.

But enough about me. Now for something about me. Avid Peeker™ Ms. D of Deviant Diaries wanted to know, in regards to what happened the days following Breaking Leigh:

“Its kind of like when you go to some really great spiritual retreat (kind of an oxymoron in my book)…where everybody sits around spilling their guts and cries over every wound they’ve ever had and swore they were going to go back to their “regular lives” a changed person and with a fresh perspective, and then in like a week….it’s all like a lost dream. Does your experience have any residuals like that?”

In a way, yes.

What goes up (stop smirking) must come down. Just because Leigh and I shared something amazing that pushed both of our BDSM and D/s boundaries to new heights via broken plateaus does not mean we have now set up base camp at that new altitude and live there. Nor did it become a life-changing moment with the light of the next morning. Or the one that followed that.

Are things different? Yes. Leigh was curious if she could be pushed that far, if she was capable of tears from just spanking. I, on the other hand (bad spanking joke) knew that she was. But conveying that belief pails to its being administered one spank at a time. And then there was the whole issue of the act itself. Was I capable of the administration of what it would take to get her to where I knew she could go but she did not? The physical was the easy part for both of us. It was the mental and spiritual part that proved to be the Rubicon we needed to cross from opposite banks.

And we did.

So we accomplished it. Together. I didn’t so much as work at beating the tears out of her as much as work with her to help her release them. Big difference. Big fucking difference.

Now, in its wake are we better people? I’d like to think so. But it’s not as if we were reborn. Food didn’t suddenly taste all that better, but we do spend a lot more time in the kitchen laughing, cooking and sharing. That tastes good. The air we breath is not mountain top clean overnight, but there is less fog between us as well as more words, and laughter. The exercise we now do together helps that. Time does not stand still, but the moments last longer and are more frequent. Outside forces no longer run the clock hands.

So no, the dream moment does not a new dream life make. Very few things would have such an immediate and dramatic impact. But we do dream more often, and not in the ways one might stereotypically think from a couple in a specified D/s relationship that employs BDSM.

No, the dreams born from that evening are small ones, day dreams if you will. And they have faded with time, but more from wear than distance. Day to day we are better. Nothing bordering on religious awakening, but rather small prayers said at the most unobvious and innocent of times.

That is a dream worth living.

Scot