How to keep a long-distance kinky relationship alive

He wakes me up in the mornings with a message on Kik. 

Him: G’morning baby. Eyes are like sacks  [string of cute emojis]  Love you xxx

Me: Love you too… even with baggy eyes.  Oh babe and it’s only Wednesday.

Him: Yeah I need more sleep for sure.

Me: Were you late to bed after tucking me in?

Him: Yeah, a bit.  Had to iron [shirt for work] and wash. Running now for the train.

Me:  Thinking of naked Hof in the shower.

Him: Ooh you can watch next time… But on your knees.

Me: Squeeeeeeeee! [a general noise emitted to indicate high state of excitement]

Him: So very much.  Gonna be a wet ride to work (grin) [he’s not talking about the weather]

Another string of pathetically cute emojis and kissing icons pass between us while he rushes for the train.  He’s tired and he likes to snooze on the journey into the city, so I leave him alone until he buzzes me when he arrives at work. 

Him: Cute girl. My cock salutes your hotness.

Me: Oooo how delicious… suspecting you are somewhat aroused my darling?  I’m still in my slave position, waiting for you.

Him: Oh darling pet, I will reward you firmly for your devotion. I will be inspecting you thoroughly when I arrive.

Me: …. dribble…

Him: Need to have you.

Me: So much.  Long long long endless having bodies together twisting aching soothing.

Him: Oh god yes.  I want to ram you hard. Thrash you. Use you. Cast you away.

Me: …. wet….

He makes some silly joke, like he does, to which there can be no verbal response.  Just a rolling of eyes, or a brief “Hahaha”, which is what I go for this time. 

Me:  Have you arrived?  Making your tea now?  I follow your day in my mind.

Him:  Just logged in.  Need to change shoes then tea.

We chat about the quality of the tea, and the fact that his office only provides takeaway paper cups to drink from, a clear indicator that his employers are a bunch of bloody savages.  

Me:  Worshiping your cock all day I have decided.

Him:  Delicious pet. Now, get under the table between my legs and start worshiping me as I have work to do.

Me:  Yes Master.


Him:  I hope you’re enjoying your feed.  I’m enjoying cumming down your throat.  Had to get up and get earl grey tea to replenish my body fluids.

Me:  oh! I should have done that for you.  And one for myself… with sugar…. to wash down the cum.  Yes, I’m enjoying myself very much.  Your cock is really a thing of beauty and deserves much attention.

Me:  Can you grab the back of my head and pull me down hard onto it a few times?  I like it dirty like that. Your selfish desire is all I want.

Him:  Pet, you outdo yourself! I’m so proud you’re all mine! I’ve cum several times now. But you’re not allowed. This is my pleasure, not yours x

Me:  Master I only want to serve you. I would NEVER cum without your permission.

Him:  Good slave. I will consider treats for you tonight.  Meanwhile bring me to orgasm again. I need to choke you with my cum.

Me:  I’m running my tongue around the tip now and sucking the length of you slowly and steadily.

Him:  Firmer. It’s not a clit.  [this makes me chuckle and turns me on at the same time.  I love it when he’s commanding with me and treats me like I’m useless – I’m actually pretty good at this]

Me:  Yes. Please guide me whenever you need to.

Him:  I will. You need to adapt to my requirements pet and then you will have your rewards. I need you to lick my precum right now.  [now I’m sure there’s genuine precum involved, and this is not just fantasy talk, and I want it…. damn LDR]

Me: Lapping it up like the cat that got the cream!

Him:  Going to the bathroom to jack off.  Wish you were here, cream n all xxx

I’m deeply satisfied at this point.  He’s going to actually cum, at work, thinking of me. 

Me:  Sweetie! You’re going to cum?? How wonderful.

Five or ten minutes pass – a reasonable length of time, though it probably only took him a few to reach orgasm, as I’m sure he was already half-way there.  And he picks straight up with,

Him: Yup.  All over you. Feel clearer now.

Me:  Oh bliss xxx


I get that no one else is probably interested in this except for me and Hof.  We’re daft and corny but we’re in love and this stuff keeps us going.  Six weeks since we were last together.  8 more days until we can fuck properly again.  Bliss.




the silver lining of these days

within the grey, the beauty of the rain,
the endless swell of jilted wakings,
wishing sleep could stay.

the empty pillow next to me –
11 days.

when you arrive I will sink deeply into you,
taking you in with great gulps of air, the balance returned to who we are.

I won’t need words (- forbid me to speak), we used them up in weeks of lunchtime calls, the broken lines and daily blocks to communication. when you arrive I wish only to speak with my body, to serve; to sleep at your feet and find peace in being your pet again.

when you are gone,
leave me with marks that last until the days begin to stretch and I can face the mornings with more strength again.

I am learning patience and the benefits of waiting, and whether you bring punishments or rewards, both are as longed for in the loneliness of this new-year-empty-ache.

The night and the half light, emotional rape and seriously, why aren’t you here?

I can’t write. So many people in my sacred space at the moment. So many others to consider. Feelings that prickle my skin. It’s delicious and I’m privileged to be this way; to be able to connect so deeply with others, if I choose to. But sometimes it’s a heavy weight to carry.

And it wasn’t always a choice.

As a child, and a young woman, it was emotional rape. People reaching into me, putting their feelings and desires in me. Controlling me with what they wanted me to be for them. I was fuel for their unrealized hopes and dreams. By the time I understood and knew what the situation was, it was too late to protect myself. My inner being was in tatters. I bled emotions, if I could even feel them in the first place. Most stuff to do with feelings had been dissociated and pushed outside my body as much as possible. Except for the stuff in my guts. That’s where it always got lodged; literally stuff that I couldn’t digest. IBS that became so bad when I was a student at university that I spent weeks in bed in constant pain, unable to eat.

When you realize you’ve been psychologically or emotionally abused all your life you don’t have any solid sense of self to ground yourself upon. It wasn’t like I had any happy memories to grasp. Childhood was just raw. Painful. I don’t know, I became quite skilled at forgetting things. I only ‘knew’ those milestone events and the dates they occurred. I held on to them like a mnemonic that proved I was alive. I must be real, because in 1983 I started at this school and I was in this class. And so on. But all of those things like birthday parties and christmases were tainted by the feelings they were drenched with. The suffocation of being holed up in the house with all that negative emotion swirling round. Christmas was the worst, and usually included conflict that centred around my Mother. I considered myself lucky if I was allowed to retreat to my room and shut the door with a few good books. But usually I would be dragged out to be ‘sociable’ whether I wanted it or not. I learned to accept being told what to do. Later on in life, I couldn’t figure out how to make choices for myself. I never connected the two parts of my life. I have an IQ of 148 so why can’t I make my own choices? Because I never had the chance. I was a puppet.

Two years ago, I did the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I extricated myself from an abusive partner. You see, when you grow up with abuse, you just keep repeating the patterns. It’s ‘home’ to you. Everything in your head and heart is FUCKED UP. Your instincts lie because they’ve been programmed to accept abuse. Trying to find the answers to myself nearly drove me insane. I was seeking for the key that would unlock me and hoping, really fucking hoping hard, that there was still going to be something left inside when I found out how to unlock myself.

At 29 I met and fell in love with a man who treated me like a rare and precious thing and wanted to give me everything good in life. Until an unplanned pregnancy occurred. It took three days for him to do an about face and DEMAND that I have a termination, without any discussion between us on the matter. I was given an ultimatum. Get the abortion or leave our home. He put me out on the streets that night. He packed my bags and took them to the street. I’m not kidding. I gave a good fight first. I lost. That was the first time I realized I needed to learn to fight better.

A year later, as a single parent with very little support, I began to unravel. My natural instinct was to draw into myself, curl up and protect myself from the blows. And so I began to withdraw from life. Mentally the decline was really rapid. Paranoia set in as well, which made keeping up friendships pretty tough. And there was just no one I could talk to who got it. No one I felt I had anything in common with. My mum-friends from ante-natal classes were all enjoying the early years of marriage and realizing their dreams of starting a family. My old friends, pre-motherhood mates, didn’t have kids and were still living the single life. They tried and they showed interest with my son but he was like a novelty toy they could turn up and coo at and cuddle for a while, and then they’d leave and I was fucking shaking again. Literally terrified. My nerves were shot to pieces because here was this little creature that relied entirely on me that cried and cried in the middle of the night, and lots of the day. I stopped sleeping. I’ve never been one who could catch up with the odd hour here or there. And frankly, once it got to 3am the whole pursuit of sleep was pointless. I called that the dark hour. Somewhere between 3 and 4 am was when the voices started in my head. I was shit scared. I’ve never practised so much magick as I did in those years. Every protection spell I could find. Every charm I could make. If nothing else, they kept me distracted. Eventually I had a powerful wand made for me and I could cast a circle with it that would hold pretty well.

As my son grew older, some things got easier. Not the constant battles with his father, who couldn’t decide if he wanted in or out of his son’s life. The only thing that was constant was his hatred of me. Clearly I’d tried to trap him or done some sort of spell on him, he was sure (I absolutely declare that I did not… the consequences are too severe when you play with that sort of stuff). He was just a malevolent force in our lives that kept showing up, and disappearing. It seemed that I was now stuck with him forever, in one way or another. He’s just popped up again, after 4 years away, so yeah, maybe I manifested that. Now I have to deal with his shit all.over.again. Now he wants to see his son, who at 11 is under no illusion that this man will ever be someone he wants to call ‘Dad’. He’s just going to hang around and give me grief for a while, as punishment for the fact that Child Support has been taking money from him for the last eleven years and he thinks that’s a bitch. I mean, he earns like £100k as a Consultant Psychiatrist with the NHS, and I figure his £500 a month is something he can spare that makes a big difference to us. But he begrudges it nonetheless.

It’s just my path. What I have to deal with, in exchange for that little share of genetic material that he deposited in me 12 years ago. But it’s not OK… And I’m scared. I wish I’d been strong enough to run far and hide in 2005, where he couldn’t find us. But I don’t protect myself. Childhood conditioning again.

However, it’s not him that I had to fight so hard to get away from. It’s the one who came after. I spent most of my thirties with that one. That’s just lost, miserable time that I don’t want to relive. He never gave us a thing except misery, confusion and fear. He drained my savings and lodged himself firmly in my home so that when it came down to it I had to make him intentionally homeless to get him out of our lives. It was the hardest thing to do, because it was so cruel. I tried everything else to end that relationship. And for 6 years it did nothing but make me ill, and make my son frightened. I can barely even say that because that is the worst part. That I brought a man into his life that he was scared of. A man that hit him. A man that destroyed his self-worth before it had even had a chance to grow. So once I’d pieced enough of the pieces together to understand what was going on (because gaslighting is really fucking tricky to get your head around) and realized what I needed to do, I had to come up with a plan. And that plan centred around me. More than once I thought about the big burly male friends I wished that I had. Guys that might come round and threaten him, throw him out on the street for me. But all I had were my now-elderly parents, who would cause more trouble than help if they got involved, and my 9-year-old son. I was responsible, I believed, for protecting all of these people. So I came up with the necessary plan of action and began.

It took one week, and bigger cojones than I realized I had. On the day when I physically came back to my home to remove him and his things, I was shaking violently, heaving and sobbing. Luckily he was a broken wreck of a man too at this point, and really put up no physical resistance. His preferred methods of control had always been mental and emotional, and that’s where I needed to arm myself. But, making a broken person homeless and removing your care and attention from them completely…. really fucking cold, you know? And the parallel to how my previous partner had evicted me was impossible to ignore. I just wondered how people could be happy. I mean, were people happy? Because it felt like I would never touch happy. So I focused on just the one thing that needed to be done there and then because if I let my mind wonder, or my empathy and compassion begin to stir, I knew I’d be lost again, and potentially condemned to another 6, or 8, or 10 years of living with this man. Losing my forties as well. My goal was to get myself back for my forties. Who was I kidding? To find myself for my forties because I knew then that I’d never had myself. I’d always belonged to someone else. Been someone’s puppet on a string. Jerked around for their own needs and wants.

Well I did the hardest thing. And woke up the next day and knew that I was free. And the journey of awakening myself began. I didn’t have any expectations. I didn’t actually want much. I wanted to turn 40 and do what the fuck I felt like doing, not what someone else said I should do. I wanted my home space to feel like mine. Dirty, tidy, noisy or quiet. It wouldn’t matter. No one would criticize because it had nothing to do with anyone else. I wanted to sleep in the whole of the bed by myself.

Honestly, I had no interest in sex. I was so switched off from that part of myself that I really didn’t care. I didn’t feel attractive to anyone and didn’t want to go out meeting men or women for fucks. And I definitely didn’t want to do anything that could lead me into starting a relationship. I spent quite a bit of time on the phone to the Crisis team at the psychiatric hospital where I was an outpatient that summer. Panic attacks would just come out of nowhere, usually at home in the evenings. They weren’t the most awful attacks I’ve ever had but it was a new approach for me, to actually make the call and ask for help when things were getting tough. I overcame my natural inclination to withdraw and hide. I’d promised my Psychiatrist that I would do this, and I stuck to it. Sometimes the person on call that night was a dick but more often than not, they were kind-hearted souls that tried to listen and guide me back to a place of calm. And after a couple of months, I just didn’t need it any more. The crisis had abated.

And now. Here I am. Still so new to this world. Feeling empowered, liberated. Feeling attractive. Reconnected to my own powerful sexuality… something that I hold most sacred. Exploring the possibilities. Giving myself permission to bust out of the confines within which I was raised, the strict religious lifestyle that my folks still adhere to. The years of hearing words like slut and whore in my head, and denying myself, my arousal, out of shame. I won’t do shame any more. I won’t accept fear without a challenge either. Maybe you can see why I do what I do? I hope that you can. Controlled experiences of masochism and utter sluttishness = healing. = awakening myself and empowering myself. = finding out what makes me feel alive and beautiful. THIS. This makes me feel alive and beautiful. Connecting with other people and expressing ourselves together, exploring our power. That’s beautiful and honest and real. I find integrity and authenticity here. I find levels of communication that just blow the bloody doors off every time. And so I open to it more and more. I have faith in it.

And in the middle of all this, the playing and the orgasms, the delight and the pain… you appeared. You saw me first. We recognized each other almost straight away but tiptoed carefully around each other because of “It’s complicated” and because you’re really careful like that. You’re not really of this day and age, and I loved you for that. And I joked in our chats, “Seriously, why aren’t you here?”… though you weren’t all that far. You said you’d done International Rescue before but I didn’t want to play the damsel in distress card like that. I was strong, I knew that now. I wouldn’t play the vulnerable princess to ensnare you. If this was anything at all, there would have to be 100% honesty between us and total authenticity.

We smashed through the training wheels phase, like we’d done this before somewhere. I checked in with my data bank of shit about Narcissistic Abuse, just to be sure. Were you love bombing me? Were you projecting your ideal, putting me up on a pedestal? I have my own tests to apply these days and you’ve passed them all. Proven to me that you are worthy. You’re real, and brave and true. You know how to make me laugh and how to make me melt. All the feels, baby. You bring them too.

And so while I’m discovering myself, creating myself, there is this, and you. We’re both so new to this and we don’t know how it’s done. You’re hurting, and therefore I’m hurting. You’re conflicted and I’m feeling guilty. Why am I choosing the things that I choose? Why has this thing called Polyamory lodged itself here for us to figure out? You flex and extend, resisting the urge to make demands about what you will or will not accept because you know that would spell the end for us. Just as I know that NOT doing what I need to do to be Me would finish us too. For the first time in my life, I have to define my own status against all of the odds. I’ve never done this before. I have to do it, even though it feels like such a risk.

You tell me you want these things too. That it just takes time. I have plenty of time, my love. I’m a patient woman. I’ve waited this long to become my real self. You take as long as you need. Just come back to me, please. And don’t forget that I’m hurting too. All the old conditioning, to please an other and to open my chest cavity for the full emotional rape is here. The old tricks spinning round in my mind that I just won’t play because, you know, authenticity. Because why would I be standing here, speaking about the need for integrity if I didn’t mean this; if I didn’t genuinely think that this is the right path to take?
Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths; the blue and the dim and the dark cloths, of night and light and half light, I would spread them under your feet. But I don’t and that’s just a poem (albeit a fave). And so I spread myself under your feet, naked and unadorned. Tread carefully, my love, for you tread on our dreams. And if not, I don’t want to be here: smash me to smithereens.

Punching the fuck out of Love

I can’t remember what I wanted from this or why I came here. It’s morphed so dramatically in such a short space of time.
Fun? Probably, yes.
I don’t know.

I know I wasn’t looking for Love.
Love can just keep the fuck away from me. As my vanilla-sometimes-squeeze says, “I want to lock Love in a room and punch the fuck out of it.” You and me both, honey.

Right now I feel like running back to that boring, mundane vanilla world and asking for some grace. I promise I won’t fuck up again, I won’t moan about boring sex even once. I won’t go out seeking guys to beat me and leave bruises on my arms any more. Just let me believe in Love again, one day, for an hour or two.

I’ve said it but it’s like I keep forgetting it: the piranhas are circling me. I’m the fresh meat in the tank. And I don’t even know how I got here….

Three months ago I was sunk full-body-deep in the most delicious experience of sensual love and adoration that I’d ever tasted. The whole summer seemed sparklingly clear, brighter than my life before that golden Adonis came along and shook me at my foundations. I felt like the most beautiful creature on the planet for the whole duration of our brief affair. Today I’m sent a draft list of rules setting out how I will be punished and used if I consent to this submission, which includes asking permission to use the toilet and making all three holes available for Him to use as he pleases (which may also be delegated to others, male or female, as He pleases). And apparently my bad language will be up for review and subject for punishment, as well as other general behaviour issues, such as my timekeeping. Oh the fuck yeah? Come on, then.

Yes, I felt turned on reading the list. Yes, I’ve fantasized about all this stuff plenty and wanked like a demon with it on my mind. But the reality of going through with it and agreeing to this, that’s something else. And I don’t know if I can.

When Graeme split the scene I said, “No more men telling me how to live my life.” I wanted my home back, my sanctuary, my space and my bed.
What’s happened?

Today I received a lecture, stood outside Waterstones in a very public place. I knew there was nothing to do but stand up straight and take it.
Last night I gave my son an effective reprimand and stood by it. It worked.
And all this week I have been treating the people I encounter in daily life with an even greater amount of kindness, courtesy and respect than I have ever done before. I have worn dresses and skirts and given a shit about my appearance in a way that I haven’t done for years. I have considered the things that I’ve been neglecting and overlooking and realized that I can double-down and take care of them quite soon. All this in spite of the fact that I’ve been walking around in a fairly constant haze of semi-orgasmic frenzy.

Are these the possible outcomes of being topped by a dominant man? It seems to me that these things have nothing to do with sex (because I haven’t had sex with him yet). They are unexpected bonuses, and something I want to explore more. But the wording of the Rules comes back to me again and I quake.

Wise words tonight from new FetLife friends:
“Do not not not go for the first guys you like”… and really I should add, “The first guys who’ve liked me,” because I think that’s more to the point.

“You will have no end of offers. Choose carefully who you submit to. It’s a gift. Don’t let anybody use you, or abuse you, or take you for granted.”

“It’s not a race to find a Dom,” said one friendly Dom. And it’s just too obvious for words but obviously not to me.

I need more bruises. I need more wine. I need to remember why I’m here and what I want. I need to count the number of fucks in this piece. I need to go out tomorrow night and have some fun. And I need to punch the fuck out of Love, the filthy treacherous, mother-fucking whore because I’m sure it’s her fault that I came here in the first place.

The Ballad of Kali and Shiva

The phone has been silent for 18 hours now.
Your daily flow of messages dried up. The morning announcement of your feelings for me, missing. All day I’ve waited. Sent thoughtful little texts to nudge you… trying not to seem needy or neurotic. Now it’s 5pm and the desperate panic has arrived because THIS is new territory. We’ve been in each other all along: we never had to find each other but now I’m lost.

Two days ago we fell hungrily on each other in the afternoon, ripping clothes off without care. You pushed my face into the carpet, thrusting your hips against my ass and burying your giant cock inside my cunt…. waves of pain and bliss rolling through me. It was always like this, as you tore orgasms from me with greedy glee. Delighted at your own mastery, as you could demand, “One more for me, you’re not done yet,” and time meant nothing, measured only in our cum, the dampness of the sheets, the daylight passing, you riding me, into a state of shared exhaustion.

When we met we fucked so much, so hard and long that you injured your knees. One kneecap swollen up to twice its size. So we fucked standing up. We fucked in the kitchen, me pressed against the counter as you slammed into me hard. Me bending over touching the floor, your hands pulling me in tight against you and then sliding the length of your glorious cock in and out of me slowly until every inch of my pussy could feel the power and the strength of you. I thought nothing so beautiful could ever exist. We didn’t seek the orgasms that day, just the sensation of being inside each other, becoming one. We didn’t seek orgasms but they’d always come.

Perhaps no mere mortal can live with the burden of all that beauty. Perhaps we were always doomed to be consumed by the forces we created, the many lifetimes that we’d shared, stretching out across dimensions. The millennia of hatred for each other accumulated after every time we’d left or scorned the other. Who can live with this kind of knowledge? I’d hoped we could.

I take my evening walk along the river, the dog by my side, and try to find calm. The water, the trees, that usually work their magic on me, do nothing tonight. I’m torn apart and barely holding in a wail of agony because this is where we talked about our love. This is where I challenged you to admit your feelings for me and where the flood began. This place always empowers me to be bold. This is where the visions come in thick and fast. But in this moment I feel the hollow pain of your absence and know that you are truly gone.