January 2007

I turned my head, so that my lips rested on the patch of skin just below his collar bone, and snuggled further into his body. He fractionally increased the pressure of his arms around my body, and i murmured softly into his chest. “Can i ask you a question?”

“Shoot,” he said into my hair.

“Now that we’ve fucked, will you lose interest in me? I mean, you know, no more “thrill of the chase” and all that?”

I heard his deep rumbling laugh, as he pulled away from me to look into my eyes.

“What bullshit are you talking, Juno? God, sometimes you do say such silly things. We should experiment with some BDSM so i can tie you up and flog you each time you say something stupid like that.”

“Only if i can return the favor,” I replied seriously, looking him square in the eye.

Shivers of delicious anticipation ran up and down my spine.

It was at this point that we both realized that this was definitely an avenue that required further exploration. So far, mild spanking had worked its way into our copulative efforts with great fervor and enjoyment by all, but that was as far as BDSM had intruded upon either of our lives so far.


Some weeks later, i was having a low moment and writing him an email about how things had been at the very beginning with my ex-husband, before i donned the good girl shackles that i am constantly attempting to throw off. I mentioned how it hadn’t always been completely awful, and how we’d been (what seemed to me, the innocent, way back then) somewhat experimental. We’d used ropes as sex toys and aids, securing them under my mattress for traction, since i had nothing on the bed-frame that could be rendered tie-able-to.

The email hit his cyber-mat and a reply was returned with astonishing speed and fervor.

It was comprised of a list of things i should do to fortify myself and cheer myself up, and continued thus:

“Get the ropes from under your mattress, and bring them with you when we next meet.”

He was the one to mention it first, when we next met.

I’d not brought the ropes, since the times when my ex-husband and I had so indulged had been more than a decade past, and therefore I no longer owned any. I’d searched around for replacements, before confiding in a friend who told me not to bother — anything that wasn’t cotton or silk rope was not worth the time or energy.

Once again, i lay with his strong body curled around mine, as we exhaled and recovered from an earth-moving joint climax. He bit my ear lobe gently, and murmured into my neck.

“You know that i sail on weekends sometimes?”

“Yes… mmm, i love this collar bone…”

“Juno, listen.”

“I’m listening… mmm….”

“What if you came with me one time, if you could arrange it?”

“Seriously? I’d love to.”

“And you know, don’t you, that on the boat we tie knots very… very… tight….”

I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up with excitement. I could hear his hidden sub-text loud and clear. I knew exactly what he meant, and what he was implying.

“Only if you promise not to fly me up the flagpole naked.”

He chuckled to himself. “You never know. I might. We’ll see.”

I began to tease his erect nipple gently with my teeth, as my hand palpated his ball sac, and stroked the base of his very excited (again) cock. And that was the point in the evening where we stopped speaking for a while, having far more important things to do. To each other.


I just love the thought of new sexual adventures. I’m pretty much open to anything. Since passing the age of 35, whole new worlds of experience have opened themselves up to me, and i am fortunate enough to have dismissed my earlier good-girl mentality enough to embrace each new challenge.

The only problem, as a dear friend bluntly told me, is that I am too used to the idea of being in total control of myself.

“Let yourself go, live a little.” she chided me gently. “Losing control is fine, if you are with someone in whom you have complete faith, and whom you trust fully. Besides, it isn’t necessarily a lifestyle choice. It’s experimentation. And the feel of silk rope against bare flesh is amazing. Plus, I find that when i come while I’m restrained it’s just other-worldly hot-t-t-t.”

She is, of course, entirely correct. On all counts.

Just to be clear, here, I do not knock or deride those who make this their lifestyle, not in any way at all. Would it be a way of life that i could conceivably live with? I don’t know. From where i sit right now, I’d say no, but i am not foolish enough to rule out anything anymore. And I mean anything.

To quote the late, great Bette Davis, “Fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy ride”. A fun one, though, I’d lay money on that.

I was hoping to see that look in your eyes.

Not that there is anything to complain about the various ways in which you’ve looked at me so far.

You’ve looked at me with anticipation, that time when your toes touched innocently touched mine, and we sat, talking about anything and everything while our feet played footsie, and neither of us acknowledged the exchange of electrical current. Until, of course, you stood up, pulled me to my feet and kissed me until i thought I’d never breathe again .

You’ve looked at me with interest, when we spoke of the way in which i do my work, and i demonstrated for you how capable i am professionally. You liked my enthusiasm, my dedication, the fact that I know what I’m talking about — and you even looked at me admiringly because of it.

And, of course, you’ve looked at me with deep desire. Many times in the past. The first time over a warm and frothy drink that i — most unusually for me — had absolutely no interest in from the split second in which your eyes met mine, just before you took my hand and kissed my lips, lightly but with passion that conveyed quite how much desire lay behind your gaze.

And many times in the future, i most sincerely hope.

No, no, I’m not complaining. Not at all. It was just a hope… a wish. That as I walked in through the door the other day, that you’d give me that look.

Oh, you know the one.

That look that says you want me, right then, right there, bent double over the kitchen counter, clothes half-on, half-off, half-strewn over chairs and free-standing kitchen units, hands on bare raw flesh, fiery lips igniting equally , explosive raw passion setting our bodies alight as they touch, causing the familiar spontaneous combustion for this position but so much hotter and faster and furious than usual that i have no time for thought, no time to consider, just to respond with matching passion, and heat, and fury until we finally burn out and collapse exhausted into each other.

Yeah, that one.