I am pleased to introduce a post penned by m’Lady, Tethys.

If you’d told me five years ago that i would find myself in the position of working on creating an owner/property (o/p) relationship with someone, i’d have found the thought perhaps amusing, but not likely. Yet here i am!

It’s only in recent years that i’ve begun to call myself ‘kinky’; i’d not felt comfortable doing so previously due to “kinkier-than-thou” attitudes i’d encountered over the course of a number of years. So i hadn’t been sure that i was kinky enough to call myself ‘kinky’; and even if i was, i didn’t like the idea of being associated with people who seemed to think that being kinky made them so much more sophisticated than, and superior to, everyone else, or that if sex was involved, it wasn’t really kink anymore.

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Apollo Sandwich

Eventually I will be unblocked and writing hot posts about hot sex with hot partners again. In the meantime, this is a wonderful memory! 

Apollo and I have been together for half a decade. We’ve shared our bed with a few female partners (no male ones yet, but I live in hope), and we’ve gone off to other beds with individual partners. Many fantasies have been lived out … but there was a big one that just hadn’t happened.

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According to my brother, I am not a slut. It totally floored me when he said this, because ‘slut’ is one of those words which I have cheerfully laid claim to for a number of years.

I mean, of course I’m a slut (albeit an ethical one)! I sleep with lots of people, and get nude in public, and talk about sex all the time!

But no. My brother thinks differently. Which led to a fascinating conversation on Sunday morning.

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Essure to Take Off the Pressure

For the last few days I’ve had a continuing, cheerful, refrain in my head, which goes like this:

Nooooo [pause] babeeeez for meeeeee…!

Why the refrain? Well, it’s because a) I don’t want to have children, b) I’ve never wanted to have children, and c) my gynaecologist has known me long enough that he’s agreed to d) get me and permanent contraception hooked up. In other words e) sterilised.

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Wicked Tongues

I love cunnilingus. I love having the opportunity for my lips and tongue and chin and nose to discover the secrets of another; and I love to have my legs spread, my cunt open and welcoming of anothers’ teasing face.

There are so many different ways that a mouth can connect themselves with my cunt. And so many partners, each with their own way of connecting with me.

There’s the gentle approach: insidious, determined lapping which erodes my defences. Long and lascivious licks from my perineum, across the labia and up to the clit, then circling and stroking and nuzzling.   Continual contact, laving and stroking until a tidal wave gushes forth and drenches their face.  This approach can go for hours, and the waves keep on coming until we are nothing but a tiny figures in a large, damp, lake.

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Staunching The Wound

I like words. I like them a whole lot – whether they’re spoken or written, they hold a deep appeal to me. I like to to read, to write, to talk and to listen. To learn from the knowledge words impart. For me, words are intense, powerful, strong and moving.

But when it comes to believing someone? When it comes to truth or lies? Then, it’s more than words, because words – no matter how intense and powerful – are only a part of the story. When it comes to truth, lies, perceptions and beliefs, then actions must be counted.  And when the two don’t match up? Then I’m far more likely to place stock in actions, and what those actions say.

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Too Much

I’ve got a dozen posts knocking about in my head and in draft, but I can’t seem to get any of them finished. Which is likely because this post needs to be done first – and I don’t want to write it. I think it has to be done, though.

I’ve broken up with people before. And I’ve been broken up with before. In all those instances, though, at least one party (if not both) was at the point when they needed to move on. Where their feelings had changed. Where what was ‘in love’ – or at least ‘love’ – had altered to the point where the relationship was no longer feasible.

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Checked Out

When did you last get an STI check? Have you ever had one?

I’ve been getting mine on an annual basis for the last seven or so years. Generally that meant taking the easy route and getting tested when I saw my gynaecologist for my yearly check-up.

Over those last seven years I’ve had sexual interactions with approximately a dozen people, eight of whom have been (or become) longer-term partners. In all cases (bar the first threesome I ever had, when I was horny and dumb) I’ve practiced safer sex. And in all cases, when it came to a partnership that I wanted to be longer-term, I’ve made sure we’ve both been checked out.

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Warm soft strength

Sometimes I just want to curl up. To hide my face behind my hair; feel soft fur beneath my skin. I want to be safe and warm and not required to do anything except simply be.


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Lessons from an Orgy

What you’ve been waiting to read, of course, is how Sunday’s orgy was. And the short answer is: it was fantastic!

The medium answer is: Why in the hell haven’t I done that before? Because I’m sure as hell doing that again.

And the long answer? Well, you’ll have to keep reading to get to that. But there are photos, so that might keep your attention a while longer. Or at least get you using your scroll button!

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