I’ve had some fantastic sex with MasterDoc. I also had Shane over last week (rowr); we hung out and again had awesome sex. I rode him, and when he’d reach his fingers to rub my clit I would grab my ankles and lean back a little. I think that’s when I came the hardest.

But the terrible part is, despite great sex, despite orgasms that blew my mind, I was mired in a severe depression for a few days.

This sucker was the type to blow all my usual depressions out of the water. When I was a teen, I was hospitalized for three months with depression. This felt like that sort of depression.

I thought I was all over this deep of an illness. I had matured, gotten medicated and better able to handle mood issues. But for the first time in well over a decade, I had fears of being hospitalized again.

I’m usually quite comfortable discussing depression. I feel that if it’s not talked about it remains mysterious and strange for those who aren’t mentally ill. But this time around I felt shame. I felt shame that I am so fucked up that I’m technically one of those people who are being made fun of when people joke about crazy people. (Pisses me off that if I had cancer or diabetes or some-such, the teasing would be just shocking to everyone and the jokers would be shamed.) I struggled with simply taking care of myself, which of course makes my submissive duties much, much harder. I felt ashamed that I couldn’t be a fully effective submissive.

I get pissed off that my illness could be used against me when I speak out about the times I was raped or sexually assaulted. My being mentally ill doesn’t mean those things didn’t happen, weren’t traumatic (to even an ordinary, mentally fit person) and doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be taken seriously. It’s so easy to take advantage of the mentally ill. People don’t take us seriously. We doubt ourselves a lot. Even when I’m not in an ill state, having “crazy” thrown at me (like after I was assaulted) stings like a motherfucker.

Usually, when I’m depressed I feel sad, out of sorts, have a hard time functioning. But this Friday-Sunday it was beyond that. I spent time with MasterDoc Saturday night, and despite amazing (truly AMAZING) orgasms, I cried as we cuddled after. I just couldn’t stop the tears. He’s one of the very few people I can relax around and just go with what’s going on. And it is amazing how he lets me cry and is just there for me.

On Friday, I felt like my chosen family wasn’t taking the severity of my depression seriously. But a talk with my friend DivaSub made me realize something – I have gotten very, very good at hiding just how mentally ill I can be. That conversation reminded me of one in high school with my best friend. I couldn’t understand how people didn’t know that I was totally miserable and anxious enough for regular panic attacks. My friend pointed out to me that I always seemed happy. I have become TOO good at not letting people know what’s going on inside. I think MasterDoc is the only person who I will let my guard down around and cry because of depression.

Let me explain for those who haven’t experienced it – it’s not that I’m sad 24/7 when I’m depressed. I have ups and downs, but my mood swings wildly and the downs are more frequent and much deeper than normal. I have anxiety that makes me not want to leave the house. I fear that the careful control I have will break down and I’ll be crazy in public. So the best thing to do is avoid being out of the house as much as possible.

I fear getting so mentally ill that I have to take a break from work. I fear that everyone will know then that I’m ill.

I hate the fact that I feel shame over this. I can’t control it. I’m not a bad person. But I have bouts when I’m quite depressed, when my brain isn’t working right and I can’t muster energy for basic functions. I’m sad and teary often. Please remember though, most of the time I feel quite mentally stable. (As I feel right now.) And this is probably true for a great many mentally ill people.

The Good and The Sad originally appeared on Diary of a Kinky Librarian on October 24, 2011.

If you’ve hung around here for any length of time you know that I was sexually assaulted six years ago at a sex party. I’ve written about the triggering and post-traumatic stress issues I can still encounter after all this time. I probably have also written that the shitty way I was treated after was just as bad as the assault.

And if I haven’t, I should.

The dark secret of the kink/sex-positive community is that not everyone plays by the rules. And even those who do often fail to call out the predators on their bullshit. I’ve submitted a proposal for a panel discussion at Momentum next spring on finding ways to address this rather than sweep it under the rug. I feel like I’ve healed to the point where I’m ready to be an activist. Because I sure wish I had had an activist on my side when all that shit was originally going down. I’ve spoken to various women over the years who have been somehow abused or violated within what should have been a consensual, mutually enjoyable kink scene or sexual experience. (I don’t doubt that the men who have experienced abuse don’t even try to come forward. Being realistic, the majority of survivors are women, but I think the men who experience this need us to listen too.)

As a brief aside here, I like the term “survivor” rather than “victim.” I was a victim for the duration of my assault. I’m not always a victim. I have survived people ignoring my clearly stated boundaries on two occasions. I’m bitter that they have both changed my life forever (the first was totally outside the scene) but I have prevailed and found myself a wonderful Dom who takes care of me, not violates my boundaries. (Waxing poetic on this will be the next post.)

A big issue going hand-in-hand with the violations happening is that most people in the scene won’t listen when someone speaks up about it. These assaults (I’m using it as a general term for rape, sexual assault, physical assault, abuse, etc.) are whispered about at most. Those who speak up loudly, as I did via my old blog right after the assault happened to me, get branded as “crazy,” “drama queens,” and “troublemakers.” Often they do what I did for a few years – they disappear from the scene, disillusioned that a community that gives so much lip service to consent could turn a blind eye. The predators doing this do it more than once. I know of at least three men within the NYC scene who have violated boundaries more than once. On twitter this week one of my twitter pals was furious and frustrated when she tried to speak up about another woman’s assault within her local kink scene. She must have received mostly the same sort of bullshit I had.

“It’s a he said/she said thing. I don’t want to get involved.”

Or they make up excuses for the person. “Well, he was drunk.” The support I’ve received over the years from people within “the community” has been minimal. But it is increasing and I want to lend my voice to those speaking out.

Let me start with this, if you don’t get involved, don’t take sides, then you are by default supporting the perpetrator. Silence lets this cancer flourish in the community. Sometimes, the predatory people are the ones running parties and educational sessions at conferences. This will not end until we speak up and hold our fellow kinksters responsible for their actions. I don’t give a shit if “that guy” seems nice and throws fun parties. If you keep quiet you are enabling him. (I’ll bet there are a few women who violate boundaries, but because of our socialization, it ends up being men far more often.)

I had the pleasure of meeting a kinkster guy recently, and we somehow got onto this lovely topic. He filled me in on someone being predatory that I didn’t know about, and I filled him in on the one I know about first hand. We compared notes and he too has seen women who speak up dismissed as “crazy.” Branding someone as crazy is an effective way to silence them. I’m sure this tactic has been used to silence women (and other minorities) for centuries.

But this guy I met up with brought up a concern we must address. He pointed out that in his experiences as a Dom he has made mistakes. People do make mistakes. But you know what? If you make a mistake you apologize, try to mend the hurt as best you can and learn from it. There are men like himself who hesitate to get involved in lambasting a predator because they fear that a simple, unintentional mistake on their part will place them in that position.

I know this can be difficult for nice guys to believe, but the chance of that is small. People who apologize and try to fix the harm they’ve accidentally done are not the types I’m talking about here. I spoke online with the guy who assaulted me a night or two after the event. I wanted to believe it was a mistake. I wanted an apology so I could do my best to forgive and move on. I didn’t get an apology. I got excuses. I got a scared little man trying to deny his responsibility and getting angry with me when I called him out. Soon I was one of those so-called “crazy” women in the scene. The few who actually listened to me and agreed that what happened was wrong were usually afraid to speak up. The predators among us manage to snag a few friends who will stand up for them, not really knowing what they’re like. The person who’s been assaulted, and their allies, get their voices drowned out.

Since I’ve seen this time and time again, I have to call all of you out on one bullshit excuse item: the idea that women make up stories of being assaulted to retaliate against someone.

Seriously? Go back and read my description above about what happens when someone speaks up. What would making up a story accomplish? Absolutely nothing. False rape reporting has been a red herring thrown about by the media for years. With 60% of ACTUAL rapes not being reported because of the dismal reaction victims of sexual violence usually get from law enforcement, how many women can be stupid enough to lie about it? There are a few of course, but the estimate of “unfounded” reported rapes is just 8%.

From Wikipedia:

FBI reports consistently put the number of “unfounded” rape accusations around 8%. The average rate of unfounded reports for Index crimes is 2%. However, “unfounded” is not synonymous with false allegation and as Bruce Gross of the Forensic Examiner explains,

“This statistic is almost meaningless, as many of the jurisdictions from which the FBI collects data on crime use different definitions of, or criteria for, “unfounded.” That is, a report of rape might be classified as unfounded (rather than as forcible rape) if the alleged victim did not try to fight off the suspect, if the alleged perpetrator did not use physical force or a weapon of some sort, if the alleged victim did not sustain any physical injuries, or if the alleged victim and the accused had a prior sexual relationship. Similarly, a report might be deemed unfounded if there is no physical evidence or too many inconsistencies between the accuser’s statement and what evidence does exist. As such, although some unfounded cases of rape may be false or fabricated, not all unfounded cases are false.” (Emphasis mine)

Kitty Stryker has been tackling the topic:
Safe/Ward: A What You Can Do Guide

Safe/Ward Blog Carnival (trigger warning) This link will lead you to a cornucopia of blog posts by kinkster women who have been violated at some point or another, often not speaking out until years later.

If you’ve been subjected to assault or abuse, RAINN is a good resource for information. I found that even being at a sex party didn’t make the professional counselors I went to dismiss what happened to me. (I tried coping for 2-3 months on my own because I was afraid I’d be blamed.) I’m sure a few asshole therapists out there would blame the victim, but most professionals do not.

I’m one of those kinksters who will lend an ear to any survivor who needs to talk. There are a few more out there. Let’s make THOSE voices the ones that are heard.

The Dark Secret originally appeared on Diary of a Kinky Librarian on August 11, 2011.

MasterDoc and I went to a private party last night. We had partied at this person’s house before, he’s someone MasterDoc has known in the scene for many years. You’d think with my recent weight loss I’d feel like hot shit and all sort of confident. Last time I went to a party there (a couple of summers ago) I had a great time and ate out some cute woman by the edge of the pool among other things. You would think that I’d run with more abandon now that I’m not quite the “fat chick” anymore.

You would think that, but you would be wrong.

This time, there seemed to be a preponderance of hot, young people there. So many pretty women I’d gladly have made out with, but because of my overwhelming anxieties I didn’t get anywhere close. Instead I just saw many of them make out with each other as I yearned from the sidelines.

Social anxiety is something I often have, but I had long prided myself on being the first person naked at a sex party. Talking to strangers is hard, but getting naked and fucking them is not so hard. But last night I was convinced that I look worse now than when I was much heavier. The sagging skin I have from the weight loss got blown out of all proportion in my mind. The fact that I’m nearly 40 and so many women there were in their 20s intimidated the hell out of me. They were fit, with perky breasts. I felt like I’d look horrible in comparison. My clothes were on way more often than they were off.

To add to my mishegos was the fact that many of them seemed to know each other and were comfortable flirting with each other or just diving in. I felt like I was invisible much of the night. I’m sure MasterDoc was right when he told me it was because of the vibe I was giving off. But at the time I was convinced it was because I’m ugly and no one had the least amount of interest in me.

The evening started off okay. I felt awkward from second one, but I chatted lightly with a few people. I’m sure, however, that my social discomfort was showing already. I felt better when MasterDoc and I made out in the corner while two of the guests were serenaded with “Happy Birthday.” I had mentioned that I felt clingy emotionally, and early in the evening it sounded like he and I would get some quality time together, at least for part of the evening. He and I had had some cuddles alone earlier. At one point he took me into a bedroom and we stepped over the people getting it on on the floor and he fingered me to orgasm on the bed. Soon, the couple on the floor were taking over the bed, and as the woman was a pretty, young, firm-bodied blonde I felt soooooo intimidated. I felt like I must look like a sack of shit next to her.

What’s so bizarre is that my sense of attractiveness see-saws like crazy lately. When I did my make up for the evening I felt awesome. Put me around young, hot people I don’t know, and that crumbled. And not everyone there was hot or young. But somehow in my mind I was the ugliest thing on earth.

Things took another wrong turn when I thought perhaps MasterDoc and I were going to really play, but he got distracted setting up the sybian. I truly have grown to fucking hate that machine. It feels amazing to ride, but you try going to party after party with it and sitting around bored and ignored while your Dom gives women rides. I wouldn’t care if people just used it themselves and we merely provided it. But as it gets used at parties now, I HATE that thing.

MasterDoc didn’t mean anything by getting distracted. He has ADD and truly can’t help it most of the time. But in my mental state I just shut down. “Oh this is yet another party where I’m going to be ignored.” When my mood became apparent, MasterDoc focused his attention on me, but then that made me feel like it was just a case of, “Here Nadia, take your vibe, get yourself off while I watch. That will shut you up for the rest of the night.” I could not get into it at all. My view of it was terribly skewed, but arousal was not possible when I felt like such a troll.

Rather than watch the sybian rides and feel bored and left out, I took off on my own. I sat and did stuff on my phone, realizing that if there was any time I was giving off a “Don’t talk to me vibe,” it was probably then. Meanwhile, I would have been thrilled if someone talked to me. A young guy did for a bit. I wasn’t into him and I doubt very much he was into me, but he was at least friendly and nice, so I did my best effort to be chatty and friendly. It was a nice break from sitting alone.

MasterDoc had asked me to check in with him now and then, so I went to the basement and waited until he finished giving a sybian ride, checked in, and then went upstairs. I felt like eating. I mostly stuck to fruit but I had more cake than I should have. I wanted to drown my feelings in food. (Now you see how I got fat in the first place!) I felt so awful about myself, that I didn’t even go for a dip in the pool – and I love swimming. Late in the evening most people were walking around naked or semi-naked and I still had my sun dress on. I felt conspicuous, but I figured I look much better with my clothes on these days. And no one was giving me a second glance.

Yeah, the evening mostly sucked because I was filled with anxiety. What a waste. This morning I could see how I was blowing my body issues out of proportion. Sure, the loose skin is not attractive, but it’s also not as noticeable as I think it is. But around young 20-something women with the perkiest tits this side of the Mississippi, I feel ugly.

One funny point, although I’m not 100% sure that what I thought took place did. I was a bit intoxicated and a few feet away. But some guy started talking to this chubby woman and somehow seemed to think she was the “kinky librarian.” He mentioned seeing the name on the list, and wondering who that was, he wanted to meet her. I think that woman let him believe she was me. And you’d think someone pretending to be me would boost my self-esteem. It was very strange. I was tempted to go over and introduce myself, but then I wasn’t quite sure what went on in that conversation. So, dude, if you’re reading this, I was the mopey, tall brunette who stayed dressed most of the evening.

There was a break in the sybian rides, and MasterDoc and I found a room to be alone in. I got some cuddles, but pointed out that what would have been even better is if he had brought our toy bag along and fucked me silly. He noticed the condoms on the bedside table, and pointed out that we could still have fun without all our accoutrements. He fucked me silly. I was screaming in orgasm. It’s a wonder the whole house didn’t come up to see. He kept me coming and coming and suddenly my body issues melted away while I was enveloped in orgasm. Alas, they came right back after. But he made me feel spectacular, and the sex was the redeeming feature of the evening.

Anxiety is Not a Good Party Guest originally appeared on Diary of a Kinky Librarian on July 30, 2011.

MasterDoc had been away the previous weekend, and with my emotional state I really needed to reconnect when he got back. He didn’t quite pick up on this, and decided to do play piercing. I was scared and I ultimately knew I couldn’t handle it that night. But what do you say to your Dom? Plus there’s plenty of times I was scared before intense play but in the end enjoyed it.

We got in a little cuddling, but not nearly enough for me. He had me bent over the Liberator Axis and planned to pierce my labia. I cringed. He wiped off one side of my labia with an alcohol wipe. And he told me, “You have to keep still, slut.”

Even though I knew the pain would be too much for me that night (whereas he’s done this before and I could handle it), I did my best to hold still and ride it out. As the needle slipped into my flesh I screamed. Truly screamed. Despite this being manageable on another day, it overwhelmed me and made me miserable. I didn’t feel the type of fear that arouses me, but I felt actually afraid that he might do it again. This did nothing to turn me on. I did have a slight endorphin rush, however, but not enough to lift my mood.

MasterDoc realized his misstep and didn’t pierce me again, and he soon removed the one needle from my body. He moved on to regular sex, and while it was good to have sex, I had such a hard time feeling connected and getting aroused. I think I did manage to have an orgasm eventually, but not without a lot of work. We talked after, and he agreed that when he’s been away for a few days and I’m in the midst of PMDD it’s not the best time to do some intense play.

On Wednesday I saw the writer again (the guy of the last entry who I’ve decided to call “the writer”). I managed to contain the anxiety of the PMDD and enjoy watching silly dvds with him. We fucked again and it was terrific, but I was too tired to do it more than once. He crashed at my place and I dropped him near the subway on my way to work the next morning.

Friday night I was content just for cuddles with MasterDoc. I was feeling exceptionally fatigued from the PMDD and went to bed pretty early. On Saturday the PMDD started to wane a bit. I got the evening entirely alone with MasterDoc. We talked, reconnected and I expressed how I wish he’d touch me more actively. He did more of that and it helped me feel soothed and connected. I noticed that we seem to lay a bit apart during foreplay these days, and I wish that he’d press his body up against mine more often. These are all things that can be dealt with. Even in the midst of PMDD I was able to realize that my feeling of disconnect from him was temporary, but it was still a relief to feel connected to him again. The physical contact helps the feeling of emotional connection.

I wasn’t feeling quite as fragile emotionally, so I was enthusiastic when he told me to hang my head over the edge of the bed. This could only mean that he’d fuck my throat. This is hot although his balls tend to fall over my nose in this position and it’s hard to focus on opening my throat when I’m suffocating! He held them out of the way and I was able to keep his cock inside my throat for longer, although eventually my body forced it out. We didn’t do this for long but I enjoy it – perhaps all women wouldn’t but I do.

Soon after, he fucked me and made me come so much. I really thought that my arms would collapse from holding my legs up as he pounded away at me from on top. In the time he’s been having testosterone supplements his cock has become even more amazing. My vagina of steel doesn’t push his cock out as often as it used to. I can’t tell you how great an orgasm is when he can keep plumbing the depths of my cunt with his penis while I come. He managed to make me come even past the point where I thought I could. If the peak of arousal ebbed a little, he went at it a little harder or deeper until my face was contorted in ecstasy.

At some point, he made me come just by massaging my hand. I really hope all my readers out there find someone (if they haven’t already) who can do this to them.

He wanted to come and it has to be a targeted activity when he does. He had me get between his legs to play with his thighs and ass, and I playfully started kneading his butt with my toes (they were nearby at that moment). I not only have magic fingers but my toes seem to do a pretty good job too. I joked that this was probably the first time that there was a foot job and a foot fetish didn’t play into it at all.

I worked at that until my thighs were too sore from holding me upright and using my toes dexterously at the same time. I asked him if I could switch to my hands, more as a sign of respect to my Sir than any anticipation of him saying no, and of course he told me I could.

I massaged his groin, ass and thighs. He stroked his hard cock at the same time and I would pay careful attention to his reactions. He changed his mind about not fucking again and had me get on top. It was all I could do to not rest all my weight on him as he made me come again. He thrust his hips up and poked my cervix over and over. Eventually, he said, “That’s enough for you, young lady.”

I resumed playing with his ass with the intention of helping him come. He had me grab the Bob butt plug and I worked it in after having loosened his ass up with my fingers. This plug is a little more flexible than I’d want, but I slid a finger in underneath it so I could press it against the prostate. A few times I thought MasterDoc might come, but it didn’t happen. We were then interrupted by a call from DeeDee letting him know when she and her daughter would be back at the apartment. Our attention turned to snacks and away from sex. I still wish I had made him come however.

Reconnecting originally appeared on Diary of a Kinky Librarian on June 26, 2011.

MasterDoc did massage my back (isn’t he a nice Dom?) and cuddle a little, but PMDD was setting in and I felt abandoned when, my eyes closed while resting, he left me alone in the bedroom. The madness that can come with a particularly bad bout of PMDD was strong, and I started thinking… no, I started being convinced that MasterDoc was bored with me and/or no longer attracted to me. This resulted in a heavy depression on Saturday. I took a trip downtown to get my hair cut and found myself not having any impetus afterward to do anything but wander around in the rain until I could catch the next express bus. I tried to perk up in time for the party. MasterDoc was concerned about taking me out because of the depression, and unfortunately that proved founded.

All night, somehow our wires crossed and things ended up badly. I just kept longing for him to hug me, to cuddle me, to touch me and tell me everything was all right. I wanted him to play with me since it had been a little while and reestablishing that connection would feel so good to my depressed, insecure brain. On his end, he says that I put up walls and made it impossible to connect with me. I felt like he wasn’t really trying. Oy. We did connect for just long enough for him to make me come, and squirt a little, but when he became engrossed with watching another D/s couple play, I felt ignored and threatened because the other woman had a much hotter body than me. Meanwhile MasterDoc was enjoying watching the connection of the other couple because they seemed to have the sort of unspoken connection he and I so often have.

Please allow me to say, I don’t like myself when I’m depressed. I don’t like being depressed. With many people, I can hold off on getting downright hysterical, but I think because I trust MasterDoc so much I often suddenly direct any sadness and rage at him. I hate when I do this. At the time, the idea of being no longer attractive or interesting felt entirely real to me. I’m sure anyone reading this can see that it was just the PMDD.

The following morning was tearful. But thankfully I was ultimately able to realize that he wasn’t shunning me the night before (even if that’s how I felt) and I was probably putting up walls (even if I didn’t think I was) and that we love each other very much. My intense feelings of anger and sadness came out of worrying that he didn’t want me anymore.  As ridiculous as that sounds it was insanely intense.

The depression lasted the rest of the weekend, but I was able to reconnect with MasterDoc. Having him cuddle me soothed my crazy brain. He took me into the bedroom and employed playing techniques that I had been clamoring for. Like the couple we saw the prior evening, he cuffed my hands behind my back, and he used a strip of duct tape to gag me. I lay over the Liberator Axis and he gave me a good caning. My pain tolerance was lousy and I wished I could move out of the way – but with my hands behind me I couldn’t push myself up. I couldn’t even wiggle out of the way. I had to trust that he would judge the right amount of pain to induce an endorphin rush. While the caning hurt like the dickens, I think it had the right effect on my brain chemistry.

He told me to get up on hands and knees, and I mumbled through the gag that I couldn’t get on my hands with them behind my back. I was still gagged, and struggling to breathe slowly through the one clear nostril I had. (You see, if you breathe in too sharply your nasal passage narrows.) He slipped a condom on and fucked me with my arms secured behind my back. It was so worth waiting for. He fucked me long and hard. I know that phrase is totally overused but it’s the best description. He kept pounding me until I couldn’t hold back and I came. It was a magnificent orgasm, but I felt like I was suffocating and that abruptly stopped my body and compelled me to manage to move my arms around to the side just enough to rip off the duct tape. MasterDoc joked that he’s a doctor and wouldn’t let anything happen to me. If I passed out he’d be there. I know breath play can be hot but it often just makes me anxious. He understood that the anxiety was too much. He fucked me again, with my wrists released and the tape off, and that time I had every possible orgasm wrung from my body.

My depression was lifted for the entire time I was fucking and coming. Hey, how could I feel depressed mid-orgasm? (Although if it’s possible I’m sure I can do it.) After cuddles to further soothe my savage soul he had me get on top. We tried doing it with my cuffs linked but I couldn’t lean forward onto my hands and as a result my hips and thighs got such a workout that I was promptly exhausted. MasterDoc put me on the bottom, and he fucked me silly again. I’ve always loved sex with MasterDoc, but holy fuck now that he gets testosterone supplements and he’s lost some weight he can fuck harder and longer. It’s wonderfully bewildering to have a Dom in his mid-50′s fuck better than guys half his age.

I felt better having reconnected and gotten fucked. My hormones still raged and I found myself feeling teary, but thankfully I was no longer aiming my mad and sad feelings at MasterDoc. (He should be made the first Jewish saint for dealing with my anger when I’m depressed. It hurts him, even if he knows it’s just the chemical imbalance talking.) Feeling his skin pressed against me is soothing. While he can’t magically cure my PMDD, he has the capacity to make it better, even if only for a little while.

Heh. Saint MasterDoc, patron saint of wayward women. (By the way, I managed to leave out of the flow of the story that I blew him for a while, and then later in the evening I helped him come with prostate massage. So my Sir did get direct appreciation shown for him putting up with me.)

MasterDoc, the Cure for What Ails Me originally appeared on Diary of a Kinky Librarian on April 25, 2011.

As a consequence, when I have had hot sex I haven’t felt like writing about it. Sorry to disappoint you all, but this will probably be just a short summary of the adventures I had this week.

Sunday and Monday nights I got to spend alone with MasterDoc. I was thrilled since recent weeks have yielded minimal time alone with him. The first night, I was struggling with insecurity as big as a football field. After sobbing that I was afraid that MasterDoc no longer had interest in sex with me – I’ll wait while you laugh at that – he fucked me three long times. And each time he pushed me over the edge of orgasm – and kept me going!

Monday night he noticed himself falling into the whole “let’s watch porn, masturbate then fuck” thing he does when he feels lazy. He decided to put more effort into that evening and soon I was laying on the bed blindfolded, with a bondage tape gag. He got good and rough with me. There was lots of biting, slapping, fingering. While fucking he made me feel like a piece of meat in that particular way that makes me love it. I loved the sensory deprivation of having most of my head wrapped up.

I went without sex for a few days. (When will I take the time to find a suitable friend with benefits?) On Friday afternoon, MasterDoc lined up this Dom and sub who we’ve played with before – for the life of me I can’t remember what I’ve called them here. We met them at a hotel and played together. With my depressed mood I had a hard time getting into things, but I did my best. Funny how even when I struggle with arousal I still end up coming and squirting a freakin’ river. Thank you, MasterDoc! After the couple left, we hung out for a little longer and he gave me a beating – something I’ve been in need of but I wasn’t quite in the headspace to enjoy. He then fucked me and I squirted yet again.

Hopefully my mood will continue to improve and I will have more adventures to share and will actually take the time to write detailed entries on them!

Brief Update originally appeared on Diary of a Kinky Librarian on March 6, 2011.

Certainly, in some ways he is lucky. But when I’ve slipped into depression and not realized that’s what it is, I can be horrible. The other day I just kept complaining and complaining. If my words were to be believed, MasterDoc can’t do anything right. Thankfully, part way through the day I realized MasterDoc was NOT the issue at all – depression was. Still, it was a hard day for him, but bless his heart he was patient with me the whole time, refusing to give up on me even though I could only see life through a negative lens.

I spent a lot of time alone the rest of the day, in one of his bedrooms. He would check on me periodically and DeeDee even popped in to bring me some tapioca pudding. It was a rough day for me because it was one of those rare times when I don’t just feel depressed, I feel crazy. I don’t want to get into personal details, but rest assured I was nuts and feeling miserable. I wanted to hide until I felt sane again.

Thankfully MasterDoc’s patience helped and eventually I started to feel better. That evening he gave me some delicious orgasms and feeling good physically helped me along mentally. The cuddles and his listening to me unburden the crazy thoughts in my head helped even more.

I’ve been feeling potentially unstable since then, but ultimately keeping my shit together. I had a nice weekend with MasterDoc and DeeDee, and Sunday afternoon MasterDoc and I got some time alone when I wasn’t feeling crazy. He had me blow him while he spoke on the phone, and I enjoyed having his cock in my mouth since I hadn’t had it often lately.

A bit later, he had me lay on my stomach on the bed. I lay over a pillow so my back wouldn’t bother me and the throe was between me and the pillow. He bound me down to bed using the under bed restraints.  I’ve sometimes complained that I don’t get enough bondage, and the little bondage fetishist in me was doing a happy dance. He pulled the restraints snug and there was no way I could get out.

He put on my collar, a blindfold, and finally a gag. I have issues with gags that go inside the mouth and unfortunately he chose one. I did my best to remember what he taught me – breathe slowly through the nose. If you breathe too quickly your nostrils pull in and you don’t get enough air. This soon wasn’t enough, however, between a stuffy nose, the blindfold pressing on the bridge of my nose and finally trying to cope with the pain of a caning. It’s impossible to focus your breathing and breathe slowly when crying out in pain.

He didn’t go immediately to the cane, but surprised me by grabbing my ass with one of the vampire gloves I got him for his birthday last year. He swatted my ass with it, ran it up my back. It was a sensation a step away from tickling and a step away from pain. I liked it. He started caning me, and immediately before he checked to make sure I could beg for mercy through the gag. As soon as he asked that, I knew I was in for quite a ride.

He kept caning me past my usual limits. It hurt a lot, but I was able to deal with it because I knew it would end. I knew I would have a lovely sense of calm after it stopped. He would alternate with the vampire glove and every touch was a surprise. Every strike a bit of a shock.

After my ass was well reddened, he grabbed the Hitachi and placed it between my legs. He spanked a bit, I moaned and tried to get my clit in better contact with the vibe. This went on alternating and I could have come quite easily from the vibe but chose to hold off. He took the vibe away and spanked my pussy for a while. Even this was enough to put me near the edge. I finally got out, “May I please come, Sir?” (I had pushed the gag out of my mouth by this point so I could breathe.) He held off a second or two, then let me come. He pushed the Hitachi to my cunt and I kept coming harder and harder.

When he was finished I lay there, still face down, my arms and legs still bound to the bed. It was bliss. I had to ask him to release me a few minutes later because my arms were starting to hurt, secured above my head like they were. He undid my arms and ankles, and I got to cuddle close to him. I love cuddles with him. They feel amazing. Being in his arms was the best therapy I could have. I started this entry talking about how others think he’s lucky to have me, but I know that I’m lucky to have such a wonderful Dom to love and take care of me.

Lucky originally appeared on Diary of a Kinky Librarian on January 24, 2011.

Yesterday was one of those days. I seem to be having more of them than usual lately. I plan to talk to my shrink about medication, because perhaps the regimen I’ve been on for a few years now isn’t working as well.

In a fit of pique, I declared on twitter that I was giving up sex. I’m sure people reading that knew it wouldn’t stick. By the time the day was over I had sex with MasterDoc (entirely of my choosing) and orgasms helped settle me. We’re working on ways to help head off these bouts via beatings (endorphins help), medication, orgasms, and anything else that might help level off or lift my mood. Unfortunately I was a teary, angry mess yesterday before things could be headed off. When I started to gain perspective on the situation (“Oh, I see! This is depression speaking and making everything seem so irreparably terrible!”) cuddles helped a great deal. I cried a lot, started getting depressed about having been depressed (not to mention having been so harsh to MasterDoc). MasterDoc and I laughed about that a bit – the whole getting depressed because I get depressed. It’s silly I know, but I do feel terrible guilt for being difficult when I’m depressed.

I appreciate all the support from my twitter and facebook friends as I rode through the turmoil yesterday. It’s wonderful that people I don’t even really know will offer words of encouragement and support.

That’s why I didn’t get around to blogging about my Sunday evening in with MasterDoc. It was a bumpy night in a way – there was sex, a break, MasterDoc not really feeling like doing a lot but meanwhile I was craving a long night of hard, rough sex. (Been watching too much rough sex porn lately.) He decided that he wanted to come, and we played with ourselves while watching porn. He was going to come on me but the spurts didn’t quite make it to my hip that was laying beside him. I used the magic wand on myself and thankfully MasterDoc gave me a little of what I was craving then. Hand on throat, slapped thighs, I begged him to hurt me. The roughness made me come so much harder than I would have with the magic wand alone.

I can’t wait to try more rough stuff with him.

Mood Swings originally appeared on Diary of a Kinky Librarian on February 16, 2010.

I’m leaving out the many bits that added up and led to this but I ended up crying hysterically (yes, truly hysterically. I was gasping for air because I was crying so hard) at MasterDoc’s and being totally contrary, depressed and angry for the better part of the day. Bless MasterDoc’s patience. He did all he could to try to shake me out of it but I was unshakable for much of the day. He tried caning, which just pissed me off. *chuckle* He tried a firm hand, taking control, telling me to get my collar and get up and do some chores. That didn’t work. I was so weighted down with depression that I couldn’t move. I really couldn’t move. And when I finally got up to go use the bathroom I struggled to get to my feet and amble down the hall. It was a feeling much like when you’re heavily sick with flu and you feel like you’re moving through molasses.

But he kept at it, kept talking to me. Kept trying to reason with me through my tears. (He’s nothing if not a reasonable, rational man.) Eventually the core was reached – I don’t think I’m worthy of being loved. All the rest is window dressing for this one core truth. Sure there are times when I’m not depressed when I feel worthwhile, but depression makes me feel utterly useless and unlovable. I’ve struggled with this since late childhood.

Sometimes via writing this blog I get people telling me I’m sexy, exciting, wonderful, attractive, etc. At those times the little low self-esteem voice in my head quotes the following bit from a Neil Finn song, Truth:

“They have showered me with riches /and they say that I am worthy of their love and their attention/ but they still don’t know the truth.”

I figure why believe someone who only knows me through the blog? Even though I am extremely candid here someone still can’t know me entirely with all my foibles and full-on flaws. I can’t accept compliments. Not really. I grew up thinking that if I felt good about myself then I was being egotistical and that I should always know my flaws and work on them. (Maybe this is a residual Catholic thing?) When I started coming out of the depression on Saturday, started being more reasonable at least, MasterDoc listed a bunch of things he likes about me; and I didn’t recognize the person he described. I didn’t think it could be me. But at the same time it felt so good to be told I’m loved and wanted.

As I was slowly recovering emotionally, I had a revelation. I finally understood age play. I had always been among the camp of “that makes me really uncomfortable but I won’t interfere with two consenting adults playing how they want to play.” But jeez, Saturday night I wanted nothing more than to be taken care of like a little child. I wanted to abdicate all responsibility. I wanted to be told when to brush my teeth and go to bed. I wanted to be held and petted and told I’m loved. It was a struggle for me to do tasks MasterDoc asked me to do, having any responsibility felt like too much for me to handle. I really felt like I needed to be taken care of. I did get petting from MasterDoc and told that I’m loved, but I didn’t get the full level of being controlled and taken care of. Oh well. That’s not what our relationship is like.

By the next day I was feeling calmer and no longer suicidal. I’ve struggled with dips into depression this week but have ultimately ended the week on a stable note. Wednesday night, while MasterDoc caned me, he made me repeat after him, “I am incredibly lovable.” He made me say it a few times and made me promise that I would remember that. We talked a little about how I came to feel this way when I was young, and having a mother who was moody and wildly unpredictable had a lot to do with it – i.e., one day I’d say “good morning” and she’d be loving and we’d bake cookies, but another morning I’d say the same exact thing in the same exact way and she’d bite my head off. As MasterDoc and I talked, he asked if I had ever tried to diagnose my mother. (I have an educational background in psychology.) I haven’t really, but immediately I said that she must suffer from depression like I do. And MasterDoc wondered aloud if I ever realized that these issues were my mother’s own or if I internalized them and blamed myself. And you know, until last night, at age 37, I never had the thought that these issues were my mother’s, and not my fault. I blamed myself from a young age. I thought that I made her mad or sad.

Somehow, I forget how, he came up with the idea of a time out next time I snap at him – time facing the corner to cool down and think. I think it’s interesting how a lot of what I’m getting out of our relationship in recent weeks is sorta parenting my inner child on things I missed out on when I actually was a child. I don’t doubt that my submission has some roots in wanting to be loved and pleasing. I think it could be really healing to try to please someone who is capable of being pleased for a change.

MasterDoc continued to say wonderful things to me all evening, working on bolstering my self-esteem. I’m trying to figure out how to accept the compliments. He feels a little offended that, in a way, I should think so little of his opinion of me as to not believe it. But it’s not that his opinion is off, it’s that I just can’t think about myself rationally sometimes.

We did eventually have sex, and while I came hard as always (rowr!) I was slow to warm up by that time as he bounced between watching porn on the computer and watching basketball on tv. I had been ready for fooling around after the caning but the sex didn’t come til much later. I didn’t complain, and he pointed out that I’m patient. He fucked me, and the ensuing hard orgasm helped my already improving mood. As we watched an assfucking porn afterward, I told him that it made me want to be fucked up the ass. And yes, he fucked me up the ass then. Very hot. I lay back after each fucking and felt utterly content.

He jerked off to come, and came in my mouth again. I sucked his cock while holding the come in my mouth and gleefully dribbled it out when he told me to. I think this is my current fetish. I hope that he’ll have me rub it over my breasts or something next time.

So as I head into the new year, I seem to be dealing with a bout of depression. Hopefully I will manage to work through it like I always have in the past. Having a loving Dom will certainly help. Having a loving Davey will help too, but I think part of me needs a bit of a challenge when it comes to being loved. I feel like I need to earn it, and Davey loves me virtually unconditionally. Not that MasterDoc doesn’t, but he criticizes constructively and gets me working on improving. I think I need to prove to myself that I have earned the love I receive.

The Depression and Insecurity Struggle originally appeared on Diary of a Kinky Librarian on January 1, 2010.

I’m worn out this evening from the tears. I really do a bang up job of making myself unhappy. I was so utterly and completely miserable. I can’t believe that earlier today I was considering walking out of MasterDoc’s place and going home for good. A better indication of how this was depression rather than what I truly wanted is that I couldn’t picture doing anything other than committing suicide if I walked out of there. I pictured going home and putting my head in the oven. (Goes back to the old affinity I had for Sylvia Plath as a depressed teenager.) I felt horrible. I felt horribly unhappy. I only focused on the imperfect things and forgot the wonderful (perfect even!) facets of my relationship with him. I got extremely morbid and started figuring out that I have enough money in my bank accounts to finish off any outstanding medical bills and cover a funeral for me. I saw no future other than a dark tunnel and death.

I need to spend more time thinking about this baby issue, but thinking about how my life would change if I did it, rather than the idealized fantasy. Life is not one big idealized fantasy. I espouse polyamory virtues right and left but then I find myself thinking that I need to have one relationship meet all my needs. I have more than one relationship of value in my life. I need to start focusing on that. I think I need to deprogram society’s monogamous ideal from my head even more. I can’t see myself not being with Davey or MasterDoc. Why on earth do I feel that I need to focus on one relationship? When I was monogamous, I was never quite happy that I couldn’t explore things with other people.

The sad part is that I may be making up things to be unhappy about. I may be dwelling on things I don’t even want in reality.

Mid-30′s Crisis originally appeared on Diary of a Kinky Librarian on November 17, 2009.