the problem with polynormativity

This is just… awesome. Wow.

Sex Geek

Polyamory is getting a lot of airtime in the media these days. It’s quite remarkable, really, and it represents a major shift over the last five to ten years.

The problem—and it’s hardly surprising—is that the form of poly that’s getting by far the most airtime is the one that’s as similar to traditional monogamy as possible, because that’s the least threatening to the dominant social order.

Ten years ago, I think my position was a lot more live-and-let-live. You know, different strokes for different folks. I do poly my way, you do it your way, and we’re all doing something non-monogamous so we can consider ourselves to have something in common that’s different from the norm. We share a certain kind of oppression, in that the world doesn’t appreciate or value non-monogamy. We share relationship concerns, like logistics challenges and time management and jealousy. So we’re all in this…

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#WankWednesday: Patience

For #WankWednesday this week, patience:


It’s another day at work, Justine answering emails, and watching the time on the clock melt away.  It’s 11:23 and her life is going to change today.  Her phone buzzes with the new email.  It’s from Her– Myra.  Her Mistress.

She opens the message, reads:


This message contains your flight confirmation number and a list of things you should bring.

She quickly scans the attachments– one’s a packing list, ordinary enough, the other is a flight confirmation in her name, final destination: IAD.  Washington. She goes back to the message.

You’ll have to leave work early so you can get home and pack your things.  What, if anything, you tell your employer is up to you.

What? Leave work early? She clicks back to the flight confirmation- it’s for today.  Departing at 4:45!  How am I going to explain this to my boss? she wonders fretfully.

You are to wear only a plain black dress, suspenders and stockings.  No bra.  No panties.  Bring a magazine to read on the flight.  We’ve arranged for a shuttle van to take you to the airport, and a car will pick you up when you’ve arrived.

Oh, that’s going to be real fun on an airplane for four hours. 

Thinking she could never do such a thing, she could never walk out on her job, she remembers that last Saturday night, the last night Myra was in town.  They’d been seeing each other for several months while Myra was here on business, spending the weekends together in Her hotel room.  The last night She was here, Justine remembers, when She said She wanted Justine to come live with Her as a full-time slave, they’d made love afterwards.  Her heart skips a beat thinking about it, about Myra whispering Her love across her skin, the way Justine’s body reacted to Her touch, Her fingers exploring every delicious… And then…

Justine stands up, drops her work Blackberry on her desk, gathers her things, and walks out.

She drives home under a haze, half expecting to be pulled over by the police for… for what, exactly?  For acting silly and walking out on her job? Emboldened a bit by the assurance that no one is going to arrest for her quitting without notice, she gets home and throws her clothes into a suitcase, changes into the dress as directed and looks in the mirror before walking out the door.  The dress is a bit clingy, but her other one is in the dirty laundry.  She’d worn it on Saturday, and well, now it is in no fit state to be worn until it’s been laundered.  Or boiled, she giggles to herself, thinking of all the cum that had covered her and her dress. With that, she grabs the latest Vogue that had just come in yesterday’s mail, peels off the plastic, and steps outside into sunshine, the waiting van, and clarity.

* * *

Sitting on the airplane isn’t much more fun than she’d expected.  But once these four hours are up, I’ll be Hers.  Myra’s.  Justine mouths her name silently, realizing she’s wet from thinking of Her; thinking of that last Saturday night, when her thighs were slick with her own cum.

She dawdles on that last thought, looks at the time, and realizes only two minutes have passed.  She squirms, her pussy wetter than before.  How am I going to be able to sit still?

She shifts in her seat, her skirt brushing against her naked pussy, the suspenders tugging at her thighs, feeling the stocking tops clipped, remembering it was Mistress’s idea to leave her with no underwear.  No panties, she thinks to herself, aroused more than irate now that it’s happening and knows it’s her Mistress’s will.  This is how she wanted me to feel.  Exposed.  Vulnerable. 

Maybe Mistress would flip up my skirt, bend me over, spank me, make me cum.  God that would feel so good.  She shifts again, realizing that if she keeps this up she’ll soak through her skirt in the wild anticipation of seeing her Mistress again. Five more minutes gone.  Only five?

Or, getting fucked from behind with the strap-on.  Or the double dildo, our pussies mashed together.  Eating each other, taking turns.  69. Tasting her cum on her Lady’s lips.

Her hand drifts down between her legs and there’s the barest moment of pressure on her clit before she’s interrupted.  “Ma’am?”

She catches herself, heart pounding.  Her eyes take in the flight attendant.  “Hmm? What?”

“Would you like anything to drink?”

Her mouth’s practically gone dry.  She manages to croak, “Diet Coke, please?” unbelieving that she was so close to masturbating in her seat, and worse, so close to getting caught.  Thank god this flight’s not crowded.  She takes a sip of the soda.

For a moment she thinks about getting up and heading to the restroom, but the beverage cart is blocking her way back.  Please!  You can’t masturbate in the airplane bathroom anyway!  Still three and a half hours to go.

And her mind drifts again.  Her hand settles down between her legs and she stops herself before she does anything untoward.  But it’s so sweet, being taken by Her.  Being loaned to that lesbian couple for a weekend.  The party where Her friends squirted on me.  Her heart is racing now, the Diet Coke forgotten.  Mistress squirting on me. 

And then she feels it.  A wet release she’s never felt before.  Oh fuck, yes.  She feels it and knows what’s happening before she even sees it.  Her skirt darkens with the growing puddle of her come, the orgasm still coursing through her body, slicking her labia, soaking her skirt, the chair.  She gives into it.  To Her.  Her heart feeling like it might pound through her breast, she stifles her moans as best she can.  Oh my god, yes.  The smell of her orgasm hangs heavy in the stagnant air of the plane, just sex and pheromones.

Trying to remain inconspicuous, she settles into her puddle with a smile on her face, the very picture of patience.  She opens her magazine, and starts to thumb through the pages, sipping her Coke.

#WankWednesday: Normal

For #WankWednesday this week,normal:


Myra takes her hand and leads justine out of the pool, laying her body on a nearby lounger.  As Myra removes the strap-on, they kiss, anxious for one another’s breath.

Myra lays down in the chair with her, cuddling, snuggling, the two women sharing their warmth in the still dark morning.  justine curls up, arms across her chest as Myra encircles her with arms and legs.

“I love you, Ma’am.”

“I love you, too, girl.”

* * *

Myra wakes the following morning, still on the lounger, still naked, a towel for a blanket.  A fresh shirt and panties sit on the chair next to her, her clothes from last night already in the laundry.

justine is kneeling next to her Lady, waiting to be acknowledged.

“And how long have you been there?”

“Not long, my Lady.  I didn’t expect you up much earlier than this so I went to get your tea.”

She takes the pot off the warmer and pours a cup, handing it over with the handle out.

“Your tea service is much improved.”

justine remembers having to do it blindfolded, by the feel and weight of each cup.  This is a piece of cake in comparison! “Thank you, Ma’am.”

Myra takes the cup, the towel falling off her breasts as she moves.  justine’s eyes move the slightest bit before she remembers her training.

“Good.  You almost earned yourself a spanking for your impertinence.” She notices the gentle flush in justine’s cheeks.  “Or is that what you wanted?”

justine’s face blushes even more, her eyes darting to the floor.

“Oh, you slut.  Go on then, let me see you.”

justine stands, moving fluidly.  It reminds more than a little of yoga, Myra thinks.  She drops her shift to the ground and bends over a nearby table, legs spread, to let Myra inspect her.

Standing up, and shedding her towel completely, she cups justine’s round ass, slips a finger in her pussy.

“Oh, that is what you wanted.”

Keeping a finger in her pussy, she smacks justine on the ass, hard enough to be serious, and justine gets even more wet.

Myra stuffs two more fingers in, stretching her wet pussy, swollen lips glistening with the juices of her sex, and continues to spank, left, then right, then left again, on and on, over and over.

“Is that-”


“what you-”







“yes, oh God, my Lady, yes.”  justine can barely control herself, squirming on Myra’s fingers, arching her body to put her ass out at the best angle.




“my dirty-”




“pain slut?”


“I am!”


She starts rubbing justine’s red ass and leans in to whisper in her ear.  “That’s right.”


“All mine!”


justine loses herself and writhes up and down on Myra’s fingers…


and starts cumming


and cumming


and cumming.

“Oh god, my Lady, please yes, please don’t stop, please Ma’am, may I cum again?”  It’s already running down her leg as Myra strokes her fingers into justine’s pussy and pulls back quickly.

“Of course you may.  But only if you scream.”

From across the grounds, edward, at his chores in the kitchen, hears justine howling with ecstasy.

justine drops to the ground and licks her cum off Myra’s fingers, lapping and licking meticulously, making sure to get every last drop from her Mistress’s hand.

Myra takes her by the hair and pulls her head close.  “That’s not all the cum you’ll be licking up today.”

As she starts licking her Lady’s pussy, her clit starts throbbing again, anxious for more.

“May I, Ma’am?”


“Touch myself while I eat you?”

“Oh, you little slut.”  Just a normal Monday.

#WankWednesday: Plum

For The Erotic Notebook’s #WankWednesday prompt this week, plum, I turned towards one of my favorite things in the world: latex.  The attached image comes from deviantart since I didn’t have a picture of my own skirt to post for your enjoyment.


The light shines off my latex as I walk down the stairs, stuttering steps in the too high heels on my feet.  The usual click is muffled by the soft carpet, barely a swish.  My heart pounds as I reach the bottom step, my mind leaping from one possibility to the next.

My girl’s already in the basement, the suspension ring is up, the rope is out.  It matches my outfit– we picked up special for today.  Next to the rope, she waits, another toy, my favorite toy in fact, in her ready position, kneeling down like she’s been taught.  She knows better than to look up at me without permission.  Not until I gesture her face off the floor with my shoe, does her head move, and I encourage her love, to kiss and caress my feet before she kneels up.

Up from the floor, her curiosity gets the better of her, eyes straying from the floor and raking across my outfit: plum colored latex– a bra, panties, long corset, a shrug.  I finally catch her eyes, disappointed, and she knows she’s in trouble. I had hoped for more, especially today.  My heart sinks a little.  Today was going to be something new.

We have, after all, been through this routine before.  Wordlessly, she stands up, grasps the suspension cuffs and presents herself for discipline.  From the assorted implements on the wall, I pick a thick wooden paddle, narrow enough so she’ll feel it sting.  I give her 20, no sound except the strike of the paddle and her counting each. Except she stutters on 17.  “Commence-encore, salope.”  My words sound almost eerie after so long in silence.  We finally get to 20.  She resumes her position on the floor, her litany of thanks under her breath, breathless, like she were praying her rosary.

She kneels there next to me.  My legs, freshly shaven, soft with lotion, are just inches from her.  All for nothing.  I turn and walk away, leaving her there on the floor, allowing her to ponder her offence.

Stretching My Legs

It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything.  The post below, written off the Erotic Notebook’s prompt, WankWednesday, is probably the first bit of erotica I’ve even considered in the better part of six months.  It feels a bit stilted even to me, but there’s no sense waiting for the perfect story before I start posting again, and well, that perfect story is more likely to come along if I actually practice this craft from time to time.  I hope you’ll bear with me as I shake some of the rust off my typing fingers.