It’s been a stressful month. Studying for tests that make or break your career and dealing with life is a bitch! I’ve been absent and slightly neglectful of my blog but I’m taking off to the beach this weekend yo rest and recharge. I’ll be back soon!

Open or Not?

Last week, she learned the guy she was talking to has a girlfriend.  They aren’t serious so it is OK.   She was honest with him, and requested the same.  Refreshingly, he was honest as well.  She said she wasn’t seeing anyone else and had stopped all the silly dating apps because they were getting along so well.  He also said he wasn’t on any apps.  She said she wasn’t seeing anyone else.  Silence.  After a silence that seemed eternal he said he was seeing someone else, but they practice safe sex.

She thought before she responded.  She asked.  She couldn’t be mad that he was honest.  She could be happy to hear he was being safe although they hadn’t had sex and there were no immediate plans to consummate anything.  They had just been talking and flirting through text.  Now this information.  Does it change things?  Maybe, a little.

She faked a meeting and said she would text him later.  She sat at her cubicle and wondered what she was feeling.  She knew what she was feeling.  “Here we go again.”

She was 15 when she had her first boyfriend.  Robert.  He was on the football team.  She was a cheerleader.   They were cute together.  Problem was, he left his girlfriend to be with her.  That didn’t work so well.   She went on a family vacation and while she was gone he reunited with his ex.  It was heartbreaking at the time.  It had been the best three months of her life.  Then he was gone and she was the joke at the high school.  Here she is now, 38 years later and realizing that all her boyfriends, lovers, husband and wife, without fail, all had significant others that were still in the picture.  Was it her?  Did she seek out people that were already entangled?  If so, why?  Maybe in the past.  She didn’t know he had someone else so this time wasn’t her fault.  She knew every time she got involved that they had a recent ex, or yes, they were still involved.  She was the other woman, the good friend to help them through the break-up, etc.  Was she ready to do that again?  Or was she ready to break the cycle once and for all?

She decided to text him back.  She would face this and be honest.  The text read like this,

‘So what is the situation with the other women you are seeing?  I have to be honest.  I am tired of being the dirty little secret.  I don’t expect monogamy in the beginning but eventually I will, or I will want to be involved with what you are doing with others.  It can all be negotiated but I need to know the real situation.  Thank you for being honest that there is someone else.  I just need to know what the situation truly is so I can move forward fully aware of the situation.’

She pressed send.  Feeling proud and somewhat empowered.  She liked this guy.  She didn’t want to walk away but the time had come for her to be better to herself.  She wasn’t against open relationships, as long as they were truly open.   If he walked away then that was fine.  She waited for the response.  When she got it, it was way more than she expected and now her decision was bigger than she thought.


To be continued…


The Front Porch

The rain had finally stopped.  Three long days of nothing but rain.  The basement was a river.  The yard, a mess.  The house hot and muggy.  The window air conditioner units couldn’t keep up with the humid air that the rain had brought.  She stepped outside on the front porch.  It was muggy and humid, still and thick.  It was hard to breathe.  She looked up and down the street.  Deserted.  Everyone was inside trying to stay dry.  She was sweaty.  Most of her hair that had been in a knot on the top of her head had slipped its band was falling around her face and neck.

The rain had stopped but the water still dropped from the leaves and power lines.  She sat on the porch floor and listen to the sound of nature.  She had been irritated by the rain.  Now, sitting on the floor of the porch it somehow brought a small piece of relaxation and calm.  She went from her sitting position to laying on her back.  There was a slight breeze coming through the gap between the porch wall and floor.  It was a hot breeze, but it was moving air.   She laid there, letting it roll over her, afraid to move for missing it.

She removed her shirt and felt the warmth from the wood on the porch on her back.  Never putting on a bra this morning she was naked from the waste up.  The way she was laying she could be seen from the street.  She didn’t care.  No one was about anyway.

Her hand moved to her neck.   Her skin was sticky and clammy.  She ran her hand between her breast to wipe the sweat that had gathered there.  It felt good.  Her own touch normally meant nothing to her but in this moment on the porch, breast bare and visible for anyone to see, her touch excited her.  Both hands now, rubbing her breast, pinching her own nipples.  Her body had chills.  Little bumps appeared as her body responded to her own touch.  Her eyes closed as she rubbed and pinched, harder each time.  Part of her thought she should open her eyes to see if anyone was around to see.  She forced herself not to look.  Reckless.  Rebellious.

“What would the neighbors think,” she thought to herself as she remembered this phrase from her childhood.  A naughty smiled came to her lips as she said softly but aloud, “I don’t care.”

The rubbing and pinching had awakened her elsewhere.  Was she wet from her own touch or was it just the steamy atmosphere on the porch?   She bent her legs.  Perhaps this position will allow some of that warm breeze to go through her shorts.  The tingling between her legs, she knew, was not mother nature.  She lifted her hips and removed her shorts.  Giggling to herself about her lack of under garments.  Now, completely naked on the front porch she felt surprisingly free.  She didn’t feel self-conscious at all about her naked body.

One hand remained on her breast with her nipple between two fingers.  The other hand slid down between her legs.  She was slow and methodic.  She drug her index finger from her cleavage down the middle of her body, tracing the belly ring, tugging on it lightly.  One finger traveled down to her clit.   She felt an urgency to touch herself.  She rubbed her clit with just one finger.  She moved it back and forth increasing and decreasing pressure.  Increasing and decreasing her pace.  She wanted this to last.  She was surprised and excited at the pleasure she was bringing herself.   She continued to pinch her nipples, giving both breast equal attention.

Her clit was swollen.  She had rubbed and moved it so much it was tingling and burning.  She felt close but didn’t want to come yet.  She moved down and slid two fingers inside of herself.  She was wet, warm.  She brought her fingers to her mouth to taste herself.  Sweet.  Salty.  She had gone from her nipple to squeezing and compressing her breast with her hand.  Both hands now to give her breast equal attention.

She was lost.  Her mind was solely on herself and her pleasure, nothing else.  She moved her hand back to her pussy.  Two, then three fingers.  She was ready.  The heat from her body and the heat from the wood porch had mixed to form a puddle of sweat beneath her.  As her fingers plunged into her pussy her back arched and she could feel the sweat and water dripping off her body.  She moved back to her clit.  Rubbing it hard and moving it back and forth.  She felt a separate heat coming from her clit.  It moved through her body with a slow craw to reach her throat and exited her body as a quiet moan.  She kept her mouth closed breathing heavily through her nose.  She felt her breast rise and fall faster with as she came closer to her orgasm.  The sweat, the heat, the sensation combined, making her light headed and dizzy.  Her eyes still closed tightly, not in force to avoid the eyes of the neighbors but to fully focus on herself and what she was feeling.  The rise of heat inside of her body matching the heat outside.

She felt her body convulse, her pussy drawing closed and open as her orgasm began.  She continued to rub her clit through the orgasm hoping to prolong it if possible.  She felt the tension in her clit build and her back arch.  She allowed a moan and small scream to escape her as her orgasm reached its peak.  She rubbed until her body moved involuntarily away from her fingers.  Breathing heavily, hot, sweaty, exhausted, she laid on the porch until the muscles in her body relaxed.

She laid there a few minutes.  Gathering herself as she allowed her breathing to slow.  She allowed herself to open her eyes.  She stared at the ceiling of the porch.  She was relaxed.  The heat seemed less oppressive.  She stood, still naked.  She wasn’t in a hurry to leave the porch.  She picked up her shirt and shorts and looked out at the street.  Standing there, not caring that she was naked.  Smiling to herself she turned, walked inside the house and closed the door.

Thoughts provoked by Masturbation Monday

His Hand Print

There are many things that I love about BDSM and the different Kinks I have been exposed to thus far.  I, surprisingly to myself, enjoy impact play most thus far.  I never thought that I would.  I have always hated being hit.  In my past a cute tap on the ass as I was walking up the stairs in front of my partner use to irritate me.  I am not sure why, it just did.  I remember anticipating it with such anxiety and irritation.  That has changed.  I guess more things changed with in me then I even realized.   Inside and Out.

During an unplanned and unexpected afternoon play, Daddy and I were on the couch in the living room.  He rolled me over and slapped my ass.  The crack of his hand hitting my skin was loud.  I was not expecting the slap.  I normally did not know when they were coming but I always had hoped they would happen.   After our play ended he told me to go to the mirror and look at my ass.

Twisting in the mirror to find what I was supposed to see I saw this perfect hand print.  You could almost see his finger prints.  The outline of his whole beautiful hand.  I was so excited to see this mark.  I think I enjoy seeing the marks more than the actual placement of them.  I loved the bruises that would linger for days after we had played together.  This mark, his perfect hand, on my body made me smile and maybe even a little teary at the site of it.  He took this picture also immediately after he made the mark.  He didn’t always share the pictures with me, but I am very glad that he shared this one.

I will always love his hands.  I will always cherish this hand print.


Mature women like sex too!

I struggle with a title “mature”.  I don’t feel old, so calling myself old doesn’t feel right.  Calling myself mature reminds me of how people explain women that are older so basically the same thing.  It sucks really.  I am in my early 50’s.  They say that 50 is the new 40 but to be honest, I don’t feel 40 either.  That still seems older than I feel.  Most days anyway.

Most of my friends are in their 30’s.  This wasn’t really by design, just how it ended up.  I have changed careers (multiple times, always the late bloomer in decisions of what I want to be when I grow up) and most of the people that I work with tend to be in their 30’s.  What I have also noticed is that those older, or my age, I struggle with because there tends to be a lot of talk about what ails them.  I remember one dinner party sitting in the living room with friends and everyone talking about their bad knees, body aches and menopause.  Yes, we spent an entire evening discussing these things.  It was grueling.

In general, living my life, I am active.  I go to the gym, I love to kayak, SUP, hike, swim.  There are women my age and older that can run circles around me.  My Mom is 80 and walks 6 miles a day, does yoga every week and goes to the gym three times a week.  She doesn’t count, she is a freak of nature.  I am thankful for the good genes tho.  There will always be varying levels of activity and ability.  It truly is a state of mind.  Age is just a number.  I firmly believe that.

Much is the same with sex.  With my previous Dom who was 35 (29 when we started spending time together).  I felt younger than my age and sexier than I had my entire life.  He brought me into this kinky life and opened up thoughts and desires that I had no idea existed.  We had many discussions about our age difference.  Most of them stemmed from me being self conscious about my age and whether I was worthy of his time and attention.  How my body was changing and what part of that was attributed to age.  Also, shock that he, a very handsome man at the age of 35 would want anything to do with me.  I knew he had other interest in younger women so I was often puzzled at why he wanted to spend time with me.  The older woman.  There were even other people who said to my face they knew he and I were just friends because he would never be interested in me because of my age.  People suck but it did leave a lasting mark on my self esteem.  To his credit, he always admired my body.  He preferred me naked as opposed to in lingerie that he knew I didn’t feel good in.  He like my curves.  He liked my imperfections.  He never expected perfect.  He never made me feel like I needed to be perfect.  He told me I was perfect for him.  He wouldn’t have been with me if he wasn’t pleased with me.  He only guided me to change on the things I made clear I wasn’t happy with.

It is easy at a more advanced age (see… there is just no good way to classify it) to take what we can get.  This could mean any person that pays attention to us.  Any friend that will spend time with us whether it is a healthy relationship or not.  Yes, anyone that offers the kink we want, the dominance we want, the experiences we want, regardless if it is healthy and safe.  I’ve been approached by a few “Doms” that have read my blog, can see I am newly single and that I am sad and struggling.  Offering to save me, show me what a real Dom is like, make me forget him by whipping me until I know longer remember his soft touch.  Let me clear.  Sad and struggling does not equal desperate!   I hope all women, regardless their age, are able to recognize this.  If not immediately, eventually.

I am working hard to remind myself that age is a number.  How we feel is what is important.  In any aspect.  Activity, health, the company we keep, the work we do, and yes, even kink.  Do not discount us because we are not in our 30’s and our bodies are different.  Our bodies have been around longer.  We have a right to brag about the wrinkles and laugh lines, the grey hairs, the slightly sagging neck and arm skin, the scars from child birth.  These are badges of honor that we should all celebrate.  It is a choice to try and improve or change them.  I do!  I don’t think there is wrinkle cream I haven’t tried.  My gym workouts focus on the flapping arm skin and this stomach that just won’t go away.  (Younger mothers say it is there baby pouch.  My kid is 23.  My pouch is from pizza, soda and cans of icing I eat with a spoon like ice cream).  It is a choice to focus on these things.  It is choice not to.

We are not desperate.  We do not have to accept whatever comes our way.  We will and can find what we need.  We have the knowledge and maturity to wait for what is right.   I admit when my Dom first left me I was sure I would never find that kind of love again.  I may not.  That is also my choice.  My choice to allow someone to get close enough again.  It is all about choices.  We have them.  Just like any other person of any age, gender, preference, orientation, desire.

Mature women.  Older women.  Advanced aged women…

We all like sex too!



This concept has always confused me.  I could never understand why anyone, male or female, would consent to being humiliated.  This is not a judgement.  It is a personal feeling.  All my life I have been made fun of.  I was too fat, to short, the ugly friend.  I was in the six grade with braces and glasses.  Life wasn’t easy.  Kids made poems about me to incorporate all the things that were not cool about me.  I worked hard to make sure that I always looked as best as could.  When I got older and dating began, I was always dressed as best as I could be.  My clothes were always cleaned, pressed and matched my purse.  My hair and makeup always done.  I never knew who I would see.  We were a small community and most of my friends lived in my area.  We couldn’t walk around the block without seeing someone we knew.  I took the old saying “always wear clean underwear in case you are in an accident” to the extreme.

People consenting to being humiliated puzzled me.  I was in a strict habit of making sure I was never humiliated.  At least not if I could help it.  Somewhere along the way through some pretty horrific experiences, I realized that people will humiliate you regardless of how hard you try to avoid it.  It is just how some folks are.  All these realizations came before my introduction to the non-vanilla world of sex.  Sexual humiliation never came to mind previously.  Once I knew it was a thing it brought even more questions to mind.

Through research and time, I have come to understand it better.  It is an individual thing, but I understand it can be enjoyed and even needed in the same ways my preferences are.  I’m sure there are some that wouldn’t understand enjoying spanking.  Spanking is something I request and enjoy.

I remember being with my Dom at the time, and we were in play mode.  I had always had an issue with being spit on.  I struggled spitting to moisten his cock because I was so uncomfortable with spitting in general.  I had an abusive situation where I was spit on with disrespect.  It left scars.  My Dom knew this so never requested it from me.  We were in play and talking about what would come next and there was something he said.  The way he approached it made me feel comfortable.  Made it seem intriguing and hot to me.  He told me it was an exchange of body fluid like any other.  He spit into my mouth.  (With my consent).  It was amazing.  He was right.  I was more than fine with it.   Would I be ok with just anyone spitting in my mouth?  No, probably not.  It takes time.  It takes patience.  We had both.

The lesson learned here is to be open minded.  I entered this realm with guidance from someone I trusted.  There were many things I felt I would “never” do.  Now, I crave them.  Be open minded but be cautious.  The second lesson is to not judge others intimate pleasures and preferences.  We are all trying to find our way.  Some have it easier than others.  Some have people they can trust.  Some struggle through the entire process.  Entering this stage of my sexuality at a more “mature” age then most (my assumption, probably wrong, I do feel like a rare breed in this realm starting so late) has been challenging on many levels.  Becoming more open minded, more adventurous, a little more carefree has made this journey a little easier.


New Look

Much like I constantly redecorate the rooms in my house and clean like crazy when I have a lot of stuff going on and running through my mind, I decided to clean up the blog… which resulted in changing everything.

I’ve thought a lot about the name on this blog.  I created it with Sir in mind.  To write about he and I in a safe space because I had no one else to talk to.  He knew about it but I don’t know if he ever checked in to see what was happening.   He never mentioned it if he did which has always been disappointing.

He gave me the name Toy.  ToyforSir is in a few places, tumblr, our personal number, etc.  I love the name Toy.  We talked about it together and picked it together.  Maybe the only reason I like it is because it came from him.  I don’t know.  But I like it.  I thought about changing the name of the blog because it is a constant reminder of him.  I still haven’t decided if I will do that yet.  I played with it tonight and just had Toy (which is what he called me) as the header.  The word, the name, seemed lonely.  Lonely like I am.  A strong name, a surviving name but still lonely.  Like me.   So I added Toy for Sir back and left it there.  I will leave it there for now.  It is an important part of my journey and I’m not ready to step off the path it put me on and leave it behind.  Not yet.

I like the new look.  I painted the picture that is now my profile picture.  It hangs over my bed and also is a constant reminder of him.  But it is also a constant reminder of who I am.  Who I became with his help and guidance, and yes, his permission.   I am slowly realizing that while he was a part of the changes in me, I did the work.  I’m proud of the work I’ve done.  I took his suggestions and request seriously and made every effort to be the best me, the best Toy I could be.   I made mistakes but they were never intention means of hurting him, or anyone else.

So ToyforSir will be around for a little longer.  The painting is still over my bed, but also on this blog so I can share it and be openly proud of it.  Certainly not because it is an amazing work of art.  Solely because I painted it from the heart, for him and for me.

I am a lot of things and I have a lot of changes in my future… but I think I might always be Toy.