In with a Bang

Apologies to The Irishman for the lateness of this post. Life got in the way, babe. Nothing against you.

* * *

So, although we had been here for weeks, Boy and I had yet to truly christen this apartment with kinky goodness. Moving is hard, moving is stressful, neither of us had jobs, I was on my period, I was before my period... it happens. Some quite nice pegging, alot of growling and pawing, but nothing really top-notch kinky.
And then The Irishman visited. And all hell broke loose.
It happened like this. I hopped online a few nights ago and The Irishman asked if I had gotten his text. I had not. It said he might be coming to visit the next day. It was agreed that he would come for dinner, but because he needed to be on an early train, I assumed no sex.
Halfway through dinner (I made a hearty pasta, full of crumbled sausage and fennel seeds) his Boss texted him. Work, it transpired, began at 1:00. He could take a morning train.

Now, what was to be done? There had been no notice, so I couldn't very well ask Boy to leave the house and go amuse himself for a few hours with The Irishman and I played. Nor did I want the Irishman to visit, and stay the entire night, with nary a hint of kinkery to be found.
My thought had been that Boy would get out some rope, show The Irishman some ties, maybe we'd get a little raunchy.... and then my mind sort of petered off.
And, that is kind of what happened. The end part just got filled in especially... fillingly.
Boy did in fact bring out some rope, but rather than bothering to show any ties, he just sort of did them. And then The Irishman turned his I-Am-Going-To-Eat-You-Very-Soon face on me, and the pain started. There was a lot of pain, and hitting, and turning of the girl back and forth between the two boys. Then we headed into my bedroom.

Did I mention that Boy made me a bed? Perks of living with a crazed carpenter. He made it for me because I hate sleeping on a mattress on the floor, or even a low bed. Just, for whatever reason, can't stand it. So we went up into the attic of our new house, and he found a bunch of lumber and took it down and turned it into a bed. It has very high posts. In fact, they're a little too high, since the outer walls of our third-floor apartment slope slightly in toward the roof, and the posts of the bed are so high that, because of where they hit on the slope, the bed sits several inches away from the wall. Something to work on.

As it was, though, the boys had a nice tall STAKE to tie me to while they made merry with my bits. And they did. Stripped me naked and fucked me up, and pulled my hair and pulled my hair and pulled my hair and... well, basically, as soon as The Irishman gets the whiff of a scene about to begin with me, his hand fixes itself in my hair, and pretty much does not leave until the scene has been deemed over. I have been accused of feline tendencies in the past, but until I met him, hocking up hairballs was not one of them.

Either before or after that, we lay on the floor and one of them held me while the other worked the vibrator. I'm pretty sure Boy had the vibrator and The Irishman had me, but not certain, at this point.

Eventually we moved to the bed, and for the first time ever I had the pleasure of two cocks in two separate orifices. By the time they'd got all my clothes off, quite a while before, I had realized this was the direction we were heading, but I somehow had thought their places would be switched. As it was, The Irishman fucked me while I sucked Boy off, and I believe a good time was had by all.

Here are the things: There was no negotiation. None. I had played with both boys before, and I do believe that had anything rubbed any of us really the wrong way, we would have spoken up, and we didn't, and we're all ok, but it is food for thought. One of the earlier times The Irishman and I played, we talked about it nonstop over instant messenger and e-mail for over week. At other points, there has been much less discussion, but this did seem like a situation that would have warranted some talk, had there been any room for it. But there wasn't, the whole thing just grew organically into what it was.

And also, the dynamics were very odd. The Irishman, as I've said before, is like a steam-engine or a grizzly bear or lord only knows what. He stares at me when we play -- Boy later commented that while he was sure it was intense for the two of us, as a third party he had to work to keep from laughing. He's right, though. I am not one for such a literary turn of phrase, but it really does feel like his eyes are boring into me. And also they smolder. It's a thing.
So, when I play with The Irishman, I am prostrate, I am begging, I am pulled by my hair, I am sunk into submission. Some part of me spends the entire time wishing the scene was over, we were done, that it would stop. Other parts of me revel in it. It is complicated, and definitely something to be enjoyed occasionally. I could not do that three nights a week and survive long.
Boy is much gentler. Pain is deliberate, with him. He does not let me be uncomfortable, no ropes too tight, no strange position, because that would take away from whatever sensation he has planned for me. Also, he's just not as much of an asshole as The Irishman is.
So, who is top dog, in this scene? The one who is my partner, who lives with me and has rights to my body all the time, with whom I am happily in love? Or the one who is legitimately maybe twice as dominant and three times and violent, and with whom I grovel and aim to please so that I might avoid some of the hurt?

I don't know. They didn't know. None of us knew, and the answer differed as the night went on. I wasn't sure how to behave. My submission is so different with each of them. I would never tell The Irishman that a rope was too tight -- he would pull it tighter. But I would be remiss, with Boy, if I failed to let him know.

I felt like I was the only thing tying the whole scene together, and it was, quite frankly, glorious. And scary, and it made it a little hard for me to relax and go into any kind of subspace, due the strange balancing act I was doing, and hoping desperately that these two boys I care so deeply about were enjoying themselves. At the end, I was just worried that neither would get off staring into the face of the other.

But the did. It was fine.

I would do it again, if the opportunity arose, but I would vastly prefer it to have been orchestrated. A scene that the pair of them had discussed and prepared has the potential to be world-shaking, and I'd love to be a part of it. But, for most of the time, I think I like them separate. They are such terribly different people, and I am so different with each of them. I really value what I get out of the experiences I have with The Irishman, and of course I love playing with Boy, and those qualities were muted by mixing. But a new and different possibility was there.

And for the record, being fucked by two men at once did not, in fact, feel degrading. I felt pretty fucking awesome. I look at other girls, and I know what I can handle, and I feel proud. Helluva woman, me.