Life is good at the moment. Despite money worries, uncertainty about what the next year will hold, and working far too damn hard, I have what I need out of life. That is: a roof over my head for me and my cat, work that inspires me, and happiness in love. Put into perspective, the shoulder aches, minor wibbles and missed sleep doesn’t really matter.

For so much of the last few years, poly hasn’t been easy, and nor has kink. When there are so many other life upheavals going on it’s weird – if good – to look at my situation and realise that actually, the one thing that seems relatively stable is my relationships. One of the reasons blogging is good for me is that it prevents me from taking weeks like this for granted, enjoying precious moments with each of my partners one after the other.

I.

A few days ago, in bed with D. He arranges me kneeling, naked, on the bed with my hands outstretched and grasping the headboard. The angle makes for nice shapes in the wall mirror, but after a minute my shoulders and upper arms start to ache.

Still, I hold the position while he spanks me. I hold it while he searches through the toybox and pulls out a leather martinet. I struggle to stay still as he whips my buttocks, the thick blunt ends of the square thongs providing an intense combination of thud and sting. And when he whips my back, I drop my head between my shoulders, hair veiling my face, and hang from the headboard, shaking all over. The martinet leaves burning lines on my back. It pushes me, makes me feel frightened, vulnerable; but in embracing that fragility, the trust between us seems stronger. When he puts the whip down and gives me his cock instead, I’m trembling, grateful, relieved; his.

II.

Tom comes to visit; we make up a bed in the study. We steal kisses in the kitchen, on the sofa with me perched on his lap, making out like teenagers. Behind us, D uses his computer and fails to mind in the slightest.

I’m sleepy, and when Tom takes me to bed I wonder if I’ll pass out on him. But cuddling him feels so good I just have to wriggle out of my clothes to feel bare skin pressed against skin. When he says he wants to spank me, I can’t say no. Sleepy and inarticulate, I lie over pillows, bare hip pressed up against his denim-covered thigh, and he gives me the warm up spanking of my dreams. Light/sharp slaps intensify to slow, warm blows of his heavy palm, interspersed with rubs that make me sigh.

He gets out the canes, and I’m willing but still drowsy. I’m happy to let him take me where he wishes, but not quite up for a high-energy performance. I can feel his gaze lightly resting on me as he assesses and makes a judgement. “Twelve, at first,” and although I’m still yawning I nod easily, trusting that in his hands, I will be okay.

The first cane is a light one, and the strokes stinging and sharp enough to make me jump. I count as instructed, but they’re not bringing me joy. After my twelve he checks in with me, and by mutual agreement picks up the heaviest cane we have. He’s not going to use it hard: I just need the comfort of a denser impact. He gives me a dozen, then another. He’s not bruising me, but the sweet deep sensations match the slow drowsiness of my mood. The rest of the evening passes in a haze of pleasure.

III.

Sharing a bath with Jacq, I confess that I worry I’m not top enough for her. “You don’t need to be,” she reassures me. I try not to put pressure on myself. I don’t need to put out lots of energy to enjoy her company; and it’s fine if I don’t quite have it in me to top tonight. Both of us enjoy intimacy without kink, too.

The evening stretches out quietly, companionably, with interesting conversations. I want to take advantage of being here with her, though; I don’t want to miss this chance. I kiss her and thrill at the way she responds to me. Off her reactions, my kisses become more predatory. Still, as we’re making love I don’t have the impetus to be particularly aggressive: the power play manifests in subtler ways. A hand over her mouth, warming my palm; two fingers sliding over her tongue. An instruction to keep her hands above her head as I pleasure her.

It’s as I realise, later, that she’s not quite coming yet that the sadistic impulse suddenly rises. She’s moving under me, desperate for release but needing something more. Instinct prompts me to smack her breasts, sharply, with my free hand – one after the other, forehand and back. Five, six smacks and she’s starting to come. It’s intense and hot and sweet and violent, and afterwards I cradle her body in my arms and stroke her damp hair. This side of me is still a mystery, but the honour of her trust in me is so precious, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.