The most sensible strategy, if you want to win someone back, is probably a combination of loving words and powerful actions: promise change, show how you’re working on that, tell me you love me, and remind me of all the things that I can’t help but love about you. That’s a pretty good strategy, right there, if you’re wedded to the idea of having one. There are two others, though, and enough time’s passed on each that I reckon it’s OK for me to tell the following stories. The first one is romantic, the second is horny as fuck.

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I’m so honoured to bring you this guest blog today – a powerfully intimate account of a D/s couple’s private collaring ceremony. It’s written by the fabulous Komplicated Kitty, who’s contributed some amazing guest blogs before about pet play, being a Slutty Cinderella, and being pushed to the edge of your kinky limits. Today she’s here to give an insight into how she and her husband chose to formalise their 24/7 dynamic, and the rituals they came up with to seal their commitment.

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If you’d rather hear this one read aloud, join my Patreon (at any tier) and go to this update: it starts at 14:45. If you want to catch up with the trilogy (though it’s not necessary to read them in order), here’s part 1 (cunt) and part 2 (ass). This is part 3 (mouth), and it’s my favourite. 

Shagging new people isn’t just a question of teaching them how I like to be touched, or which words make me squirm with desire. Sometimes I find myself having to school men on the basics, like ‘it’s not shameful if you can’t get hard’ or ‘you’re allowed to take some time to get comfortable before I start sucking your dick’. New guys often behave like sex is this thing which must be done correctly, immediately, or they’ll somehow lose points. This isn’t a criticism, my dudes, it’s understandable that some of you have taken this message from society, because society’s been shrieking bullshit at you for ages, telling you that this is how sex works. It even uses words like ‘performance’ when trying to sell you boner pills, as if fucking is a production you’re putting on, and I’m just the audience who will sit there and applaud.

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At one point, mid-fuck, with his wet fingers circling my clit, the man who knows how to fuck me growls something into my ear. I can’t remember the exact words and I hate myself for that, not least because I’m sure if I could conjure them precisely, that particular sentence would make for some truly epic wanks. Forgive me for paraphrasing, I’d fallen deeply into a fuckdrunk haze, but it was something like ‘aren’t you a dirty fucking girl?’, with extra resonance on the ‘girl’, just how I like it. Whatever he said and however he said it, it caused me to absolutely gush all over his hand. Yeah I’m a dirty girl: QED.

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The next chapter of this story happens when I’m probably in the middle of a breakdown. Perhaps it’s the way my life has been lately – an agony of paranoia and mistrust – that’s causing me to make some dodgy decisions. But this particular decision led to something good, I think. As helpful as it can be to hear ‘I love you’ in times of hardship, ‘I trust you’ healed my heart right now.

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