There’s a thing that I want to write about just quickly before I move on to last night: free-use. 

I have two friends who are into the “free-use” lifestyle, and seeing its rising popularity, I gathered that I should probably write something about it at some point on Ten Shades & Me. However, as it’s not a kink for me, it won’t be a part of my “What’s Your Kink?” series. 

Something that irritates me about some “free-use” lifestylers is their tendency to separate free-use Dominants and submissives from BDSM Dominants and submissives, almost as though they’re separate things. They’re not: the “D&S” or D/s in the middle of BDSM stands for Dominance & submission — they’re using exactly the same framework! 

The difference is — and this is where a lot of people get it twisted — is that a lot of people associate BDSM with acts like spanking and whipping, and that’s not a kink for them. And that’s fine! That doesn’t mean you’re not into BDSM though, you’re just (perhaps) not into S&M. 

Personally, I am into S&M. In fact, I like S&M so much so that I chiefly identify as a Smart Ass Masochist — [‘m a smart ass (not a spanko) because I like the trouble that being a bit cheeky gets me in. The sex is also good, but it’s not the primary thing for me — BDSM, in all its forms, is. 

Sex without BDSM wouldn’t arouse me, but sex with BDSM absolutely does. 

I need BDSM to get me off. There. I said it. 

So, going back to free-use here, I didn’t just want to write a “I don’t like it, wah wah” post. I wanted to write something more informative: what it is, why some people like it, and why it’s not something we do in my polycule. Before I could write my post though, I needed to discuss it with both of my Sirs. 

Granted, my approach was probably a little rough, though that might have been intentional. I didn’t want to influence them, so I said “what do you think of free-use?”, not  “what would you think of doing free-use with me?”

I’ll probably only get away with using that little trick once now, I do realise, but still. 

Master Levi is alarmed; he’s almost in “absolutely not” territory right away. He says he’s “uncomfortable” with the idea of sharing me with Valkyries, which comes as a shock to me — “uncomfortable” is not a “hard no”, and we did discuss that at a later time. 

Valkyries, bless him, sends me a five-paragraph message and it’s.. Honestly touching. It’s not for him either, and that’s absolutely fine. It’s also not for me: I’m fine with being desired, without being fucked by everyone who wants to. 

It’s flattering, but that’s as far as it goes. Boundaries are a thing, y’all. 

So onto last night, and because despite my earlier reservations, Master told me that his humour came from him, not his team. 

“In that case, maybe leave the jokes to me in future, hey?” I say with a wink. 

We have talked about Friday, and though I’m still nervous, his assurances leave me feeling on better ground. So much so in fact that I’ve even planned out what to wear: navy floral wrap top, black trousers, black loafers, hair in a bun, pearl studs and a smokey brown eyeshadow with just a hint of metallic blue. I’ve also ordered a denim jacket to keep the evening chill off for the taxi ride home. 

There’s a pre-meet conversation, though, that hangs over the pair of us right now: what to tell them, and how much? 

Normally I would discourage anyone from coming out kinky to their boss, but Master’s boss is slightly younger than him, female and both open and open-minded, she also regularly makes references to kink with the team and she and Master Levi are on very friendly terms. So and as such, coming out kinky to her doesn’t feel like such a risk to him. 

K has already tried to guess whether he is Dominant or submissive, and she apparently spent some time yesterday, suggesting that she might ask me how big his penis is.

Master has already told her that I won’t entertain such a personal question, but it’s still entertaining for me.  

“It’s like fish,” I say, “however big a man says it was? It was half of that.”

“Trust me, I’m from a fishing family. I know this stuff,” I add. 

I reminisce some on fishing memories with my father, of the way I used to be able to out-cast him without even trying. There was never any real technique — I’d get my rod to about forty-five degrees behind me and kind of ‘whip’ it with a flick of the wrist. The trace would fly out for metres every time. 

“Oi!” Dad would protest. “D’you see this, love?” he’d ask my mother, “I’m there, and she’s all the way out bloody there!” 

I’d laugh. 

That sounds like a you problem, Pops. 

There was another time, I’d taught Master how to fish. I’d set him up, helped him line the eyes on his rod up, connect his reel and trace and hook the bait. He was ready and, with a quick walk-through on how to cast, into the sea his hook went. 

So I turned my attention to my own rod — a two-parter beach caster that I was using for the evening. I preferred my Shakespeare telescopic sea fishing rod, but Mum was already using it and I figured it wasn’t worth the drama. I’ll just have to settle for catching the small stuff tonight. 

So I set it up and, and with a quick flick of the wrist, out into the sea my bait went. 

Or it should have. 

Except far from the cast that I’d hoped for, the top half of my rod disconnected and followed instead, and was now floating in the water at the edge of Newquay harbour. My line carried on unwinding for some time after it, like some cascade of sea-angling sadness that I really didn’t need. 

And who was the one person that I really didn’t want to see that little stunt? My Dad. 

But who was the one person who absolutely didn’t miss a second of it? You got it. My Dad. 

“Catching a lot like that, aren’t we?” he grins. I had half a mind to throw him in the sea so he could catch us a fish himself. 

I have one regret in life: I passed up fishing time with my Dad to spend time in a pub with Master Levi. I didn’t know it would be our last family vacation together — I thought there would be a “next year.”

There never was: Dad passed away after a short battle with leukemia the following April. 

One of the things I miss more than anything is evening sea fishing with my family off of Newquay harbour. Sure, it’s great with my mother, brother and Master by my side, but it’s just not the same without my father. 

The memories (and the regrets) hit me some, but we manage to get our conversation back on track. Back to the question at hand: what (and how much) do we tell Master’s colleagues about our BDSM dynamic? 

“You started this” I say pointedly to Master, “you told them that I’m a sex toy tester. Of course they wanna fuckin’ meet me now!” 

Master realises that he himself may have just opened Pandora’s box. 

“So,” I begin, trying to narrow down the mentionables from the unmentionables, “origin story?”

“Fine.”

“Don’t mention the Daddy kink, the breeding kink, or the choking kink” I say. “The dynamic, not the details.”

“Agreed” he says, “good plan.”

“And don’t tell them that I said ‘eww’ the first time you told me that you were kinky,” he adds, “otherwise I will find somewhere private to spank you.”. 

“Is that a threat, or a promise?” I ask.