Bind the beast and watch him snarl

He was on my bed, face-down. There’d been some tussling on the couch, and halfway to the bedroom I had to stop at a conveniently placed chair and put him over my knee. He was halfway in puppy headspace, halfway somewhere else, I’m not sure exactly. Not subspace, not really, or maybe subspace with Bran just looks different than it does with other folks I’ve played with.

I’d gotten new cuffs and tethers (links NSFW) from JT’s Stockroom about a week before. I didn’t recognize the return address (they’re all so discreet that way), but when I got through the packing materials (eco-friendly crumpled butcher paper and a lollipop on top!), I really did squeal to see it. Sort of the way I squeal sometimes when one of the women on Men in Pain does or says something really hot, really powerful, really… rrrr. So they’d been sitting there hooked to the top posts of my bed, discreetly tucked away under the mattress. Less butch than the 1″ criss-crossed sailboat rope I’ve also got under the mattress (the first time I pulled those out, he looked at his wrist and said, “you tied a clove hitch!” in surprise), but infinitely more secure and convenient.

I strapped him in. He struggled a bit but behaved, grabbed me and caressed me while he could. And then there he was, face-down, arms tied down and open wide, delicious.

“Try to get out,” I said, thinking he’d do some gentle testing of the ropes the way the boys in Men in Pain do (ah, the tropes of porn). Some men like the bonds and don’t really want to throw them off — that’s been my experience with sub boys (Bran isn’t really a sub boy — he matches me for power and strength, and we pass it back and forth between us). With submissive men, I usually have to really egg them on to watch how they get out of my ties. And my rope-tying just isn’t that good that they won’t get free eventually. But those velcro cuffs! Neoprene on the inside, wide enough that they won’t cut off circulation, struggling doesn’t make them contract, and the velcro is virtually impossible to get out of, since he can’t reach over with his teeth to grab the edge.

And Bran struggled! Struggled like a wild thing! He snarled as he struggled, which turned me on even more.

I was on top of him, and with his legs free he kept trying to throw me off — he’s got some good wrestling moves. I’m strong though if not as well trained, and I stayed on top of him, using my superior weight to advantage.

I spanked him a bit more, and he — well, do I say he liked it or he hated it? I think he liked it. He certainly brought his knees forward to make his ass more accessible. And he made the noises that said he liked it. And that wasn’t a banana in his pocket, seeing as how he was wearing no clothes.

I wasn’t prepared for how gorgeous his arms and shoulders and back would look as he struggled with the ties. I love the muscular definition of his arms and shoulders; it’s really one of his best features. And from that angle, and in that context, bound up and strong, pulling up the sides of my mattress and still unable to get free, snarling and struggling. Gunh.

I pulled out my bag of toys, but when I came at him with a clothespin (his nipples are extra-sensitive), he pulled back, said “No!” in that small voice that tells me he’s serious. I had to stop pushing. I lay down next to him, inserted my body half under him so I could put my face close to him, kiss him, caress him.

“What is it?” I said. “Do we need to establish consensus? You don’t want me to use clothespins?”

“I’m afraid you’ll lose control,” he said — small voice again.

“Have I lost control before?” I said. I didn’t think I ever had with him.

“Once, you almost did. You just get so excited.”

It’s true, I do, but I’d like to think I’m careful with him. Not careful enough, apparently. Sadism is scary for everyone, I guess. Something to work on — but not that night, not with Mercury in retrograde.

I kissed him, slipped my legs under him, and he went back to snarling and struggling, and now he was on top of me, hard, I was pushing him, pinching him, scratching him, and he was a wild beast. A beast I’d bound. The bonds let him be a wild beast, sweating and straining to get free. Unbound, he had to keep himself in check. But restrained, he was free.

I’d made the mistake (was it a mistake) of putting myself in a compromising position. He was still bound, but he was on top of me, and he was hard, he was forcing his leg between mine and I was gamely trying to keep him from completely covering me, I was trying to get loose, but I was inside the arc of his arms, tied to the bed as they were, and he was using his legs as leverage and frankly, how motivated was I to get away from this snarling, sweating beast? A beast that thrilled me but didn’t scare me? How motivated was I to prevent him from pushing his hard-on against the lace barrier of my panties and all the trembly bits underneath?

Not very. I even pulled the lace aside a bit to feel his cock rubbing against my lips, and he was humping me and snarling and I was encouraging both. Even wild and struggling, he was still in control of himself enough to keep from slipping entirely inside of me — at one point he came awfully close and I felt him catch himself, pause. Neither of us wants to make a baby yet (one of the inconveniences of sex with men is all that tedious contraception). I struggled out from under him far enough to grab a condom and slap it on him (“Can you see it? Is it okay?” he asked, suddenly gentle). It was, and I double-checked, made sure it was down the length of him, and then I was pushing my panties aside and he was sliding into me — no need for extra lube. He was fucking me with arms open wide, the worst sort of push-ups, and my bed is extra-soft (memory foam), and bouncy, and it felt fucking fantastic.

Ah, fucking. The journey. How do you describe it without sounding boring? Because it wasn’t boring in that moment, it was intense and powerful and being fucked by a beast I’d bound and slipped under and I was egging him on and the sheen of sweat he’d already worked up was getting more intense, and I called his name without thinking about it, and then I was coming, coming, all over the middle of the mattress without putting anything down first.

“If I let you go will you promise to be good?” I asked. Because I knew having his arms spread wide like that was probably not good for his back, and because–well, because. He snarled.

When I did let him go, he grabbed me by the hips and picked me up and fucked me like no tomorrow, and then later put his tongue on me and I came again, all over the bed and his face. And later he lay on his back and I fucked him from the top and went wild myself, went red in the face no doubt, and he was egging me on to come, come, in that insistent voice, and I was. And later I found his little p-spot with my finger while he told me a particularly raunchy fantasy and I stroked it and murmured while he came all over his belly like a fountain, and had aftershocks for a long time afterward and I climbed back up to lay my head beside his and stayed with him there, which is a beautiful place to be.

But this is where I’d like to leave us: Asking him what would happen if I let him go, and him struggling, a bound beast, wild, inside me.

Shy

I think I may have mentioned that I’m addicted to the WordPress blog stats. It’s totally an ego-surfing thing. But I’d pretty much resigned myself to the fact that this blog was going to be just one of many, many sex blogs out there (see the links in the sidebar for more). Probably never as well-read as Always Aroused Girl, Bitchy Jones, or any of the other really top-notch sexxxay blogs. And I was mostly okay with that. I’ve been writing since I was a wee thing, and I’ve come to realize that writing is about the act of self-expression, and about touching other people. Touching a lot of people with one’s writing doesn’t necessarily make for a more intimate connection. It can just make for a more overwhelming experience. I knew that if I submitted to sugasm I’d probably have a decent chance of being featured; laziness has prevented me.

And fear, to a certain extent. The spectacular outing of Abby Lee is certainly a cautionary tale. And Always Aroused Girl has written about her parents’ discovery of her metier. Since I have neither a book deal nor any income from this blog, it’s unlikely that anyone would care enough to discover the identity of the Omnivore (ew, she’s referring to herself in the third person again, isn’t that creepy?).

Overshare on the web is only really fun if you don’t know the identity of the person — or better yet, if you’re the person who is anonymous. Bitchy said it well in her TV interview (and I’m paraphrasing here ’cause it’s a long-ass video): anonymity allows a woman in a sense to speak for all women in terms of female desire, and to speak without fear of retribution. Of course, you need to qualify that “speaking for all women” nonsense with the fact that we all have our own kinks. I hear tell that dominant women are hard to come by or something. I think it’s the PVC corsets that scare most of us off.

Because acknowledging female desire and sexuality for the powerful thing that it is, and owning it, is still a dangerous and revolutionary act. Add kink to the equation, and fuggedaboudit.

All this comes, of course, from my 15 minutes of fame in Fleshbot, (thanks, AAG! I’ve been following you via RSS for months!) which shot my usually pokey number of visits through the roof. I find it amusing that a good number of people seem to have found my blog by searching for the keywords “enormous cocks,” and “femdom whore.” Given that my opinion of men with enormous cocks as a class is pretty low, and that I’m adamantly NOT a prodom (apologies to my sisters who make a living at that so-time-honored profession — I was making a point at the time), I doubt that the searchers found what they were looking for.

There is smut on this blog, though — plenty of it, even if it’s not really tagged properly. That’s really the point. Hot, sexy stories that are 100% true. As Urban Rogue said, “I think sex blogs are awesome because people can be themselves.” It’s often tempting to move into some idealized notion of what sex should be like, but ultimately, the honest experience of sexuality, warts and all, is much more compelling for me. And it also makes me feel like much less of a dork when I do things you don’t see in mainstream porn. Like, say, mark up a man’s bottom when I didn’t mean to, or let him accidentally slip out when we’re changing position. Or ::gasp:: fart during coitus. I mean, that NEVER happens, right?

I’d actually like to know what you all would like to hear about next. I mean, would you rather that I go on and on about what Bran and I did last night? It’s hot and all and we’ll do our best to keep it fresh for you, but I’ve got tons of stories from the past that are equally exciting. Like the first time I drank from the furry cup. Or my real first group experience (I lied when I said it was this one). Or one of my many, many heartbreaks. Or something else. I know I’m forgetting something. There’s been so very much sex. And learning about sex. I’d like to know what you want to hear.

Switchy McSwitchster

I was on my back and he was above me. I like to be on my back. It’s the way I masturbate most of the time, and it’s comfortable and suits me when I want to be a pillow queen.

I reached up to lower the blinds, but he stopped me. “You don’t want your neighbors to see what a dirty slut you are?” he asked. And I thrilled.

He was wearing his boxers and his hard cock poked out of the hole. He shoved it into my hungry little mouth. I was wearing the panties he likes — the black hipsters with the little white ruffles around the edges. My hand slid inside, and I was slick, so slick down there.

“Can I come?” I asked.

“No,” he replied. God, No can be the sexiest word in the universe sometimes.

“Did you come?”

I had to tell the truth. “A little.”

And he looked at me all disappointed. Disappointed authoritarian. Can I use the word daddy without feeling weird about it?

I wanted him to spank me, punish me for coming without permission, but suggesting it would have ruined the dynamic. And when he’s on top, it’s about what he wants, the same way it’s about what I want when I’m on top — which is most of the time.

I like being under him, I like it when he pushes me down. Not all the time, but right then, yes, that was what I liked. I liked the way he fucked my mouth while I did my best to swirl my tongue around his cock, while I took him all the way in, to the back of my throat where he could make me choke and gag if he wanted, but he was so careful. I know he likes the feel of my lips around the base of his cock, the warmth and wetness of my mouth around him, the slight danger of my teeth.

I’m careful of him with my teeth and he’s careful of me with the gagging, so that when he fucks my mouth and I let him, get excited when he’s fucking my mouth, such a dirty thing, such a thing I’m not supposed to like but I do, partly out of a sort of sacrificial, suffer-for-him impulse, partly because it does feel good to fill my mouth with his cock, satisfies my hunger for him, when he’s fucking my mouth with that intense fast rhythm and I start to gag, he pulls back just a bit.

“Do you want to come?” he asked.

“I want to do whatever turns you on,” I said. “It’s all about what you want.”

I wanted so much. I wanted him to fuck me, to tie me to the bed, to spank me. But I was under. And I gave it to him, the power, the control. I could see he didn’t quite know what to do with it — no, he knew what to do, he’s a straight men, has fucked plenty of straight women, trained to be passive. He knows what to do, but for me to tell him like that, maybe it’s the same sort of fear-producing thing that happens when I know I have all the power and now what do I do with it? It’s all on me! It has to be perfect!

But the truth is, it doesn’t have to be perfect. The less-than-perfectness, the danger of them hurting you in way they don’t intend, that’s part of the rrrr.

And he did spank my thighs, tender and open. He spanked them well, building up, and I moaned and writhed beneath him and only once had to call Mercy, and he rubbed in the pain and kept going. And I liked it. I desired it and was so happy he gave it to me.

He told me he wanted me to come while he fucked my mouth. Which I was happy to do. On my back, him kneeling at my head next to the open window, the shades wide open, with the sun coming down and a light on somewhere in the house, so that if they wanted to, if they maybe had the binoculars or the telescope, some curious neighbor could look in and participate, partake and share of the hotness happening there in my bed.

I slid my finger inside my panties and sucked on his cock as he fucked my mouth, and I came, I did, I came all over the new duvet cover, through my panties, and I’m sure I screamed or yelled right around his cock, I’m sure he knew when I was coming but just in case I rolled to the side to show him the mess. He chided me gently for the mess. Maybe he said, “look at you,” in that admiring way. He loves to watch me come.

“Please come on my face,” I begged, as he worked his cock right next to my hungry mouth and my face, but I was still hungry for him.

“I want it in my mouth,” I said.

“Then you’d better hurry,” he said, on the edge of orgasm.

So I pushed his hand aside with my mouth and I was working his cock with my mouth when he began to come. I felt it building in the back of my throat, and always there the initial revulsion and then the decision to swallow, swallow it down. And I did, milking it all with the muscles of my throat as I felt him swooning above me, his own noises and his own face and I’d reached up my hand under his shirt and placed it flat against his chest, the right nipple, the one I like to pinch, hard, sometimes, to hear the gasp that follows.

But I don’t think I pinched him then. I think I was trying to be gentle and present to his coming, down my throat, accepting what he had to give me.

Neat and clean, swallowing the boy juice.

And pulling him down beside me afterward, to lay his head on my chest.

Afterward was when I pulled off the rest of my clothes, and gave myself a whore’s bath, and changed my panties. Afterward, we walked up and down the strip looking for a place to eat, enjoying the moonlight and the feel of the trees on the walking path in the dark, giving off their tree essence.

I didn’t tell him at the time (he’ll read it here, now), but his come on an empty stomach gave me a bit of a funny tummy. The salad later settled it, though, and the ginger ale.

And it was worth it.

Fun with chains

He was wearing the collar I bought him at the pet store, the one with the chain lead. I’d decided on chain at the last minute instead of leather. I hadn’t realized at the time how good the slick metal links would feel against the lips of my cunt, against my swollen clit as we played.

This time, I put the collar on him and I yanked on the lead as he fucked me from above. We were on the opposite side of the bed because the frame is beginning to give way, and I could feel it moving below me even as he moved above me. The lovely frisson of him inside me, the friction, the steady rhythm, not clenching but feeling very good, feeling on my way to somewhere, and him on his way to somewhere too, the both of us traveling there together.

And then I wanted to fuck him from above. “Get on your back,” I said, with him still above me, inside me. He shook his head, bad boy (bad dog — oh to say it out loud). Head tilted to the side, not obeying. So I put on my big girl voice, my commanding voice, and I pushed him, and eventually he was on his back and I had one leg on the floor and one knee beside him and then I was riding the pony.

I love to ride the pony.

So we did that for a while, and I probably came again. I probably came when we were in missionary too. He often asks me after the fact how many times I’ve come but I don’t really keep track anymore. I just know that if it’s not more than three times I feel cheated. And so I fucked him from above for a while. And he enjoyed it too, you can tell because he makes those noises, and plus I could reach his nipples better from that angle, and he does have such sensitive nipples. Sometimes I’m cruel with them, but I think in this instance I was nice.

And then I told him to fuck my ass.

I was in a hurry for some reason that afternoon — the whole thing was hurried. And you really can’t hurry when it comes to assfucking. You can get away with it with other kinds of sex, although it’s really a shame, like bolting sushi instead of savoring it. But with assfucking you really have to go slow, ease into it. He’s such a good lover, he was doing all the right things: dropping a gob of spit on my little hole (I know, I know, the first time I saw this in a video I was grossed out, but the dirtiness and the immediately of using one’s own lubricant does have a certain appeal), circling it with his tongue, loving my cheeks with his hands, forcing the tip of his tongue inside.

And then he did something completely unexpected, something incredibly hot. He took the chain lead dangling from his collar and inserted it, link by link, into my hot, wet cunt. Pushed it in, pulled it out a bit, pushed it in a bit more. I groaned and pushed against his fingers. He must have gotten almost the whole length of it in there before he forced the head of his cock against my ass and pushed…

Because I was rushing, I hadn’t relaxed properly, and it hurt. “Ow, ow,” I said, and had him pull out, and scrambled off the bed — only to find that my cunt was still filled with the chain of his lead. I pulled it out unceremoniously and wobbled to the bathroom, where I sat with my offended sphincter (blessedly unproductive).

Later, back in the bed, he told me he was thinking about me dragging him around by the chain buried in my cunt. So together we slipped it back inside of me and for one of the few times in my life I experienced the advantage of my thick, generous thighs. I was able to jerk him around by the collar with my legs closed, the chain buried inside me.

The scenario is rife with symbolism. It was also fucking hot.

Kink/BDSM dating sites

“Omnivore,” you ask, “where do you find all these kinky people to hurt and order around and do other perverted things with?”

I laugh carelessly, lean back in my smoking jacket, and say, “Why, the Internets, of course!”

Internet dating has been good to me. Craigslist played an instrumental part in my reclamation of my sexuality at the end of a five-year dry marriage — and based on the other posts I’ve seen on Best of Craigslist, I’m not alone in that regard.

Craigslist is, alas, notoriously unreliable for anything other than casual sexual encounters (men really do seem to like to fuck — a lot — and will make repeated attempts to get laid even against the worst sort of odds). About a year ago, I had good luck finding serious candidates for houseboys on Craigslist as well. There was plenty of dross to sort through, of course. But for every 20 inappropriate responses, I’d hear from at least two or three sincere applicants. More recently, though, my Craigslist posts have been flagged off within moments of appearing. Given that they never violated the Craigslist Terms of Service (I know — I read them) and given that M4W posts of the same type remain undisturbed, I can’t help but feel like an oppressed minority. Perhaps it was the housework piece that pissed people off. Or perhaps folks just couldn’t believe that there are people out there who get off on domestic servitude — men, specifically, who want a woman to order them around and then beat them afterward. I know the technology behind the Craigslist flagging system, and it’s possible for one very determined person to flag a post. Whatever the reason, Craigslist is no longer a viable option for me.

Ace introduced me to two websites that appear to have been around for a long time: Collarme.com and Bondage.com. Both of them claim to be the biggest online BDSM community in the Universe or something. The Collarme site is painful to look at, but I was incredibly flattered at the number of responses I got when I first put up my profile. Ace told me it was primarily creepy guys and prodoms, and now that I’ve been on there for about five months, I’m afraid I’m no longer fresh meat. None of the submissive men who initially contacted me panned out into actual meetings, but frankly I was overwhelmed by the initial number of responses. At the time I signed up, I also had two houseboys and was enjoying myself thoroughly with Ace.

Bondage.com’s design is slicker, but I’m really not too thrilled with the “pay extra to see naked pictures of people” thing. I know websites have to make money, but I get really squicked by a trend I see a lot in the kink community: namely, perverting genuine female desire into a money-making opportunity. Bitchy Jones does a good job of articulating why commodifying female desire hurts EVERY kinkster (see #3 here). Axe also talks about it from the male sub side. So I’m not going to spend more time on that point right now, especially since I’m really here to talk about finding kinksters through the Internets.

What I do want to say is that I was delighted to discover these websites but disappointed at actual meeting-people results. I’ve had MUCH better luck with OKCupid.com. OKCupid is not a kink site. It’s just one of the coolest online dating sites I’ve ever visited. Aside from all the fun quizes and the fact that — at least when I was using it a lot back in January/February/March of 2008 — there are lots of like-minded, interesting people there, it also has something I came to rely on a great deal: the kink badge. The site was created by a bunch of smartypants from Harvard (which doesn’t have quite the cachet as a bunch of smartypants from MIT). As a result, it’s got a fun design, that light-hearted insouciance of the early Intarwebs (in the late 90s, people were more interested in making cool websites and less in monetizing them), and complex algorithms that take your answers to various questions, compare them to other people on the site, and award you little personality badges based on the result. You have to take them with a grain of salt, but overall I’ve found that if someone has the kinky badge on their profile, chances are better that we’ll be sexually compatible. I met Ace, Bran, and Chiquitita on that site.

The other thing I really like about OKC is that people are less deterministic about their dating goals than they are on other websites. Most dating sites seem to fall into one of two categories: “let’s fuck and never talk to each other again,” or “let’s get married and have babies/a house/a dog.” The majority of dating sites also have an annoying habit of requiring you to specify that you are looking for EITHER a man OR a woman. OKC lets you choose “either.” And you can guess what the Omnivore is selecting.

More recently, Axe introduced me to Fetlife.com. It’s a very, very new website put together by some folks from Montreal. I recently discovered that a good number of people on my blogroll are there, and got one promising message from someone interested in becoming my houseboy. So we’ll see.

Finally, some smut for the femdoms by the femdoms

If you’ve spent more than five minutes reading the blog of any dominant woman, you’ve probably come across the complaint that femdom porn is almost exclusively directed toward submissive men. Cause, you know, dominant women only do it for the money. ::gag::

Hot Female Dominant Utopia aims to change that. Elizabeth is my new hero. Although Bitchy Jones will always have a special place in my heart.

From the latest chapter:

You must think of the night when you will hold your legs open for me and I mark your thighs with my crop. Think of the sting. Think of how hard it will be for you, untied, to hold your legs open as I hit your thighs time, after time, after time.

Do not stop. You must continue to stroke yourself. Imagine then that I make you ask for each mark of the crop. Understand that I now own your thighs, they are bought and paid for. They belong to me, as do you, wholly and completely. I will delight in making you open your legs for me so I may do what I will. Think how how wet this will make me. I will mark your thighs in red welts and then draw myself across the stripes, marking them again with my wetness.

I’ll be in my bunk.

If you beat the servants but don’t fuck them, is that polyamory?

Bran isn’t crazy about polyamory. I’m not crazy about monogamy. Yes, I’m one of those bad bisexuals who actually DOES want to sleep with people of different genders. I know, I know, bisexuals are absolutely capable of monogamy–about as capable as anyone of any other sexual orientation. I’ve certainly been capable of monogamy for long stretches of time. Hell, I’ve been capable of not cheating on a partner who refused to have sex with me. I have my reasons for wanting a gate in my little picket fence, though. I’ll tell you all about them later.

There’s sex and then there’s sex, though. I know, I know, polyamory is about more than sex. But right now I’m talking about sex. Relationship-wise, I’m really at capacity. Things resolved with Chiquitita nicely in that respect: she balked at the prospect of getting the sexxay on, and I was relieved because I know exactly how much work women are. So does she. So we snuggled all night, slept over (something I have yet to do with Bran in spite of all our @w3$0me sexing), and now we talk about sex with boys. Which is easy and fun and relatively drama-free. I’ve reassured her that the not-calling-after-the-first-date thing is some sort of XY-chromosome-related phenomenon and nothing to do with her.

Bran has, however, said on more than one occasion, “you need a houseboy.” Which is promising and true. Especially since Bran clearly doesn’t enjoy the domestic stuff. In fact, he’s diagnosed my houseboyless state precisely on occasions when I’ve asked him to do domestic things for me. Like, say, lint-brush the cat hair off my black cardigan.

I do need a houseboy. And not just because I’d rather spend my money on something besides professional housecleaners. I can train a houseboy to clean AND tidy exactly the way I want. I can teach them how to fold and hang up the clothes that pile up in my bedroom — and know that they get a kick out of doing it because it’s such an intimate act. And I can do other stuff with a houseboy I’d never dream of doing with a professional housecleaner. Like, say, tell him to strip naked, throw his belt across the room, and make him crawl across the floor to me with it in his teeth. So I can beat him with it.

I’d pretty much given up on finding a new one, though. The last few prospects petered out — my so-promising young curious one just freaked out one day on his way over here and stood me up. The other prospect I’d been emailing with canceled on me at the last minute and then got snippy with me when I told him he wasn’t serious about meeting. Dynamics are important. I don’t need a brat. I need a good boy who knows how to clean. I recently got a message from someone on Fetlife who sounds very promising. But they all sound promising via email. The proof is in the pudding. Or the cleaning and the beating.

And it does have to be a boy. I’m sorry, but I like genderfuck. I like making a man do women’s work. Maybe it’s my way of getting back at my slovenly family of origin (I’d say it was my slovenly brother but really, Mom was just as bad). Maybe it’s my way of getting back at men in general. Fuckers with their baseball talk and their 30%-on-average higher salaries. Whatever it is, it’s my kink and I’m not apologizing for it. I mean, aside from apologizing for it at the beginning of this paragraph.

The problem, of course, is that my relationship with my houseboys is sexual. Even if I always keep my clothes on, it’s sexual. Once, I acted against my better instincts and let a married man come over and vacuum my floors in the early mornings. Married in the traditional sense. Vacuuming my floors was a sexual act for him. And for me. I felt horrible, because I knew there was a woman whom I’d never met whom I was helping to harm. Even if she never knew, I was harming her. And him. And, most importantly, myself. I had to stop. It was bad. I still feel bad. I’d never even mention this if you knew my name. It was the one thing I said I’d never do. I never had intercourse with him, but it was still sexual.

Part of my journey of accepting my kink has been acknowledging the sexual nature of domestic servitude. Honesty, dignity and respect. These are my baselines. I’m not comfortable with myself if I’m not honest with myself and others. This really sucks sometimes, because denial and lies are very convenient. But once I’ve acknowledged something I can’t lie about it.

Which may, in the long run, lead to some problems between myself and Bran. Or perhaps not. Perhaps we’ll be able to figure out a way to help him feel special and valued. It would certainly relieve him (and me) of expectations for him to fulfill a role he’s not cut out for. Bran is not a houseboy, a true sub, or a pain slut. Submissive men are awesome. I love so many things about them. But in terms of the person who walks beside me, I need a different sort of power dynamic.

I want both. I need a lot of love, a lot of caretaking. I’m a big woman with big appetites. And I’m tired of apologizing for it.

More

“I’m curious about which part of this you’re going to write about on your blog,” said Bran the other night as he was putting on his clothes.

It’s true that writing always involves selective description. Any art form, really, involves selective description. The photograph never looks as glorious as the sunset. The drawing never quite captures the sparkle of the glass itself. The painting never captures the exact line of the leaf, or curve of the land. Or curve of the hip.

And there’s no way I could capture the lovely, juicy, reassuring quality of that night. Wednesday night, yes, Wednesday, because on Tuesday, our regular night, I was still hip-deep in work. Which I won’t talk about here because, frankly, once the suit comes off, who cares?

And if I tried to capture everything we did, I think I’d just end up boring you. Who wants a laundry list of places we went or positions we tried? And who wants more lists anyway? That little trick is getting old and just seems to encourage bad, lazy writing.

This is turning into a post about writing instead of a post about what Bran and I did on Wednesday. And who wants to read that?

I know you’d rather hear about him disappearing while I was busy shoving a pill down my cat’s unwilling little throat. “I don’t want to see this,” he said. And left the room. My flat isn’t THAT big, so there were only a few other places he could have been. Once kitty’s dignity had been shredded, I went in search of him.

And found him in my messy bedroom (I did mention the hip-deep-in-work thing, and if you’re not a new viewer you’ll know I’m currently houseboyless), taking off the last of his clothes. Bran likes to get naked quickly. I like him naked, of course, but I do enjoy taking his clothes off myself. I love that tattoo in the center of his back. You’d never think of him as a tattoo kind of person, but there are lots of things you’d never think he’d be into or do. And does.

Like letting me hurt him.

As we spend more time together, as this evolves from a playmate sort of thing into something else, I find myself getting caught in the old gender role/relationship trap. Of wanting to give away my power. It’s partly gender-based, but I’ve done the same thing with women. Wednesday night, I was selfish. I had to force myself to be selfish. He was there, on all fours, on the bed (which is about one rambunctious fuck away from complete structural failure), and I was… what was I doing? There were my sharp little nails involved. I used my belt. And my hands. And I was careful, careful not to go too hard, at first or even after, because I know for him it’s not about the pain itself, it’s about doing something that he knows turns me on.

It’s so difficult to admit it, but yes, it turns me on.

“Do you like it when I hurt you?” I asked, after the fact, long after.

“Not as much as you like it,” he replied.

And there it is right there. So I can’t take pleasure in it the same way as I did with Ace, or would with a true pain slut — slut in the sense of someone who derives sexual pleasure from the noun or verb preceding. Slut. A word I’ve been meaning to write about. A word that needs to be reclaimed, like “bitch” or “dyke” or “cunt.” A powerful word, a word describing women’s power in particular, women’s power that has come to be shamed and labeled dangerous. Just imagine what would happen if every woman in the world owned her sluttiness? Society as we know it would end!

The word “sadist,” that’s a word I can’t say needs reclaiming. God, how can you ever want to take pride in hurting someone else? How can I say that I enjoy hurting other people? It’s more complicated than that, and it’s not. Yes, consensuality, yes, yes. But oh, the pain. The lovely pain and his reaction to it.

And I know myself the power and the pleasure and the all-mixed-up of bottoming, of taking pain for someone else. There was that time I actually came when he spanked me. Not just titillation but full-on orgasm. The kind you can’t mistake because there’s a mess and the sheets are soaked and my bedroom has that close, animal smell to it for days afterward. I took smacks harder than I ever might have. Sure, I used the safewords at first, asked him to slow down in a way that still allowed him to be in control, but then I took the hard smacks, took them for him. Took them for myself. To prove I was strong.

And male suffering, yes, it’s strong. Sexy. Beautiful. Bran is tough, has endurance and strength. When we wrestle, I know he’s careful with me, could probably always beat me — has more formal training — but I’m strong too, very strong, and happy to have found someone as strong as me. Someone who can put up a fight, can win.

And still gets on his back because I tell him to. Because I put the command in my voice. Still tells me when I ask him why I should suck his cock, knowing he’s straining for the feel of my mouth on him, “because it’s yours.”

Mine and not mine.

Another night, after I’d scratched him with my nails and bit him and maybe smacked him around a bit, I was on my back with him inside me, one of my favorite places to be, and he asked me (again), “You like hurting me?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know,” I said.

“Oh. You’re confused?” he said, and pinned my wrists to the bed and fucked me.

Yes. I’m often confused about that part of my sexuality. And about switching. Switching is confusing. But why should I be ashamed about being confused? Con-fused. Things that used to be separate, now put together.

I wasn’t confused on Wednesday night. Then, Bran was mine. Mine to order around. Mine to collar. Mine to send back down to my crotch for more cunnilingus, because I wasn’t done, because I wanted more. I’m often afraid to show him just how much more I want. But on Wednesday I let him see how powerful my orgasms can be — I know it’s not the first time he’s seen it, but the the old fear still comes back. I was afraid of Kristen’s orgasms sometimes, overwhelmed by them, and by Pura’s too. I still remember Kristen saying to me “I want more,” and wondering whether I’d ever be able to fill that hole of want. Why shouldn’t he be afraid of mine? The way I clamped around him and rode his hands and writhed and moaned and screamed. Who wouldn’t be afraid of that? Overwhelmed by it?

Who wouldn’t be afraid of anything as deep and powerful and neverending as sex?

There’s always more to want, more to try.

More.

First date, first kiss with Bran

It was back when it was still cold out. We met in Central Square and chatted a bit in a coffeehouse before dinner. His first impression of me was that I was angry, but really I was just thrown off by the Scally cap he was wearing. While we sat and talked over my cooling pot of tea, I remember an attraction blooming in spite of myself. It was something about the set of his neck.

I was still dressed for work in fairly dour clothes, a very utilitarian pair of pants and a long black cardigan. Over dinner, I remember his enthusiasm for the food, the way each of us was careful and generous with each other, gesturing to the other to have more. It was an Ethiopian restaurant, which means that you eat from the same plate with your hands. The plate itself is a sort of spongy bread that you eat as well. It’s a very intimate meal to share.

It was the set of his neck, that moment in the coffee shop, that really sealed the deal. But his conversation over dinner was pleasant and that helped as well. I invited him home to meet my cats. Heh. On the way back to my car, we linked arms, and he shivered in the cold and mentioned that he was tired, and I said, “if you’re really tired, you can go home now.”

“No,” he replied. “I want to see… what’s up.”

When we got home, I offered him a drink of water. I was so nervous standing there in the kitchen, trying to make conversation, that I dropped one of my good, stemmed water glasses. In my fumble to try to catch it, I dashed it against the sink. It shattered and left glass everywhere.

We sat on the couch and I put my feet up in his lap. But he wasn’t interested in my feet.

“You have an amazing ass,” he said.

“Yeah?” I said, flattered. And shifted so that I was sitting with my back to him, against his open legs. He put his arms around me, and our hips undulated. I turned to kiss him. Held him down, hovered with my lips close to his, savoring the moment.

I slid my hand under his sweater, his shirt, his undershirt, and pinched his right nipple, hard. He gasped. That harsh intake of breath, I’ve come to love it over the intervening months.

I kissed him then.

Found femdom from the diva of pop

Madonna’s new album and the accompanying buzz in the blogosphere has had me reflecting on my own relationship with the diva of pop. The righteous babes at Feministing do an excellent job of summing up my own complicated relationship with this role model from my girlhood. And yes, she was a role model. But I was so clueless about so many things when her first album came out! I was about nine years old, and at the time it was still a toss-up who was going to be a bigger star: Madonna or Cindi Lauper. In many ways, I respect Cindi Lauper’s career more than Madonna’s even though it wasn’t as prolific. I think that Lauper remained more true to who she was; choosing an authentic voice over what will sell in the current zeitgeist requires a tremendous amount of integrity.

But I do admire Madonna as a woman who has always been unafraid to go for exactly what she wants. Her overt sexuality paved the way for other women to come out of the “slut” closet and proudly own the fact that we, too, enjoy sex. But her message is confusing at times.

I remember when “Express Yourself” came out on MTV (yes, once upon a time, Music Television actually showed music videos). I was a sullen drama chick at the time, disdainful of anything remotely mainstream. But twenty years later, the narrative of this piece really stands up on its own. The visuals express in a clear and yet question-raising way the power play inherent in sexual politics. Money, class, gender, and sexuality all bring with them their own kinds of power. It’s important to understand the power of each so that you can decide whether you want to own them, reject them, deny them, or appropriate them for your own purposes.

This was also the first time I saw the sinous muscles of Madonna’s back. Phew. A few years later, I’d realize I was more interested in the singer herself than the hunky guy down in the boiler room sweating away (although I know Bitchy likes that). Twenty years later, I’d realize I was also really, really interested in the woman at the top of the stairs dressed in the traditional trappings of male power.

PS: A tip of the hat to Axe’s awesome collection of found femdom. I could never compete.