Posts filed under ‘sadism’

Five things, featuring teeth, thigh highs, and my favorite MiP shoots

  1. Teeth.
  2. Met Bran for lunch outside my office today. Pulled up my knee-length skirt to show him the tops of my thigh-highs. I love thigh highs.
  3. I love them so much I’m seriously shopping for a garter belt so that they stop trying to turn into knee-highs.
  4. Teeth. I’m thinking of teeth. Gwen Diamond’s teeth in particular, and what she’s doing with them here. Nothing on this site is SFW, really, but that link, especially.
  5. I unearthed an old cache of pr0n from Men in Pain. Penny Flame has the craziest intensity about her and I love to watch her flog florentine-style. Sandra Romaine has the prettiest, softest, roundest breasts (and ass, come to think of it) I have ever seen popping out of a latex waist cincher. Whenever she says “talk with me” and forces her bottom to crane his or her neck to look her in the eye, I just about cream my panties right then.

    People like to complain about how Men in Pain is all catering-to-men. Which is true. But it caters to me, too. Hot women in latex, hot men in… um, pain. What’s not to like? I just wish they’d show the riggers at work. And the unrolling of the condom. When the camera jumps to a suddenly-sheathed cock and a fully-bound… bondee, it’s weird. l like my pr0n unadr0ned. Although I suppose the fluffers and the riggers would cost more if they appeared on film.

October 20, 2008 at 9:14 pm 1 comment

Absence makes the mind grow dirty

Stupid Bran has some stupid work stupidity that is keeping him from his primary purpose in life, which is to please me.

You would have been so proud of me on Saturday. After dinner I marched myself right off to my car instead of trying to distract him from his work. It was kind of endearing, actually, the way that he couldn’t bring himself to say “you have to leave now.” Instead, he said the other thing that will send anyone with an ounce of social skills out the door: “you can stay as long as you like.”

I’ve been enjoying some solitude. And some quality time with friends, the sunshine, the October colors, and a farmstand or two. My old roommate from Cambridge and I get together once every few weeks and I entertain her with outrageous stories. We both had a big long belly laugh at the offhand comment I made about Ace having an amazingly high tolerance for pain — sometimes I forget there is a whole world of people out there for whom pain is not part of courtship.

Silly people.

Recent coochie conditions have also contributed to a drop in the GOP (Gross Orgasm Product). But the antibiotics have begun to work and I woke this morning thinking about Bran. Specifically, Bran’s body. I began to treat it as a mindfulness exercise; a quiz to gauge the effectiveness of all my hours of study. The surprisingly soft feel of his short-cropped hair, indeterminate color between brown and grey. The crinkle of his eyes. The ski-jump of his nose. The scratch of his cheeks. Slightly irritated gasp he makes when I lick the smooth side of his neck. Moans that happen sometimes when I penetrate his ear with my tongue. Freckles on the shoulders.

The lovely shoulders I could spend hours looking at, touching. Perfect curves of the muscles, the way they bunch and relax. I could sink my teeth into them. Sometimes I do.

Particular scent of his underarms, light dusting of hair. Bran scent, better than anything to be had within a bottle. Simian arms, slightly longer than mine, perfect for climbing trees, walls, ladders. Perfect for twisting my right wrist behind my back and pressing my body to his own. Perfect for binding to the top of the bed.

This is where the fantasy kicks in. What I want to do to him.

I want to do to him.

Not to get even for that time I lay with my knees bent up onto the couch, because getting even implies revenge — and revenge is not something to seek for an enjoyable experience. But reciprocity is important. Keeping the balance of power is important. Equitable distribution and contribution of resources is important. I love laying back and being a pillow queen. And I also love the other thing. I want both/and the vanilla and the chocolate. And strawberry and pralines n’ cream as well.

So this is what I think about at 6:00 am, with both cats crying their early-morning duet of hunger:

He is naked. I am wearing my long black skirt, a turtleneck, brown tights and my brown high boots. I take the belt from my bathrobe and loop it over the hook on the back of my bedroom door, dangle it down the other side of the door. Close the door and make him hold the belt. I don’t tie him in. This is an exercise not in bondage but in discipline. In training. And following orders.

“Don’t let go of the tie,” I say.

With the door shut and his back to it, with his hands grasping the strip of terry cloth, his arms fold above his head. He is naked. Half-erect. It’s a bit chilly for him, but not for me because I am fully clothed. His nipples are two hard points. Because of the cold or because of something else.

He closes his eyes. He doesn’t like to see my face when I hurt him. Why does he think I am going to hurt him?

Maybe because my riding crop, my little red whip with the feathers on the end, and a length of sailing line are lined up on the bookcase behind me.

“Open your eyes,” I say. I am standing right in front of him, my face inches from his. With the lift of my boots, I’m about half an inch taller than he is.

“No,” he says, but in that gasping way, the way he’s been saying it more and more often, which I don’t take seriously.

“Open your eyes,” I repeat. I take his face between my hands. His eyes are bright blue, worried. I kiss him on the lips.

“What do you want?” I ask him.

He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to tell me. Bran is so much better at communicating without words than me. I know what he wants — or part of it, anyway. I am just tormenting him. Pushing him to the edge of his comfort zone. When he opens his mouth I push my tongue inside it, fuck him with my tongue for a moment. He begins to undulate — this is one of the things I love about Bran, his intense physical response to me. When we are sexual, he moves like a woman, if a woman had a man’s body.

“Hold still,” I say, and place my hands on his hips, which have begun to buck.

I slip a blindfold over his eyes. He doesn’t like it. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “I won’t hurt you.” Much.

I run my fingernails down the outside of his arms and the sides of his torso — gently, to create sensation, not to scratch. His reaction is instantaneous. He’s terribly ticklish.

“Ah-” I say. “Hold still.” In the same voice he uses on me. Daddy voice.

The fantasy dissolves right around here, into some biting, some teasing, as I try to drive him past his discipline. Ultimately I wouldn’t mind him throwing me to the bed and fucking my brains out. But it’s all just sex in the head. It doesn’t even really touch my body. I get up and feed the cats.

October 13, 2008 at 2:53 pm Leave a comment

100 sexxay things about Omnivore

Inspired by Wendy Blackheart at Heart Full of Black, I give you 100 things about me, the sex list (with some love and truth and beauty thrown in for good measure).

  1. I took my own virginity.
  2. No, really. With a small, pink, very ladylike bottle of roll-on deodorant. I broke my hymen, and that hurt a bit, and then I pushed the bottle in farther and it felt good. And then I stopped. Because I was afraid.
  3. This was after an aborted attempt to “give” my virginity to a boy in the back seat of a car.
  4. While he was pulling down my pants, I asked him if he had a condom. “No,” he said, rising up to kiss me, “but you don’t want a piece of plastic in you the first time, do you?”
  5. He couldn’t penetrate my little 13-year-old cunt.
  6. There was no foreplay, which probably didn’t help.
  7. We broke up soon afterward.
  8. I was 14 years old and a freshman in high school the first time I had sexual intercourse.
  9. I was 19 years old before I had sex without a condom.
  10. Twice I went to the same anonymous HIV-testing clinic with a man so we could fuck without a condom.
  11. I think it’s kind of romantic to go get STD screenings together.
  12. I paid attention during sex ed. Back then, they actually told you about the various forms of birth control and how to use them.
  13. According to the current abstinence-only curricula taught in public schools across the country, I am a piece of scotch tape that has been stuck to so many arms that it can no longer “bond” properly.
  14. I’d rather be a slut than a whore.
  15. I reclaimed the word “dyke” early on.
  16. I didn’t reclaim the word “slut” until I was over 30.
  17. I didn’t reclaim the word “bitch” until this year.
  18. I fell in love with a little red-haired girl when I was in the first grade.
  19. I fell in love with a little brown-haired boy when I was in the second grade.
  20. I told my fourth-grade teacher that I loved my best friend so much that if I could I would marry her. Her response shamed me deep into the closet for a decade.
  21. When I was a toddler, I remember discovering the interesting folds of my vagina while sitting in the living room watching TV. “That’s a private place to touch,” said my mother. “You should only touch that when you’re in the bath or in bed alone at night.”
  22. I didn’t have a real orgasm until I was in college.
  23. The boy who gave it to me was a black boy with a moustache. We were never really dating.
  24. He did it by going down on me with enthusiasm, and by doing it longer than anyone had done it before.
  25. The first time I ejaculated was with a small, hard plastic vibrator. I was about 19 years old.
  26. I had to throw away that futon less than a year later because it started to smell really funky.
  27. My boyfriend said “Are you sure it’s not pee?” the first time I came on his face.
  28. Later, I asked my girlfriend what it tasted like and she replied, “your hot, salty cum.”
  29. The first woman I fell in love with was a summer exchange student from a local community college.
  30. She gave me a tiny hickey, and when my mother asked me who had given it to me, I told her.
  31. My mother’s initial response was “Ew”.
  32. Later, my mother told me she loved me no matter who I was or who I was with. She bought me combat boots and a toolbox.
  33. It took me ten more years to realize I didn’t have to be butch to be a dyke.
  34. I didn’t come to terms with my bisexuality until five years after I came out of the closet.
  35. I used to call myself a traitor to my own kind.
  36. I am very, very good at eating pussy.
  37. I am very, very good at sucking cock.
  38. I can deep throat, but only if I’m really into the guy.
  39. Finger-fucking gives me carpal tunnel syndrome.
  40. I like 69ing, but I’d rather be on top.
  41. My favorite way to come is on my back, with intense stimulation on my clit.
  42. After I turned 30, I started having vaginal orgasms regularly and repeatedly.
  43. When I come during PIV sex, my cunt has been known to clench so hard it pushes my lover’s cock right out.
  44. I have been known to ejaculate from PIV sex.
  45. I have been known to ejaculate from a spanking.
  46. I think cybersex is cheating.
  47. I don’t think I’m really polyamorous, but I like to pretend when I’m single.
  48. I once spent seven years in a lesbian marriage (the old-school, illegal kind) that suffered from serious Lesbian Bed Death.
  49. I have cheated on more than one partner.
  50. The part of cheating I hate the most (in myself and in others) is the dishonesty.
  51. I like to have sex at least three times a week.
  52. I can go for extended periods of time without any kind of sexual contact, without missing it.
  53. Twice after long-term relationships I’ve used Craigslist to find and fuck a good assortment of lonely, horny men.
  54. Once I got an email from the girlfriend of a man I’d slept with once. It turned out that he had lied to me about being single. I apologized to her and confirmed that he and I had slept together.
  55. I have never had sex with a transgendered person.
  56. I find butch women very attractive, I’ve had sex with many “gay” men, but men in drag do nothing for me.
  57. I see transgendered people as my siblings in gender rebellion.
  58. I’ve fucked women with my “psychic cock” and made them come.
  59. I’ve come while fucking women with my psychic cock.
  60. All of my genderfuck is behavioral. On the outside, I’m very clearly a girl.
  61. I’ve taken people to task for using the word “queer” as a pejorative.
  62. I love the word “queer” because it includes all sorts of sexual and gender minorities.
  63. I have had lovers of many different races and nationalities.
  64. I lost count of the number of lovers I’ve been with sometime in my early 20s.
  65. I used to feel deeply ashamed for having so many sex partners.
  66. I have been deeply in love somewhere between four and six times in my life.
  67. I have never consistently enjoyed anal sex as much as I have with Bran.
  68. I didn’t come to terms with my BDSM tendencies until January 2008.
  69. The first time I heard about fisting was when Susie Bright came to speak at my college in the early 90s.
  70. Less than a month later, my tall, rangy boyfriend with the really large hands managed to fit all five fingers inside me.
  71. Cunnilingus is my favorite thing in the whole world.
  72. Sexual intercourse is my favorite thing in the whole world.
  73. Rubbing my face in a woman’s wet, juicy pussy is my favorite thing in the whole world.
  74. Group sex is my favorite thing in the whole world.
  75. The first time I made out with more than one boy was when I was 15 years old.
  76. My first threesome was with two men, as a freshman in college.
  77. FFM is my favorite threesome combination.
  78. Bran and I have fantasized about bringing a submissive woman to bed with us.
  79. I fall in love very easily.
  80. I’ve often confused lust for love.
  81. I’ve had sex in the back of a car on Highway One in Northern California, on the beach outside of Santa Cruz, in a hotel room with lots of other people having sex around me, on the kitchen floor, on a golf course, while driving, and probably lots of other places I can’t remember.
  82. I find double-penetration (one in the cock, one in the pussy) fascinating.
  83. I have never been fucked in the ass and the pussy at the same time by two actual men with actual penii.
  84. I have experienced double penetration twice with a man and a handy dildo, and each time it was AWESOME.
  85. Once, when I was walking by some neighbors, I heard them repeating something I’d shouted rather loudly the night before.
  86. The thing I’d shouted was, “Oh, baby, fuck me in the ASS!”
  87. The windows had been open.
  88. I was embarassed.
  89. I’ve let a butch woman get away with emotional and physical abuse I would never have tolerated from a man.
  90. I attended a support group at a local women’s shelter to get the moral support I needed to get out of that relationship.
  91. I thought I was different than all the other women in the room because I was gay and they were straight, but our stories ended up being exactly the same.
  92. On two separate occasions I have violently pushed my female lovers away from me.
  93. I used to think that men were made of iron, that I could say all sorts of mean things to them and they wouldn’t feel it.
  94. The only time I’ve ever hit a man was during a scene.
  95. I love to wrestle and win.
  96. I love to wrestle and lose.
  97. I love to dominate my lovers.
  98. With Ace, I discovered exactly how sexy it is to hurt someone.
  99. It’s only sexy if they’re into it too.
  100. I like to say I love power exchange more than sadomasochism, but sometimes I wonder if that’s true.

September 16, 2008 at 9:10 pm 9 comments

Top drop. Forgot about that

My head is still in a daze as I’m writing this. My houseboy came over and did some tidying for me. We really didn’t have enough time — ideally I like a good two to three hours of service and discipline at a time. The fault was all mine. I had a meeting downtown that ran longer than I thought it would and he could only stay until 3:30.

I had a huge long list of chores for him: vaccuuming, mopping, dishes, scrubbing the bathroom, cleaning my closets. Of course he was only able to do a small amount of it. He does a very decent job in a very small amount of time, actually. I’m very pleased with the level of his service. And I’m even more pleased with how much pain he can take.

But I totally wasn’t prepared for how spaced out I would be right now. I’ve still got work to do, AND I’ve got evening plans I can’t cancel. This is why aftercare is so important. And I feel like an awful, awful top for sending him out into the world without giving him proper aftercare.

Or myself.

What does aftercare consist of exactly? And how does one do aftercare with someone one doesn’t want to touch? He was sweating like a pig, and the smell of him was extremely unpleasant. It reminded me, actually, of something that Kristen told me. She told me the worst part of being a professional dominatrix was the smell. The smell of men you’re not attracted to, their sweat. Their stink.

This houseboy is very nice. He’s a good boy. But he does stink. And when your houseboy is doing your housework, he is bound to schvitz. They can’t help it. So they smell.

Smell is such a subtle, important factor in attraction. I love the way Bran smells. Mostly he smells like clean laundry, but of course there’s his own scent which can’t really be described except to say that it smells like Bran. The other day, when we were having dirty, dirty sex during a heat wave, we both worked up such a sweat that it mingled between our bodies and lubricated our flesh as we slid against one another.

Bran’s sweat, his smell, I love. This houseboy’s sweat, his smell, not so much.

And I can’t help but wonder whether it’s selfish of me to keep a houseboy while my relationship with Bran deepens. Not because I’m being greedy now, but because… well, for two reasons. First, because I think there is a part of Bran who doesn’t want to share me, not even my dirty dishes and my cruelty. And second, because keeping a houseboy means maintaining a relationship. I was relieved when Chiquitita and I decided not to pursue a serious relationship because I felt stretched between her and Bran. A houseboy doesn’t require nearly the same kind of care and feeding as a lover, but Bran knows that there is a sexual element to it. He says he’s fine with it, but I wonder if that’s really how he feels. I wonder if that will change. I think, if he asked me to give him up, I would. But that’s what happens when I fall in love. I do things, give up things, that I never would have when I’m not in love. When I’m not in a mild state of insanity.

It’s pleasant state of insanity.

A relationship with a houseboy is not the same as any other kind of relationship. A houseboy is not a friend. He’s definitely not a lover. He is a servant. And servants require an entirely different kind of interaction. It’s important to stay in control, to underline the power exchange part of the agreement. Houseboy is very good at doing this. Mostly I’m good at giving orders and maintaining an aura of cool authority. Oftentimes I feel silly inside but sometimes I get drunk off the power, get into the role, inhabit it. I think that I would have been an excellent Duchess in a former life. Preferably a widowed Duchess. But I digress.

It’s a nice feeling to be served. I really like receiving good service, in all areas of my life. There’s nothing like being able to order someone around, someone who has agreed to give me his power for a short period of time. But I’ll settle for good table service at a restaurant.

What I got drunk off today, though, was not power. It was pain. Giving pain, and the enjoyment of giving pain. Submission and pain, and both in combination, can be incredibly intoxicating.

It’s a very scary feeling, actually. And what I am feeling now is the blowback from a really intense, heavy session of hitting a man. It didn’t feel like hard work, but I certainly did put my arm into it. There was an exchange not only of power, but of energy. Kinetic energy, and psychic energy.

Afterward, he mentioned that he had never really taken that much pain before, that it wasn’t the sort of play he’d done. See, this is hard for me to hear. I feel like… I can’t help but feel ashamed at how much pleasure I take in the groans when I come down really hard with the belt. But it’s what I like. It’s visceral, almost sexual. It’s…. drunk on power, drunk on pain.

“If it’s too much we don’t have to go that hard,” I said. And given my current state of mind, that’s probably not a bad idea — for myself, if not for him. He didn’t want to stop, though. He told me that he’d come to the edge of this kind of play before, but that the person topping him had backed off. “It wasn’t my choice,” he said.

And then he said something that made me very happy. He said, “I appreciate that you do it in such a safe way.”

It’s something I worry about constantly, actually. It’s what makes topping difficult: the responsibility that comes with power. Paying attention to how your bottom is doing. And I do pay attention.

Sigh. I think I’d better pay attention to myself for a little while, and rest before I go out this evening. Right after I do this one last thing for work…

June 13, 2008 at 9:01 pm Leave a comment

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.

May 29, 2008 at 3:11 pm Leave a comment

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.

May 19, 2008 at 9:49 pm 4 comments

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.

May 17, 2008 at 9:38 pm Leave a comment

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.

May 16, 2008 at 5:02 pm Leave a comment

How to find a submissive houseboy on teh Intarwebs (in 12 easy steps or less)

  1. Spend at least half an hour writing a witty but firm advertisement for the appropriate section of the free online personals website of your choice. Briefly describe yourself without any overtly identifying characteristics. Specify that you are NOT a prodom. Explain that you are looking for a submissive man to come clean your house and then kneel naked on the floor while you beat his ass to a whimpering pulp. Specify that the lucky recipient of this honor should actually get off on it, as you will be getting off on (a) him cleaning your house for free and (b) beating him. A lot. With a riding crop. And his own belt. And your hands. And various other implements.
  2. Specify that you are not interested in meeting anyone who isn’t single or didn’t get the go-ahead from their girlfriend/wife/boyfriend/german shepherd/it’s-complicated. Make sure to mention other qualities that would disqualify him for service. Such disqualifying attributes might include illiteracy, slovenliness, desire to be used as a toilet, enclosure of a photograph of manjunk, or possession of a mullet.
  3. Prepare yourself for one or more of the following kinds of responses:
    • One-word responses with blurry headshots, “headless horseman” shots, or photos of manjunk attached.
    • Bilious diatribes about what a manipulative, perverted, sick bitch you must be.
    • A counteroffer: “why don’t you come over to my apartment instead, wash my dishes, and suck my dick?” Attached photograph of manjunk is optional.
    • “Why don’t you just hire a service the way I do?” (Is there a service that offers brawny men who clean your whole place, then strip on command and crawl across the room with their own belt in their mouths? Where’s the website? I wonder if I can afford it!)
    • One, two, or possibly (possibly) more serious inquiries.
    • A notice that your ad has been flagged off for violation of the website’s Terms of Service (you’ve read them and are clearly NOT in violation. Not unless all those sick perverts mandoms looking for girls to spank are, too, and yet their ads seems to stay on for months at a time)
  4. Ensure that you are using an anonymous (aka “slut”) email account to respond to the handful of serious inquiries you’ll receive. As comfort level increases, exchange given names, then photographs, discuss expectations and desires about the arrangements. I recommend limiting the email exchange portion of the screening to no more than one to two weeks (about 5-10 exchanges. And 10 is pushing it.) This helps you avoid the “face for radio” phenomenon. It also helps you screen out people who aren’t serious about meeting in person.
  5. When in possession of the applicant’s first and last name, run a superficial background check via Google, Zabasearch, and the National Sex Offender Registry. Encourage the applicant to do the same with you. If any unexpected results come up, discuss with the applicant. Bear in mind that sex offender registries sometimes include the names of people convicted of questionable “offenses” like 18-year-olds making love with their 17-year-old sweethearts.
  6. Pay attention to your gut. Pay attention to the wording of the applicant’s email. Read between the lines. Bear in mind that he doesn’t necessarily have to be a suave and well-written correspondent to get the job. But pay attention and trust that little inner voice. It doesn’t lie.
  7. Arrange to meet your potential new houseboy in a public place, preferably for lunch on a Saturday. Why lunch? Who knows whether broad daylight makes things any safer, but it puts me at ease. It also removes the “date” energy and makes it more like a job interview. Why Saturday? Because if, after lunch, you decide this is a good fit, you can take him directly home for a trial task. I usually have him do the dishes or vaccuum a single room. This will give you a sense of whether he’s actually any good at housework — and of how quickly he works.
  8. Make sure you get his mobile number beforehand, in case you need to call to let him know you’re running late. You might be running late, but he should be on time.Be prepared for the possibility of being stood up. Poor submissive men–especially the sincerely submissive ones you want for this type of work and not the ones who still think it’s all about them — are bound to have mixed feelings about their sexuality. He may chicken out. If he does, don’t bother trying to make contact again. If he calls or emails, ignore it. He broke something that never be unbroken when he broke your date and there’s no way to salvage the dynamic.
  9. If all goes well at lunch, invite him back for a tryout (see above). If you like him, offer him a little treat at the end. Like, say, having him get down on his hands and knees, putting your feet up on him, and lecturing him. Or make him kneel upright, grab him by the hair, and stand over him scolding him. You know, do what you do. That dom thing, which is why you’re reading this to begin with right? If you don’t know how to do this part, I’m surprised you made it past Step 1. Especially at the beginning, less is more.
  10. Make sure to treat your houseboy with respect, like a valuable new toy. Do all that stuff that good kinksters are supposed to do, like establishing consensus, using safewords, and making time for aftercare. Frame your time together appropriately, and you should be able to hold onto a good houseboy for quite some time. But bear in mind that this is a difficult kind of relationship to maintain over the long run unless he already has a primary partner elsewhere. I don’t recommend fucking the servants, but your houseboy is likely to have needs not directly related to service, submission, and titillation.
  11. Be prepared for the possibility that some stingy, demanding bitch will get her claws into him he will meet another dominant woman who wants to Own him. Try to keep the lines of communication open so that you can find yourself another one before he leaves your service.
  12. Repeat ad nauseum. Or until you get disgusted with the process. Bitch about how hard it is to find good help these days to your friends, or to the Internet. Laugh at yourself a lot when you do this. When you get tired of houseboys, call your maid service or consider *gasp* actually cleaning the house and sorting through your papers yourself.

May 5, 2008 at 10:19 pm 3 comments

When in doubt, lists are good (restoring my freaky cred)

Bran says he’s boring my readers, because no one has commented on the last two posts. “I think they’re only interested when you’re branding me or something.”

Which I haven’t actually done, of course. Although I do have to admit that the idea is appealing, in an entirely fantasy-never-gonna-happen-story-of-O kind of way.

But just in case my last few posts have been too mushy and tame, I present to you the following pieces of evidence that I am still a huge freak.

  1. I came on Bran’s face. I can’t entirely tell if he likes it, since there is usually some choking and coughing involved. I actually did this on our first date, and he told me via IM that he felt like we was drowning. The implication, however, was that it was not an unenjoyable experience.
  2. Ace will be gratified (he would be more so, perhaps, if he were still in receipt of my attentions) that I’ve come to appreciate the joys of fucking a man up the ass with a strap-on. It’s true. I really do get into this place where I’m going buck-wild, and excited, and energized, and very very in-the-moment. I love not only the power of it but the sensual joy. Sure, it’s an act of giving. That’s why I’m picky about who gets to feel my cock up their ass. But it’s hott. With an extra T. For hottness. Because I can spell.

    All sorts of things I was sort of uncomfortable about before no longer seem to bother me with Bran. Probably because it’s completely reciprocal. And even though I do have a very strong streak of the femdom, there’s a reason why I go by the handle Omnivore. I like reciprocity. Reciprocity is hott, with two T’s. Another thing that happened on our first date is that he licked my little anus all around with that wicked tongue of his and made it feel AWESOME. He’s also mastered the art of fucking my various orifices with his tongue: mouth (which can be sort of creepy and yet turning-on-y at the same time), cunt (heaven), ass (gunh).

    I’ve learned a technique for assuaging my concerns about e-coli infection as relates to anal play. You sort of check out the region with your fingers and nose and eyes first. If it’s all clear, then you can use your tongue. If not, there’s always gloves, which I absolutely love for anal play because cleanup is a breeze (just pull off, and all incidental poop is contained nicely in an inverted latex package). And if you can’t deal with a little poop, as the Midwest Teen Sex Show points out so lucidly, you’re not ready for anal sex.

    Later, after all the sex and in an attempt to make our time together something other than just a booty call (he did arrive before the 9:00 pm this-is-definitely-just-a-booty-call cutoff time), we lay on the couch and watched some anime.

    “Heh,” I said. “You fucked me up the ass.”
    “I did,” he replied. “You begged me to do it.”

  3. While I was fucking Bran up the ass with the littlest dildo from the Bend Over Beginner Kit, he said something that made me come all over his leg. I wish I could remember what it was. But coming while fucking him was pretty awesome.
  4. Later, he made me come again by saying in that wonderful forceful way of his that he was fucking me while I was tied up. I know the latest magazine articles say that women don’t really make tons of noise when they come, that we’re all concentrating on the sensation of coming and that you can tell because of the tightening of our vaginal walls, but I am in fact a screamer. And I came. Noisily. Gushily. I’m glad one of the comforters was between me and the mattress because I’m out of upholstery cleaner.

    Bran is so shy about tying me up. I had to beg him to do it, and sort of helped him along. But it’s true what one of my subs from last year had to say about bondage. It does sort of intensify the feeling — of intercourse, of orgasm. An extra frisson, a tension between what you want and what you can have. And, I suppose, there’s some sort of Freudian thing about security and being held tightly. I always get excited in the middle of sex with bondage and scrabble to get the bonds off so I can touch the man (or woman) fucking me. This time, when I tried, he pushed my hand away. Which was even hotter. And when I finally did get one wrist free he just pushed me down with those wonderful strong arms of his.

  5. He gave me a lovely spanking as well. I’m glad that he responds to feedback and direction. Not all of my lovers have had the emotional security to do so.
  6. I’m still in need of a good houseboy. The one I’ve got actually canceled on me last-minute so he could go do something involving the earning of money. Really, now, where are the boy’s priorities? As we discussed over lunch last week, it’s clear that he’s not really kinky. And the important learning I’ve gotten from his service is that you can’t instill kink any more than you can iron it out. I think he’d make a great personal assistant, but it’ll only work if the payoff for him is sufficient. This is where sub men once again prove their worthiness: sexuality, especially of the unfulfilled variety, can be a powerful motivator for service. ViciousWishes asked me some questions about protocol related to the search for and screening of a good houseboy. I’ll share those in a separate post. Once I’ve got some applicants, I know what to do. But for the time being, I’m stymied as to how to find new applicants. Craigslist has been the best source so far for potentials, but someone on Craigslist has decided I’m either a spambot or a whore and flags my posts within minutes of publication. This really irks me because it is the sexual exchange I’m seeking. My posts don’t belong in erotic services, dammit! Men who clean my house really do make me hot. And I want a man who gets hot cleaning house for me. Who enjoys pain. Ah, well. In the meantime, I’ll soldier on as best I can. And perhaps consider reactivating my profiles on Collarme and Bondage.com. Yawn.
  7. Chiquitita and I are still orbiting around one another. In an email this morning, she wrote “Rarely have I met someone whose every message to me would make me want to say ‘awwwww.'” Girls require more effort than boys, but the payoff is almost always worth it.

April 22, 2008 at 4:34 pm 7 comments

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