Posts tagged ‘jewish men’

It’s so hard to get good houseboys these days

So my longest-lasting houseboy (and arguably one of the reasons why I’ve come to terms with my bitchy pervert self) just canceled our arrangement last week. He “broke up” with me via email. Now this is where things get tricky, because we weren’t technically going out. No, we were not going out at all. He would come over to my house, change from his cashmere sweaters and wool slacks into a white T-shirt and black shorts, and take orders from me. He was a wonderful housekeeper, very thorough, left things spotless, and worked so hard he’d sweat (“Jewish boys really know how to clean,” said one of my Jewish friends as I was regaling her with tales of my sexxay life.) Then, after the house was clean, or clean enough for my tastes, I’d beat him. I’d scold him. I’d put my feet up on him. I’d tie him up and drip wax on him. I’d spank him, use my crop, use his belt.

It was heaven. For both of us. At the beginning, of course, I couldn’t deal with the way he’d moan when I came down hard on him with the crop. I couldn’t deal with the sexual thrill I’d feel from the sound of his moan, from his reaction to the pain. At first I told myself it was because I couldn’t deal with his getting turned on by it. But later I realized I couldn’t deal with my getting turned on by it. Sometimes I still can’t deal with it. It can’t help but feel wrong to get pleasure from other people’s pain. I try to justify it by saying that it really only turns me on if it turns on my sub, and it’s true that the feedback loop of lust and desire and sexxay and pain and hurt and intensity and release is what I like about sex — all kinds of sex, although all kinds of sex don’t involve pain. But the thrill I get out of causing someone pain makes me identify with all the villains in those evil interrogation scenes. That’s an uncomfortable place to be. To understand the thrill — visceral, sexual, in-the-head-ual — of imposing one’s will on another human being, seeing how much they can take, how far before they break. That’s a very uncomfortable thing to discover in oneself. It makes me wonder what I might have been capable of, who I might have become, in different circumstances.

A few months ago, I cooked him lunch, had a frank discussion with him about my own kinksexual awakening, and finally tied him to my bed with the 24′-length rope-under-the-bed system I’d had him bring me but had only used on other playmates. That afternoon, I had what most people would define as sex with him. There was no penetration — on either of our parts — but there was orgasm. There were genitals out there in the open air. And beatings. Lots of beatings. At one point, I was whaling on him with the end of the rope I’d used to tie his left wrist, and he called for Mercy (safeword), and it took a strenuous effort on my part to stop. He had marks afterward. We talked afterward. There was pillow talk. I remember him going on about one of his sons and reaching over to pinch his nipple, and then he just stopped in mid-sentence and went “unh.”

“You can keep talking,” I said. “I’m listening.”
“I know I can,” he said, “but there’s the question of whether I want to.”

Things were never the same after that. I don’t know if that old saw about not sleeping with your slaves is true in a houseboy-style relationship or if there were other factors at work, like incompatible schedules. We were never much of a personality match anyway. But when he emailed me to say

i have found a Woman to take an interest in owning me and we have decided to give it a try on an exclusive basis.

As such she has told me it is time to end my service to You as she will be using all of my efforts.

I was hurt. Blindsided. This is where kink and polyamory intersect, and I can see how demanding bitches dominant women might not be good at sharing. But ultimately, it was probably more about him than either of us. I could go into why that is, but I’m not getting paid enough to psychoanalyze him.

So the bad news is that I’m down one pain-slutty submissive with mad skillz with a broom. The good news is that at this very moment I’ve got a tender young thing who’s curious about kink emptying out my shredder and sorting through the mountain of paper on my desk. He’s not as good with the cleaning, but he’s very eager to please and willing to be trained. He told me he’s attracted to professional women and likes to kneel beside me while I work. I’ve put him to work as a sort of personal secretary, which gives me a mind-buzz-power-thrill that is really just too @\/\/3$0me for words (or 1337 speak). Too bad he doesn’t like pain.

I posted on Craigslist again for another boy and got one decent bite before the Mandom Nazis flagged my ad. We’ll see how that turns out. Hopefully he’s a pain slut. Bran and I play with pain, but it’s different with him. I guess it really is true that switching changes the dynamic of a relationship. Not that I’d give up the feel of him pressing my knees to my chest and pounding my cervix for all the clean, shiny floors in China.

April 8, 2008 at 6:30 pm 5 comments

I love it when you call me ma’am (Pt 1 of 2)

I slap your face and it changes. You go to that other place, the place where I can tell you to take your clothes off and you will, without hesitation. You grab the collar of your T-shirt and pull it over your head, unbuckle your belt, step out of your jeans and place them next to me on the couch.

-All of them, I tell you, and you look at me a question. We haven’t been naked together before. You haven’t been inside of me. You’ve never seen me with my pants off. Right now, I am fully clothed. But that’s the point. I want you naked in front of me, naked and on your knees. I know you’re eager to get there yourself, and that, in part, is what makes me hot. Hot, and scared. What do I do next? I wonder, as you look up at me, good boy, so naked and low and ready for me to do whatever I want to you.

Am I doing it right? I wonder, as I pull your belt from your pants, throw it across the room.

Earlier today, I told you I was going to beat you with your own belt, make you crawl naked across the room to pick it up and bring it back to me in your mouth. That is so sexy, you said, and even through the keyboard and the screen I felt the heat rising through my own body, a slow boil, my body burning and aroused and all alone on a chair before a computer. Yes. Yes it is, I said.

And now I’ve got your hair in my hands and I’m pulling your mouth toward my own, your mouth so eager and ready, so open and ready to please.

I pull you forward between my opened knees, your bare shoulders touching my thighs beneath my skirt, and I’ve got my hands on your back, and I’m raking my nails across your shoulders, up from your waist to your neck, and you make that noise, a hiss of inhaled breath and a moan together.

– Go get your belt, I say, and I don’t have to tell you to do it on your hands and knees. You crawl across the room to where I’ve thrown it and you pick it up with your teeth, carry it back to me, still with that look in your eyes that tells me you’re in that other place.

I take the belt from you.

-Good boy.
-Thank you. You say it with relief, the release of desire.

I should push you backward now, turn you to the side and stand above you so that I have the proper angle for the belt. But I like the feel of your bare skin against my thighs, your naked back stretched out before me like a promise and your head in my lap, where it belongs.

I slap the belt across your back, not particularly hard, but you cry out, and again that moment of fear — you’re not doing it right, he’s had better, it’s not good enough, you’re inept, you’re a terrible top, it’s no good — but I put that aside, push it down because there’s a wave that will carry me if I just keep going. You’re not a blank slate, you’re alive and so am I and what we are doing is perverted and wrong, but it brings us so much joy, so maybe it isn’t really.

So I beat you with your own belt, just like I promised you I would. I do it badly, ineptly, and you still like it. I put you over my knee, and with you over my knee I can’t resist spanking you with my open palm. I’m so wound up I smack you hard, very hard, and your reaction makes me realize it’s causing you pain, not the good kind of pain.

-Whoa, you say. You really go right to it.
-I’m sorry. I know I’m supposed to warm you up first (and here I slap your bum lightly, repeatedly, delicious, remembering the delicious feel myself, how it softens you up, makes the nerve endings ready for the big, hard slaps to follow).

-But may it’s not about your pleasure, I say. Maybe it’s about what I want.

You moan as I say all this, and I’m spanking you at the same time, building up from soft to hard and then running my fingers over your warmed skin. That light touch on my own skin, red and warm and sentitized, always drives me wild.

-It was very selfish of you to think that this is about you, to expect me to be serving you, I say, and I’ve got your belt, and I’m using it on your back and you begin to undulate across my knee.

-I’m sorry.
-Why are you sorry?
-For being selfish, ma’am.

I love it when you call me ma’am.

>> NEXT: What do you feel when I slap you?>>

January 23, 2008 at 8:11 pm 4 comments


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