Ask For What You Want

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I want you to only address me as Sir.

I want you to start playing with your clit ten minutes before I arrive, but under no circumstances are you allowed to come.

I want you wearing high heels and a short skirt with nothing underneath.

I want your safeword to be carnation, which means, you can yell no all you like, but I will not stop.

I want you ready to bend over my lap struggling as I spank you. Lift your dress up and turn your ass-cheeks red until my hand hurts. And then you’ll kiss it, suck my fingers, make it better. I’ll scold you for making me all hard and wanting, and you’ll straddle me and ride.

I want your explicit consent. I want your permission and submission.

I want you to know how to draw it from me. I am afraid of my own power. I want you to pull these cruelties from me, to beg for them. I want to take your energy and mine into one huge fireball that I will weild and you will receive. I want your surrender. I want you to make me feel like the biggest, baddest top in the room, even if I’m not.

Can you do that for me?

Nipple Clamps & the Pleasurable Pinch

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My nipple clamps: I have a love/hate/love relationship with them. (Although to be honest, sometimes it’s more of a hate/love/hate relationship.) I am myself often profoundly passionately ambivalent, and my nipple clamps embody this dyadic intensity with exceptional and excruciating precision.

They’re a simple machine, really. Just two alligator clips yoked together by a slender chain. Some nipple clamps seem kinder with their adjustable screws set in their metal centers, but it’s a sham kindness really, for where the lies the gentleness so rests the cruelty. You can open the alligator mouths wider by manipulating the screw, but you can also make their jaws shut tight. Too wide and the clamps slip off your nipples erect and hard as pencil erasers. Too tight and, well, you can imagine.

Or can you? There is a fine line between pleasure and pain, as has been noted with such repetition as to render the aphorism nearly banal. The nipple clamp surfs that fine crest. It limns the line, as much as it blurs it. Because the simple and inescapable fact is that when you—or someone you trust—carefully places first one nipple, casually rubbed to tiny tumescence, and then the other within those small alligator jaws, something painful and something pleasurable will happen.

The best way I can describe it is this: the nipple clamp draws the shortest distance—a straight somatic line—between your nipple and your clit. The pinch of the nipple sends the electric shock of new recognition to your more pleasurable bits, and even as the nipple hurts, even as it screams in its small silent voice, you’ll find an opposite and corollary reaction occurring in your genitals. It has a nearly mathematical beauty, and it feels as perfect, as frustrating, as inexorable as algebra.

Nipple clamps do more than shock anew the pleasure bits. They adorn you. Nipples beg to be dressed, poking out as they do, whether perched on the modest slopes of a flat breast or the abundance of a full breast. The nipple clamp, shiny, glittering in candle light or street light, looks beauteous, the slight weight of the chain tugging the breasts down in graceful tandem. The chain swings gently between the breasts as the body moves. It begs to be pulled.

The thing about me and my nipple clamps is that when I put them on, or when they are put on me, their tiny bite wakes some sleeping beastie. It’s a feral pain, and make no mistake about it, it is pleasurable. The clamps rouse me from complacence. They intensify everything I feel—good, bad, and exquisite. They make an ordinary round of rogering something more visceral, more total, and more impassioned.

Which is not to say, as I began, that I always love them. The nipple clamps are not for me an every day thing. They are a treat and they are a trick. They are something that I both look forward to and that I dread. They make every fucking moment that much more immediate, and they can not be removed fast enough once I, exhausted and wrung pleasure wet and sighing, have come unto completion.

Fucktoy

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With the blindfold over my eyes and the ball gag in my mouth, I find the smell of leather and pussy is inescapable.

My arms are bound in thick white rope Jeannie-style: before my chest and under my boobs. I look like I just have to nod my head and blink to make my wish come true, but perhaps I already have and it already is.

My lover has piled pillows pasha-high on the bed. I am unceremoniously bent over them; my chin is propped up on my rope-bound wrists and my ass, which I cannot see, which I must imagine, forced as I am in this nose-down, coccyx-up posture, a position that not so much suggests my submission as it enforces it, my imagined ass flowers large and glowing, a hot-house blossom, large and mysterious and faintly dangerous. My ass, exposed as it is to My lover’s eyes and my fecund imagination, embodies both fascination and revulsion.
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The Despot & The Boddhisatva

Filed Under Ruminations | 4 Comments

cydytame101.jpgI slept naked last night. I don’t usually. Usually, when I sleep naked, I feel my breasts try to run away from me at night; they scamper in my sleep like puppies. Hence the tank top to corral them into slumberous submission. The pajama bottoms are just for balance. Or occasionally for warmth.

But last night, almost before I knew it, I was clambering into bed totally starkers, and I thought, ok, I’m naked tonight. And I slept.

I think I wanted the feel of the sheets against my skin.

My libido, you see, is a despot.

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you’re going to come for me

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“Harder,” she whispered. “Fuck me harder, please, please.”

In a dingy bathroom in the downstairs of a Tibetan restaurant. Her cheek against the peeling greasy paint, legs kicked apart, stockings pulled down just to below her ass, dress shoved up around her waist, in front of the filmy bathroom mirror where she could see my arm flexing as my fingers – two, three – thrust inside her. Photos of the Dalai Lama on the wall. Penny joked about her being a bad Buddhist.

But I couldn’t resist.
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Tight Spots

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We are waiting for breakfast — have been waiting for twenty minutes. The line is out the door and halfway down the block; about right for this place at 1 PM on a Saturday. (Good thing they serve breakfast until 2.) We’re almost inside; the door is propped half open by my boot. People pack the entrance because the gusting wind is chill. In front of us are two couples with children; we are not partial to children, but these, although fractious, are contained. One has brought her bear to breakfast; you smile your approval.

Behind us is a trio of college students, very happy about something. One is a girl with bright copper hair punked up, hanging on the arm of a guy whose long black braid looks like it was dipped in shoe polish. The third is a girl too short to see clearly. I opine that they’re art students — they look like they all dressed in the same fashionable dumpster this morning. You tell me I’m too judgmental.

The wind crowds the trio into us, and the couples in front contract to give us a little room. We shrink into it. The line moves six inches.

You are wedged into me quite tightly now; arms around my waist, chin on my shoulder. Gusts blowing through the partially open door fan your hair across my eyes. Unexpectedly, your tongue makes a pass at my earlobe, and you whisper, “No escape — I’ve got you now.” Read more

Notes to a Rockabilly Angel

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So I gave my phone number to this girl last night. She hasn’t called, but color my fingers deep and vibrant sanguine with optimistic crossing.

Last night, I went with a friend and his wife first out to dinner and then to The Slipper Room for some burly-cue. It was pretty standard burlesque fare, which is to say that it treaded between the painful and the sublime, and when it was truly empyrean, it was both. The best piece by far was one by Miss Julie Atlas Muz, who is apparently a very big deal in burlesque, though she’s a tiny thing on stage, all densely packed muscle and sinuous curves. Her skin lies so tight over her flanks it’s like her hips have hospital corners.

“Breaking the Law� by Judas Priest may not be the first song that pops into your head when you think about dancing naked for strangers while making social commentary, but Miss Julie worked it. In the song’s 2:33 span, I counted four, maybe five laws that Miss Julie broke as she slithered, pranced, jetéd and jiggled on the stage. Beginning dressed in a loosely interpreted convict’s uniform of broad black-and-white striped top and shorts, a juvie-center sneer planted on her face, Miss Julie took the stage, pulled a cigarette from her bodice and lit it. Then, cigarette in mouth and eyes narrowed, she defiantly shredded a dollar bill into pieces and flung them like confetti. Retreating to the back of the stage, she denuded her self to pasties and a black jock strap. After a few Trocadero-style ballet moves, she ripped off the pasties and the latex below, grinned, and dropped her jock strap and turned her back on the audience.

She then bent over and rhythmically spread her ass cheeks to the lyrics. “Bwa bwa-bwa ba-bwa,� her ass sang. One or two lines later, she turned to face us, slumped over her pelvis, put a finger or two on either side of her labia, and made her pussy sing the same tune, thereby bringing the house down while being in violation of the following laws: smoking in a New York City bar; performing topless in an unlicensed nightclub; performing naked in a nightclub that sells alcohol; and possibly lewd and lascivious behavior, depending on your interpretation. It was, in short, a performance brilliant, transgressive and hott.

I laughed hard at Miss Julie and clapped heartily, but I didn’t give her my full attention because sitting across from me was this rockabilly goddess with short-chopped bangs, milk-gleaming skin, and total tool for a boyfriend. This woman had been making eyes at me for the whole first few acts and then suddenly stopped because, I think, she noticed that my group had noticed her looking at me and smiling.

“That girl over there is devouring you with her eyes,� said my married friend.

I know, I said. It’s wicked cool, I said, and looked back at her. She had been flirting shamelessly, doing that thing where you make your eyes run the length of your object’s body like a lambent flame. She did that—ran her eyes up and down me and then she met mine, paused and smiled. I could have leapt over the stage and dived into the depths of her cool cleavage. I sat there smiling at her, trying not to be too self-conscious and creepy, and probably failing, as the acts went on. Her boyfriend pawed at her thighs and her hands, but she shrugged him off and angled her body away.

My heart jumped.

And she was young and fresh and had these pencil thin eyebrows and looked like she should be posed in leopard print and black thigh highs next to a hi-fi; she had that Betty Page thing going on, and that dumb-ass boyfriend stroking her, and she was looking at me and smiling so warmly that even my friend noticed.

And then she stopped. I sat there watching the show, distracted, divided, the image of this girl’s sweet white flesh lobbed into the forefront of my frontal lobe. I willed the boyfriend to leave.

Get up, get up, get up, I said to him in my head. Just. Get. Up. I watched a girl with fantastic tattoos and a pointy tongue and sweetly perverse perma-smile take off a corset to the song from…something, and I listened to the MC make fun of My Girl’s walking tool of a boyfriend, and I laughed, but I kept on willing him to leave, and then, suddenly, he did.

Joy. Numb and shaky with nerves, I took a piece of paper out of my purse and wrote my digits in purple pen and clear handwriting. I stood up, walked across the room, and put the note in her hand. Our eyes me, she took it. I turned and walked away, toward the bathroom, where the boyfriend was. I stood behind him. I considered complimenting him on her luminous and milky beauty. I didn’t.

When they left, her eyes lingered on mine. I watched her leave and regretted that I hadn’t written something else on the white slip of paper, this blog’s address, maybe. My blog could be my pimp, I thought. It would be the gift that kept on giving. I regretted not paying her some beatific compliment or giving her some curt command. I regretted not giving her another reason to call me, something to make her clit switch-twitch like fringe on a tassel. I regretted not being more forthright.
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