March 1, 2010
The Care & Feeding of Butches
February 25, 2010
Ask For What You Want
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?
February 24, 2010
Nipple Clamps & the Pleasurable Pinch
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.
February 22, 2010
Fucktoy
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.
Continue reading . . .
February 21, 2010
The Despot & The Boddhisatva
I 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.
February 13, 2010
you’re going to come for me
“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.
Continue reading . . .
February 13, 2010
Tight Spots
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.” Continue reading . . .
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