Things you will need:
Fear
Dread
Anxiety
Alarm
Horror
Unremitting agony
Implements of torture and misery
If necessary, a way to restrain your masochist
Begin the process of cooking your masochist by marinating it in fear and trepidation. You will want to start this step at least a few hours in advance of your scene, preferably an entire day before. The marinade should consist of a steady dose of panic-inducing suggestions, innuendos, predictions. At first, the marinade may seem to simply run off the masochist without affect, but don't worry: it's infusing itself into the bloodstream, creating a whirling, pounding sense of terror. Later, it will add a distinct flavor to the dish!
Right before you are ready to start in on your masochist, stir in some anxiety, doubt, and dread. Do this by reminding it what is about to happen to its body, mind and soul; what you have planned--and what you are still contemplating; and that while its survival is assured, everything else is basically still on the table. Reiterate that the pain they are about to endure might be your fault, but it was their choice, and that choice is about to fucking hurt deep.
Tie up your masochist so it's ready for the procedure ahead. This is not unlike trussing up a chicken, turkey, or pig. You can use rope, leather...hell, you can even use twine. The point is to keep exposed all the body parts you want exposed, and tuck away all the limbs you don't want getting in the way, so that the meat cooks exactly how you want it to. The masochist, feeling trapped at this point, may try to test its bonds by thrashing and flailing. Let it; the faster it realizes it's not going anywhere, the faster it will surrender to the pain ahead.
Now it's time to tenderize the meat! But, like my grandmother used to say, make sure you're using the right tools for the right job. If you want to warm the meat slowly and evenly, you'll want to start out with something smooth and flat. But sometimes the meat is acting tough, and will require a good pounding from the get-go to see any good results. The masochist may begin to tremble and strain, but this is all normal. Its endorphins are starting to bubble to the surface, and the more you let them escape, the better. Its smarting, aching flesh should slowly become a beautiful glowing red. It may also have purple areas, depending on your tenderizing technique; this is also nothing to worry about.
Once the masochist has been reduced to a tormented, runny mess, it is ready to be cooked. What's good about cooking masochist is that there are so many ways to do it. Masochist can be fried up with electricity and fire; it can be beat up with canes and floggers; it can be whipped with, well, whips; it can be baked with paddles and tawses. In its distress, the masochist will probably not remain quiet. It may even shriek, holler, gasp and scream in its throes of agony. Be prepared for this--have a gag ready, if need be. A ball gag works wonders. A small apple may fit in its mouth, too.
As the masochist cooks, all its juices will start flowing to the surface, and it will probably get creamy. Don't waste this soft sweet juice! Baste the meat liberally as the cooking continues. You can even remove the gag once in a while to force its juices back into its mouth. It may very well be crying at this point, too, and the juices mixed with its tears should make a unique tangy/sweet taste on its tongue. Don't be shy about tasting yourself!
Depending on the masochist, you will know its ready when it's thrashing has simmered down to a low, miserable quiver; when its skin is flushed and throbbing; when the bruises have risen nicely to the surface; and when it can do nothing but stare into dreamy space, utterly removed from its current torment. Do not base your decision on whether the masochist has had enough solely on the appearance of the body. Judge on its state of mind: basically, it should have no mind left. Once your masochist is incapable of putting coherent thoughts together, it is probably done.
At this point, the masochist needs time to cool down. Sit it in a corner, keep it still and quiet if necessary. Treat it like a soufflé: don't let it drop too quickly! This part can be tricky to learn, but with enough practice, I'm sure you'll get it.
By the time the process is over, your masochist should look great, feel great, and taste great. Good job! And remember: don't be afraid to experiment. This is just one recipe; have fun making your own!
Memaparkan catatan dengan label Kinky Stuff. Papar semua catatan
Memaparkan catatan dengan label Kinky Stuff. Papar semua catatan
Khamis, 30 Januari 2014
Spread
 |
| Yes, this is my hand, and that is my plug. |
Rarely do I do this. On many nights, at least nights like this one, when I'm expecting him to wrestle me, pin me down, fight for his claim over my flesh, I make him forcibly strip me. But tonight, I didn't want him to have to bother. That would have been as entertaining as an opening act, and I wanted to get to the main attraction.
I also didn't want him to rip my shirt off me. I happened to like this one.
As soon as we were both naked, he came after me.
Almost never are there words spoken between us at this stage of the game
(hunt)
because there is no point. If he tried to order me to do something, then what? I would simply refuse. I had not been cowered yet. I had not been made to submit.
I had not been caught.
He didn't try to grab me by the arm as he sometimes does. He twisted his leg around my knee instead, buckling it so I stumbled; and at the same time, he pushed down on the bed, covering me with his own harder body. I sucked in my breath. Before I could let it out, he had my arms pinned above my head.
He chuckled.
"That was too easy," he said, mocking me in his triumph. "You're losing it."
I bucked him with my leg, got one hand free, and dug my nails under his knee. He rolled to escape.
"Not yet," I hissed. "You haven't got me yet."
We wrestled, rolled, fell together, and ripped each other apart. We grunted and howled as we took turns advancing, only to be coyly outmaneuvered and have to try again. We laughed as we played, the hysterical laughter of jackals, fighting for top position.
When he pinned me face down, legs caught and hanging off the edge of the bed, I knew I was beaten.
His hand came down on my derriere with a resounding smack. I shrieked and squirmed.
"That one's going to leave my hand print mark," he said, his voice now casual. He knew he had won, and more importantly, he knew that I knew it, too. "Let's see if I can leave the same print on the other cheek."
His hand came down again, this time on the other side of my bottom, and I shrieked just as loudly. But I didn't squirm. I was like the deer dragged to the cougar's lair, waiting to be eaten: I was frozen, knowing my fate, waiting for the pain, and the end.
I longed for mine.
He grabbed the cane off the drawer chest and made fun use of it. We were both sweating by then, but all I could smell was his adrenaline and testosterone, mingled with his unique, Husband smell. It pulled me down into subspace, and I went complaisantly enough as the pain pushed me down even further from the other side.
The cane became his magic wand, and he wielded it with grandeur, like a dark wizard of old: weaving tight glowing ribbons of blazing agony around my shuddering body.
"Stay," he said. I did not move.
I felt his presence leave me, then return. The mattress sank under his weight: he was kneeling by my head.
My wrists were gripped by cool, gentle hands, and buckled into cuffs. Then they were pulled behind my back, and the cuffs were snapped together.
He got up, walked around to stand by my head, and pulled my body forward until my head was hanging down the edge, right next to his swollen cock.
"Suck it."
I did, without protest, and he sighed in pleasure. But he only let me show him my newly rediscovered submission for a few moments. Then he went back around the bed.
I felt him put cuffs on my ankles, first one, then the other. And when I tried to close my legs, I found I could not: he had put a spreader bar between them.
"Bend your knees all the way up," he ordered. I did, and he unsnapped my wrists from each other so he could snap them instead to my ankle cuffs. My back arched a bit by the excursion: the position made me feel like a trussed up pig.
Which was probably the point.
"Now we have some real fun," he said. "Time for some lube."
I squeaked at this point. I had a feeling I knew what was coming, but fear kept me from saying anything, as if stopping myself from voicing the suspicion out loud would prevent it from happening.
I knew how futile my superstitious logic was when I felt the cold, smooth blunted glass press against my asshole.
"Better relax," he said, pulling apart my butt cheeks to get a better view of the show about to start.
"It's too big," I whined, moaning as I felt the rock-hard buttplug gain another millimeter inside my sphincter.
"I'm not going to push," he said. "We have time. I'll let your body do the work. But you'll take the whole thing in."
He spread my ass cheeks apart further, and I willed myself to relax, knowing there was no escape from what was going to happen. Even as I gasped, and groaned, and struggled, I could feel the buttplug naturally sliding into my rear channel as my body sucked it in between each spasm of my muscles.
"It's going," he said. "It's almost in."
As the widest part of the massive buttplug slipped past my sphincter, I yelled, the agony becoming a ring of fire that throbbed and burned. But it only lasted a minute. Then I was stuffed, my asshole constricting around the hard glass. I could feel the handle pressing into my butt cheeks.
"Good girl," he said, lifting his hands and letting my ass snap shut around the buttplug. "You look amazing right now."
"Thank you" I said, a bit too sarcastically. He laughed.
"You know, I could really go for a nice cold drink right now." His point didn't register until I realized he was putting his pants back on. Then I turned my head to look at him in bafflement. He was already by the door, his hand on the knob. "Don't go anywhere," he said with a taunt, and left the room.
I was stuck, spread, plugged, and alone.
My shock quickly gave way to amazement, and then to awe. He had left me there like his wrapped up, packaged plaything. Which is exactly what I was.
The realization made me so horny and wet, my whole body tightened up, which only served to make the buttplug feel even harder and bigger. I rocked my body as much as I could, trying to get some friction against the buttplug. It was no use. All my effort did was make me even more aroused and frustrated.
So I relaxed my body, focused on my breathing, and hoped he would return quickly.
As my cheek rested against the sheet, I listened for his movements downstairs: the creak of the kitchen cabinet opening, the hum of the refrigerator as its door opened, the churn of the ice machine going...then slow, careful sipping. I could envision him in my mind's eye, calmly standing next to the fridge, sipping his drink, knowing I was upstairs, waiting.
And then the TV turned on.
My head came up off the bed with the realization he had no intent to return any time soon. He might make me wait a few minutes; he might make me wait for hours.
He might make me wait all fucking night.
I breathed. I willed myself to be still, to not struggle...and not rock against the plug. Calling for him was out of the question, as well he knew. Too big a risk of rousing one of the kids. All I could do was focus on my breathing...and wait.
I could feel the leather of the cuffs rubbing against my skin, the stretch of my sinews holding my restrained position, the air hitting my most private, intimate parts...and the plug, lodged deep inside my bottom.
After a while, the sound of the TV abruptly stopped, and my ears picked up, waiting for any sound that would give me some indication what the man was up to. I heard the blessed sounds of his feet coming up the stairs.
I didn't know if I should cry in relief, or shriek in frustration.
But in the end, I didn't do either of those things. My face remained passive, but my eyes told him all.
Our eyes met, and he smiled.
"You're ready," he said.
He uncuffed my wrists first, and I spread my arms out across the bed, stretching them gratefully. Then he dragged me to the edge of the bed, and uncuffed my ankles from the spreader bar, letting my legs fall until my feet touched the floor.
As I relaxed my limbs, relieved to be free, Husband remained behind me, grabbing my ass.
"Relax."
Slowly, he pulled out the buttplug, as I whimpered and quaked. Once it was free, I sighed and went limp.
My relief was not to last long.
Husband squeezed another dollop of lube on my still-throbbing asshole, aimed his cock, and pushed right in. All I could do was cringe and hang on.
And then he was fucking my ass, hard, and I was fucking him right back, with all the wanting (and waiting) that had been growing inside me since he'd left the room.
I spread my legs on the floor, stood on my tiptoes, and slammed my body back against his. I reached between my legs and rubbed my clit, working frantically to make myself come. There was no desire to wait and enjoy the process. I had already been waiting far longer than I would have liked. All I wanted to do at that point was gain heavenly release.
I came, and as my body spasmed and convulsed, so did he. He kept slamming me until he was through, and then he collapsed over my body, our breath slowly harmonizing into one waving rhythm. When he stood, I could feel his skin sticking to my mine the second before it pulled away. The cold air hit my flesh where his body had kept me warm a moment ago, and I shivered.
He recovered first, as is usually the case, and stepped back to take a good look at me.
"Who do you belong to?"
"You."
"Who will you always belong to?"
"You."
"And what can I do with you?"
"Whatever you want."
"Good girl."
He knelt down to give me a quick kiss on the cheek, then padded into the bathroom to shower.
I have been beaten, again. I have been cowered, corralled, seized, fettered, and subdued, again.
I have been won. Again.
Until next time.
How We Negotiate
A while back, Husband and I made a deal to get me motivated to exercise more.
I wrote about it here.
The deal was, I would get on the treadmill for half an hour, five times a week, and for every minute I skipped, he would get to beat my butt.
Since then, I have stuck to the deal, with some adjustments. I've been getting on the treadmill five times a week; sometimes I have to skip a weeknight, due to some prior obligation, but I make up for it on the weekends, and that's okay. He also lets me accrue time, so that if I do two nights of 45 minutes, I'm able to skip the next when I'm too tired.
We've altered the deal through negotiation, but I've not broken it. Not once.
Not until now.
Like I wrote in the last post, Husband is away on business travel until the end of this week. He travels fairly often, and I'm used to it. I don't enjoy it (I miss him terribly), but I know the routine and how to handle things. I thought it would be fine.
Until right before he left. His last hour at home. We were sitting at the kitchen table, and he casually let me know he expects me to still get on the treadmill every day while he's gone.
I was not allowed to skip days. I was not allowed to accrue time. I had to do at least half an hour, every day.
Last week was fine. The kids were off for Thanksgiving break, so we didn't have to rush to be anywhere, and most places were closed, anyway. I put on a movie in the family room, gave each one of them their own bowl of popcorn, and that was it. Half an hour later, they were still exactly where I left them, munching away.
Monday was more difficult. I had errands to run, chores to do. The kids came home from school, and they needed my attention. It was already a fight who would get to talk to me first. Disappearing for half an hour and making myself completely unavailable was out of the question.
I skipped the treadmill.
Tuesday I wasn't too worried about it. "If I do 45 minutes today and 45 minutes tomorrow, he'll probably let it slide," I thought.
Then the day got away from me. I had a PTA emergency, a friend who needed a shoulder to cry on for over an hour...and then the kids came home, and all hell broke loose. By the time 8:00 rolled around, I knew the treadmill and I would not be making our date.
And then Husband called.
I don't know how that man always knows what's going on with me, but he does. It's like he has ESP powers over me. His secret Husband senses were telling him there was a disturbance in our D/s force.
We talked about mundane things for a few minutes, how the kids were doing, how much we missed each other, that kind of thing...and then he asked the question.
"So. Have you been going on the treadmill?"
"Um. Um."
"I take that as a no." The smug satisfaction was thick in his voice, like I as just confirming something he already knew.
"I did! Kinda! I did over the weekend! Just not yesterday. Or today."
"I see." There was a heavy pause. "You'll be getting the horseradish on Saturday."
That was it. No words of disappointment, no reprimand. Just a proclamation of punishment.
I suddenly wanted to cry.
"Shall I get it for you?" I thought maybe my offer would appease him somewhat. Also, it would give me the chance to pick the root myself.
"No. I'll go and get it when I get back. That's my job."
Now the censure was clear. I will do my job, you should have taken care to do yours was the message.
The conversation moved on, the kids took turns talking to him, and we all hung up.
About half an hour later, he calls again.
"I've been thinking. You said you missed yesterday, and today?"
"Yes...."
"That's two days. You should get the horseradish for two nights."
"Now hold on here," I said. "The task was to get on the treadmill. I failed in my task, so that's one punishment."
"But the task was to get on each day," he replied. "You missed two days, so that's two punishments."
"No, no. No no no. The job was divided up between days, but still one job. It counts as one."
He thought about it.
"I'll let you get away with one punishment...but I'll use two roots. One in your ass and one in your pussy."
"What!"
"Unless you want me to try to fit two roots in your ass? That might be too much, even for you."
"WHAT!"
"I think this is fair. One punishment, two roots. We'll see where they fit on Saturday."
And while I sat there with the phone to my ear, struck speechless, breath frozen in my chest, he said his goodbyes and hung up.
I wrote about it here.
The deal was, I would get on the treadmill for half an hour, five times a week, and for every minute I skipped, he would get to beat my butt.
 |
| When I said "motivated," I meant "tormented." (No this is not me) |
We've altered the deal through negotiation, but I've not broken it. Not once.
Not until now.
Like I wrote in the last post, Husband is away on business travel until the end of this week. He travels fairly often, and I'm used to it. I don't enjoy it (I miss him terribly), but I know the routine and how to handle things. I thought it would be fine.
Until right before he left. His last hour at home. We were sitting at the kitchen table, and he casually let me know he expects me to still get on the treadmill every day while he's gone.
I was not allowed to skip days. I was not allowed to accrue time. I had to do at least half an hour, every day.
Last week was fine. The kids were off for Thanksgiving break, so we didn't have to rush to be anywhere, and most places were closed, anyway. I put on a movie in the family room, gave each one of them their own bowl of popcorn, and that was it. Half an hour later, they were still exactly where I left them, munching away.
Monday was more difficult. I had errands to run, chores to do. The kids came home from school, and they needed my attention. It was already a fight who would get to talk to me first. Disappearing for half an hour and making myself completely unavailable was out of the question.
I skipped the treadmill.
Tuesday I wasn't too worried about it. "If I do 45 minutes today and 45 minutes tomorrow, he'll probably let it slide," I thought.
Then the day got away from me. I had a PTA emergency, a friend who needed a shoulder to cry on for over an hour...and then the kids came home, and all hell broke loose. By the time 8:00 rolled around, I knew the treadmill and I would not be making our date.
And then Husband called.
 |
| Caught with my pants down! (No this is not me either) |
 |
| Not me. |
"So. Have you been going on the treadmill?"
"Um. Um."
"I take that as a no." The smug satisfaction was thick in his voice, like I as just confirming something he already knew.
"I did! Kinda! I did over the weekend! Just not yesterday. Or today."
"I see." There was a heavy pause. "You'll be getting the horseradish on Saturday."
That was it. No words of disappointment, no reprimand. Just a proclamation of punishment.
I suddenly wanted to cry.
"Shall I get it for you?" I thought maybe my offer would appease him somewhat. Also, it would give me the chance to pick the root myself.
"No. I'll go and get it when I get back. That's my job."
Now the censure was clear. I will do my job, you should have taken care to do yours was the message.
The conversation moved on, the kids took turns talking to him, and we all hung up.
About half an hour later, he calls again.
"I've been thinking. You said you missed yesterday, and today?"
"Yes...."
"That's two days. You should get the horseradish for two nights."
"Now hold on here," I said. "The task was to get on the treadmill. I failed in my task, so that's one punishment."
"But the task was to get on each day," he replied. "You missed two days, so that's two punishments."
"No, no. No no no. The job was divided up between days, but still one job. It counts as one."
He thought about it.
"I'll let you get away with one punishment...but I'll use two roots. One in your ass and one in your pussy."
"What!"
"Unless you want me to try to fit two roots in your ass? That might be too much, even for you."
"WHAT!"
"I think this is fair. One punishment, two roots. We'll see where they fit on Saturday."
And while I sat there with the phone to my ear, struck speechless, breath frozen in my chest, he said his goodbyes and hung up.
This is how we negotiate.
Saturday is going to be an interesting day.
Ten Things Anal Sluts Think Of While Getting Fucked in the Ass
Inspired by some writings I've recently seen online (sorry, they're on Fetlife so I can't link to them, but believe me, they are good), I decided to write my own:
1. Whoa! That lube is cold. Don't use too little! But don't use too much either! I don't want a mess on the sheets again.
2. How is it you like to do this to me, anyway? I mean, I know it's tight and warm in there, but still...THEY DON'T CALL IT THE POOP CHUTE FOR NOTHING. Doesn't this gross you out? Please don't let this gross you out.
3. Ok, some pressure...I can take it...ow. Ow ow OW. God I forgot again how much this hurts.
4. I can take it...the worst must be over now...OKAY I GUESS NOT OW OW OW.
5. Okay. Okay. Worst is definitely over. He's in. OH WAIT HE HELD BACK OH JESUS.
6. He's sliding now...this isn't so bad...I can handle this.
7. Mmm, those are some very nice colors floating by.
8. Oh God, this is really awesome, I mean this is fucking amazing, holy shit it HURTS but please don't STOP
9. Why can't I ever come this good with plain 'ole vaginal sex?
10. Okay, you can pull out now. Now, really, it's starting to hurt again. WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DIDN'T COME YET
Ten Things Anal Sluts Think Of While Getting Fucked in the Ass
1. Whoa! That lube is cold. Don't use too little! But don't use too much either! I don't want a mess on the sheets again.
2. How is it you like to do this to me, anyway? I mean, I know it's tight and warm in there, but still...THEY DON'T CALL IT THE POOP CHUTE FOR NOTHING. Doesn't this gross you out? Please don't let this gross you out.
3. Ok, some pressure...I can take it...ow. Ow ow OW. God I forgot again how much this hurts.
4. I can take it...the worst must be over now...OKAY I GUESS NOT OW OW OW.
5. Okay. Okay. Worst is definitely over. He's in. OH WAIT HE HELD BACK OH JESUS.
6. He's sliding now...this isn't so bad...I can handle this.
7. Mmm, those are some very nice colors floating by.
8. Oh God, this is really awesome, I mean this is fucking amazing, holy shit it HURTS but please don't STOP
9. Why can't I ever come this good with plain 'ole vaginal sex?
10. Okay, you can pull out now. Now, really, it's starting to hurt again. WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DIDN'T COME YET
Results of the Anal Sex Poll
The question posed was thus:
Before anal sex, does the dick get lubed, or the asshole?
A whopping 75% of you voted "both".
Of those who picked one, the asshole got double the number of votes as the dick.
A handful of you voted "neither." To which I say…OW.
The reason why I asked is because Husband never lubes up his dick. I don't know why. Periodically over the years, I've asked him to, and he never does it. I think it has something to do with him not wanting to go to the trouble of rubbing his own dick when an available hole is right there, warm and inviting. But I might be wrong.
It definitely has something to do with the fact that lubing my ass can be a hit-or-miss thing, and in Husband's mind, this adds to the sadistic fun. Oftentimes, Husband's not too careful about it. He'll tip the bottle over my ass crack, let some lube slide out…and if it lands on my cringing sphincter, great! If not, I'm out of luck. He might be kind enough rub the lube around if he missed his target completely, but if the slippery stuff manages to get on one side of my ass, but not the other, Husband's mentality is usually something to the effect of Oh, well. This is gonna pinch her a little.
Tee hee.
If he's feeling magnanimous, he'll spread the lube around the sphincter area…with his dick. This is also a hit-or-miss thing. Sometimes it feels like he's spreading the goop all over my butt cheeks, everywhere but on the asshole itself. Sometimes he'll tease me with it, rubbing his dick along my crack until it feels like the lube is starting to dry, and I'm filling up with fear.
More often times he's just assuming his pumping will managed to smear the lube everywhere it needs to go—eventually, anyway—and there's no reason to hold back.
Yes, the lube gets everywhere it needs to go…eventually…usually around the time I'm trying to crawl away from him to escape the agony and he's pinning me down and ramming into me and the tears are pooling in my eyes and I'm crying and he's pulling the hair away from my face so he can see my expression of torment as he laughs in my ear.
But he knows I enjoy the pain. More importantly, he enjoys my pain—and my subjugation.
That is why he does it.
And yes, sometimes he'll use his fingers in me, sometimes he'll use a butt plug first, sometimes the anal vibrator comes out…and in those cases, I get lubed up nice and deep before his dick comes anywhere near me. But I never know when that's going to happen. I never know what kind of foreplay he has planned in his head unless he tells me, which is not very often.
And the thing is, he's not using his fingers or plug or toy to help get me lubed and relaxed. He's using them because it's fun and he feels like it.
If he doesn't feel like it? Oh well. This is gonna pinch a little. Suck it up, anal slut.
I think I might bring this poll to his attention. Look! I'll say. Most people lube both! Not just the asshole! You can lube your dick you know!
Then again, he may just choose to become one of those people who uses no lube at all.
OW. And OH. And…I'm totally getting turned on right now.
Before anal sex, does the dick get lubed, or the asshole?
A whopping 75% of you voted "both".
Of those who picked one, the asshole got double the number of votes as the dick.
A handful of you voted "neither." To which I say…OW.
The reason why I asked is because Husband never lubes up his dick. I don't know why. Periodically over the years, I've asked him to, and he never does it. I think it has something to do with him not wanting to go to the trouble of rubbing his own dick when an available hole is right there, warm and inviting. But I might be wrong.
It definitely has something to do with the fact that lubing my ass can be a hit-or-miss thing, and in Husband's mind, this adds to the sadistic fun. Oftentimes, Husband's not too careful about it. He'll tip the bottle over my ass crack, let some lube slide out…and if it lands on my cringing sphincter, great! If not, I'm out of luck. He might be kind enough rub the lube around if he missed his target completely, but if the slippery stuff manages to get on one side of my ass, but not the other, Husband's mentality is usually something to the effect of Oh, well. This is gonna pinch her a little.
Tee hee.
If he's feeling magnanimous, he'll spread the lube around the sphincter area…with his dick. This is also a hit-or-miss thing. Sometimes it feels like he's spreading the goop all over my butt cheeks, everywhere but on the asshole itself. Sometimes he'll tease me with it, rubbing his dick along my crack until it feels like the lube is starting to dry, and I'm filling up with fear.
More often times he's just assuming his pumping will managed to smear the lube everywhere it needs to go—eventually, anyway—and there's no reason to hold back.
Yes, the lube gets everywhere it needs to go…eventually…usually around the time I'm trying to crawl away from him to escape the agony and he's pinning me down and ramming into me and the tears are pooling in my eyes and I'm crying and he's pulling the hair away from my face so he can see my expression of torment as he laughs in my ear.
But he knows I enjoy the pain. More importantly, he enjoys my pain—and my subjugation.
That is why he does it.
And yes, sometimes he'll use his fingers in me, sometimes he'll use a butt plug first, sometimes the anal vibrator comes out…and in those cases, I get lubed up nice and deep before his dick comes anywhere near me. But I never know when that's going to happen. I never know what kind of foreplay he has planned in his head unless he tells me, which is not very often.
And the thing is, he's not using his fingers or plug or toy to help get me lubed and relaxed. He's using them because it's fun and he feels like it.
If he doesn't feel like it? Oh well. This is gonna pinch a little. Suck it up, anal slut.
I think I might bring this poll to his attention. Look! I'll say. Most people lube both! Not just the asshole! You can lube your dick you know!
Then again, he may just choose to become one of those people who uses no lube at all.
OW. And OH. And…I'm totally getting turned on right now.
Plans Gone Awry
Last night was supposed to be epic.
Husband I were going to try out a new toy. But it wasn't just any toy: it was a pain toy. Pain toys are a big deal because you can never be sure exactly how it's going to work out, no matter what you've read about them or how much research you've done. This is because 1. everyone's pain tolerance is different, and 2. some people have attitudes towards specific pain implements that affects their levels of pain and panic in a purely psychological way.
For instance, I love the belt. I crave the belt. Husband knows one of the easiest ways to turn me on is to look me in the eyes as he slowly pulls his belt out from the loops of his pants. So I can take a lot of pain with the belt, because on some fundamental level, I associate belt-pain with happy-pain, even though the welts going across my bottom say otherwise. When Husband punishes me with the belt, he knows he's got to really work to break through that happy-pain barrier into punishment-pain.
The power cord, on the other hand...I am terrified of the power cord. Husband loves it, loves using it for punishments, because it is quiet, sharp, and I'm usually a crying whimpering mess before he even gets it out. But by the time he's done, most of the time my ass looks just as sore and abused as when he uses the belt. The difference is, when I see my sore bottom after a session with the belt, I feel happy and satisfied. When I see my bottom after a session with the power cord, I just cringe.
New toys have to broken in slowly, because you never know what the reaction is going to be until you try it out. And the initial reaction is not always the one you stick with; it's more like a first impression. You have to really get to know the toy before you can judge its strengths and flaws. That's why Husband will never try a new pain toy during a punishment. When he is punishing me, he needs to keep control over everything that's going on and everything he's doing to me, and he just can't do that if he's not familiar enough with the implement. (Again, this is a sign of a good Dom: even when the goal is to reprimand you through pain, he will always maintain control of the measure of pain he inflicts.)
So, back to last night...we were supposed to try a new pain toy. The schedule was laid out: he would come home, and I would shower. I would not eat dinner, but drink a fruit-smoothie to keep my strength up (eating right before trying out a new pain toy is not always the best idea). After the kids went to bed, we would head up to the bedroom, where I would be under his complete control and follow orders implicitly, while he had fun experimenting with the new toy on every inch of my skin he wished and in every position he chose.
Then shit blew up. Literally.
"Mom, why does the bathroom smell so bad?" My eldest son asked. I thought maybe youngest son had used the toilet and forgot to flush, but nope.
Long story short: we were the proud owners of a broken sewer pipe.
I called the city. They said it could take two hours for a guy to show up. About an hour and a half later, someone comes, checks things out, and declares nothing can be done for the night. It would have to wait till morning.
"You can use the toilets," he says, "but don't flush."
Um, excuse me?
"And don't run the water," he continues. "And for God's sake, don't shower."
Husband and I looked at each other. We could deal with brushing our teeth in the backyard and using sanitizer wipes for our hands, but no flushing the toilet?
"Mom, I have to go the bathroom," eldest son declares.
"Me too," middle son decides.
"Can you just go in the yard, next to the tree?" Husband asks.
"Uh, no," eldest son shakes his head. "It's not that kind of bathroom trip."
"For me either," middle son says.
So I load them up in the car, drive down to a local fast-food joint, and order us some food while they go use the bathroom. It is, as my eldest son says, "a stupid situation."
I order a salad for myself, too, cause there's no way Husband and I are going to get kinky tonight. Not without running water, not without me taking a shower first, not if I can't wash off the sweat and stink and sticky stuff later.
We eat and start the drive home.
"Mom, I'm not feeling well," middle son says.
"What, you need to throw up?"
"Yeah."
"Can you wait until we're home?" And then I realize: we have no working toilets at home for him to throw up into.
"No." His face is turning pale; he looks at me in fear.
"QUICK, LOOK FOR A BAG," I yell behind me to eldest son. He looks around.
"I have a shoe box," he declares, handing it up to middle son. As soon as middle son has it, he's throwing up his entire fast-food dinner.
We get home, throw out the shoe box, bring a bowl of water outside to the backyard, and middle son washes his face and brushes his teeth as best he can. Then I get everyone ready for bed (grumbling because it's an hour before their bedtime but I don't CARE), have them go pee against the tree one last time, and send them to sleep.
Husband is waiting for me in the bedroom, looking very put-out.
"It's not happening tonight," he says.
"No," I say.
"This is pretty shitty," he says.
"Yes," I agree. Then we both start laughing.
Being in a BDSM relationship, living a kinky lifestyle, does not mean it's kink and sex and fun every night. It doesn't mean we're humping like bunnies all time. Kink and BDSM is a huge, integral part of our lives, but it is not what our family revolves around.
Sometimes life gets in the way, shit happens (literally), and you just got to deal with it as it comes and put the kink aside until the timing is right.
But if you're in a good, solid, BDSM relationship, these hiccups that life throws at you won't be a big deal. It'll be disappointing, yes, but it won't be the end of the world. You'll know there will be other nights, hopefully hundreds and hundreds of them, to give into your kinky cravings and satisfy your Dom's (or sub's) needs.
Sometimes being in a BDSM relationship means enduring the pain...and sometimes it means enduring everything that's keeping you from it.
Husband I were going to try out a new toy. But it wasn't just any toy: it was a pain toy. Pain toys are a big deal because you can never be sure exactly how it's going to work out, no matter what you've read about them or how much research you've done. This is because 1. everyone's pain tolerance is different, and 2. some people have attitudes towards specific pain implements that affects their levels of pain and panic in a purely psychological way.
For instance, I love the belt. I crave the belt. Husband knows one of the easiest ways to turn me on is to look me in the eyes as he slowly pulls his belt out from the loops of his pants. So I can take a lot of pain with the belt, because on some fundamental level, I associate belt-pain with happy-pain, even though the welts going across my bottom say otherwise. When Husband punishes me with the belt, he knows he's got to really work to break through that happy-pain barrier into punishment-pain.
The power cord, on the other hand...I am terrified of the power cord. Husband loves it, loves using it for punishments, because it is quiet, sharp, and I'm usually a crying whimpering mess before he even gets it out. But by the time he's done, most of the time my ass looks just as sore and abused as when he uses the belt. The difference is, when I see my sore bottom after a session with the belt, I feel happy and satisfied. When I see my bottom after a session with the power cord, I just cringe.
New toys have to broken in slowly, because you never know what the reaction is going to be until you try it out. And the initial reaction is not always the one you stick with; it's more like a first impression. You have to really get to know the toy before you can judge its strengths and flaws. That's why Husband will never try a new pain toy during a punishment. When he is punishing me, he needs to keep control over everything that's going on and everything he's doing to me, and he just can't do that if he's not familiar enough with the implement. (Again, this is a sign of a good Dom: even when the goal is to reprimand you through pain, he will always maintain control of the measure of pain he inflicts.)
So, back to last night...we were supposed to try a new pain toy. The schedule was laid out: he would come home, and I would shower. I would not eat dinner, but drink a fruit-smoothie to keep my strength up (eating right before trying out a new pain toy is not always the best idea). After the kids went to bed, we would head up to the bedroom, where I would be under his complete control and follow orders implicitly, while he had fun experimenting with the new toy on every inch of my skin he wished and in every position he chose.
Then shit blew up. Literally.
"Mom, why does the bathroom smell so bad?" My eldest son asked. I thought maybe youngest son had used the toilet and forgot to flush, but nope.
Long story short: we were the proud owners of a broken sewer pipe.
I called the city. They said it could take two hours for a guy to show up. About an hour and a half later, someone comes, checks things out, and declares nothing can be done for the night. It would have to wait till morning.
"You can use the toilets," he says, "but don't flush."
Um, excuse me?
"And don't run the water," he continues. "And for God's sake, don't shower."
Husband and I looked at each other. We could deal with brushing our teeth in the backyard and using sanitizer wipes for our hands, but no flushing the toilet?
"Mom, I have to go the bathroom," eldest son declares.
"Me too," middle son decides.
"Can you just go in the yard, next to the tree?" Husband asks.
"Uh, no," eldest son shakes his head. "It's not that kind of bathroom trip."
"For me either," middle son says.
So I load them up in the car, drive down to a local fast-food joint, and order us some food while they go use the bathroom. It is, as my eldest son says, "a stupid situation."
I order a salad for myself, too, cause there's no way Husband and I are going to get kinky tonight. Not without running water, not without me taking a shower first, not if I can't wash off the sweat and stink and sticky stuff later.
We eat and start the drive home.
"Mom, I'm not feeling well," middle son says.
"What, you need to throw up?"
"Yeah."
"Can you wait until we're home?" And then I realize: we have no working toilets at home for him to throw up into.
"No." His face is turning pale; he looks at me in fear.
"QUICK, LOOK FOR A BAG," I yell behind me to eldest son. He looks around.
"I have a shoe box," he declares, handing it up to middle son. As soon as middle son has it, he's throwing up his entire fast-food dinner.
We get home, throw out the shoe box, bring a bowl of water outside to the backyard, and middle son washes his face and brushes his teeth as best he can. Then I get everyone ready for bed (grumbling because it's an hour before their bedtime but I don't CARE), have them go pee against the tree one last time, and send them to sleep.
Husband is waiting for me in the bedroom, looking very put-out.
"It's not happening tonight," he says.
"No," I say.
"This is pretty shitty," he says.
"Yes," I agree. Then we both start laughing.
Being in a BDSM relationship, living a kinky lifestyle, does not mean it's kink and sex and fun every night. It doesn't mean we're humping like bunnies all time. Kink and BDSM is a huge, integral part of our lives, but it is not what our family revolves around.
Sometimes life gets in the way, shit happens (literally), and you just got to deal with it as it comes and put the kink aside until the timing is right.
But if you're in a good, solid, BDSM relationship, these hiccups that life throws at you won't be a big deal. It'll be disappointing, yes, but it won't be the end of the world. You'll know there will be other nights, hopefully hundreds and hundreds of them, to give into your kinky cravings and satisfy your Dom's (or sub's) needs.
Sometimes being in a BDSM relationship means enduring the pain...and sometimes it means enduring everything that's keeping you from it.
Selasa, 28 Januari 2014
Release
"I made a mistake yesterday, not using restraints on you," he says. "I had to worry too much about your hands getting in the way. I won't be making that mistake again."
He attaches the leather strap binding my two cuffs to the hook on the door. My arms are not stretched painfully, but my hands can no longer offer me any protection.
"Do I still have to apologize for that email?" I ask, wondering what he is waiting to hear, what signal I need to offer to make him stop. What I can give him that will save me.
"We've gone beyond that," he says. My heart skips. I breathe hard.
My first reaction of fear.
He goes to the bed, retrieves the cane. I can look over my shoulder and see him striding back torwards me, clenching the cane in his fist. The gleam in his eyes fills me with icy trepidation.
"What do you want from me?" I ask.
"Nothing," he whispers. "Nothing but to hear you scream. Later, you can say your sorry. Later, you can say 'yes, Sir' when I ask you to talk, and maybe that'll be enough for me. But right now, there's nothing you can say."
Then he puts the gag in my mouth, pushing it between my teeth and pulling it tight around my head. I close my eyes, and brace myself against the door. The adrenaline is rushing my blood hard now; soon, the endorphins will come, too. I am already sinking into subspace.
The first strike of the cane is vicious. I arch my body into the door.
"Your ass is purple in some places from yesterday," he says. "I'll try to aim for other spots. For now."
He swipes across my ass cheeks, working methodically up and down. Then he works my thighs, stepping around my body to cut new lines into my flesh.
I kick up my heels and hop from foot to foot, knowing it will not help, but unable to stop myself. My hands yank at the leather strap binding me to the door. They want instinctively to rub the sting away, and cover my flaming bottom. They cannot.
"You see?" He asks in a tone of triumph. "Things are much easier when I don't have to worry about your hands."
I hear him going to the bed, retrieving his next toy.
Something fierce and dreadful smacks against the curve of my hip. My head snaps up in agony.
"I got a new brush," he explains merrily. "It's wood, and has a flat handle. See?"
For a brief second, he holds it up in front of my eyes. Then he is peppering my ass with it.
I twist against the door, jerking my body around, trying to get away from his reach. It is pointless. But he grows tired at my feeble wriggling and grabs me around the hips, holding me still.
The brush burns into my skin like an iron. Tears cascade down my cheeks. My cries are muffled, but plaintive against the gag.
He laughs, hearing my cries. Then he takes off the gag.
"Now then," he says. "Are you sorry?"
"Yes, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
"Yes, what?"
I know what he wants, I know what he expects to hear. I am about to say the words, they are in my throat... and then the monster of stubborn defiance possesses me once more. With both hands, I give him the finger.
"Fingers," he says. "You want fingers?"
He pushes me against the door and grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking brutally. With his other hand, he takes aim of my asshole. He forces one finger in, then another. I cry out from the burning, ripping pain.
"Shall I fuck your ass like this?" He hisses in my ear. His fingers stretch. I howl. "Shall I fuck you dry? Do you think you would like it?"
"No Sir. No Sir," I cry through my sobs. I try to twist away. He bends my knees in with his foot, forcing me down harder on his probing fingers. I scream.
"This is much better," he says. He wiggles his fingers.
And then...and then I sigh and quiet down, because he is still rubbing his fingers deep inside my body, and it is beginning to feel good. His fingers become a welcome fullness, arousing all the right nerve endings. If he would get his fingers just a little bit wet....
He hears my sigh, sees my slackening face, and recognizes the change within me. He yanks out his fingers, fast. I yelp.
"None of that now," he says. "We're not there yet."
He goes back to the bed, and gets his next weapon. He holds it up proudly. I quake with fear.
"It's a cricket paddle," he says, circling it in his hand. "I had to go to two shops to find it. Apparently it's very popular in India. Who knew?"
Holding it in both hands, he raises it high--and swings. The impact jars me against the door. I suck air into my lungs, hold it for a second against the pain, and let out a high-pitched screech.
"This will do nicely," he says. He switches from one hand to the other, slapping the paddle against my buttocks and thighs with resounding smacks. My whole ass grows warm, then hot, until I feel like I am sitting on flaming coals. He never waivers in his rhythm or force.
"Please," I beg. "Please."
"Please what?"
"Please, Sir. Please, Sir."
"You think you've learned your lesson?"
"Yes, Sir. Yes, please, Sir..." I am shaking with the braying force of my sobs.
"Okay." He unbuckles the cuffs around my wrists.
I want to crumple to the floor. I want to take a few moments to breathe.
He grabs me by the hair again and pushes me across the room.
"On your knees," he growls. I fall to my knees. He spreads my legs open with his knee and enters me from behind, quick and hard. His entrance is an easy one. I am already wet and slick, both from sweat, and from aching need.
"You'd better come if you can, cause I'm not waiting for you," he says, pumping hard enough to jerk my body forward. I brace myself on my hands, lock in, and let my senses take over as he fills me over and over again, in and out, grinding, caressing....
He digs his nails into the abused flesh of my ass, clawing in. I shriek. He releases his grip, only to move to another section of my hot, blushing bottom. As he squeezes his fingers in, I squeeze my muscles tight around his hard length buried deep inside me. He pumps harder as he forms dark little half-moons all over my butt. A couple of them break the flesh; blood rises up, forming droplets on the surface. I feel the wetness, but don't understand what it is. Not yet.
But I don't care, I'm not really thinking about it anyway. All my focus is on the stabbing, stinging pain, and the tight, thrilling fullness. The feelings swarm and swell until I can't tell the difference.
We come together, both of us crying out in ecstasy.
He recovers first. He stands up, and looks down at my broken, bloody body.
"You need to wash," he says. "You stink. I can smell the fear on you."
I raise my eyes to look at him. In that moment, he is a god, an Adonis, my Lord and ruler...or maybe the devil arisen from hell itself.
I rub my face against his leg and kiss his foot.
"Yes, Sir," I say. A prayer to my god.
"But not yet," he says. "I'm going to wash first. You don't fucking move. You understand me? Don't fucking move."
I lower my head to the floor and stay still. "Yes, Sir." My voice cracks. He seems happy to hear this.
I watch him go around the door, hear the water turn on, hear his movements as he washes his body. Then he returns.
"Go," he says. "Wash up. But first...kiss me."
He pulls me up, circles me with his arms, and lowers his mouth to mine. It is a searing, forceful kiss, full of love and devotion.
"Feel better?" He asks me, looking deep into my eyes. He is not a god anymore, but my Lord and ruler all the same. My savior. My love. "All that pent-up stress gone now?"
"Yes. Oh, yes. Yes Sir," I say, hugging him tight. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." He rubs his nose against mine. We both smile. "Now go wash. You really do smell like sweat and fear."
"Okay...but, before I go, um..."
"What?"
"Can you do one thing for me?"
"What?"
"Can you take a picture of my ass?"
Advice about Anal Sex from an Anal Slut
I caught the tail end (the butt end?) of a discussion on twitter yesterday about how to introduce anal sex into a couple's repertoire. While I've been a self-proclaimed anal slut for years now, and am perfectly comfortable with the label, I do remember back when I was first getting started and facing the same fears and anxieties other women are still facing today. So these are my little bits of wisdom, many of which I wish someone had told me. I now pass them on to you lovely readers.
(The pictures, however, are probably completely unnecessary. I just love looking at them.)
The guy should be very verbal about how much the idea of putting things (not just cock) into his lovely woman's ass turns him on. He should also tell her, over and over, how much he loves her asshole in general, how much it excites him, how he sees it as something sexy, provocative, and adorable. A woman sees her asshole as something dirty; he must get her to see it his way.
Once a woman is open to the idea of something, anything, going into her ass as part of sexual play, with the right mindset and enough time the rest will happen on its own. But remember: once you claim the privilege of filling the asshole, you must also take on the responsibility of keeping it safe and feeling good!
2. The asshole is not like a pussy: it is naturally dry, and stays dry. In any kind of sex, dryness can lead to pain, and small tears in the skin; not sexy, and not what you want for that cute, adorable asshole you want to violate.
Solution: LUBE. The lube must be coated liberally on whatever is about to be pressed into the asshole. In addition, it also helps if lube can be inserted into and around the asshole directly; a finger does this job nicely. Be gentle!
3. The asshole does not stretch as fast as a pussy. The skin is more fragile and tight.
Solution: stretch it slowly. The tightest part of the asshole is the internal sphincter itself; once you are past that, smooth toys will slip through easily. In fact, the body's natural reaction is to suck things in! Start with a pencil-thin anal toy, then gradually get wider. What's important here is not length, it's width; so don't bother getting a toy that's 7-9 inches long, because it won't make a difference. All that matters is dilating that internal ring of muscle. And again, lube is important. The asshole will stretch much faster if you're using enough lube. But once a toy feels comfortably in place, there's no point leaving it; you might as well take a break, or move on to a bigger size. No point leaving it in for hours at a time. In fact, if the lube gets absorbed naturally by the tissues, the toy will begin to hurt, and you won't understand why and will frighten yourself for no reason.
4. The asshole is more sensitive than the pussy. Note: I don't know if this is true for all women. I do think it's true for most anal sluts. Pain is more pronounced, but then again, so is pleasure. Every stroke and slide that hits the nerve endings just so is like a stab of pure ecstasy. But angle things the wrong way, and it's like lemon juice on a paper cut.
Solution: Go slow...and I'm sorry, but--expect some pain. If you accept that this process will take time, that there will be some discomfort, some aching, and yes, some stinging along the way, but that your partner is only trying to figure out what pleases you and is doing his best to hurt you as little as possible, then the whole "introductory" time should go a lot faster. Remember, stretching the internal sphincter is the hardest part--and the most painful. Once that's done, the pain should lessen.
Once you've had anal sex a few times, you can anticipate how bad the initial pain will be, and prepare yourself for it. And--if you get off on the pain--you'll start to look forward to it; it becomes part of the thrill. But the initial pain never really goes away. You just come to know what to expect.
5. There's only one position for anal sex: doggie style.
Solution: OH HELL NO. No, no no. Any position you can have vaginal sex in, you can have anal sex; in fact, some positions are easier when you're having anal sex!
Some advice:
(The pictures, however, are probably completely unnecessary. I just love looking at them.)
1. When it comes to anal sex, the first barrier that must be broken down is the psychological one. If a woman is squeamish about things going into her ass, or even touching her asshole, she is going to have a hard time picturing herself enjoying anal sex.
Possible solutions: get some porn videos that include a lot of anal--the ones that focus on anal sex will usually give a hint to that fact in the title. There are even porn videos out there that work like a "how to" guide for anal sex. Watch them as a couple, together. Talk about them.The guy should be very verbal about how much the idea of putting things (not just cock) into his lovely woman's ass turns him on. He should also tell her, over and over, how much he loves her asshole in general, how much it excites him, how he sees it as something sexy, provocative, and adorable. A woman sees her asshole as something dirty; he must get her to see it his way.
Once a woman is open to the idea of something, anything, going into her ass as part of sexual play, with the right mindset and enough time the rest will happen on its own. But remember: once you claim the privilege of filling the asshole, you must also take on the responsibility of keeping it safe and feeling good!
2. The asshole is not like a pussy: it is naturally dry, and stays dry. In any kind of sex, dryness can lead to pain, and small tears in the skin; not sexy, and not what you want for that cute, adorable asshole you want to violate.
Solution: LUBE. The lube must be coated liberally on whatever is about to be pressed into the asshole. In addition, it also helps if lube can be inserted into and around the asshole directly; a finger does this job nicely. Be gentle!
3. The asshole does not stretch as fast as a pussy. The skin is more fragile and tight.
Solution: stretch it slowly. The tightest part of the asshole is the internal sphincter itself; once you are past that, smooth toys will slip through easily. In fact, the body's natural reaction is to suck things in! Start with a pencil-thin anal toy, then gradually get wider. What's important here is not length, it's width; so don't bother getting a toy that's 7-9 inches long, because it won't make a difference. All that matters is dilating that internal ring of muscle. And again, lube is important. The asshole will stretch much faster if you're using enough lube. But once a toy feels comfortably in place, there's no point leaving it; you might as well take a break, or move on to a bigger size. No point leaving it in for hours at a time. In fact, if the lube gets absorbed naturally by the tissues, the toy will begin to hurt, and you won't understand why and will frighten yourself for no reason.
Solution: Go slow...and I'm sorry, but--expect some pain. If you accept that this process will take time, that there will be some discomfort, some aching, and yes, some stinging along the way, but that your partner is only trying to figure out what pleases you and is doing his best to hurt you as little as possible, then the whole "introductory" time should go a lot faster. Remember, stretching the internal sphincter is the hardest part--and the most painful. Once that's done, the pain should lessen.
Once you've had anal sex a few times, you can anticipate how bad the initial pain will be, and prepare yourself for it. And--if you get off on the pain--you'll start to look forward to it; it becomes part of the thrill. But the initial pain never really goes away. You just come to know what to expect.
5. There's only one position for anal sex: doggie style.
Solution: OH HELL NO. No, no no. Any position you can have vaginal sex in, you can have anal sex; in fact, some positions are easier when you're having anal sex!
 |
| Sometimes the weight of the man on top feels amazing. |
 |
| He can watch her play with herself this way. |
 |
| This position gives her more control. |
 |
| This picture is completely gratuitous. |
Some advice:
- Once a woman is ready to try (operative word being "try") something up her ass, do NOT move directly on to cock. Try a finger first, and slowly move on to two; and when she likes (not tolerates, but likes) that, move on to a narrow toy, preferably one that vibrates. Only when she feels very, very comfortable having other things up her ass should you move on to cock. It may help if you give her more control over what's in her ass in the beginning; turn it into a show.
- Anal toys are not like vaginal toys. They have a wider handle at the end to prevent the toy from being sucked up the ass. If you are using a regular dildo or vibrator inside the ass, for god's sake, hang onto it tight and don't lose it up there. The last thing you need is a trip to the ER because you lost track of a sex toy somewhere up your intestine.
- This is not a "vaginal or anal" scenario. You can have a toy in her ass, and your cock in her pussy; or you can have a toy in her pussy, and your cock in her ass. Or you can move your cock from her pussy to her ass, if she's lubed up enough. But--and this is a big but--DO NOT go from ass to pussy. Not with cock, and not with toys. This can lead to bacteria entering the vagina, which can cause infection. Anything that has been in the ass must be washed before it can be reintroduced to the pussy, or her poor pussy may end up feeling something like this:
- When poking something into the ass for the first time, use a blunt tip. If it's a finger, don't poke it straight in; use the finger pad to press it in first. Seduce the asshole into relaxing, and opening a bit on it's own; then press your point home. You'll see the difference, and she'll feel the difference.
- If the asshole constricts, do not pull out. Do not move while the asshole is constricting involuntarily. Wait, let the spasm pass, and then ask her what she would like you to do. Sometimes she will tell you to get out immediately--and sometimes she will tell you to continue. But if you try to pull out while she's all tight back there, you'll only hurt her. (Which may be the point later on, but not right now.)
- Once you both get a feel for what works for both of you, you can incorporate the pain into the act itself. You can tie her up, and have fun stretching her a little faster than what she's used to; or you can cuff her down, and enter her fast from behind. The possibilities are fun and endless.
So have fun, and good luck! I hope this post was of some use to you. If there's any question still lingering, don't hesitate to contact me in the comments section or via twitter, and I'll do my best to answer it.
Isnin, 27 Januari 2014
How An Appointment Reminder Card is A Lot Like BDSM Negotiations
My dentist (whom I love) has this bad policy of sending out "appointment reminder" postcards when it's time for a checkup. See, what they do is, they make you an appointment, put it in their calendar, and then do you the favor of letting you know they've gone ahead and put you in their schedule by sending you a postcard. What ends up happening is you get a little card in the mail with your appointment date and time stamped on it, with the message "please call!!" politely scrawled beneath.
The first time I got this postcard, I ignored it. The office manager called me a week later, asked me if I'm coming to the appointment, and I said no, I couldn't make that time. She rescheduled me.
The second time I got this postcard, I was a little bit more pissed off, but ignored it. The office manager called me a week later, asked me if I'm coming to the appointment, and I said no, I couldn't make that time. She rescheduled me.
The third time I got this postcard, I decided I could make the day and time the office manager had graciously allotted me. I called up the office to let them know.
"Oh thank you," she said, albeit a little sarcastically, making me bristle. "It was nice of you to call this time." Her tone got me defensive.
"Well I assume you know if I don't call, I'm not coming," I said.
"Funny, some people think the exact opposite," she replied.
"What do you mean?"
"They think if they don't call to cancel, that means they are coming. We really wish people would just call and let us know."
After getting into a small but heated discussion on the wisdom of their policy of making appointments for people without their knowledge or consent--which resulted in her putting a note in my file, 'call patient first before making appointment'--I hung up.
But the conversation got me thinking.
Preliminary negotiations between a Top and bottom work much the same way as an appointment reminder postcard. A Top sends out the message he wants to play with a bottom; the bottom indicates she's interested. Now the negotiations start.
Too many times, I've heard of cases where things go bad during the scene because the bottom did not make her wishes and limits clear enough. The Top (if he's experienced at all as a Top) will know to ask certain questions, and keep a checklist in his head of things he needs to know. But there is no way that checklist is going to encompass everything the bottom wants him--needs him--to know.
It is up to the bottom to tell him.
But what if she doesn't?
The bottom assumes, if they haven't discussed it, it's off the table. If she hasn't made it perfectly clear it's ok, then it's an automatic no.
But the Top assumes if they haven't discussed it, it's a possibility. If she hasn't made it perfectly clear it's a no, then it's a maybe, which he might be able to slide into a yes if he plays his cards right. And hey, she's always got her safeword, right?
If the play is light, the differing way they view the situation doesn't have to become too much of a problem. The Top will do something, or say something, which rubs the bottom the wrong way; she'll let the Top know what he did was not ok with her; he'll likely apologize, and tell her he didn't know, since she didn't mention that limit in the negotiations; she'll accept his apology, and the scene will move on.
Hopefully, she'll be a little wiser for it.
But if the play is heavy, things get more perilous. The bottom may sink down into subspace far enough that she no longer has the headspace to protest what the Top is doing. Whatever he's doing is not life-threatening, it's nothing that hurts hard enough to pull her up out of subspace...but it's definitely something she would not have agreed to if he's asked her during the negotiations. It may well be something she regrets later. She's just unable to formulate her response to it at the time, to voice her opposition.
What ends up happening is that after the play is over, and she's had time to recover, the bottom feels like something happened to her that she did not want, and did not ask for. She may well feel violated, or at least uncomfortable enough to refuse to play with the Top again.
The thing is--and I know I may get some flak for this--these situations are not the Top's fault. Or at least, not solely the Top's fault. It is up to the bottom to make her limits clear; it is up to the bottom to decide on the extent of the scene; it is up to the bottom to communicate her wants, wishes, aversions, edges, triggers, rules and restrictions.
I was bottoming in a scene one time where I had told the Top in advance not to pull down my panties. He had nodded; he got it. But I had not specifically told him not to let the flogger he was using touch my cunt, even over the panties. It had not occurred to me. So when those flogger strands whipped over and up, biting into my pussy, I jacked straight up and turned around.
"Don't let that happen again," I said.
"Okay," he answered. He nodded; he got it.
That was all. The scene went on. And the next time I bottomed for someone I had never played with before, I specified: no touching my cunt, with anything, even over the panties.
Live and learn.
Tops aren't mind readers. They don't know what's going on inside your head; they don't know where you've been. You need to tell them.
Believe me, they (the good ones, at least) want to listen to you explain things to them as precisely as possible. They want to know every last detail about what you want (and what you want to avoid), so they can give you the best damn scene possible. They want you thinking about them every time you touch yourself for the next week. Hell, the next month. They want you remembering your scene with them and thinking, that was so fucking hot.
The aim, of course, to get you to want to play with them again.
So bottoms, remember this: tell your Top what you want, and what you don't want. Be as specific as possible. Don't assume he knows how to 'play' a certain way, or to use a certain toy; don't assume he'll be like the last Top you had, who used a certain technique you liked (or didn't like). Don't assume he'll know not to do that.
And if you fail to mention it to him, and he tiptoes over your boundary line...let him know, quickly, firmly, but politely. Don't assume the worst. Don't let it ruin your scene. Let him make it up to you.
And enjoy.
The first time I got this postcard, I ignored it. The office manager called me a week later, asked me if I'm coming to the appointment, and I said no, I couldn't make that time. She rescheduled me.
The second time I got this postcard, I was a little bit more pissed off, but ignored it. The office manager called me a week later, asked me if I'm coming to the appointment, and I said no, I couldn't make that time. She rescheduled me.
The third time I got this postcard, I decided I could make the day and time the office manager had graciously allotted me. I called up the office to let them know.
"Oh thank you," she said, albeit a little sarcastically, making me bristle. "It was nice of you to call this time." Her tone got me defensive.
"Well I assume you know if I don't call, I'm not coming," I said.
"Funny, some people think the exact opposite," she replied.
"What do you mean?"
"They think if they don't call to cancel, that means they are coming. We really wish people would just call and let us know."
After getting into a small but heated discussion on the wisdom of their policy of making appointments for people without their knowledge or consent--which resulted in her putting a note in my file, 'call patient first before making appointment'--I hung up.
But the conversation got me thinking.
Preliminary negotiations between a Top and bottom work much the same way as an appointment reminder postcard. A Top sends out the message he wants to play with a bottom; the bottom indicates she's interested. Now the negotiations start.
Too many times, I've heard of cases where things go bad during the scene because the bottom did not make her wishes and limits clear enough. The Top (if he's experienced at all as a Top) will know to ask certain questions, and keep a checklist in his head of things he needs to know. But there is no way that checklist is going to encompass everything the bottom wants him--needs him--to know.
It is up to the bottom to tell him.
But what if she doesn't?
The bottom assumes, if they haven't discussed it, it's off the table. If she hasn't made it perfectly clear it's ok, then it's an automatic no.
But the Top assumes if they haven't discussed it, it's a possibility. If she hasn't made it perfectly clear it's a no, then it's a maybe, which he might be able to slide into a yes if he plays his cards right. And hey, she's always got her safeword, right?
If the play is light, the differing way they view the situation doesn't have to become too much of a problem. The Top will do something, or say something, which rubs the bottom the wrong way; she'll let the Top know what he did was not ok with her; he'll likely apologize, and tell her he didn't know, since she didn't mention that limit in the negotiations; she'll accept his apology, and the scene will move on.
Hopefully, she'll be a little wiser for it.
But if the play is heavy, things get more perilous. The bottom may sink down into subspace far enough that she no longer has the headspace to protest what the Top is doing. Whatever he's doing is not life-threatening, it's nothing that hurts hard enough to pull her up out of subspace...but it's definitely something she would not have agreed to if he's asked her during the negotiations. It may well be something she regrets later. She's just unable to formulate her response to it at the time, to voice her opposition.
What ends up happening is that after the play is over, and she's had time to recover, the bottom feels like something happened to her that she did not want, and did not ask for. She may well feel violated, or at least uncomfortable enough to refuse to play with the Top again.
The thing is--and I know I may get some flak for this--these situations are not the Top's fault. Or at least, not solely the Top's fault. It is up to the bottom to make her limits clear; it is up to the bottom to decide on the extent of the scene; it is up to the bottom to communicate her wants, wishes, aversions, edges, triggers, rules and restrictions.
I was bottoming in a scene one time where I had told the Top in advance not to pull down my panties. He had nodded; he got it. But I had not specifically told him not to let the flogger he was using touch my cunt, even over the panties. It had not occurred to me. So when those flogger strands whipped over and up, biting into my pussy, I jacked straight up and turned around.
"Don't let that happen again," I said.
"Okay," he answered. He nodded; he got it.
That was all. The scene went on. And the next time I bottomed for someone I had never played with before, I specified: no touching my cunt, with anything, even over the panties.
Live and learn.
Tops aren't mind readers. They don't know what's going on inside your head; they don't know where you've been. You need to tell them.
Believe me, they (the good ones, at least) want to listen to you explain things to them as precisely as possible. They want to know every last detail about what you want (and what you want to avoid), so they can give you the best damn scene possible. They want you thinking about them every time you touch yourself for the next week. Hell, the next month. They want you remembering your scene with them and thinking, that was so fucking hot.
The aim, of course, to get you to want to play with them again.
So bottoms, remember this: tell your Top what you want, and what you don't want. Be as specific as possible. Don't assume he knows how to 'play' a certain way, or to use a certain toy; don't assume he'll be like the last Top you had, who used a certain technique you liked (or didn't like). Don't assume he'll know not to do that.
And if you fail to mention it to him, and he tiptoes over your boundary line...let him know, quickly, firmly, but politely. Don't assume the worst. Don't let it ruin your scene. Let him make it up to you.
And enjoy.
What I Learned at Folsom
1. Folsom isn't so much about the clothes--it's about the attitude. So many people, so many, were walking around completely naked except for shoes and the occasional cock ring; nobody cared. Others were walking around dressed up as ponies, or puppies, or latex dolls; some were completely covered, head to toe, in leather. Some were expressing fetishes I would have no fucking clue how to describe. How do describe something like this?
But none of that mattered. The only thing that mattered was that you felt great in your own skin, that you were walking around like you owned the day and didn't give a damn whatever anyone else thought.
I wore a short(ish) denim skirt and gauzy dusky-pink shirt, and when I got there, I realized I had, perhaps, dressed a tad bit too--shall we say, sophisticated? But I felt great; I was showing off my knees, which for me is a big fucking deal, and I felt sexy about it. And in the end, that was all that mattered.
2. I asked three booths if they sold tawses, and all three had no clue what I was talking about. I found this really odd. One guy actually told me he had been "doing this" for twenty years, and had never heard of a tawse--like I was making the damn thing up. What the hell?
This, my friends, is an example of a tawse:
And this is a tawse in use:
This is the specific tawse I was looking for, which I now know I will have to find online:
Is this just not an American thing? More of an European thing? The Israelis I know who are (ahem) familiar with BDSM (ahem) equipment know what a tawse is. So why didn't these guys know? I thought it was weird.
3. I learned something about myself: I enjoy kink, and I enjoy watching people of all genders, ages and sizes get topped. But none of that excites me like watching women get tied down, bent over, and hurt by men. I saw women get flogged, paddled, spanked, whipped...and it never got old. I could have watched that all day. It was yummy. Not because I wanted to hurt them--because I wanted to be them.
4. The people of The Citadel are really, really nice people. I've not been there yet, but lately, I've been talking/negotiating with Husband when we can go. Now I want to go more than ever.
5. Many of the women dressed up at Folsom were wearing corsets. I personally had never tried on a corset before, but seeing all the beautiful girls with hourglass figures walking around made me want to try one. There were a few booths selling corsets, and the first one I walked into fitting me with one that went up over the breasts.
The strapped me in--and I swear to God, I freaked out. You know that sound that comes out of your throat when you suck in your breath so sharply it sounds like a backwards scream? Yeah, that's the sound I made when she pulled those laces up in back. My reaction kind of scared her, too, and she immediately loosened it, but that wasn't the problem. I just felt totally trapped in that thing.
Husband and I have the Rule Of Ten--you have to be willing to try something out at least ten times before you can decide for sure whether you like it or not. You can't just give up on something after one or two times, because things can feel different depending on the night, the mood, the way you're wielding the new implement or using the new toy, etc. You have to really experiment with it before you can give up.
So I went to a different booth, and tried on another corset, this time one that fit under the breasts. I had the same reaction--and this time the man strapping me in didn't realize I was freaking out until I started yelling "RED! RED!" Everyone turned to look, but I was beading sweat at that point. He loosened the straps, but then left me in the damn thing while he went to help another customer. I could have killed him. Finally, another woman saw my red face and glassy eyes and took pity on me. She took the thing off and calmed me down.
I have no idea why I reacted the way I did to the corset. I'll for sure try it again--this time, explaining to the poor sales associate what my initial reaction is going to be--and hopefully, I'll be able to breath through the first few minutes and find a way to calm down. Who knows, I may just come to tolerate it. But I don't think I'll ever love it. Oh well.
6. Husband and I had negotiated beforehand what I was allowed to do at the fair (and what I was not). He knew I wouldn't engage in anything unsafe or beyond my hard limits, of course, so beyond that, he said, "have fun." He knew I was open to spanking others, and getting spanked, and he was fine with that.
Unfortunately, there was never an opportunity at the fair for me to spank anyone, and I realized too late I had let my opportunity to be spanked by someone I trust slip away. I came home with my bottom just as marked up as it had been before I left.
Husband's reaction to this surprised me. He asked me, "did anyone spank you?" and I said no; and his face fell in disappointment. Like he had been excited by the idea of someone else spanking me at the fair, and was now feeling let down because no one had. It was not the reaction I had been expecting. We had spoken about my behavior at the fair in terms of what I was allowed to do; he had not told me he wanted me to do anything. Maybe he had been too hesitant to tell me? Maybe I misread the signals? I don't know. I have to talk to him about that one.
I wore a short(ish) denim skirt and gauzy dusky-pink shirt, and when I got there, I realized I had, perhaps, dressed a tad bit too--shall we say, sophisticated? But I felt great; I was showing off my knees, which for me is a big fucking deal, and I felt sexy about it. And in the end, that was all that mattered.
2. I asked three booths if they sold tawses, and all three had no clue what I was talking about. I found this really odd. One guy actually told me he had been "doing this" for twenty years, and had never heard of a tawse--like I was making the damn thing up. What the hell?
This, my friends, is an example of a tawse:
3. I learned something about myself: I enjoy kink, and I enjoy watching people of all genders, ages and sizes get topped. But none of that excites me like watching women get tied down, bent over, and hurt by men. I saw women get flogged, paddled, spanked, whipped...and it never got old. I could have watched that all day. It was yummy. Not because I wanted to hurt them--because I wanted to be them.
4. The people of The Citadel are really, really nice people. I've not been there yet, but lately, I've been talking/negotiating with Husband when we can go. Now I want to go more than ever.
5. Many of the women dressed up at Folsom were wearing corsets. I personally had never tried on a corset before, but seeing all the beautiful girls with hourglass figures walking around made me want to try one. There were a few booths selling corsets, and the first one I walked into fitting me with one that went up over the breasts.
The strapped me in--and I swear to God, I freaked out. You know that sound that comes out of your throat when you suck in your breath so sharply it sounds like a backwards scream? Yeah, that's the sound I made when she pulled those laces up in back. My reaction kind of scared her, too, and she immediately loosened it, but that wasn't the problem. I just felt totally trapped in that thing.
Husband and I have the Rule Of Ten--you have to be willing to try something out at least ten times before you can decide for sure whether you like it or not. You can't just give up on something after one or two times, because things can feel different depending on the night, the mood, the way you're wielding the new implement or using the new toy, etc. You have to really experiment with it before you can give up.
So I went to a different booth, and tried on another corset, this time one that fit under the breasts. I had the same reaction--and this time the man strapping me in didn't realize I was freaking out until I started yelling "RED! RED!" Everyone turned to look, but I was beading sweat at that point. He loosened the straps, but then left me in the damn thing while he went to help another customer. I could have killed him. Finally, another woman saw my red face and glassy eyes and took pity on me. She took the thing off and calmed me down.
I have no idea why I reacted the way I did to the corset. I'll for sure try it again--this time, explaining to the poor sales associate what my initial reaction is going to be--and hopefully, I'll be able to breath through the first few minutes and find a way to calm down. Who knows, I may just come to tolerate it. But I don't think I'll ever love it. Oh well.
6. Husband and I had negotiated beforehand what I was allowed to do at the fair (and what I was not). He knew I wouldn't engage in anything unsafe or beyond my hard limits, of course, so beyond that, he said, "have fun." He knew I was open to spanking others, and getting spanked, and he was fine with that.
Unfortunately, there was never an opportunity at the fair for me to spank anyone, and I realized too late I had let my opportunity to be spanked by someone I trust slip away. I came home with my bottom just as marked up as it had been before I left.
Husband's reaction to this surprised me. He asked me, "did anyone spank you?" and I said no; and his face fell in disappointment. Like he had been excited by the idea of someone else spanking me at the fair, and was now feeling let down because no one had. It was not the reaction I had been expecting. We had spoken about my behavior at the fair in terms of what I was allowed to do; he had not told me he wanted me to do anything. Maybe he had been too hesitant to tell me? Maybe I misread the signals? I don't know. I have to talk to him about that one.
Sabtu, 25 Januari 2014
I am His
Me: Listen, later? When you get home...?
Him: Yes?
Me: Don't take no for an answer, okay?
Him: Got it.
Me: Cause later, I might say I'm too tired, or I might just try to crawl into bed, but I really need you to--
Him: I got it.
Me: God, I feel so ridiculous saying this--
Him: Shut up. Don't ever say that. Now I got it, but I have to get back to work, so get off the phone, lady. And be ready.
Me: Yes. Thank you Ba'ali*.
Him: Mm-hm.
Conversation I had later with a friend, through email:
Why would you ask him to screw you, if you don't want him to?
What do you mean? I do want him to. That's why I asked him.
You asked him to take you even if you say you're too tired, or you try to go to sleep. You obviously don't think you'll want to have sex later. Do you think you'll enjoy it?
I don't know. That's not the point.
Why is enjoying it *not* the point? Why would you want him to screw you if you don't think you'll enjoy it?
This is one of those things that sets female subs apart from other women who don't see themselves as submissive, or even "bottoms." Women are told to think they should get as much pleasure out of sex as their partner does, if not more so. Women shouldn't feel encumbered if their man can't stay hard, or orgasm; there are other methods and techniques women can use to pleasure herself, with or without his help. But suggest that a man pleasure himself with a woman's body, without making sure she's happy, too, and all of a sudden people are up in arms.
Unless those people are BDSM kinksters, I guess.
Sometimes, the point is not the sensual pleasure, and it's not the orgasm.
It's the submission. The capitulation. Yielding to another, acceding their dominance over you.
There is nothing more submissive in my mind than letting someone invade your body with their own, without any expectations of pleasure in return.
It is not an act of sex: it is a claim of ownership. I am his. He can do to me as he wills.
I am his.
If I am proud of nothing else going on in my life, if I am happy about nothing else, if I am confident about nothing else, if I am sure of nothing else...I can be sure about this.
I am his.
*Ba'ali in hebrew means master, and husband. It is the word I use most often to address him, since he is both.
Langgan:
Ulasan (Atom)