Monday, June 13, 2011


Huge turn-on:

Molesting him in his sleep. He wakes with fly gaping and skin somewhat clammy and I can't help but wonder if he was awake enough to remember my fingers caressing his every rise and dip and contour. 


I try to explore BDSM and erotic portrayals of butlerishness and what do I get? A bunch of yaoi fangirls cosplaying that damn Kuroshitsuji bullshit.

I. Can't. Escape it.

So, resigned, I return here to properly bitch and also confide an interest that's been smoldering ever since my lover's commentary not long ago helped me put two and two together. We were dressed up and headed to the movies when he mentioned this adorable manga we've been reading about a kid who's roped into being this little girl's Super Deluxe Combat Butler Extreme, and it's hilarious. Somehow, this connected to us and he quipped something about dressing me in a butler outfit just so he could pin me to a wall and rip it off...then, even more hilariously, he stopped short, blinked, and paled with the realization of, "Oh, am I really into that? I suppose I am, oh well!"

Needless to say, he wasn't the only one who suffered a revelation that moment. Ever since, images of shackles tight over white gloves, collars hidden under ties and well-starched layers passionately disheveled from their proper alignment have been haunting my fantasies. What's worse, my taste in "pretties" includes nice slacks, nice shoes, nice shirts and the especially nice vest he bought me for my birthday a few years ago, not to mention the dual purpose of a tie as both professional and a leash has never been lost on me-- or him.

Frankly, the whole idea was hot then and it's still hot now and goddammit the only others who seem inclined even remotely in such a direction are those fucking yaoi fangirls. Ugh.

Oh, well. Fantasies are impulses and I'm not about to pretend I can control mine. Not when it's so tasty.


Even when he's feeling like shit, he takes care of me.
He makes everything better. 

Friday, June 10, 2011

Vibrators Feel Like Cellphones

Unless he's set the atmosphere. I've heard some chicks can strap a vibrator to their shit and get off just like that, nothing to it, but I'm not one of them. I need the mood, I need the scene, I need him there touching me in order for the vibrations to register as arousing.

It was actually pretty funny, though, walking around with this bright green bug vibrating on me like crazy. It felt good, don't get me wrong, but it wasn't stimulating. Just felt like a massage. It needs better context in order to be a true 'sex toy'.

The bullet, however. That was a rather different story. It still didn't matter sexually until he involved himself, but it felt amazing when he did. Frankly, it was difficult to determine just what he was doing because the sensations were so intense, but I felt him stroke me between his fingers while the bullet explored inner, lower regions, everything slick and hot and though blindfolded I swear to god I felt him smile.

When he said he liked it because he could pay more attention to my reactions I was ready all over again. To know he's watching so intently while I'm enthralled by his minstrations-- mmn. Speechlessness.

More toys were delivered today, some to review, some to play with, and I'm particularly excited by these dual pink bullets made of hard, silken material, with vibrations considerably more refined than the others. There's also a large silver bullet, and between all this ammunition I have the sneaking suspicion that something is going to find its way up my ass.

I'm still surprised it managed this long without definitive violation.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011


From dreams to waking, guided by his cruelly perfect touch. No, I don't remember waking this morning. I just remember my hips bucking into his hand, fingers slick and sliding and the pleasure rising steadily until it was too much to bear.

An actual orgasm. With pulsing, clenching tightness. It was amazing. It tasted like staring into the noonday sun.

And he was pressing so hotly against my ass, pulling me against him like he knew it drove me crazy. 

After that, I was permitted the luxury of learning how to operate morning activities with wrists and ankles tied. He then demonstrated a particularly delicious application while shoving me against our bedroom wall. Somehow, even as I picked at the knots with my teeth afterward, he knew that I didn't really want to take them off.

Waking Bound

With white ribbon recognized as an ingredient in adorable Victorian crafts, understood blearily as the reason why I couldn't rub the sleep from my eyes properly. Both wrists bound and ankles in kind, thick satin strapped cleverly under the bed and such an amused expression hovering over me, candlelit and handsome. He looked delighted to see me as I was, half-dreaming only to awaken and, perhaps, continue the fantasy I'd been having. He's been quite good at that, really. I swear he knows.

I was too startled to give much protest as the restraints were perfected. Thighs were tied to wrists and nothing remained hidden, no matter how stubbornly I contorted. Monstrously strong, that ribbon. The more I pulled, the tighter it became. He liked to remind me of the fact.

Then the blindfold. It was earthy velvet, but colors didn't matter after he'd secured it. He told me I was pretty lying there blind and bound and stripped and I couldn't stand how good it felt. His breath hot along my cheeks, neck, collarbone, teasing at my lips with that cold spike, I could tell he was smiling, I could picture it, I could hear his movements as he retrieved something or other and tormented myself wondering what it was. Few things are sexier than being kissed blind.

The feather surprised me. Instead of pain, sensitivities subtly heightened under deft, downy touches. Along the seam of my chest clean down the center to my hips, along the soft inner thigh and around rapidly swelling, heating moisture, tracing invisible lines of flesh only he could appreciate.

I don't think my nails ever stopped biting into those sheets.

The ice was cruel. Just a hard, wet cube of it sliding along the contours the feather had prescribed, afterimages of sensation tremulous in my nerves, too hot to numb but too intense to take silently, like fire along my stomach, thighs and over my heart. I can feel it even now, remembering the concentration of warmth like the center of a gaslit flame, steady, purpled with cold yet somehow bright, metallic, spread from the center all the way down to my toes. Fingertips twitched tantalized in tangled sheets. I don't know what I sounded like, but he sounded pleased.

Had I known what the candles were burning for I might've suspected what would happen next. Hot wax bit in dripples into skin hypersensitized, fire following ice's imitation of it. I wondered if that was what it felt like to be stabbed with a small, sharp knife, just that instant of penetration savored in a flash of pain as the wax struck only to cool just as quick. It wasn't until he touched me that I realized how slick I'd become, surprised that the pain did not distract from the arousal, but merely heightened it. Waxy trails hardened along my abdomen and thighs so dangerously close to his teasing, managing somehow to hold steady though I flinched and jerked against satin shackles.

I could taste his appreciation, I could smell it. His gasps so often followed my own and it maddened to know why, to be at the mercy of what it created in me, how it slickened and flared the fire under my ribs. Anticipation, arousal, utterly subject to the reaction of tormented nerves as he teased every sense. He liked what he was doing and fuck, how I got off on the fact.

Then he was all around me. I cannot describe how inexorably comfort combines with fear to cement two together, but I knew it would hurt and I knew it would be sweet and I wanted him so badly to do it.

We made love and it was gorgeous. My body literally could not contain the sensation of it, could not withstand the rawness of the passion. He kept me there at the edge so long it was no longer a threshold, but the state of being, the is and nothing else. It was beautifully exhausting and I could tell he wanted more, but he mercifully relented. He let me rest and I didn't push for more-- he has plans. We have toys arriving today and my body is ill-prepared for extended play. He's saving me for something. Something involving remote controls and bullets.

He does so love that remote control.

Sunday, June 5, 2011

On a semi-related sidenote:

It would be incredibly sexy if he told me to pleasure him. It's intensely arousing when I can take action and please him-- I love it when he explodes in my mouth-- or when he hisses these long strings of inarticulate German because he can't think straight, when he writhes and thrashes  head against the pillow and curls his fingers into his hair, when his spine arches and his hips buck into my hands, I love it.

I love to feel him enjoy me.


Last night he said something to me that he's said before, but this time, I haven't been able to stop thinking about it.

He said that what he gives me is a gift, that what pleasure I receive is not expected to be reciprocated and that, indeed, if attempts are made to reciprocate immediately it can feel contrived and detract from the experience as a whole. He's quite experienced and I trust he can read me even if I can't read myself, and he said it all smiling, without judgment and with this look of adoration I just couldn't stand to meet for very long.

A gift, though. I'd never thought of it that way when receiving. I'd always wanted him to know it was felt, appreciated, enjoyed, but in simply thinking that much I'd interrupted what was meant to invite pure reaction.

So it  becomes now the challenge to release the burden of thought and the impulse to act upon it, to be of the moment and made only of the reactions to what gifts he gives me. It'll be very difficult. I'm going to need help. Reminded again of a line in someone's post on that Fetlife website to the effect of being beaten hard enough that one forget's one's own name. Can't help but feel it must be something like that, an intensity so strong it whites out the basics of identity, those lines which define the awful edges where you end and I begin.

Ridiculous, that I should feel guilty being asked only to react to his gifts, that if it meant I would only lie there silently and swoon then I should do so.

Pleasing him is erotic in it's own right; it pleasures me to pleasure him, and so it seems that feeling is mutual. Shouldn't be so hard to accept the fact and simply be of the moment when gifts are given, but for some monstrous reason, it is. Walled contrivances and inapplicable obligations begging to be beaten down, ruts directing flows of thought though the logic within them is sound. Shatter them, spill everything until it's no more than skin thinned along the surface of the now.

Pretty thoughts and pretty images and the simplicity of naivety painting with too many colors, there must be names for these desires beyond the glossary of a new lifestyle. Getting lost in conversations had years ago on some obscure fetish forum because I found a reflection of my own feeling in the line of a stranger's paragraph, why didn't I look here before, do this before, be this with you together before now?

But it doesn't really matter, does it. We're here. This is now. And I want to stay here in this moment and savor what I've been so long without. You've been here, I've been there, we've crossed sometimes but we've never been this. Feels like the fairytale we are, insatiable.

Feels like falling in love all over again.


I missed the smell of his cigarettes. He catches me watching his lips around the filter, tensely plush upon inhalation, parted to twitch sometimes in a grin as the smoke drifts out his mouth.

It's so incredibly sexy when he blows smoke in my face.

Today I was making spring rolls and he pulled down my pants, slid off my underwear and teased me. He told me to keep doing what I was doing. Told me not to move, not to twitch, not to writhe. Just keep on slicing that tofu, good. Fingers quickly slicked to the feeling of him pressed against me, firm and heated against the rise of my shoulderblades and ass, the imprint of his jeans rough on cold, too-sensitive skin suddenly so roughly spread apart.

But I kept slicing that tofu, dammit.

Saturday, June 4, 2011


I'm very attracted to the idea of having a permanent or lockable collar, and I'm not sure what to make of that desire other than to voice it here. Judgment suspended, I want one to wear 24/7 for reasons which most closely mirror those for wearing an engagement ring, except there's something much more raw and primal and mine about a collar which suits the feeling far better than a pretty piece of jewelry.

Not that I don't adore my rings to death. I wear them constantly and take every opportunity to show them off. Yet a collar seems to suit this new...chapter, I ways rings don't specify well enough. There's a passion in the possession and a pride in that allegiance worn so blatantly, like a flag in the wind or a brand on one's arm.

I want one.

Something about remote control...

...really turns him on.

And he's not the only one. We just ordered our first toy from EdenFantasies and it's adorable. Seems he's also got a thing for cute shit, too, which I didn't realize was so tantalizing until, happened. So this bug is bright green, made of jelly, fitted with black straps and it's supposed to vibrate over my crotch. It's supposed to feel amazing, but most of all, he's clearly going to get off on it.

Which is really what sells it for me.


I've never had a vibrator before. I've never had anybody strap one to me and brandish the remote to turn it on and off. I've never had fantasies about strapping it on under jeans and going out to the movies only to anticipate the grin on his face when he flicks it on, trying too hard to look innocent. But I do now. On the subject of secret vibrators, his inspiration has also got me coveting this pair of pretty panties:

The Astrea 2

Sounds like a video game sequel, doesn't it? The Astrea 2: Exhibitionistic Tendencies. Not only will the black lace match everything else in my closet, but they conceal an especially well-reputed vibrator which is also, of course, remote-controlled for our pleasure. They're also ninety bucks. I know.

The longer I spend on that site, the more money I need and the faster I need it. There's a small mental basement in the back of my mind where these things I can't yet afford are put to tentative use, since only half of what I'm scrolling through is actually recognizable and the purpose readily apparent. A lot of this stuff I have absolutely no idea what to do with. An oblong plastic bullet shaped like modern art sculpture? And I stick that where? Oh, up my ass. Why didn't I think of that, sure.

But let's save the ass talk for another post. It'll get lengthy, especially since it's a longtime fascination ever since he said he wanted me.

Oh, dear, don't I feel dirty now.

Friday, June 3, 2011


Who knew an online sex shop could be so engrossing.

At the request of my lover-- and my own less-than-repentant whim-- I've decided to create a blog detailing accounts of our exploits from the perspective of a fresh, young, relatively uninitiated submissive. Yes, I suppose that's the correct term, though I'm quickly learning (and have been comforted by the fact) that the BDSM community's terminology is far from superficial. Ignorantly, I'd assumed only one dynamic of the sub/dom relation and considered myself nobody's bitch, thus confounding my understanding of the BDSM community as a whole and making a tangle of things in the process. However, I now stand happily corrected-- and perhaps, kneeling as well.

Leather rose floggers and stretcher bars and canes and whips and chains and buckled restraints and matching collars and pinwheels to fool nerves into believing they've been sliced, lacy pretty things and remote controlled vibrations, exhibitionism in subtle secrecy and the look on his face when he finds something new. Mmmn.

Can you tell I'm excited about these plans he keeps talking about? A calendar of dark delights. And to think, I'm trying to get a job with American Girl to make more money to fuel these rampant fantasies. Styling doll's hair for little girls in order to buy sex toys, can you imagine?

This is just the tip of the iceberg. Peeking into this rich community I wonder why it feels more right than wrong and whether it means what I hope it means-- that it fits and it's us and it's home, perhaps, this lifestyle which is so much more than just another way to fuck.

Suppose we'll find out, won't we?