A New Recreation to Channel All This Energy

The blog posts about “The Mind of a Domme” always make me cackle, partially self-deprecatingly.

Sometimes when KillBoy asks me what my plans for a scene are, you can practically hear the gears grinding to a halt. It’s just that “Um, hit you with things and uh, stuff. Maybe butt plugs. IDK.” isn’t all that sexy? I like to keep it loose and go with whatever I’m feeling like at that exact time.

Of course, when I do think about the next scene it runs a little more like this: “He’s gotten really sassy with the terrible puns lately, so I think I’ll pull out the paddles soon. Especially those light little ones he really hates… man the opening to this remix of “World in My Eyes” really makes me think I’m about to hear “Touch Me (All Night Long)”. That would make a really great mashup if someone did it well! Wow, it’s been a long time since that song was on the radio, hasn’t it? I wonder what Cathy Dennis is doing these days? I’ll have to google her when I get home.”

As it turns out, she’s doing just fine. I had no idea she co-wrote the Britney Spears song “Toxic.” Also, I have firm plans to hit KillBoy with things, and use butt plugs.

Advertisements

You see, see what can’t be seen

I wouldn’t let him kiss me. He tried, after lacing my corset, and I turned my head so that he gently laid his lips on my cheek.

I’d just put on my makeup and didn’t want him to kiss off my lipstick before we’d even left the room, and I was already in the headspace where reapplying wasn’t in my timetable. He quickly got the message, though I don’t know if he realized it was about the lipstick; he merely confined his kisses to the rest of my face.

In the play room of the con we were at, I only used three toys. He had been plugged beforehand, and I pulled it out to slide a new plug into him as he crouched on the spanking bench. It was one we’d never used before, and he commented that it was very comfortable and wiggled his butt at me. Smiling, I stripped off the lube covered glove and retrieved my metal claws.

When I’d been planning this scene, I had seen it as something a little more active. I had thought to dig in with the claws and bite and bring out the heaviest of our paddles. However, looking down on him patiently waiting for what was next, I knew I would take a different course. He looked so amazingly hot that I couldn’t resist standing there and just taking in the sight of him. With that in mind, knowing I’d find myself just appreciating him at other times, I pulled the blindfold out of the bag so that he wouldn’t know when I was moving around him and when I was just standing there. It was loud, but the music didn’t drown out sounds he’d previously mentioned while we were setting up. Without sight it was likely that at first he’d be either nervously focusing on noises, trying to locate me, or being poked at by noises made by other dungeon inhabitants.

He was wearing a favorite piece of mine, something that leaves a swath of his back, and only a tiny bit of his neck and shoulders bare. I caressed these areas with the claws, making swooping marks on his skin, only occasionally digging in slightly. I reached around him to squeeze his butt, skirt already hiked up from when I changed out the plug.

“Are you ready for me to turn it on?”

He nodded assent, though his words sounded a little more uncertain. We’d never used vibrating toys on him before. I clicked on the bullet in the plug and his body stiffened.

“That’s… intense” he choked out when I checked in with him.

Watching him struggle to stay still enough while suddenly wiggling and bouncing was amusing and arousing. I had a perfect view of his ass that made me glad we had negotiated public sex out of bounds already and left the harness in the room, because I was suddenly dying to have his hips in my hands while I thrust into him. As I had thought to ask about, and received his consent to have his genitals groped in front of everyone, I instead reached down and rubbed him through the silky thong.

Riding crop came out of the bag. I’m oft amused at the reputation of the crop, since it’s actually a much kinder toy than my paddles, though I put some wrist action into popping him with the leather end and gently drumming the length of it across his ass,  to keep the sensation going in between little pops. More groping, with him just barely audible over the din as he bucked slightly against my hand, groaning in frustration as I stroked him firmly before suddenly withdrawing. Slaps and scratches and caresses, on a mix and match loop as I enjoyed the feel of his skin, of his little responses to my every action.

When I amused myself by brushing the end of the crop against his balls and he only moaned and rubbed against it, I knew he was in the place I wanted him to be. Admittedly, I had been half hoping for an apprehensive inquiry as to what I was planning but that’s never quite as good when I can’t see his eyes at any rate.

Fortunately, when I informed him that he’d be walking back to the room with the plug still going, I got my fix of that fearful look. As our room was on an upper floor, he looked especially anxious as we boarded an elevator full of fellow kinksters, flashing me worried looks. I couldn’t hear the vibration still running, but I’m sure it was a roar to him. I giggled internally, knowing that if anyone were paying attention to anyone else it was the charming extrovert with the loud laugh who was going with a play partner to a room party. He didn’t cease to look terrified until he was able to collapse on the bed.

Here I have only bits of memory. I recall him shakingly assisting me with the straps of the cheap harness we travel with, flashes of taking him as he made the loveliest of noises, of folding him into a slut pretzel, and of getting my face out of the way just in time as he came. He was more emotionally, mentally, and physically drained than I have ever seen him after play, and the extended aftercare included a long hot shower and lots of petting.

When we made it to bed at 3 AM, with him laying in my arms, I kissed him passionately.

 

 

Full disclosure: this has been posted before, but was taken down some time back so I could edit. 

Digging my heart out of the soil in which it lies

I’m a little torn on how to write this post. Do I talk about the snarl of feelings that popped up and had to be talked through? Do I just jump forward to the hot sex and write something more fun to read? If the latter, does that make me one of those people who are clearly editing their actual lives out of the erotica?

It’s not that we have a serious talk every time we have sex, we have had some excellently fun romps that have lacked both a need to communicate feelings or blog post about a post-gym cowgirl session that was 5 minutes of bliss followed by 25 minutes of “oh god, my legs are telling me that was such a bad idea, but you know nothing legs!”

On the other hand, it’s not like the talk was about anything deep or world changing. It was more the realization that we both have weak points at being engaged with certain things and/or at certain times, and I have to get over my fear of being the Ruiner of Fun and letting it keep me from saying no. The Ruiner of Fun isn’t about being mean. I love mean. I love giggling while he whines. What I hate is feeling like I’m putting the brakes on things and punishing him for enthusiasm; I love his enthusiasm when properly applied. I need to get over my feeling that because I said “I want to play with X toy” that I’m somehow locked into it as a Serious Pinky-Swear Promise and can’t be like “whoa, hold the fuck up, Simon didn’t say” when he’s like “SO CAN I GET X TOY OUT NOW” and looking at me all shiny-eyed and shivering with excitement. We also need to work on that transition from things like sitting around eating dinner to play when we agreed on play earlier but one of us is just not in the headspace. And by we, I mean me mostly.

So, ok, that happened, and I guess I just talked about it. Ugh. Why is real life so real?

That aside, the rest of the evening was lovely. We’ve had our plans to break out the harness and bend him over the bed interrupted by biology, exhaustion and worst of all… housework. As my ass enthusiasm in general remains unabated, we agreed to try again.

It did not initially go well, as outlined above.

I’m not a big fan of a lot of femdom tropes. Sometimes the problem is the not the basic idea but the way they’re commonly played out in public and one of the worst in the performance thereof is the use of “worship”. Usually, it seems to break down to a guy wanting to eat pussy or suck toes. There’s not a damn thing wrong with those things inherently, but the word in question seems to be trotted out by doofuses who wouldn’t know reverence if it came down from the heavens and brained them with a holy scroll. Sometimes, though, I can almost feel it when KB touches me. It’s one of those things I don’t know how to ask for. How do you express something that is literally a mystical concept? And that’s even assuming I didn’t feel like a complete horse’s ass asking for it to begin with, without an internal eye roll at the airs I’m putting on. I have a hard time, even four years into this relationship, allowing myself those airs. All the same, from time to time I’ve brushed the edges of something I desperately want, the specific type of electricity between us I yearn for.

Last night it was a breath away as he touched me, trying to get me into the headspace for sex and hopefully more. It’s when I can feel that, the way one can feel in the air a storm coming, that I feel like I’m drawing power. Last night, it was the difference between pegging because we both enjoy it, and me feeling that the most important thing in the moment is what I wanted to do with the toy I own. While different people get different things out of pegging, for me it’s an act that’s more carnal than I ever would have expected. Yes, I love the sounds of his moans, the feeling of control, the back and forth verbal exchange that underscores the give-and-take of the energy. But I also love the feel of his hips in my hands, the way he pushes back against me, pushing the toy against me. I can feel the physical intensity of it to the point that my cunt clenches and I feel a buzzing in the clitoral area, strong enough that it builds and builds, and I find myself pausing to ward off my own orgasm. Sweeter than getting off is the feeling of leaning over his back, putting my weight to him to pound him at another angle, and just going and going and going and getting lost in it.

I usually finish with him riding me, and last night was no different. However, when I stepped away from him, I instead told him to get on his back. I wanted those beautiful wide eyes looking up at me. I don’t think I can go as hard in that angle, but having his legs wrapped around me, being able to see his face are worthy in their own ways. I could feel my legs giving out after some time, but I was getting drunk on his gasps and pleas and couldn’t stop.

The feeling was infectious. When I finally gave out and had him mount me, I felt like I never wanted to tell him to stop. He told me he could just keep going forever if not for the frailties of the flesh.

This is what a good scene feels like for me, not contingent on actions, but on a completed circuit.

Instead of Air, You Are Breathing Melody

While still not a morning person by any means, KillBoy has been developing a morning routine that seems to suit him fairly well. This morning, since he wasn’t rushing around trying to get out the door in a hurry, when he finally started getting his clothes together, I suggested it would be a good day for him to wear panties for me, especially because we’d made erotic plans yesterday that had been axed by him coming home to find me stiff and cranky from hours of physical work in the heat.

One of the pleasures of the new routine is that there was time for him to show me how hard he’d gotten just putting on the panties and presumably being filled with expectation for his arrival home. Time for me to kiss him while he edged for me, standing over him with his work clothes pulled aside so he could quickly dance to that cliff for me. After I flopped back into bed, time enough for him to lean over me, wiggling his butt to invite quick swats before kissing me goodbye.

Now, of course, he’s at work and I don’t know how much thought he’s sparing towards this evening, but I do know he will be when he gets to read this. I adore it when I know he’s worked up and anxious to get home for whatever plans I may have for him. For me, it’s another way of getting to play with my favorite toy, another method of control. He may be a Real Boy, but I’ve got these strings, to tie him down. Come into my web, love.

Dance to Your Beat, Succumb to Your Treats

I’m looking down at him, as he attempts to hold perfectly still while still panting raggedly.

“How many days has it been?” I already know the answer. I know what date it was when I told him he was denied orgasm until further notice. I also remember full well the teasing, and the fucking session where I rolled off him and cheerfully told him that we were done until later. It wasn’t my intent to have him go a full week at that particular juncture, but injury and scheduling surprises are a more exacting boss than I am.

And so it was that he hissed out the number of days, his trembling effort music to my ears.

He’s much better than your average dude at edging, knowing just where that precipice is and dancing back from it. I use this knowledge to my advantage, bringing him to that place and telling him to go no further, regardless of whether it’s by my cunt, mouth or his hand; sometimes all three in one session. Sometimes I’ll remind him that it’s not out of the question for me to want a perfect blackjack of edged and denied orgasms in one evening.

This time however, as I begin to move my hips, riding both his wonderful cock and my pleasure at having him trying his hardest to obey against his desire to pitch over that edge and fill my cunt with come, it’s too much. He’s been denied for as long before, and teased more harshly, so it’s not beyond his usual capabilities. Whatever the reason, he gives me a wide-eyed panicked  look, moaning out

“I can’t… ahhhh I can’t stop ohgodimsorry….”

I smile down at him. I would accept no less than his full effort, and a refusal to obey would kill the moment dead for me. However, this feeling of being overwhelming, of being all too much for him to maintain his normal fine control? Well, it suits me just fine, and I am no gentle Aphrodite rising from the waves, but a horned Astarte, goddess of pleasure-seekers and soldiers alike.

And so it is that I respond with acceptance, telling him to let go and get swept away. He bucks uncontrollably under me, giving into biological imperative and flooding my cunt. It only takes me a minute to come to my own orgasm, riding him as furiously as a Equite after spolia militaria, simultaneously vanquishing him and taking him as a war prize.

As long as there is no failure in his effort, there is no failure in his obedience.

Don’t Try to Hide the Perfect Mess

Going on new brain meds is like walking into a darkened room and hoping you remember where the furniture is. In this particular go round, someone moved the damn sofa.

It’s killed my appetite to the point where I forget to eat until I’m shaky, or KillBoy asks me about it and then proceeds to make sure I do eat. It has also been having negative effects on my libido, where for the first week I pretty much forgot sex was a thing. It wasn’t that I wasn’t interested, I just wasn’t thinking about it, until I realized I hadn’t been thinking about it. So, of course, I brooded over it for a day or so before talking to KB. It’s completely in character for him that he gently responded that not only had he been prepared for that particular side effect, but also that he had noticed both a lack of certain affections and that my wand vibrator hadn’t been lying on the bed when he came home since I had started on them.

However, he was surprised when I told him that his tactic of giving me space by not even mentioning it to me was not the correct course of action. I don’t do well with feeling like my partner has either not noticed disinterest, or worse, that they don’t care. I also don’t like him deciding on a course of action regarding changes in my libido without asking me if it’s appropriate. I need disclosure in order to advise or to make my own choices.

I also told him though I wasn’t feeling anything in the realm of spontaneous desire, I wasn’t feeling sex averse. I was worried that if I tested, responsive desire would also be a no-go, but it was valuable information either way. Without his acknowledgement that he was avoiding seeming to pressure me for sex, I would have assumed that the various stresses coming to bear on him recently meant he was not up for it. Especially because lately, there’s been a grain of truth in that for us both.

Unfortunately, while having that conversation put us on the same page, it didn’t fix the libido issue. While my responsive desire does indeed respond, the sex we’ve had since has been intimate and enjoyable, but a bit like trying to trying to type out this post with numb hands. Masturbation was… almost pointless. It’s not completely broken, but unless it starts to go away within the next couple of weeks, I’m going to have to switch. In the meantime, I intend to keep having sex with my KB. Physical responses may be lacking but it’s not a complete loss on that level and I still love the feeling of intimacy, of ownership and control.

Last night, I gave him a short but intense spanking. My scenes with him are nearly always overtly sexual; having his body at my disposal is a source of great lust. Stroking his reddened skin, looking at him sprawled across the bed, I felt hints of it, embers that could have been stoked into a fire. It was late, so I chose to merely satisfy the parts of me that enjoy hearing him yelp and seeing him tense. To fulfill my need to play with my favorite toy and remind both of us who holds the power.

I would prefer to get my libido back in full working order, but while I’m working on that, I’m both surprised and relieved to find that my desire for d/s and kink are still unchanged.

And Broadcast, So Raw and Neatly

It’s late in the evening. Night has fallen, if I’m to be honest about it.

I’ve been drinking a rum and cherry coke, and working on a blog entry that’s more of a general thought piece, only tangentially related to kink. However, the lateness of the hour, the cozy isolation of my headphones (playing Hybrid’s “In Sequence” and Chipzel’s “Spectra” albums) and the rum have led me to a stopping point where I conclude this is work best left for another, soberer hour.

I snake a hand up into my own hair; I’ve reached that buzzed state where it’s not so hard to close my eyes and feel it as boy’s hair in my hand. To imagine that he’s close enough to hurt.

I had a scene planned out to start the minute he opened the door on our last visit. Life intruding the way it does, I knew the minute he hugged me with only one arm that something was wrong and it wouldn’t be happening. I would, of course, always prefer to take care of my property over other priorities, but I can’t say I wasn’t disappointed.

Tonight, however, I know how I will embroider it. In vino veritas, in rum there has been a realization than I may know how to effectively get under his skin in a certain way. A realization that something fundamental and deep in me misses our most psychologically strenuous play. We dance around it. Wanting it. Fearing it. Shying away from it. Yearning for it.

Sometimes phrases, ideas, get swapped around over time. It would be more correct to talk about the impossibility of eating your cake and still having it too. It’s a similar thing to only hurt the ones you love. I have found that my love and other feelings do not necessarily mean a tinker’s damn to the ones who do not love me; but I can do grievous emotional harm to those who love me. In this case, however, I do want to hurt the one I love. I can’t imagine wanting to bite and claw and pour all this tension into someone I don’t feel overwhelmingly passionate about.

I can no more explain why I want to see fear in his eyes than I can explain why I like certain flavors and dislike others. There’s no life experience I’ve had that should make me want to objectify and degrade my lover. But I want it in my bones. Denied it for weeks, it’s the movie playing behind my eyelids. Not necessary, not a requirement, until the day when it is. Every housecat occasionally remembers that it’s a tiger.

Perhaps here I’ve said something. Perhaps, soaked in ethanol, I’m merely in a similar state to the young man learning The Salmon Dance.