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.

Cross My Heart With Silver

We’re naked, in bed. Maybe we’d been fucking already; I don’t remember.

What I do remember is this: him rolling his weight on me, saying that he was just going to … tease me perhaps? Torment me with with scratching or rough breast play? Something I wasn’t having at that point, at any rate.

I look him in the eye. “No. No, you’re not.”

He drops his eyes. Ducks his head ever so slightly.

He won’t.

Crash Your Dreams and Fall Forever

Most visits, I’m burdened with a huge suitcase and a heavy bag of groceries if not more miscellany, that I will text boy I need help carrying in. Last visit, I only had the small suitcase and a few small bags that I could easily distribute the weight of to carry inside myself.

It took me a moment to kick off my shoes and set things down, but oh so worth it to have him waiting for me in collar and sleek thong. I had stopped briefly on the trip to send an email, timing it to coincide with him getting ready to leave work, knowing he’d be totally focused on my instructions from the time he got home to the time I arrived. As soon as the door shut, his arms were around me and his kisses were more ardent than my usual warm welcome.

I ended up riding him on the couch. It was a warm day and I’d spent the last few hours in the car, but even as I told him we needed a short break for overheating and to move to the bed, I couldn’t stop rolling my hips. Seeing that my actions belied my words, he grinned up at me and gave me a stream of dirty talk just the way I like it. We never made it to the bed. I felt like a marionette held up only by strings as my orgasm passed, leaving me trembling with aftershocks strong enough that I could feel my cunt clamping down with each spell of full body shivers.

One of the only things I’ll miss when we’re no longer at a distance from each other is the ability to deny him for long periods of time without denying myself in any real way. I do so love the ease of telling him “oh did you want to come this week? Lolno” when I know that I’m not going to be there to see or feel him coming anyway. I questioned him, inwardly smirking, about how long it had been, when he asked me for the first time if he could come yet. It was somewhat hard to keep a straight face when he gave me the day he had last gotten off and then indignantly insisted that when he was given the order to not come, he wasn’t going to disobey.

Afterwards, he noted that his collar was soaked with sweat. I find it a pleasant thought to contemplate that this is how the leather will become softened and worn, as a byproduct of his exertions to please me.

Dein Herzschlag schreit, bestimmt den Rhythmus

I have a complicated relationship with the idea of sadism. I don’t identify as a sadist. I hate screaming, and while blood and bruises are pretty, they are not in and of themselves sexually arousing to me.

Trying to top a scene involving fear or mindfuckery is as hard on me as it is my boy. It takes a lot of arousal and being in the right headspace to silence the protective, sheltering voices that protest leaving the merest mark on him. He’s my sweet pet and I spend more than a little thought on making sure he’s feeling loved and cared for. To switch from that to using him as no more than a toy is easy for sex, but more difficult when it comes to pain or mindfuck play and switching off the caretaking program running in my brain.  I also have a quite a lot of the new dom hesitation: “Am I going too far? Do I seem ridiculous? Is he just going along with this?” I also admit that some of my previous partners have made me fear rejection to a ridiculous level; there are times even now when I fear I’ll push too far, or he’ll up and decide all this is nonsensical playacting and return his collar.

At the same time, I love my boy suffering for me. Those things that affect him in the right ways are not always pain, though. Pain that he can take, he can usually tank. It’s little fun unless I’m actually enjoying the action of what I’m doing as much as if not more than his reaction. Tension, fear, and his acceding to my demands in the face of those reactions are the water that sustains me in the dry heat of a rough scene.

In our most affecting scenes, I’ve devoured those strong reactions from him and pushed for more and more and more. When he looks at me with panic in widened eyes, it sends a thrill through me. I can think of no more cliche thing to say than that I want to drown in that look of fear, but that’s what it feels like, to see that and want to push him for more. I want to take more. I want to tear it out of him, to drive past the boundary where “willing” no longer means “comfortable with.” I don’t want the pain, per se. I want the things that are there for me to take, but not easily offered up.

Something in the handing over of those emotions that we normally avoid, in surrendering control, is the transmutation that changes lead to gold. I’m not interested in blood in and of itself – I want us both to feel like I’m holding his still-beating heart in my hand, and I want him to want me to have it even while unsure of my intentions. When I see others play, those interactions that are sometimes painful to watch, are immediately changed when I see electricity arcing between a top and bottom, or ripples at the surface of a deep well of affection. All the toys and techniques are just tools, the art is in what I provoke with them.