Archive | July, 2010

Making friends

8 Jul

I’ve been hanging out on www.fetlife.com.   Going to munches.  Spending some time logged onto a vanilla dating website – cause you know, that’s where I met Sir in the first place.   I’m not looking for “Mr. Right,” at any of these places, just being open to the universe and whatever may come my way.

i am standing in front of a table.  Naked, legs apart.  In my red heels, 4 inch heels, with narrow leather cuffs around my ankles.  A ring embedded in each cuff is attached securely to a platform.    i can’t move my feet more than an inch, can’t press my thighs together.  The platform is raised; the table is lower than my hips.   

 Similar narrow cuffs encircle my wrists.  They are fastened together behind my back, which raises my breasts, thrusting them forward.   My nipples are erect, hard and elongated.  i am exposed, unable to cover my breasts, or my freshly shaved pussy.

I know I need to take my time here.  I’m just meeting people, not really shopping for a Dom.  And I’ve met some nice folks.  People at the last munch I went to were really nice.  And fetlife is great, all kinds of interesting discussions and people’s profiles. and such.

i can hear Him right behind me, almost feel his breath; i can’t see Him.  Not touching me, so close, not touching.  i tremble.

His hand on my nipple, a caress becomes a pinch – o – mmpf.   He pinches harder.  “Does that hurt?” He says.

“O – yes, o, yes, Sir, it does hurt,” i say.  

He releases the nipple.  “Good,” He says.  i close my eyes.

 I was talking to somebody on the vanilla site, he was pretty nice, for a while.  Then I figured out he was seriously vanilla, and I guess we could have been friends, but he was looking for the love of his life.  Which, in retrospect, doesn’t seem as romantic as it did at first.   He was pretty sure I was Her, but I was pretty sure I wasn’t.  You know how that goes.

I did meet somebody else on there who’s pretty clearly a little kinky, and is pretty nice too.  Unfortunately, seems like he’s more submissive than dominant, so maybe we’ll be friends, but he’s not – not – oh, damnit, I almost said something ridiculous like not “The One.” 

There is no “The One.”  There is no “The One.”  I should have to write it 50 times.

He’s speaking in a low tone, close to my ear, i can feel the warmth of His body behind me, feel his breath as he says, “Listen carefully.  I’m going to spank you.  you’re going to bend over the table, so your ass is raised up, and I’m going to spank your ass.  Hard.  Do you understand?”

i can barely speak – “Yes, yes, Sir, i do understand.”

“Tell me.”  He pauses, and says it again, calmly, “Tell me, aisha.  What am I going to do?”

i swallow hard, struggle to force the words out.  “You’re going to – to spank me…”  and i don’t know if He’s going to use His hand or His belt, but i can already feel it. 

“What else?” He says.

“Um, i’m – i’m going to bend over.  Bend over – with my ass – raised up so You can spank me.”   And i can feel it, feel my breasts pressed against the wood, my ass bare and totally exposed, feel my cheeks spread, opening the space between them to his view,   unable to see where He is or what He’s getting ready to do.

“How?” He says.  “Almost done.  How am i going to spank you?” 

And i gasp because i don’t think i can say it, i can’t breathe, but He is right there, so i do, i say, “Hard, Sir.  You’re going to – spank me – hard.”   

His voice is gentle, “And that makes you hot, doesn’t it, my little slut?  Are you hot now?  When I touch you, will you be wet?”

Omigod.  I’ve got to stop this.  It’s just a fantasy, it’s not even real.  Except, you know, I know now that it can be real.  I know that it doesn’t have to be just my fantasy.  Damn it.  Making friends, that’s what I’m gonna be doing for a while now.  Not looking for the man I can’t see, the man behind me, talking firm and soft.  

Omigod. 

Ok, lets see if I can get all Jungian about this.  The man in the  scenario actually represents some part of myself that I need to get in touch with.  Or the woman does.  Wait – they both do.  They’re both just parts of myself.  

This isn’t about me wanting submissive sexual pleasure, it’s about me needing to – um – I don’t know – unite the yin and yang elements in my being?  That sounds good, doesn’t it?  So why does writing my fantasy make me wet?  Damn it.

“Bend over,” He says.  But He helps me, he takes my shoulders and presses me down to the table, carefully. 

{Ok, here’s a problem.  Could I bruise my face when He starts spanking me?  Should He put a pillow under my face?  Maybe I should make it a narrow table so my face isn’t touching the wood.  No, that’s stupid.   See, that’s the problem with fantasy.  I don’t know if I could accidentally bang my head and hurt myself or not.  Ok, let’s be safe.}

He slides a pillow under my face, strokes my hair.  Then He is stroking my ass instead, gently, tenderly.  Caressing me, and even though i know it’s going to hurt in a minute, i melt.  

He says what He often says.  “You know that where ever I touch you gently, where ever I make it feel good, I’m going to make it hurt.  And anywhere I make it hurt, then I’m going to make it feel good.  And the better I make it feel…”  He pauses and i know what i’m supposed to say.   For a second, i don’t think i can, i’m so lost in the feel of His hand between my cheeks, probing.   But i do, i finish the sentence He started, i know:  the better He makes it feel, then.. “the more it’s going to hurt.” 

i am His, in that moment, my ass is His, my pussy is His.  All of me, laid out on the table, waiting for the next caress, the next slap, the whistle of the belt, or the caress of his lips, all of me is His. 

Well, I think I’ve tortured myself quite enough for one day.   In all kinds of ways.  I think I’ll take myself to bed, maybe spend some time with Big Blue, my trusty personal friend.

Good night, youall.

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Cock Worship

5 Jul
 

I like the sense of mystery and sensuality I feel with this picture...

i am kneeling.  Of course.  He is sitting in front of me, his cock in his hand. I rock back on my heels, tilt my head, eyebrows raised, smile slightly.  “May i?” i ask hopefully.  “Please?”

“No.” He says.  “Not yet.”

A shiver goes through me, my pussy clenches.  Why does being denied turn me on?  i lower my eyes demurely, watching the cock still in his hand.  

He strokes it a little.  I nibble on my lower lip.  Waiting.  Anticipation making me wetter.

What is it about a cock that’s so fascinating?  So desirable?  So hot? 

An analyst I know, I’ll call him JM,  might say it’s cock envy.   He insists that on some level men envy women for our power to carry life, to give birth.  And that women envy men for their cocks.  I struggle to figure out what that means exactly. 

I know I don’t want to be a man.  I can’t think of a lot of things men can do that I can’t do.  You know, write their name in the snow.  I’m not tempted by that.   I don’t think I want my own cock.

I don’t think I want my own cock

Or do i?  Maybe not to keep.  

i kneel before Him, still waiting for permission.  i want to put my mouth over His cock, breathing on it, warming it with my breath.  Close my mouth over it, wet and warm, licking the head til it’s wet.

i want to hold His cock at the base, holding it still while i lick the head with the flat of my tongue, as if it were an ice cream cone.  Licking all around as if it would melt otherwise.

Then with the tip of my tongue, running it around the rim,  just under the rim.  Pausing to attend to the opening, licking gently, delicately.  Caressing with my tongue that ridge where the vein runs, pulsing so fiercely i can see it throb.

Licking my way from the base up that vein, pressing just hard enough that a drop of precum emerges – and is licked away again.  Ahhhh.

i’ve always liked sucking cock – obviously, not just anyone’s cock.  You know, in the context of relationship.  i always thought it was a powerful act of love. 

i understand there are women who don’t feel that way, who truly don’t like to do it.  And even for me, in an unhapy relationship, it can lose its charm and become a chore rather than a delight. 

i understand there are women who think it’s humiliating, who see it as subservient and a powerless stance  for a woman to kneel at her man’s feet and serve his cock.   Maybe i wouldn’t like it either if i saw it that way.   i think they think it puts the man in a position of superiority, makes them inferior.  

And i guess if i talk about cock worship, and you think that means worshipping the man attached to the cock -well, that would be a whole different thing, wouldn’t it?  Because really, it’s not so much about Him.

This is Min, an Egyptian god. As you can see, He’s not the sexless god associated with Christianity.

i discovered a wonderful web site about cock worship,  for real, not just in a BDSM sense.  Here’s the link:

http://www.cracked.com/article_16103_5-inspiring-religions-that-worship-penises.html

Here’s another picture of Min:

The article comment on this picture:

“Min was an ancient Egyptian god of fertility. In Egyptian art and statues, Min is always shown holding his cock with his left hand and a threshing flail in his raised right hand. A flail, in case you’re wondering, is a kind of whip used to separate grain, or judging from the erection, to beat the shit out of some particularly adventurous woman who’s been naughty and needs to be punished. ”

Isn’t that great?

i am still kneeling, still waiting.  He is stroking Himself, torturing me by denying me accesss to His cock. 

i feel sorry for women who don’t know the power of pleasuring His cock.  When my mouth closes on Him, His cock becomes mine, for the moment.  Mmmhmmm.  Really.  i own it.  Believe me.  He gives it to me.

That may have been a secret, maybe i wasn’t supposed to tell You that.   Maybe that will make it too scary.

JM, the analyst, says that men are afraid of women, afraid of “going in.”  

“We got out once,” he says, meaning in birth, “Will we get out again?”

i smiled when he said it, but i can see that it may be true, in that Jungian, archetypal way.

i am rocked back on my heels, kneeling, waiting.  Not inferior, not humbled.  More like a priestess.

 
 

Called "Penis House." What do you think goes on through those doors?

 When He allows me to, i’ll make his cock slippery wet, slide my mouth up and down til He is lost in pleasure.  i guess it could be scary.  (Wicked smile.)

 

But the Dominant man knows ways to keep control.    He makes me ask permission.  He tells me what to do.   He grasps my hair, right there at the base of my neck, and He decides how deep or shallow i can go.

He may push me down hard, so all my focus is on relaxing the back of my throat as he presses against it.  He may, at any second, say, “Remove,” and i will have to stop.  Sadly, reluctantly, but obediantly.

It is part of the beauty of submission.  Together, He and i work to serve the Cock in a way that is pleasing to – Him.  The phallic power.

 

Nine feet long, 620 pounds. Gives new meaning to "Big."

Phallic power is something to be worshipped.  A force to be reckoned with. 

i can see why a man would feel better with a submissive woman at His feet.   i can see why a man would want to give detailed instructions.  It increases my respect for male subs, who have the courage to hand themselves over to a domme – how scary!  Although, i guess it’s another way to be safe.

Hover, breathe through my mouth, close, lick, go down slowly, one half inch at a time, bury it, then back up, slowly and methodically, and remove.

Those were Sir’s instructions.  i think it takes two to cock worship correctly, and i appreciate the guidance.  

But i don’t do too badly on my own initiative either.  

His cock is wet and slippery, my mouth moving quickly, rhythmically, up and down, making him wetter, harder.  It hits the back of my throat hard. Every 3rd or 4th time, i gag a little.  When it gets to be too much, i go a little more shallow, licking, swirling my tongue around.  i can feel the vein throbbing, if i put my finger on the base of his cock, i can tell he’s getting close.   

And we can wait, we can make it last a long time.  Until it cries out for completion, until He’s ready, His cock is ready, and at last He releases –  over the top Himself, much to my satisfaction.   Cum shooting forth,  fertility expressed, The Cock is pleased.

This one is called Flaming Thunder.

That’s what cock worship is about.  For me. 

What does it mean to you?

 

 

 

 

 

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Story of O and Me

1 Jul

Discerning Dom’s post on Story of O inspired this post.  http://discerningdom.blogspot.com/2010/06/story-of-o.html

Story of O was the first erotic literature I read.  I was – maybe 12 years old, maybe 13.   It fascinated me, from the beginning, when Rene and O are in the back seat of a cab and he has her lift her skirt and “sit naked on the seat.”   I no longer know if that’s an actual quote, but those are the words indelibly carved in my mind.  

Along with so many other lines.  In the same scene “she leans forward, thinking he wants to caress her,” but he cuts her bra straps and removes her bra instead, so she’s “naked under her clothing.”   O, my.   

I can almost remember my shock – and arousal – the first time I read the book.   If you haven’t, I recommend it.  It’s a classic.  I read and re-read it so many times, my copy was dog-eared, the spine broken, pages turned down.  

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

This is what the book I had looked like. I think the letters were embossed. Just picking the book up - just looking at it - made me wet.

I read it all the way through a few times, but I’d usually read it just long enough to get so aroused I had to seek relief.    Often, reading and touching myself at the same time, until I’d cum.  Then I’d stop and hide the book away again, feeling physically satisfied but emotionally uncomfortable. 

Soon, I had my favorite parts, and rather than reading straight through, I’d skip to the parts I liked best.  The scenes in the beginning, when she’s naked, blindfolded, and presented to the men. 

“They turned her around, and she could feel the fire at her back, so they could see the breasts and belly…  Then she fell backward, supported by she did not know whose arms, and they opened her legs so they could examine the cleft  between her thighs.  They parted the outer lips…”    Those may not be real quotes, but that’s how i remember it. 

And it makes me breathe faster remembering it, even now. 

It bothered me that I loved this book.   After all, O, the beautiful photographer, is violated in every way possible by many men, given to them by her lover.  She’s not allowed to cross her legs or press her knees together, as a reminder that she’s always open to any of the men who care to use her.  She’s whipped til she bleeds, her “tender nether lips” pierced, and finally she’s branded. 

She’s given to Sir Stephen, who uses her brutally, “only interested in what she has in common with men.”  Discerning Dom quotes this line too – it is a perfect example of a phrase with a mysterious power.  I don’t quite know why it fascinates me, but it still does.   “Only interested in what she has in common with men.”

It also makes me think of the scene in which she’s whipped for the first time, and they attach her to a pole at the waist.  “This forces her torso to one side, thereby causing her backside to protude in the opposite direction.   (one of the men) seduced by the sight of her behind, struggling to escape the blows, called for a brief intermission so he could take advantage of that entrance, remarking as he did so that she was too tight and would have to be widened.  They all agreed that could, and would, be done.” 

Omigod.  I totally DON’T want that to happen to me, and it totally makes me shiver, makes me wet.  What is it about that???

On the internet, I found a clip from the movie that shows her first meeting with Sir  Stephen. The scene is exactly like I remember reading it, and it’s odd to see scenes that have lived in my mind forever come to life. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sN9a0WqwxlE

In the early 1970’s, when I first discovered this book, there was no one to explain or help me understand why it turned me on.   So I was baffled.  I was pretty sure I didn’t want to be treated quite the way O was.  But there were some things…  And, if I didn’t want to be treated quite that way, why did reading it make me so incredibly hot????

In any case, as I got older, I would go for years without reading Story of O.  But the  fantasies were always part of my sexual life.  I must have told myself the story of my favorite scenes a zillion times.   And I often felt ashamed.  Ashamed that I needed those fantasies to orgasm.  Ashamed because I didn’t understand “what was wrong with me.” 

I didn’t think women were subservient to men  I didn’t think it was ok to rape women or beat them up.   Yet my fantasies were all about whips and being restrained, about being available to have sex at any time, about being owned.

I was relieved when women’s magazines started proclaiming that it was ok to have wild fantasies.   Then I could write it off as just some quirk, nothing important.

For sure, I didn’t want my husband, who was pretty vanilla, to do any of those things to me.  And he didn’t want to, at least not the things I wanted.  The few times we explored some of those possiblities, it quickly became clear that he wasn’t a safe person to share that kind of experience with.  

So I spent a lot of time feeling ashamed of my sexual urges.  And really, it’s not just the “Story of O” sexual urges that I’ve felt ashamed of. 

The deepest sexual urge for me is wanting to please.   Wanting to give myself.  If you’ve been reading my blog, you may already know that I’ll go a long way to hear “Good.  Good girl.”  You may already know that writing THAT makes me quiver and want to be touched.

And that triggers shame.  As if that, not my love for  Story of O, not my desire to be spanked, but wanting to please, is my real shameful secret.  

So here’s the thing.  I’m not going to be ashamed of it anymore.  Not any of it.   Not ashamed of the things that turn me on – whether it’s belts or cock worship, a word of praise, or being taken care of.   Not ashamed.  And if I feel it, that horrible, want-to-curl-up-and-disappear feeling, I’m going to push back.  I won’t accept the shame.   I just won’t.

And maybe I’ll get a new copy of Story of O.

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