Wednesday, August 16, 2017

Whips and Chains Excite Me. Rope? Not So Much.

When the test first popped on the scene, the bondage items were listed as "Bondage Receiver" and "Bondage Giver." In later iterations, that item was changed to Rope Bunny/Rigger. I initially copy pasted that onto my profile, because quizzes are fun, but I later changed Rope Bunny back to Bondage Receiver, because Rope Bunny is so not accurate for me.

I'm not a rope bunny. I never really have been. I like bondage, all right, but as a precursor to other activities. I like being tied down, rendered immobile, helpless, preferably in a way that doesn't allow for much fighting. I like chains, and manacles, and leather cuffs. I like the weight and the texture of cold metal against my skin.

Rope? Eh, it'll do in a pinch, but I wouldn't call it one of my kinks. I never learned much about tying, so I usually just attach it to a set of cuffs and go on my merry way.

I mean, I enjoy looking at shibari for the artistic aspects. It's pretty and complex, and interesting from a technical standpoint. But, I don't find myself longing for it. I'm sexually indifferent about rope, particularly complex rigging. There's nothing about it that gets my engines running. I don't pine for it like I do spanking or knives, or other such things.

I don't really include rope in my erotica either. I usually stick to chains, because that's my thing. Of if I use rope, it's attached to cuffs, because that's what I know and because the tying isn't the point. It's a means to an end for me. It provides the right environment for the other erotic abuses I'm interested in.

I feel weird about it sometimes, as rope is so popular. It's one of those quintessential activities you see in pretty much every bdsm community. It's one of the community show ponies, along with flashy fire play, which oddly, I'm not really much into either. Fire play has always been really popular too, and I've always felt the odd man out not being interested in that either.

So, chock it up to another oddity about me. Love bondage. Love being tied down and restrained. Rope though? Meh. It's pretty, but I can't dredge up the enthusiasm for it that so many of my friends have.

Device bondage looks hot though.

Saturday, August 12, 2017

Star Talker: Part 10: Coalescence

Rha'han blinked. "What?"

She sighed. "I'm not some blushing virgin. If it's gonna happen, I'm going to enjoy myself. And if you're going to work me up, I expect a payoff."

He hadn't expected that. But then, nothing she'd done so far was predictable. Her utter lack of reverence both confused and aroused him. She didn't behave like the other Terran women who'd come to Lo'Rah as mates. But, then, most of them had come willingly, volunteered to marry a Lo'Rahni man as part of their planet's treaty. The others had been purchased from slave brokers. They'd been granted their freedom through marriage, but they retained the subservience that had been trained into them as slaves. Selena was different. She spoke to him as if she weren't half his size, as if he couldn't effortlessly overpower her.

"All right then," he said, pulling his finger from her and setting the sponge aside.

He scooped a bowl into the water and rinsed the soap from her. Scooping her up, he stood her on the ledge he'd been sitting on and pushed on her back until she bent over the edge. A large vial of bath oil sat on the tray next to the bowl of soap. He poured some into his lower hands and rubbed them together. Bending over her, he pinned her arms to the cool tiles lining the floor. With the others, he reached around her, sliding his fingers over the lips of her sex, slipping between them to coat them with the oil. The warm tingle he felt in his fingers would soon be felt more keenly by her as the oil seeped into her skin. He ran the length of her slit down and back to circle the bud of the entrance he sought. He circled her there, leaving more oil in his wake before delving inside to lubricate the tight passage.

Selena moaned, resisting the pressure of his hands on her wrists. Rha'han chuckled, adding another finger, thrusting in and out of her while he circled the bead of flesh nestled between her lips. She gasped, grinding his hand into the wall of the bath. She pulled harder at her wrists, so he tightened his grip. She growled.

"Ah, ah. I'm flying this ship," he said, biting down on her shoulder.

She popped her hip sharply, smacking his wrist into the edge of the bath.

He growled this time, pulling his hand from her sex to deliver a fierce slap to her ass, delighting in the vibration of her flesh. She hissed at the blow, instinctively arching her back, lifting her ass higher. Removing his fingers from her body, he reached for the oil again, pouring more into his palms. Her forlorn groan at the loss of the sensation sent the blood straight to his cock. He shuddered as he stroked it finally, pleasure shooting up his spine. The oil slid over his skin, the effects of it leaving him straining against his own flesh. He pushed forward, sliding the head between her plump cheeks. She moaned loudly as he bumped the opening, arching again. He grabbed her hips and entered her ass in one powerful thrust.

The sound she let out was positively feral, echoing around him in the bathroom. He met her with a fierce growl of pleasure. She was hot and tight, clenching around him as she struggled against his arms pinning her down. He laughed, beginning an achingly slow rhythm, never quite leaving her body before pushing back in again. She bucked, but his other hands held her hips firmly in place, at the mercy of his pace.

She hissed violently, twisting suddenly to sink her teeth into his hand. He roared, jerking her arm to pin it against the small of her back. Gripping her hips tighter, he set into a harsh, unyielding pace, listening to her frantic moans and whimpers fill the air around him. He reached around between her legs again, placing two fingers against her clit so that each thrust ground her against the rough skin of his fingertips. She growled softly, almost desperately, circling her hips in a way that drove him mad.

Her breath came in rapid bursts, the movements of her hips becoming more erratic beneath his onslaught. Suddenly, she came with a soft cry, pressing herself hard against his fingers. The spasms of her ass around his cock in the wake of her orgasm sent him tumbling over the edge with her. He dug his fingers into her hips, thrusting into the hilt as he spilled into her. She went limp beneath him, panting slightly in the sudden silence of the room, their breaths coalescing into a soft roar of satisfied exhaustion.  

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Wednesday, August 9, 2017

A Case for Brats

For a while now I have largely been avoiding brat discussions on Fetlife. I've written about the topic several times both here on Fet and here on the blog, but it gets a little exhausting after a while trying to combat the negative stereotypes that often come with the word "brat" online. People most often go straight to the "disrespectful, disobedient child" definition, and rarely differentiate that from what is often a vastly different kink context.

I identify with the brat label, but I always have to state that with the disclaimer that it does not mean I am disobedient or disrespectful. It has never really meant that for me. It was a term of affection my dad used when I was growing up. To me, it means playful and teasing. A bit of bear poking, if you will. It has never included willful disobedience, and never will.

A lot of people complain that brats brat for attention, and that's not entirely wrong. It is, in its essence, a way for me to communicate a desire for play or a particular intensity of play. I've never been that great at verbally requesting things. I often default to physical communication, particularly in primal space. I was inadvertently trained, both as a kid and in my first dynamic to basically not ask for things. My first dom mocked me a lot, made me feel bad for asking for things, making suggestions, or constructive criticisms. Given that humiliation is the main trigger of my anxiety disorder, it made it extremely hard after that for me to verbalize my desires. I feel stupid, knowing it's easy enough to ask, but I can't make the words come out because of that niggling fear in the back of my brain of being ridiculed for it.

My coping mechanism for this is non-verbal communication. I'll gesture to things, or present objects, rather than out and out ask for them or for their use. I'll have important conversations in text because it's far easier than saying them. With play, I'll do the brat thing. I'll poke and I'll prod. I'll tease and challenge. It's something I enjoy and most of my previous doms have enjoyed. My first dom was an unusual situation, and I really hadn't fully developed my kink identity yet.

Another motivating factor for brat play for me is my discipline fetish, which is also difficult to explain.  I have a force fetish. I like being helpless and not having any control. Having an inordinate fascination with punishment is an extrapolation of that. I love reading domestic discipline romances, but the scenes that turn me on the most are the punishment scenes, not the erotic ones. I'm turned on by the idea of not having a choice in the matter, by taking more pain than I can theoretically tolerate. In the form of spanking, of course, 'cause am spanko.

I feed this need with brat play, which gives the play a sort of punishment context in my brain. Now, this is where the disconnect comes with most people. The idea of punishment and the psychology of it turn me on, but that doesn't mean that I seek out or desire real, disappointed/hurt/upset my owner type punishment. That shit sucks. I mean, I panic if I even so much as imagine I might have upset my owner in anyway. There's a distinct difference between serious punishment and the sort of mind fuckery I'm into. Because I guess that's what it is, really. A brand of mind fuck. I like to play with fear and force, and it's not the same if I have to ask for it directly.

I want to be clear, though, this is done with consent. I ensure a dominant with whom I'm engaging in this sort of thing understands what's going on when I do it. It's an aspect of my personality, linked, I'm sure, with the little part of me. But what I don't want is to be lumped in with the annoying, disobedient, bitchy people most people seem to think that brats are. I wish those who were like that wouldn't call themselves brats, because it just makes it impossible for the rest of us to distinguish the kink role from the vanilla definition.

I find myself coming back to this topic again and again, even though it brings me nothing but grief. I've learned to avoid the discussions on Fetlife, as my voice gets lost in this tidal wave of hatred, and I end up just getting mad. But, sometimes, I feel the need to dispel the myths about bratting, as well as those about the other labels I identify with, because no one wants to have negative stereotypes attributed to them, and not all brats are spoiled little shitlords the internet would make them out to be.

Saturday, August 5, 2017

Star Talker: Part 9: Weaknesses

Selena eyed him warily, but slowly turned around. Her posture was stiff, muscles tense, as if bracing for an attack. Rha'han rinsed the sponge and dipped it back into the soap. He laid his hands gently on her hips and prompted her to step closer to him.

He gave her braid a small yank. "Breathe."

She released the breath she'd been holding in a heavy burst. Her shoulders dipped slightly, but the tension remained. She took in a deep breath as he touched the sponge to her skin, swiping it up her arm, across her shoulders and down the other. He gently washed her back, watching her muscles loosen and relax beneath the sensation. He stood, stepping in closer so that their skin touched. He ran his lower hands down her arms, to clasp them firmly about her wrists. She pulled at them, but his grip remained steadfast. He leaned down, inhaling the scent of her hair as he moved the sponge over her breasts. There was a floral scent mixed in with her own, but he was unfamiliar with the plant.

He swept the sponge delicately over her nipple, watching it harden. "What is the plant you smell of?"

She turned her head slightly, but not quite enough to look at him. "It's called jasmine. I import my toiletries from New Giza."

He ran the sponge across her stomach. She inhaled sharply, abs contracting beneath her soft belly. "New Giza...that's another Terran colony, yes?"

She closed her eyes, as if trying to collect her thoughts. "My birth planet, actually. My father was an astrophysicist, so we spent half of the year on an observatory station. I haven't been there since I was adopted by the Centauri."

He moved the sponge lower, dipping it beneath the water. She struggled then, trying to free her wrists, to no avail. Rha'han leaned into her, nipping her ear sharply as he massaged her sex beneath the water. The sponge was soft but had enough texture for touch of roughness. She shuddered, her thighs clamping together. He reached his remaining hand around to cup a tender breast. He massaged the small globe with his fingers, pinching the nipple lightly between them. Despite her reluctance, she was delightfully responsive, her breath quickening, her body moving subtly into his touch. His cock throbbed in the warm water. He pressed it into the velvety skin of her backside. She sucked in a quick breath, back arching ever so slightly.

He wrapped an arm around her, holding her against his chest. He brought the sponge back around her body, dragging it over her ass. She shivered, her belly contracting again.  Tentatively, he slipped it into the cleft there, pressing it between the cheeks. She held her breath then, stiffening as he moved closer to the puckered flesh of her anus. He pushed against it, smirking at the small gasp he pulled from her. Shifting the sponge out of the way, he pressed a fingertip to the opening until it slipped in. She let out a low moan, clenching around his finger.

"Damn it," she muttered, panting softly.

Rha'han chuckled, thrusting the finger in and out of her ass. He was rewarded with more moans and curses as she tilted her head back, eyes closed.

"Seems I've found your weakness, miiyah."

She opened her eyes to roll them at him. "Yeah, yeah. You gonna fuck me or not?"

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Wednesday, August 2, 2017

The Storyteller's Conundrum

I've always said I was a writer. I even mention it in my profile here, and probably all my useless dating profiles. But, I don't think that's quite accurate. I write, yes, but "writer" is too vague, I think. It doesn't convey the right image.

What I am is a storyteller. My mind is awash with a thousand characters, plots, settings, and endless streams of dialogue at any given moment. Let's not even get into the random lines of gibberish of some fabricated language I don't have the wherewithal to actually build. Perhaps if I'd been able to take more linguistics courses...

I often struggle to compose article style writings, which is funny, since I started a blog specifically for that. I have profound--at least I think they're somewhat profound--thoughts, but they often manifest in a tangled jumble that flows out in some unplanned stream of consciousness that trails off rather than ends.

Narrative comes far more naturally to me. In the last couple of weeks, I've been digging around in the pile of thoughts, trying to construct some sort of coherent non-fictional prose, but the first lines that always come to mind are the beginnings of stories that likely won't ever be written.

And the bad thing is? I could do it. I would weave my personal issues into carefully crafted short stories. I did it in college. My years as an upper classman were fraught with emotional bullshit as I started treating my anxiety disorder, entered the kink scene, and navigated my first relationships in my life. My fiction classes wouldn't allow me to write the fantasy that is my first and most prominent literary love, so I wrote about polyamory, kink parties, breakups, bdsm-themed noir, abusive relationships, suicide, and intricately detailed descriptions of dirty trailer homes.

Those stories were inevitably full of those people and places which inspired them. I don't think all those who appeared in those stories have read them. I'm not entirely sure how they would feel if they did. Which is why I don't really do that now. I know I could craft stories of my emotional turmoil, but those who read them will inevitably recognize themselves in the characters.

I am the artist who paints what I see as accurately as possible. I'm just better with a pen than a brush.

But the key aspect of this whole storyteller business is that an audience is necessary. I think that's the biggest distinction between storyteller and writer. If I were just a writer, I would be content with the writing. The words on the page would be enough. I could purge all the emotion and imagination on the page, and there wouldn't be need for anything more. I could be satisfied that the words were written.

But it's not enough. Someone has to read it. Someone has to feel the feelings I bleed onto the page. They have to see the things I see, hear the words I hear, know the people I know. Hear the endless parade of voices in my head.

It's why I've never been able to keep a diary with any sort of consistency or real enthusiasm. I always found myself inevitably writing as if I were speaking to someone, as if I expected someone to read the words someday, even though they were often private frustrations or hate-filled railings that one can't actually say out loud.

It's also why I can't follow some advice I recently received. Because of the smallness of the local community, I can't fully write out the cathartic pieces I need to without adversely affecting others that I have no desire nor intention to hurt. It was suggested that I write them out anyway, and post them when I'm ready. But it doesn't work that way for me. They are things that I don't know that I can ever feasibly post, at least not in an arena where those involved would read them and know that they are there in those words.

But in order for the works to be complete, to provide the catharsis they are intended to give, an audience is imperative. The feedback is needed. The simple knowledge that the story has been shared, has been told, has been told to someone is integral to the experience of the storyteller.

I am not simply an artist, satisfied with the creation of my art. I am, in my heart of hearts, inescapably a performer. Perhaps not of the nature one typically imagines, but, for me, my art is not art unless it is shared.

My sorrow, my shame, my love, my loss, my joy, my grief, my passion can never be fully expunged until I am no longer the only one feeling them.

Thus is the burden of the storyteller.