Play

I wanted rougher. I wanted rougher to feel like he *wanted* me. To feel like I caused him to lose control and couldn’t help himself. A combination rape/D/s fantasy. What he gave me was so utterly different that what I anticipated. I realize now that I hadn’t fully formulated what I wanted. My fantasy was a mere snippet. A moment within an encounter without any context or aftermath.

The evening started the same way as many – some talking on the futon with some touching and caressing. He likes to hear me talk, it’s a form of foreplay for him; to feel a connection, intimacy, trust. I asked him once if he would like me to greet him at the door on my knees; take him in my mouth before he’s even fully entered the room. He said no (kindly of course). He prefers talking first, that’s what turns him on. Particularly if we haven’t seen each other in a while, as is often the case.

He had some pain and asked me to massage him, his leg, thigh, groin area. I was happy to oblige as any excuse to touch him is a good one. And the request fires up some faint nurturing instinct within me. When he has pain, I tend to assume that means that sex is off the table for the evening. Well, you know what they say about assumptions…and he’s surprised me more than once in that arena.

And last night was certainly a surprise.

I used to be indifferent to sucking cock. Which is odd, since apparently I have an aptitude for it. (And I know what you’re thinking: *everyone* believes they’re good at it, because men continually give positive feedback in order to continue being serviced. Doubtless a mediocre blow job is better than no blow job at all. But for some reason I trust the men who have expressed surprise-gratitude-compliments on my skill. I get the sense that it is not just empty flattery. But I digress…)  With Gawain I actually enjoy fellatio – and will often find myself aroused by the act. Generally not in a really obvious wet, hot and throbbing kind of a way – but enough to make me ready to fuck without much more preparation required – though of course he would be happy to oblige – or watch me…

Predictably, massaging led to fondling, which led to sucking his cock, which led to the bedroom. (Note: I really must make the guest room a bit more hospitable, I have yet to have sex in there with anyone. Ridiculous after 8.5 years of living in this place). The continued cock sucking didn’t actually last that long before things changed. Suddenly he was telling me how he was going to be using me. Hard. I was somewhat taken aback as we established a safety word and how I would communicate dissent if my mouth was otherwise occupied; and then we began. I adjusted quickly, excited and curious to see where this would go.

He ordered me onto my knees with my hands behind my head. I was to hold onto my pony tail and not let go. And he slapped me. And again. Harder. He yanked down my panties with his foot and I struggled out of them without moving my hands, shocked and delighted as I heard them ripping. The conflicting thoughts and emotions that went through me even in those first few moments are almost indescribable. I strained to maintain an upright stance as he plunged into me from behind, trying to compensate for the lack of balance normally offered by my hands as I tilted forward towards the bed.

“Are you a little slut?” “Are you a fucking whore?”
Yes. Yes. Yes.
“Yes what?” “What do you call me?” He barked this at me, yanking back my hair. I had never experienced that kind of authoritarian look and tone from him before.
Yes Sir.
“You’ll say that before or after everything, understand?”
Yes Sir.

He would kiss me with gentleness and intimacy, and check in often. He had put a lot of thought into how this scenario would play out. He had to establish trust – for both of us. He had to know that I wasn’t scared, or hurt or damaged by any of this.

He fucked me hard. Moving my body around with more ferocity and speed than I was accustomed to.

“Do you like this?” “Do you want me to fuck your mouth?” “Do you like it when I slap your face with my cock?”
Yes Sir.
“Say no.”
No Sir. (Your mouth says “no” but your body says “yes.”)
But it was intoxicating. Impossible to think or focus on anything other than what my body was experiencing  – utterly captivated by the game we were playing.

I’ve always liked having my hair pulled, but I recognize now that what I had experienced before was merely a gentle-to-moderate tugging. Last night? It was pulled. Often. And the pain was surprising and stimulating.

But the part that resonates with me now? What I’ll remember the most about the evening?
His hands on my throat. A gesture I had never considered before meeting him, and it’s always been arousing. Something to do with the slight limitation of oxygen, making everything else feel more intense. As he put his hands on my throat last night, I tensed with anticipation of the familiar pleasure, but with my hands around his wrist, he picked me up and threw me to the other side of the bed.

Holding tighter to my throat than before, he did it again. And again. I was shocked at how much I liked it. I’m not one to place value judgments on anyone’s sexual proclivities; but that temporarily gave me pause. He checked in with me again, perhaps not sure how to gauge whatever look I may have had on my face, but I barely had time to process it, all I knew was that I enjoyed it, and was happy to continue.

I’m still processing. And sore.  Sore in a delicious way that just serves to remind me of the night I’d had. Sore in my hips, my chest/clavicle, and miscellaneous other places. And I was pulling out strands of hair for the rest of the night. Good thing I have enough for 3 people plus a puppy.

Last night was our first go at this. I can only imagine that each subsequent encounter like this will only prove to be more intricate and arousing. I am supremely grateful to him for surprising me with this kind of play.

Almost

I was there for a work conference, and we made plans to get together. He was originally from my own city and we’d recently re-connected via the magic of facebook. When last he’d come home, we met for lunch, and near the end of our time together he oh-so-casually asked: “so what’s up with all the porn in your facebook feed anyhow?”

Now to be clear, that so-called “porn” was mostly academic. I wrote papers on sex blogging and erotica film and was assigned reading assignments with titles like “At Home with Pornography” and “Mighty Lewd Books.” It was glorious, and led to some amusing facebook statuses – though none that I would call even remotely risqué within *my* definition of the term.

But he was leading up to more intimate questions – and somehow we managed to establish that he too was interested in more liberal forms of sensual expression, sex clubs and well…maybe exploring that with me a little more. Interesting. The semi-developed crush I’d had simmering beneath the surface since I was 19 might finally bear fruit. Took him long enough.

As it happens, we had slept together once before. Though I actually mean “slept.” A post New Year’s Eve party crash on someone’s living room futon. Though at age 20, I lacked both the confidence and the technique to take advantage of that particular situation. I felt more than up to the task this time – only 18 years later.

Dinner was overpriced, but laden with meaningful glances, not-so-accidental touches and numerous instances of encroaching each others’ personal bubbles. Neither of us minded. I rarely drink, but felt oddly in need of a few glasses of liquid courage to lubricate what I had planned for later. I have no memory of the food or the conversation, only of the tingly sense of anticipation that coloured the entire “date” portion of the evening. Which of course culminated in an invitation to escort me to my room.

We were both seeing other people, and while my situation was semi-open, I had no idea what his status was. I decided it was up to him to worry about that. Though I opened the conversation/seduction by asking that precise question. The conflicted look on his face implied that his relationship really wasn’t that open at all. Potentially problematic, but I decided to plunge ahead anyhow. Consent was his to give, so I was simply presenting him with some options. Well one really – the opportunity to get me naked after almost 20 years and a few glasses of wine.

I started simple – I was back in my room after all, I may as well get a bit more comfortable.  Slip off shoes and wrap, then sit down on the bed and remove my stockings slowly …not losing eye contact with him the entire time…bending over a little bit. A bit trite I know, but classic moves are classic for a reason, right? While not exactly leaping to help, he was watching what was happening without objection. And why would he if I was going to put on a little show for him?

However my patience for his dilemma would only last for so long. I was willing to make one last unspoken offer, and if he didn’t at least demonstrate more interest than just spectating, I would show him the door and take care of myself. I pressed up against him, breathed into his ear and asked him to unzip me. I was fully prepared to turn around and present the back of the dress, but before I had a chance, the zipper was down. Progress.

I stepped out of the dress and let him take a thorough look before stepping back towards him. I removed his jacket and began playing with the buttons of his shirt, as I watched him try to figure out what to do with his hands; clearly still conflicted. In my state of dishabille, his options were fairly limited, as  virtually anywhere he placed them would either come in contact with bare skin, or places so intimate that the covering material was basically meaningless. He settled for my back and hip, and our actions to that point had proven to be arousing for both of us. I was already hot, with a wet cunt ready to unzip his pants and suck on him until he was begging for mercy.

Instead I asked him if he had ever fondled a throbbing clit before. His eyes widened slightly and I could hear a sharp intake of breath. I assured him that my clit was in fact pulsing and quivering, and invited him to feel it, while simultaneously reaching my hand towards his clearly hardening cock….

Softness

Gawain is enormous, and hard and strong and has stamina like no one’s business. Often I would request, nay, demand that he be rougher with me. Begging him to pin me down and fuck me harder, take me like he has no control. But this was generally met with gentleness and agonizingly torturous sensuality. I have no complaints, but I couldn’t quite figure out why he wouldn’t meet that particular demand.

It took a while before we could come to that – when I say “enormous” I mean it. For all the skin mags that celebrate size, it does present its challenges. It took quite a while before I could fully take him in, and I need more lube with him than I ever have before. But I think I may understand a bit better now. His caution. His caring. His concern.

I haven’t spent a great deal of time exploring women, though not for lack of willingness or interest. It simply hasn’t been where my path has taken me much to this point. But my few experiences have led to a few conclusions, and revelations. An understanding of the differences in how our bodies appear and feel and present. The first time I ever kissed a woman was here with Topaz. A truly intoxicating experience that immediately erased all thoughts of the nude admiring man inches away from us enjoying the show. Why play with him, when this utterly enchanting fantasy was there in front of me, offering herself for my exploration?

I enjoy men’s bodies. The hardness, the freedom to crawl all over them, biting, scratching, squeezing and thrusting. The trust implied, knowing that while I have the illusion of power to reduce them to pure feeling, eyes rolling back in their heads, making absurd little sounds, really with their strength I am in an utterly vulnerable position.

But women – their bodies simply beg to be fondled and caressed with each inch of bare skin tantalizingly licked and teased. Our bodies are so much softer, with tiny delicate wrists and necks and ribs…My subsequent encounters with Kimberly made me realize that I was equally reluctant to grab her hair and potentially bruise her body as I imagine Gawain can be with me.

Not that this is the rule of course. On my more wanton, wet and impatient days, Gawain is more than able to deliver me the hard fucking I beg for – but only when he’s confident that I am absolutely ready. And I have no doubt, with a little more time and experience with other women, my confidence to be rougher there too will grow. But I get it now. And I look forward to the opportunity to learn more…

Jani Lane and Chris de Burgh Walked into a Bar…

I have become somewhat of a radical in the past few years – this blog has made me a strong proponent of freedom of sexual expression, lack of restriction on one’s private bedroom (backseat? shower? kitchen counter?) activities and embracing all aspects of the beauty and potential of the human body.

Admittedly, I have a long way to go in terms of accepting the beauty of my own naked form. I lost about 90 pounds, have gained about 15 pounds back and alternate between shaming myself for the gain, and then shaming myself for the shaming. Being a feminist can be such a trial sometimes. However, along this journey, I discovered a revelation of individuals who do nude modelling. And while I haven’t quite hit the stage where I’m willing to show every single one of my pink parts (and I may never reach that point)  I have done a series of topless sets.

Needless to say (though here I *am* saying it), this has been an empowering, humbling and hilarious experience in a number of unexpected ways.

I fully anticipated getting to know a group of wonderful individuals who would be graceful and encouraging and interesting. Check.
I expected that there would be some haters out there, and that if/when my family ever stumbled across this activity, it would be uncomfortable and challenging. Check.
I expected that I would find the shoots themselves to be awkward, but also worthwhile in the end. Check.

What I didn’t expect?
To be approached on my “model” facebook account to do female wrestling – because I have an “edgy” look.
To be on a float in a parade and have my photos up on a slide show at a dance party in a bar.
To find myself completely neutral and unaffected taking off my clothes in front of a male photographer I barely know.

I have made some wonderful friends that have encouraged me to explore different aspects of sensuality, as one is a tantric healer. I have also learned to explore vegan cooking as one model is…well a vegan. Duh. Importantly, I have learned to re-consider my usage of pronouns as there are some trans models, and some models who do not identify with any specific gender identity. And perhaps most important of all, I have come to view women in a completely new and unexpected way – I am much more of a 3 on the Kinsey scale than I originally thought.

And the hilarity? Well I really didn’t expect that songsa would consider “stripper music” to be Warrant’s Cherry Pie. My shoot a couple weeks back had a 20’s/flapper theme to it – so I suggested the photographer play Patricia the Stripper to set the tone. Apparently that’s not how songsa works, and the best I could get was eighties hair bands. It set a tone alright…though I’m entirely certain just what tone it was… Less Charleston, more head banging. Still – at least it lightened the mood. While I wasn’t uncomfortable with the photographer, I was still stiff and awkward. It’s not quite as easy to look good while having your photos taken than you would think.

That shoot was my first in an actual photographer’s studio with a set and lights and well…people walking in and out. My other sets had been either at my place or someone else’s. He took 500+ shots and whittled them down to 130ish that I looked at today. I was dreading it to be honest – I had begun to wonder if sexiness was something I could only pull off in the bedroom – ya know, while actually *being* sexual? I even tried mentally seducing the photographer while posing.  Could I pose for him? Turn him on while caressing my breasts? Rubbing feathers across my nipples? Arouse him with my pouty lips and bedroom eyes? Fail. Sadly, I didn’t want him at all. And he of course was the consummate professional, going out of his way to try to make me comfortable.
And while I didn’t exactly feel seduced by myself when looking them over (does that ever actually happen?) all in all they weren’t that bad.

An utterly different experience than the photos I let Gawain take of me while fellating him the other night to be sure. I wonder how “sexy” I looked in those pictures? I imagine staring head on into a lens with a cock in my mouth is a distracting kind of explictness. Is that sexy or gratuitous? Depends on the audience I suppose. Perhaps Gawain and I would find them titillating in memory. But would the viewer prefer to look at me with a penis resting against my cheek or me sensually rubbing a feather boa against my breasts?

In any case, I am working to come to terms with my body, my sexual expression and my comfort with all of it. And the photo sessions are helping – and I’m positively dying to model the bustier I bought the other day for an aborted gothic set (darn Winter weather) – my breasts look awesome in it!

Playing at Sensuousness

I’ve taken quite a long time away from this place, though it’s never been far from my thoughts.
I even wrote a paper about erotica blogging and its impact on the evolution of female sexuality. It was riveting. Or so I tell myself.
And its true, my own sensual journey certainly happened while I was interacting with this wonderful community of bloggers, but I think it also allowed me to be open to new possibilities. And that was the most important outcome of what I will call “Era I” of this blog. But what that openness allowed me, was to explore new possibilities outside of the blog. To be willing to entertain completely new thoughts and feelings.
What I was fantasizing about before was naive, heteronormative and limiting. A liberal cis-gendered, heterosexual woman playing at sexuality. I now understand more the diversity of sensual movement and thought, the possibility of exploration with other people and what connection and intimacy could entail. That was completely missing from my previous encounters and relationships.
Men, women, transfolk, dominance, submissiveness, communication – all these ideas have come to have new meaning for me, and I look forward to sharing those thoughts, and examining them further.
This post is just an intro – but for those of you who read this blog before, you will find an utterly profound shift in its direction. While I may play at the idea of having a slave or being fucked hard in fantasy – I find I am much more interested in understanding my lived reality.