Ruby Incarnidine

Birthday Treat

2011-09-10T14:33:00.002-04:00

Yesterday, for my birthday, Boywonder gave me a beautiful gift.

He requested to be in service to me for the day.

He cooked for me, drove, opened doors, deferred to me in everything I wanted to do for the day, and ended the night with a long massage and delicious orgasm.

Afterwards- although admittedly after some discussion as I was too tired to even think about anyone/anything else! LOL- he requested an orgasm and I agreed.

He is beautiful when he is shy, hiding his face in my neck like a little boy, and blushing when I tell him how beautiful he is.

He is slightly ashamed of this side of himself, like so many men, but that hint of shame only makes it hotter for me- reminding him he'd had to 'earn' this orgasm through his service to me that day made him squirm delightfully. Telling him how much I'd enjoyed riding his face until I came powerfully (and loudly!) drew a low moan, and my fingers busy on his nipples and toying with his balls brought a symphony of small, shy, hot noises.

And when I guided his hand back to my groin, letting him feel the heat and reawakened dampness there? Oh, that sound was music.

Finally, after he'd cum, I drew him to me, nestling his face into my neck in that shy position he loves when feeling submissive, and brought myself to orgasm again, letting him see, feel, hear, and smell how hot his surrender made me.

It was a good birthday.

Some thoughts on cultural shifts in leather

2011-08-13T13:52:00.001-04:00

Leather is a culture, like any other culture, and I studied anthropology & sociology before I ever discovered psychology.
Cultures change. They adapt and grow.

Catholic mass is no longer commonly spoken in Latin, but in the native tongue of the worshippers, making it more accessible to Catholics of lower income & education.

Biker culture is no longer primarily the demense of those seeking to outrun 'the law' (no matter what you may think from watching certain stupid tv shows), and in fact now includes- and welcomes- such groups as "Bikers for Jesus" and does runs like JustLizzy's particular project, "Bikers for Babies".

Marital rape is no longer legal, and recognized as rape despite the marriage vow.

Gay bars are no longer illegal and Texas v Lawrence (finally!) struck down state sodomy laws by declaring them unconstitutional, and bath houses full of unprotected sex are no longer the most common method of getting laid for most gay men.

Guess what, everyone? Social norms change, even within subgroups and subcultures.
Yes, leather was once confined to bars and intensely vetted private parties and focused heavily on dirty, raunchy sex above all.
But leather culture is no more sacred than wider Southern American etiquette (I still write thank-you notes... but I don't have a reasonable expectation for you to), gay culture, biker culture, catholicism, etc etc etc and has changed right alongside all of those other cultures.
Is dirty, raunchy sex sill awesome? Hell yes.
Do you still have the right to vette your private parties and groups? Of course.
Are there still a ton of great leather bars around the country? Oh yeah.

But do all leatherfolks have sex as part of their leather? Nope. My sex is private, and sometimes it's even vanilla. Sorry.
Do I feel obligated to vette people for my TNG group because you used to have to? Nope. It's important to me- and the other group leaders- for us to be accessible as a safe place for young folks to learn about their kinks.
Are leather bars now the only way for folks to meet, cruise, learn, and get together? Nope. There's an amazing selection of dungeons, events, parties, munches, and gatherings in my city alone.

Does that frustrate and upset some people? Of course! Does the decline of 'hostess gifts', thank-you notes, and the understanding that one does not watch TV when one has a guest present upset me? You betcha!
But guess what? My culture is changing. Your culture is changing. OUR culture is changing. And all that we can do is to try and pass on the norms that are important to us and that benefit those around us, while appreciating and accepting the good parts of those changes.

Sorry, guys, but my sympathy for those upset about the changes in leather culture is pretty slim.
I've watched, in a short 20-some-odd years of actually paying attention, as traditions I hold sacred have disappeared from my peers' lives, and I've mourned that, but I've also had to rejoice at some of the changes that have come as well. (Um, gay marriage in NY- hell yes!)

....and you know what? The things that are important to me, I've kept doing, and in doing so kept those traditions alive. My friends may not usually send thank-you notes, for example, but after receiving a few from me, they often then send me one for something- and through that sending, discover how pleasant the practice is. Do I have to whinge about the fact that they don't usually? Nope. I just keep quietly going on about my life, upholding that which is important to me and showing by example that some of those old traditions are worth keeping.

Subspace and consent

2011-07-08T20:16:00.002-04:00

I've been browsing Fetlife today, and come up with some amusing threads. The one that is most interesting at the moment concerns subspace and consent.

Basically, the OP disagrees with the whole, "I was in subspace so I can't be held responsible for my actions and anything bad that happened is ALL YOUR FAULT."

So rather than dive into the transient and argumentative world of the forums, I'm going to articulate my thoughts here, relatively permanently stored, and let you argue with them if you want :)

Caveat the first- I refuse to define subspace for anyone other than myself.

Caveat the second- for me, when I bottom, I go into an altered state of consciousness.

Now, that altered state of consciousness, for me, is a lot like being drunk. I enter it mostly knowingly (every once in a while that 3rd drink hits harder than expected, or that really good term of, ahem- endearment- whispered just right in your ear sends you sliding under), I get really, really suggestible, and I am willing to do things I don't usually find enjoyable otherwise.

However, please note the distinctions:

I enter it knowingly, and therefore have the responsibility beforehand to choose a partner who knows what will happen and whom I can trust to be responsible for my welfare while I'm temporarily less capable of doing so.

Note my wording, by the way- less capable, not incapable.

I become suggestible, which does not mean "completely open to any influence," for those who are too lazy to look it up. The judge will not let you off for drunk driving just because someone else allowed you to have your keys, and I won't excuse you from being irresponsible simply because someone else was present and suggested it.

I am willing to do things I'd otherwise not. That doesn't mean I'll have sex with a complete stranger, let someone cut off parts of my body, or otherwise do something really stupid. It means that I will enjoy rougher sex than usual, accept a harder beating than usual, etc. It doesn't mean I'll let something completely out of character happen- it means that I'm willing to push my usual interests a little farther.

So, let's recap, shall we?

For me, subspace means that the person I already know and trust can suggest to me that we push my current interests a little farther.

It does not mean that anyone can convince me to do something I would then later classify as assault of any kind.

....don't get me wrong, Lucivar once debated digging my eye out with a knife and I'd probably have let him in the headspace I was in, but I also knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if he did he'd find a way to fix it.

And THAT, my friends, is the key difference.

Overdue update

2011-07-08T20:12:00.003-04:00

Hmmm so much for that 'writing here more' project.

Short version of the last few months:

Jack and I have broken up. We are still best friends, but it was past time.

Airen and I have also broken up. We're also still friends, although we're taking the time to let a little distance heal things.

Boywonder and I are still together. Our dynamic is evolving, but mostly we're vanilla partners who switch a lot in play. (Although come to think of it, I owe him a good beating for his birthday earlier this week...)

Yeah. And now to my next post for the rant I came here to write about subspace and consent.

Late night HNT

2011-04-28T02:19:00.000-04:00

Post-pedicure HNT

2011-04-21T17:42:00.000-04:00

A new-old change in direction

2011-04-10T09:48:00.003-04:00

This blog used to be the place where I wrote about everything kink-related. My experiences in the community, my lovers, my thoughts on relationships- everything.

But somewhere along the way it turned into my sex blog. Where I write my fantasies, my sexiest thoughts and kinkiest desires, but nothing else.

That is not what I choose for this space to be anymore.

So.

Here's where I am right now.

I live in a beautiful little 1940's house with 2 of my partners, Jack and Airen. My house was built as officer housing for a nearby Army base, and while the neighborhood is now quite diverse, I prefer it that way. My home is filled with antiques I've inherited, but I hope it doesn't feel too much like a house filled with antiques to visitors. I love my furniture, my china and silver, but in the end it is 'wood and metal, wrought in pleasing form,' to paraphrase Jacqueline Carey, and what it means to me is replaceable.

Jack and I have been together for 5 years now, and Airen and I are approaching one this April. Jack has his own bedroom, his own little cave to retreat to, and Airen and I share the master bedroom. This is not a comment on any hierarchy, but merely on my darling Jack's antisocialness.

I was asked to join the Board of Directors for the local TNG group which was the first to welcome me home to my kink community.

I was awarded the title of Ms Southeast Olympus Leather 2011, and in August I'll compete for International Ms Olympus.

This is my graduating semester of undergrad, with my BA in Psychology. (I dropped my Sociology double-major down to a minor in the interests of graduating and getting on the job market).

I broke my collarbone in January, and have been in a sling since then, and will be in one until June.

I recently started a new relationship, which I have absolutely no idea how to label, except that it's so much like what I had with Lucivar that it terrifies me.

So yeah. Busy, much?

I'm currently in Ft Lauderdale, FL at Beyond Leather, and badly need to wrap up this rambling entry on nothing terribly important so that I can go downstairs and actually be sociable and not make my producer and judges regret giving me this title.

Writer's Block

2011-04-09T21:43:00.003-04:00

I want to write about you, but the words aren't there.

I want to write about the shape of your eyes when you smile at me, open and not-quite-innocent. The taste of salt on your skin, suddenly spiced with the coppery hint of fear when my teeth begin to meet. The sharp intake of your breath when my lips graze your neck. The way your lips part in a combination of fear and desire when the predator watches through my eyes.

I want to write about it.

I want to tell everyone about the arch of your throat when you offer it to my teeth, the sharp hiss of your breath and the low growling moan when I bite down. I want to tell them about the way your body presses into me, and the sharp sounds you make when I roll your nipple between tongue and teeth. I want to tell them about the sweet, meaty scent of your belly and the way you moan when I run my hands over your trembling body.

I want to write about you, but the words just aren't there.

Pleasant thoughts HNT

2011-03-31T14:12:00.001-04:00

Coffee-laced kisses

2011-03-31T11:09:00.004-04:00

Your last few kisses tasted like coffee and the lingering hint of cigarettes.

I'm wearing your shirt that I slept in, the scent of your body soaking into my skin again after reluctantly washing it off when we showered together.

Your body is pressed against mine, warm on the cold morning, and all that I want to do is drag you back into my warm house and crawl back under the covers to finish what we started last night.

All day, I could smell you on my skin and taste you on my lips.

Hot water and sisterhood

2011-03-21T13:57:00.004-04:00

Sitting yesterday afternoon in the Korean sauna I go to, I was struck by a realization.

Let me first give you a picture of the space: walking into the bathing area in the women's locker room, the lights dim and you enter a space that is exclusively feminine, a space no man may enter.

To one side are showers, where women of varying ages and bodies scrub down before entering the hot, tepid, and cold pools, the dry and wet saunas, the UV-ray area, or paying for a massage or body scrub. Women sit beside each other, laughing and talking and scrubbing one anothers' backs and washing one anothers' hair.

I am soaking in the hot pool, letting my injured shoulder float languidly and take the pressure off of my healing clavicle and it's intrusive, supportive titanium pin. Gigi floats beside me, her beautiful red hair plastered close to her classical face by the heat, and we simply lie together for a while, not this moment in direction contact but connected by a sense of feminine community.

Around us, throughout the bathing area, are women. Aged women with baby-fine skin and long, low breasts showing the marks of childrearing. Thin women with tight stomachs and pert,small breasts. Heavy women with rounded bellies and deep, wide thighs. Women with long, glossy black hair and golden skin. Women with waist-length locks and rounded buttocks. Deep brown skin, golden skin, pale skin. Hair in every shade from red to brown to black to blonde, a rainbow of tattoos and piercings sitting alongside conservative Asian women. It is a rainbow of women in every shade and every style, in a community which is connected without needing words.

Even children are here, running freely under the indulgent eyes of their mothers and grandmothers and aunts, and every other woman in the room. Here, they learn community, learn the diversity of their gender and the beauty of every body. Here they laugh and bathe and soak and learn that their bodies are safe spaces, homes for their souls and places in which they live.

It is also a curiously asexual space. No, asexual is wrong. A as a prefix means "without", and this space is not without sex. It is non-sexual. Sex simply has no place here. It is... irrelevant, for lack of a better word. Even I, one of the most sexual creatures I know, look at the bodies around me- a smorgasboard in another place or time- and see only sisters, not lovers.

It is a curiously comforting sensation, to bathe in a potent brew of hot water and community.

Caveat: I am aware that the Asian spas (at least those I've visited) are transphobic places, and I understand that my use of them is an exercise of cisgendered privilege. I'm sorry, my trans friends.

Bewbies HNT

2011-03-17T13:21:00.001-04:00

Rapine Dreams

2011-03-03T11:38:00.003-05:00

I dream of rape sometimes.

I dream of forcing you to your knees, tears in your pretty eyes from the twisted grip of my hand in your hair.

I dream of the fear that twists your features when you look up at me, realizing what is going to happen. Realizing that I will bend you over, force you open to me, and hurt you.

I want that fear, the spark of hope when my hand gentles in your hair, the terrified resignation when it tightens again and you know that my mind will not change.

I want the hardness of your cock contrasting with the tightness around your eyes, the hopeful reluctance as your legs spread wide for me, and the grunt of fear and pain and long wished-for fulfillment as I slide inside of your warm, tight body.

Sleeping in HNT

2011-03-03T10:05:00.001-05:00

An evening's thought

2011-03-01T22:46:00.002-05:00

I want the boys who are wounded.

I want the boys who are wounded, but not so that I can heal them.
I want the boys who are wounded, so that I can lick the bloody tears
from their skin.

squeeeeeeeeeeal

2011-02-28T20:42:00.002-05:00

Well, there's a very busy few months coming up for me.

This was my last free weekend until I graduate in May with my BA in Psychology, and this week, spring break for me, will be spent busily writing term papers so I don't have to write them in my complete if spare time.

Upcoming are:

March 5: Passing the Torch: An Intergenerational Dialogue in Dallas, NC

March 25-27: Atlanta Poly Weekend in Atlanta, GA

April 1-3: Atlanta Leather Pride in Atlanta, GA

and quite a few others, but those are the soonest.

I'm extremely excited about Atlanta Poly weekend, where I'm teaching "Poly and D/s," "Interpersonal Communication," and "Real Life Polyamory".

What's even more exciting?

One of my favorite writers and activists, maymay of Male Submission Art, and Maybe Maimed, will also be there. Not only is he teaching a cool class on censorship, but he's looking forward to my class on Poly and D/s!

...........a writer I really admire is excited about one of my classes?!??!?!

*squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeal*

Loss

2011-02-28T19:21:00.005-05:00

We're in the car, and driving home.

My home,not yours anymore and that is its own special kind of pain.

You're talking about the woman you loved, the woman you still crave despite the pain she caused you and the scars you still stroke on nights when the loneliness is too much.

I am sympathizing with you because I have my own scars, my own secret could-have-beens in the middle of the night.

"...it's the most intense things I've ever felt," you tell me, and I shudder in response.

"I've felt it three times," I tell you. "Once for Wolf," whose strong-safe arms are no longer- can never again be- in my life. "And two other times."

I know the intensity you mean. The obsession- and yes, it is obsession. Your brain releases the same chemicals during the early stages of a relationship that are released during an obsessive episode for an OCD person. The craving for them, for their bodies, the meeting with their minds, the brush of their soul against yours.

The fierce craving for their touch, the need to touch them, to mark them and show the world that they belong to you, that they love you and they are yours and you are theirs and yes!

"You're lucky to have felt it so many times," he tells me.

I glance at him, pretty and dark and hurting. I know what he means- that I am lucky that having felt it more than once, I know I can feel it again. Know that the loss of it once is not the loss of it forever. But the words won't come past the lump in my throat.

"You get past it," I tell him. "You go to bed hurting and you wake up hurting and you go through the motions hurting- eating and drinking and working and playing- and you know it won't ever go all the way away but you hold on to the little things, the little pleasures."

"It's different for you," he says. "You have someone."

"It's not like that," I respond. "It doesn't make the pain less. But you cling to the little things. The taste of tea in the morning, the rush of caffeine in your body. The taste of chocolate on your lips. The accomplishment of learning a new skill. It doesn't take away the pain, but it makes it bearable.

"And when you think you can't stand it anymore, when you think you're going to call them in the middle of the night, you remind yourself why they're not there anymore. Why they're gone, whether they chose it or you did. In the middle of the night, you hold on to anger or hurt or fear or whatever it takes to remind you because sometimes they're the only things that are stronger than the craving for them."

After all, foolish boi, how do you think I keep from calling you?

Collaring

2011-02-28T19:04:00.004-05:00

I had a ritual planned.

Elaborate, beautiful, formality suiting the depth of my feelings for you.

Candles, ritual words, my hands on your body gentle and harsh and cruel and tender.

But when you came home, like a child unable to hide the sweets from herself, I sent you to find it. When you returned, stainless steel links in hand and looking a little dazed, I could only grin in delight.

I had meant to be stern, formal, but found myself instead laughing like a child.

The links shining in your hand, bright rings of stainless steel twisting, designed especially for you and woven in an intricate and beautiful pattern by my sister.

Mine.

Love and joy reflected in your eyes like candle flames.

Mine.

The soft grunt as you knelt before me, my hand warm on your throat.

Mine.

The clasp closing, silver-bright steel against your golden skin.

Mine.

Your hands on my skin, slowly removing my clothing piece by piece, the disrobing its own pleasure.

Mine.

Your skin against my skin, your body inside of mine, my hand wrapped around your collar.

Mine.

After, we simply held one another, skin to skin, heart to heart, breath to breath.

Mine.

Always.

Craving you

2011-01-10T21:30:00.005-05:00

I thought I was past this craving. Thought I was past the point when your voice could wrap my gut in a knot and start a low fire of need in my groin. Thought I was past the point when the thought of you could squeeze my heart with a tight-knuckled fist and focus every instinct in my body on you like a hunting dog on point: Mine.

Your slut voice is back, that high, piping boy’s voice that makes me think about pressing a knife to your balls and keeping it that pretty soprano forever. Every word is calculated to reach deep into my body and call the predator from me, the rapist, to draw him out and into my eyes and my hands. I know you’re manipulating me, but is it really manipulation when I’m cooperating fully? When my words and your voice weave together in a cooperative manipulative descending spiral of predatory and helpless lust?

This is almost not rape, not when your pouty lips are half open in undisguised need and your every glance over your shoulder is an invitation. You know that I want you, and you want the brutality of my hands and the cruelty of my teeth on your skin, and you are drawing the quiescent predator back into me, back up through my hands and my eyes and my teeth and down into my cock until I use it like a weapon to pound into your body. She’s been so quiet, the predator inside of me, this past year; barely sniffing the air since your departure but now she has the scent of her favorite prey and I don’t know if I can keep us sane, keep us from crossing the line and ripping you open like the meat that the predator sees. There is too much fury and pain mixed with the desire and it is so blended now with the love that even that may not stop us from opening you.

It doesn’t matter now, though. I don’t really believe that I’ll ever have you back for keeps, never feel your body wrapped around mine a clinging liana vine boi, so I will have to take this opportunity that may be the last and means the consequences don’t matter… so I set my teeth in your throat and bite untilI taste blood.

Fetish

2010-10-21T11:03:00.002-04:00

I spoke with a friend today,and we spoke about our loves, our needs, our fetishes.

I described a scene to him:

Your eyes, wide and begging and fearful and glazed with arousal.

Your lips, pink and round in an 'O' of wanting.

Your face drawn in fear and desire, your high cheekbones stark as bright spots of fear-color draw my avaricious eyes.

Your throat, bared to the blade and your body lifting convex from the bed and against my hands and my knife. Pressing yourself into the possibility of death with a mixture of sex and suicide.

Submissives speak of the confidence they have in their master, the gut knowledge that he'll never harm them.

You don't have that. You know I will harm you if the psychopath in the back of my brain slips her leash, for even a moment. You know that I want to let her, know that we can smell the blood beneath your skin and crave the taste of it on our lips and the stickiness on our hands that hold the blade.

But you arch into me, and into the blade, anyway.

That.

That suicidal desire.

That overarching need that doesn't care if it ends in death.

That is my fetish.

To be continued

2010-10-14T20:40:00.004-04:00

He looked at me with his eyes wide, his lips making that cute little 'O' of surprise.

'But I thought you were still mad at me and didn't want sex?'

I smiled, or at least I bared my teeth. Sometimes, he can't tell the difference.

'I've changed my mind... sort of.'

That was when the first nervousness entered his eyes. The first vague concern, not quite real fear yet. 'So...'

'Shut up, bitch,' I cut him off.

He started a little and fell silent, his eyes getting wider. I'm usually extremely lenient, to the point of spoiling him. This tone, this attitude, was new.

'Get on your goddamned knees, boy,' I told him, and smiled inside as he scrambled to obey, wondering exactly what he'd gotten himself into.

I unzipped my jeans, freeing my cock- 8" of beautiful opalescent silicone- and smiled when he licked his lips.

I love owning whores.

'Suck me, slut.'

I didn't need to say anything else, he was already leaning forward, licking his lips and wrapping his hot little mouth around me. God he's pretty like this! His full lips wrapped around my cock, his whole body arching into every pull of his mouth and throat.

I stroke his head lightly, drawing his attention with the unexpectedly gentle touch. 'Make sure you get it good and wet, baby, because it's the only lube you're getting tonight.'

I watch his eyes widen and feel something like contentment as his efforts at swallowing me redouble.

Such a pretty little whore.

Abruptly, I'm done with it, done with being sucked, and all I want is to fuck him- deep and hard and fast until he whimper and squeals and begs because it's too much.... because it will be.

Don't wanna

2010-08-17T22:59:00.003-04:00

You told me in an email, "No one has ever been able to break me, and I think you could be the one."

Stupid, arrogant little boy.

Break you? I barely fucking know you.

Breaking you implies I give enough of a shit to put you back together afterwards like a good little massa.

Let's get something straight- I don't.

So I don't give a fuck if I 'break' you.

I just want to fuck you up.

I want to watch you flinch when the cold chains wrap around your wrists... ZOMG chains on wrists you might get bruises and then DIIEEEEEEE.... and then hook 'em to the eyebolts in my ceiling.

USB20 put them in for my birthday last year. They'll be a year old soon.

Maybe I'll give him a birthday present to say thank you.

I digress. Reading his pr0n does that to me.

I want to wrap the chains around your wrist and watch you shiver involuntarily from the cold against your hot skin. Watch your face go tight as you realize I've seen you flinch, watch you buck up and try to pretend you didn't because oh noes I might think you're not a big and tough and scary!

You're not, bitch. Right now you're a hanging chunk of meat.

Go be scary to someone else in your pretty digital uniform and shiny little gun. They're not here, and I am.

I and a length of chain link from Home Depot. It was your idea, and that makes it all your fault.

Tiny little links leave a lovely trail of welts.

Maybe if I were a Good Dominant I'd be able to make pretty patterns with it and take pretty pictures.

But, well, I'm not and I can't and I don't.

Also, I don't take pictures.

So I'll just hit with it instead.

The first blow, winding up my arm and down my hand with the snap of the wrist that makes a lunge whip crack, is across your chest.

Across your chest and trailing across one nipple while you grunt and groan and try to be A Twue and Stoic Mas-o-cast.

Bah. Boring little twat. I want you to make some noise for me.

Another blow, wrapping around your torso now like the flogger falls everyone says Do Not Do but it's soooo pretty wrapping around you and kissing your ribcage while you grunt and strain a little against the chain.

Another one, diagonal now across your back and your making a low keening sound but it's not enough and I want to hear you scream so it's time to switch chains, to grab the heavy links designed to hold rabid pit bulls inside their swept-earth yards even when the census man comes to knock at the door.

This one bruises, this one can break bone if I hit you wrong so I shove you around and let it fly against your back until your spine bows and a strangled scream rips from your throat.

Mmmmm, much better.

I haven't had a boy beg me for mercy in a long time.

I think you're going to.

I think two more blows will do it.

I'm suddenly debating in my head.

Good Dom, Bad Dom.

One good blow over the kidneys won't kill you, but it will have you pissing blood for a few days and blubbering.

Two good blows to the sweet spot where thighs meet ass will have a similar effect but I don't wanna be good, Mommy, I wanna hurt him....

3am

2010-08-10T16:19:00.003-04:00

You are making small whimpering noises in your sleep, little puppy-like snuffling sounds as you move across the bed seeking my warmth. The rice paper that covers your bedroom window blocks little light, and even now at 3am I can see your face relaxed and childlike in sleep as you search for me.

I love that you search for me, that you seek in me safety, and warmth, and comfort.

It makes me want to wrap you up tightly in my arms and keep you safe forever, and it makes me want to rip you from sleep with a hand over your mouth and another pinching shut your nose before I ride you into oblivion.

Mornings

2010-07-03T04:05:00.002-04:00

It is in the mornings that I wake to find you gone.

It is in the mornings that I reach, warm and fuzzy-minded from sleep, to cuddle you and wake abruptly to the lack.

It is in the mornings, with their 5 hour time difference, too early to call and reassure myself with your voice, that I feel how far away I am.

It is in the mornings, quite and peaceful and utterly lacking in your warmth, when I let myself weep.

Musings

2010-06-24T17:33:00.001-04:00

We are studying the Psychology of Terrorism, sitting in a classroom in Dublin and my mind is drifting.

I am thinking of you, as I find myself doing so often.

I am thinking of your body, warm and soft and spread beneath me like a feast for my senses. I am thinking of my hands, running up the length of you, spreading your legs for me. I am thinking of your warm buttocks, rising from your legs as though they were made for my hands to spread apart and toy with while you squirm and moan. I am thinking of the slow curve of your back like flowing honey and the smallness of my hands against the length of it, stroking steadily upwards. I am thinking of the curved bow of your neck, of the swallow of your throat in my hand and the softening of your face as you slip under.

I am thinking about the solid line of your body beneath me, of the soft sounds that you make when I slip inside of you. I am thinking of your hands, grasping at the floor and at my hands as your back arches when I fill you. I am thinking of your open mouth, gasping and moaning as I fuck you.

Yes- this

2010-06-21T13:21:00.001-04:00

OMFG This. Ferns has, as always, expressed my emotions better than I ever can:

Little Boy

An apology and a memory

2010-06-19T14:19:00.003-04:00

Beloved one,

I woke up yesterday with tears hot on my cheeks, fear clawing at my chest like a beast trying to rip its way out through my ribs.

I knew that you would leave, knew that you would walk away as surely as I knew the taste of bile in the back of my throat.

There was no doubt in my mind that before day's end, I would lost you.

But when I talked to you in the morning, I pasted the smile to my face, letting myself take honest joy in what I knew would be my last conversation with you as Mine. I reveled in your sleepy voice, high and soft and rough with sleep. I bathed in the soft sounds of joy you made when I told you that I loved you, wrapping them like spun glass in the recesses of my mind, a tightly held balm against the pain I knew would come. I listened to your rustling movements in bed, seeing you in my mind's eye sprawled in your soft sheets, and I smiled even as tears burnt the backs of my eyes.

And then I went about my day, I wandered alone in a city 3,000 miles from my home, idly watching the people around me. I noted their movements, smiled reflexively at those who greeted me, and all the time my mind was full of you, full of all that I knew I would lose. Your face, soft and open when I'm inside of you, your smile wise and kinder than you'll admit when I am small and frightened. Your hands small and quick and nervous when you clean. Your tremulous smile when I kiss you as a man, and your slow, wicked grin as you ride me. Your face lighting with passion as we chat for hours about the things we love, your narrowed eyes and manic smile when you hurt me, your shy eyes when you curl up tight against me. A hundred thousand images flashed before my eyes and broke my heart a hundred times over: you folding clothes, obsessively neat. You at work, focused and proud. You curled close to me, watching a movie. You hurting me, mad eyes and tender hands. You spread out before me, a feast for my senses. You shopping, movements graceful and restrained. You at my dining room table, laughing and talking. You grinning sideways, that delicious, wicked expression. You on your couch, primal and barely restrained. Every image a glass shard in my heart, ripping me slowly, inexorably open. Over and over I saw you, everywhere that I looked. Architecure I wanted to point out to you, dresses I wanted to laugh with you over, pretty boys with their hipster hair I wanted to laugh with you about. Sad murals I wanted to share with you, good food, all of it wrapped around my heart like barbed wire and I bled inside.

Finally, with heavy steps I came home to talk to you, dreading every step, afraid of every word I'd have to write. When you greeted me, I was both afraid and joyful. I leapt into the conversation because I knew that if I didn't, I'd never have it. I'd give in to the temptation to conceal it from you, the nagging hopee that maybe I wouldn't lose what has become so precious to me.

Every keystroke punctuated by a tear, by a stabbing sensation in my chest, by the certainty of loss.

...and then you didn't.

Then you were quiet as you conferred, and you simply accepted in me what I cannot accept myself.

And then you told me that you love me, and the tears spilled out, spilled open in me and my heart was still bleeding but it was marked by joy now and the disbelief that this was really happening.

Were you truly still here? Would I still really be able to hold you, be able to taste your lips and hear your precious voice? It was too much, too deep, too sudden,and I couldn't believe it, couldn't process it, could only curl into myself a release the shaking sobs that had hidden inside of me all day.

I still have trouble believing it, still have to reach sometimes for the twine you had me tie around my wrist, my tangible reminder of your love and your presence.

I still keep waiting for you to change your mind, to look at me with horror and disgust, and just as you told me so long ago in the darkened car... you prove me wrong. Every time.

I've never been so grateful to be wrong before.

I love you.

Thinking about it

2010-05-28T16:37:00.003-04:00

I have avoided writing about this, hiding it from the page as though it will hide it from knowledge.

Hide it from memory, hide it from admission.

Part of me is ashamed, I suppose, of the pleasure I take in those brief times of submission to you. That's not who I am, not who I'm supposed to be.... and yet it is, and it is a reality that to pretend away would somehow lessen, cheapen, and I will not to do that.

It was my trust in you, my willing submission to you, which prompted your choice to wear the collar, and I will not cheapen that by pretending it away.

I think about it, you know- about the brilliant psychopathy in your eyes, and your twisted grin. I know what you're imagining, know the pain you'd like to give me and the blood you'd like to spill from my skin. Yes, I know.

I think about it- about the sensation of your hand on my throat, just thisside of terrifying, the back of my mind fear that this time the collar will slip a little, this time no one will check you, and you will squeeze too hard, too long, grinning that maniacal grin while the blood drains from my brain and I slip into the darkness.

I think about it- the contrasting tenderness and cruelty of your hands, so like what I give to your other side, and yet so uniquely yours. About the way that they make me writhe, and whimper, and moan. About the way that the madness in your eyes makes me want to please you.

About the madness in your eyes that makes you want to break me.

I'd almost let you... if I thought I'd survive it.

Yes, I think about it.

Image

2010-05-28T16:33:00.003-04:00

The image, a week old now, won't leave my mind: you, spread in naked glory across the warm hardwood floor of your home, the sunlight streaming behind you and bathing you in light as you wrap your legs around me and drag me deeper into you. Your mouth, that hot little 'O' of pleasure and need, the small sounds dragged from your throat by the movement of my cock inside of you. Your face flushed with arousal and your eyes glazed in desire...

I can't get it out of my head,and nor do I really want to.

Missing you

2010-05-27T17:38:00.003-04:00

I am gone from you, and it grieves me. I miss you, all of the many facets of you.

I miss curling up and watching a chick flick,my fingers softly stroking your cheek while you blush and hide your face.

I miss your arms around me, tight when I am sad and insecure, your voice calm and strong and soothing.

I miss your cocky grin, half smirk and half pure lust.

I miss your voice soft and halting, as you curl into me.

I miss your hands obsessively refolding.

I miss your smile, evil and a little deranged, as your fingers dig into my sore spots.

I miss your rambling about computers.

I miss you spread beneath me, panting and moaning.

I miss you.

All of you.

More than you know.

Now

2010-05-12T12:24:00.004-04:00

My body stretched atop yours, my cock moving in and out of you while you whimper,moan, and plead in a language I don't know.

My arms around your shoulders, giving me leverage for the fucking of you just as much as holding you close while I do so.

Your face turned half to me, dark eyes distant and turned inward toward your own pleasure... I want to take you and rip you away, rip you away from your pleasure and back to me, and I want for you to feel this, to enjoy this, forever.

You are riding me now, as I rest and let my hip recover from fucking you. Your body moving atop mine, my hands on your thighs and your head thrown back in pleasure and release, your are beautiful.

Your hand wrapped around your cock, lovely little cock, and pumping with the rhythm of your hips fucking yourself on my own, and I can only smile, groan my own pleasure and contentment while you whimper and ride me.

Soon your eyes are wide, begging, your hips and hands frantic as you whisper to me, "Now? Now?...."

Yes, darling..... Now.

Wounded Healers

2010-05-10T00:08:00.002-04:00

“Without your wound where would your power be? It is your very remorse that makes your low voice tremble into the hearts of men. The very angels themselves cannot persuade the wretched and blundering children on earth as can one human being broken on the wheels of living. In Love’s service only the wounded soldiers can serve.” -Thornton Wilder

My best friend, who is well on his way to becoming a priest, gave a sermon today with this quote as its basis.

As always, it put tears in my eyes.

I have wounds. Some scarred over, and some still healing. A few bleed even now.

I have wounds. And yet, I am the one to whom many turn for healing, for safety, for trust and love.

For years, I wondered why. Did they think me unwounded? More whole than they? Surely not, when I have allowed my wounds to show for years now and it hasn't slowed the flow of requests, but truthfully sped it up (my academic studies have also influenced that, of course...).

So, I'm left seeking another answer. Why? Why would someone come to a wounded healer? Physician, heal thyself.

A doctor who treats herself as a fool for a patient.

Why would they come to me?

And then he showed me this quote, a few years ago.

"In love's service, only the wounded soldiers may serve."

In love's service, only the wounded soldiers may serve.

Only the wounded soldiers.

Only the wounded healers.

My wounds haven't made me less fit to heal, to serve, to teach.

They've made me more.

"Without your wound, where would your power be?"

Without your wound, where would your compassion be?

"It is your very remorse that makes your low voice tremble in the hearts of men."

It is your very fear, your very wounds, that show that you know, you understand, and you care.

"The very angels themselves cannot persuade the wretched and blundering children on earth as can one human broken on the wheels of living."

Your wounds stand as testament to your knowledge, to your compassion, to your understanding of their pain.

"In love's service, only the wounded... (healers) may serve."

Already

2010-05-03T11:54:00.005-04:00

There is an edgy high to the air tonight, a rising pressure and I want to ride it. The warm, humid air rises around me like the warmth of my own cunt and every stray breeze is another caress against my sensitized skin.

I've just left you, reluctantly, at your home and I'm already thinking longingly of your bed again, of the sensation of your skin pressed to mine and the warmth of your body against me,the softness of your mattress and the heat of your mouth.

You are beautiful, although I don't know that you realize it. Your skin golden against my own still winter-pale pallor, the soft sweep of your eyes and the warm solidity of your legs.

I'm already thinking of the soft, mewling sounds that you make when my mouth is hot against your skin, the way that you open to me with slutty eagerness, begging silently for more, more!

I shouldn't miss you this much already, but I do, and every rising rising degree of pressure from the coming storm around me just sensitizes me more, awakens the violence in me which has slept for so long but you have brought out again.

The puffs of wind preceding the storm tease the thin layer of hair on my arms, on my wrists, reminding me of the sensation of yours in my hands, and the sound of metal nearby makes me ache for the chains to wrap around you.

As the pressure rises so does my violence, and I want to take you now, here in the wind and the clouds and the coming storm, stake you out and open your legs to me.

The last few weeks

2010-04-19T21:41:00.002-04:00

Phone rings baby cries TV diet guru lies
Good morning honey
Go to work make up try to keep the balance up
Between love and money
She used to tie her hair up in ribbons and bows
Sign her letters with X's and O's
Got a picture of her mama in heels and pearls
She's tryin' to make it in her daddy's world
She's an American girl
An American girl

Slow dance second chance mama needs romance
And an live-in maid
Fix the sink mow the yard really isn't all that hard
If you get paid
he used to tie her hair up in ribbons and bows
Sign her letters with X's and O's
Got a picture of her mama in heels and pearls
She's tryin' to make it in her daddy's world
She's an American girl
An American girl

Well she's got her God and she's got good wine
Aretha Franklin and Patsy Cline

She used to tie her hair up in ribbons and bows
Sign her letters with X's and O's
Got a picture of her mama in heels and pearls
She's tryin' to make it in her daddy's world
She's an American girl
An American girl
She's an American girl

Gay Bar

2010-04-16T20:34:00.003-04:00

It's dark here, hot and smoky like an old-school description of Hell- but if so, then it's a Hell where I am one of the demons. I can feel the smoke getting into my sinuses, irritating the contacts I've taken to wearing again, but it only adds to my mood.

Over my shoulder as I walked in hung the Moon, her sharp-edged smile the inspiration for my own. I'm androgynous tonight, the boy and girl in my head sharing equal space, but even as a boi I'm a child of that bright orb.

It's loud here tonight, the bass is pumping through the walls, up through the floors and buzzing into my feet and every throb is like a violent heartbeat.

Violence. It's what I want tonight, what I crave, and it's why I've come here tonight, flagging heavy top with my leather pants and blood-red tank top. Androgynous as I am feeling, I still savor the curve of my breasts beneath the shirt because they are bait even for gay boys, drawing them into me so that the violence that I want can be possible.

I want more tonight than can be found in the straight clubs, with their careful lighting and watchful dungeon monitors. I want the gay bars, where force and cruelty are wielded like loving weapons, side by side with kisses.

I want force, violence, the red-eyed streaking of tears down some hapless boy's eyes while I'm hurting him. I want my hands tonight, want to press him into the wall while he smirks, confident of his ability to take anything a 5"3 woman can dish out. I want to press my knuckles into his sternum, watch the first bloom of pain in his eyes like nightshade and see him sag into the knowledge of his mistake, of his realization that I will hurt him tonight as deeply as any of the muscle-bound men around me.

I was born in a woman's body, into the world of men. I know pain, and humiliation, and I will give it tonight with the skill born of intimate knowledge. My hand on his throat, my knuckles in his breastbone, my thumb in his wrist. My fist in his stomach, doubling him over while he looks at me with wide eyes, this unknowing boy who offered himself up for my pleasure.

Empathy

2010-03-14T23:45:00.002-04:00

Aching inside, struggling with the need to run to one I’ve loved deeply, fighting the urge to hold them even knowing that it isn’t what he needs.

Angry for their pain and sympathetic to the cause of it, a whirlwind of emotions, own fears mixing with his pain and the mixture caustic in my throat, in my chest. I want to make it better!

….and I can’t.

No one can. Time, they say, heals all wounds, but Time is a harsh Master who forces suffering until he dispenses healing at his whim... and even then the scar remains.

It’s cold and dark outside and I don’t care, I want to walk through it to hold him but I know that in his own pain he would turn away because pain so enveloping can’t be shared, can’t be halved.

...it doesn’t make the desire any less strong.

Quote

2010-03-12T12:29:00.000-05:00

Most delicious thing I've heard yet today: "I like to keep the assertion of power rooted in flesh as much as possible." -PlanetEm

Movie Night

2010-03-12T11:04:00.005-05:00

A warm tangle of bodies, heat and scent and skin stroking skin until I am drowning in this heavy pool of pleasure which is centered on my guest bed. Her soft breasts against my cheek, teeth in my lip, his warm hands kneading my skin until I am moaning, whimpering, my body arching into theirs.

Her strong hands kneading knots from my shoulders, my neck, slowly encircling my throat and this is not her intention but I am slipping down the rabbit hole into the warm center of my own desire and submission. I already wanted to please her, but now the last button to my willingness has been pressed by her thumb against my larynx.

When her teeth find my lip again, it is enough to send me writhing and whimpering against her, his teeth on my breast clenching my hands helplessly against his back.

I know on some vague level I should be reciprocating more, know that she loves to receive the same small bites which I do, but every movement feels like swimming through warm, sticky arousal-honey and I can barely move except to press closer into his hands, harder into her teeth and I am drowning pleasantly in the love and affection of these two people whom I have come to love intensely.

I do not know if either realizes how deeply down the rabbit hole I have slipped, how warm and hazy my mind feels until I am nothing but a body of sensations and desires and willingness. I do not know if either realizes how much I crave now the sensation of teeth sinking into my skin, of hands tightening painfully on my body, of fingers wrapping around my throat and squeezing, but this is not what they give tonight and the same corner of my mind which craves more also accepts that.

When his mouth finds my breast again, his teeth against my nipple, I can only arch harder into her mouth and moan in pleasure and desire and an inarticulate need to please. I want to slide to my knees from the bed, my mouth running slowly down her body, his hands anchoring me and holding me in place, and slowly find the soft center of her with questing lips and tongue until she screams and arches into me....

Shaved Head HNT

2010-03-11T15:32:00.001-05:00

Loving violence

2010-03-08T19:38:00.002-05:00

I am somewhere between loving and violent tonight.

I want to stroke your skin lovingly, caress it while you sigh and relax into me, and then I want to draw back my fist and punch you- hard- in the chest.

I want to see your face go flat with surprise- despite how well you know me, how long you've known me, the thought still runs through your mind, "Girls don't hit like that!" but you always forget that I am not a girl and not a boy, not bound by the rules of either.

I want to draw back my fist and punch you, to swing my upper body with the throw and punch through you, into the wall behind you, and watch your face and your body as it impacts, as you hiss in your breath in pain.

I want to lean into your surprised face and kiss you, gently, stroking your face with my fingertips and nibbling your lips gently until you make soft moaning sounds and your body releases the tension of expecting me to hurt you once more.

And then I want to hit you again.

Sex and violence

2010-03-03T10:32:00.002-05:00

I am thinking about sex and violence.

I am thinking about pressing you down, holding you down, forcing you open to me, to my tongue and teeth and questing lips.

I am thinking about pressing my fingers into your body, pressing into the tender places in you while you squirm and whimper beneath me.

I want you spread open, the crop to your thighs and the cane to your tender ass while you groan with every blow and bite the gag in your mouth.

I want you writhing beneath me and crying, tears streaking your beautiful face.

Fantasy

2010-02-25T16:53:00.004-05:00

He's moving under me, shifting, moaning, whimpering softly. I slow the galloping of my heart and the whimpers form words, moaned and indistinct pleadings, "Please, please don't stop." His small voice hitches. "Please don't stop fucking me. ...please, I need your cock in me." there's real fear in his voice, real need, and my every instinct screams to stroke him, gentle his racing fears, but that's not how to break him.

Instead I growl in his ear, letting months of frustration harshen my already cold voice. "Beg for it, whore. I don't think you're worth any more of my fucking time, but I like to hear you beg."
His response is immediate and gratifying, writhing deliberately now against me, his muscular back against my breasts, his tiny ass cupped in the curve of my hips, the movement not only moving him along my cock but the base of my cock against my clitoris. It feels amazing, but it isn't what I told him so I wrap my hand around his throat and use my weight to press him into the bed.

"I said beg, whore, not try to fuck yourself on my cock."

He whimpers, tries to raise his hips one last time before going limp, defeated. "Please..." he whimpers. "Please..."

It's not enough, not nearly enough, but with my hand wrapped around his throat and cutting off the blood to his brain it's all he can manage and I mock him mercilessly for it.

"More, bitch. Fucking beg me for it," I tell him, slowly arching my hips to pull out.

Desperate gurgles are my only answer, and I open my hand very briefly to allow him a teasing glimpse of air- air he uses to gasp desperately, "Please fuck me!"

They're the last words he'll manage for a while.

In Bed HNT

2010-02-25T16:52:00.002-05:00

Gang rape

2010-02-24T09:42:00.001-05:00

Standing, leaning against the wall with the others, watching her writhe, moan. Lewd comments spill from my lips in response to theirs, a growing, building web around her of ideas, expectations, fears, dreams…and soon, of actions.

My strap harness is tight around my hips, lacking only the weight of my cock but I can feel it in the back of my head and resting between my hips, guiding my more masculine stance against the wall, the objectification in my eyes, mocking arousal in my voice.

She is dragged to the room which we have prepared, whimpering, moaning, but not protesting once.

I am thankful for this, not sure that the cautious girl in my head could handle a true rape-scene just yet, and the boy in me is pressing the front of my face, shifting my expressions, ready to come out and to fuck this beautiful woman spread out before us like a banquet.

Only flashes now: pale skin kneeling before me, eager lips wrapped around my cock, soft baby-fine hair tangled in my fingers as I drag her along the length of me.

Dark skin against pale as she is slammed into, moved, a muffled scream of pleasure or pain but I don’t care right now and I doubt any of the others do, either.

My body angled against hers, and suddenly the boy is draining away and I am a woman about to fuck a woman and there is this moment of awkwardness, covered with dirty jokes as I learn the different angle necessary to fuck a woman rather than a man. A fumbling moment of strangeness, and then I am inside her. It doesn’t feel as natural as with a boy, and I am thrown off, missing my rhythm but struggling to find it for her. The angle is strange, the shape of her beneath me different- beautiful, warm-smelling and soft but strange and new.

Later, later, after the kissing, the cuddling, and the low-level flow of love, the strongest thing that I remember is the sense of camaraderie in the room with this helpless girl stretched beneath us. We were there, together, toward a goal and the sense of mutuality and camaraderie is tangible… and, yes, it included even she, our willingly unwilling victim, and the bounty of riches which she offered to us.

Bad Poetry

2010-02-23T09:19:00.002-05:00

Climbing desperately, trying to find a higher ground

but drowning

Pulled endlessly into the mire

Help me, voices call

And I can't!

But my heart is breaking for them

But my legs trudge back to them

Even as the path takes me under water

and drowning

Missing

2010-02-18T20:22:00.002-05:00

You are not near me, and I miss you.

I miss the warmth of your body pressed against mine, the heat of you against me when it's cold. The heat transference moving from your heated body into my always-cold one, the twining of your legs around mine, your big feet against my little cold ones.

I miss the strength of your hands on my skin, and the way you laugh when I am finally warm and drowsily aroused beside you.

I miss the way you taste on my lips.

From postsecret

2010-02-15T14:32:00.003-05:00

You know who you are- I love you.

A bit of Shiny

2010-02-15T12:39:00.002-05:00

Yes, I know I haven't written anything recently. My creative energy has been going entirely to school recently, and planning my trip to Europe. Promise I will soon.... meanwhile, here is a lovely, lovely bit written by Shiny.

You want to know what ran through my mind while I played with myself Tuesday night for the first time in three days?

The short answer is, quite simply, you.

All the delightful little things you did to my body that Friday evening played out in my head as I played with my cock. I rubbed my hard little nipples as I recalled the wonderful way you ran your tongue across them and sucked at them. Even now, recalling that night as I write this makes me hard.

My hands were bound with chain; its weight constantly reminded me of its presence as you worked your magic upon my body. I came closer to orgasm as I replayed how it felt as your fingers gently pressed into my ass. Did you know you were the first person to do that to me?

My mind turned to thinking of how your "cock" would feel as you use me as your fucktoy. Would you avoid my prostate and just use me for your amusement? Would you press against it, making me beg to come? Thoughts of how it might feel rushed by faster and faster until, seemingly out of nowhere, I came.

Blurry Shower HNT

2010-02-11T08:46:00.000-05:00

Shower sex fantasy

2010-02-10T15:43:00.001-05:00

You masturbated today, thinking about me.

The knowledge warmed my groin, tingled in my fingertips, and set my mind to racing.

You were in the shower, you said, letting the hot water soak into your sore muscles and thinking about me.

Thinking about, you said, your hand on my throat, my body pressed between yours and the slick shower tiles.

I can see it, feel it- my breasts smashed into the tile, my cheek tight to the cool plaster, your hands on my hips, my waist, cupping my buttocks, wrapped around my throat and tight in my hair.

There are very few people I trust with their hands on my throat, their fingers in my hair, but in 3 years you have more than earned this and at the brush of even phantom fingers against my vulnerable throat I can feel the almost subliminal shiver running down my spine.

I can feel your hands moving along my body, the steam of the shower opening my skin until I could almost sink into you. I can feel the heat of you, hotter than water pounding into my

skin, against my back, your legs molding to mine and opening them with that casually

assuming insistence which should infuriate me but with your hand on my throat seems only

natural. I can feel the weight of you pressing me forward, my breasts painfully tight

against the wall, my pelvis following yours without conscious thought tilting and opening to

you and to the length of your cock pressed against my ass.

Gods I want this! In even the writing I can feel my body shifting, opening, dampening in preparation for you inside me, and inside my head I can feel the head of you nudging me

open, the slow stretch of my body opening to you, opening for you, feeling you fill me with

that damned patience that I both love and hate about you.

More, more, I want to scream at you- Now! But with your hand on my throat all I can do is whimper and rock my hips back into you, begging wordlessly for you to fuck me.

CinErotic Film Fest in Atlanta!

2010-02-04T23:26:00.001-05:00

CinErotic Film Fest brings a kinky, poly Valentines to Atlanta!
Erotic filmmakers from as far away as Singapore, Barcelona and Brazil entered films for the brand new CinErotic Film Fest, alongside homegrown filmmakers from Atlanta and Athens. All will be represented in CinErotic's three nights of screenings at Eyedrum Gallery next weekend, February 12-14.

Kink-O-Matic - Sunday, Feb 14, 6pm - $8
On Valentines' Day, the Fest will screen "sexy, smart, artful erotic short films with a twist — or a kink, if you will," says founder Kiki Carr. "These are films about sexuality that colors outside the lines, and celebrates all that is kinky, bdsm, leather or otherwise polymorphously perverse!"
Among the films featured are director Julie Simmon's "Dolls Fit," the refrain of the odd abusive mother in the film, as well as acclaimed Barcelona director Erika Lusts' view into the suave S&M that keeps sex fresh in "Married with Children." From San Francisco, director Anthony Viti's gives us the raunchy "Asspig" and his Gus Van Sant-esque motion pictures from behind-the-scenes at web pornhouse Kink.com in "Mission & 14th." Narcissister gets a spanky workout in "Self-Gratifier," and "Strap-on Owl Beak" chronicles an actor's descent into an underground of perversity. Select videos by virtuoso filmmaker Tom Chomont artfully depict the world of leather, BDSM, and erotic shaving with an intensity akin to spirituality.
Then there's no other film quite like Curt McDowell's "Pornografollies." This rare 16mm film from 1970 San Francisco features a succession of performers doing sexual/genital vaudeville acts. Described by the New York Times as "slapdash surrealism...a musical of sorts, a bisexual scatological revue full of bad jokes, good humor, and and a general content that I could not begin to describe here," Pornografollies transmutes sexual variety into celebratory comedy.

Valentines' Play Party hosted by WhipperSnappers at Spring4th Center
After the films, kinksters are invited to a special Valentine's Day play party at the Spring4th Center. The party starts at 8:30pm, and entry is only $5 -- and FREE! for CEFF ticket holders (from any screening). The play party is hosted by festival sponsor WhipperSnappers, an under-40 bdsm group, but isopen to anyone over 18. Spring4th Center is located at 728 Spring St. NW

Queer as F*ck - Friday, Feb 12, 8:30pm - $8
The "Queer" show Friday night treats viewers to erotic short films that appeal to boys, girls, transfolk and gender queers. The main attraction is "Tour de Pants," a new film by Luke Woodward of San Francisco featuring hot fags, transfolk and lesbian gangsters — in bicycle-related erotic scenes all over the sexual map.
Other shorts include "The Ginger," in which a sexy redhead seductively eats a turkey drumstick; "The Erotic Couch" by Athens artist Andrew Shearer shows what happens when a reluctant lesbian gets a magical velvet couch-cover; things aren't what they seem for a gay male couple in "Hitchcocked;" "Want" proves that differently abled queers can get what they desire; a handsome butch ranchhand takes home the cute femme lamb, in "The Sheep and The Ranchhand," and Narcissister dares you to put him/her in a gender box in "Man/Woman."

If (when) the films leave you hot, bothered, and panting for more, head over to Mary's in East Atlanta for a free CEFF-sponsored make-out party for everyone.

Passion & Pleasures - Saturday, Feb 13, 8pm - $10 General Admission / $20 VIP
Make it a passionate Valentines to remember on Saturday night with a luxurious date special: for $20/person (surely one of the most recession-friendly Valentines' events!), you and your sweetie(s) get reserved seating up front on romantic couches, with sweet treats, and complimentary champagne (21+). VIP tickets are sold "per-person," rather than "per couple," making this a great Valentines' date night for singles, polyamorous partners, or couples!
But even regular ticket holders will swoon to the romantic short films in the line-up. "Vocolotion" by Atlanta's beloved artist R. Land ("Loss Cat") is his unique take on sex ed videos from years past. Some of his more famous images make cameos in this film and wind up in, literally, sticky situations. "The Flesh is Willing" is pure noir-infused erotica. "The Good Girl," by award-winning filmmaker Erika Lust, revisits the classic "pizza guy" porn cliche from the female point of view. Her newest short, "Handcuffs" is a brief glimpse into a sleek nightclub where sideways glances reveal a sexy secret.
"Headshot" and "Cocksucker," by two separate female directors, show the same act from opposite sides, in a breathless yet politically challenging take on, yes, the blowjob. Meanwhile, "Allen Ginsberg Gives Great Head" dissects Singaporean identity through the vaselined lens of an Adonis-like, self-pleasuring young hipster, and the Narcissister engages a "Hot Dog" in unseemly acts.
The 1963 short film "Christmas on Earth" is directed by famed filmmaker Barbara Rubin (who introduced Andy Warhol to the Velvet Underground). Curated by Andy Ditzler (Film Love), the film is set in a New York apartment where a group of men and women engage in an orgy, and is one of the earliest sexually explicit works of the American avant-garde, or by a female director.

All-Fest Passes!
Film buffs can purchase passes good for all three shows for a mere $25 -- or $35 for a VIP Fest Pass, including the VIP luxury experience on Saturday night — and organizers expect sell outs. All films will be shown at Eyedrum Gallery, 290 MLK Jr. Dr. SE, 30312.
CEFF is produced in part by Andy Ditzler's award-winning Film Love series, and PinkEye indie queer film salon. The Fest is generously funded by the Lloyd E. Russell Foundation, and supported by sponsors Dr. Bombay's, Spring4th Center, WhipperSnappers, Frolicon, and SouthEast Leather Fest. SPARK Reproductive Justice Now is the designated community partner.

For more information and to purchase tickets, visit www.cineroticfest.com

Multitasking HNT

2010-02-04T07:56:00.000-05:00

Dyeing hair, arguing with Microsoft, and studying.

Welcome to my life LOL

Chance disaster

2010-02-01T12:54:00.003-05:00

You weren't supposed to be there.

I went to get some paperwork, and I put it off for weeks to make sure that it was your day off.

I didn't want to see you, didn't want to feel the kick in the gut that was your presence.

I didn't want to look over, didn't want to see your profile- Gods it's as beautiful as ever, the line of your jaw which shouldn't be visible from half the bay away.

I didn't want to feel the vise grip of loss and pain and rage and fear that the mere sight of you engenders.

Why did you do it?

Why did you break the last thread which I could not justify retying?

Why did you threaten harm to someone I love?

Why did you do the one thing I can't forgive?

Why did you take the last, tiny, forlorn hope of an 'us,' away from me?

My heart is pounding, even in memory, and tears are pricking the backs of my eyes. It took every ounce of strength to keep my back straight and my head high as I walked out the door, every ounce of strength I have not to turn, wave, promise that I'll let you back in if only you'll promise never to do it again. Not to scream at you that you ruined everything, even our friendship.

I was in shock when I drove away: clammy skin, shallow breaths, lightheadedness, pounding heart, but I drove anyway because the only other choice that I had was to wrap myself in your arms.

Culmination

2010-02-01T12:23:00.004-05:00

Curled, pressed against you... this has been building slowly for three years now, fizzing in our bloodstreams since the day we met.

This.

Your hands skimming my skin, drawing little gasps and whimpers as you slowly learn the sensitive places in my body.

My mouth on yours, warm muscled tongues learning one another, lips skimming sensitized skin and your heat pressed against me, warming me against the chill of your bedroom.

Straddling you, that little groan of need dragged from your throat and the palm of my hand pressed to your breastbone, just above your galloping heart.

Your lips against the hollow behind my ear, usually a ticklish and unpleasant place, but not tonight when it makes me squirm, whimper, writhe beneath you.

My tongue on your chest, running over your nipples as my body tightens with pleasure at your shocked moans.

We've waited three years for this, dancing on the edge of desire, flirting, implying, offering, wishing, but finally this night I can feel your body against mine, show you the strength with which I've wanted you.

Finally, this night, I can take what you've always offered, return it and take it into myself even if only figuratively.

Hours later, lying in your arms with the warmth and strength of your body around me, I am content.

My Favorite Mistake

2010-01-31T20:03:00.003-05:00

I saw you today, saw you for the first time in months.

You called me, hurting, and even curled in someone else's arms I don't know how not to answer you, how not to soothe you. I know my voice is sharp sometimes when you are hurting but it is fear for you that sharpens it, and not anger.

And today, today I saw you again, your shortened hair making your face seem masculine but your smile a thing of beauty. We danced around it for over an hour, you made me food and we sat around on the couch chatting until you finally created the excuse to go upstairs and asked directly, "Do you want to cuddle?"

I was going to say, "No." I knew I should say no.

I knew I shouldn't wrap my arms around you and fill my lungs with your spicy-sweet scent, shouldn't tempt both of us, shouldn't risk hurting either of us.

I opened my mouth to say, "No."

"Yes," I said, instead.

Yes.

ShitfuckGoddesshelpmeIstillwantyoufuckfuckfuckyou'renotmineanymorepleasegivemestrength.

Yes.

My body wrapped around yours, your warm breath against my skin, the bittersweet familiarity of your body pressed against mine, the soft needing kisses to my chest and shoulders, fuck it's hard.

No one else balances me so well, complements me so well, knows my masculinity and expresses their own feminity so perfectly.

No one else offers the same perfect acceptance of my own gender and dynamic fluidity as yours.

I love the boys in my life. All of them, more than they will ever know.

But this, this thing with you, it's different and it clicks into place in my heart and it fits so perfectly that it hurts and my eyes are filling with tears even as I'm kissing you back, my hands moving to you wrists, your too-short hair, your throat, curving around your waist until only the stinging of the tears in my eyes brings me back to myself.

It was a mistake to come see you, but one I couldn't have not made.

But when you go all I know is you're my favorite mistake...

-Sheryl Crow

Shiny

2010-01-21T14:55:00.003-05:00

You are so new, so eager, bright-shiny-kitten face and wide wide eyes, and your every touch, your every look, your every request is for more, more and yet more.

Delightfully wanting little slut.

We've chatted this afternoon, through text message, and your wanting is shouted in every message, "hurt me! use me! please...." and oh yes I want to, oh yes I want to hurt you, to take and break you and leave you curled up and bleeding while you look up at me with big scared eyes and soft, soft lips and those lovely little tears leaking down your cheeks.

Weekend Highlights

2010-01-17T22:16:00.005-05:00

This weekend, I was privileged to have 3 scenes with 3 absolutely gorgeous boys and 1 demo topping experience with the SouthEast Bootblack 2009. One at the play party for the local FemDom group, and the rest at the TNG play party, Whippersnappers.

I am not sure that I'm up for writing all four scenes, so I will give you a few highlights until (unless?) I write each scene properly.

Friday night, Omega:

Stretched in the tower, I explained to him that, "Everything has a price," and extracted mine for turning the space heater on his deliciously vulnerable body before introducing him to each implement in my toybag. His groans, moans, and whimpers were delicious, particularly the huskiness of his voice as we cuddled together afterwards with his large body wrapped around my small (and much warmer!) one.

Saturday night, Demo:

I knew only that our demo bootblack for the weekend was staying with me, and that we had met briefly at a few conventions. Shortly, however, we'd become fast friends, and she chose my (leather) outfit for the evening: stilettos, leather pants, and a leather overbust corset. I could barely stand in the heels, but it was worthwhile as our lovely demonsstrator's small hands ran slowly (and quite thoroughly) over every inch of my leather clothing, oiling them for me before an audience... after deep-throating my stilettos.

Saturday night, Diablo:

I've rediscovered my fondness for spreader bars, spreading lovely Diablo wide and vulnerable. A simple scarf wrapped around his eyes as I take one of my favorite canes to his pretty little ass and thighs, over and over. His little sounds, the whimpering tone to his voice, are beautiful as I steadily work him up, then bring him down before repeating the process over and over again. His lovely, lithe body wrapped around me afterwards as he asks with nervous features if I'm pleased.

Oh yes, darling. Very.

Saturday night, Shiny

We met at the munch, a week before, and I received an extremely sweet email from him via Fetlife. I hadn't expected to have the time or energy to play again, but I did and was privileged with his first scene at our local club. His frantic blushes as he undressed were a delicious appetizer to adorable little whimpering sounds with every blow of hand or toy and beautiful shivers at every touch of nails or teeth until finally I had to wind down due to both time and a concern for his level of bruising the next day. Hopefully, however, there will be more opportunities...

Domme Chronicles

2010-01-17T22:10:00.001-05:00

This. Yes. Ex-fucking-actly.

Date Night with Jack

2010-01-15T10:10:00.003-05:00

We have just watched, "Hitman," for the first time, and my blood is simmering with the desire to do naughty things to the dangerous ingénue of the movie.

Jack, however, is here, and warm, and my fingers begin to flex in anticipation of wrapping them around his body.

Soon, we are kissing and my body is wrapped around his until I have pressed him onto his back and my body holds his down. His breathing is quick, my beautiful partner is not normally very submissive, but he enjoys it when I sometimes take charge.

It isn't long before I have stripped his shirt from his skin, exposing the smooth expanse of his chest, and dragged his jeans to his ankles, leaving them there as an impromptu hobble. I love seeing him like this, vulnerable and aroused and so incredibly desirable.

I take my time in teasing him: nibbles to his ears, his neck. Sharp nips to his nipples, his lips, while he gasps, moans, twists beneath me.

My shirt is gone, my bra shortly after, and I drag my breasts over his lightly heaving chest, down the flat planes of his stomach and over the swelling arousal at his groin.

His hips shift upward, a silent plea, but I continue to take my time, lingering with lips and tongue at the juncture of hip and groin while he groans and whimpers a little, rubbing my cheek cat-like against his warm cock.

This is my partner, my lover, and the only person for whom I do this, the only person whose cock I will slowly envelope with my mouth, slowly wrap my lips around and stroke with long, slow laps of my tongue. He is the only one for whom I will press myself to my limit, taking him into my mouth and my throat until my lips touch his groin and my lightly spasming throat strokes the head of his cock.

With others, I will play, I will tease, I will tempt you with what you can't have, but only to Jack will I give all of myself, and I do tonight.

Tonight, I stroke him with lips, teeth, and tongue, pressing his hands into the bed and forcing him still while I suck him, stroke him, tease him to the brink and then back off.

Shortly he is writhing beneath me while I hold him down with my will at least as much as my hands, eventually settling into an slow rhythm that drags him ever so slowly toward the brink until he is shuddering like a fly-stung horse as I slowly, inexorably, drag him over the brink until he spasms inside of me, filling me, and my hands gentle around his wrists while I swallow him inside of me.

Kinky Prom Update

2010-01-13T09:29:00.001-05:00

For my local friends:

Kinky Prom has the fun of Frolicon, the energy of Whippersnappers and the indulgence of SELF! Want to go for less? For 48 hrs beginning 12:00 AM on January 13th (that's today, folks!) until 11:59 PM on January 14th save 25% off the price of a Prom ticket! To get your savings now go to the Ticket link on the page to use this code C710CBac7 to purchase your Kinky Prom tickets for 25% less. This is a charity FUNd raising event. All funds raised will be split evenly between SouthEast LeatherFest's two 2010 charities.

Hurry! You only have 48 hours to take advantage of the code. It starts tomorrow night at midnight. We can’t WAIT to see you at Kinky Prom on February 6th at 8pm in Atlanta GA!

The First Law is not to obey

2010-01-10T21:04:00.004-05:00

Have you ever read the Anne Bishop, "The Realms of the Blood" books?

If you're a dominant woman, or a submissive man, then I suggest that you do.

You see, maybe you're different from me, dear reader. But that's what I want.

I want a submissive who understands what this passage means:

"The first law is not to obey. The first law is to honor, cherish, and protect. The second law is to serve, and the third law is to obey."
"What if the third interferes with the first two?"
"Then you throw it out the window"
-Lucivar to Daemon, "Queen of the Darkness," by Anne Bishop

I want a submissive who understands that sometimes service means saying, "I respectfully refuse to let you push yourself too hard/make yourself sick/do something stupid."

There's a wonderful line in one of the "Realms of the Blood," books, which I will paraphrase rather than looking up:

"The Queens protect us. That's why sometimes we have to protect them- especially from themselves."

What I want- and what I need- is someone who can understand what that line means.

Wool socks HNT

2010-01-07T05:36:00.000-05:00

Actaeon introduced me to the wonder of wool socks, and these are easily my favorite pair... I need more!

Panty Boy

2010-01-06T21:15:00.004-05:00

You called yourself a panty-boy in one of our first emails, one of the first times we flirted and exchanged naughty thoughts.

The idea titillated me- your wide shoulders, height, and overall presence is so hegemonically masculine that delicate womens' panties on you seemed delightfully incongruous.

And yet... when I first saw them on you, white with pink accents as rope was wrapped around your body and you began to fly, they seemed right, natural.

It makes me smile now, as we chat, thinking of you in the pretty panties you just showed me, and want to take you shopping.

I want to walk with you through the lingerie sections of those expensive stores while the saleswomen sniff and look down their noses at everyone, running my fingers over the various scraps of satin, silk, and lace. I want you to follow on my heels like a good boy, for all the world like a heteronormative boyfriend being dragged on a shopping trip by his petite little girlfriend. I want to hold up the scraps of silk and lace, the cute little thongs, the brightly colored boy shorts, the soft bikinis up to you, asking your opinion while you blush and smile.

Then I want to choose the pairs we both like, in sizes clearly too large for my tiny frame, and watch you blush as the saleswoman stammers and opens a dressing room with hands that shake with either jealousy or fury.

The stuff you don't care about but I'm gonna post anyway :-p

2010-01-06T17:44:00.003-05:00

Most of you lovely readers don't know me in the real world, and only visit when I've something new and naughty to say, but you're going to get a dose of my real life anyway, because it's my blog and I can whine if I want to!

This past week has been... hard. After the lovely NYE party hosted by some of my favorite people, I spent Saturday getting a few things done, and ended up treating myself to Chinese.

Bad idea.

Perhaps the fact that it was dead on a Saturday evening should have told me something, but alas and alack, dear readers, your writer is a bit dense.

Then the poor service should have been a tip-off, but by this time I was hungry, and ordered anyway.

Truly, a mistake of epic proportions.

Now, it would have been bad enough had it been good Chinese food, but to get severe food poisoning and a bacterial infection from bad Chinese is just insult on top of injury!

So, my dears, I have been out of commission for 4 days now, the first 3 of which were spent- ahem- purging my digestive system, and the last 1-2 of which I have spent on a careful BRAT diet (Bananas Rice Applesauce & Toast) to rebuild my abused digestive system.

That said, I must commend my amazing doctor: he saw me Monday morning within 30 minutes of my initial phone call, immediately prescribed me antibiotics and an anti-emetic with a detailed explanation of each one (and a warning about the price on the antibiotic), and gave me a hug as we left. I adore my doctor!

So now, dear readers, your favorite blogger is still laid up in bed at her partner's orders and is reading porn rather than creating it. Le sigh. Ah well, soon enough, my friends :)

Fucking you

2010-01-03T19:15:00.002-05:00

I'm going to fuck you, boy.

I'm going to take you and open you with spreaders, force those beautiful legs wide and open for me, and press your face into the floor. I'm going to bind your wrists behind your back- your hands so much larger than my small ones, they envelope mine when free but they will not be.

Perhaps I will attach your collar to your cock and balls, let your every whimpery, jerky movement stretch you, strain you, until you cannot decide if you want me to keep going or to stop....

Perhaps I will leave your head free, force you to look over your shoulder at me as I fuck you....

Yes, I like this. I want you to look at me as I lean over you- I am so small in comparison to you, and yet here you are, bound and helpless as my small fingers open you, probe your puckered little ass while you sigh and whimper before me, eyes wide and nervous as you strain to watch me over your shoulder.

I love the nervousness as much as the arousal, the fear as much as the need, and despite the tenderness of my fingers as work their way slowly into you, my eyes hold a delighted violence.

Your small gasp is music, the way that your body clamps down on me, holds me, draws me, the warmth of your lovely little ass as it wraps around my fingers.

I know this game, this ritual, staying still until you adjust, working you with my fingers until you are ready for more, until I am able to rear over you, spread you wide with my fingers and slowly press myself into you.

You are so beautiful like this! Spread wide and slutty, moaning a little and pressing back into me, the length of my cock disappearing into you slowly while you watch me with glazed blue eyes and parted lips.

It takes an act of tremendous self-will not to fall on you like a ravening beast, fucking you from the outset with all of the desire pent up in my body, but I force myself to hold the line, to work myself into you slowly, to avoid damaging you this time, this first time, until your heated body is ready for me and I am moving freely inside you while you moan beneath me, your hips seeking mine with every thrust which gradually increases in pressure and speed.

I love this, love the way that you need what I give to you as much as I need to give it, love the way that you move for me, whimper for me, give your body to me.

I love this, love fucking you, love the movement of my hips and the angle of your body, love the way your lips half-part as you gasp and fuck your way backwards onto me.

This...... this is what I want from you, this surrender, this opening and giving, until finally my body is tightening and I am moving in you faster, harder, while you grunt and groan beneath me and my hands are wrapped around your hips and my voice is hoarse in your ear, "More, boy, take more for me," and you are trying to answer me, trying to form words but I know this place in you and it is beyond words so I hold you there, beyond words, for as long as I can before we both come down slowly, quietly, wrapped around and within one another with my lips to your ear, tender: "Good boy".

Vignettes from NYE

2010-01-02T12:48:00.005-05:00

Watching a beautiful man rig gorgeous, mostly-naked women until they spin like multi-hued tops of red and gold hair and creamy skin while

Snuggling on the couch in the lap of a lovely man who is playing with my mostly exposed breasts as a beautiful woman wraps herself around me and moans at the sensation of my fist clenched in her, long, silky hair.

The sweating face of the same beautiful man, pressed into my thighs as he is paddled over and over by a group of women, tears springing to his lovely eyes as he presses his face into my bare skin, sucking in air noisily through parted lips.

Warm hands running along my legs beneath the sarong, fingertips brushing my thighs and wrapping around my calves, cupping my buttocks and running warm palms along my skin.

Much, much later, as the sun begins to creep along the horizon, the beautiful man and I curl exhaustedly into bed. I am expecting a little snuggling, a little groping, then an exhausted slumber, but I have underestimated my companion's stamina and soon we are kissing, groping and wrapped around one another. My hand is in his hair, on his throat and his hands are on my breasts, around my waist and opening my legs. His cock is pressed against me, thick and hard and throbbing and I crave the taste of it, the warmth of his lips against my wet cunt but I know that those things are not for me tonight. Instead I whisper in his ear, telling him what a little whore he is for me- that it isn't his cock in my cunt that he wants, but my fist in his ass. He is panting and whimpering in my ear, begging for the taste of my arousal on his lips until I take my liberally soaked fingers and paint them across his parted lips, rubbing my heated body against his.

Later that morning, as the sun peeks through the windows like a voyeuristic eye, I wake snuggled between my pretty man and a beautiful woman whose name I don't even know. I don't remember how it happened to be honest, I don't remember the flirting, the giggling, the making out as I was still in an exhausted, sensitized haze. What I remember is the touch of her fingers on my skin, the stroke of her lips against my heated cunt, the taste of her lips against mine, painted with cum. What I remember are her hands, cocoa against the cream of my thighs and the smug grin on her face as I writhed beneath her expert touch. What I remember is the sight of her straddling my chest, the taste of her nipples and the texture of her cunt as I stroked her to orgasm for the 3rd or 4th time.

The hugs goodbye later, the gratuitous groping, and nap snuggled between two extremely attractive men....

It was a lovely, lovely New Years Eve and New Years Day

Word-picture

2009-12-28T11:37:00.002-05:00

Your ass, raised up from the bed, your knees wide beneath you- everything about you a single curved form of slutty desire.

Your buttocks like twin curved moons, awaiting my hands, awaiting my fingers spreading you wide and opening you, invading you, taking you.

Your back arching, opening, accepting while your pretty little mouth, invisible with your face pressed into the coverlet makes soft whimpering sounds of desire. I can smell the arousal on you, the need, and I want to cover you like a stud covering a mare in season.

I love you like this, love you open and needing and slutty for me, love the indentions of my hands on your buttocks as I spread you wide in preparation.

Scenting our prey

2009-12-27T00:24:00.003-05:00

He is apprehensive but aroused. I can smell the curiosity on him, the desire wafting from his skin and mingling with the lightly acid scent of his nervousness.

The predator in the back of my mind wakes: yawning and stretching, her claws flexing. She has been napping since the loss of Actaeon, only waking briefly when I play with Diablo. But now she is padding along the hallway of my mind, moving steadily forward until she looks out through my eyes and fills my senses.

Suddenly, everything is sharper. I can smell the perfumes of every woman in the room and how the clash with the shampoos, the colognes of every man and which ones are compatible with their deodorant.

Every color is brighter, and the individual hairs on his exposed chest are suddenly fascinating. I want to straddle him and pluck each one while he squirms and whines.

My clothing is confining, rough, and I want to strip and rub myself against him to disguise my predator's scent with his of prey.

She, the predator, looks out through my eyes and scents him. We look at him and watch the fascination grow in his face. He knows he is prey now, knows the predator has his scent. I watch him realize it, accept it- and want it.

His hug to me is brief, but tight, intense, and I can feel the desire in him- taste the scent of it, rolling it on my palate like a fine wine.

Soon, there will be a meal to accompany it.

Memories

2009-12-27T00:02:00.001-05:00

I remember the last time that I bottomed to him.

Such a silly phrase: "bottomed to him."

I remember the last time that he pinned me down and I bared my soul to him.

I remember the last time that I cried in his arms.

Oh he was so worried as he left! Knowing that I was just post-catharsis and fragile and he was already so late, so late!

I remember his face as a study of love and worry for me, and his eyes- jade light when he is happy- forest green with concern.

But it was that concern that promised that I would be okay.

It was that concern, that knowledge- gut-deep- that he loved me, that made me certain that I would be okay when he left.

I remember kissing him and promising to call if I need him, but that I was okay.

I remember that his lips still tasted salty from my tears.

Winter Solstice

2009-12-20T11:43:00.007-05:00

Tomorrow is the Winter Solstice, and tonight is my 2nd Annual Winter Solstice Party.

Tomorrow, after I clean up my house, I will set the table with pretty linens and delicate plates, and I will make myself a pot of tea, a plate of scones, a sandwich, and some cookies, and I will drink the tea from one of my Nana's teacups.

You see, tomorrow is a Monday, and for some reason tea rooms don't like to be open on Mondays.

I'm getting ahead of myself.

Winter Solstice is the longest night of the year, and the shortest day. It's the official beginning of Winter, and a time for introspection and planning for the new year. Winter is the dark time, the hibernating time, and it's in the winter that the stories were passed down to the next generations as oral histories.

The stories.

The stories are important.

Once, there was a little girl. Her mother was gone and her father was a gypsy, so she lived with her grandmother in a big, big house where the two of them rattled around like two peas in a big, big pod.

The house was full of secrets and mysteries, but it was also a happy a place, the most stable place the little girl ever lived, and she never, ever doubted when she lived there that her Nana loved her.

Her Nana was a little old lady with pale, pale skin and silvery hair, and a curved back that nevertheless always gave the impression of being martially straight. She was a very little old lady, but everyone obeyed her and called her, 'The Little General-" everyone except the little girl, who climbed in her lap even once she was much too big to do so, and called her Nana, or Gran.

The little girl was a tomboy, and didn't like girly things. She didn't want to sit still, or dress up for dinners,and she definitely didn't want to learn to take tea. But her Nana insisted, and made her hot chocolate instead, so they sat at the long, long table in the big, big house, and her Nana set it with pretty, delicate plates and let her pick out a teacup from her special collection of teacups. The little girl fidgeted, and whined, but she loved her Nana so she sat at the long, long table in the big, big house, and she drank hot chocolate like a little lady, and learned to eat cookies without making a mess.

When the little girl was much older, and not nearly as little anymore, she was taken away from her Nana and sent somewhere else.

She never forgot her Nana, but she was angry and hurting and young and selfish and was never as close to her Nana after that.

As such things happen, for her Nana was quite old when the little girl lived with her, one day her Nana slipped into the warm Darkness, and the girl (who was not very little anymore) grieved for a very long time.

The very next Winter Solstice, she decided to go and have tea at a local tea room, in honor of her Nana.

She sat in the beautiful room, sipped real tea this time! from a pretty, delicate tea cup very much like her Nana's, and nibbled scones and cookies and sandwiches without making a mess. And if there were tears in her eyes, well, there was a smile on her lips as she remembered the little old lady and the long, long table in the big, big house.

And she's been doing it ever since.

KISS

2009-12-19T00:09:00.004-05:00

The knife is at his throat.

It's a pretty knife. Actaeon gave it to me. Columbia River Knife and Tool, KISS blade.

KISS is an acronym. It stands for, "Keep it simple, stupid," and this knife is designed to those standards. I like it.

A lot. Actaeon carried it every day before giving it to me, replacing the one Wolf had given me.

He takes good care of his toys- it has a nice, sharp edge, which I am currently holding to Diablo's throat.

Oh he's so pretty like this! His eyes are huge and terrified, welling with silent tears. He's afraid of knives, did I mention that?

KISS

Did you know that it only takes one pound of pressure to cut skin, boy?

No, Ma'am, he whimpers. I didn't know that.

So articulate! Clearly, I'm not doing my job.

I shift my hold on the blade, a movement USB taught me, so that the tip of the blade- sharpest point of a knife- is pressed tightly under his chin and he keens in terror.

It would be so easy to shove it home, sheathe the hard steel in his warm, yielding throat.

Nope, no Freudian thoughts there.

KISS

Holding the blade steady, thinking hard about the consequences of shoving the blade home, putting the leash back on my psychopathic side.

Just the knife, just the boy.

KISS

His eyes are filling with tears again, which he stubbornly blinks away. He won't cry in front of me, not yet.

I can have his blood, but not his tears.

We'll fix that soon enough....

DomCon HNT

2009-12-17T02:03:00.000-05:00

I love this shot... Shoes courtesy of Joe the Shoe Guy and shot by Wicked Kitten Productions

The Whys and Wherefores

2009-12-14T22:09:00.002-05:00

"Do you know why I'm doing this?" I ask him.

His eyes are huge, brilliant green, and locked onto my face as she shakes his head a little, whispering hoarsely, "No, Mistress."

I smile. He cringes when I smile like this. He hasn't known me long,but he already cringes when I smile at him tenderly.

He's a fast learner, my little Diablo.

But he hasn't learned this quite yet. He is accustomed to photo shoots, pretty lights and photogenic welts.

I'm not photogenic- I tried modeling once, but I hated every moment of it. I don't care what I look like when I'm hitting you. I just want to see the fear in your eyes.

But the fear is already there crinkling the skin around his eyes, so I decide to be nice and explain it to him.

I lift the little evil stick- a replacement for the one I bought last year at SouthEast LeatherFest which mysteriously disappeared after using it on someone who hated it- and his eyes widen even more. It's interesting, I didn't know he could manage that- it's rather amusing, so I tap him lightly on the nose with it, enjoying his cringing.

"I'm doing it because I want to, boy."

Another tap, another flinch.

"I'm hurting you because I think it's fun."

The next tap is to his balls, drawn up tight in arousal, and he keens a little in terror.

"I'm going to do awful things to you because I like the way your eyes get all wide and scared.

Another tap, another keening sound.

"I don't have a camera. I don't care what this looks like for the website or for any other fucking reason."

A harder tap, a high-pitched keen.

"I'm doing this because I'm just a little bit of a sociopath, and you're the stupid little whore who let me tie him up and hurt him."

His eyes are beautiful- wide and terrified and just beginning to understand....

Missing him

2009-12-14T22:00:00.002-05:00

I am having trouble tonight.

Trouble accepting that he is gone, trouble knowing that he is not in my arms tonight and will not be again.

It is a day for regrets: foggy and bleak, everything edged with a grey soft focus lens.

In the store today, I accidentally sprayed myself with the cologne that the man who raped me wore.

I wanted to call him, wanted to whimper in remembered agony and hear him soothe me.

I saw makeup today, lovely bronzed earth tones to suit his golden skin and I wanted to buy them, wanted to paint him like the beautiful whore that he is....... only not for me, not anymore.

Most days, I understand that what we have chosen is right for both of us. Most days, I love him and accept his choices with reasonable grace.

But today I don't want to. Today I woke up afraid and hurting and missing him with a fierce aching sense of loss that nothing assuages.

Today, I miss him.

First Kiss

2009-12-13T11:06:00.000-05:00

Diablo is wrapped around me, his long, lean body intertwined with mine. I can feel the tension in him, the sense of difference that it is a female form he is curled with, the unfamiliar curve of hip and weight of breast against his skin, and it makes me smile.

Turning my head against the weight of him, I find him watching me, watching for this opportunity to kiss me lightly, fleetingly, almost reservedly. It is a pleasure to return this kiss, to enjoy his firm-soft lips, somewhere between those of a man and a woman. His small tremors of response move me, draw me, until we are lying entwined with the warm weight of him half-atop me and his hands cradling my face as he explores my mouth slowly, learns the differences in my responses from those he is accustomed to, feels the way my fingers clench and draw him closer.

I am the first girl he has ever enjoyed kissing.

Switching with Actaeon

2009-12-11T08:15:00.002-05:00

Actaeon has cut his hair. It leaves his cheekbones higher, more exposed, his lips (even) fuller, and the planes of his face are harsher and more masculine. He looks…. aggressive. But that makes me uncomfortable, so I tell him that he resembles a young hedgehog and feel my heart contract at his expression of distress.

There is a difference even in his walk- no longer the feminine sway of his hips to which I am so accustomed (and so enjoy watching!) but a more assertive tread of boots now.I don’t know how to respond to this person I know but do not know, this masculine side of himself to whom I’ve never been formally introduced: “Hello, who are you? I have shared my body, my heart, with you, but I don’t know you.”

I know I am being cruel, know that my small, cutting remarks are out of line, but I can’t help it. I’m disconcerted, frightened by the replacement of the boi I’ve loved with this young man I’ve only ever seen glimpses of.…. and fear as always made me angry.

It is later, and I have apologized. Seeing glimpses of the boi I love in this man I barely know has helped until I’ve begun to slowly integrate them in my head, in my heart, and let me see this man as simply another facet of the boi I love.

We are kissing, and even that is different. This is not the gentle yielding of his mouth to mine but something harsher, more aggressive. His tongue fences with mine, where before it yielded, his lips demand where before they begged. I don’t know this stranger who is kissing me with the familiarity of a lover, and it makes me tense, afraid. Who are you? Why are you pressing your body to mine as though you are my lover, as though I know you, and why do I have the unaccountable urge to yield to it?

And suddenly it clicks.

His need to express this newfound masculinity aggressively, our long-ago discussions of him as a switch, and my own trust in him. It crystallizes in a single memory of him holding me, rocking me, whispering words of comfort when I was afraid and overwhelmed, and abruptly the switch is thrown.

I know this man, he is another facet of the boi whom I love. I trust this man, who has proven that he can comfort me and still believe in me afterward, and he is worthy of this, this yielding in me which I do not give to anyone.

My body goes soft, pliant in his hands, and my mouth opens to his. There is a single startled moment as his mind registers the change in me before his hands respond- tightening their grip with a low growl, winding in my hair, his body pressing me farther into the bed and his hips opening my now-willing legs.

And I let myself sink into the trust, the surrender, which I so rarely allow myself, so rarely trust in another being as he relearns what this victory feels like with someone capable of fighting.

DomCon HNT

2009-12-10T06:59:00.000-05:00

Outfit (and yes, as far as I'm concerned, this is half-naked!) by Marvelous Mayhem and photo courtesy of Wicked Kitten Productions

2009-12-07T17:20:00.000-05:00

FetLife's Kinky Santa Giveaway- enter to win!

DomCon HNT

2009-12-03T06:54:00.003-05:00

The next several HNTs will be from DomCon 2009, taken by the amazing mistress of Wicked Kitten Productions.

This particular one is of Actaeon, actually! (He does better in heels than I ever will!)

Actaeon

2009-12-01T13:41:00.004-05:00

Actaeon and I are no more.

We are still very close friends, but he is no longer my boi.

We're okay. I'm okay, so please don't worry.

Actaeon is 23. He will be awarded his Master's degree in his chosen field this upcoming May. The entire world is open to him, and he deserves the freedom to explore it- without the emotional fetters of a relationship as committed as I seek.

I love him. He loves me.

That is not in doubt, nor has it ever been- this is a mutual decision, and we respect one another's needs.

Gods, that sounds like counseling psycho-babble! But it's true. Yes, I'm hurting and grieving a bit, and so is he. But it's a clean wound, and beginning to heal already as we help one another through it.

What this means for the future is that we will still hang out (he's coming over this weekend again), we will still play some and attend events together, but the commitment of a relationship is no longer there.

In 'formal' D/s terms, we've gone from a Master/slave relationship to being a Top and bottom who are also very close friends.

I'll start hunting again for a boy soon, but not until after the Holidays. It's too stressful, and I won't put Jack through that over the Holidays.

Meanwhile, I'm planning a Winter Solstice Party and possibly an Orphan's Christmas Dinner.

I love you all :)

Diablo and Actaeon

2009-11-25T16:03:00.004-05:00

He is strung up from the eyebolts in my living room, his legs spread wide by one of the spreader bars my father gave me.

A very pretty boy: his body long and lean, a few tattoos in judicious places to show off the muscular curve of his arms, and the line of his back until it curves into a tightly rounded little ass. I step 'round in front of him, smiling pleasantly.

He looks so nervous! He hasn't known me long enough to get nervous at my most pleasant smile! I can only chuckle, low in my throat, and wrap the silk scarf around his eyes to remove his sight.

Poor thing... spread wide and open, exposed and vulnerable to me, sightless, naked, and trembling in fear. It sends a thrill of arousal through me, dampening my cunt inside my jeans, and I point at the floor in front of Diablo, summoning my Actaeon here in front of him. It takes little arranging, a short length of rope and a collar with a D-ring, before my pretty boys are attached to one another.

It's a beautiful sight: the open living room, Diablo tied standing spread-eagle, naked with only the purple silk scarf slashing tightly across his pretty face, and Actaeon kneeling before him equally naked and obedient, watching the rising cock before his face with something between trepidation and hunger.

Actaeon's hot little mouth tight around Diablo's cock, Diablo moaning and leaning into him, the muscles of his calves tight with the effort of not thrusting into Actaeon's willing mouth.

Actaeon's soft sounds of pleasure, the slight slurping of his hungry tongue, lips, and teeth.

And now the crack of paddle, the disbelieving half-yelp from Diablo's throat as it connects with his rounded ass.

"Awww," I whisper in his ear, "girls play rough, don't they?" as another crack catches him in the sweet spot just where his buttocks meet his thighs. it isn't long before he is whimpering, hissing, and moaning with every blow as I cycle through my favorite toys: the twisted acrylic cane, the heavy leather pig-slapper, the hickory paddle, the rubber loop paddle... he learns all of them intimately, while Actaeon continues to work him with hungry slurps of his lips and hands clutching his smooth thighs, keeping Diablo hard through pain he never thought he would stay hard through.

Such lovely, lovely boys, both of them, and we climax with a second rendition of Actaeon's birthday spanking- on Diablo this time- before retiring to the couch for a lovely, lingering, 3-way cuddle.

Good morning, beautiful

2009-11-21T18:52:00.003-05:00

It is morning, in your bed and sunshine is streaming in through the window. I can only think blearily that it was supposed to rain today...

You are wrapped around me, a clinging liana vine boy, your naked body pressed tightly to mine. I free my arm slowly and stroke your hair while you blink at me in sleepy confusion. Are we waking up? Am I just petting you?

Good morning, beautiful

How was your night?

Mine was wonderful with you by my side...

I cannot help it, love for you is swelling up in me, and I pull you in closer to me, draw your heavy head to my breast and lay it there while you wrap yourself around my supine warmth. Your fingers are stroking my neck, your toes moving along my bare legs, and we are warm and soft and drowsily aroused together.

When I open up my eyes and see your sweet face

It's a good morning, beautiful, day...

This.... this is what I love, you wrapped around me: your warmth sinking into me, fingers brushing the little hairs on my arms and your cock drowsily aroused against my hip as your lips press into my neck from habit as much as desire.

Good morning, beautiful

To be continued

2009-11-12T15:25:00.001-05:00

You’ve given me an idea, as we chat on instant messenger. I love talking to you during the day, especially days like today, when I am exhausted and caffeinated and it’s making me slightly sociopathic. Okay, maybe not, “slightly.”

You went hiking this weekend, and spent several days in the mountains. You tramped up hills and along ridges, through rivers and over rocks. It’s a sexy image of you: sweaty and dirty, your movements restrained by your pack, your face lighting up with the assumed freedom of the forest around you.

Maybe we’ll go hiking one day, my pet. Maybe we’ll climb up a mountain and hike along a cold, cold mountain stream. We’ll find a large rock, worn smooth by millennia of water running over its surface, polishing it, smoothing it, creating the perfect place to hurt you.

On the bank of the stream, I’ll strip you gently, lovingly, my hands warm and tender on your soft skin. I’ll lift the pack from your back, laying it aside, then slowly unbutton your shirt, smoothing it from your shoulders and letting my hands linger along your chest and shoulders.

I’ll remove your boots, briefly appearing submissive as I lift your feet to my thigh , one at a time, and draw off your boots and socks. When you’re barefoot, as I prefer anyway, I’ll remove your pants, lingering over the belt as though I’m unwrapping a long-awaited gift.

When you’re completely naked, I’ll step into my waders and unpack what I need from the backpack. Rock climbing anchors are an interesting topic. Lucivar’s Mistress could likely write a thesis on them, but I don’t know how to use them very well. However, I can set a cam into a rock, and I can loop soft, tough, infinitely useful climbing rope around your wrists, your ankles, and I can secure you.

I’ve chosen my boulder carefully. Freezing cold mountain water rubs down it in a constant stream from the falls above us, and there’s a lovely little indention from our tiny waterfall which is just the right size for your head.

You’re stretched out for me now, legs and arms wide and a constant stream of freezing cold water tricking along your back. It’s so cold, tightening your skin in goosebumps and hardening your nipples to tiny round nubs and making you look at me with wide, pleading eyes.

You don’t know what you’re pleading for, though, because your cock is harder than your nipples.

Blue and Jade Bracelet

2009-11-12T04:55:00.000-05:00

Yes, it really is a bracelet. I'm just tiny.

And those light-colored rings? Those are jade. No, really. Real jade.

It's puuuurrty.

Priests and geldings

2009-11-11T19:07:00.000-05:00

I’m reading the “Dexter” novels again, reading about my favorite serial killer and his Dark Passenger. Reading about his moonlit Need and his playmates.

I like Dexter.

I envy Dexter.

And tonight, I want to be Dexter. I want to find a bright, cool place- and I, who usually hates cold!- and I want to take you there. I want to press steel hooks through your pretty ankles, behind the Achilles’ tendon, and lift you up, whimpering and sobbing, the blood from your ankles running up your legs and to your groin, passing over your taut buttocks and up your back, mixing in with your hair like tears in the back of your head.

You talk about wanting voluntary castration sometimes, and tonight I want to give that to you… not that it’s likely to be very voluntary once I start.

I want to take the knife in my hand, a pretty, curved gelding knife, and run it along your thighs while you squirm and twist and beg me not to. I want to open your thighs and follow the smooth line of your sartorius, and the fat rector femoris with my fingers. I’ll drag the knife down and open up the skin of your scrotum, letting the testes pop out like two fat eggs while you scream and try to thrash. The testes are only attached to the body by the vas deferens- the long tube from which ejaculate moves from the testes to the penis- otherwise, they’re simply held to the body inside the scrotum. It would take only the slightest effort to cut through it…. It barely even bleeds.

You’re a eunuch now. In some ancient temples, particularly that of the goddesses Cybele and Artemis- who most anthropologists consider related- a male had to be castrated to become a priest of these powerful, gender-queering goddesses. Artemis was my first patron goddess, the first deity to whom I felt true kinship and a desire to serve as priestess. And now you, my pet, are qualified to serve as one of her priests. How did one do that, I wonder? Was the boy-child taken, castrated, and left at the temple steps? Or was he raised by the temple, a serious young man who chose to give his manhood to the goddess for the privilege of entering her service? Did he choose this? Did he make the cuts himself? Was he held down on the altar, screaming and flailing as you are?

It bleeds up your stomach, your chest, pooling at your neck and dripping from your hair. It’s strange how untouched your face is left, contorted and red from screaming and light-headed from too much blood around the brain….

I’m doing you a favor like this, baby… every basic first aid manual says that to control bleeding, ensure that the wound is above the heart….

Chainmaille collar and cuffs HNT

2009-11-05T02:15:00.000-05:00

This has got to be one of the coolest things ever :)

Shaking

2009-11-03T16:39:00.002-05:00

You're touching me, your hands tender on my skin and your body wrapped around mine. I am curled, shaking, against you, drawing comfort from your nearness and your warmth and your love. I don't feel very dominant right now, my my head buried in your shoulder- don't feel like I am presenting the image of what I am supposed to be- but I am slowly learning to trust you to love me anyway.

You're teaching me, slowly, that I don't have to be a cardboard cutout of The Dominant Woman for you, that you will love me even if I stumble, even if I cry, even if I am clingy and needy and afraid sometimes.

You're teaching me, slowly, that you will love me even if I don't wear makeup, even if I don't wear heels or even know what gender I am sometimes.

You're teaching me, slowly, that you will love me even if I am myself.

I'm shaking less now, slowly uncurling from my tight ball of old wounds and fresh pain, and you are still there. Still there touching me, kissing me... loving me.

It feels suddenly like my heart is swelling, filling with love and tenderness and this deep gratitude and my entire body responds to it, swelling and ripening and somehow deepening until I am lifting my head and capturing his lips in mid-kiss, stroking his tongue with my own and wrapping his precious, precious face in my hands.

I cannot help it now, I want him as he moans into my mouth, his hands spasming, clutching me, his hair falling into our faces and his body pressing into mine. I roll him over, straddling him, my damp groin pressed to his hard cock and my fingers tangling in his hair.

God, I love his hair.

Suddenly I realize that there are tears in my eyes, that I can taste them in our kisses and I start to draw away, start to apologize, but he draws me back down to him and kisses me again, love reflected in his eyes.

Rainbow choker HNT

2009-10-29T14:12:00.003-04:00

I LOVE this drapey style!!

Transgender thoughts

2009-10-28T10:59:00.001-04:00

I am sitting in Gender & Society class today, discussing the difference between those who identify as drag kings/queens, genderqueers, transgenders, or simply (simply! Ha!) as gender non-conformists. I am watching a beautifully androgynous transgender person- whom I find wildly attractive, by the way- move gracefully, strongly around the room, soliciting responses and elaborating on explanations. Their voice is low for a woman, high for a man, but measured and resonant in a way that I find incredibly sexy, and it makes me think of you.

It makes me think of you in that beautiful polka dotted dress, walking quickly and gracefully in heels. You are gender-nonconforming, genderqueer whose long slim thighs are beautiful to me, whose arched feet and rounded toes, muscled calves and smooth skin delight me. You are my gracile boi whose slim hips, lean back, high cheeks, wide eyes allure me, tempt me to run exploring fingers over your skin for hours until you whimper and squirm in need and pleasure.

Our instructor for today is discussing transmen now, discussing options for sex organs and restructuring of the clitoris into a penis. Testosterone, when combined with androgen, usually causes the clitoris to enlarge, and when it is released surgically from the pubic bone it forms a sensitive and operable cock. It makes me wonder how large my clitoris would grow with testosterone, how sensitive it would be when I fucked you.

I have this image of my changing body, of my breasts slowly tightening and becoming smaller, my face filling out into more masculine planes, the first teenage peach fuzz sprouting on my chin while my hips slimmed and my hands grew wider. I imagine my clitoris growing, hardening, while I shudder each time it brushes the fabric of my jeans for weeks, unaccustomed to so much sensitive flesh exposed. I see you before me, kneeling, taking my clitoris in your mouth and sucking it like the cock that it will be while I shudder and clench my fingers in your hair, understanding for the first time the allure of the blowjob.

I imagine your body changing, as estrogen and androgen reshape you into the person you are so much of the time already- of your shoulders slimming, tender breasts opening like buds on your chest, your facial hair dwindling and the bones of your face growing more slender and feminine. I envision your hips widening and a softness stealing over your body, a roundness as your hair grows out and your lips become even fuller. I imagine how dainty you will look, you who have already mastered the high heels I could never wear, in your soft sundresses and pretty, delicate shoes.

I imagine us together in bed, hands running over skin as we explore these new forms, learn our new selves, new partners, and both cherish the old and welcome the new.

Pink/Silver/Black Bracelet HNT

2009-10-22T02:08:00.002-04:00

Written by Actaeon: Movie Theater

2009-10-20T20:25:00.001-04:00

I have few expectations as we walk into the theater; she greets me with a wide smile as she always does, and I smile as I kiss her, that twinge of excitement as always makes my heart skip a beat. She sweetly takes me over, and lets me know what we're watching tonight-- Where the Wild Things Are . I feel ambivalent about the film, but I know that watching it with her will be more important than the movie itself.

We walk in, and I'm nonplussed by the empty theater. It's the afternoon; of course no one's there. But when she guides me to the very top row, I suddenly realize that I'm in for something new. I grew up reading erotic literature on sites like Literotica; I'm no stranger to the idea of play in a public place like this, but suddenly with a rush fantasy and narrative blend into reality.

As we sit, she smiles and notes the low-set armrests, and I smile, nodding, not really processing the significance. It means we can get closer, that's nice. I wonder idly if the designers of the interior of the theater had what would happen in mind.

The film starts, and we watch like any couple would; I munch on my gummi bears, a childhood favorite, and I smile as we hold hands. Shortly through the film, she pulls me into her chest, and I smile, cuddling up to her. She's so warm, I love resting like this; it feels so incredibly intimate. I haven't been feeling overly sexual for the last day or so; I'm going through a hormonal cycle at the moment, at least, that's what I'll blame my pimples on. And resting there, she slides her hand down my open button-down shirt, resting her hand there for a moment.

I feel myself flush instantly as her fingers rest on that sensitive place; they're still so tender, my body reacts quickly. I shift uncomfortably; she hadn't let me wear underwear in a while, and I felt my sensitive cock rub against the denim.

All too soon, she begins whispering in my ears, reminding me of how much of a fucking slut I am, and I blush harder, realizing that, yes, I am quite a slut. My cock's so hard in this theater. A family is nearby, in the otherwise empty theater, just far enough to be out of view, thank god. But I can hear them, I can hear the mother speaking to her children, and I'm ashamed. But not ashamed enough to want her to stop rubbing and pinching my nipples. And that is why, among other reasons, I'm a disgusting whore.

She begins caressing me, and kissing my neck. I try hard to stay still, to keep from moving, from making any show of my maddening need for more. I never think, oh, god, I want more-- it's deeper than that, something that escapes language. And I want it. Oh god, I want it so bad, she's running her fingers along my chest, I feel her wet tongue against my neck, and she turns my head, kissing me deeply. She turns my head back, and murmurs, a slightly ironic tone in her voice, "Watch the movie.."

She's nearly got me moaning out loud, now, as I watch the film. It's difficult to concentrate on the movie, and difficult to concentrate on her caresses, at once. I'm entering a strange headspace, and it's hard as well to concentrate on the fact that I'm in such a public place. When she whispers in my ear, she reminds me that yes, I'm a slut, I'm right there in the theater, practically begging to cum on my chest, and I feel myself harden. Yes. I am a slut. I am her slut. I want to crawl down onto the floor and bury my face into her moistness and suck her to orgasm. I want her to cum on my face. I want to feel her hot wet sticky cum on my mouth, I want to be bathed in her fragrance.

She has me undo my belt, and pulls my tender cock out of my pants. Oh god, I'm so painfully aroused; I listen with horror, watching the staircase, waiting for a cop to silently walk up and to expose me with a maglite. But no. I'm safe here, safe enough for Mistress to stroke my cock, to murmer into my ear. For me to make little whimpering sounds. I want her more than I can bear. I'm happy.

I'm forced to keep watching. It's not exactly a children's film, as she says-- I feel conflicted about it. I feel conflicted about myself. And I feel conflicted about the hand on my cock. I grow soft; she asks me to stroke myself. And I do. And I grow hard again, and it makes sense again. I'm a slut. That's what I am.

I want to cum in the theater, right there, I want to feel her shudder under my head as I cum for her, and eat it, and listen to her pleased murmurs, I want to hear the smile in her voice, the lovely little cruelty there. She tells me that she wants to fuck me, right there. The thought scares me, but I would open myself for her, I would bend right over that chair infront of her, cling to it, stay silent as she fucked me. As long as I could.

In my fantasies, the theater is crowded, and what starts as a subtle groping grows into a massive orgy, some bizarre feast out of the past; where humanity touches its roots, and chooses to make its fantasies reality. I feel the impression of the pressing reality that's been tearing at the plastic parapets of our happy little civilization.

I want her. I want to feel covered in cum, I want to feel it flooding my mouth, my ass, I want it in my hair, on my face, covering my back, I want to feel its stickiness dripping from my chest, I want to shake as I'm cold and aching and left sore and bleeding and crying, tossed into a small cage, a plug stuffed into my ass, a gag in my mouth, left to freeze and shake and eventually sleep. To be woken up to the same process the next day, and the next day.

And here, in this theater, I feel that reality pressing me, pushing me, holding me down and raping me.

Steel Collar HNT

2009-10-15T02:05:00.000-04:00

This is the collar I want for my boi eventually. Isn't it gorgeous?

Give a gal a hand?

2009-10-13T23:29:00.002-04:00

So the lovely Miss Gigi has run into difficulty- her apartment caught fire, and she is currently struggling to rebuild.

Miss Gigi is a fantastic member of our local community, and a good friend. She recently presented at Whippersnappers, our local TNG group, and has done a number of presentations throughout the Southeast in particular, and needs our help.

Please take a look at her blog here and offer any help that you can.

Black and Blue Bracelet HNT

2009-10-08T06:02:00.000-04:00

Crying jag

2009-10-06T09:40:00.004-04:00

Jack and I have fought, and as I lay down the phone I can feel my body shaking. My heart is shaking, my soul rocking in fear and agony. I hate hurting him, but I am also angry- this wasn't my fault! I did what I was supposed to!... and I am confused and frightened and I wish that he were here to see my fear and hold me and promise me that it will be all right, and that he loves me. I cannot show him this fear over the phone- it is too vulnerable, too close, and he is not close enough to make it better.

Still shaking, I wander back into the living room. I've almost forgotten that the boi is here, too wrapped in my misery to remember anything else. Turning the corner and seeing him is a shock: he is curled on the couch, looking up at me. The love and sympathy in his eyes when he sees my face crumbles the pitiful emotional barriers I had begun to automatically build, and I go to him before I even realize what I am doing, curling into a ball, pressed against him, and shaking.

A part of me screams, "This isn't the way that it works! You care for him, you do not make yourself vulnerable to him! Stop! Get up! Put on the mask!" But I am trying to let myself feel, trying to let myself trust, and more than that... I do not want to wear the mask with him. I do not want to pretend, do not want to play the, "I'm invulnerable," game. So I curl myself against him and I let myself shake; slow, hot tears falling down my face, across my nose, and soaking the hand he curls beneath me.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks softly.

"Not yet," I shake my head.

So he gives me silence, gives me tenderness, and offers me the safety to feel my fear, my hurt, my anger and distress. I am afraid of this- afraid that he will see me so weak and hurting, and that he will not be able to see this frightened woman as his Mistress and will not be able to trust me, depend on me, lean on me again. I am afraid that this will destroy our dynamic.

It makes me want to stop, to draw myself away from him and process this alone, put on the mask and cover up my hurting, but his hands are warm around me and there is no drawing away in his touch, none of the contempt that I fear.

It adds relief to the roil of emotions inside me, and then I am crying harder, my sobbing silent as always and my body shaking against him. I can feel the fear in his hands, the worry for me, but that there is no contempt in that touch eases a small, tight knot inside of me and I sob myself out and curl up against him while he strokes my hair.

Finally, I am sobbed out, and he kisses my forehead.

"Would you like a cup of tea and a cold rag, Ma'am?"

My eyes are swollen and gritty, my smile shaky, but I hope that he understand that right now I love him more than anything else in the world, and that I am incredibly grateful for his beautiful, tender, loving, submissive heart.

Pitiful PMSing HNT

2009-10-01T10:06:00.000-04:00

Preparing to get into the bath to stop my entire lower body from screaming....

Penance

2009-09-29T14:45:00.007-04:00

He has failed me twice this week, and I'm furious.

"Come up with your own punishment," I told him, and he whimpered. But he did it... I wonder if he knows that I don't trust myself to think of something appropriate, if he realizes that I was too angry to trust myself not to choose something which would harm him.

He mentioned several options, stumbling a little and whimpering. His fear soothed me a little, and the shame in his voice eased the last of my fury. He wants this punishment, needs this penance to expiate the shame which he feels- a shame likely far stronger than my anger.

By the time he arrives at my home, over an hour's drive away, I am calm again. His face as he enters my home is beautiful- frightened and ashamed and loving and willing and beautiful. It melts me, but I keep my face still. I no longer need this, but it is clear to me that he does. Penance, else he will blame himself for his failure forever.

My boi is hard on himself, harder perhaps even than I am, and I love him for it.

And because I love him, my voice is cold: "Strip".

He strips, kneels.

I read for a while, sprawled on the couch. Concealed Carry Magazine, belated birthday gift courtesy of one of my bosses. I read about the merits of the new Kahr .380, possibly my next expensive gift for myself once I get my hands on one to try it out.

He is perfectly still, aside from the misery on his face. Test passed.

I stand quickly, 3 quick strides and my fingers are twined in his hair. He starts to stand, starts to try to come to me, but I shove him back to the floor. I am not angry any longer, but this roughness is what he wants right now, what he needs.

It's breaking my heart.

I drag him along the hallway, forcing him to keep up with my long, fast strides and then dump him onto my air intake grate.

My house is old- 1940's officer housing for a nearby Army base. It was built long before central air was standard, and central air was installed below the floors. That means that an air intake is needed. Mine sits in my floor, just outside of our media/guest room. It's a huge metal grate, maybe 3.5x2.5'. It hurts to stand on, I can't imagine how it feels to kneel on it.

He's kneeling now, his face tight with pain.

I'm sprawled on our guest bed, reading my magazine again and keeping a subtle eye on him.

He shifts, whimpers slightly, rights himself.

Sniffs, puts his arms behind his head, steals a glance at me.

Minutes pass, slowly. So slowly.

I didn't think to bring my phone, I don't know how much time is passing, but I'm watching him. I watch him consider safing out, watch him discard the notion.

He told me that an hour would be a good period of time.

It hasn't been 20 minutes and he bends over, body shaking. Instantly, I'm terrified. Was this too much? Is he retching from the pain? But my voice is cold, amused, laced with condescension, "Are you puking?"

He shakes his head, whispering, "No, ma'am."

"Good."

I return to my magazine, but now I can see the shininess of his eyes, the shivering of his muscles.

Good, it's time. I want him to feel the strain, recognize that it was hard... but not to fail. I never want him to feel like he's failed me again.

It takes barely two strides in the smaller room before I'm on him, twisting my fingers in his hair once more and dragging him into the room. He stumbles after me, dropping to his knees in front of me. His face is flushed and sweating, his lovely hair matted and stuck to his cheeks.

He has never looked more beautiful to me.

I wrap my hands around his face. "Do you understand why I was angry with you?"

He nods, still miserable.

"Do you understand why I did this?"

He nods again, eyes down.

"Look at me." He obeys. The fear in his eyes is something I would normally sip like a fine wine, but not today. Not with that misery behind it. Today it only twists my gut into knots of anxiety.

"It's over now," I tell him, letting my voice take the loving tone I've been denying to myself for the last half hour and drawing him into me.

He clings to me, sweaty miserable shamed boy, and I realize that he's whispering, the same words over and over: "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

It breaks my heart a little more, twists the pieces a little harder.

I draw him back to see my face, let him see the love, the tenderness in my eyes. "It's over. I forgive you. It's over."

And then he is in my arms and pressed against me and I am stroking him, kissing the top of his head over and over and we are both whispering incoherent nonsense to one another but it's all right because I know what he is saying and he knows what I am.

Weekend with Actaeon

2009-09-28T20:47:00.000-04:00

I want to blog about this weekend. I want to write you beautiful porn about my fantastic weekend with my most wonderful of bois.

I want to tell you about kissing his chest with terribly gentleness until he begged me to hurt him. I want to tell you about how brave he was at the munch and play party, talking to people despite his shyness, and how proud of him that I was.

I want to tell you about fucking him for the first time, my glass cock making him writhe and whimper and beg for more. I want to tell you how his face looked, flushed and open and needing as I drove into him. I want to tell you about the texture of his hair, sweaty and matted to his forehead as he looks up at me through his forelock.

I want to tell you about making him cry, about pushing him to the point of breakdown at his request, about the way his body felt curled and vulnerable in my arms and how strong and protective it made me feel.

I want to tell you about snuggling with him and watching a movie while he drifted to sleep in my arms, about the warmth of his body against mine as he struggled to stay awake and with me, about promising him that I would be here when he woke.

I want to tell you about this weekend, write about how hot-tender-gorgeous-loving-erotic-beautiful that it was... but words fail me in the face of it. Maybe with a little time, I'll find the perspective to write about it, but for now I will leave you with this: I had a fantastic weekend with my darling Actaeon who has stolen my heart terrifyingly quickly.

Finally, another HNT!

2009-09-24T13:53:00.003-04:00

Yes, I know, I suck at remembering to do HNTs. Shaddup. I really am trying to get better, but Thursdays are 10-hour school days for me.

But the boi and I went to mom and Mouse's and we got more chainmaille HNTs... so expect those the next few weeks :)

Breakfast

2009-09-22T16:10:00.002-04:00

You are kneeling at my feet beside the table, looking up at me with shy eyes. I love how light they turn when you're happy- from brown to an almost-hazel shade, hiding behind your hair as it falls into your face.

I love you like this, your body loose and relaxed as you lean against my thigh a little, your face open and smiling. You know what is coming, know what I will do to you... and you want it.

I love you for that. Love you for your willingness, your lack of defense mechanisms when you are with me. I love you for the fact that you never tell me, "no". It makes me feel as though I own the world, and at the same time it's incredibly humbling- this knowledge that you will do as I ask, even if it is harmful, and the responsibility that attends it.

Tenderly now, I weave my fingers into your hair, drawing you closer to me and pressing your face into my thigh. I want you near me.

My plate is beside me, biscuits steaming fresh from the oven with butter melting into them, and sausage patties cooked with queso, and I smile down at you, breaking off a bite of biscuit and placing it in your mouth. I see the momentary flinch, the lifetime of memories and fears swimming in your eyes and I tighten my hand in your hair, just a little and watch you relax. This is beautiful to me: the melting of your fears into the warmth of my hands, the rising tide of trust in your eyes as you accept the bite from my fingers.

Your lips are so warm on my hands... I'm transfixed by the sight.

Another bite, a little sausage this time, and I give you a sip of hot tea.

Next time, the tea will be in a bowl on the floor.

You're slipping down now, the sense of 'self' in your eyes fading, until for just this moment all you are, all you have ever been or ever will be, is my pet. My toy. My darling boi.

You will return to yourself: I know it, trust it as you trust me... but for this moment, as you slip down into my eyes, unto the warmth of my hands and the bites of food from my fingers, I watch you made safe.

Ruby Incarnidine

Birthday Treat

Some thoughts on cultural shifts in leather

Subspace and consent

Overdue update

Late night HNT

Post-pedicure HNT

A new-old change in direction

Writer's Block

Pleasant thoughts HNT

Coffee-laced kisses

Hot water and sisterhood

Bewbies HNT

Rapine Dreams

Sleeping in HNT

An evening's thought

*squeeeeeeeeeeal*

Loss

Collaring

Craving you

Fetish

To be continued

Don't wanna

3am

Mornings

Musings

Yes- this

An apology and a memory

Thinking about it

Image

Missing you

Now

Wounded Healers

Already

The last few weeks

Gay Bar

Empathy

Quote

Movie Night

Shaved Head HNT

Loving violence

Sex and violence

Fantasy

In Bed HNT

Gang rape

Bad Poetry

Missing

From postsecret

A bit of Shiny

Blurry Shower HNT

Shower sex fantasy

CinErotic Film Fest in Atlanta!

Multitasking HNT

Chance disaster

Culmination

My Favorite Mistake

Shiny

Weekend Highlights

Domme Chronicles

Date Night with Jack

Kinky Prom Update

The First Law is not to obey

Wool socks HNT

Panty Boy

The stuff you don't care about but I'm gonna post anyway :-p

Fucking you

Vignettes from NYE

Word-picture

Scenting our prey

Memories

Winter Solstice

KISS

DomCon HNT

The Whys and Wherefores

Missing him

First Kiss

Switching with Actaeon

DomCon HNT

DomCon HNT

Actaeon

squeeeeeeeeeeal