The last couple of weeks have been rough as far as health problems that have seen Wildcard and I both hitting clinics within short days of each other. While neither one of us is dying, we both aren’t helped by the summer humidity either.
Friday evening, after yet another stress filled day, I went for my thrice weekly run, leaving Wildcard all by his lonesome. Stress seriously cuts down on sex time, as does being under the weather, and with him starting to feel a bit better he was hinting a certain interest.
After putting in my usual time and distance in sneakers, I came back to find him with laptop on his lap, gently stroking his half hard cock while chatting with a room full of strangers. He perked up and suggested that I could join in, tie him up and tease him, to which I gave him one of my patented looks. I am not a big fan of dominance on demand. with me you don’t call the shots and set the script. You can suggest sexy ideas, but it isn’t going to fly if you try to put my urges and control on rails.
He didn’t end up tied up to the bed, but he did end up edging himself and then bent over my knee for a mean, hard spanking while everyone he’d been entertaining earlier continued to watch. Hand was soon switched up for a belt, probably my favourite of his to use, a big thick piece of supple brown leather.
I had him on all fours, facing the camera and reaching underneath himself to keep his cock hard- and his facial reactions showed me that he was experiencing some intense sensations from the leather striping his cheeks, while the colour changed to a bright pink, blossoming from the blush of his warm up to a good ruddy rose of a proper bare skin spanking.
The reactions are the best part for me, watching the intensity in his face as I made him count off loud so everyone of the people in the chat room could hear. It’s not the first time I ended up spanking him on camera for anyone to watch, but Wildcard is a horny little exhibitionist who get both extremely turned on and extremely humiliated with an audience. As well as the usual horny guys drooling over me, we got a couple of ladies getting into seeing him paddled, gratifying since I like it better when he doesn’t get treated like he doesn’t exist. And I knew that kind of attention is Wildcard’s big weakness, so you can bet he was feeling extra vulnerable and submissive to whatever sadistic cruelty I intended. Spanking him on camera for women to watch is a huge fetish for him!
He was the one who noticed the little wet patch under me, a mark on the sheet where I’d been resting, but it was me who told him that he had to fuck me without coming- as long as he could manage, stretching it out as his thick cock filled me up. We started with me astride, riding him, but pretty soon he tipped me back and made himself take his time while I teased him by gripping his cock with the muscles of my cunt.
He took a long time just like I ordered, waiting a minute after I gave him permission before finally cumming with a loud muffled groan into my neck. We ended up spooned up after that, with various audience members indicating their appreciation.
The problem with a live crowd, of course, is that you don’t control them, so it’s no wonder that sometimes the questions get a bit weird. I’ve been compared to people’s stepdaughters. and we often get bombarded with requests for butt stuff. This time we got asked: So, is he the biggest guy you’ve ever fucked?
The girthiest. Even super turned on as I was, he’s a tight fit.
So, it was another BDSM play party night. Woo sex parties with beautiful people! Let’s take off our clothes and mingle!
Actually, I’m an anti-social fuss pot who tends to default to hiding and sulking, but this one I was committed to trying to have a good time. After all, I’m pretty privileged to live in a large city with a vibrant and active community.
And really, as far as sometimes finding the public BDSM play scene a challenge, I blame that I’m an unimpressive top with intermittent social skills. I don’t mean to put myself down, I just mean as a dominant I can’t really fall back on flamboyant scenes, which removes some of the appeal of playing in public, and I have a hard time breaking into interactions with other people sometimes- and I get uncomfortable as the object of focused sexual pursuit, while having unreasonable expectations of worship. As such I decided that it was on me to figure out how to make things work, and flush with enthusiasm I threw myself into this party, complete with volunteering and trying to dress up extra cute.
Wildcard has a rather better experience- for him this is his kind of decadent fun he always dreamed about. He’s also new to the scene- like most libertines I’ve reached the point of jaded where the novelty has not only worn off, but been replaced by a patina of sameness, fate that seems to befall a lot of kinky folk who’ve been kicking around the place too long.
But, in preparation for trying to have a good time, I did my best to make sure good things would happen including trying to prep for best possible top time. You’d think an open and active dirty word pornographer like me would be up on this kind of thing like fleas on cat, but for me, getting into the saddle with someone is always pretty hinky- I need to feel like I want to be there of my own volition and I need to have a connection build up and not just mechanically walk through the dominant scene checklist, and I need to be seduced into feeling dominant.
Of course I’d told Wildcard that I really couldn’t do the ‘dom-on-demand’ thing where we were happy non-sexual/non-power exchange-y in day to day interactions and then poof, suddenly I had to drop into the role with full on confidence in a very public environment. So he was doing a good job of before time foreplay, which is to say going out of his way to pique my interest in swatting him, while I did my best to anticipate and plot. And as you will read on, things may have worked very well…
Once again I’m doing 30 days of kink in a multi-day jam together.
Day 3:How did you discover you were kinky?
The question here is not as much how I discovered kink as much as that learned I was part of a sexual minority of any kind, or what the words for my kinks was.
Initially, this was just my sexuality (or proto sexuality) and because of the relative weirdness of my family background I didn’t think vanilla was the default or that it was abnormal to want to playfully tie someone up or like stories where people lost their clothing or were held captive. BDSM was just part of sex-ed, which is to say the basic vocabulary and safety advice. None of my early exploration with other partners indicated that people were by default, vanilla, just that everyone has stuff they will and will not do and that isn’t always what you’d like.
Co,ing to terms with the fact that ‘femdom’ was the word that best described me was a more lengthy process.
Day 4:Any early experiences that, in retrospect, hint at your kinks?
Pre-school me had an imaginary friend who was always getting beaten up and having his clothing stolen. I was as much enamoured with Disney’s Sleeping Beauty for the scenes with the chained up/captive prince and I was happy to read books on the middle ages with their inevitable explanation of the dungeon/ransoming system or play games involving Trolls who wanted to capture people. I was obsessed with a comic series called Elf Quest probably because of a wicked witch style character called Winnowill.
I’ve talked about this before, but suffice to say, it was pretty easy to pick out that I was excessively fixated on certain dynamics.
Day 5:What was your first kinky sexual experience? If you haven’t had one yet, talk about what you hope to have happen.
Tie up and capture games with other children escalated, as puberty rolled through, into light kink with highschool boyfriends and enthusiastic cyber roleplay with stranger on the internet, probably also pretending to be 18 at the same time as me. This is not to say that I was running round owning slaves from day one, but that kink was just always there.
There’s a blog meme running around right now, which is essentially a big list of writing prompts called “30 days of kink”. It seems to originate over at Queerkink, but Rayne of Insatiable Desire has the complete list right here.
Day 27: Do your non-kink interests ever find their way into your kinky activities? If so, how?
Day 28: How do you dress for kink/BDSM play? What significance does your attire have to you?
Day 29: Do you have a BDSM title (e.g. mistress, master, slut, pig, whore, princess, goddess, ma’am, sir)? What is your opinion of the use of titles in general?
Day 30: Whatever BDSM/kink related thing you want to write about.
I want to see your eyes wide and glassy, vulnerable, your mouth in a pout and myself loom above you. I want to feel that you feel helpless, and that however I twist and pull you, you will follow.
I want to feel your desire, like an anchor chain, a need for me that would make you crawl on your belly for me, beg me, debase yourself and fight for me. I want to make you do all those things to prove to me what I can already tell by looking at you. I want you to fear me, just a little, as something you can never handle completely. I want there to be masochism, but balanced by both lust and a little rebellion.
I want male flesh. That means I want to feel my hand hold a solid jaw when I make you look me in the eye, and I want to feel muscles that are, by nature, stronger than mine when I push you down and make you yield and when my hands hold yours to the pillow, pushed over your head so I can loom and kiss you. I want you to be beautiful for me, to make your body into something you hope I will take as an offering, and something I will take from you. I want to see you stretched and stripped, taught to flinch when I touch you, yet crave to rest your head on my lap.
I want you to fight me, so I can break you, than take those shivering bits and pieces and put them back as strong as before. I want a tough toy that takes, claw and teeth and pain- I want a fragile toy that I can bend with a look. I want a victim- I don’t want to cosset and I don’t want to think about a “slave heart” when I strike you, nor wrangle whether you are a “natural submissive” or whether I, indeed, am True. I don’t want to be a Nice Mistress or a Goddess type role who leads you to a higher place; I want you to be outraged at the indignity and the liberty I am taking with your flesh, your mind and your self… and turned on by this. Consent is crucial, but I need you to have the imagination to feel vulnerable when you are perfectly safe with me.
And yet, as much as the resistance matters, I want you to want it so bad you admit it. Oh, I don’t mind if it’s not an easy confession, but one that has to be coaxed out of you under time or duress. But I want you to know you are mine. I want you to feel that you belong with me above all others, because I, myself can worry that I am to be found wanting.
That takes confidence, from you, to think of yourself as the best for me. I know it’s a lot to want in a partner, much less to want in a submissive. But, I also know I want you, warts and all, even when you’re not in the mood and what I need to do right now is be a supportive person more than a dom. Or when it’s incredibly complicated. I want you to be human and real. I want the effort more so than the perfection. I suppose a lot of it is wanting my wants to be validated. And in the end, I guess that’s what everyone wants.
“If you wanted to torment me, blindfold me and tie me to the bed and force me to have an orgasm with the (Hitachi Knockoff) vibrator, I wouldn’t mind,” the request is made as coyly and casually as he can manage, couched in terms that let him pretend he’s not asking for a very specific scenario.
He doesn’t like to ask for things- but then again, neither do I. For me, I deal with it by hinting, coaxing or just flat out taking. He’d been toying with trying to seduce me, little misbehaviours and touches for the last day or so. I’d noticed, but I’d been careful about the bait- he’s been under the weather and I’ve started to second guess myself, not sure if he’s doing this courting because he’s ready or because he feels like he should be ready because he cares about me. (Holy first world problems, Batman!)
At times like this, my body is at once throbbingly libidinal and jealously guarding that same energy. I certainly wanted sex. I’d spent the morning of that day intermittently wandering out onto the sun warmed back balcony, looking at down at where a pair of young men were pulling apart a brick patio- gloves, t-shirts and well fitted jeans on slender, muscular bodies. They didn’t seem to notice that I noticed them, the handsome one in the grey shirt, kneeling and pulling up red rectangles from the spring damp ground.
I thought about something cliche, taking him for an anonymous fuck that made him feel used, working out the logistics in my head: the condoms, the communication, the nail scratches on his work dirtied skin. Then I put these thoughts out of my head because something, beyond the challenge of the chase, is off. I don’t typically tell Wildcard about these momentary distractions because I don’t know how to convey that when given a sexual choice that doesn’t mean either/or but also, I still want him more. The presence of attractive men makes me grumpy that they are not him, and I don’t like admitting that. Given free reign to fuck any man I want, I find myself recoiling, not even mustering up the enthusiasm to flirt. Even weirdly resentful.
But that night, after a morning of fuzzy headed domestic productivity and little in the way of writing, I’ve put those thoughts away. I feel, and dismiss, the sort of pressure that suggests a migraine is looming, a throb in my sinuses and behind my right eye. I’ve been moody again, slow moving and prone to looks of introspective sadness that leave him asking: “What’s wrong? is there anything I can do?”
He feels responsible when I look that way, like he has to find out how to take me out of my head and back into the moment. It’s the sort of relationship thing you discover is important when you’re an adult. But my mood is my mood, and I don’t want to deal with that, for the moment, and so I find the wound up cloak of my aggressiveness, the thing that blankets comfortably around me when I dominate. Casually, I select a candle from where it’s resting in the clutter on his bureau and tell him to take off his shirt. White paraffin lit with a red lighter is then tipped over his bare back.
The little drops cast a shadow before they land, making it easy to guess where you’ll see a splat materialize. I test them on the back of my hand, and pepper him with wax drops. I know he likes the sharp, quick and hot pain on his skin. It’s a cheap trick, but all fetishes are cheap tricks and easy shots, the sex version of knowing where someone hides their spare key so you can rifle through their home unmolested.
His back is like leather, for whatever reason, probably just one of those genetic quirks. When we were first discovering each other’s bodies I wanted to hurt him, to see if he could deal with my level of sadism, and sunk my sharp nails next to his spine. He gave a deep sigh and relaxed, his taut shoulders loosening. For Wildcard, that was just the right amount of pressure to deal with his constant knotted state.
Watching the wax fall, it lands clear and hardens in white, fuzzy edged blots. He shifts a little, and I know he’s enjoying it. This is light BDSM, nothing terrible or complicated, no fearsome scourges or complicated rigging. He’s not even tied down at this point, although his arms are held up and well out of the way, but his head’s going to the right place. It is, as it should be.
When he drops, it’s always very subtle and achingly vulnerable. He lets the tightness of his body’s assembled parts relax and folds down, head dipping and nuzzling against me. His large eyes will half lid- decadent, his guard down. I flick and peel most of the wax off his back and make him stand to brush the rest off, and I can feel the lightest pressure of the connection I’ve just built.
If you were into woo, or magic or tantra, there would be some poetic insertion here about energy, or sacredness, or waking the goddess in me. I’m an atheist and left stumbling around with half remembered undergrad psychology lectures and the sort of inaccurate drug metaphors that hint the closest I’ve been to getting high is wrinkling my nose at someone else’s pot smoke.
Nonetheless, I feel in control, and push him back onto the bed, climbing on top, my eyes meeting his as my hands find and capture his wrists to pin him. He doesn’t like meeting my gaze when I get like this, as much as he likes the dominant part of me- it’s like looking directly into a light.
I tease him that I’ve never really hurt him, and he tells me that just my eyes are scary. He knows I can be mean, but I never force him past what he can handle, and yet the way my eyes look are a reminder that this rigidity is always there.
Wildcard’s a switch- he knows what it’s like from the other side. He’s made those eyes at me and dealt with the fact that I don’t look away and I don’t inherently find I want to, not with anyone. We navigate it as a power game. I know from experience with him that one session like this will discharge his submission and he’ll flip the other way, joking about spanking me and possibly doing his best to make that happen. I look forward to the play scraps in the future, but tonight, wriggling up against him, I can feel the hints that he’s aroused by what we’re doing and still hoping for the reward he hinted for before we started.
I tease him, threatening to not carry it out, tasting the power to say no, but I enjoy it, tying my soft red scarf over his eyes and buckling him into dark leather cuffs and clipping those above his head so his cock is mine to tease. We use slippery, cool lube from the pharmacy, Life brand “Intimate Fluid”, less viscous than ordinary KY, trickling it into my palm and in a wet glaze over his penis, pink and shiny like he’s just pulled out of my cunt or he’s breaking a world record for volume in pre-cum. I use my hand first, before I find the toy. I watch him wriggle and tell him I miss seeing his vulnerable eyes, now hidden away under the scarf and he tries to assure me I can still see his mouth.
The strong pulse of the wand works best squashed flat against the middle of his penis, my other hand curved to cup around, so I can feel the tremors and better jerk him up and down. When he comes he utters three sounds, starting with “Oh…” the two other words too garbled to make out.
When we started doing this he used to utter “Oh fuck!” just as semen started to fountain. Like he was holding a particularly awkward and fragile object that just slipped his grip, or he was startled to suddenly be aware he’d came under these circumstances, his whole body jerking forwards. I don’t know if he’s consciously decided to change what he says, but it’s the selfsame ejection of warm cum, three strings spurting, onto his furred stomach and my fingers.
I let him relax, and sort out the business of the cuffs that are holding his wrists. Kleenex blots away the evidence except for a little residue, and I wash my now slimy hands as lube and cum cool and curdle. The icky part of sex- but not a bad part. Sex is not supposed to be sterile or dignified.
He wants to be a good lover, so he does his best to try to make me come, touching and stroking my body, bringing his mouth and tongue to my nipples. He knows how to do this, but I never got rid of the migraine. Instead we talk a bit, and then my headache spikes and it’s his turn to dig into my back, massaging until the stab behind the eyes fades.
Tomorrow, he’ll help make me come, selfless about his own pleasure as the wave pattern of my own orgasm builds and my mind still carrying the lingering traces of the things I did the night before, but right now he gives me what I need in the moment and exactly what I want. The pain in my head fades and in the dimmed lights, bouyed by the warmth and the weight of the blankets, I sleep with him, in his bed, nested like lego bricks.
BDSM can be a lot of things for people: structure, an escape, release or catharsis, a way to be someone or something different. For me, it’s intimacy.
So, the thing about being a non-pro female dominant, especially one that’s vaguely conventionally attractive or has something approaching a civil personality, is that you are, in effect, a lot of people’s unicorn.
The problem with being a unicorn, is that it often ends up being an unlikely stand in for an actual fully fleshed out human being. For example, if you’re a femdom, some guys go their whole lives dreaming of someone just like you, while trying to convince other kinds of horse to wear a horn for them. Many of them have come to terms with the fact that they’ll probably never meet a ‘real’ femdom, and may even be convinced that the only way they’ll ever touch one is if they pay vast amounts of money to rent time with, or share her. You’re elusive, mysterious and probably, in their minds, just about mythical. They may even have their own personal beliefs that only someone who is true and pure of heart in some way can attract you, or draw your true form, where it was trapped in the body of a normal women, or come up with curious theories about your motivations and powers.
So, it’s not unusual for sub and switch identifying guys to flip their lids on meeting me. Heck, a lot of these guys, still unable to imagine having me via the limits of geography or age, seem to be brightened just knowing people like me are out there. They’ve caught a glimpse of magic, and that’s enough to help them believe. You’d think it would be endlessly great for the ego. I’m special, right?
But the flip side about that is that you meet a lot of people with big expectations for what it’s going to be like and no ability to deal with the real you. These guys basically have put so much time imagining what unicorns are like, and what they enjoy, and how to make them happy, that when one comes clopping into their reality, said unicorn can find herself simultaneously fawned on… and rejected.
It’s lonely.
You see, with no actual experience with unicorns, theses guys have done a lot of thinking and planning about what it might be like. With all those poor other horses that just couldn’t measure up, any problem that appeared was blamed on the lack of a real horn. Meanwhile their expectations for what unicorns are like has been entirely fed by art, and stories, and poems, and people who do a great job wearing the horn for love or money and know all sorts of pretty tricks. Unicorns are imagined as trip-trapping about on rainbows, milk white and glowing like the moon, magnificent, fierce and deadly. Your average random unicorn chaser is not quite ready to deal with the fact that his unicorn might in fact be a piebald hack with a pointy bit.
And if you are a femdom, that horn just grew there and it’s not like you were trying to be the Twilight Sparkle of sex on purpose. It’s not particularly magical for you- often it’s been a major draw back in relationships where the guy wanted a delicate foal to tame with tenderness or some mane tossing pony or massive and sturdy plough beast. But try as you might, that horn was always poking in ways that couldn’t be ignored- that thirst for submission demands that even a genuinely awesome vanilla boyfriend couldn’t quench it. Quite likely, you’ve tried all sorts of things, from wrapping it in a pillow to filing it down so you could be just a normal kind of horse.
But the unicorn chasers aren’t actually natural unicorn riders- the thing that you are looking for is just as much a unicorn for you. So it’s very easy to find yourself a chaser who gets desperately enamored on the spot and… fizzling out as soon as they actually realize that horns are kinda sharp and ouchy. Or who is so into the fantasy ideas that surrounded their idea of what a unicorn is, that they start dressing you up in a desperate attempt to make you fit- a little glitter here, a little hyperbolic behavioral attributions about your “piercing dominant gaze” there- and you’re left with the guy still asking you to wear a fake horn over your real one.
You also get very familiar with people who have thought long and hard about how they are going to deal with the horn, but have put no thought into the rest of the animal- for example shyly explaining that they’ll try any of the fetishes they think you have, but they can’t promise they’ll like them. They’re just stuff that they heard comes attached along with the horn- yeah, they’ll *try* strapon sex because that’s how every femdom gets her kicks and how else will they end up in women’s panties? They *suppose* they like the idea of being beaten or forced bi- it’s always been hot to masturbate to, so, yaye? You get a lot of people who think that just having a unicorn shaped hole in their life will cause you to embed, like it was a you specific vacuum.
Or they get super into it and then burn out, because they are trying to be the perfect sub… and then poof, the day in, day out aspect of living with a unicorn means that they realize that anything magical was very common place. And being a femdom, in real life, is just like being a regular kind of horse, only stabby. And sometimes you end up feeling that a lot of people would rather want a femdom unicorn they can’t have and imagine the stabbings, than deal with the inevitable hooves, tail and impalement every day.
I want him to want me. It’s a powerful ache, indistinguishable from the sort of desire people would think of as “horny”, a straight trip into wet and throbbing, with a scenic view of my ego, made on a road paved with my vulnerabilities.
Usually, it’s easy to make myself happy without another person- anyone with a decent supply of pornography or at least an active imagination and the capacity to orgasm can take the basic pressure off. Desire for desire and power games are why I bother with other people, rather than just fucking myself. Well, that and falling in love, but the body urge that sustains it takes its power out of the first two things.
So I seek and touch and look for cues that my effect is working. I adore grinding up against a man, him feeling the unmistakable roundness of my ass with all those stimulating places on me pressed to his groin, letting the muscles of my thighs work, up-down, pushing against him until I can feel that familiar lurch as his weight starts to shift onto you as he weakens with lust, and the way he reacts when you pull away.
I often dress to please myself by pleasing the eye of person I want to tease. I got lucky with bodies, or at least I think I am blessed, breasts and hips that do as they are bid and few overwhelming hangups- enough of a little of everything like tools in a kit: sharp collar bones, pale nipples, nipped waist, cream soft thick thigh and thin wrist and ankle, enough that’s average and exaggerated to let me play with both. But I like my body best when it is being a lure. I like to feel like I’m hunting and baiting and my skin feels shivery and fitted best to me when I pull his gaze.
Like all things to do with sex with me, it’s unnecessarily complicated and personal. Wildcard reacts best if I initiate sex, but is very coy and careful- tug or pull the wrong way and something tears or breaks and the immaculately self contained facade melts into water, rushing out or becoming un-graspable as he slips away completely into himself. I did not pick a partner who came prepared to surrender, but one who has to be lured there.
He speaks in subtle things, but seldom seems to notice little touches, or prefers to pretend he doesn’t feel the hints in our brushing legs or my fingers on his arm. I can kiss him and still feel a distance. At times, to push past this, I am blatant, outright forcing him to look. Last week, feeling impish, I set him to the task of preparing dinner and then joined him, stripping off my clothes, layer by layer until I was naked except for a line of black jewels down my sternum. It was my pleasure to touch him how I wanted but deny him, and delight in his aggravation when I added high satin pumps to parade my nude self past him, hearing him groan. “Oh come on!” before he followed me around trying to get my denying self to give him some release.
Often, he ends up on his back, my hand circled around his cock. He takes the gentlest stroking, like some sort of fragile creature. It reminds me of holding a snake, the way that it is at once clearly rigid, and alive and able to give and shift and respond to your warmth, but the skin is so velvety, the softest thing I’ve ever touched. I make him beg to cum, sometimes pressing him between my breasts, or adding a palmful of wet and slippery lube or licking and sucking him until I’ve made him wet with me.
And he just can’t resist. And for me, that desperation is downright addictive.
So, me, the blogging exhibitionist, developed a sense of physical modesty to enhance my sex life. As an experiment, it not only proved completely possible, but I’m finding I’m enjoying the results.
This may seem like the exact opposite of a positive step for someone who values sexual frankness and freedom- after all, “modesty” tends to be the baliwick of people who are doing it out of religious subcultural affiliation and it tends to have a bunch of unfortunate stereotypes on board about body shame. But modesty is also about control, either artificially imposed on someone or imposed on the self. and when you fetishize power it’s too tempting a toy to pass up.
Besides, there is a certain tension inherent the commonly covered body that makes you keenly aware of bared skin. It sensitizes you to touch, to the the slide of fabric up your thighs and off your shoulders. Whether the brush of air or fingers, it’s part of the sensory buffet that’s part of sex. I do not suggest it for everyone- for some people always being brazen is better.
But, Wildcard and I have one of those complicated dynamics that are inherent in the fact that he’s a switch and I’m a dominant sadomasochist. Asides from adorably awkward attempts to navigate each other’s comfort zones, since he’s the kind of switch that doesn’t prefer to be in one mode in exception to the other, and I balk and get prickly when my sadomasochism moves into more than a temporary defeat, we both seem to keep things in a comfort zone where we both need to feel we effect the other and a lot of the erotic charge comes from the resulting sexual tension.
One of the things Wildcard brought to the relationship is a particular fondness for forced nudity, an exhibitionist thing based on control of gaze. He’s very equal opportunity about this, just as happy to strip or be stripped. It’s nice to get to play with a set of fantasies that I enjoy but are not my main set and he makes them exciting by how they are shared with me.
Yet for me, it provides an extra challenge. A lot of kink related to power has the paradox of wanting something you don’t want (or wanting the person not to want what you are giving them). I am the aforementioned brazen by default- body shame isn’t part of my general makeup. It is not in my nature to be easy to get at, and yet I also enjoy getting attention, especially the kind that makes me feel in control. A reasonably portion of my sexuality thrives from baiting an aggressive and more predatory streak in my partner and watching how that plays out. With Wildcard, nothing faked was going to cut it and he already knew I was happy to lounge around naked.
Nothing by real coyness would do, and for that I first had to break the assumption on his part that he could take my nudity for granted. I put on clothing on a regular basis, for the first time since I moved out from my family, adopting a regular winter habit of comfy PJs. When I changed for bed, I did it in another room or ordered him to look away, while I changed. It wasn’t about what was wrong with my body, it was about how it was mine. It didn’t take long before I caught him disobeying, and my very real reaction to that proved I was taking it seriously, so of course he began to take it seriously. I like feeling like I can frustrate him, and like I have a means of denial, but also that I can tease and the risk that sometimes that can be exploited.
As a side effect of making sure I was covered, it meant more mindfulness about the subject and more attention about what and when I was on view. Of course Wildcard knew I was doing this all along and why. The results, since I started the experiment, have been very entertaining. Now I want to see what would happen if I put him through the same project.
Wildcard saw me typing away on a blog post comment the other day, (this one actually), and when I turned and smiled to reach up and touch him from my nest on the couch, he leaned over and mimed typing with two fingers to add random content to my post.
“No! Bad!” I grabbed him by the robe, near the lapel and at the waist below the belt, and tugged him down over my lap, landing then playful spanks through the terrycloth fabric. He looked amused, but compliantly flopped.
“Have you learned your lesson?”
“Yes. I will never write anything ever again,” he announced solemnly, as he rose back up.
I hesitated long enough to give him a look, pulled him back down and flipped his robe up, landing the next series of blows on the thin plaid fabric of his pyjama pants, “No! That’s not it at all!”
After a time I paused my spanking again. “There. Have you learned now?”
“Hunt and peck typing is bad?” He opened his eyes wide and innocent, making a stabbing gesture with his index fingers.
I made a grumbly noise in my throat and hooked my fingers into the band of his pants, pulling them down to expose his ass. My strikes went from pats to swats, and he buried his face in the couch. He’s never a very demonstrative victim- you can never really know for sure if he’s having fun, but if you watch him closely, you can see the way his shoulders move and how he relaxes into it. It’s the same coziness of a hug.
Each time I got a silly answer I intensified the strength of the blows until he conceded that editing my posts was not a positive quality, a surrender made mostly because he’d run out of funny comebacks.
It was one of those happy little moments, like a few days before, when I’d leashed his brown leather collar to the bed with the help of a rope and metal clip, and then bound his wrists with bondage tape so I could tease him.
I made him fuck the rippled, massaging inside of a Tenga Egg, half using it to stroke the length of his shaft, half making him thrust into the slippery channel I’d made with my hand and the toy. He had to beg to come, stretching it out until the orgasm was so intense he got a cramp in his foot, and I’d made him promise a forfeit: I got to take naked pictures of him..
This weekend, I made good on my threat, dragging him, nude except for the brown leather collar around his throat and made him pose, threatening him with all the places I was going to put his pictures while he stroked his cock. It was massively erect near the end, leaking a few drops of shiny precum- and he was absolutely gorgeous in the pictures.
Sexual desire makes sort of vulnerability, especially when you can make the person pose any way that you like and he knows it. It’s all pouting lips and wide but shadowed eyes. I have a favourite picture in my collection of him, his hand on his cock, and my hand on his neck, shot to show his body and a glorious expression of helpless desire.
The last couple of weeks have been rough as far as health problems that have seen Wildcard and I both hitting clinics within short days of each other. While neither one of us is dying, we both aren’t helped by the summer humidity either.
I want to see your eyes wide and glassy, vulnerable, your mouth in a pout and myself loom above you. I want to feel that you feel helpless, and that however I twist and pull you, you will follow.
“If you wanted to torment me, blindfold me and tie me to the bed and force me to have an orgasm with the (Hitachi Knockoff) vibrator, I wouldn’t mind,” the request is made as coyly and casually as he can manage, couched in terms that let him pretend he’s not asking for a very specific scenario.
