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Catamite Pt.1

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He was not some loathsome rapist, a thug who’d killed for the sake of money or an addled addict thieving for a fix. Neither was he insane or slow witted. She made sure of that. He was her social equal, at least by background, and his crimes were political and symbolic.

Of course they’d tortured him, so he arrived with a bruised body, cuts and punctures on his bare limbs and torso. He had a slice under one eye, and the men who’d made it told her he’d flinched when they were threatening to kill him, but otherwise kept his cool.

Now he was kneeling on the tile, just as still as when they’d worked him over in the basement of the jail. His only motion was to twist his hooded head, listening for what he could not see. Just shy of six feet, with a body earned from living well, but not the ridiculously sculpted physique of a gym junkie. His hands were chained together in front of him, mitts locked over his fingers to keep him clumsy.

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Vampire Rape Porn: Huntress Takes

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Vampire rape porn now with classic art wheeeeeIf you came here looking for “vampire rape porn” or some permutation, the most common search to my blog leave a comment for what you were actually looking for (raping vampires or being raped by vampires or..?) and I’ll try to toss a link to it.

Maybe this is more what you were looking for?

Lithe masculinity with its elbows on the bar, all casual and sizing up the room with a comfortable potency. They tell you women aren’t very visual but sometimes you see the shape of the back and the jaw line, the squaring in the hands or the right V shaped torso and the full weight of your heterosexuality hits you, right in the eyes and the space behind them and makes you jerk your head back and shove your tits out. You draw in a breath and you know that moment that you’re a mammal, sure as any mouse responding to the bold ear wiggles of a male mouse or a dog howling in heat behind a garden fence.

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How to Meet and Get Along With Dominant Women

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Start up any kink forum, and the same standard questions come up, time and time again: “How the hell do I get a Mistress/Domme/Dom/Dominatrix?!” Sister to this plaintive cry is the equally desperate call of the dominant women “How the hell do I make these guys figure out how to approach me properly?!”

This is the awkward part: trying to give advice. As observed by Beej, there’s a lot of hand holding Mumsy advice, often downright basic things about regular baths and wearing some pants on the first date; a hell of a lot of idealistic twiddlings on the true beauty of kinky sex and the difficulty in doing it; there’s a whole suitcase full of books about starting out kinky in any particular orientation you want, many of which have been around since before absolutely everyone had the internet; and of course there’s an active scene in most communities of a certain size, where at least one person fancies themselves to be a mentor.

This is not even getting into the websites people have put together giving various shades of advice, from pornographic fantasy like the abysmal Elise Sutton to fussy little tripod and archived Geocities pages that were labours of love of some well meaning person about a decade ago, and still bear their black backgrounds and white or coloured text, (because anything about kink has to look like something I thought was cool when I was a 15 year old goth) and “under construction” GIFs. But your question is probably- Where are the fem doms at and how do I approach one without getting devoured like a male praying mantis or shunned like I was president NAMBLA?

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Flashflood

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A short piece, originally published on fetlife.

He’s wearing the button down shirt you like, ironed flat and neat because you have a thing for that. Once upon a time, when you were a little girl, Barbie hurled Ken off the edge of the bed and your mother found you stringing them both up by the chewed up feet. Now you hurl him onto the bed, push him back aggressively.

Oh god, oh god. He’s taken your fetish to heart. Clean pressed black slacks are about to get really rumpled and you have him down to socks and boxers faster than peeling a banana. Fuck, you can stroke up an erection through his underwear. You can see the lines in his shoulders when he throws his arms up (hands up! you said to that indulgent 13 year old boy when you were 11, and you had a water pistol on a hot summer’s day). That was a boy, this is a man, with a man’s smell and muscles under the skin and much more potential than shy awkwardness and your first kiss at gunpoint, ten years ago.

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Nailed Hard

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More porn.

She’d taken her time with his bondage, spread eagled with scarves not ropes on the four poster bed. Pashminas, available in every colour of the rainbow, made soft thick holds around his wrists and ankles. Blindfold, ball gag (he could spit it out if he really worked at it), safeword more for her comfort than his and indicated by a raised little finger.

Flesh, and the abuse thereof came with its own clichés. His torso was not an unmarked canvas waiting for the touch of an artist or a pristine landscape without footprints, it was hairy and warm, every pore on his skin releasing that delicious pheromone she had to call musk because there wasn’t a word for the cloying, back of the nose taste that came with sex.

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