She is tied to the bed. Arms over her head; legs pushed up and back, naked. She's almost folded in half.

No, not 'she.' 'It.' He is calling her 'it.' Or 'this.'

Her eyelids flicker open and shut, eyelashes brushing against the blindfold. Tongue curling against the bit between her teeth.

Her senses tell her: darkness. Breath. Hands brushing leisurely over her thighs. A deep voice chuckling. Her cunt beginning to drip... drip... drip...

His hands are hard and rough; feeling, squeezing and touching as if she were literally a piece of meat; simply nothing; an object whose quality he is currently evaluating.

All of a sudden she feels his thumb rub over her folds, her clit. She squeals. Her heart thumps. The man ignores her. Pushes one, then two, fingers brusquely into her, fucking her casually for a couple of seconds. She hears: schlick-schlick sounds.

The man says: Hey, you should come try this pussy. Feels amazing.

She gulps - the saliva pooling at the back of her throat and rolling down it.

Another voice answers, clearer and higher than his, but undoubtedly male. Younger, perhaps. And more nervous.

Her body is shaking. Who is this person? The man's hands leave her, to be replaced by the newcomer's. Longer fingers, more slender. He explores her uncertainly. Sighs.

The man says: Go on, don't be shy.

The second man says: Mmm.

Zipper-sound, and a warm cock-head rubbing against her. She moans behind the gag; half afraid, half dizzy with desire.

He enters her swiftly, cock long like his fingers, places his hands just below the creases of her knees, and crudely ploughs her - no consideration, no pretense, just pure lust.

The man is watching her face, she can tell. While the other man pushes against her legs more urgently and his breathing becomes heavier, the man puts his hand under her chin, tilts her face up, turns it this way and that. She bites down hard on the bit; closer... closer... She imagines the man's eyes riveted on her as her face contorts and her body spasms in pleasure.

The other man thrusts hard twice more and freezes, and the heavy, sour smell of his come hits the air.

The other man says: V-very... very good. It feels very good indeed.

They both leave her then. Muffled conversation. He leaves her there for what feels like forever. The semen drools from her entrance. She starts twisting uselessly against the rope.

Finally the man comes back. Says nothing, just starts untying her quickly and efficiently. Then the bit is gone. Then the blindfold is off. And they both look at each other, smiling madly, and then she laughs and he wraps her naked form in his arms and kisses her.

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[via sexisnottheenemy]

Lesson #2: The Optimist

"Well, what are you doing?" you smirk as he insinuates his hand underneath your skirt and pushes hard in between your cheeks.

"This isn't going to work if you top me topping you."

"Right. OK. Sorry. I'll stop."

Blindfold. On your hands and knees. Skirt lifted up. Spank.

"Is this what you want?"

Gulp. "Yes."

"Yes what?"

Cringe. "Yes, sir."

"What exactly is it that you want?"

You can't bring yourself to speak. More spanks.

"...I want to be... dominated by you. Sir."

"I don't think I'm convinced."

You have to say it again? You can't tell whether you feel like growling, hiccuping, cursing, or bursting into giggles.

"I want to be dominated by you, sir." Big grin.

Blindfold off. You're back upright, sitting with your legs folded. He takes your face in his hands. The tough guy act is all gone now.

"Do you really want to do this?"

Pause. "Every time," you respond, "I have to call you 'sir,' I hate myself just a little bit."

"Really?!" He's very sweet about it. Talks about it with you. During the next comfortable silence, you unsnap the collar from around your neck.

"I think this will look better on you," you smile, putting it on him. The black leather does contrast wonderfully with his pale skin.

"...I think I know what I feel like now."

Don't try and make yourself do something when you don't want to do it. Take charge when needed. Above all, do not be afraid, because you've nothing to be afraid of.

"What?"

"Topping you."

"Oh. Good! Because I'm actually more in a bottomy mood."

Giggle. Hug - arms around his shoulders, pulling him to you. "You should have said something... but then that's the trouble with bottoms, you never ask for anything..."

You retrieve the blindfold and place it on him, your fingers clumsily navigating the elastic.

"Lay face down on the bed."

He does. He looks so pretty. Push his plain white T-shirt up, scratch down his back. Admire the pretty pink welts that start to prickle on his skin.

Pants off. Caress his ass, slowly. Indulgently. Spank. No warnings.

The silence folds over you uncomfortably, so you ask him questions. Voice low, almost meditative. You feel yourself slipping into... what? A role? A state of mind? You're not sure. But you ask him questions. You laugh. The only command you issue to him is "say 'yes', not 'mmmhmm.'"

Hands and knees, now. That's better, it's easier to swing your hand this way. Hard spanks, switching from one cheek to the other, flattening your palm. Alternating between smacking him and reaching down, fondling his cock and balls. Pressing your finger against his covered asshole, stroking, listening to him gasp, watching his body tremble.

"Has anyone ever sat on your face before?"

"No..."

"Would you like to try it?"

"Yes."

Pull off your underwear and keep on the lime-green miniskirt. Straddle his face and push your clit into his mouth, and he starts licking, oh yes, good boy. Steady yourself against the wall with one hand.

"C-can I please touch myself?"

"Yes." Too lenient? Maybe.

You rock gently in and out of his mouth as he licks and sucks you tirelessly, oh god, it's been too long, it is so good.

Mmm. Lift yourself wordlessly off him and he stops touching himself. Didn't come. Good. That he shouldn't come before you let him should be an unspoken rule, of course.

Catch your breath. Boxers off, now.

You rub lube onto your hands and start jerking and rubbing his cock. It is honestly quite beautiful: long and dark pink. Abandon it. Spread his legs apart and rub his hole, one finger, two, start fingerfucking him.

"Can I touch myself?"

"No."

Slide the little buttplug in. And then start jerking him off in earnest.

"I'm going to... I can't hold back..."

"Well, don't," you say, and he comes all over his belly.

Smile. Wipe your hands off as he lays there, all angular hips and skinny abdomen with the come all over it, T-shirt pushed up, black collar & blindfold still on, still half-hard. Pretty as a picture.

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Btw, a big thank you to Champagne and Benzedrine for putting my last HNT on his sexiest posts list

[via bendoverboyfriend]

Lesson #1: The Actor

For once, height difference does matter.

His long legs are draped loosely over your shoulders as you try and push into him, but you can't get enough leverage. If you could just actually raise yourself up a little... but then you'd be on your feet, and how uncomfortable would that be? Still, the impulse to get on your feet and fuck him with your whole body is almost instinctive.

(More than anything else, you wish you could feel; not just because it would make everything so much hotter, but because you want to be able to tell what the hell is going on down there.)

You're pushing forward but you don't feel like you're moving at all; and still he asks you to move "slower, slower."

Finally you feel the head pop in - a sudden release of pressure - and then:

"Wait. Hold still," he says -

"OK. Go."

"More lube."

"You can move faster now."

"More lube."

- and after you've managed to hit a brisk rhythm, you have to keep pulling out to lube yourself back up, and the same dance starts all over again.

Soon you learn to make up for the lack of nerve endings in your silicone prick by using your thumb & fingers: holding your cock in your hand, feeling the place where his entrance is with your thumb, and then guiding yourself forward.

(The smooth act of penetrating someone else - the gasps and swiftly shifting facial expressions - is almost addictive.)

After you're done, you look at the splotches of lube on your harness and make a mental note to look up how to properly take care of leather.

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[Photo via Mistress Sade]

Last night, I came across a couple of very sexy pictures.

They were black and white pictures of a beautiful naked man in bondage. Leather straps around the chest and legs, collar, cuffs, cock & ball harness, the works. What I found interesting was that the pictures colored me equal parts randy and tranquil. I felt restless, too - like I really, really wanted something to do with that but didn't know exactly what. Looking at his long limbs restrained so neatly and beautifully produced this sense of calmness and comfort; similar to that one time I was bound with rope. I tried to articulate what, exactly, I felt at the time to S, and couldn't. But now I've finally put my finger on it.

It's the same kind of Zen feeling I get when I'm cleaning, but under no time pressure. Like folding clothes, organizing my desk, straightening the row of shoes in my closet. Wanting to go up to Christopher and fix the collar and cuffs on his shirt. Or to actually dress him, from head to toe. And for a couple of weeks, I did this thing when I was really stressed or anxious, and I'd take napkins and systematically tearing them up into thin, uniform strips. Sometimes I can do really mundane work, like filing, and thoroughly zone out and feel very very calm.

A ritualistic compulsion.

I can see myself acting the same way with dominance.

Slowly drizzling colorful lines of hot wax over someone's smooth, dipped back. Tying someone's arms behind their back and admiring how they look in the pretty ropework. Shaving them, even...

Considering how neurotic I can be, it sort of makes sense that I would tend towards dominance. Hard limits aside, if the person is fully submitting to me? Dominance, within reason, is all about me, about what I am doing to them.

In many ways, it's all about creating some semblance and order in an otherwise chaotic and unpredictable world.

---

What you will notice is that I keep using the word "someone." Up until now, I still haven't found someone who I can explore things with; who is consistently there.

I've had many conversations about how S/M is more about the people involved than whatever play you might be engaging in. And I fully believe that. I mean, that's why I haven't played with every Tom, Chris or Susan who has come my way. At the same time, whenever I meet someone into S/M who I click well with, my thoughts, immediately, are: "Great! Maybe now I can do all this stuff." When you've been waiting and wanting very much to try certain acts, it's pretty hard not to do that. I want to stop myself from doing that, though, because it produces a certain kind of blindness that I'd prefer to avoid.

The other reason I'm so focused on S/M "actions" is... well, I don't know how to do all that much yet. I guess part of it is my being a geek and wanting to know as much of the technicalities as possible. And part of it is building some kind of "street cred." I've met submissives who have wanted to play with me who were so experienced that I ended up being intimidated. "You mean, you've been suspended, put in a sleepsack, and pierced before? No way am I going to be able to do that for you..."

I'll be honest, when I dom someone, I want to spoil (and torture) them to no end. I want to dom them as well as I possibly could, and how can I do that if I don't know what the hell I'm doing?

In many ways, I see S/M as an art form - taking sensations, learning them, and manipulating them, with the end result being the wresting of a beautiful landscape of emotions from the other person.

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Click for the full comic page. (via xkcd.com) Kinda grandiose for this, but you get my point.

It looks like the convergence of my sexblogger life and my "real" life is becoming more and more imminent.

When I first started writing, anonymity was a great relief. I embraced it. It was my comfort; my security blanket. Finally, I could say all the naughty, risqué things I wanted to say, and my neurotic mind could rest easy. No one I knew would know these things about me, just like I wanted. No consequences. I was neurotic about my anonymity. I wanted to preserve it at whatever cost. I never show my face in my HNTs, and I take special care to censor the more specific information that might aid someone in connecting the dots and figuring out who I am.

But pure anonymity didn't last long, unsurprisingly. I started posting HNTs, telling my close friends about me (and, in some cases, being discovered) and meeting other sexbloggers in real life.

I might have eased up a bit, but until now my ass-coverage still goes so far that ,when people ask me about who I'm staying with this summer, I give them an extremely intricate and practiced lie as an answer. (Oh, I was in City X at this obscure new media convention and I met them there and we kept in touch... and then when I told them I got an internship in City Y, they offered to let me stay with them!)

And, lately, my anonymity is becoming more and more like a cage.

The topics that I discuss here are important to me. That much should be evident, right? Whenever I get the chance to engage with one of my readers, or answer questions about strap-on sex or toys or being a trans-chaser or whatever, I'm really happy to do it.

To some, blogging may be an activity they do only in their spare time, or as a passing fancy. I want to take this blog and go further. I constantly wish I had more time to blog; to write.

Some of the things I want to do? I want to get a piece of erotica published in an anthology or 'zine; I want to stand up and read my work at an erotic reading series; I want to meet more sexbloggers IRL; I want to attend conferences; I want to take erotic photos; I want to model for erotic photographers; I want to get more involved in queer advocacy; I want to be a dominatrix (OK, I'm much less certain about that one, but it's definitely piqued my curiosity).

Many of those things require people... um... seeing my face.

Whenever I think of "coming out" as a sexblogger (nothing so extreme as putting my real name on my website, but simply ceasing to hide what I do) my next immediate thought is - there are so many reasons why I shouldn't.

You know what I'm talking about, right? There are the obvious reasons - I don't want my blogging to tarnish my name or prevent me from getting a job. I hope to be in the type of job where it won't matter that I'm a sexblogger, but who knows what will happen? This is the biggest reason why most sexbloggers hide their RL identity, I think. (Unless you're in the adult industry.) I mean, look at Lena Chen.* You have to be a particular kind of strong, out-there person to be able to deal with that. And does anyone remember On Top of the Sheets with the Lights on and Your Mom Watching? I loved that blog. It was one of the first ones I found when I started thinking about sexblogging that was written by a college student. Last I heard, she deleted so potential employers wouldn't find it. Hell, I was impressed that she blogged for so long under her real name in the first place.

Then there are the more convoluted reasons. Many of the people I write about know each other. Would my writing change the way they interact with each other? Would it change the way they interact with me? Would I even want them to know some of the things I feel about them? And what about Christopher, whose sexual intimacy with me has to remain a well-kept secret? Would I just have to take all the posts about him down? What if word got around and people started knowing this about me before even meeting me? Would I be comfortable with being known as "that girl who writes about sex?"

Heaven knows I've tried to come up with loopholes. I could be "out" but remove all the deeply personal posts and the HNTs - but that kind of self-censorship was the very thing I wanted to avoid.

When it comes right down to it, loopholes are just compromises. And with this convergence thing, I can't compromise. It'll have to be all or nothing. I guess only time will tell which it will be.

* Yes, I did unashamedly steal her tagline ("The Bleeding Heart Nympho's Guide to Harvard Life") for my blog's name. Maybe I should credit her or something...

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*

I'm sure some of my friends think I'm a sex addict.

In fact, I know some of them do. But a basic flaw in that statement is that sex, to me, is just a normal part of life. Sure, there's good sex, bad sex, mediocre sex, outrageous sex, boring sex, awkward sex, melancholy sex. Sometimes I want it, and sometimes I don't...

Ultimately, to me, sex is as normal as getting dressed, brushing my teeth, taking a sip of wine, having a good conversation, or taking a deep breath.

Saying I'm addicted to sex is like saying I'm addicted to... air.

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