• Eiffel-towering a guy with another guy. Specifically: me and L co-topping another guy. Most likely I’d be pegging him while he’d be blowing L.
• Being fucked by somebody else while on the phone with L, describing what’s going on & letting him listen in. This is all thanks to a Watchmen fanfic I read where Dan fucks Laurie while she’s on the phone with Rorschach.
• Fisting someone. Thanks to the Watchmen kinkmeme, yet again.
• Footfucking someone. After a conversation with M where I was talking about how much I wanted to feel what it is like to penetrate someone with a penis. I posited that maybe footfucking would be the closest I could get since I have very sensitive feet. Probably not true, but the idea continues to pique my interest.
• Shoe/boot worship. C’mon, we all know I already have an excessive love of shoes as it is.
• Bathing & dressing someone else. 
• Helping a guy cross-dress, e.g. putting makeup on him or brushing/combing his hair.
• Wearing a spandex head-mask while masturbating. Possibly pushing it up above my nose, and then taking it off altogether towards the end. I can’t really picture myself doing this with another person, both because I’d be too self-conscious, and because another person’s involvement isn’t really necessary. I think this idea sprang into my head due to my recent obsession with Deadpool, but I remember wearing a face-mask once and feeling oddly safe and comforted by having a large part of my face covered. And there’s this piquant sense of mystery about someone engaging in a sexual act while having a part of their face covered, or having their face covered, period.
• Getting fucked while dressed up in full dandy guydrag. For quite a while, I’ve been wanting to fuck with my gender presentation a little bit and purchase a tomboy/masculine wardrobe to go alongside my feminine one. Apparently I tend towards dressy masculine clothing just like I tend towards dressy feminine clothing, because I find myself wanting to dress in suits and ties and waistcoasts and pointy-toed loafers. Obviously, soon afterwards I began wondering about what it would be like to get fucked while dressed like this.¹
• Doing vanilla things while I’m tied up. Specifically while in a chest harness, with my arms tied behind my back. I generally like having my upper body tied more than my lower body, probably because I can do more with my hands than with my legs, or because I value being able to manipulate things with my hands more than I value being able to move around from place to place with my legs. I had a little adventure with this at the last play party I went to, where M did some suspension work with me, then left me in the chest harness  for a bit. I managed to turn on one of the bathroom taps and take a drink of water; pick up my wine cup, which was on the floor; scale a set of stairs to the upper floor² where everyone else was socializing; and find someone to help me pour some wine into my cup and put the cup to my lips so I could have a drink. I like being able to see how much I can do on my own without the use of my hands, but I also really like being helped by others. Which brings me to…
• Someone messily feeding me or giving me a drink while I’m tied up. I have this very specific scenario of me in the chest harness, at a play party, and L feeding me a spoonful of a creamy-textured dessert, or giving me a drink of wine/champagne, and “accidentally” smearing some on my cheek or spilling some down my chin. I really dislike messy eating, and I frequently wipe my mouth and hands with my napkin when I eat. But with my hands tied, I’d obviously have to ask L to wipe my face for me. Meanwhile, I would be a little embarrassed at appearing “messy” in front of other people. And then I picture L picking up a napkin, smirking, and then setting the napkin on the table so that I’d have to walk over and awkwardly rub my face against it in order to get clean again.
• Getting fucked/fondled while asleep or getting fucked/fondled awake.

1. Coupled with the mask thing above, I’m a hop, skip and a jump away from wanting to get fucked while dressed like Rorschach. And I… don’t really want to mentally go there right now, because… what the fuck, self.
2. This was a terrible idea, and I advise against doing this. I could have seriously hurt myself if I had fallen over.

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If this blog is “about” anything (besides sexuality, that is), it’s about my vulnerabilities. I’ve written extensively about happy-sex; so now here are some of the more unpleasant reasons why I’ve had sex.

• Because I was in love with the other person. – And I either thought sex would help make them fall in love with me (worst idea ever)¹, or that it would help forge a romantic relationship (sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t) or because the other person didn’t love me back, but I wanted to get as close to them as possible. And if a close friendship + fuck buddies was “as close as I could get”, well…
• Because I wanted to become friends with someone, or because I thought they were interesting and I wanted to get to know them better. – This has actually worked a few times, I’m became friends with a handful of my friends after hooking up with them first. At one point, I was more confident with flirting and with my sexuality than I was with simply approaching someone and trying to strike up a conversation with them. Sex came to me more easily so I… used it as an “icebreaker”.² Not to say that I wasn’t attracted to those people – I was, in a way – but I probably would have preferred keeping things platonic. I don’t think my social skills have really improved all that much, but I am at least making a conscious effort to not shove things into a sexual context just because it’s the easiest thing to do.
• Because I liked that people knew me as “that freaky sexual guru who slept with everyone.” - This was only true at my fraternity. Until that point in my life I had only ever been known as “that creepy, awkward girl who doesn’t talk to anyone” or “that nerdy pushover who will help me with my homework if I annoy her enough.” Being known as “that promiscuous kinkster” was… a nice change of pace. Through osmosis, I sort of subconsciously believed that having a lot of sex is “cool” – at least cooler than being a big ol’ nerd – which I consciously think is just silly, because no type of sexual behavior makes you “better” or “cooler”, it’s simply a matter of preference. Eventually, being known for being promiscuous/sexual was just as irritating as being known for the other two things. All three of them are true – they are parts of who I am – but considered by themselves, they are all incredibly one-dimensional. It’s like people saw me as a parody or a caricature of myself.
• Because I missed one of my other lovers. - This happened a couple of times – the first time, I was fucking person X but thinking about person Y and missed them so much that I burst into tears, and then hurriedly left. Obviously, person X was very worried about me the next day. The second time, I was fucking person X but imagining person Y in their place and felt so guilty about it that I – that’s right – left. Do I even need to explain why this was terribly unfair to everyone involved?
• Because I was lonely. - I think everyone has done this at some point.
• Because I was horny and the other person was “just there.” - See above.
• Because I was attracted to person X, but person X would only have sex with me as a two-for-one deal with person Y. - This only happened to me once, with two guy friends who I was on a foreign trip with. I was horribly attracted to person X, but was not attracted to person Y, like… at all. But they only seemed interested in having sex with me if they could sandwich me. It wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t unpleasant per se, just… strange.
• Because I was feeling insecure and needed a self-esteem boost; I needed to feel “valuable.” - The control; knowing that someone’s attention is riveted on you at least for a few minutes… However, after it’s over I was more or less back to square one, and it didn’t solve the underlying problem that I, well, had low self-esteem. Seeking validation through sex… just… no.
• Because I couldn’t be bothered to say that I wasn’t really all that into it.
• Because I thought that once I started touching the other person’s genitals, I had entered into some sort of binding contract that meant I had to then have oral/penetrative sex with them. - I have no idea why I thought this for so long. I was never even coerced/persuaded by any of my partners, I just… believed it. It seems so ridiculous now. As to how/why I realized that it wasn’t true – I have no idea about that, either. It just hit me one day – while I was making out with someone and knowing that I didn’t want to do anything besides just make out – that wow, I don’t actually have to do anything that I don’t really feel like doing!

1. I say this because you can’t “make” anyone fall in love with you – either they will or they won’t. The most you can do is spend time with them and then let them know you’re interested. The focus isn’t on the sex itself, here, I think trying to make someone fall in love with you in any way is doomed to fail. It’s also kind of disrespectful, to say the least.
2. While typing this I’m aware of how messed up that sounds but… well, it’s the truth.

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I was going to write a post that was more or less the opposite of the above title. A few months ago, me and L had a threesome with another guy (who I’ll call X in this post) at our college. Since our college is on the small side, there aren’t ever many degrees of separation between me and somebody else, and soon enough I saw X’s best friend at a concert. He gave me lots of weird looks. Probably because X had told him about said threesome, and maybe the friend was judging me a little bit. I don’t know.

Typically, I don’t like drawing attention to myself. I prefer to blend in with the crowd. But, at that moment, I realized that while I wouldn’t necessarily go out of my way to announce to people that I’m down with threesomes, if someone asked me about it I’d be completely candid. Because of the small chance that my lack of shame might convince the asker that liking sex and liking group sex was nothing a woman needed to be ashamed of. And because of the small chance that a woman overhearing the conversation might secretly like “risque” sex, as well, and might feel somehow reassured by hearing someone else talking openly about it.

I’m not sure how true that is anymore.

Being in the working world has changed a lot for me. When I’m at work I try to be as appropriate as possible. I never talk about my sex life, about going out and drinking, I don’t swear, etc. Not even when I’m hanging out or having a casual lunch with my coworkers. You never know if people will end up gossiping about you to someone influential, right?

The problem is that it’s becoming increasingly evident to me that work doesn’t just stay at work. It takes over your life. Example: I’ve heard that to be successful in the PR world, you need to network constantly, not just by going to work-related events, but by going out to bars frequented by people related to your work, and, you know, “bumping into them” and getting in that face time. I feel like it’ll end up that I’ll only be completely comfortable being myself and being open about my views with people I trust and who I’m already close with, because when out “socializing” I’m never going to know if something I say will spread to someone who might be in a position to hire/fire me.

This includes “vanilla” blogging, as well. I’ve started a vanilla blog under my real name, where I talk about stuff that interests me. The only things I really keep off of there are anything X-rated and stuff about my personal life. Recently, though, I’ve noticed that I don’t feel comfortable talking about certain things on that blog. My queerness is one of them. I feel like I should be okay with talking about being queer openly, but I don’t think I’m the “right kind” of queer, i.e. I don’t want to settle down and get married to a woman necessarily. I can easily be perceived as the stereotypical “promiscuous bisexual” who is just attracted to and enjoys having sex with lots of different kinds of people. I’m also not comfortable talking about anything that’s related to sexuality or sex-positivity, my anxiety/social anxiety, or anything that’s overly liberal (e.g. how I’m anti-censorship, pro-corporate-social-responsibility, and that I prefer small independent businesses to huge corporations). I recently was speaking to a mentor from my college, who said if she were a recruiter, she wouldn’t hire me because of a picture I had re-posted on said blog. After she told me that, I took the picture down.

I don’t like admitting these things, but honestly, I have too much to lose right now to just live in the way that I think is right. I’m a fresh grad with a liberal arts degree who comes from a lower-middle-class family that doesn’t have any useful business connections. I have enough going against me as it is. I think it’s horribly unfair that I’ll be penalized for being sex-positive/being “promiscuous”/whatever when that has nothing to do with how well I work, but I can’t think of how I’ll be able to change that. I don’t think being completely open and candid no matter what the consequences will do any good.

TL; DR: I want to be the sort of person who is speaks up for what I believe in, but I’m just… too cowardly (pragmatic?) to do it. I really hope that someday I find a way to change this.

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—

You tell me that once you pass a certain threshold of your arousal, you cease to think; you fuck me with abandon, thinking nothing of me and only of your own pleasure.

That’s the way it should be.

I want you to pin me down, grab my hips, spread my legs and sink yourself into me. I want you to hold my shoulders and pull me hard and jarringly back against you. I want to say, “this is your ass, your cunt, so take it, take them.”

Fuck me until you’ve had your fill.

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I return to my spot behind him, lubing up my fingers and pressing one into his ass, then two, using my other hand to squeeze and pinch his hip. He is making the most wonderful, breathy noises, jerking forwards slightly every time my fingers move inside him, searching, feeling the plush press of warm flesh. His entire body quakes. I am kneeling between his spread legs. One of his hands inches towards my left knee, he finds and squeezes the flesh just above the joint, squeezes every time I push in, hard enough to make me gasp. Every pump of my fingers equals one jolt of pain for me. He has told me that being penetrated is intense, so intense that he has to hold my body in his hands, take handfuls of me and crush me as hard as he can.

Eventually I lube up the plug and slide it in. I ask him to turn over, and he maneuvers himself so that he’s on his back. His skin is pale and his lips, nipples and cock are a soft pink. I suck on his cock for a moment before rolling on a condom and unfastening the cuffs so that his hands are free. He doesn’t miss a beat. His hands find my hips as I slide him into me, both of us gasping.

I want to fuck him quickly and erratically, like two teenagers in the back of a car whose orgasms are clumsily reached, and over way too suddenly. I want to move on his cock until I come, but he’s making me go slow, tantalizingly, letting himself be very nearly engulfed before distancing himself again. He is subtle in all the ways that I am crude.

Sometimes, while I’m above him and making him feel, he does things that completely derail me and make me want to go limp. Things like: put his hand on my neck, bite me, push his fingernails into my skin. He does this now: he digs his fingers into my waist, and pulls me down hard on his cock before lifting me up again. I feel my face contorting into this strange combination of wincing, being about to cry, and desperation. It hurts. It hurts and I feel controlled and the two sensations transform into pleasure almost instantaneously. A switch goes off in my head. Just a while ago he was restrained and I was in control, but it takes only one gesture to make me need him to control me, instead.

We switch positions so that I’m on my back. He tells me to spread my legs, and I hold them open for him. He enters me again, fucking me slowly and exquisitely. I want to watch his face, but at the moment I need to keep my eyes closed. The feeling of being possessed and fucked is too much. I need to focus fully on the tactile and let it sink in.

“I want you to imagine,” he says, “that there’s a person standing to your right, watching us. Every so often I want you to imagine yourself catching his eye.”

As he thrusts into me, I do: “I’m thinking of them touching themselves…”

“Yes; getting so turned on by watching us…”

The person watching is dark and has serious eyes. I sigh and let my head roll back, and I let myself fall into that comfortable space deep in my mind that rocks and lulls me into a calm containment. The space that he has taken me to. I want to ask him to slap me, but I’m losing my ability to speak. All I can do is feel him fuck me, feel him close his fingers around my throat. All I can do is savor.

“I want you to look at me when I come,” he says.

I open my eyes. He’s fucking me harder, now, more earnestly. As the urgency of his actions builds, then releases, I feel him tense as it rolls over him, his eyes wide almost in shock. His cock twitches in my cunt.

For the next ten minutes after he pulls out of me, I lay there. I want to open my eyes. I can feel him hovering over me, watching my face and the pulse in my jugular that’s fluttering like a bird. I want to see him, speak to him, but all I can do is lay limply, sprawled out and utterly useless. I understand why they call it flying. I am soaring. I am no longer a person, but a rag doll, a thing that does not speak or move or take, but is used purely for the sake of my loved one’s pleasure.

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As with all Lelo toys, Bob is presented beautifully, and comes with a satin drawstring bag and one-year warranty. It’s also made of the smooth, hard silicone that is typical of Lelo.

Due to Bob’s small size, I was able to slide it in very easily, and then… I could barely feel anything. I could feel it when I clenched around it. It felt very thin and unsubstantial. I don’t even use large plugs regularly; my go-to plug is the njoy pure plug medium. While a beginner couldn’t take the pure plug without using something smaller for a while first, it definitely isn’t size-queen material either. Bob is very comfortable, definitely, but part of the point of wearing a plug, for me, is feeling it, if only a little bit.

On the other hand, there was a part of Bob I definitely could feel, lodged between my cheeks: the handle. I’ve read some reviews that criticized Bob’s potentially unsafe base, and though I could definitely feel it, it also didn’t seem enough to prevent the entire toy potentially slipping into my ass, especially when I was sitting down. I was paranoid about the Bob being pushed in somehow, since the handle is round rather than phlanged and it seems like it could be pushed in with a little force, especially if you’ve used larger objects in your ass.

Bob, while usable by people of any gender, is essentially designed for people with a prostate, and I was fortunate enough to try it on L. He had it in while we 69ed, and here the handle was a plus. I very much enjoyed putting my finger through the loop and pulling it in and out slightly while I blew him. Afterwards, he told me that he could also feel the handle very obviously, and that the plug felt more noticeable in his butt (than, say, the Bootie), probably due to the plug’s length. He didn’t see himself wearing it for long periods of time, but definitely liked fucking me with it in.

As for cleaning: Bob is made of silicone, which is body-safe and non-porous, and can be shared after being sterilized. To sterilize the plug, you can wash it with 10% bleach solution, put it in the top shelf of the dishwasher with no soap, or boil it for at least 5 minutes. Also, silicone toys are not compatible with silicone lubes.

So, my verdict? Bob, while quite the looker, was just not for me, although I can see plenty of people, most probably anal beginners, enjoying it.

Specs:
- Type: Anal Plug
- Material: Silicone
- Length: 3.75″
- Width: 1.25″
- Colors: Bordeaux / Deep Blue
- Price @ Vibrator.com: $45

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The lesson there, and in all of these stories, is that there is risk involved in submission. I don’t mean the physical risks, but the emotional ones, the ones that require a leap of faith, a knowledge that what you are doing may unnerve you, confuse you and scare you, even while it makes you wet and eager and ready for more.

[Excerpt from Introduction: Risk and Reward]

Rachel Kramer Bussel so wonderfully expresses one of the aspects of BDSM that draws me to it the most – and keeps me coming back.

Lately, I have been antsy. My workload has increased and I’ve spent hours and hours tutoring students. Last night, I came home and wanted nothing more than to abandon my mind and dedicate myself to something mechanical and pleasing to someone else. I ended up cooking, but the dish didn’t come out right, and it didn’t quite assuage the restlessness that I was feeling.

My lovers are vanilla at the moment, and I’ve no foreseeable possibility of a kinky encounter. Submissive energy has entered my fantasies, and my mind is plagued with cravings that I picture while I’m getting off:

—

The first fantasy is all about pain. He places me over his lap, lifts up my skirt, and yanks my panties down to my knees. He starts out with his hand – his hands are always large, with wide palms. I am not allowed to kick or move my legs. He wants them straight, flat against the couch, and slightly spread so that he can access me whenever the fancy strikes him. I curl my fingers into the upholstery; trying not to cry out, but feeling the noise welling in my throat regardless. After I’ve been thoroughly warmed up, he switches to the hairbrush. The hard wood results in a new, sharper pain, while waking up the duller pain left behind from the spanks with his hand.

A few minutes in, the tears come. My thoughts are filled with nothing but: pain, don’t move, and why? Eventually he makes me stand up. My face is contorted and streaked with tears, which embarrasses me more than my recent position over his lap.

He gestures for me to bend over the back of his desk chair. Same rules: spread my legs, and keep them still. He finishes with several strokes from his belt. I hear the leather whistle through the air, and crack across my already sore flesh. This time, I scream.

He doesn’t stop until my ass is blistered red and I can no longer control my sobs. He brushes his hand lightly over one cheek, which makes me flinch. I already know I’m dripping. He grabs my hips, thrusts into me without any preamble, and his hipbones press into my roasting flesh. As soon as he enters me, my orgasm rolls over me in a wave, but he keeps going.

I think to myself: I’m glad I didn’t move my legs the entire time, like he wanted.

—

The next fantasy is about servitude. I picture myself living with someone who works hard every day and comes home tired. Before he comes home, I cook one of his favorite dishes. From scratch; an authentic recipe I learned and then added my own flair to. I serve the dinner and clean up; after dinner, we go to the bedroom and strip down. He lays down on the bed and I oil my hands, rubbing the tension out of his sore back and shoulders. I am naked because he likes the feeling of my breasts and cunt brushing against his body. Once he is relaxed, he rolls over and pulls me on top of him, entering me in one swift stroke.

—

The fantasy after that is about uncontrol. I’m spread-eagled and restrained on the bed, with my legs bent at the knee. He’s fucking me with a toy that’s designed to hit my G-spot, and it feels wonderful. He fucks me so hard and irresistibly that my orgasm hits me before I’m even aware that it’s happening; and he continues until I have another, and another, and my body is spent. I can barely move, or think…

—

The final fantasy is about possession. We’re in bed, naked, in the dark, and he fists his hand in my hair, pulling my head down to worship his cock. I use my lips, throat and tongue to the best of my ability, shutting down my mind and letting his cock hit the back of my throat. I gag, once; a stream of spit surges out of my mouth and down his shaft. He pulls my head away and tells me he wants to finish in my ass. I position myself; face in the pillows, on my knees, ass and cunt in the air, presented to him. He fingers my ass until I’m moaning, and then pushes his slick cock into me easily. I moan, and whimper, his cock hitting something inside of me that makes me see stars. When he’s done, I lay face down for a while, reveling in the feeling of being nothing but his object of pleasure; the receptacle for his come.

—

Please, Sir speaks to all of these fantasies of mine, and has definitely helped fan the fire of my submissive cravings.

Submission is so many things to me: trust, expression, abandon, servitude, skill. Above all, though, it’s knowing that I’m pleasing my lover by giving myself over to him. One of my favorite stories from the anthology displays this perfectly:

Sometimes, a few hours after she has fallen asleep, Veronica feels her husband climb atop her, his cock hard and insistently throbbing against her thighs. She knows what to do. She spreads her legs, wide. As Vince buries his cock inside his wife, stretching her open, she moans drowsily. She doesn’t have to move or groan or call out his name. She only has to allow herself to be used. It turns her on that in the dark of their bedroom, their bodies heavy with sleep, she is just a tight warm space from which her husband will extract her satisfaction.

…

Vince said, “I’m not looking for a maid. I’m not looking for a mother. I’m looking for a body. I also know how to appreciate that which I am allowed to take.”

On their wedding night, Vince told Veronica that he didn’t believe in punishment. He believed in discipline. Then he taught her the difference. For a long while, Vince stood behind his new wife, inhaling her scent, letting his hands memorize the contours of her body. She shivered. Vince smacked her ass, smiling as her skin rippled beneath his hand. A blush of red quickly appeared. He smacked Veronica’s ass again, harder this time, his hand stinging as it rebounded. “Discipline,” he said, “is a reminder.”

…

Veronica looked up at Vince and saw unexpected kindness in his eyes. “Have I pleased you?” she asked. Vince reared back, holding the tip of his cock at the sensitive, quivering lips of her cunt. He squeezed Veronica’s throat harder, and she wrapped one hand around his wrist. Vince thrust forward. Veronica cried out again, feeling a blade of pleasure so deeply, she thought her bod might split at the heart. Finally, he said, “Yes.”

[Excerpt from Veronica's Body by Isabelle Grey]

You can order a copy of the book from Amazon.com.

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