"6": The 400 blows: Pain is pleasure is pain...

I have a strong mind and an even stronger will. While I’d been waiting for years for someone who could subdue me, sometimes I wasn’t all that easy to subdue. Even if I wanted to be. Even if I wanted to reach that place of softness, of opening, of letting someone in, I couldn’t necessarily command it into being.

So he’d whip me.

There was an element of ritual to these whippings. A footstool was placed in the middle of his living room that he’d bend me over. I’d be on all fours, with my ass in the air, expectant. Scared. Sometimes the sweat would drip from my armpits, as I knelt poised on the edge of anything-could-happen. I could not move away or flinch or he’d whip me harder. The only recourse I had was acceptance. I could hear the whoosh of the crop through the air and its subsequent sting, slicing my ass, or my upper thighs, would reverberate through my entire body.

Sometimes the whipping was sensuous. He’d alternate moderate strokes with rubbing my pussy, working me into an endorphin-fueled fever. Other times he was severe and I would be welted for days afterward. I never knew which it would be. He carried only one accoutrement with him when we ventured out, and when unused it lay on the footstool over which I bent when we were at his house. It was a riding crop and it easily wielded a fierce, sharp blow.

I remember going for a massage and when the woman came to my naked buttocks, I could hear her draw in her breath. I could sense her worry, her thought that I was being subjected to horrific things and that I might be in danger. She stuttered, trying to address the bruises on my ass that would have been in various states of transition – colored blue, purple, yellow - the remnants of that weekend's calisthenics. I enjoyed looking at them afterward, these symbols of my endurance and evidence of his ability to retrieve me and greater still, of his desire to. I dismissed her. She had no idea.


After a beating, I was malleable. Soft. Suppliant. Full of feeling. After each blow, he had me thank him. I didn’t understand the power of this until one day I was at my gym after a workout, in the communal showers. I turned the faucet all the way to cold and I felt the water hit my skin. Something curious had happened. I didn’t distinguish anymore that the water was cold or that it was uncomfortable. I was only aware of it as a sensation. I had no judgment of it, only the experience of noticing it was cold. I did not flinch, I did not back away, I accepted it completely. That’s when I realized that I’d ceased to let the fear of pain prevent me from living. Or more precisely, from loving. The thank yous became a thank you to life, and to all that it might bring me.

**

There is a gift in someone who dares to be so rough with me. Most men would never dare. I need to know that a man will be so bold, that at least he is capable of this sort of wielding. Then I can trust him. The flimsy men, the ones who would never dare to hurt me, to see me flinch, to bend me over and take me anywhere, anytime; I have no use for. Their trepidation is suffocating to me. And reflective of their behavior outside the bedroom. It always is. You can tell a lot about someone by how they fuck: Timid or decisive. Experimental or staid. Hard-driving and fierce or languid and droopy. My selection criteria is all about this crucial element: Can this man take charge? Does he dare?

Top photo: Bruno Bisang

Other photos: Sources unknown

For the voyeurs

Thanks to Jefferson for including my Expose, exhibit post in last week's Fleshbot round-up.


Photo: Simon Emmett

The insatiable ones

All women love sex.

I can prove it.

Rather, Robin Baker, PhD can. In his book “Sperm Wars,” he chronicles the summary of years of pioneering research into human sexuality. His findings turn a lot of commonly held beliefs upside down.

My favorite point in the book is the biological argument for female promiscuity. Baker bases his conclusion on the curious make-up of male sperm: Only 1% of them are actually designed to fertilize an egg. So what exactly are 99% of sperm built for? They exist to kill foreign sperm. Women are programmed to seek out the strongest reproductive candidate and have the top contenders battle out their viability in the womb.

Baker’s “survival of the fittest” sperm theory is also bolstered by evidence that women are most likely to stray when they are ovulating. They seek a variety of sperm so that only the strong survive.

Being voracious is in our genes.

I’ve never bought the idea that women have a lesser sex drive than men; that somehow they are built for one while men are built for many. In this regard, it’s women who are insatiable – we are naturally multi-orgasmic, with no refractory periods and thus have infinite sexual potential. I do understand the concepts of internalized oppression and learned behavior. But, and this is backed up from a physiological perspective, I truly believe that women are just as randy as men, provided they are given the space to be that way.

Some struggle against greater cultural barriers than others, and so perhaps that seed of the liberated slut is buried deeper. For the rest of us, it’s happily close to the surface and a major part of our identities.

Photo: Rankin

The sex carnival

Thanks to Viviane for featuring my posts in her round-ups this week.

Photo: Morten Bjarnhof

"6": Expose, exhibit

I never knew where we were headed. He'd call, give instructions about when he'd be picking me up, what I ought to wear or bring, and then he'd show up. Always precisely on time.

This evening he took me to a play club. Once a month, this venue held events by invitation, so the crowd was a carefully culled selection of players, all delightfully complicit.

When we entered, there was a grouping of people gathered around a bar. These places normally didn’t serve alcohol, to encourage coherence, but they served some kind of refreshments. The crowd was varied – 20 – 40 year olds in dark colors, leathers, all dressed in some manner of fetish attire. Many pretty topless women, some collared slaves. A particularly nubile blonde woman gyrated on the leash held by her Mistress - a rotund, beast of a woman who sat and ignored her pleas for attention. A very handsome young boytoy, shirtless and sculpted was being humbly led by his Mistress - a tall, willlowy brunette with long dark hair. The lighting was dim, and a variety of play stations were set up throughout the main area of the room, surrounded by an outer rim of tables and chairs. There were about 100 people in the space.

As per his instructions, I was wearing a severe black corset, a tiny black g-string and very high stilettos. When we entered, he had me remove my coat and stand before him as he sat and surveyed the room. “Take off your panties,” he said. I froze and then my fear thawed into excitement. I felt a rush to my groin as I noticed people staring at us out of the corner of my eye. I dutifully slid them down my thighs and let them drop to the floor, never taking my gaze off him. “Put your thumb in your ass and a finger in your pussy.” This was humbling and physically very awkward. My ass was dry and I struggled to actually stick my thumb inside it. I wiggled it as best I could and bowed my head. He then led me by the hair, as I hunched over, trying to walk and keep my fingers in place at the same time. He was diminishing me.

We approached a wooden rack that was built in the shape of an A-frame with horizontal slats. “Stand here,” he gestured as I stepped forward with my stomach leaning against the smooth wooden boards. He raised my arms up above my head. “Keep them here.” He reached down into the navy blue Adidas gym bag he carried with him whenever we went out to play in public. He pulled out some leather restraints and fastened them to my wrists, securing them to the slats above my head. He pulled out his riding crop, the handle of which I could always see poking out of the gym bag, like an ominous talisman. He began lightly tapping my ass with the crop. He used quick, light taps that, given the eroticism of the situation for me, only increased my arousal. He focused on my ass and my thighs, building the intensity of the tapping and I’d lean the weight of my body into the slats for support.

I let go. I didn't feel any pain. I had a heightened awareness of my body but still, even with the now stronger whipping, I only experienced pleasure. I was slipping into an altered state, my whole body vibrating like a giant erogenous zone. I stuck my ass out in the air, wanting my pussy to be exposed. My back was arched and I felt very sensuous and very sensitized. He’d press his body forcefully into mine, his stubble nuzzling against my neck as he spoke low and throaty. “Everyone is enjoying watching you.” His voice was like an anchor, and it left me feeling even wetter. I would look up out of the corner of my eye and I could see men, some standing against the wall, watching as he flogged me. One of them caught my attention. I recognized him from another life. My first reaction was panic, until I read the look on his face. He was enrapt and euphoric. The anxiety dissolved into a feeling of collusion and mutual secret-keeping. I didn't acknowledge him, nor he me.

I had waves of pleasure washing over me, and I felt near-orgasm when Andre would stop and press his body into mine. I loved seeing and feeling these men watch me. I could only see a handful of them, since my back was toward the center of the room.

Andre leaned into me again, this time reaching up above my head to untie me. He brought my hands down to my sides and held my wrists with one hand. He used his other hand to place a blindfold over my eyes. I stood and waited for his instructions. “Come this way,” he said steering me gently by my elbow to lead me to another station. I could see nothing as I walked gingerly, a little unsteady in my heels. He guided me to lie down and stretched my arms out to my sides and secured them. I could feel him placing my feet into stirrups, tying me in as well, and then spreading my legs open. I felt a wave of excitement. The gentleness of his movements was soothing and I felt I would let him do anything to me.


He placed clothespins on my inner thighs, and then fastened some that pulled and held open the lips of my pussy. My outer labia are large, so he was easily able to spread them open. Wide. I felt a rush of excitement heave from my groin into my stomach and chest. It was dizzying in its intensity. My pussy felt like it was on fire. Wet, throbbing, hungry. He continued placing pins, leaning over my chest at times to press his weight into me. “Many men,” he’d say, “are enjoying your open pussy.” I loved the thought of this room full of people staring at my cunt, my cunt being opened for them to look inside me. At their leisure. I could hear men coming up and talking to Andre. They would flatter me, flatter my cunt and he would repeat their words in his responses so I could hear. “You can touch her if you like.” I felt fingers, tentative hands, stroking my lips and the opening of my cunt. Someone's fingers edged inside and deftly probed me. I writhed and panted. I loved the thought of being a plaything for any random person who might approach me.

I loved the feeling of being stripped of any pretenses, with nowhere to run or hide. To reveal my cunt, my core, my vulnerable spot was to open to any possibility and to love it. Naked and raw, yet ready for anything. No pride, no fear.

Eventually he untied me, removed the pins and blindfold and very gently helped me to sit up. I felt unsteady with a rising feeling of euphoria. He led me with his arm around my shoulder across the room and back to the seating area to gather the rest of our things. I stood in front of him, with a warm feeling in my chest and a half-smile. I was soft, suppliant and peaceful.

A man came up to us and thanked us profusely. He was giddy. Andre smiled and nodded and made a little conversation. I felt flushed. I watched him but I had nothing to say.

As we left the building and walked back to the car, I marveled at how different I felt. My hips liquidized and diffused elation and satisfaction up and down the block. I walked slowly, with a deep, soft confidence and fearlessness.

Photos: Craig Morey, Aeric Meredith-Goujon

Drawing: Rodin

For the love of cock

I've fallen in love with a fair number of cocks. What's a fair number? I won't say. What makes a cock special enough to fall in love with?

Aesthetics are one thing. Proportion, shape, texture, curvature. They all bear weight. Usage and execution are, of course, right up there in endearing me to a certain worship. However, the strongest determining factors in cock love are: confidence and sentience.

I've known men who owned their hungry cocks so utterly and completely, who were so shameless about the power of their cocks, that I could only succumb. Some men have cocks to be reckoned with. As an instrument of penetration, of opening, a cock needs to be wielded fiercely, sometimes gently, but always firmly. In a way, we could say that cock love starts at home. A man who exudes cock confidence will penetrate with that cock in a way the leaves a woman speechless and satiated. A cock that doesn't take no for an answer.

I also like an expressive cock. One that responds when I bend over to pick things up, that greets me as I open the door, that wakes up in the morning before I do; indeed, it becomes my alarm clock. Such a cock I will eagerly envelop, nestling it deep, deep into my throat, as I nearly orgasm with it filling my mouth, obliterating every thought (and almost every breath).

My relationship with the cock begins to take on a life of its own, independent of the man. Typically, I fall in love with them both. I miss each of them when they aren't around.

There was one man who changed things for me. Prior to him, I had always had amicable relationships with cock. I loved getting fucked. I *liked* giving head. I liked the pleasure it gave my partner. But with him, cock-sucking became a whole new animal, a savage dance, a tribute to his magnificent, power-wielding and relentless cock. I just couldn't lavish enough attention on his cock. From that moment on, I began to experience man love and cock love.

Photo: Tony Ward

The gestalt of my desires

I love this. A map of my psyche. Sex, surrealism, and uh, more sex.

A compilation of the last 50 images on my tumblr.