I haven’t known what to do with this blog for a long time.
I got really caught up in my relationship with my partner and its attendant growth spurts, joys, and crisis, and well, living. Which was exactly what I needed. I matured, and grew, and then life blew up.
I’m still growing, and I still have things to say, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to say them here. Part of me just wanted to take this down, strike it from the Internet Archive like Sara Eileen did.
I’ve thought about starting over with a new blog. Something fresh, neat, orderly, censored of my flaws and confusions. Another part argued about the integrity of continuity, of accepting the record of my personal evolution, even though the early posts of this blog no longer reflect my present.
Then I started reading through my old posts to see what was salvageable, because I knew at least some of what I had written and the discussion it had spurred was valuable. When I thought of this blog I remembered 80% angst, and while there is a certain trend toward angsting, what I found was very different from what I remembered.
I began this blog from before my very first intentional orgasm all the way through my sexual initiation and into my first serious relationship.
I am appalled and devastated, to the point of tears, at the vulnerability I displayed here. At the brutal, innocent, almost uncensored honesty (almost, but not quite) around my process, my fears, beliefs, self-judgments, fantasies, ideas. I needed that. I needed to spew it all out to get it out of me instead of staying locked inside. To get feedback, perspective, ideas, encouragement, because the kink-sex blogosphere of the time was the only community I had in which to begin a rocky metamorphosis.
A lot of my beliefs about the nature and source of my sexuality have changed since I began writing, to the degree where they seem irreconcilable (they aren’t). My attitude around the issues and lacks of the kink/BDSM community has changed. I think I’m going to continue writing here, because the visibility of that process might help someone else. There were a couple of blogs that were crucial in my own internal saga of self-acceptance that are no longer around, so I want this to be around for someone else.
Digging through my stuff, finding some longhand writing from a couple years ago that might as well live somewhere outside of a dusty box.
I am three years old. On the bridge between two bastions of the playground fort I push down the front of my pants to show my vulva to my classmates.
A jumbled memory, maybe a teacher, maybe a tattletale, then bouncing in the back of a car, my father cursing in the front seat as he drives me away. I say something I don’t remember and I don’t remember what he slices back, except that it shuts me up.
I am naked in the living room, my fingers between my legs, twiddling against my labia.
My mother, gently– “It’s okay to do that, but do it in your room.” I am four years old.
I am two years old. My mother, with the anatomically correct dolls she has sewn for me. “This is a vagina, and this is the vulva. This is a penis, and these are testicles. These are breasts. If anyone ever touches you vulva, or your breasts, always remember you can tell me anything. Even if they tell you not to, you can tell me.”
I am in a classroom, on a carpet with two boys. I am four years old. A boy with blonde curls tells me that if I show them mine, they will show me theirs. We grip the elastic of our waistbands and count to three. I yank down my pants. Their hands still in place, the boys gape and giggle that I have actually done it. I demand that they reciprocate, bewildered that they have not, and yank my pants down again proudly, and joyfully.
The teacher –I think I try to pull my pants up before she can see– takes me away by the hand to the principal’s office. I am afraid. But the principal does not ask about showing my vulva, but asks how my day was, and gives me a puzzle to work on.
I am four or five years old. During playtime I and another girl concoct the earliest sadistic fantasy I can remember, with the empty chair in front of us. We discuss and debate elements that suit our children’s imaginations. There is a man, we agree, and rope, an egg, a vacuum cleaner.
The teacher hears us and quickly pulls me aside, and asks what we are doing. I think I tell her, quite plainly, and she hastily sets me to another activity.
There is social gathering in the living room. I am imagining weaving the form of my mother’s best friend’s fiance into my dominant fantasy. He is naked, helpless, vulnerable. I am five or six years old. There is a giant peanut butter sandwich involved. I share this with my mother’s best friend, and she kneels down beside me and says gently, “______, we don’t talk about things like that.”
In the basement of the church we are eating pizza and doing crafts. We are all seven or eight years old. At the table, I declare to my perennial friend-enemy who has just dismissed me, “I’m going to kiss your little ass off!”
There is dead silence. None of the other children look at me. They know I have done wrong. My face is heating. Our chaperone leans down over me as I fasten my eyes on the table and whispers, “We don’t say things like that.”
I am eight years old and the adults ask me what I am doing in my notebook. I am writing on my book, I tell them. They tell each other how creative I am and ignore me. I do not tell them about the naked women and men, the physical discipline, the slavery. I know they will not understand.
The internet has just reached the general public. I am still eight years old. I find a webpage with a full screen picture of a woman on her hands and knees on a snowy-soft surface, naked except for shackles on her wrists and ankles, and heels on her feet. The points of her nipples are just hidden by her arms as she stares at the viewer in defiant invitation. I stare at her for a long time, then quickly close the page. I come back to stare at her for days, adn I find more pictures, tiny thumbnails of naked men in chains, and I nearly cry when they never open to full sized photographs.
Finally, I open the page and call in my parents to tell them I have found a bad website.
I am ten years old and I have read my first book with a woman binding, controlling, and hurting a man, and he is completely hers. She is evil, he is good. She is broken and twisted by those who did the same to her; he is whole and strong and has the power to forgive her because she only mirrored her own torment.
I am twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen years old, lying in bed fantasizing about a man, bound, sobbing, screaming in pain. When I have exhausted myself, my shame sickens me. I reach down beneath my underwear, flick a finger up my labia to see if I am wet. Of course I am.
Cursing myself I jump up and run to the bathroom, pull down my underwear, sit on the toilet and wipe myself, staring at the stretchy, pearly, slick mass on the toilet paper. I think how disgusting I am, broken, my wires are crossed. I wet a washcloth and scrub my genitals until they are red, until every trace of stickiness is gone and I am panting. I will cure myself. I will never do it again.
I am in another country, seventeen, having one of a series of discussions with my friend who is open and confident about her identity as a submissive, a masochist, and a slut. I am trying to convince her that enjoying pain and allowing a man to control her sexually is not normal or healthy. I do not even remember my fantasies, do not even make the connection except once, almost, when she says, bemused by my arguments, “I’ve had these desires my entire life. I’ve had fantasies like this since I was three.”
Staring at the ceiling I trace the way the boards interlock over and over. I am twenty years old and I have just convinced myself that the emotional savagery of my father has made me a monster. And that one day, when I find a lover, I will have to confess myself, and let them decide if they still want me.
It is three months before and my boyfriend is confused and hurting that I will not let him kiss me. “You said my first kiss could be my way. That I could choose when and how. I told you, you promised.” My way, mine, when I’m ready, not stolen in his own romantic moment. He hurts, and does not understand.
I wanted him underneath me on the couch, his leg pulled up to his chest, open to me, my fist in his hair.
“So you want to initiate every time?” he asks, bewildered.
“Of course not.”
It is shortly after I have decided I am a monster, and I am masturbating for the first time since I was a toddler. I may be broken and twisted, but I will live with it. I have to have some kind of release, or I will die.
It is a year later and I have still not had an orgasm. I resort to a machine and overload my senses. The orgasm is painful, in the way that does not feel good. It wracks my body like a seizure. My vagina contracts, and contracts, and when my head is no longer snapping back on my spine, I lay there and contemplate how everything I was ever taught about sexuality is truly a myth.
A month before, I am whipping someone for the first time while they are tied beneath me, giving themselves to me so I can learn to be what I am. And it is beautiful.
I am nearly twenty-one years old, and I am coming to the turning point of a long and inevitable journey into the nature of the world around me. I have finally come to remember what I knew as a child. That trees speak, raccoons know mysteries I never will, and rocks are just as alive and intelligent as I am. And the culture of my birth is killing the planet. And it seems so perfectly clear, such an easy explanation for why I am the way I am.
Civilization broke me.
But I have to live this way. So I will live in a way that will make me happy. But let this twistedness die with me.
Six months later and I am drowning in shame and self-loathing, and a seed scattered by someone I have never met germinates and sets down roots.
What if I am not broken.
What if I am just a part of the myriad flavors of humanity.
What if my desires are not in fact mirrors of the travesties of this culture of destruction, but instead the culture took the things that were mine, that are ours, and maimed them to be used in conquer, assimilation, genocide.
What if I am wounded, but I am not wrong.
Bema is not into pain. They’re into enduring, but not in the sex way. Could definitely be hot in certain circumstances. So my sadism is not getting its rocks off. My masochism, on the other hand, is getting a fair bit of action. Bema is perfectly happy to give me pain that I enjoy and listen/watch my gaspy faces. Pretty cool.
Bema and I were skin on skin today, and the way we were interacting, it wasn’t exactly d/s, but it was something similar, enough to get me partially there. Bema was lying in my arms, and I just wanted to hurt them. I wanted it, and I was able to acknowledge it without squashing it, and acknowledge that it wasn’t going to happen without feeling desperate and hurt.
Bema sensed it, and we were talking later. Bema has been doing some independent research on BDSM, examining this thing that they had no real experience or draw to until until they became involved with me. Some stuff (I don’t specifically know which) they don’t really see how it could be anything but dysfunctional. Some part of me, the part that’s hurt, wanted to react to that, but mostly I just felt cool. They have their experiences and perceptions, and I have my experiences and perceptions. If those differ (and they might not even be that different; I think a lot of shit in the BDSM subculture is fucked up and dysfunctional), my experience doesn’t become unreal.
I felt suddenly ready to share this idea that has been growing in me for a while, an unfinished idea that seeps into my consciousness occasionally, then floats away again.
It started maybe a year ago, during one of my phases of hurting so much about wanting to hurt people. This continuing question tumbling inside me, “Am I a monster?”
Then, thinking, what if I am? But what if a monster just isn’t what I thought it was?
I thought about the roles monsters play in children’s stories, not the ones meant to brainwash us into easy, malleable lines, but the ones that teach us about ourselves, the ones where the monsters are only our own reflections. Monsters show us the edges of ourselves.
Other ideas seeped in, joined, mutated, ideas about tricksters, and contraries. Those who do things backwards, do the opposite of what is expected. In hunter-gatherer and other primitive peoples, tricksters are the sacred boundary crossers. In many of those same cultures, gender-mixers and -crossers played the same role. And I wonder what role my sexuality plays in my human worldview, because I know it has one, and yet even accounting for the silent majority there seem to be so much fewer people who share my desires than those who share other common desires. It reminds me of a comment Delilah left around the time when I finally tipped over the edge into accepting and cherishing my sexuality and not thinking it was completely rooted in a legacy of cultural fucked-up-ness.
I actually *do* think of myself as engaging in some dark shit when I do some of the kink that I do. The difference is that I don’t think of darkness as a bad thing [...]. Darkness to me just means the wild, the free, the things that have been suppressed by the civilization you’re talking about when you talk about darkness.
The trouble with the wild and the free is that they often are dangerous. When my lover tests my tolerance by caning the fronts of my thighs and letting me bite into his arm to manage the pain while tears stream down his face, that’s pretty dark. When I restrict someone’s blood flow and whisper to them about how easily I could kill them and that makes them come – that’s fucking dark. It’s liberated, it’s admitting how close sex and death really are, it’s delving into parts of our psyche that are very old, and animal, and fierce. It’s not just wanting to fuck someone into a stupor, but to drink their blood while you do it.
And that’s hot, which is why I do it – not because it’s hip to play with the darkness.
At the time I was railing against the image of BDSM as taboo and dark, the way it’s commercialized and caricatured as such, but I saw her point, and looking at it through that lens, I resonated with what she said.
At my core, my sexuality doesn’t feel dark to me, or strange, or crossing any kind of boundaries. It feels like normality. And in a way, despite my self-alienation, I perceive everyone else as strange. But when I study myself in relation to the people around me, who I grow with, play with, get bitchy with, when I leave myself behind and step into them, then I can see it. I can understand how they can perceive it that way, because when I was so divorced from myself around my sexuality, I saw through the same lens, but with infinitely more judgment.
None of this is an argument about how BDSM is special and awesome and so much deeper than what anybody else does. It’s just random, utterly nonlinear driftings as I contemplate where I am in my life and where I’m going.
But on to things more mundane.
Someone wanted to call a girl’s spa night. Waxing. Facials. Hair masks. After my initial repulsion:
“I’m not putting that gunk on my face, but I will rip the hair from your body.”
Unfortunately, they’re not a screamer. Pretty unfazed by that kind of pain. Just knowing that it hurt anyway did at least a little something for me, but really, I’m just a reaction top. But it’s still a satisfying sensation, feeling all the hair rip out. Someone else, who is a screamer said they’d let me know if they decided to do it.
“I’d be honored to give you pleasure,” they laughed.
I’ll take it where I can get it.
The big ones that haven’t been trimmed down, when they get all dehydrated and wrinkly but still have some heft. Hold the skinny end and hit with the top. Very satisfying impact. I bruise really easy, and I usually sport half a dozen bruises I couldn’t tell you where they came from. One day I couldn’t figure out why I had all these regular bruises up my thighs, and suddenly I burst out laughing. After explaining, my housemates teased me for the rest of the day.
Pretty good makeshift flogger. Unbalanced, and you have to be careful about the whippy ends and wrapping, but nice impact/sting.
The big six-inch ones with reall fine threads. Feels really good scraped down an arm, or across palms and fingers. Not sharp enough to draw blood, but sharp enough to leave white lines like a plowed field.
French kissing. Making out.
Not body kissing. Not throat kissing and teasing the fine hairs on someone’s skin with lips. Not just pressing lips together.
It’s so common it just gets called “kissing,” as if everyone will know what you mean when you say it. It took me two decades to do it, and then I did, and I find myself the odd man out.
I’m not so into it.
People kept telling me that it was an acquired taste, and that I would like it eventually. Everyone likes it. Everyone.
During one conversation my boyfriend was laying out all this evidence for the human desire for tongue-in-mouth kissing, and I finally said, “Basically it’s like I’ve told you I’m lesbian, and you’re trying to convince me I’d realize I’m straight if I’d just try it long enough to get used to it.”
The one I really like to whip out when people are telling me why I should like kissing is the theory that kissing evolved from an affection shared between mothers and babies from the practice of premasticating food. Then watch their cultural indigestion from paranoia of associating children with anything they consider sexual. Vengeful I can be.
Now I kind of think of french kissing the way many people think of kinky sex. “Okay, now that we really know each other and really trust each other, let’s do something completely crazy like tie each other up with scarves and blindfold each other.”
Only it’s: “Okay, now that we really know each other and really trust each other, let’s do something really fucking insane like stick our tongues in each others’ mouths.”
A faster way to spread communicable diseases, I know not.
Seriously. What a weird fucking practice. With all their gnarly diseases crossing species barriers left and right, I’m surprised agriculturalist and pastoralist population centers of civilization survived it.
I did learn to enjoy that kind of kissing with partner, and I was almost always in a state where I was incredibly present with my dominance, usually in the throes of sex. It was an expression for my aggression and sadism and dominance. Biting soft parts, claiming someone –possessing someone– in such a physically intimate way. There’s just something about claiming someone’s mouth that’s incredibly powerful for me, because in a way it’s a more intimate orifice than my cunt. To be physically locked face to face with someone, cutting off one of your options to breathe. It almost seems suicidal.
Okay, so I guess there are other ways to do it. It all feels pretty weird though.
So I’ve been reading a lot of polyandrous triad porn lately. Or trying to. Skimming is generally a better word, to the sex parts, if they’re good, then skimming to the next.
I found one example that was rather terribly written and had a very poorly developed supernatural world, but had one fascinating, brilliant concept: A bold, assertive submissive man who asked for what he wanted and stood up for himself. There was one scene where the dominant woman of the triad made him come, then refused to let him give her an orgasm. Not because it was hot d/s, but because she was terrified of being vulnerable. She blew him off, and he basically said, “You know where I am. If you’re really as brave as you think you are, come get me.” And left.
And I was like, “Wow.”
Despite this moment of win, the clear dominance/submission dynamic, the triad, and some bondage and beating, the sex scenes really did not flow and it was not even remotely erotic for me.
Reading porn in such concentration has highlighted the many things people say that are supposed to be erotic that strike me as… completely off the wall. It’s just… weird. Like one person wrote it thinking it was a good idea, having never actually experienced what they were writing about, and the next person, also having never experienced what they were writing about took the first person at their word and thought that was reality, and on and on it goes. It’s like there’s a list of stock phrases for written porn that everyone feels obligated to use for some reason.
“There was not a spare ounce of fat on [pronoun's] body.”
I read this, and I blink. And I wonder, “So… are they fucking a concentration camp victim? Did I miss something of the backstory while skimming?” I don’t think people know what it means to not have body fat. And it keeps getting worse with the insane anti-fat diet mentality the North American super-power has been getting into the last few decades.
Reality: Humans carry fat. We need fat to live. Fat is good. It is delicious. It’s what our brains run on.
I’m not talking Big, Beautiful Women or fat as an identity, I’m talking biological necessity. Every trim, athletic, fit person you see has fat. What’s more, they have spare body fat, because we’re designed to carry spare calories just in case. I have seen a male body at 4% body fat and it is not pretty. For a female body the equivalent is 10%.
So if someone doesn’t have a spare ounce of fat, they probably don’t have the energy to be fucking, because they have entered the death stages of starvation. And that’s not so hot to me. Besides, aesthetically, I like fat. I like bellies and asses and boobs and not emaciated skeletons. I am a thin, light-framed, reasonably fit person and I carry fat. I went on a ten day cleanse where I was only getting about 600 calories a day, and I still had full breasts, a belly, and a jiggle in the ass.
Which leads me to:
The “firm ass”
This is… confusing to me. And maybe it’s all just a matter of interpretation of what “firm” means. When I think “firm” in terms of flesh, I think of something like the feeling of squeezing a ripe mango. Like the muscle of deltoids, or a tensed bicep. And most asses are not… firm. Except when tensed. And it would be very uncomfortable to walk around like that all day (some people do, because they carry their stress in their hips and butt, and it causes them all sorts of leg and back problems). And kind of the allure of the ass (to me), is that it is, indeed, soft. Squeezable. Malleable. Ever-so-elastic when smacked. It even, deities-forbid, jiggles.
On a similar subject–
The male ass as “two globes.” Especially firm, high ones.
This throws me off every time I read it, forcing me to picture the perfectly hemispherical nature of the character’s ass cheeks, and to wonder how it’s anatomically possible.
I do, in fact, know two people (male) who have this kind of ass, or what I imagine this kind of ass would look like in real life. And honestly it looks a little weird at first. I have to keep reminding myself that it’s their body type and appreciate it for what it is.
The firm, pert, high, proud breasts.
This I blame on a culture that thinks breast-binding for everyone who has them is normal.
Breasts are not naturally… high. They are affected by gravity. Namely, they go down. They flatten out when we lay down, and slide into our arm pits. This is not the bad, hideous, horrible, shameful, to-be-avoided-at-all-costs-including-cutting-parts-of-your-body-off thing that we have been taught. It is natural.
The process is retarded for some by the donning of bras. I used to think bra-encased boobs looked perfectly normal, including my own. When I finally shucked the thing, and especially when I started living with other women who hardly ever wore bras, my perspective changed radically. Now when I see boobs in bras, I stare.
Not because it’s hot. But because it looks so weird to see an abrupt shelf sticking out from just under someone’s clavicles (in the case of sports bras), or the effect regular bras have even on small boobs, which has a similar aesthetic to when I was a child and I put balls from the McDonald’s play pen up my shirt to simulate adult secondary sex characteristics.
It’s also very bizarre to me to not be able to see someone’s nipples through their shirt.
And you know, my boobs do ride lower than they would if I wore a bra. They will sag when I begin breast-feeding, and as I grow older. This is a beautiful thing.
The breasts that are a perfect handful.
So nothing actually bothers be about this one, and I like the image, but I’m surprised by how often this gets repeated in porn/romance novels. The “small but perfect” shtick seems an encouraging alternative to the “only double D’s are beautiful” stereotype, but I wonder at our lack of creativity in describing our bodies.
My cunt. Is not. A turkey.
Every time I read about vaginal lubrication as “juices” I get so grossed out. I guess for a lot of people it’s very erotic, so your mileage may vary. When I think of juices, I think of meat (dead, butchered) roasting slowly in an oven or over a fire. I don’t think of my vagina. “Wet” and “slick” are very hot for me, but for some reason I cannot handle the juices.
Again, your mileage may vary. This word seems to do it for a lot of people. But pussy is never hot in reference to my vagina, and usually not in reference to someone else’s. I really just prefer cunt. Short, strong, simple, kind of like an onomatopoeia for the shape. Pussy just sounds kind of silly, kind of humiliating to me, which is why it seems to creep into my humiliation fantasies about a submissive person describing me fucking their pussy.
Adjusting to the length and girth of a cock.
Okay, so this can happen to a degree, both in vaginas and rectums. But it is a finite process. The vagina is only so long, so stretchy, and then it ends. It is not an endlessly stretchy continuum. This is even more true for the rectum, which, arguably, was never designed for cock.
Sad as it is, you can’t always go in to the hilt. Personally, I have a short vagina, so I haven’t been able to have jar-your-bones-thrusting-sex without feeling like I’ve been punched in the cervix with the head of a hammer. It’s kind of frustrating that seven inches is considered “average” in the sex-toy world. But in written porn whoever’s being penetrated always seems to be stretching and adjusting and able to take every inch at thirty-mile-an-hour speeds. Me, I see a huge cock and I either get grossed out or intimidated.
The idea of someone being able to endlessly take my cock has played a part in my fantasies, especially early on when I actually started masturbating, because of the idea of how much their body is giving and changing shape to accommodate me, how much they are being invaded in a very vulnerable place, how out of control they are. It’s hot for as long as it takes to realize that it’s not a realistic expectation for the human body.
The satiny, silky texture of erect cock.
Even though “satiny” and “silky” strike me as over-the-top, in this case I find them absolutely accurate. I am utterly fascinated by the texture of an erection. There is simply nothing else like it. And it is indeed silky, and satiny. Whodathunkit.
Constantly saying each other’s names.
I guess the idea of saying someone’s name in the throes of sex is hot on some level for me. Haven’t actually experienced it. In a couple of the porn stories I’ve been reading, the characters do it constantly. Repetitively. Leaving me thinking, “Less talking more fucking!”
I wrote this when I was reading An Uncommon Whore, and I wanted to play around with the memoir-esque resigned matter-of-factness of a sex slave demonstrated by the main character. I had to really fight the urge to edit this one, because it is so utterly trope-ish, unrealistic, and descriptively redundant. It was my cunt talking, I’m (almost) sorry to say. Cross-posted at HTPorn. Oh god, I may die of embarrassment.
I was, of course, the most valuable thing there. I took little pleasure from it, only a sort of grim amusement.
Nor was I precisely sure why I was so valuable. But the bids kept getting higher.
The highest bidder enjoyed me very thoroughly over the next year and a half on that planet. He was not so bad as it could have been. I was lonely, and weary of being used, but I was never particularly abused. I did not object and obeyed instructions because I knew the consequences of disobeying. I didn’t really remember those consequences, but I knew that being used as a hole to come in three times a day was a better fate.
He was profoundly pissed when he lost me in a game of droughts. My naked back was the game table and one of the other players was close to coming in my mouth, so all I could really think as I frantically tried to determine who had won was, “Shit.”
My owner had lent me to her the day before as one of the other amenities of his grand gala. I had never been in the hands of a sadist before. I had been used roughly and callously, abused for circumstances and events out of my control, and ruthlessly trained, but I had never been given to someone who enjoyed pain for pain’s sake.
If it was torture, it was a very curious mode of torture, though I was only partly able to appreciate it at the time, my wrists strung up above me, trying to process the intense sensations she enjoyed inflicting on my body.
She never took me beyond my threshold for pain. After the first half hour I knew that had she wanted to, she could have turned me into a sticky smear of mindless gibbering. And I knew she could have done it without maiming me. And I suspected, half-feverishly, that had she exerted some effort, she could have done it without leaving a mark.
Every time I was ready to burst into tears if I had to bear another moment of it or take another blow, she stopped or removed whatever was the current source of pain. She would watch me, gasping, struggling to recollect myself, half a smile on her face.
She did make me bleed, though never in accident. Very deliberately, with a wicked little knife with an edge like paper. Every cut stung madly, and hazily watching the blood trickle down my chest was mesmerizing.
She untied me completely to take my ass, leaving coils embossed on my arms and ankles, and even had I been inclined to fight, I don’t think I could have.
Even while she slid her fingers into me it was becoming clear that she was devastatingly good at this. My penis, so far uninvolved except as the occasional recipient of blows, vicious pinching, and to my near panic, fire, began to swell painfully against the confines of the chastity ring.
She had me on my back, knees, spread, and she laughed softly as she saw. Moving up to prop herself above my hips, she leaned down and took the head of my cock gently in her lips. I flinched, groaning, and my balls tightened painfully against the ring constricting them.
“Please,” I gasped as she licked down my shaft, making my partial erection harder and more painful. “Not with the chastity on.”
She smiled at me, and gave me a blow job that would have sent me to ecstasy if I hadn’t been in the ring. I did cry then, desperately trying to endure as she licked and sucked my most sensitive places, the chastity ring biting deep into my flesh.
I watched, breathing hard, as she pushed one end of a dildo into herself, and strapped the other end in place. I lifted my legs up to give her better access, because it was simply easier, and less uncomfortable.
Arrowing her cock into my anus, she eased herself in, retreating when I bit my lip, little progressions and retreats until she was all the way in my body. She held my thighs, looking down at me almost with amusement. Maybe I imagined it. I was exhausted.
She fucked my ass like it was her sole purpose to pleasure me. She found the right angle and she kept it, taking me exactly as deep and hard as I liked it. Loved it. I gasped, bucking against her, moaning in pleasure and torment.
My pleasure, of course, brought my pain, my cock and testicles madly straining against metal. The chastity ring also meant there was absolutely no chance I would come. And I wanted to come. Badly. My owner milked the semen from me occasionally when the look in my eyes grew “a little too crazed.” He would remove the chastity ring and take my ass until I was dripping. I hardly ever stayed hard when he fucked me. Once he had hooked me up to a fucking machine, the wickedly curved phallus almost two inches in diameter, and watched as the hydraulic piston punched it into me at the same bruising angle for over an hour and I was a weeping mess. I hadn’t come in nearly a year, and that had been an accident, quickly ruined lest I enjoy it.
She had the remote to remove the ring. I could see it on the table beside the bed. I moaned, gripping the sheets, and whined in denial when she pulled out. My half-flaccid penis bobbed weakly.
Sweating, trembling a little, I stared up at her uncomprehendingly when she straddled me, her cock gone. Holding my cock straight between two fingers, she rubbed it between her wet lips. I nearly bit through my lip.
“No,” I moaned. “Not like this. I can fuck you with a strap-on if you don’t want me to be pleasured, or–” My breath hitched, and my head and shoulders lurched up in misery as she carefully sank around me with a smile. She began to fuck my half-hard, excruciatingly sensitive cock, pounding blood trapped behind the ring. I groaned and whimpered, wanting to fill her, feel her stretched around my cock. I wanted to explode, in misery, orgasm, something, anything.
I wanted to fuck her. I wanted to come so badly. I wanted to fuck her ’til she came then come deep inside her.
When she told me to fuck her, though, I nearly cried again.
She lifted herself up, and in mindless terror-need-pain-lust I bucked my hips, moving up and into her, again and again. She pressed herself against me, taking my sore nipple in her mouth, and bit me so hard I barely restrained myself from knocking her off. She never let go as I desperately fucked her, wrapping my arms around her back, until she came, jamming her cunt around me and convulsing against my poor, bruised genitals until I cried out.
She returned me to my owner, who had a very expensive drink in one hand, with a light comment about my satisfactory performance. He was amused by my small wounds.
I serviced a group of his business associates next, taking them two at a time, one in my mouth, one in my ass, my cock still straining, weeping pre-cum. They, the silly gits, though it was because of them. I was angry for a while, before the monotony overwhelmed me.
So when I realized, as the drought player came salty and bitter on my tongue, exactly who had won me, I thought, “Shit. Shit.”