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.”
I want to talk about boys. And men. Boys and men and women with long hair and defiant faces. About the physical-emotional sensation of pulling rope snug or tight into someone else’s skin and muscle, leaving layered patterned wakes.
I did, for the first time in months.
But this isn’t about that, though it was a catalyst.
I want to talk about the unspoken wonder of interacting with a person who is psychologically present with their submission, the energy, the classic, unmistakable, undeniable, joyful recognition.
I was able to, for the first time in a year, and half that again.
This isn’t about that either, though it was also a catalyst.
I want to talk about submissive captors and dominant prisoners, assertive submission and a model of d/s flipped suddenly horizontal. About wildness and inner gardens growing suddenly past the skin, ephemeral branching reaching into the tangible world, obscuring the differences, making the physical world seem paler, somehow less complete. I want to talk about the melding of my inner and outer realities into the whole in which I walk, about paths which go deeper than I ever expected. But they feel lighter, in a way I can’t describe.
I want to talk about stories and how the boundaries that separate them from reality are only illusions. We are our stories, our stories are us. I am craving to express stories, to share in that way what I am not often able to share when touching. I want to flood the world with reams of words of what I feel, let it loose to worm its way into the human consciousness, altering by a sliver the flavor of broken mirrors of my desires, connecting, here, there again, until we connect and connect and connect and the broken mirrors are only a memory.
I want to talk about being a man and how hard that is for me to express, how lonely I feel in the incredible intimacy I am gifted with, and this loneliness is because I cannot face myself, embrace myself, pull myself out of myself and into my whole, my reality, my inner garden sprung suddenly out, vines eating away at the edges of my vision.
I want to talk about laughing, and safe spaces, and how each and every one is the lick of a wave which will crash higher and higher until we are so inundated we will never remember the drought.
I want to talk about the things that I know and yet have never experienced and so don’t allow myself to know but I know them, they are me have always been me have always been us, our humanity.
I am sorry it is so hard for me to talk to you.
(I am talking to my man)
I am sorry it is so hard for me to reach.
We will not always been so hungry.
We are whole and alive.
I want to talk about the compartmentalization of my self, about translating every idea and thought and feeling I have ever had into someone else’s language. I want to talk about violence and ritual, my relationship with pain and the smoldering sensation behind my sternum when I allow myself to be what I am. I want to relate and understand, and be related to and understood and I see glimmers, flashes, not the whole thing only the sign that it’s there, I see now.
I want to beat someone until they cry. I want to cut someone and make them bleed until they slip so far into that space they cannot speak. I want to hurt someone. I want to tie them and take them in their vulnerable inside places, their exposed outer places. I want to make them mine and crawl inside their skin and still have them only belong to themselves.
I want to hurt someone.
I want to hurt someone.
I want to hurt someone.
I am saying this and it is not a demand, not a battlecry, not a whimper or a hope, it is a statement of my being without decision of value and a sense of creeping wonder.
I love pain.
I love accepting control.
I love sliding into that space where to kill you would be as natural as to fuck you except there’s no reason to, only the acknowledgment of danger.
I am alive.
I have to keep reminding myself.
Abuse for One by Thumper
All this latent sexual static hanging around is like shoveling coal into my subbie furnace. I am so feeling it.
My nipple meat twisted between the pinchers and the pain was like twin lasers of pleasure shooting into my brain. A benefit of their clampiness and the way their ends fit together is that they grip incredibly well. I was able to pull them hard – much harder than even the Japanese butterfly clamps – before they’d finally come free. Of course, it’s no secret that the more stimulated one is, the more pain they’re able to tolerate. In the case of yesterday, I simply could not find my limit. These things are friggin’ medieval and pulling on the twisted pink meat caused a lot of pain, but all I could do was hurt myself more.
Weekend Sex by Thumper
She told me to get naked and I snuggled up against her, nuzzling her tits through the fabric of her pajamas and running my hand over the outline of her mound. She lifted her top and I latched on to her nipples, licking and sucking each one in turn. My blood rose pretty quickly and the soft spot just under the high point of her crotch that told me I was on her clit. I pressed down with a circular motion. Just seconds later, she started to come. I could feel her heat and dampness through the fabric and flicked my tongue over erect nipple as her head went back and she whispered in breathy insistance, “I going to come.”
Toppery From the Bottom by Dev
I went for nipple clamps and there was some teasing. I also positioned a full-length mirror in front of him and to the side, so that we could see each other’s faces. (Being able to see his face and his cock during the scene was really helpful, and sexy too).
I used this pretty vicious rubber flogger I have, short and with thick tails (I crave feeling this flogger on my own skin), and the quirt.
And Joscelin was…a fucking masochist.
Eye candy from Thumper’s Portfolio.
Some serious eye-candy found through Ireen’s Gaze. I’m a little overwhelmed by the step-by-step attribution of Tumblr, so I’ve just linked the pictures to their ultimate sources (or what I think are their ultimate sources).
More transcription of scrawls from the old piano notebook. I never finished this as a continuous piece, skipping to writing the scenes that were pulling me harder. I decided not to finish it, and put it here as is, pretty much unedited. I just added one line for clarity after a break. Crossposted at HTPorn.
He is not prepared.
Not prepared to be yanked by his hair and thrown to the floor. Stunned on his hands and knees, he looks up under his arm, sees his assailant. He’s breathing fast, through his mouth. There’s barely enough time to process before there’s wood, old, unyielding wood closing around his wrists, yanked up around his neck, catching on the bobbing knot in his throat, locking around him. There’s a heavy click, then a snap. Then there’s rope, yielding but not enough, around his ankles, between, fed under him through an eye in the board locked around his wrists– tightening, demanding, pulling his chest down to his knees, his heels under his tailbone. Then wrapped, slipped through, secured. He’s breathing hard.
His captor moves out of sight, and there’s the cold kiss of metal above his kidney. He whimpers as his clothes are cut away.
Eventually he closes his eyes because the sensation of sight is too much to bear.
The backs of nails whisper up the bottom of his cheeks to his hips, then the edges lightly dragged down again. Then a kiss, on each cheek.
A hand rummages between his thighs, pushing through, caging his balls, finding the softness of his cock, working them through, stretched tight by his thighs. The tip of his penis cradled between his achilles tendons. A caress on the tightened skin of his scrotum, hairs sensitive.
Then a slap on his left cheek, harder, harder, harder, again, again, again, a hand fists tight around his cock as it swells, straining against it as he gasps; moans and bites his lip as the heat spreads, deepens, impact almost turning into an itch, becoming harder and harder to bear. His erection fights, trying to move against the angle, the caging fist, and it can’t.
He grunts when it stops, all the nerves along his back humming in lines.
The presence behind him moves, starts spanking the other cheek, but starts more slowly, building gradually, until there is a steady, deep heat thrumming to the bone. A sigh slithers out of him when it ends, part regret, part relief. His cock twitches, thick and trapped between his heels.
Fingers work under the lip of the plug stretching his ass, pull, and he groans as he stretches around the flare. There’s no fingering, no testing, just the head of something being being pushed relentlessly in, and he revels in the feeling of being filled for no other reason than he is there to be filled, gasping, twitching as the hand twists it in. When he is tight and snug and stretched, it stops. He can feel his cock dripping down the arch of his foot.
Hands palm his body, the sting of his ass, the back of his thigh, his hip, his knee, his shoulder blades, his eyes, his mouth. He sees the clothes pins, knows where they will go.
Fingers wiggle between his chest and his knees, find the nubs of his nipples, let the mouths of the clothespins bite in. He moans, rocks. The pressure against his legs against his chest eases the piercing pain.
“Yellow,” he gasps. The blows stop, and there’s a pause. “Nipples,” he gets out. Legs straddle him, weight on his back. Fingers reach around and press the edges of the pins together, pulling them away and he chokes a dry, not-quite-sob before the fingers come in and press his nipples against his chest.
The weight on his back soothes him, pressing him down into the ground. His shaking eases after the pain. When he is still, after a few moments the fingers give an experimental twist. A hot, high, breathy sound comes out of him. The fingers massage, then tug. Then a thumb bites down against the knuckle of a forefinger, compressing, harder, harder, and he yells, jerking beneath the weight. The hand insists, holding the pressure as he twists, groaning. When he subsides into fast, short moans, the fingers let him go. They find his lips, go inside his teeth, and find his tongue, pinching it and gently and drawing it out. One clothespin goes on each side, pressing against the corners of his mouth.
A hand buries in his hair, pulling his head back, forcing the curve of his throat against the wood.
The low, steady burr of a vibrator. A thumb and forefinger push his foreskin back, and the vibrator touches his slit. He makes a sound like a screech, but continuing, building like the drone of a car. Massaging the head in slow, relentless circles, until its unbearable, unbearable, and he comes, his ass contracting around the shaft inside him. He feels come spurt slowly down the soles of his feet. His back spasms, pulling him against himself. He feels a hand settle on the handle of the shaft and start thrusting it in and out, and the vibrator presses against the hard spot behind his balls, too much sensation, splitting his mind open.
He is gibbering, hands grasping for air, rocking because he can’t move to get away from the overload. The vibrator travels up, traces the wet ring of his anus, moves under his tailbone and trails up his spine to press against the base of his skull, rattling his brain.
There is enough slack to crawl, and he looks up into the eyes, uncertain. They smile, and crook a finger.
After tallying my list of Disney scenes that tickled the sadist and dominant in me as a kid, I started thinking of other movies, and two that immediately came to mind incidentally both featured Kevin Costner. Then the list kept getting bigger.
- Dances With Wolves – When I was around three, I remember walking in on my dad watching Dances With Wolves at the moment Kevin Costner meets Stands With a Fist. I stopped, and I stared. “Why is she doing that?” I asked, or something like that. My dad said, “Her husband was just killed, and she’s very sad.” The image stuck in my head is that she was cutting the skin off her arms. I don’t actually know if that’s what she was doing, or if she was just generally cutting herself, but that was what stuck with me. I remember very distinctly being both disturbed and fascinated. Yet again, it’s an image that showed up continually in my fantasies growing up.
- Willow – Madmartigan in a cage, and then getting dragged half-naked behind a woman’s horse??? FUCK. YES. And then there was a bunch of pain involved in all the magical transformation.
- Star Wars: Empire Strikes Back – Han getting tortured. Oh my god. And Luke getting his hand cut off and looking all wan and sweaty.
- Star Wars: Return of the Jedi – Okay, I have to admit. Leia chained up in skimpy clothes. Also I always dug the chick with head tentacles who was the previous slave dancer.
- Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves – The scene where Will Scarlet is hanging from the dungeon ceiling with his chest all sliced up, the scene where it’s discovered he was tortured, and then at the end during the gallows scene he gets tied to a barrel and nearly beheaded. I still get off on the idea of guy tied in that position. I would also fantasize about torturing the Sheriff of Nottingham, because he was a bad guy, so it was obviously okay. (Skip to 2:12 for bondage and hanging).
- The Princess Bride — The MACHINE. Suction cups. Strapping someone to a table. Whimpering. Screaming. It is perfect. Except that it sucks that Wesley is now only going to live to middle age.
- James Bond: The World is Not Enough – The neck breaking chair! I fast forwarded just to watch this part SO MANY TIMES. At least until I started really getting into the shame as a teenager and would feel like I was so sick for wanting to see it over and over again. Yet another example of a sadistic woman being a bad guy and bat-shit-insane. I would rather I’d had more positive archetypes.
- Avatar – Does anybody else want to try out the bondage when Jake and scientist-lady are tied up? Also, the scene where Neytiri is holding Jake, and she’s physically bigger than him, and he is completely vulnerable, was incredibly powerful for me.
- Robin Hood – In the most recent Robin Hood movie (which I poisoned my brain with), there’s a scene where they’re all in the stocks, and talking about getting branded and flogged, and I was like YES. And then they escaped, and I was sad.