Tuesday, October 6, 2009

The Healing (warning; disturbing content involving child abuse)

The sky above her head was Brilliant. Blinding. Blue. Her eyes in mine brown and golden and green. Seelie Eyes.
The Seelie-Eyed Grrl held my eyes in hers. Rascal behind me in the clear late summer sky, holding my head, my hands, stroking my face, my breasts, murmuring sweet words of encouragement and praise.
And Seelie between my legs. My legs open and afraid and lost in childhood memories, stored deep within the tissues of my legs, my pussy holding onto events from oh so long ago.
For fifty years I have sought, without knowing, a woman to hold me in love. To hold me in this tender place, my vulnerable child crying hysterically.
Rascal stroking me with his voice and his hands and Seelie between my legs. The masculine to hold me, the feminine to love me.

Two fingers. Three fingers. Four fingers. Fist me. Fist me. Fist me.

Blinding intense pain. A Physical Pain. An Emotional Pain unleashed in the memory/ in the rememory that fills the little girl, strapped to the kitchen table. The cold grey formica against her back, the mommy holding the child down with her strong hand, her face contorted in her drunken insanity, in her rage. Shoving objects into the little girl, screaming at the little girl, IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT? A broom handle. IS THIS WHAT YOU WANT? A rolling pin. TRAMPWHORESLUT! Her hand.

My back is arched so high I can see into his eyes. I see that he is weeping silently, tears running down his face, as Rascal holds my hands and holds the space for this healing. And Seelie's right hand deep inside me, reliving her own traumas with the feminine, sobbing.

And suddenly, I come back to myself, to the now of this scene here on the lawn at Summer Camp, my first fisting in 50 years. I am gasping with the intensity of the pain. Let me breathe you out, I beg, and she does.
Her hand from my vagina, her hand is blood-streaked, and we are both crying. I hold her as she holds me and Rascal holds me and we hold Rascal, and we rock together in the surrender of all women everywhere who have been hurt by another woman. All women who have hurt another woman. All the girl children who have been hurt, and all the boy children who have watched feeling helpless.

As an adult, I have done tremendous amounts of work to understand the memory, to accept and learn from it, to exorcise it. And everything I have learned about myself, about my childhood, about my mother, is suspended in this aftermath of this extreme surrender.

In the aftermath of this extreme surrender, the feminine, the masculine, and the child, together on a blanket in the sun, holding each other...Seelie and Rascal and dangerous in the space of our own and collective healings, from the physical tissues to the emotional vulnerabilities to the space of no-thing, no-judgment, no praise, no condemnation.

Nothing except the feminine, the masculine and the child, sleeping under a brilliant, blue, late summer sky.

Sunday, October 4, 2009

Sugasm #174


Veronica Zemanova courtesy of Bad Girl’s Hotbox.

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #175? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks
5 things I have learned from customers last week at the adult store
“Attractive men typically buy the freakiest toys on the market.”

Doctor’s Visit
“Reach back and spread your cheeks for me”

Voyeur
“Recently it was in a more public venue.”

Sugasm Editor
Freebies

Editor’s Choice
A Race to the Finish

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

Erotic Writing & Experiences
An Afternoon With The Ex
Being a Stranger, Being Fucked rough
Conditioner
Designated Cock
The Display
The Fantasy And The Reality
Gloved
I Just Want to Watch
Killer Heels - Red Satin Skirt
My G-Spot does exist- HER perspective
Library Offences
Nothing is sacred
Staying After Class
Sunday
Teachers Pet

NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
24/7 BDSM
Danielle Lloyd Topless and All Nude For Nuts - September 2009
Handcuffs
Spanking High Impact!
Spanking in the workshop
Strapped on her bare ass!!!
Veronika Zemanova
When The Sunflowers Bloom (HNT)

BDSM & Fetish
Be Careful What You Wish For
In the Dungeon with dangerous: Notes from Dark Odyssey Summer Camp
Knife Play
Lessons Learned (2/2)
The Long Awaited Demo
The M/s Relationship~Fact or Fiction
More Fun with Clothespins
Sub space and sex before bed
Thing
Wake Up

Sex Advice
Bareback sex = better sex?
How to Give Your Woman an Orgasm during Intercourse
Trans girl sex: I’m a clumsy asshole

News, Reviews & Interviews
20 Questions With Courtney Trouble
Lelo Gigi
Tres, Dos…nah, Uno

Thoughts on Sex & Relationships
Cyber
Sex with Dopey
Without any choice in the matter.

Friday, September 25, 2009

In the Dungeon with dangerous: notes from Dark Odyssey Summer Camp

He had been in the dungeon before, but never with dangerous. His first experience subbing for Angel left him hungering for just a little more. He got cold, nakkid in the dungeon, strapped to the St Andrew’s Cross. He was shivering, he explained earnestly, that’s why he cried "red."

Arjuna, this sweet earnest loving magnetic dancer man, has been a friend and colleague of mine in the Sacred Sexuality world for years. We trained together to learn to channel sacred erotic energy, and have been on many retreats together. He has held me when I’ve cried about one lover or another, and I have held him when he has been uncertain, confused.

But a dungeon date with Arjuna was breaking entirely new ground.

Arjuna and I were lying on my bed at Dark Odyssey Summer Camp, aka, sex camp. We were connecting, cuddling, planning his next descent into sub-space. Our long friendship demanded authenticity from each of us, and we wanted to stretch this power and surrender play into an erotically charged sacred sexual experience.

When in surrender, dangerous totally dissolves. She is Present in her vulnerability. And when in power, dangerous rears her Beast and rides that Beast with almost total abandon.
This is what Arjuna wanted of dangerous…to ride her Beast, riding him. To knit together the submission, the breath, and erotic charge of surrender, and to take Arjuna on that ride.

“Take me where you go” he whispered into my heart, into my eyes, into my gut. Into my Beast.

SHE began to stir within me, this Beast. SHE began to stir and dangerous felt the stirring deep in her gut and lower. Pussy tingling with desire to feel this man’s flesh beneath HER strength. To push this man into real and complete surrender.

SHE takes him by the hand, and leads him to the ladder. SHE has no hesitation. SHE undresses him, this man once called arjuna, SHE pulls his pants down, and leaves them there, part of the submission. SHE blindfolds him with a silk scarf, and binds his cock with yellow silk cord. SHE watches as he resists the binding, and SHE ties his balls as well. SHE uses hemp rope on his wrists, a simple knot, but oh so effective, and secures each wrist to the ladder. He squirms and dangerous lays her body against him on the ladder.

“Do not move,” SHE hisses into his left ear, and his body stills.

In the place between in-breath and out-breath, dangerous coaches this man once called arjuna; where to place his breath, where to place his intention, and they begin this wild ride, this erotic sensation play, this roller coaster of pleasure and pain.

SHE stands behind him, him tied securely on the ladder, his pants around his ankles, sightless, immobile, he waits.

SHE strikes with a sudden fierceness, that first blow. It’s a deerskin flogger, and SHE wields it mightily. It makes a thunderous clap and snap against his flesh, and he is startled, crying out, and SHE reaches out to him again. And again, and again. At times the fingers of the flogger just grazing his shoulders, his gorgeous ass. At times laying into his flesh like a ravenous beast, which of course, SHE is.

He wanted to meet HER, he invited HER in. And he was not disappointed.

There are times when dangerous forces HER to step aside. When dangerous checks on HER boi, caresses his ass so red from HER ministrations. Dangerous rides HER and this thrills dangerous. Dangerous is sweating in her leather and her red fluevogs, her hair loose and wild and free, her cunt filling with desire for this boi, and for HER, the Beast dangerous rides to take this man once called arjuna to this place of surrender and bliss.

Dangerous is breathing him, this boi, through his chakras; breathing him, in-breath, out-breath, and as pain surrenders to pleasure and the breath carries this exquisite pleasure throughout their bodies, SHE steps forward, roughly shoving against dangerous, and dangerous steps aside, smiling at HER, giving way to HER need, HER fury.

SHE pulls the horsetail flogger out, the one that matches HER hair, and lightly soothes his back with it. He purrs against that sensation, he relaxes into it, he surrenders. And SHE stands poised, flogger in her hands, hands high above HER head, gathering the power, allowing the energy to build in HER hands, waiting until he is ready. Waiting until his body wants it, asks for it, demands it, pleads for it. And into that place of want SHE strikes, quickly and powerfully as a black bear, HER claws extended, SHE rakes the horsetail across his back, his shoulders, his butt, his thighs.

He begins to cry, great racking sobs, and SHE is relentless. Dangerous caresses him, breathing him, spreading the energy, but SHE beats him. And he cries.

SHE taps his balls with HER hand, SHE grabs his cock, SHE fucks him with HER thigh as dangerous whispers loving encouragement, words of praise and admiration for this boi, so courageous as to invite HER to play with him.

Please he said, I am cold. SHE suspects he wants to divert attention from his cock, from his balls, but dangerous lovingly pulls up his pants. And SHE takes over again, pushes dangerous aside and bites his shoulder in that sweet vulnerable place just below his scapula, his angel wings, SHE takes his flesh into her teeth and it is all dangerous can do to keep HER from tearing that flesh triumphantly, tearing it from his body in a victorious cry of the warrior goddess SHE is.

But dangerous says no. “No” to HER who does not respond well to no, and dangerous prevails.

And then it is over. Over for dangerous. Over for this man once called arjuna.

As dangerous unties our boi, as she dresses him, as she leads him to a safe quiet place, his friends gather round him, around dangerous as well, and hold them carefully lovingly and tenderly, as dangerous takes him on a journey of breath, whispered instructions, as they breathe, and then the oh so quiet stillness of sub-space. He is drifting contentedly, dangerous drifting as well in the victory of having once again unleashed HER, ridden HER to this power place. The power of HER energy still flowing,

And dangerous turns to him and her intense desire acts freely. Dangerous poises over his face and when he sniffs her, she lowers her cunt onto his eager mouth. He is licking her cunt, sucking her clit. She cums, her squirt running down his face, forming a puddle on the cloth. She is sucking him and nibbling on him and she finds a condom and suddenly is riding him. His cock deep inside her, and dangerous cums again.

Dangerous is beside him, and the others as well: Seelie and Sage and Rascal on top, all kissing and licking and sucking and biting this beautiful man made more beautiful, beatific in fact, from his encounter with HER and they love this man back to Arjuna and he cums at last; a sweet stream of cum, his gift to HER and SHE finally surrenders to his cum, licking it from his cock, from his stomach where he has sprayed it. It is full and thick and white and sweet and oh so warm.

And SHE joined dangerous again and we drifted into that place of nothing and everything.

Later, a sip of water, a few sweet hello kisses, and we gradually disengaged, gathered our things, and returned to my bed, where I held Arjuna and he held me, and we slept together until long past dawn.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Sugasm #173


September 21st, 2009 by Vixen | Updated: September 21st, 2009

HNT courtesy of Secrets of a Blue-Eyed Vixen.

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #174? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks
Dressing Room Voyeur
“I caught his gaze this time, on purpose.”

It’s Always the Quiet Ones…
“So grabbing her hips, I pulled her in for a kiss.”

Behind Closed Doors
“Others had watched, she beat me, brought me to tears, held me and then began to untie me.”

Sugasm Editor
The Mouse Drama

Editor’s Choice
Let the Rain Come

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

Sunday, September 13, 2009

The Accidental Orgy



I was making out with The Red Headed Boy at the Birthday Party. We had already eaten our dinner, and served the cake.


Snake’s Hand: Here’s a tale to tell, although it is not central to this story. Tales like this are known as snake’s hands (with a quiet namaste to John Crowley). They aren’t so necessary to the telling of a story, but add something to the atmosphere. Like background music.

So my lover Rascal had a Birthday recently, and The Seelie Eyed Grrl and I gave him a party. We schemed and planned and shopped and cleaned and decorated and cooked and at 8 o’clock, the guests arrived. We served wine and near beer and soda and seltzer. Then dinner out on the verandah. Brisket burgers (The Butcher has a crush on me and grinds it for me specially. That’s a snake’s hand itself, all wrapped up within a snake’s hand…), and sashimi and grilled asparagus and all the rest. Everyone was happy and everything was going real nice. Smooth.

The mosquitoes crashed our little soiree around 10 or so, so we headed inside. Up the stairs to the play room, and the party suddenly got interesting.

Seelie and I began teasing Rascal, taking off his clothes, stealing kisses and grabbing his crotch while the guests lounged about urging us on. We laid Rascal in a bed of whipped cream, and placed the cakes and icings out all over his body. Raspberries and chocolate nibs decorated the icings decorating the cakes decorating his gorgeous body. And the guests were invited to eat the cake off our serving platter.

No forks of course.

Well, not surprisingly, people started to remove their clothes. After all, chocolate butter cream icing is yummy on cake, even better on Rascal’s left nipple, but not too cool on a white silk blouse, or new leather pants.


It was after the cake, as I was saying. I was making out with The Red Headed Boy. He is a really good kisser, but his whiskers were a little rough on my tender chin. When I came up for air, I noticed other couples were making out as well.


That’s when I got it, “Everyone thinks we’re going to have an orgy!”


I am a little slow sometimes. We were mostly nakkid, some of us still covered in chocolate butter crème and raspberries, making out to really hot music. Yep we were about to have an orgy.


We took a five minute break to discuss boundaries, STI history and testing results, etc. One of our friends decided to leave. I don’t think she was really ready for an orgy. We helped her find her things and kissed her good-bye.


We had lots of lube and condoms and gloves. Rascal offered to stick his dick in me, banishing my fear (“What if no one wants to fuck me?”). The Red Headed Boy was fingering The Seelie Eyed Grrl, and Rascal was playing with her breasts as he fucked me. I had someone’s dick in my mouth—I think it was The Other Guy. The Other Guy’s date was doing something with someone, I wasn’t sure exactly what was happening, but I heard it when she came. That girl has some mighty vocal cords.


Folks began making sleeping nests around 3 am, seeking the comforts of pillows and blankets and each other. The Seelie Eyed Grrl and I snuggled one on either side of the Birthday Boi and we settled in.


The energy was running high, and I watched the sky becoming more and more bright, as dawn snuck around the corner. My hand was in my pussy, middle finger making smooth lazy circles around my clit, more for comfort than for orgasm. I finally drifted away in that majjic hour when what has been is more real than what may be, and no one would believe it anyway.



This is not a Snake’s Hand, but an aside:

Everyone has concerns about orgies. EVERYONE. It’s the logistics, not the moral question that gives most people pause.

Men worry, What if my dick gets shy, won’t show up? What if I’m not as skilled as the other guys? What if no one wants to fuck me?

Women worry, What if I am the fattest woman in the room? What if I don’t get off? What if no one wants to fuck me?

And everyone worries … do I have razor burn? How’s my breath? Is there’s a zit on my ass? What if no one wants to fuck me?

Here’s my advice about orgies: Once you’ve decided to play, once you’ve discussed sexual histories and you have discussed your boundaries with each other, turn off your head. Fall into the pleasure, Follow the pleasure. In breath. Out breath. Fall into the pleasure, Follow the pleasure. The rest will follow.

Friday, July 10, 2009

Sugasm #169


Jenny McClain courtesy of Badgirl’s Hotbox.

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #170? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form. Participants, repost the link list within a week and you’re all set.

This Week’s Picks
Clothespin Communion
“Surrender to the sensation.”

Remembering the Pain
“And it really was that bad.”

Short And Sweet
“Why don’t you turn over”

Sugasm Editor
Fetish Fridays: Financial Submission

Editor’s Choice
Belonging

More Sugasm
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Thursday, July 2, 2009

Clothespin Communion

His face was intent, intense, as he led me to the chair. I could call him Angel, he said.
But no angel would do what he planned to do to me.

Hemp rope. The earthy raw smell of hemp rope. The smooth roughness of hemp rope. He made a game of it, dragging the rope across my skin, staring into my eyes the entire time. I began to trust this stranger, the man called Angel.

He tied my wrists, right hand first. I watched him passively, now already nearly his, I released. Gave mySelf over into subspace.
He secured my ankles, my thighs, my upper arms. He bound my breasts so tightly to the chair that I could barely breathe. Yes. This is what I wanted, what I needed.

It was my turn.
Trust.
Surrender.
Trust.

I was in the chair, spread eagle, my body exposed, my pussy exposed. Some gawkers stopped, some moved on. One guy watched, masturbating.
Watched the man called Angel as he topped dangerous. This man I had followed compliantly into this dungeon. This man I had never met before who promised nothing, and eventually delivered everything, or at least enough. Yes more than enough.

What are your safe words? He asked
Yellow, Sir, to slow down, check in. Red means stop.

He looked deeply into my eyes. He pinched my nipples, already sore and bitten and bruised, and clamped them with a pair of clothespins. I recoiled from the pinching, the searing, burning and then at last relaxed into the blessed numbness.

He stroked me so lovingly that for a brief moment I forgot that I was in his power. And then he reminded me.
A clothespin on my left outer labia. Such a tender crushing caused me to clench my legs against the bindings. Then breathe it in. Surrender to the sensation.
A clothespin on my lower lip. Exquisite, constant pressure.
A clothespin on my right outer labia. I’m moaning now. The Watcher increases his stroke.

The man called Angel decorated my entire body with clothespins: the soft tender flesh where my arms bend in toward my body, the rigid nails on toes and fingers, folds and pinches of skin and nerve endings wherever he could find them. And he found many. Each clamping required a bit more letting go, a deeper and deeper sinking.
I counted 6 clothespins buried in my left breast, and could not force myself to look at the right breast. I could not see anything anymore. I’d lost track of the Watcher. All I could see were his eyes. The eyes of the man called Angel.
The clothespins on my labia were tied together somehow, and he made them flap by pulling a string. This sent electric pulses throughout my pussy, waves of pleasure throughout my body. I felt safe, beautiful, admired, and cared for in an extreme way. I rode this pleasure, surfing the orgasm, which seemed at once so very close and so very far away.

He offered me his dick, large and soft and pliant and I begged him wordlessly to place it in my mouth. I looked up into his eyes and tickled the head of his dick with my tongue. I tongue fucked his dick, sucking deeply as he pulled in and out of my mouth. His dick was at that beautiful stage where I could still take him entirely into my mouth. His dick was rubbing up against that spot in my mouth just behind my upper teeth, that spot that feels like a g-spot to my tongue and responds like a g-spot in my body. I was very wet and he was slamming in and out of my mouth, and pulling the clothespin string which sent me into paroxysms of pleasure and pain.

I felt his energy shift, gather, as he prepared to come, and then he did. His salty semen spraying into my mouth. I held it and his cock in my mouth, swirling my tongue gently over him. And when he began to remove the clothespins, he kissed me, and I shared the gift of his cum with the man called Angel.

The tenderness of the kiss, the energy of the cum, and the jolting return of sensation when the clothespins were removed were intensely powerful. I lost track of myself , and then he began to lick my pussy. My pussy wet and slick with want. He licked and licked and licked my pussy wet with longing. He pulled and sucked my clit until, finally and with reckless abandon, I tumbled over that edge. Leaving behind simply surfing the pleasure, riding the pain, the bobbling on the edge….I plunged into the sea of this orgasm, and then that one. And then the other, while he licked me and sucked me and drank in my cum.

And in my release I wept. I sobbed as he released my chest harness, then untied my feet and finally my hands. He cradled me closely to his body, murmuring to me sweet words of loving comfort, as I cried.

He dressed me carefully and led me to a bench under the stars.

He held my face between his hands, his right thumb gently wiping a stray tear from my cheek and finally spoke, “What makes you think you are so dangerous?”
What???
“Why do you call yourself dangerous?” he whispered.
I don’t call myself dangerous, Sir. It is the tops that call me dangerous, I sob.
“Why would a Top call a sweet crying grrl dangerous?” he pushed….
It’s because they fall in love with me, Sir.

My tear stood poised on his right thumb. The man called Angel looked into my eyes, and licked his thumb.