Open Women, Closed Men

NE shared an intriguing comment with me tonight. We were considering how women have actual sex together (not just foreplay or teasing). We discussed several of the possibilities and towards the end of the conversation I asked, ‘How would you have sex with SB?’ (SB is a close friend to NE and I and NE has been exploring the boundaries of this friendship over the last couple years – an exploration that had gone to some interesting places, but has yet to cross certain borders).

Bear with me, I am going somewhere with this.

I listened to her answer, which included going down on SB, and then asked, ‘How would you do that? Slide one of her legs over your shoulder?’

No, she replied. That’s something men think of. She leaned over, and said in a soft voice – as if passing on a secret, ‘Women like to be open. Spread and then feasted upon.’

Women like to be open.

In my mind, I’ve equated this openness with vulnerability. When I spread her thighs or tell her to do so, it is to let her know how accessible she is to me. I want her exposed and knowing it. But from her words, I now think there is something more to it then that.

I still think the idea of slipping a leg over the shoulder is erotic (such possibilities to nuzzle the thigh, nip at a calf, feel her heel dig into my upper back). But now I must consider where true consummation is found.

Front and Back

The last three questons I had NE submit to me.

3. What is your most favorite place on a woman’s body? (And I don’t mean the place that she likes the most…I mean what place makes you go crazy.)

Now this is a delicious question. I have to pick just one? It is all in the curves…

I am extremely fond of a woman’s neck. The lines of her throat, especially when it is tilted back, creating a gentle curve. It speaks of vulnerability. Submission. Wolves will go for the throat when establishing dominance within the pack (of course, they will also go for the throat when attempting to kill). The pulse is found there – teeth on bared skin, the heat of the heart tasted in a kiss.

Breasts are…quite nice. I love exploring those invisible strings between nipples and clit. Tugging on them with teeth and fingers, plucking a melody that has her writhing under me. Again, curves – small or large, breasts are beautiful.

I have found, on NE, that I have a particular fondness for legs. Drawing lines that start at the ankle and go to the top of her thighs. Hitting all the right spots – calves, just behind her knees, the smooth delicate space along her upper thighs. Mmmm.

But favorite? I’m going to have to say the small of her back. The curve that draws the spine down to her ass. It is an oasis, a place hinted at when she leans over and her shirt is drawn up over her back. Horizon is drawn by a gaze along a path to each cheek. Ah – her ass. Where reds can be teased to the surface with bites of hands or…canes, floggers, paddles, and any number of other gleefully evil implements at hand. But it is the path to here that is my favorite place. It links hips, where hands can grip while pressing her over my desk, to her ass, which I force into the air by drawing her back hard against me. The small of her back is where my fingers like to rest when I wrap my hands around her.

4. How difficult is it for you as a dominant balancing the desire to let go with someone physically and knowing that you have to be very self-controlled? And is that part of what makes it so great for you?

To be honest, I have difficulty letting go completely – so balance is not a real concern. At least, on the surface. I am quite sure that letting go completely once in a while would be good for me. I just haven’t had an opportunity/found the right person to do that with yet.

5. For total real…what is one thing that you haven’t done with a woman in a scene that you really want to do with her?

Something in public or semi-public. Sitting in a cab or limo with my hand under her skirt and fingers buried inside her pussy. Bending her over the sink in the men’s room of a restraunt. Fucking her up against the wall in a closet during work’s winter party. It’s one line, one naughty area, I haven’t really crossed yet. Once I do, I’ll find something else to take it’s place…

Bearing Fruit

Upon reading this, NE had this to say: “My darling master, your post was lovely…but you forgot the most important word. The word that actually put me down. ‘Concentrate’.”

So I did. Consider it included.

***

“Kneel.”

She went to her knees beside the leather ottoman I was sitting on. I reached over and removed the plastic wrap on the large fruit bowl sitting on my desk. Her eyes followed my hand.

“Let’s start with a grape.”

She leaned over, selected a large grape, and brought it quickly to my lips. I shook my head. “Too fast.” My fingers caught her wrist and I drew it back to the bowl. “Do it properly. There is no rush. You are making an offering to me.” I wanted to be clear. This was for my pleasure. She was merely the instrument of it.

She tried again, going slower this time. I parted my lips and bit into the grape. It was juicy, succulent. I gave her a small smile and nod. “Better, but still not quite right. Try a strawberry.”

Her hand trembled and it took her a moment to draw out the strawberry. The trembling spread to her arms and shoulders. By the time the strawberry had reached my lips, her entire body was shivering. I accepted the strawberry, enjoying the slightly sweet bite it carried.

There is a beauty in the naked form. An honesty of lines and curves. She had nothing to hide behind, and as she fed me cantaloupe, grapes, and strawberries, she slid deeper into a role her subconscious craved with a keenness that made her shake.

It was my pleasure that she feed me – and my pleasure to see her fed. I lifted a grape and brought it to her lips, feeding her from my own hands as she had done for me. She understood I would take care of her. In placing herself into my hands, she was trusting me with her body, mind, and soul.

I could be cruel. I could be kind.

I am often both.

“Enough. Stand.”

Having been on her knees for so long, she had difficulty drawing herself to her feet. Being in the slightly disorienting space of submission did not help matters. I lifted her up and indicated that she should follow me. We crossed the hallway to my bedroom.

My bedroom is simple. A bureau, a nightstand, a bed. Today, the bed was stripped of everything but black silk sheets. I pressed her onto the center of the bed and told her to close her eyes.

From the nightstand I drew out two leather cuffs. Lacking rope, I had been forced to be creative in how best to use them. A black pillowcase, cut in half and tied at one end to crimson silk would work in place of rope. The silk end tied to each leather cuff, and the black cloth of the pillowcase tied to the top posters of the bed.

I placed her wrists in the cuffs, fastening her hands up over her head. “I want you to test them. Pull on each hand slowly.”

This served two purposes: I wanted to make sure they would not come free over the course of the next hour. I also wanted her to know how strong the bonds are. There is understanding, and then there is knowing.

She tugged. The cuffs remained secure.

“Harder.”

She pulled harder – and the silk tied to the left cuff came undone. I retied it, making sure that to keep it tight.

“Again.”

She tried again. This time they held.

Now the real fun could begin.

Sell your soul?

I was going through some old letters and came across some rolled up parchments that I hadn’t looked at since I collected them last October. Halloween, to be exact.

Can you guess what I dressed up as for Halloween last year?

So, I have four or five contracts signing over the souls of several friends into my keeping. They came rather cheaply, as I recall. A massage, a sandwhich. A quickie in the bathroom.

Here’s my question: if you had to sell your soul – and for the sake of this excercise, you do – what is the one thing you’d want in return? (or at least comes close). It can be anything – mind-reading capability, prince charming, that nice hand-made doe-skin flogger you’ve had your eye on…

Me? A tavern. Something well-made, but broken in. Smooth oaken bars, solid wooden tables. Comfortable chairs. Lantern-bright. Good food (pretzels, shrimp, nachoes, pastachios). A couple of real pool tables, not those bar-sized ones. A dart board. Jukebox hooked to my music collection – I’ve got playlists that cover everything from sultly summer nights to jammin’ spring evenings. Microbrews, top-shelf liquor, and a decent wine collection (with a few really rare vintages for those special ocassions, such as, oh, every Friday night). A piano. Baby grand. Smoking blonde in a black dress to accompany it. Back-room with couches so those without designated drivers can sleep it off safely. Make the hours from four in the evening till whenever the last person leaves. Have it make just enough money to cover expenses.

And good friends to make it a home. Yeah. I’d sell my soul for that.

How ’bout you?

And now, a word from our sponsors…

Assuming new work responsibilities this week, which makes regular writing a tad trickier.

So instead of another illicit account of my bad behavior, here are some rather interesting thoughts on the role of women. Agree or disagree with her words, but do not ignore the fact that the dance between our sexes has only become more intricate with time, not less. As human beings we can treat each other with respect and honesty. As men and women we stand ready to employ whatever guile and tricks we may to win points when we can.

There will always be a balance of power, one men and women (as well as men and men, and women and women) will struggle over.

[audio:DangerousLiasons_WomenAreMoreSkillfull.mp3]
Marquise Isabelle de Merteuil and Vicomte Sébastien de Valmont, Dangerous Liaisons

Slave Bracelet

A couple of months ago, I asked NE to select a scene from a book that she would like to explore. She was quite reluctant – it is one thing, she said, to fantasize about something. Another thing entirely to experience it. Being the cruel man I am, I forced her to select one anyways.

Today, she acted it out.

***

My home office.

“I’m going to have you undress. Jewelry, first.”

She had on a lot of jewelry; all gold. Two earrings. A ring. Two necklaces.

“Now, your shirt.”

She started at the bottom, quickly undid the first few buttons.

“Slower. Take your time.”

A pause, and then she resumed; her fingers were more hesitant, but she tried hard to obey. The buttons fairly came undone just by being touched, making it difficult to slow the process. A moment later, the shirt hung open.

“Now slip it off. Place it on the chair.”

She rolled her shoulders back, letting the shirt slide free. Gathering it in her hands, she placed it over the arm of the large leather chair. I had her remove her shoes next, and then her skirt. A few minutes later, she was standing in just her black panties.

“Do you understand what I am doing?” I lowered my head slightly, watched the way she held herself. She has a tendency to want to clasp her hands behind her back. Quite often I have to remind her to keep her hands at her sides. “I want you naked.” Watched her breathe. “I want you bared, body and soul. I want you exposed.” I paused, “There is naked, and then there is naked.”

NE has two ways of giving it up to me. The first is an offering. This path is very fragile and I have to handle things just right for her to want to give it up without a fight. The second path is more direct, harsher – I take it from her. To force her to place herself in my hands. Both have their rewards, but the first path, although much harder on her, is what I wanted today.

“Now your panties.” There was no hesitation on her part; off they went and she stood naked in front of me. I let her feel the weight of my gaze for several seconds before reaching to the desk beside me and lifting a long silver chain. I settled this around her waist. My fingers lingered on her hips, but only for a moment. Patience is key; the feast would be later and I could wait.

Slave bracelet was next, on her left hand; silver and black beads along the top, chain around the wrist, attached by a ring slid onto the second-finger.

Details are important. She knew the weight of each piece of jewelry; knew that I was dressing her for my own purposes. People often forget the small things, believing that if they can achieve the larger picture, then they have suceeded. But the larger picture is made from the little things. It is the hint of cologne. It is the way the carpet feels when on your knees. It is the heat of fingers. All of this will fade into background noise when she goes under – but, and this is important – these details are what draw her down. Drowned in sensation, in particulars.

Next was something entirely new for us; a silver chain with nipple clips at each end. NE does not seek pain, but she does not shy away from it either. I ran my fingertips across her breasts slowly, taking my time to awaken the nerve endings. I knew how sensitive her nipples could be, and I enjoyed feeling them harden against my hands. Once ready, I attached a clip to each one. She didn’t flinch and I couldn’t hold back a small smile. My pet takes a lot of pride in how she deals with pain – but this went beyond that. She was withdrawing, becoming, descending. Believing.

Finally, the leather collar. I had let her try it on once before, a month ago. But this was her first time wearing it in a scene. I slid the leather over her head, drawing it close and buckling it. I made sure she could breathe, but kept it tight enough that she could not forget it was there.

She was almost ready.

Earlier, before I formally began the scene, she muttered that she had been too open with me the last few months, offering too much in the way of her fantasies – she had developed a false sense of security due to the length between scenes and, as she exclaimed, “You’re going to use it all against me!”

Damn right I was.

Context is Everything

I asked my dear friend NE to come up with five questions she would like to know about me. NE has known me for a long time and knows me better then…well, better then anyone else, and I was curious as to what she would ask. She sent me her questions the next day. I was not dissapointed. Here are the first two.

1. Why is it that you are uninterested in reading books like Sleeping Beauty or watching films like 9 1/2 Weeks?

Honestly? They just aren’t entertaining enough for me. In the case of 9 1/2 weeks, I’ve seen most of the movie in bits and pieces. Some very nice scenes, but it’s the pieces that are intriguing, not the whole. The Sleeping Beauty books? I’ve read passages, and again, some very interesting scenes. But the story doesn’t encourage me to keep reading.

In general, they just don’t excite me. People excite me. Human, real, naive, smutty, sinning, people. Acts, alone, just don’t cut it. I need to connect to the person, even if it is just an illusion I am connecting to. The people populating Sleeping Beauty and 9 1/2 weeks are there just to enact elaborate scenes of kink. Remember, I haven’t actually read or watched the entirety of either, so it is very probable that I have not given them a chance to come to life. But the glimpses I have seen have not managed to sink their hooks into me.

Let me offer those books and movies that are in the same vein but also manage to engage me.

Dangerous Liaisons: a movie whose erotic moments are character-driven. Vicomte Sébastien de Valmont’s manipulation of those around him is reprehensible, Machevellian, and utterly captivating.

Kushiel’s Dart: this book and the Sleepy Beauty books share a similar setting – a fantastical land wherein there is a culture that indulges in kink. The difference is in the characters; Phedre is a heroine. Sleeping Beauty…is not.

It’s also why I no longer read Anita Blake books. I love a well-written sex scene. But reading about sex between uninteresting people is like watching generic porn: good for just one thing.

Which doesn’t mean I won’t eventually read/watch them. I just need a bit of momentum before I tackle them (or I’ll stop half-way through).

2. How have your tastes changed in women (submissives) over the last few years from when you started? What would you really look for in one?

My tastes haven’t changed all that much in the last few years.

Subspace_1The largest difference is that as my relationship with my first submissive has grown, I have a better understanding of what I can expect from a serious long-term D/s relationship. In short, I’ve been spoiled. Overall, the things I want haven’t changed. I still want a creative, intelligent, challenging individual. She must have some confidence in herself. Being submissive does not mean being a push over. On the other hand, while a bit of stubbornness is, dare I say, almost endearing in that bratty-sort-of-way, rigid unreasoned thinking is not attractive to me. I expect my submissive to be willing to try new things – she must allow herself to be guided (nudged, pushed, driven, as I please) into areas she would not explore on her own. Above all, she must be dynamic; life changes, and we have to be willing to adapt.

What appeals to me in less serious relationships is both easier, and more difficult, to define. My craving to unravel the threads of people has often led me to explore niches and hidden places I would not otherwise have considered. Everyone is unique, and I love peeling away the layers to find the core of a person. The process differs with each person and there is immense enjoyment in testing the limits of each, finding what it takes to find the center.

Nothing In Life is Free (including this post)

Happiness, to me, is found in freedom. In being unburdened. In letting go.

At least, I wish it were that simple. I don’t want to let go of all attachments. My job pays for my house which keeps me relatively dry on most days and provides a home for my cats (I just stay here at their discretion). My friends keep me sane. My books and music keep me entertained.

So what I really mean to say, is happiness is freedom from concern.

With a submissive, this is a joy I grant them. I gently and roughly remove the weight of everything but me. I empty them of everything but their sense of self and fill those spaces with the echoes of my presence and words. I make them free, for those moments they are with me.

How does this dominant find this freedom? The easy, mundane, answer is this: I let go. One particularly effective mediatitve technique for relaxing the body is to imagine each muscle, tense it slightly to *know* where it is, and then relax it. Start at the bottom and work your way up to your head. Every muscle. Every place of tension.

Now apply this to your meeting next week. That bill you haven’t yet paid. Your friend who is sick. Find that feeling, experience it – and then let it go.

That is how I free myself.

Close Your Eyes

What do you see when you close your eyes, and you are alone in the dark?

When all else flees, but the quiet and the hunger. When you press aside everything that does not have to do with your need. When you remove the binds that hold you to everyday life and embrace the promise of the extraordinary. When you discard rules and lines, erase boundaries and constraints. When you strip off the faces you wear for everyone else and expose the naked truth of self underneath.

What do you see when you close your eyes?

When I close my eyes…

…I see you.

***

On your knees. Your head lowered, sensing but not seeing me – knowing I am standing in front of you, close enough to slide my fingers through your hair and grip you. You feel a sharp tug as fingers tense and draw your head back until you’re forced to look up into dark eyes.

But only for a moment. Because my fingers tighten further and your eyes close to absorb the shock of my sharp unyielding grip even as I use my free hand to draw a delicate line down the length of your bared throat.

I can see total release in the tension of your neck, your shoulders lowered just a bit in anticipation. I can feel the moment you let go and let yourself be caught in the building tide, swept hard against the walls I’ve placed to guide you exactly where I want you to go. I can feel you give in as I lift you and place you in a chair, blindfolding and binding you in place.

All is dark. Your hands are bound along the back side of the chair. And I have placed a female friend, a very beautiful, accomdating friend, on a chair facing away from you. She is close enough that you can feel her hair brush the back of your neck as she breathes.

You don’t struggle. Much.

Are those my hands pushing the skirt up your legs? Are those your thighs being parted?

Is that your leg resting over my shoulder?

Can you hear me do the same to her? The sharp intake of breath when my lips leave a trail of small wet kisses along the inside of her thigh until they reach the center?

Does it make you shiver to know she’s so close? To know what is being done to her? So close you can feel her shudder, feel the growing heat of her skin?

Is it hard to sit still, tied as you are, and hear the steady rustle of clothing, the surprised gasp?

To be continued…

“And how do you know when you’ve reached the edge…”

Another long post; I debated breaking this up into two parts to make it easier to read – but have come to the conclusion that I much prefer having you all suffer through reading it all at once.

I’ve kept these logs because they hold power for me. They are moments of enjoyment that I read every once in a while as a reminder. Like looking at old photographs – only better. Sentiment, fear, desire, envy. I can almost taste the sensations that slip between letters and fill the moments between action and response. I do hope some of this comes across to you as well.

A couple of notes: All conversations are at least two years old. All names are changed to protect the guilty. And the logs are editted, mostly to correct grammar/spelling mistakes and to condense the content to make them easier to read.

***

1-10-02

D’jaevle slowly draws his fingers up along your cheek, tilting your head back, his lips brushing across your skin. He parts his lips against your ear, teeth grazing, tugging lightly. Hands slip lower again, drawing you closer still. He leaves a trail of small kisses down your neck, moist and warm against your skin.

Elena leans back against him, her head turning to the side. She shivers, hands moving back to rub his sides. She tilts her head back, invitingly… mmms and her hands move to meet his at her waist, lacing with his fingers. She guides his hands upward, finally resting against her breasts. She slips her fingers from his and rests her hands on top, leaving them there and pressing down slightly.

D’jaevle curls his fingers along your breasts, pressing in slowly, palm rubbing upward as he draws you back against him. His breathing brushes along the back of your neck. He leaves one hand presses against your breast, his other dropping down to the edge of your gown, finding the warm flesh underneath. His fingers slide slowly up your thighs, pressing inward. He draws your nightgown up slowly, over your head, letting your bare skin rest against his. Enjoying the feel of you against him. Taking advantage of your body so close to his own, he slowly traces small moist kisses down across your shoulder, biting lightly. “Might I ask how you are attired this eve?”

Elena exhales deeply, her body tensing in excitement. Her hands drop limply to her sides, head heavy against his shoulder as she presses back against him. She closes her eyes again briefly, her breathing ragged. She pulls from him, turning herself around to face him, then presses her body fully against him again. She brings her hands up, draping one over his shoulder, the other moving up to trace a finger along the side of his face, admiringly. She leans against him, head tilting back again to rest against his shoulder. She lets out a soft moan of approval, nodding… “Just my nightgown, ready for bed. And what are you wearing?”

D’jaevle leans in against you, his hands around your waist, one knee pressed lightly against your thighs. His eyes slowly slip down over your body, tracing the naked curves. “Currently…black short jeans…black t-shirt…””

Elena grins, a mischievous look in her eyes. She slides her hands down roughly, over his shoulders, down his arms, then sides, finally resting them at his waist. Her fingers grip the fabric of his shirt, moving it out of the way to slide her hands underneath… pressing her palms against his bare chest and moving them upward, slowly.

D’jaevle smiles, watching your eyes, his skin warm against your touch. His own hands slide down your lower back, taking his time to trace the small of your back, along the curve of your ass. He presses you back, his chest close, enjoying the friction as his left hand slips just under your thigh, drawing it up slowly along his own leg, parting your legs. “Still think of that edge, the thrill of pushing lines?” His fingers slipping slowly down the edge of your ass, tracing the line to press lightly, feeling heat at the tip of his fingers.

Elena keeps her eyes fixed on his, hands moving down again help pull the shirt over his head. Her hands return to his sides, pressing her breasts against his chest, enjoying the warmth and shutting her eyes. A soft sigh of contentment. She nods. “At times… ” Her hands slide around to the front of his waist, fingers fumbling with the fastens. Her eyes open again to meet his, smiling gently. She works quickly, finally unfastening his jeans and pushing them off his hips, down until they fall to his feet. She draws him tightly against her, arms wrapping around him. She rests her head against his shoulder, moaning softly at the feeling of him against her skin.

D’jaevle steps out of the jeans. His fingers slide slowly deeper, pressing upward, lightly along the crevices where your legs meet your hips. His voice is soft near your ear, “I do like to push lines, just along the edge.” He curls his fingers tighter, gripping your ass just enough to draw you up against his knee as it slips between your thighs, his eyes on yours, “There always has to be an edge, a place to cut yourself.”

Elena shifts against him slightly, her breathing is ragged as she lightly brushes her fingertips up and down his back. She grins slyly and pulls her head up, leaning in slightly as her eyes lock on his, head tilted. She gasps at the feel of his knee, moving her hips against it. Her eyes narrow a bit, curiously… “And how do you know when you’ve reached the edge…”

D’jaevle draws his knee very slowly along the apex of your thighs, then deeper, rubbing a bit deeper, his teeth biting lightly on your shoulder, tasting the skin, “…when the temptation to go over will make you do almost anything.”

Elena groans softly, hands running up his neck and through his hair, caressing. Her head tips back and she shuts her eyes again, forcing her hips forward even more. “What if the temptation takes over… what if you want it to…”

D’jaevle hungrily tastes your neck, his tongue and teeth moving down your neck with a deliberate pace. Fingers press deeper, tips slick as his knee rocks up against you, pressed hard against you, “Then reluctance is overcome, the need to go over, to give in burns.”

Elena furrows her brow, breathing beginning to speed up. She growls wantonly, hands frantically moving over his back, pressing herself in time with his knee. Her words are separated by short gasps… “Have you… ever… been taken over by the temptation?” She wraps her arms around his neck, leaning in to keep her balance, knees beginning to shake as she trembles from the pleasure. She groans deeply, hips still moving with his knee…

D’jaevle matches your growl with his on low groan against your neck, breathing harsh against the skin. Hands draw you up, lifting you against his knee as he slides it, now slick, against you, faster, deeper, finding the heat, “…once…or twice…when the need for the edge, a touch, a voice, a taste…” He lowers you to the ground, keeping his knee against you, but slowly moving down your neck, your shoulder, small moist kisses across your chest, finding the curve, along the top of your breasts – a lick, a slow movement of tongue down over your nipples, eyes flickering to yours, “Have you?”

Elena rolls her eyes back with pleasure as he moves against her, briefly glancing back to meet his eyes… “Same… once or twice…” She growls again, one leg draping over him, hands reaching out to caress his hair. Her head drops back to the floor again limply, pushing her hips upward.

D’jaevle meets your eyes, “And…what caused you …to give in those times?” His fingers slide down lower, bending your knee and parting your thighs further, his knee pressed squarely between.” He smiles against your skin, his teeth drawing down on the edges of your nipple, tugging lightly, then just a bit harder. His fingers urge your back to arch, allowing deeper access as his legs entwine with yours.

Elena breathes heavily, head tilting back farther, back arching slightly… “Need… desire… when the temptation took over, there was no turning back.” She lets out a soft gasp, the tugging pleasurable. Her body shifts invitingly, legs rubbing against his.. her hands caressing his hair, gently pressing him against her breast.

D’jaevle suckles slowly, his tongue slipping lower, down along your skin. His fingers continue to draw up your knee, eyes flickering to yours, and then down, kissing the top of your knee, fingers tickling the inside of your thigh, slowly, like a slow brush across sensitive skin. He takes his time, nibbling lightly, fingers curved to brush the inside of your knee; his eyes move to yours, catching your gaze – and then the slow pressure of lips down your thighs, each kiss light – moist and burning into the skin.

Elena mmms, squirming at his touch against her thighs, giving her goosebumps. She lifts her head to watch him, parting her legs more, muscles tensing with anticipation. She shivers with each kiss Her neck begins to get weak from the intensity, her head falling back to the ground again with a low moan.