Monday, December 17, 2012

The Most Romantic, Sexiest Thing I've Read This Week

I'm as guilty of it as anyone.

When I don't feel sexy--don't feel attractive, don't have the energy, don't feel right in my own skin--I don't want to have sex. More often than not, this really is a case of "It's not you; it's me." It's me whom I'm unhappy with in those moments and has little to do with my partner. I don't like my weight. I don't like my skin. I don't like my hair. I don't like that creeping feeling of blah dragging me under.

And, for the most part, I think that's completely legit. I don't think one should have to have sex when they aren't feeling sexy. And, perhaps, I tend to take it for granted, seeing that I have a demanding libido that tends to kick my ass back out of its funk fairly quickly. But a part of me does recognize that that feeling, more so than anything about my size, skin, hair, or life, is the ugly part.That the indulgent irrationality of it hurts not just my partner, but me as well.

So when I read this article, it really made me think:

If She Can Do It...

Friday, December 7, 2012

Even If I Say It, Don't Stop - Part Two

Inline image 1
The Framework of Fantasy 
– Part Two
Read Part One Here

Read the rest of "The Framework of Fantasy" in this amazing anthology from Cleis Press!

Whether you're simply curious about submission or regularly revel in the delights of BDSM, these sixty-nine erotic short stories about submissives will turn you on! From participating in a musical recital that takes a very kinky turn to making a grocery run while using sex toys to indulging in a risqué office encounter during working hours, these subs delight in obeying (or deliberately disobeying) their masters and mistresses in public and in private. They're rewarded and punished the most wicked of ways that will leave you breathless. Edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel, with stories by Selena Kitt, Jade A. Waters, Dorothy Freed, and Sommer Marsden, among other talented writers, The Big Book of Submission, Volume 2 offers arousing tales that delve deep into the thrills of spanking, bondage, power dynamics, service, exhibitionism, erotic adventure, and much more.


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Thursday, December 6, 2012

When That Lovin' Feeling Fades

It's a favorite topic of mine. I've done far too much research on it. From the Diplozoon paradoxum, parasites who smush themselves together until nothing of one exists that isn’t at least in part part of the other--sadly the only proven monogamous creature in existence--to evolutionary biological theories on the size and shape of the human "plunger penis" that claims we're designed to cheat.

It's a reality that's very hard to deny, that the love and romance that stories have promised us since our Disney-filled childhoods...don't last forever after. That love too often ends. That passion inevitably fades. That we aren't built or wired for the kind of love so many of us long for.

Do enough research and it's hard to remember why one would seek love at all, given marriage failure rates and the rise of the cheating culture. Somewhere between our days of playing princess and adulthood, the dream of monogamy, marriage, and love have become such depressing topics. So often it feels as if, as Kate McKay said, that "maybe that whole love thing is just a grown-up version of Santa Claus; just a myth we've been fed since childhood. So, we keep buying magazines, joining clubs, and doing therapy and watching movies with hit pop songs played over love montages all in a pathetic attempt to explain why our love Santa keeps getting caught in the chimney."

So, yes, it was nice to read an article about the topic that didn't seem defeatist, didn't seem to roll over and accept the death of the dream. Didn't just assume that we're creatures of impluse and hormones without will over our biological wiring. That instead offered hope strengthened by hard work and dedication. That threw out the thought that a dream held since childhood is a dream worth at least a little effort before calling it quits.

New Love - A Short Shelf Life

Monday, December 3, 2012

Tie Me Up, Please - Part Two

One Man's Treasure – Part Two
Read Part One Here
 I thought it would be fun to release this back history story. This is Max's first real kinky experience long before Show Me, Sir ever took place. Hopefully, it can give you a little perspective on how she became who she is. Please, enjoy.

Ah, yeah. His heart skipped and his cock jerked. He was panting. And he didn’t care. He shuddered at the thrill of a playfully wicked woman wielding her weapon at his helpless form. His body tugged against his bonds, feeling the chair waver without giving.

Max pulled at his shirt’s collar, fisting the material in one hand, forcing him forward. He tipped his head back, baring his neck, as she brought the scissors down. He wished he could see it as it slipped beneath the worn, white cotton but, from this angle, all he could do is picture it in his head. He imagined he could feel the cold of the steel against his skin. The slightest prick of the scissors’ point at his throat. 

He hissed and tensed as he heard the squealing, metallic scratch as the scissors sliced through his shirt. He looked down at the small slit as Max laid aside the scissors. He groaned as she gripped the two sides of the rip in her tight fists before yanking, rending his shirt in half. His chest heaved as she bared him. His back bowed as awareness—a heightened rush—hit him.

“Better,” she mused as she ran her hands—just the hint of her nails—down his chest. “Definitely better.”

“Miss Fair Play,” he grunted out as her fingers dipped just beneath the elastic of his gym shorts, “how about a little turnabout?” 

She smiled and nodded concedingly before she lowered onto all fours. Crawling up his legs, she straddled his thighs. Her hot core settled and rubbed against his hardening cock. He groaned as her hips dipped, pressing herself harder against him, fitting their bodies tightly. 

She caught his gaze, holding it daringly. “Don’t look down,” she purred as she reached for the hem of her shirt. 

Oh, that was mean. 

He grinned as he steadfastly locked his gaze on hers. Even as the hint of bared flesh teased his periphery, he kept his eyes up. Almost out of his vision, he could see the tempting flash of soft, round tummy. The decadent dip of her navel. Dear God, the rise of her full, lush, stacked breasts. 

The nipples got him. He was fine until those pink nipples, flushed a deep rose, peeked out from beneath the rising material, drawing his gaze magnetically down. He couldn’t help it. 

Maybe he was weak.

She laughed as she tossed her tank top aside. “You’re so easy.”

Was that better or worse than weak?

And did it even matter when her perfect breasts were all but in his face?

He leaned forward—pulled his form almost painfully taut—to capture one nipple in his mouth. He suckled her as she wriggled over his lap. He was switching to the other when she began skinning off her shorts and panties. But he barely got his lips around the sweet bud before she pulled out of reach, discarding the cloth in her hand with a quick flick over her shoulder. He pouted, disappointed, until he felt her hands skimming his shorts down. With a relieved sigh, he lifted his hips. 

His whole body jerked as she freed his semi-hard dick. She smiled as she wrapped her hand around him. He moaned as her warm hand squeezed. She stroked him, slow and sweet. Teasing him with it as she stared into his heated gaze. With slow deliberateness, she leaned down to take him into her mouth, watching him watch her.

She sucked him deep into her mouth, laving him with her tongue. He lifted his knee slightly to press against her hot, damp pussy, making her moan around his shaft—a sound he could feel deep in his gut. She gyrated against him, grinding her clit and slick lips into his knee.

His back arched as he let his head fall back onto the chair’s densely stuffed cushion. Ah, damn, it was good. She was good. The feel of her mouth on his cock was mind-robbing, a lick of fire against his senses. God, he wanted to grab her head. Wanted to bury his fingers in those fiery strands and move her. Faster. Harder. Wanted to hold her to him. 

His wrists wrenched against his bonds, begging for freedom. His body pulled the chair millimeters forward, dug it deep into his back. “Max,” he grunted, the sound a guttural plea. “Max.”

She gave him one last, long suck, pulling every thought and feeling in him down with every move of that delectable mouth. Then she released him, making him cry out in a maddening mix of relief and disappointment as she left him.

And then she was there, sliding a condom on him. It shouldn’t have been so exciting. The act itself so perfunctory and matter-of-fact. A necessary and ordinarily ordinary task. Done with more haste than seduction. But, because it meant an end, a release—his release—every touch felt like a caress.

And, when she finally lifted herself over him, coming to kneel over his lap as if it were an altar, he whispered husky words of gratitude like prayer. Her wet pussy gripped him as she sank his cock deep inside her. Her arousal like molten lust as he thrust his hips up in grateful, greedy greeting.

His fingers dug into the cheap carpet’s shag as she rode him, her slick sheath so tight as her strong legs lifted her up and down on his willing body. He bucked beneath her too but, bound, he could only move so much. 

It should have been restricting. Frustrating. 

But, instead of wishing the ties away, Rob felt as if they heightened everything. Made him forget about finesse or impressing Max with moves or positions. Took him—as a lover, an actor—out of the equation. So used to fucking a woman, he was now being fucked. Those simple strips of cloth were making him face his pleasure. No holds. No bars. No responsibility. No control.

Pure freedom.

Pure pleasure.

With an almost painful cry, he came. Without choice. Without will. Without mercy, his climax ripped through him as he arched against the heavy, unmovable chair.

Incapable of thought for long moments, he just breathed, letting the intense sensations flow through him. He had never come so hard. Never felt so replete. He’d never felt so supremely satisfied.

She hadn’t come though. He regretted that. Or would. When he could think again. He’d make it up to her. Later. When he could remember how to move. 

She’d done this for him. He knew that. She’d likely gotten little more than a crazy college-sex story. She hadn’t even climaxed. But, while no big deal for her, she had made his fantasy come true; he owed her at least an orgasm. 

Or forty. 

If she’d let him. 

Rob twitched as he felt Max reach for one of his wrists. Languidly, he turned to watch her untie his now stiff limbs. He shuddered as she rubbed at the now raw, marked skin where the ties had pulled tight. “Doesn’t that hurt?” she asked as she laid a gentle kiss just above the slightly bruised skin.

He shook his head. “A little sore,” he admitted, flexing his other arm as blood rushed freely again. A little sore, sure, but so worth it. He was going to make it up to her. Was going to show her how much he appreciated it. Appreciated her. 

He should find a way to do the same for her, to return the favor. 

He wanted to be worth the effort. Because—whatever she asked—this was worth it.

So he wrapped his still stiff arms around her, cuddling her close. He kissed the top of her head, the soft, vibrant strands tickling his face. “So,” he asked her, his voice still raspy with slated lust, “what’s one of your fantasies?”

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Tie Me Up, Please! - Part One

One Man's Treasure 
– Part One
I thought it would be fun to release this back history story. This is Max's first real kinky experience long before Show Me, Sir ever took place. Hopefully, it can give you a little perspective on how she became who she is. Please, enjoy.

Rob Temple stared at Max Wells as she fingered the ties and handkerchiefs laid out on his bed. Just a sophomore in college, Max had more self-possessed confidence than he—even as her algebra TA—could ever claim. She was a force. As an English major, math should have been, if not a struggle, at least an unnatural state for her. But, like everything in her life, Max took one look at that obstacle and conquered it.

Made it her bitch, really.

It was what had drawn him to her instantly. That surety. That cocky swagger. It looked damned fine on a woman. Especially one as curvy and lush as Max.

He let his gaze travel every peak and valley of her body as she paced his tiny, rather bare and bland efficiency apartment bedroom, looking as out of place as a piece of fine art in...well, a rather bare and bland efficiency apartment in the cheap housing side of campus. 

A fiery redhead to the core, she was a fantasy. Practically a fetish come to life. Ample breasts hidden beneath a thin, wash-worn, green tank top. Comfy sleep shorts hugged weighty hips. A fall of autumn-colored hair spilled over her milk-pale, smooth back. While built strong and sturdy—he never had to worry about breaking or hurting her—she was still so soft, a sweet handful everywhere. 

And on top of all that, woman had a mouth. Sometimes sharp and scathing, ready for a debate or a dressing down—he’d seen her make tenured professors break out in a cold, yet excited sweat. In a kiss, those lips could devour; hungry and hot, they could ignite a response inside that he’d never experienced with another woman. And just the memory of her mouth going down on him, wrapped so wet and tight around his dick, brought a sweeping grin to his face and made his head a little dizzy. 

For a man like him, yes, Max Wells was a dream.

“You want me to,” she hedged as she picked up a powder blue satin tie, “do what to you with these?”

She could do this.

She was made to do this.

Spunky, take-charge, take-no-crap Max was perfect for this. Of all the girls and women he’d known, she was the first and the only one Rob had ever even considered confiding this deep, secret desire to.

Because she could do this.

She could be this, for him.

She was his every dream realized.

She was.

He knew it.

He watched her bite her lip as she wrapped the long length of smooth, shiny, slightly stiff cloth around her hand. His cock twitched as she gave the material a quick tug, testing its strength.

It was happening. He could hardly believe it. He’d been imagining this scene a thousand times in the past three years. Ever since he’d seen his first quick peek in the dorm computer lab—just a pre-edited snip of some first-year film student’s trying to be avant-God-knows-what art project. But even that—just some panting, writhing, starving ex-cheerleader who smiled and hammed too much to the camera trussed up to the rarely used netball field fence—had changed him. Had sunk inside him and stayed.

God, he got hard just thinking about it and all the other videos and pictures he’d found since then.

But nothing compared to the thought of Max. Doing the same to him.

“Tie me up,” he said, tasting—testing—the words on his tongue. He smiled a bit inside. It got a little easier to say it every time. A little less awkward. A little less strange. He’d been choking on these words, swallowing and stuffing them down, for three years, two girlfriends, and three partners now. He’d waited three months before even broaching the topic with Max. It was kind of freeing to say it aloud now. Less alone. More alive. “I want you to tie me up.”

“Like Story of O, Anaïs Nin bondage stuff?” she asked, arching a disbelieving eyebrow at him.

He shrugged—she was the English lit major, not him—and nodded. Sure, if it gave her a reference point, maybe it’d make things easier. For them both. 

He squirmed a bit, rolling his tense shoulders—and a tight, inner unease—back a bit. “If you want,” he added hastily, though his gut clenched at the out he was giving her. He shrugged again, as if it were nothing—just some passing fancy. “I just thought it could be—I mean, it might be—you know, fun. To try. Something different.”

She whistled low. “Definitely different,” she said as she gave the tie another tug.

Oh God, she was going to say no. She was going to leave—sneer and storm out—and he’d never see her again. In class, she’d stare and point and whisper to all the other girls about that pervy TA. He’d get reported. For having a sexual relationship with a student. A deviant, sexual relationship with a student. Oh God.


“What?” he asked her, shaken from his thoughts to blink blankly at her.

“Sure,” she repeated with a shrug. “Why not? I’m game for whatever, I guess.”

His heart stopped a beat for a second, shock and excitement muddling his mind for a moment. He cocked his head. “Are you sure?” He needed to be certain that she wanted this too.

“Sure,” she said again as she touched the other ties and things spread out in perfect, parallel lines on his bedspread. “Though you should know,” she said with a perplexed smirk, “I have no idea what I’m doing here.”

He wasn’t sure he did either. He’d hoped that she’d say yes. Had wished and dreamed and fantasized about her saying yes. 

But he hadn’t actually expected her to.

His mind stalled as he tried to recall this moment in the many pornos he’d watched. That awkward moment while you figured out what to do. How to proceed. Like two virgins fumbling around for that first, tentative move. He frowned, trying to recall.

“So do I tie you up to something,” she asked, gesturing to the bed and all the cloth currently taking up valuable real estate, “or just.” She waved her hands in his general direction. “Up.”


Yeah, that would have been something to think about.

He’d always imagined, in his head—where anything was possible—elaborate scenes with cages and crosses and frames. He’d imagined impossible suspensions. And beautifully bound bodies bent and bowed in perfect contortions.

Hell, he didn’t even own a bed frame.

“The chair!” he said, sitting up straighter. “In the living room.” A huge, limed oak, French monstrosity that had been abandoned on the side of the street one trash day. It’d been a bitch dragging it back to his place, even with help from his friends. Thing was ugly as sin, had smelled like old cat, and weighed a ton. It’d taken three of them just to maneuver it back to his apartment.

It was perfect.

He grabbed a handful of formal wear and led Max back to his living room. He kicked the turned-over crates he used for a coffee table aside, sliding them across the thick, scratchy carpet. Carefully, he laid out the ties, draping them in neat rows according to length and width over the books and papers strewn over the cheap wood. He sat back on his haunches and stared at the quick, makeshift playspace he’d created with a satisfied smile.

There. Perfect.

He turned back to Max who just looked quizzically at him. “So you want to be tied up to the chair?” she asked. “Like, in the chair or just to it?”

Hmmm. He looked at the old, worn upholstery of the chair. The high U-shaped back. There wasn’t really anything to attach to, to wrap around or tie to. He liked the weight of the piece but, yes, there was a strategy to this that he had yet to quite work out.

The legs! “It has these thick, clawed feet,” he said, lifting the chair’s skirt. “You could tie my wrists to it.” That would work. He tried to lift the chair. It rocked, but didn’t budge an inch. Yes, that would work.

Max coughed—a bemused look on her freckled face—as she tucked a strand of her red hair back behind her ear. “Okay,” she settled on.

He sat down on the floor, settling himself at the foot of the chair. He placed each wrist at the chair’s oak legs. It was a little short; he’d have to keep his elbows bent, but it worked. “Okay,” he said, “ready?”

He watched her bite her lip as she reached for the nearest tie—paisley, thin, and short, it was a hand-me-down from his brother who’d gotten it from their father who swore it was lucky. Maybe it was.

She knelt down next to him. She reached for his wrist. Stopped. Pulling back, unsure, she cringed.

Come on. He held perfectly still, so afraid that any slight movement might scare her off. Come on, Max. He begged her silently, staring at the crown of her bent head—pleading, willing her to continue. To not stop now.

The moment her cool fingers touched his heated flesh, he felt his whole body jerk as the tension inside him cracked. Yes. She peeked up at him, her hand still wrapped around his wrist. His throat was too dry, too tense and choked, to speak, so he just nodded, encouraging her with his eyes and his body, that was hers to do what she would.

She swallowed hard and wrapped the paisley patterned polyester around his wrist once before then winding it around the chair’s hard, wooden leg. He loved the way the looped fabric looked against his skin, the stained, tea-colored tie transformed with every twist and knot. Taking this everyday, second-hand cast-off and making it special. It was like her hands—the act of her hands binding him—imbued that bit of nothing with power. With magic.

Max sat back after pulling the tie tight, a satisfied look on her face. He pulled his wrist, testing it. It tugged taut. He wasn’t using all his strength, he knew that. But, still, there was something about it that made him feel weak.

No, not weak, per se. More as if he were at will of something bigger. Something larger and more powerful than he was.

Surrender. In its truest, purest sense.

He pulled again, harder this time, as Max reached for another tie, that feeling of being selfless, will-less—free—growing inside. He closed his eyes as he felt Max bind his other wrist. 

In his mind, he imagined he were becoming an extension of the chair, flesh becoming wood. He imagined the cells of his skin weaving itself into the paisley pattern of the tie. He imagined, with her every touch, he were becoming part of Max. It was transmutative. As if, in the act of giving away his freedom, he were sharing in its power.

He breathed deep as he opened his eyes, feeling the heat and pulse of his body as he gazed at Max’s bent-over form.

God, he wanted her. Needed her. He’d never needed something—anything—so much as he did right now. 

“Take off your top,” he growled, his voice ragged as his back arched toward her even as his arms stayed rigidly still against the chair’s legs.

She pulled the tie tight, making him hiss at the thin cloth’s bite. “You’re not really in a position to be making demands,” she said blandly, “are you?”

He smiled. There was the Max he knew. “Do it anyway,” he said, tempering his voice to almost a cajole. “Please.”

She tossed her hair to one side as she moved to stand up. For such a small woman, she looked so tall towering over him with her fists planted on her wide, full hips. “It smacks as unfair for me to take off my clothes when you’re still fully dressed,” she pointed out. “If you get to keep your top, why should I take off mine?”

He grinned. Okay. He could work with that. “So take it off,” he said with a shrug.

She narrowed her gaze at him. “I just tied you up,” she said, “and you want me to let you go now?”

Hell no. He tipped his head, pointing his chin toward the crates. “There should be a pair of scissors on there somewhere,” he said.

A nervous laugh bubbled out as Max’s eyes widened. “You want me to,” she asked, shocked, “cut you out of your clothes.”

“If it gets you naked too,” he reasoned, “yeah.” Seeing Max Wells naked was well worth the price of a cheap T-shirt. Money was tight, sure, but the way Rob saw it he was getting the much better deal.

Max chuckled again, her eyes lighting up with amusement. “All right,” she said as she turned to grab the scissors. With her feet planted wide in front of him, her cotton-covered hips waggling cheekily, she snapped the scissors in front of his face with glee. Grinning wide, she taunted, “You sure about this?”

Read Part Two Here

Saturday, December 1, 2012

Further Proof that Kinksters are the Overthinkers of the World

It's pretty well known in the kink world that the community is made up of geeks and nerds. To those out of the community, this always seems strange. Vanilla folks always like to imagine us to be these dark, mysterious, exotic, nighttime creatures who exist only in this fantasy world that is completely separate from the real one, when in truth we're the same people dressing up as Klingons and Justice Leaguers at Comic Con and Convergence.

The thing is this always made perfect sense to me. Kinksters are the geeks and nerds of the sexual world. Think about it. Take role play; who would be more interested in this type of play than the the LARPers, the theatre kids, and the Dungeon & Dragon lovers? What about all the toys, whips, floggers, rope, etc? Of course, geeks and nerds would love this! Skills that need to be learned, honed, and mastered; hell, yes, sign us up and we'll make those skills our bitch! Kink takes an intelligence, a dedication, and a passion that I've only seen in geeks and nerds.

Geeks and nerds are the overthinkers of the world. We're the highly educated. We're the highly curious. And, yes, we're tend to be the highly--oft fanboy/girl-ishly--passionate. We think about and learn and geek out over everything; why wouldn't we apply that same passion and excitement to sex?

So, yes, when anyone asks me what I look for in a partner, this is why my answer is inevitably, "I love me my geeks."

Harvard To Approve BDSM Sex Club Called Harvard College Munch