Amputated Parts

Laying there on the table, struggling with the desire to take his hands and move them at my own direction across my body in long, unbroken circuitous sweeps, I remain still and passive and discover an epiphany bubbling up from the sea of ache and desire I am floating in."Maybe that is the problem," I say softly, offering the diagnosis from behind closed eyes as much to myself as to him, "I feel like a bunch of amputated parts." Silence seeps back into the opening my words have created and I retreat comfortably into the heat and masculine nurturing of his hands, continuing to try and find a way to silently inspire him to move them across my collar bone and down across my breast and belly. "Join me", I think silently to myself as I imagine my body as a collection of parts that have become disassembled at the joints like a child's favorite action figure.His hands continue working across my neck and shoulders, finding bits and parts that need more attention than the time remaining will allow. His conflict about addressing them or staying within his time constraints evidences itself by the indecision in his fingers. My entire body has been touched and warmed with a blanket of attention except my torso and abdomen. The very core of my being remains amputated, unjoined from the rest of me and I am desperate to have him fuse it back to the rest of me with the heat of his touch. But, indecision continues to spark from his fingers and he is wrestling with his own desires to touch me, join me, heal me sexually. To feel the soft, heavy firmness of my breasts under his hands as my body opens to receive the sensual restraint we are both exploring each other with would be too much and he is at his limit both chronologically and psychically. He is a dam about to burst and the thin glass of silence between us that we have established our relationship with is a frosted, fragile one that does not allow us to communicate clearly or directly. He is my professional massage therapist and not my lover. I am his seductive, exhibitionist client and not his wife. The unspoken tension between us is a fine, taut line of civility and sexual power and our gentle manipulation of the invisible boundary between us is as powerful and delicate as a violin string. I like it better when it is taboo. The unspoken, secret yearning. The dark, repressed desire. The blatant act of disobedience in the act of dare and defiance. The intense, sharp edges of fear mixed with calculated risk. Manipulation with a gossamer veil is my foreplay and my libation. Your desires are revealed and inflamed by the tease and denial inherent in the situations that you follow me into when you irresistibly follow your natural instincts; your animal urges. Your ability to control yourself and your determination to keep your head above a violent sea of desire is the aphrodisiac that loosens my veils and lines the waiting spaces inside me with the fragrant, lubricious juices that madden men and animals. In these moments, I want you too.I remember why I was attracted to BDSM and now I also remember why I have walked away from it for so long. I am looking for the truth in myself and in other people. The distilled, essential, nitroglycerin drop size moment of powerful honesty that changes everything inside us, and nothing outside of us.To arouse the senses, sharpen the perceptions, focus everything down to a precise laser point of experience; anything less is a grotesque caricature of our divine sexuality. Sensuality is not the antithesis of sadomasochistic intensities and there are no beatings, bruises or collars that can show me the way to that.You can have the beatings and the bruises, the collars and the cries. I want the truth in your desire. The honest expression of my selfish need and your redeeming self control. Life is our dungeon and the little lies that we tell ourselves are the instruments of torture that we use so often that we have become numb to the pain that they cause us. One breath. One moment. One exquisite flash of clarity and I have the very thing that I have been looking for; evolutionary tension. Under a psychic microscope, my disjointed parts have now become a dynamic teeming whole of sensations, perceptions and experiences. Together, we are no longer amputated parts but a dynamic whole.I want you.And I want you to want me too.

Sexy, Filthy Bedtime Story

"Shut up and sit down!" she commanded as she shoved him back onto the bed. She paced around the bed, pensive and searching like a hungry animal in a cage at mealtime. He sat quietly on the bed with his legs hanging off the side, waiting and watching for some sign of what was to come next. She stopped abruptly between his legs and squared off facing him with her hands on her hips.

“Come forward”, she commanded and he obediently slid forward toward her with an indulgent smile. The unexpected crack of her hand slapping his face filled the room as sharply as a whip cracking in the emptiness between them and his head snapped sharply to the side in response. His eyes widened and began to tear slightly on the side where flesh had opened pain receptors and he took in a long, slow inhale as he tried to process his feelings and decide whether he wanted to cringe before her or violently bend her over and fuck her in response. Her fingers twisted into his hair and jerked his head around to face her. She leaned into him, her cheek next to his and growled in his ear in a tone that was unmistakably determined, “If you EVER disrespect me like that again, so help me God, I am going to do things to you that are going to make you wish you were the Devil’s goddamn submissive” she paused a moment to allow him time to digest her words and then shook his head violently when a response wasn’t forthcoming fast enough, “Do you understand me?!”
“Yes, Ma’am but I…” she interrupted his words by grabbing his jaws in her hands and squeezing their sides against his protectively clenched teeth.
“I said, SHUT UP!” she reprimanded him and then released him from her grip with such force that he reeled back toward the bed away from her reach.

She unbuttoned her jeans and slid them off, angrily tossing them across the room. Her top and bra came off next and went flying in the same direction toward the floor. He laid there on the bed watching her with slightly downcast eyes, knowing that if he inspired further anger in her his punishment would take days instead of hours to be meted out. Her sadistic games were always sexy at first but the unconscious cruelty that she was capable of remained as subtle and precise as a surgical knife. Love and hate glinted from both sides of her attentions and it wasn’t until much later when a flesh wound was revealed to be a deep, bleeding wound that the sexy ended and the real pain began for lovers who were foolish enough to entreat her temper with mockery.

She stood by the bed staring him down in dead silence while wearing her panties and bad intentions like a king cobra flaring before a strike. After a few long uncomfortable moments, he realized that the discomfort he felt was not desire but nervousness. There is always a slightly deranged quality to some dominants that give them a sinister type of sexuality that is as impossible to ignore. When they are calm, it is barely perceptible. When they are fueled with a mission, they appear slightly maniacal and in this moment, he wasn’t sure which she side of the scale she was tipping toward and that bothered him.

“Strip” she ordered flatly and began collecting her tools for today`s lesson in respectful behavior.

Laying there and struggling for breath, he listened to her lecture him between her placing phone calls. His arms were tied securely to his sides and the rope continued to weave across his torso and between his legs securing his knees and ankles together tightly. With a smaller rope, she had fastened a rope version of a cock ring; bringing his testicles up and above his body where dozens of clothespins bit into them; plastic spiky teeth jutting up and away from their pieces of his sweetmeats. She lifted up her hips slightly and he inhaled a sharp, deep breath before she quickly returned to her throne that was his panty smothered nose and mouth. She rocked idly on his face and ignored his grunts and attempts to maneuver the slightest bit of gap space to breathe while she talked on the phone. “That’s right” she said, “yes… Tonight…Yes… No, not before 7… He’s being punished... Are you questioning me?! … (Pause)… Do NOT be late. I have an early up tomorrow… Yes... Good bye.” She hung up the phone and spoke down to him. “Well, Mr. Wonderful. My date will be here tonight and that means that YOU might get a pardon for your crimes if he can get me out of this bad mood. If I were you, I would start praying now or its going to be a long week around this house.”
He nudged his head from between her legs in silent agreement.

A sharp pain raced from his testicles up to the back of his head and he jerked on the bed underneath her in violent reaction as he tried to pull away from the pain. The small, rubber flogger in her hand found its way to his testicles again and again, wrapping around the biting ends of the clothespins and creating a clacking applause for her efforts. She continued, knowing the excruciating pain it was creating and sat down even more firmly on his face while she did it. He continued to thrash and buck, forcing her to reach down with her other hand and brace herself against his chest. His cries of protest were muffled by the weight of her body pressing down against his face and he began aggressively testing his restraints, seeking release. He had become a wild, bucking bronco in her own sexual rodeo and she had no intention of letting him throw her.

She stopped the torture on his clothespin covered testicles and slid a soft hand sensually along the exposed surfaces of his testicles, slowing down when she reached the length of his penile shaft. His cock responded to her touch like a petulant lover who cannot resist the object of its desire, eventually surrendering itself to the sybaritic joys of her attentions. She could feel his body begin to relax and give in to the wave of pleasurable sensation in his cock. “Kiss” she said simply and he did, beginning at the wet center of her panties and working his way across the small expanse of their fabric boundary with a diligence that barely hinted at the deep desire to pleasure her that was animating him.

The smell of her sex through her panties acted on him like an intoxicant. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, opening his mouth to her as if the smell of her would somehow solidify and slide across his tongue and move to slide down his throat. The panties remained an unyielding barrier between his hungry mouth and the soft, wet fountain of her sexuality and he tentatively lifted his tongue to the available wetness, hoping to inspire her into removing her panties. He licked at the wet fabric slowly and thoroughly, finding and tracing the outline of her sex with his insistent tongue, forgetting that only moments before she had been in the world’s worst mood and had warned him that an unpleasant punishment was ahead. She moaned encouragingly and brave desire forged his tongue into steel as it found its way around the thin elastic in her panties in an effort to kiss the sweet lips of her desire and have them speak of her forgiveness.

To be continued....


Hey dirty boy... want the rest of this story? Email me and BEG!

Rock Stars, Porn Stars & Greater Illusions

I sat with my mouth agape while my girlfriend relayed the following conversation to me. It was with a young woman who was thinking about making a transition from stripping to pro-domination. A pretty blonde with a nice figure who had less experience with BDSM than she had cumulative brain cells. Unfortunately, there is nothing unique about her profile. Much like many of the WASPs from the 'main line', she is nothing more than a cookie cutter paper doll with an expensive to-do list. The only difference between the two being simply a matter of breeding and formality. While I would like to say that women like this should stick with what they know, which in this case, I am afraid may be limited to blowjobs and pregnancy... I would only be offering advice based on an elitist sense of seperatism. After all, who said you had to be a rocket scientist to perform MY avocation? For any man with a fantasy, sometimes just having the right look is all that is really required to make it work.

"I know I can do this because, you know, I think men are assholes anyway!", the blonde offered in a form of idiotic cheeriness that was intended to show a sense of solidarity among "the girls".
"Wow", my girlfriend replied and then continued the conversation for reasons that are far beyond the limits of my own patience,
"So, you realize that men will come to you and ask you to do things that they can't ask someone else to do?", she asked the blonde.
"Oh yes, I know", quickly replied Miss All-American Domme, "and I am totally okay with that because I think these guys are sick for wanting this stuff anyway. "
(I winced. Her comment pierced me because, after all, I am no less "sick" than my boys for actually enjoying these games.) She continued, "Humiliating them would be sooooooo easy for me."

... and so the conversation went for a few more minutes while my girlfriend tried to be helpful and offer some relatively necessary and pertinent insights as she understood them based on her experience with me in an effort to deter this moronic monster from entering this arena and hurting someone in all the wrong ways. Unfortunately, what she didn't know is that this kind of abusive hostility toward clients is not uncommon nor a disqualifying factor. In this profession, unlike any other profession on the planet that involves handling, manipulating or experimenting with the known limits of the human body; knowing what one is doing really is optional. "Looking the part" is the only fundamental requirement and because of this, the girls are gettting younger, dumber and more transient in their travels through this corner of the sex industry.

The fact is that it IS the sex industry and quite possibly the darkest, most misunderstood corner of it. We are all creatures who live in the secrecy of shadows. Should we need to get a certificate in erotic genitorture? What kind of board would we have to sit for to be approved to perform sensually invasive medical techniques safely? Is there a credentialing body for bondage and roleplay 101? Would we be required to take CEU courses in Client Rights and Privacy every 2 yrs? ... and in the end, why? If I had a dime for every male that has made a decision about who to entrust his body to based on appearances with absolutely no further inspection into the psyche or abilities of the Domme he was choosing, I would be a billionaire as well as smug beyond tolerance. It's hard to feel too much pity for the shallow and superficial. Sorry boys, testosterone poisoning is not my idea of a good excuse.

It is hard to know girls like this and not make absolute judgements about their relative worth and merit to anything. They offend me with their ignorance and uninvited existence in my tiny corner of the world. And yet, who am I to judge? It is not as if I love and adore every pervert and kinkster that crosses my path. There are many of them that I have no respect for and little affection towards insomuch that they are no more than human garbage in my eyes. Do I like the boys I play with? Not always and not all of them. In reality, sometimes I don't like myself for becoming more "sexually dysfunctional" with every encounter. It is a mutual disgust on some days. Other days, I am genuinely hungry for the aberrant activities that only a client seeking a professional dominatrix can offer. It is a carnival mirror we look at ourselves in, never knowing what reflection will stare back at us this time.

And now, I am older and I can see myself at the entry of a questionable pathway into the future. It was many years ago that I worked in a dungeon in NYC. One woman stands out remarkably in my memory. We were all young, attractive, wild eyed and confident that this was only a lucrative and deviant stop on the journey of our lives except for one woman. I remember her sitting in a dungeon room alone while the rest of us gossiped and cavorted in the common areas. She was easily in her 50's and the aura of beauty that her youth must have blessed her with hung over her like a soft light. It was obvious that her looks had made her money and brought her luxuries throughout her life as she was far from homely, even now so far past her prime. She was much older than the rest of us and an anomaly in the sleek dungeon world where sex and specialized fantasy were sold at a premium. Some of the girls thought she looked ghoulish and discomfiting with her presence and often mocked her with the insensitivity that only the young and attractive can have. We never asked her about her life. We never really invited her into conversation. We all politely skirted around her as if she were some sort of malevolent talisman that would harm our financial luck for the day if we got too close. It was better to pretend she wasn't there than to confront our fears.

To me, she looked pathetic. It disturbed me endlessly that a woman of her age could end up needing to do this for a living and of course she NEEDED to do this for a living or why else would she do it... do this... at her age... it was as hard to accept as a grandmother porn star/prostitute. It never occurred to me that she might be doing it because she enjoyed it. I couldn't allow myself to think that intimately of her choices because it just seemed wrong and repulsive to entertain visions of her being sexually aroused with clients who were closer to my own dating age. She repulsed me and frightened me alternately. When I looked at her, I saw the potential of myself becoming her if I wasn't careful.

Careful.

We enter this world without caution or reserve because after all.... "I know I can do this because, you know, I think men are assholes anyway!". With cavalier confidence, we choose to pick up a whip and become something we never hope to be at 50. After all, we would have found a rich, kinky man to make our real dreams come true and allow us to bury this life behind us. But it never works out that way. The closest are the ones who find the hardcore perverts who are so twisted that finding anyone with the stamina and the mental fortitude to deal with their fetish demands on a daily basis while subjugating their more mundane intimacy needs becomes more challenging than finding the Holy Grail. And once found, she/he/it becomes a prisoner like Beauty to the Beast but not with such a happy ending. One woman found her Beast and was kept in lavish comforts like Beauty but eventually, the constant demand for strict fetish from her and the inability to meet her human needs brought the relationship to an end and unlike the story, Beast did not transform into a Prince. He remained a selfish, dysfunctional, obsessive narcissist. When she left, she was destitute and psychologically bankrupt. This is a common story that is rarely told because it is humiliating. The once high and mighty Dominatrix commanding vulgar amounts of money and claiming the prize bull in the competition of the fairest and cruelest in BDSM land to ride her into retirement.... getting thrown to the ground unceremoniously by her prize bull and leaving her in a pile of excrement and humility for her hubris. Why would anyone admit that they were once that man or woman?

And so the young and clueless all clamor to board the kink train in their race to fame and riches. They hear the legends and the fables of Dominatrices before them who live in mansions and subjugate CEO's of multi-million dollar companies as their personal slaves. Dominatrices who retire with horse farms and real estate to rival Donald Trumps. But women are cunning and more cruel to the young and beautiful, and they don't tell them the whispered stories of ruin and humiliation that have fallen rivals and entertained foes. It is not as if the beautiful, little girls would believe us anyway. Sometimes I am not sure I would believe myself.

Everyone wants to be a rock star when they are young but they quickly learn that it requires talent, determination and an understanding that even an abundance of both garauntees nothing for your efforts. So, some of them choose to be porn stars as it requires no talent, no determination and simply the good fortune of being young, attractive and willing to sell your dignity for a dollar on the pound. I want to feel sorry for them and I just can't find it within myself to feel pity.

The great illusion is that all of this leads to some worthwhile place in your life. It is a lie. A great lie. You are a prop in someone else's fantasy and as soon as they get bored with this fantasy, you will lose your value too. I often wonder if I would have been more successful if I had been able to remain more focused on material gain instead of internal gains. Could I have been one of those fabled dominatrices that retired early with a horse farm, a CEO slave and a home in Monte Carlo? It could have been me if only.... what? I could have been a rock star too. I could have been a contender.... if only. "If only" is a silly game. No one ever wins them and no one ever feels better afterwards.

Sometimes I think professional domination is an "if only" game. We spend alot of time looking at the other women in the business and thinking that they are happier, wealthier, more successful, more esteemed, blah, blah, blah than we are and we think that we could achieve that too.. if only... what? We were taller, shorter, bigger, smaller, more Barbie-ish, more Amazonian, stronger, daintier, etc, etc, etc. There is no formula for success here because in the end, none of the women are necessarily living up to the image they are projecting. It is all an illusion, even the appearance of success.

In your life, ask yourself: At the end of the day, what will you have to show for your efforts ... good things or good relationships? Is it better to be a loved pauper protected by goodwill and neighbors or a hated billionaire protected by high walls and isolation?

Food for Scatological Thought

This was a question asked on a forum and I couldn't resist answering it. I thought you might find this interesting.

Re: A BS Question for Dommes --- What do Dommes think when doing a BS scene?

The first time I did it was a matter of curiosity and opportunity. I had no idea what to expect and couldn't imagine what the man was getting out of it.. he wanted me to do it into his mouth...

It turned out to be on of the most powerful, catharctic experiences I have ever had and has never been experienced again. I guess it is true what they say... you never forget your first time.

Now I think things like:

I wonder who he is going to kiss with that mouth?

How can he stand the taste?

Good god, look at how turned on he is!

*I wonder how long the smell will stay in his skin before it goes away?

(*I can smell shit for hours after a BS scene. It really irritates me because I haven't figured out how to correct this. Makes enjoying my own meals challenging and I also become suspicious that perhaps other people can smell it too.)

How the hell did he end up involved in shit play?

I wonder if (insert name of last person I had anal sex with) subconsciously has a shit fetish... after all, why would anyone be obsessed with climbing into a woman's ass all the time?

Oh no, did shit get over there?

Dear god, how screwed up am I for enjoying this?

I wonder what I can do to him next without making a mess everywhere.

I should eat more fiber.

I wonder what his poo looks like when it all comes back out.

I wonder what happens to guys who consume brown on a regular basis. Where would you find that information? Who would ever admit to such a thing if they ended up in a hospital?

And so on.

I think everyone feels completely apathetic and disbelieving that anyone could enjoy a kink that is not their own. I feel about Roman Showers and Crimson Showers the way that many Dommes feel about Brown Showers. Actually I may even feel stronger about them because there wouldn't be enough money in the world for me to entertain those ideas much less pursue them.

It is funny where our limits are and how we can find some things pleasurable while others make us cringe in disgust and horror.

E~

Natural Wonders

This is only slightly gratuitous and vain self promotion. *chuckle*. Actually, this is because I am so disgusted with the misrepresentation of large boobs as being perky, stand up and firmly positioned resulting from the obscene wave of implants everywhere...

I actually had a man argue with me about some Polish chick in a photo who was a 36dd claiming to be natural... uhh, yah... cause all large breasts look like perfectly shaped, firm basketballs ... sheesh. Hey dumbass, spend alot of time dating chicks on the track team while you were growing up because you obviously didn't get near anything larger than a B cup if you thought HERS were real.

So, I give you these. Completely natural 36dd. THIS is what large and natural breasts look like. Remember them as they seem to have made the transition from rare species to endangered species.

Two of my favorite things.

Calvin and Hobbes and..... bondage?

Saints, Sinners and Everything Between

This was an interesting thread on a forum only because the man who made the following statement was then treated to numerous (!!!) replies intended to force him to look at the venomous judgement and hatred he was displaying by his position. He, of course, stood even more defiantly in his stand. It made me think though... and, of course, I responded with my own thoughts which were intended to be less about him and more about a phenomenon that is not so uncommon. Here is the original post and my reply.

Enjoy~

PS - Your comments are also welcome.


"If I knew that a domme was also a whore I would not be able to submit to her. Thats just the way it is for me. I have to be able to respect her to be able to submit. Simple as that. "


Interesting how this thread so quickly got sidetracked.

There are many folks who draw a hard line between escorts and dommes... usually it is the domme that makes that distinction clear. I am fascinated by Veritas position and would like to know more but I daresay, getting stream of consciousness information out of him now will never happen here.

With that said, I am not a saint. It took me more than a few moments to calm down so that I did not jump on the bandwagon and beat down Veritas for such a damning use of the word "whore" when referencing escorts. Say what you will about anyone's choices but in many ways, I have more respect for escorts than the usual trademark hypocrites I see running around with their little (insert designer name) bags and smug opinions of themselves. When it comes to selling your body for an easier life than the one you are living, I think we should be less hard on the ones that sell only their body and harder on the ones who sell all manner of romantic and emotional lies for their seat at the table of privilege. Say what you will, whores don't lie and that gets my respect.

Perhaps this is what disturbs Veritas so much, above and beyond the moral affront that everyone usually hides behind. For men who liberally use the word "whore" in this manner (Veritas may well be the exception so I will not direct this at him) - many of them have a level of sexual dysfunction and emotional rage at women that is frightening. Prostitutes make no pretense about what is being sold and what is not. Perhaps the "whore with the whip" is too painful a reminder that the woman you are looking for doesn't exist because the real love of your life that you are seeking is in practice, you.

I could be wrong but if I am not mistaken, starting with women from early life, these men see women as untrustworthy, emotionally unavailable and sexually carnivorous... the "gaping wound" of womanhood is seen as an abyss that sucks the souls, will or power out of men... (rapists and serial killers usually have the same opinions and are only differentiated by a tremendous amount of psychological and sociological pathology and early childhood abuse/trauma to boot)... so, if this is the case - is it any surprise that someone like this would be drawn to a Domme?

The domme plays out the overpowering, emotionally unavailable, selfish female authority figure who torments the man for his sexual weakness and vulnerability to her. She, in essence, punishes him for being weak in the presence of her overpowering sexual presence - and he, being weak and cowardly - cannot even bring himself to face the rage that burns within him. The fact is that he uses her to express his secret rage. The more sadistic she is, the more he is sated because it is not her rage that he is feeling but his own and in this way, he can both experience his rage and be punished for it, all at the same time.

But with a prostitute... he would be faced with a woman who accepts him as a man and does not treat him like a weak puppet who should receive only rage and abuse. She will not give him the proxy display of hatred that he seeks to experience through her. She dares give him a moment to experience intimacy but it is seen as mockery and a statement of his own pathetic handicaps because he had to pay for her acceptance. And, for some men, paying for her rage is more acceptable - and in many deeply disturbing ways - more desirable.

To ask such a man to show respect for all women and not to grasp at social displays of power by using strong moral judgement as a lance and flag is cruel and unreasonable. He is who he is and he chooses BDSM instead of therapy. And in our world, he is not so unusual so why would he ever need to think anything is wrong?

This is not to say that all men in the scene have this psychological profile. For those who are seeking balance not denial within themselves, power exchange is a beautiful, catharctic experience and is part of their sexuality; not an isolated, frozen splinter of it that should never be returned to its origin.

BDSM is not about sex like affection is not about love.

Post Scripte:

Before I forget. A couple points.

1) This psychological profile is also seen in vanilla society... everywhere which is why I am so familiar with it. Howard Stern is a living example of what I describe.

2) Knowing what drives someone Freudian train does not qualify one to tinker with the parts. I would be very careful using this as a blueprint for "domming". It's one thing to posture and play a part... quite another to start pushing deep, psychological buttons. The mess you end up with may well prove to be your own undoing more than your subs.

3) And P.S. - it works both ways. You have a psych profile as well that drives you to being a domme and it isn't just about the money - as many of you are quick to point out that this IS a lifestyle for you not an occupation - and the mirror image of the Domme is no more attractive when the guts are laid out on the table in all their dysfunctional display.

4) No one is 100% healthy in an unhealthy world. The only thing that saves us from recrimination is the responsibility we take both for ourselves and our impact on other people. I may not be above reproach but I am willing to own my mistakes and perhaps that is what makes all the difference in the world when everything is tallied at the end.